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PUBLIC  LIBRARY 
DECATUR 

ILLINOIS 


From  the  collection  of  the 


PreTinger 

i     a 

JJibrary 

p 


San  Francisco,  California 
2006 


OVERLAN 

MONTHLY 


- 


--^  v 


*.       .-4 


FOUNDED  1866        BY  F-BRET  HARTE 


JANUARY* 
1916        f 


20 

PER 

YEAR 


Anticipating  Telephone  Needs 


When  a  new  subscriber  is  handed 
his  telephone,  there  is  given  over  to 
his  use  a  share  in  the  pole  lines,  under- 
ground conduits  and  cables,  switch- 
boards, exchange  buildings,  and  in 
every  other  part  of  the  complex  mech- 
anism of  the  telephone  plant. 

It  is  obvious  that  this  equipment 
could  not  be  installed  for  each  new  con- 
nection. It  would  mean  constantly 
rebuilding  the  plant,  with  enormous 
expense  and  delay.  Therefore,  practi- 
cally everything  but  the  telephone 
instrument  must  be  in  place  at  the  time 
service  is  demanded. 

Consider  what  this  involves.  The 
telephone  company  must  forecast  the 
needs  of  the  public.  It  must  calculate  in- 
creases in  population  in  city  and  country. 


It  must  figure  the  growth  of  business 
districts.  It  must  estimate  the  number 
of  possible  telephone  users  and  their 
approximate  location  everywhere. 

The  plant  must  be  so  designed  that 
it  may  be  added  to  in  order  to  meet 
the  estimated  requirements  of  five,  ten 
and  even  twenty  years.  And  these 
additions  must  be  ready  in  advance  of 
the  demand  for  them  —  as  far  in  ad- 
vance as  it  is  economical  to  make  them. 

Thus,  by  constantly  planning  for  the 
future  and  making  expenditures  for 
far-ahead  requirements  when  they  can 
be  most  advantageously  made,  the  Bell 
System  conserves  the  economic  interest 
of  the  whole  country  while  furnishing 
a  telephone  service  which  in  its  perfec- 
tion is  the  model  for  all  the  world. 


AMERICAN  TELEPHONE  AND  TELEGRAPH  COMPANY 


AND  ASSOCIATED   COMPANIES 


One  Policy 


One  System 


Universal  Service 


I 


IBLJC  LIBRARY 
DECAiUK, 


The  Overland  Monthly 


Vol.  LXVI1—  Second  Series 


January-  June   1916 


~^c 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  CO.,  Publishers 

21  SUTTER  STREET  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL. 


INDEX 


A    BEAR    HUNT.      Story 

A    BLESSING   OF   THE    NEW   YEAR. 

ABOVE    US.      Verse 

A     BORDERTOWN     BARBECUE 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
A  CALIFORNIA  SCULPTRESS 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 


Verse 


4-2.3 


J.   R.  FRUIT        •  221 

ELIZABETH  VORE  64 

FRANCES  BEERS  83 

DAISY  KESSLER  BIERMANN  18 

MARION  TAYLOR  365 


INDEX 


A   CASE  OF  SUPPOSITION.      Story 

A   CORNER   OF   SAN    FRANCISCO    BAY 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

ACTS  OF  THE   REDCOAT   APOSTLES       .       .. 
A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN.     Continued  Story 
A    DAUGHTER   OF   THE   SUN.      Story    (Continued) 
A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN.     Story  (Concluded) 
A   DEAL    IN    COTTON    LAND.      Story          .. 
A  DREAM  THAT  CAME  TRUE.     Story       .         .:     :.. 
AFTERWARD.      Verse 


ARTHUR  WALLACE  PEACH  287 

ROGER  SPRAGUE  273 

W.  McD.  TAIT  480 

BILLEE  GLYNN  215 

BILLEE  GLYNN  306 

BILLEE  GLYNN  384 

REV.  GABRIEL  BIEL  398 

ELIZABETH  VORE  293 

EVERIL  WORRELL  157 


A  JAPANESE   FINANCIER'S  VIEWS  ON   THE      UNITED    STATES    MERCHANT     MARINE 


A   LANDMARK  OF  SAN    FRANCISCO'S   BOHEMIA 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

ALL   IN   THE    DAY'S  WORK.      Story  >..••.,•••'•'    •- 

A  LUCKY  PROSPECTOR.     Story  .         .         .    I    . 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

AMOR    INVICTUS.      Verse 

A    MOTHER    OF    SUFFRAGE    IN    THE    WEST 

Illustrated    from   a   photograph. 
A  MOUNTAIN   REVERIE.     Verse          . 
A    REDISCOVERED    RIVER 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
A    REMINISCENCE    OF    THE    OLD    STAGE    LINE 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
ARIZONA'S   MOTHERS  OF  LAW  . 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

A    WISH.      Verse 

A  WOMAN'S  HEART.     Story 

A  WOMAN  THE  WEST  HAS  GIVEN 

A  YELLOW   ANGEL.      Story  .         .         .         .         . 


GEORGE  T.  MARSH  25 

JEAN  WHITE  186 

ALDER  ANDERSON  202 

CHARLES  ELLENVAIL  507 

R.   R.  GREENWOOD  301 

FRED  LOCKLEY  498 

E.  V.  MILLER  33 

EDWARD  C.  GROSSMAN  32? 

BERNETTA  A.  ATKINSON  501 

GEROID  ROBINSON  158 

CEDELIA  BARTHOLOMEW  298 

BILLEE  GLYNN  122 

M.  N.  BUNKER  338 

JESSLYN   HOWELL  HULL  189 

C.   T.   RUSSELL  256 

317 


BISHOP-APOSTLES'   COSTLY   MISTAKE 

BY    OX-TEAM    TO   CALIFORNIA  .... 

Personal   Narrative  of  Nancy  A.   Hunt. 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
CALIFORNIA  ........ 

CHRISTIAN    SCIENCE— VIEWED    IN    ITS   OWN 

LIGHT  AND  THAT  OF  THE   BIBLE 
CHRISTIAN    SCIENCE    HEALS    THE    SICK    AND 
REFORMS  THE   SINNER 

COMMANDEERED.     Verse  

CONDITIONS      OF      ACCEPTABLE,      EFFECTIVE 

PRAYER  .         . 

CONROY'S   LUCKY   STRIKE.      Story 

COYOTE.       Verse  

CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    A    1915    MODEL 
PRAIRIE    SCHOONER 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

DARE   YOU    FORGET?      Verse 

DUTCH     GUIANA  

EAST    IS    EAST.      Story 

ENGLAND'S  LANDHOLDERS  AFTER  THE  WAR 
FROM   A  SCHOOLROOM   TO  A    MONTANA   RANCH 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
FROM    THE    HOSPITAL.      Verse  .         . 

FRONTISPIECES: 

A  Winter  Visit  to  the  Big  Tree  Groves  in  the  High    Sierras 

A  Forest  Ranger  Crew  on  an   Inspection  trip  to    the    Big    Tree    Groves 

Relics  of  an  Old  Pioneer  Mill 

Redwood    Grove   Within   30   Miles   of   San    Francisco 

One  Tree  Proved  more  than  a  load  for  nine  long   cars.     It  was  16  feet  In  diameter 
The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat,  from  a   Recent  dramatization   of   Bret    Harte's  story 
FRONTISPIECE.      Passing  an   Old-Time   Indian   Village  in  Arizona  .... 

FRONTISPIECES.      Mt.    Rainier  from    Mirror   Lake.      Lifeboat   Practice   Riding  the  Breakers 

Off  the  Coast.     A  Typical  Lake  Scene  in  the    Mountains.      Log    Impounded    in   the  Saw- 
Mill   Dam. 
FRONTISPIECES: 
FRONTISPIECES 

L.  A.  FRIEDMAN,  President  and  General  Manager  Rochester  Mines  Co.      (See  p.  407.) 

A  Charming   Bit  of  Water   Pictured  on  the    Route. 


WILLIAM  GREER  HARRISON 
F.  W.  PLAENKER 

THOMAS  F.   WATSON 
CHARLOTTE  MOBERLY 

C.    T.   RUSSELL 

DR.   JUSTUS  M.  WHEATE 

BRET   HARTE 

PAUL  H.  DOWLING 

CLARENCE  H.  URNER 
J.    BARKLEY    PERCIVAL 
MARY  CAROLYN  DAVIES 
F.   W.   H. 
METTA  M.   LOOMIS 

SARAH  H,  KELLY 


M.  C.   Harrison.     Apollo  in  the     Hamadryads 


430 


459 
333 

344 
461 
15 

91 

416 
301 
196 
512 
59 

511 

1 
2 
3 
4 
5 

,     6 
90 


259-260 


INDEX 


PERFECTLY 


FRONTISPIECE— On   the    Roof   of  Alaska 
GENERAL    AVERAGE  .         .         . 

GIANT    TREES    OF   SEQUOIA       . 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
"GIVE  US  THIS  DAY."     Verse 
G  LOR  I  ETTA.     Verse          .... 

With  Illustrations. 
GOD'S     JUSTICE     AND     LOVE 

POISED  . 

GOLDEN  GATE  AT  SUNSET.     Verse       ^ .         ;"      T 
GOOD-MORNING.       Verse  -•         ?         • 

HILLS  OF  MEMORY.      Verse  ... 

IN    A    FOREST   SERVICE    CAMP  .... 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

IN   THE   LYNX   HOME.      Story 

IN    THE    REALM    OF   BOOKLAND       ... 

IS  THE  OLD  WEST  PASSING?       .'.... 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

JOHN   MUIR.     Verse          . 

JOHN    MUIR.      Verse        .         .         .         .         .         .         . 

JOSEPHINE  CLIFFORD  McCRACKIN 

LA  FAYETTE,  WASHINGTON  AND  BELGIUM 

LAGUNA-BY-THE-SEA 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
LIFE'S  STRONGHOLD.     Verse  . 

MADAM.       Story 

MEMORY.      Verse  .         .        .         .         . 

MODERN  TREATIES  OF  PEACE  .... 

MOTORING    ABOVE    THE    CLOUDS    ON    THE 
SUMMIT  OF  PIKE'S  PEAK       . 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
MUTABILITAS  AMORIS.      Verse  .... 

MY    NEIGHBOR.      Verse 

NIGHT  IN   LOUISIANA.     Verse  .... 

ONE  O'  THEM   GREEKS.      Story  . 

ON   FICKLE   HILL.     Verse 

OUTLINE    OF    THE    PROGRESS    OF    WOMEN    IN 

THE   LAST  SIXTY  YEARS 
OVERLAND    STAMPEDE    OF    1849        . 
PSEUDO  APOSTLES  OF  THE  PRESENT  DAY 

RECOGNITION.       Verse 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  ARTEMUS  WARD 
REMINISCENCES  OF   BRET   HARTE    (Concluded) 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

RESURGAM.       Verse 

RETROSPECTION.      Verse  .         .         . 

RICHARD    BRET    HARTE 

Illustrated  from  a  photograph. 

ROMANY  SONG.      Verse 

SEATTLE    TO    SKAGWAY  

Illustraed  from  photographs. 

SEEIN'     THINGS     IN     AMERICA.        IMPRESSIONS 
OF   NEW   YORK     . 

Illustrated  with  sketches. 

SEEING     WITHOUT     EYES 

SENTINEL   OF    HAWAII.      Verse  .... 

SKIP-A-LONG.      Story  

SOWING  TO  SELF  AND  SIN 

"SPRING    FEVER    MONTH."      Verse 

STABBED.        Story 

STORM    BOUND    IN    BALBOA        .         .         . 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

SUNSET.      Verse 

SUPPLICATION.      Verse 

TALES    OF    THE    BLACKFEET  . 

THE    BLACK   OPAL.      Verse 

THE    CALIFORNIA    CABALLERO     AND      HIS 
CABALLO  . 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 


M.  C.   HARRISON 
HOWARD  RANKIN 

RUTH  E.  HENDERSON 
S.  H.  M.  BYERS 


C.   T.   RUSSELL, 

M.  C.  DAVIES 

AGNES   LOCKHART  HUGHES 

SARA  E.  McDONNALD 

CECIL  EDWARD  O'BRIEN 

LYMAN  SEELYE 
WALDO  R.  SMITH 


E.  S.  GGODHUE 
JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 
MARIAN  TAYLOR 
JEAN  DELPIT 
MARGARET  A.  WILSON 

MABEL  E.  AMES 
STELLA  WALTHALL 
LANNIE  HAYNES  MARTIN 
JOHN  MACDONELL 

N.  L.  DREW 

R.  R.  GREENWOOD 
DOROTHY  DE  JAGERS 
HELEN   CHRISTENS  HOERLE 
SARAH  H.  KELLY 
VIRGINIA  CLEAVER  BACON 

ANNIE  MARTIN  TYLER 
FRANK  M.  VANCIL 
PASTOR  RUSSELL 
ARTHUR  POWELL 
CLIFTON  JOHNSON 
JOSEPHINE    C.    McCRACKIN 

HENRY  MEADE  BLAND 
HERBERT    BASHFORD 
BRET   HARTE' S   GRANDSON 

VIRGINIA  CLEAVER  BACON 
MARGARET    HOLLINSHEAD 


RICHARD  BRET  HARTE 

ALVIN  E.  DYER 

RUTH  WHEELER  MANNIX 

RUTH  HUNTOON 

C.   T.   RUSSELL 

EDNA   HEALD   McCOY 

WILLIAM  DE  RYEE 

DELLA   PHILLIPS 

VERA  HEATHMAN  COLE 
MABEL  PORTER  PITTS 
MAX  McD. 
FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS 

M.  C.  FREDERICK 


438 
341 

74 

211 

225 


432 
140 
379 
492 
147 

212 
517 
243 

80 
397 
134 
168 
493 

36 
401 
127 
100 

347-348 
349 

161 
312 
191 

285 
89 

299 
313 
514 
392 

28 
7 

340 
497 
370 

116 

439 


455 

373 
506 
131 
175 
473 
475 
335 

305 

383 

37 

185 

107 


INDEX 


THE  CHOICE.      Verse •       • 

THE    DAY.       Verse  ......         . 

THE    DEVIL'S    DAY.      Verse  .         ;  r     .V/v         . 

THE    DREAM    GARDEN.       Verse  .          .         •        ,» 

THE  FAITH   OF  "MORTAR"  JIM.     Story  .  -      '£ 

THE    FREE    LANCE.      Story  .         . 

THE    GRAND    CANYON    AND    ITS   WONDERFUL 

CAVES         . 

THE   HEEL   OF  ACHILLES.      Story     .         .         .    ^M 
THE    HOLINESS  OF    MOUNTAINS.      Verse       .'   :  % 

Illustrated. 
THE   INDIANS  OF  THE  PAINTED   DESERT 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

THE    LESSER   PRINCES.      Verse  .... 

THE    MAID   OF   THE    MOONSTONE.      Story     .         . 
THE   MAKING   OF  A   MAN   AND  A  COUNTRY 

Illustrated  from   photographs. 

THE    MIST.      Verse 

THE    NAVY'S   GREAT   AMMUNITION    PLANT 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

"THE  ONE  WHO  CARED."     Story       .... 
THE  ONLY  WAY  TO  LASTING  PEACE 
THE   PARTING   HOUR.      Verse  .... 

THE   PARTHENEIA  OF  THE   UNIVERSITY   OF 

CALIFORNIA  .... 

Illustrated  from   photographs. 
THE  "PERFECT   FOOL."     Story  .... 

THE    PICNIC.      Verse  

THE  PIONEER  BELLE  OF  LONG  AGO.    Verse 

THE   PROBLEM.      Story 

THE  PUGET  SOUND  COUNTRY  .... 

THE  REGENERATION  OF  HICK  McCOY.  Story 

Illustrated  from   photographs. 

THERMOPYLAE.       Verse 

THE    SACRED    WOODS.      Verse  .... 

Illustrated. 

THE  SANDALWOOD    BOX.      Story       .... 
THE  SEA-CALL.     Verse  . 

THE   SENSIBLE   THING.      Story  .... 

THE  SOCIAL  THEATRE  AND   ITS  POSSIBILITIES 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
THE   SOLDIER   OF  THE  SOUTH.      Verse 
THE  SONG   OF  NETZAHUALCOYTL 
THE    SPIDER   AND   THE    FLY                .... 
THE    STUBBS    FOUNDATION        ..... 
THE  SUBMARINE  NOT  AN   INNOVATION 
THE    SUN     DANCE 

Translated  by  H.  C.  Theobald. 
THE   VOICE   OF    RACHEL   WEEPING.      Verse 
THE    WOLF-DOG.      Story       .         .         .         .         . 
THE    WONDERFUL    VOYAGE    OF    EGADAHGEER 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
THE  YOUNG    MEN'S   CHRISTIAN    ASSOCIATION 

AND  THE    IMMIGRANT 
THREE     DAYS.       Story 

Illustrated  from  a  photograph. 

TRAPPED.       Story 

TRYST   SONG.      Verse  

TWENTY    BILLION    SLAVES    TO    BE    FREED 

UNSTAYED.      Verse 

VASQUEZ   ON    SAN    JUAN    HILL.      Story 
WHAT    MAKES   AND    MARS.      Verse 
WHAT    IS   THEOSOPHY?        .         .         .         . 
WHEN    BETTY  GREW   UP.      Story       .... 
WHEN    THE    GOVERNOR    LEFT   THE   STATE 
"WHEN   THERE   IS  PEACE."      Verse 

"WILD    BILL"    HICKOK \ 

WOMEN    DOCTORS:  AN    HISTORIC   RETROSPECT 

WOMAN'S  SHARE   IN   THE  WAR'S  WORK 


SUZETTE  G.  STUART  145 

STILLMAN   WILLIAMS  286 

R..  L.   G.  376 

R.  R.  GREENWOOD  405 

RALPH  CUMMINS  289 

JESSIE  LOUISE  GOERNER  417 

HAROLD  DEAN  MASON  113 

CARROLL  VAN  COURT  128 

EVERETT  EARLE  STANARD  437 

FELIX  J.  KOCH  70 

LLEWELLYN  B.   PECK  429 

BILLEE  GLYNN  52 

F.  E.  BECKER  407 

ELEANOR  MYEfRS  436 

LILLIAN  E.  ZDH  65 

FRANK  NEWTON  HOLMAN  201 

A.   SHADWELL  422 

WM.  D.  POLLOCK  166 

JEAN  Q.  WATSON  and  359 
FRANCES  L.  BROWN 

RUTH  HUNTOON  49 

SADIE  BELLE  NEER  42 

ELEANOR  DUNCAN  WOOD  500 

RALPH  CUMMINS  43 

MARGARET  HOLLINSHBAD  171 

FRANK   THUNEN  467 

HARRY  COWELL  400 

ALFRED  E.  ACKLOM  98 

MAUDE  IRENE  HAERE  393 

SARAH  HAMMOND  KELLY  316 

JOE  HARTMAN  478 

HELEN   STOCKING  261 

GEORGE  GREENLAND  431 

16 

MINNA  IRVING  474 

BOLTON  HALL  34 

ARTHUR  H.  DUTTON  143 

MAX  McD.  138 

BEATRICE  CREGAN  421 

DOROTHY  MILLER  210 

HENRY  W.   ELLIOTT  153 


FRANK  B.  LENZ  162 

JOHN  PEALE  BISHOP  206 

ARTHUR  WALLACE  PEACH  377 

THEODORE   SHAW  24 

C.  T.  RUSSELL  84 

ARTHUR  WALLACE  PEACH  112 

W.  C.  135 

ARTHUR  POWELL  220 

CORNETT  T.  STARK  304 

JESSIE  B.  WOOD  141 

PIERRE  DORION  380 

AUSTIN  DOBSON  466 

FRANK   M.    VANCIL  81 

DR.   MELANIE  LAPINSKA  and  117 
LADY  MUIR  MACKENZIE 
MARY  FRANCES   BELLINGTON       485 


Please.    Mention    Overland    Monthly  When   Writing   Advertisers. 


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New  Victor  Records  demonstrated  at  all  dealers  on  the  28th  of  eacii  i-.o 


Vol.  LXVH  No.  1 

OVERLAND     MONTHLY 

An  Illustrated  Magazine  of  the   West 


CONTENTS  FOR  JANUARY,  1916 


FRONTISPIECES: 

A  Winter  Visit  to  the  Big  Tree  Groves  in  the  High    Sierras 1 

A  Forest   Ranger  Crew  on  an   Inspection  trip  to    the    Big    Tree    Groves            ...  2 

Relics  of  an  Old  Pioneer  Mill 3 

Redwood    Grove   Within   30    Miles   of   San    Francisco 4 

One  Tree  Proved  more  than  a  load  for  nine  long   cars.      It  was  16  feet  in  diameter  .         .         5 

The   Lily  of  Poverty  Flat,  from  a   Recent  dramatization    of    Bret    Harte's   story           .         .  .6 

REMINISCENCES  OF   BRET   HARTE    (Concluded)             JOSEPHINE    C.    McCRACKIN  7 
Illustrated   from   photographs. 

COYOTE.       Verse                BRET   HARTE                 .  15 

THE   SONG   OF   NETZAHUALCOYTL            .                    16 

Translated  by  H.   C.  Theobald. 

A     BORDERTOWN     BARBECUE             ....         DAISY   KESSLER  BIERMANN  18 
Illustrated  from  photographs. 

TRYST   SONG.      Verse               THEODORE   SHAW  24 

A  JAPANESE    FINANCIER'S  VIEWS  ON    THE      UNITED     STATES     MERCHANT     MARINE 

GEORGE  T.  MARSH  25 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  ARTEMUS  WARD            .          .          CLIFTON  JOHNSON  28 

A   MOUNTAIN   REVERIE.      Verse           .         .         .          .         E.  V.   MILLER  33 

THE    STUBBS    FOUNDATION BOLTON  HALL  34 

LIFE'S  STRONGHOLD.      Verse                ....         MABEL  E.  AMES  36 

TALES    OF    THE    BLACKFEET              ....          MAX  McD.  37 

THE    PICNIC.       Verse                SADIE  BELLE  NEER  42 

THE   PROBLEM.      Story RALPH  CUMMINS  43 

THE   "PERFECT   FOOL."      Story           ....         RUTH  HUNTOON  49 

THE    MAID    OF   THE    MOONSTONE.      Story     .         .         BILLEE  GLYNN  52 

FROM   A  SCHOOLROOM   TO  A   MONTANA   RANCH         METTA  M.    LOOMIS  59 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

A    BLESSING   OF   THE    NEW   YEAR.      Verse              .         ELIZABETH   VORE  64 

THE    NAVY'S    GREAT    AMMUNITION    PLANT          .          LILLIAN  E.   ZBH  65 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

THE   INDIANS  OF  THE   PAINTED   DESERT              .          FELIX  J.  KOCH  70 
Illustrated  from  photographs. 

GIANT    TREES    OF    SEQUOIA HOWARD  RANKIN  74 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

JOHN   MUIR.     Verse          .......         E.   S.   GOODHUE  80 

"WILD    BILL"    HICKOK FRANK   M.    VANCIL  81 

ABOVE    US.      Verse FRANCES  BEERS  83 

TWENTY    BILLION    SLAVES   TO    BE    FREED          .          C.   T.   RUSSELL  84 

N   THE   REALM   OF   BOOKLAND                                                                                           ....  89 


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Copyrighted,  1914,  by  the  Overland   Monthly  Company. 

Entered  at  the  San  Francisco,  Cal.,  Postoffice  as  second-class  mail  matter. 
Published  by  the  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  COMPANY,  San  Francisco,  California. 

21   SUTTER   STREET. 


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iii 


f  -   7*. 


jig!    I ' 


F*'  <%i 


Double -Disc 


THE  finest  silver  ttiread  of  music  spun  by  the  wizard  bow  of  Ysaye — 
the  tears  and  feeling  in  the  tender  depths  of  Fremstad's  noble  voice 
— the  sheer  magnificence  of  a  thrilling  orchestral  finale 
— all  these  elusive  tonal  beauties  are  caught  and 
expressed  in  Columbia  Records,  from  the  faintest 
whisper  to  the  vastest  tidal  wave  of  sound. 

Volume — TONE — feeling — the  most  delicate  shad- 
ing of  a  theme  are  perfectly  preserved  and  supremely 
present  in  every  Columbia  Record — an  exquisite  tone- 
perfection  that  does  not  vanish  with  use. 

You  can  test  these  exclusive  qualities  in  a  series  of 
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iv 


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Choice  of  Routes 

and 

Choice  of  8 
DAILY    TRAINS 


to 


OGDEN&  SHASTA] 
V     R°— E5 

w* 

FIRST  IN  SAFETY 


Los  Angeles 


Down  the  Coast  Line-- 
Through the  rich  Santa  Clara  and  Salinas 
Valleys,  over  the  beautiful  Santa  Lucia 
Mountains,  and  for  one  hundred  miles 
along  the  Pacific  Ocean  via  Santa  Barbara 
and  Ventura,  following  all  the  way  the  old 
Trail  of  the  Padres— one  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque trips  in  the  world. 

Down  the  San  Joaquin  Valley— 

Skirting  for  40  miles  the  shore  of  San 
Francisco  Bay,  with  views  of  the  Golden 
Gate,  Mt.Tamalpaisand  Mt  Diablo;  travers- 
ing fertile  plains  bounded  on  the  East  by 
the  Sierra  Nevada  and  on  the  West  by  the 
Coast  Range;  past  thriving  valley  cities  and 
across  the  Tehachapi  Mountains,  circling 
the  noted  Loop. 

OIL-BURNING  ENGINES— NO  CINDERS,  NO  SMUDGE,  NO  ANNOYING  SMOKE 

Awarded  Grand  Prize  for  Railway  Track,  Equipment,  Motive   Power  and   Safety-First 

Appliances,  San  Francisco  Exposition,  1915 


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HOTEL  CUMBERLAND 

NEW  YORK 
Broadway  at  54th  Street 

Broadway  cars  trom 

Grand 
Central  Depot 

7th  Ave.  Cars  from 
Penna.  Station 

New  and  Fireproof 

Strictly  First-Class 
Rates  Reasonable 

$2.50  with  Bath 
and  up 

Send  for  Booklet 

10  Minutes  Walk  to 
40  Theatres 

H.  P.  STIMSON 

Formerly  with  Hotel  Imperial 

Only  N.  Y.  Hotel  Window-Screened  Throughout 


HOTEL    LENOX 

North  St.,  at  Delaware  Ave. 

Buffalo,  N.  Y. 


Patrons  who  visit  this  hotel  once  invariaby  tell  their 
friends  that — for  Fair  Rates,  complete  and  perfect 
equipment  and  unfailing  courtesy 

BUFFALO'S      LEADING     TOURIST      HOTEL 

unquestionably  excels.  Beautifully  located  in  ex- 
clusive section — North  St.  at  Deleware  Ave.  Thor- 
oughly modern— fireproof .  Best  obtainable  cuisine 
— quiet,  efficient  service. 

EUROPEAN   PLAN— $1.5O  per  day  and  up 

Special  weekly  and  monthly  rates.  Take  •Elmwood 
Ave.  car  to  North  St.  Write  for  complimentary 
"Guide  of  Buffalo  and  Niagara  Falls,"  also  for  Special 
Taxicab  Arrangement.  C.  A.  MINER,  Manager 


HOTEL   ST.  FRANCIS 

SAN       FRANCISCO 

/ ,000  Rooms  —  Largest  Hotel  in  Western  America 

MANAGEMENT  —  JAMES     WOODS 


vi 


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The  Hotel  Plaza 

overlooking  the  beautiful  Plaza 
of  Union  Square,  the  Hotel  of 
refinement  and  service,  is  offer- 
ing special  rates  to  permanent 
guests 

HOTEL    PLAZA    COMPANY 


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vi! 


UiV 


400  Rooms 
400  Baths 

HOTEL 

ADELPHIA 


Chestnut  at  13th  Street  i 

5 

(Next  to  Wanamaker's) 

Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania 

For  all  purposes  the  most  con-  9 
veniently  located  hotel.  S 

MODERATE  TARIFF 

DAVID  B.  PROVEN,  Managing  Director 

0 


Two  Beautiful  Calendars  FREE 

Distinctly  different  and  artistically  better 
than  any  calendars  \ve  have  seen.  These  two 
girl  subjects  from  the  brush  of  W.  Haskell 
Coffin  are  so  cleverly  reproduced  in  eight 
colors  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  them 
from  the  original  water  color.  Please  let  us 
send  you  this  set. 
Enclose  5c.  to  cover 
cost  of  wrapping 
and  mailing. 

The  Beauty 

of  these  girls  lies  in  the 
soft,  clear  skin  the  artist 
has  given  them.  Such  an 
appearance  is  within  the 
reach  of  every  woman 
who  will  use 

Gouraud's 

Oriental 
Cream 

It  renders  the  skin 
like  the  softness  of 
velvet,  leaving  it  clear 
and  pearly  white.  In  use 
for  nearly  three  quarters 
of  a  century. 

FERD.T.  HOPKINS  &  SON 

37  Great  Jones  Street 
New  York  City 


HOTEL  POWHATAN 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 

Pennsylvania  Avenue,  18th  and  H  Streets,  N.  W. 

Overlooking  White  House  grounds 

European,  Fire  Proof, 

Close  to  State,    War   and 

Navy  Departments 

EUROPEAN  PLAN 
Rooms,  detached  bath,  $1  50,  $2.00  up. 
Rooms,  private  bath,  $2.50,  $3.00  up. 


E.  C.  OWEN,  Manager 


Descriptive  booklet  will  be  sent 
on   request 


viii 


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Three  Wonders 


—  OF   THE  ~ 


Horticultural  Age 


Luther  Burbank's  Rose  "The  Burbank" 

THE  "BURBANK"  ROSE  is  the  freest  flowering  Rose  in  Cultivation. 
The  Plants  begin  to  bloom  when  only  a  few  inches  high,  and  flowers  most 
profusely  all  through  the  spring  and  summer  until  stopped  by  late  win- 
ter frosts.  The  flowers  are  double,  of  fine  form,  color  deep  pink,  shading 
to  a  beautiful  soft  rose  at  the  center.  In  the  fall  the  outer  petals  change 
to  a  deep,  rich  carmine.  Price  75  cents  each;  $5  per  10  Strong  Rooted 
Plants. 

Luther  Burbank's  Rose  "Corona" 

THE  "CORONA"  ROSE  is  a  semi-climber  of  Crimson  Rambler  Type, 
with  magnificent  single  blooms  growing  in  immense  clusters.  The  flowers 
are  rosy  crimson,  very  much  resembling  Chinese  Primroses,  yet  are  un- 
like any  rose  grown.  The  most  unique  of  all  rose  creations.  Its  bloom, 
when  cut,  will  last  for  over  a  week.  This  rose  graces  Mr.  Burbank's  own 
veranda,  where  it  has  occasioned  more  comment  than  any  rose  in  the  past 
decade.  The  plants  are  hardy,  and  will  thrive  with  little  or  no  attention. 
Price  75  cents  each,  $5  per  10  strong  rooted  plants. 

Luther  Burbank's  "Spineless  Blackberry" 

THE  NEW  BURBANK  "SPINELESS  BLACKBERRY"  is  the  wonder  of 
the  century.  Absolutely  thornless.  Tremendous  bearer,  strong  grower. 
The  berries  are  borne  in  immense  clusters.  Fruit  best  quality,  plump,  firm 
and  uniform  in  size.  It  being  thornless,  many  more  quarts  of  berries 
can  be  gathered  each  day  by  berry-pickers.  Price  $1.00  each;  $7.50  per  10 
well  rooted  plants. 


Special 
Offer 


As  an  Introductory  Combination 
offer,  we  will  send  post-paid  any 
place  in  the  United  States  the 
two  roses  named  above,  and  1 
Rooted  Spineless  Blackberry 
Plant  for  $2.00.  Let  us  have 
your  order  while  our  supply 
lasts. 


We  Are  Distributers  Also 

OF  LUTHER  BURBANK'S  NEW  VARIETIES  OF 
PLUMS,  APPLES,  CHERRIES,  PLUMCOTS,  PEACHES, 
PRUNES,  QUINCES,  BERRIES,  SEEDS,  BULBS,  ETC. 
ETC. 

We  can  also  figure  on  your  wants  for  all  varieties  of 
FRUIT,  NUT  and  CITRUS  TREES,  other  than  Burbank 
varieties.  We  sell  everything  that  grows. 

Send  List  of  Wants  for  quotations.  Catalogue  mailed 
free  upon  request.  Address: 

THE  LUTHER  BURBANK  CO. 


DEPT.  "N» 


SAN    FRANCISCO,  CALIF.,   U.  S.  A. 


Burbank's  40  Page  Book  "  Garden  Culture  "  free  with  orders 


i 


A  forest  ranger  crew  on  an  inspection  trip  to  the  big  tree  groves 

— See  page   75 


Relic  of  an  old  pioneer  mill  where  big  redwood  trees  were  sawed  into  boards. 

— See  page  75 


A  redwood  grove  within  thirty  miles  of  San  Francisco 

— See  page  75 


Top — One  tree  proved  more  than  a  load  for  nine  long  cars 
Bottom — This  tree  was  more  than  sixteen  feet  in  diameter 

See  page  75 


CO 
«o 

1 


I 

^ 

?s 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


MONTHLY 


BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LXVI1 


San  Francisco,  January  1916 


No.  1 


Ulllllllllllllllllllllllllilllllllllllllllllllllll 


Mrs.  M!cCrackin  on  business  bent 


1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111 


AS  A  CHILD  I  was  raised  a  pet 
of  a  German  of  noble  estate, 
Ern  Wopner,  a  younger  son  of 
an  old     patrician     family    of 
Hanover.     My   father   fought   at  the 
battle  of  Waterloo,  not  under  Blucher, 
who  commanded  the  German  troops  of 
the   allied  forces,   but  directly  under 
Wellington.     In  those  days  the  King 
of  England  was  also  the  King  of  Han- 


Reminiscences  | 

of  | 

Bret  Harte  | 

and  | 

Pioneer 

Days 

in  the  | 

West  | 

By  AVrs.  Josephine 
Clifford  AcCrackin        JE 

(Concluded) 

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiS 


a 


over,  and  therefore  the  Hanoverian 
troops  were  under  the  command  of  the 
King.  My  father,  then  eighteen  years 
of  age,  was  made  a  lieutenant  on  the 
field  of  Waterloo  for  bravery.  When 
he  married  my  mother  later  he  wore 
the  scarlet  uniform  of  an  English  offi- 
cer. My  mother  was  a  daughter  of 
the  younger  branch  of  the  Hessian 
family  of  Von  Ende  (Ende  von  Wolf- 


o 
55 


QQ 


REMINISCENCES  OF  BRET  HARTE 


sprun.)  More  correctly  speaking,  the 
title  was  Freiherr  Von  Wolfsprung, 
Count  von  Ende,  for  one  of  the  far 
off  ancestors  had  been  created  baron 
by  Emperor  Karl  the  Fourth.  My 
mother  was  educated  with  a  view  to 
becoming  maid  of  honor  to  Princess 
Maria  of  Hesse-Kassel,  and  my  grand- 
father died  while  he  was  command- 
ant of  the  old  fortress  of  Ziegenhain, 
after  having  been,  during  King  Jer- 
ome's reign,  while  Napoleon  occupied 


with  his  large  staff  of  assistants  he 
re-transferred  the  whole  country  from 
the  French  system  of  measurement 
back  to  the  German.  But  the  spirit 
of  unrest  was  rife  then.  My  father 
was  seized  with  the  growing  spirit  of 
democracy,  and  accordingly  he  brought 
his  family  to  the  United  States  and  be- 
came a  fully  naturalized  citizen. 

If  I  have  written  of  things  super- 
natural, things  that  seem  so,  remem- 
ber there  are  many  phenomena  not 


Ambrose  Bierce,  August  29,  1913 


Germany,  commandant  at  Brunswick. 
At  the  close  of  the  Napoleonic  wars 
my  father,  tired  of  the  demoralizing 
life  of  the  army,  and  entered  the  Prus- 
sian civil  service.  He  was  made  chief 
of  the  district  surveying  corps,  and  the 
castle  of  Petershagen,  then  in  part 
ruins,  as  the  result  of  the  constant  bat- 
tling for  its  possession,  was  assigned 
to  his  as  his  residence  and  office.  Here 


yet  explained — not  yet  reduced  to 
common  understanding. 

Mrs.  Frances  Fuller  Victor,  one  of 
the  Overland  Monthly  contributors, 
with  whom  I  lived  at  the  Alameda 
home  of  the  Bissetts,  where  the  Bret 
Hartes,  too,  passed  one  summer,  was 
the  first  to  encourage  me  to  write  of  the 
Red  Earth  superstitions. 

For  I  was  born  of  the  "red  earth" 

2 


The  bird's-nest  home  of  Mrs.  Josephine    Clifford    McCrackin,    Santa    Cruz, 
Cat.  She  named  it  Gedenkheim,  after  memories  of  her  old  home  in  Germany. 


of  Westphalia,  in  one  of  the  oldest 
inhabitable  castles  of  Europe,  Pet- 
ershagen  on  the  Weser.  It  dates  from 
the  year  1280,  grim  and  squat  looking, 
perched  high  above  the  banks  of  the 
Weser,  with  stone  statues  of  saints 
in  niches  of  the  eleven  feet  thick  wall, 
on  the  upper  terrace,  and  splendid 
stone  carving  gracing  door  arches  and 
window  frames  in  the  interior.  But 
there  was  the  ghost,  naturally,  the 
White  Lady;  and  what  mother  could 
have  prevented  nurse  girl  or  house 
maid  from  telling  the  children  in  their 
charge  all  about  the  ghost?  Early 
impressions  are  the  most  lasting;  and 
instead  of  learning  my  multiplication 
table  at  school,  I  found  it  more  to  my 
taste  to  "think  up"  ghost  stories. 

And  they  stayed  with  me,  even  when 
the  old  castle  and  the  old  country  had 
been  left  behind,  and  father  had  real- 
ized his  dream  of  bringing  his  fam- 
ily to  the  United  States,  and  making 
good  American  citizens  of  his  child- 
ren. To  be  sure,  he  had  overlooked 
some  slight  particulars,  in  his  ardent 


desire  to  secure  liberty  and  freedom 
from  tyranny,  not  only  for  himself, 
but  for  any  number  of  poor  black 
slaves,  to  whom  his  heart  went  out. 
The  more  particular  of  these  particu- 
lars being  that  twenty  thousand  tha- 
lers  was  not  an  inexhaustible  fortune 
in  the  great  free  America  of  which 
every  German  dreams. 

Perhaps  this  little  miscalculation  in 
regard  to  the  little  thalers  might  have 
been  set  straight  when  our  family 
reached  New  Orleans  in  January, 
1846,  had  father  not  been  so  anxious 
to  reach  St.  Louis;  for  in  Missouri  he 
meant  to  purchase  the  territory  on 
which  were  to  live,  not  his  own  fam- 
ily, but  the  families  of  the  poor  black 
slaves  whom  he  meant  to  buy  of  their 
•cruel  masters. 

Mother  could  see  more  clearly  that 
the  family  coffers  would  soon  need 
replenishing;  and  she  begged  father 
to  remain  in  New  Orleans,  and  at 
least  investigate  what  we  had  known 
for  years  to  be  an  estate  in  litigation 
in  the  courts  of  Louisiana,  because  the 


REMINISCENCES  OF  BRET  HARTE 


11 


heirs  could  not  be  found  in  the 
United  States.  It  was  a  grand-uncle 
of  mother's  who  had  come  with  the 
English  troops  from  Hesse,  in  the 
year  1776;  had  quit  the  service,  ac- 
quired vast  stretches  of  land  in  the 
then  French  territory  along  what  was 
later  the  border  of  Texas  and  Louisi- 
ana, and  lived  the  life  of  a  lord, 
changing  the  "von"  of  his  name  to  the 
French  "de,"  so  that  instead  of  being 
Freiherr  von  Ende,  he  became 
Baron  D'Ende.  He  had  never  mar- 
ried, and  those  who  claimed  the  es- 
tate, were  not  legitimate  heirs. 

After  father  died — perhaps  a  little 
disillusionized — mother  lacked  the 
means  to  prosecute  the  search  for  the 
treasure.  But  long  after  mother's 
death,  and  when  the  Beaumont  Oil 
Wells  were  spouting  their  best,  some 
man  in  Texas,  who  called  himself 
Dandy,  and  claimed  descent,  said  he 
had  papers  which  could  establish  the 
Von  Ende  claim.  It  was  before  the 
death  of  my  cousin,  to  whom  I  ad- 
dressed my  letters:  "Seiner  Excel- 
lenz  General  Lieutenant  Freiherr  von 
Ende,  Kommandant  zn  Berlin,"  and  as 
he  was  the  Military  Commandant,  of 
course  all  the  old  archives  were  open 
to  him.  I  still  have  the  papers  he  sent 
me,  establishing  the  identity  of  our 
prize  grand-grand-uncle,  but  "Dandy" 
did  not  appear  again. 

I  was  educated  privately  and  then 
in  a  convent  school.  In  1854  father 
died;  an  older  brother,  George,  had 
left  for  California  in  the  days  of  the 
gold  excitement,  and  my  mother,  sis- 
ter and  I  were  alone.  Then  Lt.  Jas. 
A.  Clifford,  of  the  Third  Cavalry,  U. 
S.  A.,  came  into  my  life,  and  I  mar- 
ried him.  The  close  of  the  Civil  War 
found  us  at  Carlisle  Barracks,  Penn. 
From  there  we  were  ordered  to  Fort 
Union,  New  Mexico,  then  a  frontier 
post,  to  report  to  General  Carlton,  who 
was  to  meet  the  various  troops -sent 
there  and  assign  them  to  the  different 
posts,  camps  and  stations  in  his  de- 
partment. Then  came  a  rarely  vivid 
period  in  my  life,  when  I  traveled 
over  the  wild  and  desolate  portion  of 


Arizona  and  New  Mexico,  and  finally 
to  Fort  Leavenworth,  Kansas.  Besides 
the  1,200  mules  in  the  wagons  there 
were  some  200  head  extra,  and  large 
bands  of  horses  for  the  officers.  It 
was  on  this  trip  I  met  and  rode  my 
famous  white  horse  Toby,  my  affec- 
tionate companion  of  the  plains  who 
almost  talked  to  me,  so  companionable 
did  we  become.  On  this  trip  I  met,  a 
few  miles  above  the  present  bustling 
city  of  Trinidad,  Colorado,  and  near 
the  Raton  Tunnel  on  the  Santa  Fe 
transcontinental  line,  the  old  pioneer 
Dick  Wooton,  and  at  Albuqueque,  New 
Mexico,  the  famous  scout  of  General 
Fremont,  Kit  Carson,  and  the  less  re- 
nowned, but  equally  brave  Colonel 
Pfeiffer. 

Several  times  on  this  trip,  with  the 
troops,  we  came  upon  mutilated 
corpses  of  civilians  and  soldiers  who 
had  been  killed  by  the  merciless 
Apaches.  Just  at  the  foot  of  a  rough, 
endless  mountain,  the  men  who  had 
come  under  the  protection  of  our  train 
from  Fort  Cummings,  pointed  out 
where  the  two  mail  riders  coming  from 
Fort  Bayard,  our  destination,  had  been 
ambushed  and  killed  by  Apaches  only 
the  week  before.  I  had  heard  of  these 
two  men  while  at  the  fort,  one  of  those 
was  a  young  man  barely  twenty,  and 
very  popular  with  the  men.  When 
smoking  his  farewell  pipe  before 
mounting  his  mule  for  the  trip  to 
Camp  Bayard,  he  said:  "Boys,  this  is 
my  last  trip.  Mother  writes  me  that 
she  is  getting  old  and  feeble;  she 
wants  me  to  come  home.  So  I've 
thrown  up  my  contract  with  Uncle 
Sam,  and  I'm  going  straight  back  to 
Booneville,  just  as  straight  as  God 
will  let  me,  when  I  get  back  to  Bay- 
ard. This  mail  riding  is  hard  work 
and  small  pay  anyhow — $60  a  month, 
and  your  scalp  at  the  mercy  of  these 
murderous  Apaches."  His  mother's 
letter  was  found  in  the  boy's  pocket 
when  his  mutilated  body,  was  brought 
into  camp. 

On  another  occasion,  after  we  had 
left  Fort  Craig,  we  saw  what  proved 
to  be  a  party  of  soldiers.  They  drew 


Joaquin  Miller  at  his  home,  The  Mights,  on  the  sloping  hills   of   Fruitvale, 
California,  overlooking  the  bay  of  San  Francisco. 


up  in  line  as  they  saw  our  captain  ap- 
proach. Perhaps  they  had  not  discov- 
ered my  presence  in  time;  before  the 
sergeant  could  throw  a  blanket  over 
the  cold,  stark  form  lying  on  a  pile 
of  rocks  by  the  roadside,  I  had  al- 
ready seen  the  ghastly  face  and  muti- 
lated limbs  of  the  wretched  man  who 
had  met  a  cruel  death  only  the  day 
before.  It  was  the  usual  story  of  two 
men,  mounted  civilians,  who  were 
crossing  the  desert.  They  were  almost 
crazy  with  thirst,  and  attempted  to 
turn  down  to  the  river  for  water  for 
their  canteens  when  they  were  at- 
tacked by  Indians.  One  of  them  es- 
caped to  Fort  Selden;  the  other  was 
captured  and  tortured  to  death.  The 
soldiers  buried  him  in  the  sands  of 
the  lonely  desert.  There  were  many 
such  scenes  in  following  the  army  in 
those  days. 

After  I  left  Lieutenant  Clifford  I 
came  to  California,  where  my  mother, 
brother  and  sister  were  already  lo- 


cated, and  shortly  after  learned  of  the 
founding  of  a  new  magazine  in  San 
Francisco,  the  Overland  Monthly,  with 
Bret  Harte  as  editor.  I  was  anxious 
to  earn  my  independence,  and  so  de- 
cided upon  writing  some  of  my  experi- 
ences. My  first  article  was  entitled 
"Down  Among  the  Dead  Letters;"  it 
appeared  in  the  December  number, 
1869.  Bret  Harte  liked  it  so  well  he 
urged  me  to  write  more,  and  especially 
some  of  my  army  experiences,  and 
stories  based  upon  them.  So  I  did,  and 
in  due  time  four  of  them  appeared, 
and  others  followed.  Somewhat  later 
I  branched  out  in  the  literary  field,  and 
by  degrees  my  work  was  published  in 
the  East,  Middle  West  and  here,  both 
in  magazines  and  in  book  form. 

Iri  1881  I  went  to  Arizona  to  visit 
old  army  friends,  and  there  chanced 
to  meet,  among  others,  Jackson  Mc- 
Crackin,  a  South  Carolinan,  who  had 
developed  into  a  thorough-going  West- 
erner. He  was  the  first  white  man  to 


REMINISCENCES  OF  BRET  HARTE 


13 


set  foot  where  Prescott  now  stands. 
He  had  discovered  a  famous  gold  mine 
and  was  the  speaker  of  the  first  legis- 
lature ever  convened  in  Arizona.  We 
were  married  the  following  year.  We 
purchased  a  ranch  in  the  beautiful 
Santa  Cruz  Mountains,  which  we 
named  Monte  Paraiso,  Mountain  Para- 
dise, and  there  for  seventeen  years  we 
lived,  surrounded  with  all  we  desired. 
During  this  period  I  continued  my  lit- 
erary work  and  published  a  number  of 
books.  A  big  forest  fire,  in  October, 
1899,  swept  away  everything  on  the 
ranch,  and  was  the  end  of  the  happiest 
period  of  my  life,  for  Mr.  McCrackin 
did  not  die  till  December  14,  1904. 
Then  I  left  the  mountains  and  offered 
what  was  left  of  the  ranch  for  sale. 

The  ranch,  with  its  natural  attrac- 
tions and  growing  memories,  held  a 
rare  charm  for  us  and  our  many 
friends.  It  was  the  headquarters  of 
all  our  army  comrades,  who  passed 
anywhere  near  Santa  Cruz.  Ambrose 
Bierce,  the  most  hated  and  the  best 
loved  man  in  California,  was  a  fre- 
quent guest,  and  spent  many  vacations 
there.  Renown  followed  him  wherever 
the  fear  of  his  name  penetrated.  Yet 
he  could  be  kind,  good  and  compan- 
ionable. He  was  merciless  in  his  sar- 
casm, hated  hypocrisy,  and  was  with- 
out fear.  He  wrote  his  manuscripts 
nearby,  some  of  the  copy  embodying 
his  experience  in  army  days,  para- 
graphs of  a  pathetic  strain  from  the 
depths  of  his  heart.  Bierce  had  been 
an  army  officer,  and  though  no  one 
was  permitted  to  address  him  as 
"Major  Bierce,"  I  had  always  main- 
tained that  the  army  lost  an  excellent 
officer  where  the  world  gained  an  ex- 
traordinarily brilliant  writer. 

Herman  Scheffauer,  now  of  London, 
was  a  protege  of  Bierce's,  and  was  with 
him  when  the  fire  swept  away  our 
mountain  home.  Both  of  them  hurried 
to  our  assistance.  It  was  this  sudden 
calamity  to  myself  that  awakened  me 
to  the  great  necessity  of  inaugurating 
a  movement  to  preserve  the  forest 
groves  of  the  State  from  fires  of  this 
character. 

When  I  left  the  ruins  of  the  ranch  I 


came  to  Santa  Cruz,  where  I  was 
greeted  with  great  kindness  and  the 
gift  of  a  very  pretty  bungalow,  pret- 
tily furnished,  by  the  Saturday  After- 
noon Club.  Beside  being  reporter  and 
writer  on  the  "Sentinel,"  I  am  writing 
for  magazines  and  other  papers. 

Busy  as  I  am,  I  have  still  time  to 
make  myself  disagreeable  to  people 
who  have  no  love  for  any  of  the  crea- 
tures God  gave  us  to  protect,  the  wild 
life  of  the  forest,  or  the  animals  who 
serve  us  and  guard  us,  and  would  love 
us  if  we  would  but  let  them.  In  other 
words,  I  belong  to  every  protective 
society  and  league,  and  believe  myself 
to  be  working  for  the  best  interests  of 
California. 

Since  that  great  catastrophe  of  our 
destroyed  mountain  home,  I  have  never 
discovered  a  picture  of  Bret  Harte 
that  looked  like  him.  Like  the  Bret 
Harte  of  the  "Overland"  period,  when, 
to  quote  his  own  expression,  he  was 
"seated  on  the  editorial  tripod  in  the 
sanctum  on  Clay  street."  The  photo- 
graph was  taken  at  that  time ;  he  him- 
self pronounced  it  good,  and  he  wrote 
a  few  charming  words  on  it  for  me. 

But  it  went  up  in  fire  and  flames  that 
dreadful  October  day  in  1899,  when  I 
saw  the  greedy  flames  devour  my  two 
white  doves,  Polly  and  Paloma,  as 
they  escaped  from  the  burning  barn  to 
seek  protection  with  me. 

Bret  Harte  could  be  altogether 
charming ;  it  was  his  nature  to  be  ami- 
able and  sympathetic;  but  there  was 
about  him  an  aloofness  which  grew  to 
stony  coldness  when  brought  into  con- 
tact with  those  who  had  antagonized 
him  or  illy  used  him.  As  I  have  said 
elsewhere,  to  Miss  Dolson  and  myself, 
who  were  homesick  and  forlorn,  he 
showed  special  kindness  by  encourag- 
ing us  to  visit  the  editorial  rooms  on 
Clay  street,  and  finding  for  us  always 
some  manuscript  to  look  over,  or  copy, 
for  there  were  no  typewriters  in  use 
those  days,  and  some  of  the  manu- 
scripts needed  close  attention.  Mr. 
Harte  and  I  both  knew  that  Miss  Dol- 
son had  a  young  stepmother  in  the 
East,  and  we  discussed  the  matter 
without  hesitation. 


14 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


But  the  sorrow  that  was  in  my 
heart  lay  deeper,  and  for  years  I  could 
not  bear  to  speak  of  it,  much  less 
write  about  it.  And  Mr.  Harte  did  not 
urge  it;  he  knew  the  sore  spot  in  my 
heart  and  respected  my  wish  to  hide  it. 

The  Clay  street  sanctum  was  a  pleas- 
ant room  in  which  to  foregather;  and  a 
great  attraction  to  all  the  staff  were 
the  paintings  which  the  artist,  Munger, 
had  left  on  the  walls  for  his  friend  to 
enjoy.  Bret  Harte  fitted  so  well  in 
these  really  elegant  surroundings;  and 
when  by  chance  a  number  of  the 
brightest  stars  of  the  "Overland"  con- 
stellation met  here,  when  wit  and  satire 
flashed  and  sparkled,  and  the  editor 
merged  into  the  genial  companion, 
there  was  fascination  never  to  be  for- 
gotten by  the  fortunate  witness  of  the 
scene. 

I  think  this  singular  man  was  hap- 
pier with  men  than  with  women.  That 
the  woman  nearest  him,  his  wife,  was 
not  always  a  pleasant  companion  for 
him  is  not  a  secret.  Never  has  it  been 
a  secret  since  the  days  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  coming  to  the  Clay  street  sanc- 
tum, to  order  her  husband  for  escort 
on  a  shopping  expedition.  It  seemed 
so  utterly  ridiculous  that  this  high- 
strung,  sensitive  man  should  be  at 
the  order  of  a  woman  who  seemed  to 
share  no  aspiration  with  him,  but  sim- 
ply regarded  him  as  an  agent  for  her 
convenience.  Mr.  Harte  used  to  say 
that  he  did  not  want  to  "make  points," 
'but  would  assert  himself  when  the  time 
'came.  He  did  not.  For  the  fiasco  in 
Chicago,  where  he  had  gone,  expect- 
ing his  admirers  to  purchase  the 
"Lakeside  Monthly"  for  him,  was  due 
to  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Harte  forbade 
him  to  attend  the  dinner,  where  the 
'$14,000  check  had  been  laid  under  his 
plate.  The  cousin  of  Mrs.  Harte,  the 
lady  with  whom  they  were  staying, 
had  not  been  invited  to  the  dinner 
party. 

Still,  Bret  Harte  could  be  very  firm, 
even  vindictive.  We  all  know  the 
name  of  the  very  particular  lady  who 
refused  to  read  proof  on  Harte's  first 
story,  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp," 
because,  she  said,  it  was  indecent.  The 


Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  one  of  the 

early  group  of  prominent  writers  in 

San  Francisco. 


lady  was  active  in  church  and  Sunday 
school  circles,  and  she  later  prepared 
a  number  of  papers  on  "Childhood," 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


15 


"Womanhood,"  "Motherhood,"  and 
kindred  topics,  and  about  once  a 
month  she  would  offer  her  manuscript 
to  the  editor  of  the  "Overland."  Un- 
fortunately, both  Miss  Dolson  and  I 
were  present  on  several  occasions ;  and 
Bret  Harte  always  went  through  the 


~same  routine.  The  lady  would  hand 
him  her  manuscript;  he  would  look  at 
the  title,  return  it  with  a  polite  bow, 
and  say:  "I  will  not  trouble  you  to 
'leave  the  manuscript;  I  am  not  pub- 
lishing a  Sunday-school  paper:  I  am 
publishing  the  'Overland  Monthly/ " 


COYOTE 


Blown  out  of  the  prairie  in  twilight  and  dew, 
Half  bold  and  half  timid — yet  lazy  all  through. 
Loth  ever  to  leave,  and  yet  fearful  to  stay, 
He  limps  in  the  clearing — an  outcast  in  gray. 

A  shade  on  the  stubble,  a  ghost  by  the  wall, 
Now  leaping — now  limping — now  risking  a  fall. 
Lop-eared  and  large-jointed,  but  ever  alway 
A  thoroughly  vagabond  outcast  in  gray. 

Here,  Carlo,  old  fellow — he's  one  of  your  kind — 
Go  seek  him  and  bring  him  in  out  of  the  wind. 
What!  snarling — my  Carlo.    So — even  dogs  may 
Deny  their  own  kin  in  the  outcast  in  gray. 

Well,  take  what  you  will — though  it  be  on  the  sly, 
Marauding,  or  begging — I  shall  not  ask  why; 
But  will  call  it  a  dole,  just  to  help  on  his  way 
A  four-footed  friar  in  orders  of  gray! 

BRET  HARTE. 


The  Song  of  Netzahualcoytl 

(An  Aztec  "Thanatopsis") 
Translated  By  H.  C  Theobald 


At  the  wedding  feast  of  Netzahualcoytl,  who  was  Emperor  of 
Texcoco,  in  the  latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  ruler 
recited  to  his  guests  a  poem  which  has  been  translated  from 
the  Nahuati  dialect  of  the  Aztecs  and  turned  into  melodious 
Spanish  verse  by  Juan  Villalon,  a  modern  Mexican  poet.  In 
sentiment  closely  resembling  Bryant's  "Thanatopsis/'  these 
lines  reveal  the  philosopher  king's  belief  in  immortality  and  in 
a  Supreme  Being.  The  following  translation  from  the  Spanish 
represents  an  endeavor  to  keep  close  to  the  literal  'rendering 
by  Villalon  of  this  rather  serious  wedding  poem : 


Swift  fades  the  pomp  and  trappings  of  this  world, 
E'en  as  the  borders  of  the  brooks  are  parched 
When  fierce  the  flames  invade  the  forest  shade, 
Or  as  the  warrior  sinks  in  all  his  might, 
His  forehead  rent  by  battle-axe  of  power. 

The  purple  of  the  throne  fades  like  the  rose 
Who  vaunts  her  lovely  petals  for  a  day, 
And  lo !  all  withered  by  the  blazing  sun, 
Blighted  and  colorless  to  earth  she  falls, 
Like  dolorous  virgin,  desolate,  betrayed! 

Brief  is  the  reign  of  mortals,  brief  as  flowers! 
That  which  at  dawn  its  beauty  lifts  to  heaven 
At  eve  lies  dying — soon  its  race  is  run! 
Glory  and  honors  pass  with  mortal  speed; 
Fate  urges  on  unto  the  dark  abyss. 
Earth  is  one  vast,  stupendous  pantheon 
That  piteously  inters  all  those  she  bore. 


The  rivers,  brooks  and  streamlets  onward  rush, 
But  backward  to  their  course  none  may  return : 
They  onward  rush  unto  the  gloomy  deep, 
There  hurl  themselves  into  their  tomb  and  rest. 
So  is  our  human  life;  lo,  yesterday 
Was  not  that  which  to-day  doth  seem  to  be ; 
Nor  shall  to-morrow's  vision  be  to-day's. 

Full  is  the  vault  of  sad  remains :  those  forms 

Rejoicing  yesterday  in  health  and  life, 

Were  warriors,  lusty  youth,  and  monarchs  wise. 

Great  riches,  wisdom,  and  command  were  theirs, 

But  power,  and  wealth,  and  high  estate  soon  passed, 

Quick  vanishing  as  pestilential  fumes 

Which  Popocapetl  boiling  vomits  forth. 

Rend  now  the  shadows  of  the  hollow  crypt, 
Of  those  forgotten,  register  each  trace : 
Where  is  Chalchiutlanet,  the  Chichimecan? 
Mitl,  cherisher  of  the  gods,  say,  whither  gone  ? 
Of  Tolpiltzin,  last  of  the  ancient  Toltecs, 
And  beauteous  Xiuhtzal,  tell  me,  what  of  them? 
Where  is  Xolotl,  great  and  favored  monarch? 
Where  now  Ixtlilxochitl,  my  unhappy  sire? 

Ah,  idle,  vain  desire!    Ah,  useless  search! 
Who  shall  know  more  than  He,  who  knoweth  all  ? 
From  clay,  by  His  omnipotence,  they  came, 
And  mingled  with  the  clay  their  bones  repose. 
Such  course  shall  our  existence  run,  and  such 
Shall  be  the  fate  of  our  posterity. 
Aye !  and  in  none  other  manner,  also  they 
Shall  end  their  course  in  dust  of  nothingness! 

To  life  immortal,  oh,  noble  Texocanos, 
To  life  of  the  high  heavens  let  us  aspire! 
The  mortal  perishes  'mid  worms,  but  not  the  soul. 
Toward  God,  released,  it  wings  aloft  its  flight. 
In  yonder  sovereign  fields  of  the  eternal, 
Glory  and  love  attend  consoling  peace. 
And  yonder  planets,  dazzling  mortal  eyes, 
Are  but  the  lamps  His  palace  that  illume! 


Carrying  the  pit-roasted  meat  to  the  serving  tables. 


A  Bordertown  Barbecue 


By  Daisy  Kessler  Biermann 


A  SINGLE  star  hung  low  in  the 
luminous  amethyst  above  the 
Eastern  horizon,  trembling  in 
liquid  radiance  above  the  silent 
hills.    The    Western    sky    was    still 
flooded  with  a  vivid  saffron  glow,  and 
the  studded  oaks  were  black  blotches 
etched  in  clear-cut  silhouette  through 
the  dry  mountain  air.     A  stretch  of 
pasture,  gray-green  in  a  fast  gathering 
twilight  dimness   spread  as   a  carpet 
from  the  sloping  hills  on  either  side. 
In  this  expanse  of  gray-green  merg- 
ing into  the  darkening  silhouettes  of 
the     hedging     Southern      California 
mountains,  a  group  of  men  gathered, 
a  spot  of  darker  grey,  about  the  mouth 
of  a  deeply  dug  pit.    Within  its  depths 
— ruddily  glowing — sturdy  oaks  were 


transforming  into  a  bed  of  palpitating 
living  coals,  and  imbedded  in  the  fiery 
mass  lay  rounded  stones  dully  glow- 
ing with  an  intense  heat.  Campo  was 
preparing  for  the  barbecue. 

The  men  lounged  lazily  about  the 
pit,  their  idle  gaze  held  by  the  age- 
old  fascination  of  the  fire.  Pricking 
the  darkness  here  and  there  about 
the  circle  glowed  the  point  of  a  cigar- 
ette, and  its  thin  blue  smoke  mingled 
its  fragrance  with  the  pungent  odor 
of  the  drifting  wood  smoke.  The  men 
spoke  in  low  tones,  desultory  remarks 
in  mingled  American  and  Mexican. 
In  the  silences  that  marked  the  lapses 
in  conversation  the  stillness  of  the 
mountain  night  seemed  freighted  with 
the  weight  of  desert  solitudes  pressing 


A  BORDERTOWN   BARBECUE 


19 


from  the  east,  the  loneliness  of  the 
wilds  of  old  Mexico  to  the  south,  and 
of  all  the  peaks  and  valleys  stretching 
down  to  the  ocean  seventy  miles  to  the 
west. 

Finally  the  smoke  ceased  drifting 
from  the  pit.  In  its  yawning  throat 
the  clear  air  vibrated  with  the  red 
heat  of  the  coals.  The  group  of  wait- 
ing men  stirred  casually.  From  the 
darkness  beyond  the  rim  of  firelight 
were  brought  huge  pieces  of  raw  beef, 
a  quarter  or  a  half  a  beef  in  a  chunk. 
These  were  wrapped  in  burlap  sacking, 
soused  in  tubs  of  water,  and  flung 
dripping  upon  the  sizzling  stones. 
Clouds  of  white  steam  rose  densely. 
An  old  square  of  tent  canvas  was 
soaked  with  water  and  battened  down 
over  the  steaming  mass,  and  earth  was 
heaped  over  all,  hermetically  sealing 
the  feast  which  was  to  be  the  central 
feature  of  to-morrow's  festivities.  The 
little  band  of  workers  faded  into  the 
night  beneath  the  now  brilliantly  star- 
set  sky,  plodding  toward  the  village 
lights.  From  the  distance  a  lone  auto 
truck  following  the  highway  from  the 
sea  to  the  desert  shrilled  its  harsh, 


strident  call  across  the  deserted  dream- 
ing pastures. 

The  next  morning  the  sun  rolled  up, 
a  burning  ball  in  a  sky  of  fleckless 
blue.  With  its  early  rays  came  the 
first  arrivals.  Jingling  spurs,  leathern 
chaps,  coils  of  rawhide  riata  hanging 
from  their  saddle  pommels,  the  cow- 
punchers  from  the  desert  edge  and  the 
higher  pine-clad  mountains,  trailed  in 
in  groups  of  two  and  threes.  Lazily 
lounging  in  their  saddles,  they  clus- 
tered about  the  bottled  soda  and  ice- 
cream cone  stand  erected  in  front  of 
the  stone-built  frontier  store,  and  im- 
bibed copiously. 

As  the  sun  grew  higher  the  crowds 
about  the  store  thickened,  and  drifted 
up  to  the  barbecue  grounds  in  the  pas- 
ture beyond  the  settlement.  A 
strangely  assorted  mixture  met  and 
stared  and  greeted  on  this  common 
ground.  Smart  automobiles,  now  dust 
covered  from  the  long  climb  up  heavy 
grades  from  the  seaside  city,  filled 
with  curious  pleasure-seekers;  dilapi- 
dated wagons,  drawn  by  a  pair  of 
shaggy  burros  or  dejected  horses, 
overflowing  with  dark-skinned,  black- 


Taking  the  barbecue  from  the  roasting  pit  of  hot  ashes. 


Lining  up  for  the  horse  races. 


eyed  half-breeds  or  Mexicans,  of  all 
sizes,  from  the  wabbling,  shapeless 
grandmother  to  the  latest  lively  heir 
to  the  name  of  Ortega  or  Ruiz  or  La 
Chapa,  all  chattering  gaily  in  the  high- 
pitched,  musically  inflected  mongrel 
Spanish  which  is  their  common  dia- 
lect; Mexicans  from  "below  the  line," 
with  swart,  yellow,  crafty  faces  and 
beady,  furtive  eyes,  their  "chuck-a- 
luck"  and  "peon"  outfits  ready  to 
hand,  and  their  tough,  wiry  ponies  all 
attuned  to  the  pleasant  business  of 
separating  the  impulsive  Gringoes  and 
their  money.  Horse  racing  and  gam- 
bling are  two  prime  diversions  at  a 
border-town  barbecue. 

Another  class  strongly  in  evidence 
to  whom  the  barbecue  is  the  great  so- 
cial event  of  the  year,  the  annual 
meeting  of  forty  mile  distant  neigh- 
bors and  friends,  the  mountain 
ranchers,  came  in  family  groups,  the 
farmer  in  store  clothes,  the  mother  and 
growing  daughters  in  stiffly  starched 
white  gowns  and  rustling  skirts,  the 
younger  children  gaily  be-ribboned 
and  painfully  scrubbed,  with  neat 
braids  and  plastered  locks. 


Groups  of  trim  khaki-clad  soldiers 
from  the  encampment  nearby  empha- 
sized the  fact  that  this  was  indeed  the 
borderland,  and  that  beneath  the  sur- 
face mingling  of  Mexican  and  white, 
there  was  a  sharply  defined  line,  a  line 
which  was  daily  growing  more  tautly 
drawn  with  the  development  of  inter- 
national complications.  Another  touch 
of  this  accenting  coloring  was  the 
presence  of  the  immigration  and  cus- 
toms officers — two  permanent  resi- 
dents guarding  the  winding  highroad 
to  Mexico,  three  miles  below.  These, 
with  their  corps  of  "line  riders,"  were 
to-day  among  the  prominent  guests 
at  the  big  countryside  fiesta. 

The  Indians,  primal  owners  of  the 
oak-studded  mountains  and  spreading 
pastures  of  the  region,  were  the  guests 
on  sufferance.  From  their  small  res- 
ervation down  toward  the  desert  the 
handful  came,  their  broad,  good-na- 
tured faces  beaming  as  they  squatted 
in  the  scant  shade  of  scrub  willows,  or 
against  the  stone  wall  of  the  store, 
adorned  with  their  best  cerise  or  scar- 
let handkerchiefs,  knotted  about  their 
throats,  or  in  the  case  of  the  older 


A  BORDERTOWN  BARBECUE 


21 


ones,  bound  about  their  heads — a  viv- 
idly picturesque  and  pathetic  touch 
to  the  conglomerate  picture. 

High  noon  approached  and  the  sun's 
rays  beat  vertically  upon  the  clump 
of  willows  beneath  whose  shade  rough 
tables  and  benches  of  lumber  had  been 
constructed.  Across  the  open  pasture 
where  the  racing  course  had  been  laid 
out,  and  where  the  barbecue  was  now 
being  unearthed,  the  heat  shimmered 
in  blurred  waves,  rising  from  the  bak- 
ing stubble  ground.  Fox-tail  and  tar- 
weed  distilled  a  warm,  pungent  fra- 
grance under  the  ardent  rays,  and  to 
step  into  the  gray  pools  of  shade  be- 
neath the  green,  drooping  willows 
was  a  grateful  relief  from  the  glare. 

The  crowds  were  gathered  thickly  in 
this  kindly  shelter,  packed  about  the 
rough  tables,  all  who  were  able  to, 
providing  themselves  from  the  gener- 
ous supply  of  tin  cups  and  paper  plates 
piled  high  upon  the  boards.  The  beef, 
succulently  dripping  in  its  own  juices, 
falling  delectably  from  the  bones  in 
sheer  tenderness,  and  smoking  hot,  was 
being  brought  from  the  pit  in  tubs, 
borne  each  by  two  stalwart  carriers. 


At  the  head  of  each  table,  the  chief 
server,  a  genial  frontiersman,  with 
shirtsleeves  rolled  to  his  shoulders  and 
sombrero  pushed  back  from  his  damp 
forehead,  wielded  a  huge  carving  knife 
with  delightfully  generous  and  impar- 
tial decision.  As  each  plate  came  be- 
fore him  it  was  piled  with  browned 
and  juicy  cuts,  and  his  corps  of  volun- 
teer assistants  added  "slabs"  of  bread 
cut  with  the  same  generosity,  and  a 
handful  of  salt.  Cups  were  filled  from 
pails  of  steaming  fragrant  brown  coffee 
— and,  from  the  withered  old  Mexican 
crone,  to  the  fastidious  city  visitor, 
the  multitude  was  lavishly  and  impar- 
tially fed,  without  money  and  without 
price. 

The  early  afternoon  saw  all  filled 
to  repletion,  and  the  men,  cowboys, 
soldiers,  Indians,  ranchers  and  Mexi- 
cans flocked  to  the  race  course  for  the 
big  event  of  the  day,  drawing  up  close 
to  the  sides  in  two  long  lines.  Every 
variety  of  emotion  ranged  down  the 
rows  of  watching  faces,  from  the 
crafty  cupidity  of  the  gambler  to  the 
nonchalance  and  bravado  of  the  cow- 
puncher,  tentatively  jingling  his  six 


On  the  way  to  the  barbecue. 


Old  Customs  House,  a  relic  of  the  pioneer  days  of  Campo. 


months'  wages  in  his  pocket,  as  his 
eye  appraises  the  favorites  in  the 
running. 

To  tune  up  the  crowd,  preliminary 
races  were  put  on — foot  races,  sack 
races,  burro  races,  rough  and  tumble 
affairs,  made  up  three  parts  of  crude 
good-natured  fun  and  one  part  skill. 
Money  on  small  bets  changed  hands 
with  laughing  wrangling,  and  finally 
the  tracks  were  cleared  for  the  crown- 
ing event  of  the  afternoon. 

"Twenty  dollars  on  the  buckskin!" 
came  a  lusty  challenge  from  an  Ameri- 
can, whose  clenched  fist  was  raised 
above  his  head  and  held  gold  and 
greenbacks.  "Twenty  dollars  on  the 
buckskin." 

The  other  horse,  a  black,  was  rid- 
den by  a  Mexican,  and  mounted  on 
the  buckskin,  by  far  the  better  animal, 
was  a  boy. 

"Twenty  dollars  on  the  buckskin!" 
but  a  smile,  flashing  across  the  swar- 
thy features  of  a  long  line  of  Mexican 
riders,  was  the  only  answer. 

The  horses  started,  and  the  Mexi- 
cans leaned  from  their  saddles.  They 


were  impassive,  all  but  the  intensity  of 
their  eyes.  As  the  starting  point  was 
approached,  the  black  horse  seemed 
to  fall  behind  while  the  buckskin  shot 
across  the  line,  and  half  way  down  the 
field  before  he  was  checked,  to  try 
again. 

"Forty  dollars  on  the  buckskin)" 
cried  the  lusty  American. 

"Si,  Senor,"  answered  a  Mexican, 
softly,  and  covered  the  money. 

"Twenty  more  on  the  .buckskin!" 
shouted  the  American.  "You  ain't 
game  to  take  it.  Twenty  on  the  buck- 
skin!" 

Again  and  again  the  starter  at  the 
other  end  of  the  field  had  to  call  the 
racers  back,  the  nervous  buckskin  ap- 
parently running  away  from  her  black 
rival  before  the  starting  point  was 
reached.  And  each  time  the  Ameri- 
can renewed  his  bet,  and  each  time 
too  some  smiling  Mexican  covered  the 
money  with  a  soft  "Si,  Senor." 

"You  want  to  lose  your  whole  fool 
wad?"  remarked  a  lanky  cowpuncher 
to  the  other  American.  "You're  bettin' 
on  the  best  horse,  but  them  Mexicans 


A  BORDERTOWN   BARBECUE 


23 


know  how  to  ride." 

"Twenty  more  on  the  buckskin!" 
was  the  defiant  answer. 

"Si,  Senor,"  and  the  Mexican  who 
took  the  bet  remarked  to  his  compan- 
ion in  Spanish:  "The  buckskin's  sides 
heave." 

"Here  they  come,"  cried  the  Ameri- 
can contingent. 

The  horses  had  started  together  and 
came  down  the  field  like  tearing  de- 
mons. They  ran  nose  and  nose  until 
a  few  feet  from  the  finishing  line  when 
the  black  was  spurred  ahead  but  a  few 
inches  and  won  the  race.  The  buck- 
skin was  blowing. 

$  *  #  * 

The  lowering  sun  again  cast  a  flood 
of  saffron  light  across  the  sky,  its 
golden  glamour  tinging  the  air  with  a 
mellow  glow.  As  it  sank,  the  cool  east 
wind  crept  across  the  greying  pasture 
and  flowed  a  steady  stream  toward 
the  sea.  The  ruddy  mountains  turned 
deeply  purple  in  the  clear  mountain 
air,  and  camp  fires  here  and  there  be- 
gan to  send  up  small  columns  of 
smoke,  their  crackling  flames  gather- 
ing brightness  with  the  wan- 
ing of  the  day.  Losers  and 
winners  alike,  with  cheerful 
acceptance  of  the  day's 
chances,  separated  into  small 
strolling  groups,  joining  those 
who,  loth  to  leave  the  merry- 
making, were  preparing  camp- 
fire  suppers  before  a  more  lei- 
surely departure,  or  were 
planning  to  tempt  Dame  For- 
tune through  the  night. 

For  with  the  night  came  the 
most  absorbing  sport  of  all. 
The  "chuck-a-luck"  tables  had 
been  spread  with  the  fateful 
six  greasy  cards,  and  dice 
were  seductively  rattling,  as 
the  sing-song  voices  of  the 
gamblers  called  to  the  idlers 
to  "Come  and  take  a  chance. 
Break  the  bank — break  the 
bank!" 

Already  the  tables  were  be- 
ing surrounded  by  a  motley 
gathering.  Here  an  old  Mexi- 
can, placing  carefully  on  this 


reaped  an  unexpected  harvest,  which 
he  pocketed  and  walked  away  with, 
unconcerned  by  the  gambler's  black 
looks.  By  his  side  a  young  Indian,  a 
boy  of  fifteen,  was  tentatively  "trying 
the  ice,"  on  his  first  venture  into  the 
fascinations  of  the  game.  His  nickel 
had  won  another,  and  he  was  balanc- 
ing the  pair  in  his  hands,  in  two  minds 
as  to  whether  risking  his  fortune  to 
double  it,  with  the  chance  of  losing  all. 
Behind  him,  a  nonchalant  citizen  of 
the  seaside  city  below,  in  shirt-sleeves 
and  with  panama  hat  shoved  well  back 
on  his  head,  his  round  face  smiling, 
played  the  game  with  an  easy  indiffer- 
ence, his  original  gold  piece  split  into 
ten  half-dollars,  which  he  placed  here 
and  there  with  the  same  rapidity  that 
the  gambler  doubled  or  absorbed  them 
— and  according  to  the  turn  of  the  dice 
his  holdings  ran  from  twenty  dollars 
to  one,  until,  when  the  exact  original 
five  was  again  in  his  possession,  he 
turned  away  with  a  laugh,  seeking 
fresh  diversion. 

As  the  purple  gloom  of  the  night 
settled  down  the  peon     games     were 


Indian  women  chanters  at  the  peon  games. 


24 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


started,  and  the  flaring  lure  of  the 
chuck-a-luck  torches  was  rivaled  by 
the  glow  of  the  peon  camp  fires.  In 
this  most  primitive  of  Indian  games, 
age-old  custom  holds  strongly.  Mys- 
tery, superstition,  subtle  craft,  all 
mingle  in  the  contest,  the  glow  of  the 
primeval  camp-fire  lighting  brown, 
chiseled  faces  schooled  to  wooden  im- 
passivity, or  purposely  worked  into  de- 
ceptive mad  excitement.  The  wailing 
wild  chant  of  the  women,  singing  the 
peon  song,  now  rising  to  a  concerted 
shriek,  now  drifting  to  a  moan;  the 
cautious  gestures,  the  weary  gleaming 
eyes  of  the  crouching  players,  the  in- 


ward invocations  to  the  Saints  one 
feels  in  the  muttered  breathings,  and 
the  sublime  faith  one  knows  they  are 
holding  in  the  charms  purchased  from 
their  "Hechiceros,"  the  tribal  medicine 
men,  furnish  the  most  characteristic 
touch  in  the  whole  varied  picture  of 
the  barbecue.  It  is  the  last  hold  on  a 
fast-slipping  past,  of  a  people  soon  to 
be  themselves  swallowed  up  in  that 
past. 

Through  all  the  reckless  and  joy- 
ous turmoil  of  the  day,  this  deeper 
note  strikes  through,  and  rings  as  the 
dominant  memory  of  a  bordertown 
barbecue. 


TRYST    SONG 

There  is  a  place 
Where  golden  sunlight  stealing, 
Through  leafy  green  a  quiet  nook  revealing, 

There  may  I  lie 

Watching  the  lazy  clouds  drift  over, 
Their  shadows  brown  above  the  clover, 

While  breezes  sigh. 

There  is  a  bird 

Whose  golden  notes  come  ringing 
Clearly  and  sweet,  the  happy  message  bringing 

That  you  are  nigh, 

That  you  are  nigh,  while  soft  clouds  hover 
Bending  tender,  sweet  my  lover, 

As  here  I  lie. 

THEODORE  SHAW. 


A  Japanese  Financier's  Views  on  the 
United  States  /Merchant  Aarine 

By  George  T.  /Aarsh 


HAVING  discussed  the  question 
of  our  Merchant  Marine  with 
many  European  diplomats  and 
others,  I  was  anxious  to  obtain 
the  views  which  a  pure  Oriental  might 
have  upon  the  subject. 

Accordingly,  upon  a  recent  inter- 
view with  my  Japanese  friend,  Toki- 
yori — for  obvious  reasons  I  shall  omit 
his  full  name — I  opened  the  subject  by 
asking  him:  "Do  you  remember  a 
meeting  we  had  many  years  ago  when 
we  debated  the  question  of  the  future 
comparative  standing  of  Japan's  and 
America's  Merchant  Marine  ?  At  that 
time  you  claimed  that  if  the  American 
Government  did  not  materially  change 
its  policy  on  ship  ownership  that  with- 
in twenty-five  years  Japan  would  be 
mistress  of  the  Pacific  Ocean,  and  that 
America  would  be  without  a  trans- 
Pacific  mail  steamship  line.  With  the 
withdrawal  of  the  Pacific  Mail  Steam- 
ship Company  your  prediction  has 
about  come  true." 

"Yes,"  replied  Tokoyori,  "it  was 
during  the  second  term  of  your  last 
Democratic  President  Mr.  Cleveland, 
at  a  time  when  our  Merchant  Marine 
was  in  its  infancy,  and  we  were  dis- 
cussing the  probable  growth  of  Orien- 
tal trade  to  a  point  where  Japan  would 
sell  more  goods  to  the  United  States 
than  she  would  buy  from  her.  The 
question  then  came  up  as  to  which 
country  would  gain  the  most  by  the 
transporting  of  the  great  future  trading 
of  the  Pacific,  whether  America,  Eng- 
land or  Japan." 

"Coming  to  the  present  day  ques- 
tion, I  would  like  to  know,"  I  said, 
"what  you  think  of  Andrew  Furuseth's 
statement  before  the  Federal  Trade 

3 


Commission,  "that  an  Oriental  nation 
would  control  the  Commercial  Marine 
— claiming  that  if  Orientals  continue 
to  drive  the  English  speaking  sailor 
off  the  sea,  'the  time  will  come  when 
they  will  be  on  the  bridge  in  command 
of  British  ships'?" 

"He  is  wrong,"  said  Tokiyori,  "in 
the  sense  in  which  he  would  have 
Americans  take  his  argument,  for  he 
would  have  you  believe  that,  if  Chi- 
nese sailors  are  employed  on  American 
owned  ships  in  place  of  American  sail- 
ors, that  in  time  Chinese  officers  would 
be  engaged  to  command  those  ships. 
Not  within  a  century,  at  least,  could 
such  an  improbability  occur,  but  on  the 
other  hand  a  more  vital  result,  the 
wiping  out  of  your  Commercial  Marine 
on  the  Pacific  will  be  brought  about 
within  a  few  months  by  the  passing  of 
the  very  'sailor  act'  which  he  advocates 
— a  law  granting  to  a  few  privileged 
citizens  the  sole  right  to  work  your  sea- 
going ships,  with  the  power  to  name 
their  own  rate  of  wages,  thereby  tying 
the  hands  of  American  ship  owners 
from  competing  with  other  nations,  so 
that  the  Pacific  Ocean,  at  least,  is  left 
open  to  us  Orientals,  and  we  would  be 
foolishly  blind  if  we  did  not  take  ad- 
vantage of  it." 

"Then  you  do  not  think  it  is  to  the 
best  interests  of  the  nation  at  large  for 
our  Congress  to  pass  laws  for  the  bet- 
terment of  our  sailors,"  I  said. 

"I  could  understand,"  replied  Toki- 
yori, "your  nation's  Fathers  in  their 
wisdom  possibly  granting  a  privileged 
few  the  sole  right  of  sailing  coast  port 
ships,  and  thereby  you  are  only  com- 
peting among  yourselves — taking 
money  from  one  pocket  and  putting  it 


26 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


into  the  other — without  taking  from,  or 
adding  to,  the  nation's  finances.  We, 
of  Japan,  have  adopted  a  similar  law 
to  that  of  the  United  States  governing 
coastwise  shipping,  and  exclude  all 
foreign  vessels  from  carrying  freight 
or  passengers  between  local  parts,  but 
I  feel  that  the  wisdom  of  our  govern- 
ing Fathers  would  never  permit  the 
granting  of  any  special  privileges  to 
our  over-sea  sailors  that  would  tend  to 
block  our  merchants  from  competing 
for  the  world's  sea-going  trade  or  in 
any  way  prevent  us  from  delivering 
our  own  products  to  the  port  of  our 
customer,  well  knowing  that  if  we 
were  dependent  upon  another  nation's 
shipping  facilities  to  transport  our  na- 
tion's products,  that  something  might 
happen  to  prevent  the  foreign  vessels 
from  being  on  hand  at  a  time  most 
needed  to  transport  our  wares,  thereby 
causing  us  a  probable  loss  of  custom- 
ers, with  possible  gain  to  our  competi- 
tors, besides  deteriorating  to  our  non- 
shipped  produce,  added  to  which  would 
be  the  national  financial  loss,  for  even 
though  we  sell  our  merchandise  for  ex- 
port, if  transported  to  its  final  destina- 
tion by  foreign  shipping,  the  nation 
loses  what  the  foreign  consumer  would 
have  had  to  pay  to  us  for  delivering 
the  merchandise." 

"How  do  you  come  to  figure  'that'  a 
national  financial  loss?"  I  asked. 

"I  will  explain  by  showing  what  we 
Japanese  do  not  consider  a  financial 
gain  to  the  nation.  "If,"  said  Tokiyori, 
"a  merchant  in  one  of  our  most  north- 
erly ports  makes  a  large  sale  of  mer- 
chandise at  great  profit  to  another  mer- 
chant in  the  most  southerly  port  of 
Japan  for  home  consumption,  and  it  is 
transported  the  entire  way  by  our  own 
steamship  or  rail,  the  completion  of  the 
transaction  does  not  create  a  national 
financial  gain,  for  nationally  we  are  not 
one  sen  better  off.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  that  merchandise  is  sold  for  foreign 
consumption,  even  though  it  may  not 
be  sold  at  a  profit — we  have  nationally 
gained  the  amount  it  was  sold  for,  and 
if  we  can  add  to  its  price  the  cost  of 
transporting  it  in  our  own  ships  to  the 
point  of  delivery  for  the  foreign  con- 


sumer, our  nation  has  financially 
gained  just  that  much  more;  whilst  if 
we  had  allowed  him  to  take  delivery 
of  his  purchases  at  our  port,  to  be 
transported  in  his  own  ships,  the  for- 
eigner would  have  saved  his  nation 
just  that  much;  thus  it  is  that  though 
we  have  not  a  national  ship  ownership 
our  nation's  Fathers,  in  their  wisdom, 
have  offered  every  inducement,  to 
tempt  our  people  to  become  ship  own- 
ers, no  matter  by  what  means  nor  at 
how  great  the  cost,  well  knowing  that 
all  returns  either  by  sale  of  our  export 
products  or  saving  on  transporting  im- 
ports is  a  national  gain. 

"A  nation  can  well  afford  to  offer  a 
premium  on  exports  because  every  dol- 
lar the  nation  takes  in  for  her  surplus 
products  is  a  national  gain;  whilst  if  it 
is  held  for  internal  consumption  there 
is  no  financial  gain  to  the  nation.  It  is 
like  a  farmer,  who  consumes  all  he 
produces.  He  may  increase  his  phy- 
sical powers  or  dimensions,  but  not  his 
bank  account.  The  trading  in  home 
products  between  the  people  of  a  na- 
tion is  like  the  farmer  who  exchanges 
his  product  with  his  country  store- 
keeper for  all  his  requirements ;  unless 
he  has  an  excess  on  which  he  receives 
payment,  he  fails  to  better  himself 
financially,  and  the  nation,  like  the 
farmer  that  economizes,  if  there  is  a 
surplus  to  sell,  no  matter  how  little  it 
may  bring,  it  is  a  financial  gain. 

"A  further  likening  of  the  farmer  to 
the  national  trader  may  be  made  in  the 
matter  of  transportation.  If  the  farmer 
has  to  hire  a  team  to  carry  his  produce 
to  and  from  his  farm  to  the  storekeeper 
he  reduces  his  monetary  gain  by  that 
much,  whilst  on  the  other  hand  if  he 
transported  his  surplus  produce  with 
his  own  team  irrespective  of  whether 
he  originally  bought  or  raised  them — 
provided  he  maintained  them  from  the 
output  of  the  farm — all  the  money  he 
realized  from  the  sale  of  his  excess 
produce  would  be  financial  gain." 

"Do  you  think,"  I  asked,  "that  a 
Merchant  Marine  is  a  national  neces- 
sity to  the  United  States  ?  Can  we  not 
become  solely  a  producing  nation  and 
rely  upon  the  other  countries  who  re- 


A  JAPANESE  FINANCIER'S  VIEWS 


27 


quire  our  products  to  transport  them 
themselves,  and  would  not  the  nation's 
money  be  better  spent  in  increasing  our 
naval  power  rather  than  by  putting  it 
into  a  Merchant  Marine?" 

"One  question  at  a  time,"  said  To- 
kiyori.  "I  will  answer  your  last  first. 
A  navy  in  time  of  peace  without  a 
merchant  marine  is  about  as  useless 
as  a  Merchant  Marine  would  be  in  time 
of  war  without  a  navy.  Both  your  first 
and  second  questions  are  largely  an- 
swered by  the  position  that  the  United 
States  finds  herself  placed  in  since  the 
outbreak  of  the  present  great  European 
war,  through  the  inability  of  her  pro- 
ducers to  find  means  for  the  transpor- 
tation of  their  export  products,  owing 
to  the  scarcity  of  shipping  and  exces- 
sive charter  rates.  This  has  at  last 
awakened  your  thinking  class  to  a 
knowledge  of  your  greatest  weakness 
as  a  world  nation — showing  clearly 
your  inability  to  stand  alone,  and  that 
you  are  dependent  upon  the  national 
aid  and  support  of  other  nations  to- 
day, for  your  existence  as  a  world 
trader. 

"America  to-day  is  a  hermit  nation 
as  much  as  we  of  Japan  were  sixty 
years  ago,  for  your  people  cannot  get 
out  of  your  country  unless  some  of  the 
active  nations  of  the  world  send  their 
shios  to  your  coast  to  transport  you, 
and  though  your  nation  claims  neutral- 
ity, the  lives  of  your  people  are  not 
safe  outside  of  your  own  lands.  To- 
day your  President  finds  himself  in  the 
difficult  position  of  trying  to  force  the 
Teutons  to  respect  the  ships  of  their 
warring  opponents,  in  order  to  protect 
any  American  subjects  who  may  find 
it  necessary  to  leave  their  own  shores. 
From  a  humanitarian  standpoint  it  is 
a  just  demand  for  your  nation  to  make 
on  Germany,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  it 
should  be  in  the  name  of  all  world 
civilians,  for  it  is  asking  much  to  ex- 
pect a  warring  nation  to  agree  to  a 
retardment  of  its  movements  in  order 
to  protect  a  would-be  privileged  na- 
tion— for  the  required  act  of  signaling 
a  merchantman  to  stop  necessitates 
the  exposure  of  a  submarine,  and  the 
time  consumed  in  search  causes  delay 


of  action  that  may  possibly  endanger 
its  movements.  Had  Japan  been  a 
neutral  nation  at  this  time — we  are  in 
a  position  to  be  truly  neutral,  free  to 
traverse  the  world's  seas,  from  having 
a  Merchant  Marine  sufficiently  large  to 
transport  both  our  subjects  and  mer- 
chandise to  any  corner  of  the  globe, 
without  asking  favor  of  any  of  the 
warring  powers — satisfied  to  obey  the 
direction  of  our  Mikado  to  travel  by 
our  own  ships." 

Coming  back  to  the  question  of  com- 
mercial marine,  I  said. :  "Do  you  think 
the  United  States  would  be  best  served 
by  a  National  Merchant  Marine  rather 
than  an  individually  owned  one?" 

"Under  your  Republican  form  of 
Government — both,"  replied  Tokiyori. 
"Nationally  owned  Marine  for  your 
overseas  trade  and  individually  owned 
for  your  coastwise  trade.  Undoubted- 
ly your  Secretary  of  Treasury,  Mr.  Mc- 
Adoo,  and  the  members  of  the- Cabi- 
net who  advocate  the  creation  of  a 
National  Commercial  Marine  see  the 
futility  under  your  form  of  Govern- 
ment of  endeavoring  to  induce  the 
people  to  individually  invest  in  ships, 
well  knowing  the  national  weakness  of 
the  generally  advocated  remedy — that 
of  subsidy  with  its  consequent  danger 
of  inviting  foreign  investors  and  pos- 
sible control  by  them  of  your  steam- 
ship companies,  resulting  in  the  ma- 
jority of  the  profits — made  possible  by 
national  subsidy — flowing  into  the  cof- 
fers of  foreign  nations. 

"The  present  European  war  has 
shown  up  the  weakness  of  your  navy 
unbacked  by  a  Merchant  Marine.  To 
every  nation  each  is  equally  depend- 
ent on  the  other.  If  to-day  Japan  was 
engaged  in  transporting  her  troops  to 
Europe,  and  the  United  States  found 
it  necessary  to  land  an  army  in  either 
of  her  possessions — the  Philippines  or 
the  Hawaiian  Islands — where  would 
she  get  the  ships  to  carry  her  troops? 
But  if  she  possessed  a  naval  reserve 
commercial  fleet  sufficiently  large,  she 
would  be  independent. 

"National  ownership  for  your  over- 
sea trade  will,  I  believe,  solve  the 
problem." 


Recollections  of  Artemus  Ward 


By   Clifton  Johnson 


IT  is  always  interesting  to  consider 
what  effect  environment  has  in  the 
devopment  of  those  whom  the 

world  honors.  Were  the  home  sur- 
roundings a  stimulus  or  a  handicap? 
What  kind  of  people  were  the  rela- 
tives, friends  and  neighbors?  What 
influence  did  nature  exert  ?  I  was  curi- 
ous to  see  Waterford,  Me.,  the  birth- 
place and  boyhood  home  of  Artemus 
Ward,  to  get  answers  to  just  such  ques- 
tions, and  I  had  the  feeling  that  I  ought 
to  discover  in  the  inhabitants  and  re- 
gion something  to  account  for  the  pe- 
culiar qualities  of  his  humor.  The 
town  is  about  50  miles  north  of  Port- 
land and  a  half-dozen  miles  from  the 
nearest  railway  station.  I  arrived  at 
this  station  one  morning  in  early  Oc- 
tober, and  went  on  to  Waterford.  For 
much  of  the  way  the  road  was  through 
woodland,  and  though  the  country  had 
been  long  settled  it  still  retained  some- 
thing of  rawness  and  wildness. 

There  are  several  Waterfords — 
North,  South  and  East,  and  Waterford 
Flat.  The  last  was  the  village  of  Ar- 
temus Ward.  Its  name  sounds  un- 
promising, but  just  there  the  region, 
which  for  the  most  part  is  rather  mo- 
notonous, crumples  up  into  a  rugged 
picturesqueness  that  has  real  charm, 
and  that  seemed  very  well  calculated 
to  nurture  a  genius.  Lakes,  ponds  and 
streams  abound,  and  one  of  these 
streams,  known  as  Crooked  River,  runs 
18  miles  in  its  erratic  course  across  the 
nine-mile  width  of  the  town.  It  af- 
forded just  the  kind  of  navigation  to 
draw  volumes  of  profanity  from  the 
old-time  raftsmen. 

Waterford  Flat  is  a  nook  among  the 
hills  fronting  on  a  body  of  water 
which  is  called  Keoka  Lake,  but  which 
formerly  had  the  more  vigorously  nat- 


ural name  of  Tom  Pond.  The  latter 
was  acquired  away  back  in  the  days 
when  Paugus,  the  chief  of  an  Indian 
tribe  in  the  vicinity,  made  himself  a 
terror  of  the  frontiers.  He  and  his 
followers  committed  so  many  depreda- 
tions that  Massachusetts  offered  a 
bounty  of  $500  for  every  Indian  scalp. 
Captain  Lovewell  led  an  expedition 
against  Paugus  in  the  spring  of  1725, 
but  was  attacked  by  the  Indians,  and 
only  14  out  of  34  in  the  English  party 
survived  to  return  to  their  friends.  One 
of  these  was  Thomas  Chamberlain, 
who,  after  killing  Paugus  in  the  fight, 
saved  his  own  life  by  swimming  across 
the  pond  at  Waterford  and  hiding  un- 
der a  shelving  rock  on  its  borders.  This 
episode  gave  the  pond  its  early  name, 
and  the  shore  where  he  hid  is  still 
called  Tom  Rock  beach. 

One  of  the  wooded  hills  back  of  the 
village  is  known  as  Mt.  Tirem,  a  name 
supposed  to  have  originated  with  some 
Indians,  who,  in  speaking  to  the  early 
settlers  of  climbing  its  steep  sides, 
said :  "Tire  'em  Injuns."  Another  hight 
is  Bald  Pate,  so  called  by  the  pioneer 
because  its  top  was  then  entirely  de- 
nuded of  trees,  the  result  of  a  fire  that 
had  recently  swept  it.  Loftiest  of  all 
is  Bear  mountain,  which  owes  its  name 
to  the  killing  of  a  bear  that  attempted 
to  swim  across  Tom  Pond  from  its 
base. 

Waterford  Village  is  a  comfortable, 
sleepy  little  place,  whose  homes  clus- 
ter around  a  small,  tree-shadowed  com- 
mon. The  houses  are  nearly  all 
wooden,  are  painted  white,  and  have 
green  blinds.  The  village  supports 
two  stores  and  a  church.  At  one  end 
-of  the  common  is  a  signboard,  which 
reads,  "10  miles  to  Norway."  Other 
places  roundabout  are  Sweden,  Den- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  ARTEMUS  WARD 


29 


mark,  Paris  and  Naples.  Do  not  these 
indicate  a  sense  of  humor  in  the  ori- 
ginal settlers  of  the  wilderness  ?  Water- 
ford  itself  has  a  Punkin  street,  and 
what  is  now  Fern  avenue  was  formerly 
Skunk  alley,  and  there  is  an  outlying 
district  called  Blackguard,  which  took 
its  name  from  the  character  of  the  peo- 
ple who  used  to  live  there. 

I  found  the  village  delightful  in  its 
quiet  serenity,  and  it  particularly  ap- 
pealed to  the  fancy  in  the  evening 
when  the  cows  were  driven  from  the 
outlying  pastures  to  their  home  sta- 
bles and  came  pacing  along  under  the 
elms  of  the  common,  while  the  cow- 
bells hung  on  their  necks  gave  forth  a 
dull-toned  music.  It  was  a  much  live- 
lier place  at  the  time  Charles  Farrar 
Brown,  better  known  as  Artemus  Ward, 
was  born  there  in  1834.  Many  emi- 
grants passed  through  it  on  their  way 
to  the  West,  and  the  .stages  were 
crowded  with  passengers  in  pursuit  of 
business  or  pleasure.  The  hotels  pre- 
sented an  especially  busy  scene  on  the 
arrival  of  the  stage,  and  the  several 
stores  had  a  large  trade  in  furnishing 
supplies  to  lumbermen.  One  of  these 
stores  was  kept  by  Artemus  Ward's 
father,  who  died  in  1847. 

The  humorist  himself  died  in  1867, 
which  is  not  so  long  ago  but  that  people 
can  be  found  in  his  home  region  who 
remember  him  distinctly.  One  of  the 
village  women  said  to  me :  "The  place 
has  not  changed  a  great  deal  since  he 
was  a  boy  here.  It  is  about  the  same 
size,  there  is  the  same  white  church, 
and  many  of  the  same  houses  stand 
around  the  common.  The  old  'Brown 
house,'  where  Charles  was  born,  was 
burned  in  1871,  but  'Aunt  Car'line,'  as 
his  mother  was  called  in  Waterford, 
had  long  before  moved  to  what  had 
been  her  father's  house.  That  is  here 
yet,  a  substantial,  two-story  building, 
under  the  elms  on  the  borders  of  the 
common,  and  is  still  owned  in  the  fam- 
ily. 

"Mrs.  Brown  had  four  children,  but 
only  Charles  and  Cyrus  grew  to  man- 
hood. Charles  was  her  favorite,  I 
think.  Cyrus,  who  was  about  seven 
years  older  than  Charles,  became  a 


newspaper  man  and  was  successful. 
People  here  considered  him  the  smart- 
est man  of  the  two,  but  he  didn't  hap- 
pen to  strike  it  so  lucky.  I  remember 
he  was  at  home  here  sick  abed  when  I 
was  a  school  girl.  The  village  school- 
house  was  just  beyond  a  brook  at  the 
north  end  of  the  common.  It  was  an 
old  weather-beaten  building  that  at 
some  time  had  been  painted  white,  but 
not  much  of  the  paint  was  left.  Inside 
were  primitive  box  desks  much  hand- 
carved.  The  teacher's  desk  was  on  a 
platform,  and  its  sides  were  boarded 
up  like  a  pulpit. 

"The  children  came  in  from  the 
farms  and  filled  the  school  house.  They 
were  of  all  ages  from  5  up  to  20,  when 
the  big  boys  attended  in  the  winter. 
Then  we  had  a  lyceum  with  debates 
and  a  paper  mostly  made  up  of  local 
hits  that  was  regularly  prepared.  It 
came  my  turn  to  edit  the  paper,  and 
Cyrus  sent  word  to  have  me  come  to 
see  him,  and  he  would  help  me  write 
up  some  things.  I  was  glad  of  his 
help,  for  I  was  quite  a  little  girl  to  be 
the  editor.  The  matter  we  wrote  to- 
gether was  humorous,  but  I  don't  know 
now  just  what  it  was  about. 

"After  Charles  had  left  Waterford 
and  became  famous  he  usually  re- 
turned every  year  to  spend  the  sum- 
mer with  his  mother.  He  wasn't  very 
strong.  He  was  tubercular.  His  hands 
were  whiter  than  any  woman's  almost. 
They  were  small  and  long,  and  I  recall 
hearing  my  father  say  that  Charles 
couldn't  wear  bracelets  because  his 
wrists  were  as  large  as  his  hands,  and 
the  bracelets  would  slip  off.  Father 
and  he  were  great  cronies.  They  were 
own  cousins  and  were  said  to  look 
alike. 

"Charles  was  always  funny,  even  in 
his  ordinary  talk.  He  bought  a  house 
near  New  York  at  Yonkers,  and  invited 
his  mother  to  go  there  and  make  him  a 
visit. 

"  'Charlie,'  she  said,  'if  I  do  go  some- 
time, how  shall  I  know  your  house?' 

"  'Oh,  you'll  know  it  by  the  cupola 
and  the  mortgage  that  are  on  it/  he 
told  her. 

"  'Well,  I'll  never  stop  in  the  house 


30 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


if  there's  a  mortgage  on  it,'  she  de- 
clared. 

"He  used  to  carry  a  good  deal  of 
money  about  with  him,  and  he  spent  it 
freely.  Being  lionized  as  he  was,  he 
had  to  live  up  to  his  reputation.  He 
owned  considerable  jewelry.  For  one 
thing  there  was  a  very  beautiful  gold 
chain  which  had  been  given  him  by 
the  miners  in  California.  It  was  so 
heavy  that  he  said  he  only  wore  it  in 
the  afternoon.  That  was  his  funny  way 
of  speaking." 

Another  contemporary  of  Artemus 
Ward's  whom  I  met  was  a  stooping,  el- 
derly village  man  who  walked  with  a 
cane.  I  called  at  his  house  in  the 
evening,  and  I  called  early  because  I 
had  been  told  that  he  "went  to  bed 
with  the  chickens."  We  sat  in  his 
kitchen  in  the  gradually  increasing 
dusk  of  the  twilight. 

"Yes,  I  knew  Charles  Brown,"  he 
said,  "and  I  helped  lower  him  into  the 
ground.  His  body  was  brought  here 
about  the  beginning  of  summer  from 
England  in  a  metallic  casket  all  sealed 
and  soldered  up.  The  casket  was  cut 
open  at  his  mother's  request,  and  we 
see  it  was  Charles  inside.  There  was 
a  funeral  at  the  house,  attended  by  a 
few  of  the  neighbors,  and  then  we 
went  to  the  cemetery  at  South  Water- 
ford.  We  didn't  have  a  hearse,  but 
used  a  two-seated  spring  wagon,  as 
was  the  custom  here.  By  taking  out  the 
seats  room  was  made  for  the  box,  and 
the  driver  would  sit  up  on  that.  The 
others  went  in  their  own  teams. 

"When  Charles  was  here  on  his  sum- 
mer visits  he  didn't  do  nothin'  except 
have  a  good  time.  He  was  a  lazy  crit- 
ter, and  he  would  lay  around  on  the 
grass  or  go  .to  ride  or  do  anything  he 
see  fit.  It  was  a  kind  of  a  restful  va- 
cation, I  should  call  it,  but  after  he 
went  into  the  show  business  I  guess  he 
may  have  worked  some  getting  ready 
for  the  winter  campaign.  He  was  a 
bright,  witty  feller — no  mistake  about 
that.  He  had  a  vein  of  wit  that  all  the 
Browns  had.  Cyrus,  his  brother,  he 
was  pretty  cute,  too. 

"To  go  from  here  back  to  New  York 
Charles  would  drive  11  miles  to  the 


railroad  and  go  by  train  down  to  Port- 
land, where  he'd  take  the  boat  for 
Boston.  Once  he  was  going  on  board 
the  boat  after  he'd  been  having  a  little 
too  festive  a  time,  and  he  ran  down  the 
gangplank  and  across  the  deck  and 
threw  up  over  the  rail.  When  he'd  re- 
lieved himself  he  said  to  the  feller  who 
was  with  him,  'It  always  makes  me 
sick  to  be  on  shipboard.' 

"Another  time  he  went  on  to  the  boat 
in  the  evening,  just  before  the  time  for 
it  to  start.  He'd  been  eating  heartily 
and  celebrating  some  with  his  friends, 
and  he  went  right  to  bed  in  his  state- 
room. The  next  morning  a  man  who 
was  traveling  with  him  asked  him  how 
he'd  slept. 

"  'Not  very  well,'  he  said.  'I'm  al- 
ways sick  going  around  Cape  Eliza- 
beth/ 

"But  the  boat  hadn't  left  the  dock 
on  account  of  the  weather  being  rough. 

"Charles  was  a  poor,  sick  feller 
when  he  left  here  to  go  to  England, 
and  he  hadn't  ought  to  have  made  such 
a  trip.  That  wound  him  up  in  the  show 
business. 

"We  thought  he'd  have  considerable 
property,  and  he  did  will  away  a  good 
deal,  but  nobody  could  find  it.  Where 
it  had  gone  to  I  don't  know,  but  there 
was  roughish  fellers  in  tftose  days  as 
well  as  now.  They'd  steal  the  eyes  out 
of  your  head  if  they  could. 

"The  trouble  with  both  Charles  and 
Cyrus  was  that  they  drank.  Whisky 
ruined  'em.  That  was  what  was  the 
matter  with  'em.  I  tell  you,  whisky  is 
good  in  some  cases,  but  I  don't  believe 
it  helped  them  fellers  any.  They'd 
have  lived  longer  without  it. 

"You'd  better  see  Mr.  Wheeler.  He 
was  raised  here  on  the  Flat  right  be- 
side of  Charles,  and  knew  him  well. 
He's  a  feller  well  booked  up,  too,  and 
can  give  some  light  on  this  subject." 

The  next  morning  I  found  Mr.  Whee- 
ler in  his  barn  getting  out  some  barrels 
in  preparation  for  apple-picking,  and 
there  I  interveiwed  him.  "I  ain't  any 
chicken,"  he  said,  "and  it  is  a  long 
time  since  Charles  Brown  and  I  were 
boys  together.  One  thing  he  used  to 
do  was  to  get  up  a  circus  in  their  barn. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  ARTEMUS  WARD 


31 


They  had  an  old  crumple-horn  cow 
that  he'd  dress  up  in  great  shape  in 
blankets  of  different  colors  for  an  ele- 
phant, and  he'd  tell  us  the  elephant's 
good  qualities.  The  cow  didn't  like  it, 
but  the  rest  of  us  did.  The  calves  and 
the  dogs  and  cats  served  for  other 
strange  animals.  Charles  acted  as 
clown,  and  he  made  a  pretty  good  one. 
He  had  some  assistants  who  were 
acrobats,  or  thought  they  were. 

"He  was  full  of  his  fun,  but  there 
was  nothing  vicious  about  him.  He 
simply  liked  to  do  things  that  would 
raise  a  laugh.  At  school  he  was  al- 
ways playing  jokes  on  the  rest  of  the 
scholars,  and  was  a  terrible  torment  to 
them.  Of  course  he'd  get  called  down 
once  in  a  while  for  his  pranks,  but  the 
teachers  liked  him.  Every  one  liked 
him  all  through  life. 

"William  Allen  sat  in  the  seat  right 
in  front  of  him.  William  was  a  good 
scholar,  but  kind  of  a  sleepy  fellow. 
He'd  sit  with  his  head  bowed  forward 
studying.  Charles  was  always  dab- 
bling with  ink,  and  one  day  he  took 
up  his  ink  bottle  and  poured  the  con- 
tents down  the  back  of  William's  neck. 
I  saw  that  performance.  The  ink  ran 
down  on  the  floor  into  the  cracks  un- 
der the  seats,  and  when  I  was  in  the 
old  school  house  as  much  as  25  years 
later  the  stains  were  still  there.  The 
building  stands  yet  up  here  side  of  the 
road,  but  is  now  a  carpenter's  shop. 

"There  were  56  of  us  in  the  school 
the  last  winter  I  went.  A  man  taught 
in  winter  and  a  woman  in  summer.  We 
learned  more  than  the  children  do  now 
— get  more  practical  information.  I 
won  a  book  once  as  a  prize  for  spell- 
ing, and  I've  kept  it  ever  since.  The 
12  or  15  in  the  class  would  line  up, 
and  if  one  missed  a  word  and  the  next 
one  below  spelled  it  right  they'd 
change  places.  The  best  speller  was  at 
the  head  of  the  line  most  of  the  time, 
and  the  poorest  at  the  foot.  We  didn't 
have  a  janitor,  but  did  the  work  our- 
selves. There  was  a  fire  list  of  the 
boys,  and  they  took  turns  making  the 
fire;  and  there  was  a  sweeping  list  of 
the  girls,  and  they  took  turns  doing  the 
sweeping.  When  there  was  snow  we 


slid  down  the  steep  hill  that  was  close 
by,  and  in  the  warm  months  we'd  play 
in  the  brook. 

"Charles  wasn't  out  at  recess  tearing 
around  with  the  other  boys  in  their 
rough  sports.  He  was  different  in  his 
tastes  from  most  of  us,  though,  gen- 
erally, when  any  fun  was  on  hand  in 
town  he  was  there  early  and  stayed 
late.  We  used  to  have  school  exhibi- 
tions, and  if  we  acted  the  incidents  in 
William  Tell  where  the  apple  was  shot 
off  the  boy's  head,  or  anything  in  that 
line,  Charles  was  sure  to  be  it.  He'd 
play  baseball  with  us  on  the  common, 
and  he'd  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  to  shoot  off  some  powder  and 
celebrate  the  Fourth  of  July. 

"As  for  work,  he  didn't  take  to  farm- 
ing at  all.  He  never  hankered  after 
manual  labor.  In  his  later  life,  when 
he  was  at  home  on  his  vacations,  he 
just  loafed  around  and  smoked.  He 
didn't  get  up  very  early  in  the  rooming. 
Yes,  he  was  quite  a  fellow  to  lie  abed 
— at  least  his  mother  thought  he  was. 

"I  went  to  New  York  when  he  was 
about  25,  At  that  time  he  was  editing 
a  little  humorous  paper  called  Vanity 
Fair.  I  was  there  two  days,  and  was 
with  him  quite  a  little.  He  was  a  good 
entertainer.  We  took  in  the  shipping 
wharves  and  the  big  vessels  and  Cen- 
tral Park,  and  went  around  to  the 
dance  halls.  One  of  these  halls  was 
a  room  60  feet  square,  with  the  walls 
all  mirrors.  I'd  never  seen  anything 
like  it  before,  and  I  haven't  since." 

The  home  of  the  humorist's  mother, 
now  called  "Wheelbarrow  farm,"  is 
owned  by  a  woman  relative  who  has 
this  to  say  of  him :  "He  led  a  gay  life, 
I  think,  but  though  he  sometimes  drank 
to  excess,  he  did  not  have  protracted 
sprees.  He  was  tall,  slim,,  and  bony, 
and  he  easily  assumed  on  the  platform 
a  manner  that  was  awkward  and  made 
him  appear  sort  of  green  looking.  But 
if  you  met  him  you  found  him  genial, 
courteous  and  charming,  and  his  talk 
full  of  witty  nonsense.  I  heard  him 
lecture  once,  and  just  before  he  be- 
gan my  mother  and  I  went  around  to 
speak  to  him.  He  insisted  that  we 
should  sit  on  the  stage.  What  he  said 


32 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


was  mostly  foreign  to  his  subject.  He 
spoke  anything  that  came  into  his 
mind,  and  he  was  so  absurd  that  I 
nearly  rolled  under  my  chair.  Mother 
said  she  never  laughed  so  much  in  her 
life." 

At  the  age  of  14  the  humorist's 
school  days  ended,  and  he  left  home  to 
make  his  own  way  in  the  world.  For 
a  time  he  worked  in  the  neighboring 
town  of  Norway,  and  thither  I  fol- 
lowed on  his  trail.  As  I  entered  the 
town  I  made  some  inquiries  of  a  man  I 
met  on  the  street,  who  responded: 
"Yes,  Artemus  was  a  devil  here  in  a 
newspaper  printing  office.  He  learned 
the  printing  trade  and  contributed  to 
the  paper.  He  was  a  mischievous  cuss, 
you  know,  and  when  he  went  to  school 
people  thought  he  was  a  dunce  and 
didn't  amount  to  anything,  but  when 
he  grew  up  he  played  to  the  crowned 
heads  of  Europe. 

"There  was  a  rivalry  between  the 
paper  here  and  the  one  in  the  adjoining 
town  of  Paris,  and  each  one  always 
bragged  about  any  improvements  it 
made  and  crowed  over  the  other  one. 
The  Paris  paper  for  one  while  seemed 
to  be  having  much  the  most  to  crow 
about,  and  Artemus  wrote  this  para- 
graph :  'A  large  improvement  has  been 
made  in  our  office.  We  have  bored  a 
hole  in  the  bottom  of  our  sink  and  set 
a  slop-pail  under  it.  What  will  the 
hell  hounds  over  to  Paris  think  now?" 

"He  was  a  funny  fellow,  Artemus 
Ward  was.  Once  he  was  somewhere 
and  got  strapped.  He  found  a  man 
he  knew,  and  said :  'If  it's  not  too  much 
out  of  place,  I  wish  you'd  loan  me  some 
money.' 

"The  man  was  willing  and  handed 
over  what  Artemus  said  he  needed,  and 
then  asked  him  when  he  would  pay  it 
back. 

"  'Well,'  Artemus  answered,  Til  be 
pretty  busy  on  the  Resurrection  Day. 
Let's  call  it  the  day  after.' 

"If  he  was  lecturing  here  in  Maine 
he'd  refer  to  a  time  when  he  'spoke  be- 
fore a  refined  and  intelligent  audience 
in  East  Stoneham.'  The  fun  of  that 
was  that  East  Stoneham  was  a  jumping 
off  place.  It  was  the  end  of  the  road, 


and  the  people  there  couldn't  read  or 
write. 

"But  the  greatest  joke  he  ever  per- 
petrated was  the  will  he  made  over  in 
England.  He  called  in  all  the  nobility 
to  witness  it,  and  disposed  of  his  prop- 
erty as  if  he  was  a  millionaire.  Really, 
he  didn't  have  a  darn  cent." 

From  a  Norway  lawyer  I  got  further 
information.  "When  I  started  to  prac- 
tice I  opened  an  office  down  at  Water- 
ford,"  he  said.  "I  had  plenty  of  time 
on  my  hands,  for  I  didn't  have  much 
to  do  except  to  make  out  occasional 
deeds  at  50  cents  apiece.  Once  Arte- 
mus brought  me  a  boy  that  he'd  picked 
up  somewhere,  and  he  hired  me  to 
teach  him.  He  didn't  value  money, 
and  he'd  have  given  away  his  last  dol- 
lar to  a  friend  in  need. 

"When  he  was  at  home  he  smoked 
and  strolled  around  and  joked  with  the 
boys.  Every  morning  along  about  10 
o'clock,  after  he'd  eaten  breakfast,  he 
would  get  his  mail  and  bring  it  to  my 
office  to  read. 

"One  time  he  was  telling  me  about 
his  visiting  Los  Angeles.  'It  was  noth- 
ing but  a  village/  he  said.  'I'd  heard 
there  was  a  river  running  through  the 
place,  and  I  wanted  to  see  it  'Twasn't 
much  of  a  river.  I  hunted  for  it  quite 
a  while  before  I  found  it,  and  then  I 
was  thirsty  and  drank  it  up.' 

"He  was  droll  not  only  in  what  he 
said,  but  in  his  manner.  Many  of  the 
things  he  said  which  people  would  go 
into  a  perfect  hurrah  over  would  have 
attracted  no  notice  if  another  person 
had  said  them.  It  is  claimed  that  he 
is  the  only  person  who  could  make 
every  one  laugh  in  an  English  audi- 
ence." 

What  I  had  heard  of  Artemus 
Ward's  will  made  me  desirous  to  see 
it,  and  I  sought  the  country  court- 
house. Artemus  died  in  England  on 
March  6,  1867,  and  the  will  is  dated 
February  23d  of  the  same  year.  It  is 
not  the  extraordinary  document  that 
the  popular  imagination  pictures,  and 
its  most  interesting  portions  are  these : 

"I  desire  that  my  body  may  be  bur- 
ied in  Waterford,  Me.  I  give  the  li- 
brary of  books  bequeathed  to  me  by 


A  MOUNTAIN  REVERIE  33 

my  late  Uncle  Calvin  Farrar  and  those  the  United  States,  and  I  direct  that  the 

that  have  been  added  by  me  to  the  boy  same  be  paid  to  Mr.  Horace  Greeley 

or  girl  who  at  an  examination  to  be  of  New  York." 

held  between  the  first  day  of  January  Whatever  personal  property  the  hu- 

and  the  first  day  of  April  immediately  morist  had  in  his  possession  in  England 

succeeding  my  decease  shall  be  de-  at  the  time  he  died,  mysteriously  dis- 

clared  to  be  the  best  scholar  in  Water-  appeared,  but  a  few  thousand  dollars 

ford  Upper  Village,  such  scholar  to  be  were  realized  on  his  house  at  Yonkers. 

a  native  of  that  last  mentioned  place  This  went  to  children  who  were  rela- 

and  under  the  age  of  18  years.  tives  in  his  home  town.     His  mother 

"I  bequeath  the  residue  of  my  estate  had  enough  property  of  her  own  to 

toward  forming  a  fund  for  the  founding  supply  her  own  simple  wants  as  long 

of  an  asylum  for  worn-out  printers  in  as  she  lived. 


A  FOUNTAIN  REVERIE 

Enlarged  my  vision  as  I  outward  gaze 

Far  as  the  eye  can  see.    A  greater  soul 
Seems  born  within  me  as  I  look  upon 

The  wonders  wrapped  around  the  Rocky  Heights. 
This  magic  veil  which  hides  from  me  its  woof 

Needs  stronger  lens  than  human  retina 
To  read  the  message  written  in  the  scene. 

To  merely  see  and  feel  the  message  not 

Would  be  to  miss  its  vibrant  wonder-song 
That,  hushed  and  trembling  with  the  urge  of  life 

Is  breaking  from  my  soul  its  narrowed  bonds. 
Here,  I  am  poised  on  wings  of  larger  thought — 

My  ears  are  open  to  the  Whisp'ring  Voice — 
For  God  alone  in  silence  comes ;  in  calm,  in  rest, 

In  thousand  shades  of  coloring  that  blend 
Into  the  song  of  songs — His  harmony. 

These  glory  tints  are  but  the  finishing, 
The  after-thought  expressions  of  the  soul ; 

An  echo-tone  of  all  creative  power. 

Enraptured  with  this  artistry  which  builds 

Unseen,  unceasing,  through  unending  time, 
I  lose  myself  in  vastnesses  of  space — 

Then  feel  anew  the  oneness  of  the  all. 
I  feel  the  throbbing  melody  of  life 

Vibrating  through  and  through  a  nameless  law — 
The  same  that  marks  the  tide's  strong  ebb  and  flow 

And  causes  meteors  to  flash  and  fall, 
And  makes  the  sun  to  throw  off  rays  of  light — 

Makes  tiny  dew-drops  glisten  on  the  grass 
And  rainbows  blend  in  seven  shades 

Of  seven  mysteries,  and  mother-love — 
Another  ray  reflecting  law  divine. 

Alone  in  contemplation  thus  I  dream 

Nor  know  nor  care  the  hours  are  slipping  by, 

For  I  am  lost;  by  soul  has  wandered  far. 

The  upland  trail  which  brings  eternal  peace 

Leads  ever  out  and  on  tow'rd  the  Supreme.       E.  V.  MILLER. 


The    Stubbs    Foundation 


WHAT  SHALL  I  DO   WITH  IT? 


By  Bolton  Hall 


COUNT  it,  please,"  I  said  to  the 
teller  of  the  Night  &  Day  Bank, 
as  I  thrust  the  mass  of  crumpled 
bills  into  the  little  window. 

"Eighty-seven  thousand  one  hundred 
and  one  dollars,"  said  he,  as  he 
straightened  out  the  yellow  ten  and 
twenty  thousand  dollar  notes,  while  my 
companion  began  to  snore  on  the 
settee. 

"Put  is  to  my  credit  and  (here  I  con- 
sulted the  letter  I  had  taken  from  the 
man's  pocket)  Shooter  Stubbs' — to  be 
drawn  on  either  name,"  I  added. 

The  cashier  stared  at  me.  "Oh,  a 
friend  of  mine,"  I  explained,  "a  min- 
ing man,  you  know,  got  a  lump  of 
money  and  went  off  on  a  bat.  I  picked 
it  up  and  I  want  it  kept  safe." 

"Oh,  all  right,  anything  you  say,  Mr. 
Seton ;  just  give  me  your  signature  and 
Mr.  " 

"Stumps — Stubbs,  I  mean,"  I  said; 
"he'll  come  in  to-morrow  and  leave  you 
his  signature." 

While  the  book  was  being  made  out 
I  shook  Stubbs  into  a  half  conscious 
condition  and  then  bundled  him  off  in 
a  cab  to  the  Buckingham  Hotel,  and 
gave  the  night  watchman  charge  con- 
cerning him. 

I  thought  Stubbs  might  have  been 
drugged.  The  fact  is,  I  had  just  met 
him  in  the  cafe  of  the  Buckingham, 
and  he  told  me  I  was  a  "good  fella — 
see  that  in  a  minit,"  he  said,  and  gave 
me  the  roll.  "Got  plenty  money,"  he 
said ;  "you  take  that." 

"Why,  you'll  be  robbed,  man,"  I 
said. 

"Robbed !  Not  much."  He  showed 
me  the  handle  of  a  Colt's  45.  "They 
don't  rob  Shooter  Stubbs,"  he  mum- 


bled. "You'll  know  what  to  do  with 
that  money — give  it  away,  or  keep  it; 
it's  yours."  So  to  save  it,  I  took  it  to 
the  bank. 

In  the  morning  the  watchman  told 
me  a  weird  tale  of  how  he  was  alone 
toward  morning  when  Stubbs  came 
down,  fired  at  a  devil  he  saw  in  the 
mirror  back  of  the  office  (that  part  was 
true:  it  was  a  good  shot)  and  ran  out 
of  the  hotel.  The  night  watchman 
was  afraid  to  follow;  besides  he  was 
alone  in  the  corridor. 

That  was  the  last  that  ever  was 
heard  of  Stubbs.  Of  course  I  adver- 
tised to  find  him,  but  though  I  did 
state  the  amount  of  the  money,  a  re- 
porter got  part  of  the  story,  and  it  was 
a  headliner  for  a  few  days. 

The  letter  I  took  from  his  pocket 
was  addressed  General  Delivery,  from 
Cpleman  C.  Briggs,  an  attorney  in 
Billings,  Montana;  but  inquiry  there 
brought  nothing  but  that  Stubbs  had 
given  him  ten  thousand  dollars  some 
months  before,  and  directed  him  to 
buy  a  U.  P.  bond  (he  gave  me  the 
number),  and  to  give  ten  dollars  a 
week,  every  Monday,  to  a  young  man 
who  would  call  for  it.  If  he  failed  to 
call  for  it  the  allowance  was  to  stop, 

and  "D it,  give  the  bond  to  the 

Mormons  or  to  the  Devil." 

Briggs  wrote  me  he  asked  him  why 
not  leave  the  bond  to  the  State,  but 
Stubbs  grot  mad  and  said  that  would 
only  lighten  the  taxes  for  the  land- 
owners, whom  he  hated.  I  judge  he 
leased  his  mines. 

A  trip  to  Billings  made  after  a  year 
had  passed  brought  no  other  result 
than  that  Shooter's  protege  was  sup- 
posed to  be  an  illegitimate  son,  though 


THE  STUBBS  FOUNDATION 


35 


he  called  himself  Stubbs.  He  was 
quite  a  different  sort  of  man  from 
Shooter — a  weakling,  always  half- 
drunk.  He  talked  wildly  of  killing 
his  mother,  if  he  could  only  get  away 
to  Mexico — or  to  Brazil,  he  sometimes 
said.  "Remittance  men,"  we  used  to 
call  such  fellows,  paid  to  stay  away 
from  home. 

Briggs  said  that  Shooter  had  talked 
a  little — saying  he  was  "against  the 
church  and  the  charities  and  all  such 
grafters,"  but  revealed  nothing  more 
personal  of  himself  at  Billings. 

Seventeen  years  had  passed  and  the 
money  had  grown  to  near  a  quarter  of 
a  million  dollars. 

Now,  what  was  I  to  do  with  that 
money?  Coates,  my  lawyer,  said  I 
should  turn  it  over  to  the  State,  but  I 
pointed  out  that  at  best  this  would  pay 
part  of  the  taxes,  and  so  relieve  the 
land  speculators. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Coates,  "that's  the 
law.  You  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"But  is  it  the  law  ?  Haven't  I  some- 
thing to  do  with  it?  And  if  I  did  turn 
it  over,  should  I  turn  it  over  to  Mexico 
or  Montana?  Besides,  the  man  had 
given  it  to  me.  To  be  sure,  I  neither 
needed  it  nor  wanted  it,  then  or  now.  I 
had  always  puzzled  over  what  to  do 
with  my  own  money.  Relief  in  the 
form  of  philanthropy  seemed  to  me 
to  be  only  prolonging  misery;  like  the 
Irishman  who  cut  off  the  dog's  tail  one 
inch  a  day. 

"Now  you  know,"  I  said  to  Coates, 
"that  every  improvement  in  the  con- 
dition of  the  earth,  whether  agricul- 
tural, mechanical,  political,  ethical, 
educational  or  even  religious,  goes 
eventually  and  mainly  to  the  benefit  of 
the  owners  of  the  earth ;  and  just  as  far 
as  you  lighten  the  burden  of  the  land 
owner,  the  price  of  land  goes  up.  What 
benefit  is  that  to  the  State  or  to  any- 
body, perhaps  not  even  to  the  land 
owners?" 

"I  see.  But  you've  always  got  some 
new  idea  about  everything,"  said 
Coates.  "Why  aren't  you  satisfied 
with  things  as  they  are?" 

"The  idea  isn't  new,"  I  told  him. 
"You  know  Thorold  Rogers  says, 


'Every  highway,  every  bridge,  every 
permanent  improvement  of  the  soil 
raises  rent.'  " 

"Yes,"  acknowledged  Coates,  "I 
know  how  the  Brooklyn  bridge  raised 
rent  in  Brooklyn,  all  right.  I  made 
money  on  that." 

"I  wish  I  knew  where  he  got  the 
money,"  I  said.  "Probably  a  mine  or 
some  concession,  or  robbed  somebody 
of  it.  If  we  knew,  maybe  we  could 
make  restitution,  or  at  least  know  what 
to  do  with  it." 

"Well,  charities?"  suggested  Coates. 

"You  know  our  munificent  donor  did 
not  like  charities  any  more  than  he 
liked  the  church.  Now  come,  Coates, 
how  much  do  you  give  to  the  charities 
yourself?" 

"I  ?  I  don't  give  much ;  what  I  think 
I  can  spare  I  give  to  those  that  I  care 
for.  You  know  it  seems  to  me  that  all 
our  charities  haven't  lessened  poverty 
— they  only  demoralize  people.  They 
certainly  lower  wages  by  helping  peo- 
ple to  live  cheap,  and  they  subsidize 
the  unfit,  and  I  suppose  they  multiply 
them." 

"And  they  raise  rents,  too,  don't 
they?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  they  do — though 
sometimes  they  save  lives  anyhow." 

"That  increases  population  and 
raises  the  rents  some  more,"  I  urged; 
"and  prolongs  the  agony." 

"It  does;  you  can't  help  that;  but  I 
guess  the  landlords  should  take  care 
of  the  charities.  But  you  might  build 
a  library  or  a  hospital." 

"My  dear  man,  don't  you  see  that 
the  very  presence  of  a  library  raises 
rents?  And  if  I  build  hospitals  the 
city  won't  have  to.  That  lightens 
taxes  again.  Besides " 

Coates  interrupted.  "Yes,  I  know, 
you  can  show  all  that  of  any  good 
thing.  Are  you  going  to  stop  good 
doings  on  that  account?" 

"Certainly  not,"  I  answered;  "but  I 
am  going  to  let  the  people  do  the  good 
that  get  the  good  out  of  it — in  their 
rents." 

Briggs,  the  Montana  man,  wrote  me 
later  that  the  Remittance  Man  in  his 
drunken  babble  had  revealed  the  fact 


36  OVERLAND  MONTHLY 

that  Stubbs  had  taken  up  with  a  wo-  died.    Should  I  give  the  money  to  her  ? 

man  at  Billings,     a     decent  creature  You  see,  I  can't  get  any  glory  out  of 

enough,  with  a  child  to  support — whose  it.     The  quarter  of  a  million  is  still 

we  could  not  tell.    After  Shooter  left  growing. 

she  had  made  some  kind  of  alliance          I  write  this  in  the  hope  that  some 

with  a  ranch  man  who  subsequently  one  will  tell  me  what  shall  I  do  with  it. 


LIFE'S    STRONGHOLD 

.Did  the  time  ever  come  to  you,  my  friend, 

When  Fortune's  face  was  pale, 
When  the  world  looked  blue  and  didn't  ring  true 

And  the  taste  of  life  was  stale;    • 
When  you  longed  for  a  friend  that  understood, 

That  traveled  the  path  you  trod, 
And  you  doubted  Earth  and  you  doubted  Heaven, 

And  you  doubted  the  love  of  God  ? 

And  you  turned  from  the  throng  and  the  glare  and  the  strife ; 

You  were  stifled  and  choked,  oppressed 
By  the  tinsel  show  and  the  mimic  glow; 

One  thing  you  wanted — rest. 
Rest  and  a  friend — such  simple  words! 

Yet  you  wondered,  didn't  you, 
If  the  Mind  that  men  call  a  God  could  make 

Such  wonderful  things  come  true. 

And  you  wandered  away  to  the  wilderness ; 

Ah,  the  wilderness  gave  its  call, 
The  mountains  and  trees  and  the  whirling  breeze 

And  the  roaring  waterfall. 
Then  slowly  the  heartache  began  to  fade 

And  the  numbing  pain  to  cease, 
For  the  hills  lent  calm  and  the  trees  gave  balm 

And  the  mountains  brought  you  peace. 

And  out  of  the  ruin  of  hopes  and  dreams, 

And  the  ashes  of  worldly  strife, 
Was  fashioned  a  structure  of  wondrous  power — 

'Twas  a  stronghold  built  for  life. 
And  the  mountains  furnished  a  base  of  strength 

Enduring  and  firm  and  free ; 
And  the  walls  were  built  of  the  hope  of  the  hills 

And  the  blue  lake's  purity. 
And  the  glistening  peaks  of  the  snow-capped  range 

Gave  turret  and  dome  and  spire, 
And  the  whole  was  painted  a  mystic  hue 

In  the  slanting  sunset's  fire. 

From  out  of  the  structure  the  mountains  built, 

From  its  windows  wide  and  high 
You  saw  the  world  with  a  broader  view, 

With  the  light  of  the  seeing  eye. 
And  slowly  the  understanding  came 

Of  a  Mind  that  is  loving,  just, 
And  you  found  the  courage  to  live  each  day, 

The  courage  to  live  and  trust.  MABEL  E.  AMES. 


Tales  of  the  Blackfeet 


By  A\ax  WcD. 


PERHAPS  the  most  interesting 
tribe  of  Indians  in  the  Great 
West  of  Canada  is  the  Black- 
feet.  This  nation  belongs  to 
the  great  Algonkian  linguistic  stock, 
and  comprises  four  bands  on  four  sep- 
arate reserves — Bollds,  Blackfeet  and 
Peigans,  all  resident  in  Southern  Al- 
berta, and  South  Peigan,  located  in 
Montana  immediately  south  of  the  In- 
ternational Boundary  line.  These  four 
bands  with  their  allies,  the  Gros  Ven- 
tres  and  Sarcees,  formed  the  Blackfoot 
Confederacy,  a  powerful  combination 
which  for  a  century  held  by  force  of 
arms  against  all  comers  an  extensive 
territory  reaching  from  the  Missouri 
river  north  to  the  Red  Deer,  and  from 
the  Rockies  east  to  the  Cypress  Hills. 
The  protection  of  their  vast  territory 
against  invasion  imposed  upon  the  In- 
dians a  life  of  almost  constant  warfare 
with  the  numerous  enemies  surround- 
ing them  on  all  sides,  and  developed 
in  them  a  proud  and  imperious  spirit 
which,  after  more  than  thirty  years  of 
reservation  life,  is  still  the  prominent 
characteristic  of  the  Blackfeet. 

No  tribe  of  the  plains  has  excited 
more  admiration  among  observers  com- 
petent to  judge.  Physically,  they  were 


magnificent  men,  and  at  one  time  are 
said  to  have  numbered  from  twenty  to 
thirty  thousand  people. 

L.  V.  Kelly,  author  of  "The  Ranch 
Men,"  has  this  paragraph  regarding 
them: 

"When  the  white  men  came  to  trade 
with  the  natives  they  found  the  Black- 
feet  a  warlike  race  of  magnificent 
horsemen,  trappers  of  beaver,  hunters 
of  buffalo,  living  handsomely  on  the 
spoils  of  chase  and  war.  They  found 
them  already  engaged  in  almost  inces- 
sant war  with  the  Assinaboines  and 
Crees;  they  found  them  treacherous, 
reckless,  brave,  underhanded  as  occa- 
sion required,  and  quite  open  to  trade 
for  whiteman's  blankets,  guns  and 
whisky." 

Their  bitterest  enemies  were  the 
Crees,  who  held  the  country  in  the  vi- 
cinity of  Edmonton.  Something  of  the 
fear  of  this  northern  nation  for  the 
Blackfeet  may  be  seen  in  a  letter  which 
Sweet  Grass,  chief  of  the  Crees,  dic- 
tated to  W.  J.  Christie,  chief  factor  of 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  at  Ed- 
monton, for  transmission  to  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  "Great  Mother"  at  Ot- 
tawa, in  1876.  In  part  it  read : 

"We  want  you  to  stop  the  Ameri- 


38 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


cans  from  coming  to  trade  in  our  lands 
and  giving  'fire  water,'  ammunition  and 
arms  to  our  enemies,  the  Blackfeet." 

That  such  an  overture  was  neglected 
for  years  without  untoward  results  is 
our  good  fortune. 

It  was  death  to  a  Cree  to  cross  the 
Blackfeet  border.  Fortunately  these 
wars  with  the  Crees  were  often  mere 
frays  for  the  glory  of  young  bucks 
seeking  a  reputation,  not  a  war  to  the 
bitter  end. 

The  Blackfeet  did  not  allow  white 
men  in  their  territory.  Captain  Pallis- 
ter  was  admitted  in  1857  because  he 
represented  her  Majesty  and  carried 
the  British  flag.  Captain  Butler  also 
was  allowed  into  their  domains  for 
the  same  reason.  Reverend  Father 
Scollen,  who  was  the  first  white  man 
to  settle  in  Calgary,  having  a  mission 
church  there,  says  that  while  the  Crees 
regarded  white  men  as  brothers,  the 
Blackfeet  regarded  them  as  demi-gods, 
superior  in  intelligence  and  capable  of 
doing  the  Indian  good  or  ill. 

They  were  proud,  haughty  and  num- 
erous. It  is  said  there  were  some  10,- 
000  of  them  in  Canada  in  the  sixties. 
They  had  a  regular  politico-religious 
organization.  But  in  ten  years  their 
numbers  decreased  by  half,  and  their 
organization  fell  into  decay.  The  rea- 
son? The  Americans  about  1866 
crossed  the  line,  and  established  ten 
or  more  trading  posts  or  forts  where 
fire-water  flowed  freely,  and  hundreds 
of  the  poor  Indians  fell  victims  to  the 
white  man's  craving  for  money.  Some 
poisoned,  some  frozen  to  death  while 
in  a  state  of  intoxication,  many  more 
were  shot  down  by  American  bullets. 
In  1870  came  small  pox.  In  1874  they 
are  said  to  have  been  "clothed  in  rags, 
without  furs  and  without  guns." 

It  was  this  state  of  affairs  that  led 
to  the  mounted  police  being  sent  to 
Macleod  to  crush  out  this  wanton  de- 
bauching and  robbing  in  the  name  of 
trade.  In  a  few  years  they  had  gained 
again  much  of  their  former  prosperity 
and  became  a  peaceful  tribe.  Father 
Scollen  is  authority  for  the  statement 
that  in  1875  the  Sioux  Indians,  who 
were  at  war  in  the  United  States, 


wanted  the  Blackfeet  to  make  an  alli- 
ance with  them  to  .exterminate  the 
whitemen  in  the  land.  This,  he  says, 
they  flatly  refused  to  do,  because  they 
saw  that  the  white  man  of  Canada  was 
their  friend  and  could  be  relied  upon 
to  do  justly  with  them. 

Thomas  R.  Clipsham,  pioneer  mis- 
sionary of  Protestant  denominations  to 
the  Blackfeet,  has  had  some  interest- 
ing experiences  in  his  work  with  the 
red  men.  Over  a  score  of  years  ago  he 
came,  when  there  was  little  else  on  the 
bald,  bleak  prairie  than  coyotes,  buf- 
falos  and  Indians.  He  helped  to  run 
the  fifth  and  third  meridians  in  1882, 
when  it  was  a  "sight  for  sore  eyes"  to 
see  a  white  man.  While  thus  engaged 
the  party  on  a  Sunday  morning  topped 
a  rise  near  Fort  Walsh  to  find  an  en- 
campment of  2,000  Blackfeet  with  Big 
Bear  as  their  leader.  The  valley,  he 
tells,  was  covered  with  tepees,  and  the 
fear  of  the  surveyors  was  great.  It 
looked  as  though  the  old  fort  was  sur- 
rounded. But  all  fear  was  dispelled 
when  it  was  learned  that  the  Indians 
had  merely  gathered  to  remind  the  au- 
thorities that  their  grub  stake  had  dis- 
appeared. Once  the  larder  had  been 
replenished  all  signs  of  (hostility  van- 
ished. 

In  1884,  Mr.  Clipsham  parted  with 
$54  for  two  days'  travel  over  the  dusty 
plains  to  get  from  Calgary  to  Macleod 
in  a  creaking  and  uncomfortable  old 
stage.  He  had  been  directed  by  the 
Methodist  Church  to  carry  the  gospel 
to  the  red  man  of  Southern  Canada 
west,  and  for  long  years  he  toiled 
amongst  them,  living  their  life  and 
sharing  their  meagre  comforts  and 
many  hardships. 

This  was  during  the  time  of  the  ter- 
rible Riel  rebellion,  when  the  mere 
mention  of  a  white  man  stirred  the 
fire  of  hatred  in  the  red  man's  breast, 
and  when  the  chief  occupation  of  the 
warriors  was  fashioning  bows  and  ar- 
rows. It  was  uphill  work,  especially 
as  the  Indians  were  none  too  ready  to 
receive  the  ministrations  of  the  pale 
face.  They  were  busy  plotting  and 
scheming  their  deadly  maneuvres.  But 
by  faithful  effort  and  diligent  service 


On  the  Blackfeet  Reservation 


the  missionary  worked  his  way  into  the 
confidence  of  the  red  men,  and  it  was 
not  long  till  he  was  thoroughly  trusted 
and  admired.  He  learned  their  tongue 
and  their  habits,  attended  their  coun- 
cils of  war,  and  discouraged  their  plot- 
ting and  scheming. 

On  one  occasion  he  had  an  encoun- 
ter which  he  will  long  remember  as 
the  most  thrilling  of  his  experiences. 
A  daring  and  fearless  brave  became 
antagonized,  and  threatened  to  put  the 
missionary  off  the  reserve.  He  jour- 
neyed to  the  mission  house  and  en- 
tered, but  had  his  breath  taken  away 
by  being  immediately  precipitated 
through  the  door.  The  brave  went  for 
two  of  his  followers  and  returned  with 
a  tomahawk  and  whip  to  carry  out  his 
original  intention,  but  he  was  van- 
quished as  before.  Crestfallen,  he 
stood,  while  his  companions  smiled  at 
him,  and  ever  after  he  had  great  re- 
spect for  the  white  man. 

Many  times  during  the  rebellion,  Mr. 
Clipsham  counciled  with  the  red  men, 
advising  them  to  keep  out  of  the  trou- 
ble. Toward  the  close  of  the  siege  he 
was  asked  by  the  chiefs  on  the  Blood 
Reserve  to  offer  his  services  to  the 
government  to  help  quell  the  disturb- 
ance. When  the  Crees  held  a  council 


with  the  Bloods  for  the  purpose  of 
uniting  against  the  white  men,  his  ad- 
vice was  followed  by  the  Bloods,  and 
they  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  Crees,  whom  they  called  "as- 
senah,"  or  cut-throats. 

Captain  C.  E.  Denny  tells  that,  in 
1872,  a  Mexican  and  two  associates 
left  Helena,  Montana,  to  pan  the 
streams  of  the  country  held  by  the 
"plain  Indians,"  the  Blackfeet.  After 
working  along  the  Old  Man's  River  one 
night  about  the  end  of  August,  the  two 
partners  had  turned  in  for  the  night 
while  the  Mexican  had  made  his  bed 
under  one  of  the  camp  wagons.  He 
was  suddenly  aroused  in  the  night  by 
a  thundering  discharge  of  fire  arms. 
Several  of  the  shots  found  a  place  in 
his  body,  and  he  knew  at  once  that 
they  were  being  attacked  by  a  party 
of  Indians,  who  were  hidden  under  the 
bank  of  the  river  only  a  few  yards 
away.  He  called  to  his  companions 
in  the  tent,  but  receiving  no  answer,  he 
thereby  concluded  they  must  both  have 
been  killed  at  the  first  discharge.  On 
his  calling  again  he  was  greeted  by 
another  volley  from  under  the  bank, 
and  felt  himself  again  wounded. 

The  poor  fellow  managed  to  roll  out 
from  under  the  wagon  and  crawled  in- 


40 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


to  the  brush  close  by,  where  he  lay  for 
a  short  time.  He  heard  no  sound  from 
his  companions,  but  knew  that  the  In- 
dians were  rounding  up  their  horses 
and  driving  them  off.  He  made  his 
way,  wounded  though  he  was,  through 
the  brush  and  down  the  river  toward 
the  bend  below.  Here  he  waded  into 
the  stream,  and  sometimes  swimming, 
sometimes  wading,  put  some  distance 
between  himself  and  the  camp. 

What  this  Mexican  underwent  would 
be  difficult  to  conceive,  but  he  wan- 
dered down  the  river  and  then  across 
a  wide  strip  of  prairie  till  he  came  to 
the  banks  of  the  St.  Mary's  river,  a 
distance  of  at  least  one  hundred  miles. 
When  at  last  discovered  by  a  Peigan 
Indian  in  an  old  log  shanty,  he  was 
out  of  his  mind  and  almost  dead.  He 
had  gone  for  thirteen  days  with  nine 
bullets  in  his  body,  living  on  roots  and 
berries  the  while. 

Many  tales  of  daring  and  nerve  are 
told,  of  attack  and  reprisal;  yes,  and 
of  heroism,  too.  In  years  somewhat 
later,  Fred  Kanouse,  a  prominent  old- 
timer  of  the  West  and  still  alive,  ran 
counter  of  a  band  of  hostile  Indians. 
He  made  a  stand  in  a  bend  of  the  Old 
Man  River  on  the  old  Pioneer  Ranch, 
a  point  still  pointed  out  by  the  young- 
sters of  Macleod.  When  the  Mounted 
Police  arrived,  seven  dead  Indians 
marked  the  pioneer's  skill  with  his  gun. 
Not  far  from  the  scene  of  this  fight 
there  is  a  dugout  or  log  cabin  where 
early  settlers  resisted  repeated  attacks 
of  the  Blackfeet. 

In  the  early  days  of  their  reservation 
life,  following  1877,  deprived  of  the 
buffalo  by  the  wholesale  slaughter  of 
these  animals  by  the  whites,  they  were 
in  a  perilous  state,  and  took  the 
ranchers'  cattle  as  a  gift  from  the 
Great  Spirit.  In  1879,  the  IV  ranch 
found  that  it  had  59  out  of  a  bunch  of 
133  steers,  and  other  ranchers  had  suf- 
fered equally  or  worse. 

A  terrible  revenge  is  related  in  "The 
Ranch  Men,"  in  the  story  of  the  trader 
Evans,  who  mourning  the  loss  of  a 
partner  while  trading  with  Indians  in 
the  Cypress  Hills,  swore  to  enact  an 
awful  payment.  Some  time  in  the  late 


sixties,  Evans  and  a  partner  were  trad- 
ing with  the  Blackfeet  when  the  part- 
ner was  killed  by  the  Indians  and  their 
horses  stolen.  Evans  swore  revenge, 
and  hastening  to  St.  Louis,  he  is  said 
to  have  purchased  bales  of  blankets 
that  were  infected  with  a  most  virulent 
form  of  smallpox  which  had  been  rag- 
ing there.  Carefully  wrapping  these 
bales,  he  shipped  them  up  the  Mis- 
souri River,  and  when  in  the  heart  of 
the  Indian  country,  left  them  on  the 
banks  for  the  first  passerby.  Of 
course,  the  red  men  seized  upon  this 
treasure  trove  with  natural  avidity, 
and  the  smallpox  raged  through  the 
tribes,  sweeping  thousands  into  the 
happy  hunting  grounds. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  stories 
connected  with  the  Blackfeet  is  told  by 
A.  H.  D.  Ross,  Professor  of  Forestry 
in  Toronto  University.  With  Dr.  R.  T. 
McKenzie,  now  professor  of  medicine 
in  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  Mr. 
Ross  was  a  follower  of  the  chain  and 
lever,  and  encountered  some  very  stir- 
ring experiences  when  surveying  the 
trail  from  Macleod  to  Lethbridge, 
across  the  Blood  Reserve  of  the  Black- 
feet  tribe. 

When  the  Indians  were  given  their 
reserve  the  government  did  not  make 
them  understand  that  their  old  haunts 
were  to  be  preserved  to  perpetuity. 
And  so  when  the  party  of  surveyors  en- 
tered their  domain  a  certain  faction  of 
the  red  men  under  the  leadership  of 
"Three  Bulls"  were  inclined  to  make 
things  unpleasant  for  them.  They 
could  not  be  made  to  understand  that 
the  party  were  doing  them  good,  and 
they  delighted  to  torment  and  frighten 
the  pale  faces.  One  of  their  favorite 
schemes  of  torture  to  the  minds  of  the 
surveyors  was  the  riding  of  their  cay- 
uses  at  full  tilt  toward  the  chain  men 
while  they  were  at  work. 

"They  would  come  up  to  within  four 
or  five  feet  of  us,"  tells  Mr.  Ross,  "and 
stop  with  a  jerk.  When  they  saw  that 
we  didn't  care,  they  would  ride  off  and 
come  back  again  at  us  harder  than  ever 
'and  closer  than  before.  They  had  us 
pretty  well  buffaloed,  but  we  stood  our 
ground,  and  they  finally  left  us  to  con- 


TALES  OF  THE  BLACKFEET 


41 


coct  some  new  means  of  bothering  us. 
I  don't  think  they  would  have  been 
long  in  really  doing  us  some  harm  had 
we  not  solicited  the  aid  of  old  Chief 
Crowfoot,  who  was  leader  of  the  more 
peaceful  faction  of  the  same  tribe. 

"Piapot,  the  notorious  Indian,  who 
really  started  the  Kiel  Rebellion,  was  a 
member  of  the  Blood  band,  and  all  of 
his  followers  were  viciously  inclined. 
When  we  appealed  to  Crowfoot,  the 
notorious  ones  were  getting  real  blood- 
thirsty. Their  favorite  pastime  was 
the  pulling  of  all  our  stakes  as  soon  as 
they  were  driven.  But  Crowfoot  was 
a  very  wise  and  good  Indian,  and  he 
had  a  great  deal  of  influence  with  his 
own  followers.  After  he  had  been  ap- 
prised of  the  real  meaning  of  our  mis- 
sion, he  had  no  trouble  in  retaining 
peace.  After  that  we  were  the  best  of 
friends  with  all  the  Indians,  and  often 
spent  our  Sundays  teaching  them  acro- 
batic stunts  which  they  appreciated 
very  much. 

"One  of  their  favorite  sports  was 
racing  around  a  stake  on  horseback 
against  one  of  us  on  foot.  They  would 
place  the  amount  of  money  they 
wished  to  bet  on  the  ground,  and  if  it 
were  covered,  the  winner,  who  was 
usually  the  rider,  would  collect  the 
spoils.  The  most  marvelous  thing  in 
connection  with  their  riding  was  the 
ease  with  which  they  could  reach  the 
ground  from  the  backs  of  their  horses 
when  picking  up  the  stakes." 

Crop-Eared  Wolf,  the  last  of  the  old 
chiefs  of  the  Blackfeet,  died  last  year. 
He  was  head  of  the  Blood  band  and 
had  under  him  some  1,200  of  the  least 
civilized  of  the  Indians  of  Canada.  He 
was  stern  with  his  people,  but  kind 
with  the  white  man  so  long  as  he  did 
not  infringe  in  any  way  on  Indian 
rights. 

Some  six  years  ago  an  agitation  was 
raised  among  the  Indians  to  sell  the 
southern  half  of  their  reserve,  the 
largest  in  Canada.  A  price  was  of- 
fered that  would  have  made  every  In- 
dian on  the  reserve  independently  rich. 
But  the  old  chief  refused  to  agree  to  it. 
He  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
sale  of  Indian  lands  to  the  white  man. 


He  insisted  that  the  treaty  gave  the 
land  to  the  Indians  while  water  ran  and 
the  sun  shone,  and  from  this  position 
he  could  not  be  moved. 

One  of  the  last  things  that  Crop- 
Eared  Wolf  did  before  his  death  was 
to  call  a  council  of  his  minor  chiefs 
and  people,  and  make  them  promise 
that  they  would  never  sell  their  land  to 
the  whiteman. 

The  old  chief  was,  of  course,  a  brave. 
On  more  than  one  occasion  he  has 
bared  his  breast  and  shown  the  writer 
the  scars  of  many  a  severe  test.  From 
his  armpits  to  his  very  throat  there 
were  thong  marks,  but  never  in  one  of 
the  ordeals  did  he  flinch  or  show  any- 
thing but  the  bravery  that  would  one 
day  make  him  a  chief  of  his  band. 

It  will  surprise  most  people  to  know 
that  Crop-Eared  Wolf  had  a  comfort- 
ably furnished  home.  Carpets  covered 
the  floors.  A  modern  range  did  the 
cooking  instead  of  the  open  fire  of  the 
teepee.  Iron  bedsteads  replaced  the 
blanket  on  the  ground.  Lamps  lit  the 
house,  blinds  covered  the  windows, 
cooking  utensils  were  in  their  proper 
place,  and  a  table  was  set  such  as  any 
man  might  dine  at. 

Wolf  became  an  adherent  of  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  faith.  At  his  funeral  a 
brass  band  composed  of  Indian  boys 
from  the  boarding  schools  played 
"Nearer  My  God  to  Thee,"  and  instead 
of  the  old  chief  passing  out  to  the 
happy  hunting  grounds  of  his  fore- 
fathers, he  died  in  the  faith  of  the  Son 
of  God,  and  went  to  be  with  Him. 

The  Blackfeet  tribe  of  Indians  is  the 
richest  of  any  group  of  people  in  Can- 
ada. It  is  a  peculiar  coincidence  that 
a  tribe  of  Indians  closely  related  to  the 
Black  feet  is  the  richest  group  in  the 
United  States.  The  total  wealth  of  the 
Blackfeet  including  their  annual  yearly 
income,  is  $10,987,250.  This,  divided 
among  2,329  bucks,  squaws  and  pa- 
pooses, will  give  them  average  per 
capita  wealth  of  $4,675.  It  is  well 
known  that  squaws  and  Indian  children 
control  no  part  of  the  wealth  of  the 
nation.  If  the  immense  sum  credited 
to  the  Blackfeet  were  divided  among 
the  males  over  20  years  it  would  give 
4 


42 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


each  $16,445.  Ten  is  not  considered 
large  for  an  Indian  family,  but  if  we 
could  suppose  there  were  seven  mem- 
bers to  each  family  among  the  Black- 
feet,  the  head  of  each  household  would 
control  the  immense  sum  of  $32,725. 

There  are  many  interesting  legends 
and  traditions  among  the  Blackfeet. 
The  most  interesting  of  these  has  to  do 
with  a  famine  in  the  land  of  the  Black- 
feet  which  is  said  to  have  prevailed 
from  1835  to  1837.  The  legend  is  told 
by  a  Blackfoot  Indian  of  education  and 
refinement  living  on  the  South  Peigan 
Reserve  in  Montana.  At  that  time  the 
Blackfeet  Indians  owned  everything 
from  the  Hudson's  Bay  to  the  Rookie 
Mountains,  and  in  all  that  land  there 
was  no  green  spot  except  in  the  valley 
which  is  called  Two  Medicine.  Even 
the  buffalo  left  the  country  because 
there  was  no  food  for  them. 

The  old  men  of  the  tribe  built  lodges 
In  this  valley  of  Two  Medicine  and 
-worshipped  the  Great  Spirit,  and 
prayed  that  they  might  be  saved  from 
the  famine.  And  the  Great  Spirit 
heard  them  and  directed  them  to  send 
seven  of  their  patriarchs  to  the  top  of 
Chief  Mountain,  where  the  Wind  God 
was  then  residing.  They  followed  these 
directions,  but  the  old  men  were  afraid 
to  go  near  to  the  Wind  God  to  make 
their  prayer,  and  after  their  long  jour- 
ney they  went  back  empty  handed  to 
their  people. 


The  Medicine  man  then  directed 
them  to  send  fourteen  of  their  bravest 
young  warriors  to  intercede  with  the 
Wind  God.  These  young  men  eventu- 
ally reached  him  and  made  their 
prayer.  He  listened,  and  his  wings 
quivered  and  quivered,  and  gradually 
clouds  began  to  gather  over  the  plains, 
and  the  rain  fell  as  in  a  deluge.  He 
stretched  one  wing  over  the  plains, 
telling  them  in  this  way  to  go  back  out 
there  and  they  would  find  the  famine 
gone. 

The  young  men  returned  to  their 
people  and  they  found  that  already  the 
buffalo  had  returned  and  the  famine 
was  gone. 

The  Blackfeet  is  still  the  largest 
tribe  of  Indians  in  the  world.  They 
have  become  quite  peaceful,  and  where 
it  once  took  several  detachments  of 
Royal  Northwest  Mounted  Police  to 
keep  them  in  subjection,  now  one 
policeman  on  each  of  the  three  reserves 
is  all  that  is  necessary.  Government 
agents  are  in  charge,  and  competent 
instructors  in  the  various  crafts  and  in 
agriculture  direct  the  work  of  those 
who  have  a  desire  to  become  self-sup- 
porting. 

Good  schools  are  established,  and 
the  religious  life  of  red  men  cared  for 
by  the  Anglican  and  Roman  Catholic 
churches.  Notwithstanding  diligent 
mission  work,  there  are  sixty  per  cent 
of  the  Blackfeet  still  in  paganism. 


THE     PICNIC 


The  bee  drew  all  the  nectar 

From  honeysuckle  vines, 
And  cloying  sweets  that  slumbered 

In  purple  columbines. 

He  took  a  tear  of  bleeding  heart's, 

And  with  a  sunbeam  stirred, 
Then  spread  it  on  his  primrose  plates 

And  called  the  humming-bird. 

SADIE  BELLE  NEER. 


The  Problem 


By  Ralph  Cummins 


THE  man  shifted  his  rifle  from 
shoulder  to  crooked  elbow,  and 
half-slid  down  the  steep,  frost- 
covered  bank. 

"Burn  that  tooth!"  he  muttered.  "I'd 
oughta  had  it  yanked  out." 

Caressing  his  red-bearded  cheek,  he 
swung  round  the  splintered  stump  of 
a  giant  cedar,  and  stepped  out  upon 
the  natural  bridge  formed  by  a  hundred 
feet  of  its  trunk.  He  was  met  by  a  vol- 
ley of  shot-like  snow  that  rattled  down 
the  canyon. 

For  six  winters  Burd  Quigley  had 
crossed  on  that  fallen  cedar.  Bridg- 
ing the  rocky  gulch,  it  was  a  time  and 
labor  saver,  and  had  become  as  much 
a  part  of  the  trap  line  trail  as  Buck- 
horn  Pass  and  the  granite  ledge  above 
the  big  slide.  Now,  on  his  first  round 
of  the  season,  the  trapper  merely 
noted  that  his  foot-log  was  still  in 
place,  and  with  his  usual  confidence 
waddled  forward  upon  it.  Accommo- 
dating his  short,  choppy  steps  to  the 
log's  undulations,  he  allowed  his 
weight  to  increase  the  rolling  motion. 

A  splitting,  falling  crash,  and  a 
twenty-foot  piece  of  the  small  end  of 
the  log  rolled  into  the  canyon.  The 
broken  end  of  the  main  trunk  fell  ten 
feet,  and  lodged  against  the  bank.  The 
man  slipped  down  the  incline, 
scratched  wildly  at  the  loose  bark, 
rolled  off,  and  fell  heavily  upon  the 
frozen  creek-bed. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  jarring  shock, 
and  a  blinding  pain  in  his  head.  For 
a  moment  he  lay  quite  still,  with  his 
eyes  closed,  then  his  powerful  will 
dragged  his  senses  from  the  brink  of 
unconsciousness.  His  first  mental  ef- 
fort informed  him  that  the  toothache 
was  gone. 

Opening  his  eyes,  he  saw  the  still 


waving  foot-log ;  had  he  been  standing 
he  could  nearly  have  touched  its  under 
side.  He  raised  first  one  hand,  then 
the  other;  with  a  snort  of  disgust  at 
his  mishap  he  rose  to  a  sitting  posi- 
tion and  looked  for  his  rifle.  His 
searching  glance  traveled  no  farther 
than  his  outstretched  legs. 

Into  his  brain  flashed  a  deadening, 
hammer-like  blow,  followed  by  a  surg- 
ing wave  of  dread.  For  a  long  time  he 
did  not  move,  but  stared  at  the  two 
feet  resting  upon  the  gravel.  Then  in 
a  dazed,  mechanical  manner  he  pro- 
duced pipe,  plug  and  knife,  and 
shaved  the  tobacco  into  his  hand.  But 
his  trance-like  gaze  never  wandered 
from  the  revelation  of  that  right  foot 
lying  heel  up,  before  him. 

"Busted  my  leg!  I  sure  busted  my 
leg!" 

He  spoke  aloud,  but  quietly,  with 
nothing  of  the  irritation  that  he  had 
bestowed  upon  the  aching  tooth. 

He  lit  his  pipe  and  settled  down  on 
one  elbow.  Sharp  twinges  prodded  to 
life  a  dull  gnawing  in  the  injured  leg. 
His  mind  raced  back  over  the  years  to 
the  painful  "shinny"  games  of  his 
boyhood. 

"Busted  my  shin!  Now  here's  a 
purty  mess.  Busted  my  old  shin!" 

He  swung  to  the  other  elbow,  and 
glanced  up  the  canyon.  Mighty  gran- 
ite boulders  littered  the  creek-bed; 
fir  and  hemlock  and  cedar  trees  tow- 
ered from  the  banks;  in  the  distance, 
grim  and  forbidding,  rose  a  snow- 
capped ridge. 

Slowly  into  his  groping  mind  pressed 
insistently  the  reluctant  thought  that 
beyond  that  white  summit,  three  long 
days  down  the  rough  Shakleford,  lay 
the  habitation  of  his  nearest  neighbor. 
Sixty  miles  of  soft  snow  and  jumbled 


44 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


rocks!  In  summer,  three  days'  travel 
— well-nigh  impassable  now,  with  the 
cliff-like  drifts  guarding  the  ridges 
and  the  cold  north  slopes. 

Lowering  himself  upon  his  back,  he 
clasped  his  hands  under  his  head,  and 
forced  his  mind  to  a  frank  survey  of 
his  predicament.  His  nearest  neigh- 
bor was  Bill  Wade,  a  homesteader  on 
Little  Elk  Creek.  That  was  sixty 
miles,  and  it  was  ten  miles  from 
Wade's  to  Red  Bank,  the  little  mining 
town  where  he  worked  summers.  In 
all  directions  frowned  the  barrier  of 
the  snow-bound  Sierras.  He  had  often 
congratulated  himself  on  the  fact  that 
his  trapping  ground  was  well  off  the 
beaten  track,  in  fact  it  was  his  boast 
that  during  the  six  seasons  he  had 
spent  in  the  Marble  Range,  he  had 
never  had  a  human  caller.  His  line 
of  thought  raced  up  to  the  present,  and 
encountered  the  knowledge  that  it  was 
ten  miles  to  his  camp — ten  miles  to 
shelter  and  food. 

An  extra  twinge  drew  his  mind  from 
the  gloomy  outlook.  Firmly  grasping 
his  ankle,  he  turned  the  leg  over.  The 
bowl  of  his  brier  pipe  fell  to  the 
ground — he  had  bitten  through  the  rub- 
ber stem.  With  quiet  deliberation  he 
removed  his  shoe,  unlaced  his  canvas 
legging,  and  ripped  the  seam  of  his 
blue  overalls.  He  hesitated  over  the 
leg  of  his  woolen  drawers,  then  ripped 
it  down  the  side  and  slashed  it  off  at 
the  knee.  Somewhere  he  had  heard 
that  an  injury  was  much  less  danger- 
ous if  the  skin  was  not  broken.  With 
great  relief  he  discovered  that  the  frac- 
tured bone  had  not  punctured  the  skin. 
While  his  jaw  clamped,  and  his  eyes 
grew  to  hard  slits,  he  poked  and  prod- 
ded. All  that  he  could  determine  was 
that  the  shin  bone  was  broken  near  its 
center. 

Again  he  filled  his  pipe,  and  again, 
with  filmy  gaze,  he  regarded  the 
broken  limb.  But  his  mind  was  no 
longer  inactive;  it  had  begun  to  grap- 
ple with  the  problem.  First  he  tried 
to  recall  what  he  had  heard  of  moun- 
tain accidents. 

The  list  was  not  an  encouraging  one. 
There  was  the  squatter  on  Indian 


Creek  who  had  slashed  his  foot  with 
an  axe  and  bled  to  death.  He  remem- 
bered hearing  Old  Dan  Morgan  tell  of 
a  man  breaking  his  arm  and  traveling 
two  hundred  miles  to  the  outside.  Then 
he  had  read  of  a  miner  who  had  shot 
himself,  and  had  tried  to  amputate  his 
foot;  his  body  had  been  discovered  the 
next  spring.  He  called  up  a  vague 
history  of  a  score  of  such  injuries,  but 
a  review  of  them  served  only  to 
deepen  the  hopelessness  of  his  posi- 
tion. Several  times  his  mind  dwelt 
for  a  moment  upon  the  horror  with 
which  he  had  always  thought  o±  an  ac- 
cident when  alone. 

From  an  open  contemplation  of  the 
serious  possibilities  he  hurried  to  more 
practical  reminiscences.  He  brought 
to  mind  his  meagre  knowledge  of  anat- 
omy, and  tried  to  remember  the  things 
that  were  so  vital  in  the  task  before 
him.  Never  during  the  course  of  an 
adventurous  life  had  he  witnessed  the 
reduction  of  a  fracture.  Still,  an  en- 
lightening chapter  from  the  past  rose 
before  him,  and  he  grasped  it  eagerly. 
He  had  prospected,  one  summer,  with 
a  man  who  limped  because  his  leg  had 
not  been  properly  set.  The  man  had 
a  grievance  against  the  hospital  that 
had  treated  him,  and  never  tired  of 
telling  all  the  details  of  how  the  mal- 
practice occurred.  The  prospector's 
leg  had  been  broken  above  the  knee, 
but  Quigley  could  not  see  that  that 
made  the  case  very  much  different 
from  his  own.  For  a  long  time  he 
prowled  about  in  his  memory  of  that 
man's  camp-fire  tales. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  noon. 
Again  he  examined  the  fracture.  Roll- 
ing up  overalls  and  drawers  on  the 
other  leg,  he  probed  long  and  thought- 
fully about  the  bone.  Then  for  a  solid 
hour  he  sat  and  studied,  and  figured, 
and  planned. 

When,  finally,  he  went  to  work,  it 
was  with  the  same  air  of  confident  de- 
termination that  he  displayed  in  setting 
a  trap  or  in  hunting  a  deer.  Bedding 
the  throbbing  leg  upon  his  mackiraw 
jacket,  he  hitched  backward,  an  inch 
at  a  time,  until  he  sat  upon  a  large,  flat 
rock.  A  clump  of  straggling  willows 


THE  PROBLEM 


45 


clung  to  the  lower  end,  while  above  the 
rock  dropped  twenty  feet.  Seated 
with  his  back  to  the  willows,  and  with 
his  legs  extending  up  the  slope,  he  re- 
moved his  belt  and  gray  flannel  shirt. 
Cutting  the  sleeves  from  the  shirt,  he 
folded  it  into  a  pad,  and  slipped  it 
under  the  injured  member. 

After  throwing  countless  stones,  he 
succeeded  in  starting  a  slide  that 
brought  within  his  reach  several  large 
splinters  from  the  shattered  cedar. 
With  -his  small  axe  and  his  pocket 
knife,  he  fashioned  two  crude  boards 
six  inches  wide  and  three  feet  long. 
One  of  these  splints  he  poked  under 
each  side  of  the  flannel  shirt  padding. 
He  then  cut  a  four-foot  splint,  and  laid 
it  beside  him. 

Next,  with  his  belt  and  the  sleeves 
of  the  shirt,  he  made  a  short  rope,  to 
one  end  of  which  he  fastened  a  stone 
as  large  as  he  could  handle.  Tying  the 
other  end  of  the  rope  to  the  willows,  he 
rolled  the  stone  to  the  edge  above,  and 
lowered  it  as  far  as  the  rope  would  let 
it  go.  He  then  untied  the  end  near 
him,  and  made  it  fast  to  his  foot. 

His  face  went  white  as  the  snow  in 
the  crevice  beside  him.  Great  beads 
of  icy  sweat  ran  down  upon  his  beard. 
His  body  grew  rigid,  as  his  hands, 
served  by  the  iron  of  his  will,  gripped 
his  knee,  and  pulled  against  the  heavy 
weight. 

He  could  feel  and  hear  the  grinding 
of  the  broken  ends.  With  one  hand  he 
clutched  a  willow  stub  behind  him, 
while  with  the  other  he  manipulated 
the  bone  in  an  effort  to  line  it  to  its 
natural  position.  Followed  an  endless 
round  of  pulls  upon  the  stub,  slight  ad- 
justments of  the  fractured  parts,  and 
slow  relaxations  to  determine  results. 

At  last  he  was  satisfied.  His  ex- 
ploring fingers  assured  him  that  the 
ends  fitted  perfectly.  With  a  sigh  of 
relief  he  filled  and  lit  his  pipe.  After 
cutting  the  leg  of  the  overalls  into  ban- 
dages, he  drew  the  splints  up  on  each 
side  of  his  leg,  and  slipped  the  long 
board  underneath  in  such  a  position 
that  the  other  rested  upon  it.  While 
the  rock  weight  held  the  leg  in  place, 
he  made  the  whole  rigid  by  the  appli- 


cation of  a  number  of  strings  and  ban- 
dages. He  was  especially  careful  to 
secure  the  foot  in  such  a  position  that 
it  could  not  move.  When  the  binding 
was  completed,  he  removed  the  weight, 
and  from  the  sleeve-rope  made  a  sling 
which  he  tied  to  the  three  splints  at  his 
foot,  and  adjusted  to  a  proper  length 
around  his  neck.  He  next  made  two 
rough  crutches  from  sticks  of  cedar. 

He  saw  his  rifle  lying  among  the 
rocks,  but  decided  against  taking  it. 
He  was  particular,  however,  to  fix  its 
location  in  his  mind,  using  for  that 
purpose  a  clump  of  willows  and  a 
leaning  hemlock  on  the  bank.  Re- 
placing his  belt  and  jacket,  he  pre- 
pared to  rise,  then  paused  to  look  at 
his  watch.  It  was  after  four. 

Supporting  himself  upon  the  up- 
held crutches,  he  drew  his  sound  leg 
back,  and  with  painful  deliberation 
raised  himself  until  he  stood  erect,  the 
injured  leg,  held  up  by  the*  sling 
around  his  neck,  sticking  out  in  front. 
Thoughtfully  planning  each  step,  con- 
sidering each  smallest  movement,  he 
climbed  the  bank.  He  was  forced  to 
proceed  crab-like,  with  the  projecting 
leg  parallel  with  the  bank,  and  over 
much  of  the  distance  he  dragged  him- 
self upon  his  left  side,  taking  advan- 
tage, with  hand  and  foot,  of  every 
bush  and  stone.  It  was  terrible  work, 
but,  true  to  his  plan,  he  went  at  it 
slowly,  did  not  hurry,  and  never  grew 
impatient  over  his  slow  progress.  Not 
for  an  instant  did  he  allow  the  con- 
suming pain  to  urge  him  to  attempt  a 
faster  gait. 

The  blustery  November  day  had 
faded  to  a  chill,  frosty  night  when  he 
drew  himself  upon  the  last  rock  at 
the  top  of  the  bank.  The  fact  that  it 
was  night  caused  him  not  an  extra 
pang  of  depression.  He  knew  that 
he  must  camp  out,  not  one  night,  but 
two;  he  had  even  decided  on  the  lo- 
cation of  the  first  camp,  and  had  rec- 
ommended to  himself  a  good  spot 
for  the  second.  He  knew  that  he  had 
ten  miles  to  go,  and  that  he  must 
cover  that  distance  before  he  could 
hope  to  obtain  food.  He  fully  under- 
stood the  dangers  that  lurked  along 


46 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


that  rough  trail,  and  realized  that  only 
by  the  most  snail-like  creeping  could 
he  escape  a  dangerous  fall.  He 
worked  out  a  schedule  of  half  a  mile 
an  hour,  and  began  dividing  the  long 
trail  into  half-mile  stretches,  with  a 
resting  place  at  the  end  of  each. 

It  was  very  dark  when  he  started 
on,  but  the  wind  had  gone  down,  and 
although  there  was  the  sharp  bite  of 
frost  in  the  mountain  air,  the  sky  had 
cleared  and  the  stars  were  coming 
out.  He  proceeded  with  the  greatest 
caution.  Each  simple  movement  that 
went  into  the  making  of  a  step  re- 
ceived the  full  power  of  his  mind.  It 
was  a  problem  whose  solution  he  first 
thought  out  to  the  most  minute  detail, 
and  then  executed  with  the  most  rigid 
faithfulness  to  his  plan.  He  moved  a 
crutch  only  after  assuring  his  perfect 
balance  upon  the  sound  foot  and  the 
other  crutch;  he  planted  the  crutch 
only  after  a  careful  testing  of  the  new 
position.  His  progress  was  slow  and 
painful,  but  it  was  steady  and  sure, 
and  an  hour  of  hobbling  agony  took 
him  across  the  flat  to  the  foot  of  a 
ridge  up  which  he  must  climb.  Pene- 
trating a  fir  thicket,  he  reached  a 
large  pine  that  had  been  razed  by  the 
storms  of  the  previous  winter,  and  in 
the  dry  windfall  of  its  top  he  pre- 
pared to  spend  the  night.  Soon  he 
had  a  fire  started,  and  with  unlimited 
fuel  at  hand  he  stretched  himself  on 
the  ground. 

Only  short  naps  were  possible,  for 
the  wood  was  dry  and  burned  down 
very  rapidly.  Numberless  times  he 
awoke,  chilled  through,  and  was  com- 
pelled to  rekindle  his  fire,  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  shivering  body  and 
chattering  teeth.  Each  time,  how- 
ever, before  surrendering  himself  to 
sleep,  he  prepared  shavings  ajnd  a 
pile  of  twigs  that  he  might  build  the 
fire  quickly  when  next  the  cold  awak- 
ened him. 

The  pain  in  the  leg  bothered  him 
principally  through  the  frightful 
dreams  that  it  induced.  Once  he 
dreamed  that  it  was  the  jumping 
nerve  of  the  bad  tooth  that  was  dis- 
turbing him.  He  awoke  with  an  ear- 


nest oath,  which  changed  to  a 
chuckle  when  he  realized  that  \the 
tooth  was  quiet. 

"I  reckon  that  bump  sure  knocked 
the  toothache." 

The  long  night  passed.  Shortly  be- 
fore daylight  the  moon  rose,  and  by 
the  aid  of  its  light  Quigley  cut  two 
saplings  and  made  a  better  pair  of 
crutches.  When  these  were  com- 
pleted, and  padded  to  his  satisfaction, 
he  left  the  warm  comfort  of  the  fire, 
and  began  toiling  up  the  ridge.  It  was 
a  clear  morning,  and  soon  the  rising 
sun  cheered  from  his  whistling  lips  a 
garbled  version  of  a  bar  of  opera. 
During  his  periods  of  rest,  he  feasted 
his  eyes  on  the  white,  sharply  defined 
teeth  of  the  Western  summit. 

In  walking,  deliberation  seemed  to 
become  a  mania.  Methodically,  slow- 
ly and  with  infinite  care  he  shifted 
one  crutch,  then  the  other,  and  lastly 
his  foot.  Over  and  over  he  performed 
the  same  series  of  movements,  but 
they  never  became  mechanical  or  vol- 
untary; each  step  was  different  from 
every  other  step,  and  each  foot  of 
ground  presented  a  fresh  problem. 

As  time  passed,  the  heavy,  grinding 
pain  became  worse.  The  leg  was 
swelling,  and  each  time  he  rested  he 
tried  to  relieve  the  throbbing  by 
changing  the  bandages  one  by  one. 

Noon  found  him  on  the  summit  of 
a  ridge  with  one-third  of  the  distance 
behind  him.  His  tobacco  was  getting 
low,  and  he  figured  out  a  schedule  of 
smokes.  He  must  make  just  so  many 
half-mile  marches  between  them.  The 
weakness  of  hunger  menaced  him 
more  and  more,  yet  he  forced  his  mind 
from  that  phase  of  his  suffering,  and 
only  during  his  spells  of  relaxation 
did  he  allow  himself  to  think  of  the 
pot  of  beans  in  the  Dutch  oven,  or 
permit  his  imagination  the  luxury  of 
menu  building. 

That  night  he  camped  on  a  live  oak 
flat  and  had  a  better  fire.  The  pain 
was  greater  and  the  leg  was  swollen 
to  the  hip.  The  night  was  an  eternity 
of  semi-consciousness,  half-asleep, 
half-delirium. 

A  bright  morning  cleared  his  head. 


THE  PROBLEM 


47 


Sunrise  found  him  dragging  his  ach- 
ing body  through  the  same  endless 
methodical  steps.  With  his  entire 
will  and  mind  concentrated  upon  the 
act  of  walking,  he  was  able  to  subdue, 
in  a  measure,  the  sense  of  pain.  If 
anything,  he  became  more  deliberate, 
and  paused  after  each  complete  step 
to  study  and  map  the  trail  ahead.  He 
was  so  weak  that  only  his  powerful 
will  held  him  to  the  half-mile  between 
rests,  and  to  the  agonizing  effort  of  re- 
suming his  journey  after  the  five  min- 
utes' relaxation. 

To  the  life  time  of  the  last  mile  he 
gave  the  same  thought  and  care  that 
he  devoted  to  the  first.  Just  at  dusk 
he  trudged  wearily  into  the  little  mea- 
dow above  the  cabin,  and  his  throb- 
bing eyes  caught  the  welcome  gray- 
brown  of  the  shake  roof.  He  reached 
the  woodpile,  fifteen  feet  from  the 
cabin  door,  and  calmly  eased  himself 
down  upon  a  stump.  He  scraped  the 
last  tobacco  into  his  pipe  and  lit  it 
with  the  last  match. 

Five  minutes  he  rested.  Then  with 
that  same  wonderful  patience,  he 
forced  his  tortured  body  to  the  shack. 
The  step  that  took  him  across  the 
threshold  was  just  as  slow,  and  just  as 
carefully  executed,  as;  eaph  of  the 
thousands  that  had  gone  before. 

He  kindled  a  fire  on  the  great  stone 
hearth,  congratulating  himself  on  hav- 
ing filled  the  corner  with  wood  and 
the  tin  bucket  with  water.  From  a 
box  just  outside  the  door  he  pawed  a 
chunk  of  frozen  venison,  which  he 
chopped  into  small  pieces  and  dropped 
into  a  granite-ware  pot.  Not  until  his 
meal  was  cooking  did  he  stretch  out 
upon  the  bunk.  Later  he  threw  a 
handful  of  rice  into  the  pot,  and  when 
it  was  cooked  he  ate  sparingly  of  the 
mixture.  He  was  too  tired  to  care 
about  eating,  and  had  to  force  him- 
self to  the  necessary  effort.  He  dozed 
the  night  away  in  a  maze  of  dreams  in 
which  his  crutches  carried  his  burning 
body  over  endless  trails.  Always  a 
red-garbed  devil,  with  a  chain  on  the 
projecting  foot,  yanked  him  forward. 

In  the  morning  he  ate  lightly  of 
broiled  venison,  and  limited  himself 


to  one  cup  of  coffee.  He  realized  the 
possibility  of  trouble  from  his  eating, 
and  continually  reminded  himself  that 
the  real  fight  had  just  begun. 

After  breakfast  he  heated  a  pail  of 
water,  built  a  padded  rest     for  the 
broken  leg,  and  carefully  removed  the 
bandages  and  splints.    The  whole  leg 
was  swollen  and  inflamed.    From  toes 
to  hip  the  skin  was  stretched  seem- 
ingly to     the     bursting  point.     The 
ceaseless   pounding     'welcomed     the 
thought  of   a  knife-thrust  to   relieve 
the  drum-like  tension.    With  increas- 
ing dread  he  poked  about  the  break. 
He  found  that,  although  he  could  run 
his  finger  over  the  shin  bone  with  but 
slight    discomfort,   there   was   in   the 
calf  below   a  gnawing     agony     that 
shrank  from  his   slightest    touch.    It 
felt  as  if  the  muscles  must  be  grippedl 
in  monstrous,  crushing  jaws.     He  fin- 
gered the  sore  spot  cautiously,  thert 
transferred  his  attention  to  the  foot,. 
which  persisted  in  an  unnatural  out- 
ward thrust.     Finally  he  gave  up  the; 
examination,  and  for  an  hour  applied 
'hot  cloths  to  the  glistening  skin. 

He  lay  upon  the  rude  bunk  all  day, 
and  drove  his  mind  to  work  above  the 
torture  of  that  insistent  pain.  Again 
he  went  back  to  his  study  of  anat- 
omy, and  tried  hard  to  remember  the 
construction  of  the  lower  leg.  He 
knew  that  there  were  two  bones  in  his 
forearm,  because  he  could  feel  them, 
and  also  because  he  could  turn  his 
hand  over.  It  was  only  after  many 
hours  of  worrying  study  of  his  sound 
leg,  and  after  many  twistings  of  his 
foot  and  wigglings  of  his  toes  that  the 
solution  came. 

"Sure,  that's  it!    They's  two  bones." 

He  thought  the  swelling  and  the 
pain  were  caused  by  his  failure  to  set 
the  broken  inner  bone,  and  reasoned 
that  he  must  attend  to  it  before  he 
could  expect  relief.  So  he  fortified 
his  nerve  with  a  pot  of  black  coffee, 
and  prepared  to  undergo  the  terrible 
ordeal  again.  As  before,  he  attached 
a  weight,  and  hung  it  over  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  Hoping  to  keep  the  shin 
bone  in  place,  he  pressed  a  small' 
piece  of  wood  back  of  the  bone  on: 


48 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


each  side,  and  heroically  shut  a  No.  2 
steel  trap  upon  the  sticks. 

He  worked  upon  his  iron  nerve  alone 
— with  only  a  blind,  dogged  will  to 
guide  the  pressure  of  his  hands. 
Clammy  perspiration  oozed  from  his 
forehead  and  trickled  into  his  eyes. 
Impatiently  he  brushed  it  away,  and 
begrudged  his  hands  the  time  that  act 
required.  For  an  eternity  he  pulled 
and  pressed  and  twisted,  with  no  ap- 
parent result.  Always  it  seemed  as  if 
the  foot  bent  farther  outward.  At  last 
with  a  desperate  wrench  he  turned  the 
foot  strongly  inward,  and  felt  the  bone 
slip  into  its  place. 

Fainting,  he  lay  back  and  rested. 
Driving  himself  back  to  his  task,  he 
tried  to  convince  his  doubting  mind 
that  the  ends  of  the  inner  bone  met 
without  having  between  them  any  of 
the  muscles  or  tendons.  Although  far 
from  satisfied,  he  at  last  desisted,  with 
the  self-consolation  that  he  had  done 
the  best  that  he  could. 

He  replaced  the  pads  and  splints 
and  bound  them  on.  During  the  after- 
noon he  fell  asleep ;  when  he  awoke  it 
was  morning.  He  was  relieved  to  find 
that  the  swelling  had  gone  down  and 
that  the  pain  was  less.  He  ventured 
to  the  spring  and  to  the  wood  pile.  He 
"brought  in"  the  wood  by  seating 
himself  and  throwing  each  stick  as 
far  as  he  could;  four  throws  landed  it 
inside  the  cabin  door. 

It  was  the  middle  of  November 
when  Burd  Quigley  broke  his  leg,  and 
except  to  get  wood  and  water,  he  did 
not  go  out  until  the  second  week  in 
December.  Then  the  danger  of  pos- 
sible famine  forced  the  trapper  to 
strenuous  action. 

He  poked  three  snowshoes  from 
the  rafters,  and  applied  himself  to  the 
task  of  fitting  them  to  his  crutches. 
Across  the  tops  of  two  of  the  snow- 
shoes  he  nailed  pieces  of  board,  and 
to  these  he  fastened  the  ends  of  his 
crutches.  Ramming  a  handful  of  slugs 


into  his  old  muzzle-loading  shotgun 
he  made  his  way  out,  and  climbed 
through  the  soft  snow.  He  found 
snowshoeing  less  dangerous  than 
walking  on  bare  ground,  but  no  more 
speedy.  In  a  clump  of  open  timber 
a  mile  from  the  cabin  he  jumped  a 
bunch  of  deer  and  was  fortunate  in 
getting  a  shot  at  twenty-five  feet.  He 
spent  the  afternoon  dragging  a  hun- 
dred pound  deer  down  to  camp.  The 
venison  answered  the  food  question, 
and  he  prepared  to  remain  inside  un- 
til his  leg  was  well. 

At  Christmas  time  he  removed  the 
splints,  and  began  to  step  lightly  on 
the  foot  as  he  hobbled  about  the 
cabin.  He  spent  many  hours  knead- 
ing, patting  and  rubbing  the  sore, 
flabby  muscles. 

Soon  he  began  to  take  easy  snow- 
shoe  trips  about  the  camp.  Then  he 
established  a  short  trap  line  that  grew 
longer  each  day,  until  late  in  January 
he  ventured  out  upon  the  long  triangle 
line  that  took  three  days  to  cover. 

From  that  time  he  tore  savagely  in- 
to his  work,  in  the  hope  of  making  up 
for  lost  time.  The  snowfall  was  light, 
and  because  all  his  fur  was  caught 
late,  it  was  all  prime. 

Twice  during  the  winter  he  had  a 
return  of  the  toothache.  Each  time 
he  became  irritable  and  complaining, 
and  swore  lurid  oaths  of  vengeance 
against  the  cause  of  his  discomfort. 

Late  in  April  he  collected  and  oiled 
his  traps  and  stored  them  in  the  stone- 
walled cellar  under  the  cabin.  With 
his  winter's  catch  on  his  back,  he 
swung,  limping  slightly,  down  the 
trail. 

At  Wade's  he  stopped. 

"Hello,  Burd,"  greeted  the  old 
squatter.  "How'd  you  make  it?" 

"Purty  good.  All  prime.  I  put  in 
an  awful  winter,  though,  I  got  a  rot- 
ten tooth  that  gave  me  the  devil.  I'll 
sure  get  it  pulled  out  before  next  win- 
ter." 


The  "Perfect  Fool" 


By  Ruth  Huntoon 


AS    a    Western  paragrapher  re- 
cently and  modestly   puts  it — 
"Bandits  may  wander  around  in 
my  neighborhood  with  absolute 
safety."    When  a  man  is  suddenly  con- 
fronted with  the  business     end    of  a 
forty-four,  he  puts  up  his  hands  and 
his  money.    That  is,  he  does  if  he  has 
good  sense.    The  fellow  who  tries  any- 
thing else  is  either  making  a  fool  of 
himself,  or  the  Lord  has  saved  him  the 
trouble. 

Now  Billy  had  figured  all  this  out, 
and  when  he  took  the  job  of  express 
messenger  for  the  Western  Pacific  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  say  so. 

"That's  all  right,  Louisdale,"  old 
Sam  Hood  had  said.  "You're  free  to  do 
as  you  see  fit  when  the  time  comes,  but 
I  hope  it  won't."  So  Billy  had  gone  his 
way,  his  conscience  at  rest,  and  had 
also  gone  on  making  as  violent  love  to 
the  girl  of  his  choice  as  he  dared. 

Making  love  to  Elsa  was  almost  as 
hazardous  an  undertaking  as  outwit- 
ting bandits,  to  Billy's  notion.  He  was 
mortally  afraid  of  Elsa's  tongue.  She 
had  a  discouraging  way  of  laughing  at 
him  and  his  ambitions.  Billy  had  been 
a  bit  spoiled.  He  was  one  of  those 
versatile  chaps  who  can  do  nearly  any- 
thing, but  nothing  well  enough  to  capi- 
talize. A  fund  of  parlor  tricks  made 
him  popular,  but  were  not  remunera- 
tive. Rather  small,  he  was  close-knit 
and  muscular,  and  could  put  up  a 
round  of  boxing  that  was  the  pride  of 
his  friends,  but  which  had  its  limits. 
He  was  a  good  shot,  but  rarely  did 
more  than  target  practice.  Elsa's  man- 
ner of  appreciating  him  made  him  feel 
like  a  cheap  imitation. 

"You — the  head  of  a  faouse!"  she 
had  laughed  with  unaffected  scorn  of 
his  capabilities.  "You — the  mainstay 


of  a  wife  and  'steen  small  children — 
the  backbone  of  an  establishment !  Oh, 
Billy,  dear,  not  you — ever!" 

Billy  rather  felt  that  the  'steen  small 
children  was  anticipating,  but  Elsa's 
point  was  not  to  be  disputed. 

His  advance  to  the  position  of  ex- 
press messenger  from  the  office  was 
the  result  of  steady  plodding  and  ac- 
curacy. The  new  route  was  a  long  and 
lonely  one,  and  he  could  only  see  Elsa 
twice  a  week.  She  had  been  some- 
what surprised  that  he  had  taken  the 
promotion  because  of  this,  but  if  she 
missed  the  constant  worship  at  her 
shrine  she  did  not  tell.  Louisdale  was 
soon  on  pleasant  terms  with  all  the 
train  crew.  Conductor  Nagel  was  his 
especial  pet. 

As  the  Express  tore  her  way  through 
Terril  County  on  the  night  of  Billy's 
thirteenth  trip,  he  was  almost  glad  it 
was  dark.  He  had  left  the  good  cheer 
and  friendly  guying  over  unlucky  num- 
bers a  long  way  behind  him.  To  look 
out  upon  the  barren  stretches  of  the 
ranch  country  was  even  worse  com- 
pany than  not  to  see  them.  He  was 
thankful  for  the  stop  at  Dryton.  It 
gave  Nagel  a  chance  to  flash  him  a 
comforting  signal  that  he  would  be  up 
his  way  for  a  visit,  soon. 

Billy's  responsibilities  held  him  fast 
to  his  car,  and  he  was  more  than  ordi- 
narily careful  to-night  because  of  a 
package  given  into  his  keeping  at  Ga- 
vilon.  He  was  interested  in  Nagel's 
message,  and  Nagel  himself  was  too 
busy  watching  for  Billy's  answering 
sign  to  notice  the  couple  who  boarded 
the  train  in  a  fashion  of  their  own. 

The  conductor  was  puzzled  when  the 
Express  slowed  down  again  some  ten 
miles  out.  He  started  Lee,  the  porter, 
ahead  to  investigate,  and  sitting  un- 


50 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


interrupted  in  a  seat  of  the  day  coach 
nearly  fell  asleep. 

Louisdale  had  kept  an  eager  lookout 
for  his  friend,  but  as  the  train  made  its 
second  stop  he  decided  something  had 
gone  wrong,  and  that  Nagel  was  busy 
pacifying  passengers. 

Disappointed  that  chance  had 
robbed  him  of  a  few  minutes'  pleasant 
company  and  nursing  a  very  mild 
grouch  at  the  number  thirteen  and  at 
the  girl  who  didn't  care,  he  busied  him- 
self checking  up  his  accounts  again 
and  pushed  the  Gavilon  package  far- 
ther out  of  sight. 

With  his  book  still  open  before  him, 
his  attention  was  attracted  to  the  mal- 
let lying  alongside  the  ice-box,  and  he 
picked  it  up.  He  was  wondering  whim- 
sically how  much  it  would  weigh,  when 
the  Express  jerked  with  a  jar,  as 
though  uncoupling.  He  looked  at  his 
watch,  calculated  their  distance  from 
Dryton,  and  fell  to  speculating  upon 
their  possible  mishap.  Lee  called  to 
him  on  his  way  to  the  engine. 

"Break?"  questioned  Louisdale. 

"We  done  run  down  some  trouble  on 
your  bad  luck  number,"  grinned  Lee. 
"Er  the  old  man's  stoppin'  to  git  a 
squint  at  this  here  scenery.  God 
knows  there's  enough." 

Billy  waited  awhile  staring  out  into 
the  night.  Not  a  star  was  in  sight. 
Nothing  relieved  the  blackness  but  the 
glow  of  the  long  train  as  he  leaned  out 
to  look.  Turning  back  to  the  compara- 
tive cheerfulness  of  his  car,  he  went 
over  to  close  his  ledger.  Another 
item  attracted  his  notice,  and  Louis- 
dale  looked  it  over  again  to  be  sure. 
He  heard  Lee  making  his  way  back, 
and  turned  to  intercept  him. 

"Hands  up!" 

Not  an  instant's  warning.  The  pro- 
verbial man  and  his  more  than  pro- 
verbial gun  were  not  six  feet  away. 

Billy's  fingers  itched  for  the  mallet 
behind  him,  but  with  the  first  tingle 
came  the  thought  of  his  carefully 
worked  out  theory.  The  man  who 
mixed  up  with  the  owner  of  those  alert, 
pale  eyes  behind  the  mask  would  not 
last  long  enough  to  call  himself  names. 
Contrary  to  most  philosophers,  Billy 


put  his  system  into  practice,  though 
even  as  he  did  so  Elsa's  rather  quiet 
acceptance  of  his  consistent  arguments 
troubled  him. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  said  disgustedly,  "I 
am  not  fighting  you ;  I  don't  get  fight- 
ing wages." 

"Good,"  snapped  the  other;     "you 
know  which  side  your  bread  is  but- 
tered.    Maybe  you  can  help  get  the 
.  stuff  across  the  Rio." 

Billy  felt  the  motion  of  the  train 
again.  Slowly  the  express  car  moved 
ahead  with  the  engine.  Try  as  he 
would,  Louisdale  could  not  keep  down 
the  desire  to  make  some  move.  Ex- 
citement was  fast  conquering  reason. 
He  stared  straight  past  the  tense  trig- 
ger finger  in  front  of  him,  under  the 
man's  arm  and  out  the  door.  Then 
came  the  sound  of  a  shot. 

There  is  a  very  old  ruse  that  has 
been  worked  so  many  times  upon  the 
man  "who  holds  the  drop"  that  an  ex- 
perienced outlaw  will  not  fall  for  it.  It 
consists  of  signing  to  an  imaginary 
person  behind  the  hold-up's  back  to 
make  him  turn.  This  man  knew  his 
business.  Billy  really  had  no  inten- 
tion of  trying  anything  so  simple,  and 
at  the  same  time  so  desperate.  He  de- 
nies it  strenuously  even  now.  He  in- 
sists that  he  hardly  knew  he  had 
shifted  his  position.  He  claims  it  was 
pure  fright  which  made  him  back  a 
step  or  two  as  he  threw  up  his  hands 
so  that  he  stood  beside  the  ice-box. 
However  all  this  may  be,  when  he  ac- 
tually saw  the  form  of  Nagel,  the  con- 
ductor, running  past  the  door  and 
headed  toward  the  rear  of  the  train, 
the  expression  upon  his  face  and  in 
his  eyes  was  too  much  for  the  man  be- 
hind the  mask. 

The  outlaw  whirled,  and  it  was  then 
that  Billy's  theories  went  begging.  To 
catch  up  the  mallet  and  to  strike  was 
an  action  quicker  than  his  wits  could 
be  expected  to  work.  Really,  as  he 
says,  he  was  not  responsible.  Impulse 
is  a  factor  rarely  considered,  but  al- 
ways to  be  reckoned  with  in  a  crisis. 

That  the  man  he  struck  went  down 
like  a  stone  and  without  a  sound  was 
due,  of  course,  to  one  of  Billy's  show 


THE  "PERFECT  FOOL" 


51 


accomplishments,  and  having  done 
that  much  he  felt  that  for  his  own  pro- 
tection he  must  finish  what  he  had  be- 
gun. Appropriating  the  stranger's  gun 
Louisdale  waited  with  a  quietness  that 
belied  his  explanation  of  it  afterward. 

A  call  came  from  outside,  and  al- 
most simultaneously  a  form  sprang 
within  the  doorway  of  the  car. 

Billy  fired. 

The  man  spun  round  and  slid  along. 
the  casing  to  the  floor.  Billy  bent  over 
him,  but  he  was  evidently  done  for. 
Then  the  messenger  crept  back  to  his 
hiding  place  to  wait  again.  Five — ten 
— fifteen  minutes.  He  heard  the  sound 
of  tramping  horses  up  ahead  and  a 
man's  voice  urging  them  as  they  grew 
more  indistinct. 

"Careful,  boys;  they've  collected  in 
the  Express — poor  Billy!" 

It  was  Nagel's  voice,  and  poor  Billy 
poked  his  head  out. 

"What's  doing?"  he  called. 

"For  God's  sake,  where's  the  gang?" 
cried  Nagel. 

"Somebody's  got  away  on  the  nags 
out  there,"  Billy  answered.  "I've  got 
two.  Come  in,  you  all,  and  hog-tie 
'em.  They're  waking  up." 

Billy  wouldn't  stand  for  the  celebra- 
tion. Nothing  was  missing  from  the 
mail  coach  excepting  what  the  second 
man  carried. 

They  found  the  tracks  of  three 
horses  beside  the  engine.  The  engi- 
neer and  the  fireman  had  been  covered 
and  ordered  to  pull  ahead  with  the  ex- 
press car;  then  Lee  had  met  the  same 
fate.  The  man  who  brought  the 
horses  had  held  the  three  men  and 
waited  for  the  signal  from  his  friends 
which  did  not  come.  His  path  led 
straight  across  the  border  into  Mexico, 
but  it  was  the  Sheriff,  next  day,  who 
found  it. 


Nagel  had  followed  Lee  to  investi- 
gate the  trouble,  and  they  had  just 
missed  getting  him  as  he  made  his  run 
back  to  the  coaches.  There  he  had 
started  a  man  back  to  Anderson  to  tele- 
graph ahead  the  details  of  their  plight. 
Digging  out  the  scattered  weapons  and 
volunteers  from  among  the  passengers, 
he  had  determined  to  make  what  stand 
he  could  against  the  outlaws.  When 
he  found  that  Billy  Louisdale  had  cor- 
nered the  supply,  there  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  take  off  their  hats  to  Billy  and 
to  hold  a  jubilee  over  his  unpleasant 
companions. 

They  whooped  it  up  in  San  Antonio 
until  Billy  had  to  hide,  so  he  took  the 
reward  that  the  civil  authorities  had 
given  him  for  his  services,  and  the 
watch  tendered  him  by  the  express 
company,  with  an  inscription  in  it  that 
made  him  blush,  and  went  to  Elsa. 
Something  had  to  be  done  soon  to  re- 
store his  equilibrium,  but  Elsa  rather 
failed  him. 

"Billy,"  she  began  well  enough,  as 
she  led  him  into  the  hall,  "I'm  very 
proud  and  very  thankful." 

Billy  wondered  what  was  coming. 

"I'm  glad,"  he  told  her  politely. 
"First  for  you,  and  then  because  those 
two  fellows  finally  woke  up  It  isn't  a 
good  feeling,  somehow,  to  think  you've 
killed  a  man;  but  I  hadn't  much  time 
to  figure.  The  boss  has  offered  me  a 
job  in  town  and  a  raise.  Do  you  want 
us,  Elsa — the  raise  and  me?" 

Elsa  still  held  him  off,  but  Elsa's 
eyes  were  very  friendly. 

"Billy,"  she  demanded,  "what  was 
it  you  called  a  man  who  didn't  put  up 
his  hands?" 

"A  perfect  fool,"  acknowledged 
Billy,  meek  enough,  apparently,  "and 
I  am,"  as  he  drew  her  close,  "about 
you." 


The  Aaid  of  the   Aoonstone 


By  Billee  Glynn 


SHE  had  hair  of  that  golden  brown 
hue  which  £s  poetic  either  in 
shadow  or  light.  Her  eyes 
matched  it,  having  almost  a  tinge 
of  red,  but  wonderfully  deep  and  soft. 
In  form  she  was  neither  slender  nor 
buxom,  but  of  that  medium  mold 
which  invites  two  ways.  The  same 
thing  could  be  said  of  her  height.  Her 
hands  had  the  graceful  inflections  of 
flames.  She  was  filling  tea.  It  was  her 
own  little  room,  and  a  little  table  was 
set  at  one  side,  with  a  deep  and  luxu- 
rious chair  beside  it,  into  which  in  a 
moment  she  meant  to  sink. 

It  was  a  habit  of  hers  to  make  tea 
for  herself  thus  in  her  own  room  late 
at  night — environed  by  the  dainty 
knicknacks  and  pictures  that  seemed 
to  belong  to  her  personality — and  to 
sip  it  with  her  own  peculiar  thoughts 
and  dreams.  What  her  position  in  so- 
ciety, as  the  Mayor's  eldest  daughter, 
compelled  of  her,  she  threw  off  when 
here. 

And  on  hot  summer  nights  she  kept 
her  window  high  open  so  that  she 
could  see  the  stars.  It  was  like  letting 
her  soul  loose. 

The  room  was  three  stories  up.  It 
was  all  the  greater  wonder,  then,  how 
the  man  could  have  entered.  But  he 
stood  there,  regarding  her  through  a 
red  mask  that  looked  as  though  it 
might  have  been  stolen  from  some  car- 
nival, when  she  turned  about  from  fill- 
ing the  tea.  She  gave  a  breathless 
gasp  and  shrank  back  on  the  table. 
The  man  had  a  hand  behind  him  as 
though  about  to  draw  a  deadly  weapon. 
In  a  jerky,  nervous,  automatic  way  the 
phrase  "presence  of  mind"  drifted 
through  her  brain. 

She  smiled — that  is,  she  thought  she 
smiled.  "I  see  that  you  are  a  bur- 


glar," she  said.    "Will  you  have  some 
tea  with  me  ?" 

The  invitation  was  evidently  so 
startling  that  the  burglar  removed  his 
mask  with  a  jerk.  Then  he  stood, 
handsome,  and  six-foot,  smiling  quiz- 
zically at  her. 

"By  Jove,"  he  answered,  "if  it's  on 
the  square  I  will  give  up  everything 
else  for  that  pleasure." 

"It's  on  the  square,"  she  averred. 
"I  will  not  call  the  police.  You  see,  I 
have  never  had  tea  with  a  burglar  be- 
fore." 

His  manner  became  cordial  instant- 
ly. "And  I  promise  you,"  he  said, 
"that  you  will  be  perfectly  safe  with 
me.  You  need  not  be  nervous." 

"I  am  not."  It  was  quite  true.  She 
had  recovered  herself  completely. 
Since  he  had  stepped  out  of  the  night 
to  her,  the  night  of  countless  stars  in 
which  she  dreamed,  it  was  her  mood, 
even  her  zest,  to  accept  him.  She 
could  fancy  herself  welcoming  an  in- 
habitant of  Mars  in  the  same  manner. 
And  nothing  that  he  could  say  or  do, 
she  knew,  would  surprise  her. 

Having  set  another  place,  and  filled 
his  tea,  she  sank  in  her  big  chair  re- 
garding him.  His  face  was  peculiarly 
intense,  with  clever  eyes  and  clear 
skin.  To  his  form  and  movements  per- 
tained something  of  a  tigerish  grace. 
He  was  alert  and  high-strung,  yet, 
withal,  a  person  of  unusual  and  deep 
reserves.  He  pleased  her  in  that  she 
might  well  expect  anything  of  him. 
His  apparent  attributes  fitted  the  hour 
and  the  occasion. 

"How  long  have  you  been  a  bur- 
glar?" she  asked  in  a  perfectly  matter- 
of-fact  way. 

"Oh,  ever  since" — he  paused,  eyeing 
her  sharply.  "You  promise,  of  course, 


THE  MAID  OF  THE  MOONSTONE 


53 


that  nothing  will  ever  be  repeated  ?" 

"Are  you  not  going  to  trust  me  ?"  she 
asked.  And  his  eyes  fell  before  her 
look.  She  changed  her  question. 

"Did  you  come  here  to  steal  my 
jewels?" 

For  a  considerable  pause,  and  while 
her  glance  covered  him,  he  made  no 
reply.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking  in- 
tensely. Then  he  acquiesced  sud- 
denly. "Yes,  your  jewels!  I  had 
heard  of  them.  In  fact,  I  had  seen 
them.  A  pearl  necklace,  isn't  there, 
with  a  topaz  pendant — the  gift  of  an 
Indian  Prince  who  put  it  on  your  neck 
one  night  at  a  ball  in  London,  then 
chivalrously  ran  away,  leaving  it  with 
you?" 

"Seen  them!"  she  echoed,  repeating 
with  opened  eyes  what  had  struck  her 
most.  "How  could  you  possibly  have 
seen  them?" 

"Weil,  I  combine  two  professions. 
Besides  being  a  burglar,  I  am  a  re- 
porter on  a  newspaper.  When  not  en- 
gaged in  stealing  jewels  I  take  it  out  in 
reputations.  Sometimes  I  have  even 
the  pleasure  of  writing  up  my  own  bur- 
glaries. I  have  reported  different  func- 
tions of  society  at  which  you  were 
present.  I  always  felt  sorry  for  you, 
as  it  seemed  to  me  you  were  a  little 
too  good  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"So  you  concluded  to  come  and  steal 
my  jewels." 

The  blood  leaped  for  an  instant  to 
his  face.  "I  thought,  perhaps,  you 
would  not  appear  in  society  so  often 
if  you  did  not  have  them." 

"Then  you  think  I  am  vain."  There 
was  a  touch  of  the  roused  eternal 
feminine  in  her  tone. 

"No;  but  jewels  are  expected  of  a 
young  lady  of  your  social  position  and 
reputed  wealth.  You,  yourself,  are 
too  beautiful  to  need  them." 

"That  is  a  rank  compliment." 

"An  Irishman  always  speaks  from 
his  heart." 

"Yes,  to  every  woman  he  meets." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  gave 
vent  to  a  gust  of -low.  melodious  laugh- 
ter. She  was  reearHing  him  in  a  pure- 
ly intuitive  way  as  if  summing  him  up. 

"I  am  inclined  to  believe,"  she  pro- 


nounced, "that  you  are  the  devil." 

He  returned  her  look  with  interest. 
"In  that  case/'  he  replied  with  a  sweet 
seriousness,  "you  would  make  me 
sorry,  Miss  Gray,  that  I  were  not  hu- 
man. But  I  am  simply  a  poor  thief, 
with  a  respectable  profession  on  the 
side.  The  plan  is  common  enough, 
particularly  in  society." 

"But  how  did  you  become  a  thief?" 
She  had  set  her  elbows  on  the  table, 
and,  resting  her  head  on  her  hands, 
was  studying  him  deeply.  He  had 
sunk  into  a  sort  of  resttuiness  in  which 
his  personality  seemed  invulnerable. 
His  complete  unconsciousness  was 
like  a  mask  in  all  it  offered,  yet  failed 
to  reveal;  perhaps,  because,  within  it, 
his  own  intelligence  roved  with  such 
nonchalance,  surety  and  ease.  With- 
out quite  understanding  him,  but  in- 
terested to  do  so,  she  felt  perfectly  at 
home  with  him.  He  exhibited  what 
few  men  possess — a  perfect  capacity 
for  comradeship  with  a  woman. 

"Will  you  not  tell  me,"  she  urged, 
prompting  his  silence  and  refilling  his 
cup. 

"It  is  a  somewhat  long  and  unusual 
story." 

"You  are  simply  adding  to  my  curi- 
osity." She  leaned  over  and  touched 
his  hand  with  a  finger,  then  two.  "Do 
tell  me." 

"You  would  not  believe  it  if  I  did. 
You  could  not  realize  how  unusual 
some  of  my  failings  are." 

"I  do  not  think  that  I  am  quite  or- 
dinary myself.  It  is  scarcely  custo- 
mary to  take  tea  by  oneself,  or  with 
a  burglar,  at  this  hour  in  one's  own 
room." 

"Pardon  me!  You  are  a  poem;  but 
I  am  crazy.  If  I  thought  you  would 
understand " 

"I  assure  you  I  shall."  Her  brown 
eyes  were  bent  upon  him  seriously, 
even  sympathetically,  meeting  the  un- 
disturbed quality  of  his  glance  with 
one  as  steady.  Except  for  the  swish 
of  the  warm  breeze  outside  the  open 
window,  and  the  golden,  pulse-like 
beating  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  a 
deep  si1ence  filled  the  room;  one  of 
those  silences  that  suggest  fairy  dan- 


54 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


cing  and  the  restrained  bass  of  gnomes, 
or  weird,  tripping  music  at  once  emo- 
tional and  sylvan. 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  consented,  at 
length,  "I  will  tell  you.  It  was 
through  being  on  a  newspaper  that  I 
acquired  a  passion  for  jewels.  You 
will  remember  the  notorious  Stanhope 
robbery  of  three  years  ago,  when  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  formerly  Lady  Beaufort, 
lost  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars' 
worth  of  gems.  Well,  I  reported  it  for 
the  New  York  Sun.  Also  I  caught  the 
thief." 

The  tender  red  of  the  lips  opposite 
him  opened  slightly  in  admiration. 
"You  caught  the  thief?" 

"Yes,  but  before  I  go  any  further, 
Miss  Gray,  would  you  mind  telling  me 
who  has  just  entered  the  room  adjoin- 
ing yours?  It  is  your  father's  den, 
isn't  it?" 

She  had  been  so  interested  that  she 
had  paid  no  attention  to  the  slight 
sound  of  footsteps  or  a  door  being 
opened  in  the  hall  without.  In  her 
present  mood,  her  own  four  walls  were 
her  natural  circumference,  outside  of 
which  there  was  nothing. 

"Yes,  it  is  father's  den,  but  how  did 
you  know  it?"  Her  eyes  narrowed  for 
an  instant,  without  disturbing  him, 
however. 

"The  careful  burglar  necessarily 
knows  the  layout  of  a  house  before  he 
enters  it,"  he  answered,  simply 
enough.  Both  of  them  had  instinct- 
ively lowered  their  tones. 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  think  I  will 
go.  It  would  never  do  for  me  to  be 
discovered  here." 

"No,"  she  admitted,  "and  yet  I 
really  must  hear  the  story.  I  am  ex- 
tremely interested.  I  don't  know  ex- 
actly why,  but  I  am."  She  had  risen, 
too,  and  stood  facing  him  with  a  per- 
plexed look.  She  was  as  nearly  flus- 
tered as  one  could  imagine  possible  to 
her,  at  least,  in  any  sort  of  company. 
"I  have  father's  mail  for  to-day  here. 
If  I  went  to  his  room  and  gave  it  to 
him,  perhaps  he  would  not  bother  us 
or  hear  us."  The  doubt  expressed  in 
her  face,  however,  rid  the  proposition 
of  possibility. 


"No,"  answered  her  companion, 
"that  would  not  do."  Then  he  asked 
quickly:  "What  are  you  doing  with 
your  father's  mail?" 

"At  home  here  I  act  as  his  private 
secretary.  Usually  I  open  his  mail, 
but  to-day  he  told  me  not  to  do  so.  It 
seems  he  expected  something  of  a 
very  private  nature.  Consequently,  I 
just  kept  it  for  him.  There  it  is  over 
on  the  mantel." 

Something  in  the  other  seemed  to 
waken  suddenly,  but  it  was  with  his 
customary  nonchalance  that  he  glanced 
to  where  a  dozen  letters  or  so  were 
heaped  beside  the  clock.  "I  wish," 
he  requested  immediately,  "that  you 
would  look  out  of  the  window  and  see 
that  there  is  no  one  below." 

She  ran  to  do  so,  catching  her  skirts 
in  her  hand,  and  leaning  over  the  edge 
displayed  to  him  an  exceedingly 
dainty  pair  of  ankles. 

"Keep  watch  for  a  minute,"  he  com- 
manded. "Both  your  reputation  and 
mine  are  at  stake."  He  had  crossed 
swiftly  to  the  mantel,  and,  with  nim- 
ble fingers,  was  silently  sorting  the 
mail.  One  letter  he  selected  and 
slipped  into  his  pocket,  a  smile  light- 
ing his  face;  the  others  he  put  back. 
Then  from  under  his  vest  he  unwound 
a  thin  silken  ladder,  and  joined  her  at 
the  window  with  it  bunched  in  his 
hand. 

"This  will  let  me  down,"  he  said. 
"I  came  by  way  of  that  maple,  drop- 
ping to  the  balcony  from  that  limb 
just  out  of  reach  there.  I  guess  there 
is  no  danger  of  being  seen.  This  se- 
cluded, residential  section  is  well 
adapted  to  my  profession." 

She  smiled  at  him  in  a  glowing,  ad- 
venturous manner.  "I  want  you  to 
promise  to  come  back  night  after  to- 
morrow," she  suggested,  "and  tell  me 
the  story.  Shall  I  keep  the  ladder  and 
let  it  down  when  you  whistle,  or  com- 
ing up  would  the  tree  be  easier?" 

"I  think  it  would  be,"  he  returned, 
gripping  her  hand  with  an  apprecia- 
tive, accepting  movement  of  his  head. 
"I  will  come  without  fail." 

Then,  having  fastened  the  ladder  to 
the  low  iron  balcony  which  surrounded 


THE  MAID  OF  THE  MOONSTONE 


55 


the  window,  he  began  to  descend, 
s\\  aying  as  he  went.  She  stepped  out, 
watching  him  over  the  railing,  and  un- 
fastened the  ladder  for  him  after  he 
had  reached  bottom.  When  she  re- 
entered  her  room,  she  looked  at  her- 
self in  the  glass,  and  saw  that  her 
•cheeks  were  burning.  Before  de- 
scending he  had  paused  for  just  an 
instant  to  kiss  her  hand. 

"What  a  strange  man,"  she  said  to 
herself,  sinking  on  a  divan. 

Then  she  took  the  letters  in  to  the 
Mayor,  whose  face  darkened  as  he 
'went  over  them. 

"Are  these  all?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  of  course,"  she  replied. 
*  *  *  * 

On  the  night  designated  he  made 
his  entrance  as  before  without  her  be- 
ing aware  of  it.  She  had  set  the 
table,  and  with  her  back  to  him,  was 
bending  over  it  when  he  spoke.  She 
started — and  yet  it  seemed  to  be  more 
of  a  thrill  running  through  her — and 
greeted  him  with  impulsive  warmth 
and  outstretched  hand.  Then  she  filled 
the  tea,  and  they  sat  down  to  it.  It 
was  just  like  a  continuance  of  their 
former  meeting,  supplemented  by  that 
peculiar  zest  that  a  designation  always 
lends. 

The  atmosphere  danced  about  them 
a  little.  And  to  the  man  something 
debonair  pertained;  a  mood  gracing 
his  personality  like  a  launch  at  play 
on  deep  waters.  She  was  eager  for  the 
story,  and  so  he  told  it  to  her,  settling 
in  the  relation  into  that  restfulness 
that  seemed  to  her  full  of  colors  and 
unusual  meanings.  And  all  the  stars 
came  out  in  her  eyes  to  listen. 

"The  Stanhope  robbery,"  he  com- 
menced, "happened  about  three  years 
ago,  you  will  remember.  For  a  while 
the  newspapers  were  full  of  it.  As  I 
told  you,  I  handled  it  for  the  New 
York  Sun.  I  am  out  West  here  for  my 
health.  Mrs.  Stanhope,  Lady  Beau- 
fort, etc.,  was  a  chorus  girl  who  mar- 
ried an  English  lord,  later  a  Baltimore 
millionaire,  a  captain  in  the  United 
States  army,  and  afterwards  a  lieuten- 
ant. Year  by  year  she  came  down  the 
line  regularly.  But  she  was  pretty,  for 


all — a  sort  of  Kitty  prettiness,  you 
might  say.  The  devil  in  her  paraded 
smartly  and  gracefully  with  bells  and 
a  ribbon  tied  to  its  neck.  She  was 
fetching  till  you  brought  right  up  to 
her.  If  you  did  not  know  women,  she 
might  prove  fetching  altogether.  Her 
peculiarity  was  that  she  passed  gen- 
erally as  being  brilliant,  while  she  was 
simply  erratic.  She  was  not  only  cap- 
able of  thinking  the  wildest  things, 
but  doing  them  in  the  same  half  hour. 
Having  got  rid  of  the  lieutenant  in  a 
rather  dramatic  way,  she  took  as  her 
lover  a  newspaper  man  who  happened 
around  to  interview  her  on  the  sub- 
ject. No,  it  wasn't  me." 

The  girl's  eyes,  regarding  him,  had 
sharpened  and  drooped  instantly. 

"Bentley  was  on  the  Tribune.  The 
strange  part  of  it  was  that  she  actually 
fell  in  love  with  him.  I  do  not  think 
she  had  ever  been  in  love  before.  She 
showered  presents  upon  him*  and, 
much  to  his  embarrassment,  bought 
him  clothes  which  he  needed.  On  his 
part,  it  was  but  novel  companionship 
and  passing  fancy.  It  lasted  three 
months,  when  he  fell  in  love  with  the 
sweetest  girl  imaginable,  and  sent 
back  to  the  widow  all  of  her  presents 
with  a  short  note  in  explanation. 

"It  was  the  next  day  that  the  lady 
lost  her  jewels.  And  it  was  two 
months  before  she  recovered  them. 
The  detectives  and  newspapers  alike 
guessed  in  vain.  Bentley  was  shad- 
owed during  the  whole  period.  After 
the  first  installment,  I  took  the  detail 
over  from  another  reporter.  The  sec- 
ond day  after  the  robbery  I  had  dinner 
with  Mrs.  Stanhope. 

"She  was  thin  and  could  well  stand 
a  little  padding  in  front.  You  will 
pardon  me  for  speaking  so.  But  the 
gist  of  the  thing  is  that  the  lost  jew- 
els were  concealed  in  her  bodice.  I 
fancied  they  were  somewhere  about 
her,  and  made  her  locate  them  before 
the  dinner  was  over.  She  had  planned 
to  visit  Bentley's  room  and  hide  them 
where  later  they  would  be  found.  A 
rather  neat  revenge. 

"She  was  so  much  in  love  that  I  felt 
sorry  for  her.  She  threatened  to  shoot 


56 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


herself  if  I  published  the  story.  Nor 
would  she  consent  to  have  the  jewels 
found  immediately,  for  having  broken 
down,  she  clung  to  the  fancy  that  their 
loss  might  somehow  bring  Bentley 
back  to  her.  Impulsively  she  asked 
me  to  take  care  of  them  for  her.  Im- 
agine, a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars' 
worth  of  gems!  But  I  undertook  the 
risk.  We  agreed  to  discover  them  in 
two  months.  Arriving  home  one  day, 
she  was  to  find  them  returned  to  her 
without  explanation.  You  will  remem- 
ber that  she  did. 

"But  imagine  me  with  those  stones. 
I  lived  in  a  garret  flat  on  a  lonely  hill 
overlooking  the  sea.  Worse  still,  I 
had  knocked  off  newspaper  work  for 
a  month.  At  nights  I  used  to  take 
the  stones  out  and  regard  them.  The 
sight  never  failed  to  stir  my  imagina- 
tion. People  see  stones,  but  how  many 
really  think  of  them  ?  They  became  a 
sensation  to  me,  breeding  a  thousand 
poetic  fancies.  They  were  crystallized 
souls,  each  a  marvel  in  its  own  right 
and  history.  I  really  believed  so  at 
length,  and  finally  they  came  to  life 
forme.  Why  not?  Are  not  our  truest 
senses  those  that  do  not  bind  us,  but 
whose  life  is  the  life  of  everything. 
Between  the  gems  and  my  soul  sprang 
up  an  affinityship.  Oh,  I  could  tell 
you  strange  stories  of  them,  if  I  chose. 
One  of  them  became  my  love.  It  was 
a  large  moonstone  that  I  found  her  in, 
a  moonstone  of  peculiar  markings." 

Something  almost  beautiful  and  in- 
tense had  come  into  his  face,  and  the 
girl  across  the  table  leaned  closer  in 
rapt  attention,  her  lips  hanging  apart 
fruit  like. 

"Go  on,"  she  breathed,  filling  in  the 
pause. 

"This  stone  seemed  to  grow  on 
me  quicker  than  the  others,  though  it 
took  me  longer  to  find  it  out.  The 
others  had  become  living  intimates  to 
my  loneliness,  filling  my  chamber  at 
nights  with  the  colorful  symphony  of 
their  lives,  before  the  milkcloud  lifted 
from  the  face  and  form  that  were  to 
prove  so  lovely.  Then  one  night  it 
did  lift  and  -nv  heart  stood  still.  The 
moon  was  shir. ing  in  the  window  when 


she  uncovered  her  face  to  me — and  my 
universe  thereafter  lay  within  the  cir- 
cumference of  her  eyes.  Her  form 
waxed  to  life — life  so  vivid  and  grace- 
ful; her  draperies  shook  to  freedom; 
and  there  in  the  moonbeams  she 
stepped  out  to  dance  for  me.  When  I 
closed  my  eyes  she  drew  near  and 
kissed  my  lips,  and  her  warm,  soft 
hands  caressed  my  face  lightly.  It 
was  always  so.  She  would  never  live 
for  me,  except  when  there  was  no  light 
and  the  moon  sifted  through  the  open 
window.  And  she  would  never  kiss  or 
caress  me  except  when  my  eyes  were 
closed.  Ah,  but  then,  what  kisses! 

"She  had  been  an  Indian  Princess, 
and  her  passion  was  a  heritage,  infin- 
ite as  it  was  delicate.  Her  blood  was 
a  flood  reserved  in  small  channels.  She 
had  the  fire  of  a  tigress  and  the  fra- 
grant beauty  of  a  wild  flower. 

"Then  one  evening  she  was  gone.  I 
slept  with  her  under  my  pillow,  and, 
perhaps  I  left  her  there,  or  perhaps 
she  just  went.  But  I  have  always 
thought  she  was  stolen.  From  the  old 
negress,  who  took  care  of  my  place  for 
me,  however,  I  could  never  force  ad- 
mittance of  the  theft.  The  other  jew- 
els, my  'braw  companions/  as  I  called 
them,  I  put  safely  away  every  night. 
For  weeks  I  searched  in  vain,  and  then 
it  was  time  to  return  the  jewels  to 
Mrs.  Stanhope.  When  I  told  her  of 
the  loss  of  the  moonstone,  she  merely 
smiled  and  said  that  it  was  all  right.  I 
suppose  she  thought  I  wanted  to  keep 
it.  She  even  offered  me  a  valuable 
ruby. 

"But  I,  myself,  was  not  so  easily 
reconciled  to  the  loss.  The  longing  to 
again  possess  the  Princess  grew  on  me 
till  I  became  a  thief  searching  here 
and  there,  and  taking  any  chance  to  re- 
cover my  sweetheart.  And  that  was 
what  brought  me  through  your  win- 
dow." 

"I  am  so  glad  it  brought  you,"  was 
what  she  said  in  reply.  Then  they  sat 
regarding  each  other  out  of  the  mys- 
ticism he  had  created.  It  was  during 
this  silence  that  there  came  the  sound 
of  a  quick  footstep  and  a  knock  at  her 
door. 


THE  MAID  OF  THE  MOONSTONE 


57 


"Ha,"  called  a  girl's  voice;  "Ila!" 
"You  will  have  to  go — go  quietly," 
she  whispered,  rising  to  her  feet.    "Its 
Kathleen,  my  chum.     Come     back — 
come  back  in  four  nights.    Don't  for- 
get— I  want  to  show  you  my  jewels." 
*  *  *  * 

"To-night,"  she  said,  "there  will  be 
no  interruptions.  It  is  the  third  time, 
isn't  it,  and  that  is  always  the  charm." 

She  had  brought  over  her  jewel 
case  to  the  table,  and  was  selecting  the 
key  from  a  tiny  girdle.  In  her  cling- 
ing browns  she  was  a  picture  of  dainty 
ripeness,  and  a  summer's  warmth 
seemed  to  breathe  about  her,  flushing 
the  delicate  tints  of  her  complexion, 
and  shining  in  the  golden  glory  of  her 
hair. 

"I  have  a  moonstone  here,"  she  sug- 
gested, "though  of  course  it  cannot  be 
yours.  However,  I  am  not  sure  I  know 
where  it  came  from,  either." 

She  opened  the  case,  and  they  bent 
over  it  together. 

"I  will  show  you  the  moonstone 
last,"  she  said,  as  she  went  from  one 
plush-lined  compartment  to  another, 
revealing  stone  after  stone  of  different 
kind  and  brilliance.  Some  of  them 
she  lifted  in  her  hand  and  they  seemed 
to  grow  brighter  by  being  there.  A 
pearl  necklace  with  a  topaz  pendant, 
she  unwrapped  from  chamois,  and  put 
it  on  for  his  inspection.  To  her  round, 
soft  neck,  bare  to  the  curve  of  the 
shoulder,  it  gave  a  touch  of  Grecian 
dignity.  The  blood  crimsoned  her 
cheeks  at  the  deep  look  of  admiration 
he  flung  her. 

"Give  me  the  chamois,"  he  said. 
And  their  hands  met  and  clung  for  an 
instant. 

To  cover  her  embarrassment,  per- 
haps, she  bent  again  over  the  jewel 
case,  and  from  the  one  compartment 
that  remained  unopened,  took  out  a 
large  moonstone.  She  slipped  it  into 
his  hand,  and  he  stood  staring  at 
it  while  she  regarded  him.  He  glanced 
quickly  up  at  her  once,  something  pe- 
culiarly intense  in  his  face.  She  put 
out  a  hand  to  point  to  him  the  stone's 
most  peculiar  marking,  and  her  fingers 
drooped  on  his  palm.  Instantly,  the 


moonstone  crushed  between  them,  his 
grasp  closed  on  her,  and  he  drew  her 
close  to  him. 

"It's  the  stone,"  he  avowed,  breath- 
ing deeply;  "the  stone!  And  you  are 
the  Princess,  my  Princess — for  al- 
ways." His  arm  had  gone  about  her 
neck,  and  while  she  answered  them  un- 
consciously and  without  struggling,  his 
kisses  fell  on  her  lips  again  and  again. 

Then  she  came  to  herself  and  put 
him  away.  A  sudden  revelation  had 
flashed  to  her.  pThe  look  in  her  eyes 
was  judgment  should  he  lie,  for  he 
realized  her  intuition  had  guessed  the 
truth. 

"Why,  that  story  of  the  moonstone 
and  the  Princess?"  she  demanded. 
"You  made  it  up  for  me.  What  really 
brought  you  here  that  first  night?" 

He  answered  her  tersely  and  in  a 
manner  of  absolute  straightforward- 
ness. "My  newspaper  sent  me  to  get 
a  letter  mailed  to  your  father  from  one 
of  the  big  companies,  enclosing  a 
check  for  a  large  amount  of  money, 
should  he  do  as  they  told  him.  It  was 
suggested  to  the  office  that  it  had 
been  sent.  If  we  got  the  letter  we 
could,  through  it,  have  controlled  the 
company  to  future  decency  and  fair- 
dealing — and  saved  your  father." 

"He  would  not  have  accepted  the 
money,"  she  declared  with  decision, 
the  blood  aflame  in  her  cheeks. 

"He  has  the  reputation  of  being  an 
honorable  man.  We  did  not  believe 
that  he  would  accept.  But  the  check 
was  sent  to  him  on  that  chance,  and  it 
was  known  he  was  in  some  straits. 
Since  it  was  purely  a  matter  of  the 
company's  bargaining,  the  publication 
of  the  letter  would  not  have  hurt  him, 
but  it  would  them." 

"You  did  not  get  the  letter?"  She 
was  drawn  very  erect. 

His  eyes  fell.  "Yes;  I  got  it  the 
first  night.  I  sorted  the  mail  while  you 
stood  at  the  window." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  ashamed  of  you,"  she 
articulated,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands;  "so  ashamed  of  you!" 

He  stepped  swiftly  over  to  her, 
catching  the  two  hands  in  one  of  his 
own,  and  holding  her  close  to  him. 
5 


58 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


"Ha,  forgive  me,  forgive  me/'  he 
pleaded.  "I  have  never  been  a  thief 
before,  and  I  never  will  be  again.  I  got 
the  letter;  I  read  it,  but  I  did  not  pub- 
lish it.  I  realized  that  I  loved  you — 
yes,  even  that  first  night.  So  I  lied 
to  the  managing  editor,  telling  him  I 
had  reason  to  know  that  no  such  letter 
had  been  mailed.  I  could  not  ruin  you, 
sweetheart;  surely,  you  know  that  I 
would  save  you  regardless  of  every- 
thing— everything "  He  floun- 
dered, grasping  for  words  to  go  on,  but 
realizing  that  he  had  already  said  too 
much. 

She  looked  straight  in  his  eyes,  her 
'face  near  to  his.  "Then  the  letter  did 
implicate  father,  the  letter  did  impli- 
cate father,"  she  insisted. 

There  was  no  use  trying  to  deceive 
her,  and  he  knew  it.  He  caught  her 
by  the  two  arms,  holding  her  straight 
in  front  of  him,  and  bringing  all  the 
power  of  his  personality  to  bear  on 
her.  She  had  drooped  so  that  she  al- 
most needed  holding.  "Remember," 
he  said,  "that  your  father  is  a  public 
man,  and  that  such  are  subject  to  a 
thousand  temptations.  Not  over  one 
in  a  hundred  are  on  the  exact  square 
always.  He  is  only  human,  and  you 
cannot  expect  too  much  of  him.  I 
want  you  to  believe  that  at  the  last 
moment,  in  spite  of  everything,  he 
would  have  returned  the  check." 

"In  spite  of  everything!"  she  re- 
peated weakly  and  caustically. 

"Yes;  in  spite  of  everything!" 

She  would  have  sank  to  a  chair,  but 
she  turned,  staring  whitely  at  the  door. 
The  Mayor  was  standing  there,  a 
blanched  look  on  his  face.  His  hand 
trembled  visibly  on  the  knob,  his 
spare,  gaunt  figure  seeming  drawn  for 
breath.  But  he  commanded  himself 
immediately  and  strode  over  facing 
the  other  man. 

"Some  of  this  conversation  I  heard 
through  the  door,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 


restrained  to  quietness;  "and  what  you 
said  just  now,  sir,  after  I  had  opened 
it.  You  are  O'Dare  of  the  'World/  are 
you  not.  I  remember  you  very  well. 
You  have  a  reputation,  haven't  you,  of 
getting  everything  you  go  after.  With 
regard  to  this  letter  addressed  to  me, 
will  you  let  me  have  it?" 

The  other  handed  it  to  him  without 
a  word,  but  with  a  look  that  meant 
everything.  The  girl  watched  them 
with  blighted  eyes. 

The  Mayor  read  the  letter  rapidly, 
the  hand  that  held  it  trembling  as  he 
did  so,  but  a  smile  hovering  about  his 
lips.  Then  he  tore  it  into  a  thousand 
pieces,  dropping  them  into  a  basket 
at  his  feet.  The  check  he  still  held 
in  his  hand,  and  this  he  tore  full 
length  two  ways.  The  four  pieces  he 
enclosed  deftly  and  swiftly  in  an  en- 
velope, writing  the  address  of  the 
sending  company  in  a  large  hand  on 
the  outside.  It  had  been  all  done  in  a 
minute. 

"Post  that  for  me,"  he  directed 
O'Dare,  smiling  at  him  in  a  genial 
way.  Then,  stooping  to  kiss  the  girl 
on  the  forehead,  he  walked  straight  out 
of  the  room,  his  broad  shoulders 
swinging  resolutely  beneath  his  heavy 
gray  hair. 

The  color  had  come  back  to  the 
girl's  face.  ^  "Father!"  she  cried  after 
him  in  a  voice  of  forgiveness. 

Then,  gathering  herself  for  a  mo- 
ment, she  held  out  her  hand  to  her 
'companion,  who  stepped  quickly  to- 
ward her.  For  an  instant,  while  he 
smoothed  her  hair,  her  head  hid  on  his 
breast.  Then  she  looked  up  in  his 
face. 

"If  you  were  to  express  your  dear- 
est wish,"  she  asked,  "what  would  it 
be?" 

"That  you  would  go  right  out  with 
me  now  and  be  married." 

"And  that  is  just  what  I  am  going  to 
do,"  she  consented. 


My    first    shack    and   some    friendly 
visitors  on  the  day  it  was  finished 


From  a 
School   Room 

to  a 

Aontana 
Ranch 

By 

/Aetta   /A.  Loom'is 


I  WISH  that  we  were  safe  on  some 
good  farm." 
How  often  one  hears  the  wish 
from  those  who  are  noting  the  ad- 
vancing price  of  farm  products  and 
the  shifting  business  vales  of  war 
times.  This  condition  produces  a 
feeling  of  uncertainty  that  is  serving 
to  awaken  a  new  interest  in  farming, 
and  increase  the  number  who  are  try- 
ing to  find  a  way  "back  to  the  land." 
It  is  an  undertaking  for  a  man  to 
cut  loose  from  the  anchorage  of  a  com- 
fortable salary  and  stake  his  future 
on  a  homestead,  but  for  a  woman  to 
venture  such  an  undertaking  requires 
more  than  ordinary  fortitude.  When 
a  woman  is  successful  in  making  one 
of  Uncle  Sam's  farms  pay  her  in 
money  and  health  and  happiness,  the 
knowledge  of  her  work  becomes  a 
source  of  inspiration  and  encourage- 
ment to  those  who  are  wishing  for  the 
security  of  a  farm.  It  was  in  the  hope 
of  furnishing  such  encouragement  that 
a  woman  who  has  converted  one  of 
Uncle  Sam's  homesteads  into  a  flour- 


ishing farm  has  been  persuaded  to  tell 
her  story — to  report  her  efforts,  and 
furnish  statistics  of  her  work — to  blase 
a  trail  of  personal  experience  that  may 
be  some  guide  to  others  who  may  be 
trying  to  find  a  way  "back  to  the  land." 

"My  story  starts  on  an  Iowa  farm," 
began  the  narrator,  as  she  looked  with 
satisfaction  over  her  own  farm,  so 
beautiful  with  spring's  promise  of  au- 
tumn's harvest.  "My  farmer  kin  all 
enjoyed  the  rural  life,  but  they  all  as- 
sured me  that  farming  was  drudgery, 
and  congratulated  me  on  my  great 
good  fortune  in  escaping  from  the 
labor  of  the  farm  for  the  easy  work 
of  teaching  school. 

"Some  way,  I  don't  seem  to  be  made 
to  live  within  doors,  and  the  enthusi- 
asm with  which  I  began  teaching  very 
soon  began  to  wane  and  was  slowly 
but  surely  replaced  by  a  longing  for 
horizons  instead  of  walls — a  longing 
which  must  be  felt  by  thousands  who 
chafe  against  the  ceaseless  grind  and 
close  confinement  of  the  school  room, 
the  office,  the  shop  and  the  factory. 


My  brother  helping  me  with  my  big   team. 


"I  happened  to  be  teaching  in  Mon- 
tana at  the  time  the  bench  lands  near 
Ft.  Benton  were  opened  to  settlement. 
My  nerves  were  out  of  tune,  and  I  felt 
that  life  was  pretty  much  of  a  squeezed 
orange,  but  I  had  enough  energy  to  re- 
act to  the  land  fever  excitement,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  I  was  planning 
my  return  to  farm  life  with  all  the 
eagerness  that  I  had  felt  in  leaving  it. 

"The  lone  man  is  much  handicapped 
when  he  becomes  a  homesteader,  but 
the  lone  woman  is  almost  incapaci- 
tated for  homesteading,  and  her  first 
move  towards  entering  a  claim  for  a 
homestead  should  be  to  induce  some 
other  woman  to  join  her.  Two  women 
taking  up  adjoining  claims  can  build 
near  enough  together  to  utilize  the 
same  machinery  and  to  save  expense 
in  hiring  help,  and  also  to  provide  mu- 
tual protection — protection  not  so 
much  from  physical  danger  as  from 
that  sense  of  loneliness  that  comes 
when  one  lives  without  companionship 
amid  the  overpowering  forces  of  na- 
ture, in  the  rough,  unsubdued  by  civi- 
lization. 

"I  broached  my  farm  scheme  to  a 
kindergartener  who  assured  me  that 
she  would  just  love  to  have  a  farm, 
because  it  was  such  fun  picking  flow- 
ers, and  she  loved  fresh  vegetables. 
I  knew  something  about  the  work  and 
care  needed  to  make  a  success  of  a 
farm,  and  I  desided  it  would  be  folly 
for  me  to  try  to  make  such  blissful  ig- 


norance wise  to  the  realities  of  the 
farm.  Next  I  tried  some  of  our  older 
teachers,  but  they  refused  to  commit 
themselves  except  to  say:  'If  I  were 
only  a  man  I  would  do  it  in  a  minute." 

"I  felt  that  I  had  every  qualification 
for  farming  that  a  man  has  except  the 
brute  strength,  and  I  argued  that  that 
was  the  cheapest  commodity  to  hire. 
As  long  as  our  Uncle  Sam  would  allow 
teachers  the  privilege  of  proving  up 
on  a  claim  while  continuing  their 
school  work,  I  proposed  to  work  for 
a  vine  and  fig  tree  of  my  own,  rather 
than  to  content  myself  with  the  cheer- 
less prospect  of  an  old  ladies'  home 
or  a  teacher's  pension. 

"My  enthusiasm  finally  became  con- 
tagious enough  to  induce  our  drawing 
supervisor  to  join  me  in  my  plan  to 
take  up  a  homestead.  She  had  health 
and  one  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank. 
I  had  a  brother  who  was  making  good 
as  a  homesteader,  and  four  hundred 
dollars  in  cash,  besides  we  both  had 
positions,  good  for  fourteen  hundred, 
and  one  thousand  respectively.  Thus 
equipped,  we  proposed  to  take  up  a 
claim,  engage  in  dry  farming,  and  use 
our  salary  to  convert  our  three  hun- 
dred and  twenty  acres  of  wild  grass 
land  into  a  'prosperous  farm.  Our 
plan  was  to  raise  all  the  varieties  of 
grain  that  are  adapted  to  the  climate, 
keep  as  much  stock  as  we  could  feed, 
besides  raising  garden  truck  and  poul- 
try to  supply  our  living,  and  to  sell 


/  am  in  the  field,  and  my  hired  man  is  cutting  my  first  crop  of  flax. 


if  there  were  a  market  for  it. 

"The  filing  of  our  application  and 
the  drawing  of  our  land  was  quite  as 
conventional  as  securing  a  teacher's 
certificate,  but  conventionality  ceased 
September  27,  1909,  at  precisely  five- 
fifteen  in  the  afternoon,  when  the 
Great  Northern  train  stopped  at  a 
lonely  watering  tank  and  two  school 
teachers  who  would  a-farming  go, 
clambered  to  the  ground.  As  the  en- 
gine puffed  the  train  into  motion,  and 
the  teachers  saw  the  coveted  horizons, 
surrounding  the  grazing  lands  where 
were  uncounted  numbers  of  horses, 
sheep,  cows  and  antelope,  our  under- 
taking suddenly  looked  terrifying.  A 
loud  'hello !'  soon  broke  this  spell,  and 
we  were  restored  to  enthusiastic 
ranchers  by  the  greeting  of  our  agent. 
'You  don't  look  very  husky,  for  farm- 
ers, but  you  are  getting  the  pick  of 
some  of  the  best  bench  land  in  the 
State.  There  is  a  big  spring  in  that 
coulee  yonder  besides  the  immense 
reservoir  belonging  to  the  railroad, 
both  of  which  show  that  you  will  be 
dead  sure  to  strike  water  when  you 
dig  your  wells.  This  bunch  of  grazing 
cattle  proves  there  is  moisture  in  the 
ground,  and  it  only  needs  cultivating 
to  raise  good  crops.  You  ladies  are 
sure  plucky,  and  here's  good  luck  to 
the  pair  of  you.' 


"In  half  an  hour  we  had  set  our 
stakes  and  were  being  driven  back  to 
Ft.  Benton.  We  filed  our  claims  the 
next  morning,  and  returned'  to  our 
work  in  the  proud  assurance  of  our  new 
possessions. 

"That  winter  we  read  the  free  docu- 
ments furnished  by  the  United  States 
Agricultural  Department  for  our  diver- 
sion. We  made  sunbonnets  and  bed- 
ding rather  than  fancy  work,  and  we 
bought  lumber  and  nails  instead  of 
dresses  and  hats. 

"Early  the  next  March  we  sent  the 
rancher  brother  to  build  our  shacks, 
a  mere  box  car  of  a  house  with  two 
small  windows.  The  cost  was  one  hun- 
dred and  ten  dollars  for  each. 

"March  28,  1910,  we  started  for  our 
first  taste  of  real  ranch  life.  Unfor- 
tunately, the  only  train  that  stopped 
at  our  watering  tank  would  land  us  at 
our  destination  at  11:30  p.  m.  The 
night  happened  to  be  pitch  dark,  and 
our  furniture  was  lying  in  heaps  where 
it  had  been  thrown  from  the  freight 
car,  caused  many  a  groan  and  many  a 
bruise  as  we  groped  our  way  to  our 
shacks. 

"As  the  light  of  the  train  disap- 
peared in  the  distance  I  would  have 
given  my  ranch,  shack,  sunbonnets  and 
bank  account  for  a  large  sized  mascu- 
line shoulder  and  a  scratchy  coat, 


62 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Picking  up  coal  along  the  railroad  line 
to  bake  pies. 

where  I  might  have  buried  my  head 
and  wept  comfortably,  but  such  lux- 
uries are  not  for  the  rancher  novitiate. 
While  each  was  protesting  against  the 
enthusiasm  that  had  brought  her  to 
this  desolate  plight,  our  eyes  accus- 
tomed themselves  to  the  dark  suffi- 
ciently to  discover  two  black  specks, 
which  we  knew  must  be  our  shacks. 
Gripping  hands  and  tugging  at  our 
suit  cases,  we  at  last  reached  the  near- 
est shack. 

"For  that  first  twenty-four  hours  it 
seemed  a  case  of  'cheer  up,  for  worse 
is  yet  to  come.'  By  the  sense  of  feel- 
ing we  found  the  matches  in  our  grips, 
and  then  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  lo- 
cate our  candle  and  to  find  some  blan- 
kets, in  which  we  wearily  rolled  our- 
selves up  and  lay  down  on  the  floor  to 
await  the  daylight.  In  the  dimness  of 
the  early  morning  we  went  to  the 
spring  for  water  and  picked  up  bits  of 
coal  along  the  track.  We  soon  had 
a  fire  and  cooked  one  of  the  best 
breakfasts  I  ever  ate. 

"Fortunately,  a  Japanese  section 
boss  had  left  a  rude  push  cart  near 
the  watering  tank,  and  with  that  we 
managed  to  gather  up  our  scattered 
'lares  and  penates,'  and  by  a  combi- 
nation of  shoves  and  pushes,  groans 


and  jokes,  we  succeeded  in  getting 
enough  furniture  into  our  shacks  so  we 
could  luxuriate  in  chairs  to  sit  on,  a 
table  to  eat  on,  a  stove  to  cook  on,  and 
before  night-time  a  bed  to  sleep  on.  I 
-assure  you  it  was  two  tired  farmers 
that  four  o'clock  quit  work  and  went 
to  bed. 

"Every  rancher  and  farmer  remem- 
bers that  summer  of  1910  as  the  hot- 
test, dryest  ever  known,  and  we  shall 
always  consider  it  as  such.  The  buf- 
falo grass  withered  and  died.  The 
sheep  and  cattle  were  driven  north- 
ward for  pasturage,  but  the  two 
teacher-farmers  were  left  in  their  little 
box  car  houses  with  the  sun  beating 
down  at  the  unspeakable  degree  of  108 
in  the  shade,  for  days  at  a  time.  We 
devised  several  methods  of  making 
life  more  bearable,  one  of  the  most 
successful  being  by  baking  lemon  pies. 
I  never  think  of  that  summer  without 
being  thankful  that  I  knew  how  to 
make  good  lemon  pies,  and  also  for 
the  correlated  fact  that  two  men  liked 
lemon  pies,  and  one  of  those  men  had 
charge  of  the  refrigerators  on  the  trains 
that  stopped  at  our  watering  tank,  and 
the  other  was  the  fireman  on  the  same 
train.  It  is  certain  we  never  had  occa- 
sion to  complain  of  our  ice  man,  and 
we  never  had  to  go  far  to  find  coal  to 
bake  our  lemon  pies. 

"At  last  the  summer  was  over,  and 
we  went  back  to  another  year  of  teach- 
ing school,  saving  money  and  planning 
for  the  next  season  on  the  farm. 

"My  fall  shopping  was  mostly  done 
at  the  hardware  store.  It  is  surprising 
how  wire  fencing  and  farm  machinery 
will  use  up  pay  checks. 

"Although  the  season  had  been  so 
dry,  I  hired  a  man  to  break  forty  acres 
for  me  that  fall,  and  early  the  next 
spring  had  it  sown  to  flax,  which  yield- 
ed seven  bushels  to  the  acre  and  netted 
me  one  hundred  dollars  as  my  share, 
which  was  one-third  of  the  profits. 

"During  the  summer  of  1911  we 
made  vast  improvements  on  our  farms. 
Our  shacks  were  transformed  into 
homes.  The  price  was  just  $150,  and 
consisted  in  adding  a  bedroom,  shin- 
gling, ceiling,  and  best  of  all,  we  built 


In  my  own  home  at  last.    I  am  sitting    in  the  doorway. 


in  a  real  cupboard,  a  closet  and  book- 
case. A  well  was  dug  at  a  cost  of 
$100.  A  garden  had  been  planted  in 
the  early  spring,  and  we  raised  an 
abundance  of  peas,  beans,  onions, 
cabbage,  potatoes,  etc.  Oh,  this  sum- 
mer was  spent  in  the  lap  of  luxury  in 
comparison  with  the  previous  season. 

'That  fall  I  decided  to  have  another 
forty  acres  broken.  By  this  time,  we 
could  count  sixty  shacks  in  our  valley, 
and  there  were  plenty  of  farmers  who 
were  anxious  to  work  on  shares.  The 
following  spring  I  planted  wheat  and 
raised  fifteen  bushels  to  the  acre. 

Our  Uncle  Sam  is  continually  look- 
ing after  the  interests  of  the  farmers, 
especially  those  who  carry  on  dry 
farming.  An  appropriation  was  made 
by  Congress  in  1912  to  secure  and  dis- 
tribute the  seeds  adapted  to  the  needs 
of  those  sections  which  have  scant 
rain  fall.  We  hope  to  have  special 
types  of  sorghum,  wheat,  oats  and 
grasses  which  the  experimenters  pre- 
dict will  increase  our  harvests  and  add 
greatly  to  the  land  value  of  all  this 
region. 

"It  has  cost  me  about  ten  dollars 
per  acre  for  improvements  and  to 
prove  up  on  my  land.  I  have  put  about 
$3,000  on  my  place,  and  it  has  pro- 
duced about  $700,  of  which  $400  was 
paid  for  help.  At  least  $500  of  my 
salary  has  gone  to  my  ranch  each  year, 


and  every  penny  which  the  place  has 
produced  has  gone  right  back  into  im- 
provements, and  I  have  had  to  borrow 
$500. 

"I  proved  up  on  May  22,  1915,  un- 
der the  five  year  act.  At  that  time  I 
owned  my  farm,  which  I  value  at  $30 
an  acre.  The  land  is  all  fenced  and 
cross-fenced.  I  have  170  acres  planted 
to  wheat,  twenty  acres  to  oats,  eight 
acres  to  alfalfa,  and  twenty  acres  to 
summer  fallow.  The  prospect  is  that 
we  will  have  record  crops.  I  have 
four  fine  brood  mares,  a  riding  pony,  a 
two  year  old  colt,  three  one  year  old 
colts  and  two  spring  colts,  a  cow  and 
a  calf,  besides  some  fifty  chickens.  I 
have  a  fine  barn,  a  chicken  coop  and 
a  root  cellar.  I  also  have  a  wagon,  a 
carriage,  harness,  and  farm  imple- 
ments. I  am  enjoying  my  home,  and 
teaching  our  country  school,  which  is 
half  a  mile  from  my  house. 

"Our  watering  tank  is  now  sur- 
rounded by  an  enterprising  little  town, 
and  look  in  any  direction  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  see,  the  land  has  all  been 
converted  into  thriving  farms.  Loss 
of  position  and  fear  of  prolonged  ill- 
ness have  lost  all  terrors  for  me.  One 
couldn't  be  sick  in  this  glorious  air. 

"I  started  in  with  the  disadvantage 
of  health  none  too  good  and  nerves 
none  too  steady,  and  the  advantage  of 
such  general  knowledge  as  most  farm- 


64 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ers'  daughters  absorb,  and  a  position 
worth  $1,000  a  year.  Aside  from 
these,  I  have  had  no  special  handicap 
and  no  special  qualifications  for  my 
undertaking.  I  have  done  nothing  but 
what  any  teacher  could  do.  There  are 
still  homesteads  to  be  had,  and  Uncle 
Sam  allows  the  teacher  to  draw  her 
checks  while  proving  up  on  her  land. 
The  farms  that  Uncle  Sam  has  to  give 
away  need  very  careful  management 
in  order  to  make  them  into  paying 
propositions.  They  are  merely  oppor- 
tunities, not  certainties. 

"I  advise  most  teachers  to  stick  to 
their  job.  Those  who  have  a  longing 
ior  the  simple  life  can  buy  a  few 
weeks  of  that  kind,  which  consists  of 


picking  flowers  and  eating  vegetables 
fresh  from  the  garden,  but  for  those 
who  have  the  real  farm  hunger,  ther^ 
is  a  way  'back  to  the  land.'  As  for 
myself,  I  know  of  no  other  way  by 
which,  in  five  years'  time,  I  could  have 
acquired  such  riotous  health,  secured 
much  valuable  property,  experienced 
so  much  joy  in  living,  and  infused  so 
much  of  hope  and  buoyancy  into  life, 
and  no  other  way  to  provide  such 
cheering  prospects  for  my  old  age. 

"Uncle  Sam's  farms  are  a  land  of 
promise,  but  the  promises  are  ful- 
filled only  to  those  who  are  willing  to 
give  hard  work  and  continual  study 
to  those  farm  problems  which  con- 
front every  homesteader." 


A  BLESSING  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR 


Across  the  highway  hung  the  mists  of  night, 

And  shadowy  clouds  obscured  the  mystic  way, 
But  through  the  gloom  that  hid  the  sun  from  sight — 
Behold !  a  rift  of  dawn — a  shaft  of  shining  light — 

Dear  God  of  changeless  word — lo !  it  is  day ! 
I  hear  a  bird's  sweet  song,  clear  as  a  flute — 

Tuned  to  a  joyous  note. 
And  silent  lips  long  mute 

Echo  my  heart's  salute — 
As  from  that  feathered  throat 

I  catch  the  message  rare, 
A  psalm  of  praise,  an  ecstacy  of  prayer, 

Proclaimeth  victory  over  all  the  night. 
And  there,  before  my  wondering  eyes, 
The  closed  way  my  faltering  feet  have  sought, 

Is  opened  wide.    And  sullen,  clouded  skies 
Are  turned  to  gold.    The  rosy  dawn  floods  glen  and  hill, 
Again  the  world  is  young !    The  New  Year  brought 
New  life,  new  strength — the  shining  way  is  frought 
With  hope.    God  of  my  faith,  Thy  way  endureth  still ! 
Vanished  my  burdens  now,  gone  is  the  heavy  load — 
My  feet  have  entered  in  the  open  road. 

ELIZABETH  VORE. 


A  three  hundred  pound  powder  charge 
for  a  big  12-inch  gun  of  the 
U.  S.  S.  Florida.  ' 


The      • 
Navy's 
Great 

Ammunition 
Plant 

By 
Lillian  E.  Zen 


A  HIGH  ranking  naval  officer  at 
the  war  college  at  Newport,  R. 
I.,  recently  made  the  signifi- 
cant statement  that,  in  a  heavy 
two  hour  naval  engagement,  our  battle- 
ships would  about  exhaust  all  their 
supply  of  shells  and  powder.  This  will 
perhaps  lend  a  timely  interest  to  an  in- 
side glimpse  in  the  navy's  great  ammu- 
nition plant,  and  just  how  the  problem 
of  assembling  and  rushing  out  muni- 
tions of  war  aboard  the  battleships  is 
speedily  accomplished.  The  most  im- 
portant ammunition  base  for  the  whole 
Atlantic  coast  now  in  operation  is  the 
great  naval  magazine  at  lona  Island, 
forty  miles  up  the  Hudson  from  New 
York,  where  thousands  of  shells  are 
constantly  being  loaded  with  tons  of 
smokeless  powder  for  the  Atlantic 
fleet.  Owing  to  its  isolated  location 
and  strict  rules  against  visitation,  the 
outside  world  rarely  gets  more  than  a 
distant  glimpse  of  it  from  the  passing 
river  steamers.  Through  the  courtesy 
of  the  commandant,  the  writer  was 


tendered  exceptional  privileges  for  ob- 
taining data  and  a  series  of  typical 
photos.  The  reservation  covers  116 
acres,  and  was  purchased  by  the  gov- 
ernment in  1900  for  $160,000.  The 
place,  which  was  formerly  used  as  an 
excursion  and  picnic  resort,  and  the 
grounds,  from  'a  wild,  rocky  and  neg- 
lected condition,  by  skillful  engineer- 
ing work,  has  been  regraded  and  lev- 
eled, and  it  now  contains  dozens  of  im- 
posing edifices  consisting  of  maga- 
zines, shell  houses,  a  large  power 
house,  a  handsome  stone  administra- 
tion building  and  dwelling  for  the  com- 
mandant, railroads,  electric,  com- 
pressed air  plant,  waterworks,  fire  sys- 
tem and  magnetic  clock  watch  ser- 
vice, and  a  modern  telephone  system 
with  underground  conduits  with  fifty- 
five  stations.  About  one  million  dol- 
lars has  been  expended  in  perfecting 
and  equipping  the  lona  magazine. 

Some  150  are  employed  in  the  vari- 
ous departments;  these  are  paid  from 
$2  to  $4  per  day,  and  they  are  a  corps 


Loading  the  5-inch  torpedo  shells  for  the  U.  S.  S.  Florida. 


of  unusually  careful  and  skillful  work- 
men. The  vast  quantity  of  war  mater- 
ial and  ordnance  supplies,  about  three 
million  pounds  of  smokeless  powder 
and  over  one  million  of  black,  together 
with  many  thousands  of  shells,  are 
housed  in  large  brick  and  stone  pow- 
der magazines,  shell  houses  and  sev- 
eral general  storehouses.  The  powder 
magazines  all  have  four  separate  fire- 
proof walls  and  compartments  in  or- 
der to  prevent  a  conflagration  or  ex- 
plosion from  reaching  or  destroying 
the  entire  contents.  The  loaded  shells 
are  kept  separately  from  the  empty 
ones,  and  are  stored  in  the  two  fixed 
ammunition  magazines.  A  piled-up 
section  of  6-inch  loaded  shells  is  here 
shown  in  one  of  the  accompanying 
photographs.  Each  shell  is  put  on  a 
pair  of  scales  and  weighed  and  num- 
bered. The  weight  is  recorded  in 
chalk  on  the  shell.  The  shell  houses 
are  of  special  fireproof  construction. 
Magazine  attendants,  having  their  liv- 
ing quarters  on  the  ground,  inspect 
these  as  well  as  the  powder  magazines 
many  times  during  the  day  and  night. 


At  night,  each  visit  is  recorded  on  the 
disk  of  the  magnetic  clock  in  the  ad- 
ministration building.  The  tempera- 
ture in  the  shell  houses  and  powder 
magazines  is  kept  at  85  and  90  de- 
grees. The  temperature  readings  are 
taken  at  regular  stated  intervals. 
Flood  cocks  with  automatic  revolving 
sprinklers,  for  drenching  the  loaded 
shells  have  been  installed  in  the  shell 
houses.  By  opening  these  from  out- 
side the  building,  the  contents  can  be 
wetted  thoroughly.  A  water  stand- 
pipe,  80  feet  high  by  20  in  diameter, 
with  a  capacity  of  188,000  gallons 
filled  from  a  reservoir  on  the  west  side 
of  the  reservation,  furnishes  an  ade- 
quate water  supply  for  fire-fighting, 
the  pressure  being  over  60  pounds  per 
square  inch.  There  are  ten  fire  alarm 
stations,  and  fire  drills  are  held  every 
Saturday  afternoon. 

The  reservoir  is  a  natural  depres- 
sion in  the  rock,  walled  in,  and  it 
holds  about  250,000  gallons.  Owing 
to  the  rapid  increase  of  the  navy,  the 
station  is  taxed  to  its  capacity  to  keep 
abreast  with  the  demand  to  furnish 


Interior  of  the  most  dangerous  railroad  station  in  the    world.     Putting    up 
smokeless  powder  charges  for  the  big  guns  of  the  U.  S.  Navy. 


new  war  vessels  and  old  ones  with 
their  quota  of  ammunition  for  target 
practice,  and  a  reserve  supply.  To  be 
prepared  for  any  emergency,  each  ship 
is  required,  on  returning  to  the  New 
York  Navy  Yard,  to  restock  as  soon  as 
possible  her  empty  magazines.  Also, 
in  many  instances,  the  powder 
charges  have  been  altered;  if  so,  the 
bags  are  sent  up  to  lona  Island,  opened 
again,  and  the  powder  re-weighed,  di- 
minished or  increased.  For  this  work 
the  ammunition  barges  go  alongside 
the  vessels  and  take  off  the  hundreds 
or  more  cans  of  powder  to  be  changed, 
and  also  take  on  new  unloaded  shells 
from  the  New  York  Navy  Yard.  These 
are  packed  on  lighters  flying  a  red 
flag,  and  towed  up  to  lona  Island.  On 
reaching  the  landing  the  material  is 
transferred  to  railroad  cars  on  the 
wharf,  and  taken  to  one  of  the  store- 
houses or  magazines.  The  train  is 
pulled  by  a  little  sparkless,  com- 
pressed air  locomotive.  The  engineer, 
when  he  wants  more  power,  steps 
down  from  his  cab  at  three  different 


points,  and  connects  the  storage  tank 
of  the  engine  with  an  air  pipe  running 
from  the  power  house.  Seven  hun- 
dred pounds  pressure  is  taken  on, 
which  is  allowed  to  run  down  to  50 
pounds  before  recharging.  These 
compressed  air  locomotives  cost  in  the 
neighborhood  of  $5,000.  The  several 
miles  of  railroad  are  so  arranged  that 
all  the  magazines,  shell  houses,  filling 
and  store  houses  are  reached  and  un- 
loaded at  the  doors  on  wide  platforms. 
Just  how  many  shells  the  battleships 
have  stored  down  out  of  sight  is  not 
generally  known,  nor  the  cost  of  these 
death  dealing  missiles.  The  huge  13- 
inch,  weighing  over  1,000  pounds, 
with  a  220  pound  powder  charge, 
comes  to  nearly  $500;  the  12-inch,  with 
126  pounds  for  a  powder  charge, 
amounts  to  over  $300.  The  capped, 
armor  piercing  shells  cost  consider- 
ably more  than  the  common  shell.  One 
of  the  principal  activities  of  the  lona 
magazine  is  the  manipulation  of 
smokeless  powder  into  charges  for  the 
large  and  small  size  guns  of  the  navy, 


Compressed  air  engine  and  a  truck  car  of  loaded  ammunition  on  a  mile  run 
to  the  water  front  on  the  Hudson  River,  New  York. 


and  the  black  for  bursting  charges  for 
the  shells.  Some  of  the  more  im- 
portant places,  therefore,  are  the  pow- 
der filling  houses,  four  of  which  are  in 
operation,  situated  at  widely  different 
points.  These  are  all  small,  one-story 
wooden  structures,  designed  to  be  un- 
pretentious and  isolated,  owing  to  the 
possibility  of  an  explosion.  One  of 
the  accompanying  pictures  shows  the 
interior  of  the  main  filling  house, 
which  presents  about  one  of  the  most 
animated  and  interesting  sights  to  be 
seen  on  the  island.  The  men  are  re- 
quired to  wear  long  white  serge  suits 
and  moccasins;  no  metal  or  other  ar- 
ticles are  allowed  in  the  pockets  which 
might  in  any  way  cause  friction.  All 
the  tools,  funnels,  measures,  cups, 
scales  and  other  appliances  used  are 
made  of  copper.  Here  the  delicate 
and  somewhat  dangerous  business  of 
weighing  out  the  various  kinds  of 
smokeless  powder  is  done.  Even  one 
or  two  grammes  difference  in  weight 
is  carefully  observed.  At  the  Indian 
Head,  Md.,  proving  grounds  the  naval 
ordnance  experts,  by  test,  determine 
the  powder  charge  best  adapted  for 


the  various  guns.  Also  at  the  annual 
target  practice  similar  results  as  to 
range  and  velocities  are  recorded. 
With  the  advent  of  new  guns  and  the 
slight  chemical  change  in  the  powder, 
the  charges  are  subject  to  constant  re- 
vision. This  keeps  the  filling  house 
men  constantly  employed.  Each  morn- 
ing the  day's  supply  of  powder  is 
brought  from  the  magazine  in  the  lead 
colored  wooden  boxes.  These  are 
zinc  lined,  air  tight  and  hold  100 
pounds.  The  government  pays  sev- 
enty-five cents  per  pound  for  powder, 
and  furnishes  the  alcohol  to  the  man- 
ufacturers. The  boxes  of  powder  are 
emptied  into  a  long  wooden  trough, 
and  with  a  copper  scoop  it  is  dipped 
out,  accurately  weighed,  and  tied  up  in 
quarter,  half  and  full  charges,  in  white 
bags  of  muslin.  These  bags  have 
several  wide  streamers  for  fastening, 
and  each  is  tagged  with  the  date  of  fill- 
ing and  the  amount  of  powder  it  con- 
tains. A  small  ignition  charge  of 
quick-burning  black  powder,  to  set  off 
the  smokeless,  is  stowed  in  the  bottom 
of  each  bag.  They  are  then  placed  in 
large  copper  cans  and  returned  to  the 


THE  NAVY'S  GREAT  AMMUNITION  PLANT 


69 


magazines,  where  they  are  held  in 
readiness  to  go  aboard  the  ships.  The 
big  charges  of  220  pounds  for  the  13- 
inch  guns  are  arranged  in  four  quarter 
charges  of  55  pounds  each.  The  bags 
when  piled  on  top  of  one  another  reach 
to  the  top  of  a  man's  head,  and  pre- 
sent a  formidable  sight  of  bottled-up 
destruction.  As  the  smokeless  powder, 
owing  to  various  atmospheric  pres- 
sures and  different  temperatures,  ab- 
sorbs moisture  and  undergoes  a  slight 
chemical  change,  all  the  smokeless 
powder  is  sent  to  the  naval  storage  de- 
pot at  Dover,  N.  J.  Here  has  been 
established  a  redrying  house;  the 
smokeless  powder  is  placed  in  a  series 
of  bins  or  drawers,  where,  at  a  steady 
temperature,  it  is  kept  for  a  regular 
time.  Three  hundred  thousand  pounds 
of  smokeless  powder  were  redried  here 
last  year.  No  ammunition  is  put  up  at 
this  point:  it  being  reserved  entirely 
for  the  storage  of  powder  and  high 
explosives.  Nearly  all  the  powder 
consumed  at  lona  Island  is  sent  direct 
from  this  depot.  To  furnish  the  great 
number  of  bags  for  the  powder 
charges,  an  extensive  sewing  plant  is 
constantly  kept  going.  Here,  with  an 
electric  cutter,  fifty  to  one  hundred 
thicknesses  of  muslin  are  cut  up  at  a 
time  into  various  sized  patterns,  while 
a  new  press  fitted  with  a  series  of  steel 
dies,  at  a  single  operation  cuts  out 
great  numbers  of  the  round  bottoms  for 
the  bags.  Thirty  different  sizes  are 
made  for  the  bursting,  ignition  and 
propelling  charges,  ranging  from  the 
3-pounder  to  the  13-inch  gun.  The 
sewing  is  all  done  by  skilled  men  op- 
erators, a  motor  being  attached  to  each 
machine.  The  making  of  the  large  12 
and  13-inch  bags,  with  a  half-dozen 


wide  streamers,  requires  an  extraordi- 
nary amount  of  intricate  sewing  and 
manipulation.  Each  is  deftly  turned 
and  twisted  several  hundred  times  be- 
fore completion.  Besides  the  regular 
bottom,  each  bag  has  an  additional 
compartment  made  for  the  ignition 
charge,  having  a  perforated  center. 
One  man  turns  out  on  an  average  fif- 
teen to  twenty  12  and  13  inch  bags  a 
day,  and  about  thirty-five  of  the  6- 
inch.  The  longest  bag  made  is  for 
holding  the  entire  6-inch  charge,  about 
a  yard  long.  One  of  the  important  op- 
erations performed  in  the  filling  houses 
is  loading  the  13  and  12-inch  projec- 
tiles with  their  bursting  charge.  For 
the  former,  fifty  pounds  of  black  pow- 
der is  used,  and  about  thirty  pounds 
for  12-inch.  To  hold  the  shells  steady 
'and  to  get  at  the  base  of  these  huge 
steel  missiles,  weighing  over  1,000 
pounds  each,  they  are  roped  in  a  sling 
and  hoisted  clear  of  the  floor  by  a  pul- 
ley and  chain.  The  point  is  then  low- 
ered a  foot  or  so  into  a  stout  wooden 
frame  with  an  opening  a  trifle  larger 
than  the  shell.  Then  a  long,  narrow 
bag  is  inserted  in  the  shell  cavity,  and 
the  measured  amount  of  black  powder 
is  poured  through  a  funnel  into  the 
shell.  Some  fifty  of  these  huge  pro- 
jectiles can  be  loaded  in  a  day.  Sev- 
eral of  the  smaller  filling  houses  are 
used  to  assemble  the  cartridge  cases 
and  the  bursting  charges  of  the  3-inch 
rapid-fire  shells  used  to  repel  torpedo 
"attacks.  With  the  new  big  super- 
dreadnought  like  the  U.  S.  New  York, 
soon  to  go  in  commission  to  equip,  and 
the  regular  routing  work  of  the  fleet 
to  look  after,  the  lona  Magazine  is  just 
now  one  of  the  busiest  ordnance  places 
of  the  government. 


The  village  cliffs  in  the  distance. 


The  Indians  of  the  Painted  Desert 


By  Felix  J.  Koch 


PICTURESQUE?     Well,   if   you 
can  well  imagine  anything  more 
picturesque  than  a  great  tribe  of 
Indians,   scattered    among     the 
colored  sandstone  rocks  of  the  Painted 
Desert,  plying  all  their  native  arts  and 
crafts,  playing  the  games  the  Red  Men 
of   the   Southwest   delighted   in,   who 
shall  say  how  many  centuries  before 
the  white  man's  coming,  making  blan- 
kets, making  pottery — Jack  Roosa,  who 
has  just  been  down  to  see,  would  like  to 
know  where  and  how! 

These  Indians  of  the  Painted  Des- 
ert are  perhaps  the  nearest  approach 
to  the  real  life  of  the  Navajo  and  the 
Zuni  it  has  ever  been  given  to  the 


great  army  of  visitors  to  a  world's  fair 
to  see.  The  Painted  Desert  is,  of 
course,  the  Indian  reservation  at  the 
big  exposition  down  at  San  Diego,  and 
though  you  drop  in,  down  there,  every 
day  of  the  year,  you  will  find  some- 
thing new  or  strange,  or  unique,  to  in- 
terest. 

Just  those  Zunis,  for  example — 
they  are  such  a  fascinating  lot  they 
would  detain  the  veriest  tyro  to  the 
studies  of  American  native  races.  Old 
Captain  Humfreville,  who  knows  these 
Southwestern  Indians  best,  perhaps,  of 
any  student  of  the  folk-life,  tells  us 
some  interesting  facts,  indeed,  anent 
them. 


THE  INDIAN  OF  THE  PAINTED  DESERT 


71 


"The  Zunis  are,  of  course,  a  part  of 
the  great  Pueblo  Indian  race,  he  says. 

"The  Pueblos  were  scattered 
through  New  Mexico  and  Arizona, 
from  earliest  times ;  where  they  live  in 
villages  and  follow  the  manners  and 
customs  of  their  ancestors.  They  re- 
ceived their  name  from  their  custom 
of  living  in  fixed  places — the  word 
pueblo  being  from  the  Spanish,  for 
'village'  or  'town.' 

"They  raise  a  small  quantity  of  veg- 
etables and  grain,  for  their  own  use, 
and  make  excellent  pottery,  which  they 
exchange  for  the  necessaries  of  life. 

"Like  the  Navajos,  they  are  gentle 
in  their  nature,  treat  their  animals  with 
kindness,  and  do  not  use  horses  or 
dogs  for  food.  They  are  courteous  to 
the  strangers  who  enter  their  villages, 
and  never  make  trouble  when  not  in- 
terfered with. 

"The  Pueblos  were  long  supposed 
to  be  Christians,  but,  in  reality,  they 
were  heathen,  if  the  number  of  their 
gods  and  goddesses  were  any  indica- 


tion of  idolatry.  It  was  difficult  to  ob- 
tain any  account  of  their  religion,  and 
it  is  a  question,  therefore,  whether,  de- 
cades past,  they  worshiped  idols  or 
not.  They  made  and  kept  them  in 
their  dwellings,  and  they  did  not  ap- 
pear to  respect  or  fear  them.  They 
sell  them  for  a  few  cents,  or  barter 
them  for  liquor,  or  any  articles  they 
may  require.  These  gods  are  fre- 
quently made  hollow,  and  the  In- 
dians sometimes  put  them  to  the  use 
of  holding  liquor.  It  was  long  not  un- 
common to  see  a  Pueblo  enter  a  place 
where  liquor  was  sold  and  present  one 
of  these  hollow  gods  to  be  filled.  At 
the  first  opportunity  he  would  substi- 
tute himself  for  his  little  god  and 
speedily  become  the  liquor-holder.  The 
gods  were  made  as  hideously  ugly  as 
possible,  in  order  to  ward  off  pain  and 
disease;  and  if  they  failed  to  perform 
this  duty,  the  Indian  did  not  hesitate 
to  smash  them  to  pieces,  if  he  could 
not  sell  them. 

"The    ruins     and    relics     scattered 


A  drying  platform  of  the  Zunis. 


A  squaw  working  a  blanket  pattern. 


throughout  the  Pueblo  country  indi- 
cate a  population  of  great  numbers  in 
the  past.  Fragments  of  pottery  are 
found  in  many  localities  in  all  this  sec- 
tion, which  embraces  upwards  of  10,- 
000  square  miles.  Stone  foundations 
and  walls  of  cities  show  that,  at  some 
remote  period,  thousands  of  people 
dwelt  within  them. 

"The  Pueblos  had  no  written  lan- 
guage, nor  was  there  any  tradition  cur- 
rent among  them  as  to  the  cause  of 


their  depleted  numbers;  or  if  there 
were,  they  would  not  impart  it  to 
others.  There  is  no  record  of  any 
branch  of  the  Pueblos  having  settled 
elsewhere,  so  that  large  numbers  of 
them  must  have  perished  near  their 
present  location." 

Of  the  Pueblo  tribes,  the  Captain 
states,  the  Zunis  were  always  re- 
garded in  many  respects  the  most  ad- 
vanced in  the  arts  of  civilized  life. 
Their  flocks  and  herds  consisted  of 


Papoose  and  grandmother  at  differ enc  es  over  the  week's  wash. 


horses,  burros,  sheep,  goats  and  cattle. 
They  also  raise  chickens  and  other 
domestic  fowl. 

Their  country  is  well  adapted  for 
raising  sheep  and  goats,  which  are  pas- 
tured largely  upon  the  mountain  sides, 
where  they  can  remain  without  water 
for  ^days  at  a  time.  The  farms  are 
cultivated  by  irrigation,  and  their 
crops  receive  much  attention. 

Like  the  Aztecs,    the     Zunis    hold 


numerous  festival  and  fete  days  which, 
clad  in  rich  and  varied  costumes,  they 
celebrate  with  processions  and  dances. 
They  are  reticent  in  speaking  of  their 
religious  beliefs,  but  admit  that  they 
worship  the  sun. 

The  government  of  the  Zunis  con- 
sists of  a  governor,  or  alcalde,  or 
mayor;  a  number  of  caiques,  or  coun- 
cillors, eleven  of  whom  were  elected, 
annually,  and  a  chief  councillor,  who 
6 


74 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


was  elected  for  life.  They  had 
also  an  officer  known  as  the  war-chief, 
but  he  had  no  influence  in  their  coun- 
cils, unless  the  tribe  was  threatened 
with  danger. 

In  their  domestic  habits  the  Zunis 
seen  by  Captain  Humfreville,  like 
those  of  the  big  San  Diego  fair,  are 
more  cleanly  than  any  other  Indian 
tribe  of  their  vicinity.  They  have  but 
little  household  furniture,  nor  is  much 
required  for  their  simple  wants.  They 
work,  cook,  sleep  on  their  well-kept 
floors.  Their  women  are  usually  busy 
weaving  clothing,  grinding  grain,  bak- 
ing bread  and  in  other  household  oc- 
cupations. 

"The  traditional  type  of  Indian/' 
says  the  Captain,  "seemed  wanting 
among  these  people.  All,  including 
the  women,  smoke.  They  usually 
smoke  cigarettes  made  from  tobacco 
and  rolled  in  thin  husks  of  corn.  Their 
pipes  are  crude,  looking  as  though 
they  were  made  of  the  coarsest  kind 
of  clay. 

"The  Zunis  had  a  tradition  that  their 
gods  brought  them  to  an  arid  and  ster- 
ile plain  for  a  home,  far  removed  from 
the  ocean,  and  that  their  forefathers 
taught  them  prayers,  whereby  water 
could  always  be  obtained.  These 
prayers  were  addressed  to  the  spirits 
dwelling  in  the  ocean,  the  home  of  all 
water,  and  the  source  from  which  the 
blessing  must  come.  They  believed 
that  in  answer  to  these  prayers,  rain- 
clouds  were  brought  from  the  ocean  by 
the  spirits  of  their  ancestors." 

Quite  as  interesting  as  the  Zunis,  al- 


though perhaps  better  known  to  the 
traveler  through  the  Southwest,  are  the 
Navajos  of  the  Painted  Desert.  Some- 
how, to  the  lay  mind,  the  Navajos  have 
become  identified,  always,  with  their 
glorious  blankets;  and  visitors  to  the 
exposition  find  the  Indian  women 
weaving  these,  even  as  they  do  at 
home. 

Captain  Humfreville,  discussing 
these  splendid  textiles,  states  that  from 
the  wool  and  hair  of  sheep  and  goats, 
time  immemorial,  the  Navajos  made 
those  blankets,  as  well  as  wraps  and 
other  articles  of  wearing  apparel,  all 
of  which  are  very  serviceable,  and 
some  of  them  extremely  handsome. 

These  fabrics  the  women  weave  by 
hand,  and  a  very  long  time  is  often  re- 
quired to  complete  them,  especially  if 
the  article  is  a  blanket  and  intended 
to  be  ornamental,  as  well  as  useful. 

"I  have  known  them  to  work  more 
than  a  year  on  one  of  these  blankets," 
he  tells  us.  "They  were  generally 
woven  so  close  and  the  material 
twisted  so  hard  that  they  were  im- 
pervious to  water.  One  of  them 
could  be  taken  by  its  four  corners  and 
filled  with  water,  which  it  would  hold, 
without  leaking.  Indeed,  the  water 
would  only  seem  to  swell  the  threads 
and  make  the  fabric  closer  and 
firmer." 

These,  though,  are  but  a  few  of  the 
products  the  Navajos  are  producing 
on  the  Desert.  To  tell  of  them  all  were 
an  endless  tale,  wellnigh  too  long  a 
story,  at  least — that  is  to  say,  for 
pages  such  as  these! 


Giant  Trees  of  Sequoia 


By  Howard  Rankin 


THE    Sequoia    National  Park  is 
twenty-four  years  old,  yet,  east 
of  the  Rockies,  it    is    scarcely 
known.     Yellowstone   and  Yo- 
semite  are  the  only  two  names  which 
the  enormous  majority  of  Easterners 
think  of  when  National  Parks  are  men- 
tioned.   Nevertheless,  Sequoia  is,  per- 
haps, in  point  of  average  beauty,  the 
superior  of  all.     It  was  dear  to  the 
heart  of  John  Muir,  Father  of  National 
Parks,  and  Chief   Geographer  R.  B. 
Marshall,  who  knows     them,    having 
surveyed  or  traversed  them  in  person, 
has  declared  in  print  that  it  possesses 
beauty  as  great  as  all  others  combined. 
It  is  par  excellence  the  camping-out 
park,  as  some  day  will  be  discovered. 

Perhaps  the  most  potent  reason  for 
its  lack  of  celebrity  is  that  this  is  the 


Big  Tree  Park,  and  the  general  public 
associates  the  Big  Trees  of  California 
with  Yosemite.  The  Mariposa  Grove, 
within  easy  reach  of  the  Yosemite  Val- 
ley, contains  several  enormous  sequoia 
trees.  In  fact  the  Yosemite  National 
Park  contains  three  groves  of  these 
giants,  the  two  others  being  the  Mer- 
ced and  Tuolumne  Groves,  which  lie 
within  easy  reach  to  the  northwest. 

The  Sequoia  National  Park,  how- 
ever, which  lies  many  miles  south  of 
Yosemite,  was  created  to  preserve,  for 
the  use  and  pleasure  of  the  people  of 
the  United  States,  by  far  the  greatest 
groves  of  the  oldest,  the  biggest  and 
the  most  remarkable  trees  living  in 
this  world.  They  number  1,166,000. 
Of  these,  12,000  exceed  10  feet  in  di- 
ameter. The  General  Sherman  tree, 


Tourists  on  a  mountain  trail  to  a  big  tree  grove. 


76 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


most  celebrated  of  all,  is  279.9  feet 
high  with  a  diameter  of  36.5  feet.  The 
Abraham  Lincoln  tree  is  270  feet  high 
with  a  diameter  of  31  feet.  The  Wil- 
liam McKinley  tree  is  291  feet  high, 
with  a  diameter  of  28  feet. 

The  General  Grant  National  Park  is 
usually  mentioned  with  Sequoia  be- 
cause, though  separated  by  six  miles 
of  mountain  and  forest,  the  two  are 
practically  the  same  national  park.  It 
contains  only  2,536  acres  and  was  cre- 


Huntington,     "between     the     ancient 
East  and  the  modern  West. 

"Three  thousand  fence  posts,  suffi- 
cient to  support  a  wire  fence  around 
8,000  or  9,000  acres,  have  been  made 
from  one  of  these  giants,  and  that  was 
only  the  first  step  toward  using  its 
huge  carcass.  Six  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  shingles,  enough  to  cover  the 
roofs  of  seventy  or  eighty  houses, 
formed  the  second  item  of  its  product. 
Finally  there  still  remained  hundreds 


On  their  way  to  the  big  trees. 


ated  only  for  the  protection  of  the 
General  Grant  tree,  a  monster  sequoia 
264  feet  high  and  thirty-five  feet  in 
diameter.  But  General  Grant  shares 
his  domain  with  distinguished  neigh- 
bors, notably  the  George  Washington 
tree,  which  is  only  nine  feet  less  in 
height  and  six  feet  less  in  diameter. 

The  sequoias  are  the  oldest  living 
things  in  this  world.  "They  are  the 
connecting  link,"  writes  Ellsworth 


of  cords  of  firewood  which  no  one  could 
use  because  of  the  prohibitive  expense 
of  hauling  the  wood  out  of  the  moun- 
tains. The  upper  third  of  the  trunk 
and  all  the  branches  lie  on  the  ground 
where  they  fell,  not  visibly  rotting,  for 
the  wood  is  wonderfully  enduring,  but 
simply  waiting  till  some  foolish  camper 
shall  light  a  devastating  fire. 

"Huge  as  the  sequoias  are,  their  size 
is  scarcely  so  wonderful  as  their  age. 


Galen  Clark,  discoverer  of  the  Mariposa  grove  of  big  trees. 


Camping  for  the  night. 


A  tree  that  has  lived  500  years  is  still 
in  its  early  youth;  one  that  has  round- 
ed out  1,000  summers  and  winters  is 
only  in  full  maturity;  and  old  age,  the 
three  score  years  and  ten  of  the  se- 
quoias, does  not  come  for  seventeen  or 
eighteen  centuries. 

"How  old  the  oldest  trees  may  be  is 
not  yet  certain,  but  I  have  counted  the 
rings  of  seventy-nine  that  were  over 
2,000  years  of  age,  of  three  that  were 
over  3,000,  and  of  one  that  was  3,150. 

"In  the  days  of  the  Trojan  war  and 
of  the  exodus  of  the  Hebrews  from 
Egypt  this  oldest  tree  was  a  sturdy 
sapling,  with  stiff,  prickly  foliage  like 
that  of  a  cedar,  but  far  more  com- 


pressed. It  was  doubtless  a  graceful, 
shapely  conical  tree,  twenty  or  thirty 
feet  high,  with  dense,  horizontal 
branches,  the  lower  ones  of  which 
swept  the  ground.  Like  the  young 
trees  of  to-day,  the  ancient  sequoia 
and  the  clump  of  trees  of  similar  age 
which  grew  close  to  it  must  have  been 
a  charming  adornment  of  the  land- 
scape. By  the  time  of  Marathon  the 
trees  had  lost  the  hard,  sharp  lines  of 
youth,  and  were  thoroughly  mature. 
The  lower  branches  had  disappeared, 
up  to  a  height  of  a  hundred  feet  or 
more;  the  giant  trunks  were  disclosed 
as  bare,  reddish  columns  covered  with 
soft  bark  6  inches  or  a  foot  in  thick- 


GIANT  TREES  OF  SEQUOIA 


79 


ness ;  the  upper  branches  had  acquired 
a  slightly  drooping  aspect;  and  the 
spiny  foliage,  far  removed  from,  the 
ground,  had  assumed  a  graceful 
rounded  appearance.  Then  for  centur- 
ies, through  the  days  of  Rome,  the 
Dark  Ages,  and  all  the  period  of  the 
growth  of  European  civilization,  the 
ancient  giants  preserved  the  same  ap- 
pearance, strong  and  solid,  but  with  a 
strangely  attractive,  approachable 
quality." 

The  Sequoias  are  found  scattered  all 
over  the  park,  which  has  an  area  of 
161,597  acres,  but  the  greater  trees  are 
gathered  in  thirteen  groups  of  many 
acres  each,  where  they  grow  close  to- 
gether. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  a  few  of 
the  principal  trees,  with  their  names, 
height,  and  diameter. 

Height  and  Diameter  of 
Principal  Trees. 

GIANT  FOREST  GROVE 

General  Sherman,  height  279.9  feet; 
diameter,  36.5  feet. 

Abraham  Lincoln,  height,  270  feet; 
diameter,  31  feet. 

William  McKinley,  height,  291  feet; 
diameter,  28  feet. 

MUIR  GROVE 

Dalton,  height,  292  feet;  diameter, 
27  feet. 

GARFIELD   GROVE. 

California,  height,  260  feet;  diame- 
ter, 30  feet. 

GENERAL  GRANT  GROVE 

General  Grant,  height,  264  feet;  di- 
ameter, 35  feet. 

George  Washington,  height,  255 
feet;  diameter,  29  feet. 

The  General  Sherman  tree  was  dis- 
covered by  James  Wolverton,  a  hunter 
and  trapper,  on  August  7,  1879,  at 
which  time  he  named  the  tree  in  honor 
of  General  Sherman,  under  whom  he 


An  ordinary  specimen  of  the  big  trees 


had  served  during  the  war.     The  di- 
mensions of  this  tree  are  as  follows: 

Dimensions  of  General  Sherman  Tree 

Feet 

Height 279.9 

Base  circumference  102.8 

Base  diameter 32.7 

Greatest  diameter  at  base 36.5 

Circumference  6  ft.  above  ground  86.0 

Diameter  6  ft.  above  ground 27.4 

Diameter  100  ft.  above  ground. .   17.7 

i 

The  general  country  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  in  America,  abounding 
in  splendid  streams,  noble  valleys, 
striking  ridges,  and  towering  moun- 
tains. Some  of  the  best  trout  fishing 
in  the  world  is  found  nowhere  else  in 
such  perfection  of  color. 

These  mountains  and  valleys  form 
literally  one  of  the  most  available 
pleasure  spots  on  the  continent.  It  is 


80 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


easily  traveled  and  abounds  in  fine 
camping  grounds.  The  water  is  drink- 
able in  all  the  streams.  Aside  from 
the  sequoias  the  largest,  oldest,  tallest 
and  most  valuable  forest  trees  are 
found  here.  There  are  forests  of  pine, 
fir,  cedar  and  many  deciduous  trees 
that  are  fairly  royal.  There  are  many 
shrubs,  wild  flowers,  ferns  and  mosses 
of  wonderful  luxuriance  and  beauty.  It 
is  a  park  of  birds. 

In  laying  out  the  boundaries  of  Se- 
quoia National  Park  some  of  the  most 
superb  of  American  scenic  country  was 


unaccountably  omitted.  Just  to  the 
north  lies  the  wonderful  valley  of  the 
Kings  River  with  its  spectacular  can- 
yon and  picturesque  mountains,  while 
directly  on  the  east,  ,over  the  Great 
Western  Divide,  lies  the  valley  of  the 
Kings  River,  widely  celebrated  for  its 
beauty.  Mount  Whitney,  on  its  east 
bank,  is  the  loftiest  mountain  in  the 
United  States.  These  two  districts  are 
easily  reached  from  the  national  park, 
of  which  they  are  in  effect,  though  not 
in  administration  and  protection,  a  nat- 
ural part. 


JOHN    A  U  I  R 


Climb  the  mountains  and  get  their  good  tidings.  Nature's  peace  will  flow 
into  you  as  sunshine  flows  into  trees.  The  winds  will  blow  their  own 
freshness  into  you,  and  the  storms  their  energy,  while  cares  will  drop 
off  like  autumn  leaves. — J.  M. 


Gone,  too,  to  join  other  old  friends 
Whom  I  have  lost  in  this  short  year, 
Each  one  a  friend  I  hold  most  dear — 
Is  it  thus  friendship  ends? 

Or  does  it  live  in  word  and  deed, 
Immortal  like  the  souls  of  men, 
Sleeping  betimes  but  quickened  when 
Love's  longing  warms  the  need? 

These  friends  are  nearer  now  to  me 
Than  when  between  us,  boundless, 

wide, 

Came  with  its  ebb  and  flow  of  tide 
The  deep,  secretive  sea! 

No  longer  does  it  separate 
My  friends  from  me,  and  much  I  feel 
Their  lessened  absence  will  reveal 
The  Hope  for  which  I  wait! 

They  lead  me  out  from  sordid  care, 
Up  toward  the  blessed  mountain  tops ; 
From  busy  men,  from  trade  and  shops 
Into  the  cool,  calm  air' 


II 


He  climbed  his  last,  bold  rugged  peak, 
Passed  upward  to  his  resting  place, 
Where  in  His  presence,  face  to  face, 
He  may  rejoice  and  speak! 

Thanking  the  Father  for  his  gift 
Of  better  than  a  dying  son — 
The  handiwork  which  he  has  done — 
The  mountain's  high  uplift! 

Good  tidings  there  for  such  as  he, 
And  peace  he  loved  so  dearly  well ; 
Fresh  winds  and  strength  from  storms 

that  swell 
Across  Eternity! 

Cares  dropping  off  like  autumn  things  ; 
And  who  can  doubt  his  trees  are  there 
With  branches  waving  high  in  air; 
Songs,  and  the  whirr  of  wings! 

Ill 

Better  than  High  Sierra's  Dome, 
Better  than  any  in  the  past, 
The  summit  you  have  reached  at  last 
Dead  friend  of  mine,  your  Home ! 

E.  S.  GOODHUE. 


"Wild  Bill'    Hickok 


By  Frank  /A.  Vancil 


"No  more  ring  the  shout  and  the  bois- 
terous laughter, 

That  told  of  the  joy  of  the  bold  cava- 
lier; 

Who  lived  out  his  time,  caring  naught 
for  hereafter, 

Counting  death  as  a  favor  and  not  as 
a  crime. 

"Gone,  gone  are  the  boys  and  the 
nights  of  disorder, 

When  none  but  the  coward  from  glory 
was  barred; 

Now  the  grass  decks  the  grave,  wild 
son  of  the  border, 

And  vandals  thy  headstone  have  mock- 
ingly marred." 

WILLIAM  Hickok,  or  as  he  was 
most  generally  known,  "Wild 
Bill,"  was  a  native  of  Illinois, 
and  served  with  credit  all 
through  the  Civil  War;  and  after  par- 
ticipating in  some  fierce  hand-to-hand 
encounters  with  Confederates,  in  which 
he  showed  remarkable  bravery,  he 
drifted  West  and  began  to  play  his 
picturesque  part  on  the  wild  frontier. 
While  Tom  Smith  and  others  made 
lasting  reputations  as  marshals  in  the 
days  of  gun  fighting  their  fame  was 
as  nothing  in  comparison  with  that  of 
Wild  Bill  Hickok,  for  the  reason  that 
Wild  Bill  had  in  him  just  that  dash 
which  ever  crowns  the  hero. 

Hickok  was  a  man  a  little  above  the 
medium  height,  and  lithe  and  muscular 
in  build.  He  had  broad  shoulders  and 
a  tapering  waist,  the  latter  being  ac- 
centuated by  a  black  coat  and  a  low 
cut  vest,  the  top  button  of  the  latter 
garment  being  always  open.  Tucked 
inside  this  vest  were  the  weapons 
which  were  the  foundation  of  Wild 


Bill's  reputation,  and  which  sent  many 
a  clever  gunman  to  the  famous  Boot 
Hill  for  burial.  His  face  was  long 
and  of  a  determined  cast,  with  a  long, 
silky  mustache,  dropping  over  a  hard- 
set,  but  not  cruel  mouth.  His  nose  was 
aquiline,  and  this,  with  his  piercing 
blue  eyes,  gave  his  face  the  indefin- 
able stamp  of  determination  that  awed 
many  an  ambitious  bad  man.  Long, 
shining  curls  of  chestnut  hue  swept 
down  to  his  shoulders.  And  when  this 
picturesque  figure,  under  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  of  white  felt,  strode 
down  the  street  in  any  festive  cow- 
town  or  mining  camp,  cowboys  and 
miners  pitched  their  revelry  in  a  low 
tone,  and  the  bullies  who  were  wise 
were  careful  to  refrain  from  "starting 
anything." 

Hickok  was  a  young  man  when  he 
received  a  commission  as  deputy 
United  States  Marshal,  and  was  as- 
signed to  particularly  dangerous  duty 
in  Western  Nebraska,  when  that  coun- 
try was  a  terror  to  all  law-abiding  citi- 
zens. There  had  been  many  murders 
and  strange  disappearances  of  immi- 
grants reported  from  that  section,  and 
it  was  suspected  that  a  gang  of  mur- 
derers had  made  a  practice  of  inter- 
cepting the  wagons  of  travelers,  kill- 
ing the  immigrants  and  stealing  the 
contents  of  their  outfits. 

Wild  Bill  and  a  partner  undertook 
to  ferret  out  these  criminals.  They 
took  up  their  abode  as  settlers  in  a 
cabin  on  the  banks  of  the  Platte 
River,  near  the  scene  of  several  disap- 
pearances, and  they  became  convinced 
that  the  work  had  been  done  by  a 
crowd  of  bad  men,  known  as  the  Mc- 
Candless  gang.  There  were  a  number 
of  McCandless  brothers  in  the  gang, 


82 


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and  with  two  or  three  outsiders,  it 
made  a  formidable  combination.  Wild 
Bill  merely  waited  for  something  on 
which  to  base  a  move  before  arresting 
the  ringleaders  of  the  crowd.  He  had 
not  long  to  wait,  for  McCandless 
brothers  were  shrewd  and  suspicious 
men,  and  they  suspected  that  the  com- 
ing of  these  two  quiet  strangers  boded 
no  good  to  them.  They  were  particu- 
larly suspicious  of  the  one  with  the 
shining  curls,  who  had  given  evidence 
of  astonishing  skill  with  the  revolver. 
They  planned  to  kill  Wild  Bill  and  to 
prove  their  suspicions  afterward.  Ac- 
cordingly, they  moved  on  Wild  Bill's 
cabin  one  day  when  the  deputy's  part- 
ner was  away  fishing.  There  were 
seven  in  the  party,  all  well  armed,  and 
such  a  thing  as  defeat  never  entered 
their  calculations. 

Bill  heard  them  coming,  and  divin- 
ing their  purpose,  immediately  opened 
fire.  Two  of  them  fell  dead  outside 
the  cabin  door.  The  others  rushed  in 
firing,  but  Wild  Bill  stood  behind  the 
table,  with  both  revolvers  speaking  in 
rapid  unison.  Two  more  fell  inside  the 
door,  and  a  fifth  staggered  to  the  table 
so  desperately  wounded  as  to  be  clear 
out  of  the  fight.  Bill  was  seriously 
wounded,  but  soon  only  the  old  man 
McCandless  was  left.  This  leader  of 
the  gang  was  a  desperate  and  resource- 
ful fighter,  however,  and  he  closed 
with  Hickok  in  a  struggle  to  a  finish. 
Both  had  their  knives  drawn,  and  they 
hacked  and  stabbed  each  other  des- 
perately as  they  rolled  about  the 
cabin  floor.  When  Wild  Bill's  partner 
came  back  from  his  fishing,  he  found 
Bill  and  old  man  McCandless  locked 
in  deadly  embrace  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor.  The  old  man  was  stabbed 
through  the  heart,  and  Wild  Ball  was 
all  but  dead  from  the  loss  of  blood. 
Two  of  the  McCandless  gang  lay 
groaning,  mortally  wounded,  and  the 
others  were  just  where  they  had  fallen 
—mute  tribute  to  Wild  Bill's  deadly 
aim. 

Hickok  recovered  from  his  wounds, 
and  his  fame  from  this  encounter 
spread  all  over  the  West.  He  wan- 
dered about  the  frontier,  being  marshal 


of  many  of  the  wickedest  towns.  He 
was  in  this  capacity  forced  to  kill 
many  persons  for  the  reason  that  gun- 
fighters  from  all  over  the  West 
sought  him  out  for  the  purpose  of 
slaying  him.  They  had  no  grudge 
against  him,  but  merely  wished  the 
glory  of  killing  the  greatest  gun- 
fighter  of  the  day.  They  took  pot 
shots  at  him  from  behind  doorways, 
or  fired  into  the  open  doors  of  saloons 
as  Wild  Bill  stood  talking.  But  al- 
ways their  shots  went  wild,  and  always 
Bill's  leaden  answers  were  effective. 
He  was  unquestionably  the  most  dar- 
ing and  expert  gun-man  the  Great 
Plains  ever  produced — far  superior  to 
Buffalo  Bill,  so  extensively  advertised. 

An  instance  of  the  constant  danger 
to  which  Wild  Bill  was  exposed  was 
shown  in  Dodge  City,  Kansas.  Bill 
was  in  a  saloon,  talking  to  the  bar- 
keeper, when  a  man  pretending  to  be 
drunk,  shambled  in  to  within  a  few 
feet  of  him.  Then  the  fellow  straight- 
ened up,  flashing  a  revolver  which  he 
held  within  a  few  feet  of  Bill's  breast, 
exclaiming,  jubilantly:  "Now,  Wild 
Bill,  I've  got  you." 

Without  moving  his  hand  from  the 
bar  or  his  foot  from  the  rail,  Wild 
Bill  gazed  over  the  man's  shoulder,  and 
said,  as  if  addressing  some  one  in  the 
rear :  "Don't  shoot  him  in  the  back." 

Fearful  of  being  shot  in  the  back  by 
one  of  Wild  Bill's  friends,  the  man 
naturally  turned  his  head  an  instant, 
and  that  instant  was  sufficient  for  Bill 
to  draw  and  shoot  him  through  the 
heart.  As  the  man  fell,  Wild  Bill  re- 
placed his  hand  upon  the  bar  and 
calmly  went  on  talking,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  But  for  his  wonderful 
quickness  of  thought,  as  well  as  of 
hand,  he  would  have  been  shot  dead 
in  another  instant. 

But  such  daring  and  eventful  char- 
acters generally  die  "with  their  boots 
on/'  and  such  was  the  fate  of  Wild 
Bill.  He  followed  the  rush  to  the 
Black  Hills  and  located  in  Deadwood. 
Some  of  his  old  enemies  went  also, 
and  camped  on  his  trail.  While  sitting 
in  a  saloon,  engaged  in  a  social  game 
of  cards,  with  his  back  to  the  door,  an 


ABOVE  US.  83 

unusual  thing  as  to  position,  he  was  The  marble  bust  has  been  chipped  and 

shot  and  instantly  killed.    The  would-  marred  until  the  features  are  scarcely 

be  hero  was  run  down,  convicted  of  recognizable.     Deadwood  proposes  to 

murder  and  hanged.  replace  the  battered  monument  with  a 

The  grave  of  the  most  famous  mar-  big  shaft  of  marble,  something  that 

shal  and  most  ruthless  of  man-killers  will  endure  for  all  time,  and  that  will 

of  the  old  frontier  days  is  chief  among  show  posterity  just  what     the     city 

the  show  places  of  Deadwood,  S.  D.  thought  of  the  man  who,  more  than  any 

Relic  hunters  have     sadly    despoiled  other  man,  put  an  end  to  lawlessness 

the  monument  at  the  head  of  the  grave,  on  the  frontier. 


ABOVE     US 

The  city  roofs  with  grime  are  brown, 

Yet  o'er  them  bend  the  azure  skies, 
And  ever  tenderly  look  down 

On  their  grim  mysteries. 

No  purer  could  their  blue  depths  glow, 
Though  stretched  o'er  fields  of  golden  grain, 

Than  here,  where  fast  beneath  them  grow 
Harvests  of  sin  and  pain. 

The  white  clouds  sail  as  peacefully 

Above  the  city's  curse  and  groan, 
As  where  some  calm,  untroubled  sea 

Chants  its  sweet  monotone. 

As  silvery  the  moonlight  beams 

Upon  the  haunts  of  greed  and  vice, 
As  where  pure  infants  in  their  dreams 

Stray  back  to  Paradise. 

And  still  the  great  stars  onward  sweep, 

And  watch,  as  eve  to  morning  rolls, 
Alike  the  herder  of  the  sheep, 

And  him  who  barters  souls. 

Perchance  the  fair  clouds  know  they  came 

From  dust  and  vapors  of  the  earth — 
And  that  no  white  celestial  flame, 

But  gray  mists,  gave  them  birth. 

Perchance  the  stars  that  light  our  skies, 

Think  of  their  seething  fires  within, 
And  know  from  passion  peace  may  rise, 

And  purity  from  sin. 

Perchance  they  see,  from  where  they  stand, 
How,  through  earth's  tangled  lanes,  guilt-trod, 
Love  still  clears  with  its  thorn-scarred  hand 
A  pathway  back  to  God. 

FRANCES  BEERS. 


Twenty  Billion  Slaves  to  be  Freed 

By  C.  T.  Russell 

Pastor  New  York,  Washington  and  Cleveland   Temples  and  the 
Brooklyn  and  London  Tabernacles 


"The  creature  also  shall  be  deliv- 
ered from  the  bondage  of  corruption 
into  the  glorious  liberty  of  the  sons  of 
God:' — Romans  8:21. 

THIS  text,  one  of  the  grandest 
promises  for  humanity,  does  not 
relate  to  true  Christians,  but  to 
mankind     in     general.       True 
Christians  are  already  set  free,  so  far 
as  their  hearts,  their  minds,  are  con- 
cerned.    Saintly  Christians  are  a  rar- 
ity to-day  as  they  have  always  been 
since  the  Master  declared:  "Fear  not, 
little  flock;  it  is  the    Father's     good 
pleasure  to  give  you  the  Kingdom." — 
Luke  12:32. 

Not  until  these  shall  be  perfected 
by  the  glorious  change  of  the  Chief 
Resurrection  will  the  time  come  for  de- 
livering the  groaning  creation  from  its 
bondage.  In  other  words,  the  world's 
blessing  tarries  until  the  completion  of 
the  saintly  company  gathered  out  of 
every  nation  and  denomination  during 
the  past  nineteen  centuries,  and  called 
in  the  Bible  "The  Church  of  the  First- 
borns," "The  Very  Elect,"  "The 
Lamb's  Wife,"  "The  Body  of  Christ," 
and  so  forth. 

Jehovah  is  a  God  of  order.  All  His 
good  purposes  will  be  fulfilled  in  a 
most  orderly  manner.  Six  great  days 
of  a  thousand  years  each  have  already 
passed  over  us,  according  to  the  Scrip- 
tures, and  have  been  periods  of  dark- 
ness under  a  reign  of  sin  and  death. 
During  this  time  God  has  allowed  our 
race  to  experiment  with  sin  and  to 
note  its  bitter  results — to  experiment 


also  in  endeavors  to  recover  from  sin 
and  its  penalty,  death,  with  its  con- 
comitants of  sickness  and  sorrow. 
The  long  schooling  of  six  thousand 
years  is  not  to  be  in  vain.  The  lesson 
that  "the  wages  of  sin  is  death"  is  not 
to  be  lost.  Mankind  is  not  to  be  left 
to  destruction,  but  is  to  be  recovered. 
Earth's  billions,  lying  as  unconscious 
in  death  as  the  brute,  are  nevertheless 
subjects  of  Divine  interest,  sympathy 
and  provision.  In  the  Seventh  Thou- 
sand-Year Day,  earth's  great  Sabbath, 
assistance  will  come  to  our  race. 

Broad  Foundation  for  Human 
Salvation 

According  to  the  Divine  Program, 
Christ  will  then  be  the  great  King  over 
all  the  earth,  and  the  great  antitypical 
Priest,  to  uplift  all  the  willing  and 
obedient.  He  will  be  the  Antitype 
of  Melchisedec,  who  was  a  priest  upon 
his  throne.  If  the  Divine  purpose  had 
merely  been  that  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
should  do  this  work  alone,  there  would 
have  been  no  need  of  His  coming  into 
the  world  nineteen  centuries  ago  to 
die;  for  He  could  have  accomplished 
the  entire  work  at  one  time.  Now, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  seventh  thou- 
sand years,  He  could  have  died  for 
man's  sins,  thus  redeeming  all  from  the 
curse  that  came  through  Adam;  and 
then,  risen  from  the  dead  and  glorified 
with  the  Father's  power,  He  could  im- 
mediately have  begun  His  great  work 
of  setting  free  the  prisoners  of  Sin  and 
Death. 


THE  INDIAN  OF  THE  PAINTED  DESERT 


But  the  Heavenly  Father  had  a  bet- 
ter Plan.  He  had  purposed  the  select- 
ing of  the  saintly  few  amongst  men,  to 
be  associated  with  our  Lord  Jesus  in 
His  Kingship  and  in  His  priestly  of- 
fice. God  has  laid  a  broad  foundation 
for  a  great  work  for  humanity  in  pro- 
viding not  only  the  necessary  kings 
and  priests  for  the  Millennial  Kingdom 
but  also  valuable  experiences  for  man- 
kind through  the  reign  of  Sin  and 
Death,  and  through  human  endeavor 
to  overcome  these.  By  now  all  should 
be  satisfied  that  life  everlasting  must 
come  as  a  gift  from  God. 

A  Race  of  Slaves. 

During  Messiah's  thousand  year- 
Reign  the  groaning  creation,  which 
from  Adam  until  now  numbers  twenty 
billions,  will  be  delivered  from  bond- 
age into  full  liberty,  proper  to  sons  of 
God.  Behold  what  terrible  bondages 
are  upon  mankind!  Look  at  their  ig- 
norance, their  superstition,  their  fears, 
their  weaknesses,  mental,  moral,  phy- 
sical and  the  sum  of  these  disabilities 
—death. 

This  does  not  signify  universal  sal- 
vation, except  in  that  the  Bible  prom- 
ises that  "as  all  in  Adam  die,  even  so 
all  in  Christ  shall  be  made  alive,  every 
man  in  his  own  order" — class.  (1  Co- 
rinthians 15 :22,  23.)  The  giving  to  all 
mankind  the  full  opportunities  of  the 
Millennial  Kigndom  will  fulfill  God's 
promise.  Those  who  shall  intelligently 
refuse  God's  gift  of  everlasting  life,  by 
refusing  His  reasonable  requirements, 
will  die  the  Second  Death.  But  those 
who  at  the  conclusion  of  the  Millennial 
Age  shall  have  profited  by  the  Mes- 
siah's Kingdom  will  be  received  into 
God's  family  and  will  be  granted  all 
the  liberties  and  privileges  proper  to 
the  sons  of  God. — Revelation  21:4; 
22:3. 

Although  we  should  understand  what 
God  has  promised  of  Restitution  to  hu- 
man perfection  for  the  groaning  crea- 
tion in  general,  it  is  still  more  im- 
portant that  Christians  recognize  the 
share  of  liberty  which  has  already 
come  to  them.  (Galatians  5:1.)  Do 


not  misunderstand  me  to  refer  to  the 
great  mass,  Catholic  and  Protestant, 
noted  in  the  statistics  of  400,000,000 
Christians.  Alas,  no!  That  great  mass 
is  deceived.  According  to  Bible  stand- 
ards, and  their  own  confessions,  they 
have  neither  lot  nor  part  in  the  Church 
which  is  the  Body  of  Christ 

This  great  mass  is  well  represented 
in  the  nations  of  Europe  warring  for 
commercialism,  the  one  to  obtain,  and 
the  other  to  hold,  the  key  of  power 
and  access  to  world  wealth.  Saints 
there  undoubtedly  are  in  all  the  war- 
ring nations;  but  they  are  so  few  that 
they  have  virtually  no  influence,  but 
are  forced  by  the  others  into  the 
struggle  The  mass  of  these  nominal 
Christians  neither  know  Christ  per- 
sonally, nor  give  evidence  of  having 
come  into  God's  family  through  the 
begetting  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  As  truly 
as  the  heathen  of  other  lands,  they 
are  "without  God  and  having  no  hope." 
There  is  a  hope  for  them,  but  they 
know  not  of  it;  they  are  bound  hard 
and  'fast  in  ignorance,  Superstition, 
misunderstanding  of  God  and  fear  of 
the  future. 

Responsibility  of  Clergy    and    Laity 

Where  lies  the  responsibility  for 
present  conditions — that  the  millions 
of  Europe  are  fighting  like  devils, 
each  army  deceived  into  thinking  that 
it  is  the  Lord's  army,  fighting  for  God 
and  righteousness?  We  believe  that 
the  responsibility  lies  close  to  the 
door  of  the  churches  of  all  denomina- 
tions, and  especially  close  to  the  door 
of  the  religious  teachers,  who  assume 
great  responsibility  in  calling  them- 
selves the  clergy  and  setting  them- 
selves above  their  fellows,  whom 
they  style  the  laity. 

These  ministers  of  the  civilized 
world,  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  million 
in  number,  represent  a  highly  favored 
class  of  humanity.  The  majority  of 
them  have  much  above  the  average  of 
time  for  study  and  thought.  How  are 
they  using  these  wonderful  opportuni- 
ties and  privileges,  and  the  influence 
which  goes  with  their  positions  and 


86 


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which  is  accentuated  by  the  supersti- 
tion of  the  masses? 

I  freely  acknowledge  that  they  are 
not  responsible  to  me ;  as  it  is  written, 
"To  his  own  master  each  servant 
stands  or  falls."  It  is  quite  proper, 
however,  that  we  remember  the  Mas- 
ter's words,  "Out  of  thine  own  mouth 
will  I  judge  thee,  thou  wicked  and 
slothful  servant."  (Luke  19:22.) 
What  a  fearful  retribution  apparently 
awaits  these  professed  ministers  of 
God  and  of  Christ  who,  instead  of 
using  their  great  opportunities  for 
emancipating  the  people  from  the  slav- 
ery of  ignorance,  superstition  and  error 
are  using  them  to  promote  mental 
bondage ! 

Moral  Cowards  Everywhere 

The  clergy  neglect  their  opportuni- 
ties for  educating  the  people  to  a 
proper  conception  of  the  frights  of 
man.  They  have  fostered  the  fallacy 
that  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  are 
kingdoms  of  God,  and  that  serving 
the  king  is  serving  the  Lord.  They 
have  not  taught  the  people  the  broad 
patriotism  that  "The  earth  is  the  Lord's 
and  the  fullness  thereof,"  which  He 
hath  given  to  the  children  of  men ;  and 
that  national  barriers  of  selfishness 
and  national  aggressiveness  are  con- 
trary to  the  rights  of  man.  The 
clergy  of  each  country,  supported  by 
the  governments,  have  in  turn  upheld 
these  governments;  and  if  they  have 
not  told  the  people  that  the  voice  of 
the  emperor  or  the  king  is  the  voice  of 
God,  they  have  certainly  not  dis- 
abused them  of  that  idea,  which  the 
clergy  of  past  generations  inculcated. 

Now  that  the  war  has  come,  and 
the  misdirected  people  are  blindly 
fighting  for  their  errors  and  miscon- 
ceptions, what  is  the  attitude  of  the 
clergy?  Under  the  pay  or  the  pro- 
tection of  the  governments,  are  they 
not  supporting  the  governments  from 
which  they  receive  their  pay?  Are 
they  not  intent  upon  encouraging  the 
ambitions  of  these  governments  and 
stirring  up  the  people  to  war?  Do 
they  not  approve  the  legend  on  the 


belts  of  the  German  soldiers,  "God 
with  us  ?"  Do  they  not  follow  the  lead 
of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  in 
England,  in  encouraging  the  thought 
that  all  who  enlist  are  engaging  in  a 
holy  war  for  God?  The  Archbishop 
is  credited  in  the  press  with  urging 
the  boys  and  the  girls  of  Great  Brit- 
ain to  marry  early  and  bring  up  large 
families,  that  there  may  be  more  such 
soldiers  to  battle  for  church  and  State. 

Policy  and  hypocrisy  are  written  all 
over  the  affairs  of  the  world  falsely 
called  Christendom — Christ's  King- 
dom. These  are  not  Christ's  Kingdom, 
nor  are  these  Christ's  ministers,  if  we 
judge  by  the  Savior's  statement,  "His 
servants  ye  are  to  whom  ye  render 
service" — whether  God  or  Mammon. 

The  clergy  of  lands  not  directly  in- 
volved in  the  war  are  praying  and  urg- 
ing the  people  to  pray  to  God  to  stop 
the  war;  but  we  hear  no  suggestion 
from  any  quarter,  of  proper  preaching 
and  teaching  to  show  the  people  the 
brotherhood  of  the  human  family  and 
the  sin  of  murder,  whether  committed 
by  commands  of  kings,  emperors,  or 
otherwise.  Where  is  the  courage? 
Where  is  the  moral  stamina?  It  is 
lacking.  Why?  Because  true  Christ- 
ianity is  lacking. 

Christ's  true  followers  are  courage- 
ous. Jesus  refers  to  them  all  as  over- 
comers,  not  sycophants;  as  lovers  of 
peace,  who  contend  not  with  carnal 
weapons.  His  followers  must,  never- 
theless, be  true  heroes,  copies  of  their 
Master,  not  afraid  to  speak  the  truth 
and  not  afraid  to  die  for  their  courage. 
What  a  power  a  quarter  of  a  million 
professed  ministers  of  Christ  might  be 
if  they  truly  took  their  stand  on  his 
side,  lifted  up  their  voices,  and  even 
now  confessed  how  seriously  they 
have  misled  the  people  in  respect  to 
earthly  things,  as  well  as  regards  the 
things  of  the  'hereafter! 

Hypocrisy  the  Greatest  of  Sins 

Judged  by  their  utterances,  the  great 
mass  of  those  professing  to  be  minis- 
ters of  Christ  are  hypocrites.  In  pri- 
vate conversation,  if  cross-examined, 


TWENTY  BILLION  SLAVES  TO  BE  FREED 


87 


they  confess  that  they  do  not  believe 
in  the  Bible,  and  declare  that  no  edu- 
cated person  could  believe  it  to  be  a 
Divine  revelation.  Asked  whether 
they  believe  in  a  future  life,  they  an- 
swer that  they  have  some  hopes  of  a 
future  life,  but  that  these  are  built, 
not  upon  the  Bible  declaration  of  a 
resurrection  of  the  dead,  but  upon 
the  platonic  philosophy  that  nobody  is 
dead.  Asked  whether  they  believe  in 
eternal  torment,  they  reply,  Certainly 
not!  Indirectly,  however,  they  have 
given  the  inference  that  they  believe 
it;  and  surely  they  have  not  done  any- 
thing to  take  from  the  people  that 
nightmare  invented  during  the  Dark 
Ages,  when  for  twelve  hundred  years 
the  few  Bibles  that  were  relegated  to 
the  cloister  and  the  closet,  and  the 
world  was  taught  by  self-styled  apos- 
tolic bishops,  who  claimed  the  same 
authority  of  inspiration  as  the  Twelve 
Apostles  whom  Jesus  named  as  His 
only  mouthpieces. 

There  were  murderers,  thieves  and 
drunkards  in  Jesus'  day,  as  there  are 
to-day;  yet  the  Master  denounced  as 
still  greater  sinners  the  religious  hypo- 
crites of  His  time  who  made  void 
God's  Word,  substituting  for  it  human 
tradition — deceiving  and  misleading 
the  people — "blind  leaders  of  the 
blind."  Were  He  to  speak  forth  to-day 
His  strongest  condemnation  would  be 
expressed  against  the  clergy,  who 
seem  intent  upon  keeping  the  people 
in  darkness  respecting  the  true  teach- 
ings of  the  Bible — teaching  them  evo- 
lution and  unbelief  if  they  are  edu- 
cated, or  delusions  of  the  Dark  Ages 
if  they  are  uneducated.  Policy  seems 
to  take  the  place  of  honesty.  The 
Apostle  speaks  of  such  as  having  their 
consciences  seared — toughened,  hard- 
ened. Lying  usage  in  deception,  in 
trifling  with  the  Word  of  God,  in  toy- 
ing with  human  tradition  and  in  pleas- 
ing kings  and  princes,  has  apparently 
seared  many  clerical  consciences. 

As  a  result,  nearly  all  ministers  will 
say:  "We  do  not  believe  in  the  doc- 
trine of  eternal  torture.  We  would  not 
think  of  torturing  anybody  ourselves; 
we  do  not  know  any  human  being  so 


depraved  that  he  would  wish  to  tor- 
ture his  fellow  creature  everlastingly. 
We  do  not  believe  that  God  would  do 
so.  We  doubt  whether  any  devil 
would  long  take  pleasure  in  such  suf- 
ferings." Asked  why  they  support 
creeds  which  so  teach,  and  why  they 
give  such  inference  to  the  public,  some 
reply,  "It  is  required  of  us  by  our  de- 
nominations. We  would  much  prefer 
to  tell  the  truth  about  the  Love  of  God 
and  His  arrangement  for  the  blessing 
of  the  non-elect  during  the  Times  of 
Restitution.  (Acts  3:19-21.)  But  we 
are  bound  hand  and  foot.  Our  support 
and  our  honor  amongst  men  depend 
on  our  adherence  to  this  doctrine.  If 
'we  could  see  a  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty, we  would  be  glad  to  be  liber- 
,ated." 

Others  answer  that  they  give  their 
consciences  no  concern,  that  their  de- 
nomination takes  the  responsibility 
for  its  creed  and  for  its  •  teachers. 
Others  answer  that  they  are  Higher 
Critics  and  Evolutionists,  who  believe 
'that  they  must  not  tell  the  people  their 
heart-sentiments,  but  that  they  hope 
that  soon  public  sentiment  will  out- 
grow the  influence  of  the  Bible,  and 
that  then  they  will  be  called  upon  to 
teach  a  Christless,  and,  if  necessary, 
a  Godless  morality. 

After  the  Example  of  Judas 

Such  bartering  of  the  honor  of  the 
Almighty  for  honor  of  men  and  an  easy 
living  is  as  difficult  to  understand  as 
that  of  Judas,  who  sold  Jesus  for  thirty 
pieces  of  silver.  So  seared  are  the 
consciences  of  these  educated  men 
that  they  seem  not  to  realize  that  blas- 
phemy is  the  most  serious  of  sins;  and 
that  directly  or  indirectly  giving  the 
inference  that  the  God  of  all  grace,  the 
Father  of  Mercies,  is  roasting  999  out 
of  every  1,000  of  humanity  is  the  worst 
blasphemy  that  could  be  concocted. 
How  much  allowance  God  makes  for 
these  blasphemers  I  do  not  know,  but 
I  feel  that  theirs  is  a  terrible  position. 
Would  that  some  word  of  mine  might 
assist  in  awakening  their  consciences; 
and  that  even  yet  nobility  and  man- 


hood,  not  to  say  saintship,  might  gain 
the  victory! 

And  does  not  the  pew  share  this  re- 
sponsibility? Has  it  no  meaning  to 
intelligent  men  and  women  that  they 
have  subscribed  to  a  creed  that  blas- 
phemes God's  holy  name,  totally  mis- 
represents His  character,  and  throws 
an  utterly  false  Ijght  on  the  Bible? 
Is  it  sufficient  that  these  should  say, 
"We  no  longer  believe  these  creeds?" 
Do  not  their  names  on  the  rolls,  their 
presence  at  church  services,  and  their 
contribution  to  the  up-keep  of  these 
creeds  and  their  clerical  defenders 
constitute  a  responsibility  in  the  sight 
of  God  and  in  the  esteem  of  all  honest 


men  and  women  ?  How  long  shall  in- 
telligent people  halt  between  creeds  of 
hypocrisy  and  one  of  honesty?  How 
long  will  they  bow  down  before  creed 
idols  more  horrible  than  any  worshiped 
by  the  heathen  ? 

While  mankind  is  celebrating  to-day 
the  birth  of  this  great  nation  which 
stands  for  liberty,  freedom,  emancipa- 
tion from  the  thralldom  of  church  and 
State,  let  us  personally  make  fresh 
resolutions  that  we  will  stand  fast  in 
the  liberty  wherewith  Christ  makes 
free,  and  be  His  servants,  loyal,  faith- 
ful unto  death,  hoping  to  receive  "the 
Crown  of  Life,  which  fadeth  not 
away." 


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MUTT  and  JEFF 

IN    THE 

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crern  THE  co 

OUTPOST 
DUTY.    1  "DON'T  l«ANT  TO  Qe 

SO  I'M  60NWA  LJ6T  VoO 


TOUCH   U^fTH  THe 

.  THINT  is  so  TH 
"J  CAVS€"  OF 

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"The  Government  and  Policies  of  the 
German  Empire,"  by  Fritz-Konrad 
Kruger,  Doktor  Der  Staatswissen- 
schaften.  (Tubingen)  M.  A.  (Ne- 
braska.) 

This  is  the  first  of  a  series  of  hand- 
books on  modern  government.  The 
series  is  planned  for  the  double  pur- 
pose of  supplying  college  classes  in 
government  with  handy  authoritative 
texts,  and  of  furnishing  the  public  with 
convenient  volumes  for  reading  and 
reference.  The  plan  is  to  cover  the 
important  governments  not  only  of  Eu- 
rope, but  of  other  parts  of  the  world 
and  certain  colonial  dependencies. 
Each  volume,  as  in  the  present  in- 
stance, will  be  written  by  a  specialist 
in  the  history  and  institutions  of  the 
country  concerned,  and  from  first  hand 
knowledge  of  actual  conditions.  The 
series  is  written  especially  for  the 
service  of  American  students  and  the 
public  generally. 

This  volume  on  the  German  govern- 
ment is  a  good  example  of  what  the 
editors  hope  for  by  way  of  judicious 
and  patriotic  expression.  The  author 
is  in  general  sympathy  with  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  National  Liberal  party  of 
Germany,  and  it  is  believed  his  views 
reflect  the  common  opinion  of  the 
great  body  of  the  German  people;  it  is 
a  conservative  and  restrained  judgment 
of  German  achievement.  The  book 
accordingly  is  timely.  A  generous  in- 
dex offers  ready  assistance  to  finding 
references. 

Published  by  the  World  Book  Com- 
pany, Yonkers-on-Hudson,  New  York. 


"The  Cup  of  Comus,  Fact  and  Fancy," 
by  Madison  Cawein,  Member  of  the 
National  Institute  of  Art  and  Let- 
ters. 
This  edition  of  poems  of  the  late 

Madison  Cawein  have  been  collected 


and  published  by  his  staunch  friend  in 
poetry,  Mme.  Rose  de  Vaux  Royer, 
president  of  the  Cameo  Club,  New 
York,  in  order  to  preserve  for  futurity 
the  best  of  his  work  covering  thirty 
years.  These  poems  are  regarded  by 
many  as  the  gems  of  his  widely  recog- 
nized work,  A  testimonial  list  is  be- 
hind this  movement  inaugurated  by 
Mme.  de  Vaux  Royer,  with  such  rep- 
resentative names  as  William  Dean 
Howells,  Edwin  Markham,  Ella  Whee- 
ler Wilcox,  Clinton  Scollard,  Blanche 
S.  Wagstaff,  William  W.  Ellsworth 
and  one  hundred  others.  Cawein's 
poems  need  no  eulogy:  they  are  part 
of  the  anthology  of  poetry  of  the  na- 
tion, and  have  appeared  in  the  leading 
publications  of  the  country. 

Price  $1.10  for  the  book  and  post- 
age. Edition  de  luxe,  $2.10.  Order 
from  Rose  de  Vaux  Royer  or  the  pub- 
lishers, The  Cameo  Press,  627  W.  136 
street,  New  York. 

"Our  American  Wonderlands,"  by 
George  Wharton  James,  author  of 
"The  Grand  Canyons  of  Arizona," 
"The  Wonders  of  the  Colorado  Des- 
ert," etc.  Plentifully  illustrated 
with  photographs. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  few 
men  know  the  wonders  of  the  great 
West  as  thoroughly,  intimately  and 
sensibly  as  George  Wharton  James. 
Not  only  has  he  made  this  field  a  spe- 
cial study  from  a  scientific  standpoint, 
but  with  a  clear  vision  has  endeavored 
to  get  in  touch  with  the  spiritual  mean- 
ing of  the  magnetic  pictures,  grand 
prospects  and  atmosphere  that  nature 
with  splendid  boldness  has  diversified 
landscape  and  waterscape. 

In  these  pages  the  author  has  sought 
briefly  and  vividly  to  give  the  reader 
living  glimpses  of  what  America  of- 
fers of  antiquarian,  geologic  and  eth- 


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through  the  critical  period  on  "Eagle 
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product  of  its  kind.  "Eagle  Brand"  is 
highly  palatable,  easily  digested,  and  is 
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"Eagle  Brand"  has  a  hundred  uses  as  a 
culinary  help.  In  thousands  of  homes  it 
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nological  interest.  The  Cliff  Dwellers 
of  Colorado  and  Arizona  are  just  as 
fascinating  as  the  castles  of  the  Rhine, 
when  one  comprehends  their  story. 
The  Hopis,  Havasupais,  Apaches  and 
Navahos  are  more  picturesque  than 
the  Swiss,  Irish,  Servians  or  Russian 
peasants,  and  their  social  and  religious 
ceremonies  far  more  wonderful  and 
fascinating;  the  Natural  Bridges  of 
Utah,  the  Mammoth  Cave  of  Ken- 
tucky, the  Grand  Canyon,  the  Petrified 
Forest,  the  Canyon  de  Chelly,  the 
High  Sierras,  Havasu  Canyon,  Yosem- 
ite  Valley,  the  Yellowstone  and  a 
hundred  other  scenic  glories  of  our 
Western  world  far  surpass  in  variety 
and  marvel  anything  Europe  has  to  of- 
fer. The  book  is  written  to  excite  in- 
terest in  these  wonderlands,  to  see 
America  first. 

Price  $2  net.  Published  by  A.  C. 
McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago. 

"Health — Care  of  the  Growing  Child: 
His  Diet,  Hygiene,  Training,  Devel- 
opment and  Prevention  of  Disease," 
by  Louis  Fischer,  M.  D.,  author  of 
"The  Health-Care  of  the  Baby,"  etc. 

This  is  a  practical  treatise  dealing 
With  the  prevention  of  disease;  the 
'development  and  growth  of  the  body, 
gymnastics,  nutrition  and  special 
forms  of  diet  for  weak  children;  ca- 
tarrhal,  communicable  and  systemic 
diseases;  also  skin  affections,  miscel- 
laneous diseases,  diseases  of  the  ner- 
vous system;  emergencies  and  acci- 
dents, etc.  This  book  is  adapted  as  a 
guide  to  the  mother  and  nurse  and  of- 
fers suitable  advice  until  the  physician 
can  be  reached. 

Illustrated  with  drawings).  Price, 
$1.25  net.  Published  by  Funk  &  Wag- 
nails  Co.,  New  York. 

"The  Law  Breakers,"  by  Ridgwell 
Cullum,  author  of  "The  Watchers  of 
the  Plains/'  "The  Night  Riders," 
"The  Way  of  the  Strong,"  etc. 

A  tale  of  suspense  and  mystery,  the 
scene  of  which  is  laid  in  a  secluded 
valley  in  Western  Canada.  There  is 


every  evidence  to  show  that  "whisky 
running"  is  being  carried  on  in  the 
valley,  and  several  persons  are  sus- 
pected of  being  implicated,  yet  in  spite 
of  the  vigilance  of  the  mounted  police 
of  the  district,  in  spite  of  many  a  trap 
set  to  catch  the  culprits,  they  con- 
tinue to  elude  capture.  At  last,  to 
Stanley  Fyles,  who  has  never  been 
known  to  fail  in  any  assignment,  is 
delegated  the  task  of  tracking  down 
and  capturing  the  head  of  the  whisky 
gang.  The  story  of  his  repeated  at- 
tempts, his  many  disappointments,  and 
his  final  success,  through  all  of  which 
the  romance  of  his  life  was  being 
woven,  makes  a  tale  of  thrilling  ad- 
venture, intense  suspense,  and  totally 
unexpected  action.  Not  until  the  final 
chapter  is  the  mystery  solved  and  the 
love  story  completed. 

Illustrated  with  colored  frontispiece 
and  wash  drawings.  Price  $1.35  net. 
Published  by  George  W.  Jacobs,  Phila- 
delphia. 


"Anglo-Saxon  Supremacy"  (Human 
Personality  Series)  by  John  L. 
Brandt,  author  of  "Turning  Points  of 
Life,"  "Marriages  at  Home,"  etc., 
with  introduction  by  James  W.  Lee, 
D.  D. 

The  purpose  of  the  author  is  to  look 
across  the  centuries  and  discuss  the 
contributions  made  by  the  various 
races  to  the  world's  civilization  and 
to  emphasize  the  principles,  ideals 
and  institutions  that  give  supremacy 
to  the  Anglo-Saxons,  and  the  promise 
of  permanency  to  their  civilization. 
Most  of  the  articles  were  first  pre- 
pared prior  to  the  great?  European 
conflict,  and  therefore  it  is  not  a  war 
book,  and  yet  the  issues  of  the  pres- 
ent conflict  are  discussed.  John  L. 
Brandt  is  author,  traveler  and  lec- 
turer. Many  popular  books  on  re- 
ligious thought  are  to  his  credit.  He 
has  done  much  work  as  an  Evangelist, 
and  is  at  present  pastor  of  the  historic 
First  Christian  Church  of  St.  Louis. 

Price,  $1.25.  Published  by  Richard 
G.  Badger,  Boston. 


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xiii 


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"The  Hermit  of  the  Adirondacks,"  by 

Delia  Trombly. 

Nearly  every  phase  of  life  is  de- 
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"The  Ouest  of  the  Ring,"  by  Paul  S. 

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An  allegory  with  a  touch  of  the  old 
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Illustrated  by  Catherine  M.  Richter. 
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"Marvels  of  Our  Bodily  Dwelling,"  by 
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"The  Thread  That  Is  Spun,"  by  Mar- 
garet Horner  Clyde. 
Aside  from  the  value  of  its  local 
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"Naval  Handbook  for  National  De- 
fense and  for  the  European  War,"  by 

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(retired.) 

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Three  generations 


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"Oliver  and  the  Crying  Ship,"  by 
Nancy  Miles  Durant,  author  of  "A 
Book  of  Verses,"  etc.,  Illustrated  by 
A.  B.  Betancourt. 

From  the  moment  Oliver  falls 
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Price  $1.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  Boston. 


rampant,  and  honor  and  loyalty,  jus- 
tice and  truth  were  so  lightly  esteemed 
the  story  of  Onesimus,  who  was  will- 
ing to  sacrifice  everything  that  life 
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to  his  convictions,  will  certainly  stand 
as  a  perpetual  beacon  light  for  gen- 
erations to  come.  Onesimus  was  one 
of  the  first  in  ancient  history  to  show 
the  true  Christian  spirit.  An  entertain- 
ing story  of  antiquity. 

Published   by  Sherman,  French  & 
Company,  Boston. 


"The  Sea  Wind,  A  Book  of  Verse,"  by 

William  Colburn  Husted. 

The  volume  is  restful  in  its  simpli- 
city of  wording,  pleasing  in  imagery 
and  the  unassuming  dignity  of  its  mea- 
sures, and  inspiring  in  the  sanity  of 
its  moods. 

Price  $1.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  Boston. 


"Onesimus,  the  Slave:  A  Romance  of 
the  Days  of  Nero,"  by  Laurel  M. 
Hope. 
At  a  period  in  the  world's  history 

where  intrigue  and  immorality  were 


"The  Riddle  of  the   Beast,"  by  Jo- 

siah  Nichols  Kidd,  author  of  "The 

Guiding  Hand,"  etc. 

"Out  of  the  eater  came  forth  meat, 
and  out  of  the  strong  came  forth 
sweetness."  With  this  riddle  for  a 
symbol  the  author  sets  forth  in  com- 
pelling verse  the  all  absorbing  prob- 
lem of  war,  and  endeavors  to  explain 
God's  relationship  to  this  evil  and  how 
it  is  always  made  to  serve  His  plan 
for  the  ultimate  good  of  man. 

Price  $1.00  net.  Published  by  Sher- 
man, French  &  Co.,  Boston. 

"To  One  from  Arcady,     and     Other 

Poems,"  by  Theodore  L.  Fitzsim- 

mons. 

The  poems  are  divided  into  two 
groups:  first,  the  lyrics  and  sonnets, 
which  are  simply  word-paintings  of 
moods,  such  as  "The  Sea  Enchanted" 
and  "Moon-magic ;"  and  second,  meta- 
physical poems,  in  which  the  spirit  is 
more  important  than  the  form,  as  in 
"The  Unseen  Sculptor,"  "The  Prayer 
to  Brahm,"  and  the  short  poem  entitled 
"Fate." 

Price,  $1.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  Boston. 


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xvli 


The  Vose  Player  Piano 

is  so  constructed  that  even  a  little 
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xviii 


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Hitchcock  Military   Academy 

San  Rafael   Cal. 


One   of  the  Four  Main   Hall* 


A  HOME  school  for    boys,    separate    rooms,    large 
campus,  progressive,  efficient,  thorough,  Govern- 
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Founded  1878. 
Catalogue  on   application. 

REX  W.  SHERER  and  S.  J.  HALLEY,  Principals 


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xix 


Miss  Hamlin's  School 
For  Girls 


Home  Building  on  Pacific  Avenue 
of  Miss  Hamlin's  School  for  Girls 


Boarding  and  day  pupils.  Pupils  received 
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EAST 


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i  - 


On  Fickle  Mill 


Twilight  time  on  Fickle  Hill — 

Seems  as  if  there  could  not  be 

Any  fairer  thing  to  see — 

Let  us  stand 

Striving  just  to  fill 

Weary  brains  with  beauty,  till 

The  velvet  darkness  hides  the  land. 

Redwoods  in  the  gorge  below, 

And  the  centuries  that  made 

All  their  scented  black-green  shade, 

Steadfast,  still, 

Giving  time  to  grow 

Somehow  seem  to  merge  and  flow 

With  twilight  time  on  Fickle  Hill. 

Murmurs  reach  us  from,  the  sea ; 
Little  town  and  crescent  bay 
Wreathed  with  fog,  fade  far  away; 
Ah,  be  still- 
Closer  lean  to  me, 
Best  can  silence  pay  the  fee 
For  twilight  time  on  Fickle  Hill! 

VIRGINIA   CLEAVER   BACON. 


ift 


JAN 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


MONTHLY- 


BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LXVII 


San  Francisco,  February  1916 


No.  2 


Luther  King  handling  a  bull  snake. 


Crossing  the 

Plains 

in  a 

1915  Aodel 

Prairie 
Schooner 

An  Overland  Trip  by  Wagon 

from   Kansas,   a  Thousand 

Ailes,  Ending  with  the  Hopi 

Indians  in  Arizona 

By 
Paul  H  Dowling 


THE  Overland  trail  from  the  East- 
ern and  Middle  Western  States 
has  always  been  full  of  romance 
and  adventure  for  the  traveler 
who  undertakes  the  trip,  whether  he 
comes  by     Pullman,     automobile     or 
stage.    Many  have  made  the  trip  dur- 
ing the  Exposition  year  by  automobile, 
and  have  found  the  way  none  the  less 
interesting  than  did  their  forefathers  in 
the  great  prairie  schooners  of  forty- 


nine.  But  unusual  for  as  modern  a  date 
as  the  summer  of  1915  was  the  experi- 
ence of  two  families  of  tourists  who 
completed  a  journey  of  a  thousand 
miles  from  Kansas  to  California  on 
board  two  white-topped  wagons  and 
drawn  by  horses  and  mules. 

Hunger  and  thirst,  cold  winds  of  the 
plains  and  the  baking  sun  of  the  South- 
western deserts  were  all  a  part  of  the 
ups  and  downs  of  the  experiment  in 


ate 


1.  Indians  circling  our  camps  as  we  breakfasted.     2.  Fording  a  stream  in 

Colorado. 


roughing  it,  but  those  were  all  things 
which  the  party  expected  more  or  less, 
and  they  got  their  full  share.  Mr.  Lu- 
ther King,  one  of  the  members  of  the 
Overland  wagon  party,  kept  notes  of 
the  experiences  of  the  expedition  at 
times,  when  he  was  not  rustling  wood 
for  the  camp  fire  or  hunting  runaway 
horses  and  mules,  and  the  following  are 
quotations  from  his  diary : 

Hitching  up  Barney  and  Rastus,  we 
began  to  get  back  to  nature  in  earnest 
without  rigging  up  prairie  schooner. 
With  sleeping  accommodations  in  the 
wagons,  besides  small  tents  and  plenty 


of  groceries,  we  felt  sure  of  making 
the  trip  with  all  the  comforts  of  home. 
Leaving  Goodland,  Kansas,  April  12th, 
it  was  not  long  before  we  began  to  run 
into  cold  wind  and  rain.  This  kept 
up  until  the  fifth  day  out,  which  found 
us  in  a  sorry  predicament.  We  had 
camped  in  a  field  when  there  ceased  to 
be  a  road,  staid  there  all  night,  but 
were  forced  to  break  camp  in  the 
morning  to  search  for  water.  By  good 
fortune  we  came  upon  the  deserted 
house  of  the  2M2  ranch,  which  we  im- 
mediately took  possession  of  until  the 
weather  should  clear. 


/.  Passing  a  traveler  on  the  road,  New  Mexico.     2.  A  desert  freighter  in 

Keam's  Canyon,  Arizona. 


Here,  in  possession  of  a  windmill 
for  pumping  water,  it  happened  that 
the  wind,  which  had  blown  upon  us 
furiously  so  far,  ceased  to  blow,  and 
the  water  had  to  be  pumped  by  climb- 
ing up  on  the  windmill  and  turning  the 
wheel  by  hand.  To  add  to  our  depend- 
ance  upon  chance,  Rastus  drew  our  at- 
tention quite  forcibly  one  evening, 
while  we  were  eating  supper,  by  disap- 
pearing in  full  flight  over  the  plains. 
Chasing  him  for  three  miles  did  no 


good,  and  by  that  time  it  was  dark, 
anyway. 

Looking  for  a  runaway  horse  on  a 
ranch  that  is  eight  miles  wide  and 
ten  miles  long  is  not  much  fun,  and  one 
whole  day's  search  was  fruitless.  The 
next  day,  the  two  mules  were  hitched 
up  and  a  search  party  was  sent  out  by 
wagon. 

After  we  had  gone  some  12  miles 
on  the  back  trail  it  was  learned  that  a 
cowman  had  already  returned  the  miss- 


Indians  at  the  first  mesa,  Arizona. 


ing  Rastus  to  the  ranch  house  of  the 
2M2. 

Leaving  this  location,  we  paralleled 
the  Union  Pacific,  then  the  Missouri 
Pacific  and  the  Santa  Fe  Railroads, 
coming  down  through  La  Junta  and  fol- 
lowing the  old  Santa  Fe  trail.  This  old 
trail  furnishes  ideal  camping  places, 
but  the  going  is  bad.  As  evidence, 
here  is  an  inscription,  left  on  a  postal 
card  by  the  road :  "Notice — Be  careful. 
This  arroyo  is  HELL." 

If  the  roads  were  rough,  the  scenery 
was  not  the  less  picturesque.  One  of 
the  camps  could  not  have  been  in  a 
better  place.  There  was  a  circle  of 
pine  and  cedar  trees  on  the  top  of  a 
hill,  with  a  small  stream  of  clear  water 
just  below.  The  final  touch  to  the  pic- 
ture was  the  dim  figure  of  a  coyote, 
who  stood,  howling,  on  a  distant  ridge. 

The  day  of  all  days  that  far  in  the 
trip  was  when  we  came  through  the 
celebrated  Raton  pass  into  New  Mex- 
ico, circling  some  dizzy  places  where 
the  road  winds  around  the  mountains 
8,790  feet  high.  The  next  day,  at  the 
camping  place  just  across  the  Red 


River,  the  water  froze  in  the  water 
bags,  and  we  nearly  froze  in  our  tents 
— and  that  May  2d  in  New  Mexico,  of 
all  places.  The  call  of  the  city  was 
upon  us  a  few  days  later  when  we  came 
within  2%  miles  of  Las  Vegas,  about 
camping  time  in  the  evening.  The  call 
was  very  insistent,  and  we  walked  into 
town  after  supper  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  going  to  a  "movie." 

At  this  point  we  received  supplies, 
mail  and  a  Krag  carbine,  thus  bringing 
the  "arsenal"  up  to  three  shotguns,  two 
rifles  and  two  revolvers.  We  were 
very  anxious  for  some  one  to  lead  on 
the  big  game,  but  none  of  this  appeared 
any  nearer  than  shell  range  in  the  Eu- 
ropean war.  Leaving  Las  Vegas  we 
passed  through  a  lot  of  little  Mexican 
towns  with  their  adobe  houses,  and 
each  town  with  its  church  and  priest. 
By  this  time  the  horses  were  getting 
quite  proficient  in  moving  about  with 
their  hobbles  on,  and  this  necessitated 
trailing  their  excursion  four  miles.  It 
was  hard  pulling  the  next  day  over 
twenty-six  miles  of  mountain  roads  to 
Santa  Fe,  but  we  were  glad  to  see  the 


",amp  in  Ream's  Canyon,  Arizona 


Historic  old  place.  We  were  interested 
in  the  old  plaza,  with  its  monuments 
and  government  building,  three  hun- 
dred years  old  on  one  side.  The  old 
structure,  now  used  as  a  museum,  has 
walls  of  adobe,  four  or  five  feet  thick. 
In  this  building  76  Spanish  and  Mexi- 
can rulers  as  well  as  19  territorial  gov- 
ernors have  held  office.  Many  of  the 
interesting  relics  of  the  museum  have 
been  secured  from  the  ancient  ruins 
of  the  cliff  dwellers  northwest  of  the 
city. 

On  reaching  Gallup,  an  Indian  trad- 
ing center,  we  encountered  several  of 
the  freighting  outfits  that  are  charac- 
teristic of  that  region.  Seven  and 
eight  wagons  in  an  outfit,  some  of  them 
requiring  six  and  eight  horses  each,  are 
used  in  carrying  freight  more  than  a 
hundred  miles.  That  was  the  reason 
for  our  having  to  pay  $3.50  for  a  sack 
of  corn.  Many  Indians  come  to  this 
central  point,  driving  five  or  six  of 
their  ponies,  and  bringing  in  wool  to 
exchange  for  grain  and  groceries. 

From  there  we  went  down  into 
Ream's  Canyon  and  the  Indian  vil- 


lages. A  week  passed  quickly  in  this 
interesting  place.  From  our  camp  it 
was  only  a  short  walk  to  the  Hopi  In- 
dian pueblo,  where  the  famous  annual 
dances  are  given.  On  top  of  the 
mesa,  which  rises  five  hundred  feet 
above  the  floor  of  the  valley,  are  the 
Indian  villages.  Walpi,  the  oldest  of 
these  villages,  lies  at  the  extreme  end 
of  the  mesa,  and  is  a  puebla  of  three 
stories.  There  are  two  other  villages, 
situated  thus  close  together,  but  the 
languages  of  the  three  are  entirely  dif- 
ferent. 

Several  trails  and  one  fairly  good 
road  lead  up  to  the  top  of  the  mesa 
from  the  valley.  The  top  is  solid  rock 
and  the  houses  are  of  stone  and  plas- 
tered with  mud.  This  seems  a  strange 
place  to  locate  a  city,  because  all  water 
has  to  be  carried  up  the  trails  from  the 
spring  at  the  foot,  but  when  consid- 
ered as  a  retreat  from  the  enemies  of 
the  Hopis,  the  Navajos,  it  isn't  so  bad. 
It  is  here  and  at  the  next  mesa,  six 
miles  west,  on  alternate  years,  that  the 
annual  snake  dances  are  held. 

There  were  lots  of  Indian  women  sit- 


New  settlers  moving  in  to  build  on  their  land  claims. 


ting  around  making  colored  biscuits. 
The  mixing  of  these  very  interesting 
delicacies  requires  three  bowls.  In 
the  first  the  meal  is  mixed  in  a  very 
thick  batter  and  some  coloring  matter 
added.  Then  the  dough  is  passed  to  a 
second  bowl,  where  it  is  worked  and 
thinned.  In  the  last  bowl  the  mixture 
is  worked  until  it  has  about  the  consis- 
tency of  paint.  A  large,  flat  stone 
with  a  wood  fire  under  it  serves  for 
an  oven.  The  stone  is  greased  and  a 
thin  layer  of  the  batter  spread  out 
with  the  hands.  The  dough  bakes  and 
is  folded  into  small  rolls  while  hot. 
Sometimes  the  Indian  women  make  the 
rolls  with  three  or  four  different  colors 
and  these  are  all  light  and  flaky,  and 
not  bad  eating,  in  spite  of  the  crude 
cookery  employed. 

The  annual  dances  are,  of  course,  the 
most  interesting  feature  of  the  life  at 
this  place.  The  corn  dance  comes  on 
Saturday  and  the  Kaehina  dance  on 
Sunday.  We  walked  up  the  trail  to  the 
top  of  the  mesa,  where  we  secured  a 
vantage  spot  for  the  entire  perform- 
ance. Fifty-five  Kachinas  danced  in  a 
line.  The  leader  ran  up  and  down  the 


line  with  an  air  of  importance,  stopping 
now  and  then  to  utter  a  quavering  yell. 
Several  old  men,  who  seemed  to  be  the 
directors,  gave  orders  now  and  then, 
while  the  dancers  kept  time  with  the 
steady  beat  of  a  drum,  and  sang  in  a 
low  tone.  The  dancers  merely  stamp 
their  feet,  or  rather  stamp  on  one  foot, 
while  the  leader  quite  energetically 
makes  more  complicated  movements. 
Each  of  these  dancers  had  on  a  hide- 
ous headgear,  with  a  mask  coming 
down  over  the  face.  Fancy  girdles  and 
fox  pelts  hanging  down  their  backs, 
necklaces,  bracelets  and  trinkets, 
fancy  moccasins  and  turtle  shells  add- 
ed to  the  finery  of  the  attire.  In  one 
hand  the  Kachinas  carried  a  bow  and 
arrow,  and  in  the  other  a  small  bag  of 
corn  and  a  sharp  pointed  stick.  Many 
of  them  had  their  bodies  painted  in 
fancy  colors.  After  dancing  for  fifteen 
minutes,  the  performers  adjusted  their 
headgear  and  marched  to  the  first  vil- 
lage, Tehua,  where  the  dance  was  re- 
peated, this  time  with  the  headgear  left 
on.  Next  they  went  to  the  middle  vil- 
lage, Sichomovi,  and  then  to  Walpi. 
From  here  the  dancers  filed  off  to  the 


The  "haystacks.'' 


corn  field,  two  and  a  half  miles  dis- 
tant. 

Arriving  at  the  corn  field,  the  Ka- 
chinas  took  off  the  finery,  and,  with 
the  exception  of  the  smaller  ones,  gath- 
ered in  a  circle  and  smoked.  A  crowd 
of  older  men  had  already  assembled 
and  were  gathered  in  a  similar  circle 
and  were  smoking.  Some  blankets  were 
spread  out  on  the  ground,  and  on  these 
were  large  piles  of  food.  After  the 
smoke,  the  men  gathered  around  the 
blankets  and  ate.  Then,  after  wait- 
ing about  an  hour  or  more,  thirty  young 
girls,  all  togged  out  in  finery,  came 
marching  down  in  single  file  from  the 
mesa.  They  were  accompanied  by  the 
clown  dancers,  eight  of  these  with 
their  bodies  painted  brown  and  wear- 
ing a  black  breech  cloth.  These  also 


wore  masks  and  moccasins,  and  were 
accompanied  by  a  drummer  who  kept 
up  a  double-quick  beat. '  Each  Ka- 
china,  now  with  his  sharp  pointed  stick 
dug  holes  in  the  ground,  while  the  girls 
followed  and  dropped  in  the  corn,  to- 
gether with  beans,  water-melon  and 
squash  seeds.  After  each  one  had 
planted  about  twenty  hills  they  again 
rested  and  went  to  eating.  On  Sunday 
the  dances  were  repeated,  great  crowds 
having  arrived  from  the  second  mesa 
and  surrounding  country. 

From  the  mesas,  our  way  followed 
the  road  to  Williams  and  on  to  South- 
ern California  by  train.  A  thousand 
miles  was  plenty  in  the  wagon,  and 
the  gentle  roll  of  the  Pullman  over  the 
rest  of  the  desert  country  was  like 
'stepping  from  1849  directly  into  1915. 


The  Sacred  Woods 

By  Alfred  E.  Acklom 


I  love  the  mysterious  shadows  of  tall  trees, 

Sentinels  of  the  forest,  where  shafts  of  golden  light 

Through  the  oriel  windows  of  the  woods  pierce  sombre  depths, 

Tracing  strange  patterns  on  the  leaf-strewn  floor. 

Deep  woods  that  hold  cool  sanctuaries, 

Where,  in  the  hush  of  noonday's  torrid  hour, 

Full-throated  birds  compose  their  vesper  hymns 

To  carol  forth  at  eventide. 

I  pass  these  ancient,  stalwart  sentinels, 

And  wander  through  the  dim  cathedral  aisles 

Flanked  by  straight  pillared  trunks, 

Whose  tapering  fingers  cleave  the  morning  mist 

To  pluck  the  sunbeams  from  a  turquoise  sky. 

Silence  broods  below,  but  in  dizzy  heights  above 

Light  airs  weave  music  through  the  feathery  tops, 

That  in  the  Western  gales  reel  to  the  breeze, 

As  the  Great  Spirit  with  a  master  hand 

Sweeps  his  tall  harp  and  strikes  wild  chords  of  melody. 

Light  falls  my  tread 

In  the  soft  velvet  of  the  yielding  leaves. 
I  reverently  bare  my  head,  for  here 
Is  God,  and  these  tall  Gothic  spires 
Are  finials  on  the  parapets  of  Heaven. 
None  in  this  sacred  place  could  jest, 
Nor  clown  grimace.    The  ribald  oath 
Would  wither  ere  it  tripped  the  tongue, 
Or  change  to  prayer  in  the  supernal  awe. 

Night,  the  black  mask  of  day,  comes  nigh, 

Drawing  her  ebon  robe  about  the  scene ; 

And  all  is  merged  and  hidden  in  the  gloom, 

Until  the  welkin's  studded  jewels  shine 

A  mild  effulgence.    Soon  brighter  light  appears 

To  bathe  in  molten  silver  of  the  moon 

The  mellowed  profile  of  adumbrate  trees. 

Inscrutable  darkness  rules  the  bosom  of  the  woods, 

And  so  I  stand  without  and  watch 

The  dark,  unf  athomed  shadows  of  the  night, 

Inflexible  and  constant  in  their  form; 

While  from  boscage  and  through  the  limbs  peer  forth 

Indefinable  shapes  and  faces  of  the  lonely  dead. 

Spirits  of  those  who  once  roamed  freely  here 

And  loved  the  forest  and  its  mysteries. 


"Shafts  of  golden  light  through  once  windows  of  the  woods" 


Aodern  Treaties  of  Peace 


By  John  /Aacdonell 


IDISCLAIN  all  idea  of  joining  in 
the  speculations  now  common  as 
to  the  terms  of  the  peace  at  the 
close  of  this  war.  I  have  in  view 
mainly  the  past,  though  the  facts  here 
epitomized  may  be  of  use  as  guides, 
or,  still  oftener,  as  warnings  for  the 
future.  It  may  seem  doubtful  whether 
there  is,  or  can  be,  unity  in  such  a  wide 
and  indefinable  theme  as  treaties  of 
peace.  Each  of  them,  it  may  be 
thought,  stands  by  itself;  nothing  can 
profitably  be  said  as  to  such  treaties  in 
general.  No  doubt  they  vary  accord- 
ing to  the  age  in  which  they  are  con- 
cluded, the  race,  degree  of  civilization, 
and  the  moral  standards  of  the  parties 
to  them.  Certainly,  if  I  were  to  at- 
tempt to  range  over  the  whole  field  of 
history,  I  should  be  able  to  name  few, 
if  any,  features  common  to  them  all. 
But,  confining  the  inquiry  chiefly  to 
modern  treaties,  I  think  that  certain 
broad  facts  emerge;  of  the  nature  for 
the  most  part  of  tendencies  and  subject 
to  exceptions,  it  is  true,  but  tendencies 
distinct  and  unmistakable. 

One  fact  is  fairly  clear;  it  may  seem 
a  platitude,  but  it  has.  consequences 
apt  to  be  overlooked;  the  characters 
of  treaties  are  mainly  determined  by 
the  issues  or  results  of  the  wars  which 
they  close,  and  the  manner  in  which 
they  have  been  waged.  A  further  cir- 
cumstance may  affect  the  definite 
treaty  of  peace;  if  the  victors  are  al- 
lies with  interests  divided  or  devisible, 
the  terms  are  pretty  sure  by  skillful 
diplomacy  to  be  made  more  favorable 
to  the  vanquished  than  if  there  were 
only  one  conqueror. 

If  the  struggle  has  ended  in  the  de- 
cisive victory  of  one  of  the  belligerents 
the  treaty  will  record  that  fact;  if  it 


has  been  pursued  with  brutality  and 
cruelty,  brutality  and  cruelty  will  prob- 
ably characterize  the  terms  of  the 
treaty;  the  conqueror  will  seek  to  im- 
pose harsh  terms  on  the  vanquished.  I 
might  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  treaties 
of  peace  are  the  true  and  durable  rec- 
ords of  military  results;  probably 
equitable,  if  those  results  have  been  in- 
decisive, generally  ruthless  if  they 
have  ended  after  large  sacrifices  in 
complete  victory  to  one  of  the  bellig- 
erents. For,  after  reading  of  late 
many  such  treaties,  I  am  struck  by  the 
absence  in  the  majority  of  them  of  all 
signs  of  chivalry,  forbearance,  or  gen- 
erosity to  the  vanquished.  They  al- 
most all  indicate  a  desire  to  use  force 
to  the  utmost  limit;  the  diplomatist 
continues,  sometimes  with  less  mercy, 
the  work  of  the  soldier;  so  that  most 
treaties  of  peace  are  the  completion 
or  aggravation  of  crimes.  Rarely  do 
they  seem  to  be  the  work  of  statesmen 
who,  for  the  sake  of  durable  harmony, 
are  willing  to  sacrifice  passing  advan- 
tages. The  Romans  distinguished  be- 
tween the  foedus  iniquum  and  the  foe- 
dus  oequum;  and  the  old  books  make 
much  of  this  distinction,  i.  e.,  in  mod- 
ern language  between  treaties  which 
confer  reciprocal  advantages  and  those 
which  do  not.  Broadly  stated,  every 
modern  treaty  of  peace,  not  the  sequel 
to  a  drawn  battle,  is  a  foedus  iniquum. 
If  there  is  an  exception,  it  is  to  be 
found  in  a  treaty  of  peace  formally 
closing  a  long  war  with  uncertain  mili- 
tary results,  or  a  war  in  which  the  con- 
queror has  succeeded  with  ease.  No 
war  in  modern  times  accomplished  so 
much  with  so  little  loss  of  blood  or 
treasure  as  that  between  the  United 
States  and  Spain.  There  were  no  great 


MODERN   TREATIES   OF   PEACE 


101 


battles  on  land  or  sea.  The  loss  of 
life  was  not  so  serious  as  in  some  rail- 
way accidents  and  in  many  shipwrecks. 
The  victors  acquired  a  large  territory 
almost  without  striking  a  blow;  and 
the  fact  is  reflected  in  the  Treaty  of 
Paris  on  December  10th,  1899,  between 
the  two  countries.  No  modern  treaty 
exhibits  greater  forbearance.  The 
United  States  did  not  annex  Cuba. 
They  acquired  the  Philippine  Islands, 
Porto  Rico  and  certain  other  islands. 
But  they  paid  for  the  acquisition  $20,- 
000,000.  They  did  not  follow  the 
modern  practice  of  exacting  an  indem- 
nity from  the  vanquished;  they  ex- 
pressly relinquished  all  claims  there- 
to. Perhaps  I  ought  to  put  in  the  same 
category  the  peace  of  Pretoria;  a  re- 
markable instance  of  wise  forbearance, 
considering  the  fact  that  the  war  cost 
England  some  two  hundred  and  fifty 
millions  sterling  and  thousands  of  cas- 
ualties. 

I  ought  to  add,  as  a  further  qualifi- 
cation to  what  is  above  stated,  that 
treaties  of  peace  prove  that  nations 
differ  much  as  to  the  manner  in  which 
they  use  their  power  as  victors;  some 
show  to  more  advantage  than  others. 
Desiring  to  be  a  faithful  exponent  of 
international  law  and  its  history,  I 
am  little  inclined  to  single  out  any  one 
nation  as  specially  ruthless  in  exact- 
ing terms  of  peace.  No  nations  are  in 
this  respect  wholly  free  from  re- 
proach. Most  of  them  when  victorious 
have  driven  as  hard  terms  as  they 
could  press  upon  the  foe.  But  this 
much  one  may  say  that,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  those  treaties  terminating 
wars  in  which  Prussia  was  unsuccess- 
ful, no  nation  has  so  consistently  from 
the  days  of  the  Greater  Elector 
pressed  her  demands  on  the  conclusion 
of  peace  as  she  has  done.  Sweden, 
Poland,  Austria,  Denmark,  several  of 
the  smaller  States  of  Germany,  and 
France  have  each  in  turn  suffered.  The 
history  of  her  treaties,  from  that  of 
Oliva,  is  the  history  of  absorption  of 
the  territories  of  her  neighbors.  She 
gained  territory  by  the  treaty  of 
Utrecht,  though  less  than  she  desired. 
In  her  war  with  Austria  in  the  seven- 


teenth century  she  acquired  Silesia. 
More  than  any  of  the  Allies  in  1815, 
she  pressed  upon  France;  and,  but  for 
the  resistance  of  England,  she  would 
then  have  absorbed  Saxony,  even  as 
she  absorbed  the  Rhine  provinces. 
One  cannot  help  remembering  the  fact 
that  there  was  a  difficulty,  after  the 
seisure  of  Paris  of  1815,  in  preventing 
Blucher  from  blowing  up  the  bridge  of 
Jena.  If  Gneisenau  had  had  his  way 
he  would  have  shot  Napoleon.  Prussia 
drove  hard  terms  with  defeated  Den- 
mark in  1864.  In  1866  she  acquired 
Hesse  and  Hanover,  and  did  her  best 
to  acquire  Saxony  also.  Necessity 
justified  this  course — the  plea  is  old. 
These  governments  had  "appealed  to 
the  decision  of  war  for  themselves  and 
their  countries.  This  decision,  ac- 
cording to  God's  decree,  has  been 
against  them.  Political  necessity 
obliges  us  not  to  restore  to  them  the 
power  of  government." 

By  the  treaty  of  Frankfurt,  Prussia 
acquired  for  the  Reich,  of  which  she 
was  the  ruling  member,  Alsace  and 
part  of  Lorraine,  and  she  set  an  exam- 
ple of  a  new  departure  by  imposing 
upon  prostrate  France  an  indemnity  of 
an  unparalleled  amount.  I  am  not 
criticising  this  policy  or  forgetting  that 
in  some  of  the  wars  which  ended  in 
conquest  Prussia  had  legality  on  her 
side,  and  that  her  territories  were  until 
recent  times  scattered.  This  policy 
might,  as  some  of  her  historians  as- 
sert, not  be  a  sign  of  her  voracity  and 
appetite,  but  of  the  virile  vigor  of  the 
race,  the  foresight  of  her  rulers,  and 
her  position  as  leader  in  the  move- 
ment towards  German  unity.  I  am 
merely  attesting  facts  on  the  face  of 
the  chief  treaties  to  which  she  has 
been  a  party. 

Some  striking  differences  are  to  be 
noted  between  ancient  and  modern 
treaties  of  peace.  The  latter  at  first 
might  seem  much  the  more  humane. 
The  typical  Roman  treaty  of  peace, 
technically  described  as  "deditio," 
was  merciless.  The  conqueror  ac- 
quired everything  belonging  to  the  con- 
quered State,  private  as  well  as  public 
property,  and  the  entire  population 


102 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


was  liable  to  be  sold  into  slavery.  Ac- 
cording to  the  formula  preserved  by 
Livy,  the  vanquished  surrendered 
themselves,  their  arms,  their  temples, 
their  cities,  their  territories  and  their 
gods.  In  practice  this  harshness  was 
mitigated ;  but  from  time  to  time  it  was 
exercised,  and  the  old  theory  was 
never  abandoned.  According  to  the 
feudal  conception  of  the  State,  the 
property,  public  and  private — certainly 
private  lands,  if  not  movables — be- 
came the  property  of  the  conqueror; 
though  no  doubt  this  was  not  often 
carried  out.  But  neither  in  theory  nor 
in  fact  in  these  days  and  for  some 
centuries  has  this  view  been  enter- 
tained. No  modern  treaty  of  peace 
declares  the  lands  of  the  subjects  of 
the  conquered  State  to  be  forfeited. 
Some  expressly  confirm  them  in  their 
rights.  But  the  changes  are  less  hu- 
mane than  they  would  at  first  blush 
seem.  Of  later  years,  the  difference, 
so  much  to  the  honor  of  modern  times, 
has  in  effect  been  diminished  by  the 
imposing  of  heavy  indemnities  to  be 
paid  by  the  subjects  of  the  conquered. 
I  note  a  second  difference.  A  mod- 
ern treaty  of  peace  is  necessarily  much 
more  complex  than  earlier  treaties  of 
the  same  class.  War  in  these  days 
severs  so  many  arteries  and  veins ;  the 
diplomatist  must  stanch  so  many  gap- 
ing wounds  if  they  are  not  to  continue 
to  bleed.  Contracts  between  private 
persons  have  been  annulled  or  sus- 
pended. Ships  may  have  been  seized 
but  not  condemned.  Treaties  or  con- 
ventions, except  those  specially  provid- 
ing for  a  state  of  war,  are  annulled. 
Private  as  well  as  diplomatic  inter- 
course has  ceased.  The  instrument  of 
settlement  must  provide  for  the  new 
order  of  things.  And  when  annexa- 
tion of  the  territory  of  one  State  takes 
place,  provision  must  be  made  for  a 
multitude  of  matters  which  once  were 
neglected  and  might  be  so,  with  no 
great  harm.  Thus  provision  must  be 
made  for  an  exact  demarcation  of 
the  new  frontier  line;  for  the  with- 
drawal within  a  fixed  period  of  in- 
habitants who  wish  to  depart  with  their 
property  from  the  districts  which  have 


changed  hands;  for  transfer  of  part  of 
the  public  debt  fixed  according  to  pop- 
ulation or  otherwise;  'for  the  transfer 
of  archives  or  titles  to  property;  for 
the  payment  of  pensions  charged  by 
the  old  government  on  the  revenue; 
for  the  evacuation  of  territory;  for  the 
surrender  of  prisoners  of  war;  for  the 
purchase  of  railways;  for  a  score  of 
other  matters,  the  majority  of  which 
were  not  provided  for  in  earlier  trea- 
ties of  peace.  The  complexity  is  still 
greater  if,  as  is  the  case  with  many 
treaties,  several  States  with  conflicting 
interests  are  parties  thereto,  or  if  a 
settlement  is  effected  by  means  of 
several  treaties.  At  the  close  of  the 
Crimean  war  in  1856  a  whole  group 
of  treaties,  conventions  or  declarations 
were  entered  into.  The  final  "act"  of 
the  treaties  of  Vienna  in  1815  consisted 
of  sixteen  Actes  annexed  to  the  Acte 
General ;  that  is,  treaties,  conventions, 
declarations,  reglements,  some  of  them 
of  great  complexity.  The  process  of 
liquidation  may  go  on  for  years  after 
the  treaty  of  peace  has  been  signed. 

There  cannot  fail  to  be  one  notable 
difference  between  any  treaty  termi- 
nating this  war  and  treaties  of  peace 
concluded  in  past  times.  Hitherto, 
Colonies  have  been  passive  subjects  of 
the  Mother  State;  they  were  not  con- 
sulted in  negotiating  the  treaties  form- 
ing the  basis  of  our  Colonial  Empire. 
That  cannot  again  be.  The  dominions 
which  have  taken  their  part  in  the 
struggle  must  have  their  say  in  the  set- 
tlement. It  may  mark  their  coming  of 
age  politically. 

One  of  the  principal  subjects  of 
modern  treaties  is  the  provision  for 
the  payment  of  an  indemnity  by  the 
defeated  belligerent.  To  a  statesman 
such  as  Burke,  with  his  veneration  for 
what  he  conceived  to  be  the  rules  of 
public  law,  it  seemed  an  objectionable 
innovation.  Discussing  the  subject  of 
the  rights  of  a  conqueror  in  his  "Ob- 
servations on  the  Conduct  of  the  Mi- 
nority," he  remarks:  "The  principle 
laid  down  by  Mr.  Fox  is  this:  That 
every  State,  on  the  conclusion  of  a 
war,  has  a  right  to  avail  itself  of  its 
conquests  towards  indemnification.' 


MODERN   TREATIES    OF   PEACE 


103 


This  principle  (true  or  false)  is  totally 
contrary  to  a  policy  which  this  coun- 
try has  pursued  with  France  at  various 
periods,  particularly  at  the  Treaty  of 
Ryswick,  in  the  last  century,  and  at 
the  Treaty  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  in  this. 
Whatever  the  merits  of  his  rule  may 
be  in  the  eyes  of  neutral  judges,  it  is 
a  rule  which  no  statesman  before  him 
ever  laid  down  in  favor  of  the  adverse 
party  with  whom  he  was  to  negotiate. 
The  adverse  party  himself  may  safely 
be  trusted  to  take  care  of  his  own  ag- 
grandizement." These  are  nobler — I 
am  inclined  to  believe  wiser — princi- 
ples than  those  which  to-day  prevail. 
The  prospect  of  imposing  an  indemnity 
is  held  constantly  before  belligerents 
while  war  is  going  on.  It  is  sometimes 
a  lure  to  engaging  in  war,  or  it  dimin- 
ishes the  deterrent  force  of  expense. 
At  all  events,  the  practice  has  become 
common.  Three  forms  of  it  are  to  be 
found:  (1)  An  indemnity  in  the  strict 
legal  sense — that  is,  complete  reim- 
bursement of  the  expenses  to  which  the 
victorious  State  has  been  put.  An  ex- 
ample of  this  is  to  be  found  in  the 
Treaty  of  Vienna  (October  30,  1864), 
to  which  Prussia,  Austria  and  Denmark 
were  parties  (Article  XII),  and  in  the 
Treaty  of  Prague  terminating  the  war 
between  Prussia  and  Austria  (Article 
XL)  Perhaps  we  may  put  in  this  cate- 
gory the  provision  in  Article  IV  of  the 
Treaty  of  Paris  of  November  20,  1815 : 
"La  partie  pecuniaire  de  1'indemnite  a 
fournir  par  la  France  aux  puissances 
alliees  est  fixee  a  la  somme  de  sept 
cent  millions  de  francs"— ($140,000,- 
000 — not  an  excessive  sum.  A  second 
variety  consists  of  an  indemnity  cou- 
pled with  a  reasonable  fine.  I  will 
take  as  an  example  the  Treaty  of 
Lhassa  (September  17, 1904),  between 
our  government  and  that  of  Thibet. 
The  third  type  is  the  exacting  of  a  sum 
quite  irrespective  of  the  costs  of  the 
war,  so  large  as  to  be  likely  to  impov- 
erish the  payer,  to  disable  him  making 
preparations  for  a  renewal  of  hostili- 
ties, and  to  enrich  the  receiver;  a  sum 
measured  by  the  resources  of  the  con- 
quered country.  In  diplomatic  language 
it  is  termed  an  indemnity;  it  has  in  fact 


no  relation  to  that  definite  legal  con- 
ception; it  is  in  strictness  one  of  the 
many  forms  of  booty,  and  not  the  less 
so  because  it  is  taken  in  cash,  not  in 
kind,  and  is  collected  after  the  war 
instead  of  during  its  progress. 

So  far  there  have  been  few  exam- 
ples of  this  policy,  or  this  variety  of 
so-called  indemnity.  Even  the  Na- 
poleonic wars,  with  all  their  excesses, 
afford  few  examples  of  it.  The  classi- 
cal instance  is  to  be  found  in  the 
Treaty  of  Frankfurt,  which  imposed, 
in  addition  to  the  very  large  sums  lev- 
ied by  way  of  requisitions  and  fines 
upon  the  communal  or  other  local  au- 
thorities, a  so-called  indemnity  of  five 
milliards.  Originally,  Bismarck  de- 
manded six,  which  he  consented  to 
reduce  to  five.  No  reasonable  esti- 
mate brought  the  outlay  to  much  more 
than  three  milliards.  The  difference 
was  plunder. 

I  note  a  further  peculiarity  of  mod- 
ern treaties  of  peace.  The  introduc- 
tion into  them  of  an  amnesty  clause, 
couched  in  wide  terms,  is  one  of  the 
great  improvements  in  the  public  law 
of  Europe;  there  is  to  be  no  vendetta, 
public  or  private;  the  past  and  its  mis- 
deeds and  wrongs  are  to  be  buried; 
the  combatants  are  to  start  afresh. 
From  some  recent  treaties  an  amnesty 
article  is  omitted.  I  do  not,  however, 
doubt-  that  in  its  absence  immunity 
from  punishment  for  acts  done  in  the 
prosecution  of  war  is  implied.  Even 
in  its  widest  terms  now  known  an  am- 
nesty does  not  give  immunity  to  all 
acts  of  violence  and  crimes,  or  to  those 
which  are  only  remotely  connected 
with  the  war.  There  have  been  in- 
stances, and  they  may  recur,  in  which 
there  has  been  express  exclusion  from 
amnesty  of  persons  guilty  of  certain 
offences.  Three  examples  occur  to 
me,  and,  as  they  may  have  interest  in 
the  future,  I  quote  them.  When  hos- 
tilities between  the  English  govern- 
ment and  the  Boer  government  ended 
in  1881,  and  peace  was  concluded, 
some  persons  were  excepted  from  the 
amnesty.  The  commissioners  who 
were  to  negotiate  the  terms  of  peace 
were  instructed  by  our  government  to 


104 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


promise  that  there  was  to  be  no  moles- 
tation for  political  opinion,  and  that  a 
complete  amnesty  was  to  be  accorded 
to  those  who  had  taken  part  in  the  war, 
and  that  from  this  were  to  be  excluded 
"only  persons  who  had  committed,  or 
are  directly  responsible  for,  acts  con- 
trary to  the  rules  of  civilized  warfare." 
The  Boer  generals  assented  to  these 
terms,  and  certain  persons  were  put  on 
their  trial.  Later  they  were  acquitted. 

The  second  example  is  to  be  found 
in  the  peace  of  Pretoria,  which  ter- 
minated the  Boer  War  in  1902.  Article 
IV  runs:  "No  proceedings,  civil  or 
criminal,  will  be  taken  against  any  of 
the  burghers  so  surrendering  or  so  re- 
turning for  any  acts  in  connection  with 
the  prosecution  of  the  war.  The  bene- 
fit of  this  clause  will  not  extend  to  cer- 
tain acts  contrary  to  the  usage  of  war 
which  have  been  notified  by  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief  to  the  Boer  generals, 
and  which  shall  be  tried  by  court-mar- 
tial immediatetly  after  the  close  of 
hostilities."  A  still  later  example  of 
a  qualified  amnesty  is  found  in  the 
treaty  of  peace  between  Italy  and  Tur- 
key in  1912  (Article  IV),  which  spe- 
cially excepts  persons  who  have  com- 
mitted "crimes  of  common  law."  My 
hope  would  be  that  such  exceptions 
will  multiply.  Conventions  regulating 
the  usage  of  war  will  continue  to  be  as 
useless  as  some  of  them  have  proved 
to-day  if  hideous  crimes  pass  unpun- 
ished or  are  deliberately  and  publicly 
pardoned. 

I  turn  to  some  of  the  many  defects  or 
shortcomings  in  modern  treaties  of 
peace.  In  the  history  of  diplomacy 
some  four  or  five  treaties  stand  out 
conspicuously  from  others  as  the  close 
of  old  epochs,  the  beginning  of  new. 
The  first  of  these  is  the  Treaty  of 
Westphalia.  With  it  began  the  history 
of  modern  Europe.  Then  closed  the 
struggle  for  supremacy  of  Spain.  Then, 
too,  Germany  received  a  constitution, 
imperfect,  it  is  true.  The  independ- 
ence of  Switzerland  was  then  recog- 
nized. Then  ended  the  religious  wars 
which  for  nearly  a  century  rent  Eu- 
ropeo  Then,  too,  ended  the  patrimonial 
conception  of  sovereignty.  Future 


rulers  might  be  despots  over  their 
countries ;  they  were  not  owners.  Some 
might  next  name  the  Treaty  of  the 
Pyrenees,  which  marked  the  zenith  of 
the  power  of  France  in  her  struggle 
for  supremacy,  or  the  Treaty  of 
Utrecht,  when  the  power  of  France  was 
on  the  downward  grade.  Others  might 
name  the  Treaty  of  Carlowitz,  the  be- 
ginning of  the  dissolution,  still  in  pro- 
gress, of  the  Ottoman  Empire. 

Undoubtedly  among  the  great  trea- 
ties of  the  world  should  rank  the 
Treaty  or  group  of  Treaties,  of  Vienna 
in  1815 :  "L'axe  autour  duquel  a  evolue 
la  politique  europeenne."  Never  has 
diplomacy  attempted  so  much,  and,  on 
the  whole,  be  it  said,  so  successfully. 
It  was  reactionary  and  repressive.  It 
carved  out  Europe  with  complete  in- 
difference to  the  wishes  of  the  people. 
But,  in  spite  of  the  faults  of  this  group 
of  treaties,  they  had  "the  undeniable 
merit  of  having  prepared  the  world  for 
a  more  complete  system."  "If  ever," 
to  quote  the  words  of  Von  Gentz,  the 
Powers  should  meet  again  to  establish 
a  political  system  by  which  wars  of 
conquest  shall  be  rendered  impossible 
and  the  rights  of  all  guaranteed,  the. 
Congress  of  Vienna  will  not  be  with- 
out use." 

Here  has  been  a  declension.  Judged 
by  their  handiwork,  diplomatists  of 
the  eighteenth  century  had  a  larger 
outlook  than  their  successors  at  the 
close  of  the  last  or  commencement  of 
the  present  century.  Those  who  nego- 
tiated the  Treaties  of  Ryswick  and 
Utrecht  had  a  reasoned  faith.  They 
recognized  that  Europe  was  a  political 
unity.  They  had  a  theory  as  to  how  it 
was  to  be  maintained.  The  chief  trea- 
ties of  that  period  were  prefaced  by 
words  of  homage  to  the  principle  of  the 
balance  of  power.  Each  treaty  was  not 
regarded  as  standing  by  itself;  it  was 
part  of  a  system;  and  usually  there 
was  a  promise  to  maintain  the  provi- 
sions of  the  early  fundamental  treaties. 
It  is  easy  to  criticise  the  theory  of  the 
balance  of  power;  it  is  easy  to  show, 
as  M.  Sorel  has  done,  that  this  theory 
had  its  supplement  or  counterpart  in 
the  theory  of  equality  of  spoils;  the 


MODERN  TREATIES   OF   PEACE 


105 


powerful  States  might  prey  upon  the 
smaller  provided  the  robbers  shared 
alike.  Treaties  prefaced  by  approval 
of  the  balance  of  power  were  compat- 
ible with  the  partition  of  Poland.  They 
were  often  intended  merely  to  create 
"a  true  strategic  equilibrium"  (Toyn- 
bee,  "Nationality  and  the  War,"  p.  54) 
or  to  carry  out  the  "rounding  off  sys- 
tem,'"' fatal  to  weak  neighbors.  But 
diplomatists  had  a  common  theory  of 
political  action,  and  there  was  at  least 
an  attempt  to  look  beyond  the  dispute 
of  the  eighteenth  century  to  ask: 
whole,  and  frame  enduring  settlements. 
One  is  tempted  in  reading  the  treaties 
of  the  eighteenth  century  to  ask: 
"Shall  we  ever  again  have  that  larger 
and  common  policy?" 

The  very  ideal  of  unity  seems  gone. 
Modern  treaties  rarely  show  any  con- 
ception of  common  interests  of  a  gen- 
eral society  or  family  of  nations.  Each 
State,  or  group  of  States,  makes  the 
best  terms  for  itself.  There  is  no  Eu- 
rope as  a  political  unit.  Count  Breust's 
famous  saying  as  to  one  treaty,  "I  do 
not  see  Europe  in  it,"  is  true  of  almost 
all  treaties.  Then,  too,  there  is  no 
background  or  general  body  of  doc- 
trine, there  are  no  principles  of  public 
law  of  Europe  to  which  in  negotiations 
the  weaker  party  can  appeal  with  cer- 
tainty that  the  principles  will  be  ad- 
mitted, even  if  the  particular  applica- 
tion is  disputed.  The  phrase,  "public 
law  of  Europe,"  an  expression  much 
used  in  the  old  books,  was  perhaps 
sometimes  only  an  imposing  name 
without  much  reality  underlying  it.  It 
had  a  distinct  meaning  only  with  re- 
spect to  Germany;  it  signified  the  body 
of  law,  chiefly  contained  in  the  Peace 
of  Westphalia,  regulating  the  relations 
of  the  various  members  of  the  Empire. 
Its  meaning  otherwise  was  no  doubt 
somewhat  vague.  But  it  enshrined  an 
ideal;  there  was  to  be  enduring 
equilibrium,  a  condition  of  Europe  in 
which  all  States,  great  or  small,  were 
permitted  to  live,  and  certain  funda- 
mental treaties  were  to  be  respected. 
Only  three  times  in  the  history  of  Eu- 
rope have  the  nations  of  Europe  at- 
tempted to  rise  to  the  height  of  their 


opportunities :  when  they  concluded  the 
Peace  of  Westphalia;  when  they  at- 
tempted to  reconstruct  Europe  in  1815 ; 
and  when  they  sought  in  1878  to  settle 
in  the  Near  East  the  many  outstanding 
questions  menacing  the  peace  of  the 
world.  The  latest  of  these  attempts 
showed,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  the 
least  foresight,  and  was  the  least  suc- 
cessful. 

I  note  a  further  defect.  Many  trea- 
ties— at  all  events  those  involving  an- 
nexation— are  in  flat  contradiction  to 
principles  which  have  in  these  days 
obtained  wide  acceptance.  That  large 
masses  of  people  should  be  free  to  de- 
termine their  fate ;  that  they  should  not 
be  dealt  with  as  if  they  were  slaves  or 
cattle — all  that  has  become  a  common- 
place. The  declaration  of  1789,  "le 
principe  de  toute  souverainete  reside 
essentiellement  dans  la  nation,"  would 
be  disputed  by  few;  it  is  no  longer 
revolutionary  doctrine;  it  is  part  of 
the  common  creed  of  civilization.  This 
principle  is  forgotten  or  disregarded 
when  modern  States  settle  their  fron- 
tiers. Strategic  or  military  considera- 
tions, or  the  desire  to  acquire  rich  ter- 
ritory, are  the  usual  determinants.  I 
state  the  same  facts  in  another  form 
when  I  say  that,  while  the  principle 
of  nationality  is  everywhere  nominally 
recognized,  while  it  is  universally 
agreed  that  arrangements  which  ignore 
it  are  frail  and  precarious,  it  is  rare 
that  this  counts  for  much  in  the  actual 
settlements  at  the  close  of  wars.  So 
many  of  them  seem  either  the  terms 
extracted  by  duress  or  the  hasty  agree- 
ments patched  up  between  those  who 
think  only  of  the  exigencies  of  the 
hour.  In  peace  time  statesmen  ac- 
knowledge modern  maxims,  and  among 
them  that  which  I  have  quoted;  in 
times  of  war,  and  at  its  close,  they 
cling  to  the  old  regime  and  the  maxim 
"La  force  prime  droit,"  with  the  result 
that  the  boundaries  of  States  do  not 
correspond  to  those  of  nations,  and 
that  communities,  different  in  race, 
language  and  traditions,  are  linked  un- 
congenially.  And  if  the  principle  of 
nationality  were  recognized  in  treaties 
of  peace,  would  there  necessarily  be 


106 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


an  improvement?  Might  not  "Cabinet 
wars"  of  the  past  be  replaced  by  peo- 
ples' wars,  with  the  result  that  pas- 
sions would  be  embittered  to  a  degree 
barely  possible  in,  say,  the  eighteenth 
century,  when  Bavaria  and  Saxony, 
for  example,  as  often  as  not  fought  on 
the  side  of  France?  If  there  is  to  be 
this  glorification  of  national  character, 
is  it  not  likely,  as  Eucken  predicts, 
that  the  unfairness  and  bitterness  for- 
merly produced  by  the  inter-religious 
conflicts  may  experience  a  revival  on 
the  basis  of  nationalism?  May  there 
not  be  "a  state  of  mutual  repulsion  and 
hostility  amongst  the  different  peo- 
ples?" 

The  world  seems  to  have  moved 
back.  There  are  new  perils  without 
new  safeguards — at  all  events,  those 
provided  by  treaties  of  peace.  There 
is  the  conflict  between  the  desire  for 
territorial  expansion  and  large  em- 
pires and  the  aspirations  of  nationali- 
ties leading  to  political  Particularism. 
There  is  the  exaltation  of  the  State 
as  an  end  in  itself,  and  not  as  a  stage 
in  the  development  of  a  higher  organi- 
zation embracing  several  States,  and, 
one  far-off  day,  perhaps,  will  embrace 
all. 

There  is  importation  of  the  racial 
element  into  political  relations,  with  a 
revival  of  feelings  not  unlike  what  ex- 
isted when  "enemy"  and  "alien"  were 


synonymous.  The  growth  of  indus- 
trialism, which  promised  peace,  has 
brought  with  it  envy  and  jealousy: 
States  need  to  be  "protected"  against 
each  other,-  as  if  international  trade 
were  not  a  benefit  to  all  concerned,  but 
a  victory  to  some  and  an  injury  to 
others.  While  science  and  literature 
and  art  are  becoming  cosmopolitan; 
while  capital  and  labor  observe  no 
frontier  lines,  political  Particularism 
tends  to  be  more  pronounced.  We 
look  in  vain  for  constructive  treaties 
of  peace;  those  which  form  new  ties 
between  countries  and  uproot  the 
causes  of  war.  To  do  this  not  only 
should  they  renew  severed  engage- 
ments, they  should  provide  for  the 
open  discussion  and  pacific  settlement 
of  future  difficulties,  for  partial  dis- 
armament— the  real  test  of  a  sincere 
peace — and  for  common  action  as  to 
matters  of  interest  to  both  nations. 
Modern  treaties  of  peace  are  so  often 
of  the  nature  of  truces.  It  is  no  won- 
der if  they  rarely  fulfill  the  expecta- 
tions of  the  victors,  if  arrangements 
which  they  seek  to  establish  are  sel- 
dom durable,  and  if  treaties  are  in 
truth  written  in  water.  Generally 
framed  with  reference  to  passing  exi- 
gencies and  in  order  to  obtain  the 
maximum  of  advantages  to  the  con- 
queror, they  are  monuments  of  the  lim- 
ited foresight  of  diplomacy. 


The  California  Caballero  and  Mis 

Caballo       , 

By  /A.  CSFrederick 


YOU  SAW  him  in  some  of  his 
glory  in  the  1915  pageants  of 
San  Francisco,  Los  Angeles  and 
San  Diego,  for   no     California 
parade   or   festal   occasion  has   been 
complete  without  him  from  the  com- 
ing of  the  Mission  Fathers  to  the  Pan- 
ama Exposition. 

Caballero,  horseman,  gentleman — it 
is  all  one.  So  it  has  been  for  hundreds 
of  years.  As  in  the  old  Spain,  so  in  the 
new,  on  the  western  shore  of  our  own 
continent,  the  California  caballero  was 
a  veritable  centaur.  To  think  of  him 
apart  from  his  horse  would  be  to  think 
of  Mona  Lisa  without  her  smile.  He 
never  walked — feet  were  for  the  at- 
tachment of  spurs. 

Like  the  Arab  to  whom  he  was  re- 
lated, he  was  among  the  most  expert 
riders  of  the  world.  His  horse,  also 
of  Arabian  stock,  if  well  trained,  had 
perfect  trust  in  his  master,  would  obey 
his  slightest  wish  expressed  by  a  wave 
of  the  hand  or  a  tap  of  the  latigo,  and 
go  where  his  master  directed,  be  it  a 
leap  over  a  precipice,  as  in  the  famous 
case  of  Alvarado.  Said  Colton :  "Noth- 
ing but  a  tornado  or  a  far-striking 
thunderbolt  can  overtake  a  Californian 
on  horseback." 

It  is  a  common  saying  that  he  was 
born  on  horseback.  He  certainly  was 
there  as  soon  as  he  got  his  clothes  on, 
being  taken  by  the  godparents  to  the 
mission  to  be  christened.  After  a 
week  or  two  he  was  taken  to  ride  al- 
most every  day.  By  the  time  he  was 
ten  he  was  an  expert  rider,  and  liter- 
ally rode  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 
Moreover,  the  caballero  did  not  yield 
the  arts  and  blanishments  of  personal 


General   Andreas   Pico 
(Copied  from  an  old  portrait) 

adornment  entirely  to  femininity.  Why 
should  he?  In  all  sentient  beings  ex- 
cept man,  is  not  the  male  trigged  out 
in  greater  splendor  ?  Then  why  should 
not  the  caballero  wear  gold  and  sil- 
ver and  jewels,  and  silks  and  velvets 
and  laces  and  embroideries,  and  adorn 
his  horse  with  as  rich  equipage  as  he 
could  command!  Small  wonder  that 
the  Californian,  fine,  dashing  looking 
fellow,  was  famed  not  only  for  his 
grace  and  skill  in  handling  his  caballo, 
but  for  the  beauty  and  splendor  of  his 
montura. 


The  cattle  raiser  and  his  superintendent.     (From  an  old  color  print  of  the 
early  part  of  the  last  century,  the  early  }30's.) 


If  his  purse  afforded,  as  it  frequent- 
ly did  (and  sometimes  when  it  did  not) 
his  horse  was  loaded  down  with  elabo- 
rate and  costly  trappings — stamped 
leather,  gay  embroideries  and  hand- 
wrought  silver,  which  came  from  the 
City  of  Mexico,  where  many  of  the 
natives  were  skilled  in  their  produc- 
tion. Many  of  the  accessories  seemed 
designed  solely  to  furnish  space  for 
ornamentation.  As  for  the  caballero 
himself,  he  might  have  graced  the  can- 
vas of  a  Van  Dyke. 

His  costume  was  of  black,  brown, 
green  or  plum-colored  broadcloth,  with 
ball  shaped  buttons  of  gold  or  silver 
down  the  sides  of  his  trowsers,  which 
were  slashed  at  the  outer  seam  from 
the  knee  down,  revealing  the  botas 
— or,  when  these  were  removed,  the 
trimmed  white  underwear  beneath.  At 
times  slender  chains  held  the  slash  in 
leash;  and  always  a  bright  silk  sash 
girdled  the  waist. 

The  jaunty,  short  jacket  was  made 
to  match,  and  over  all,  when  riding, 
was  the  mangas  de  montar,  a  piece  of 
broadcloth  three  yards  long  by  one  and 
a  half  yards  wide,  rounded  at  the  cor- 


ners and  slit  in  the  middle  to  slip  over 
the  head,  gorgeously  trimmed  around 
the  slit  with  bullion  fringe  and  em- 
broidery. The  broad  brimmed  som- 
brero was  likewise  ornamented,  the 
width  of  the  band  and  the  upper  part 
of  the  brim  sometimes  encrusted  with 
gems  and  gold  and  silver  embroidery. 

The  caballero  wore  buckskin  shoes, 
and  when  in  the  saddle,  botas  or  leg- 
gins  of  fine  soft  deerskin  richly  colored 
and  stamped  and  embroidered  in  beau- 
tiful designs.  Besides  wrapping  twice 
around  the  leg,  the  top  of  the  leggin 
extended  into  a  flap  that,  when  desir- 
able, doubled  over  the  outside  to  pro- 
tect the  decoration  from  dust  and 
grime,  but  was  folded  in  again  before 
the  destination  was  reached. 

Both  ends  of  the  botas  were  ele- 
gantly finished  in  different  designs,  so 
that  either  might  be  exposed,  to  har- 
monize with  different  costumes. 

The  stamped  leather  bota  illustrated 
is  a  rare  old  piece  of  work  owned  by 
a  Spanish  lady  in  Los  Angeles,  The 
design  shown  in  detail  is  embroidered 
directly  on  the  leather — the  work  is 
done  entirely  by  men — in  most  beau- 


110 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


tifully  shaded  pink  and  green  silk, 
filled  in  with  threads  of  silver.  The 
receptacle  which  forms  the  base  of 
the  conventional  flower  is  of  soft  old 
pink  and  blue  and  gold,  with  veins  of 
gold  through  the  entire  design.  The 
point  border  is  in  shaded  blue  crossed 
with  silver.  The  opposite  end  of  the 
bota  is  in  green  and  gold.  There  was 
always  a  pair  of  garters  for  each  end, 
in  this  instance  one  pair  of  green  and 
gold,  the  other  old  pink  and  blue,  with 
gold  warp. 

Some  of  the  California  ladies  who 
visited  in  the  City  of  Mexico  learned 
the  manner  of  weaving  the  garters  on 
tiny  looms  similar  to  those  used  for 
weaving  beads,  and  the  little  confec- 
tions were  often  highly  prized  gifts 
from  the  caballero's  sweetheart. 

His  heavy  spurs,  which  jingled  with 
little  plates  and  chains,  might  be  in- 
laid with  gold  and  silver,  and  had  a 
shaft  some  ten  inches  long,  with  a 
rowel  maybe  six  inches  across.  He 
did  not  attempt  to  walk  in  them,  and 
be  it  said  he  never  wore  them  on  dress 
parade.  It  would  be  an  insult  to  think 
he  rode  a  horse  on  such  an  occasion 
that  needed  a  spur. 

His  saddle,  "whose  elaborate  lines 
were  comparable  only  to  those  spoken 
of  in  naval  architecture,"  was  won- 
drously  constructed.  The  wooden 
frame  was  covered  with  tightly 
stretched  rawhide,  and  open  down  the 
middle  so  that  it  did  not  gall  the 
horse.  The  decorated  leather  fittings 
were  attached  with  thongs,  with  never 
a  buckle  to  hold  a  strap. 

Thrown  over  the  saddle  on  dress 
occasions  was  the  mochila,  through 
which  the  cantle  and  horn  projected. 
In  the  mochila  illustrated  the  brilliant 
effect  of  the  stamping  and  colored  em- 
broidery is  enhanced  by  slightly  puffed 
blue  satin  showing  through  the  pierced 
designs  and  the  open-work  interlaced 
semi-circles. 

Back  of  the  saddle  was  the  anquera, 
a  round  leather  covering  for  the  hind 
quarters,  similarly  decorated,  with  a 
fringe  of  metal  pendants  that  jingled 
with  every  movement  of  the  caballo. 

From  the  saddle  horn  depended  the 


coraza  (from  cuirass)  or  armas  de 
agua,  long  and  wide  leathers,  also 
decorated,  or  they  might  be  of  goat, 
bear,  jaguar  or  mountain  lion  skins. 
At  the  horn,  toe,  was  a  pair  of  small 
saddle  bags  (cojinillos,  "little  cush- 
ions") which  contained  a  flask,  fresh 
handkerchief,  little  gifts  for  friends, 
and  so  forth. 

The  bridle  was  in  keeping  with  the 
rest  of  the  outfit.  For  every-day  use 
it  might  be  of  soft,  intricately  braided 
leather.  The  reins  and  lash  were  of- 
ten of  hair  selected  from  the  horse's 
mane,  perhaps  woven  in  sections  and 
joined  with  silver  links;  and  for  best 
the  bridle  might  be  almost  entirely  of 
silver,  with  broad  brow  band,  frontal 
star  or  other  device  attached  to  chains, 
also  nose  piece  and  a  breast-plate  of 
a  heart  or  other  design,  all  of  solid 
silver.  The  reins  and  latigo  were 
made  of  silver — cold-drawn  from 
Mexican  dollars — and  the  wire  knit- 
ted into  a  flexible  rope,  perhaps  in 
foot  lengths,  linked  together. 

The  Spanish  bit  was  an  elaborate 
mechanism,  highly  ornamented,  like 
the  spurs,  with  inlaying  and  wrought 
silver. 

The  halter  rope,  the  pride  of  the 
caballero,  was  of  finely  twisted  hair, 
strong  and  durable,  of  two  or  more 
colors  beautifully  blended,  the  ends 
finished  with  a  pretty  tassel.  The 
cincha  was  also  of  hair  twisted  into 
cord  and  woven  back  and  forth  be- 
tween two  rings.  The  braided  raw- 
hide reata  completed  the  outfit. 

Decked  out  in  all  this  array,  what 
a  magnificent  appearance  the  caballero 
must  have  made  on  the  feast  days  of 
the  saints.  No  Moorish  warrior  pran- 
cing over  the  Vega  with  his  palfry's 
housings  of  crimson  velvet  embroid- 
ered with  gold,  made  a  braver  showing 
than  he.  What  would  the  caballero 
have  cared  for  a  modern  go-devil,  be 
it  never  so  red! 

But  it  was  on  his  wedding  day  that 
he  shone  most  resplendently.  Mounted 
on  the  best  horse  to  be  bought  or  bor- 
rowed, with  the  richest  of  housings 
and  all  the  extra  touches  the  occasion 
demanded.  A  mantilla  of  silk,  hand- 


THE    CALIFORNIA    CABALLERO    AND  HIS   CABALLO  111 


somely  embroidered,  was  thrown  over 
the  mochila  as  an  additional  adorn- 
ment and  protection  for  the  bride's 
dress,  tor  they  both  rode  the  same 
horse  on  their  return  from  the  wed- 
ding. 

Davis  tells  us  that  the  horses  were 
divided  into  caponeras,  according  to 
their  color,  and  that  a  caponera  of 
palominos,  or  cream-colored  horses 
(provided  by  the  groom)  was  a  favor- 
ite for  the  wedding  cavalcade.  Or  the 
groom  might  prefer  two  caponeras, 
maybe  one  of  canelos,  or  red  roans, 
and  the  other  of,  say,  twenty— five 
black  horses.  Mares  were  never  ridden. 

All  the  early  writers  thought  the 
caballero's  monturo  worthy  of  their 
pens.  Dana,  in  "Two  Years  Before 
the  Mast,"  writes :  "I  have  often  seen 
a  man,  with  fine  figure  and  courteous 
manners,  dressed  in  broadcloth  and 
velvet,  with  a  noble  horse  completely 
covered  with  trappings,  without  a  real 
in  his  pockets  and  absolutely  suffering 
for  something  to  eat." 

Colton  tells  us  that  beside  the 
weight  of  the  rider  the  horse  generally 
carried  fifty  or  sixty  pounds  in  the 
gear  of  his  saddle,  and  double  that 
in  a  soaking  rain.  It  required,  he 
says,  two  large  tanned  ox-hides  to  fit 
out  a  California  saddle.  Then  add  to 
this  the  wooden  stirrups  three  inches 
thick,  the  saddle  tree  with  its  stout 
iron  rings,  a  pair  of  goat  skins  across 
the  pommel,  holsters,  pistols  and  spurs 
at  the  heels  of  the  rider,  weighing  from 
four  to  six  pounds,  and  we  have  some 
idea  of  what  a  California  horse  has  to 
carry.  Still  he  is  spirited  and  cheer- 
ful, and  never  flags  till  nature  sinks 
with  exhaustion. 

Says  Robinson,  who  arrived  on  the 
scene  in  1829:  "I  was  unable  myself 
to  comprehend  the  use  and  necessity 
of  ail  the  trappings  connected  with 
the  saddle  gear,  which  appeared  to  me 
cumbrous  and  useless  in  the  extreme; 
but  my  companion,  who  was  an  old 
cruiser  in  these  parts,  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  their  convenience  and 
necessity." 

And  after  all,  most  of  the  trappings 
could  be  accounted  for.  If  the  cabal- 


lero  was  always  on  horseback,  he  was 
not  always  on  dress  parade.  With 
a  ranch  of  twenty  or  thirty  miles 
on  which  were  thousands  of  wild  cat- 
tle and  hundreds  of  equally  untamed 
horses,  he  was  not  without  occupa- 
tion. It  was  his  way  to  ride  furi- 
ously— often  on  an  unbroken  horse — 
and  a  saddle  that  never  lost  its  grip, 
a  bit  that  gave  absolute  control,  a 
stirrup  and  leggins  that  prevented  a 
crushed  foot  or  broken  leg,  if  the  horse 
rolled  on  one,  were  among  the  re- 
quirements. 

Off  on  long  rides  in  all  kinds  of  wea- 
ther, the  coraza,  which  spread  over 
the  thighs  and  legs,  and  the  anquera, 
were  a  protection  to  horse  and  rider 
from  dust  or  rain,  from  the  horns  of 
cattle,  from  ugly  scratches  on  wild 
rides  through  thickets  at  the  "round- 
ups" or  bear  hunts.  In  short,  both 
man  and  beast  were  practically  en- 
cased in  armor,  and  in  the-  very  early 
days,  with  the  addition  of  the  sleeve- 
less six  or  seven-ply  deerskin  jacket 
and  a  heavy  shield  of  several  thick- 
nesses of  hard  rawhide,  he  bade  de- 
fiance to  the  arrows  of  hostile  Indians. 

The  saddle,  when  adjusted,  was  on 
Jo  stay.  The  horse  might  go  down, 
but  the  saddle  horn  was  so  high  he 
could  not  roll  over;  doing  his  prettiest 
at  bucking  did  not  dislodge  it.  It  was 
a  trick  of  the  caballero  to  race  his 
swiftest,  and  with  a  slight  motion  bring 
his  horse  suddenly  to  a  dead  stand- 
still, yet  he  was  never  thrown  forward 
in  the  saddle. 

When  a  wild  steer,  broncho  or  bear 
was  lassoed,  the  saddle  horn  must 
furnish  secure  anchorage  for  the  other 
end  of  the  reata,  and  withstand  the 
terrific  shocks  of  the  plunging  cap- 
tives; and  the  trained  horse,  a  most 
sagacious  little  animal,  while  going  at 
top  speed  would  suddenly  stop  stock- 
still  as  the  reata  descended,  prepared 
to  receive  the  shock  with  the  stead- 
fastness of  Gibraltar. 

The  horse  was  described  as  having 
"long,  flowing  mane,  arching  neck, 
broad  chest,  full  flank,  slender  legs 
and  full  of  fire.  He  seldom  trots,  will 
gallop  all  day  without  seeming  to 


112 


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be  weary.  On  his  back  is  the  Califor- 
nian's  home.  Leave  him  this  home 
and  you  may  have  the  rest  of  the 
world."  By  most  excellent  authority 
the  caballo  was  considered  to  have  had 
few  equals  in  endurance  and  no  super- 
iors. 

"A  hundred  miles  from  sun  to  sun" 
was  the  measure  of  a  day's  ride,  mean- 
ing from  sunrise  to  sunset.  "It  is  sin- 
gular," continues  Colton,  "how  the 
Californians  reckon  distance.  They 
will  speak  of  a  place  as  only  a  short 
gallop  off  when  it  is  fifty  or  a  hun- 
dred miles.  They  think  nothing  of  rid- 
ing 140  miles  in  a  day  and  breaking 
down  three  or  four  horses  in  doing  it, 
and  following  this  up  for  a  week  at  a 
time."  The  build  of  the  saddle  has 
much  to  do  with  these  remarkable 
records. 


A  good  saddle  once  secured,  it  was 
rarely  that  the  caballero  could  be  in- 
duced to  part  with  it.  History  records 
that  Senor  Don  Antonio  Arrellanes  of 
Santa  Barbara  once  gave  two  hundred 
head  of  fine  beef  cattle  (which,  how- 
ever, were  valued  only  at  $5  a  head) 
for  a  highly  ornamented  saddle  which 
is  said  to  have  been  embellished  with 
precious  stones. 

The  caballero  and  his  caballo,  which 
attracted  so  much  attention  and  gave  a 
bit  oi  old-world  color  to  the  pageants 
of  1915,  are  no  longer  a  part  of  Cali- 
fornia. In  Mexico,  of  which  Califor- 
nia was  once  a  part,  they  still  flourish 
in  modified  form,  but  the  huge,  mas- 
sive saddles  of  California's  early  days 
no  longer  exist,  only  enough  remaining 
to  show  something  of  their  style  and 
manner  of  workmanship. 


U  N5T A Y  ED 


With  quiet  fingers  patiently 
Through  spring  and  summer  hours, 
Beneath  the  haze  of  summer  noons 
And  springtime's  misty  showers, 

« 

The  grass  toils  tirelessly  to  hide 
Man's  deeds,  his  hopes  and  fears, 
And  hides  them  well  as  fame  is  hid 
Beneath  the  dust  of  years. 

So  do  the  days  weave  with  their  toil 
Enshrouding  nets  to  spurn 
The  hastening  feet  of  absent  love 
If  love  again  return. 

But  never  can  the  eager  years, 
Their  weavings'  heaped  array, 
So  hide  the  path  of  heart  to  heart 
Love  cannot  find  the  way! 

ARTHUR  WALLACE  PEACH. 


The  Grand  Canyon  and  Its  Wonder- 
ful Caves 


By  Harold  Dean  Mason 


EARTH  cannot  present  to     view 
any  spectacle  more  sublime  than 
the  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona. 
Were  we  speaking  simply  of  its 
dimensions,  few  words  would  suffice 
to  tell  it,  but  a  difficult  task  lies  before 
the  writer  when  it  comes  to  the  act 
of  describing  the  magnificence  of  this 
canyon.    No  tongue  or  pen  can  do  it 
justice ;  therefore  I  shall  simply  try  to 
describe  as  clearly  as  possible  the  im- 
pressions which  came  to  me  as  I  trav- 
eled from  Rim  to  River  one  perfect 
September  day. 

My  companion,  being  somewhat  ac- 
quainted with  one  of  the  guides  of  the 
Grand  View  Trail,  we  very  naturally 
chose  that  trail  as  our  starting  point. 
Arriving  there  a  little  before  sunset, 
we  hurried  to  the  rim  that  we  might 
have  one  long  look  into  those  won- 
derful, terrible  depths  before  darkness 
should  fill  them.  Note  book  and  pencil 
were  at  hand,  but  with  the  first  glimpse 
they  were  forgotten,  and  I  closed  my 
eyes  that  I  might  by  so  doing,  slip 
away  from  the  indescribable  sensation 
which  gripped  my  heart  and  brain.  I 
looked  again,  and  seemed  to  pass  into 
another  world  more  strange  than  any 
fairyland  could  possibly  be.  It  is  not 
a  small  matter  to  look  down  upon  a 
score  of  mountains;  upon  temples, 
towers,  peaks  and  pillars;  down  upon 
gorges  and  ravines,  deep,  black  and 
unknown,  the  depths  of  which  no  hu- 
man foot  has  ever  trod ! 

Faint  murmurs  came  to  our  ears  from 
the  purple  depths  as  of  innumerable 
voices — mayhap  the  spirit  voices  of 
some  prehistoric  race,  whispering  of 
the  mysterious  past,  claiming  prece- 


dence of  knowledge  of  this  gigantic 
chasm.  Such  musings  are  not  strange 
when  one  looks  down  into  such  shad- 
ows. 

Early  dawn  found  me  at  Signal 
Point,  Only  the  topmost  peaks  of 
many  mountains  were  visible.  In  a 
few  moments  all  the  higher  points 
were  changed  from  a  deep  purple  hue 
to  scarlet  and  orange,  and  then  to 
pink.  The  entire  canyon,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach,  was  filled  with  a 
luminous  mist,  in  which  the  temples 
and  all  higher  points  seemed  to  float 
in  midair,  and  as  I  watched  the  ever- 
changing  scene — every  moment  adding 
to  its  charm — the  sun  suddenly  burst 
over  the  horizon,  flooding  the  plateaux 
with  morning  light  and  inviting  the 
mists  to  arise  from  the  canyon,  thus 
disclosing  to  our  eyes  a  clearer  view 
of  the  panorama  below  us.  Thus  for 
two  hours  I  sat,  filled  with  awe — 
lifted  into  realms  of  thought  before  un- 
known. 

Nine  o'clock  found  us  on  our  way 
down  the  trail,  following  the  zig-zags 
for  some  distance,  halting  every  few 
moments  to  look  up  to  the  towering 
walls  above  us,  and  then  down  over 
dizzy,  beetling  precipices  below ;  every 
turn  in  the  trail  affording  a  different 
view.  It  is  wonderful  to  be  able  to 
study  the  colors  of  the  different 
strata;  the  brilliant  red,  cream,  gray, 
olive  and  deep  buff — a  field  of  labor 
which  might  well  make  the  heart  of 
the  geologist  rejoice.  One  is  apt  to 
forget  to  travel — lost  in  wonder — as 
the  trail  makes  a  sudden  turn,  and  an 
Angel's  Gate  comes  into  sight;  a 
Vishnu  Temple,  with  cathedral  dome; 
3 


114 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


majestic  towers  and  buttes,  all  stand- 
ing in  the  heart  of  the  canyon,  each 
painted  with  such  richness  of  colors — 
such  attractive  contrasts.  One's  soul 
cannot  but  be  filled  with  awe,  and  the 
feeling  that  this  is  holy  ground,  pos- 
sesses the  reverent  heart. 

In  due  time  we  arrived  at  the  Horse- 
Shoe  Mesa,  where  the  Canyon  Copper 
Company  mine  is  located.  Here  are 
the  bunk  houses  and  boarding  houses 
of  the  miners.  The  distance  from  the 
rim  to  this  camp  is  three  miles.  Here 
we  had  lunch,  rested  for  an  hour,  and 
then  continued  our  journey  downward. 
All  the  way  down  the  marvelous  scenic 
features  of  the  canyon  remain  in  evi- 
dence, until  at  last  the  Colorado  River 
it  reached.  And  what  a  wonderful 
river  it  is !  One  must  stand  on  its  very 
brink  if  he  would  form  a  correct  idea 
of  its  wild  nature.  One  is  almost  deaf- 
ened by  the  sound  of  its  sullen  roar  as 
it  leaps  and  tumbles  over  the  rocks  be- 
tween the  walls  of  the  canyon.  Here 
we  spent  the  night,  and  it  being  a 
moonlight  night,  our  imagination  ran 
riot  Shadows  took  on  life,  fantastic 
beings  moved  here  and  there  among 
the  rocks ;  multitudes  of  ghostly  forms 
seemed  to  be  having  a  carnival  of  high 
glee,  if  one  might  judge  from  the 
shrieks  of  laughter  which  reached  our 
ears  from  time  to  time. 

Morning  light  flooded  the  canyon  as 
we  awoke  to  a  new  day.  Breakfast 
over,  we  began  the  journey  upward,  ar- 
riving at  the  Mesa  some  little  time  be- 
fore noon,  which  afforded  us  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  a  short  visit  to  the 
Copper  mine,  then  to  lunch  at  the 
boarding  house,  after  which  our  guide 
led  the  way  to  the  smaller  one  of  the 
Grand  View  caves. 

These  caves  were  discovered  in 
1897  by  the  camp  cook,  Joseph  Gild- 
ner,  and  are  worthy  of  much  time  spent 
within  them.  The  smaller  one  of  these 
caves  is  located  about  a  mile  from 
the  cabin.  The  trail  leading  to  it  is 
very  steep  and  narrow,  and  requires 
undivided  attention.  Our  guide  gave 
us  each  a  candle  and  we  passed 
through  the  opening  and  were,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  brought  suddenly  face 


to  face  with  the  wonders  of  another 
world.  The  cave  is  about  three  hun- 
dred feet  long  and  from  ten  to  ninety 
feet  in  height.  It  was  once  called 
"The  Hanging  Gardens  of  Babylon," 
and  might  well  bear  such  a  name,  so 
wonderful  are  the  stallactites  and  stal- 
agmites which  are  found  here.  Some 
of  these  are  several  feet  in  length  and 
tapering  in  diameter  from  three  inches 
down  to  the  size  of  a  slate  pencil,  but 
the  majority  of  them  are  smaller.  Some 
are  smooth  like  pipe  stems,  while 
others  are  curly  like  tiny  cedar  trees. 
These  are  very  beautiful. 

An  interesting  fact  concerning  these 
stalactites  is  that  they  will  give  forth 
clear  musical  sounds  when  one  strikes 
them.  A  lady  who  visited  the  caves 
succeeded  in  playing  nearly  all  of  the 
scale  upon  them.  On  the  point  of  one 
of  them  was  a  drop  of  water,  clear  as 
crystal,  and  the  guide  said  he  presumed 
it  had  taken  twenty-four  hours  for  that 
one  drop  to  form.  Imagine,  then, 
how  long  this  fairyland  must  have  been 
in  the  state  of  formation. 

In  one  of  the  many  rooms  are  three 
trees,  the  tallest  of  which  is  fifteen  feet 
in  height.  They  look  exactly  like  the 
cedars  which  we  saw  on  the  highlands, 
except  that  the  prevailing  colors  here 
are  pink  and  cream.  How  pleasant 
must  be  the  task  of  nature's  sculptors 
in  such  a  workshop.  I  fell  to  dream- 
ing, and  half-expected  to  find  ourselves 
surrounded  by  strange  beings,  and  felt 
relieved  when  we  came  to  the  entrance, 
up  out  of  the  very  heart  of  mother 
earth,  into  the  welcome  light  of  late 
afternoon. 

We  were  hungry,  and  enjoyed  the 
hearty  supper  at  the  camp,  after  which 
we  walked  out  to  the  edge  of  the  Horse 
Shoe  Mesa  for  the  sunset  view.  This 
is  one  of  the  great  features  of  the  trip, 
arising  from  the  fact  that  the  Mesa 
extends  well  out  into  the  heart  of  the 
canyon,  thus  affording  a  panoramic 
view  which  one  cannot  afford  to  miss. 

Just  before  sunset  we  set  out  for  the 
larger  cave,  which  is  located  one-half 
mile  from  the  cabin,  and  although  we 
passed  over  some  very  dangerous 
places  along  the  way,  we  arrived 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  AND  ITS  WONDERFUL  CAVES        115 


safely,  lighted  our  candles  and  once 
more  disappeared  from  the  outside 
world. 

This  cave  is  about  the  same  length 
as  the  other,  but  the  walls  are  higher; 
indeed,  we  were  unable  to  see  the  ceil- 
ing by  the  light  of  our  candles. 

Our  guide  led  us  first  to  some 
"Tombstones" — unwelcome  spectacle 
amid  such  surroundings.  They  are 
white  rocks  standing  upright,  the  size 
and  form  of  tombstones.  The  "Baby 
Elephant"  is  there,  whose  head  espec- 
ially is  a  perfect  resemblance.  And 
the  two  "Bells,"  the  larger  one  being 
eight  feet  in  diameter.  In. this  we 
carved  our  names  as  many  others  have 
done  before  us.  We  then  passed  on  to 
a  massive  boulder  with  peculiar  over- 
hanging rocks,  and  this  is  called  "The 
Gallery." 

Passing  through  a  narrow  opening, 
just  large  enough  to  admit  one  at  a 
time  on  hands  and  knees,  we  came  into 
another  large  room,  and  from  that  into 
another,  and  still  another.  It  is  re- 
lated that  a  gentleman  who  visited  this 
cave,  and  who  carried  an  abundance  of 
avoirdupois,  was  brought  unpleasantly, 
but  necessarily,  to  a  sudden  halt  in  one 
of  the  doorways  of  this  cave,  being  un- 
able to  either  go  forward  or  return, 
until  finally  he  was  helped,  through 
the  ingenuity  of  the  guide,  to  make  a 
safe  return,  vowing  vengeance  on  all 
who  got  him  into  such  a  scrape. 

As  we  passed  through  the  different 
rooms,  we  gazed  with  wonder  at  the 
bunches  of  grapes  and  bananas  hang- 
ing from  the  wall,  and  the  birds'  nests, 
all  in  pink  and  cream,  and  so  delicately 
and  beautifully  wrought.  There  is 
also  "The  Old  Man's  Bathtub,"  with 
his  cap  lying  in  the  bottom  of  it.  The 
"Tan  Shop,"  where  several  sheep- 
skins seem  to  be  hung  upon  pegs, 
which  extend  from  the  wall  from  one 
to  four  inches,  thus  leaving  a  space  be- 
tween the  wall  and  the  sheep-skins, 
which  are  pink  and  very  curly  on  the 
outer  side,  the  inside  being  a  pure 
cream  color.  A  large  fish,  splendidly 
formed,  is  also  very  interesting;  in- 
deed, words  fail  me  with  which  to  tell 
of  all  the  wonders  of  these  caves. 


At  last  we  came  again  to  the  en- 
trance and  then  the  fun  began — our 
guide  had  forgotten  to  bring  a  lantern. 
A  fierce  wind  was  blowing  from  the 
southeast,  and  soon  our  candles  were 
out.  The  night  sky  was  covered  with 
clouds,  not  even  a  friendly  star  in 
sight.  The  guide  tried  to  comfort  us 
by  saying  that  he  could  go  anywhere 
along  that  trail  blindfolded,  and  so  we 
started  on  with  as  much  courage  as 
we  could  muster  along  that  terrible 
pathway.  I  was  climbing  up  just  be- 
hind the  guide  and  my  companion 
back  of  me,  the  darkness  being  so  in- 
tense that  I  could  scarcely  see  the 
guide's  heels,  except  when  the  light- 
ning flashes  came,  which  only  plunged 
us  into  deeper  darkness  a  moment 
later.  Much  of  this  trail  is  very  steep 
and  very  dangerous.  In  some  places 
little  steps  have  been  hewn  out  of  the 
solid  rock  wall,  just  large  enough  in 
which  to  place  one  foot  at  a  time,  with 
towering  walls  on  one  side,  and  walls 
straight  down  thousands  of  feet  on  the 
other  side,  so  that  if  one  should  make 
a  single  mis-step  he  would  be  hurled 
into  Eternity  in  a  moment's  time. 

Just  as  we  were  passing  over  the 
most  dangerous  place — clinging  to  the 
rocks,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  our 
heartless  guide  said  to  us,  "Do  not 
cling  to  the  rocks,  because  if  you  do 
you  are  liable  to  be  stung  by  a  scor- 
pion, as  they  are  frequently  found 
here."  But  nevertheless  we  held  fast 
to  the  rocks,  preferring  scorpion  stings 
to  instant  death. 

Finally  we  arrived  at  the  cabin  at 
half-past  nine  o'clock,  just  as  a  terrific 
thunder  storm  burst  upon  us  in  all  its 
fury.  Such  lightning!  Such  thunder! 
It  seemed  to  us  that  all  the  mountains 
in  the  canyon  were  being  rent  from 
top  to  bottom;  while  a  continuous, 
deafening,  mighty  roar  easily  sug- 
gested the  end  of  all  time.  Peals  of 
thunder  followed  each  other  so  closely 
that  seemingly  there  was  no  interval 
between  them.  The  roaring  in  the 
canyons  below  us  of  one  terrible  peal 
of  thunder  which  had  just  passed  over, 
and  which  seemed  to  be  plowing  a 
world-wide  furrow  into  the  very  heart 


116 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


of  earth,  was  followed  by  a  splitting, 
cracking  and  shaking  of  the  founda- 
tions of  the  mountain  beneath  our 
cabin,  and  again  followed  quickly  by 
another  terrifying  peal  in  the  moun- 
tain tops  above  us,  and  together  with 
all  this  was  heard  the  rushing  of 
many  waters,  as  the  rain  dashed  from 
rock  to  rock,  filling  all  the  ravines,  and 
they,  in  turn  joining  forces,  thus  mak- 
ing wild  torrents  in  all  the  side  can- 
yons, rushing  on  to  join  in  the  mad 
revel  of  the  angry,  raging  Colorado 
far  below. 

We  listened  until  the  roar  of  the 


storm  was  lost  in  the  distance,  and 
fell  asleep  thinking  of  our  weakness 
and  the  greatness  of  our  God,  who  re- 
members us  in  the  time  of  storm.  With 
such  thoughts  as  these  still  in  mind 
the  following  morning,  we  slowly,  but 
steadily  climbed  upward,  our  eyes 
lifted  to  the  peaks  above  us,  then  ris- 
ing above  them,  one  by  one,  until  at 
last  we  reached  the  level  of  the  Rim, 
tired  but  thoroughly  satisfied  with  the 
greatness,  the  grandeur,  the  majesty 
of  the  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona — the 
greatest  of  the  seven  wonders  of 
America. 


RO/AANY    SONG 

0  I  built  a  little  cot  for  my  Gipsy  love  and  me, 

In  the  wood,  in  the  wood. 
Just  a  place  to  be  a-staying 
Round  the  world  no  longer  straying 
Under  hill  and  over  lea, 
And  so  fair  and  fine  it  stood 
With  its  scented  roof  of  thatch 
And  the  string  beside  the  latch 
That  all  safe  at  home  my  love  was  glad  to  be. 

O  at  morn  and  eve  my  Gipsy  love  had  smiles  for  me 

Till  the  spring,  till  the  spring, 
When  the  bees  and  birds  a-Maying 
Past  our  doorway  went  a-straying 
Down  the  winds,  so  glad  and  free, 
And  the  sweet  wild  things  a-wing 
Made  the  cottage  seem  her  cage, 
And  its  pleasures  naught  to  gauge 
With  the  white  roads  where  my  love  was  fain  to  be. 

0  my  Gipsy  love  is  true,  and  she  here  would  biding  be, 

Though  she  sigh,  though  she  sigh, 
But  I'll  stay  no  wild  bird's  winging, 
So  we'll  follow  after  singing, 
Under  hill  and  over  lea, 
Round  the  world,  my  love  and  I, — 
Leave  the  scented  roof  of  thatch, 
Let  another  lift  the  latch, 
And  away,  so  but  my  love  be  glad  with  me ! 

VIRGINIA  CLEAVER  BACON, 


Women  Doctors;  An  Historic 
:  r         Retrospect 

By  Dr.  /Aelanie  Lapinska  and  Lady  Auir  Mackenzie 


THE  European  war  has  brought 
the  question  of  women  surgeons 
and  doctors  to  the  fore.  The 
Russians  have  many  women 
surgeons  in  the  Medical  Department  of 
their  army,  and,  though  the  English 
R.A.M.C.  and  I.M.S.  have  not  yet  ad- 
mitted women  to  their  ranks,  the  War 
Office  has  reluctantly  begun  to  recog- 
nize hospitals  entirely  officered  by  wo- 
men doctors.  Only  recently  they  sanc- 
tioned the  opening  of  just  such  a  mili- 
tary hospital  in  London,  the  woman 
doctor  in  charge  being  very  appropri- 
ately Dr.  Louisa  Garrett  Anderson. 
The  Belgians  and  French  have  always 
been  ready  to  accept  the  services  of 
medical  women  for  their  wounded. 
Last  September  Mrs.  St.  Clair  Stobart 
and  Dr.  Florence  Stoney  established 
a  hospital  for  Belgian  wounded  in 
Antwerp.  Driven  from  there  by  the 
Germans,  they  did  fine  work  in  Cher- 
bourg among  the  French  wounded.  The 
French  men  doctors  were  so  interested 
that  they  asked  permission  to  watch 
these  expert  women  surgeons  at  work. 
The  activities  of  medical  women, 
both  in  military  hospitals  and  else- 
'where  to-day,  make  it  an  interesting 
moment  to  glance  backward  at  the  his- 
tory of  women  doctors.  There  are 
people  who  imagine  that  the  woman 
doctor  is  a  product  of  the  modern  fem- 
inist movement ;  but  the  student  of  his- 
tory knows  that  at  practically  every 
stage  of  human  development  women 
studied  and  practiced  medicine.  It 
was  not  until  the  fifteenth  century  that 
the  male  physicians  of  Europe  banded 
themselves  into  a  species  of  trade 
unionism,  and  discouraged  and  sup- 


pressed the  medical  activities  of  wo- 
men. In  the  nineteenth  century,  how- 
ever, women,  in  spite  of  determined 
opposition,  won  again  the  right  to  prac- 
tice medicine. 

In  very  early  times  do  we,  for  in- 
stance, find  women  esteemed  as  medi- 
cal practitioners?  We  can  only  con- 
jecture by  examining  the  beliefs  and 
customs  of  primitive  tribes  found  to- 
day in  various  parts  of  the  globe.  These 
in  fact  give  us  the  only  clue  to  archaic 
conditions  no  longer  existing  among 
civilized  nations.  Medicine  is  invari- 
ably combined  with  sorcery  and  reli- 
gion among  primitive  peoples.  The 
doctor  is  practically  always  a  priest 
or  magician,  and,  except  where  women 
are  only  regarded  as  beasts  of  burden, 
they  act  as  priestess-doctors,  on  equal 
terms  with  the  priest-doctors.  It  is 
quite  a  question  whether  the  witch  is 
not  held  in  higher  esteem  than  the 
wizard.  In  the  Eastern  Archipelago, 
for  instance,  male  doctors  in  certain 
tribes  wear  female  dress,  and  the  wo- 
man doctors  in  other  tribes  array 
themselves  as  men.  There  are  villages 
again  where  both  a  male  and  a  female 
doctor  may  be  found;  and  in  other 
places  women  doctors  are  forbidden 
to  marry,  and  form  something  in  the 
nature  of  a  sisterhood.  No  matter 
where  we  look,  whether  it  be  among 
the  Indian  tribes  of  North  or  South 
America,  or  among  the  peoples  of  Af- 
rica, Australia,  Kamtchatka  or  Cochin 
China,  we  come  across  women  taking 
part  in  medical  ceremonies.  Every- 
where we  find  "the  medicine  woman," 
or  the  "wise  woman,"  held  in  deep 
reverence. 


118 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Medical  art  among  savage  and  un- 
cultured peoples  does  not  consist  en- 
tirely of  magic  practices ;  their  knowl- 
edge of  herbs,  and  even  of  surgery,  is 
far  from  being  contemptible.  It  is  not 
surprising,  however,  to  find  that  mid- 
wifery is  the  medical  woman's  peculiar 
province  among  unsophisticated  peo- 
ples. It  is  not  far-fetched  to  imagine 
that  the  ancestors  of  the  first  civilized 
peoples,  such  as  the  Egyptians  and 
Greeks,  were  much  like. our  primitive 
brethren  whose  ways  sociologists  study 
to-day.  Following  primitive  traditions, 
the  art  of  medicine  among  the  Egyp- 
tians, Greeks  and  Romans  was  inex- 
tricably interwoven  with  religion. 
Priests  and  priestesses  practiced  the 
healing  art;  the  Delphic  Pythia,  for  in- 
stance, gave  medical  consultations,  her 
prescriptions  being  delivered  oracu- 
larly. In  those  times  there  was  no 
question  of  arguing  with  a  physician. 
Only  an  irreverent  generation  such  as 
ours  dares  to  criticise  the  sages  of 
Harley  street.  In  the  Iliad  we  learn 
that  the  daughter  of  Augeas  knew  "as 
many  remedies  as  the  wide  earth  pro- 
duces," and  the  reader  cannot  fail  to 
gather  that  a  knowledge  of  pharmacy 
and  therapeutics  was  counted  as  a 
womanly  accomplishment  among  the 
people  of  the  heroic  Greek  age.  In 
later  Graeco-Roman  times  women  doc- 
tors were  evidently  numerous,  and 
Pliny  the  Elder  and  Galen  mention 
some  by  name.  In  Christian  ceme- 
teries in  Asia  Minor  tombs  of  women 
doctors  have  been  discovered.  Medi- 
cal lore  written  by  women  remains  to 
us,  notably  some  able  fragments  by  one 
Aspasia.  Then  a  certain  Metradora 
wrote  about  the  diseases  of  women, 
and  the  MS.  still  exists  in  Florence. 

Not  till  the  first  century  A.  D.  do  we 
find  real  evidence  of  the  existence  of 
women  doctors  in  Rome  (medicse,  as 
distinct  from  obstetrices.)  In  the 
fourth  century,  Octavius  Horatianus 
mentions  two  learned  medical  women, 
Victoria  and  Leoparda.  Epitaphs  of 
women  doctors  may  occasionally  be 
found  among  Roman  remains.  The  tra- 
dition of  Roman  culture  survived  long 
in  Southern  Italy,  and  the  admission 


of  women  to  medical  studies  in  the 
famous  schools  of  Salerno  may  have 
been  due  to  old  usage.  In  the  eleventh 
and  twelfth  centuries  the  Muliere  sa- 
lernitanae  were  well  known  for  their 
medical  lore,  and  their  writings  were 
considered  valuable.  The  work  en- 
titled De  Passionibus  Mulierum,  by 
one  learned  in  medicine,  Madame 
Trotte  or  Trotata,  still  survives  from 
the  eleventh  century.  "It  shows  no 
sign,"  says  the  historian,  "of  supersti- 
tion and  futility,  and  bears  the  mark 
throughout  of  the  experienced  practi- 
tioner." A  license  to  practice  medi- 
cine and  surgery  was  given  to  Fran- 
cesca,  wife  of  Matteo  de  Romane,  of 
Salerno,  in  1321,  and  the  document  is 
still  preserved  among  the  archives  of 
Naples.  Similarly,  we  find  mention  of 
women  doctors  among  the  State  papers 
of  Venice,  Florence  and  Turin.  Those 
who  are  interested  enough  to  examine 
these  papers  will  find  that  some  of 
these  medical  women  with  charming 
names,  such  as  Ghilietta,  Leonetta, 
and  Beatrice,  were  celebrated  and  held 
in  high  esteem. 

Medical  art  was  often  acquired  in 
the  Middle  Ages  by  a  pupil  appren- 
ticing himself  to  an  established  prac- 
titioner. We  read  of  doctors  taking  fe- 
male apprentices,  and  a  document  in 
the  archives  of  Marseilles,  dated  1326, 
shows  us  a  woman  doctor  with  a  male 
apprentice.  This  was  a  case  of  "cul- 
ture while  you  wait,"  for  the  lady  en- 
gaged to  convey  her  art  to  her  pupil  in 
seven  months.  The  Faculty  of  Paris 
grew  strong,  and  decreed  that  non- 
academical  medicine  and  surgery  must 
cease.  In  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries  many  women  doctors  appear 
to  have  transgressed  the  order,  and 
-sentence  of  excommunication  was 
launched  against  them.  Women  doc- 
tors flourished  in  Germany  from  the 
thirteenth  to  the  fifteenth  century,  and 
during  that  period  special  mention  is 
made  of  fifteen  medicae,  three  of  whom 
were  oculists.  German  Jewesses  seem 
'to  have  specially  cultivated  the  art  of 
medicine.  In  England  we  have  no  rec- 
ord of  women  practicing  medicine  pro- 
fessionally during  the  feudal  period. 


WOMEN  DOCTORS:  AN  HISTORIC  PROSPECT 


119 


Many  of  the  great  ladies  of  those  days 
were  taught  surgery,  and  used  to  dress 
the  wounds  of  knights  who  asked  for 
succor  at  their  castle  gates.  An  ec- 
clesiastical law  of  the  time  of  King 
Edgar  without  doubt  gave  permission 
to  English  women  to  practice  medicine. 
Many  convents,  both  in  England  and 
on  the  Continent,  had  infirmaries  and 
hospitals  attached  to  them,  and  sev- 
eral orders  of  nuns  specialized  in  the 
art  of  medicine.  Saint  Hildegard, 
Prioress  of  Ruprechtsburg,  wrote  medi- 
cal treatises,  and  it  is  said  she  knew 
facts  of  which  the  doctors  of  those 
days  were  ignorant. 

As  Europe  emerged  from  the  medie- 
val period,  women  began  to  be  rigidly 
excluded  from  the  study  and  practice 
of  medicine.  Man's  interests  alone 
were  represented  in  all  the  forms  of 
government,  and  it  was  natural  that 
masculine  monopoly  should  be  -pro- 
tected. The  universities  were  very 
hostile  to  women  and  to  free  lances  of 
all  kinds.  Italy  was  an  exception.  In 
the  fifteenth  century  women  professors 
were  found  in  the  University  of  Bo- 
logna. In  the  eighteenth  century,  too, 
this  famous  university  was  a  center  of 
medical  training  for  women.  When 
Napoleon  passed  through  Bologna  in 
1802,  he  was  so  struck  by  the  learning 
of  one  Maria  dalle  Donne,  that  he  es- 
tablished for  her  a  Chair  of  Obstetrics, 
which  she  occupied  till  her  death  in 
1842. 

The  women  of  Spain  have  not  dis- 
tinguished themselves  as  doctors,  al- 
though we  must  not  forget  that  Ana 
de  Osoris,  Countess  of  Chinchon,  in- 
troduced the  "Jesuits'  bark" — or  qui- 
nine— into  the  pharmacopcea.  Her 
husband  was  Viceroy  of  Peru,  so  she 
had  occasion  to  come  across  this  valu- 
able remedy.  In  the  same  way  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu  introduced  in- 
oculation into  England,  having  first 
seen  it  used  in  Turkey  in  1716.  In 
1587,  Donna  Alivia  Sabuco,  a  Span- 
ish woman,  published  a  remarkable 
book,  Nueva  Filosofia  de  la  Naturaleza 
del  Hombre.  This  psycho-physiologi- 
cal work  touches  on  the  relation  of 
mind  and  body  and  the  influence  of 


the  passions  upon  health  and  disease, 
and  must  have  been  far  in  advance  of 
the  thoughts  of  the  age. 

Even  when  the  medical  profession 
was  closed  to  them  officially,  French 
women  continued  to  interest  them- 
selves in  medical  studies.  The  Ba- 
ronne  de  Stael,  for  instance,  carried 
her  studies  in  dissection  so  far  that  Du- 
vernay  observed  she  was  "la  fille  de 
France  qui  connait  le  mieux  le  corps 
de  I'homme."  Mademoiselle  Biheron, 
born  about  1730,  was  devoted  to  the 
study  of  anatomy,  and  reproduced  with 
astonishing  truth  in  colored  composi- 
tion various  parts  of  the  human  body. 
Surgeon-General  Sir  John  Pringle  was 
so  struck  by  her  models  that  he  said: 
"Madam,  they  give  me  everything  but 
the  smell!"  Her  scientific  exactitude 
made  her  a  worthy  forerunner  to  Mad- 
ame Curie.  Madame  Necker,  mother 
of  Madame  de  Stael,  rendered  great 
service  to  humanity  by  reforming  the 
French  hospitals.  Before  her  time 
patients  were  huddled  together,  three 
and  four  in  a  bed,  and  all  the  sanitary 
conditions  were  unspeakable. 

The  German  universities  were  not 
altogether  successful  in  keeping  wo- 
men from  studying  medicine.  For  in- 
stance, Dorothea  Leporin,  born  in  1715, 
attained  such  fame  by  her  medical 
knowledge  that  Frederick  the  Great, 
in  1741,  gave  her  special  permission 
to  study  at  the  University  of  Halle, 
where  she  eventually  took  the  full 
Doctor's  degree. 

Ever  since  the  French  Revolution 
the  great  tide  of  individual  emancipa- 
tion has  been  rising.  Though  the  vio- 
lent reaction  against  absolutism  had  a 
marked  influence  on  the  fortunes  of 
women,  freeing  them  from  many  bonds 
it  was  not  the  direct  means  of  opening 
to  them  the  doors  of  the  medical  pro- 
fession. However,  writers  influenced 
by  the  Revolution,  such  as  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft,  demanded  the  same  quality 
of  education  for  boys  and  girls.  She 
was  almost  the  first  English  feminist 
who  set  her  thoughts  on  paper,  and 
she  believed  that  in  politics,  as  in  all 
-other  branches  of  human  activity,  wo- 
men, as  well  as  men,  should  be  given 


120 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


equal  rights.  Saint-Simon,  the  French 
Socialist,  also  proved  himself  a  true 
child  of  the  Revolution.  He  subscribed 
to  the  doctrine  that  men  and  women 
had  identical  rights,  and  he  and  his 
followers  held  that  both  sexes  ought 
to  share  the  same  power  in  social,  po- 
litical and  religious  matters. 

In  spite  of  the  Revolution,  and  of 
the  fact  that  Continental  countries  had 
produced  distinguished  medical  wo- 
men in  the  Middle  Ages,  it  fell  to  the 
lot  of  an  Englishwoman,  Elizabeth 
Blackwell,  to  overcome  the  opposition 
of  the  male  universities,  and  thus  to 
open  the  doors  of  modern  medicine  to 
the  women  of  the  world.  At  the  age 
of  eleven,  Elizabeth  left  England  for 
America,  and  there,  when  she  was  old 
enough,  she  sought  admittance  to  vari- 
ous American  colleges,  with  a  view  to 
becoming  a  doctor.  She  met  with  many 
rebuffs.  She  was  told  that  a  position 
of  dependence  and  inferiority  was  as- 
signed to  women,  both  by  nature  and 
society,  and  that  it  would  be  inconven- 
ient and  immoral  for  a  woman  to  study 
the  nature  and  the  laws  of  the  hu- 
man organism.  At  length  a  college 
in  the  State  of  New  York  received  her. 
Her  studies  were  conducted  under  dif- 
ficulties. The  men  students  were  not 
always  respectful,  and  she  was  pointed 
at  in  the  streets  as  being  a  queer  new 
being.  When  her  friends  advised  her 
to  adopt  male  costume  she  announced 
that  what  she  was  doing  was  more  for 
other  women  than  for  herself,  and  that 
she  must  accomplish  her  task  as  a  wo- 
man. In  1849  she  passed  her  last  ex- 
amination and  received  her  doctor's 
diploma.  After  traveling  and  study- 
ing in  Europe,  this  brave  pioneer  tried 
to  practice  medicine  in  England,  but 
she  found  public  opinion  too  hostile. 
In  1851  she  commenced  to  practice  in 
New  York,  but  at  first  the  men  doctors 
refused  to  meet  her  in  consultation. 
Finally,  her  serene  strength  of  charac- 
ter enabled  her  to  overcome  all  preju- 
dices, and  she  was  so  much  trusted  and 
admired  that  she  was  able  to  found  the 
New  York  Infirmary  and  College  for 
Women. 

In  1859  she  delivered  a  course  of 


lectures  in  England,  at  Marylebone 
HalL  and  she  records  that  her  "most 
important  listener  was  the  bright,  in- 
telligent young  lady,  whose  interest  in 
the  study  of  medicine  was  then 
aroused — Miss  Elizabeth  Garrett — 
who  became  the  pioneer  of  the  medical 
movement  in  England,  and  who,  as 
Mrs.  Garrett  Anderson,  lives  to  see  the 
great  success  of  her  difficult  and 
brave  work."  We  know  what  a  fight 
Dr.  Garrett  Anderson  had  to  make  be- 
fore she  could  secure  a  doctor's  de- 
gree. At  length,  in  1865,  the  Society 
of  Apothecaries  granted  her  a  license ; 
otherwise  she  would  have  had  to  de- 
pend entirely  on  American  and  foreign 
diplomas.  The  constitution  of  the  So- 
ciety of  Apothecaries  did  not  allow  the 
exclusion  of  any  person  who  had  satis- 
fied the  ordinary  tests,  and  the  oppo- 
nents gave  way  to  law  and  not  to  con- 
viction ;  for  immediately  after  this  one 
woman  had  obtained  a  license,  they  al- 
tered their  constitution  so  as  to  ex- 
clude all  women. 

In  1869  the  controversy  about  the 
wisdom  of  allowing  women  to  take  a 
medical  degree  was  revived  in  Eng- 
land, when  Miss  Sophia  Jex-Blake  and 
her  companions  attempted  to  obtain 
medical  degrees  at  Edinburgh  Univer- 
sity. Their  opponents  said  the  usual 
things — that  they  only  wished  to  carry 
on  intrigues  with  men  students,  and 
were  trying  a  new  way  of  getting  hus- 
bands; or,  again,  that  the  study  of 
anatomy  was  inconsistent  with  female 
delicacy.  To  these  arguments  were 
added  the  plaints  of  professional  jeal- 
ousy. The  men  students  became  very 
hostile  in  Edinburgh,  and  pelted  their 
women  colleagues  with  mud  upon  sev- 
eral occasions.  This  is  hardly  surpris- 
ing when  grave  and  responsible  people 
treated  the  legitimate  aspirations  of 
these  women  with  scurrility. 

English  women,  finding  it  impossi- 
ble to  obtain  a  doctor's  degree  in  their 
own  country,  went  to  Switzerland,  and 
in  1877  we  find  Dr.  Jex-Blake  receiv- 
ing her  degree  of  M.  D.  at  Berne. 
The  University  of  Zurich  was  the  first 
in  the  Old  World  to  open  its  doors  to 
women  medical  students,  and  here,  in 


WOMEN  DOCTORS:  AN  HISTORIC  PROSPECT 


121 


1865,  Madame  Souslova  found  what 
had  been  denied  her  in  Russia — a  fine 
medical  education.  She  was  able  to 
return  to  Petrograd  armed  with  diplo- 
mas and  the  full  degree  of  M.  D.  She 
was  the  first  fully-qualified  Russian 
woman  doctor  who  practiced  in  Rus- 
sia. 

In  every  European  country,  as  well 
as  in  America,  the  number  of  women 
doctors  is  increasing  every  year.  The 
proof  that  the  art  of  scientific  healing 
is  naturally  and  legitimately  woman's 
work  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
women  doctors  we  meet  have,  for  the 
most  part,  those  gentle,  tender  quali- 
ties we  especially  love  in  women. 

The  entrance  of  Indian  girls  into  the 
medical  profession  is  a  very  interest- 
ing study.  Here  we  have  these  most 
fragile  and  ethereal  beings  developing 
into  expert  surgeons  and  doctors.  The 
story  of  the  Hindu  doctor,  Rukmabai, 
is  well  known.  She  refused  to  ratify 
her  marriage  made  for  her  when  a 
child.  The  question  was  argued  in  a 
court  of  law,  and  the  English  Judge 
said  the  consequence  of  her  refusal 
would  be  imprisonment.  Undaunted, 
she  chose  imprisonment,  and  finally 
came  to  England  and  took  a  great 
medical  degree.  One  of  the  writers 
had  the  pleasure  of  staying  with  her  in 
India  in  her  perfectly  equipped  mater- 
nity hospital,  and  also  has  vivid  recol- 
lections of  another  Indian  hospital, 
presided  over  by  a  beautiful  girl,  Dr. 
Krishnabai.  This  fascinating  little  fig- 
ure, clad  in  clinging  draperies,  was 
such  a  reliable  surgeon  that  when  a 
complicated  case  puzzled  the  men  doc- 
tors in  an  adjoining  hospital  it  was 
customary  to  send  for  Krishnabai.  In- 
dia ought  to  prove  an  ideal  field  for 
the  activities  of  medical  women.  Im- 
agine a  population  of  some  150,000,000 
women,  the  majority  of  whom  are  hid- 
den from  the  sight  of  all  men  save 


their  own  husbands.  Their  need  for 
women  practitioners  is  immense.  Yet 
here  again  men's  professional  jealousy, 
and  their  partisanship  for  their  own 
sex  in  the  world  they  rule,  have  made 
the  conditions  of  medical  service  in 
India  most  uninviting  to  women.  A 
fight  for  more  possible  conditions  has 
been  in  progress  for  years,  and  now 
a  better  state  of  thjngs  exists.  How- 
ever, the  whole  battle  has  not  yet  been 
won.  The  Zenana  Bible  and  Medical 
Mission  sends  out  splendid  doctors  to 
the  many  patient  suffering  women  of 
India. 

In  spite,  however,  of  an  increasing 
number  of  lay  and  missionary  doctors, 
India  needs  many  more.  It  ought  to 
be  the  serious  business  of  the  British 
government  to  encourage  and  not  dis- 
courage the  activities  of  women  doc- 
tors in  India. 

The  history  of  the  Chinese  and  Jap- 
anese women  doctors  is  interesting, 
were  there  space  to  touch  upon  it.  No 
matter  where  we  look  in  the  great 
seething  cauldron  of  the  world's  his- 
tory, we  meet  to-day  this  question  of 
the  woman  in  medicine.  It  is  more 
than  possible  that  the  war  will  have 
a  beneficial  effect  on  the  fortunes  of 
women  doctors.  Like  the  French  Rev- 
olution, the  war  will  destroy  many  ar- 
tificial barriers,  and  if  it  results  in  in- 
creasing the  power  of  women  as  doc- 
tors, the  human  race  must  benefit.  Can 
we  not  all  sympathize  with  the  soldier 
in  one  of  those  military  hospitals  in 
France  which  are  officered  by  women, 
who  said:  "Madam,  you  make  your 
hospital  a  home  instead  of  an  institu- 
tion." When  the  humane  heart  of  wo- 
man— which  is  the  same  as  saying  the 
humane  heart  of  the  mother — is  rein- 
forced by  exact  scientific  knowledge 
and  a  logically  trained  mind,  we  come 
very  near  to  finding  the  perfect  human 
being. 


A  Woman's  Heart 


By  Billee  Glynn 


THERE  is  only  one  way  out  of  it 
— let  us  get  a  divorce." 
The  tone  was   entirely  con- 
trolled and  matter-of-fact.     A 
blight  of  coldness  had  hardened  the 
pretty  mouth  that  uttered  it.    She  was 
looking  at  him  out  of  brown  eyes  calm 
and  flower-like,  the   inviting  totality 
of  her  nattily-gowned  daintiness  held 
languidly  and  aloof  from  him  across 
the  table.     Her  small  hand  plucked 
idly  at  the  table-cover  as  though  it 
might  have  been  a  man's  heart.     She 
repeated:  "Let  us  get  a  divorce." 

The  cafe  was  one  of  those  quaint, 
intimate,  sequestered  places  where 
such  a  suggestion  had  its  dramatic  sig- 
nificance. The  man,  of  slender  figure 
and  quiet  aspect,  made  no  immediate 
reply.  With  something  drawn,  some- 
thing deeply  repressed  in  his  look,  he 
turned  to  gaze  out  of  the  window 
which  opened  on  a  little  side  street 
appearing  to  lead  nowhere.  His  eyes 
were  still  the  eyes  of  a  boy,  wide  open 
blue  and  full  of  an  engaging  look  of 
truth.  They  had  remained  so  in  the 
center  of  a  somewhat  frayed  person- 
ality. And  yet  they  had  much  of  weari- 
ness, too, — the  weariness  of  long  des- 
ert distance — but  based  on  sweetness 
and  patience  and  belonging  to  the 
spirit,  not  to  the  heart.  He  continued 
to  stare  out  the  window,  and  she  con- 
tinued to  regard  him  coolly.  He 
turned  at  length,  meeting  her  glance 
calmly. 

"What  will  you  have  for  dessert?" 
he  inquired  gently,  putting  her  sugges- 
tion aside  unanswered. 

She  had  given  vent  to  it  so  often 
during  the  last  six  months  that  his 
silence  and  helplessness  before  it  she 
could  not  but  accept.  It  had  become 
a  groove  of  blight  between  them.  She 


remembered  well  the  intensity  of  his 
feelings  when  her  lips  had  first  spoken 
the  sentence,  how  he  had  met  it  with 
a  fever  of  love  and  pleading.  She 
had  never  fully  realized  her  power 
over  him  till  then.  Yet  she  had  re- 
peated this  sentence  which  pained  him 
so  much,  had  repeated  it  till  he  met 
it  with  a  word  or  overlooked  it  in 
silence  as  now.  And  with  that  repeti- 
tion the  idea  of  it  had  grown  within 
herself  till  it  had  become  a  fact  be- 
yond which  her  senses  caught  the  per- 
fume of  a  lighter  freedom.  His  love 
seemed  more  and  more  tedious  in 
comparison.  The  beauty  of  it  she 
scarcely  understood.  With  a  faint 
smile  and  without  emotion  she  watched 
it  sear  beneath  her  words.  She  picked 
up  the  menu,  again  looking  it  over. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  too  late  in  the  sea- 
son for  strawberries?" 

"You  might  try  them;  they  may 
help  you  to  be  more  sweet." 

"We  might  as  well  face  a  fact, 
Allan,"  she  returned  sharply,  and  with 
a  flash  in  her  eyes.  "7  am  going  to 
get  a  divorce.  I  shall  have  applied 
for  it  before  this  month  is  out." 

"You  do  not  mean  it."  He  smiled 
in  a  poor  attempt  at  banter.  "What 
reason?" 

"I  do  not  love  you." 

It  was  on  his  tongue  to  tell  her  that 
her  soul  was  not  made  of  the  stuff  to 
love  any  one  after  love  had  been  once 
given  her ;  but  he  kept  it  back  because 
he  did  love  her. 

The  waiter  had  come  up  and  he 
gave  him  their  orders.  They  ate  their 
dessert  in  silence.  Once  he  found 
himself  unconsciously  endeavoring  to 
gaze  behind  the  mist  in  her  dark, 
golden-lashed  eyes.  When  he  had 
first  met  her  they  had  suggested  to 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART 


123 


him  the  poetry  of  an  infinite  twilight 
into  which  the  soul  might  journey  for- 
ever, bring  beauty  and  finding  beauty. 
Now  he  saw  in  them  the  black  frost 
of  an  autumn,  and  his  naked  love  stood 
shivering  and  belonging  to  the  dead 
leaves  of  idealistically  created  bloom. 

"What  do  you  wish  to  do  to-night?" 
he  asked,  after  a  while.  "We  could 
see  the  new  opera  company  in  Thais." 

"I  promised  Alice  to  call  on  her." 

"Oh,  very  well,  then;  we  can  go  to 
the  opera  another  night." 

That  evening  when  alone  he  thought 
of  Jean  Forrest  and  started  out  to  pay 
him  a  visit.  They  had  not  seen  each 
other  for  a  month,  and  Forrest  was 
extremely  glad  to  have  him.  He  was 
a  bachelor  artist  who  had  become  fam- 
ous. He  and  Gray  had  roomed  to- 
gether in  the  old  days  in  Paris,  and  he 
was  undoubtedly  his  most  intimate 
friend;  one  of  those  rare  friendships 
between  men  based  on  deep  and  intui- 
tive understanding.  He  had  large,  im- 
perturbable gray  eyes  and  a  quiet 
presence.  He  had  found  the  few 
things  which  interested  him,  but  habit- 
ually observed  everything,  and  was 
extremely  well  informed.  The  room 
in  which  the  visitor  had  been  ushered 
seemed  to  possess,  with  its  ensemble 
of  selected  art  and  comfortable  fur- 
nishings, a  rosy  stillness,  an  unuttered 
applause  to  the  grace,  lines  and  poses 
of  temperament. 

Gray,  smoking  his  cigar,  said  after 
some  time  had  passed:  "My  wife  is 
going  to  get  a  divorce,  Jean." 

The  other  opened  his  eyes.  "You 
don't  tell  me!  For  why?" 

"She  says  that  she  does  not  love 
me." 

The  artist  put  his  hands  behind  his 
head.  "Does  she  love  any  one  else?" 

"I  think  it  is  simply  a  desire  for 
freedom,  to  kick  her  heels,  as  they 
say.  And  yet  she  has  never  had  a 
wish  which  I  have  not  tried  to  gratify. 
Of  the  fifty  thousand  dollars  I  had  at 
the  time  of  my  marriage  I  have  but 
five  thousand  left.  I  have  given  her, 
besides,  the  finest  that  is  in  me  al- 
ways." 

"Not  realizing  that  a  woman  born 


beautiful  is  almost  invariably  born 
without  a  sense  of  beauty,  but  with 
an  everlasting  desire  for  decoration 
and  a  crowd." 

"Don't,  Jean!  I  have  to  believe  in 
her  because  I  love  her.  You  know 
what  love  means  to  an  organism  like 
mine.  If  I  lose  her — well,  there  are 
some  things  that  a  man  cannot  do  with- 
out— food  and  water,  for  instance!" 
His  wretchedness  caught  at  the  cynic- 
ism with  something  of  relief. 

"I  know,"  responded  the  other  re- 
flectively. "They  can  ridicule  love  as 
much  as  they  like,  but  it  will  always 
belong  to  some  natures — the  best.  It 
is  a  habit  of  beauty  more  destructive 
than  cocaine,  than  ether,  then  opium, 
and  the  divinest  dreams  of  the  famed 
hashish  cannot  equal  it  for  an  hour. 
It  is  such  an  improvement  on  other 
life  that  the  man  who  has  ever  really 
experienced  it  cannot  do  without  it.  I 
am  sincerely  sorry  for  you,  Gray.  It 
is  the  rarest  game  in  the  world  to  play 
together  and  the  poorest  game  to  play 
alone." 

"But  there  is  no  reason  she  should 
not  love  me,  Jean.  She  loved  me  when 
we  were  married — I  am  sure  of  that. 
And  I  have  never  failed  her.  I  have 
always  tried  to  be  everything  that  a 
man  should  be  to  the  woman  he  loves. 
As  I  told  you,  I  have  spent  nearly  all 
of  my  fortune  on  her.  She  made 
away,  indeed,  with  fifteen  thousand  of 
it  herself  in  an  investment  about 
which  I  knew  absolutely  nothing  till  it 
was  all  over  and  the  money  lost.  Those 
two  trips  abroad  cost  a  great  deal,  too. 
That  is  nothing — I  would  spend  every- 
thing. But  it  has  brought  her  among 
people  who  have  more  money  than  I, 
and  she  has  become  discontented.  And 
yet,  if  she  would  only  stand  with  me, 
Jean,  give  me  the  support  of  her  love 
or  even  her  interest,  I  think  that  I  have 
the  ability  to  make  a  name  for  myself, 
and  soon.  I  will,  anyway.  You  know 
the  big  thing  that  is  looming  at  pres- 
ent for  me." 

"Of  course  you  will,"  agreed  his 
friend.  But  in  his  own  mind  he  sat 
with  the  question  poised  silently  and 
speculatively  as  in  the  manner  of  the 


124 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


cigarette  he  held  between  his  marvel- 
ously  long  fingers.  He  knew  the  na- 
ture of  Allan  Gray  as  well  as  if  it 
were  portrayed  in  colors  before  him. 
He  knew  well  that  he  possessed  the 
ability,  amounting  almost  to  genius,  of 
which  he  spoke.  Moreover,  he  was 
certain  to  get  the  appointment  for  the 
biggest  architectural  job  in  the  State. 
His  ability  was  part  of  that  strain  of 
beauty  in  the  man  which  made  Jean 
Forrest,  the  foremost  artist  of  the  day, 
his  friend — something  intensely  re- 
lated to  his  sensitiveness  to  life.  But, 
robbed  of  its  chosen  inspiration,  his 
mind  would  undoubtedly  be  robbed  of 
its  finest  uses.  There  was  no  power 
of  grosser  egoism  to  furnish  motive  to 
carry  the  dead  weight  of  a  heart.  No 
animal  inclination  to  cling  to  the  rem- 
nant with  the  best  of  life  and  its 
ideals  gone.  And  though  Jean  Forrest 
had  answered:  "Of  course  you  will," 
he  knew  these  things,  recognized  them 
wholly  in  the  serpentine  of  smoke 
from  his  cigarette  vanishing  like  a 
cremation  of  dreams  in  atmosphere. 

He  recalled  to  mind  a  figure  of  won- 
derful dissipation  he  had  seen  one 
night  in  Paris  in  a  cafe  frequented  by 
Bohemians  in  the  rue  Visconti,  a  figure 
of  youth  so  corroded  with  age  that  it 
was  startling  to  look  upon.  When  he 
had  asked  the  history  of  the  man  they 
had  told  him :  He  was  one  of  the  most 
promising  poets  of  France.  For  a  year 
the  world  spoke  of  him — and  then  he 
lost  his  heart  to  Yvonne  Millard  of  the 
Comedie  Francais,  one  of  those  wo- 
men lovely  as  an  Italian  night  and  with 
a  soul  like  one  of  those  common  sun- 
flowers. 

From  that  face  of  profound  dissipa- 
tion Jean  Forrest  saw  the  eyes  of  his 
friend  staring  out  at  him.  It  were  as 
though  a  ghost  had  nudged  his  elbow. 
He  sat  in  silence  while  he  finished  his 
cigarette,  then  he  turned  to  his  com- 
panion, saying  in  a  nonchalant  way: 
"I  expect  Lylas  Ward  here  to-night.  I 
have  been  making  a  portrait  of  her, 
and  there  is  a  small  matter  in  connec- 
tion with  it  that  we  wish  to  talk  over. 
She  made  an  appointment  for  eight 
o'clock."  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "It 


is  ten  minutes  past  eight  now." 

"Is  she  as  beautiful  off  the  stage  as 
on?"  inquired  the  other.  "The  charm 
of  so  many  actresses  is  made  up  of 
the  footlights." 

"She  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  I 
know  of,"  answered  Forrest,  with  con- 
viction. "She  has,  besides,  a  nature 
of  great  tenderness  and  a  mind  of 
rare  understanding." 

"You  seem  to  admire  her  very 
much  ?" 

"Only  as  a  friend.  Her  husband 
died  but  a  year  ago.  They  adored 
each  other,  and  she  is  not  one  who 
forgets." 

The  conversation  turned  to  the  por- 
trait which  the  artist  displayed  with 
a  certain  exhilaration.  It  was  appar- 
ent that  his  admiration  for  the  woman 
was  deeper  than  he  admitted.  Per- 
haps only  love  could  paint  her  so.  For 
even  in  its  unfinished  state  the  portrait 
was  remarkable.  In  the  midst  of 
Gray's  appreciation  there  was  a  light 
rap  at  the  door.  Forrest  hastily  set 
the  easel  back  and  admitted  a  smiling, 
svelte  creature.  She  took  off  her 
wraps  and  sat  down  all  in  a  moment, 
the  atmosphere  seeming  to  throb  gen- 
tly because  of  her.  Not  her  own 
beauty  so  much  you  realized  first  re- 
garding her  as  the  wonderful  beauty 
of  life  which  she  illumined.  She  was 
one  of  those  women  whose  softly  radi- 
ating presence  is  as  instant  and  subtle 
?s  moonlight,  in  the  luminosity  of 
whose  dark  eves  one  seems  to  find  all 
the  poetry  and  desires  4he  heart  has 
ever  dreamed,  and  whose  reserves  are 
like  the  flowered  distances  of  spring. 
She  spoke  in  a  voice  that  was  soft  and 
low,  and  it  led  the  conversation  in  and 
out  of  fascinating  places. 

After  a  while,  Forrest,  lighting  an- 
other cigarette,  turned  to  Gray  and 
said:  Do  not  mind,  old  man;  I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  Miss  Ward  about  your  trou- 
ble." 

*  *  *  * 

Two  evenings     later,     about     nine 
o'clock,  Jean  Forrest  called  at  the  resi- 
dence of  the  Grays.     He  found  Mrs. 
Grav  alone  except  for  a  maid.  She  was 
"glad  to  see  him,  for  she  really  liked 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART 


125 


him — the  inscrutability  of  the  man — 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  her 
husband's  best  friend.  Allan,  she  told 
him,  had  just  gone  out  on  very  im- 
portant business  on  which  he  had  not 
informed  her.  "I  do  not  know  what 
to  do  with  myself  to-night,"  she  added. 

"Why  not  come  to  the  beach  with 
me?  The  Society  of  Arts  are  giving  a 
ball  there  to-night.  We  can  be  back 
early,  and  I  am  certain  that  Allan  will 
have  no  objections.  Besides,  we  can 
leave  word  here  for  him  to  come  along 
when  he  returns." 

Her  face  had  shown  instant  enthu- 
siasm. "I  will  be  delighted  to  go.  But 
you  must  not  expect  me  to  dress." 

"There  are  some  cases  in  which  dec- 
oration cannot  improve  nature,"  he  re- 
sponded gallantly,  though  she  always 
fancied  something  synical  in  his  smile. 
"I  will  make  use  of  your  telephone  to 
call  a  taxicab." 

The  night  at  the  beach  was  full  of 
charm.  The  flavor  of  the  wild  which 
always  fills  the  sea  air,  feeding  the 
heart,  seemed  more  intense  in  its  pres- 
ence. The  cliff-built  hostelry,  lit  for 
festival,  shone  from  feathery  shadows 
silvery  as  a  mirage.  A  wraith  of 
music  drifted  longingly  in  the  breeze. 
The  affair  here  took  on  entirely  differ- 
ent aspects.  Sometimes  it  was  an  orgy 
or  a  spirited  lilt  of  Bohemians  mel- 
lowed with  good  will  and  culture; 
again  the  hours  died  like  wild  flowers 
under  the  opium  spell  of  the  salt  spray 
— given  to  the  truest  expression  of 
poetry  and  grace.  Again  a  .group  of 
artists  and  literatti  loosed  their  souls 
in  revel  and  talked  of  great  and  unique 
passions,  or  found  them  here,  making 
the  occasion  grotesque  with  the  wildest 
fancies. 

Rightly  enough,  the  balls  at  the 
House  had  become  famous.  To-night 
a  spirit  of  Hellenism  seemed  to  reign. 
An  air  of  the  delicate  and  the  aristo- 
cratic, of  trailing  graces,  melting  lines 
and  exquisite  perfumes  welcomed  the 
sense  at  the  very  entrance.  At  least 
that  was  the  impression  of  Jean  For- 
rest and  his  companion,  as  they  found 
their  way  to  a  resting  room  of  sub- 
dued lights  and  banked  in  flowers. 


Through  the  open  windows  the  stars 
flicked  tenderly  over  the  sea.  Couples 
sat  taking  refreshments  and  moving 
to  and  from  the  ballroom,  whence  a 
Viannese  waltz  surged  languorously 
and  with  siren  allure.  Here  and  there 
a  pair  of  dazzling  shoulders  and  glo- 
rious eyes  caught  the  fancy  and  re- 
turned the  gaze.  A  look  of  disap- 
pointment had  come  to  the  artist's  face. 

"I  see  that  this  is  a  full  dress  af- 
fair," he  said.  "I  understood  differ- 
ently." 

"I  do  not  wish  to  dance  anyway," 
his  companion  replied.  "It  is  lots  of 
fun  just  being  here." 

They  sat  for  a  while  sipping  their 
drink  with  pleasure — then,  strangely, 
a  half-hush  fell  on  the  room.  An  ap- 
parition of  great  loveliness  stood  in 
the  doorway  looking  intently  about. 
Her  glance  seemed  to  take  in  Forrest 
and  the  woman  with  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  wandered  elsewhere.  If  a 
Greek  statue  had  suddenly  come  to 
life  breathing  the  divinity  and  passion 
of  a  young  universe  through  lyrical 
eyes,  it  could  not  have  been  more 
marvelous,  more  perfect  in  harmonic 
molding  and  simple  elegance.  A  hand- 
ful of  roses  blossomed  at  her  waist 
and  a  smile  haunted  her  lips  as  though 
the  spirit  of  the  Viannese  waltz 
hummed  itself  there.  Yet  her  person- 
ality seemed  made  up  of  the  deeper 
and  rarer  music,  and  the  gentle  move- 
ment of  her  bosom  suggested  some- 
how great  and  lasting  passions.  She 
must  have  just  arrived,  for  no  one 
present  appeared  to  know  her.  She 
crossed  the  room  to  a  window,  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  out,  then  turned 
back  into  the  ballroom. 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Mrs.  Gray  of 
the  artist,  repeating  the  question  on 
many  lips. 

"Lylas  Ward,  the  actress.  She  has 
the  reputation  for  spurning  more  mil- 
lions, and  men  with  them,  than  any 
other  woman  alive.  She  is  said  to  be 
looking  for  an  ideal  love  affair,  an  ar- 
dor as  perfect  and  lasting  as  that  of 
Gabriel  Dante  Rosetti;  in  fine,  the 
deep,  tender,  beautiful  passion  of  a 
nature  worth  while.  Undoubtedly, 


126 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


when  she  does  find  it  she  will  keep  it, 
for  she  has  the  right  idea  about  these 
things." 

"What  is  the  right  idea?"  She 
leaned  nearer  to  him  with  opened 
eyes. 

"Why,  she  takes  the  point  of  view 
that  it  is  a  woman's  vanity  which 
most  often  spoils  love,  particularly  af- 
ter a  time.  If  the  lover  continues  to 
bring  his  adoration  to  her,  the  woman 
seems  to  think  that  response  is  no 
longer  necessary  on  her  part.  So  she 
loses  the  finest  thing  in  the  world  by 
bringing  less  and  less  to  it  and  ac- 
cepting the  constancy  and  tenderness 
of  her  lover  as  chattel.  Lylas  Ward 
believes  that  when  hearts  have  recog- 
nized that  they  love  each  other,  they 
should  not  subject  it  to  repeated  strain 
and  indifference.  We  do  not  set  our 
great  works  of  art  in  a  rainstorm.  The 
most  beautiful  thing  possible  to  the 
heart  naturally  requires  some  atten- 
tion. In  return  it  will  yield  more 
thrills,  exquisiteness  and  joy  of  living 
than  all  outer  blessings  combined." 

"Is  that  your  idea,  too?" 

"It  certainly  is  a  better  one  than  any 
other  I  know  of." 

"But  your  own  personal  experi- 
ence?" 

"I  loved  a  girl  who  is  dead,"  returned 
Forrest,  simply.  "At  that  time  I  made 
a  vow  never  to  marry." 

"Wasn't  that  rather  foolish,  consid- 
ering everything?" 

"I  have  never  been  in  the  habit  of 
considering  too  much.  Anyway,  it  was 
in  Italy,  and  in  that  country  one  does 
those  things." 

She  sat  regarding  his  face,  now 
toned  to  gentleness,  and  over  which  a 
shade  of  the  deepest  melancholy  had 
passed.  A  thought  came  to  her  then, 
a  queer  realization- — that  when  a  man 
of  highly  developed  nature  loved,  he 
gave  more  than  any  woman  had  it  in 
her  power  to  give.  He  returned  her 
look  for  a  moment  and  suggested: 

"Let  us  go  out  in  the  conservatory. 
It  is  very  prettily  arranged." 

They  did  so,  and  found  a  seat  be- 
hind a  Japanese  orange  tree  blossom- 
ing fragrantly  from  a  large  Oriental 


pot  made  in  the  shape  of  enclosing  lo- 
tus leaves.  It  was  a  little  alcove,  and 
there  was  a  sort  of  arbor  a  few  yards 
distant  into  which  they  could  see,  and 
in  which  a  Chinese  lantern  glowed 
softly  in  the  half  shadow  like  a  sus- 
pended firefly,  and  a  circle  of  damask 
roses  gathered  about  the  dew  of  a  cen- 
tral miniature  fountain.  A  lone  night- 
ingale led  tenderly  the  low  monotone 
of  the  sea.  The  spot  was  hemmed  in 
by  a  high  trelliswork  of  flowing,  white 
flowered  vines,  and  could  be  observed 
only  from  the  smaller  and  darker  re- 
treat where  Jean  Forrest  and  his  com- 
panion were. 

They  talked  for  awhile  about  the 
Japanese  orange  tree,  and  then  the 
silken  swish  of  a  gown  attracted  their 
attention.  A  lady  had  entered  the  ar- 
bor opposite.  It  was  Lylas  Ward,  and 
her  voice  speaking  to  a  man  who  fol- 
lowed her  was  low,  soft  and  of  linger- 
ing sweetness.  In  his  dress  suit  he 
appeared  extremely  handsome,  a  wor- 
thy lover  for  her,  his  bearing  tense 
with  the  ardor  which  breathed  from 
his  every  movement.  He  plucked  a 
rose,  a  rose  deep  as  the  night,  and  as 
he  gave  it  to  her  he  kissed  the  hand 
which  lay  white  and  dainty  as  a  shell 
in  his.  She  was  smiling  at  him  now, 
something  luminous  and  adorable  in 
her  eyes,  that  gaze  which  opens  up 
the  farthest  reaches  of  the  soul  and 
softly  sums  the  totality  of  its  gift.  At 
this  moment  the  two  in  the  alcove  hap- 
pened to  make  a  slight  noise.  The 
man  turned  full  face. 

"My  husband!"  gasped  Mrs.  Gray  in 
a  harsh  breath.  "My  husband!" 

She  made  a  movement  as  if  to  spring 
out  at  them,  but  Jean  Forrest  laid  a 
hand  on  her  restrainingly,  and  placed 
his  fingers  lightly  on  her  lips. 

"Be  quiet,"  he  commanded  in  a  low, 
intense  whisper.  "Let  us  hear  this 
thing.  We  should  hear  it  out."  In 
this  attitude  they  remained,  listening, 
the  woman's  breath  coming  in  quiver- 
ing shocks. 

Gray  was  gazing  again  into  the  eyes 
which  beamed  so  beautifully  upon 
him.  His  voice  of  poetic  quality  came 
charged  with  feeling. 


MEMORY 


12' 


"Is  it  true,"  he  asked,  "that  you  have 
never  forgotten  the  sweetheartship  of 
our  boy  and  girl  days?" 

"As  true,"  she  replied,  "as  that  I 
never  can  forget.  Did  I  not  send  for 
you  after  all  this  time?  Only  the 
courage  of  a  love  which  cannot  forget 
would  do  that.  And,  remember,  I  was 
told  that  you  adored  your  wife." 

"I  have  loved  her,"  he  said.  "But 
one  does  not  continue  to  love  where 
he  finds  nothing.  You,  Lylas,  com- 
prise everything  in  the  world.  You 
are  the  flowers,  and  the  height  of  the 
stars,  and  the  depth  of  the  sea,  the 
madness  of  music,  and  the  dove  dream 
of  twilight.  I  come  to  you  because  I 
find  in  you  all  that  my  heart  craves. 
My  wife  understands  only  what  be- 
longs to  the  world,  not  at  all  what  be- 
longs to  the  soul.  She  will  be  glad  to 
be  free." 

"And  I  will  wait  for  you  even  if  it  be 
a  long  time.  I  promised  that  my  heart 
will  always  be  waiting  on  you.  Though 
it  were  years  and  I  bound  by  some 
other  tie,  I  would  not  hesitate  to  break 
it  when  you  came.  But  let  us  hope 
that  it  will  only  be  days  or  weeks," 
she  added,  her  hand  caressing  him. 

No  scene  from  any  play  could,  have 
been  more  charming.  Facing  even 
this  divinity  of  the  flesh,  the  man  ap- 
peared an  ideal  lover.  To  the  last  tone 
and  gesture  he  was  perfect.  He  had 
paused  in  silent  adoration  before  her, 
and  now  he  bent  forward  quickly,  gath- 


ering her  in  his  arms,  while  she  yield- 
ed completely,  and  with  an  audible 
sigh.  Their  lips  found  each  other  and 
clung  in  one  of  those  kisses  which 
thrill  even  onlookers,  and  which  many 
an  artist  has  tried  to  picture  in  vain. 

Swiftly  and  silently  Jean  Forrest 
rose  to  his  feet.  His  hand  over  the 
mouth  of  his  companion  had  stopped 
in  time  her  exclamation.  Hurriedly 
and  rudely  he  forced  her  away.  In 
another  minute  they  stood  outside  and 
he  almost  carried  her  into  the  taxicab. 
She  crouched  in  the  seat,  her  face 
covered  with  her  hands. 

"Oh,  to  think  that  he  could  do  it, 
just  to  think  of  it!"  she  moaned  tragi- 
cally. 

With  ferocious  pity  Jean  Forrest  sat 
regarding  her.  "What  difference  does 
it  make?"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  iron. 
"There  are  lots  of  others.  You  do  not 
love  him." 

"I  do  love  him,"  she  averred,  rousing 
herself  with  a  flash  of  anger.  "I  have 
always  loved  him,  but,  perhaps,  I  did 
not  know  it.  And  she  is  beautiful — 
she  is  ten  times  more  beautiful  than 
I." 

Jean  Forrest  said  no  more,  except 
to  bid  her  goodnight  when  he  left  her 
at  the  house. 

A  few  evenings  later,  Allan  Gray 
called  on  the  artist.  His  face  was 
glowing  with  happiness.  "I  have  the 
most  loving  wife  in  the  world,"  he 
said. 


A  E/A  O  R  Y 

Not  when  the  hand  of  death  is  laid  upon 

The  body  that  you  love  and  it  is  wrapped 

Forever  from  your  sight  by  shrouding  earth ; 

Not  when  you  fold  the  last  worn  garments  up 

Or  face  an  empty  chair,  comes  grief  to  you ; 

But  when  thought-rambling  through  a  pleasant  past 

You  find  some  happy  mem'ry  half  complete — 

A  name  forgot — some  trivial  incident 

You  would  recall — The  pleasure  at  its  height, 

At  thought:  "I'll  ask  my  friend!    He,  too,  was  there!" 

Ah!  by  so  small  and  simple  thing  you're  tricked! 

And  fall  into  the  very  lair  of  cruel  Grief, 

Rememb'ring,  with  a  start,  that  friend  is  dead! 

LANNIE  HAYNES  MARTIN. 


The  Heel  of  Achilles 


By  Carroll  Van  Court 


MR.  JOHN  SHELDON  was  a 
stern  business  man.  He  owned 
the  Royal  Flour  Mills,  was 
reputed  to  be  worth  half  a 
million  dollars  and  employed  more 
than  six  hundred  men. 

Those  that  came  in  daily  contact 
with  him  said  he  was  a  hard  man.  As 
one  of  his  clerks  put  it,  he  had  a  "stern 
and  rock-bound  heart." 

He  was  never  known  to  be  sick  or 
late  at  his  office.  He  never  took  a  va- 
cation; hated  to  give  his  employees 
a  vacation;  never  forgave  a  mistake, 
and  when  in  an  especially  ugly  mood, 
was  known  to  discharge  a  clerk  for 
dropping  a  lead  pencil  on  the  floor. 

Sheldon  was  religiously  honest  in 
all  his  business  dealings,  but  he  be- 
lieved in  working  twenty-five  hours 
out  of  the  twenty-four.  As  a  slave 
driver  he  had  Simon  Legree  lashed  to 
the  mast. 

His  sole  ambition,  thought,  dream, 
pleasure — day  and  night — as  far  as 
his  employees  and  acquaintances  could 
see,  was  business,  business,  business. 
King  Midas  was  a  piker  alongside  of 
John  Sheldon. 

His  employees  hated  him;  his  ac- 
quaintances (he  had  no  friends)  dis- 
liked him,  his  business  rivals  were 
almost  ruined  by  him,  and  his  wife 
feared  him. 

Only  one  person  in  Hamilton  City 
had  a  good  word  for  him.  That  person 
'was  Dr.  Crofts. 

Dr.  Crofts  had  a  theory  that  no  mat- 
ter how  wrapt  up  in  a  pursuit,  hobby, 
habit,  vice  or  ambition,  a  man  might 
be,  he  could  always  be  made  in  some 
way  to  see  his  folly  and  selfishness. 

The  doctor's  own  hobby  was  study- 
ing human  nature,  but  he  never  al- 
lowed it  to  impair  his  usefulness  to 


the  community  as  an  excellent  physi- 
cian and  adviser. 

So  when  he  heard  people  remark 
about  Sheldon's  mad  chase  after  the 
almighty  dollar,  he  did  some  deep 
'thinking. 

The  Sheldons  had  never  sent  for 
him  in  his  professional  capacity,  and 
he  had  met  John  Sheldon  only  occa- 
sionally. 

One  morning  Dr.  Crofts  had  a  rush 
call  to  attend  the  baby  of  Fred  Allen, 
a  clerk  in  Sheldon's  office.  Crofts  was 
very  popular  with  the  boys  at  the  Shel- 
don Company,  for  besides  being  a 
good  physician,  he  was  a  good  mixer. 

The  Allen  baby  had  a  serious  case 
of  typhoid,  and  the  doctor  soon  found 
that  he  was  going  to  have  his  hands 
full  to  prevent  the  disease  from  be- 
coming dangerous,  if  not  fatal. 

Allen  had  stayed  home  to  hear  the 
doctor's  verdict  before  leaving  for  his 
work;  consequently  he  did  not  arrive 
at  his  desk  until  two  hours  after  his 
regular  time.  He  could  not  afford  to 
miss  a  whole  day's  work  unless  it  was 
absolutely  necessary,  for  the  salary 
Sheldon  paid  him  scarcely  sufficed  for 
his  family's  needs  as  it  was,  and  Shel- 
don invariably  docked  his  employees' 
wages  if  they  missed  a  day. 

Sheldon  noticed  Allen's  absence 
soon  after  he  entered  his  office,  and 
when  Allen  hurried  in,  the  reception 
handed  him  was  enough  to  freeze  the 
blood.  Allen  fully  expected  his  em- 
ployer to  knock  him  down.  He  started 
to  explain  his  tardiness,  but  Sheldon 
cut  him  off  and  refused  to  listen,  snarl- 
ing at  him  like  an  animal. 

He  stopped  growling  when  his 
breath  gave  out,  and  slammed  some 
papers  on  Allen's  desk  to  be  gone  over. 
Allen  silently  picked  them  up  and 


THE  HEEL  OF  ACHILLES 


129 


turned  to  his  work  as  the  old  pirate 
stormed  out  of  the  room. 

The  next  day  Allen's  baby  was 
worse.  The  young  father  could  hardly 
keep  his  mind  on  his  work,  he  was  so 
worried  and  anxious.  Toward  even- 
ing he  was  almost  frantic.  The  work 
came  so  fast  he  could  not  get  away 
long  enough  to  telephone  the  doctor 
and  hear  his  report  on  the  child's  con- 
dition. 

Then  the  crash  came.  With  his  mind 
full  of  fear  for  his  child,  Allen  made 
several  mistakes  on  the  papers  he 
was  preparing  for  Sheldon. 

Four  minutes  after  he  had  handed 
them  to  Sheldon  for  his  approval  the 
door  was  yanked  open.  The  old  man 
stood  glaring  at  poor  Allen  like  a  wild 
beast.  His  face  was  paper  white  with 
fury. 

"Allen,  get  out  of  my  office.  You  are 
discharged,"  he  bellowed. 

Allen  quietly  put  on  his  coat  and  hat, 
and  left  without  a  word. 

The  fellow  employees  of  Allen  were 
furious  at  his  dismissal.  They  knew 
what  was  on  his  mind,  and  had  they 
dared,  would  have  protested. 

When  the  news  of  Allen's  dismissal 
reached  Dr.  Crofts,  he  made  a  vow. 

"I'm  going  to  cure  Sheldon  of  his  in- 
humanity or  break  his  heart,"  he  prom- 
ised. Then  he  went  home  and  sat  way 
into  the  night  planning  a  way  to  reach 
Sheldon's  vital  spot. 

The  Allen  baby  recovered,  but  Fred 
Allen  was  out  of  work  for  weeks.  Dr. 
Crofts  positively  refused  to  accept  a 
cent  from  Allen  until  he  obtained  an- 
other position. 

It  was  January  now,  and  Sheldon's 
four  year  old  daughter  caught  a  severe 
cold,  the  first  illness,  within  the  mem- 
ory of  Dr.  Crofts,  that  ever  had  come 
upon  the  Sheldons.  They  sent  for 
him. 

He  found  Jack  Sheldon,  the  most- 
feared  man  in  the  city,  on  his  knees 
watching  a  tossing  form  upon  a  bed! 
The  sight  was  strange  to  any  one  who 
knew  the  temperament  of  John  Shel- 
don. 

As  Dr.  Crofts  examined  the  child,  he 
saw  that  Sheldon  was  unnecessarily 


alarmed  about  the  baby.  He  saw  also 
that  here  was  one  thing,  at  least,  that 
actually  made  Sheldon  forget  himself 
and  his  business  for  a  while.  In  ten 
more  minutes  the  doctor  discovered 
that  Sheldon  passionately  loved  his 
babyv  and  before  he  had  answered  half 
of  Sheldon's  anxious  questions,  he  had 
planned  a  way  to  break  through  the 
man's  iron  will. 

The  child's  fever  was  not  very  high, 
but  Dr.  Crofts  made  it  appear  that  the 
baby's  condition  was  very  grave,  and 
after  giving  it  the  proper  medicine, 
which  he  called  a  long  Latin  name  to 
frighten  Sheldon,  he  departed,  prom- 
ising to  send  a  trained  nurse  imme- 
diately. 

The  nurse,  whom  Dr.  Crofts  had 
taken  into  the  plot,  took  charge  of 
everything,  and  ordered  Sheldon 
around  like  an  errand  boy.  Sheldon 
obeyed  meekly  and  eagerly.  For  once 
in  his  life  he  was  civil. 

At  the  office  the  next  morning,  the 
clerks  expected  to  put  in  a  terrible 
day,  but  the  boss  was  silent  most  of 
the  time  and  gave  his  orders  shortly 
and  sharply. 

The  whole  office  force  were  invited 
to  dine  that  evening  with  Dr.  Crofts. 
At  the  dinner,  Crofts  explained  his 
plan,  to  which  the  boys  eagerly  con- 
sented. 

As  Sheldon  walked  down  the  corri- 
dor toward  his  office  a  week  later,  the 
janitor  who  was  sweeping,  stopped  him 
and  in  a  respectful  tone  asked :  "How's 
the  little  girl,  sir?" 

Sheldon  was  taken  aback.  Never 
before  had  the  janitor  dared  to  ad- 
dress him  unless  in  answer  to  a  ques- 
tion. He  was  too  surprised  to  be  an- 
gry, so  he  replied  almost  decently, 
"She's  better." 

"Glad  to  hear  it,  sir,"  said  the  jani- 
tor, coolly,  and  went  on  sweeping. 
Sheldon  entered  his  private  office  and 
rang  for  his  secretary.  The  secretary, 
a  mild  young  man,  actually  smiled  as 
he  entered  the  pirate's  den. 

"How's  the  sick  girl  to-day,  Mr. 
Sheldon?"  he  ventured.  Any  other 
time  he  would  have  been  taking  his  life 
in  his  hands. 


130 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


"She's  improving  some,"  grunted  the 
bear,  as  he  made  a  perceptible  effort  to 
appear  unconcerned. 

The  secretary  replied  that  he  hoped 
she  would  recover  rapidly,  and  took 
his  pad  and  pencil  out  for  dictation. 

Sheldon  tried  to  dictate  an  important 
letter  or  two,  but  his  nervousness  soon 
distracted  him  from  the  work  in  hand. 
Before  he  could  get  fairly  started,  he 
rose  from  his  revolving  chair  and  be- 
gan to  pace  the  floor  as  he  talked, 
something  he  had  never  done  before. 

His  secretary  never  changed  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  but  calmly  con- 
tinued making  his  shorthand  notes. 

Suddenly  Sheldon  stopped  abruptly. 

"That's  enough  for  the  present,"  he 
ordered.  "I'll  finish  those  later." 

Quietly  the  young  man  closed  his 
notebook  and  returned  to  his  own  desk 
in  the  adjoining  office. 

The  old  man  could  not  think  of  his 
business  for  more  than  a  few  seconds 
at  a  time.  His  thoughts  would  turn  to 
his  child  again.  The  sight  of  his  desk 
and  papers  seemed  to  irritate  him. 
With  a  gesture  of  disgust  he  turned 
and  stalked  out  of  the  office,  slamming 
the  glass-paned  door  behind  him. 

He  strode  down  the  corridor  to  an- 
other office  and  watched  his  clerks  at 
their  books.  As  he  approached  the 
desk  of  the  nearest  clerk,  and  looked 
over  his  shoulder,  the  man  turned,  and 
when  he  saw  it  was  his  employer,  said 
politely:  "Good morning,  Mr.  Sheldon; 
I  hope  the  little  girl  is  better." 

The  troubled  father  murmured  a  re- 
ply that  the  clerk  did  not  catch,  and 
turned  away.  He  visited  every  de- 
partment in  the  establishment  to  ease 
his  mind,  but  wherever  he  went  he 
was  greeted  by  the  same  question, 
from  the  janitor  to  the  superintendent. 

Men  that  he  had  never  spoken  a 
kind  or  civil  word  to  in  his  life  came 
up  to  him  and  expressed  the  hope  that 
his  child  was  better.  Dr.  Croft's 
scheme  was  beginning  to  work. 

The  effect  on  Sheldon  was  anything 
but  soothing  to  his  nervousness.  In 
despair  he  returned  to  his  office, 
put  on  his  hat,  and  rushed  homewards. 

He  had  not  gone  two  blocks  when 


Fred  Allen,  the  last  man  he  had  dis- 
charged, stepped  up  to  him  and 
touched  him  on  the  arm.  Sheldon 
scowled,  expecting  Allen  to  ask  for 
his  job  back. 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Sheldon,"  he  apol- 
ogized, "I  hear  your  little  girl  is  ill.  I 
hope  it's  not  very  serious." 

This  was  the  last  straw! 

Sheldon  gulped  for  a  reply,  but  the 
words  would  not  come.  After  an  un- 
successful effort  to  answer  Allen,  he 
stuck  out  his  hand  and  gripped  Allen's 
hand  silently.  Then,  without  a  word, 
he  passed  on. 

When  he  entered  the  room  of  his 
baby  he  was  a  broken  man.  The  little 
child,  however,  was  much  better,  and 
smiled  up  at  him.  He  knelt  down  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again,  and  when 

he  arose  his  face  was  wet  with  tears. 
*  *  *  * 

The  telephone  bell  in  the  secretary's 
office  rang  sharply.  Sheldon's  secre- 
tary took  down  the  receiver  and  lis- 
tened. Three  seconds  later  he  was  on 
the  way  to  his  employer's  residence, 
with  his  pencil  in  one  hand  and  his  pad 
in  the  other. 

The  next  morning  when  the  men  ar- 
rived at  the  mills,  typewritten  notices 
greeted  their  eyes  from  every  door. 
The  notices  read  something  like  this : 

"Employees  of  the  Royal  Flour 
Mills  are  hereby  notified  that  the 
wages  of  every  employee  are  raised 
10  per  cent.  The  increase  to  take  ef- 
fect next  pay  day.  Also,  every  em- 
ployee who  has  been  with  the  company 
more  than  six  months  shall  be  given 
two  weeks'  vacation  annually,  with 
full  pay.  (Signed:  John  Sheldon.") 

When  Fred  Allen  opened  his  mail, 
the  same  morning,  he  found  an  offer 
to  return  to  his  old  job  at  almost  dou- 
ble his  previous  salary,  and  the  letter 
was  written  in  Sheldon's  own  hand- 
writing. 

Fred  hugged  his  wife  and  baby,  and 
then  jumped  for  the  telephone.  He 
succeeded  in  getting  Dr.  Crofts  on  the 
line,  and  in  excited  tones  told  him  the 
glad  news. 

"I  told  you  we'd  get  him,"  chuckled 
the  doctor  in  reply. 


Skip~A~Long 


By  Ruth  Huntoon 


DAN  ARDON  flung  his  tarp  back 
and  sat  up.  The  Buffalo  flats 
reached  out  in  dim,  green  miles 
under  an  unbroken  circle  of 
star-studded  blue.  Fence  lines 
stretched  thin  and  long  and  crossed; 
and  in  a  corner  formed  by  such  a 
crossing,  two  tarpaulins  snuggled 
against  the  prairie. 

"Say,  Jack,"  and  Ardon  leaned  upon 
an  elbow  to  look  out  over  the  flats, 
"how  far  did  you  take  those  yearlings  ? 
They're  coming  back." 

'The  bloomin'  torments !  I  take  'em 
half  way  to  Barnett's.  Did  you  fix 
that  fence?" 

"Pretty  much,  but  I  doubt  it's  string- 
ing 'em  all  till  morning.  Well,  let  'er 
bust,"  and  Ardon  rolled  back  content- 
edly. 

"Just  one  critter  coming,"  yawned 
Wayne,  still  watching.  "He's  a  hust- 
ler. Sorter  inquirin'  agent,  I  reckon. 
Where's  that  gun  ?"  And  Wayne  pro- 
ceeded to  fire  a  shot  into  the  stillness 
of  the  cattle  land.  "Rose  like  a  stage 
horse,"  he  chuckled,  "but  he  didn't 
turn.  He  is  coming  like  blazes, 
.Dan." 

Ardon  lifted  his  head  again,  and 
stared,  too. 

"It's  no  sorter  cow-brute.  Why,  you 
locoed  grub-rider,  it's  Skip-a-long," 
he  added,  as  a  single  footer's  hoof- 
beats  struck  the  sun-baked  trail.  "Dale. 
said  we  shouldn't  ride  him.  Savin' 
him  for  that  there  pesky  girl  he's  got 
a-comin'.  The  boys  have  sneaked 
Skip,  sure.  Glory  be!  Jack,  what's 
that  a-flutterin'?" 

The  little  horse  came  on  like  a  but- 
terfly; smooth,  swift  and  bewinged. 
Nearing  the  tarps,  he  swerved  sharp 
to  the  south. 


"Steady,  Skip,"  sang  out  Ardon, 
while  the  punchers  looked  hard  at  the 
Girl,  who  guided  him. 

"Hello,"  she  called,  and  it  came  like 
a  bell-tone  through  the  starlight. 

"Well,  I'm  d-dinged." 

"Thanks,"  she  laughed.  "They  said 
the  one  who  swore  first  would  be  Ar- 
don. The  other  one  must  be  Wayne. 
I  just  came  to-day,  and  they're  cele- 
brating. They  seemtd  so  sorry  you 
couldn't  be  there.  Uncle  Dale  said 
he  wished  some  one  had  time  to  come 
after  you.  He  proposed  going  down 
the  south. fence  to-morrow  to  tell  you 
what  you'd  missed.  But  he'd  shown 
me  the  horse,  and  I  found  the  south 

fence,  so  I  came  to-night.  Well " 

And  Skip-a-long  turned  cornerwise. 

"Just  wait,"  shouted  Wayne,  "till 
we've  got  our  trowsers  and  our  wits  to- 
gether, and  we're  with  you  to  the  soi- 
ree." 

"Your  horses  are  beyond  the  ridge 
there.  I'll  drive  them  in,"  she  of- 
fered. 

"Now,  isn't  she  the — gentleman!" 
demanded  Wayne,  as  they  scrambled 
into  their  clothes  and  rolled  up  the 
tarps  to  keep  out  tarantulas  and  centi- 
pedes. "Dan,  she's  the  Terrapin's  col- 
lar button!" 

"Curly  mustard,"  confessed  Ardon, 
effusively.  "And  us  makin'  calcula- 
tions to  hit  the  flats  when  she  lit."  But 
the  rattle  of  hobbles  interrupted  the 
rhapsody. 

Night  horses  are  often  private  prop- 
erty. It  is  easy  work  and  given  at 
least  to  favorites.  Wayne  and  Ardon 
thanked  their  luck  for  this  as  they 
slung  on  their  •  saddles.  There  was 
blood  and  nerve  in  the  run  they  made 
after  a  speculative  glance  at  trie  fig- 


132 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ure  upon  Skip-a-long.  The  girl  had 
no  hat  and  the  soft  light  shone  upon 
short,  brown  curls.  Eyes,  dark,  and 
with  a  laugh  in  them,  pleaded  for 
haste.  So  they  crossed  the  levels  of 
buffalo  grass,  and  the  wind  came 
heavy  with  the  breath  of  Yucca  blos- 
soms. 

Ardon's  unearthly  yell  startled  the 
ranch,  and  Dale  running  out  with  the 
rest,  looked  at  his  niece  in  a  bewil- 
dered way. 

"Aren't  you  abed?"  he  asked,  doubt- 
fully. 

"No,"  sighed  Velma,  as  he  helped 
her  down.  "But  that  ride  was  a 
dream  come  true.  Uncle  Dale,  why 
do  you  call  that  splendid  little  horse — 
just  Skip-a-long?" 

"Doesn't  he?'  Dale  grinned. 

In  the  kitchen  they  found  a  lively 
crowd  arranged  upon  the  bunks  and 
boxes.  A  dozen  different  types  of 
cattle  hands,  all  of  them  good  natured, 
nearly  all  honest,  and  a  few  surprising- 
ly cultured  for  the  rough,  free  life 
they  led. 

Tod's  buxom  wife  was  improvis- 
ing a  spread;  and  Velma  passed  the 
coffee,  and  Jack  Wayne  watched  her 
shadow  on  the  bare,  gyp  wall. 

That  wall  and  the  others,  the  little 
old  sod  house  itself  and  all  inside, 
evinced  the  qualities  of  a  chameleon 
during  the  week  that  followed,  flash- 
ing out  color,  comfort  and  new  inter- 
est as  the  girl's  touch  strayed  here  and 
there.  The  men  worked  as  though  Old 
Nick  was  after  them,  and  Dale 
laughed  up  his  sleeve  at  the  moving 
done. 

Jack  Wayne  was  undeniably  first  as 
lady's  man.  Though  ten  years  on  the 
plains  had  rusted  him  considerably  his 
early  training  often  glimmered 
through.  Ardon  was  better  looking, 
and  could  double  them  all  up  with  his 
droll  stories,  but  Ardon  was  negligent. 
He  had  beautiful  hands  and  took  care 
of  them;  good  eyes  which  he  was  usu- 
ally too  lazy  to  open.  He  and  Wayne 
were  well  matched  as  to  height  and 
strength,  though  Ardon  was  the  heav- 
ier; dark  as  Wayne  was  fair,  and  his 
bluntness  equaled  Jack  Wayne's  tact. 


Just  a  week. 

In  the  dust  and  danger  of  the  brand- 
ing pen  they  wrestled  with  the  long- 
horns.  They  rode  the  hot  days 
through  upon  a  fence-line,  or  they 
raced  down  mount  after  mount  in  the 
skirmish  of  a  round-up.  And  at  night 
they  spread  their  tarps  and  themselves 
over  the  slope  about  the  shack,  and 
argued  the  hours  away  over  the  advan- 
tage or  the  disadvantage  of  a  three- 
inch  cylinder  without  a  sand-screen; 
or  they  played  upon  a  few  stringed  in- 
struments and  sang,  until  the  heat  of 
the  long  day  lifted,  and  a  cooler  breath 
brought  them  a  fresh  scent  of  the 
Yucca  bloom. 

Velma  must  see  it  all  and  take  a 
'shade  of  tan  each  day,  hug  Dale 
harder  and  look  a  little  longer  into  Dan 
Ardon's  sleepy,  aggravating  eyes. 

The  eighth  day  Wayne  proposed. 
'He  hadn't  much  to  offer,  but  he  could 
make  it  if  she  would  wait.  The  rest 
were  more  hopeless  but  equally  will- 
ing and  worshipful.  The  rest — all 
save  Ardon.  Ardon  laughed  and  told 
his  stories,  looked  volumes  and  said 
nothing. 

Perhaps  it  was  pique  at  first  that 
Velma  felt.  Why  should  one  of  the 
'dozen  refuse  to  abdicate?  Really  he 
wasn't  so  much  better  looking.  Jack 
Wayne  was  surely  better  posted.  Yet 
Velma  was  dissatisfied.  When  all  was 
said  and  done,  Ardon  seemed  to  be 
the  one  worth  while.  Just  a  little 
while,  of  course,  but  such  a  nice  while 
to  experience  and  remember. 

So  far  Ardon  held  his  own.  Oc- 
casionally there  were  bets  among  the 
earlier  victims  that  he  would  never 
stand  the  pressure.  Velma  was  not 
aggressive  in  her  tactics.  She  never 
singled  Ardon  out  for  especial  favor. 
Jack  Wayne  generally  received  that. 
But  Ardon  had  his  glimpses  too.  And 
Ardon  whistled  temptation  out  of  busi- 
ness, watched  her  and  appreciated 
every  possibility  about  her,  and  figu- 
ratively speaking,  shook  his  head. 

One  evening  of  the  third  week,  as 
they  settled  comfortably  for  a  night 
of  reminiscence  and  music,  Velma  rose 
quietly  and  slipped  away.  She  had 


SKIP-A-LONG 


133 


been  too  far  behind  Dale  for  the  rest 
to  notice,  and  only  Ardon  saw. 

The  weather  was  unusually  oppres- 
sive. Heat  flares  from  the  clouds  that 
had  exasperated  them  for  months  with 
promise  of  rain,  lit  the  flats  at  inter- 
vals. The  twilight  was  full  of  nervous 
energy. 

Ardon  watched  Skip-a-long  maneu- 
vered skillfully  from  the  barn,  but  not 
a  sound  attracted  the  others  until  the 
girl  was  well  out  beyond  the  corrals. 
Then  a  sharp  neigh  brought  half  of 
them  to  their  feet.  Before  they  had 
recovered,  Ardon's  big  bay  had  given 
his  last  futile  kick  at  the  grip  of  the 
tightening  cinch,  and  Ardon  himself 
was  at  the  water  tank. 

"Well,  I  reckon  this  bunch  was  about 
asleep,"  snapped  Dale.  "Now,  what 
do  you  figure  that  will-o'-the-wisp  ca- 
vorted out  into  them  clouds  for?" 

"Tempting  the  thunder-god,"  sug- 
gested Sam  Barkley.  "Here,  Boss, 
this  is  a  chance,  if  I  ain't  off  some,  for 
you  to  let  go  part  of  that  dough  you're 
always  throwing  around  after  Skip. 
I'll  take  you  even  that  Dan's  old  bay 
walks  all  around  your  black." 

Dale  hesitated.  "That's  hardly  fair, 
Sam.  She  won't  work  him.  See,  you 
chump,  she's  going  to  wait." 

"Oh,  she  is,  is  she?"  Barkley  jeered, 
and  a  gasp  of  astonishment  escaped 
Dale,  too,  for  Skip-a-long  had  paused 
only  long  enough  to  give  the  bay  a 
fair  advantage  before  he  headed  the 
race  again.  Headed  it  straight  into 
the  white  stillness  that  hovered  over 
the  range  and  pulsed  to  life  in  the  hot 
flashes  from  across  the  dry  bed  of  the 
Cimarron. 

A  sudden  rumble  of  thunder 
drowned  Ardon's  call.  The  man's 
blood  stirred  sluggishly  and  rushed 
through  his  veins,  carrying  with  it  cau- 
tion and  diplomacy.  Like  the  veriest 
barbarian,  under  the  same  goad,  he 
was  after  her,  and  the  big  bay 
stretched  into  his  wonderful  run. 

Then  the  little  black  tossed  his  head. 
His  rider  took  up  the  reins  a  bit,  and 
at  the  touch  four  nimble  feet  beat 
steadily  into  quicker  time.  Not  a 
hitch,  not  a  jar,  not  an  awkward  move, 


even  on  the  uneven  buffalo  sod,  as 
slowly  but  surely  the  smaller  horse 
crept  farther  and  farther  from  |the 
horse  behind. 

Excited  admiration  murmured  over 
the  crowd  upon  the  tarps,  and  a  cheer 
fairly  shook  the  ranch  as  Ardon 
snatched  off  his  soft  hat  and  slapped 
the  bay  across  the  flanks. 

"Put  him  to  it,  Kid,"  "Hit  the  grit, 
Sandy,"  mingled  with  cries  for  Skip- 
a-long  to  make  good  his  name. 

Then  one  by  one  they  grew  a  little 
serious,  for  Skip-a-long  was  nearly 
out  of  sight  and  Ardon  was  not  gam- 
ing. A  gust  of  rain-tanged  wind  sent 
Todd's  wife  scurrying  things  into  the 
house,  and  somewhere  out  on  the  flats 
two  horses  were  racing  into  the  night. 

Long  before  that  Velma  had  tried 
by  every  trick  she  knew  to  regain  con- 
trol over  Skip-a-long.  Time  and 
again  she  listened  eagerly  for  the  big 
bay's  coming.  Then,  suddenly,  as 
such  things  happen  when  they  happen 
at  all,  the  small  black  whirled  com- 
pletely off  his  feet. 

Thanks  either  to  quick  wit  or  a  sure 
instinct,  Velma  cleared  the  stirrups 
and  flung  herself  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  horse.  Ardon  found  her  bur- 
ied nearly  knee-deep  in  the  prairie- 
dog  burrow  that  Skip-a-long  had  failed 
so  dismally  to  skip.  The  dog  town  was 
an  old  one,  and  the  earth  sandy  and 
soft.  The  horse  had  turned  his  som- 
mersault  without  injury,  but  the  girl 
lay  horribly  still. 

Ardon  jumped  to  the  ground,  and 
with  little  consideration  for  the  order 
of  things,  gathered  her  into  his  arms. 
The  rush  of  tenderness  and  solicitude 
that  Velma  encountered  when  she 
found  herself  again  was  surely  satis- 
factory. 

"Velma,  tell  me  you're  not  hurt," 
begged  Ardon.  "You're  still  mine,  lit- 
tle girl/ 

The  "little  girl"  sighed  comfortably. 

"Considering  the  evidence,"  she  be- 
gan. 

"For  always  ?" 

"Always  is  a  long  word." 

"Not  half  long  enough  to  love  you," 
he  decided,  and  Velma  nodded,  won- 


134                                       OVERLAND  MONTHLY 

dering  to  find  that  she  felt  the  same  plenty  and  fresh  vegetables.    Hustling 

way,  too.  isn't  my  graft,  but  I've  enough  to  make 

"It's  raining,  Dan."  life  pretty  easy.  Let  that  little  black 

"We  need  it,"  Dan  said  vaguely,  imp  go  back  by  himself.  Old  Sandy 

"Say,  sweetheart,  we'll  go     back    to  can  pack  two  for  once." 

God's  country,  where  there's  rain  a-  And  Sandy  did. 


JOSEPHINE  CLIFFORD  AVcCRACKIN 

On  November  13,  1915,  the  city  of  Santa  Cruz  honored  Mrs.  McCrackin 
in  a  special  ceremony  arranged  by  the  Saturday  Afternoon  Club.  Leading 
citizens  and  people  of  prominence  in  the  literary  world  were  present.  Letters 
of  felicitation  were  read  from  many  distinguished  men  and  women  who  were 
unable  to  attend. 

This  veteran  newspaper  woman  and  author,  of  noble  German  birth,  has 
long  been  a  resident  of  the  Golden  State,  and  was  associated  with  Bret 
Harte  and  his  celebrated  coterie  of  writers  in  the  early  days  of  the  Over- 
land Monthly.  She  is  known  as  the  "Savior  of  the  Redwoods,"  and  as  the 
protector  of  the  feathered  creation. 

Ye  forests  whisper  a  message, 

And  birdlings  chant  her  a  lay, 
The  woman  who  loved  and  saved  you 

Is  being  honored  to-day. 

O  writers,  bring  forth  your  tributes, 

And  crown  her,  ye  sons  of  men! 
This  woman  of  seventy-six 

Who  still  is  wielding  her  pen. 

Unfurl  our  flag  to  the  breezes — 

She  once  was  an  Army  Bride — 
Mast-high  float  gayly  our  banners, 

She's  worthy  a  soldier's  pride. 

For  hers  is  the  martial  spirit 

That  lives  but  to  dare  and  do, 
That  knows  not  cowardly  shirking — 

A  spirit  loyal  and  true! 

Oft  bowed  'neath  stripes  of  misfortune 

Yet  stars  illumine  her  way; 
Unfurl,  then,  flag  of  our  country, 

In  honor  of  her  to-day. 

Far  birth-land  across  the  water, 

And  land  of  the  sun  and  gold, 
Unite  in  greeting  this  woman 

Whose  heart  has  never  grown  old. 

MARIAN  TAYLOR. 


Vasquez  on  the  San  Juan  Mill 


By  W.  C. 


HERE,  son,  bring  out  Bay  Char- 
ley. Put  this  new  rope  in  his 
halter,  and  tie  him  behind  the 
trail  wagon.  Guess  he'll  never 
make  the  trip  between  San  Juan  and 
Sargent's  again.  He's  been  the  best 
nigh  leader  on  the  road  since  the 
Southern  Pacific  laid  the  rails  from 
San  Francisco  to  Soledad.  I  hate  to 
let  him  go,  but  the  trade's  getting 
slack  since  the  railroad  captured  the 
traffic  from  the  New  Idria  mines,  and 
I'll  have  one  less  to  feed.  I'd  take  you 
along,  boy,  if  it  was  Saturday;  you'll 
have  a  new  suit  out  of  the  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  I  get  to-day  for  the 
horse.  I  wouldn't  have  taken  three 
hundred  for  him  a  year  ago,  and  he's 
a  better  leader  to-day  than  he  was 
then.  Jack  Bigley,  the  San  Juan 
freight  agent,  drove  out  the  gate  and 
headed  for  Salinas,  light  of  load  for 
the  two  wagons,  with  his  team  of 
eight,  and  heavy  of  heart  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  his  best  leader  on 
the  other  side  of  the  mountains.  Be- 
ing hardened  with  toil  over  the  dreary 
road,  Mr.  Bigley  paid  little  heed  to 
the  view  behind  from  the  summit;  to 
the  northeast,  below,  lay  the  beautiful 
San  Juan  Valley,  surrounded,  as  it  is, 
by  the  belt  of  hills,  with  the  Pacheco 
and  Santa  Cruz  Mountains  rising  be- 
hind, in  the  east  and  west;  El  Gabi- 
lan's  pine-clad  crest  near  by,  above, 
on  the  southeast;  the  old  redwood 
cross  on  the  lower  shoulder  of  the 
mountain,  silently  inviting  the  faithful 
spirits  of  long  by-gone  days  to  wor- 
ship beneath  its  wide-spread  arms. 

The  mists  dispelled  by  the  summer 
sun  revealed  below  the  once  bustling 
pueblo,  and  in  the  effort  to  recall  the 
proud  days  of  its  wealth,  the  bells  of 
San  Juan  Bautista  pealed  forth  their 
anniversary  chimes  to  the  patron  saint 
in  his  honor  and  the  founding  of  the 


Mission.  Lingering  wreaths  of  smoke 
from  the  chimneys  of  easy-going 
homes  bespoke  the  spirit  of  the  time — 
— manana  o  pasado  manana — to-mor- 
row, or  day  after  to-morrow.  Yet,  with 
the  rising  mists  and  smoke,  San  Juan 
must  wake  up  to  meet  the  events  of  its 
greatest  day,  June  24th,  in  commemo- 
ration of  the  time  when  the  faithful 
Father,  Junipero's  ardent  wish  was 
fruitful  in  the  founding  of  San  Juan 
Bautista  by  his  worthy  successor, 
Father  Lasuen. 

A  different  picture  sprang  into  the 
sailor's  mind  as  he  sniffed  the  salt 
of  the  white  caps  of  Monterey's  bluest 
bay  on  earth,  at  the  foot  of  the  west- 
ern slope  of  the  mountains.  Jack  Big- 
ley  lived  again  his  days  of  youth  on 
the  mighty  deep.  Ah!  the  difference 
— his  business  in  Salinas,  the  town  of 
salt  marshes,  was  destined  to  bury  his 
dreams.  Nine  dreary  miles  of  dust, 
beyond  the  green  slopes  of  El  Gabi- 
lan,  and  then  the  needed  gold  in  place 
of  the  faithful  "Charley." 

"Whoa !  We'll  lay  by  a  bit  and  have 
a  look  over  the  brakes ;  hello,  this  aft- 
block  will  easily  stand  another  stave. 
Well,  Charley  boy,  you're  here ;  what's 
more,  you'll  ship  a  good  bit  of  valley 
dust  before  we  get  to  town." 

The  driver's  brawny  arms,  habitu- 
ally bared  to  the  elbows,  displayed  a 
grizzled  coat  of  black  hair,  underlaid 
with  the  tan  of  many  a  summer's  sun. 
With  his  pipe  of  clay  well  filled,  an 
extra  reef  in  the  brake  rod,  and  a  ca- 
ressing slap  for  Charley,  all  was  ready 
for  the  swing  down  the  steep  grade. 

"What  ails  you,  Charley?  A  body 
would  think  you  expected  to  go  to  a 
sanitarium."  Swinging  around  the 
first  sharp  turn,  the  bay  horse  tossed 
high  his  head,  gave  a  snort,  and  bound- 
ing outward,  fairly  threw  the  near 
wheel  of  the  trail  over  the  edge  of  the 


136 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


walled  grade.  A  slight  rustle  in  the 
carpet  of  the  chapperal  above,  a  trickle 
of  sand  over  the  rocky  bank,  and  then 
for  a  moment  a  flitting,  shadow-like 
form  glided  through  the  brush.  Then 
from  a  huge  rock,  but  a  dozen  feet  in 
front  of  the  leaders,  with  warning  tail 
lashing  from  side  to  side,  the  first 
challenger  of  that  memorable  day  for 
Bigley  demanded  blood — a  California 
lion,  without  disguise.  A  rock  of  the 
outer  wall  loosened  by  the  recovering 
wheel  shot  through  the  underbrush, 
then  bounding  high,  cleared  the  inter- 
vening gulch,  routing  from  his  cover  a 
graceful  four-pointer,  then  crashing 
through  the  fringe  of  young  willows, 
rested  in  the  slime  of  the  insignificant 
stream  of  the  canyon's  bottom,  which, 
before  nightfall  of  that  day,  was  to 
receive  a  name.  No  belted  weapon 
was  here  to  meet  the  demand  of  the  in- 
furiated hold-up — in  an  instant  the 
reins  were  clutched  in  Bigley's  left 
hand,  his  right  commanded  the  wea- 
pon that  had  settled  many  a  trouble 
on  the  dusty  road  and  in  the  swollen 
stream. 

Answering  his  lusty  shout,  again  and 
again  given  back  from  the  echoing  can- 
yon walls,  the  curling  lash  hissed  over 
the  terrified  leaders'  heads,  cutting 
the  crisp  morning  air  with  a  crack  that 
seemingly  opened  the  mountain  side. 
The  momentary  distraction  was  his 
game,  well  played;  the  die  was  cast; 
before  him  was  the  open  road,  and  the 
hold-up  cat  was  left  behind  to  trail  the 
unresisting  buck.  Well  it  was  for  man 
and  team  that  Bigley  had  before  that 
day  faced  fearful  odds.  His  demeanor 
— as  cool  as  the  morning — was  the 
saving  of  himself  and  outfit  on  that 
downward  dash,  and  now  only  the 
open  plain  lay  before  him  and  his  des- 
tination. Like  fading  dew  upon  the 
meadow  grass  stood  the  sweat  of  fear 
upon  the  horses'  coats.  Nearing  Sali- 
nas, the  summer  sun,  driving  away  the 
persistent  sea  fog,  played  upon  the 
plain.  With  dazzling  glare  the  mirage 
dancing  under  the  eastern  horizon  cou- 
pled itself  with  Tule  Lake  till  the  vast 
expanse  seemed  a  waving  waste  of 
liquid. 


True  to  appointment,  Mr.  Sherwood, 
from  Alisal  Rancho,  was  on  hand  to 
receive  "Bay  Charley."  "My  man  is 
waiting  at  the  stable  with  a  six-horse 
team;  I'll  have  him  put  the  new  horse 
in  place  of  the  grey  leader  and  try 
him  down  the  main  street,"  said  Mr. 
Sherwood. 

In  spite  of  the  dusty  sweat,  Charley 
made  a  good  appearance,  and  the  best 
bay  team  of  six  to  be  found  in  the  land 
swung  down  the  street  and  on  to  the 
Alisal.  At  the  Abbot  Hotel  bar  the 
deal  was  closed,  a  social  drink  to 
which  the  occupants  of  the  room  were 
invited,  including  even  the  two  Mexi- 
cans at  the  card  table,  and  the  trans- 
ferred gold  pieces  from  the  horse 
trade  slid  into  the  long  buckskin  wal- 
let and  into  Bigley's  jeans.  "Good- 
bye, Mr.  Sherwood;  I  must  be  down  to 
the  mill  to  load  up  before  dinner;  it's 
a  slow  trip  to  San  Juan."  "So  long, 
Bigley;  good  luck  go  with  you." 

The  two  Mexicans  resorted  to  a 
friendly  game  of  poker;  various  col- 
ored chips  soon  stacked  on  Filipe's 
side;  he  was  loath  to  quit  the  game, 
but  there  were  "other  fish  to  fry." 

"Well,  friend,  I  am  going." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"I  am  going  to  Paso  Robles." 

Filipe  set  up  the  drinks;  the  two 
strolled  across  the  street  to  repeat,  af- 
ter which  the  inevitable  cigaritos 
were  rolled.  Filipe's  buckskin  mus- 
tang stood  restlessly  champing  his  bit 
under  the  shade  of  a  nearby  tree ;  the 
saddle  readjusted,  with  blanks  loos- 
ened and  slightly  raised  over  the  wea- 
thers, cinch  tightened,  the  rider  swung 
into  the  seat,  expelled  a  twin  stream 
of  tobacco  smoke  from  his  nostrils, 
pulled  his  tilted  sombrero  in  place 
with  safety  strap  unded  chin:  "Bueno 
adios!" 

Filipe  turned  into  a  side  street,  or- 
dered out  a  bottle  of  claret,  with  crack- 
ers, cheese  and  some  sardines,  which, 
being  placed  within  the  folds  of  his 
coat,  he  tied  behind  the  saddle;  then 
headed  for  the  open  plain,  chuckling  to 
himself  with  the  thought  of  success  in 
evading  his  "pueblo"  friend.  Silhou- 
etted against  the  eastern  horizon  tow- 


VASQUEZ  ON   THE   SAN   JUAN  HILL 


137 


ered  the  impregnable  Palisades,  where 
Filipe  must  find  his  chief.  Well  for 
him  that  he  rode  the  buckskin  that 
day.  By  one-thirty  he  drew  rein  in 
the  mouth  of  their  Pinnacle  strong- 
hold. 

"Que  hay,  Filipe?"  said  Vasquez, 
viewing  with  no  little  surprise  the 
steaming  mustang.  In  a  trice  the  inci- 
dents of  the  Salinas  horse  trade  were 
related;  two  fresh  horses  were  sad- 
dled, and  as  the  two  bandits  wound 
through  the  brush-covered  ridges  to- 
ward the  summit,  Filipe  pulled  out  the 
lunch,  congratulating  his  chief  in  that 
the  bottle  had  stood  the  test  on  his 
flying  trip  from  town. 

At  the  crest  of  the  range  they  halted 
in  a  group  of  pines ;  tightened  the  sad- 
dles, and  lighted  each  his  cigarito,  Vas- 
quez soliloquizing:  "Pobre  Bigley!  I'd 
rather  take  another  man's  money.  By 
three  or  four,  at  latest,  he  will  reach 
the  top  of  the  hill.  We  must  ride." 

The  fresh  sea  breeze  stimulated 
horses  and  riders;  none  too  soon  they 
dropped  down  on  the  brush  covered 
trail  to  the  little  stream  that  paral- 
leled the  Camino  Real  (the  grade 
over  the  San  Juan  hill.)  A  cloud  of 
dust  preceded  a  lonely  team  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain. 

Vasquez  suddenly  drew  rein  at  the 
canyon  bottom.  "Who's  been  in  here 
to-day?" 

"Why  think  you  any  one?"  said 
Filipe. 

"Look  up  to  the  point;  see  that  fresh 
trail  through  the  brush  and  on  the 
turn  of  the  road :  see  that  hole  in  the 
wall?"  said  the  chief. 

"Well,  and  what  of  it?"  was  the 
rejoinder. 

"It  makes  no  difference  to  us,"  said 
Vasquez,  "but  somebody  had  the  edge 
of  the  road,  and  see  that  scar  on  the 
rock  next  the  hole;  a  close  call,  boy. 
This  rock  in  the  mud  filled  that  hole 
on  the  point." 

"Quen  sabe,  who  knows."  said  Fi- 
lipe. "This  rock  made  the  trail  no 
more!  Tie  the  horses  in  the  willows, 
cover  your  face  the  same  as  I  do." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  words,  Vas- 
quez liberally  coated  his  face  with 


mud,  and  together  the  two  Mexicans 
ascended  to  within  a  rope  throw  of  the 
grade,  keeping  the  while  under  cover 
of  the  chaparral. 

The  grating  wheels  of  the  loaded 
wagons  below  the  turn  announced  the 
near  approach  of  the  lonely  teamster. 
All  was  against  the  sailor,  with  his 
prairie  schooner  loaded.  The  game 
was  easy — two  mud-masked  men 
vaulting  the  rock  wall,  demanded  a 
halt.  Vasquez  reluctantly  covered  the 
hard-working  freight  agent,  while  his 
accomplice  relieved  him  of  his  dearly 
gotten  gold. 

All  that  was  left  for  Bigley's  part  in 
that  dastardly  game  was  a  word  to  the 
home-bound  team,  right  glad  to  find  the 
summit  on  the  next  turn  ahead.  The 
shamed  and  silent  bandits,  omitting 
the  usual  parting  salutations,  sprang 
over  the  walled  rim,  disappearing  in 
the  chaparral,  just  as  two  mounted  men 
galloped  over  the  summit 

"What's  doing,  Jack?"  they  asked. 
In  a  moment  the  story  was  told;  two 
saddled  horses,  apparently  riderless, 
were  passing  behind  the  scant  young 
willows  of  the  canyon  stream. 

"They're  off,"  said.  Bigley.  "See 
that  spur  locked  behind  the  saddle  seat 
and  that  hand  on  the  horn?  Lend  me 
your  gun!"  "It's  a  small  mark  for 
you,  Jack."  The  new  arrivals  alighted ; 
in  a  moment  the  reports  of  revolver 
and  rifle  shot  reawakened  the  echoes 
of  the  morning.  The  buckskin  mus- 
tang reared  in  answer  to  the  first  shot 
from  above.  "A  horse  for  a  horse!" 
exclaimed  Bigley.  A  jet  of  smoke 
from  under  the  mustang's  arched  neck, 
and  wheat  trickled  from  a  bullet  hole 
in  a  sack  back  of  the  wagon  seat.  The 
answering  shot  brought  a  curse  in  re- 
turn, as  the  Mexicans  disappeared, 
amid  the  dense  willows  of  Mud  Creek, 
a  bloody  shirt  sleeve  beneath  a 
clenched  fist  proved  the  game  but 
partly  played. 

Swinging  slowly  down  the  curving 
grade,  the  old  sailor  listening  to  the 
vesper  chimes,  called  to  mind  the  more 
happy  days  of  his  old  home,  when 
night  found  him  safely  within,  after 
a  day  of  plenty  and  no  regrets. 


The  Sun  Dance 


By  AVax  /AcD. 


THE  PASSION  for    dancing    is 
most  strongly     manifested     in 
savage  nations,  and  their  dances 
are  mostly  associated  with  re- 
ligion and  war.    The  North  American 
Indian  is  very  religious,  and  we  are 
not   surprised  to  find  him  managing 
in  a  number  of  dances  of  a  religious 
nature.   Chief  among  these  is  the  Sun 
Dance,  which,  as  far  as  is  known,  was 
indulged  in  by  every  Indian  tribe  on 
the  continent. 

This  performance  or  religious  orgy 
is  under  the  supervision  of  the  Medi- 
cine Man  and  those  who  participate  in 
it  are  victims  of  his  wiles.  An  Indian, 
let  us  say,  sees  himself  in  vision  doing 
some  great  deed.  He  relates  his 
dream  to  the  Medicine  Man,  and  that 
functionary  promises  him  that  if  he 
goes  through  the  Sun  Dance  he  will  be 
able  to  do  the  great  deed  he  dreamed 
of. 

The  Sun  Dance  was  a  most  barbar- 
ous celebration.  The  ceremony  is  too 
horrible  for  words.  It  is  the  ordeal 
through  which  the  Indian  lad  must  pass 
before  he  could  qualify  as  a  brave  and 
attain  the  status  of  a  warrior.  It  was 
a  shockingly  cruel  series  of  tortures, 
self-administered  by  the  neophyte,  in 
which  he  must  show  no  sign  of  pain. 
The  whole  tribe  gathered  for  the  cele- 
bration, and  to  fail  was  considered  one 
of  the  greatest  of  disgraces  that  could 
come  to  the  young  Indian. 

The  dance  was  usually  held  in  the 
spring  of  the  year  after  the  snow  had 
left  the  hills.  A  high  butte  was  the 
favored  place  of  meeting,  and  for  sev- 
eral weeks  before  the  event  prepara- 
tions were  under  way.  An  immense 
booth  or  lodge  had  to  be  erected.  This 
was  done  by  placing  a  long  pole,  some- 


times 40  feet  in  length,  upright  in  the 
ground  and  fastening  as  long  poles 
as  could  be  obtained  to  the  top.  The 
butts  of  these  poles  were  then  made 
to  rest  on  a  circle  of  shorter  poles  set 
in  the  ground,  thus  making  a  pole  roof. 
This  roof  was  afterward  covered  with 
brushwood  from  the  river  bottom,  car- 
ried by  the  old  squaws.  While  the 
dance  itself  was  held  in  the  open  be- 
side the  Sun  lodge,  the  enclosure  was 
used  as  a  part  of  the  ceremony.  In  it 
vows  were  performed.  One  historian 
tells  that  on  visiting  the  camp  at  the 
time  of  the  Sun  Dance  he  found  the 
old  chief  of  the  tribe  in  the  lodge  per- 
forming a  seven  days'  fast.  Some  of 
his  family  had  been  very  sick,  and 
when  praying  to  the  Great  Spirit  for 
their  recovery  he  had  vowed  that  if 
they  were  restored  to  health  he  would 
abstain  from  food  for  seven  days  and 
nights.  The  visitor  found  him  pray- 
ing his  vow,  but  smoking  an  old  Indian 
pipe. 

There  was  a  time  when  all  sorts  of 
cruel  tortures  were  the  main  features 
at  these  gatherings,  the  would-be 
braves  submitting  to  having  their  fin- 
gers cut  off,  and  ugly  gashes  cut  in 
their  chests  and  backs.  Not  all  In- 
dians without  fingers,  however,  have 
lost  them  at  a  Sun  Dance.  It  is  a  com- 
mon custom  among  Indians  to  bite  off 
a  finger  at  the  first  or  second  joint 
when  they  fail  in  the  performance  of 
a  vow.  Many  Indian  women  have 
noses  cropped  off,  but  the  Sun  Dance 
has  nothing  to  do  with  this.  An  an- 
gry husband,  jealous  of  the  love  of  an- 
other for  his  squaw  is  responsible. 
With  his  teeth  he  has  bitten  off  his 
wife's  nose. 

At  the  Sun  Dance  old  squaws  used 


THE  SUN  DANCE 


139 


the  knife.  Slits  were  cut  in  the  breast 
of  the  Indian  boy,  sometimes  by  his 
own  mother.  It  was  the  duty  of  the 
Medicine  Man  to  lift  the  strips  of  flesh 
with  pinchers  and  insert  rope  or  buf- 
falo thongs  beneath  the  muscles,  knot- 
ting %  them  securely.  Sometimes  the 
victim  thrust  two  huge  skewers  through 
the  flesh  loops  of  his  own  chest  to  the 
end  of  which  thongs  were  attached. 
The  end  of  the  rope  or  thong  was  then 
fastened  high  up  on  a  pole  set  in  the 
ground,  and  with  the  members  of  the 
tribe  sitting  in  a  large  circle  about  the 
pole,  the  cruelty  began.  The  candi- 
date, if  he  would  perform  the  great 
deed  he  had  dreamed  of,  must  dance 
and  whirl  and  tug  at  this  rope  or  thong 
until  he  had  torn  the  flesh  and  liber- 
ated himself.  Often  this  has  taken 
hours,  and  the  suffering  endured  must 
have  been  very  great. 

There  are  several  other  methods  of 
torturing  the  flesh  loops  till  they  broke 
and  loosed  the  braves.  Instead  of  cut- 
ting the  slits  in  the  breast  they  are 
cut  in  the  back.  When  this  method  is 
used,  the  rope  is  not  fastened  to  the 
pole.  Thongs  are  tied  to  the  muscles 
as  before,  and  to  them  great  buffalo 
heads  are  hung  just  clear  of  the 
ground.  The  Indian  youth  must  then 
dance  about  till  the  weight  of  the 
heads  pull  the  muscles  and  flesh,  and 
the  weights  drop  away.  This  method 
of  becoming  a  brave  is  not  as  popular 
as  the  other,  because  the  back  of  the 
brave  is  seldom  bared,  while  the 
breast  is  always  open,  showing  the 
scars  of  many  a  well-fought  ordeal. 
Chiefs  point  to  marks  from  armpits  to 
throat  as  the  proudest  decoration  they 
can  wear.  Sometimes,  instead  of  tying 
the  end  of  the  rope  to  the  pole  or  at- 
taching the  buffalo  horns,  a  lariat  is 
tied  to  the  thong,  and  the  victim 
dragged  about  the  dance  ground  till  he 
is  freed  by  the  tearing  of  the  flesh. 
This  method  also  is  unpopular  because 
it  requires  no  effort  on  the  part  of  the 
brave. 

Before  the  ordeal  begins  many  back 
out.  The  relatives  of  others  bribe  the 
Medicine  Man  to  get  them  off.  Some- 
times after  the  skewers  or  thongs  are 


put  under  the  flesh  loops,  the  candi- 
date backs  out.  If  so,  the  instrument 
of  torture,  skewer  or  thong,  must  be 
released  by  cutting  the  flesh  loop.  It 
is  against  all  law  to  draw  it  out  end- 
wise. 

If  the  aspirant  passes  through  the 
ordeal  without  exhibiting  signs  of  fear 
or  pain,  he  is  declared  a  brave,  and  is 
eligible  to  sit  in  the  councils  of  his 
nation.  Youths  of  seventeen  and 
eighteen  years  of  age  often  graduated 
with  honors,  but  woe  to  the  man  who 
failed.  An  Indian  who  is  unable  to 
endure  the  strain  of  the  ordeal  when 
a  young  buck  is  a  marked  man,  des- 
tined to  carry  wood  and  water  and  do 
other  work  usually  allotted  to  squaws 
for  the  remainder  of  his  days. 

Indian  mothers,  we  are  told,  were 
as  anxious  for  their  sons  to  qualify  as 
rthe  sons  themselves.  One  writer  on 
Indian  customs  tells  that  a  young  lad 
who  was  being  put  through  the  buffalo 
head  torture  danced  with  commendable 
vigor,  but  his  strength  was  not  suffi- 
cient to  enable  him  to  last  until  the 
heads  had  pulled  through.  Finally, 
tottering,  swaying,  his  face  set  grim 
and  fixed,  he  shook  one  dangling  skull 
loose,  but  could  not  free  the  other. 
He  bent,  pitched  and  sank  to  his 
knees,  while  the  watching  tribe  stirred 
and  rustled.  The  lad  was  going  to 
fail,  and  already  glances  of  scorn  were 
being  directed  toward  him.  Perspira- 
tion poured  down  his  face;  he  strug- 
gled manfully  to  reach  his  feet  and 
pitched  forward  just  as  his  mother 
dashed  into  the  circle  on  a  horse,  and 
seizing  the  buffalo  horn  urged  the  pony 
away,  dragging  her  son  by  the  thong. 
Not  a  whimper  passed  his  lips,  not  a 
sign  of  pain  was  visible  to  the  criti- 
cal audience,  and  eventually  the  flesh 
gave  out  and  the  lad  was  a  brave. 

An  eye  witness  of  one  of  these  cere- 
monies tells  the  story  in  a  Western 
daily  paper  in  the  following  manner: 

"At  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon they  began  to  make  a  brave,  a 
young  Indian  of  about  twenty  being 
desirous  of  obtaining  the  distinction. 
Accordingly  he  was  taken  in  charge  by 
the  Medicine  Men  of  the  tribe,  led  to 


140 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


their  lodge,  stripped  naked  except  his 
loin  cloth,  carefully  anointed  with 
medicine  and  decorated  with  wreathes 
of  green  boughs.  He  was  then  led  to 
the  dancing  booth,  where  a  lariat  or 
thong  of  deer  skin  had  been  doubled 
and  fastened  at  the  top  of  the  center 
pole,  reaching  within  four  feet  of  the 
ground  and  looped  at  both  ends.  The 
victim  was  then  laid  on  his  back,  and 
amid  solemn  incantations,  the  Medicine 
Man  carefully  raised  the  muscles  of 
each  side  of  the  breast,  made  a  punc- 
ture with  his  knife,  and  thrust  under 
each  muscle  a  strong  piece  of  wood 
about  three  inches  long.  To  this  was 
attached  the  looped  ends  of  the  lariat, 
and  after  severely  jerking  them  to 
make  them  tight,  the  Medicine  Man 
requested  the  suffering  wretch  to  rise, 
which  he  did,  and  with  blood  trickling 
down  his  body,  and  with  great  beads 
of  perspiration  bursting  from  every 
pore,  he  danced  around  the  pole,  bear- 
ing the  whole  weight  of  his  body  on 
the  aforesaid  muscles,  and  often  sus- 
pending himself  from  the  gound.  We 
watched  the  sickening  performance  for 
some  time,  but  were  at  length  com- 
pelled to  turn  away  in  horror. 

"One  of  the  most  touching  points  in 
the  whole  scene  was  the  sight  of  his 
old  mother,  standing  by,  continually 
uttering  the  war  cry.  When  we  left, 
the  muscles  were  drawn  about  three 
inches  from  his  body.  At  last  they 
broke,  and  he  was  free,  a  full  fledged 


warrior,  privileged  to  take  unto  him- 
self a  wife  and  have  a  seat  at  the 
council  of  his  tribe." 

Solon  H.  Borglum,  the  sculptor,  tells 
that  he  has  in  his  studio  the  imple- 
ments used  at  the  last  Sun  Dance  the 
United  States  government  permitted. 
In  Canada,  the  ceremony  was  forbid- 
den as  soon  as  the  Royal  Northwest 
Mounted  Police  had  gained  ascendancy 
over  all  the  tribes  of  Western  Canada. 
It  was,  however,  carried  out  with  all 
its  horrors  up  till  1890,  and  a  few  have 
been  held  since  that  date.  As  a  conse- 
quence-of  the  discouragement  of  these 
acts  of  paganism,  the  annual  gather- 
ings of  the  Indian  people  result  in 
nothing  more  than  dancing  the  old- 
time  dances,  chanting  the  brave  acts  of 
by-gone  days,  and  propitiating  the  Sun 
by  the  bestowal  of  gifts  which  are 
fastened  to  the  top  of  the  center  pole 
of  the  Sun-lodge.  The  chief  amuse- 
ment during  the  week  of  the  dance  is 
horse  racing,  and  as  the  Indians!  now 
possess  some  remarkably  swift  horses, 
exciting  sport  is  witnessed,  with  a  lit- 
tle gambling  on  the  side. 

With  the  Sun  Dance  has  gone  the 
Medicine  Man,  not  through  the  opera- 
tion of  a  natural  or  economic  law,  but 
by  government  edict.  For  many  years 
the  authorities  on  both  sides  of  the 
line  bore  with  this  pernicious  nuisance. 
He  was  the  most  pernicious  busybody 
the  West  ever  produced.  With  him  an 
Indian  character  type  has  disappeared. 


GOLDEN  GATE  AT  SUNSET 


Out  through  the  gray  gate  drift  the  ships 

While  the  low  sun  dips. 
The  ships  drift  out  in  the  stillness  blind, 

And  every  ship  has  a  broken  soul; 

Mayhap  the  sea  will  make  it  whole.. 
The  good  salt  sea  and  the  purging  wind — 
And  still  through  the  gray  gate  drift  the  ships 

While  the  low  sun  dips. 

M.  C.  DAVIES. 


When  Betty  Grew  Up 


By  Jessie  B.  Wood 


BETTY  sat  back  and  viewed  her 
handiwork  with  pride.  Betty 
fairly  dripped  Jap-a-Lac  and 
white  enamel  and  furniture  pol- 
ish. All  of  the  sombre  old  oak  fur- 
nishings of  Betty's  own  room  had  been 
transformed  into  birdseye  maple  with 
the  flourish  of  Betty's  brush.  On  the 
old  sagging  back  porch  stood  a  shiny, 
dripping  dressing  table,  a  bureau,  a 
desk,  two  chairs  and  a  sagging,  up- 
holstered old  settee.  Betty  sat  prone 
on  the  floor  and  surveyed  her  sticky 
hands  and  mottled  apron,  ruefully. 

"Glory,  but  I'm  a  mess!"  Betty  an- 
nounced to  her  disheveled  little  image 
in  the  mirror  above  her.  "But  I  guess 
I'm  some  painter — huh?  Oh,  shucks, 
there's  Billy.  He  always  comes  when 
I  look  like  this.  Hullo,  Billikin,  come 
in  and  view  my  completed  handiwork. 
Or,  no,  it  isn't  completed,  either.  The 
Jap-a-Lac's  all  running  off.  I  guess 
I  put  it  on  too  thick,  maybe.  Here's 
the  brush." 

"Many  thanks,  but  I  much  prefer  to 
watch  you  work,  my  dear.  Betty,  you 
are  awfully  messy  looking.  Can't  you 
polish  up  the  furniture  without — Oh, 
I'm  just  joking!  Give  me  that  brush. 
Please  give  it  to  me,  Betty.  I'm  just 
crazy  to  do  something  useful.  Thank 
you,  pretty  maiden.  Now  watch  some 
real  enameling.  Whoop!  Aw,  darn 
the  luck!  Betty,  look  at  that— I  got 
it  all  over  me.  Isn't  that  the  limit.  I 
was  on  my  way  to  call  on  Miss  Or- 
land,  too.  Well,  now  I  can't  go,  and 
I'll  just  have  to  stay  here." 

"Poor  boy,  wait  and  I'll  bring  you 
some  nice,  hot  gingerbread.  I  smell 
it,  so  I  know  it  is  done,  and  I  baked 


it.1 


Betty  ran  into  the  house  and  Billie 


stood  up  and  looked  ruefully  down  at 
his  bespattered  trousers  and  shoes.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  grinned 
appreciatively  at  Betty's  array  of  new, 
white  bedroom  furniture.  He  sat  down 
quietly  on  the  porch  railing  and  swung 
his  foot  slowly  to  and  fro. 

"Poor  little  Bettykins !"  Billy  spoke 
half-aloud.  "She's  so  game  and  they 
are  so  bloomin'  poor.  It  seems  about 
a  week  ago  that  I  had  to  lick  the  fel- 
lows when  they  pulled  her  curls.  And 
look  at  her — she's  all  grown  up." 

"She  certainly  is!"  Betty  stood  be- 
side him,  a  plate  of  steaming  ginger- 
bread in  her  hand.  "Have  some,  Bil- 
lie. Why  were  you  talking  so  solemn- 
ly about  me?"  Betty  sat  beside  him 
on  the  railing  and  pushed  her  damp 
curls  from  her  forehead. 

"Oh,  nothing;  only  I  hate  to  have 
you  grow  up." 

"Well,  you  did,"  she  answered  sob- 
erly; "so  why  can't  I?  But  really,  I 
know  how  you  feel.  I  just  hate  to 
grow  up.  I  want  to  stay  little  and  I 
can't.  I  want  to  go  on  thinking  every- 
body is  good,  and  I  can't.  I  want  to — 
oh,  Billie — I  don't  want  to  fall  in  love 
and  all  those  horrid  things.  Why, 
what's  the  matter?" 

Betty's  big  blue  eyes  opened  wide, 
and  she  stared  in  amazement  as  Billy 
laughed  noisily. 

"Don't  worry,  child,"  Billy's  voice 
became  patronizing.  "Why,  you're 
about  the  youngest  thing  I  know. 
Don't  want  to  fall  in  love!  Why, 
Betty,  most  girls  have  fallen  in  and 
out  a  half  dozen  times  by  the  time  they 
are  nineteen.  Say,  listen,"  Billy  stood 
up  suddenly  and  placed  a  hand  on 
either  of  the  girl's  shoulders,  "listen — 
didn't  you  ever  in  your  life  love  any 


142 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


man  a  little  -more  than  any  one  else  ?" 

"Nobody  but  you,  Billy."  Betty's 
eyes  were  as  free  from  guile  as  a 
child's.  "And  you  don't  count." 

"Oh.  I  dont  count?  Why  don't  I? 
But  never  mind — let's  finish  this 
enameling  job.  And  say,  this  is  some 
gingerbread.  You're  a  big  grown  up 
woman  when  it  comes  to  cooking, 
Betty  dear." 

The  screen  door  opened  noisily  and 
Betty's  small  brother  came  bouncing 
out. 

"Hello,  Bill,"  he  shouted,  "ain't 
Betty  a  dandy  white-washer?  Gimme 
some  gingerbread,  Betty,  aw,  please. 
Much  obliged.  Bill,  are  you  and  that 
Orland  girl  going  to  get  married  ?  Her 
brother  said  you  were.  I  said  you  was 
not,  'cause  you  and  Betty  was  goin'  to 
get  married,  so  we  had  a  fight,  and  I'd 
a  licked  him  if " 

The  reasons  for  his  pugilistic  defeat 
were  drowned  in  a  shout  of  gay  laugh- 
ter. 

"Oh,  Teddie,  Teddie,  you  ridiculous 
child!"  Betty  giggled.  "Don't  look  so 
fussed,  Billy.  I  think  Miss  Orland  is 
lovely— only  I'm  a  little  afraid  of  her. 
Teddie,  dear,  here's  another  piece  of 
gingerbread.  Now  will  you  please  run 
down  to  Banker's  and  get  a  bottle  of 
gasoline  ?  I  must  clean  those  dreadful 
spots  off  of  Billy's  clothes,  so  he  can 
make  his  call." 

In  a  few  minutes  Teddie  returned, 
and  Betty  went  vigorously  to  work, 
scrubbing  at  stubborn  Jap-a-Lac  spots. 
The  gate  clicked,  but  both  Betty  and 
Billy  were  so  intent  on  her  task  that 
they  did  not  hear  it.  In  a  moment 
Miss  Janet  Orland  strolled  around  to 
the  little  old  side  porch.  Betty  sprang 
to  her  feet,  startled  and  embarrassed. 


Billy's  flushed  face  betrayed  his  dis- 
comfort. 

"Dear  me,  I  hope  I  am  not  intrud- 
ing?" Miss  Orland's  well  bred  voice 
and  perfect  poise  always  confused 
Betty.  "Why,  my  dear,  what  are  you 
doing?  Is  this  a  second  hand  furni- 
ture store  or  a  dry  cleaner's  ?" 

"It's  a  little  of  both,"  Betty  an- 
swered quickly.  The  older  girl's  rude- 
ness had  given  Betty  a  becoming  little 
air  of  dignity.  "I'll  find  you  a  chair, 
Miss  Orland.  I  guess  I  won't  try  to 
apologize." 

"No,  don't,"  her  voice  was  quite 
amused,  "I  won't  stay.  I'll  come  some 
day  when  you  are  not  so  busy.  And, 
Billy,"  she  smiled  ravishingly  upon 
the  silent  young  man,  "I'll  be  home  af- 
ter seven  this  evening." 

"Sorry,  Miss  Orland,"  Billy's  voice 
was  coolly  indifferent,  "but  Betty  and 
I  are  going  for  a  little  ride  to-night — 
we  are  going  to  celebrate  something." 

Betty  stared  wonderingly  from  one 
to  the  other.  Miss  Orland  started, 
amazed,  then  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  walked  rapidly  to  the  gate. 

"Don't  mention  it,  please,  Miss  Or- 
land," Billy  called  after  her.  "We  are 
not  announcing  it  yet." 

"Why,  Billy,  I  don't  understand. 
"I •• 

"I  do!  I  do!"  Teddy  executed  a 
complicated  war  dance  on  the  path  be- 
low. "Gee,  won't  I  have  it  on  that  Or- 
land kid!" 

"And  you  don't  understand — really, 
don't  you?"  Billy  smiled  down  on  the 
bewildered  girl  on  the  porch  railing. 
"I  guess  I'll  have  to  teach  you  a  lot." 

Betty  looked  up  at  him  breathlessly. 
"Oh,  dear,  I'm  afraid  I'm  all  grown  up, 
'cause  you  do  count — quite  a  little." 


The  Submarine  not  an  Innovation 


By  Arthur  H.  Dutton,  Formerly  Lieutenant,  U.  5.  Navy 


CONTRARY  to  general  opinion, 
the  submarine  is  by  no  means  a 
novelty  in  warfare.  The  extent 
and  comparative  success  with 
which  it  has  been  used  abroad  during 
the  past  fifteen  months  has  brought  it 
prominently  into  public  notice,  that  is 
all.  The  old,  old  cry  of  the  ignorant, 
heard  when  any  new  and  valuable 
weapon  is  invented,  that  "it  will  revo- 
lutionize naval  warfare,"  and  that  "it 
will  send  the  battleship  to  the  scrap- 
heap,"  is  utter  nonsense.  In  the  first 
place,  naval  science  is  advanced,  not 
by  revolution,  but  by  evolution,  each 
radical  new  invention  at  most  merely 
modifying  the  science.  In  the  second 
place,  battleships  never  go  to  any 
scrap  heap.  As  they  grow  old,  and 
the  later  types  develop,  they  are  with- 
drawn from  the  first  line  to  the  sec- 
ond line,  then  to  the  reserve,  and  fin- 
ally are  put  to  very  important  uses, 
such  as  for  training  purposes,  for  re- 
ceiving ships  or  for  station  ships.  The 
old  Independence,  the  battleship  of 
her  day,  was  in  constant  use  for  more 
than  a  century  when  she  ended  her 
honorable  career  in  flames  in  Mission 
Bay.  The  old  Oregon,  nearly  a  quar- 
ter of  a  century  old,  is  still  in  active 
commission,  and,  while  no  longer  suit- 
able for  the  first  line  of  battle,  might 
still  be  of  much  assistance  in  defend- 
ing a  seaport. 

Submarines  were  used  in  the  War 
of  the  Revolution  and  in  the  Civil 
War.  The  first  one  was  the  invention 
of  David  Bushnell,  of  Connecticut,  a 
man  of  much  mechanical  genius  and 
an  earnest  patriot.  Aiming  to  injure 
the  British  warships  in  New  York  and 
Long  Island  Sound,  Bushnell  devised 
submersible  craft,  not  unlike  a  large 
buoy,  which  he  propelled  by  interior 


gearing.  It  would  hold  two  men.  With 
this,  one  night  he  approached  a  British 
frigate  in  lower  New  York  Bay,  and 
attempted  to  attach  it  to  a  primitive 
torpedo,  to  be  fired  by  fuse.  In  this 
attempt  he  failed,  being  discovered. 
Later,  in  making  another  attempt,  he 
was  more  successful,  discharging  the 
torpedo  against  a  ship  carrying  sup- 
plies for  the  British  army,  and  serious- 
ly damaging  it.  There  was  a  great  up- 
roar in  England  over  this  alleged  "bar- 
barous" method  of  warfare. 

A  new  submarine  tender,  just  com- 
pleted for  the  United  States  Navy,  is 
named  the  Bushnell,  after  the  inventor 
of  the  first  submarine. 

Submarines  were  next  heard  from 
during  the  Civil  War,  in  which  they 
were  used  with  considerable  success 
by  the  Confederates  against  the  North 
Atlantic  blockading  fleet  of  the  Union. 
They  were  cigar  shaped,  like  those  of 
the  present  day,  but  very  much  smaller 
^ — and  their  propellers  were  revolved 
by  machinery  and  not  by  hand  gearing, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  Bushnell  affair. 
Many  of  them,  being  very  crude,  were 
lost,  with  much  loss  of  life,  but  the 
brave  fellows  continued  to  risk  their 
lives  in  them. 

These  Confederate  submarines  were 
'called  "Davids."  Two  reasons  have 
been  assigned  for  this  name,  one  be- 
ing that  it  was  in  memory  of  David 
Bushnell,  the  other  that  they  were 
good  means  of  bringing  an  enemy  to 
"Davy  Jones'  Locker,"  as  the  deep  sea 
is  often  called  in  nautical  parlance. 

The  first  one  was  built  in  Charleston, 
S.  C.,  by  Captain  Thomas  Stoney,  of 
that  city.  It  was  50  feet  long  and  6 
feet  thick  amidships,  tapering  toward 
bow  and  stern,  the  boiler  being  for- 
ward and  the  engine  aft.  It  ran  on 


144 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


the  surface  of  the  water  until  near  the 
enemy,  when  it  was  submerged  until 
barely  awash.  The  torpedo  was  at- 
tached to  a  spar  made  of  a  three-inch 
boiler  tube,  which  was  fixed  before 
starting  out  and  could  not  be  raised 
or  lowered  thereafter.  It  was  of  cop- 
per, and  its  bursting  charge  was  65 
pounds  of  rifle  powder.  It  was  fired 
by  contact,  by  the  breaking  of  a  glass 
tube  containing  sulphuric  acid,  fulmi- 
nate of  mercury  and  other  ingredients. 
The  submarine's  two-bladed  propeller 
gave  the  boat  a  speed  of  seven  knots. 

The  first  Union  vessel  attacked  by 
this  David  was  the  New  Ironsides, 
a  case-mated  armor-clad  flagship  of 
the  squadron  off  Charleston.  The  sub- 
marine was  commanded  by  Lieutenant 
W.  T.  Glassel,  C.  S.  N.,  and  with  him 
were  Engineer  James  H.  Tomb,  C.  S. 
N.,  father  of  Lieutenant-Commander 
W.  V.  Tomb,  U.  S.  N.,  until  recently  in 
charge  of  the  San  Francisco  Branch 
Hydrographic  Office,  in  the  Merchants' 
Exchange  Building;  Fireman  J.  Sulli- 
van, and  Pilot  W.  Canners. 

Tomb  is  the  only  one  of  these  still 
living.  Tomb  thus  describes  the  at- 
tack on  the  New  Ironsides : 

"The  night  selected  was  October  5, 
1863,  about  one  year  previous  to  the 
destruction  of  the  Confederate  ram 
Albemarle  by  Lieutenant  W.  B.  Cush- 
ing  of  the  United  States  Navy.  Run- 
ning down  the  harbor  well  to  the  east, 
we  passed  through  the  fleet  and  guard 
boats,  reaching  the  New  Ironsides 
shortly  before  9  p.  m.  When  within  a 
short  distance  of  her  they  hailed  us, 
but  the  only  reply  they  got  was  a  shot 
from  a  double-barreled  gun  in  the  hand 
of  Lieutenant  Glassel.  The  next  mo- 
ment we  struck  her  some  15  feet  for- 
ward of  the  counter.  The  torpedo  ex- 
ploded, and  the  big  frigate  was  shaken 
from  stem  to  stern,  but  the  explosion 
produced  a  bad  effect  on  the  David. 
Lieutenant  Glassel  gave  orders  for 
each  man  to  look  out  for  himself,  and 
we  all  went  overboard.  Lieutenant 
Glassel  was  picked  up  by  a  transport 
schooner,  Sullivan,  by  the  New  Iron- 
sides, and  Canners,  who  could  not 
swim,  stuck  by  the  David.  I  swam 


some  distance  down  the  harbor,  and, 
seeing  that  the  David  was  still  afloat, 
I  returned  to  try  and  save  her.  After 
getting  on  board,  I  adjusted  the  ma- 
chinery, started  up  the  fires  once  more, 
and,  helping  the  pilot  aboard,  started 
back  up  the  harbor.  I  reported  my  re- 
turn to  Flag  Officer  Tucker  in  my  un- 
dershirt. 

"The  damage  to  the  New  Ironsides 
was  not  as  serious  as  it  would  have 
been  had  the  torpedo  been  8  feet  be- 
low the  surface,  as  intended,  instead  of 
61/c>  feet.  She  was  seriously  damaged, 
however,  according  to  a  report  made 
to  Rear-Admiral  Dahlgren,  U.  S.  N., 
and  had  to  be  sent  north  for  repairs." 

Later,  Engineer  Tomb  himself  com- 
manded the  same  David  in  an  attack 
on  the  U.  S.  S.  Memphis,  lying  in  the 
North  Edisto  river.  The  first  torpedo 
to  strike  the  Memphis  was  deflected 
by  steel  armor.  It  was  a  fine  shot,  the 
torpedo  containing  95  pounds  of  pow- 
der, but  the  fuse  was  defective.  A  sec- 
ond shot  also  was  ineffective. 

An  attempt  was  made  later  to  at- 
tack the  U.  S.  S.  Wabash,  but  the  sea 
was  so  heavy  that  the  David  had  to 
return  to  port. 

Later,  a  David  commanded  by  Lieu- 
tenant Dixon  C.  S.  N.,  attacked  the 
U.  S.  S.  Housatonic,  which  it  sank, 
but  the  submarine  itself  was  sunk  with 
all  on  board. 

Other  submarines  were  built  during 
the  Civil  War,  but  they  were  generally 
unsuccessful. 

Like  the  earliest  submarines,  those 
of  the  present  day  are  all  the  products 
of  American  minds.  J.  P.  Holland  and 
Simon  Lake  designed  the  first  of  the 
modern  submarines,  and  all  those  now 
in  use,  both  in  the  United  States  and 
abroad,  are  adaptations  of  the  designs 
of  these  two  men.  In  fact,  most  of  of 
the  weapons  af  present  day  warfare  are 
of  American  origin.  Hotchkiss,  Gat- 
ling  and  Maxim  are  the  fathers  of  the 
rapid  fire  and  machine  gun,  all  exist- 
ing weapons  of  these  types  being  mod- 
ifications of  their  principles. 

The  aeroplane  originated  with  the 
Wright  brothers  of  America,  although 
Prof.  S.  P.  Langley,  also  an  Ameri- 


THE  CHOICE 


145 


can,  experimented  unsuccessfully  with 
the  idea  before  them. 

It  is  a  mistake,  though  to  consider 
the  armor-clad  war  vessel  to  be  of 
American  origin.  The  great  majority 
of  people  think  that  the  Monitor  and 
the  Merrimac  were  the  first  armor- 
clads.  They  were  nothing  of  the  kind. 
They  were  merely  the  first  to  engage 
in  battle.  Long  before  them,  Great 
Britain  and  France  were  experiment- 
ing with  armor  clads.  Before  our  Civil 
War,  Great  Britain  had  two  case-mate 
armor-clads,  the  Black  Prince  and  the 
Warrior,  and  France  had  some  armor- 
clads  of  La  Gloire  type.  The  only 
thing  introduced  in  the  fight  between 
the  Monitor  and  the  Merrimac  was  the 


Monitor's  revolving  turret,  which  at 
once  leaped  into  popularity,  and  its 
use  is  now  universal  in  all  first  class 
men-of-war. 

The  supremacy  of  the  battleship  is 
no  more  imperiled  to-day  by  the  advent 
of  the  submarine  than  it  was  by  the 
torpedo  boat  a  generation  ago.  For 
every  new  weapon  of  offense  that  ap- 
pears a  weapon  of  defense  against  it  is 
found.  Armor  met  the  shell-gun,  the 
rapid-fire  met  the  torpedo  boat.  It  is 
reported  now  on  good  authority  that 
the  experts  of  the  United  States  Navy 
in  Washington  have  devised  an  effi- 
cient defense  against  the  operations  of 
submarines.  The  details,  for  obvious 
reasons,  are  kept  secret. 


THE     CHOICE 

He  had  ambitions,  longings,  fair  ideals, 

And  talked  of  many  things  that  stirred  the  soul ; 

But  ever  worked  within  him  that  slow  doubt 

Of  high  attainment  he  might  never  reach, 

That  his  were  powers  only  commonplace — 

Albeit  sight  divine  was  his,  inborn, 

Of  hidden  glories  of  this  sombre  world. 

Yet  shrank  he  from  endeavor  too  intense, 

Feeling  beforehand  the  disgrace  to  fail, 

Pausing  and  musing,  burning  dreamy  oil 

In  lamps  that  lighted  paths  he  feared  to  choose. 

His  neighbor  was  of  coarser  clay  evolved, 
Or  so  it  seemed,  for  no  fair  dreamer,  he, 
But  rather  the  doer  of  the  pressing  round 
Of  humble  work  and  frequent  drudgery ; 
But  in  his  eyes  there  shone  the  beacon  gleam 
Of  great  ideals,  still  far  distant,  yet 
His  gaze  was  ever  fixed  upon  them,  till 
His  puny  mortal  strength  was  gathered  up 
Within  the  circle  of  diviner  might. 
The  doubter  wandered  in  a  doubter's  hell, 
But  he  who  dared  to  fail  won  on  to  heaven. 


SUZETTE  G.  STUART, 


A  traveler  through  a  mighty  -forest. 


In  a  Forest  Service  Camp 


By  Cecil  Edward  O'Brien 


THE  CAMP  itself  is  in  the  Pike 
National  Forest.  You  have  a 
half  day  off,  owing  to  an  over- 
dose of  flapjacks  for  breakfast. 
You  are  consequently  out  just  six  bits, 
the  afternoon's  pay.  But  the  misery 
has  proved  only  temporary,  and  you 
reflect  comfortably  that  an  afternoon 
off  is  worth  six  bits  anyway.  With  a 
sandwich  left  over  from  lunch,  the 
canteen  lid  of  your  lunch  pail  filled 
with  cold  water  from  the  mountain 
brook  that  supplies  the  camp,  two  mag- 
azines, your  pipe  and  pouch  within 
reach,  and  your  hunting  coat  beneath 
you  to  give  your  rocky  seat  a  Morris 


chair  effect,  you  are  snugly  fixed  in  the 
shade  of  a  giant  mass  of  boulders,  the 
deserted  camp  before  you.  The  men 
are  all  out  planting  trees.  They  will 
be  streaming  back  in  about  three 
hours — three  hours  of  cheaply  bought 
luxury  to  your  lazy  self. 

This  morning  you  were  engaged  in 
planting  trees  on  the  slope  of  a  moun- 
tain. Higher  and  higher  the  row  of 
men  climbed,  driving  their  spear- 
headed steel  bars  into  the  soil,  open- 
ing a  hole  deep  enough  to  hold  the 
sturdy  little  Douglas  firs,  deftly  twist- 
ing the  bar  to  tamp  the  roots,  and  then 
patting  the  earth  down  by  one  or  two 


Forest  guards  cutting  out  a  trail  for  ready  access  in  case  of  fire. 


All  that  was  left  of  a  forest  cutting  after  a  big  fire. 


gentle  blows  with  the  butt  end  of  the 
bar.  Mingled  with  the  laughing  chat 
of  the  men  as  they  worked  would 
come  frequent  shouts:  "Tree!"  (as  the 
planter  made  his  hole  and  needed  a 
little  tree  from  the  tree  passer.) 
"Shift  one  hole  to  the  right!"  "Line  up 
on  this  trail,  fellers,  and  then  straight 
on  up!"  "You're  moving  too  far  out 
from  Holman,  O'Brien.  Keep  your 
holes  eight  feet  apart."  Then  from 
the  tree  passers  the  cry:  "Bundle  of 
trees!"  or  from  a  thirsty  worker  a 
shout  for  water,  summoning  Eva,  the 
boy  whose  duty  it  is  to  go  to  and  fro 
between  the  gangs  and  the  camp, 
bringing  canvas  water  bottles  fresh 
from  the  brook  and  bundles  of  trees 
wrapped  in  wet  gunny  sacking.  The 
boss  ranged  from  end  to  end  of  the 
line,  speeding  the  laggards  who  fell 
behind,  reproving  the  reckless  ones 
who  got  too  far  ahead — threatening  to 
break  the  orderly  trail  of  the  new 
trees — keeping  an  observant  eye  on 
the  new  hands  lest  they  plant  too 
carelessly,  and  occasionally  stooping 


to  pull  inquiringly  at  a  seedling  that 
looked  too  loosely  tamped. 

A  week  ago  you  were  a  green  hand, 
and  clumsy.  But  you  are  slowly  learn- 
ing how  to  plant  trees,  and  plant  them 
so  that  they  will  grow,  the  roots  hang- 
ing straight  down  and  tamped  so 
firmly  that  the  myriads  of  little  mouths 
will  be  directly  in  contact  with  the 
soil  from  which  they  get  their  nour- 
ishment. These  fir  trees  need  amaz- 
ingly little;  their  roots  can  be  trusted 
to  twine  in  and  out  among  the  rocks 
and  seek  their  food  wherever  they  can 
get  it  as  soon  as  the  plant  is  comfort- 
ably settled  down  in  its  new  home; 
but  their  first  three  years  have  been 
spent  in  the  luxury  of  a  nursery,  and 
they  must  be  given  a  reasonably  gen- 
erous start  in  this  new  wild  life  of  the 
woods  and  mountains.  And  in  the 
main  they  do  grow.  Now  and  then, 
either  because  a  carelessly  planted 
tree  escapes  the  vigilance  of  the  boss 
or  because  the  roots  are  injured  in 
some  way,  a  tree  dies.  Sometimes 
they  die  wholesale  if  a  dry  season  fol- 


IN  A  FOREST  SERVICE  CAMP 


149 


lows  the  planting.    But  as  a  rule,  they 
live. 

Where  do  they  come  from?  From 
the  Government  Nursery  at  Monu- 
ment, where  they  are  grown  from 
seeds,  grown  until  they  are,  say,  two 
years  old,  then  transplanted  for  one 
year  more,  then  shipped  in  crates  to 
the  planting  camp.  There  they  are 
taken  from  the  crates,  and  those  that 
are  needed  at  once  are  thoroughly 
wetted  and  wrapped  in  bundles  of  one 
or  two  hundred  trees,  according  to 
their  size,  making  a  package  just  large 
enough  to  be  carried  in  a  sling  under 
the  tree-passer's  arm.  The  rest  are 
heeled  in  neat  green  rows  and  kept 
carefully  watered,  to  be  taken  up  and 
wrapped  as  they  are  needed,  perhaps 
from  fifty  to  a  hundred  bundles  a  day. 

The  number  planted  in  a  given  time 
depends,  of  course,  on  the  size  of  the 
camp  and  on  the  nature  of  the  ground. 
In  an  easy  district,  fairly  free  from 
underbrush,  rocks  and  fallen  timber, 
progress  will  be  rapid,  whether  the 
men  are  working  with  the  mattock  or 
the  bar.  On  a  more  difficult  slope, 
where  good  dirt  is  harder  to  find,  the 
planting  will  naturally  be  slower.  The 
average  per  man  yesterday  was  a  little 
less  than  one  tree  a  minute,  or  about 
four  hundred  for  the  day. 

That  is  the  business  end  of  the 
camp — the  reason  why  it  is  here  at 
all.  The  planting  of  trees  is  what  you 
are  paid  for  by  Uncle  Sam.  But  the 
pay  is  only  one  of  the  compensations 
for  being  here.  Every  now  and  then 
this  morning  as  you  waited  for  a  tree 
to  come  or  when  you  got  a  little  ahead 
of  the  line,  you  had  a  chance  to  see 
where  you  were.  Below  you  and  for 
miles  away  were  the  smaller  moun- 
tains that  looked  so  huge  from  the 
wagon  trail,  some  of  them  savage 
piles  of  bare  granite,  broken  and 
scarred,  some  of  them  clothed  with 
dark  mantles  of  pine  and  fir,  some  of 
them  yellow  with  quaking  aspen — 
quakin'  asp,  as  the  mountaineers  and 
ranchmen  call  it.  Far  away,  over  the 
depression  that  marks  the  Ute  Pass, 
you  could  see  the  prairie,  a  misty 
sweep  of  yellowish  gray,  spotted  with 


A   trophy  of  the  mountains. 

dark  islands  in  the  nearer  distance, 
where  masses  of  granite  or  sandstone 
broke  above  the  surface.  It  looked 
like  the  dry  bottom  of  an  ocean, 
stretching  off  to  a  level  sky  line. 

When  you  reached  the  top  of  the 
mountain  you  all  paused  for  a  moment 
or  two.  Across  a  great  gulf  rose 
Cameron's  Cone,  Baldy,  Pike's  Peak, 
and  their  lesser  brethren.  You  were 
ten  thousand  feet  above  sea  level,  as 
high  as  storied  Olympus.  But  the 
peak  was  over  four  thousand  feet 
higher,  a  bare,  rugged  mass  of  granite, 
its  crevices  white  with  snow.  For 
miles  all  around  you  the  mountain 
sides  up  to  timber  line  were  glorious 
in  their  autumn  colors,  all  the  shades 
of  green,  russet,  red  and  yellow  backed 
by  the  gray  and  dull  pinks  and  browns 
of  the  rock.  And  at  your  feet  were 
the  tiny  trees,  sprung  from  the  mag- 
nificent Douglas  firs  of  Oregon,  which 
may  be  attaining  a  noble  saplinghood 


150 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


when  the  hands  that  planted  them  are 
crumbling  to  dust. 

Even  here  in  your  shady  nook  by 
the  camp,  you  get  much  of  the  glory 
of  the  mountains,  for  though  the  camp 
itself  is  over  nine  thousand  feet  above 
sea  level  the  great  hills  tower  all 
around  it.  It  is  tucked  away  in  Nig- 
ger Gulch,  prosaic  name  of  another 
Garden  of  the  Gods.  The  air  and  sky 
are  those  that  you  have  always  asso- 
ciated only  with  South  Italy,  Califor- 
nia and  the  Thousand  Islands  of  the 
St.  Lawrence,  those  regions  of  lumi- 
nous atmosphere,  radiant  and  satu- 
rated with  sunlight.  But  rarely  in  any 
land  are  the  sky  and  air  quite  what 
they  are  in  the  higher  levels  of  the 
mountains.  No  smoke  or  dust  ever 
rises  to  this  enchanted  country.  In 
'front  of  you  rises  a  giant  rockery  of 
granite,  the  grayish  red  of  the  cliffs 
and  boulders  only  relieved  by  a  few 
venturesome  firs  that  spring  appar- 
ently from  the  solid  rock.  And  from 
bottom  to  top  the  edge  is  marked  with 
an  absolute  clearness  of  outline  that 
is  almost  startling  against  the  deep 
blue  of  the  sky.  You  feel  that  from 
where  you  sit  you  could  see  even  one 
of  the  tiny  mountain  chipmunks  if  it 
raced  across  the  topmost  rock. 

Now  along  the  three  trails  leading 
into  the  camp  come  the  workers,  each 
with  his  bar  or  mattock  over  his  shoul- 
der, some  few  provident  ones  carry- 
ing also  a  load  of  good  dry  sticks  for 
the  evening  fire — a  load  that  will  save 
just  that  much  chopping.  Each  man 
goes  to  his  tent  to  leave  his  tool  and 
get  his  towel,  and  the  long  wash-stand 
by  the  creek,  with  its  row  of  tin  basins 
is  thronged  until  the  cleaning  up  is 
finished.  Then  some  chop  wood,  some 
make  up  their  beds,  and  some  sit  by 
their  tents  and  smoke  in  peace.  You 
join  the  group  of  your  own  tent  mates. 
You  have  had  a  rest;  they  have  earned 
their  full  day's  pay;  all  are  content. 
The  supper  gong  rings,  a  hungry 
crowd  fills  the  tables  of  the  dining 
tent,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  the  tin 
dishes  are  emptied.  Fires  are  built 
in  the  inverted  cone  stoves  that  warm 
each  tent,  lanterns  are  lit,  and  the 


boys  gather  to  talk,  smoke,  read  or 
play  cribbage. 

Much  of  the  talk  would  displease 
the  fastidious.  And  the  roughly 
dressed,  unshaven  individuals  who 
sprawl  in  inelegant  attitudes  over  the 
straw  and  the  tumbled  blankets  could 
be  by  no  possibility  mistaken  for  Wil- 
lie boys  or  stray  millionaires.  Yet  the 
men  and  their  talk,  the  whole  scene 
in  one  of  these  canvas  huts,  is  far 
from  unedifying.  Here  an  Oregon  for- 
est man  studies  a  blue  print  of  Doug- 
las County  and  compares  experiences 
with  another  whose  dad  had  been  an 
engineer  up  there.  The  one  tells  how 
he  once  rode  seven  miles  down  a  flume 
and  the  other,  instead  of  admiring, 
briefly  labels  him  a  damn  fool.  One 
describes  a  wild  fight  with  a  forest 
fire,  the  other  tells  of  the  prettiest 
sight  he  had  ever  seen  in  the  forest, 
a  deer  chased  by  a  cougar,  flashing 
across  the  trail  twenty  feet  ahead  of 
him.  Then  the  talk  becomes  more 
frivolous  and  degenerates  sometimes 
into  purely  animal  converse  about 
sprees  and  forbidden  pleasures.  Yet 
if  a  lady  might  not  listen,  not  a  word 
that  is  vulgar  is  allowed  to  reach  the 
ears  of  the  one  lady  in  camp,  the  wife 
of  a  ranger.  For  even  here,  as  in  a 
mining  camp,  there  is  the  rude  chiv- 
alry of  the  wild. 

To-night  there  are  no  ceremonies  of 
initiation,  for  there  happen  to  be  no 
new  hands.  Every  green  arrival,  and 
there  are  several  every  day  or  so,  must 
go  through  a  mild  hazing.  Two  last 
night  were  blindfolded  and  led  stum- 
bling into  the  depths  of  an  old  pros- 
pector's tunnel  near  by.  When  far 
enough  in,  the  guides  suddenly  simu- 
lated fear  of  a  wild  beast — a  bob-cat 
or  even  perchance  a  mountain  lion — 
lurking  in  the  further  darkness.  They 
could  see  its  eyes  glowing.  They  fled 
in  panic,  forgetting,  naturally,  to  un- 
bind their  victims.  The  bandages 
were  hastily  thrown  off,  revealing  two 
bits  of  phosphorescent  wood  (fox- 
fire, the  boys  here  call  it)  cunningly 
arranged  to  resemble  fierce  eyes.  Fol- 
lowed headlong  flight  and  satisfied 
jubilations  at  the  cavern's  mouth. 


In  a  forest  of  young  trees. 


152 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Sometimes  the  crowd  is  satisfied 
with  blanket  tossing.  The  blanket  is 
a  large  tarpaulin  held  by  some  twenty 
or  thirty  willing  hands.  The  one  to 
be  tossed  is  benevolently  instructed  to 
sit  tight  and  clasp  his  hands  over  his 
knees.  Then  he  is  tossed  about  fifteen 
feet  in  the  air  three  times.  The  ex- 
perience is  a  weird  one  to  the  unini- 
tiated. You  feel  sure  that  you  have 
risen  thirty  feet  and  that  you  have 
floated  far  beyond  the  edge  of  the  tarp. 
You  seem  to  be  in  the  air  a  young 
eternity.  You  expect  a  cruel  fall  on 
the  relentless  earth.  But  you  fall 
harmlessly,  and  at  the  end  crawl  out 
with  a  vast  thankfulness.  The  whole 
performance  is  not  unlike  college  haz- 
ing in  idea,  but  it  is  incomparably  less 
barbarous  than  most  of  the  hazing  in 
practice.  These  boys  are  perhaps  less 
cruel  than  college  students  because 
they  know  more  of  life,  have  felt  the 
sharp  tooth  of  bitter  realities. 

Here  the  realities  are  hardly  bitter 
— nothing  worse  than  hard  work,  straw 
beds  and  occasional  rough  weather — 
but  there  are  some,  of  course,  who 
cannot  stand  it.  Climbing,  carrying 
and  wielding  the  heavy  bar,  making 
your  way  over  huge  boulders  or  among 
tangled  and  fallen  timber,  and  doing 
this  at  from  nine  to  ten  thousand  feet 
above  sea  level,  is  not  a  job  for  soft 


muscles,  weak  lungs  or  flabby  souls. 
Sometimes  a  good  worker,  tireless  and 
capable  at  lower  levels,  finds  to  his 
mortification  that  he  cannot  stand  the 
altitude.  At  any  rate,  for  one  reason 
or  another,  men  drop  out  every  day. 
Of  two  men  who  came  out  the  night 
before  last,  one  left  for  town  imme- 
diately after  breakfast  because  he  had 
been  cold  during  the  night,  and  the 
other  collapsed  before  he  had  quite 
achieved  the  thousand  feet  of  straight 
climb  that  initiated  the  day's  work. 
But  if  you  can  stand  it,  the  beauty 
that  surrounds  you,  the  pure  air  and 
sunlight,  and  even  the  fascination  of 
the  work  itself  will  be  ample  reward 
for  the  few  inevitable  hardships. 

Not  least  is  the  fascination  of  the 
work  and  what  it  means.  Every  one 
of  the  tiny  trees  that  you  plant  drives 
home  the  fact  that  you  are  helping  to 
make  this  glorious  mountain  country 
even  more  beautiful  for  the  generations 
to  come.  Every  day's  work  is  done  for 
a  whole  people,  the  people  of  whom 
you  are  a  little  working  part.  And  it 
gives  one  a  little  thrill  of  pride  to 
think  as  evening  comes  that  fifty 
years  hence  two  to  four  hundred  noble 
firs  will  stand  as  the  monument  of  the 
work  your  puny  arms  have  done  since 
the  sun  dawned  that  morning  on  Nig- 
ger Gulch. 


Hauling  a  polar  bear  aboard  a  hunter' s  vessel,  Bering  Sea. 

The  Wonderful  Voyage  of  Egadahgeer 

Showing  Truth  to  be  Stranger  Than  Fiction 
By  Henry  W.  Elliott 


ONE   December   evening,   1872, 
the  natives  of  Saint  Paul's  Is- 
land, Bering  Sea,  gathered  at 
the  invitation  of  the  writer  in 
their  village  store.    They  were  asked 
to  tell  him  what  they  knew  of  the 
early  days  of  Russian  discovery  and 
occupation  of  the  Pribilov  Islands  in 
1786,     and     thereafter.     They     were 
asked  because  several  of    the    elder 
men  then  present  were  the  sons  of 
those  men  who  had  landed  with  Gear- 
man  Pribilov  on  St.  George  and  St. 
Paul  in  1786-'87. 

After  the  usual  serving  of  tea  and 
crackers  that  always  precedes  any 
business  where  Russian  custom  has 
prevailed,  they  listened  to  the  reading 
of  Bishop  Veniaminov's  account  of 


Pribilov's  discovery.  It  was  not  new 
to  them,  for  they  had  heard  it  often 
recited,  in  parts,  before,  by  their  own 
priest,  Kazean  Shaishnikov,  who  was 
a  personal  friend  of  the  Bishop. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  old  Kerick  Artamo- 
nov,  "the  Bishop  was  right  in  saying 
that  the  Russians  did  not  know  about 
these  islands  before  the  natives  did." 
Then  being  pressed  to  tell  what  he 
and  his  associates  knew,  he  related 
the  following  amazing  story  of  Aleu- 
tian adventure.  The  simple  details  of 
its  relation  are  fairly  incredible  viewed 
in  the  light  of  what  we  know  so  well 
to-day  as  to  the  danger  and  difficulty 
which  a  man  in  a  small  boat  would 
have  of  surviving  when  adrift  on  Ber- 
ing Sea,  in  the  teeth  of  a  fierce  south- 


Walrus  hunters,  Bering  Sea. 


easter  gale,  without  chart,  compass, 
food  or  water.  This  is  the  recitation 
of  Artamonov: 

It  is  true  that  white  men  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  location  of  these  islands  un- 
til Pribilov  found  them  in  1786,  but  it 
is  also  true  that  our  people,  the  Aleuts 
of  Akootan  and  Oonalaskka  knew 
that  this  summer  home  of  the  seals  on 
these  islands  was  here,  long,  oh,  long 
before  they  ever  saw  the  first  white 
men  (the  Russian  hunters.) 

Yes,  they  knew  that  these  little 
islands  were  up  here,  more  than  four 
days  of  steady  bidarka  travel  away  in 
good  weather.  But  they  knew  that 
they  had  not  one  chance  in  a  hundred 
of  getting  to  them  if  they  started 
through  the  winds  and  steady  summer 
fogs. 

How  could  they  set  their  course 
to-day,  and  find  them,  even  now,  in 


their  skin  boats — their  bidarraks  and 
bidarkas? 

My  father  was  the  Shaman  at  Ma- 
kooshin,  under  the  big  volcano  there 
at  Oonalaskka;  he  told  Pribilov,  in 
April,  1786,  that  these  seal  islands 
were  up  here,  and  that  they  were  not 
more  than  two  days'  sail  (for  his 
sloop)  away;  and  that  the  course  was 
to  the  north  and  west.  How  did  my 
father  know  this?  He  knew  it  be- 
cause he  had  received  the  following 
story  from  the  old  men  and  women 
when  he  was  young. 

It  came  to  pass  that  a  young  Aleut, 
a  sea-otter  hunter,  when  coming 
across  in  his  bidarka  from  Oonimak 
Island  to  Makooshin,  was  caught  by  a 
sudden  storm  which  grew  into  a  furi- 
ous southeastern  gale  with  thick  fog 
and  driving  rain.  To  save  himself 
from  being  turned  over  and  smothered 


*; 


156 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


by  the  crests  of  breaking  waves,  this 
hunter  had  to  run  with  the  sea,  keep- 
ing his  back  to  the  wind  and  waves. 
You  know  that  the  sea-otter  hunters 
always,  when  they  seat  themselves,  in 
the  bidarka,  lift  up  the  skirts  of  their 
kamlaika  (waterproof  shirt  and  hood 
made  of  sea  lion's  intestines)  and  lash 
it  over  and  around  the  rim  of  the  man- 
hole: this  makes  the  bidarka  water- 
tight even  if  it  is  entirely  submerged. 
In  this  way  Egadahgeek  ran  safely 
before  a  howling  gale,  with  seas  break- 
ing all  over  him  and  his  bidarka.  Of 
course,  it  required  constant  vigilance 
on  his  part  to  keep  his  bidarka  always 
straight  before  the  sea,  which  was 
lashed  into  foaming  fury  by  the 
strength  of  the  wind,  since,  if  he 
"broached  to,"  and  a  sea  broke  on  him 
he  would  be  capsized  and  smothered 
before  he  could  possibly  right  himself. 

Two  days  and  two  nights  was  this 
hunter  driven  before  that  gale  in  this 
manner,  with  no  signs  of  its  abate- 
ment; and  when  early  in  the  morning 
of  the  third  day  (the  wind  was  dying 
down  and  the  fog  lifting)  the  worn, 
nearly  exhausted  Aleut  was  astonished 
and  delighted  to  see  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  seals  playing  around  his 
bidarka,  leaping  out  of  the  water  and 
seemingly  wholly  unafraid  and  fear- 
less. He  knew  that  he  must  be  near 
some  land,  and  that  it  must  be  the  sum- 
mer home  of  the  fur  seals.  Soon  the 
wind  calmed,  the  sea  became  glassy, 
and  the  fog  lifted  to  show  him  the 
landing  on  Saint  Paul  Island,  at  Luk- 
annon  Bay. 

When  he  pulled  his  bidarka  out  on 
the  broad  sand  beach,  he  stood  amazed 
at  the  sight  of  the  tens  of  thousands  of 
seals  all  around  him,  hauled  out  there, 
-and  way  back  into  the  uplands. 

Still  more  yet  to  his  astonishment 
and  delight,  he  saw  the  sea-otter 
everywhere  there,  at  the  surf -wash, 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  them,  too. 
The  sea-otters  which  were  so  wild  and 
wary  at  his  Oonimak  and  Oonalaskkan 
hunting  grounds  had  no  fear  of  him 
here!  He  was  the  first  man  that  they 
had  ever  seen  there! 

This  astonishment  and  delight  com- 


mingled made  Egadahgeek  forget  the 
terrors  and  sufferings  of  his  long  drive 
before  an  angry  sea ;  he  had  no  means 
of  making  fire  with  him,  but  he  had 
his  sea  otter  spears  and  club:  it  was 
summer  time,  and  he  did  not  need  the 
warmth  of  fire,  while  the  Aleut  eats  the 
raw  flesh  of  birds  and  animals  quite  as 
well  without  cooking. 

Egadahgeek  visited  every  nook  of 
St.  Paul's  Island  and  surveyed  every 
rookery  where  the  vast  herds  of  seals 
were  resting.  The  novelty  and  multi- 
tudes of  wild  life  assembled  kept  him 
contented  and  happy  until  the  chill 
winds  of  September  began  to  blow, 
and  he  was  able  to  see  St.  George  Is- 
land, one  clear  day.  This  sight  spurred 
him  to  make  ready  for  departure,  to  at 
least  reach  that  island,  where  there 
might  be  others  like  himself.  He  took 
advantage  of  a  fine  September  morning 
which  had  followed  a  week's  storm, 
and  pushed  over  to  St.  George  in  his 
bidarka,  to  which  a  good  native  can 
paddle  such  a  canoe  in  less  than  five 
or  six  hours  (it's  only  thirty  miles.) 

He  spent  a  week  on  St.  George,  and 
found  more  sea  lions  there  than  fur 
seals.  But  sea  otters — oh,  they  were 
very  plenty,  and  all  unafraid. 

Finding  that  he  was  all  alone,  that 
no  human  being  had  ever  been  there 
before  him,  he  now  began  to  plan  for 
a  return  to  his  native  home  from  where 
he  had  been  driven  by  the1  stress  of 
that  southeastern  storm  of  July  last. 
He  knew  that  as  he  had  been  com- 
pelled to  run  straight  as  an  arrow  be- 
fore it  that  he  had  been  driven  north- 
northwest  to  St.  Paul's  Island  from 
Oonalaskka:  therefore  to  return  he 
must  seize  the  opportunity  to  run  di- 
rectly before  a  north-northwest  gale 
from  St.  George  (192  miles.) 

So,  one  October  morning,  when  the 
wind  had  settled  in  to  blow  a  stiff  gale 
from  the  north-northwest,  Egadahgeek 
launched  his  bidarka  at  Garden  Cove; 
he  ran  straight  before  it,  and  on  the 
morning  of  the  third  day  he  saw  the 
peaks  of  Akootan  and  Oonalaskka  Is- 
lands, his  native  land  again.  He  came 
ashore  there  among  his  people,  who 
had  given  him  up  for  dead. 


AFTERWARD 


157 


Thus,  you  understand  that  while  the 
Aleuts  knew  all  about  these  islands 
long,  long  before  they  ever  saw  a 
white  man,  yet  the  danger  and  slight 
chance  of  ever  finding  them  if  they 
were  to  attempt  the  journey,  was 
enough  to  deter  another  Aleut  from 
following  Egadahgeek. 

(Note. — This  relation  of  Artamonor 
is  the  more  significant  when  the  dis- 


tance traversed  from  St.  Paul  to  Oona- 
laskka,  as  Egadahgeek  made  it,  is 
known  to  be  not  less  than  225  miles. 
The  physical  difficulty  of  sitting  for 
at  least  fifty  or  sixty  hours,  without 
changing  position,  lashed  in  the  bi- 
darka,  can  be  better  imagined  than  de- 
scribed. No  one  but  an  Aleut  trained 
from  infancy  to  sit  as  they  do  in  these 
bidarkas,  could  do  such  a  thing,  and 
retain  his  nerve  and  consciousness.) 


AFTERWARD 


The  song  of  wheels  ;  the  crash  and  creak 

Of  a  rushing  train,  and  its  rising  shriek  — 

Swaying  and  grinding  its  way  in  the  dark 

As  we  tear  through  a  black  void,  with  glare  and  spark  — 

And  my  tired  thoughts  fly  backward  to  you  —  to  you  — 

And  the  tumult  dies,  and  grows  faint  and  far  — 

Just  the  snap  of  our  fire,  and  its  shadows'  soft  hue, 

As  you  sing  there,  under  our  trees,  and  our  star. 

A  lurch  and  a  twist;  a  long  lift,  and  a  slip; 
And  the  wash  of  waves  that  rush  by  the  ship. 
The  groan  of  strained  timbers;  the  engines'  throb; 
And  the  sound  of  my  heart,  each  beat  like  a  sob. 
But  they  fall  away,  wave  and  wind,  like  a  dream; 
And  I  drift  with  you  down  the  wide,  white  stream, 
And  the  high  moon  lights  the  shining  track, 
And  the  cliffs  slip  by,  and  our  fire  guides  us  back. 

* 

Smoking  chimneys  and  shining  tracks, 
Street  cars  and  wagons,  motors  and  hacks; 
A  land-locked  harbor  where  tall  ships  ride  ; 
Where  the  waves  wash  oily  and  slow  at  ebb  tide. 
And  the  city  hums  with  the  light  of  the  world 
Where  we  work  and  worry,  and  laugh  —  and  are  hurled 
From  the  Old  to  the  New  —  and  forget.    And  yet  — 
A  gleam  —  a  dead  memory  —  vague  regret. 

EVERIL  WORRELL. 


, 


Mrs.  Rachael  Berry 


Mrs.  Francis  Willard  Miinds 


Arizona's  Aothers  of  Law 


By  Geroid  Robinson 


EVERY  woman  knows"  that  some 
sayings     sound    best   unsaid — 
such,   for   instance,   as  "I   told 
you  so."    But  even  at  that  it  is 
surely    high    time    that    some  one  re- 
lieved the  women  of  Arizona  of  a  bur- 
den of  two  years'  silence. 

The  first  two  women  to  enter  Ari- 
zona's legislature  are  grandmothers, 
and  at  the  same  time  leaders  in  the 
constructive  educational  work  of  the 
State.  Those  most  interested  in  the 
advancement  of  the  cause  of  equal  suf- 


frage will  say  that  this  is  no  mere  co- 
incidence— rather  is  it  the  fulfillment 
of  a  prophecy — the  very  sufficient 
basis  for  a  nice  "I  told  you  so." 

The  Votes  for  Women  campaigners 
told  the  people  of  Arizona  a  couple  of 
years  ago  that  political  activity  would 
not  interfere  with  woman's  work  in 
the  home — it  would  simply  give  her 
a  larger  home  to  work  in.  To-day  the 
diffident  "shall"  gives  place  to  a  very 
positive  "is."  For  behold — through 
their  work  in  the  educational  commit- 


in* 


A  political  meeting  gathering  at  a  big  mining  camp. 


tees  of  the  House  and  Senate  two  pio- 
neer mothers  of  Arizona  have  made 
the  State  their  "home,"  and  the  child- 
ren of  it  their  children. 

Large  as  is  this  all-State  family, 
Mrs.  Francis  Willard  Munds,  "the 
Lady  from  Yavapai,"  refuses  to  be 
overwhelmed  by  the  cares  of  it.  This 
breezy  woman  of  surpassing  Western- 
ness  is  simply  too  busy  to  be  over- 
whelmed— and  anyhow  the  turmoil  of 
the  Senate  is  as  nothing  after  fifteen 
years  of  campaigning  for  "Votes  for 
Women." 

During  these  fifteen  years  and  some 
more  that  came  before,  Mrs.  Munds 
was  learning  to  do  things,  and  right 
now  she  is  more  of  a  Roosevelt  than 
a  Jefferson,  in  spite  of  her  large-D 
Democracy.  She  has  always  lived  in 
the  West;  California  first,  then  Ne- 
vada, and  now  for  many  years  her 
adopted  State,  Arizona.  She  first 
served  the  new  commonwealth  when, 
as  a  girl,  she  presided  at  the  desk  of 
a  little  log  school  in  one  of  the  moun- 
tain valleys  of  Yavapai  County. 

But  once  upon  a  time  there  came  a 


cowboy — and  pretty  soon  after  that 
the  school  board  had  to  look  around 
for  a  new  teacher.  As  the  wife  of  a 
prosperous  cattleman  who  won  often 
at  the  poles,  Mrs,  Munds  began  to  take 
a  great  interest  in  the  public  affairs  of 
the  State.  When  the  Arizona  Woman's 
Suffrage  League  was  organized  in 
1898  she  became  its  secretary,  and 
from  that  time  forward  she  has  had  a 
hand  on  the  pulse  of  the  people.  As 
president  of  the  league  she  was  com- 
mander-in-chief  of  the  campaign  that 
gave  the  ballot  to  the  women  of  Ari- 
zona in  1913,  and  her  election  to  the 
Senate  came  as  the  natural  result  of 
her  success  in  the  "Woman's  War." 

Mrs.  Munds  is  an  exception  to  but 
half  the  rule  that  the  chairman  of  the 
Senate  Committee  on  Education  is  a 
busy  "man;"  and  yet  she  has  found 
time  to  defeat  a  bill  to  prohibit  smok- 
ing in  the  Senate  chamber.  She  has 
even  consented  to  preside  over  the  up- 
per house  on  two  occasions,  and  in  this 
wise  has  gotten  herself  written  down 
as  the  first  woman  in  America  to  rule 
so  august  a  body. 


160 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


But  Mrs.  Munds  has  not  been  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  make  this  kind  of 
history.  When  the  legislature  split 
over  the  mine  tax  question  early  in  the 
regular  session,  all  hopes  of  construc- 
tive legislation  were  abandoned,  and 
both  houses  gave  themselves  over  to 
hopeless  wrangling.  But  through  it 
all,  Mrs.  Munds  remained  faithful  to 
her  educational  policy,  advocating  an 
expert  survey  of  the  schools  of  the 
State  as  the  basis  for  the  thorough  re- 
organization of  the  school  system. 
When  the  Senate  threatened  to  cut  the 
school  appropriation  to  less  than  half 
the  amount  allowed  to  the  schools  last 
year,  she  opposed  the  measure  vali- 
ently. 


dressed  in  sombre  business  black  is  at 
her  desk  in  the  lower  house,  losing 
sight  of  nothing,  deep  in  the  whirl  of 
State  affairs.  It  is  characteristic  of 
Mrs.  Rachel  Berry  of  Apache  County 
that  only  once  during  the  course  of 
the  whole  double  session  has  she  been 
absent;  characteristic  of  the  firmness 
and  persistence  which  carried  her 
through  the  long  years  of  the  suffrage 
fight  to  final  victory. 

In  a  Mormon  community  that  is 
even  now  a  day's  journey  from  the 
railroad,  Mrs.  Berry  was  the  apostle 
of  a  new  sort  of  freedom.  And  when 
the  fight  was  won  the  women  of  her 
church  and  State  gave  back  to  their 
leader  the  votes  she  had  done  so  much 


Fording  a  stream  on  the  way  to  the  legislature. 


With  the  "morality  bills"  up  for 
vote,  the  Junior  Senator  from  Yavapai 
was  always  numbered  with  the  "Ayes" 
in  their  efforts  to  advance  the  marriage 
age  two  years  and  to  impose  a  medical 
examination  upon  persons  about  to 
wed.  All  this  is  but  the  consistent 
working  out  of  the  First  Lady's  theory 
that  women  must  be  depended  upon  to 
preserve  the  balance  between  "dollar 
bills,"  which  are  always  plenty,  and 
morality  measures,  which  are  all  too 
few. 

While  Mrs.  Munds  is  busy  with  a 
reluctant  Senate,  a  firm-lipped  woman 


to  win  for  them. 

Apache's  representative  comes  of  a 
race  that  has  kept  abreast  of  the  fron- 
tier. Her  father  trekked  westward  to 
the  lake-lands  of  Utah  ahead  of  the 
railroad,  and  taught  the  children  of 
pioneers  from  text  books  brought  with 
him  in  his  wagon.  Born  near  Ogden, 
a  chief  settlement  of  the  new  country, 
Mrs.  Berry  came  likewise  to  lead  the 
children  of  her  neighborhood  in  the 
paths  of  learning.  Shortly  after  her 
marriage  she  and  her  husband  drove 
away  across  the  mountains  to  the 
newer  land  of  the  south,  and  there  in 


I^BMfc-3 


candidate  making  a  personal  campaign  on  a  big  stock  range. 


the  little  town  of  St.  Johns,  Arizona, 
their  seven  children  grew  up  with  the 
new  State. 

When  Mrs.  Berry's  pilgrim  fathei 
was  steering  his  prairie  schooner 
across  the  plains  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  convince  him  that  one  day  his 
daughter  would  be  chairman  of  a  leg- 
islative good  roads  committee  in  a 
State  yet  unborn.  Yet  she  holds  this 
position  to-day,  and  divides  her  time 
between  roads  and  schools,  and  a 
dozen  other  interests  that  demand  her 
attention.  She  "mothered"  a  bill 
which  provided  for  an  overhauling  of 


the  State's  educational  system,  but 
like  Mrs.  Mund's  educational  survey 
bill,  this  measure  was  put  aside  by  a 
hurried  and  harried  legislature. 

She  also  supported  the  "morality 
bills,"  and  joined  with  Mrs.  Munds  in 
steadfast  opposition  to  the  cutting  of 
the  school  appropriation. 

If  these  two  women  have  not  been 
always  successful  in  their  legislative 
ventures  they  have  at  least  blazed  the 
trail  for  a  multitude  that  is  to  follow 
them.  And  that  is  the  right  sort  of 
work  for  pioneers  anyway — Mrs. 
Munds  says  it's  her  reason  for  being. 


AUTABILITAS    A/AORI5 

As  when  the  summer  sun  transforms  the  sea 
To  transient  amber,  shot  with  strands  of  gold, 
So  in  your  eyes  the  glow  of  love  I  see 
Reflected  as  a  mirror's  face  may  hold 
Some  charming  image  for  a  breath's  span,  clear, 
And  then  before  my  gaze  the  rapture  flies — 
Passion  I  see,  tempestuous,  then  a  tear; 
Again  the  love-light  mingled  with  your  sighs, 
And  violet  shadows  play  'neath  ivory  brows. 
I  think  I  love  thee  better  for  the  change 
Which  every  magic  hour  my  love  endows 
With  some  mysterious  beauty  which  remains 
No  longer  than  the  morning's  precious  dew — 
Moods  are  as  music  when  the  heart  is  true. 

R.  R.  GREENWOOD. 


International  Club  conducted  by  the  San  Francisco  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

The  Young  Aen's  Christian  Associa 
tion  and  the  Immigrant 

By  Frank  B.  Lenz 
Immigration  Secretary,  San  Francisco,  Y.  A.  C.  A. 


THE  immigration  question  is  so 
closely  allied  with    our     prob- 
lems    of     industry,  education, 
economics  and  religion  that  we 
scarcely  know  where  to  begin  in  seek- 
ing a  solution.    Many  books  have  been 
written  on  the  subject,  many  conven- 
tions have  been  held,  many  investiga- 
tions have  been  made,  but  nothing  has 
been  accomplished  in  the  way  of  a 
constructive  domestic  program.     The 
immigration  laws  of  the  various  States 


are  in  no  way  co-ordinated.  The  Fed- 
eral Government's  interest  in  the  im- 
migrant ceases  when  he  leaves  the 
port  of  entry.  Very  little  human  in- 
terest is  being  shown  toward  him. 

From  1820  to  1910  there  came  to  this 
country  from  across  the  seas  27,917,- 
000  people.  During  1914,  1,218,480,- 
immigrants  were  admitted.  To-day 
there  are  more  than  13,000,000  for- 
eigners in  the  United  States.  To-day 
87  per  cent  of  the  immigration  is  com- 


THE  YOUNG  MEN'S  CHRISTIAN  ASSOCIATION 


163 


ing  from  southeastern  Europe.  There 
are  more  Italians  in  New  York  City 
than  in  Rome,  while  more  Jews  can  be 
found  in  New  York  City  than  in  Jeru- 
salem. 

When  the  present  war  is  over  it  will 
be  found  that  capital  is  least  impaired 
in  the  United  States,  and  that  capital 
will  call  loudly  for  labor.  It  is  rea- 
sonable to  look  forward  after  the  war 
to  a  great  stream  of  immigration.  By 
that  time  the  Canal  will  be  in  full  op- 
eration again,  and  a  large  number  of 
immigrants  will  find  their  way  to  the 
Pacific  Coast.  At  present  more  than 
thirty  nationalities  are  represented  in 
San  Francisco.  Seventy-two  percent 
of  the  population  of  San  Francisco  is 
foreign  speaking.  Twenty-five  per 
cent  of  California's  population  comes 
from  across  the  seas.  The  immigrants 
are  here.  The  nations  of  the  earth  are 
at  our  feet.  What  is  our  attitude  to- 
ward them  ?  What  is  their  need  ? 

In  the  first  place  the  problem  must 
be  handled  in  a  humanitarian  way.  A 
rational  program  of  assimilation  must 
be  worked  out,  by  which  our  immi- 
grants, who  are  to  be  found  in  every 
strata  of  society,  can  find  entrance  to 
our  schools,  churches,  recreation  cen- 
ters, homes  and  best  institutions.  The 
immigrant  becomes  a  menace  to  so- 
ciety only  when  he  is  permitted  to 
link  himself  with  the  nether  world. 

What  is  rational  assimilation?  In 
order  to  know  an  immigrant  his  race 
characteristics  and  national  customs 
must  be  studied.  It  is  a  mistake  to 
imagine  that  when  one  race  is  known 
all  the  others  are  known.  Each  race 
must  be  studied  independently  of  all 
others,  and  the  student  should  lay 
aside  all  prejudice  while  he  is  making 
the  study.  Every  immigrant  neigh- 
borhood should  be  thoroughly  investi- 
gated. When  carefully  gathered  facts 
about  housing  conditions,  sanitation, 
social  vice  and  unemployment  have 
been  presented  to  respectable  citizens 
they  protest,  saying  that  such  condi- 
tions do  not  exist  in  their  city.  They 
do  not  know  "how  the  other  half 
lives."  They  have  left  their  municipal 
affairs  to  politicians  who  were  careful 


to  have  all  these  things  decent  and 
well  regulated  in  the  residential  part 
of  •  the  town,  but  the  tenements  and 
conjected  districts  where  the  foreigner 
is  forced  to  live  is  left  to  filth,  disease 
and  death. 

What  does  the  word  assimilate 
mean?  Literally  to  assimilate  is  to 
make  like  ourselves.  If  we  could  only 
make  the  foreigner  like  ourselves 
everything  would  be  all  right.  But 
what  is  implied  in  this  suggestion? 
If  he  becomes  like  us  he  must  adopt 
our  practices  and  customs.  He  would 
adopt  our  standards  of  education. 
When  we  consider  the  foreigner's  il- 
literacy, we  desire  that  it  be  perfect. 
Yet  when  he  is  thrown  into  many  of 
our  communities  he  merely  becomes 
like  the  average  of  that  community, 
and  that  is  far  from  satisfactory.  In 
this  country  in  1900  of  the  native-born 
of  native  parents,  4.4  per  .cent  were  il- 
literate. Do  we  want  the  foreign 
children  to  be  illiterate?  As  a  mat- 
ter of  record  it  has  been  shown  that 
children  of  foreign  born  parents  made 
better  scholarship  records  than  the 
children  of  native  born-parents. 

In  search  of  an  ideal  family  life 
we  would  hardly  turn  to  the  average 
American  home.  Childless  marriages 
and  divorces  are  too  common  among 
us. 

Would  we  have  the  immigrant  adopt 
our  institutions  of  the  nether  world, 
such  as  the  saloon,  the  dive  and  the 
gambling  den?  Do  you  think  that  as- 
similation merely  becoming  like  our- 
selves is  a  thing  to  be  desired?  Un- 
fortunately another  meaning  of  ias- 
similation  adopted  by  some  social 
workers  is  that  we  root  out  all  the  for- 
eign ideas  which  the  immigrant  brings 
with  him  and  plant  in  him  American 
ideas.  But  where  did  we  Americans 
get  our  splendid  ideas?  If  we  take 
away  the  elements  which  we  borrowed 
from  the  foreigners — the  ideas  of  law 
from  the  Romans,  the  conceptions  of 
art  and  philosophy  from  the  Greeks, 
the  doctrines  of  religion  from  the  He- 
brews, the  teachings  of  science  from 
the  Germans  and  the  French — what 
would  be  left  of  our  American  civili- 


164 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


zation?  If  we  root  out  these  ideas 
which  the  foreigner  brings  with  him 
we  destroy  the  very  man  himself.  Hu- 
man nature  is  the  same  in  every  race. 
If  we  destroy  that  we  leave  but  a  husk 
which  is  ready  to  receive  all  sorts  of 
anarchistic  and  unpatriotic  nations. 

We  cannot  assimilate  him  by  mak- 
ing him  like  ourselves  because  we  are 
so  imperfect.  If  we  take  away  his 
ideas  with  the  intention  of  supplying 
him  with  new  ones,  we  destroy  his  very 
life.  How,  then,  can  we  assimilate 
him?  Assimilation  should  be  an  ex- 
change of  ideas.  We  should  take  from 
the  foreigner  the  best  he  has  to  give, 
and  give  in  return  the  best  we  have  in 
our  civilization.  Assimilation  should 
be  a  give  and  take  process. 

There  is  a  natural  tendency  among 
all  peoples  to  group  themselves  with 
their  kind.  In  San  Francisco,  for  in- 
stance, we  find  more  than  30,000  Ital- 
lians  living  in  the  Latin  Quarter  near 
North  Beach.  About  a  thousand 
Spaniards  and  Porto  Ricans  are  living 
on  Telegraph  Hill.  In  Chinatown 
there  are  10,500  Chinese  and  Filipi- 
nos, while  in  the  Potrero  district  we 
find  more  than  a  thousand  Russians. 

Many  of  the  foreigners  leave  their 
districts  only  occasionally.  They  are 
too  busy  earning  their  daily  bread  to 
spend  much  time  away  from  these  sec- 
tions. Last  summer  we  found  by  per- 
sonal investigation  that  out  of  148 
Russians  interviewed  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  them  had  never  been  down 
in  the  business  section  of  the  city.  One 
person  who  had  been  in  the  city  six 
years  had  never  heard  of  the  park.  If 
such  a  recreation  center  as  the  Golden 
Gate  Park  is  unknown  to  them,  how 
can  you  expect  them  to  know  about 
and  patronize  the  Young  Men's  Christ- 
ian Association?  We,  therefore,  claim 
that  the  association  should  be  taken  to 
the  immigrant.  "But,"  you  say,  "we 
cannot  erect  a  building  in  every  for- 
eign section  of  our  big  cities."  No, 
but  we  can  take  the  spirit  of  the  Asso- 
ciation to  every  foreigner  in  every  sec- 
tion of  these  cities.  The  spirit  of  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  is  not  in  the  furnishings  of 
the  lobby,  nor  in  the  equipment  of  the 


gymnasium,  nor  in  the  books  of  the 
educational  department,  but  the  spirit 
of  the  association  is  in  the  men  back 
of  all  these  departments.  The  trained 
secretaries  doing  work  for  the  foreign 
born  of  this  country  are  filled  with  the 
spirit  of  service.  English  classes  and 
international  clubs  have  been  opened 
in  basements  for  the  benefit  of  the  for- 
eigner, with  great  success,  simply  be- 
cause the  men  behind  the  movement 
believed  in  his  fellows.  It  was  George 
Williams,  in  1844,  who  met  in  an  up- 
per room  of  a  store  with  a  dozen  young 
men  clerks  and  started  the  movement 
which  has  grown  into  the  great  world- 
wide Christian  Association — a  move- 
ment which  works  among  any  race  or 
class  because  of  its  adaptability. 

The  Young  Men's  Christian  Associa- 
tion, through  its  Immigration  Depart- 
ment, seeks  to  destroy  that  feeling  of 
race  prejudice  which  threatens  to  over- 
come the  highest  American  principles 
and  ideals.  It  does  not  seek  to  destroy 
the  ideals  which  the  immigrant  brings 
with  him;  rather  it  encourages  him  to 
cling  to  those  principles,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  accept  the  new  ideals 
which  he  finds  here  in  America.  The 
Association  believes  that  the  great 
mass  of  immigrants  can  be  assimilated 
if  they  are  properly  related  to  the  fun- 
damental institutions  of  the  land.  It 
is  the  aim  of  the  Association  to  give 
the  foreigner  a  friendly  reception;  to 
protect  him  against  exploitation;  to 
give  him  a  knowledge  of  the  English 
language;  to  give  him  information 
concerning  local,  State  and  national 
government,  and  to  surround  him  with 
a  Christian  environment,  advising  and 
assisting  him  personally  whenever 
possible. 

Education  is,  perhaps,  the  greatest 
factor  in  assimilating  the  foreigner. 
The  Y.  M.  C.  A.  is  conducting  English 
schools  for  foreigners  in  500  different 
cities  of  the  United  States.  During 
1914  classes  were  conducted  in  18  dif- 
ferent sections  of  San  Francisco,  Rus- 
sians, Germans,  Italians,  Greeks, 
Swedes,  Finns,  Persians,  Austrians, 
Spaniards,  Chinese  and  Japanese  were 
enrolled  in  these  classes  to  the  number 


THE  YOUNG  MEN'S  CHRISTIAN  ASSOCIATION 


165 


of  1,445.  The  system  of  teaching 
English  used  is  known  as  the  Roberts 
method.  The  beginner  starts  to  talk 
in  the  first  lesson.  Each  lesson  deals 
with  the  common  experiences  of  life 
in  an  interesting  and  dramatic  way. 
Suppose  the  lesson  is  about  eating. 
The  teacher  sits  at  the  table,  takes  the 
food  he  needs,  handles  the  table  uten- 
sils, eats  his  meal,  gets  up  from  the 
table  and  leaves  the  room.  The  cap- 
able teacher  acts  out  the  lesson ;  as  he 
says  each  sentence  he  suits  the  action 
to  the  word,  and  the  pupils  rehearse 
the  sentence.  Twenty  lessons  dealing 
with  the  daily  things  of  life,  such  as 
dressing,  sleeping,  eating,  visiting, 
buying,  traveling,  etc.,  make  up  the 
first  series.  Other  lessons  based  on 
mill,  factory  and  mine  work  follow. 
The  system  can  be  adapted  to  the 
needs  of  foreigners  in  any  industry 
of  the  United  States. 

The  Y.  M.  C.  A.  man  who  teaches  in 
the  schools  for  foreigners,  has  no 
small  task.  He  should  possess  origi- 
nality, enthusiasm,  adaptability,  perse- 
verence  and  sympathy.  He  should 
know  his  students  personally;  he 
should  be  well  versed  in  their  occupa- 
tions in  order  to  connect  the  lesson 
with  their  daily  lives.  The  successful 
teacher  is  the  one  who  makes  the 
pupil  active  during  the  process  of  in- 
struction. It  is  unnecessary  that  he  be 
acquainted  with  the  language  of  the 
immigrant.  It  is  his  function  to  teach 
the  foreigner  how  to  speak  and  to  think 
in  English. 

A  citizenship  school  is  operated  by 
the  San  Francisco  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  for  the 
benefit  of  those  foreigners  who  be- 
come naturalized  citizens.  Technical 
matters  pertaining  to  national,  State 
and  local  government  are  explained  by 
a  competent  business  man.  The  teacher 
takes  particular  pains  to  emphasize 
the  meaning  and  spirit  of  American 
customs  and  American  democracy.  In 
one  year  475  men  were  instructed  in 
this  school,  and  not  one  failed  to  pass 
the  course's  examination.  As  an  ap- 
propriate closing  to  those  who  had 
passed,  the  "Americanization  Day" 
program  was  rendered  on  July  the  4th. 


On  this  occasion  more  than  200  new 
citizens  were  welcomed  into  the  fel- 
lowship of  the  United  States.  One 
of  the  men  in  his  enthusiasm  over  the 
event,  said  before  all  those  present: 
"Once  I  was  an  Italian,  now  I  am  an 
American."  Another,  who  was  a 
street  car  conductor,  was  so  overjoyed 
at  passing  the  examination  that  he 
stopped  his  car  to  hail  the  teacher, 
who  was  passing,  and  told  him  of  his 
success.  Another  said  with  great  feel- 
ing: "This  is  worth  $50  to  me." 

In  order  to  assist  foreigners  coming 
to  San  Francisco,  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  has 
opened  an  office  in  the  Ferry  Building, 
with  a  secretary  in  charge,  wearing  a 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  cap  similar  to  those  worn 
by  the  secretaries  in  the  European 
ports  of  embarcation.  Thus,  when  an 
immigrant  is  given  a  card  of  introduc- 
tion by  a  secretary  in  Liverpool  he 
knows  who  to  look  for  when  he  ar- 
rives at  New  York  and  San*  Francisco. 
The  chain  is  kept  unbroken.  Nor  does 
this  service  cease  with  the  European 
Trans- Pacific  liners  are  met  at  the 
docks,  and  assistance  is  given  to  Ori- 
entals who  legitimately  enter  this 
country.  Within  the  past  five  years 
'more  than  400  Chinese  students  have 
been  assisted  with  their  passports, 
baggage,  hotel  accommodations  and 
railroad  tickets.  Every  group  has  been 
entertained  in  the  Association  build- 
ing. 

The  relationship  with  these  groups 
of  strangers  must  be  a  personal  rela- 
tionship. Personal  touch  is  the  one 
great  solvent  of  this  problem.  More 
emphasis  must  be  placed  on  the  doc- 
trine of  the  brotherhood  of  man.  If 
the  immigrants  are  to  reach  the  heights 
of  American  manhood  and  womanhood 
they  can  only  do  it  by  relating  them- 
selves to  Americans  of  the  right  kind. 
Assimilation  can  only  take  place 
through  friendship  and  intercourse 
and  hearty  co-operation  of  all  parties 
concerned.  Pagans  and  barbarians 
used  to  make  captives  and  slaves  of 
other  nations,  but  fortunately  the 
teachings  of  Christianity  have  taught 
us  to  love  our  brothers — to  love  and 
understand — and  help. 


The  Farting  Hour 


Panegyric  on  the  Closing  of  the  Panama-Pacific  Exposition. 


By  Wm.  D.  Pollock 


How  like  a  gorgeous  sunset  flamed, 

When  clouds  form  in  the  West, 
With  serried  battlements  of  jade 

Against  a  crimson  crest — 
With  amethyst  and  molten  gold, 

And  shades  of  palest  gray, 
Shot  through  with  blood-red  bars  of  flame 

That  pales  the  orb  of  day. 

Uprise  the  fluted  columns  grand, 

The  round  and  circling  dome, 
Each  jeweled  spire  and  spreading  arch, 

Each  shining  sprite  and  gnome. 
There  flash  the  fires  of  beauty  high, 

And  to  the  zenith  streams, 
And  spread  like  banners  on  the  sky 

A  phantasy  of  dreams. 


Like  castles  on  the  ancient  Rhine 

Each  stately  palace  stands, 
A  monument  of  pomp  and  state, 

Of  strange  and  alien  lands ; 
And  blazoned  on  their  shadowy  walls 

Are  legends  strange  and  true, 
That  mark  the  passing  of  an  Age — 

The  presence  of  the  New. 


There  glow  in  beauty's  ambient  bowers 

The  "Gardens  of  the  Gods," 
The  stately  courts  and  shaded  groves 

Where  Genius  slumbering  nods, 
Yet  writes  upon  the  walls  of  Time 

A  prophesy  of  Fame, 
That  burns  in  words  of  living  fire 

Art's  shining,  deathless  name. 

But  soon  that  glorious  sunset's  charm 

Will  fade  and  drift  away, 
The  glowing  colors  change  and  pass 

Into  a  sombre  gray, 
And  Night  in  rayless  gloom  efface 

Its  beauties  rich  and  rare, 
And  pictures  that  once  charmed  the  sight 

Fade  into  thinnest  air. 

Who  once  hath  viewed  the  passing  scene, 

The  glories  that  were  pictured  there, 
While  memory  lives  can  e'en  forget 

That  galaxy  of  visions  rare; 
Who  once  hath  seen  with  charmed  eye 

The  stately  pageant  glow  and  fade, 
Must  long  regret  that  such  a  view 

Should  vanish  into  shade. 


Farewell,  bright  city  of  our  dreams, 

Thou  Giant  of  the  West, 
The  product  of  a  Nation's  brawn, 

Of  Genius,  first  and  best 
Thy  name's  secure,  no  hand  of  Fate 

Can  turn  thy  course  astray — 
Ring  down  the  curtain,  dim  the  lights, 

Veil  actors,  wardens  and  the  play. 


La  Fayette,  Washington  and  Belgium 


By  Jean  Delpit     Done  into  English  by   Pierre   N.  Beringer 


To  the  Members  of  the  La  Fayette 
Guard : 

IT  IS  a  charming  tradition  calling 
you  together  on  each  recurrent  6th 
of  September  to  celebrate  the  sou- 
venir of  General  La  Fayette. 

Permit  me  to  join  you  to-day  in  giv- 
ing this  great  Frenchman  and  great 
American  the  tribute  of  homage  he 
merits,  in  an  expression,  as  laudatory 
as  may  be,  never  reaching  the  heights 
of  his  virtue  and  his  glory. 

One  cannot  remember  him  or  speak 
of  his  life,  without  being  filled  with 
a  veneration  for  the  people  of  France 
who  so  signally  rewarded  him  on  his 
return.  According  to  the  Count  of 
Vergennes,  La  Fayette  returned  to 
France,  after  the  memorable  campaign 
of  Virginia,  having  assured  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  United  States  only  to 
be  glorified  by  the  people  of  his  native 
land.  He  brought  to  the  -Americans 
not  only  his  sword  but  his  youth  and 
his  fearlessness,  his  fortune  and  his 
soul,  his  entire  soul,  in  a  devotion  and 
self-sacrifice  than  which  history  gives 
no  other  example. 

One  may  say  of  him  that  he  exem- 
plifies the  purest  and  most  disinter- 
ested glory  of  America  and  France. 
He  is  the  glory  of  America,  because, 
scarcely  arrived  of  age,  in  his  19th 
year,  this  gentleman  of  long  descent, 
saw  fit  to  leave  everything,  a  brilliant 
court  where  was  awaiting  him  the  re- 
ward his  merit  entitled  him  to,  an 
adored  and  adorable  wife,  all  the 
pleasures  and  the  charms  of  material 
existence,  to  rush  to  the  defense  of  an 
idea,  a  generous  idea,  the  liberty  of 
the  United  States,  an  action  of  great 
nobility,  of  disinterestedness  and  of 


highest  virtue,  to  sacrifice  himself  and 
his  fortune,  if  need  be,  give  up  his  life 
to  forward  the  nascent  spark  of  lib- 
erty in  the  New  World. 

He  is  of  the  glory  of  France,  for  he 
was  the  first  to  give  that  example  of 
fortitude  of  soul  which,  in  the  years 
immediately  to  follow,  helped  create 
Hoche,  Kleber,  Marceau  and  a  host  of 
other  young  heroes  and  animate  their 
hearts  in  the  service  of  their  beloved 
land — his  was  an  example  which 
brought  out  of  the  turmoil  of  the  Rev- 
olution all  of  those  great  young  gen- 
erals who  have  guilded  the  name  of 
France  with  an  imperishable  splendor. 
These  were  the  men  who  saved  France 
from  the  coalition  of  kings,  and  who 
carried  defiance  to  tyranny  long  dis- 
tances from  their  beloved  home  land, 
to  the  sounds  of  the  Marseillaise,  taken 
of  the  liberty  of  the  people,  and  pre- 
ceded by  the  tricolor,  flag  of  France 
and  flag  of  glory.  La  Fayette,  in  sav- 
ing the  United  States,  saved  also  the 
honor  of  France,  an  honor  and  a  glory 
dimmed  by  a  half  century  of  unfortu- 
nate wars,  and  it  was  he  who  taught 
our  nation  never  to  despair  of  its  gen- 
ius and  its  success. 

You  must  not  expect  me,  in  this 
short  speech,  to  recapitulate  the  deeds 
of  a  life  worthy  of  chronicling  by  Plu- 
tarch. The  life  of  La  Fayette  has 
been  told  by  more  eloquent  tongues 
than  mine.  I  would  not  risk  by  an  in- 
ability to  do  such  a  task  justice,  to,  in 
any  way,  contort  or  change  your  own 
glorified  version. 

I  wish,  briefly,  taking  advantage  of 
the  bright  light  cast  by  the  life  of  La 
Fayette,  to  touch  upon  certain  facts 
and  rapidly  sketch  out  certain  consid- 
erations showing  the  peril  run  and 


LA  FAYETTE,  WASHINGTON  AND  BELGIUM 


169 


presently  threatening,  not  only  Ameri- 
can liberties,  to  which  La  Fayette  de- 
voted the  best  part  of  an  energetic  ex- 
istence, but,  threatening  also  the  lib- 
erties of  the  entire  world,  a  threat  that 
would,  were  he  living  to-day,  call 
forth  the  same  devotion,  in  defense  of 
an  ensanguined  Europe. 

You  must  not  forget  that  Prussian- 
ized Germany,  in  its  all-conquering  in- 
sanity, is  a  menace  to  all  of  the  na- 
tions of  the  world,  and  that  the  United 
States  itself  may  not  find  in  its  splen- 
did isolation  a  defense  against  the 
cankering  envy  of  the  Germany  of  the 
future. 

Let  us  ask  ourselves,  then,  what 
would  La  Fayette  have  counseled,  if 
faced  with  the  fearful  peril  that  now 
encompasses  the  people  of  the  earth? 
What  would  have  been  his  stand,  in 
the  face  of  this  attempt  at  subjugation 
of  the  independence  of  all  nations  ? 

Despite  the  passage  of  time  and  de- 
spite the  advance  made  since  the  days 
of  La  Fayette,  one  can,  guided  by  his 
writings  and  his  deeds,  approximate 
his  opinion  and  to  his  truly  youthful 
enthusiasm  one  may  add  the  cold,  dis- 
passionate and  wise  counsels  of  that 
friend  and  second  father,  for  La  Fay- 
ette considered  himself  as  an  adopted 
son  of  the  greatest  American  states- 
man, soldier  and  patriot,  of  Washing- 
ton, because,  fronted  by  so  grave  a 
peril,  a  single  idea  would  have  surged 
in  the  minds  of  either — that  of  being 
first  champions  of  oppressed  liberties. 

Observe  that  the  position  of  the 
United  States  of  North  America  in 
1776  and  that  of  the  smaller  nations 
of  Europe,  which  in  1914  saw  their  in- 
dependence trodden  under  foot  by 
Germany,  present  a  disparity  all  in 
favor  of  those  smaller  nations. 

Without  a  doubt  the  13  colonies  suf- 
fered under  the  tyranny  of  England 
and  this  culminated  in  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  and  it  was  this 
burst  of  energy  that  brought  them  the 
sympathy  and  the  help  of  La  Fayette 
and  the  affection  and  help  of  the 
French  people,  a  nation  that  had  been 
itself  humiliated  toward  the  end  of 
the  18th  century,  through  the  greed  of 


England  for  world  conquest  and  domi- 
nation, an  attempt  at  grasping  the  scep- 
ter of  the  world,  placing  "England  over 
all."  Who  knows  but  that,  without  the 
help  of  the  young  and  enthusiastic 
bloods  of  France,  that  tyranny  might 
have  triumphantly  survived  and  lasted 
to  this  day? 

However  one  may  regard  the  right 
and  the  wrong  in  the  matter,  and  what- 
ever may  the  stand  be  as  regards  Eng- 
land and  her  colonies,  who  is  there  to- 
day, after  reading  all  of  the  diplomatic 
exchanges  and  the  pourparlers  before 
the  declaration  of  war,  dare  say  that 
Germany  had  a  valid  grievance  against 
Belgium  or  Serbia? 

The  ultimatum  to  Serbia  by  Aus- 
tria was  the  occult  work  of  Berlin,  for, 
at  the  very  hour  that  Serbia  ceded 
everywhere  to  Austria,  and  Austria 
was  feigning  to  accept  the  conference 
with  the  Czar,  England  and  France  to 
settle  the  Serbian  differences,  the 
Kaiser  himself  was  imposing  on  his 
advisers,  his  diplomats  and  his  chan- 
cellor, suddenly  affrighted  at  the  un- 
expected intervention  of  England,  the 
war  of  conquest,  misery,  death,  de- 
struction and  barbarism  he  wished  to 
loosen  on  an  astonished  world.  This 
Emperor  of  Peace  dropped  the  mask, 
and  appeared  before  the  world  as  a 
sinister  Nero.  So,  this  war,  counseled 
to  Austria  as  against  Serbia,  was  noth- 
ing but  a  crime  against  a  defenseless 
small  people,  and  an  outraging  of  the 
liberties  of  nations.  Admitting  the 
horrible  criminality  of  the  counsel  to 
Austria,  what  more  terrible  thing  is 
there  in  history  than  the  crime  com- 
mitted against  Belgium,  directly  by 
Germany,  a  massacre  of  peaceful  peo- 
ple, a  reign  of  terror  and  confiscation, 
rapine  and  blood,  the  prime  law  of  war 
by  Teutons. 

To  whom  belongs  eternal  honor  as 
having,  faced  by  such  a  terrible  ca- 
tastrophe, of  all  people  on  earth,  be- 
fore the  cry  of  help  from  stricken  Bel- 
gium could  be  heard,  rushed  to  its  aid  ? 
Belgium,  under  penalty  of  death,  was 
saved  by  England. 

I  speak  not  of  France,  because 
France,  under  the  force  of  circum- 


170 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


stances,  had  to  come  to  the  aid  of 
Belgium,  and,  whether  the  natural  ten- 
dencies, the  ties  of  centuries,  the  sym- 
pathy of  a  common  language,  had  dic- 
tated, necessity  would  have  imposed 
a  stern  duty  to  France,  and  one  which 
she,  in  no  event,  could  have  refused 
or  overlooked. 

Why,  then,  did  England  come  to  the 
help  of  Belgium?  Why  did  she  succor 
the  land  menaced  through  Germany's 
ultimatum?  England  had  given  its 
word.  England  had  engaged,  on  its 
honor,  to  protect  Belgium.  It  had 
agreed  to  the  neutrality  of  Belgium, 
and  it  had  engaged  to  protect  Belgium 
in  its  neutrality,  and  it  protected  it, 
even  at  the  moment  that  Germany  was 
dishonoring  herself  for  the  ages 
through  the  violation  of  the  territorial 
rights  of  a  country  with  whom  it  had 
entered  in  similar  agreement  on  its 
honor  as  a  nation  and  a  people. 

Without  a  doubt,  if  we  are  to  take 
the  word  of  those  who  sympathize 
with  Germany,  Belgium  had  an  op- 
portunity, had  she  chosen  to  exercise 
a  pusillanimous  egotism,  to  cede  un- 
gracefully, allowing  the  passage  of  the 
Germanic  hordes,  and  she  might  have 
invoked  in  self-defense  the  doctrine  of 
force  majeure.  But  this  would  have 
been  a  moral  complicity;  she  would 
have  failed  in  her  duty  to  herself,  that 
of  defending  her  neutrality  against  all 
comers,  which  was  imposed  on  her 
through  her  agreement  with  the  signa- 
tory powers;  to  do  this  would  have 
been  dishonorable  and  Belgium  did 
not  consider  such  a  course  for  one 
minute. 

The  records  tell  us  to-day  that  the 
German  Chancellor  admitted  to  the 
Belgic  embassador  that  his  nation  had 
taken  "the  only  step  possible  and  yet 
retain  her  self-respect"  and  prevent  a 
stain  on  her  honor  as  a  nation. 

What  shall  we  say  of  the  other  world 
powers,  onlookers  at  this  dreadful 
tragedy,  those  that  had  also  guaranteed 
the  neutrality  of  Belgium,  and  whose 
duty  it  was  to  protect  Belgium  from 
invasion  and  defend  it  against  crimi- 
nal aggression? 

Is  there  an  American  alive     who, 


putting  the  same  question  to  himself, 
remembering  the  lives  and  the  exam- 
ples of  La  Fayette  and  Washington, 
would  not  have  been  indignant  and 
filled  with  a  revulsion  that  would  have 
caused  him  to  fly  to  the  help  of  such 
a  country  as  Belgium,  exposed  to  its 
trials  and  tribulations  through  no  fault 
of  its  own  ?  Was  it  not  rather  the  duty 
of  the  American  citizen  to  have  asked 
his  country  to  protest  to  Germany  and 
to  fly  to  the  help  of  Belgium  and  its 
liberties?  It  is  to  be  presumed  that, 
in  the  face  of  a  crisis,  Americans 
would  be  animated  with  the  spirit  ani- 
mating Washington  and  La  Fayette. 
What  was  the  spirit  of  La  Fayette? 
Here  is  what  La  Fayette  said  in  a  let- 
ter of  the  7th  of  June,  1777,  to  his  be- 
loved wife : 

"Defender  of  that  liberty  which  I 
idolize,  free  myself  more  than  any  one, 
coming,  as  a  friend,  to  offer  my  ser- 
vices to  this  so  interesting  Republic,  I 
bring  it  but  my  good  will  and  my 
frankness.  I  have  no  ambition  that  is 
personal  and  no  particular  interest  is 
served  thereby,  in  working  for  glory, 
my  glory;  I  work  for  the  happiness  of 
others,  theirs.  I  hope  that,  to  favor 
me,  you  will  become  a  good  American; 
that  is  a  sentiment  of  which  any  vir- 
tuous soul  might  be  proud.  The  hap- 
piness of  the  United  States  is  a  hap- 
piness that  is  closely  allied  with  the 
happiness  of  all  humanity;  this  coun- 
try is  to  become  the  safe  and  respect- 
able asylum  of  all  liberties" 

Despite  anything  that  may  be  said 
by  latter-day  Americans,  who  are  un- 
mindful as  to  what  they  owe  this  great 
man,  forgetful  of  the  gratitude  they 
owe  this  noble  voice  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  liberator  of  minds  and  people, 
it  was  the  same  eloquence  animating 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau ;  it  was  the  gen- 
ius of  Diderot  and  Beaumarchais ;  it 
was  the  precursor  of  that  Immortal 
Magna  Charta  of  human  liberties,  the 
Declaration  of  the  Rights  of  Man. 

Later  on.  after  the  triumph  of  the 
American  Revolution,  the  aged  Vol- 
taire in  a  spirit  of  admiration  and  ec- 
stasy, wished  publicly  to  fall  to  the 
knees  of  the  Marquise  de  La  Fayette. 


LA  FAYETTE,  WASHINGTON  AND  BELGIUM 


171 


This  occurred  in  the  salons  of  the 
Duke  de  Choiseulle.  The  old  phil- 
osopher cried  out  that  "the  defender 
of  the  cause  of  the  just  and  right  and 
liberty  of  man  replied,  on  the  llth  of 
December,  1784,  to  the  American 
Congress,  which  had  just  received  him 
in  order  to  thank  him  for  his  services 
and  devotion  in  bringing  about  Ameri- 
can independence,  in  these  words: 

"May  this  immense  temple  we  have 
just  erected  in  the  name  of  liberty  of- 
fer for  all  times  a  lesson  to  the  op- 
pressors, an  example  to  the  oppressed, 
an  asylum  for  the  rights  of  the  hu- 
man race,  and  may  future  ages  re- 
joice in  the  names  of  its  founders." 

Do  not  believe,  gentlemen  and  lad- 
ies, that  I  desire  to  incriminate  or 
blame,  neither  America  nor  the  emi- 
nent statesmen  who  direct  its  destin- 
ies. I  simply  wish  to  limit  myself  to 
recording,  with  regret  for  this  country 
and  its  repute,  that  which  is  and  that 
which  is  not.  The  best  intentioned 
politicians  sometimes  commit  griev- 
ous errors,  irreparable  mistakes.  His- 
tory shows  us  memorable  examples  of 
this. 

America  has  been  saved  from  oblo- 
quy by  the  fact  that  the  liberties  of 
Belgium  and  those  of  the  world  will 
be  saved,  despite  it  and  despite  its 
non-intervention.  The  United  States 
will  not  share  in  the  glory.  Undoubt- 
edly, from  a  practical  standpoint, 
America  will  lose  but  little  prestige 
from  not  having  spontaneously  pro- 
tested against  the  invasion  of  Belgium, 
having  forfeited,  temporarily  it  is 
hoped,  her  place  as  the  protectrice  of 
the  oppressed.  It  failed  to  take  its 
proper  place  as  a  defender  of  human 
rights  in  the  greatest  war  of  the  world, 
in  its  glorious  annals  of  righteous  con- 
duct and  in  defense  of  the  rights  of 
man. 

Others  will  tell  you,  perhaps,  that, 
since  the  days  of  Washington,  it  has 
been  deemed  an  heritage  to  not  med- 
dle with  the  quarrels  of  stranger  na- 
tions. The  logic  of  this  is  advanced 
in  an  argument  that  such  a  course 
might  involve  other  nations  in  quar- 
rels on  this  hemisphere.  Others  still 


will  excuse  the  United  States  on  the 
ground  of  unpreparedness.  That  the 
army  and  the  navy  of  the  United 
States  was  not  in  a  condition  to  af- 
front the  powerful  armada  and  the 
land  legions  of  the  great  European 
central  empires. 

To  those  who  have  the  idea  that 
Washington  would  have  so  narrowly 
construed  the  national  duty  toward 
Belgium  and  its  dismemberment,  it 
might  be  well  asked  why  that  great 
nation,  the  United  States,  went  so  far 
afield  to  invade  the  Philippines  in  an 
endeavor  to  release  its  people  from 
the  tyrannies  of  Spain  ?  Happily,  the 
oppressed  were  delivered  of  the  yoke 
of  the  oppressor,  but  where  is  in  this 
case  the  tradition,  the  heritage  sup- 
posed to  have  been  handed  down  by 
Washington,  which  makes  of  a  similar 
thing  a  verity  in  the  Philippines  and 
an  error  in  Belgium? 

It  has  been  truly  said  that  to  govern 
is  to  prevent.  I  am  asking  myself 
what  would  have  been  the  terrible 
awakening  of  your  great  statesmen,  if 
Germany  had  been  successful  in  plac- 
ing her  yoke  of  "blood  and  iron"  over 
the  people  of  Russia,  England  and 
France?  What  of  the  United  States, 
if  Europe  were  indeed  the  vassal  of 
Germany  and  its  allies?  The  Kaiser 
might  then,  and  with  good  reason,  pro- 
claim himself  as  Emperor  of  the 
World ;  and  the  United  States,  with  an 
inadequate  navy  and  a  small  and  ut- 
terly unprepared  army,  would  soon  see 
itself  reduced  to  one  of  the  provinces 
of  Universal  Prussia. 

What  a  splendid  mission  it  was  then 
that  seemed  so  logically  to  impose  it- 
self upon  this  great  country,  the 
United  States,  as  "the  asylum  of  hu- 
man rights,"  the  defender  of  liberty 
and  protector  of  the  weak,  when  Bel- 
gium was  seized  at  the  throat  by  the 
Germanic  colossus!  She  could,  in  the 
first  place,  have  imposed  on  Germany 
a  moral  suasion,  by  protesting  in  con- 
cert with  England  against  the  ultima- 
tum to  Belgium  as  to  the  violation  of 
a  formal  treaty  and  in  scorn  of  the 
most  sacred  human  rights.  Such  a 
high  example  of  state  morality  and 


172 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


courage  would  no  doubt  have  drawn 
every  other  nation  on  earth  to  her 
side  and  to  that  of  outraged  Belgium. 
Bullying  Germany  would  have  been 
slow  in  hurtling  its  military  spirit 
against  the  conscience  of  an  aroused 
world. 

But  should  it  have  been  that,  drawn 
into  the  world  war  through  the  sinis- 
ter designs  of  the  Central  Empires  of 
Europe,  America  had  recourse  to 
arms,  separated  from  the  theatre  of 
operations  as  she  is  by  the  Atlantic, 
she  would  have  remained  effectively 
the  mistress  of  the  situation,  and  she 
could  have  guided  her  actions  as  she 
saw  fit. 

The  United  States,  without  a  doubt, 
was  not  ready  for  the  conflict,  but 
neither  was  England,  and  England  had 
not  the  time  to  prepare.  Belgium  it- 
self was  still  less  prepared.  This  un- 
fortunate nation,  the  theatre  of  war 
for  centuries,  found  itself  faced  with 
the  choice  of  ruin  or  dishonor,  and  it 
chose  ruin.  Was  she  to  defend  her- 
self, heroic  and  sublime,  or  was  she 
to  veil  her  face  and  let  pass  the  hosts 
of  the  Hun?  Was  she  to  see  herself 
eliminated  from  the  ranks  of  the 
nations,  or  was  she  to  fight  it  out  and 
retire  from  the  field,  glorified  by  her 
defense  of  her  rights  and  the  rights 
and  liberties  of  the  whole  world? 

No!  Belgium  did  not  hesitate! 
Animated  by  the  words  of  her  hero 
monarch,  and  by  her  statesmen,  she 
woke  from  the  lethargic  anaemia  of 
peace  to  perform  the  highest  duty  fall- 
ing to  the  lot  of  a  nation ;  she  superbly 
drew  herself  up  against  the  barbarians 
and  she  fought  them  inch  by  inch, 
with  the  indifference  of  a  martyr,  stoi- 
cally plucking  victories  undying  in  her 
defeats,  to  gladden  the  hearts  of  man 
through  the  centuries. 

It  does  not  seem  to  me,  gentlemen, 
that,  in  all  the  history  of  the  United 
States  there  has  been  so  great  an  error 
committed,  nor  has  there  ever  been 
another  with  such  fatal  and  never- 
ending  consequences. 

Remember  that  to-day  Germany, 
under  the  menace  implied  of  sending 
away  her  embassador  gives  way  to  the 


demands  of  this  country  regarding 
her  submarine  warfare.  On  the  threat 
of  simply  stopping  diplomatic  rela- 
tions the  Germanic  Empire  is  ready  to 
give  up  its  murderous  and  piratical 
system  of  warfare.  It  does  not  desire 
to  give  up  the  diplomatic  relations 
which  it  has  so  complaisantly  main- 
tained since  the  sinking  of  the  Lusi- 
tania  and  the  Arabic  through  her  sub- 
marines. 

Do  you  believe  that  this  nation, 
Germany,  would  not  have  heeded  a 
warning  from  this  country  regarding 
Belgium?  Do  you  believe  that  for  an 
instant?  You  may  rest  assured  that 
Germany  would  not  have  found  the 
slightest  assistance,  in  the  event  that 
any  intervention  or  protest  had  been 
offered  by  the  United  States,  from  any 
nation  on  earth. 

And  history  will  record  the  invasion 
of  Belgium  as  a  great,  a  monumental, 
error  in  military  judgment,  in  view  of 
the  resistance  of  Belgium  and  the  in- 
volving of  England  and  Italy.  Con- 
template for  an  instant  what  would 
have  been  the  result  if  Germany  had 
rushed  her  torrent  of  two  million  five 
hundred  thousand  men  across  the  Vos- 
ges  and  the  Luxembourg,  and  have 
crushed,  as  she  at  that  time  must  have, 
Toul,  Epinal  and  Verdun,  just  as  she 
crushed  Liege,  Namur  and  Antwerp, 
precipitating  herself  on  Paris,  which 
she  would  have  engulfed.  But,  of 
course,  the  Marne  retreat  would  have 
been  repeated  for  the  French  armies 
would  have  recovered  just  as  surely  as 
they  did  recover,  but  at  what  terrible 
cost  to  France! 

I  have  frankly  drawn  for  you  the 
lesson  of  what  the  great  heroes  of  the 
American  Revolution  would  have  done 
were  they  living  to-day,  in  the  face  of 
the  difficulties  presenting  themselves 
for  solution  as  the  result  of  the  mani- 
acal ambition  of  the  Hun.  I  am  fully 
aware  that  this  country  is  still  young 
in  its  diplomatic  or  world  history,  and 
its  conduct  of  public  affairs  as  a  world 
nation.  I  am  also  aware  of  the  fact 
that,  in  its  frankness  and  virility  it 
sometimes  loses  sight  of  the  sinister, 
senile,  secret  designs  and  traditions 


LA  FAYETTE,  WASHINGTON  AND  BELGIUM 


173 


and  ambitions  governing  older  na- 
tions. 

Need  I  say,  in  palliation,  that  the 
United  States  has  risen  to  heights  of 
glory  unsurpassed  in  its  help  extended, 
in  a  financial  and  practical  way,  to  the 
sufferers  of  all  nations.  She  has  come 
to  the  aid  of  the  lowly  and  the  suffer- 
ing with  a  magnificent  munificence 
never  before  equaled  in  the  history  of 
the  whole  world.  And  for  this  all  hu- 
manity should  be  eternally  grateful. 

You  know  well  how  quickly  America 
came  to  the  help  of  Belgium,  of  Ser- 
bia, of  Poland  and  of  France.  Here 
are  you  gathered  under  the  planing  in- 
fluence, the  souvenir,  of  La  Fayette,  to 
augment  these  donations  by  which 
Belgium  is  to  have  some  relief  from 
its  woes,  part  of  the  riches  America 
has  so  unstintingly  given  to  the  un- 
fortunate heroes  of  the  war. 

Give,  give  again  and  give  always, 
and  without  counting,  in  so  saintly  a 
cause!  It  is  the  most  sainted  you 
could  espouse.  Happy,  indeed,  are 
those  who  can  make  such  use  of  their 
fortune,  to  employ  it  so  magnificently, 
and  who,  in  their  wealth,  are  no  longer 
envied  but  blessed.  Happy,  indeed, 
those  in  modest  circumstances,  or  even 
in  poverty  who  sacrifice  some  plea- 
sure to  succor  those  unfortunate  vic- 
tims. To  whose  heart  such  offerings 
go  directly,  and,  returning,  in  spirit, 
cover  the  donor  with  the  beautiful  au- 
reole of  abnegation  and  moral  grand- 
eur. 

In  conclusion,  I  would  say:  Do  not 
allow  yourself  to  be  downcast.  We 
will  conquer.  We  cannot  lose.  Do  ' 


not  despond,  even  though  at  times  the 
great  devil  of  pessimism  knocks  for 
entrance  at  the  doors  of  your  soul.  Be- 
lieve not  the  prophets  of  evil,  who  are 
numerous  in  this  country,  going  about 
sowing  the  seeds  of  discontent  and  un- 
belief in  the  survival  of  the  good  and 
the  beautiful.  Trust  not  the  spreader 
of  insidious,  discouraging  news,  for 
he  may  be  venal  and  interested. 

Those  who  are  fighting  for  us  are 
possessed  of  a  certitude — WE  WILL 
CONQUER!  They  have  a  firm  belief 
in  victory.  It  ill  beseems  us  to  falter 
by  the  way,  to  doubt  as  to  patriotism 
and  truth,  to  doubt  of  triumph,  to 
doubt  that  Europe  will  once  again  see 
Justice  firmly  seated,  because  it  will 
liberate  Alsace-Lorraine,  Trent  and 
Trieste,  admirable  Poland  and  magni- 
ficent Belgium,  whose  glory  is  written 
in  letters  of  blood  and  fire  in  the  mar- 
tyrdom of  its  people. 

No !  No !  We  will  not  let  pessim- 
ism enter  regnant  in  our  hearts.  We 
will  remember  that  we  are  the  sons  of 
that  Latin  race  having  for  its  ideal, 
Rights  of  Man  and  the  Cult  of  Liberty, 
this  race  considered  athwart  all  his- 
tory as  the  forerunner  bearers  of  the 
flambeaux  of  civilization. 

France  cannot  perish!  France  is 
immortal !  It  is  the  France  of  La  Fay- 
ette, of  Hoche,  of  Marceau,  of  Bona- 
parte, of  Joffre  and  Castlenau.  It  is 
the  Cradle  of  Liberty  and  the  nation 
that  ensures  to  the  world  the  sparkling 
light  and  the  beauty  which,  through 
the  worst  follies  of  humanity,  is  the 
guide  to  higher  destinies  and  more 
glorious  results. 


Sowing  to  Self  and   Sin  —  Reaping 


By  C.  T.  Russell 

Pastor  New  York,  Washington  and  Cleveland   Temples  and  the 
Brooklyn  and  London  Tabernacles 


"Whatsoever  a  man    soweth,    that 
shall  he  also   reap'' — Galatians   6:7. 

A  VERY  important  lesson  centers 
in  these  words  of  the  inspired 
St.    Paul.     In   our   lives   and 
characters   are   certain   things 
with  which  we  have  nothing  to  do. 
From  our  ancestors  we  have  received 
something  for  which  we  are  not  re- 
sponsible.   For  instance,  we  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  Adam's  sin  and  its  ef- 
fects.   We  have  to  do  only  with  what 
we  ourselves  sow. 

Those  things  which  have  come  to  us 
by  heredity,  not  by  our  own  volition — 
conditions  over  which  we  had  no  con- 
trol— are  all  arranged  for  in  our  great 
Creator's  plan.  In  Christ,  God  has 
made  provision  for  the  covering  of  all 
the  imperfections  that  have  come  to 
us  through  the  fall,  so  that  we  are  not 
responsible  for  anything  but  what  we 
sow.  God  will  attend  to  what  Adam 
sowed.  He  has  provided  a  just  Sac- 
rifice for  the  unjust  sinner;  for  as  by 
man  (Adam)  came  sin  and  death,  so 
also  by  the  Man  Christ  Jesus  will 
come  deliverance  from  those  imper- 
fections which  result  from  Father 
This  is  applicable  not  only  to  the 
Church  now,  but  will  be  applicable  to 
the  whole  world  during  the  Millennial 
Age.  The  world  of  mankind  will  not 
be  held  responsible  for  what  their 
father's  sowed,  though  now  all  suffer 
for  those  things.  "The  fathers  have 


eaten  sour  grapes,  and  the  children's 
teeth  are  set  on  edge."  (Ezekiel  18 :2; 
Jeremiah  31:29,  30.)  In  this  present 
life  we  shall  suffer  from  these  disa- 
bilities. But  this  is  true  only  of  this 
life.  The  seed  of  sinful  sowing  brings 
a  certain  harvest,  the  same  as  sowing 
wheat  brings  wheat. 

Living  in  Basement  of  Brain 

What  are  the  seeds  mankind  have 
been  sowing  for  six  thousand  years? 
We  see  the  world  in  general  sowing  to 
selfishness,  to  self-gratification.  Nearly 
all  have  been  thus  sowing,  trying  to 
serve  their  tastes,  their  preferences  for 
food,  clothing,  everything  under  the 
sun.  Man  tries  to  satisfy  his  desires, 
and  most  of  the  fallen  man's  desires 
are  for  sinful  things ;  but  from  the  Ad- 
amic  fall  he  has  received  a  selfish 
bent.  Thus  the  selfish  impulses  are 
more  active  than  are  the  higher  pow- 
ers of  his  mind. 

In  the  top  of  the  brain  lie  the  no- 
bler powers  of  the  mind:  such  as  the 
sense  of  right  and  wrong,  reverence, 
benevolence — good  qualities,  which 
bring  man's  highest  blessings.  Who- 
ever can  live  in  the  top  of  his  brain, 
instead  of  down  in  the  cellar,  the  base 
of  the  brain,  will  have  the  nobler  life. 
There  are  organs  that  belong  merely  to 
the  flesh.  Some  people  live  for  food 
and  drink  only.  Others  do  not  care 
so  much  for  these  things,  but  have 


SOWING  TO   SELF  AND   SIN^REAPING   CORRUPTION         175 


other  morbid  cravings.  If  we  had 
none  of  the  quality  of  alimentiveness 
in  our  brain,  we  would  not  enjoy  eat- 
ing, which  would  then  be  a  mere  mat- 
ter of  form  and  might  be  neglected. 
But  if  we  are  in  good  health,  we  relish 
our  daily  meals.  This  should  lead  to 
thankfulness  to  the  Lord,  from  whom 
all  our  blessings  come. 

If,  however,  the  organ  of  alimen- 
tiveness is  in  control,  is  served  par- 
ticularly and  continually,  the  person 
will  live  only  to  eat  and  drink.  He 
will  live  down  in  the  basement  of  his 
brain.  He  will  not  have  the  highest 
joys.  Such  a  condition  would  be  an 
over-balance  of  that  part  of  the  brain. 

Man  became  unbalanced  away  back 
in  Eden,  and  we  have  had  six  thousand 
years  of  development  in  that  direction, 
so  that  by  this  time  the  heads  of  a 
good  portion  of  mankind  are  largely 
empty  as  regards  the  nobler  senti- 
ments, or  at  best  these  organs  are 
largely  dormant.  Men  have  been  too 
much  occupied  with  eating,  planting 
and  building,  with  running  after  the 
gratification  of  the  pleasures  of  sense, 
living  more  like  animals  than  like  be- 
ings created  in  the  image  of  God. 

Gratification  of  legitimate  cravings 
is  proper  to  a  certain  degree  with  man- 
kind. There  is  nothing  wrong  in  a 
man's  enjoying  his  food  and  other  bod- 
ily comforts.  But  is  the  making  of 
these  the  chief  aim  of  life — the  sitting 
or  lolling  around  to  kill  time,  and  the 
doing  of  this,  that  and  the  other  thing 
just  as  they  happen  to  come  along — 
that  shows  the  empty  head.  Some 
very  good  people,  as  the  world  goes, 
spend  considerable  time  in  dancing 
and  card-playing.  To  me  it  seems  that 
those  who  have  time  to  burn,  to  kill, 
those  who  spend  their  time  in  think- 
ing merely  about  things  which  are  on 
the  same  level  with  the  horse  and  the 
dog,  are  living  on  a  very  low,  animal 
plane.  They  do  just  what  a  good 
breed  of  animal  would  do. 

Man's  Aspirations  If  Perfect. 

God  has  given  man  a  brain  very 
different  from  all  the  lower  animals. 


We  have  the  quality  of  brain  and  the 
powers  of  mind  to  reason  along  ab- 
stract lines.  We  can  study  mathe- 
matics, dynamics,  astronomy,  geology, 
political  economy.  We  can  discern 
between  right  and  wrong.  We  can 
know  God's  will  and  study  His  Word. 
Animals  cannot  do  these  things. 

But  the  average  man  does  not  care 
to  think  about  God  or  about  anything 
beyond  the  interests  of  the  present 
life.  He  does  not  wish  to  think  about 
dying.  He  ought  to  think,  There  is  a 
great  God ;  He  has  a  sympathy  and 
love  for  me,  and  I  would  be  glad  to 
know  what  He  has  to  say  to  me.  It 
would  be  natural  to  a  noble  mind  to 
ask  what  God  has  for  us,  and  to  reason 
that  it  must  be  something  good,  be- 
cause God  is  good.  God  is  wise,  just 
and  loving,  and  has  a  deep  interest  in 
His  creatures. 

If  things  were  as  they  should  be, 
man  would  be  feeling  after  God.  He 
would  desire  to  know  about  the  Divine 
Plan  of  the  Ages — how  sin  came  into 
the  world ;  how  God  has  sympathy,  and 
sent  His  Son  to  be  our  Redeemer,  to 
make  satisfaction  for  sin;  how  in  due 
time  He  will  make  satisfaction  for  the 
sins  of  the  whole  world.  Man  would 
be  interested  to  learn  how  it  is  that 
some  know  all  of  this  beforehand,  in 
order  that  they  may  be  associated  with 
the  Lord  Jesus  in  blessing  the  world. 
Why  do  they  not  care  to  know  these 
things?  It  is  because  Satan  has 
blinded  men's  minds,  and  because  they 
are  so  fallen  that  to  a  large  degree  they 
have  lost  the  image  of  God,  in  which 
man  was  originally  created.  More- 
over, false  doctrines  have  come  in, 
also  from  Satan  and  the  other  fallen 
angels. 

Present  Experiences  a  Lesson  to 
Angels. 

The  Apostle  Paul  says  that  "the  god 
of  this  world  hath  blinded  the  minds 
of  them  that  believe  not."  (2  Corin- 
thians 4:4.)  They  do  not  believe  be- 
cause their  eyes  are  holden;  for  Satan 
does  not  wish  them  to  see  the  light  of 
the  glorious  goodness  of  God  shining 


166 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ.  If  men 
could  only  get  a  glimpse  of  God's 
goodness  in  Christ,  the  entire  world 
would  be  converted.  Why,  then,  does 
not  God  reveal  His  glory  to  them  ?  For 
the  reason  that  He  purposes  to  do  so 
in  the  Millennial  Kingdom.  Through 
Christ  He  will  then  open  the  blind 
eyes,  unstop  the  deaf  ears,  and  cause 
all  men  to  know  the  Lord. — Isaiah 
35:5;  Jeremiah  31:34. 

For  a  wise  purpose  God  has  per- 
mitted Satan  to  take  his  course.  But 
in  due  time  the  Almighty  will  take 
control — in  the  very  near  future.  He 
told  our  first  parents  that  they  should 
die  because  of  their  sin.  It  was  Satan 
who  said  that  they  should  not  die.  If 
they  chose  to  believe  Satan,  the  re- 
sponsibility was  their  own.  God  per- 
mitted them  to  take  that  course. 

Why  should  God  do  this?  Because 
He  wished  to  teach  a  great  lesson; 
first  to  the  angels,  then  to  men.  The 
angels  are  learning  every  day.  They 
desire  to  look  into  these  things,  as  the 
Apostle  Peter  assures  us.  (Peter  1 :10- 
12.)  Throughout  the  six  thousand 
years  during  which  God  has  permitted 
evil  on  earth,  the  angels  have  been 
looking  on.  The  introduction  of  evil 
was  a  great  test  to  them  at  first.  When 
they  saw  the  power  of  Lucifer,  Satan, 
and  observed  that  God  did  not  correct 
him  at  the  beginning  of  his  career  of 
rebellion,  some  of  them  concluded  that 
God  could  not  stop  him.  So  many  of 
them  decided  to  follow  Lucifer. 

Did  God  wish  this?  Yes;  if  their 
hearts  were  disloyal,  He  did  not  desire 
to  have  them  associated  in  the  King- 
dom regulations.  So  He  let  them  have 
the  test.  He  let  them  take  their  own 
course.  Now  that  they  are  over  in 
Satan's  ranks,  they  are  finding  that 
God  has  the  power;  but  they  have 
demonstrated  that  they  have  not  been 
in  harmony  with  Him.  For  a  time  the 
other  angels  were  bewildered;  never- 
theless, they  trusted  God.  They  have 
now  seen  the  wisdom  of  His  course. 

All  the  while  God  had  the  power, 
but  simply  did  not  exercise  it.  The 
holy  angels  see  now  how  foolish  it 
would  have  been  for  them  to  choose 


sin.  They  can  see  that  doing  right  is 
better  than  doing  wrong.  All  the  holy 
angels  perceive  that  they  were  wise  to 
trust  God,  even  though  for  awhile  it 
looked  as  though  He  was  powerless 
to  stop  Satan  or  to  save  the  fallen  race 
that  Satan  had  led  astray. 

Man's  Present  Condition  Temporary. 

The  world  of  mankind  have  been 
going  down  into  death,  but  the  world 
is  not  eternally  lost.  God  has  known 
all  the  time  what  would  be  the  out- 
come; and  all  the  time  He  has  had  a 
Plan  for  their  recovery.  They  have 
been  only  asleep  in  death;  for  God, 
before  He  revealed  His  plan  of  Re- 
demption, had  it  in  mind  for  man.  In 
fact,  He  had  it  in  mind  before  the 
foundation  of  the  world.  The  Lord 
Jesus  was  the  very  Essence  of  that 
Plan,  the  very  Center.  He  was  to  be 
the  great  Ransom-sacrificer  for  all,  and 
later  the  great  King  of  Glory  to  lift 
mankind  out  of  death.  All  this  was 
known  to  the  Father.  Jesus  was  the 
Lamb  slain  (in  Jehovah's  Purpose) 
from  before  the  world  was. 

It  is  a  good  thing  to  find  out  how 
great  a  God  we  have ;  to  learn  that  He 
is  not  only  all-wise,  all-powerful  and 
all-just,  but — still  more  precious — 
that  the  very  essence  of  His  character 
is  Love.  This  great  Plan  which  God  is 
carrying  out  has  a  still  further  purpose 
in  developing  sympathy  and  other  no- 
ble traits  in  mankind.  He  is  letting  the 
world  go  down  to  the  tomb ;  but  no  one 
suffers  very  long. 

Brevity  of  Life  Now  a  Blessing 

This  condition  has  lasted  more  than 
six  thousand  years,  although  no  one 
person  has  suffered  more  than  a  small 
fraction  of  that  time.  Many  have 
been  taken  away  very  suddenly ;  many 
have  died  in  infancy;  some  have  died 
of  consumption  or  of  fever;  others 
have  been  killed  with  bullets;  still 
others  with  poisonous  gases.  But  it 
was  only  a  brief  experience.  It  is  not 
like  roasting  in  torture  throughout  all 
eternity.  For  a  person  to  suffer  for  a 


o 
i. 

;+— 
^ 


CO 


Logs  impounded  in  the  saw  mill  dam. 


MAR  A 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


MONTHLY 


BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LXVII 


San  Francisco,  March  1916 


No.  3 


The 

Fuget 

Sound 

Country 

By 

Margaret 
Hollinshead 


Waterfalls  in  the  Olympic  Mountains. 


AWAY  out  in  the  northwest  cor- 
ner of  our  United  States,  and 
extending   into   the   southwest 
corner   of   Canada,  is  one  of 
the  most  picturesque   spots     in     all 
America.    It  is  called  the  Puget  Sound 
Country.    Not  only  is  this  bit  of  coun- 
try picturesque,  but  it  is  interesting 
and  pulsating  with  life  and   full  of 
opportunity.    A  country  in  the  making 
of  which  all  the  forces     of     nature 
worked  in  harmonious  accord  for  aes- 
thetic perfection ;  a  country  that  knows 
neither  the   bleakness  of   winter  nor 


the  brownness  of  summer — where  the 
breezes  of  the  warm  Japanese  Current 
blow  gently  o'er  the  land,  bring  health 
and  indomitable  vigor;  a  country  dom- 
inated by  great  mountains  and  big 
trees  and  beautiful  lakes  and  wonder- 
ful canyons ;  a  country  unique — that  is 
the  Puget  Sound  Country.  There  the 
Redman  roamed  in  pursuit  of  game  or 
fish  until  a  century  ago,  when  the 
white  discovered  and  appropriated  to 
extravagance  and  usefulness  the  game 
and  the  fish,  the  gigantic  forests  and 
the  rich  humus  of  the  valleys. 


Lake  Crescent,  among    the    Olympic  Mountains. 


If  perchance  one  should  wonder 
what  gigantic  forces  of  nature  con- 
spired to  produce  the  grandeur  and 
loveliness  that  lie  on  every  hand,  he 
must  turn  to  the  pages  of  geology  for 
the  story  of  the  making.  Late  in  the 
Quarternary,  when  all  of  North  Amer- 
ica was  undergoing  remarkable  crust 
oscillations,  the  Pacific  Coast,  which 
originally  extended  much  farther  into 
the  ocean  than  it  now  does,  sank  to  its 
present  position,  and  simultaneously 
the  wide  valleys  of  the  Puget  Sound 
basin  were  submerged  and  the  lovely 
Puget  Sound,  with  its  hundreds  of 
arms  and  bays  and  inlets,  was  pro- 
duced. A  little  later  in  the  history  of 
the  basin  came  great  glaciers  from 
the  mountains  to  the  northward,  east- 
ward and  westward;  which  over- 
whelmed the  northern  part  of  the  basin 
and  hid  its  rock  formation  beneath  a 
mantle  of  glacial  sediment.  In  the 
scoured  basins  of  these  glaciers  now 
are  to  be  found  some  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite little  lakes  in  the  world,  and 
the  mountains  with  their  attendant 
canyons  and  pretty  waterfalls  are  the 


result  of  the  processes  attending  up- 
heaval. 

It  was  in  1792  that  Captain  George 
Vancouver  discovered  "Whulge,"  as 
the  Indians  called  it,  and  took  posses- 
sion of  the  country  in  the  name  of 
England.  At  the  time,  both  England 
and  Spain  for  contending  for  posses- 
sion of  Pacific  North  America,  but  at 
the  close  of  the  celebrated  dispute 
of  Nootka,  England  was  given  the  ter- 
ritory north  of  California.  That  is,  her 
possession  was  undisputed  as  far  as 
foreign  powers  were  concerned,  but  she 
had  not  yet  reckoned  with  the  young 
American  Republic.  In  1818  a  treaty 
held  in  London  '.decidjed  that  "any 
country  that  may  be  claimed  by  either 
Great  Britain  or  the  United  States  in 
the  northwest  should  be  free  and  open 
for  the  term  of  ten  years  to  the  sub- 
jects, citizens  and  vessels  of  the  two 
powers."  The  aggressive  Yankees 
proved  too  energetic  for  the  British, 
however,  and  in  1843,  a  government 
purely  American  was  adopted  and 
British  rule  came  to  an  end  within  the 
present  boundaries  of  the  United 


I 

<-f) 


I 

a 


A  salmon  trap  on  Puget  Sound. 


States.  Many  geographical  names  so 
familiar  to  every  Puget  Sounder,  such 
as  Rainier,  Hood,  Baker,  Vashon,  Dun- 
deness  and  many  others  were  given  by 
Vancouver.  Vancouver  Island  he 
named  "Quadra  and  Vancouver  Is- 
land," the  first  part  commemorating 
his  Spanish  friend  and  contemporary, 
but  usage  has  obliterated  that,  and  we 
have  remaining  the  tribute  to  himself 
only.  He  named  the  northern  part  of 
his  discovery  New  Hanover  and  the 
southern  part  New  Georgia,  both  in 
honor  of  his  king,  but  the  Congress  of 
the  United  States  later  changed  New 
Georgia  to  Washington,  and  the  Ca- 
nadians honored  America's  discoverer 
by  changing  the  name  of  New  Han- 
over to  British  Columbia. 

Olympia,  the  capital  of  Washington, 
is  the  southernmost  city  on  Puget 
Sound,  a  beautiful  little  home  city, 
and  the  center  of  a  vast  lumbering 


district.  Here,  also,  is  the  true  home 
of  the  Olympic  oyster.  About  half 
way  between  Olympia  and  Seattle  lies 
Tacoma,  situated  on  a  picturesque  emi- 
nence overlooking  Puget  Sound.  The 
two  features  of  the  city  in  which  its 
citizens  take  greatest  pride  is  the  sta- 
dium, a  vast  concrete  auditorium  oc- 
cupying a  natural  amphitheatre  above 
the  Sound,  and  capable  of  seating  35,- 
000  people,  and  the  fact  that  Tacoma 
is  the  gateway  to  the  renowned  Mount 
Rainier. 

Mt.  Rainier — or  Mt.  Tacoma,  as  the 
Tacoma  people  call  it — is  an  almost 
sublime  thing — an  extinct  volcano  ris- 
ing 14,532  feet  into  the  sky,  its  rock- 
ribbed  edges  carved  by  glacial  action, 
its  white  precipices  gleaming,  and  its 
slopes  below  the  snow  line  glowing 
with  the  variegated  hues  of  wild  flow- 
ers. The  drive  of  seventy  miles  from 
Tacoma  to  the  gateway  of  mammoth 


176 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Capilano  Canyon,  Vancouver,    B.    C. 

logs,  which  marks  the  entrance  to  Rai- 
nier National  Park,  takes  one  across 
the  prairie,  through  great  forests  of 
Douglas  fir,  and  up  the  sides  of  Nis- 
qually  Canyon,  over  a  road  that  in 


many  places  clings  desperately  to  the 
precipitous  wall,  while  far  below  the 
river  roars  through  its  rocky  channel. 
A  few  miles  beyond  the  log  gateway 
and  its  rustic  lodge  is  a  comfortable 
hotel  for  the  convenience  of  tourists. 
Twelve  miles  farther  on  is  the  snout  of 
Nisqually  Glacier  rearing  its  icy  wall 
hundreds  of  feet  into  the  air.  From 
a  cavernous  orifice  the  river  roars  and 
leaps  as  if  in  mad  delight  at  Its  re- 
lease from  the  prison  of  ice.  On  the 
snowy  slopes  of  Mt.  Rainier  toboggan- 
ing is  enjoyed  all  summer  which,  of 
course,  is  quite  a  novelty. 

Seattle  is  the  city  that  will  attract 
every  tourist  visiting  the  northwest — 
Seattle  the  city  beautiful,  Seattle  the 
city  of  life,  and  Seattle  the  gateway 
to  Alaska. 

It  is  not  uncommon  when  dining  in 
a  New  York  restaurant  to  overhear 
conversation  about  Seattle,  and  it  is 
not  infrequently  accompanied  by  such 
remarks  as  the  following:  "I  simply 
love  Seattle."  From  the  tower  of  the 
forty-two  story  L.  C.  Smith  Building 
one  may  obtain  a  panorama  of  the  city 
and  its  vicinity;  to  the  west  is  Elliott 
Bay,  fringed  with  Seattle's  immense 
shipping  facilities,  and  across  it 
stretches  the  peninsula  known  as  Alki 
Point,  where  the  early  pioneers  made 
their  first  settlement  in  1851;  against 
the  horizon  rise  the  Olympic  Moun- 
tains; to  the  north  is  Queen  Anne  Hill, 
covered  with  homes,  and  to  the  north- 
east is  Lake  Union  and  Capitol  Hill, 
another  good  residential  district;  to  the 
southeast  is  the  Mt.  Baker  Park  dis- 
trict, and  the  hill  to  the  south  is  Beacon 
Hill.  Seattle  is  a  city  of  hills  and  they 
add  much  to  its  attractiveness.  Con- 
spicuous on  top  of  what  is  known  as 
the  "First  Hill"  rise  the  twin  spires 
of  St.  James  Cathedral,  the  Hotel  Sor- 
rento and  other  buildings  of  note.  Like 
the  cities  of  the  eastern  and  middle 
western  States,  Seattle  has  an  excel- 
lent system  of  park  boulevards.  It 
winds  like  a  wounded  serpent  over  the 
hills  and  through  the  parks,  now  af- 
fording a  view  of  the  Sound  and  then  a 
view  of  Lake  Washington  atnd  the 
lovely  Cascade  Mountains  to  the  east. 


A  view  on  Lake  Washington. 


178 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


When  completed,  the  boulevard  will 
encircle  Lake  Washington. 

Such  side  trips  as  that  up  Lake 
Washington  to  Bothell,  or  by  automo- 
bile to  Snoqualmie  Falls,  or  by  boat 
across  the  Sound  to  Bremerton,  where 
the  United  States  navy  yards  are  lo- 
cated, are  well  worth  one's  time  and 
trouble.  A  trip  of  great  interest  is  the 
one  which  takes  one  across  the  Sound 
and  in  among  the  San  Juan  Islands  to 
Anacortes  or  Bellingham,  where  sev- 
eral large  fish  canneries  are  located. 
When  we  learn  that  the  Puget  Sound 
and  Alaska  salmon  pack  annually 
yields  many  millions  of  dollars,  we  are 
naturally  anxious  to  know  something 
about  this  one  of  America's  natural 
resources.  It  is  a  great  sight,  indeed, 
to  see  the  big  scows  come  in  from  the 
traps  laden  with  gleaming  pink  and 
white  salmon;  thousands  are  so  hand- 
led every  day.  Is  there  not  danger  of 
depleting  the  supply?  you  ask.  To 
guard  against  that,  the  game  laws  re- 
quire that  fishing  be  suspended  during 
thirty-six  hours  of  every  week,  and 
since  one  female  fish  propagates  her 
kind  by  the  hundreds  of  millions,  no 
further  measures  of  conservation  has 
as  yet  seemed  necessary. 

Entering  the  cannery  one  is  greeted 
by  the  not  altogether  pleasant  odor  of 
fish,  which  must  at  once  be  accepted 
philosophically.  From  the  big  scows 
men  are  busy  tossing  the  salmon  onto 
the  cannery  floor  by  means  of  long- 
handled  instruments  called  gaffs.  From 
there  they  are  fed  into  the  "iron 
chink,"  an  ingenious  machine  which 
cuts  off  heads,  tails  and  fins  and  cleans 
out  the  inside  refuse.  After  being 
thoroughly  scrubbed  and  examined  for 
bruises,  the  fish  then  goes  through  the 
slicer,  and  the  short  lengths  piled  onto 
long  tables  behind  which  stand  women 
and  girls  filling  salmon  cans.  As  the 
filled  cans  pass  over  the  automatic 
scales,  underweights  are  thrown  out, 
while  the  others  continue  in  an  endless 
chain  through  the  topping  machine. 
When  the  tops  have  been  securely 
pressed  down,  the  cans  are  placed  in 
trays  stacked  one  on  top  of  the  other, 
loaded  onto  trucks  and  pushed  into  the 


cooking  vats,  where  they  remain  at  a 
temperature  of  two  hundred  and  forty 
degrees  for  an  hour  and  twenty  min- 
utes. After  being  removed,  the  cans 
are  washed  lacquered  and  labeled  for 
shipment. 

The  trip  from  Seattle  to  Vancouver 
can  be  made  by  rail  or  by  water,  the 
latter  usually  being  preferred.  The  C. 
P.  R.  steamships  leave  daily,  morning 
and  evening.  Making  the  night  trip, 
one  will  wish  to  rise  early  in  order  not 
to  miss  the  joy  of  the  scenery,  as  the 
boat  steams  past  Point  Grey,  through 
Second  Narrows,  and  enters  the  beau- 
tiful Vancouver  harbor.  Burrard  Inlet, 
it  is  called,  and  nowhere  do  morning 
lights  play  more  beautifully.  On  the 
north  lies  North  Vancouver  City  shel- 
tered by  a  vista  of  snow-crowned 
mountains,  and  on  the  south  is  Vancou- 
ver proper,  with  its  fringe  of  docks 
and  warehouses,  for  like  Seattle,  being 
the  terminal  of  transcontinental  rail- 
roads and  possessing  an  excellent  natu- 
ral harbor,  the  city  plays  an  important 
part  in  the  shipping  industry  of  the 
world. 

The  two  things  most  interesting  to 
tourists  in  Vancouver  are  Capilano 
Canyon  and  Stanley  Park.  The  for- 
mer may  be  reached  by  going  to  North 
Vancouver  and  thence  by  automobile 
to  Canyon  View  Hotel.  From  the  ho- 
tel a  path  winds  through  the  masses  of 
ferns  and  huckleberry  bushes  to  the. 
canyon's  edge,  from  where  two  hun- 
dred and  eighty  dizzy  feet  below  the 
waters  of  Capilano  Creek  may  be  seen 
leaping  and  laughing  on  their  perilous 
journey  toward  the  sea.  A  wire  guard 
intervenes,  else  one  might  fall  over  the 
cliff  from  dizziness.  Farther  on  the 
rsides  of  the  canyon  slope  to  lower 
ground,  and  one  is  able  to  make  one's 
way  to  the  water's  edge  or  cross  the 
bridge  to  where  a  flume  and  plank 
walk  are  suspended  along  the  canyon 
side.  From  here  the  best  view  of  the 
canyon  is  available.  What  an  awe- 
inspiring  work  of  nature  it  is !  Looking 
up  stream,  the  creek  falls  over  a  series 
of  rapids,  and  between  the  sides  of 
the  canyon  may  be  seen  the  snow- 
capped mountains  of  the  British  Co- 


In    the    higher    precipitous    altitudes. 


180 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


lumbia  Coast  Range.  In  the  down- 
stream direction  the  canyon  is  very 
narrow,  and  the  majestic  architecture 
of  its  perpendicular  walls  is  clothed 
in  robes  of  emerald  green.  Every- 
thing save  tree  trunks  and  occasional 
rocks  that  have  resented  the  friendly 
moss  is  of  the  same  rich  color.  Tour- 
ists who  are  fond  of  walking  often  fol- 
low the  flume  back  to  Capilano  Park, 
where  a  suspension  bridge  carries  them 
across  the  canyon. 

The  celebrated  Stanley  Park  is  a 
thousand  acres  of  natural  woodland  oc- 
cupying a  peninsula  which  is  separated 
from  the  mainland  except  for  a  nar- 
row isthmus.  A  fine  automobile  boule- 
vard nine  miles  in  length  circumscribes 
the  park,  except  across  the  isthmus! 
All  along  this  lovely  drive  the  waters 
of  Burrard  Inlet  play  in  full  view  on 
one  side,  while  on  the  other  the  ever- 
lasting trees  tower  in  solemn  vigil.  At 
the  extremity  of  a  pretty  promontory 
is  located  a  huge  boulder  known  as 
"Siwash  Rock."  Nearby  is  the  grave 
of  Pauline  Johnson,  the  Indian  writer, 
who  has  left  so  many  fascinating  tales 
of  her  tribes  people.  The  boulevard 
terminates  at  English  Bay  (vehicles 
are  allowed  to  go  in  one  direction  only) 
where  during  the  summer  months  are 
always  to  be  found  hundreds  of  bath- 
ers enjoying  the  water. 

Leaving  Vancouver,  the  boats  glide 
out  of  Burrard  Inlet  and  into  the 
straits  of  Georgia,  thence  southward 
across  the  Sound  and  through  the 
Plumper's  Pass,  a  veay  beautiful  place 
and  so  shallow  that  the  boats  travel  at 
half  speed  to  avoid  danger.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  way  to  Victoria  lies 
between  Vancouver  Island  and  the 
Islands  of  San  Juan,  which  together 
with  the  Queen  Charlotte  Islands  and 
those  of  Southeastern  Alaska  form  the 
Island  Mountain  Chain,  supposed  to 
have  been  submerged  in  past  ages. 

Steaming  into  Victoria's  inner  har- 
bor, we  are  greeted  with  a  view  of  the 
concrete  causeway  that  lines  the  har- 
bor, and  behind  it  the  magnificent  Em- 
press Hotel,  while  to  the  right  are  the 
parliamentary  buildings.  Everywhere 
aestheticism  reigns  supreme.  After 


landing  there  will  be  ample  time  to 
visit  the  parliamentary  buildings  and 
Beacon  Hill  Park  before  dinner  time. 
Parliament  is  not  in  session  during  the 
months  that  tourists  visit  Victoria,  but 
the  museum  located  in  the  east  wing 
should  not  be  overlooked.  Here  are 
to  be  found  specimens  of  all  our  North 
American  animals  in  fur,  from  the  tiny 
shrew  to  the  homely  old  moose.  Most 
interesting  is  the  exhibit  of  British 
Columbia  and  Alaska  Indian  curios : 
skulls  of  characteristic  tribesmen,  im- 
plements of  war  and  the  chase,  crude 
tools  of  stone  and  wood,  grease-bowls 
and  ladles  carved  from  the  horn  of 
mountain  sheep,  hideous  cannibal-bird 
masks  and  grave-robber's  masks,  head 
and  neck  rings  woven  from  cedar  bark, 
totem  poles,  and  many  other  such 
things  as  interesting  as  they  are  gro- 
tesque. 

From  the  parliamentary  building  a 
short  walk  brings  one  to  Beacon  Hill, 
on  the  crest  of  which  lies  beautiful 
Beacon  Hill  Park.  If  the  beholder  has 
seen  all  the  city  parks  in  the  world  he 
will  not  fail  to  be  charmed  with  this. 
Whether  that  charm  lies  in  grace  of 
the  weeping  willows  or  in  the  dignity 
of  the  swans  beneath  them,  or  in  the 
majesty  of  the  big  oaks  so  rarely  to  be 
found  in  the  west,  or  in  the  beauty  of 
that  rolling  sea  of  green  and  gold  to 
the  south — the  famous  Scotch-bloom 
of  Victoria — the  fact  remains  that  Bea- 
con Hill  Park  is  charming. 

A  feature  about  Victoria  that  soon 
elicits  the  stranger's  attention  is  the 
English  character  of  its  inhabitants. 
Here,  more  than  in  Vancouver,  and 
probably  more  than  in  any  other  town 
in  Canada,  the  citys  are  typical  Eng- 
lishmen. 

Vancouver  Island  is  all  delightfully 
beautiful,  but  not  more  so  than  the 
Olympic  peninsula:  no  one  can  ade- 
ouately  appreciate  the  Puget  Sound 
Country  until  he  has  seen  the  Olym- 
pics. And  seeing  them  means  to  jour- 
ney in  among  them,  to  feel  the  inspi- 
ration of  their  great  big  trees  and  the 
peace  of  their  sparkling  sapphire  lakes, 
to  climb  to  the  crest  of  their  highest 
ridges  and  to  wander  through  their 


."§ 


Returning  to  camp  afr 


184 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


deep  canyons,  lured  by  the  tinkle  of 
the  brook  and  the  roar  of  the  water- 
fall. For  the  man  who  loves  the  great 
big  out-of-doors,  who  thrills  to  hear 
the  reverberation  of  his  own  footsteps 
in  the  solitary  forest,  to  whom  the  mys- 
tic ruggedness  and  grandeur  of  the 
mountains  fires  the  passion  of  the  soul, 
to  the  man  who  is  weary  of  the  noise 
of  the  metropolis,  the  Olympics  have 
an  irresistible  call. 

The  best  way  to  see  the  Olympics  is 
from  Olympic  Hot  Springs  or  Sol  Due. 
To  the  latter  place  one  goes  via  Port 
Angeles,  thence  by  auto  stage  to  Lake 
Crescent,  across  that  radium  blue  rift 
by  lake  steamer,  and  the  remaining  dis- 
tance by  auto-stage  again.  Years  ago 
the  Indians  camped  at  these  springs, 
drinking  the  beautiful  water  and  pick- 
ing huckleberries.  And  now  where  the 
Redman  made  his  camp  the  white  man 
has  built  a  fine  hotel  and  sanitarium, 
and  adjacent  to  the  springs  are  bath 
houses  for  men  and  women;  the 
grounds  are  carpeted  with  grass  and 
adorned  with  flowers,  but  below  the 
River  Sol  Due  ripples  over  the  rocks 
just  as  it  did  when  the  Redman  forded 
its  depths  and  built  fires  along  its 
shores.  It  is  a  grand  thing  out  there 
to  get  up  in  the  morning  at  sunrise  and 
behold  the  massive  tree  studded  hills 
stretching  skyward  on  every  side.  We 
are  in  the  heart  of  the  Olympics! 

A  popular  hike  from  the  springs  is 
to  the  "Small"  Divide,  a  distance  of 
four  and  one-half  miles.  It's  uphill 
— almost  perpendicular  at  times — but 
you  will  forget  that  when  you  behold 
one  of  those  baby  lakes  just  visible 
through  the  boughs  of  the  trees,  and 
when  you  reach  the  top  you'll  not  re- 
gret the  hard  scramble.  Another  pop- 
ular trail  leads  up  Sol  Due  River  to 
Canyon  Creek,  thence  along  that  creek 
to  the  "Big"  Divide  from  where  one 


obtains  an  excellent  view  of  the  snow 
fields  of  Mt.  Olympics. 

But  the  sublimest  charm  of  the 
Olympics  lies  in  the  great,  pillar  like 
trees — the  Douglass  fir  that  dominates 
the  Puget  Sound  country.  What  about 
these  trees,  of  which  we  hear  so  much  ? 
To  we  who  see  only  their  beauty,  they 
'are  big  and  green,  and  full  of  inspira- 
tion, but  to  the  Puget  Sound  capitalist 
they  are  timber,  and  they  mean  mil- 
lions of  dollars.  How  many  city  peo- 
ple have  ever  seen  a  logging  camp? 
Probably  but  few.  Picture  a  miniature 
village  consisting  of  small  cabins  or 
"bunk  houses"  flocked  about  a  long 
structure  called  a  cook-house  and  set 
down  in  a  small  clearing  among  the 
timber,  and  you  have  some  conception 
of  a  logging  camp.  From  here  go 
forth  the  loggers  after  a  hurriedly 
swallowed  breakfast  or  dinner,  not 
drunken  nuisances  as  the  city  dweller 
sees  them,  but  men.  There  are  fallers, 
snipers,  choppers,  cross-cut  sawyers, 
donkey  tenders  and  what  not,  engaged 
in  cutting  down  the  big  trees  and  load- 
ing the  logs  on  to  the  logging  trains  to 
be  sent  to  the  saw.  And  one  need  not 
go  far  to  find  a  saw  mill  on  Puget 
Sound;  every  settlement  has  one  or 
more.  They  supply  the  pay-roll  of 
the  Northwest,  and  they  have  made 
the  towns. 

There  is  something  else  that  fasci- 
nates the  visitor  to  Puget  Sound;  it  is 
the  spirit  of  the  people — the  spirit  of 
the  North.  The  people  you  meet  walk 
with  a  quick  and  easy  step;  they  are 
teeming  with  life.  They  go  in  for 
the  big  things — win  big,  lose  big,  and 
always  with  a  courage  that  is  indomi- 
table. In  general  they  disdain  the 
petty  conventionalities.  Everywhere 
is  reflected  the  spirit  of  the  West,  com- 
bined with  the  spirit  of  the  North,  and 
it  spells  life  in  all  its  bigness. 


^MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIH 

Black    O pa  1       FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS 

The  Orchid  gem;  a  fairy  crown; 
Like  bits  of  stars  that  tumbled  down 
In  dusky  settings  blue  or  brown 

Long  ages  yore. 

The  virtues  of  all  gems  we  know, 
Whate'er  their  lustre,  hue  or  glow 
Australia's  own  black  opals  show,  = 

And  something  more. 

The  morning's  blush ;  the  golden  ray ;  = 

The  clouds  on  fire  at  close  of  day ; 

The  purpled  hills  where  wild  flowers  play  = 

That  Nature  bore ;  = 

The  rose  confessing  to  the  dew ; 
The  fickle  ocean's  changing  hue ; 
The  Southern  Cross  in  midnight  blue ; 

All  these  and  more.  = 

The  palette  where  Jehovah  laid 
His  every  color,  every  shade, 
To  paint  the  universe  he  made, 

Both  sea  and  shore.  • 

A  shattered  rainbow  in  a  shell,  =s 

Its  glories  hidden  where  it  fell ;  = 

The  gem  without  a  parallel — 

All  this  and  more.  = 

Mother  of  fire  that  never  burns ;  ^» 

Whichever  way  the  jewel  turns  t= 

Some  new  aurora  one  discerns 

Unseen  before. 

When  mother  earth  laid  bare  her  breast 
To  show  what  jewels  she  possessed,  5 

Black  opal  far  outshone  the  rest 

And  something  more. 

A  Cupid's  heart  on  fire  'twould  seem ; 

Or  speckled  trout  in  mountain  stream;  Es 

The  love  glow  in  a  maiden's  dream 

When  hearts  adore; 

As  sunbeams  through  rose  windows  fall 
In  halos  on  cathedral  wall — 
God's  benediction  to  us  all — 

One  blessing  more.  = 

Spirit  of  night,  the  soul  of  day ; 
Just  how  it  glows  no  one  can  say 
Save  that  it  be  some  heavenly  ray 

Sent  on  before 

Whose  jewelled  splendor  typifies 

The  glory  of  the  world  that  lies  = 

Beyond  the  Gates  of  Paradise 

Forever  more.  JE 


A    Landmark    of   San    Francisco's 

Bohemia 


By  Jean  White 


ONE    of    the    most    interesting 
places  in  the  San  Francisco  of 
"before   the   earthquake"   was 
Coppa's  Restaurant,  on  the  old 
Montgomery  Block,  midway  between 
the  Italian  and  the  Chinese  quarters. 

Often,  when  the  stores  and  offices 
were  closed,  at  night,  and  quiet 
reigned  where  the  busy  traffic  of  the 
city  had  held  sway  an  hour  before, 
there  could  be  seen  a  small  but  steady 
stream  of  people,  moving  toward  the 
lighted  window  of  the  small  room 
where  many  of  them  dined  every  night. 


Men  and  women,  they  sauntered  by, 
calling  out  greetings  to  each  other  as 
they  came,  for  they  were  the  writers 
and  artists  of  San  Francisco,  well 
known  to  each  other,  and  having  more 
of  the  gay  camaraderie  of  the  Paris 
Boulevards  than  of  the  staid  self-con- 
sciousness of  an  American  street. 

There  was  no  attempt  at  "dress" 
among  those  diners.  Each  one  wore 
what  happened  to  be  convenient.  The 
people  from  "The  Call,"  and  artists 
from  their  studios  on  Telegraph  Hill, 
and  writers  from  here,  there  and  every- 


LOOK    OUT     OLD    3T0H/CH /  HERE  JTHE  COMES  I 

I    t    • 


Panel  cartoon  on  the  wall  representing  Cop  pa  taking  a  shot  at  a  well  known 

local  "gastronomatician." 


Panel  cartoon  depicting  Coppa  welcoming  the  "bunch"  local  Bohemians. 
The  black  cat  ornamenting  the  frieze  represents    "Tombstone"    a    famous 
mascot  of  the  Press  Club,  a  decade  ago. 


where,  well  to  do  and  half -starved, 
they  all  mingled  without  thought  of 
what  they  might  be  wearing.  Xavier 
Martinez,  with  his  ever  red  tie,  and 
long  locks  of  straight  black  hair,  al- 
ways wore  a  velveteen  coat,  loose  in 
cut,  and  baggy  trousers  which  the  per- 
sistent San  Francisco  breeze  wrapped 
sportively  around  his  legs.  He  often 
arrived  before  any  one  else,  and  was 
usually  closely  followed  by  Jimmy 
Hopper,  who  had  not  then  begun  to 
get  five  cents  a  word  from  the  Satur- 
day Evening  Post,  ever  so  often. 

Then  there  would  be  Perry  New- 
berry,  in  his  jovial  smile;  of  course, 
otherwise  properly  clothed,  though  no 
one  was  ever  known  to  remember 
anything  but  the  before  mentioned  ha- 
biliment. Nothing  much  ever  hap- 
pened until  Perry  came,  with  his  little 
brown  wife,  well  known  and  beloved, 
both  as  Bertha  Brubaker  and  as 
Perry's  wife.  In  solemn  contrast  to 
that  Sunny  Jim  of  a  fellow  was  the 
tall  and  sedate  Maynard  Dixon,  slim 


and  artistic  in  figure  as  in  his  skillful 
hands,  which  can  do  cowboys  and  In- 
dians and  deserts  as  easily  as  they 
could  manipulate  the  slippery  spa- 
ghetti. Slightly  above  the  height  of 
the  rest  who  crowded  around  the  plain 
pine  tables,  Dixon's  genial  eye  was 
the  focus  toward  which  nearly  every- 
one turned,  and  his  was  the  tongue 
which  oftenest  started  the  talk,  when 
the  cups  of  black  coffee  came  around 
and  Coppa's  settled  down  comfortably 
in  his  chairs  for  a  confab  on  Art,  and 
other  things,  but  mostly  ART. 

Among  the  diners  there  would  fre- 
quently be  the  two  chums,  the  gentle- 
manly Porter  Garnet  and  philosophical 
Harry  Lafler,  sometimes  called  The 
Fra.  Harry  always  spoke  in  the  low 
and  convincing  tones  of  a  deep  thinker, 
and  was  accorded  due  consideration 
therefor,  though  he  modestly  dis- 
claimed any  special  merit  for  thinking 
the  only  really  great  thoughts  of  the 
century!  Despite  the  kindly  chaffing 
with  which  he  was  met,  there  was  an 


188 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


undercurrent  of  respect,  even  though 
he  had  not  then  become  one  of  "The 
Century's"  poets. 

At  a  table,  next  the  wall,  you  could 
see  the  California  poet,  George  Ster- 
ling, his  hat  ornamented  with  a  flower 
and  his  strikingly  Indian  profile  care- 
fully turned  toward  his  vis-a-vis.  The 
shadow  of  his  really  wonderfully 
carved  face  needed  just  the  white 
background  of  Coppa's  whitewashed 
wall,  and  Sterling  never  failed  to  get 
it. 

"Little  Billy"  Wright,  long  since 
lost  to  California  by  the  lure  of  New 
York,  would  be  found  at  ,a  table, 
flanked  by  several  bottles,  while  he 
listened,  open-mouthed,  to  "Jack" 
Wilson,  who  was  not  then  the  John 
Fleming  Wilson  who  seems  to  have  a 
story  in  every  magazine  you  buy,  but 
could  spin  sea  yarns  as  well  as  he  does 
now,  and  who  delighted  in  nothing  so 
much  as  in  holding  up  a  course  of 
Coppa's  dinner  by  one  of  his  hair 
raising  recitals. 

Men  and  women,  they  ate  and  drank 
and  talked,  secure  from  unfriendly 
eyes.  Every  one  around  them  was  of 
their  own  world,  and  no  one  looked 
surprised  if  a  gentleman  chose  to  make 
the  sketch  of  his  new  picture  on  the 
table  cloth,  or  wrote  a  poem  on  a 
clean,  starched  napkin.  Best  of  all, 
no  one  said  "How 'Bohemian!"  when 
somebody  pulled  out  a  palette  and 
brushes  and  proceeded  to  decorate  a 
bare  space  on  the  white  walls.  There 
were  no  craning  of  necks  when  a 
heated  discussion  arose  and  bits  of 
charcoal  were  brought  forth  from 
pockets,  and  demonstrations  of  the 
point  at  issue  were  made  on  the  menus. 

As  for  Joe  Coppa,  he  was  a  good 
business  man,  and  so  far  from  setting 
a  limit  on  what  a  good  housekeeper 
might  have  thought  destructiveness, 


he  encouraged  it  all.  Gradually,  in 
fact,  the  commercial  spirit  got  posses- 
sion of  Joe.  He  left  a  wide  space  on 
the  menus,  that  genius  might  not  be 
cramped,  and  proceeded  to  sell  the 
fruit  of  his  discretion  to  the  sight-seers 
to  whom  knowledge  of  the  place  had 
begun  to  filter  out. 

At  last  strangers  were  admitted  to 
the  front  part  of  the  restaurant,  where 
they  might  stare  their  fill  at  the  lions 
carefully  and  ostentatiously  secluded 
in  the  rear;  paying,  of  course,  for  the 
privilege  at  double  the  amount  of  Joe's 
usual  rates.  Custom  increased.  News- 
papers contained  repeated  references 
to  San  Francisco's  Bohemian  cafe. 
Tourists  asked  for  Coppa's  as  soon  as 
they  got  out  of  the  Ferry  Building, 
and  tablecloths  and  napkins,  adorned 
with  the  vagrant  fancies  of  San  Fran- 
cisco's talent  went  up  in  price. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
Art  and  Commerce  clashed,  as  usual, 
and  soon  Joe's  black  eyes  were  filled 
with  dolor,  for  the  crowd  which  had 
made  his  fame  forsook  the  place  where 
unpleasant  notoriety  subjected  them 
to  the  suspicion  of  playing  to  the  gal- 
lery if  they  dared  to  more  than  eat 
and  drink  in  silence. 

Then  came  the  earthquake,  and  after 
its  ashes  had  settled,  and  the  new  city 
arose  from  its  death  bed,  Coppa's  had 
vanished.  To  be  sure,  Joe  moved 
over  on  Pine  street,  and  has  been  quite 
successful,  but  now  the  people  that 
go  there  arrive  in  automobiles  and 
wear  jewelry  and  furs,  instead  of  flow- 
ing red  and  black  ties,  and  even  the 
knowledge  of  the  restaurant's  early 
history  is  forgotten. 

Meanwhile,  among  some  dusty  old 
negatives,  there  lay  the  only  repro- 
ductions ever  made  of  Coppa's  most 
famous  wall  decorations.  And  here 
they  are. 


A  Yellow  Angel 


By  Jesslyn  Howell  Hull 


THE  Chinaman  was  anything  but 
attractive,  yet  at  the  very  first 
sight  of  him  Cuddles  testified 
to  such  rapture  from  her  high 
chair  that  he  just  had  to  take  notice, 
and  one  glance  at  the  alluring  little 
thing  was  all  sufficient.  Her  bewitch- 
ing babyishness  crept  right  into  the 
heart  of  the  old  pagan  and  made  his 
dull  eyes  shine.  He  went  nearer, 
holding  out  a  hand.  Cuddles  twined 
all  her  waxen  finger  around  it  and  the 
conquest  of  China  was  complete. 

"Ah — nice  blaby — Wah  Shing  like 
blaby — nice  le'el  blaby." 

"Oo — Ah  See — goo — goo — Ah  See," 
cooed  the  child,  and  on  the  moment 
did. the  friendship  of  Wah  Shing  and 
Cuddles  begin. 

Wah  was  a  silent,  ugly  looking  old 
fellow,  who  preferred  living  alone  in 
a  clean  little  shack  on  the  city's  out- 
skirts, to  the  crowded  Chinese  quar- 
ters. Every  one  shunned  him,  even 
his  own  countrymen,  but  his  launder- 
ing was  so  perfect  and  his  charges  so 
reasonable  that  he  was  kept  uncom- 
monly busy  in  spite  of  a  repelling  per- 
sonality. 

But  outward  and  visible  signs  were 
as  nothing  to  Cuddles,  and  as  time 
passed  there  was  no  mistaking  her 
love  for  him — love  which  she  proved 
in  every  way  that  baby  wit  could  de- 
vise. Small  wonder  that  Wah  wor- 
shipped her  and  showed  his  adoration 
in  a  thousand  ways,  and  nothing  could 
exceed  the  loving  care  he  put  on  her 
tiny  garments. 

By  some  reasoning  of  her  baby 
brain,  she  seemed  to  know  when  to  ex- 
pect him,  so  twice  a  week,  the  little 
creature  watched  eagerly  from  win- 
dow or  yard  for  her  beloved  "Ah  See." 


When  he  turned  the  nearest  corner  al- 
most on  a  trot,  mutual  delight  was  so 
evident  that  Mrs.  Allen,  the  fastidious 
mother,  had  not  the  heart  to  deny 
them  their  play  times. 

The  baby's  favorite  game  with  Wah 
was  to  push  off  her  little  slippers  again 
and  again,  just  for  the  fun  of  having 
her  devoted  slave  put  them  on,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  most  gleeful 
chatter  and  laughter. 

Thus  it  went  on  through  the  spring 
and  most  of  the  hot,  record  breaking 
summer,  until  one  day  as  Wah  reached 
the  house  at  the 'usual  time  Cuddles 
was  not  visible.  He  went  around  to 
the  kitchen  door  and  knocked.  Pres- 
ently Mrs.  Allen  appeared,  wan  and 
tear-stained. 

"Where  blaby?"  Wah  timidly  asked. 

She  told  him  that  Cuddles  was  very 
ill — the  doctor  gave  them  little  hope. 
Dropping  wearily  into  a  chair  she 
sobbed : 

"Oh,  Wah,  I  can't  give  up  my  baby 
—I  can't." 

Wah's  face  took  on  a  yellower  hue — 
his  way  of  turning  pale.  He  looked 
around  at  the  neglected  kitchen,  then 
picking  up  his  bag  of  laundry,  said: 

"You  leave  allee  work  'lone.  I  come 
back  one  hour.  I  tend  things." 

He  returned  so  quietly  that  no  one 
heard  him.  With  deft  hands  he 
cleared  up,  and  when  later  Mrs.  Allen 
came  downstairs  to  commence  dinner, 
she  found  it  on  its  successful  way,  for 
it  takes  a  Chinaman  to  find  anything 
needed  without  inquiry  or  effort.  Her 
tired  eyes  showed  gratitude. 

"How  Cluddles?"  Wah  inquired. 

"No  better — yet,"  she  returned 
tremulously. 

"You  not  blother  'bout  anything — I 


190 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


'tend  ev'leething  to-night,"  he  com- 
manded gruffly. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  was 
again  at  his  post,  and  his  throat  rat- 
tled in  some  strange  manner  when  he 
was  told  that  the  baby  was  barely 
holding  her  own.  From  that  time  on 
he  quite  naturally  assumed  charge  of 
all  the  household  duties,  and  took 
turns  watching  by  the  child's  bed  while 
the  mother  snatched  needed  rest,  for 
the  father,  like  the  great  majority  of 
daily  breadwinners,  could  ill  afford  to 
stop  work  for  much  short  of  death  it- 
self. 

Now  and  then  the  baby  rallied  for  a 
few  moments,  and  seemed  to  recognize 
Wah  by  smiling  weakly  and  clinging 
to  his  hard,  old  finger,  while  his  eyes 
rained  scalding  tears  of  fear. 

Came  a  day  when  they  realized  for 
sure  that  Cuddles  would  soon  be  be- 
yond all  earthly  care.  Wah  was  hov- 
ering very  near  when  at  last  the  baby 
soul  passed  on,  and  the  young  parents 
— strangers  in  a  strange  city — turned 
unconsciously  to  him  for  comfort. 

He  worked  for  them  stoically — hid- 
ing his  own  grief  as  his  race  know  how 
— and  on  the  day  of  the  burial  he  was 
invaluable. 

The  white  hearse  with  its  small  bur- 
den, followed  by  a  couple  of  car- 
riages containing  the  parents  and  a 
few  sympathetic  neighbors,  wended 
its  slow  route  to  the  cemetery  not  so 
very  far  off.  No,  not  so  very  far,  but 
still  rather  a  long  way  for  a  tired-out, 
grief-stricken,  very  old  Chinaman  to 
trudge  alone,  always  keeping  a  respect- 
ful distance  behind  the  procession,  so 
that  no  one  noticed  him.  Neither  was 
he  observed  at  the  cemetery  where, 
with  face  buried  in  shaking  hands,  he 
knelt  out  of  sight,  but  near  enough  the 
tiny  grave  to  hear  the  loved,  little 
form  gently  lowered. 

No  one  paid  any  attention  to  him  as 
he  stumbled  back  under  the  burning 


sun — hurrying  now,  so  that  he  might 
be  home  first  to  help  baby's  father 
and  mother.  Again  he  served  them 
silently  and  well.  As  he  was  about 
to  leave,  Allen  said: 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you,  my  friend, 
'for  your  work — although  money  alone 
could  never  repay  you  for  your  kind- 
ness." 

"No  pay — all  for  Cluddles,"  he  an- 
swered with  quivering  lips. 

Allen  wrung  the  old  man's  hand  in 
heartfelt  gratitude. 

"But  if  we  could  only  show  you  how 
grateful  we  are,"  Mrs.  Allen  cried. 
"Is  there  something  we  can  do  to  make 
up  for  your  lost  time  with  your  laun- 
dry work?  You  know  how  we  feel — 
how  we  appreciate  your  goodness — 
don't  you,  Wah?  You  savvy?" 

"I  savvy,"  he  answered,  simply.  "No 
pay — all  for  Cluddles — but  I  like 
blaby  face — I  like  one  le'el  slippee — 
you  no  care?" 

Allen  looked  puzzled,  but  mother- 
love  understood  perfectly.  The  baby's 
mother  quickly  brought  him  the  last 
photograph  of  Cuddles,  and  one  of  her 
worn  little  slippers. 

"I  thankee.  Floor  father — ploor 
mother — poor  Wah  Shing — we  got  no 
blaby  now.  Wah  Shing  sollee — but 
Cluddles  all  right  now — Cluddles  no 
more  sick  now.  I  come  to-mollow,  get 
wash.  Good-bly,"  and  Wah  went  out 
into  the  night. 

The  morrow  did  not  bring  him,  so 
after  the  evening  meal  Allen  went  out 
to  his  shack.  Receiving  no  answer  to 
his  knock  he  pushed  open  the  unlocked 
door.  Wah  was  lying  on  a  cot  in  the 
bare,  clean  room  as  though  asleep,  but 
even  as  the  visitor  called  to  him,  he 
realized  that  nothing  more  could  bother 
the  old  Chinaman. 

Propped  up  on  a  chair  drawn  near 
the  bed  was  the  picture  of  Cuddles; 
tightly  clasped  in  a  withered  yellow 
claw  was  a  worn  little  slipper. 


'The  One  Who  Cared 


By  Helen  Christene  Hoerle 


TALL,  erect,  \her  filmy  yellow 
gown  shimmering  like  a  lone 
beam  in  the  dwindling  rays  of 
the  fast  vanishing  sun,  Eleanor 
Whitman  swung  down  Arbor  street  to- 
ward her  home  at  the  extreme  end  of 
town. 

As  she  neared  the  railroad  station, 
two  men  emerged,  the  taller  of  the  two 
carrying  a  grip  and  evidently  a 
stranger  in  town. 

"Good-evening,  Jack,"  Miss  Whit- 
man smiled  on  the  shorter  of  the  two, 
though  her  eyes  dwelt  for  an  almost 
imperceptible  second  on  the  tall,  dark 
man. 

Jack  Tyler  grinned  a  muffled  greet- 
ing, and  then  the  two  set  off  briskly 
toward  the  hotel. 

"Who's  the  girl?"  Bruce  Crompton 
asked  eagerly,  his  deep  set  gray  eyes 
following  the  supple  figure. 

Jack  Tyler  grinned.  "Eleanor  Whit- 
man, our  one  and  only  celebrity.  The 
writer,  you  know.  She's  a  peach,  too," 
he  continued,  enthusiastically,  as 
Crompton  endeavored  to  interrupt. 
"Dances  like  a  nymph,  full  of  fun,  al- 
ways in  good  humor — she'll  laugh  at 
her  own  funeral,  I  swear.  But  cold! 
Gee,  she's  as  icy  a  proposition  as  ever 
I  want  to  meet." 

"Cold!"  Crompton  tried  to  picture 
the  girl  in  yellow  as  cold. 

"Yes,  cold,"  Tyler  declared.  "Elea- 
nor Whitman  is  over  twenty-five.  Oh, 
she'll  tell  you  so  herself,  but  she  has 
always  acted  older.  She  is  all  sur- 
face— nothing  underneath.  She  sure 
can  write  love  stories,  but  when  it 
comes  to  loving,  the  North  Pole  is  a 
fiery  furnace  compared  to  Eleanor." 

Crompton  smiled.  He  didn't  dare 
suggest  to  his  friend  that  maybe  the 
right  man  had  never  come  into  Miss 


Whitman's  horizon.    But  cold ! 

In  the  brief  glance  which  had  been 
accorded  him  as  she  flashed  past,  he 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  animated  blue 
eyes  and  a  tremulously  smiling  mouth. 
Cold!  It  seemed  impossible.  Every 
bit  of  her  had  seemed  to  radiate  love, 
warmth.  Cold!  Crompton  laughed 
abruptly. 

"Laugh  if  you  will,"  young  Tyler 
growled  dismally;  "I  know.  I  tried 
my  luck  and  was  laughed  at  for  my 
pains.  I  bet  you  can't  find  a  fellow 
in  this  town  who  could  truthfully  say 
he  had  even  gotten  far  enough  to  hold 
Eleanor  Whitman's  hand.  You  might 
as  well  try  to  make  love  to  the  Sphinx 
as  Eleanor.  Last  week,  to  our  amaze- 
ment, she  announced  her  engagement 
to  an  Eastern  chap.  I  bet  he's  never 
kissed  her." 

"I  should  like  to  meet  the  lady,  if  I 
might,"  Crompton  said  slowly.  "En- 
gaged or  otherwise." 

"Holy  mackerel,"  his  friend  grinned 
in  keen  appreciation  of  the  joke.  "All 
right,  I'll  introduce  you  two  celebri- 
ties. Come  on;  if  we  hurry  we  can 
overtake  her.  All  we  fellows  call  oc- 
casionally and  take  Eleanor  out,  but 
as  for  getting  any  nearer  than  the 
friendship  stage,  good-night.  I'm 
keen  to  meet  the  man  who  has." 

Facing  about  they  set  out  at  a  brisk 
trot,  after  the  speck  of  yellow  in  the 
distance. 

"For  a  man  who  leaves  civilization 
to-morrow  for  three  years'  sojourn  in 
the  wilds  of  Africa,  you  seem  mightily 
interested  in  the  other  sex,"  Tyler 
grinned.  "And  an  engaged  girl  at 
that." 

Bruce  Crompton  smiled  rather  wist- 
fully. "A  man  who  may  be  going  to 
death  usually  does  queer  things.  Death 
3 


192 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


.is  a  horribly  grim  companion,  Jack. 
As  he  is  to  be  my  bed  fellow  for  the 
next  three  years,  I'd  like  to  forget  all 
about  it  for  to-night."  He  laughed. 
"I've  outwitted  the  old  fellow  many 
times,  and  I'll  beat  him  again  before 
I  am  snuffed  out.  But  it  isn't  exactly 
a  cheerful  subject  to  meditate  on.  I'm 
quite  harmless.  The  lady's  heart  is 
quite  safe  with  me." 

Young  Tyler  gazed  admiringly  at 
him.  "You  can  laugh  at  death.  Great 
Heaven!" 

The  speck  of  yellow  was  growing 
larger,  and  a  little  later  they  overtook 
Miss  Whitman  just  as  she  was  enter- 
ing her  own  gate. 

"Hello,  Eleanor;  I'd  like  you  to 
meet  my  chum,  Bruce  Crompton.  Miss 
Whitman,  Bruce."  Jack  mumbled 
rather  breathlessly.  It  had  taken  stiff 
walking  to  catch  Miss  Whitman. 

Miss  Whitman  smiled  and  offered  a 
cool,  capable  hand  to  the  explorer. 

"Won't  you  come  up  on  the  porch?" 
she  invited.  "It  is  so  horribly  warm." 

"We  can  only  stay  a  few  minutes," 
Tyler  apologized.  "I  promised  the 
boys  I'd  bring  Crompton  over  to  the 
club." 

"You  leave  for  Africa  to-morrow, 
don't  you,  Mr.  Crompton?"  Miss  Whit- 
man asked  as  she  sank  languidly  into 
one  of  the  big  chairs,  fanning  herself 
with  an  unopened  letter  she  carried : 

Crompton  flushed  a  ruddy  red.  His 
proposed  expedition  into  the  wilds  of 
Africa  had  received  almost  as  much 
space  in  the  newspapers  as  the  war. 

"You  bet,"  Tyler  answered  for  him. 
"When  I  heard  he  had  to  pass  through 
our  little  burg  I  wired  him  to  spend  a 
night  with  me " 

"With  the  result,"  Crompton  smiled 
ingenuously,  "that  I  came.  I  was  glad 
of  the  opportunity  of  seeing  Jack  be- 
fore I  sailed." 

Eleanor  smiled  back  rather  dizzily. 
That  Bruce  Crompton,  the  famous 
young  explorer  was  sitting  on  her  ve- 
randa seemed  almost  a  miracle.  And 
yet  he  was  there !  His  long  length  of 
muscular  manhood  sprawled  in  one  of 
her  prized  basket  chairs. 

When  he  smiled,  little  rivulets  of 


rippling  wrinkles  raced  out  from  the 
corners  of  his  level  gray  eyes,  and 
caused  one's  head  to  spin  with  much 
the  same  effect  as  rare  old  wine.  It 
was  that  smile  of  Bruce  Crompton's 
which  had  pulled  him  out  of  many  a 
difficulty  and  saved  his  neck  many 
times  in  dangerous  wilds.  If  the  sav- 
age was  susceptible  to  that  smile,  how 
could  Eleanor  Whitman  withstand  it? 

"How  would  you  like  to  be  caged  up 
here  in  our  little  town  ?"  Eleanor  asked 
— feeling  that  the  question  was  hor- 
ribly inane. 

"So  much  that,  if  the  ship  would 
wait  for  me,  I  should  surely  remain 
longer,"  the  explorer  returned  gal- 
lantly, his  eyes  saying  even  more  than 
his  lips.  He  was  quickly  forgetting 
that  she  was  engaged. 

"Another  six  months  in  civilization, 
and  you  would  be  a  society  bud, 
Bruce,"  young  Tyler  chided.  "Don't 
you  mind  him,  Eleanor.  He's  practic- 
ing flattery  on  you  so  he  can  cajole  the 
black  ladies  of  Africa.  I'm  sorry, 
Bruce,  but  I  guess  we  will  have  to 
mosey  along." 

"So  soon,"  Crompton  objected.  "If 
Miss  Whitman  will  allow  me,  I  should 
like  to  stay  a  little  longer  and  chat. 
I'll  come  over  later." 

Jack  Tyler  grinned  understandingly 
as  Eleanor  beamed  her  delight.  Then 
he  hurried  away,  disconsolately,  with- 
out the  prize  he  had  hoped  to  exhibit 
at  the  club.  Ten  minutes  later  he  was 
deep  in  a  game  of  poker,  and  Cromp- 
ton was,  for  the  time,  forgotten. 

The  twilight  deepened.  The  moon 
crept  up  over  the  fringe  of  trees  and 
washed  the  little  cottage  in  its  silver 
rays.  Sitting  in  the  shadows,  her  face 
a  mere  white  blot  among  the  dusty 
shadows,  Eleanor  Whitman  spoke 
dreamily : 

"Three  whole  years  spent  in  search 
of  a  mere  mirage,  a  dream,  an  uncer- 
tainty. How  can  you  do  it?" 

The  explorer  shrugged  his  big 
shoulders  expressively.  "To  find  some- 
thing that  no  one  else  could  or  would 
attempt;  to  do  something  that  people 
believe  impossible;  to  attain  the  seem- 
ingly unattainable:  that  has  always 


"THE  ONE  WHO  CARED." 


193 


been  my  objective  point." 

Miss  Whitman  shuddered.  "But 
suppose — just  suppose — you  never 
come  back?" 

Crcmpton  laughed.  "I  lose  my  life 
and  the  company  their  money.  It  is  a 
gamble." 

"And  if  you  win?"  Miss  Whitman 
asked  quickly. 

"Another  of  God's  treasure  houses 
will  be  open  to  man." 

"Gold,  always  gold,"  Eleanor  Whit- 
man panted;  "it  is  a  curse." 

"Gold,  it  is  a  blessing,"  Crompton 
corrected,  softly.  "If  I  find  the  'Mir- 
age/ it  will  mean  wealth  for  hundreds 
of  people  and  employment  for  thou- 
sands." 

"And  for  you?"  Eleanor  leaned 
forward  eagerly. 

Crompton  sighed.  "The  accom- 
plishment of  my  goal." 

Silence  fell.  A  far-off  frog  croaked 
dismally.  The  moon  floated  across 
the  deep  blue  velvet  of  the  summer 
sky  and  the  stars  hovered  near  like  at- 
tendants on  their  queen. 

"The  sky  out  there  is  so  different 
from  here,  I  wish  you  could  see  it," 
the  explorer  drawled.  "I  often  wish 
I  could  write  about  it,  but  I  can't.  You 
seem  so  much  nearer  to  your  Maker  in 
that  hell  infected  wilderness.  The  in- 
finite is  far  greater  and  we  humans 
seem  so  puny." 

The  girl  yielded  to  this  new  mood. 
"Yes?"  she  urged. 

"It  is  a  battle  every  minute  of  the 
day  and  night;  at  every  step  there  is 
untold  new  dangers.  It's  fight,  fight, 
fight;  every  fibre  of  your  being  is 
fighting  against  overwhelming  odds." 

"And  when  you  win?"  Miss  Whit- 
man's eyes  were  glistening. 

"You  want  to  begin  all  over  again, 
and  fight  your  way  to  something 
new."  The  explorer  smiled  at  her 
incredulity. 

Surprised  at  his  own  vehement  elo- 
quence, Crompton  became  silent.  He 
had  never  spoken  like  that  in  his  life 
before. 

"But  the  ones  you  leave  behind: 
what  of  them?"  Eleanor's  voice  was 
trembling. 


Bruce  Crompton  stared.  Jack  Tyler 
had  said  she  was  cold,  cold — yet  the 
warmth  and  strength  of  her  magnet- 
ism overwhelmed  him,  and  dwarfed 
his  own  personality  into  nothingness. 

In  a  minute  the  desire  to  conquer 
the  terrors  of  unknown  jungles  quickly 
paled.  What  did  it  all  bring  him  but 
the  feeble  applause  of  a  people  and 
the  shallow  fame  that,  like  a  bird,  flits 
all  too  quickly  out  of  sight. 

"There  is  no  one  to  care,"  Crompton 
excused  himself.  "I  have  never  made 
friends  easily.  All  my  people  are 
dead.  Jack  is  my  only  friend.  If  any- 
thing should  happen  he  would  be  sorry 
for  a  few  days  and  then  he,  too,  would 
forget.  It  is  his  nature.  There  is  no 
one  to  care,"  he  repeated  sadly. 

"I  care!"  Miss  Whitman  cried,  her 
breast  heaving  stormily.  "I  care.  To 
think  of  a  man  sacrificing  his  youth, 
maybe  his  life,  so  that  other  men  may 
be  rich.  It's  horrible." 

Crompton  assayed  to  speak,  but  his 
tongue  refused  to  move.  Jack  Tyler 
had  said  she  was  cold.  Cold!  Every 
particle  of  her  body  was  made  to  love 
and  to  be  loved.  Bruce  Crompton  en- 
vied the  Eastern  man. 

Suddenly  Miss  Whitman  laughed, 
weakly.  "Excuse  me  for  making  a 
fool  of  myself.  But  it  does  seem  so — 
so  cold  blooded  to  walk  out  and  invite 
death.  I  can't  quite  resign  myself  to 
the  thought." 

Jack  Tyler  had  said  this  girl  would 
laugh  at  her  own  funeral,  yet  she  cried 
at  the  mere  thought  of  another's  death. 
How  little  they  knew  her,  Crompton 
decided.  All  on  the  surface !  She  was 
all  to  the  good,  underneath.  Lucky 
was  the  man  who  had  won  her. 

Time,  Jack  Tyler  and  the  club 
were  all  forgotten  until  the  far-off 
town  clock  clanged  eleven  short,  de- 
cisive strokes.  Crompton  sprang  up, 
quickly. 

"Eleven  o'clock.  Great  Heavens! 
What  must  you  think  of  me?  I  have 
to  find  Jack.  Good-night  and  good- 
bye, Miss  Whitman.  I  shall  never 
forget  this  night." 

Eleanor  Whitman's  lip  was  trem- 
bling as  she  placed  her  hand  in  his. 


194 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


"I'll  walk  to  the  gate,"     she     volun- 
teered. 

Down  the  narrow  path,  winding 
like  a  strip  of  silver  through  a  lawn  of 
emerald  grass,  they  strolled. 

"Sometimes  you'll  think  of  me," 
Crompton  pleaded  lingeringly. 

"I'll  pray,"  Miss  Whitman  choked. 

"I  can't  say  I'll  even  write  if  you 
will  let  me,"  Crompton  smiled  a  twist- 
ed smile.  "The  postman  in  the  jungle 
doesn't  deliver  your  mail  while  you 
are  enjoying  your  morning  coffee  and 
rolls.  But  may  I  send  you  a  line  when 
I  can?" 

She  nodded  dumbly,  too  overcome 
to  speak.  The  diamond  on  her  finger 
blazed  angrily  in  the  moonlight,  send- 
ing out  little  sparks  of  warning.  It 
was  the  token  of  her  given  promise. 
At  the  gate  they  paused,  the  man's 
eyes  devouring  every  outline  of  the 
girl's  white  face.  He  was  going  away. 
Bruce  Crompton  knew  better  than  any- 
one else  the  slight  chance  he  had  of 
ever  returning.  He  didn't  intend  to 
be  dishonorable  to  the  other  man  who 
would  have  her  always,  while  he  had 
only  this  minute. 

"Good-bye,  Nell,  dear,"  he  whis- 
pered, and  stooping  suddenly  from  his 
great  height,  he  swept  the  yellow-clad 
form  into  his  strong  arms  and  pressed 
a  passionate  kiss  on  her  pale  lips. 

He  was  gone  before  Eleanor  Whit- 
man had  recovered  her  usual  calm. 
Her  eyes  rested  for  a  second  on  the 
blazing  white  diamond  and  then  with 
a  little  pitifully  twisted  smile  on  the 
corners  of  her  trembling  mouth,  she 
turned  and  slowly  retraced  her  steps 
toward  the  house. 

*  *  *  * 

It  was  a  balmy  evening  in  early 
June.  A  man  stood  on  the  deck  of  an 
incoming  vessel,  which  steamed 
through  the  Golden  Gate  into  San 
Francisco  harbor.  A  tall  man  he  was, 
with  hair  gray  at  either  temple;  yet 
the  sun-blacked  face  was  youthful. 
His  gray  eyes,  full  of  questioning  and 
mystery,  were  turned  wistfully  on  the 
city. 

"It's  nearly  four  years  since  I've 
been  in  the  States,"  he  apologized  to 


the  newspaper  men  who  surrounded 
him.  "Four  years  is  a  long  time  to  be 
away  from  home." 

"We  thought  you  had  surely  cashed 
in  this  time,"  an  older  man  remarked. 

Crompton  laughed  good-naturedly. 
"It  will  take  more  than  a  knock  on  the 
head  and  a  case  of  jungle-fever  to  put 
me  under  the  grass.  My  boys  would 
not  have  dared  deserted  if  they 
thought  I  had  a  chance  to  pull  through ; 
but  they  thought  it  was  the  last  call 
for  me."  His  jaw  tightened  grimly. 

"We  published  some  beautiful  obit- 
uaries about  you,"  a  young  reporter 
volunteered,  grinning.  "And  there 
were  Sunday  feature  stories  galore." 

Again  Crompton  laughed.  "Well, 
here  I  am.  I  don't  look  very  dead,  do 
I  ?  The  only  thing  the  knock  out  blow 
did  that  I  can't  quite  forgive  is  that  it 
took  away  my  memory.  I'm  afraid  it's 
not  quite  clear  yet,"  he  smiled  wear- 
ily, "Come  up  to  the  hotel  in  the 
morning,  and  I'll  tell  you  some  things 
about  the  finding  of  the  old  'Mirage' 
that  will  make  Kipling's  stuff  look  like 
the  Dotty  Dimple  series  in  compari- 
son." 

Laughing  lightly,  just  from  sheer 
pleasure  of  nearing  home  he  dis- 
missed the  men.  So  they  had  thought 
him  dead.  No  wonder.  For  over  a 
year  he  had  been  unable  to  contradict 
the  boy's  reports  of  his  sickness  and 
supposed  consequent  death.  Crompton 
chuckled.  In  fact  not  until  the  re- 
porters had  boarded  the  steamer  and 
spoken  with  him,  had  his  escape  been 
considered  little  more  than  a  mere 
rumor.  Crompton's  eyes  twinkled.  It 
isn't  often  a  man  is  permitted  to  read 
his  own  obituary  notices  in  this  world. 

As  long  as  there  wasn't  any  one  who 
cared  specially  whether  he  lived  or 
died  it  didn't  matter.  Then  he 
frowned.  His  mind  wasn't  quite  lucid 
on  that  point.  It  seemed  as  if  there 
were  some  one  person  who  really 
cared  whether  he  lived  or  died.  He 
wasn't  quite  sure.  That  part  was  ob- 
literated. 

Crompton  stolled  along  the  pier,  a 
porter  at  his  heels  with  his  luggage. 
Taxi  drivers  called  to  him,  but  he 


"THE  ONE  WHO  CARED." 


195 


waved  them  all  away.  He  wanted  to 
walk,  to  shout  with  the  realization  that 
he  was  home  at  last.  He  was  back  in 
civilization,  everything  around  him 
testified  to  that  fact. 

An  unsightly  sign  board  on  one  side 
of  the  pier  proclaimed  in  viciously 
brilliant  reds,  blues  and  greens  that 
"The  Only  Boy"  was  the  best  musical 
comedy  in  town.  The  explorer  held 
his  breath  in  sheer  delight  at  this  all 
too  evident  mark  of  civilization.  No 
matter  how  bad  or  good  the  thing 
might  be  he  would  surely  go  that  very 
night. 

On  top  of  a  building  opposite,  a  bill 
board  caught  and  held  his  wandering 
eyes :  "The  greatest  Novel  of  the  Year. 
'The  Happiest  Girl,"  by  Eleanor  Whit- 
man." 

Crompton  stood  like  a  man  turned 
to  stone  as  something  snapped  in  his 
brain.  Eleanor  Whitman!  He  re- 
membered! She  had  cried  when  he 
went  away.  She  had  cared  whether  he 
returned  or  not.  He  must  let  her  know 
of  his  safety. 

His  brow  wrinkled  thoughtfully. 
There  seemed  to  have  been  a  barrier 
between  them.  He  couldn't  remember 
that.  Calling  a  taxi,  much  to  the  re- 
lief of  the  perspiring,  puffing  porter, 
who  had  had  difficulty  in  keeping  up 
with  the  long  strides  of  the  explorer, 
Crompton  was  whirled  away  to  his 
hotel.  On  the  way  he  stopped  at  a 
book  store  and  purchased  Miss  Whit- 
man's latest  novel. 

Eleanor  Whitman!  He  could  feel 
her  soft,  pliant  body  pressed  to  his, 
and  the  fervent  warmth  of  her  cling- 
ing lips.  For  just  one  second  they 
had  stood  thus.  But  Crompton  felt 
assured  that  no  woman  could  kiss  as 
she  had  unless  she  loved  the  man. 

Suddenly  he  seemed  to  see  the  cold, 
white  diamond  smouldering  on  her 


hand.  That  was  it.  She  had  been  en- 
gaged to  another  man.  Crompton 
smiled  sadly  in  self-pity.  And  he 
loved  her! 

For  hours,  Bruce  Crompton  either 
paced  from  one  room  of  his  suite  to 
the  other,  or  sat  in  a  moody  lethargy 
at  the  window,  watching  with  unsee- 
ing eyes  the  street  below. 

Her  kiss  still  lingered  on  his  lips. 
It  was  four  years.  Heaven,  how  he 
loved  her.  And  she  had,  like  all  the 
others,  thought  him  dead.  Had  she 
cared? 

Finally,  not  able  to  stand  the  uncer- 
tainty any  longer,  Crompton  rushed 
downstairs,  disdaining  the  elevator, 
like  a  man  chased  by  members  of  the 
regions  below.  He  would  telegraph. 
What  could  he  say?  How  could  he 
ask  her  if  she  were  married?  But  he 
must  know. 

At  last  he  sent  a  telegram,  concocted 
to  his  satisfaction.  Was  she  married  ? 
Crompton  tried  to  assure  himself  that 
she  was,  and  kill  the  aching  void  in 
his  heart  at  the  thought.  If  she  were 
he  almost  regretted  that  the  fateful 
tree  that  had  taken  away  his  memory 
for  nearly  three  years  hadn't  killed 
him  on  the  spot. 

In  his  rooms  again  he  waited  in  aw- 
ful anguish,  trying  vainly  to  concen- 
trate his  mind  on  Miss  Whitman's 
novel.  But  her  pleading  face  would 
dance  over  the  printed  words  and  the 
cold  fury  of  that  diamond  would  flash 
before  his  eyes. 

It  was  hours  later  when  the  longed- 
for  yet  feared  reply  was  handed  to 
him.  Before  it  was  given  to  him  he 
knew  whom  it  was  from,  and  fresh 
doubts  assailed  his  mind.  With  anx- 
iously beating  heart,  tremblingly  his 
lean  brown  fingers  slit  the  flap.  The 
yellow  slip  contained  the  single  word 
"Come." 


East  Is  East 


By  Aary  Carolyn  Davies 


BUT  why  won't  you  marry  me?" 
asked  the  young  man,  as  he  had 
asked  in  the  Ferry  Building,  at 
the  Cliff  House,  on  each  of  the 
rustic  bridges  of  the  Berkeley  campus, 
and  under  most  of  the  pepper  trees 
and  palms  of  the  adjacent  towns  and 
villages  during  the  latter  part  of  the 
four  months'  vacation  he  had  been 
spending  in  the  West. 

The  girl  looked  round  apprehen- 
sively, but  no  one  was  in  sight  on  the 
little  promontory  except  the  granite 
Junipero  Serra  standing  beside  the 
granite  prow  of  his  boat  and  looking 
steadfastly  out  upon  the  Pacific. 

"Sh-h.  Don't  let's  talk  about  it, 
Richard,"  she  said.  "Let's  look  at  the 
ocean;  isn't  it  dim  and  gray  and  hazy 
this  afternoon?  See  the  sails  of  the 
little  fishing  boats  out  on  the  horizon 
with  the  sun  in  the  midst  of  them — 
they're  like  white  moths  flying  around 
a  candle  flame." 

Richard's  dubious  face  lightened. 
"Speaking  of  moths  and  candle- 
flames "  he  began  briskly. 

"Um — they  look  like  a  paper  chase 
trail  in  the  mind,"  she  amended. 

Before  he  could  answer  a  bugle  rang 
out  from  somewhere  behind  them. 

"That's  up  at  the  Presidio,"  she  an- 
nounced nonchalantly. 

"The  Presidio  ?  Oh,  yes,  there  used 
to  be  a  fort  here,  didn't  there?  Tell 
me  more  about  Monterey,  Monica.  You 
won't  let  me  talk  about " 

"I  will,"  she  promised  hastily,  "but 
just  because  I  used  to  live  in  Monterey 
when  I  was  a  little  girl  I  don't  want  to 
bore  you.  I've  heard  so  many  East- 
erners talk  about  the  way  we  Califor- 
nians,  native  born  and  self-made, 
boast  about  our  State  and  show  off  the 
Missions  and  the  big  trees,  as  if  we 


had  made  them,  that  I  utterly  refuse 
to  tell  you  a  single  Spanish  legend 
about  Monterey,  unless  you  actually 
beg  me  to.  Do  you  like  it  here,  Rich- 
ard?" 

"It's  great,"  answered  Richard,  with 
patronizing  enthusiasm,  leaning  com- 
fortably against  the  old  priest's  gran- 
ite pedestal.  "A  lot  of  old  landmarks 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  you 
ought  to  see  some  of  the  old  land- 
marks we  have  around  New  York — 
the  tree  where  Henrik  Hudson  landed, 
the  old  Plymouth  church,  and " 

"I  know  it  must  be  very  interest- 
ing," answered  Monica. 

"Interesting!"  Richard  was  mount- 
ed on  his  hobby  now  and  like  Pegasus 
it  seemed  to  soar.  "Why,  New  York 
is  full  of  interesting  spots;  there's  no 
place,  after  all,  like  little  old  New 
York!  Of  course,  this  is  all  fine,"  with 
a  patronizing  sweep  of  his  hand  he 
included  the  Pacific  Ocean,  with  the 
little  Spanish  town,  "but  you  ought  to 
see  New  York." 

Monica  rose.  "Shall  we  go  now 
and  stroll  down  into  the  town,"  she 
asked.  "This  is  more  fun  than  play- 
ing golf  with  the  rest  over  at  Del 
Monte,  isn't  it?  I'm  glad  we  escaped 
for  the  afternoon,  aren't  you?" 

"I  couldn't  have  stayed  there  with 
the  rest  of  them,"  burst  out  Richard, 
as  they  walked  down  the  sunny  hill. 
"I  wanted  tc  see  you  by  yourself,  Mon- 
ica ;  I  wanted  to  make  you  tell  me  once 
for  all " 

"Let's  talk  about  something  else, 
Richard."  interrupted  Monica,  desper- 
ately. "Shall  we  go  down  and  see  the 
mission?" 

"I  suppose  we  might  as  well,"  an- 
swered Richard.  "I've  seen  most  of 
the  rest  of  them,  and  since  we're  so 


EAST  IS  EAST. 


197 


near — how  dusty  these  roads  are!" 

Scarcely  were  the  words  out  of  his 
mouth  when  Richard  tripped  upon  a 
loose  board  in  the  little  walk.  "And 
the  way  these  sidewalks  are  kept  up, 
or  not  kept  up,  rather,  is  a  disgrace  to 
any  town.  Why,  in  New  York " 

"I  know,"  interrupted  Monica,  gen- 
tly, "I'm  afraid  the  Spanish  spirit  of 
manana  haunts  us  still." 

The  little  mission  stood  before  them. 
They  opened  the  gate  and  walked 
slowly  up  the  old  path. 

"It  does  give  you  a  sort  of  feeling 
of  awe,"  admitted  Richard,  "but  you 
know  the  first  time  I  went  into  Trinity 
Churchyard  I  nearly  cried.  There's 
something  about  that  churchyard  that 
catches  your  breath  and  grips  you  by 
the  throat — it's  the  very  pathos  and 
dignity  of  it." 

They  were  at  the  door  now.  They 
left  the  happy,  everyday  feeling  of  the 
sunshine  for  the  dim  gloom  of  the  dead 
years  within  the  little  church.  In  the 
pews  several  Mexican  women  were 
kneeling  stilly,  and  the  spell  of  all 
the  tears  and  prayers  of  the  genera- 
tion seemed  to  fall  upon  the  spirits 
of  the  gazers. 

"Dear  little  church,"  murmured 
Monica,  softly,  as  she  touched  her 
hand  to  the  door  and  passed  out  into 
the  sunlight  again.  "I  love  it;  I  used 
often  to  come  here  to  church  when  I 
was  a  little  girl,  and  just  to  hear  its 
mission  bell  pealing  out  again  brings 
it  all  back." 

"Yes,  it's  an  interesting  church," 
answered  Richard,  glancing  back  from 
the  gate,  "but  you  ought  to  see  St. 
Patrick's  Cathedral  up  on  Fifth  ave- 
nue. It's  a  magnificent  structure.  Why, 
it  cost " 

Monica's  store  of  facts  and  figures 
was  mounting  rapidly.  The  two 
strolled  slowly  up  the  lazy  street  past 
the  curious-eyed,  swarthy  Mexican 
children,  chattering  tourists  and  the 
contented  home  folks  of  the  town.  The 
sun  came  slanting  down  upon  the  red 
tiles,  searching  them  out  as  if  they 
were  rubies  in  the  hilt  of  a  sword,  and 
bringing  out  all  their  radiance  of  color. 
It  glared  down  upon  the  white  adobe 


walls  and  made  them  as  dazzling  white 
as  glaciers. 

Little  'dobe  huts  stood  on  both  sides 
of  the  street.  Low  and  squalid  and 
unkept,  they  looked  wistfully  at  the 
passers-by  as  if  to  ask  permission  to 
tell  their  stories.  The  wind  and  wea- 
ther had  bullied  the  little  huts  and 
made  them  give  up  their  beauty,  but 
they  had  clung  stubbornly  to  their 
memories. 

The  white  adobe  walls  had  been 
discolored  by  many  years  of  rain  and 
sun  and  wind,  and  the  'dobe  had 
cracked  off  and  exposed  the  under  lay- 
ers in  many  places,  but  even  the  poor- 
est 'dobe  hut  had  a  dignity  that  could 
not  be  ignored. 

"You  must  tell  me  something  about 
these  old  places,  Monica,"  said  Rich- 
ard. "I  know  they  must  have  stories." 

''If  you  insist,"  Monica  replied. 
"This  is  the  Stevenson  house,''  and 
she  pointed  to  a  two-story,  rambling, 
wooden-looking  structure.  "It's  used 
as  a  second-rate  rooming  house  now, 
but  it  is  one  of  the  show  places  of  Mon- 
terey, because  it  is  the  house  where 
Stevenson  lived  and  wrote  when  he 
was  here." 

They  went  farther  up  the  sunny,  de- 
serted street. 

"This  is  the  house  of  the  four 
winds,"  continued  Monica,  as  they 
passed  a  low,  square,  box-like  'dobe 
house,  more  dilapidated  than  most  of 
the  others.  "I'll  tell  you  all  the  story 
of  it  some  day." 

"Very  interesting,'"  asnwered  Rich- 
ard. "I  wish  you  could  see  Poe's  cot- 
tage; we  have  it  kept  in  perfect  pre- 
servation. Of  course  the  West  has 
had  so  few  writers  that  they  would 
want  to  keep  landmarks  like  the  Stev- 
enson house." 

"Yes,"  assented  Monica,  "and  this  is 
the  Sherman  rose,"  she  added,  point- 
ing across  the  street  to  where  over  a 
little,  low  old  house  and  a  broken- 
down  fence  scrambled  a  perfect  mass 
of  rose  bushes  covered  with  bloom. 

"How  lovely!"  exclaimed  Richard, 
involuntarily.  "The  Sherman  rose? 
What  is  the  Sherman  rose?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know  whether  it  is 


198 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


true  or  not,"  answered  Monica,  "but 
according  to  the  legend,  the  old,  old 
woman  who  still  lives  in  this  house 
was  Sherman's  sweetheart,  and  when 
he  was  quartered  in  Monterey  once 
with  his  troops  he  and  she  together 
planted  this  rose  bush." 

.  "Rose  bush!"  echoed  Richard;  "but 
there  are  dozens  of  rose  bushes  in  that 
yard." 

"No;  that  all  belongs  to  the  one 
original  rose  bush,"  she  answered; 
"all  those  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
blooms.  You  see,  it's  so  old  now;  it 
started  so  many  years  ago.  And  he 
told  her  that  when  their  rose  bloomed 
he  would  come  back  to  her." 

"And  he  never  came  back?"  asked 
Richard,  lowering  his  voice  in  uncon- 
scious tribute  to  the  story  and  to  the 
pathetic  little  heroine  of  it  behind  the 
drawn  blinds. 

"And  he  never  came  back,"  an- 
swered Monica. 

She  turned  then  and  led  him  back 
the  way  they  had  come.  "We  can  go 
to  a  dirty,  tumble-down  little  hut  with 
a  floor  of  earth,"  she  said,  "that  was 
the  first  opera  house  in  California. 
Jenny  Lind  sang  there.  But  we  won't 
if  you  are  afraid  of  getting  cobwebby 
and  dirty." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  he  answered,  and 
in  a  few  moments  they  stood  in  the 
dim  little  hut. 

"So  Jenny  Lind  sang  here,"  he  said, 
reaching  up  to  touch  the  ceiling. 
"Think  of  the  magnificence  of  the  op- 
era season  in  New  York  every  win- 
ter." 

"Shall  we  go  down  to  the  beach?" 
suggested  Monica. 

"Let's,"  agreed  her  companion,  and 
they  strolled  across  the  sand  to  a 
shady  place,  where  they  could  watch 
the  bathers. 

Monica  looked  out  dreamily  to  the 
horizon. 

"It's  a  pretty  little  beach,"  said 
Richard.  "Very  pretty,  but  you  ought 
to  see  the  Long  Island  Beaches  when 
the  season  is  on:  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  people,  and — think  of  Coney 
Island,  now,"  he  chuckled;  "what  a 
contrast,  if  you  sould  set  it  down  op- 


posite the  Monterey  beach  here.  Why 
— these  people  never  saw  such  a  crowd 
in  their  lives  as  they'd  see  then,  I 
suppose." 

"No,"  answered  Monica,  "I  suppose 
not."  She  dug  her  two  white  hands 
deep  into  the  wet  sand  and  wiggled 
them  through  to  the  top  again. 

"Monica,  began  Richard,  firmly, 
"you  can't  say  'Let's  talk  about  some- 
thing else'  now,  because  we've  talked 
about  everything  else.  And  you've  got 
to  let  me  ask  what  I  came  here  for. 
Why  won't  you  promise  to  marry  me  ? 
Ever  since  I  came  West,  four  months 
ago,  as  you  know,  I've  been  in  love 
with  you." 

"Yes,"  answered  Monica,  demurely, 
"you've  mentioned  it.' 

"I've  mentioned  it  every  chance  I 
got,"  returned  Richard,  indignantly. 
"I've  mentioned  it  and  dilated  upon  it 
and  bored  you  to  death  about  it,  and 
I  mean  to  keep  right  on  doing  so,  and 
I  want  to  know  why  you  keep  saying 
'No.'  I  don't  think  it's  because  you 
don't  like  me." 

"Dont  you?"  asked  Monica. 

"Do  you?"  countered  Richard. 

Monica  painstakingly  examined  all 
the  white  fishing  boats  within  the  curve 
of  the  bay,  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  beach  with  the  intention,  as  it 
seemed  to  Richard,  of  counting  each 
grain  of  sand  before  she  answered  his 
question. 

"Do  you?"  he  insisted. 

Monica  bent  over  to  tie  her  shoe. 

"I  like  you,"  she  admitted,  "but 
there  is  an  obstacle." 

"An  obstacle?"  Richard  squared  his 
shoulders.  "Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"It's  nothing  that  you  can  help, 
Richard/'  she  looked  at  him  sadly;  "it 
is  a  fault  that  you  have.  Oh,  it  isn't 
a  fault,"  she  amended  hastily;  "some 
people  wouldn't  mind  it  at  all,  but  as 
for  me,  I  know  it  would  make  my  life 
miserable." 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Richard. 
"Tell  me  immediately." 

"I  don't  like  to  tell  you,"  faltered 
Monica. 

"I  insist." 

"It  wouldn't  do  any  good,"  she  pro- 


EAST  IS  EAST. 


199 


tested,  "You  couldn't  get  over  it  if 
you  tried,  I  know." 

"What  is  this  thing  that  would  make 
your  life  miserable?"  Richard  seized 
her  firmly  by  the  shoulders  as  if  to 
shake  a  reply  out  of  her.  "Why  don't 
you  want  to  marry  me?" 

Monica  looked  at  him  helplessly, 
then  her  gaze  wandered  to  sea  and 
sky  again.  "It's  only — it's  only,"  she 
said,  "that  I  don't  want  to  spend  the 
rest  of  my  life  hearing  what  people  do 
in  New  York." 

"What!"  demanded  Richard,  with 
a  bewildered  look  in  his  face.  "I  do 
not  know  what  you  mean,  Monica." 

"Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  hadn't  told  you," 
gasped  Monica,  "because  I  know  you 
couldn't  stop  it  if  you  tried." 

"I  wish  you  had  told  me,"  he  re- 
turned. "I  don't  know  yet  what  you 
are  talking  about." 

"You  know  what  Kipling  said  about 
east  being  east?"  elucidated  Monica. 
"Well,  it  is;  I  didn't  know  it  before, 
but  I've  learned  it  this  summer.  Kip- 
ling was  right." 

"East  is  east?"  repeated  Richard,  in 
puzzlement. 

"East  is  east,"  repeated  Monica 
again,  firmly. 

"Well,  but  what  has  that  got  to 
do  with  me?"  demanded  Richard,  ex- 
citedly. 

"You're  east,"  stated  Monica, 
briefly  and  concisely,,  "and  I  know  I 
simply  couldn't  stand  the  strain.  You 
know,  Richard,  when  we  were  down 
at  Carmel  and  went  to  see  the  Mission 
there  a  few  days  ago?" 

"Yes,"  remembered  Richard;  "it 
gives  one  such  a  spooky  feeling  walk- 
ing across  the  floor  of  that  Mission  to 
know  that  one  is  stepping  all  over 
priests  and  governors  of  California." 

"Well,  the  the  time  we  were  in  there 
you  gave  us  a  detailed  directory  of 
the  Churches  in  New  York,"  stated 
Monica,  accusingly.  "You  told  us  all 
about  them,  and  described  them  inside 
and  out.  You  may  have  been  looking 
ing  at  the  Mission,  but  you  were  think- 
ing about  how  much  bigger  and  better 
the  New  York  churches  were,  and  not 
only  thinking,  but  saying  it." 


Richard  was  silent;  he  was  begin- 
ning to  understand. 

"And  then  when  we  all  went  into  the 
labyrinth  at  Del  Monte  this  morning 
you  didn't  say  anything  until  we  had 
wound  around  and  around,  and  I  knew 
you  were  thinking  of  something  better 
in  New  York  to  compare  it  with ;  then 
finally  you  said  that  it  wasn't  nearly  so 
easy  to  get  lost  in  as  the  Pennsylvania 
Station." 

A  grin  of  remembrance  visited  Rich- 
ard's lips,  then  fled. 

"You  can't  look  at  anything  white," 
Monica  went  on  with  her  indictment, 
now  that  she  had  started;  "you  can't 
look  at  anything  white  from  the  Cam- 
panile on  the  University  campus  to  a 
wedding  cake  without  it  reminding  you 
how  much  higher  the  Woolworth 
building  it.  I  have  nothing  against  Mr. 
Woolworth  personally,  but  I  wish  he 
had  been  born  in  Java  and  been  of  a 
home-loving  disposition.  - 1  haven't 
any  prejudice  in  favor  of  California  or 
Californians,  but  I  have  just  about 
made  up  my  mind  that  if  I  ever 
marry " 

"If!"  interjected  Richard,  with  vio- 
lent indignation. 

"If  I  ever  marry,"  continued  Monica 
cerenely,  "I  shall  marry  some  one  who 
has  never  been  East.  I  can  stand  sen- 
tences beginning  'When  I  was  in  Eu- 
rope,' but  there  are  limits  to  even 
my  forbearance." 

"But  I  hardly  ever  mention  New 
York,"  protested  Richard. 

Monica  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  wide. 

"I  hardly  ever  speak  of  it  at  all!" 

Monica  was  silent.  She  looked  off 
into  the  distance  pensively. 

"Hasn't  it  Plato,"  she  asked  indefi- 
nitely, with  plaintive  tone,  "who  said 
that  one-half  the  world  didn't  know 
how  the  other  half  lived?  If  he  didn't 
know  how  the  other  half  lived,  it  is 
plain  to  be  seen  that  he  had  no  tourist 
friends  from  New  York." 

From  the  door  of  one  of  the  little 
Spanish  cottages  near  the  beach  came 
the  notes  of  a  plaintive  stringed  in- 
strument, and  then  a  rich  voice  be- 
gan very  soft  and  low  and  sadly  to  sing 
La  Paloma.  Under  the  spell  of  La 


200 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Paloma  in  a  Spanish  town  almost  any 
eligible  man  and  girl  will  become 
lovers. 

Richard's  hand  stole  out  to  meet 
Monica's,  but  she  drew  it  away  firmly. 

"No,"  she  said,  fixing  him  once  for 
all  with  her  gaze  and  speaking  in  a  de- 
termined voice.  "No,  Richard,  I  shall 
never  marry  a  man  from  New  York 
who  has  a  good  memory." 

Richard  thought  of  this  for  some 
time  in  silence. 

"Is  that  the  only  reason  that  you 
won't  marry  me?"  he  asked. 

"It  is,"  returned  Monica. 

Richard  meditated. 

"All  of  us  are  going  on  a  camping 
trip  for  two  weeks  to-morrow,"  he 
said,  "and  that  will  be  the  end  of  the 
summer's  good  times.  I  have  to  go 
home  after  that.  Monica,  if  I  never 
mention  New  York  in  all  these  two 
weeks  will  you  promise  to  be  engaged 
to  me  then?" 

Monica  looked  at  him  with  grave  un- 
belief. A  New  York  man  refraining 
from  mentioning  his  home  city  and  the 
greatness  thereof  for  two  weeks!  She 
had  once  thought,  she  reflected,  that 
the  labors  of  Hercules  were  difficult. 

"Will  you?"  insisted  Richard. 

"It  can't  be  done,"  returned  Monica; 
"it  can't  be  done,  Richard;  but  if  you 
do,  I  will." 

The  camping  trip  was  proving  itself 
a  merry  success.  Every  one  was  hilari- 
ously happy.  Richard  alone  puzzled 
the  rest  of  the  company  by  his  unusual 
silence,  and  by  a  strange  habit  which 
he  seemed  to  have  recently  acquired 
of  beginning  a  sentence  and  then  paus- 
ing abruptly  and  never  finishing  it  at 
all. 

No  one  but  Monica  understood  the 
reason  for  these  strange  changes  in 
the  formerly  talkative  member  of  the 
party,  and  Monica  showed  no  sign  of 
noticing  anything  unusual  at  all. 

The  two  weeks  was  rapidly  nearing 
its  end.  Richard  was  finding  his  po- 
sition precarious.  Eternal  vigilance 
was  the  price  of  his  safety;  he  saw 
many  opportunities  for  reminiscence, 
but  he  did  his  best  to  check  them  in 
time. 


When  somebody  praised  the  first 
supper  in  the  woods,  he  began  to  tell 
of  a  certain  little  French  restaurant  in 
New  York  where  the  chef — but  he 
stopped  in  time. 

That  the  sunset  on  the  twisting  little 
creek  reminded  him  forcibly  of  sunset 
on  the  Hudson  he  was  able  by  dint 
of  much  self-control  to  conceal  from 
his  fellow  campers. 

He  was  beginning  to  hope.  If  only 
he  could  hold  out  a  little  longer!  He 
had  struggled  valiantly  for  thirteen 
days.  One  day  more — just  to-day — 
and  then  the  prize  would  be  in  sight. 
He  thought  of  spending  the  day  fish- 
ing by  himself,  so  that  he  might  get 
through  it  safely,  but  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  be  away  from  Monica 
on  the  very  last  day  of  their  good  times 
together.  No,  he  must  stick  it  out. 

At  breakfast,  Monica  held  up  a  tin 
cup  of  coffee.  "To  our  last  day,"  she 
cried  gayly.  "May  it  be  a  successful 
one." 

The  crowd  took  up  the  toast:  "To 
our  last  day,"  they  echoed;  "to  our 
last  day!" 

"To  our  last  day,"  repeated  Richard, 
putting  his  lips  to  his  own  shining  tin 
cup,  "may  it  be  a  successful  one!"  and 
he  looked  with  desperate  eyes  across 
the  newspaper  table  cloth  spread  upon 
the  ground  into  Monica's  laughing 
eyes. 

As  he  handed  her  a  strip  of  bacon 
from  the  frying  pan:  "It's  till  to-night 
after  dinner,  isn't  it?"  he  asked,  in  a 
rapid  undertone. 

"Till  to-night  after  dinner,"  she  an- 
swered, turning  nonchalantly  to  the 
girl  next  her.  "Have  some  bacon, 
Madge?" 

Dinner  time  found  Richard's  shield 
still  stainless.  He  came  to  the  table 
trembling  with  hope  land  fear,  but 
stern  with  a  mighty  resolve.  He  would 
not  say  one  word  during  the  meal;  he 
could  not  lose  now  when  the  end  was 
so  near.  The  only  sure  way  was  not  to 
speak  at  all.  It  was  prodigiously  hard, 
particularly  when  a  heated  discussion 
was  begun  as  to  the  respective  merits 
of  Rugby  and  Association,  but  Richard 
said  never  a  word,  although  the  hated 


NIGHT  IN  LOUISIANA 


201 


Rugby  won  triumphantly. 

When  dinner  was  over  somebody 
found  a  bag  of  oranges,  and  began 
tossing  them  about  among  the  lively 
group. 

"These  are  awfully  poor  oranges,  it 
seems  to  me,"  remarked  one  of  the 
men,  as  he  pealed  his. 

The  chief  grievance  of  his  four 
months  in  California  came  upon  Rich- 
ard with  bitter  and  sudden  poignancy; 
he  forgot  his  resolution. 

"The  California  oranges  aren't 
juicy,"  he  began,  with  heated  indigna- 
tion. "The  fact  is,  you  can't  get  de- 
cent oranges  in  the  whole  length  and 
breadth  of  this  State.  Now  in " 

"Yes;  what  were  you  going  to  say?" 
asked  the  man  at  his  right,  politely. 

"Nothing,"  said  Richard,  and  lived 
up  to  it  for  the  rest  of  the  meal. 

Ten  minutes  later  in  the  shadow  of 
the  redwoods,  apart  from  the  rest  of 
the  campers,  he  was  facing  Monica 
triumphantly. 

"Not  once  during  the     whole    two 


weeks,"  he  cried,  whisking  a  tiny, 
square  box  from  some  mysterious 
pocket. 

"It  was  wonderful,"  admitted  Mon- 
ica. 

"You  didn't  think  I  could  do  it?"  he 
boasted. 

"No.     I  didn't." 

"That  was  nothing!  Two  weeks!  I 
am  going  to  do  it  permanently."  His 
tone  was  proud.  "Don't  you  think  I 
can?" 

"I  wouldn't  have  before.  But  I  do 
really  believe  that  if  you  could  keep 
from  doing  it  for  two  weeks,  you  will 
always." 

"I  certainly  shall.  All  it  needs  is  a 
little  will  power."  He  kissed  on  the 
ring  with  the  twinkling  diamond. 

"This  is  the  greatest  day  of  my  life," 
he  cried.  "We  ought  to  do  something 
to  celebrate  the  occasion.  But  what 
can  we  do  in  an  out-of-the-way  place 
like  this?  Now,  if  we  were  only  in 
New  York,  we  could  have  a  celebration 
that  would  be  worth  while." 


NIGHT  IN  LOUISIANA 

Sonnet 

The  soft-voiced  night  wind  whispers  to  the  rose 

Its  gentle-cadenced  litany  of  love ; 

Wooing  with  light  caresses,  while  above 
The  nightingale  makes  plaint  of  mythic  woes ; 
In  far-off  silvered  revery  the  moon 

Dreams  of  the  loved  one,  lost  so  long  ago ; 

Down  to  the  great  gray  gulf  the  streamlets  flow 
Tinkling  the  lilt  of  her  old,  sad  love  tune. 


Ah,  heart  of  mine,  that  in  each  breath  of  song 
Hears  but  the  poignant  note  of  quenchless  pain 

Throb  through  the  white  night's  spell  of  mystery! 
Down  from  the  far-off  stars,  steep  paths  along, 
To-night,  a  ghost,  She  comes  in  dreams  again, 
Bringing  once  more  the  old,  sweet  ecstasy. 

FRANK  NEWTON  HOLMAN. 


All  in  the  Day's  Work 

From  the  Russian  of  V.  Nemirovich-Danchenko. 
By  Alder  Anderson 


FIGHTING  had  just  ceased.  Offi- 
cers and  men  were  alike  gloomy. 
Almost  every  soldier  in  the  ranks 
appeared  to  be  wounded.  One 
had  a  bandaged  hand;  his  neighbor, 
a  bullet  in  the  leg,  limped  painfully, 
using  his  rifle  as  a  crutch ;  the  head  of 
the  man  behind  him  was  bound  up  in 
a  soiled  handkerchief,  from  underneath 
which  blood  was  trickling,  and  his  cap 
was  pushed  right  back  to  the  nape  of 
his  neck.  There  was  no  sound  of  sing- 
ing, as  is  usual  when  a  regiment  is 
falling  back  from  the  fighting  line  to 
rest;  there  was  not  even  talking;  noth- 
ing but  the  monotonous  tramp,  tramp, 
of  thousands  of  weary  feet  blending 
into  a  sort  of  confused  rumble  with  the 
metallic  clink  of  steel.  The  colonel, 
the  adjutant  at  his  side,  rode  at  the 
head  of  the  regiment.  He  looked 
gloomier  than  anybody.  His  favorite 
charger  had  been  killed  under  him, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  bestride  a  huge, 
unwieldy  artillery  horse  accustomed  to 
drag  heavy  guns.  Whenever  he  for- 
got himself,  and  relaxed  his  hold  of 
the  bridle,  he  was  treated  to  a  most 
unmerciful  jolting. 

Suddenly  my  eyes  fell  upon  Saha- 
roff,  whem  I  knew  to  be  an  officer's 
servant.  He  was  standing  at  the  side 
of  the  roadway  as  the  men  marched 
past,  attentively  scrutinizing  each  of- 
ficer. The  man's  extraordinary  devo- 
tion to  his  very  youthful  master,  Sec- 
ond Lieutenant  Olenine — "Girlie,"  as 
he  was  called  by  every  one  in  the  regi- 
ment— was  proverbial,  and  we  all  knew 
whose  face  he  was  now  looking  for; 
a  face  he  would  have  to  look  for,  alas ! 
in  vain. 

Saharoff  was  in  every  way  a  unique 


type  of  soldier.  To  begin  with,  his 
hideous  appearance  was  notorious 
throughout  the  whole  force.  There 
was  no  trace  of  hair  on  those  parts  of 
his  face  where  you  might  expect  to  see 
hair  on  a  man — the  jaws  and  the  chin; 
but,  as  if  to  make  up  for  this,  the 
cheeks  were  covered  right  up  to  the 
eyes  by  a  thick  crop  of  bristles,  which 
even  made  a  very  successful  attempt 
to  scale  the  nose.  The  ears,  too,  were 
completely  hidden  by  a  similar  abun- 
dant growth.  Awkward  and  uncouth 
looking  beyond  words,  and  lame  into 
the  bargain,  he  invariably  walked 
stooping,  as  if  bowed  down  by  the 
weight  of  some  terribly  heavy,  though 
invisible,  burden.  With  all  this,  he 
possessed  phenomenal  physical  power, 
combined  with  the  long  suffering  dis- 
position of  one  of  those  village  dogs 
which  patiently  submit  to  have  their 
ears  pulled  by  every  urchin  in  the 
place. 

He  was  always  ruminating  and 
dreamy,  and  it  would  have  been  hard- 
ly less  difficult  to  engage  a  lamp-post 
in  conversation  than  to  extract  half-a- 
dozen  phrases  from  him. 

"Your  honor,  my  master,  Lieutenant 
Ol "  Sarahoff  addressed  our  lieu- 
tenant who  had  just  joined  from  Petro- 
grad. 

The  officer  did  not  answer.  He  even 
half-turned  away,  with  an  impatient 
gesture. 

In  spite  of  the  snub,  Sarahoff  at- 
tempted to  arrest  the  attention  of  the 
next  officer  who  passed  him.  Again 
he  received  a  rebuff.  Then  he  caught 
sight  of  me,  and  gripped  my  hand. 
"Thanks  be  to  God!  Where  is  my  mas- 
ter ?  You  can  tell  me." 


ALL  IN  THE  DAY'S  WORK. 


203 


But  like  the  others,  I,  too,  held  my 
tongue. 

"Is  it  possible?  Oh,  God!  Is  it 
possible  he  is  wounded?" 

Silence,  as  before!  No  one  of  us 
was  inclined  to  be  the  first  to  give  him 
the  bad  news. 

At  last  he  decided  to  ask  the  men, 
and  pushed  into  the  ranks  among  them. 
He  was  soon  told  all  he  dreaded  to 
learn.  Half  a  score  of  the  men  had  ac- 
tually noticed  how  "Girlie"  had  been 
struck  down  by  a  bullet  as  he  was  run- 
ning forward  to  the  attack.  After  that 
no  one  could  recall  having  seen  him 
again.  Perhaps  the  Red  Cross  men 
had  picked  him  up;  or,  on  the  other 
hand,  perhaps  he  was  dead.  Beyond 
the  bare  fact  that  he  had  fallen  noth- 
ing was  known  for  certain. 

Saharoff,  reeling  out  of  the  ranks  as 
if  he  had  received  a  blow,  seemed  to 
collapse  utterly.  He  sat  right  down 
in  the  thickest  part  of  the  mud,  an 
expression  of  saturnine  despair  on  his 
face. 

The  pet  dog  of  the  regiment,  Mu- 
harka,  ran  up  to  him  and  licked  his 
face;  but  the  unceremonious  caress 
was  absolutely  unnoticed.  Much  per- 
turbed by  such  reception,  Muharka  re- 
treated a  few  steps,  and  began  to  bark, 
but  to  this  fresh  demonstration  Saha- 
roff remained  equally  unresponsive. 
Thereupon  the  dog,  giving  the  case  up 
as  hopeless,  put  his  tail  between  his 
legs  and  trotted  quickly  after  the  sol- 
diers on  their  way  to  camp. 

*  *  *  * 

The  evening  was  cold,  gray  and  mis- 
erable, and  the  thick,  putrescent  fog 
penetrated  everywhere.  Our  tent  was 
dimly  lighted  by  a  single  candle.  As 
soon  as  we  entered  it  we  flung  our- 
selves down  to  rest.  Now  and  again, 
as  if  grudgingly,  we  tossed  a  brief 
phrase  at  one  another.  No  one  had  any 
desire  for  conversation. 

About  an  hour  had  passed  in  this 
manner  when  the  flap  of  the  tent  was 
raised,  and  Saharoff's  massive  frame 
filled  the  opening. 

"Hello,  Sarahoff!  what's  the  mat- 
ter?" I  asked. 

"I  have   looked   into   every   ambu- 


lance, your  Honor.  There's  nothing — 
nowhere." 

None  of  us  needed  to  be  told  what 
Saharoff  was  referring  to. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?" 

"Please,  your  Honor,  a  revolver." 

"A  revolver  ?"  I  had  jumped  to  my 
feet. 

"That's  right,  your  Honor — a  re- 
volver." 

"What  for?"  Can  it  be  possible  the 
fellow  wants  to  shoot  himself  ?  was  the 
first  thought  that  flashed  into  my  mind, 
though  a  moment  later  I  found  myself 
laughing  at  this  wild  flight  of  my  im- 
agination. 

"I  am  going,"  Saharoff  said,  simply. 

"Going!     Where  do  you  mean?" 

"To  look  for  my  master.  To  find 
Lieutenant  Olenine." 

"Are  you  crazy,  man?  Don't  you 
understand  that,  even  if  he  has  re- 
mained there  still,  the  Turks  have  long 
ago  occupied  the  hill?" 

"That's  right,  your  Honor." 

"How  the  deuce  do  you  think  you 
can.  get  there,  then?" 

"Please  give  me  a  revolver,  your 
Honor." 

"Don't  you  understand  plain  Rus- 
sian, my  good  fellow?  I  tell  you  again 
you  cannot  go  there.  The  Turks  oc- 
cupy the  ground." 

"That's  right,  your  Honor;  and  I 
am  groiner  back.  Others  have  had  to 
remain  there.  What  would  it  matter 
if  I " 

This  was  probably  the  longest 
speech  Saharoff  had  ever  made  in  his 
life.  He  stopped  abruptly.  He  had 
noticed  the  revolver  lying  on  the  bed 
I  had  risen  from.  He  stepped  quickly 
forward  and  made  a  grab  at  it.  "This 

is  all  I  want,  vour  Honor." 

*  *  *  * 

I  have  never  been  able  to  recall  pre- 
cisely how  Sarahoff  got  out  of  the 
tent;  although  I  know  that  we  all 
looked  upon  him  as  done  for.  But  in 
war,  death  is  such  a  very  ordinary  oc- 
currence, and  everybody  is  always  so 
ready  to  meet  it,  that  we  speedily  fell 
asleeo  without,  I  am  afraid,  giving 
another  thought  either  to  Saharoff  or 
to  his  youthful  master,  Second-Lieu- 


204 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


tenant  Olenine.  During  our  slumbers, 
however,  something  very  extraordinary 
took  place. 

Saharoff  made  all  his  preparations. 
The  outposts  were  held  by  dragoons 
who  had  gone  through  the  whole  cam- 
paign with  us,  and  therefore  knew  Sa- 
haroff quite  well  both  by  sight  and 
reputation.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  how- 
ever, they  did  not  notice  him  until  he 
suddenly  appeared  in  their  midst  and 
announced  his  intention  of  going  to 
look  for  his  master. 

However  mad  and  extravagant  such 
an  enterprise  might  have  seemed  to  us, 
these  soldiers  apparently  looked  upon 
it  as  all  part  of  the  day's  work;  as  ob- 
ligatory, indeed,  in  Saharoff's  case,  al- 
though they  quite  realized  how  risky  it 
was. 

"What  a  rum  old  stick  you  are!" 
said  a  dragoon.  "How  do  you  fancy 
you  are  going  to  recognize  him  in  this 
fog?  They  are  lying  about  in  heaps 
out  there." 

"Haven't  I  matches?  I  have  ten 
boxes,"  said  Saharoff  curtly.  And, 
without  more  ado,  he  started  on  his 
perilous  adventure. 

For  three  hours  he  stumbled  on  in 
the  darkness,  his  ears  ever  on  the  alert, 
to  catch  the  sound  of  the  Turkish  sol- 
diers, or  the  moans  of  the  wounded. 
But  he  heard  nothing  but  the  wind 
rustling  through  the  maize,  for  the 
inhabitants,  under  military  instruc- 
tions, had  fled,  leaving  the  harvest  un- 
gathered.  Occasionally  he  was  start- 
led, but  it  turned  out  to  be  only  a 
jackal  moving  in  the  same  direction  as 
himself,  toward  the  battlefield  where 
so  many  Turkish  bodies  lay  scattered, 
or  a  hungry  wolf  running  in  and  out 
among  the  half-rotten  maize-stalks. 

More  than  once  he  found  himself  at 
the  bottom  of  a  deep  hollow,  where 
all  the  tracks  became  inextricably 
mixed,  and  he  would  get  clear  of  this 
only  to  stumble  into  a  ravine  which  ab- 
solutely barred  all  farther  progress. 
Then,  face  downwards  in  the  deep, 
slimy  mud,  which  afforded  grip  for 
neither  hand  nor  foot,  he  had  labori- 
ously to  retrace  his  path,  and  could  get 
on  his  feet  only  with  difficulty. 


At  last  he  was  confronted  by  a  steep 
incline.  He  began  to  clamber  up,  but 
had  hardly  made  fifty  steps  when  on 
the  skyline  he  noticed  several  indis- 
tinct reddish  blotches,  which  alter- 
nately increased  in  volume,  then  dis- 
appeared entirely  in  the  drifting  fog. 
These  could  only  be  campfires,  and  Sa- 
haroff realized  that  he  was  now  quite 
close  to  the  Turkish  lines. 

This  was  the  moment  to  take  his 
final  measures.  Very  carefully,  with 
infinite  precautions,  he  placed  the  ten 
boxes  of  matches  within  the  breast  of 
his  coat  to  keep  them  dry  as  long  as 
possible.  Then  he  lay  down  once  more 
flat  on  his  face  and  began  to  crawl 
painfully  forward.  With  every  step 
the  advance  became  more  and  more 
difficult.  It  seemed  as  if  the  thick, 
tenacious  clay  were  actually  exerting 
itself  to  hold  him  back.  At  times  he 
was  nearly  submerged  by  it.  Finally, 
even  his  great  strength  proved  un- 
availing, and  he  felt  himself  slipping 
helplessly  downward. 

The  noise  of  his  fall  had  evidently 
been  noticed,  for  there  was  a  flash 
and  a  report  from  above ;  but  the  bullet 
flew  harmlessly  far  beyond  him. 

For  some  minutes  Saharoff  lay  per- 
fectly still,  hardly  breathing;  but  there 
was  no  second  shot.  Then  the  strug- 
gle between  a  man's  grimly  patient  de- 
termination and  an  accumulation  of 
dangers  began  anew,  and  Saharoff  at 
length  found  himself  on  the  battlefield. 
Through  the  fog,  which  had  become 
still  more  dense,  he  could  just  make 
out  dim,  shadowy  shapes  moving  to 
and  fro,  bending  down  now  and  then, 
as  if  searching  for  something  on  the 
ground.  Saharoff  well  knew  what  sin- 
ister work  was  afoot.  These  were  hu- 
man jackals  looting  and  murdering  the 
wounded.  God!  would  he  be  in  time? 

Then  he  saw  that  one  of  the  shadows 
was  coming  in  his  direction.  He  be- 
came as  rigid  as  if  glued  to  the  ground. 
Already  the  ruffian  had  stooped  down ; 
but  before  he  could  ascertain  whether 
there  was  still  breath  in  the  prostrate 
figure,  Saharoff  had  him  by  the  throat 
in  a  grip  from  which  there  was  no  re- 
lease, and  the  rising  cry  was  strangled 


ALL  IN  THE  DAY'S  WORK. 


205 


into  an  almost  inaudible  death  gasp. 

*  *  *  * 

There  were  hundreds  of  Turkish 
bodies  lying  on  the  field,  and  Saharoff 
had  to  light  many  a  match  to  examine 
them  before  he  could  distinguish  uni- 
forms. In  and  out  among  the  heaps  he 
crawled  with  the  cunning  of  a  cat,  his 
eyes  everywhere  at  once.  He  never 
gave  himself  a  moment's  rest;  his 
courage  never  faltered.  Desperate  as 
such  a  search  might  appear  to  others, 
he  himself  did  not  contemplate  even 
the  possibility  of  failure.  And  at  last 
he  had  his  reward.  His  master  lay 
before  him,  still  alive! 

Saharoff  had  come  in  the  very  nick 
of  time.  Towards  the  little  hummock 
on  which  Olenine  had  fallen  helpless, 
with  a  broken  leg  and  a  bullet  in  the 
shoulder,  a  group  of  those  sinister 
ghosts  was  even  now  making  its  way. 
Within  ten  minutes,  possibly  less,  the 
unfortunate  young  man's  groans  would, 
in  all  human  probability,  have  been 
silenced  forever,  so  as  not  to  interfere 
with  the  ghoulish  work. 

*  *  *  * 

In  the  dim  light  of  early  morning 
our  sentries  noticed  a  strange  figure 
stumbling  towards  them.  One  man  had 
actually  raised  his  rifle  and  was  on  the 
point  of  firing,  when  a  hoarse  exclama- 
tion— a  groan  rather  than  an  articulate 
phrase — reached  his  ears.  He  was 
only  just  able  to  make  out  "Don't 
shoot!  I  am  one  of  you.  I  am  bring- 
ing in  Lieutenant  Olenine." 

A  moment  later  Saharoff  reached 
the  lines,  and  immediately  fell  down 
senseless,  inert  as  a  log. 

Across  the  whole  wide  stretch  of 
country  occupied  by  the  enemy  the 
brave  fellow  had  crawled  on  his  hands 
and  knees,  his  master  fast-strapped 
to  his  back.  He  had  foreseen  every- 
thing, and  had  actually  taken  a  towel 
and  strap  with  him  for  this  purpose. 
Until  well  out  of  range  of  the  enemy's 
fire  he  had  never  once  stood  erect. 

The  success  of  Saharoff's  daring  ex- 
ploit aroused  as  much  enthusiasm  as  it 
did  surprise,  but  he  himself  appeared 
to  grow  more  taciturn  than  ever.  When 


we  congratulated  him  he  seemed  hard- 
ly to  understand  what  we  meant.  He 
never  stirred  from  the  ambulance  to 
which  "Girlie"  had  been  taken.  No 
nurse  could  possibly  have  been  more 
devoted. 

On  the  very  first  day  when  there  was 
a  respite  from  fighting,  the  entire  force 
of  which  our  regiment  formed  part 
was  solemnly  paraded.  The  senior 
General- in-Command  was  there  in  all 
his  glory,  surrounded  by  lesser  satel- 
lites. He  called  for  Saharoff. 

Looking,  if  possible,  more  ungainly 
and  ugly  than  ever,  Saharoff  slouched 
forward. 

The  General  motioned  for  him  to 
come  nearer. 

Still  more  embarrassed  now,  Saha- 
roff obeyed. 

"You  are  a  true  hero,"  said  the  Gen- 
eral, "and  I  thank  you."  Thereupon, 
much  to  Saharoff's  confusion,  the  Gen- 
eral embraced  him.  Then  the  General 
continued:  "You  have  proved  that  a 
loyal  and  devoted  heart  may  beat  in 
every  one  of  us  under  his  gray  cloak. 
What  you  did  was  great,  both  in  the 
eyes  of  your  countrymen  and  before 
Heaven.  Any  man  may  bear  himself 
bravely  in  the  heat  of  battle;  but  to 
go  alone,  as  you  did,  and  carry  off  your 
master  from  under  the  enemy's  very 
nose  is  a  deed  of  which  you  may  be 
very  proud." 

The  General  fixed  the  Cross  of  St. 
George  to  Saharoff's  coat.  "I  call  for 
cheers  for  our  brave  comrade  in  arms, 
Saharoff,"  he  said  in  very  loud  tones. 
"Hurrah!" 

"Hurrah!"  roared  the  troops. 

And  Saharoff,  the  new  decoration  on 
his  breast,  shuffled  back  into  the  ranks, 
tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks.  The 
thundering  "Hurrahs!"  followed  him; 
and  "Hurrah!"  was  still  being  shouted 
long  after  the  object  of  this  imposing 
demonstration  had  disappeared  again 
into  obscurity,  much  perturbed  in  spirit 
and  greatly  wondering  why  so  much 
fuss  should  be  made  about  something 
that  to  him  seemed  to  be  merely  part 
of  the  work  he  had  undertaken  to  per- 
form when  he  became  Second-Lieu- 
tenant Olenine's  servant. 


Three  Days 


By  John  Peale  Bishop 


THE  wife  of  Thomas  Hales  stood 
in  front  of  the  fireplace  and 
stared  into  the  mirror.  There 
she  saw  the  face  of  the  woman 
who  had  lived  with  him  for  fifteen 
years — the  woman  who  drove  with 
him  behind  the  two  black  horses  which 
were  his  pride;  who  sat  with  him  on 
Sunday  mornings  in  the  high  backed 
pews  which  had  sheltered  the  devo- 
tion of  the  Hales  for  three  generations, 
who  had  met  and  received  the  dreary 
people  he  called  his  friends.  One  is 
aware  of  many  things  which  only  the 
painful  moment  brings  into  active  con- 
sciousness. So  it  was  that,  at  this 
moment,  the  change  of  those  years  was 
borne  in  upon  her.  It  was  not  the 
touch  of  grey  in  the  hair  brushed  back 
from  the  forehead,  nor  the  suggestive 
wrinkles  about  the  eyes  and  mouth. 
These  were  to  have  been  expected. 
It  was  that  the  old  sensitiveness,  the 
eagerness  for  life,  the  enthusiasm  for 
the  mere  essentials  of  living  had 
changed  to  an  immobility,  too  cold  to 
be  flattered  by  the  name  of  reserve. 
Under  the  mask  she  saw,  too,  that 
other  woman  who  had  lived  the  same 
period  under  the  roof  of  Thomas  Hales 
without  his  knowledge,  whose  life  was 
lived  in  the  love  of  one  man  whom 
Thomas  Hales  had  never  seen,  and 
whose  passionate  tenderness  found  its 
expression  in  the  one  thing  left  them 
— words.  As  the  servant  entered  to 
light  the  lamps  she  saw,  by  the  yellow 
candle-light,  but  a  single  face  in  the 
mantel  mirror;  but,  for  all  that,  two 
women  looked  out  through  the  eyes  of 
Margaret  Hales. 

As  she  turned  to  pick  up  the  book 
which  the  early  autumn  twilight  had 
compelled  her  to  stop  reading  a  little 


before,  she  heard  the  heavy  outer- 
door  open  and  close. 

"He  has  returned,"  she  thought,  and 
could  not  repress  a  feeling  of  annoy- 
ance. 

"Jenny,  I  will  have  my  tea  here," 
she  said  to  the  maid,  just  leaving  the 
room.  Her  eye  returned  to  the 
printed  page: 

"No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am 

dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly,  sullen 

bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am 

fled 
From  this  vile  world " 

Her  husband  entered.  She  met  his 
eye  with  a  sense  of  injury  at  being 
interrupted.  Yet  there  was  something 
in  the  comfortable  commonplaceness 
of  his  expression  that  gave  her  cour- 
age once  more  to  play  out  the  part  she 
had  chosen. 

"You  are  late,"  she  said,  simply. 

"Couldn't  be  helped,  couldn't  be 
helped — sorry,  but  charity  cases  can 
be  most  demanding — worse  than  others 
I  say.  Uncommercial  and  unsatisfac- 
tory. That's  what  I  say." 

Thomas  Hales  settled  himself  com- 
fortably before  the  fire.  The  warm 
light  lit  up  his  naturally  flushed  face, 
and  shone  in  his  heavy  gold-rimmed 
glasses. 

"I  suppose  a  man  must  do  some- 
thing for  other  people,  but  Mrs.  Smug- 
gins  had  so  little  fire.  One  can't  be 
charitable  in  a  cold  room,  's  what  I 
say.  Only  son's  dead,  she's  a  bit  to 
live  on,  but  takes  it  hard.  Life  was 
pretty  well  centered  in  him." 

The  servant  had  entered  with  a 
tray. 


THREE  DAYS 


207 


"You  will  have  tea?" 

"No,  no,  thank  you.  A  little  whisky, 
though." 

"Whisky  and  soda  for  Dr.  Hales, 
Jenny." 

The  life  of  the  woman  whom  Thos. 
Hales  had  married  was  to  go  on  as 

usual. 

*  *  *  * 

In  the  fall  of  1893,  Jonas  Scudder 
prepared  to  take  up  his  residence  in 
Paris  as  the  representative  of  a  certain 
once  respected  business  house,  which, 
owing  to  a  series  of  unfortunate  admin- 
istrations, no  longer  exists.  With  him 
was  his  daughter  Margaret,  a  girl  of 
eighteen.  Scudder,  always  a  delicate 
man  and  accustomed  to  shift  every 
possible  burden  to  healthier  shoulders, 
gave  over  the  care  of  his  daughter  to 
his  cousin,  Amy  Scudder,  whose  death 
some  ten  years  ago  was  mourned  as 
so  great  a  loss  to  American  sculpture, 
at  this  time  a  student  in  Paris.  Marga- 
ret at  once  became  a  member  of  the 
circle  which,  with  more  or  less  regu- 
larity, appeared  at  Miss  Scudder's  stu- 
dio to  keep  watch  on  the  progress  made 
in  the  huge  panel  in  high  relief  .on 
which  she  was  then  working,  and  to 
take  advantage  of  the  usually  forth- 
coming invitations  to  those  dinners, 
scarcely  less  famous  in  their  way  than 
this  particular  panel,  which  indicates 
the  high  water  mark  of  Amy  Scud- 
der's early  achievement.  A  third  at- 
traction of  a  handsome,  impressionable 
American  cousin  did  not  perceptibly 
decrease  the  number  of  her  visitors. 
It  was  here  that  Margaret  Scudder  met 
Ernest  Dowson  and  that  other  short- 
lived genius,  Edward  Moore  Gresham, 
whose  work  has  so  recently  been 
brought  to  the  notice  of  the  public, 
George  Donsberry,  and  to  come  closer 
to  the  tale  at  hand,  Alexandre  Bain- 
ville,  critic,  man  of  letters,  gentleman. 

Bainville  was  at  this  time  at  the 
height  of  a  career  which  promised 
more  brilliance  than  the  future  re- 
vealed. A  little  above  forty,  he  had 
achieved  those  good  looks  denied  to 
men  under  thirty-five.  Care-free  and 
easy  in  his  manner,  he  welded  every 
company  into  a  unit  by  making  one  of 


their  number  the  unfortunate  target  of 
his  wit.  He  affected  the  freedom  of 
a  bachelor,  while  speaking  of  his  im- 
possible wife  with  the  utmost  respect, 
possibly  because  the  unfortunate  crea- 
ture had  made  his  literary  career  cap- 
able of  prolonging  itself  past  the  age 
of  twenty-two,  the  time  when  so  many 
ballad  makers  become  brokers,  and  in- 
cipient critics  are  crushed  into  clerks 
by  the  law  of  nature  which  demands 
a  perennial  supply  of  food,  and  the 
law  of  man  which  requires  all  persons 
to  go  about  fully  clothed. 

Margaret  fell  at  once  under  the  spell 
of  this  man,  so  many  years  her  elder, 
as  indeed  every  one  had  done  before 
her.  Yet  from  the  first  there  was  a 
difference  in  her  attitude  toward  him. 
Perhaps  others  preferred  to  be  amused 
by  Bainville,  while  she  sought  and 
found  something  else,  which  in  the 
beautiful  nomenclature  of  youth  she 
called  inspiration.  He  was  not  with- 
out strength,  however,  and  Margaret, 
with  the  unlimited  enthusiasm  of 
eighteen,  saw  his  neglected  opportuni- 
ties still  before  him,  fields  waiting  to 
be  conquered,  his  aimless  youth  about 
to  transform  itself  into  a  gloriously  de- 
finite age,  and  his  brilliance  a  splen- 
dor needing  only  the  mirror  of  amira- 
tion  to  reflect  its  true  glory. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  trace  the  devel- 
opment of  her  relation  to  the  older  man 
nor  to  respect  certain  apparently  un- 
founded stories  which  passed  concern- 
ing them.  Suffice  to  say  that  when 
Jonas  Scudder's  death  in  January, 
1895,  necessitated  her  return  to  Amer- 
ica, Alexandre  Bainville  was  as  much 
a  part  of  her  life  as  those  primal  ten- 
dencies which  our  remotest  ancestors 
have  kindly  bequeathed  us  and  from 
which  we  find  no  civilization  able  to 
deliver  us. 

Her  life  for  the  first  few  months  af- 
ter return  was  difficult  in  the  extreme. 
There  are  certain  natures  in  which  the 
adjustment  to  circumstances  and  the 
increase  of  the  perceptive  faculties 
form  the  warp  and  woof  of  life.  In  her 
case,  the  first  was  a  constant  struggle, 
external  relatives  appearing  chiefly  in 
the  form  of  a  very  ancient  female 
4 


208 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


relative,  with  surprising  vagaries  of 
temper  and  an  unwavering  grasp  on 
the  purse  strings.  But  the  more  diffi- 
cult these  outward  relations  became, 
the  more  she  tended  to  find  refuge  in 
the  letters  of  Bainville  which  persisted 
with  fair  regularity.  At  first  they  were 
a  connection  between  her  and  the  life 
she  had  left :  to  him  they  were  a  trib- 
ute to  the  first  woman  who  had  been 
to  him  anything  more  than  a  conven- 
ience or  an  amusement.  Later,  under 
the  influence  of  time,  the  passion  be- 
tween them  became  itself  a  finer  and 
truer  thing.  To  her  it  was  the  neces- 
sity of  clinging  to  the  one  vital  and 
true  thing  left  her ;  with  him  it  was  the 
middle  age  cynic  grasping  still  at  the 
fragment  of  youthful  idealism  left 
him.  At  all  events  with  her  it  became 
the  expression  of  all  that  could  be 
truly  called  her  life.  Into  these  let- 
ters she  poured  every  thought,  every 
emotion,  every  experience  which 
seemed  to  her  worth  more  than  the  life 
of  a  moment.  In  short,  the  current  of 
events  centering  about  her  in  the  little 
New  England  village  were  an  exist- 
ence, her  correspondence  with  Alexan- 
dre  Bainville  a  portion  of  her  external 
life. 

There  is  something  in  all  women 
which  craves  the  defense  which  mar- 
riage alone  gives;  that  traditional  in- 
stitution is  a  sort  of  bondage  they 
willingly  accept  to  gain  a  larger  free- 
dom. Perhaps  it  was  this  Margaret 
Scudder  sought,  aided  by  the  dread  of 
the  repetition  of  the  stories,  concern- 
ing her  relation  with  Bainville,  of  cir- 
culation of  which  she  was  quite  aware. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  feeling  that  her 
outward  circumstances  could  not  be 
worse,  nor  would  a  change  in  them 
affect  this  more  vital  life  she  led  in 
spite  of  them.  At  any  rate  a  little 
more  than  a  year  after  her  return  she 
married  Thomas  Hales,  physician  and 
trustee  of  the  First  Presbyterian 
Church.  Hales  was  one  of  those  com- 
fortable individuals  who  apply  the 
ideas  of  the  preceding  generation  to 
the  problems  of  his  own  and  are  com- 
pletely satisfied  with  the  result;  who 
always  follow  their  conscience  with- 


out troubling  themselves  to  give  this 
guide  a  careful  going  over  in  an  age 
to  set  it  right,  much  as  if  a  man 
should  refuse  to  correct  his  grand- 
father's clock  which  had  not  run  down 
since  that  gentleman's  death,  but  had 
contracted  the  unfortunate  habit  of 
losing  half  a  minute  daily  about  that 
time.  The  match  was  not  a  mistake, 
however.  The  couple  were  blessed 
with  childlessness,  and  Thomas  Hales 
beamed  with  his  particularly  beaming- 
eyes  on  his  wife,  whom  he  did  not  in 
the  least  understand,  but  somehow  felt 
to  be  superior  to  any  other  woman  he 

knew. 

*  *  *  * 

Margaret's  life,  then,  had  gone  on 
with  monotonous  regularity  for  fifteen 
years.  Beyond  the  necessary  adjust- 
ments, there  was  little  change  save 
that  Thomas  Hales  tended  to  recede 
further  and  further  into  the  back- 
ground the  oftener  she  looked  at  his 
sun-flushed  countenance  across  the 
dinner  table,  and  Alexandre  Bainville 
stood  out  in  more  heroic  proportions 
with  each  letter  that  passed  between 
them.  All  this  had  gone  on  so  long 
that  Margaret  felt  it  to  be  the  course 
of  her  life,  unchangeable  and  unre- 
vocable;  yet  three  days  before  Dr. 
Hales  entered  the  library  on  the  day 
mentioned  to  discourse  on  the  woes  of 
Mrs.  Smuggins,  his  wife  received  a 
cablegram  with  the  brief  message  that 
Alexandre  Bainville  was  dead. 

This,  then,  was  the  problem  with 
which  she  had  been  tormented  during 
the  succeeding  days,  which  she  had 
met  at  all  turns,  and  by  which  she  had 
been  baffled — all  under  that  mask  of 
cold  reserve  which  had  proved  a  like 
defense  on  less  trying  occasions;  this 
was  the  question  which  must  be  an- 
swered before  her  spirit  broke  under 
the  strain — could  she  endure  with  only 
the  dreary  existence  before  her  which 
till  the  death  of  Alexandre  Bainville 
had  had  an  excuse  for  being,  but  now 
was  emptier  than  any  non-existence 
could  be  after  her  body  was  laid  in 
the  grave?  One-half  her  life,  and 
that  the  half  for  which  the  rest  ex- 
isted had  been  cut  off;  why  keep  the 


THREE  DAYS 


209 


casket  when  the  jewel  was  gone  or  hold 
to  the  sheath .  that  no  longer  held  a 
sword?  Two  days  had  passed  and 
there  was  no  answer;  the  third  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  An  no  answer. 

That  night  she  dressed  with  more 
than  usual  care;  perhaps  it  diverted 
her  mind,  or  may  be  she  had  learned 
to  attend  to  the  numerous  affairs  of 
everyday  life  with  a  full  current  of 
running  beneath  the  obvious  attention. 
As  the  candlelight  fell  on  her  pale 
skin,  and  lit  the  fine  face  with  its  dark 
full  eyes,  Thomas  Hales  felt  himself 
fortunate  beyond  his  desserts.  There 
was  little  conversation  during  dinner, 
and  later,  when  her  husband  bade 
her  goodnight  in  order  to  finish  a 
weighty  matter  involving  much  corre- 
spondence and  a  due  outlay  of  thought, 
she  called  for  a  heavy  fur  cloak,  and 
with  orders  that  the  lights  should  be 
extinguished  at  the  usual  time  stepped 
out  into  the  chill  air.  She  walked  di- 
rectly around  the  house  into  a  little 
garden  of  her  own  planning.  A  stone 
wall  enclosed  the  whole  plot  with  a 
sunken  portion  in  the  center  sheltering 
a  small  pool.  The  dry,  crisp  leaves, 
blown  across  the  walks,  crackled  under 
her  feet,  and  the  withered  shrubs  rus- 
tled as  her  cloak  brushed  them.  Down 
the  steps  she  passed  to  the  edge  of 
the  pool,  and  then  sat  on  a  low  stone 
bench. 

It  was  cold,  but  very  clear,  with  no 
wind,  and  despite  the  situation,  she 
felt  a  strange  feeling  of  relief  at  es- 
cape from  the  house.  Here  at  least 
she  was  free  from  interruption;  here 
her  soul  was  her  own.  She  glanced 
upward  into  the  alluring  gloom  and 
vastness  of  the  night  with  that  feeling 
of  exaltation  which  comes  from  a  sense 
of  escape  from  the  limitations  of  mat- 
ter. That  view  of  the  unbroken  sky 
with  its  innumerable  populace  of  stars 
gives  a  sort  of  freedom  from  space, 


time,  gravitation  and  every  limitation 
save  that  of  sight.  She  could  not  but 
feel  it,  and  somehow  it  became  a  sym- 
bol of  the  soul  of  Alexandre  Bainville, 
freed  now  from  all  the  littleness  and 
weakness  of  flesh  and  the  stagnant 
pool,  covered  with  dead  leaves,  be- 
came her  own  life.  The  pool  might 
mirror  the  star,  but  in  her  there  was 
no  sense  of  communication  with  the 
man  she  loved.  How  long  she  sat 
there  I  do  not  know,  but  the  Pleiades 
were  high  overhead,  when  she  realized 
how  cold  she  was,  and  turned  toward 
the  house.  The  door  was  unfastened 
and  she  entered  as  noiselessly  as  might 
be.  The  hall  was  dark,  save  for  the 
break  made  by  the  great  window  over 
the  stairs.  With  the  aid  of  the  balus- 
trade she  groped  her  way,  up,  up,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  that  this  was  her  life, 
groping  always  in  the  dark  with  only  a 
chill,  far-off  light.  On  the  landing  she 
paused  and  looking  out  through  the 
window  saw  again  the  luminous  night 
with  its  wonder  of  stars.  Then,  sud- 
denly, and  yet  gradually,  she  was 
aware  of  the  old  sense  of  the  nearness 
of  her  lover.  A  stretching  out  as  it 
were  of  his  hands  through  the  dark- 
ness, a  groping  which  she  needed  only 
to  answer.  Quickly  she  passed  to  her 
room.  There  was  no  feeling  for  the 
way,  no  sense  of  obstruction.  The 
light  at  her  desk  was  burning;  she 
picked  up  a  sheet  of  paper  and  sat 
down  eagerly  to  write : 

"Alexandre,  until  this  very  in- 
stant for  two  weeks — I  have  known  no 
communication  with  you,  have  had 
no  line  from  you,  have  written  you 
nothing.  Within  the  past  three  days 
I  have  descended  into  Hell  and  lived 
the  life  of  the  dead.  Now  I  am  risen 
again " 

I  do  not  know  how  long  she  wrote, 
or  how  the  letter  to  the  dead  man 
ended. 


The  Wolf-Dog 


By  Dorothy  AViller 


BILLY  eagerly  watched  his  mas- 
ter put  away  pan,  pickaxe  and 
shovel.  Hungrily  wistful,  he 
eyed  the  old  miner  as  he  split 
firewood  and  propped  up  the  fallen 
corner  of  the  camp  stove  with  an 
empty  condensed  milk  can.  His  joy- 
ful yelp  dwindled  to  a  disappointed 
whine  when  he  discovered  that  the 
pork  and  beans  sizzling  over  the  fire 
were  not  for  him.  Billy's  wagging  tail, 
eager  eyes  and  quivering  body  plainly 
asked  for  something  to  eat. 

"Here,  you  lazy  brute'"  growled  the 
miner.  "Stuff!"  And  he  threw  the 
dog  a  hunk  of  dried  salmon.  Billy 
snatched  the  food,  dodging  with  an 
ease  born  of  long  practice  the  kick 
that  went  with  it. 

The  bit  of  food  didn't  half  satisfy 
the  dog's  ravenous  appetite,  but  he 
knew  better  than  to  beg  for  more.  So 
he  crouched  in  the  corner  and  adored 
his  master  with  speaking  eyes.  To 
Billy,  the  knarled  old  man  with  the 
bleary  eyes,  unkempt  hair  and  beard, 
greasy  clothes  and  evil  temper,  was 
the  personification  of  glorious  power 
and  wisdom.  To  be  sure,  there  are 
unpleasant  things  connected  with  a 
temper,  but  a  dog  will  avoid  those  if 
he  is  wise.  So  sagacious  Billy  crawled 
under  the  bunk  when  he  observed  his 
master  take  the  stopper  from  the  black 
bottle  and  drink  long  swigs  thereof. 

As  the  clog  lay  on  the  floor  with  his 
nose  to  the  crack  between  the  logs,  a 
strange  odor  filled  his  nostrils.  He 
twitched  uneasily.  It  was  "man" 
smell,  certainly,  but  it  was  a  strange 
one.  Billy  whined  suspiciously,  and 
thrust  a  distrustful  nose  from  under 
the  bunk. 

His  master,  who  by  this  time  was 


most  hilariously  drunk,  saw  the  sniff- 
ing nose  protruding  from  under  his 
bunk.  Poor  Billy  felt  a  rough  hand 
seize  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck.  He 
knew  what  that  meant,  and  tried  to 
wriggle  free.  A  whip  curled  about 
the  writhing  body  and  left  a  line  of 
blood  showing  crimson  against  the 
gray  fur.  The  dog  yelped,  and  the 
miner  laughed  drunkenly  at  the  ani- 
mal's pain.  Again  and  again  the  cruel 
whip  scorched  the  bleeding  body,  till 
finally  the  man  wearied  of  his  amuse- 
ment. So  he  threw  the  now  moaning 
dog  into  the  corner  and  kicked  the  un- 
resisting body. 

In  spite  of  his  pain,  Billy  sniffed 
again  the  slight,  unpleasant  odor.  He 
cocked  inquiring  ears,  wrinkled  his 
sharp  nose,  while  his  searching  eyes 
roved  round  the  room,  from  his  master 
now  sprawled  on  the  floor  in  a  heavy 
torpor,  to  the  disheveled  bunk  and  the 
cluttered  table,  to  the  piles  of  gold-dust 
pokes  in  the  corner,  to  the  window — 
and  there  they  stopped.  His  baleful 
green  eyes  glared  full  into  the  spark- 
ling black  ones  of  a  strange  man. 

A  shove,  and  the  door  flew  open. 
Billy  pulled  his  aching  haunches  to- 
gether and  crouched  ready. 

The  stranger  glanced  eagerly  around 
him.  Greed  flashed  on  the  dark  fea- 
tures when  he  saw  the  pokes.  He 
laughed  softly.  "Tom,"  he  said,  "I've 
got  you  now.  You  did  me  dirt  once, 
but  you  never  will  again."  He  pulled 
a  hunting-knife  from  his  belt  and 
stooped. 

Billy  sized  up  the  situation  in- 
stantly. An  inarticulate  snarl,  a  flash 
of  gray,  and  he  was  on  the  intruder, 
seeking  to  bury  his  terrible  fangs  in 
the  man's  throat.  He  felt  the  sharp 


"GIVE  US  THIS  DAY." 


211 


knife  graze  his  aleady  bleeding  flesh, 
but  it  only  added  fuel  to  the  fire  of 
his  brute  rage.  He  saw  the  man  snatch 
a  stick  of  firewood,  but  his  hold  did 
not  loosen  until  something  heavy 
thudded  on  his  skull  and  darkness 

blotted  out  the  scene. 

*  *  *  * 

As  the  cold  dampness  of  early  morn- 
ing filled  the  cabin  with  wet  chill, 
Billy  stretched  and  sought  to  open  his 
eyes,  in  spite  of  the  matted  blood  that 
clouded  them.  He  yawned  prodigiously 
and  crept  to  his  master's  side,  nosing 
away  a  bloody  hunting  knife.  Again 
a  whiff  of  that  awful  smell.  A  whirl- 
wind of  recollection  stormed  through 
the  husky's  brain.  Billy  was  no  fool. 
He  knew  Death  when  he  saw  it.  And 
now  his  anguish  was  pitiful.  In  agony 
he  licked  the  cold  face  and  gashed 
breast.  All  day  long  he  watched  by 
the  body,  silently,  except  that  he 
would  occasionally  lift  up  his  throat 


in  a  long  howl  like  the  wolf  who 
mourns  his  dead  mate. 

The  red  sun  hung  low  behind  the 
hill  slopes.  The  sparkling  headwaters 
of  the  Klondike  danced  in  the  crimson 
glory  of  that  midnight  sun.  A  fresh 
night  breeze  blew  from  down  the  val- 
ley, and  softly  whispered  a  funeral  air 
to  the  sympathetic  pine  branches. 

Billy  sniffed  that  breeze.  He  sniffed 
it  several  times.  He  wrinkled  hisl 
nose  in  the  direction  of  the  hunting 
knife.  He  bristled.  He  lifted  up  his 
throat  to  howl — but  this  time  it  was 
the  cry  of  the  beast  who  smells  meat. 
Billy  was  hungry.  Well,  he  must  hunt 
his  own  food  now.  New  vigor  filled 
the  sturdy  limbs.  The  slinking  tail 
was  reared  triumphantly  aloft.  A 
vengeful  light  glowed  in  the  sulphur- 
ous eyes.  With  nose  to  the  trail  he 
relentlessly  followed  that  now  familiar 
smell.  The  wolf  was  stalking  his 
prey. 


"GIVE     US     THIS     DAY" 


The  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills  are  Thine, 

And  all  the  land; 
The  riches  of  the  world  are  lightly  held 

Within  Thy  hand; 
The  powers  of  the  universe  are  swayed 

By  Thy  Command. 

The  lilies  of  the  field  are  richly  robed, 

The  sparrows  fed; 
Yet  could  Thy  well-beloved  claim  nowhere 

To  lay  His  haed : 
According  to  Thy  wisdom,  Lord,  provide 

Our  daily  bread. 

If  poverty  be  best  for  those  whom  Thou 

Doth  close  enfold, 
The  priceless  dower  of  want  or  sorrow,  pain 

Or  shame  untold, 
Then  be  it  so!    It  is  the  good  Thy  love 

Wilt  not  withhold. 


RUTH  E.  HENDERSON. 


In  the  Lynx  Home 

By  Lyman  Seelye 


SEATED  around  the  camp  fire  at 
Rickerts,  the  old  woodsmen  re- 
lated tales  of  thrilling  adventure 
and  hairbreadth  escapes,  thus 
passing  many  an  hour  that  might  have 
been,  and  often  is,  in  such  places, 
worse  spent.  Owing  to  the  length  of 
time  they  had  been  in  camp,  they 
had  almost  exhausted  their  stock  of 
yarns ;  except  for  two  young  men,  nei- 
ther of  whom  had  passed  his  twentieth 
milestone. 

Long  Pete  was  the  head  faller  in 
the  camp,  and  young  as  he  was,  no 
one  could  place  a  great  tree — usually 
sawed  while  standing  on  spring  boards 
from  eight  to  fifteen  feet  from  the 
ground — more  truly  than  he.  Roy 
Davis  was  a  New  England  boy  who, 
by  doctors'  orders,  had  been  taken 
from  school  and  sent  to  the  evergreen 
forests  of  Puget  Sound. 

One  evening  after  half  of  the  men 
had  curled  up  in  their  bunks,  a  reso- 
lution was  unanimously  passed  that 
the  "kids  take  the  floor  and  furnish  the 
next  evening's  entertainment." 

Roy  protested  that  his  life  had  been 
an  uneventful  one,  though  he  had  of- 
ten wished  that  something  might  hap- 
pen to  give  is  spice. 

Peter  remarked :  "Nothing  ever  hap- 
pened to  me,  but  I  presume  there  will 
to-morrow,  for  Murphy  is  sick,  and  if 
Mr.  Rickerts  can  spare  him  I  would 
like  to  have  Massachusetts  help  me." 

Rickerts  glanced  at  Roy. 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  help  in 
falling,  but  was  never  on  a  spring 
board,  and,  as  you  know,  I  have  sawed 
but  little,"  the  boy  replied. 

"To-morrow's  work  will  not  be  on 
the  boards,  as  there  is  a  twelve  foot 
cedar  to  cut  low,  and  unless  the  hol- 
low is  greater  than  it  appears,  we  will 
do  well  to  get  it  down." 

As  they  retired  to  their  bunks,  one 
of  the  men  called  after  them :  "Be  sure, 
kids,  to  hatch  up  something  for  to- 


morrow night." 

Roy  was  only  a  flunky — a  stable 
cleaner,  floor  scrubber,  water  carrier 
and  general  waiter — so  he  was  glad 
to  get  away  from  the  drudgery  even 
for  a  day.  He  liked  the  stalwart  Pete 
who  had  secured  him  the  job  when 
they  met  on  the  streets  of  Bellingham 
a  few  weeks  before,  and  he  was  al- 
ready dreaming  of  the  time  when  he 
could  exchange  his  place  for  that  of 
the  skilled  woodsman  and  the  fully 
treble  pay. 

In  the  morning,  an  hour  was  spent 
felling  a  smaller  tree  on  the  lower 
side  of  the  great  cedar,  as  this  would 
furnish  a  staging  that  would  place 
the  sawyers  on  a  level  with  each  other. 
The  rest  of  the  forenoon  they  used  in 
making  what  is  called  the  undercut; 
that  is,  they  cut  a  notch  in  the  side 
of  the  tree,  facing  the  direction  they 
wish  the  tree  to  fall.  In  this  case, 
they  sawed  as  deep  as  they  could  with 
an  eleven  foot  falling  saw,  which  took 
them  into  the  tree  about  three  and  one- 
half  feet.  Then  they  made  a  new 
kerf  about  three  feet  above  the  first, 
and  turned  the  edge  of  the  saw  down- 
wards, so  that  the  two  kerfs  would 
meet  at  the  inner  edge.  This  would 
remove  from  the  tree  a  wedge  shaped 
piece,  three  and  one-half  feet  thick 
at  the  outer  edge,  and  measuring  nine 
feet  along  the  inner  edge. 

About  an  hour  after  dinner  they  fin- 
ished sawing  the  under  cut,  and  quick- 
ly pried  out  the  great  wedge  of  wood. 
The  tree  was  hollow,  as  most  large  ce- 
dars are,  and  had  a  cavity  that  meas- 
ured nearly  eight  feet  at  the  ground, 
but  it  tapered  rapidly  as  shown  by 
the  shape  of  the  trunk.  They  had  cut 
through  the  shell,  and  the  hole  was 
about  three  feet  long,  with  the  widest 
part  showing  an  open  space,  of  some- 
thing more  than  a  foot. 

Their  saw  would  not  reach  across 
the  tree,  so  it  was  necessary  for  one 


THE  LYNX  HOME 


213 


of  the  boys  to  get  inside  the  cavity, 
which  would  enable  them  to  saw  on 
the  edge  of  the  shell.  It  did  not  seem 
to  Roy  that  the  hole  was  large  enough, 
for  one  of  them  to  pass  through;  but 
Pete  only  smiled  at  his  doubt,  and  af- 
ter explaining  how  the  work  on  the 
outside  should  be  done,  threw  himself 
flat  on  the  stump,  face  downward,  and 
with  seeming  ease  slipped  into  the 
hollow.  His  feet  scarcely  had  disap- 
peared, when  his  face  reappeared  in 
the  opening,  and  he  laughingly  said: 

"This  will  be  nice  and  warm."  Then 
after  a  momentary  sniffing  of  the  air: 
"But  hanged  if  it  don't  smell  as  if 
there  was  an  animal  in  here.  Ding 
bust  it,  what  is  this  ?" 

There  was  rotten  wood  falling  all 
over  the  woodsman,  and  following  a 
sliding,  scratching  noise,  there  came 
a  blood-curdling  scream,  and  a  large 
animal  slipped  from  above,  and  came 
to  the  ground  beside  him. 

Long  Pete  made  a  dive  for  the  open- 
ing, but  another  pair  of  eyes  had  seen 
it  at  the  same  moment,  and  another 
sinewy  form  had  plunged  madly  for  it, 
with  the  result  that  two  heads,  one 
being  that  of  a  Canadian  lynx,  came 
through  the  hole  at  the  same  time.  As 
neither  head  had  come  through  the 
opening  exactly  in  the  center,  it  was 
impossible  for  either  pair  of  shoulders 
to  pass  through  at  all.  As  the  two 
natural  enemies  were  forced  to  stop, 
they  recoiled  from  each  other,  and  in 
so  doing,  both  were  wedged  firmly  near 
their  respective  ends  of  the  opening. 
The  lynx  was  struggling  like  a  demon 
in  an  endeavor  to  tear  the  great  tree 
from  its  foundations,  with  eyes  blood- 
shot, tongue  protruding,  and  all  the 
time  screaming  and  snorting  in  a  hor- 
rible manner. 

Roy  grasped  an  axe,  but  saw  that  he 
could  not  strike  an  effective  blow,  and 
Pete,  knowing  that  the  animal  wounded 
would  be  more  dangerous  than  when 
uninjured,  bade  him  to  not  attempt  to 
hit  him.  Then  he  told  Roy  to  get 
a  spring  board,  and  push  it  in  the 
hole  in  a  way  to  protect  his  face.  When 
this  was  done,  Pete  passed  his  arm 
over  the  back  of  the  lynx,  and  pulled 


him  to  the  middle  of  the  opening,  the 
brute  screaming,  spitting  and  scratch- 
ing in  a  manner  that  would  have  torn 
the  boy  in  pieces  had  it  not  been  that 
the  pressure  on  the  animal  being  on 
the  side  away  from  him  caused  the 
lynx  to  strike  in  that  direction. 

When  Pete's  steady  pull  had  re- 
leased the  brute's  neck  from  the  three- 
cornered  grip,  it  plunged  forward  and 
landed  squarely  on  Roy's  shoulders. 
Although  its  claws,  working  convul- 
sively, made  cruel  gashes  in  the  boy's 
flesh,  it  did  not  really  attack  him,  but 
seemingly  dazed  by  the  turn  of  events, 
was  merely  exhibiting  its  natural  fe- 
rocity. 

Smarting  with  pain  and  thoroughly 
frightened,  Roy  started  to  run  down  the 
steep  hill,  on  the  crest  of  which  the 
great  tree  stood.  He  had  taken  but  a 
few  steps  when  the  lynx  suddenly 
sprang  sideways  into  the  thick  growing 
salal  bushes. 

The  boy,  however,  had  too  much 
momentum  to  stop  on  the  side  hill,  and 
ten  minutes  later  his  comrades  found 
him,  bleeding,  stunned  and  uncon- 
scious, in  the  trail  at  the  foot  of  the 
slope. 

Meanwhile  Pete  was  having  a  rather 
rapid  succession  of  thrills,  for  he  had 
no  sooner  attempted  to  extricate  him- 
self from  his  awkward  position,  when 
another  lynx  dropped  on  his  back,  and 
commenced  screaming  and  spitting  as 
it  felt  its  footstool  quiver.  As  is  the 
wont  of  its  kind  when  excited,  the 
great  cat  kept  the  claws  on  its  front 
feet  working,  and  in  this  way  severely 
scratched  the  securely  imprisoned 
man.  In  a  few  moments,  the  brute, 
seeing  the  way  apparently  clear, 
sprang  through  the  opening  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  forest. 

A  third  lynx  acted  precisely  as  did 
the  second  one,  and  was  followed  by 
a  fourth  and  a  fifth ;  each  in  turn  mak- 
ing about  the  same  amount  of  trouble 
before  breaking  for  the  brush  cover. 
Through  the  trying  ordeal  the  boy  suc- 
ceeded in  keeping  quiet. 

Then  came  a  moment  of  suspense, 
and  believing  the  hive  to  be  empty, 
he  began  to  crowd  towards  the  center 


214 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


of  the  opening.  At  the  first  move- 
ment, savage  snarls  above  him  told 
that  his  troubles  were  not  yet  over. 
For  a  full  minute  he  kept  perfectly 
still,  all  the  time  pondering  over  the 
best  plan  for  escape.  He  suspected 
that  the  creatures  that  had  gone  be- 
fore were  but  a  happy  family  of  kit- 
tens,— though  each  one  was  large  and 
strong  enough  to  pull  down  a  deer — 
and  that  the  one  above  was  the  mother 
lynx,  which  is  one  of  the  most  fero- 
cious creatures  in  the  animal  kingdom. 
He  knew  that  in  his  vest  pocket  there 
were  several  matches,  and  slowly  he 
lifted  his  free  hand,  with  the  dimly 
formed  plan  of  lighting  them,  and  in 
the  flash  and  smoke  they  would  make, 
gain  a  chance  to  crawl  from  his  pres- 
ent predicament.  Before  he  could 
reach  them,  the  lynx  came  down,  not 
on  his  back  as  the  others  had  done, 
but  beside  him. 

She  was  snarling  and  growling  as 
she  came  down,  and  when  she  had 
sniffed  him  over,  she  gave  two  or 
three  blood  curdling  screams.  Long 
Pete  kept  perfectly  quiet,  but  his  feel- 
ings can  be  better  imagined  than  de- 
scribed, securely  trapped  and  at  the 
mercy  of  the  great  cat. 

The  lynx  raised  on  her  hind  feet 
and  stuck  her  head  through  the  open- 
ing, then  turned  her  nose  to  the  boy's 
face,  she  sniffed  that  over  and  emitted 
another  of  her  horrible  screams,  and 
he  thought  his  last  moment  had  come. 

There  were  four  dogs  down  at  the 
camp :  a  white  spitz,  a  pair  of  fox  ter- 
riers and  a  large  mastiff.  These  had 
been  attracted  by  the  continued 
screams  of  the  wild  beasts,  and  at  this 
critical  moment  a  little  woolly  dog 
bounded  on  the  stump,  and  with  a 
fierce  bark  rushed  at  once  to  the  lynx, 
which,  dodging  sideways,  was  caught, 
just  as  the  boy  and  the  first  one  had 
been. 

That  one  had  struggled  violently  to 
free  itself,  but  that  seemed  like  child's 
play  when  compared  to  the  pandemo- 
nium that  ensued.  The  spitz  was 
quickly  joined  by  the  terriers,  and  the 
three,  barking  furiously,  combined 
with  the  big  cat's  spitting,  twisting, 


snarling  and  screaming — all  within  two 
feet  of  the  boy's  tightly  held  face — 
was,  as  Pete  afterwards  reimarked : 
"Enough  to  paralyze  one." 

Several  times  her  swinging  claws 
caught  the  boy's  corduroys,  slitting 
them  as  with  knives,  and  leaving  long 
cruel  gashes  in  the  flesh.  This  pain, 
together  with  the  nerve  shaking  posi- 
sion,  caused  the  sturdy  woodsman  to 
wildly  shout  in  unison  with  the  other 
turmoil. 

In  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  old 
Brave,  the  mastiff,  came  upon  the 
scene,  and  with  a  howl  of  joy,  grasped 
the  lynx  by  the  nose.  Pete  at  once 
pulled  the  brute  to  the  center  of  the 
opening,  when  had  he  not  aided  the 
dog  in  forcing  her  out,  she  would  have 
pulled  him  into  the  hollow.  Their 
united  strength  brought  her  shoulders 
through  the  opening,  when  she  sud- 
denly sprang  forward,  the  dog  and 
lynx  went  rolling  down  the  hlil  in  a 
death  struggle. 

Long  Pete  did  not  wait  to  ascertain 
if  there  were  more  members  of  the 
lynx  family  in  the  tree,  but  hurriedly 
worked  himself  loose,  and  had  nearly 
crawled  from  the  stump  when  a  half- 
dozen  loggers  attracted  by  the  unusual 
commotion,  reached  him.  Two  re- 
mained with  the  badly  wounded  boy, 
while  the  others  rushed  to  the  aid  of 
the  dogs.  The  victorious  lynx  had 
just  killed  the  last  one  as  they  came 
up,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  charge  the 
men;  but  a  well  directed  blow  from 
a  woodsman's  axe  cleft  her  skull,  and 
ended  the  combat. 

An  examination  of  the  tree  showed 
the  hole  through  which  the  animals  en- 
tered their  home  to  be  under  a  root, 
and  the  felling  of  the  smaller  tree  had 
completely  closed  this. 

Four  hours  later  when  the  hurriedly 
summoned  doctors  had  finished  patch- 
ing the  two  boys,  and  had  passed  judg- 
ment that  they  would  recover,  Long 
Pete  whispered  faintly  to  his  com- 
rade: 

"Have  you  had  spice  enough  for 
one  day,  Massachusetts?" 

And  Roy  answered:  "Yes,  and  pep- 
per, too." 


A  Daughter  of  the  Sun 


By  Billee  Glynn 


Part  I— Chapter  I 


IT  WAS  one  of  those  little  towns  in 
California — scented  and  quiet — 
that  unfold  rose-like  to  the  sun.  In- 
deed, it  was  noted  for  its  roses,  for 
its  red  throated  poinsettias — flaring 
Christmas  fire  flames  midst  their  rip- 
pling verdure;  for  its  prodigality  of 
foliage  and  blossom  generally — from 
the  sea-green  spray  of  its  fountain 
dropping  pepperwoods  and  weeping 
willows  to  its  knarled,  tworled  oaks, 
graceful  to  their  topmost  branches  in 
ivy.  In  these  things  its  people  vied 
with  one  another  and  prided  them- 
selves— and  were  rewarded  by  the  ex- 
clamations of  surprise  and  delight  of 
the  strangers  who  entered  their  gates — 
always  to  linger,  if  they  could.  So  the 
town  nestled  there  in  its  half-wayward 
beauty  like  a  dream  of  Pan  to  the 
music  of  its  gurgly  brook,  its  wide 
avenues  not  cutting  it  cruelly  as  thor- 
oughfares do,  but  lying  like  silk  ribbon 
white  and  gleaming  in  the  sun — and 
even  their  echoes  spoke  softly  and  dis- 
turbed not  the  peace.  In  it  all,  its 
people  moved  with  an  infinite  content, 
forbearing  the  strenuous,  satisfied  with 
the  melody  of  life  under  skies  that 
were  ever  blue,  and  its  daughters  grew 
up  slim  and  beautiful  with  the  haze  of 
summer  in  their  eyes. 

It  was  into  this  environment  that 
John  Hamilton  stepped  one  morning 
early  in  June.  The  dew  was  still  on 
the  rose  bushes,  and  pearling  the 
hedges  the  damp  nectar  of  a  thousand 
flowers  in  the  air,  and  the  man  paused 
more  than  once  on  the  way  he  was 
going,  drinking  in  the  unusual  beauty 
of  the  little  scenes  which  unfolded  to 
him.  He  was  a  strayling,  a  miner  by 
occupation,  John  Hamilton,  with  be- 


hind his  apparent  nonchalance  the 
quick  sense  of  appreciation,  particu- 
larly in  matters  of  nature,  that  most 
straylings  have.  Thirty-five  years,  too, 
had  rather  perfected  than  dulled,  his 
perceptions — even  as  they  had  failed 
in  the  slightest  degree  to  smutch  the 
wanderlust  at  his  soul. 

The  house  in  which  Myra  lived  he 
located  on  the  lower  outskirts  of  the 
town,  where  it  dipped  toward  the  silver 
clatter  of  the  brook.  It  was  a  white, 
roomy  looking  cottage,  with  spreading 
wings.  A  sea  gull  might  have  paused 
so,  and  lingered,  won  by  the  cool,  deep 
shade  of  the  lazy,  arboring  trees  and 
the  breeze  stirred  breathing  of  ama- 
ryllis,  pansies  and  flaring  red  and  yel- 
low poppies  that  dotted  passion  in  the 
ample  spaces  of  the  grounds.  Form- 
ing a  sort  of  natural  arch  over  the 
doorway,  a  white  rose  tree  drooped 
with  the  weight  of  its  blossoms,  and 
sifted  upward  again  as  though  jealous 
even  of  the  barrenness  of  the  roof — 
and  on  either  side  of  the  pebbled  walk 
a  couple  of  diminutive  fountains 
sprayed  and  plunged  themselves  sport- 
ively. John  Hamilton  stood  in  appre- 
ciation before  entering — and  it  was 
with  a  certain  satisfaction  in  his  mind 
that  his  surroundings  were  to  be  such 
pleasant  ones  during  his  month's  visit; 
a  lazy  month  previous  to  his  shipping 
for  the  gold  fields  in  Australia,  where 
a  commission  waited  him. 

Myra,  as  baby  sisters  will,  even 
when  married,  had  insisted  on  that 
visit  in  every  letter  he  got  from  her — 
and  here  he  was,  accordingly,  four 
weeks  ahead  of  his  sailing  time.  He 
had  not  seen  her  for  seventeen  years — 
not  since  in  short  dresses  she  had  clung 


216 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


around  his  neck  that  summer  morning 
in  their  father's  home  in  the  Missis- 
sippi Valley,  and  cried  till  the  dim- 
ples became  blurrs  in  her  pretty,  freck- 
led face  because  he  was  leaving.  Now 
she  was  an  invalid,  had  been  so  for 
five  years,  and  though  a  sweet,  clinging 
hope  always  breathed  out  of  her  let- 
ters, and  she  spoke  fondly  of  the  affec- 
tion and  tender  care  of  her  husband, 
a  well  to  do  dentist,  she  had  never 
said  a  word  of  her  ultimate  recovery. 
But  John  Hamilton  understood — it  was 
an  affection  of  the  spine.  So  he  had 
endeavored  to  think  of  her  only  as  the 
bright  and  active  girl  he  had  left  so 
many  years  ago.  When  the  smiling 
servant,  however,  ushered  him  into  the 
cool,  soft  tinted  room,  with  its  glass 
partition  and  conservatory  at  the  side, 
and  he  saw  her  sitting  there  in  her 
chair,  her  little,  helpless  form  on  its 
support  of  cushions,  but  with  the  glad, 
winsome  light  of  old  in  her  face — still 
childish,  but  grown  ethereal — it 
brought  a  kind  of  catch  to  the  man's 
breath,  a  mist  that  shut  out  vision;  for 
the  instant  everything  but  that  home 
by  the  Mississippi  and  the  romping 
hopes  of  the  girl  that  had  been. 

Her  thin,  petal-like  hands  were 
stretched  out  to  him  in  eager  welcome 
— and  he  went  and  took  them  in  his 
own  big,  strong  ones,  kissing  her  again 
and  again.  "Mamie!"  he  murmured. 
"Mamie!" — for  it  was  the  name  of  her 
childhood.  And  just  a  moment  at  the 
sound  of  that  name  she  sobbed  on  his 
hands. 

She  put  him  away  from  her  with 
a  tiny  gesture,  scanning  him  keenly  out 
of  the  blue  eyes  that  shone  so  brightly, 
while  he  stood  there  smiling  under  her 
inspection.  Every  bit  of  him  she  took 
in — the  half  graceful,  half  awkward 
six  feet  of  length,  the  loose,  clinging 
clothes — neckerchief  and  sombrero ; 
the  slight  round  of  the  broad,  easy-rid- 
ing shoulders,  and  the  browned,  thin 
column  of  the  neck,  rearing  so  noncha- 
lantly the  high-cheekboned  face,  with 
its  weathered,  intense  calm.  Quietly 
striking,  not  at  all  like  the  boy  she  had 
known  he  was,  and  yet  she  would  not 
have  it  so.  She  drew  him  back  to  her 


impulsively  by  the  fingers  of  the  hand 
she  still  held. 

"Oh,  John,  John!"  she  breathed. 
"And  you  look  just  the  same,  don't 
you!  Only  so  strong,  so  brave,  and 
so  very,  very  handsome." 

"And  Mamie,  my  Undo  Mamie,"  he 
reproved  tenderly,  brushing  back  the 
sunlit  hair  from  her  brow,  "is  just  as 
bad  as  ever,  isn't  she,  at  spoiling  her 
big  brother." 

She  laughed  a  little,  but  with  a  mist 
of  something  in  her  eyes.  "Well,  why 
shouldn't  I  be,"  she  asked — "why 
shouldn't  I  be  just  the  same  as  ever?" 

He  made  no  reply,  but  bent  down 
and  kissed  her  again.  Then  they  sat 
there  talking,  and  closing  ,up  as  best 
they  might  the  gap  of  years  that  lay 
between  them.  Donald  Martin,  the  tall, 
angular  man  with  the  sad,  round  eye- 
glasses on  the  optimistic  face,  found 
them  so  even  when  he  came  to  lunch 
almost  three  hours  later. 

"Ah,  Myra,"  he  said,  as  he  shook 
John  Hamilton  warmly  by  the  hand, 
"it's  easy  to  see  you've  fallen  in  love 
again.  It  keeps  me  a  great  deal  of  my 
time  just  watching  her,  sir.  Some  day 
I  shall  come  home  and  the  bird  will 
be  gone  from  its  nest.  Oh,  I  know  it 
in  my  bones." 

Even  as  she  smiled  at  him  the  wo- 
man's face  grew  earnest.  "If  some- 
body or  something  did  snatch  me,"  she 
rejoined  slowly,  "I  guess  it  would  be 
the  very  best  thing  that  could  happen 
you.  Imagine  the  terrible  burden  I've 
been  to  him,  John;  yet  he  never  will 
admit  it." 

The  husband  leaned  over  and  put  a 
hand  on  her  mouth.  "If  you  ever 

speak  like  that  again "  he  began 

warningly.  Then  he  picked  her  up, 
chair  and  all,  and  carried  her  to  the 
dining  room  table — with  a  nod  to  John 
Hamilton  to  follow.  "Talk  about  be- 
ing a  burden,"  he  joked,  "why,  you  are 
as  light  as  thistle-down !  If  you  would 
only  quit  falling  in  love  with  these 
young  Lochinvars  out  of  the  West, 
sombreroed  and  spurred,  I  wouldn't 
mind,  you  see." 

"Well,  who  wouldn't  fall  in  love 
with  him?"  she  contested,  sweeping 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN 


217 


her  brother  again  with  her  glance. 
Then  suddenly  she  darted  the  question 
at  him  in  her  curious  little  way — a  wo- 
man's question  and  at  the  outset: 
"Has  no  one  ever  been  in  love  with 
you,  John?  I  mean,  have  you  ever?" 

Her  husband  laughed,  but  John 
Hamilton  answered  her  simply,  and  in 
the  direct  manner  he  had  always  an- 
swered her  youth. 

"Never,"  he  responded,  "and  never 
likely  to  be.  I  have  too  much  of  a 
hankering  for  the  outward  trail,  I 
reckon.  If  a  man  follows  it  long  enough 
— you  know — nothing  else  matters." 

"But  it  should,  John.  How  much 
money  have  you?  Couldn't  you  settle 
down  if  you  wanted  to  ?" 

He  smiled.  '"About  eight  thousand, 
I  guess,  out  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  of 
'em,  perhaps,  I  have  made." 

"Eight  thousand — why ?"  She 

had  clasped  her  hands  at  the  prospect, 
looking  at  him. 

"You  think  it  plenty,  eh?  Well, 
don't  talk  to  me  of  settling  down,  sis, 
unless  it's  with  a  very  big  stake,  and 
when  there's  nothing  else  to  do."  Then 
because  of  the  quick  disappointment  in 
her  face,  and  the  question  in  the  eyes 
of  the  man,  he  went  on,  speaking  in  a 
tone  that  grew  into  a  strange,  half- 
ringing  earnestness :  "It  isn't,  you  see, 
that  I  wouldn't  like  to  please  you, 
girlie,  but  that  I  can't.  Drinking  and 
tobacco  are  habits,  maybe,  but  roam- 
ing is  a  passion — a  great  big  passion 
like  a  sea  in  a  man.  There  are  some 
who  quit,  of  course,  but  there  are  some 
who  have  been  built  for  it  that  never 
quit.  The  more  they've  had  of  it  the 
more  it's  there.  Even  though  you've 
covered  all  the  ground  you  always 
want  to  cover  it  over  again.  Why,  I'd 
run  away  from  the  finest  woman  I  ever 
saw — from  the  biggest  bunch  of  hap- 
piness I  ever  saw — just  to  feel  my  legs 
free  and  swinging  under  me  again — 
for  a  jolt  of  a  burro  heading  into  the 
desert,  or  the  snarls  of  the  pack-dogs 
up  in  the  Yukon  snows.  I'm  not  going 
to  Australia  because  I  think  I'll  make 
money  there,  but  just  for  the  feel  of  a 
new  country.  It's  funny — you  can't 
explain  it,  nor  you  can't  get  rid  of  it. 


And  you  don't  want  to  get  rid  of  it.  I 
know  we're  not  the  best  kind  of  men 
that  does  this  thing.  I  know  we're  a 
mighty  poor  sort  when  it  comes  to 
standing  by  or  caring  for  the  people 
we  love ;  but  we  can't  help  it,  sir,  you 
see.  We're  the  wild'uns,  that's  all,  and 
I  guess  there's  no  such  a  thing  as  tam- 
ing us." 

He  concluded,  smiling  at  them  some- 
what out  of  the  flame  that  had  waxed 
in  his  eyes,  and  the  woman  turned 
away  with  a  little  sigh,  for  she  knew 
his  soul  had  spoken. 

"But,  John "  she  began.  Then 

she  paused,  with  a  sense  of  the  im- 
potency  of  her  arguments  against  this 
thing  that  was  his  very  bood.  Nei- 
ther through  the  days  which  followed 
did  she  take  the  matter  up  again.  Per- 
haps she  was  quick  to  see  that  what- 
ever change  might  be  wrought  in  a  man 
of  his  kind  had  to  be  wrought  and 

climaxed  within  himself  alone. 
*  *  *  * 

It  was  the  next  afternoon  that  John 
Hamilton,  returning  from  a  stroll  to  the 
brook,  and  entering  his  sister's  room 
through  the  conservatory  door,  found 
another  woman  there  chatting  brightly 
with  Myra.  As  she  turned  to  note  his 
entrance,  he  looked  at  her  in  that  calm, 
penetrating  way  which  men  of  the  wild 
and  waste  places  have  of  looking  at 
things,  and  she  met  his  glance  squarely 
out  of  hazel  eyes.  With  a  sense  of  in- 
trusion, he  would  have  retired,  but 
Myra  called  to  him,  at  the  same  time 
pointing  him  to  a  chair  beside  her. 

"John,"  she  said,  "this  is  Margaret 
Allen,  my  very  dearest  friend,  who 
comes  over  every  day  to  talk  with  me. 
My  big  brother,  Margaret,  whom  I 
have  been  telling  you  about.  I  do  hope 
you're  going  to  be  friends,"  she  added, 
impulsively. 

Margaret  Allen  rose  to  take  his 
hand  and  return  his  greeting.  There 
was  a  ruffle  of  graciousness,  yet  calm, 
easy  flow  in  the  moment  which  perhaps 
bespoke  her  whole  individuality. 
Twenty-eight  years  of  age,  her  days 
had  broken  over  her  only  to  touch  her 
golden-brownness  to  a  finer,  mellower 
quality.  She  stood  just  a  little  above 


218 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


the  man's  shoulder,  her  white  garments 
giving  her  a  strong,  bounteous  appear- 
ance, and  her  countenance  in  its  fair- 
ness, and  raised  as  it  was,  carried 
somehow  the  significance  of  a  flower 
that  had  always  looked  the  sky  in  the 
face.  John  Hamilton,  even  in  that  in- 
stant, had  the  impression  of  a  woman 
infinitely  kind — a  kindness  that  shone 
side  by  side  with  the  reserve  of  the 
maidenhood  still  so  apparent  in  her. 
It  was  impossible,  indeed,  that  Mar- 
garet Allen  should  not  impress  any  one 
in  that  way — though  this  man,  trained 
to  the  silences  of  the  desert,  perhaps 
caught  the  note  of  it  quicker.  He 
smiled  at  her  in  the  manner  he  might 
have  done  in  passing  a  fellow  on  a  lone 
trail. 

"I  think  I  can  be  friends,"  he  said, 
easily. 

A  half  ripple  lighted  the  girl's  face 
as  she  took  her  seat  again.  "Myra," 
she  explained,  "always  makes  so  much 
of  little  things.  I  would  just  fade  away 
and  die  if  I  didn't  have  my  chat  with 
her  every  day,  and  yet  she  makes  be- 
lieve it's  all  on  her  side." 

John  Hamilton,  sitting  down  in  his 
leisurely  way,  however,  overlooked  the 
words  entirely,  his  glance  going 
straight  to  herself  behind  them.  "I 
thank  you  for  being  kind  to  my  sis- 
ter," he  said  simply.  Then  added  as  if 
in  explanation  of  himself.  "I  am 
afraid  I  never  have  been  myself,  may- 
be. As  a  hitter  of  the  way,  I  reckon 
I'm  a  pretty  fair  sample,  but  when  it 
comes  to  comforting  a  woman,  I'm 
clean  out  of  place." 

The  girl  glanced  at  him  a  moment 
out  of  reflective  eyes,  as  if  taking  her 
own  estimate  of  him  in  the  matter. 

Myra  threw  them  a  little  laugh.  "He 
don't  know  what  a  comfort  it  is,"  she 
stated,  "just  to  have  him  around.  And, 
think  of  it,  Margaret,  it's  only  for  a 
month — then  he's  going  to  Australia. 
He's  been  to  the  Yukon,  to  the  Penin- 
sula, to  South  Africa,  Mexico,  South 
America,  Nevada — everywhere — and 
now  he's  going  to  Australia." 

She  counted  the  list  satirically  on  her 
finger,  pointing  at  him  child-like — 
and  John  Hamilton  laughed. 


"Well,  what  else  is  there  for  a  man 
to  do?"  he  argued.  And  again  the 
girl's  eyes  swept  his  face  with  their 
seeming  wish  for  analysis. 

"You  think  there's  nothing  else 
worth  while?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  a  thousand  things,  I  reckon 
— but  I'm  not  capable  of  them,  you  see. 
Up  in  the  Yukon,  Miss  Allan,  there  are 
pack  dogs  that  would  sooner  starve 
and  die  on  the  trail  than  look  sleek 
and  fit  by  a  camp  fire.  It's  not  courage 
or  anything  that  counts,  maybe — it's 
simply  in  'em,  I  guess" — and  his  eyes 
fallen  to  the  brown  back  of  his  hand 
might  have  been  reviewing  a  few 
of  the  parched  trails  he  had  followed — 
"I  guess  I'm  about  that  kind  of  a  fool 

dog  myself." 

"  .  *  *  *  * 

Margaret  Allan  lived  just  in  the  next 
house.  Besides  herself  there  were  her 
white-haired  mother,  a  maiden  aunt 
who  saw  after  things  generally,  and 
her  father — a  retired  surgeon,  grown 
somewhat  of  a  recluse.  These,  with 
a  servant,  an  old  negress  who  had 
been  with  them  for  many  years,  made 
up  the  entire  household,  and  conse- 
quently the  girl  was  left  much  to  her 
own  will — and  with  plenty  of  time  on 
her  hands.  Of  late  years,  with  the  love 
of  nature  so  strong  in  her,  she  had 
made  it  her  particular  province  to  look 
after  the  grounds,  and  they  had  re- 
sponded bountifully  to  her  care.  It 
was  at  the  effects  she  had  created  that 
John  Hamilton  stood  gazing  the  next 
day,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  as  he 
leaned  over  the  low  fence  which  sepa- 
rated the  two  places.  He  did  not 
know,  of  course,  that  Margaret  was 
responsible  for  the  arrangement  of 
flowers  and  shrubs  which  so  delighted 
his  eyes,  even  as  he  knew  neither  that 
at  that  very  moment  she  was  in  with 
Myra — for  he  had  been  out  for  an  hour 
looking  around  the  town.  So  he  stood 
there  reveling  a  little  in  what  he  saw—- 
the dull  red  house,  with  its  rambling 
look  of  age  spread  spaciously  in  the 
shadow  of  the  oaks,  the  short,  winding 
driveway  leading  up  and  around  with 
its  clicking  rows  of  fan  palms  and 
mauve-colored  dogwood;  and  the  oval 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN 


219 


center  where  a  fountain  burst  with 
springy  deliciousness,  where  a  little 
Japanese  summer  house  stood  crushed 
in  the  weight  of  its  roses,  and  tiny 
bloom-eaten  paths  struggled  through 
multitudes  of  blossoms  that  willy-nilly 
laughed  and  whispered  together — a 
careless,  turbulent  crowd  it  seemed  of 
every  shade  and  variety,  and  yet  ar- 
ranged with  a  wonderful  art  of  color. 
There  were  a  couple  of  black  walnuts 
standing  there,  too,  straight,  shapely 
and  policeman-like,  but  a  vine  with 
blue  flowers  had  evidently  resented 
their  posture,  for  it  had  wound  itself 
about  them  to  their  topmost  branches, 
and  its  blossoms  looked  out  shyly  tri- 
umphant from  their  green,  hanging 
leaves. 

John  Hamilton,  in  the  midst  of  his 
observation,  was  disturbed  suddenly 
by  a  voice  from  behind  him. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Mr. 
Hamilton,"  it  said.  And  he  glanced 
around  to  see  Margaret  Allan. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  he  responded, 
with  a  sense  of  the  freshness  she 
brought  with  her,  "that  you  have  a 
pretty  place  here." 

"You  can't  really  see  it  from  there," 
she  said.  "I  would  like  to  take  you  in 
and  show  you,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  am 
rather  proud  of  it  myself,  you  under- 
stand— I  am  the  gardener." 

She  smiled  at  him  in  her  rippling 
way,  and  he  followed  her  through  a 
little  gate  and  across  the  driveway  to- 
ward the  fountain.  Strangely  enough, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  where 
it  was  not  a  thing  of  necessity,  he 
found  himself  perfectly  willing  to  be 
sociable  with  a  woman.  She  was  a  lit- 
tle like  Myra,  after  all,  this  girl,  as 
was  Myra  a  little  like  her.  And  her 
friendliness,  her  golden-brownhess,  as 
it  were,  surely  had  a  way  of  lingering 
on  one. 

His  eyes  took  in  the  strong  grace 
and  youthful  spring  of  her  body,  as 
she  moved  before  him,  then  instantly 
she  stooped  to  chide  a  wayward  shrub 
from  the  path. 

"Are  you  fond  of  flowers?"  she 
asked,  looking  up  at  him. 

''Why,  yes,"  he  replied,    "!  am  fond 


of  most  things  that  grow,  I  guess,  and 
dislike  most  that  are  made." 

"You're  a  funny  man,  aren't  you?" 
she  said,  after  a  moment's  pause,  as 
she  still  worked  with  the  shrub.  "I 
mean — I  mean  you're  somewhat  dif- 
ferent." 

There  was  just  the  slightest  bit  of 
a  flush  on  her  face  as  she  glanced  up 
at  him  again,  and  he  stood  a  little, 
considering  the  matter,  his  sombrero 
tilted  back  on  his  head. 

"Maybe,"  he  said,  finally.  "Yes,  I 
reckon  I  am.  It's  a  good  thing,  too — 
for  the  others,  I  guess." 

"Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  "that 
you  rather  startled  me  yesterday.  I 
didn't  like  you  then — though  I  wanted 
to,  because  you  were  Myra's  brother. 
But  I  don't  mind  you  to-day.  I've  been 
thinking  about  you." 

There  was  a  childish  simplicity  in 
the  words  and  in  the  face  lifted  to  him 
that  for  an  instant  amused  John  Ham- 
ilton mightily.  Yet  it  was  a  sensation 
that  wasn't  all  humor  either — the  sen- 
sation of  one  in  the  shadow  coming  out 
into  the  warm,  quick  tingle  of  the  sun. 
Then  with  a  sense  of  courtesy  new  to 
him,  he  answered  her  seriously. 

"I  always  scare  women  more  or  less, 
I  guess.  I  have  never  had  anything 
to  do  with  them,  you  understand,  and 
they  don't  know  me.  I  don't  know 
them.  I  wasn't  wearing  my  six-shooter 
yesterday,  though;  that  I  remember." 

"It  wasn't  that,"  she  rejoined,  as  she 
straightened  up  beside  him,  "but  be- 
cause"—  and  she  tore  a  blossom  to 
pieces  in  her  hand — "I  had  wanted  you 
to  be  just  a  little  like  Myra — and  you 
— you  were  the  worst — the  very  worst 
kind  of  a  man." 

"Gracious!"  he  ejaculated,  some- 
what astounded. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  it  that  way,"  she 
put  in  quickly.  "Worst  is  not  the 
word  exactly,  and  yet  it  is.  You'll  un- 
derstand it  better,  perhaps,  if  I  say  the 
'manniest'  man — though  that's  not  a 
compliment  either.  You  just  seemed 
made  up  of  all  the  things  a  woman 
couldn't  reach,  and  that  she  would  dis- 
like if  she  could.  You  know  now, 
don't  you  ?  I've  lived  here  all  my  life, 


220                                      OVERLAND  MONTHLY 

you   see — I  was  to  New  York  once  "That's  good  of  you,"  he  said  simply, 

when  I  was  eighteen,  and  I  thought  it  "Perhaps  sometime  you    will    really 

awful.    Even  San  Francisco     is    too  come  to  like  me  a  bit,  eh? — just  be- 

crowded.    I  like  this — but  I  don't  meet  cause  I'm  Myra's  brother." 

a  great  many  people,  of  course — and  She  had  ensconsed  herself  in  one  of 

I  never  met  a  man  of  your  kind  be-  the  wicker  chairs  before  she  spoke, 

fore.    You  know  now?"  "A  man  will  always  like  you  better 

He  nodded  his  head.  than  a  woman  could,  though,"  she  ex- 

"As  I  said,  though,"  she  continued,  plained,  with  a  look  of  probing  into 

"I  thought  you  out  a  bit  last  night,  and  the  things  behind  his  face, 

now  I  don't  mind  you  at  all."  And  to  John  Hamilton  the  words 

Jack  Hamilton  laughed  as  he  fol-  brought  a  momentary  shadow  that  he 

lowed  her  toward  the  summer  house,  could  not  understand. 

(To  be  continued) 


WHAT   AAKES   AND   WARS 


Who  laughs  at  love  is  lost  to  shame ; 

Who  sneers  at  life  is  shallow. 
Who  has  for  youth  but  caustic  blame 

Is  callow. 

The  judge  who  flogs  each  light  misdeed 

Is  crime's  high  instigator. 
He  who  ignores  the  creature-need, 

Slurs  his  Creator. 

Is  honor  gained ?    Then  gold's  well  lost; 

The  vanquished  is  victorious. 
Such  failure  is  but  battle's  cost 

And  glorious. 

The  world  has  work  for  serfs  and  kings, 

For  epicure  and  stoic. 
All  life  is  built  of  pigmy  things, 

But  life's  heroic. 

Philosophy's  a  broken  staff 

Unless  its  core  be  Nature. 
What's  science  with  a  leering  laugh? 

Fool's  legislature. 

Who  reverences  the  naked  bone, 
Who  gives  his  hand  where  help  is  craved, 

Who  sees  the  statue  in  the  stone — 
Is  saved. 


ARTHUR  POWELL. 


A  Bear  Hunt 


By  J.  R.  Fruit 


IN  THE  FALL  of  1903  I  was  en- 
gaged to  guide  a  party  of  hunters 
made  up  mostly  of  rich  young 
bloods  from  Chicago  into  the  wilds 
of  Idaho.  As  this  had  been  my  busi- 
ness for  several  years,  I  was  supposed 
to  know  the  mountain  country  better 
than  most  men.  I  was  asked  to  guide 
them  into  the  best  possible  country  for 
a  thirty  day  outing.  I  decided  on  the 
Thunder  Mountain  country. 

The  first  night  out  we  were  camped 
on  Moors  Creek,  the  only  good  camp- 
ing place  for  twenty  miles  either  way 
on  the  great  overland  freight  trail 
leading  from  Boise  into  the  Boise 
Basin  country.  The  bunch  were  in  a 
reminiscent  mood.  There  were  prob- 
ably twenty  men  squatted  about  the 
fire.  Half  a  dozen  freighters,  return- 
ing to  Boise  after  delivering  the  last 
load  that  would  be  likely  to  venture 
into  the  Basin  country  that  fall.  Sev- 
eral prospectors  who  were  endeavor- 
ing to  trace  up  the  rich  float  that  was 
found  in  that  vicinity,  and  our  crowd 
bent  upon  a  hunt  in  the  upper  country. 

Several  freighters  had  entertained 
us  with  daring  adventures  they  had 
participated  in  when  Idaho  was  yet 
young.  I  knew  by  long  acquaintance 
with  most  of  the  men  that  they  were 
spreading  it  on  pretty  thick  for  the 
benefit  of  my  party.  Several  of  the 
more  loquacious  of  our  party  had  re- 
sponded with  tales  of  duck  shooting  in 
the  Lake  country,  but  somehow  these 
tales  sounded  out  of  place  in  that  wild 
country.  I  noticed  that  the  old-timers 
were  getting  sleepy. 

One  old  fellow  who  seemed  to  be 
well  known  to  all  the  old-timers, 
steadfastly  refused  to  contribute  to  the 
evening's  entertainment.  He  would 
laugh  with  the  rest  of  us  at  the  freight- 
ers' yarns,  but  kept  mum.  One  of  the 
miners  nudged  me  and  said:  "If  we 
could  get  that  old  cuss  limbered  up, 
we  would  hear  something  worth 


while."  "Who  is  the  old  fellow?"  I 
asked,  for  I  knew  his  martin  skin  vest 
and  broad  buckskin  cartridge  belt 
placed  him  in  a  class  by  himself. 
"Why,  man,  that's  old  Bill  Corder,  the 
best  shot  in  Idaho.  Got  more  grizzly 
scalps  than  any  man  on  the  coast." 
And  the  miner,  convinced  that  he  had 
told  the  truth  at  least  once  that  night 
proceeded  to  replenish  the  dying  fire. 

I  had  never  met  Corder,  but  knew 
that  all  the  miner  had  said  of  him 
would  be  backed  by  all  Idaho  pioneers. 
Bill  Corder,  a  name  known  to  all  in 
connection  with  the  Indian  days  of 
Idaho.  The  miner  threw  an  arm  load 
of  cedar  limbs  upon  the  fire.  Now  ce- 
dar makes  a  very  noisy  fire,  and  the 
cracking  sounded  like  fire-crackers, 
burning  splinters  would  be  thrown  for 
considerable  distance  from  the  fire. 
Until  this  particular  kind  of  fireworks 
were  over,  no  one  had  attempted  to 
start  a  story.  At  last  an  especially 
vicious  explosion  landed  a  burning 
brand  deep  in  the  hair  of  the  bear- 
skin the  old  hunter  was  sitting  upon. 
The  old  fellow  quickly  smothered  the 
evil  smelling  blaze  with  his  broad 
palm;  his  eyes  twinkled  with  merri- 
ment and  he  chuckled  to  himself. 

"Say,  Bill,  where  did  ye  git  that  thar 
cinnamon  skin?"  asked  a  freighter. 

Bill  slowly  turned  up  the  end  of  the 
skin,  revealing  a  number  of  tiny 
brown  spots  on  the  skin  surface  of  the 
pelt;  the  sight  of  these  started  him  to 
chuckling  again.  "Well,  boys,  that 
thar  hide  ain't  worth  more  than  four 
dollars  in  Boise,  but  I  reckon  it  would 
take  some  more  than  that  to  buy  it. 
That  old  cinnamon  bear  furnished  me 
with  the  best  circus  ever  west  of  the 
Rockies.  I  got  ter  feel  mighty  blue 
when  that  old  skin  can't  git  up  a  grin 
on  my  phiz." 

Corder  fished  up  an  old  pipe,  and 
with  aggravating  slowness  filled  it, 
lighted  up  and  began  to  puff  like  an 


222 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Oregon  Short  Line  locomotive  about 
to  tackle  Kings  Hill.  Then  he  slowly 
withdrew  the  stem  and  pointed  with  it 
to  the  north  and  said :  "Got  it  up  thar 
on  North  Fork  in  '84.  'Member  the 
time  them  English  fellers  got  inter- 
ested in  Idaho  diggins,  Deacon."  The 
hunter  addressed  a  grizzled  freighter 
lying  on  his  stomach  before  the  fire. 
Deacon  only  snorted  in  disgust  or 
amusement,  but  the  answer  seemed 
satisfactory.  "Well,  I  guided  a  bunch 
of  them  guys  up  on  North  Fork  that 
season.  Ten  bucks  a  day  and  nary  a 
thing  to  do  but  steer  'em  over  a  trail 
as  fur  from  gold  as  I  could.  We  got 
into  North  Fork  the  fifth  day  from 
Idaho  City.  We  didn't  get  a  durned 
bit  of  game  bigger  than  a  grouse  all 
the  way  over  thar,  and  pitched  our 
camp  at  what  is  now  called  Black  War- 
rior Creek;  and  my  job  was  through 
till  they  wanted  ot  find  themselves 
again.  I  managed  to  bring  in  some 
venison  the  first  day. 

"After  about  a  week  of  toting  fools- 
gold  around  over  the  hills,  the  boss,  a 
little  rooster  of  a  looking  Englishman 
with  red  burnsides,  declared  the  safety 
of  the  camp  rested  upon  his  killing  a 
bear  whose  tracks  he  had  seen  in  a 
canyon  to  the  south  of  the  camp. 

"It  seems  none  of  the  fellers  had 
stumbled  onto  a  bear  yet.  I  had  seen 
two  or  three,  and  one  of  'em  was  a 
dandy.  I  was  hoping  the  boss  would 
meet  that  one;  she  was  evidently  a 
mamma  bear,  and  they  are  generally 
interesting  that  time  of  year.  Well,  he 
advised  the  boys  to  stay  close  to  camp, 
or  at  least  not  to  venture  to  the  south; 
in  fact,  he  seemed  to  be  under  the  im- 
pression that  the  south  canyon  had 
been  created  for  a  special  game  re- 
serve for  his  benefit.  On  the  side, 
he  confided  to  me  that  he  knew  it  was 
a  little  hard  on  the  lads,  but  they  were 
inexperienced,  and  he  felt  a  sort  of 
solicitude  for  'em. 

"He  invited  me  to  go  with  him  and 
carry  a  shotgun  in  case  we  started  a 
bunch  of  grouse,  while  he  would  carry 
an  elephant  gun  that  had  killed  four 
tigers  in  India.  Of  course  I  felt  highly 
honored  and  perfectly  safe. 


"Well  we  hadn't  got  a  mile  out  of 
camp  till  we  came  to  a  lambing  big 
huckleberry  patch,  and  I  seed  signs  of 
bear  good  and  plenty.  Old  Burnsides 
said  we  should  deploy.  He  sent  me  to 
the  right  of  him  about  fifty  yards,  and 
nearer  the  creek.  The  patch  was  on  a 
sort  of  a  bench  about  thirty  feet  above 
the  creek.  Besides  huckleberries  there 
were  weeds  and  fallen  timber.  I  was 
given  instructions  to  make  plenty  of 
noise  and  throw  sticks  into  all  brush 
piles  to  rout  out  all  bears  that  might 
try  to  hide  away  from  him.  Well,  we 
hadn't  gone  ten  yards  into  that  patch 
till  I  heard  the  boss  'Hist!'  He  was 
waving,  first  for  me  to  come,  then 
run,  then  stand  still.  I  stood  still. 
Pretty  soon  he  slid  out  of  his  hunting 
coat  and  began  to  tip-toe  over  towards 
a  big  dead  tree.  I  wondered  if  the 
old  cuss  was  a  butterfly  fiend,  or  had 
just  gone  daffy.  But  just  then  I  seed 
a  little  brown  pile  close  to  the  log.  I 
reckon  I  had  plenty  of  time  to  warn 
him,  but  I  just  hadn't  the  heart.  Be- 
sides, he  wouldn't  have  thanked  me 
anyhow,  and  kerplunk  the  old  fossil 
went  down  on  that  three  months'  old 
bear. 

"Now,  bears  are  like  some  folks :  if 
ye  wake  'em  up  before  they  finish  their 
noon-day  nap,  they  are  apt  to  be  cross. 
Some  folks  think  a  bear  is  a  clumsy 
beast,  but  you  just  try  to  rastle  with 
a  cinnamon  cub  and  you  will  change 
yer  mind  fast  enough.  Before  the  boss 
fairly  hit  the  ground  the  coat  was 
ripped  off,  and  it  left  the  Englishman 
down  on  all  fours  astride  a  warlike 
bear.  Cubby  didn't  approve  of  burn- 
sides,  and  promptly  clawed  off  one 
side.  While  making  these  necessary 
alterations  in  the  boss's  phiz  with  his 
front  feet,  he  proceeded  to  inspect  his 
makeup.  Chaps  are  fashionable  in 
the  west,  and  cubby  reached  up  with 
his  hind  feet,  seized  the  boss's  pants 
at  the  waist  band  and  ripped  'em  to 
the  knees,  neat  as  you  please,  and  all 
the  time  he  was  squealing  out  his  en- 
joyment at  the  chance  meeting. 

"I  didn't  go  to  help  because  I  was 
expected  to  beat  up  this  side  of  the 
patch,  and  it  all  happened  in  a  few 


A  BEAR  HUNT 


223 


seconds.  Just  then  off  in  front  about 
a  hundred  yards  I  heard  the  darndest 
racket,  and  here  comes  mammy  bear 
lickety-split,  and  madder  than  thunder 
and  making  as  much  racket,  snorting 
and  woofing,  as  a  dozen  lady  bears 
ought  to.  The  boss  seed  her  coming 
and  tried  to  let  go,  but  cubby  wouldn't 
have  it  that  way.  He  was  having  the 
time  of  his  life,  and  kept  grabbing  at 
the  boss's  toes,  He  j umped  back  and 
tripped  over  a  stick  and  went  down 
ker-bang.  He  didn't  stay  down,  but 
as  he  rolled  over  on  his  hands  anH 
knees  to  get  up,  cubby  helped  himself, 
to  a-  souvenir  square  of  the  boss's 
pants. 

"About  that  time  the  old  lady  got 
there  wild  for  fun.  Boss  took  one  look 
at  her,  and  decided  that  his  toilet 
was  not  fit  fer  an  introduction,  and 
he  made  a  dive  for  a  big  pine  tree. 
Mrs.  Bear  wanted  to  go  to  that  tree 
too.  Burnsides  took  a  notion  to  run 
around  that  tree  awhile.  Mrs.  Bear 
made  up  her  mind  to  do  the  same 
thing.  For  the  first  five  or  six  rounds 
it  was  the  prettiest  race  I  ever  seen. 
They  was  about  thirty  yards  from  me, 
boss  coming  round  one  side  as  Mrs. 
Bear  was  going  round  t'other.  When 
boss  was  on  the  side  of  the  tree  next 
me,  I  observed  he  didn't  seem  to  be 
enjoying  the  joke.  Every  hair  was 
reared  up,  and  his  teeth  was  a  gritting. 
Below  the  waistline  I  shan't  describe, 
wasn't  nothing  to  describe  but  the  boss 
himself.  Neither  was  there  much  to 
describe  as  he  went  around  t'other 
side.  Mrs.  Bear  was  just  a  fat  cinna- 
mon bear  and  needs  no  describing,  ex- 
cept she  was  blamed  mad. 

"Just  then  the  boss  seed  me,  and 
commenced  exploding  just  exactly  like 
one  of  them  automobile  exhausts. 
Purty  soon  I  discovered  he  was  yelling 
for  me  to  shoot,  so  I  up  with  the  shot- 
gun. S'pose  I  orter  shot  the  old  ladv 
in  the  face,  but  I  was  afeared  I  might 
ketch  the  boss  coming  round  the  tree 
back  of  the  bear.  So  just  as  she 
turned  around,  going  nicely  t'other  way 
I  blazed  away  with  a  load  of  number 
sixes.  Gee  whizz,  ye  orter  seen  that 
old  bear,  every  hair  just  stuck  up  a 


little  straighter,  and  she  throwed  on 
more  speed,  and  the  second  round 
the  boss  seed  he  had  to  change  his 
tactics,  and  the  blamed  old  cuss  steered 
straight  fer  me.  The  change  surprised 
the  bear;  she  evidently  thought  the 
boss  tied  to  that  tree,  but  she  soon  dis- 
covered the  difference,  and  here  she 
come  forty  miles  a  minute.  Boss 
looked  over  his  shoulder  to  see  if  she 
was  a  coming,  and  I  ducked  behind  a 
tree.  When  the  boss  looked  around 
again  I  was  out  of  sight.  When  he 
steamed  by  the  tree  the  bear  was  so 
close  he  couldn't  turn  in,  so  he  had 
to  keep  on.  I  managed  to  keep  the 
tree  between  me  and  the  lady,  and  she 
kept  after  Burnsides. 

"The  bear  was  so  persevering  I  seed 
things  was  getting  searious  fer  the 
boss,  so  I  made  a  break  for  the  ele- 
phant gun.  I  found  it  all  right  and  as 
the  boss  and  bear  was  throughin'  a 
big  circle  about  fifty  yards  in  front  of 
me,  running  straight  across  my  front 
with  Mrs.  Bear  six  foot  behind  the 
boss,  1  stopped  her  with  a  ball  about 
the  size  of  a  walnut.  Just  then  that 
portion  of  the  boss's  pants  the  cubby 
had  left  in  front  somehow  got  back  be- 
tween the  boss's  knees  and  floated  out 
about  two  feet  behind.  Guess  the  boss 
never  heard  me  shoot ;  he  just  steamed 
on. 

"He  got  back  to  his  old  tree  and 
commenced  to  run  round  it  again. 
Every  once  in  a  while,  the  pants 
caught  on  something  and  jerked  the 
boss  back  a  little;  ye  ought  to  heard 
him  holler.  I  just  simply  laughed  till 
I  throwed  up  my  breakfast. 

"Burnsides  seed  me,  and  steered  fer 
me  again.  When  he  got  nearly  to  me 
his  floating  pants  caught  again  and 
jerked  his  feet  out  from  under  him, 
and  he  sprawled  on  his  face.  He  was 
just  about  all  in,  and  commenced 
squeaking  out  something  like  a  prayer. 
'Did  we  kill  'em,  Billy?'  says  he.  I 
pointed  to  the  dead  bear.  'Ye  run  her 
plumb  to  death,'  says  I.  'Billy,'  says 
he,  've  got  on  two  pair  pants.  I'll  give 
ve  $50  fer  one  of  'em,  if  ye  will  say 
I  fired  the  shot.'  I  got  the  fifty  and 
the  hide." 


The  softly  calling  bells  of  the  old  Mission 


GLORIETTA 


OR   THE   CITY   OF   FAIR   DREAAS 


By  5.  H.  /A.  Byers 

SO.   H.  M.  BYERS,  soldier,    diplomat   and   poet,    first   became 
V  publicly  known  for  his  many  adventures  and  escapes  in  the 

Civil  War,  He  closed  his  military  career  as  an  aid  de  camp 
on  General  Sherman's  staff,  and  was  offered  a  commission  in  the 
regular  army,  which  he  declined.  While  a  prisoner  at  Columbia, 
S.  C.,  he  wrote  the  song  of  "Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea,"  the 
poem  that  gave  its  name  to  the  picturesque  campaign.  Over  a  million 
copies  of  this  song  were  sold.  General  Grant  appointed  him  a 
consul  and  he  remained  in  the  service  in  various  cities  for  nearly 
twenty  years.  During  all  this  time  his  pen  found  ready  employment 
in  poems,  reminiscences  of  the  war  and  stories.  Among  his  books 
are  "Twenty  years  in  Europe,"  "The  Happy  Isles,"  ''The  Honey- 
moon," "With  Fire  and  Sword,"  "Layman's  Life  of  Jesus."  His 
home  is  at  "St.  Helens,"  one  of  the  loveliest  villas  in  Des  Moines,  la., 
with  a  park  of  trees  and  a  river  vista,  ideal  surroundings  for  a  poet.) 

Oh,  many,  many  years  ago  this  tale 

Had  its  beginning  by  a  charmed  sea, 
So  beautiful  it  seemed,  the  circling  bay, 

And  the  blue  sky,  like  that  of  Italy. 
There  grew  the  palm  and  there  the  lemon  tree, 

And  every  flower  that's  beautiful  to  see. 

Outside  the  bay  the  mighty  ocean  rolled 
In  liquid  mountains,  or  in  glist'ning  sea, 

And  moonlight  nights  some  wondrous  story  told 
To  listening  forests  and  to  meadowed  lea, 

And  lovers  walking  in  the  moonlight  heard 

Their  sweethearts'  voices  when  the  sea  was  stirred. 

Such  was  the  scene,  where  the  fair  city  stood, 
By  poets  called  "The  City  of  Fair  Dreams," 

Between  the  forest  and  the  shining  flood  ; 
And  even  now  to  strangers'  eyes  there  seems 

Some  lingering  glory  of  that  happy  day 
When  hearts  were  merry  in  old  Monterey. 

Twas  at  a  time  when  Spanish  friars  held 
For  many  years  their  long  and  kindly  sway, 

In  grand  old  missions  stretched  along  the  shore 
From  San  Diego  to  San  Francisco  Bay. 

Then  all  was  Spanish,  manners,  speech  and  dress, 
Save  the  wild  Indians  in  the  wilderness. 


226 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Twas  just  as  if  some  pretty  province  had 
Been  drifted  off  from  its  beloved  Spain, 

And  by  some  wondrous  miracle  been  cast 
Along  the  shores  of  the  Pacific  main. 

Or  was't  Arcadia  that  had  been  lost 
And  by  some  chance  had  hitherward  been  tossed? 

Be  as  it  may,  it  was  a  lovely  land, 
And  joyous  people  lived  along  its  coast, 

Fond  of  all  sports,  of  music,  and  the  dance, 
But  first  of  all  their  horses  were  their  boast. 

No  Arab  tenting  in  the  desert  airs 

Had  steeds  so  swift  or  beautiful  as  theirs. 

He  was  not  poor  that  had  his  prancing  steed, 
With  silver  spangles  hung  on  neck  and  breast, 

A  saddle  precious  in  its  jeweled  worth, 
And  gilded  spurs  outshining  all  the  rest. 

It  was  a  sight  sometimes  to  look  upon 

These  New  World  knights  and  their  caparison. 

Famed  was  the  land  for  other  things  as  well, 
Famed  for  fair  women,  beauteous  to  behold, 

With  great  black  eyes,  and  olive  skins  to  tell 
Castilian  blood,  and  some  of  other  mold. 

Of  one  of  these,  had  I  a  harp  to  sing, 
I'd  tell  a  tale  not  all  imagining. 

For  there  was  one,  a  child  almost  in  years, 
Some  sixteen  summers  only  had  been  hers, 

But  in  that  clime  of  rose  leaf  and  of  tears, 
Love  wakens  early  and  its  passion  stirs. 

So,  Glorietta,  soft  as  any  dove, 

Just  laughed  and  loved,  yet  never  thought  of  love. 

Till  on  a  day  when  Ivan  came  to  woo, 
A  fisher's  lad,  he  was,  down  by  the  bay, 

Who  knew  to  find  the  abalone  pearls 
That  in  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  lay, 

And  here  and  there  a  pretty  shell  he  took 
To  Glorietta  with  a  lover's  look. 

Though  well  she  prized  these  pretty  courtesies, 
There  was  a  gulf  that  stretched  betwixt  the  two, 

A  stream  unbridged,  and  bridgeless,  most,  as  seas, 
Without  a  road  that  any  lover  knew. 

For  what  was  he  ?    A  common  fisher's  son, 
And  she,  the  heiress  of  a  Spanish  don. 


It  was  indeed  a  lovely  land 


228  OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


O!  she  was  young,  and  beautiful  of  face, 

With  melting  eyes,  a  joy  to  look  upon, 
Big,  black  and  deep,  like  her  Castilian  race ; 

Who  looked  too  long  was  sure  to  be  undone. 
That  Ivan  learned,  although  he  was  so  young, 

Yet  loved  the  sting  with  which  he  had  been  stung. 

Her  hair,  such  hair,  in  two  great  braids  behind, 
Fell  down  like  ropes,  black  as  the  ebon  night, 

Upon  her  beautiful  but  girlish  gown 

Of  simple  rose,  bedecked  with  lilies  white. 

Hearts  had  been  cold,  or  ice,  or  something  worse 
Not  to  be  moved  by  eyes  and  hair  like  hers. 

She  was  akin  to  the  Don  Carlos  line; 

Though  orphaned  young  she  might  have  riches  still, 
For  the  Alcalde,  now  Count  Valentine, 

Had  many  lands  and  herds  on  every  hill. 
He  was  her  guardian,  and  could  well  endow 

Such  rose  of  beauty  as  he  saw  her  now. 

Upon  the  hill  where  his  gray  palace  stood, 
Fair  flowers  grew  of  every  hue  and  kind, 

The  Bogenvilla  with  its  purple  flood, 

In  drifted  banks  and  walls  and  porches  lined, 

But  Glorietta,  far  beyond  compare, 
Was  fairest  yet  of  any  flower  there. 

And  when  the  harvest  of  the  vine  was  on 
In  the  sweet  autumn  of  that  blessed  clime, 

When  summer's  heats  and  summer's  suns  were  gone 
And  frosts  just  touched  the  orange  and  the  vine, 

Then  manly  youths  were  to  the  labor  pressed, 
And  Ivan,  too,  was  there  among  the  rest. 

So  it  fell  out,  as  in  that  long  ago, 
When  Ruth  and  Boaz  in  the  harvest  met, 

Love  had  its  way,  or  Ivan  wished  it  so, 
And  cast  himself  in  Glorietta's  net, 

Just  at  the  moment  when  she  brought  the  wine 
Sent  to  the  laborers  by  Count  Valentine. 

Twas  like  a  dream,  the  sudden  joy,  to  him! 

Not  many  grapes  he  gathered  on  that  day, 
Nor  on  the  next,  for  other  things  now  drew 

His  one  attention  in  another  way, 
And  oftener  now  did  Glorietta  bear 

Her  jugs  of  wine  out  to  the  laborers  there. 


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232 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


And  once,  unconsciously,  the  jug  she  held 
To  Ivan's  lips,  that  he  might  drink  his  fill, 

As  if  by  accident  his  face  she  touched, 
And  quick  he  felt  it,  the  immortal  thrill — 

Such  thrill  as  comes  but  once  to  any  soul, 
Or  rich  or  poor,  it  is  love's  SWEETEST  toll. 

So  days  went  on,  the  vintage  was  not  done, 
And  every  day  young  Ivan  there  would  be 
To  gather  grapes  in  the  sweet  autumn  sun, 

Or  pick  the  lemons  from  the  lemon  tree, 
But  most  to  see  his  sweetheart,  and  adore, 

And  every  day  she  welcomed  him  the  more. 

There  was  an  arbor  on  the  palace  ground, 
Hid  all  in  roses  of  sweet  loveliness, 

Where  all  was  silence  save  the  gentle  sound 
Of  little  brooklets  and  the  wind's  caress. 

There  Glorietta  at  the  noontime  came. 

Who  wonders  now  that  Ivan  did  the  same  ? 

So  in  sweet  converse  flew  the  blessed  noon 
While  they  sat  looking  in  each  other's  eyes, 

Amazed  an  hour  could  fly  away  so  soon, 
But  time  to  lovers  very  quickly  flies, 

Not  much  their  feast  on  either  bread  or  wine, 
On  other  things  'tis  said  do  lovers  dine. 

Yes,  talk  they  had,  and  maybe,  kisses,  some, 
For  they  were  glad  of  life,  and  everything; 

Youth  must  be  so — delicious  it  can  come, 
And  this  was  now  the  flower  of  their  spring. 

Give  love  a  bower,  in  vines  and  roses  drest, 
And  melting  eyes,  and  love  will  do  the  rest. 

There  in  their  moments  of  felicity, 
Young  Ivan  told  her  of  a  thousand  things ; 

Of  the  pearl-divers  and  the  sapphire  sea, 
And  the  great  fishes  that  had  shining  wings ; 

Of  caverns  told,  and  rocks  that  overhung 

The  ocean  caves  where  the  pearl-fishes  clung. 

How  he  himself  the  dangers  underwent 
Of  diving  down,  his  trusty  knife  in  hand 

To  cut  them  loose  from  walls  and  caverns  rent 
Then  sudden  rise  and  cast  them  on  the  sand : 

How  once  a  shark  so  near  him  came  to  sup 
He  was  half  dead  before  he  could  come  up. 


234  OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


How  he  had  seen  a  grotto  wonderful 

Down  in  the  ocean  with  the  waves  above, 

Not  e'en  the  shrieking  of  the  sad  sea-gull 
Was  ever  heard  in  that  enchanted  cove. 

Like  Desdemona,  Glorietta  heard, 
And  breathed  a  sigh  at  every  other  word. 

How,  fearing  not,  again  and  yet  again 

He  dared  the  dangers  that  around  him  were, 

Not  in  some  hope  of  some  poor  little  gain, 
But  for  a  pearl  that  was  most  worthy  her, 

And  then  he  reached  to  give  it  with  a  kiss, 
But  hark!  a  step,  and  ended  all  their  bliss! 

It  was  the  Count,  his  face  in  purple  rage, 
Some  evil  soul  had  whispered  in  his  ear, 

How  every  day  these  lovers  did  engage 
In  guilty  amours,  and  he'd  find  them  here. 

Few  words  were  said,  there  was  not  much  to  say; 
The  place,  the  kiss,  were  they  not  plain  as  day? 

He  railed  a  little,  Glorietta  heard, 

"I  had  no  one  to  guide,  and  I  was  young." 

Her  eyes  were  weeping,  but  no  other  word; 

The  Count,  he  better,  too,  had  held  his  tongue. 

He  was  himself  not  over-good,  they  say, 
Among  th'  elite  of  lovely  Monterey. 

Be  as  it  may,  he  had  his  Spanish  pride; 

No  kin  of  his  might  ever  think  to  wed 
With  lowly  fisher-folk,  or  be  the  bride 

Of  one  who  labored  for  his  daily  bread. 
That  very  day  he  made  his  plans  to  send 

Young  Glorietta  to  a  distant  friend. 

He  had  a  cousin,  rich  and  proud  and  lone, 
Who  with  a  sister  by  the  desert  dwelt ; 

What  took  him  there  had  never  quite  been  known, 
If  fate  or  love  with  him  had  coldly  dealt. 

Don  Eldorado  was  the  cousin's  name, 
A  bit  romantic  and  once  known  to  fame. 

There  Glorietta  will  be  safe  awhile, 

Thought  the  Alcalde,  when  she  reached  the  place, 
And  thinking  so,  a  long  and  happy  smile 

At  times  illumined  the  Alcalde's  face. 
"Time  conquers  love,  at  least  so  I  have  read, 

And  Ivan  well  may  think  her  lost  or  dead." 


:s 


236  OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Kfi 


For  it  was  planned  that  never  any  word 

Should  pass  between  them  now  forever  more, 

Just  how  'twas  done  no  mortal  ever  heard, 
But  things  like  these  were  often  done  before. 

Some  false  arrest,  some  prison  far  away, 

Or,  at  the  worst,  there  still  would  be  the  bay. 

A  little  while,  though  broke  of  heart  at  first, 

And  Glorietta  almost  loved  the  scene — 
When  on  her  eyes  the  great  wild  desert  burst 

Like  two  vast  seas  with  mountains  in  between, 
*The  porphyry  hills,  the  red  sea-walls  that  rise, 

Seemed  fit  for  gates  to  some  sweet  paradise. 

Twas  in  the  morning,  and  God's  great  blue  tent 

Spread  over  mountains  and  the  desert  land; 
A  sapphire  glory  every  moment  lent 

Some  lovelier  color  to  the  desert  sand. 
A  little  while,  and  then  the  mountains  seem 

A  mystic  phantom,  a  forgotten  dream. 

Once,  on  a  height,  alone,  she  stood  and  gazed 

On  violet  mountains  and  the  desert  sea. 
A  sudden  sun  above  the  desert  blazed, 

"O !  World,"  she  cried,  "thou  wer't  all  joy  to  me 
Were  this  to  last,  with  never  any  tear, 

And  Ivan  standing  close  beside  me  here." 

Now  Eldorado,  though  not  very  young, 

Kept  in  his  breast  some  fires  not  yet  gone  out, 

Saw  Glorietta,  and  that  moment  flung 

Himself  before  her,  dead  in  love,  no  doubt. 

Love  at  first  sight,  I've  sometimes  heard  it  said, 
Affects  the  heart,  but  oftener  the  head. 

Be  as  it  may,  he  surely  was  most  kind    • 

To  Glorietta,  never  dreaming  how 
Her  heart  with  Ivan  there  was  left  behind, 

Nor  saw  the  shade  that  often  crossed  her  brow. 
One  thought  was  his,  and  that  he  could  not  hide, 

The  hope  that  quickly  she  would  be  his  bride. 

Each  hour  he  thought  some  pleasant  thing  to  do 

To  please  her  fancy  or  to  kill  the  time, 
Rode  on  the  hills — looked  on  the  desert  view, 

Or  climbed  the  canyons  glorious  and  sublime, 
Where  thundering  down  some  torrent  came  to  bless 

The  flowering  wastes,  the  desert's  loveliness. 

*  NOTE.— The  Mohave  and  the  Colorado  deserts  are  really  the  same  thing. 
A   chain   of   the  Sierra   Madre  Mountains   cuts  the  vast  plain  in  two  parts. 

Iffil  [SI 


GLORIETTA  237 


UR IW 


And  lovelier  things  he  thought  of  and  less  grand, 
The  purple  sage  brush  that  was  everywhere, 

The  yellow  poppy  of  the  sun  and  sand, 
Enchanting  contrast  to  her  raven  hair, 

And  Manzanita  berries,  crimson  red, 

And  purple  heather  from  the  desert's  bed. 

And  desert  holly  of  the  sanded  wild, 

Forest  white  and  fair  as  ever  fair  could  be 

Sunborn  but  lone,  the  desert's  loveliest  child, 
Its  curling  leaves  God's  own  embroidery. 

All  these  were  hers  and  others,  yet  the  while 
All  cheaply  purchased  by  a  single  smile. 

Day  in,  day  out,  the  old  new  lover  came ; 

Was  it  not  time  to  answer,  yes,  or  nay? 
Like  fair  Penelope,  who  did  the  same, 

She  prayed  delaying  just  another  day, 
And  still  in  hopes  she  yet  might  surely  know 

If  Ivan  really  were  alive,  or  no. 

Just  then  a  letter  from  her  guardian  came ; 

A  perfect  thunderbolt  it  must  have  been, 
Full  of  complaining  and  of  discontent, 

What  under  heaven  was  it  she  could  mean  ? 
Could  it  be  so,  such  cold  ingratitude, 

Towards  one  who  always  was  so  kind  and  good  ? 

Oft  he  had  heard  of  how  his  cousin  sought 
Her  hand  in  marriage,  and  of  her  delay : 

He  was  amazed,  for  was  this  cousin  not 
What  any  girl  could  like  most  any  day  ? 

Rich,  and  genteel,  and  good  to  look  upon, 
And  then,  still  more,  he  was  a  Spanish  don. 

Then,  as  to  Ivan,  heaven  only  knew 

What  had  become  of  him :  perhaps  a  shark 

Had  simply  swallowed  him ;  such  things  they  do. 
There  were  great  dangers  down  in  caverns  dark, 

And  anyway,  her  passion  for  him  must 

Long  since  have  turned  to  ashes  and  to  dust. 

There  seemed  no  choice;  that  Glorietta  saw, 
This  unloved  marriage  was  a  thing  foregone. 

Her  guardian's  wishes,  were  they  not  a  law? 
She  was  as  helpless  as  mountain  fawn, 

And  yet  she  waited  still  another  day 
And  never  answered  either,  yes  or  nay. 


238  OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ffi 


At  last  she  spoke.    It  was  a  ruse  to  find 

If  Ivan  really  were  alive  or  dead. 
"It  seems  to  me  that  I  could  speak  my  mind 

If  I  were  only  in  my  home,"  she  said. 
"There  in  our  garden  by  the  crystal  bay, 

There  I  could  answer  either  yes  or  nay." 

"Let  it  be  so!    To-morrow,"  he  replied, 

Not  guessing  all  her  reasons  nor  the  why — 

"On  my  fleet  steeds  across  the  hills  we'll  ride." 
He   did  not  notice   Glorietta   sigh. 

He  had  forgotten,  too,  about  the  slip 
That  sometimes  happens  'twixt  the  cup  and  lip. 

Next  day  it  was  a  pretty  cavalcade 

That  crossed  the  mountains,  westward  to  the  sea — 
The  Don,  his  sister,  and  the  beauteous  maid, 

And  some  retainers,  only  two  or  three. 
A  hundred  miles  was  nothing  then  to  ride, 

At  least  to  win  so  beautiful  a  bride ! 

A  little  while  and  now  in  Monterey, 
The  dear  old  city  by  the  sounding  sea, 

There  was  great  talk  among  the  young  and  gay 
Of  an  event  that  very  soon  would  be. 

"The  Don  was  rich/'  that  much  the  gossips  said, 
"And  Glorietta  had  come  home  to  wed." 

Not  in  whole  years  had  there  been  such  a  stir, 
The  Alcalde's  ward  was  now  a  beauty,  grown, 

All  eyes  were  turned  for  but  a  glimpse  of  her 
Or  the  great  Don  who  claimed  her  for  his  own. 

A  little  while  and  wedding  bells  would  ring, 
And  guests  be  bid  up  to  the  revelling. 

Now  there  was  searching  of  old  wardrobes  through 
For  gowns  unique,  and  rich,  of  long  ago, 

Gold  satin  skirts,  and  rare  mantillas,  too, 
And  high-heeled  boots  with  gold  or  silver  bow, 

Queer  combs  from  Spain,  and  jewels  rare  and  bright, 
To  wear  on  Glorietta's  wedding  night. 

It  was  proclaimed  among  the  ladies  all 
To  be  an  fait,  one  must  be  gaily  drest, 

And  there  would  be  a  Spanish  carnival, 
To  make  this  wedding  seem  the  very  best. 

The  men,  also,  in  picturesque  array, 
Expectant  waited  for  the  wedding  day. 


I5T  tfi 


GLORIETTA 


239 


Young  Ivan,  meantime,  had  been  lost  to  view, 

No  trace  of  him  could  Glorietta  find, 
And  now  there  seemed  no  other  thing  to  do 

Than  wed  the  Don,  though  much  against  her  mind 
So  though  in  tears,  she  gave  a  half  consent, 

And  all  was  fixed,  just  as  her  guardian  meant. 

The  day  has  come,  the  sun  will  soon  be  down, 
A  hundred  guests  on  horseback  gaily  ride 

Up  to  the  palace,  quite  outside  the  town, 
To  greet  the  bridegroom  and  to  kiss  the  bride. 

As  was  the  custom  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Each  rider  held  his  fair  one  on  before. 

Down  by  the  sea  the  glad  old  mission  bells 
Ring  out  a  sweet,  a  half  voluptuous  chime. 

The  saintly  friar  there  a  moment  tells 

His  beads  to  heaven  in  this  dear  happy  time : 

Then  turns  his  steps,  he  must  be  there  to  say 
The  nupital  vows  of  this  their  wedding  day. 

At  her  high  window  Glorietta  stood, 
And  saw  the  riders  in  their  glad  array, 

Yet  felt  that  moment  that  she  almost  could 
Have  thrown  herself  into  the  shining  bay : 

All  seemed  a  mockery  to  her,  the  scene — 

Not  less  her  wedding  dress  of  gold  and  green. 

Out  on  the  lawn  a  bright  pavilion  showed, 
Hung  round  with  flags,  and  open  at  the  side, 

Already  circled  by  the  common  crowd, 

For  all  would  see  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 

Half  in  the  dark  one  silent  figure  leant 
Against  the  curtains  of  th'  illumined  tent. 

A  little  while,  and  look!    The  priest  has  come, 
The  bride  and  groom  walk  slowly  down  the  line, 

In  a  few  words  she  is  bid  welcome  home, 
By  the  Alcalde,  old  Count  Valentine. 

In  smiles  and  tears  she  waits  the  solemn  word. 
Yet  listen,  now,  a  singer's  voice  is  heard ! 

A  pretty  custom  in  the  land  they  had, 
That  girlhood  friends  about  the  bride  should  be, 

To  sing  some  songs,  some  pretty  words,  nor  sad, 
To  wish  her  joy  and  all  felicity, 

Before  the  one  and  final  word  is  said, 

Before  the  priest  pronounced  her  duly  wed. 


240  OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


bfi 


And  so  to-night  the  singers  come  and  sing, 

And  to  a  lute  some  verses  improvise, 
Some  happy  thought,  perhaps  some  little  thing, 

Each  for  herself  some  pretty  couplet  tries, 
Then  hands  the  lute  to  her  who  next  her  is, 

Who  smiling  sings  of  future  ecstacies. 

Meanwhile  the  bride,  who  is  all  listening 

To  honied  phrases  she  is  glad  to  hear, 
Herself  prepares  some  pretty  song  to  sing, 

For  see,  the  lute  to  her  is  coming  near. 
That  moment  look,  her  eyes  are  quickly  bent, 

On  that  lone  figure  by  the  curtained  tent. 

Half  in  the  shadow,  halfway  in  the  light, 
Two  sad  dark  eyes  are  looking  straight  at  hers, 

Heavens !    It  is  Ivan,  come  this  very  night. 
A  sudden  joy  her  inmost  bosom  stirs. 

She  dare  not  speak,  a  hundred  wait  around, 
And  he  were  dead  if  near  the  palace  found. 

Quick  beat  her  heart,  it  was  her  turn  to  sing, 

A  prayer  she  breathed  for  guidance,  What  to  do  ? 

Her  voice  she  feared  had  sudden  taken  wing, 
And  Ivan's  eyes  were  piercing  through  and  through. 

Oh!  would  some  saint  in  all  Love's  calendar 
That  moment  come  and  pitying  smile  on  her. 

She  waits  a  little— then  an  Indian  air 

Came  to  her  mind  that  he  had  often  sung — 

Not  one  would  know  it  of  the  many  there, 
For  it  was  only  of  the  Indian  tongue. 

She  took  the  lute  and  sang  a  melody 
Of  love  beside  the  manzanita  tree. 

The  moon's  above  the  ocean  now, 

Then  hasten,  love  to  me, 
And  keep  the  vow  you  made  beside 

The  manzanita  tree. 

The  stars  across  the  heavens  sweep, 

As  faithful  as  can  be. 
Let  us  be  faithful,  too,  beside 

The  manzanita  tree. 

The  mist  is  on  the  mountain  top, 

The  mist  is  on  the  lea, 
To-night,  to-night,  we  meet  beside 

The  manzanita  tree. 


GLORIETTA 


241 


ffi 


The  manzanita's  berry's  ripe, 

And  red  as  red  can  be. 
O,  who  would  not  go  loving  by 

The  manzanita  tree. 

What  if  another  claim  my  hand, 

My  heart,  my  heart's  with  thee, 
So  we  will  meet  to-night  beside 

The  manzanita  tree. 

Each  sigh,  each  thought,  the  list'ning  lover  heard, 
And  knows  the  meaning  of  the  song  she  sings, 

And  ere  the  priest  has  said  the  solemn  word 
A  steed  all  saddled  to  the  gate  he  brings : 

A  sign,  a  gesture,  from  her  lover  there, 

And  they  are  gone,  and  no  one  knoweth  where. 

And  they  have  mounted  on  the  swiftest  horse, 
The  fleetest  steed  the  Alcalde  ever  owned. 

They  ford  the  Carmel  in  its  swiftest  course, 

The  old  sea  bay  behind  them  moaned  and  moaned, 

And  many  a  cypress  gnarled  by  storm  and  wind 
There  in  the  moonlight  they  have  left  behind. 

Into  the  mountains,  all  the  night  they  rode, 
On  narrow  ways,  along  the  canyon's  side, 

Where  moon  and  stars  no  more  the  pathway  showed, 
Till  the  bright  dawn  the  flying  lovers  ride — 

Then  change  their  course,  for  path  there  now  is  none, 
And  leave  the  horse  and  climb  the  rocks  alone. 

And  still  a  day,  now  dawnward  toward  the  sea 

Some  ignis  fatuus  beckons  them  along, 
Though  tired  of  limb  and  hungry  they  may  be, 

They  think  they  hear  some  soft,  sweet  siren's  song. 
It  is  the  sea  wave's  voice  alone  they  hear, 

Forever  sweet  to  any  lover's  ear. 

And  they  have  reached  the  hemmed-in  ocean's  shore, 
Cliffs  right  and  left,  behind  them  but  despair. 

Are  they  pursued,  there  is  not  any  more 

The  smallest  hope  of  further  flight  than  there : 

But  see !  a  ship  is  yonder  passing  by, 
Or  is't  a  phantom  of  the  mist  and  sky! 

Full-sailed  it  rides,  yet  scarcely  passes  on. 

"  'Tis  not  a  league,"  cried  Ivan,  "from  the  shore. 
Trust  to  my  arms!  a  thousand  times  I've  gone 

Down  in  the  deeps  and  braved  the  ocean's  roar. 
Here  it  is  calm,  and  yonder  ship  may  prove 

A  rest  from  flight,  a  refuge  place  for  love." 


242 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ffi 


Sfi 


And  they  are  gone  into  the  mist  and  wave, 

Far  out  of  sight  of  each  pursuing  one. 
If  in  the  sea  they  find  a  lover's  grave, 

Now  who  may  know,  since  mist  and  ship  are  gone ! 
Time  and  the  sea,  no  matter,  kind  or  rude, 

Can  cover  all,  pursuers  and  pursued. 

Still,  from  yon  cliff  where  fisher-folk  repair 
On  moonlight  nights  the  ocean  to  behold, 

Tis  said  they  see,  if  but  the  mist  be  there, 
A  ship  all  shining  like  the  ship  of  old, 

And  on  the  deck  a  lady  walks  serene, 

Still  in  her  wedding  dress,  of  gold  and  green. 


One  of  the  last  of  the  old  Concord  stage  coaches.  Motor  stages  are  now  taking 

their  place. 


Is  the  Old  West  Passing? 


By  Waldo  R.  Smith 


EVERY  few  months  we  read  in 
some  magazine  a  more  or  less 
poetic  lament  over  "the  passing 
of  the  Old  West."  It  makes  very 
good  reading,  and  as  great  changes 
have   certainly  taken  place   in   some 
parts    of    the    West  during  the  last 
twenty-five   years,   perhaps   the    idea 
that  "the  Old  West  is  passing"  has 
some  foundation  in  reality. 

But  when  one  has  "been  there,"  and 
fully  understands  the  nature  and  ex- 
tent of  those  changes,  he  is  inclined 
to  doubt  whether  the  distinctively 
Western  types  and  the  conditions  that 
produced  them  are  "passing"  as  rap- 


idly as  some  would  have  him  believe. 
The  average  Easterner  thinks  of  the 
West  as  a  country  inhabited  almost 
entirely  by  cowboys  and  more  or  less 
wild  Indians.  After  a  time,  perhaps, 
he  goes  West,  and  finds  that  Denver, 
for  example,  situated  in  the  heart  of 
the  Western  country,  is  a  good  sized 
city,  surrounded  by  well  cultivated 
farms.  During  his  stay  he  does  not  so 
much  as  glimpse  an  Indian  or  cow- 
boy. Then,  determined  to  see  some- 
thing of  the  wild  West  of  which  he 
has  heard,  he  goes  on — to  Cheyenne, 
or  Great  Falls,  or  some  other  city,  and 
finds  the  same  conditions  existing.  Im- 


'On  the  lone  prairie." 


mediately  he  decides  that  something  is 
wrong;  and  as  the  days  go  by  and  he 
sees  only  commonplace  individuals, 
dressed  in  the  conventional  garb  of 
the  East,  he  is  convinced  that  "the 
Old  West  is  passing" — and  some  go  so 
far  as  to  assert  that  it  has  already 
passed.  Then,  if  he  is  a  writer,  or  a 
near-writer,  the  aforesaid  poetic  la- 
ment follows. 

If,  however,  our  tourist  panting  for 
the  thrills  of  the  wild  West  had  gone 
fifty,  or  even  twenty-five  miles  out, 
into  the  cattle  range,  it  is  possible 
that  he  would  have  obtained  another 
opinion. 

It  is  difficult  for  the  Eastern  man  to 
appreciate  the  vast  size  and  infinite 
diversity  of  the  country  indicated  by 
the  term  "the  West."  He  knows  from 
his  school  geography  that  Rhode  Is- 
land might  easily  be  mislaid  in  one 
corner  of  Texas;  but  when  he  finds 
several  areas  the  size  of  Rhode  Island 
which  have  all  the  civilized  appear- 
ance of  that  little  State,  scattered 
about  a  country  of  which  Texas  is 
only  a  small  part,  he  at  once  jumps  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  entire  country 
is  the  same. 

Even  when  he  attends  one  of  the 


annual  celebrations,  such  as  the  Chey- 
enne "Frontier  Days"  or  the  Pendle- 
ton  "Roundup,"  his  opinion  remains 
unchanged ;  for  he  argues  with  himself 
that  this  is  only  an  exhibition  to  com- 
memorate the  "old  days;"  and  since 
the  population  of  Cheyenne  or  Pendle- 
ton  knows  scarcely  more  of  cowpunch- 
ers  or  Indians  than  he  does  himself,  he 
is  firmly  seated  in  his  belief.  Yet 
these  exhibitions  should,  by  their  very 
existence,  furnish  sufficient  evidence 
to  refute  this  widespread  fallacy.  Rid- 
ing bucking  horses  is  not  an  art  which 
may  be  learned  by  correspondence. 
Neither  is  the  ability  to  "rope,  throw 
and  tie"  a  steer  in  a  minute  and  a  half 
acquired  by  "pushing  a  plow."  But 
this  fact  the  general  public  fails  to 
realize,  as  it  does  the  equally  true  one 
that,- as  one  cowpuncher  friend  of  the 
writer  expressed  it,  "there's  all  kinds 
of  country  west  of  the  little  old  Mis- 
souri." 

Fortv  years  ago,  almost  the  only 
industries  west  of  the  Big  Muddy  were 
cattle  raising  and  mining.  The  In- 
dians were  iust  beginning  to  feel  the 
press  of  white  invasion,  and  to  resent 
the  restrictions  placed  upon  them:  so 
they  were  more  or  less  turbulent.  Con- 


Typical  early  pioneers  of  the  West. 


'A  great  stretch  of  grass  land." 


sequently,  the  traveler  was  impressed 
with  these  phases  of  Western  life  be- 
cause they  were  the  only  ones  then 
existing.  To-day  the  Indians,  almost 
to  a  man,  are  prosperous  ranchmen  or 
farmers,  and  the  coming  of  the  rail- 
road has  nearly  obliterated  the  type  of 
old-fashioned  "cow-town."  There  are 
many  industries  besides  cattle  raising 
and  mining  being  carried  on  in  the 
West  to-day;  but  this  does  not  neces- 
sarily mean  the  total  extinction  of  the 
cattleman  and  the  miner,  any  more 
than  the  abandonment  of  many  farms 
in  the  New  England  States  means  the 
total  extinction  of  the  farmer  in  that 
section.  The  cowpuncher,  Indian  and 
miner  do  not  occupy  the  entire  West- 
ern stage — that  is  all. 

One  cannot  hope  to  see  cowboys  or 
Indians  ride  down  the  principal  street 
of  Cheyenne,  except  on  extraordinary 
occasions.  The  appearance  of  either 
in  their  full  regalia  is  enough  to  bring 
scores  of  gaping  spectators  from  the 
homes  and  stores.  And  the  visitor  to 
a  ranch  or  a  reservation  cannot  hope 
to  witness  a  continual  dress  parade. 

Fifty  miles  out  of  Cheyenne,  how- 
ever, lies  some  pretty  wild  country; 
and  in  Western  Nebraska,  which  has 


a  stock  law,  and  is  therefore  mostly 
fenced  range,  I  have  driven  for  twenty- 
five  miles  without  encountering  a  fence 
or  seeing  a  house  or  a  human  being. 

It  is  true  that  sheep  have  devastated 
many  square  miles  of  good  cattle 
range;  that  numerous  towns  have 
sprung  up  in  the  West  within  the 
last  decade;  and  that  barbed  wire 
has  made  sad  inroads  upon  the  old 
"free  range" — in  places.  But  enough 
of  the  Old  West  still  exists  between 
the  Missouri  and  the  Cascades  to  sat- 
isfy the  most  enthusiastic  tenderfoot, 
be  he  a  tourist  from  New  York  or  a 
drug  clerk  from  Great  Falls. 

And  it  is  in  this  great  stretch  of 
grassland,  separated  from  the  towns 
by  a  broad  belt  of  farms  around  each 
town,  that  we  must  travel  if  we  wish 
to  see  the  Old  West — not  as  it  was, 
but  as  it  still  exists.  There  the  trav- 
eler will  find  his  cowpunchers,  very 
probably  differing  greatly  from  those 
of  his  fiction  bred  imagination,  but 
cowpunchers,  nevertheless.  I  venture 
to  assert  that  no  such  characters  as 
the  average  cowboy  of  fiction  ever 
lived,  either  in  the  Old  West  or  else- 
where. And  if  he  visits  a  reservation 
on  occasions  like  the  "give-away"  or 


Cowpunchers  of  the  Jew's-harp  brand   with  their  outfit,  Western  Nebraska. 


"Fair  Week"  on  Pine  Ridge,  South 
Dakota,  he  will  see  plenty  of  Indians 
— in  full  war  clothes,  at  that. 

The  very  nature  of  the  country 
makes  its  complete  occupation  by  the 
farmer  impossible.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  misunderstanding  in  regard 
to  this.  Numerous  real  estate  sharks, 
"Homeseekers'  Syndicates,"  and  the 
like,  have  pictured  the  "vast,  unten- 
anted  acres  of  the  West"  as  an  ideal 
and  glorious  opportunity  for  the  small 
farmer. 

The  plain  truth  is,  that  outside  of 
such  garden  spots  as  the  Bitter  Root 
Valley  and  a  few  scattered  districts 
among  or  near  the  mountains,  where 
dams  may  be  built  and  irrigation  prac- 
ticed, the  cattle  country,  from  the 
Cascades  to  the  Missouri,  can  never 
be  adapted  to  agriculture,  except  along 
the  streams. 

Even  where  irrigation  is  practicable 
on  a  large  scale,  the  various  projects 
are  owned  by  big  syndicates,  who 
charge  the  farmer  such  exorbitant 
water  rates,  in  addition  to  the  price  of 
his  land,  that  no  one  except  the  well- 
to-do  can  afford  to  go  in  for  this  kind 
of  farming.  And  even  though  the  pro- 


jects were  government  owned,  the  cost 
of  their  upkeep  is  necessarily  so  high 
that  irrigation  can  never  become  pro- 
fitable for  the  average  impecunious 
farmer  who  is  struggling  to  get  a 
start. 

"Dry  farming"  has  also  been  unduly 
boomed.  It  sounds  nice  on  paper  to 
tell  just  how  many  potatoes  John  Jones 
raised  per  acre  by  dry  farming,  but — 
any  Western  homesteader  who  has 
tried  it  will  tell  you  that  dry  farming 
is  likely  to  be  extremely  dry.  It  works 
out  well  enough  in  the  fertile  river  bot- 
toms, but  the  trouble  is  that  the  coun- 
try is  not  all  river  bottoms.  And  the 
uplands  are  totally  unfit  for  agricul- 
ture, real  estate  agents  and  others  in- 
terested in  the  "development  of  the 
country"  to  the  contrary  notwithstand- 
ing. 

There  was  once  in  Kansas  a  stretch 
of  prairie  on  which  the  buffalo  grass 
grew  thick  enough  and  lush  enough  to 
cut  for  hay.  It  was  ideal  stock  coun- 
try. A  lot  of  dry  farmers  moved  in, 
bent  on  making  the  desert  blossom  as 
the  rose,  and  plowed  up  the  sod.  They 
struck  a  gravelly  subsoil,  on  which  to 
use  an  apt  expression,  it  was  impossi- 


One  of  the  round-ups  of  cattle  still  go  ing  on  in  forest  ranges. 


ble  to  raise  an  umbrella.  Then  they 
became  disgusted  and  quit.  But  the 
range  was  spoiled. 

Just  here  is  the  hitch,  and  the  rea- 
son why  so  many  cattlemen  have  sold 
out  within  the  last  decade.  The  set- 
tlers have  taken  up  the  fertile  river 
bottom  land,  and  have  fenced  it,  thus 
keeping  the  range  stock  from  the 
water.  Consequently  the  uplands,  fit 
for  nothing  but  grazing,  have  been,  in 
a  great  many  places,  abandoned,  and 
now  lie  absolutely  unused. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however, 
that  because  there  are  not  so  many 
big  ranches  now  as  formerly  that  the 
cattle  industry  is  on  the  decline.  On 
the  contrary,  those  farmers  who  have 
taken  up  claims  in  the  West  are  grad- 
ually becoming  convinced  that  it  is  no 
farming  country — at  least  for  the  poor 
man. 

In  the  western  part  of  Nebraska  lies 
a  tract  of  country  known  locally  as 
"the  sandhills."  When  I  visited  it  five 
years  ago,  the  "Kincaiders,"  (home- 
steaders under  the  Kincaid  law,  which 
allows  each  homesteader  a  full  section 
in  that  district)  were  numerous  and 
on  the  increase.  One  particular  local- 
ity contained  sixteen  claims,  joining 


each  other.  It  certainly  looked  as  if 
the  cattle  industry  was  doomed,  in  that 
country  at  least.  To-day,  only  three 
of  those  sixteen  remain.  The  rest 
have  gone  back  East,  where  it  is  easier 
to  raise  a  living. 

Another  abandoned  homestead,  in 
Keya  Paha  County,  bore  this  legend, 
nailed  to  the  shack  door : 

Fifteen  Miles  to  the  Postoffice 

Fifty  Miles  to  the  Railroad 

Two  Hundred  and  Fifty  Feet  to  Water 

And  Six  Inches  to  Hell. 

I'm  Going  Back  to  Missouri. 

Statistics  show  that  the  number  of 
beef  cattle  raised  in  the  country  is  in- 
creasing. This  is  certainly  not  due  to 
the  Eastern  farmer.  Ninety-nine  out 
of  a  hundred  farmers  keep  nothing  but 
dairy  cattle,  and  the  bull  calves  are 
sold  to  the  butcher.  There  is  good  rea- 
son for  this.  In  a  country  adapted  to 
agriculture,  such  as  the  Eastern 
States,  hogs  and  corn  are  much  more 
profitable  than  cattle,  and  very  few 
farmers  are  willing  to  devote  much 
time  and  acres  of  good  corn  land  to  the 
raising  of  beef  steers.  Consequently, 
the  nation's  beef  must  be  raised  else- 
where. 


JS 
•S 

5 

I 


A  street  scene  in  White  Oaks,  New  M  exico. 


During  the  recent  epidemic  of  hoof 
and  mouth  disease  that  swept  over  the 
Eastern  States,  thousands  of  cattle 
were  killed;  yet  the  price  of  beef  did 
not  materially  increase,  because  five- 
sixths  of  the  beef  cattle  are  raised  in 
the  unaffected  States  west  of  the  Mis- 
souri. 

It  is  therefore  clear  that  the  West- 
ern cattle  range  has  reached  the  limit 
of  shrinkage,  and  is  coming  back  to 
its  own.  The  cowpuncher  and  the  cat- 
tle ranch  are  no  more  passing  than  are 
the  farmer  and  the  cornfield,  and  for 
the  same  reason:  both  are  national 
assets,  and  neither  can  take  the  place 
of  the  other. 

In  the  case  of  the  Indians,  the 
change  has  been  more  marked.  The 
cabin  of  logs  or  sod  has  taken  the 
place  of  the  tepee  for  all  the  year 
occupation,  although  many  still  use 
the  tepee  during  warm  weather;  the 
travois  has  been  superceded  by  the 
spring  wagon,  and  the  war  bonnet  by 
the  broad  Stetson;  and,  except  as  a 
ceremonial  dress,  the  native  garb  has 
been  abandoned  for  the  cheaper  and 
more  easily  procured  garments  of  the 


white  man.  Neither  do  they  go  on  the 
war  path  in  this  day  and  age ;  but  they 
are  quite  as  copper-colored,  wear  as 
long  hair,  and  speak  the  same  lan- 
guage as  their  forefathers.  There  are 
more  full-blooded  Indians  in  ,the 
United  States  than  there  were  twenty 
years  ago — due  mainly  to  the  aboli- 
tion of  tribal  wars  and  the  stamping 
out  of  epidemics  introduced  by  en- 
croaching civilization.  The  "transi- 
tion stage,"  that  black  night  of  despair 
for  the  Indians,  has  passed,  and  the 
"vanishing  race"  is  increasing  rapidly 
and  thriving  in  the  light  of  a  new  day. 

In  view  of  these  facts,  it  appears 
somewhat  foolish  to  mourn  over  "the 
passing  of  the  Old  West."  For  certain 
it  is  that  the  Old  West  still  flourishes, 
so  far  as  the  character  of  the  men  and 
of  the  country  in  the  main  is  con- 
cerned. Those  changes  which  have 
been  wrought  have  been  merely  super- 
imposed, as  it  were,  upon  the  old  or- 
der. 

Of  course,  many  things  are  now  done 
somewhat  differently  from  what  they 
once  were:  the  modern  cattleman 
brands  with  a  stamp,  and  rides  a  saddle 


Packing  supplies  into  the  mountains. 


An  aborigine  family  "moving  on" 


which  is  much  neater  and  more  scien- 
tifically constructed  than  the  old 
Texas  saddle  of  the  early  days;  but 
his  horsemanship  has  not  suffered 
thereby.  The  herds  are  now  shipped 
to  the  markets  by  rail,  instead  of  be- 
ing trailed  many  weary  miles,  at  a 
consequent  loss  of  flesh,  value  and 
time;  also,  the  range  cattle  of  to-day 
are  mostly  whitefaces  or  shorthorns. 


The  old  longhorn  is  becoming  rare  on 
most  ranches;  but  there  are  no  fewer 
cattle  on  the  range  because  of  this. 

The  buffalo  may  be  gone,  and  the 
Indian  may  never  hunt  them  again; 
but  the  buffalo  were  practically  extinct 
as  early  as  1880;  and  there  have  been 
Indian  wars  since.  And  perhaps  with 
adequate  protection  even  the  buffalo 
may  return.  Quien  sabe? 


Christian  Science — Viewed  In  Its  Own 
Light  and  that  of  the  Bible 


By  P.  W.  Plaenker 


IT  IS  a  simple  matter  for  the  writer 
to  appreciate  the  attitude  of  Mr. 
Clifford  P.  Smith  toward  Pastor 
Russell,  as  expressed  by  Mr.  Smith 
in  his  article  on  "Christian  Science  as 
It  Is,"  published  in  your  issue  of  De- 
cember, 1915,  for  I  was  for  four  years 
actively  engaged  in  Christian  Science 
practice;  and  it  is  equally  simple  for 
the  writer  to  appreciate  why  Pastor 
Russell  does  not  "appear"  to  under- 
stand Christian  Science.  It  is  because 
I  understand  both  Pastor  Russell  and 
Mr.  Smith,  and  can  appreciate  their 
honesty  in  contending  for  what  they 
sincerely  believe  to  be  truth,  that  I 
deem  it  a  Christian  duty  to  submit  my 
views  of  "Christian  Science  As  It  Is." 
If  Mrs.  Eddy  had  not  claimed  for 
Christian  Science  that  God  is  its  au- 
thor, and  that  Christian  Science  is  in 
harmony  with  and  based  upon  the 
teachings  of  Jesus  and  the  Apostles 
(Science  and  Health  110:13;  126:29; 
269:22;  271:20),  no  Bible  student 
would  consider  it  his  duty  to  attempt 
to  expose  its  false  claims. 

"Christian  Science  As  It  Is"  is  an 
anti-Christian  religion  undermining 
faith  in  the  Bible  and  in  the  God  of 
the  Bible  by  subtly  introducing  evolu- 
tion, while  seeming  to  deny  it. 

"Christian  Science  As  It  Is"  is  the 
original  Satanic  lie — "Thou  shalt  not 
surely  die" — couched  in  Jehovah's  lan- 


guage, erroneously  connected  and  mis- 
applied; that  is,  Christian  Science  en- 
courages man  to  believe  that  he  has 
ever  had  an  indisputable,  inherited 
right  to  immortality,  contrary  to  the 
Bible,  which  says  that  immortality  is 
an  estate  promised  to  none  but  the 
faithful  followers  of  Jesus  Christ. — 
Romans  2:7. 

How  does  "Christian  Science  As  It 
Is"  compare  with  Jesus'  -teachings? 
Christian  Science  teachings  contradict 
those  of  Jesus.  For  example:  Jesus 
commanded,  "Heal  the  sick;"  Chris- 
tian Science  says  there  are  no  sick  to 
be  healed.  Jesus  taught  His  disciples 
to  pray,  "Thy  Kingdom  come;"  Chris- 
tian Science  says,  "Thy  Kingdom  is 
come,"  and  substitutes  for  prayer  to 
a  personal  God  a  declaration  of  its  own 
unscriptural  principles. 

Besides  being  un-Christian,  Chris- 
tian Science  is  unscientific:  First,  be- 
cause it  denies  itself;  secondly,  be- 
cause the  so-called  demonstrations  of 
its  principles  disprove  the  truthfulness 
of  its  claims. 

"Consistency  Thou  Art  a  Jewel." 

The  following  quotations  from  "Sci- 
ence and  Health"  show  that,  according 
to  Christian  Science,  man  is  the  crea- 
ture of  God  and  yet  co-existent  with 
Him: 


"Man  is  the  family  name  for  all  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  God.  All  that  God 
CREATES  moves  in  accord  with  Him,  re- 
flecting goodness  and  power."  Page  515; 
lines  22  to  25. 

"Man.  in  the  likeness  of  his  MAKER, 
reflects  the  central  light  of  being."  Page 
305;  lines  6-8. 


"Man  COEXISTS  with  and  reflects  Soul, 
God,  for  man  is  God's  image."  Page  120; 
lines  5-6. 

"Man  in  Science  is  NEITHER  YOUNG 
NOR  OKD.  He  has  NEITHER  BIRTH 
NOR  DEATH."  Page  244;  lines  24-25. 


254 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


It  is  manifest  that  both  of  these 
statements  cannot  be  true.  If  God  did 
not  antidate  man,  He  could  not  create 
him. 

Now,  to  prove  the  second  reason  why 
Christian  Science  is  unscientific,  viz., 
that  the  results  of  its  treatments  dis- 
prove the  principles  applied  in  the 
treatments.  To  illustrate:  By  declar- 
ing the  alleged  nothingness  of  matter, 
and  by  endeavoring  to  realize  the  all- 
ness  of  Spirit.  Christian  Scientists  seek 
to  restore  their  patients  to  health.  Do 
they  succeed?  If  so,  the  increase  in 
the  weight  of  the  healed  body  dis- 
proves the  principle  applied,  viz.,  all 
is  Spirit. 

When  the  patient  dies,  is  the  allness 
of  Spirit  demonstrated?  No;  for  in 
that  event,  according  to  Mrs.  Eddy's 
teachings,  the  patient  finds  himself  in 
possession  of  another  body  of  flesh; 
while  the  first  one  remains  on  this 
plane  of  existence  to  be  buried. 

When  will  "Christian  Science  As  It 
Is"  be  demonstrated?  This  will  not 
be  until  the  Christian  Science  mortal 
man,  which  is  not,  which  never  has 
been,  and  which  never  will  be,  real- 
izes the  allness  of  Spirit.  But,  some- 
one inquires,  Does  not  the  real  man 
make  the  demonstration  ?  No !  for  the 
real  man  of  Christian  Science  has  no 
mind  but  God,  and  no  other  substance. 

Then  for  whose  benefit  was  "Science 
and  Health"  written  and  published? 
The  only  logical  conclusion  is  that  the 
author  was  the  mythical,  mortal  wo- 
man of  Christian  Science  who  errone- 
ously believed  herself  to  be  surround- 
ed by  unreal,  sinful,  sick  and  dying 
creatures.  But  who  led  her  to  believe 
that  she  existed  and  that  she  was  sur- 
rounded by  imperfect  beings  in  need 
of  her  message  ?  Not  a  personal  devil, 
nor  angels,  for  they,  according  to 

SCIENCE    AND    HEALTH,    WITH    KEY 

TO  THE  SCRIPTURES. 
"The  material  blood  of  Jesus  was  no 
more  efficacious  to  cleanse  from  sin  when 
it  was  shed  upon  'the  accursed  tree,'  than 
when  it  was  flowing  through  His  veins, 
as  He  went  daily  about  His  Father's 
business." — S.  &  H.,  p.  25;  Is.  6-9. 


Christian  Science,  do  not  exist.  Who, 
then?  In  her  confusion,  Mrs.  Eddy 
gave  this  answer:  "When  God  called 
her  to  proclaim  His  Gospel  to  this  age 
there  came  also  the  charge  to  plant 
and  water  His  vineyard.  (Preface  to 
Science  and  Health:  Page  11,  lines 
19-21.) 

We  inquire  if,  as  Christian  Science 
teaches,  God  knows  nothing  of  sick- 
ness, sin  and  death,  what  suggested  to 
Him  the  need  of  "Science  and 
Health?" 

Ah!  the  Gospel  of  God  is  in  strik- 
ing contrast  with  Mrs.  Eddy's  teaching 
and  is  consistent  with  itself;  while 
Christian  Science  is  self-contradictory 
and  comports  neither  with  reason  nor 
with  the  Bible,  in  which  God  invites  us 
to  use  our  reason. — Isaiah  1 :18. 

The  Messiah  of  the  Bible. 

Instead  of  Messiah  being  a  "mental 
power,"  as  Christian  Science  claims 
(Page  116;  lines  13-16;  page  185;  lines 
3-6) ,  He  is  the  personal  Christ  Jesus, 
who  has  received  all  power  in  heaven 
and  on  earth,  and  who  in  1,000  years 
will  restore  mankind  to  perfection. 
Contrast  Page  291;  lines  23-30,  with 
the  following  Scriptures:  Acts  17:31; 
2  Peter  3:7,  8;  Revelation  21 :4. 

The  writer  is  not  endeavoring  to  ridi- 
cule Mrs.  Eddy,  for  he  was  at  one  time 
in  the  same  confusion.  Thank  God! 
Mrs.  Eddy  and  all  who  are  confused 
shall  be  awakened  to  walk  up  the 
Highway  of  Holiness,  in  which  even 
the  wayfaring  man,  though  a  fool, 
shall  not  err.— Isaiah  35 :8-10. 

Those  who  accept  the  Bible  as  God's 
Word  can  see  from  the  following  list 
of  quotations  that  Christian  Science 
is  an  anti-Christian,  Ransom-denying 
doctrine : 

THE   BIBLE. 

"For  this  is  my  blood  of  the  new  testa- 
ment, which  is  shed  for  many  FOR  THE 
REMISSION  OF  SINS."— Matthew  26:28. 

"WITHOUT  SHEDDING  of  blood  is  no 
remission." — Hebrews  9:22. 


"One  sacrifice,  however  great,  is  insuf- 
ficient to  pay  the  debt  of  sin.  The  atone- 
ment requires  constant  self-immolation 
on  th'e  sinner's  part.  That  God's  wrath 


"Surely  he  hath  borne  our  griefs  and 
carried  our  sorrows.  .  .  But  He  was 
wounded  for  our  transgressions,  bruised 
for  our  iniquities;  the  chastisement  of  our 


CHRISTIAN  SCIENCE 


255 


should  be  vented  upon  His  beloved  Son 
is  divinely  unnatural.  Such  a  theory  is 
man-made.  The  atonement  is  a  hard 
problem  in  theology  (when  the  theology 
denies  that  'the  wages  of  sin  is  death'  and 
that  'The  life  is  in  the  blood' — Romans 
8:23;  Levitucus  17:11);  but  its  scientific  (?) 
explanation  is  that  suffering  is  an  error 
of  sinful  sense  which  Truth  destroys." — 
S.  &  H.,  page  23;  lines  3-10. 


peace  was  upon  Him;  and  with  His 
STRIPES  WE  ARE  HEALED.  Yet  it 
pleased  the  Lord  to  bruise  him;  He  hath 
put  Him  to  grief;  when  thou  shalt  make 
HIS  SOUL  AN  OFFERING  FOR  SIN,  He 
shall  see  His  seed."— Isaiah  53;  4-5-10. 

"But  this  man,  after  he  had  offered  ONE 
SACRIFICE1  FOR  SIN  FOREVER,  sat 
down  on  the  right  hand  of  God." — He- 
brews 10:12. 


"By  understanding  more  of  the  divine 
Principle  of  the  DEATHLESS  (?)  Christ, 
we  are  enabled  to  heal  the  sick  and  to  tri- 
umph over  sin." — S.  &  H.,  page  28;  lines 
12-14. 

"Paul  writes:  'For  if,  when  we  were 
enemies,  we  were  reconciled  to  God  by  the 
(seeming)  DEATH  of  His  son,  much  more, 
being  reconciled,  we  shall  be  saved  by  his 
life."— Page  45;  lines  10-13. 

"His  unchanged  physical  condition  after 
what  SEEMED  to  be  death,  was  followed 
by  his  exaltation  above  all  material  con- 
ditions."—S.  &  H.,  page  46;  line  20. 


"But  if  there  be  no  resurrection  of  the 
DEAD,  THEN  IS  CHRIST  NOT  RISEN; 
And  if  Christ  be  not  risen,  then  is  our 
preaching  vain,  and  your  faith  is  also  vain. 
For  if  the  dead  rise  not,  then  is  not  Christ 
raised;  and  if  Christ  be  not  raised  your 
faith  is  vain;  ye  are  yet  in  your  sins." — 
1  Corinthians;  15:12-18. 

"I  am  He  that  liveth  and  was  dead." — 
Revelation  1:18.  See  also  John  12:23-25. 


"Jesus  was  'the  way,'  that  is,  He  (was 
not  the  way,  but  merely)  marked  the  way 
for  all  men." — S1.  &  H.,  page  46;  lines 
20-25. 


"I  am  the  WAY,  and  the  truth  and  the 
life;  no  man  cometh  unto  the  Father  but 
BY  Me."— John  14:6. 

"I  am  the  DOOR;  BY  ME,  if  any  man 
enter  in,  he  shall  be  saved." — John  10:9. 


On  page  11,  lines  16-19,  Mrs.  Eddy 
writes :  "Jesus  suffered  for  our  sins,  not 
to  annul  the  Divine  sentence  against  an 
individual's  sin,  but  to  show  that  sin 
must  bring  inevitable  suffering." 

In  her  attempt  to  deny  the  Ransom 
(1  Tim.  2:6)  which  in  the  Greek  is 
anti-lutron,  a  corresponding  price,  a 
redemption  price,  Mrs.  Eddy  acknow- 
ledges both  sin  and  suffering. 

In  view  of  these  apparent  contradic- 


tions of  itself  and  of  the  Bible,  may  it 
not  be  said  of  Christian  Science,  as 
Mrs.  Eddy  has  said  of  "Animal  Mag- 
netism," "Discomfort  in  error  is  pre- 
ferable to  comfort?" — Science  and 
Health,  page  101;  line  28. 

What  can  be  more  injurious  than  a 
system  which  in  the  name  of  Christi- 
anity denies  God  and  His  Son  Jesus, 
and  robs  the  patient  of  the  use  of  his 
reason? 


Bishop-Apostles'  Costly  Alstakc 

By  C  T.  Russell 

Pastor  New  York,  Washington  and  Cleveland  Temples  and  the 
Brooklyn  and  London  Tabernacles 


"Have  I  not  chosen  you  Twelve?" — 
John  6:70. 

AS  CHRISTIANS  we  have  long 
lamented  our  differences  and 
wondered  at  their  number.    As 
we  have  been  getting  rid  of 
one  after  another  of  the  doctrinal  er- 
rors of  the  past,  and  see  their  foolish- 
ness, and  learn  that  they  are  not  sup- 
ported by  Bible  testimony,  we  wonder 
how  they  originally  got  a  foothold  in 
Christian  faith.     But  a  glance  back- 
ward is  sufficient  to  explain  the  situa- 
tion. 

During  the  ministry  of  our  Lord  and 
the  Apostles,  the  faith  of  the  Church 
was  kept  pure;  but  as  Jesus  prophe- 
sied in  the  parable  of  the  Wheat  and 
Tares,  all  this  changed  as  soon  as  the 
Apostles  fell  asleep.  He  says :  "While 
men  slept,  the  enemy  came  and  sowed 
tares"  amongst  the  wheat.  The  tares 
of  error  sown  by  Satan  shortly  after 
the  death  of  the  Apostles  have  yielded 
an  abundant  crop,  and  well  nigh 
choked  out  the  good  seed  of  the  King- 
dom— Christ's  saintly  followers.  The 
nominal  wheat-field  might  almost  be 
called  a  tare-field,  so  greatly  do  the 
tares  predominate. 

But  in  the  Harvest,  the  end  of  this 
Age,  the  dawning  of  the  New  Age  of 
Messiah's  Kingdom,  the  Lord  will 
favor  such  conditions  as  will  effect  a 
thorough  separation  between  the 
"wheat"  and  the  "tares."  He  will 
gather  His  wheat  into  the  Garner.  All 
imitation  Christians  will,  by  the  fiery 
troubles  of  that  Day,  be  reduced  to  the 
ranks  of  the  world  in  general. 


Judas'  Place  Improperly  Filled. 

Whilst  the  eleven  Apostles  were 
waiting  as  directed  for  the  Pentacostal 
blessing,  they,  contrary  to  direction, 
busied  themselves  by  appointing  a 
successor  to  Judas.  They  chose  two 
men,  and  the  two,  selected  one  by  lot, 
and  then  supposed  that  they  had  made 
an  Apostle.  Without  reproving  them, 
God  ignored  their  choice;  thenceforth 
we  hear  no  more  of  Matthias.  In  His 
own  time  God  brought  forth  the  suc- 
cessor of  Judas,  and  we  all  recognize 
at  once  St.  Paul,  of  whom  it  is  writ- 
ten that  he  was  "not  one  whit  behind 
the  chief  est  of  the  Apostles,"  and  that 
he  had  visions  and  revelations  more 
than  they  all. 

St.  Paul's  writings  constitute  the 
major  portion  of  the  New  Testament, 
and  are  invaluable  gifts  of  God  to  His 
people.  There  never  were  to  be  more 
than  these  twelve.  Jesus  declares  that 
He  chose  the  twelve.  Again  He  de- 
clares that  God  gave  them  to  Him  and 
that  He  lost  none  of  them  save  Judas, 
whose  disloyalty  had  already  been 
foretold. 

When  Jesus  prayed  for  these  He 
differentiated  them  from  His  other  fol- 
lowers, saying,  "Neither  pray  I  for 
these  alone,  but  for  all  those  also  who 
shall  believe  in  Me  through  their 
word."  Their  words  are  His  words. 
They  have  been  His  mouthpieces  to 
the  Church.  Of  these  twelve,  and  of 
none  others,  He  declares,  "Whatso- 
ever things  ye  shall  bind  on  earth 
shall  be  bound  in  Heaven,"  and  what- 
soever things  ye  shall  declare  loosed 


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BISHOP-APOSTLES'  COSTLY  MISTAKE 


257 


all  shall  know  are  loosed  and  not  bind- 
ing in  the  sight  of  Heaven.  So  care- 
fully did  the  Lord  intend  to  supervise 
these  in  their  utterances  that  their 
words  would  be  infallible;  and  He 
wished  all  His  followers  to  know  this. 
Furthermore,  after  our  Lord  had  as- 
cended to  glory,  He  sent  a  message  to 
the  Church  through  St.  John  the  Reve- 
lator.  In  that  message  He  pictured 
the  twelve  apostles  as  a  crown  of 
twelve  stars,  upon  the  head  of  the  Wo- 
man, the  Church.  Again,  in  the  sym- 
bolical picture  of  the  New  Jerusalem, 
which  represents  the  Church  in  glory 
beyond  the  veil,  He  pictures  the  twelve 
apostles  as  the  twelve  foundation 
stones.  There  never  were  to  be  any 
more,  nor  any  less.  From  this  stand- 
point we  see  that  we  are  not  to  expect 
an  additional  revelation  of  any  kind. 
God's  people  are  not  to  trust  either  in 
their  own  speculations  and  mental 
gymnastics,  or  in  visions  and  dreams; 
for,  as  St.  Paul  declares,  "If  any  man 
preach  any  other  gospel  than  that 
which  we  have  preached,  let  him  be 
accursed."  (Galatians  1:8,  9.)  So, 
too,  he  declares,  "The  Word  of  His 
grace  is  able  to  build  you  up,"  and 
to  "make  you  wise  unto  salvation." 
Again  he  said,  "The  Word  of  God  is 
sufficient,  that  the  man  of  God  may  be 
thoroughly  furnished."  Acts  20:32; 
2  Timothy  3:15-17.)  We  see,  then, 
that  the  Church  needed  no  more  than 
the  twelve  Apostles,  nor  any  further 
revelation  of  any  kind  than  those 
given  to  her  through  this  inspired 
Apostleship.  But  that  there  would  be 
some  who  mistakenly  would  claim  to 
be  apostles,  the  Lord  Jesus  clearly  in- 
dicated, declaring  that  there  would  be 
false  apostles,  "who  say  that  they  are 
apostles  and  are  not." — Revelation  2 :2. 

The  First  Pseudo-Apostles. 

When  we  speak  of  pseudo-apostles 
— false  apostles — we  should  not  be  un- 
derstood as  charging  intentional  fraud. 
Rather,  sympathetically,  let  us  sup- 
pose that  the  early  bishops,  in  accept- 
ing the  title  of  apostles  and  claiming 
for  themselves  succession  to  the  Apos- 
tolic office,  were  honestly  deluded,  as 


much  as  were  the  people  who  thus  ac- 
knowledged them.  Let  us  remember, 
further,  that  the  matter  grew  gradually, 
just  as  titles  and  dignities  grow  at  this 
day. 

Let  us  remember  that  the  early 
Christians  were  not  generally  educated 
— that  remarkably  few  people  in  olden 
times  were  able  to  read.  Indeed,  gen- 
eral ability  to  read  belongs  only  to  our 
generation,  to  those  living  in  this  our 
wonderful  day — the  dawning  of  the 
New  Era  of  Messiah's  Kingdom.  Let 
us  remember,  also,  that  at  that  time 
books  were  very  scarce,  because  very 
expensive.  The  Jews  did,  indeed,  en- 
deavor to  have  a  copy  of  the  Holy 
Scriptures  in  every  synagogue,  there 
to  be  read  once  a  week,  in  portions, 
from  large  and  costly  scrolls. 

Christians,  expelled  from  the  syna- 
gogue, had  no  longer  the  opportunity 
of  the  Jews  for  studying  the  Old  Tes- 
tament Scriptures.  And  the  New  Tes- 
tament, written  in  fragmentary  man- 
ner, was  costly  also,  and  not  brought 
together  as  a  collection  for  a  long 
time  after  the  death  of  the  Apostles. 
The  sacred  writings  soon  became  rel- 
ics, remembrancers  of  the  dead  Apos- 
tles and  of  Jesus,  worshipped  by  all, 
but  not  studied.  Their  value  for  in- 
struction was  considered  at  an  end, 
because  the  theory  in  the  meantime 
had  sprung  up  that  the  living  bishops 
were  the  representatives  of  the  Apos- 
tolic office  and  inspirations.  The  peo- 
ple, therefore,  unable  to  read,  asked 
not,  What  say  the  Apostles?  but  re- 
ceived their  theological  instructions 
from  the  bishops,  who  they  believed 
to  be  the  living  Apostles. 

When  we  reflect  that  very  few  min- 
isters in  one  city,  even  of  one  denomi- 
nation, are  to-day  fully  agreed  as  re- 
spects Divine  Truth,  we  must  not  be 
surprised  that  during  the  two  centuries 
following  the  death  of  the  Apostles, 
these  supposed  "successors"  got  into 
all  kinds  of  false  doctrines,  each  lead- 
ing a  company  of  believers  and  hold- 
ing the  pre-eminence  of  his  own  views, 
few  thinking  to  measure  their  presen- 
tations by  those  of  the  twelve  divinely 
appointed  Apostles. 


258 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


"Apostolic  Councils"  Next. 

The  doctrinal  strife  between  the 
bishops  grew.  Gradually  the  people  of 
God,  about  A.  D.  250,  began  to  be  sep- 
arated into  two  classes — the  clergy  and 
the  laity.  The  bishops,  instead  of  be- 
ing chosen  by  the  vote  of  the  people, 
publicly  claimed  the  divine  right,  as 
the  superiors  in  the  Church,  to  ordain 
for  them  their  clerical  teachers.  The 
clergy,  under  the  lead  of  the  bishops 
as  supposed  successors  to  the  Apostles, 
lorded  it  over  God's  heritage.  Later, 
in  the  sixth  century,  the  Bishop  of 
Rome  began  to  be  considered  superior 
to  all  other  bishops,  and  finally  was 
declared  to  be  the  chief  father,  or 
papa,  or  Pope. 

About  the  Fourth  Century  creed 
making  began.  The  Nicene  Creed,  the 
Athanasian  Creed  and  the  Apostle's 
Creed,  all  were  formulated  in  the 
fourth  century.  It  was  discovered  that 
more  than  a  thousand  bishops — pseudo 
apostles — were  teaching  very  contrary 
doctrines  on  many  subjects.  The  Em- 
peror Constantine  accepted  Christian- 
ity, and  was  perplexed  by  the  variety 
of  teaching.  He  convened  the  "Apos- 
tolic Council"  of  Nice.  But  although 
he  provided  expense  money  for  all 
bishops  attending,  only  about  one-third 
obeyed  the  command. 

These  bishops  disputed  and  wran- 
gled over  differences  for  days  and 
weeks  and  months.  Finally  they 
reached  a  conclusion  satisfactory  to 
the  emperor.  It  was  promulgated  with 
governmental  sanction  and  with  the 
declaration  that  any  persons  or  teach- 
ings to  the  contrary  were  to  be  ex- 
pelled. Thus  a  small  minority  of  men 
who  mistakenly  thought  themselves  in- 
spired, under  the  leading  of  an  em- 
peror who  had  not  even  been  baptized, 
set  up  a  theological  standard  which 
since  has  served  well  to  fetter  religious 
thought  in  many,  and  to  make  others 
believe  that  there  is  nothing  in  re- 
ligion but  superstition. 

Creed-making  along  these  lines  pro- 
gressed for  twelve  hundred  years, 
while  the  Bible  was  neglected.  It  was 
not  even  thought  necessary,  as  a  text 


book  in  theological  seminaries.  Luther, 
then  a  devout  Catholic,  had  taught  and 
preached  for  years  without  ever  seeing 
a  Bible.  The  explanation  is  that  the 
bishops,  esteemed  to  be  living  apos- 
tles in  full  authority,  were  thought  to 
have  more  up-to-date  knowledge  than 
the  original  twelve.  In  so-called  Apos- 
tolic councils,  they  formulated  creeds 
which  they  declared  were  alone  nec- 
essary to  be  believed.  Can  we  won- 
der that  in  all  those  fifteen  centuries 
the  real  nuggets  of  Truth  which  had 
been  delivered  by  Jesus  and  the  Apos- 
tles and  the  Prophets,  became  sadly  in- 
crusted  with  human  tradition,  supersti- 
tion, misunderstanding,  etc.  ? 

Groping  for  the  Light. 

Our  Catholic  friends  do  not  agree 
that  a  great  Reformation  movement 
started  in  the  sixteenth  century.  None 
of  us  will  claim  that  Luther  and  his 
friends  were  infallible,  and  that  in  one 
step  they  passed  from  the  confusion 
of  fifteen  centuries  into  the  full  blaze 
of  religious  knowledge.  All,  however, 
Catholics  and  Protestants,  can  surely 
agree  that  some  kind  of  creed  impetus 
to  righteousness  came  to  the  Protest- 
ant movement  of  the  Sixteenth  Cen- 
tury. We  have  porof  of  it  all  about 
us. 

No  longer  are  Protestants  and  Cath- 
olics warring  with  each  other,  burning 
each  other  at  the  stake,  etc.  Each 
may  feel  free  to  investigate  for  him- 
self and  to  accept  or  reject  such  doc- 
trines and  creeds  as  he  may  please. 

All  true  Christian  people  deplore 
the  division  of  Christ's  followers  into 
numerous  sects.  Nevertheless  we  may 
surely  feel  a  great  sympathy  for  all 
of  them  when  we  remember  that  each 
separate  sect  represents  an  additional 
effort  on  the  part  of  honest  minds  to 
grope  out  of  darkness  toward  the 
light.  All  who  are  awake  are  con- 
scious that  some  terrible  nightmare  of 
error  rested  upon  Christendom  for 
long,  long  centuries. 

The  Torch  of  Civilization. 

Well  has  the  Bible  been  called  the 
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BISHOP-APOSTLES'  COSTLY  MISTAKE 


259 


The  Bible,  not  men,  was  the  great  Re- 
former and  leader  into  civilization. 
When  the  Bible  was  placed  in  the 
hands  of  the  people,  they  began  to  see 
that  God's  message  came  from  Jesus 
and  the  Apostles  and  the  Prophets  of 
old,  and  that  clericism  and  sacerdotal 
functions  were  man-made.  A  desire 
to  know  what  the  Bible  teaches  be- 
came more  and  more  prevalent.  The 
first  effort  of  the  clerics  was  to  tell  the 
masses  that  the  priesthood  had  the 
Bible  and  would  read  it  in  their  hear- 
ing— but  it  was  read  in  Latin,  to  those 
who  could  not  understand  Latin. 

Gradually  the  desire  sprang  up  for 
the  Bible  in  the  English  language.  Dr. 
Tyndale  was  amongst  the  first  to  rec- 
ognize the  need  and  to  supply  it  to  the 
British.  Later  on  Luther,  with  assist- 
ants, supplied  the  Germans.  But  not 
many  were  able  to  read.  A  partisan 
spirit  arose.  Seeing  that  the  Bible  was 
popular,  all  acclaimed  it  as  the  Di- 
vine Revelation.  But  each  party  con- 
demned the  translation  made  by  the 
other,  when  in  reality  there  was  no 
particular  difference  between  them.  It 
was  all  the  bishops  could  do  to  keep 
the  people  from  studying  God's  Word 
themselves  and  to  make  them  satis- 
fied with  the  presentations  already 
given  them  by  their  teachers. 

Therefore  the  Bishop  of  London 
bought  up  a  lot  of  Tyndale's  Testa- 
ments and  burned  them  in  public.  But 
more  were  printed  and  the  demand  in- 
creased. People  hungered  for  God's 
word,  and  felt  suspicious  of  the  creeds, 
as  well  they  might.  Then  came  the 
Catholic  Bible  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, and  later,  our  Common  Version 
English  Bible,  and  many  others.  Still 
the  claim  is  made  that  Protestants 
could  not  read  the  Catholic  Bible,  and 
that  Catholic  could  not  read  the  Pro- 
testant Bible,  when  in  reality  the  two 
are  practically  the  same — good  trans- 
lations. 

It  would  appear  that  there  are  many 
religious  teachers  of  all  denominations 
who  outwardly  extol  the  Bible  for  pop- 
ularity's sake,  but  who  in  reality  in- 
wardly wish  the  people  would  never 
read  it,  for  they  realize  that  the  Bible 


is  the  greatest  foe  in  the  world  to  ec- 
clesiastical hypocricies  and  supersti- 
tions. 

Back  to  the  Bible,  Says  Pope! 

Pope  Leo,  with  a  clear  vision  be- 
held the  drifting  of  our  day  away  from 
all  faith  and  religion.  Viewing  the  at- 
titude of  the  Protestant  college,  uni- 
versities and  theological  seminaries, 
he  realized  that  nearly  all  the  edu- 
cated young  men  of  Protestant  lands 
are  being  taught  Higher  Criticism, 
which  is  the  modern  name  for  infidel- 
ity. He  perceived  that  Protestantism, 
which  originally  boasted  of  its  fidelity 
to  the  Bible,  and  protested  against  the 
acceptance  of  the  teachings  of  the 
bishops  instead  of  the  Divine  Word, 
has  cut  loose  from  the  Bible  as  an  in- 
spired authority  and  is  drifting  upon 
the  rocks  of  Higher  Criticism,  ration- 
alism, atheism. 

The  Pope  then  bethought  himself  of 
the  Catholic  colleges,  and  found  the 
same  Higher  Criticism  intruding  itself 
there.  He  perceived  that  this  general 
trend  away  from  God  has  already 
crushed  all  religion  in  ninety-six  per 
cent  of  the  French,  and  in  ninety  per 
cent  of  the  Germans.  The  awfulness 
of  this  situation  greatly  impressed  the 
holy  father.  He  realized  that  our  in- 
crease of  education  and  decrease  in  re- 
ligious faith  must  speedily  spell  an- 
archy. At  the  risk  of  condemnation 
from  both  Catholics  and  Protestants 
as  narrow-minded  and  bigoted,  the 
Pope  instituted  heroic  measures.  He 
gave  orders  that  all  Roman  Catholic 
ecclesiastics  and  teachers  must  be  ex- 
amined as  to  their  faith,  and  must 
solemnly  swear  to  it,  and  that  all 
books  along  the  lines  of  Higher  Criti- 
cism should  be  banned. 

Pius  X  took  another  bold,  cour- 
ageous step.  Perceiving  that  the 
masses  would  no  longer  recognize  the 
Bishops  as  Divine  authority — as  suc- 
cessors to  the  Apostles — he  directed 
through  the  Papal  bull  that  the  Catho- 
lic masses  no  longer  look  to  the  suc- 
cessors of  the  Apostles  for  instruc- 
tion, but  to  the  Bible  itself.  He  urged 
upon  the  Bishops  that  Catholics  every- 


260 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


where  be  encouraged  to  read  the  Bible. 
This  is  a  move  in  the  right  direction. 
If  Catholics  should  get  to  reading  the 
Bible  (I  care  not  whether  they  use 
the  Catholic  version  or  the  Protestant 
version — I  use  both),  Protestants  may 
be  shamed  into  real  Bible  study,  in- 
stead of  the  sham  make-believe  so 
much  practiced. 

May  we  not,  then,  hope  that  all 
true  Christians,  Catholic  and  Protest- 
ant, of  every  shade,  might  through  the 


honest  study  of  the  one  great  book  of 
authority,  come  back  to  the  "one  Lord, 
one  Faith,  one  Baptism,"  and  the  one 
"Church,  of  the  Living  God,"  whose 
names  "are  written  in  Heaven?"  To- 
ward this  end  let  us  labor.  Let  us  all 
be  students  of  the  Bible,  and  let  us 
be  honest  and  loyal,  not  handling  the 
Word  of  God  deceitfully.  So  shall  we 
have  the  blessing  for  which  Jesus 
prayed:  "Sanctify  them  through  Thy 
Truth;  Thy  Word  is  Truth." 


land. 


"Why  We  Punctuate,  or  Reason  vs. 
Rule  in  the  Use  of  Marks,"  by  Wil- 
liam Livingston  Klein,  Revised  Edi- 
tion, entirely  Rewritten. 

The  first  edition  of  this  work  was 
published  in  1896,  and  the  treatment 
of  the  subject  was  so  highly  com- 
mended by  many  leading  men  and  pe- 
riodicals of  the  country  that  the  entire 
edition,  though  a  large  one,  was  soon 
exhausted.  Once  in  print,  the  author, 
with  his  wide  vision  of  what  the  work 
should  be  to  fill  the  limits  of  the  field, 
discovered  that  there  were  several 
spots  which  required  stronger  support 
to  make  the  book  an  ideal  one  of  its 
kind.  His  chief  criticism  of  his  ven- 
ture was  that  he  had  followed  the 
general  practice  of  treating  the  four 
principal  marks  (coma,  semicolon, 
colon  and  period)  separately.  Failure 
follows  this  mode  of  treatment  be- 
cause it  disregards  the  interrelation  of 
marks  and  the  relations  between 
groups  of  words  to  be  interpreted  by 
marks.  Accordingly,  he  has  rewritten 
the  book  and  made  it  an  authority  on 
punctuation,  logical  and  clear. 

8vo.  Price  $1.25  net.  Published  by 
The  Lancet  Publishing  Company, 
Minneapolis,  Minn. 


"His  Old  Time  and  a  Few  Others,"  by 

J.  E.  Sanford. 

This  is  a  collection  of.popular  verse 
done  by  a  craftsman  in  touch  with  the 
every-day  things  about  us.  He  infuses 
spirit  into  his  themes,  gives  them 
character  touches  and  interests  the 
man  in  the  home  and  his  fellow  that 
walks  the  street  seeking  interesting 
sidelights  on  his  fellows. 

Price,  $1.  Published  by  Waldo  R. 
Hart,  Fredonia,  New  York. 


"South  on  Preparedness,"  by  Simon 

Strunsky. 

As  the  author  is  a  member  of  the 
editorial  staff  of  the  New  York  Even- 
ing Post,  he  is  in  a  measure  more  in- 
timately acquainted  with  the  inside  of 
this  movement  than  the  ordinary  citi- 
zen with  his  eye  on  his  every-day 
business.  The  hero  of  the  argument 
is  an  average  citizen  who  spends  New 
Year's  Eve,  1916,  in  arranging  his 
thoughts  on  the  subject  of  national  de- 
fense. Here  is  one  taken  at  hap- 
hazard: "I  am  practical.  I  am  will- 
ing to  forego  the  ideal  of  democracy 
if  it  is  a  question  of  our  national  ex- 
istence. If,  for  our  survival  as  a  na- 
tion, it  is  necessary  that  we  become 


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&  and 

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like  Germany,  then  let  us  be  Germany. 
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"Gethsemane  and  Other  Poems,"  by 

Anna  Morrison  Reed. 

This  little  book  of  commendable 
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and  other  appreciative  admirers. 

The  Northern  Crown  Publishing  Co., 
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"The  Little  Lady  of  the  Big  House." 
By  Jack  London,  author  of  "The 
Valley  of  the  Moon,"  "The  Sea 
Wolf,"  etc,,  with  frontispiece  in 
colors. 

In  this  story  of  a  woman  whose  life 
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adds  at  least  three  characters  to  his  al- 
ready notable  list  of  literary  portraits 
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a  man  of  intellect,  training  and  wealth; 
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imagination. 

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our  navy  which  is  of  interest  at  this 
time  of  national  stock-taking.  "The 
objection  that  the  navy  was  an  instru- 


ment of  tyranny,"  says  Professor  Ste- 
vens, "is  heard  no  longer,  but  opposi- 
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expense,  even  although  the  cost  to  the 
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Ralph  Pulitzer,  who  has  given  his 
experiences  in  the  war  zone  in  his  just- 
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Aeroplane,"  relates  an  interesting  an- 
ecdote illustrating  the  astonishing  ac- 
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partment. "One  day,"  says  Mr.  Pulit- 
zer, "when  the  Belgian  army  was  being 
reuniformed  in  khaki,  a  certain  regi- 
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fifty  apiece ! ;  " 

Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 
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"The  Appeal  to  Neutral  Nations,"  by 

R.  Dales  Owen. 

This  is  an  appeal  to  the  civilized 
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and  women  to  use  their  influence  to 
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a  large  and  powerful  group  of  nations, 
backed  by  a  police  army  ready  to  bat- 
tle in  defense  of  the  right.  The  author 
regards  this  as  the  more  merciful  and 
the  most  enduring  way  to  end  the  pres- 
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40  ACRES  ON  "LAS  UVAS" 

Santa  Clara  County,  Cal. 


The  finest  mountain  stream  in  Santa  Clara 
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Situated  9  miles  from  Morgan  Hill,  between 
New  Almaden  and  Gilroy. 

Perfect  climate. 

Land  is  a  gentle  slope,  almost  level,  border- 
ing on  "Las  Uvas." 

Many  beautiful  sites  on  the  property  for 
country  homes. 

Numerous  trees  and  magnificent  oaks. 

Good  automobile  roads  to  Morgan  Hill  9 
miles,  to  MadroneS  miles,  to  Gilroy  12  miles, 
to  Almaden  11  miles,  and  to  San  Jose  21 
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BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LXVII 


San  Francisco,  April,  1916 


No.  4 


The  Social  Theatre  and  Its  Possibilities 


By  Helen  Stocking 


IN  a  San  Francisco  home,  there  is, 
way  up  in  the  top  of  the  house, 
a  miniature  theatre,  with  a  stage, 
tiny  but  perfect  in  every  detail, 
from  the  velvet  curtain  with  its  letters 
"E.  L." — standing  for  Emilio  Laes- 
treto,  whose  theatre  it  is — to  its  scen- 
ery and  lighting.  And  there,  on  cer- 
tain nights,  you  will  find  a  roomful  of 
people  who  know  each  other  and  laugh 
and  talk  together.  The  play  is  Shakes- 
peare. It  is  such  a  little  stage  that 
there  can't  be  a  lot  of  canvas  and 
wood  on  it  for  scenery — so  there  is  just 
a  suggestion  of  a  tree,  or  a  wall,  or  a 
throne,  and  one's  imagination  can  build 
freely.  These  are  not  professional  ac- 
tors— just  people  who  have  loved  and 
studied  the  men  and  women  of  the 
play,  and  worked  enthusiastically  in 
their  desire  to  share  their  pleasure 
with  friends.  When  you  stop  think- 
ing of  them  as  King  Lear  or  Earl  of 
Gloster  or  Cordelia,  you  know  this. 
Otherwise,  you  might  think  they  were 
paid  professionals  in  a  paid  theatre. 

And  afterwards,  you  and  the  rest 
who  have  lived  with  Shakespeare's 
genius  for  an  hour,  come  together 
again  over  a  bit  of  refreshment,  with 
mind  stimulated  and  imagination  fired. 

In  Moscow,  a  decade  ago,  a  group 
of  amateur  actors  organized  to  pre- 
sent the  best  in  dramatic  art.  To-day 
three  hundred  and  sixty  men  and 
women  give  their  entire  time  to  oper- 
ating that  theatre,  which  is  the  best 


equipped  playhouse  in  Europe,  with 
productions  the  most  perfect.  Its  ex- 
penses are  $350,000  a  year,  its  re- 
ceipts over  $400,000.  It  is  an  Art 
Theatre,  outside  the  class  that  re- 
gards the  theatre  purely  as  a  market 
place  for  dealing  in  dramatic  goods. 

There  are  many  plays,  by  no  means 
"high-brow,"  which,  however,  are  not 
put  on  the  ordinary  commercial  stage, 
because  they  will  not  attract  "the 
crowd,"  and  the  producer  must  make 
his  very  large  per  cent.  However,  the 
material  demand  for  such  plays  as  ap- 
peal to  the  limited  and  more  devel- 
oped audience,  is  shown  by  the  fact 
that  everywhere,  small  and  intimate 
theatres  are  being  built  by  managers 
whose  one  idea  is  to  make  money. 
Since  the  "Little  Theatre"  in  New 
York,  with  its  two  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  seats  succeeded  so  brilliantly,  a 
dozen  more  have  been  built. 

In  the  "Sequoia  Club"  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, members  from  all  the  depart- 
ments of  the  club's  varied  artistic  in- 
terests are  combining  in  their  "Little 
Theatre."  Worthy  plays  by  local 
playwrights  are  given  a  hearing,  sce- 
nery is  painted  by  their  own  artists, 
who  work  out  original  ideas  in  stage- 
craft, even  costume  designing  and 
craftsmanship  of  properties  have  their 
field,  as  have  musicians,  of  course,  in 
composition.  Such  a  theatre  is  not 
only  a  very  valuable  social  asset,  but 
may  be  a  laboratory  of  experiment, 


"Alice  in  Wonderland,"  in  Eucalyptus  Theatre,  Piedmont,  California. 


and  a  means  of  self-expression  that 
places  it  in  the  development  of  dra- 
matic art.  Harr  Wagner,  the  club's 
president,  the  workers  in  the  "Little 
Theatre,"  Dr.  C.  B.  Root,  its  director, 
have  inspiring  plans  for  its  future. 

The  Washington  Square  Players  of 
New  York  began  just  this  way,  a  year 
ago — a  group  of  amateurs  with  no  cap- 
ital, not  even  a  playhouse.  Soon  they 
had  enough  subscribers  to  start  on  a 
more  comprehensive  scale,  admitting 
the  public  at  fifty  cents  a  seat.  They 
are  now  established  in  the  "Band-Box 
Theatre,"  with  full  houses  every  night, 
enough  money  to  pay  a  living  wage  to 
a  permanent  staff,  giving  the  best  in 
dramatic  art  at  a  fourth  the  price  of 


what  may  be  paid  for  a  trashy  Broad- 
way "show,"  with  a  record  of  having 
given  fourteen  notable  plays  new  to 
the  American  stage,  mostly  by  native 
dramatists,  and  productions  which  sev- 
eral newspaper  critics  declare  the  most 
interesting  in  New  York,  and  all  agree 
are  superior  to  the  standard  of  the 
commercial  theatre. 

It  is  only  a  step  further  to  even  the 
broader  scope  of  the  "Chicago  Little 
Theatre,"  with  its  many  additional  ac- 
tivities ;  intimate  concerts,  art  lectures-, 
informal  salons,  with  eminent  men  and 
women  as  guests.  In  fact,  now,  almost 
every  city  has  its  small  but  earnest 
group  of  workers  who  are  trying  to 
find  expression  in  the  New  Theatre — 


Forest  Theatre  at  Carmel,  during  a  production  of  "Twelfth  Night." 


and  its  variety  is  infinite. 

What  a  field  there  is  in  the  Out  of 
Door  Theatre!  The  Greek  Theatre  in 
Berkeley  stands  as  an  ideal,  with  its 
approach  under  aged  oaks, 

"Great  in  their  silence,  breathing 
mystery, 

Wordless  witnesses  of  growing  his- 
tory," 

and  its  twilight  grove  of  melancholy 
eucalyptus  and  classic  pine,  its  great 
amphitheatre  where  a  sea  of  humanity 
covers  the  gray  stone  seats. 

He  who  has  been  of  such  an  audi- 
ence knows  a  unique  experience — 
great  numbers  of  all  kinds  of  people 
brought  together  in  a  spontaneous 
pursuit  of  beauty,  in  freedom  from  the 


sense  of  the  artificial  or  the  limita- 
tions of  roofs  and  walls,  of  yesterday 
and  to-morrow,  an  unlifting  of  mind 
and  spirit  as  high  as  the  heavens  above 
and  as  wide  as  the  universe. 

Great  drama — but  more — great  ex- 
periences— were  the  Greek  tragedies 
given  by  Margaret  Anglin  there  last 
summer,  from  the  lyricism  and  spirit- 
uality of  the  "Iphegenia"  to  the  dra- 
matic and  barbaric  "Medea." 

Added  to  the  charm  and  illusion  of 
witnessing  a  Greek  play  in  a  real 
Greek  Theatre,  there  were  striking  ex- 
amples of  the  New  Art  of  the  Theatre. 
Largely  responsible  for  this  is  the  im- 
posing architecture,  demanding  large- 
ness, sincerity  and  simplicity  in  action 
and  staging,  and  the  classic  dignity 
and  severity  of  background,  allowing 


I 


o 

£ 
§ 


of  little  decoration,  and  accentuating 
the  decorative  effect  of  moving  figures 
and  the  meaning  of  color  and  light. 
Such  productions  are  significant  in  the 
progress  of  the  New  Theaory  of  the 
Theatre  as  applied  to  the  indoor  stage. 

And  we  need  not  depend  on  such 
great  amphitheatres  for  our  Open-air 
Drama.  One  has  only  to  recall  the 
satisfying  performances  in  such 
charming  surroundings  as  the  Carmel 
Forest  Theatre.  And  the  Eucalyptus 
Open  Air  Theatre  in  Piedmont  is  a 
practical  example  of  what  any  subur- 
ban park  or  town  may  have. 

There  are  the  Garnet  Holme  Play- 
ers, who  gave  last  summer  "Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream/'  and  "Taming  of 
the  Shrew,"  in  such  settings  as  only 
California  can  provide,  with  its  great 
trees  and  perfect  sky.  For  next  sea- 
son, this  organization  has  even  greater 
plans,  in  which  Mary  Austin  expects 
to  co-operate,  with  her  enthusiasm  for 
the  theatre  of  social  service.  Mr. 
Holme  has  already  been  interested  in 
taking  his  players  to  other  places  even 
by  transporting  company  and  costumes 
in  two  or  three  automobiles  to  isolated 
communities. 

Then  there  are  the  Mountain  Play- 
ers, under  the  auspices  of  the  "Recrea- 
tion League,"  who  have  given  three 
plays  on  Mt.  Tamalpais — productions 
so  ideal  as  to  become  widely  known, 
especially  the  "Rip  Van  Winkle"  and 
"Sankutala." 

Some  one  has  said  that  the  theatre 
is  the  quickest,  most  far-reaching 
means  of  educating  the  people,  and 
Mr.  Dooley  answers :  "It's  a  good  thing 
for  the  theatre  that  the  people  that 
go  to  them  don't  know  this.  If  they 
felt  they  were  bein'  edjacated  whin 
they  thought  they  were  neglectin' 
their  minds,  they'd  mob  the  box  of- 
fice and  get  their  money  back."  At 
any  rate,  it  is  a  most  attractive  and 
stimulating  means  of  education. 

Every  one  must  have  some  interest 
outside  of  the  "bread  alone"  struggle 
to  be  well  and  happy,  so  amusement  is 
not  a  luxury  but  a  necessity.  Why 
should  not,  then,  the  support  of  play- 
houses by  the  people  for  the  people  be 
a  duty  like  the  maintenance  of 
schools?  Why  should  we  surrender 


£ 

JS 

CQ 
<=*— , 

o 
Qi 


The  Friar  and  Prioress,  "Canterbury  P  itgrims." 


ourselves  entirely  to  the  commercial 
manager,  especially  the  children  and 
young  folks? 

There  is  so  much  discussion  as  to 
the  feeding  of  children.  What  about 
the  hygiene  of  the  mind — providing 
the  best,  purest,  most  perfectly  digest- 
ible and  easily  assimilated  mental 


foods.  Such  nourishment  determines 
whether  or  not  that  child  will  develop 
into  a  man  or  woman  who  can  enjoy 
and  appreciate  the  best  in  life,  the 
worth  while  in  drama,  literature  and 
art. 

Happily,  nowadays,  the  theory  of 
a  theatre  for  children  is  not  without 


The  Miller  and  the  Friar,  in  the  "Canterbury  Pilgrims' 


268 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Electra  in  the   Greek  play  produced 
in   California. 

practical  illustrations.  And  the  trans- 
forming of  theatre  or  opera  house  into 
a  veritable  children's  playhouse  for 
such  events  as  "Peter  Pan,"  "Blue 
Bird,"  and  "Hansel  and  Gretel"  is 
frequent.  There  are  moving  picture 
theatres  with  special  pictures  taken 
for  children  and  explained  by  appro- 
priate stories. 

The  San  Francisco  "Children's 
Theatre"  of  the  Recreation  League, 
under  the  leadership  of  Mrs.  D.  E.  F. 
Easton,  last  season  gave  fifteen  per- 
formances of  such  plays  as  "Alice  in 
Wonderland,"  "Shockheaded  Peter," 
"Snow  White." 


It  is  a  rare  experience — that  of 
watching  a  theatre  full  of  children  fol- 
lowing spell-bound  the  adventures  of 
a  Fairy  Princess,  thrilling  to  the  gal- 
lant bearing  and  brave  speeches  of  the 
Prince,  laughing  at  the  funny  little 
gnomes.  Then  to  watch  them  troop- 
ing out  afterwards,  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  shining  eyes,  out  from  a  hushed 
hour  in  fairyland,  into  the  great,  roar- 
ing city;  their  souls  so  ready  to  turn  to 
the  sun,  flowering  under  the  magic 
touch  of  poetry  and  beauty,  clad  in 
a  fairy-woven  armor  against  the 
world's  materiality  and  ugliness. 

To  keep  the  theatre,  as  it  should  be 
— within  the  means  of  all  children,  the 
admission  is  ten  cents.  But  by  the 
most  economical  planning  possible,  it 
requires  an  audience  of  five  hundred 
at  each  performance  to  maintain  such 
an  organization,  and  this  has  proved 
not  practicable  in  one  fixed  location. 
So  this  season's  plans  are  to  give  the 
plays  in  Neighborhood  Houses  and 
schools,  using  as  much  as  possible  the 
children  of  the  community. 

The  really  great  possibilities  of  a 
theatre  for  young  folks  is  in  the  Neigh- 
borhood House — plays  given  by  them- 
selves, studied,  rehearsed  and  staged 
under  the  skillful  direction  of  those 
who  work  from  the  view  point  of  hu- 
man development,  with  roles  assigned 
with  the  idea  of  purposeful  play — an 
outlet  for  self-expression,  to  break  the 
fetters  of  self-consciousness,  and  de- 
velop through  dramatic  instinct  body, 
mind  and  soul — for  many  a  soul  is 
starved  and  warped  for  lack  of  a 
chance  to  live  its  imaginative  nature, 
and  thus  thrown  into  wrong  channels. 
Fcr  instance,  the  very  timid  child  may 
be  encouraged  to  assay  a  character  of 
confidence  of  manner  and  courage — to 
assume  the  very  qualities  he  lacks. 
The  bad  boy  finds  that  it  is  quite  as 
interesting  to  direct  his  energy  and 
emotional  bent  into  deeds  of  dashing 
chivalry  and  heroic  deeds,  as  into 
crime.  The  "loud"  girl  learns  by  ex- 
periencing another's  personality,  the 
beauty  and  charm  of  modesty  and  sim- 
plicity. The  stoop-shouldered  boy  is 
inspired  through  one  experience  in 


.2 


3 

a" 

c; 


5 

8 
I 

03 


270 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


bearing  himself  as  a  romantic  hero,  to 
retain,  at  least,  something  of  that  bear- 
ing, as  his  own  habit.  And  so  on 
through  infinite  possibilities  in  creat- 
ing and  reforming  personalities  and  at- 
titudes of  thought  and  feeling.  A 
child  in  most  unfavorable  environment 
may  receive  conceptions  of  ideals 
of  taste,  of  properly  spoken  English, 
house  furnishings,  dress,  social  form, 
manner — in  a  word,  the  Art  of  Living, 
which,  however  superficial,  constitutes 
a  mighty  influence  in  broadening  of 
efficiency  and  development  of  person- 
ality— adding  to  the  "leaven  of  life." 

The  plays  may  be  chosen  to  present 
definite  ideals,  as  for  instance  "The 
Tempest"  (in  which  three  or  four  hun- 
dred young  people  may  take  part") 
with  its  Nature  appeal;  "Forest  Ring," 
suggesting  kindness  to  animals;  "In- 
gomar,"  ideal  affection  contrasted  with 
brutal  love;  "As  You  Like  It" — a 
wholesome  love  story. 

If  you  have  ever  seen  one  of  Shakes- 
peare's comedies,  of  childlike  spirit  of 
fantasy,  interpreted  by  children  full 
of  the  joy  of  life,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
play,  it  seems  a  stiff  and  dull  thing  in- 
deed given  by  adults,  As  to  what  the 
theatre  means  to  children  themselves, 
one  little  girl  wrote  of  their  play:  "I 
like  the  place  where  Sara  Crew  got  her 
imaginings,  when  the  garret  was  made 
'into  a  palace.  It's  nice  when  child- 
ren get  their  imaginings."  And  verily, 

"He  whom  a  dram  hath  possessed 
treads  the  impalpable  marches. 

From  the  dust  of  the  day's  long  road, 
he  leaps  to  the  laughing  star. 

He  views  the  ruins  of  worlds  that  fall 
from  eternal  arches, 

And  rides  God's  battlefield  in  a  flash- 
ing and  golden  car." 

But  we  are  all  children  more  or  less, 
or  should  be — and  play  can  be  made 
as  "purposeful"  for  us. 

The  Hull  House  Players  began  with 
a  few  people  associated  with  Hull 
House,  Chicago,  "giving  a  play."  To- 
day there  is  a  well  organized  company, 
consisting  of  people  of  various  occupa- 
tions— a  cigar-maker,  a  restaurant 


keeper,  a  stenographer,  a  school 
teacher,  a  photographer,  and  so  on, 
who  give  productions  known  world- 
wide. Not  long  ago,  by  their  work  in 
their  playhouse,  to  which  of  course 
they  can  give  only  their  evenings,  they 
were  able  to  take  a  short  trip  to  Europe 
— being  entertained  while  there  by 
such  great  and  interested  persons  as 
Lady  Gregory,  Lady  Aberdeen,  John 
Galsworthy  and  others.  They  give 
such  plays  as  "Kindling,"  "You  Never 
Can  Tell,"  "The  Pigeon."  And  what 
splendid  "play'  are  these,  for  refresh- 
ment after  the  daily  grind  to  stimulate 
mind  and  spirit. 

The  "Drama  League  of  America"  is 
one  of  the  most  effective  organs  of  its 
kind  in  this  country.  Its  object  is  to 
stimulate  and  interest  in  the  best  drama 
and  to  awaken  the  public  to  the  im- 
portance of  the  theatre  as  a  social 
force.  Its  work  is  done  through  local 
centers,  which  are  in  all  the  principal 
cities  and  in  many  small  towns.  It  has 
an  information  bureau  for  dramatic 
clubs  and  amateur  players.  It  brings 
good  plays  to  towns  which  would  not 
otherwise  have  visited  them. 

A  special  national  committee  is  ar- 
ranging for  a  nationwide  celebration 
of  the  Shakespeare  Tercentenary  in 
April.  The  San  Francisco  branch,  un- 
der the  leadership  of  Mrs.  D.  E.  F. 
Easton,  its  president,  is  planning  to 
present  "Richard  III."  This  pageantry 
or  community  celebration  is  a  splendid 
idea.  It's  a  fine  thing  for  a  commu- 
nity to  play  together  for  a  purpose,  es- 
pecially with  such  a  motive  as  pro- 
moting the  great  art  of  which  Shakes- 
peare is  master.  Schools,  universities, 
municipalities,  clubs,  individuals,  unite 
in  great  masses  under  the  leadership  of 
a  few  in  the  spirit  of  art. 

The  idea  of  Pageantry  in  schools  is 
fast  supplanting  the  former  crude  fes- 
tivities and  giving  evidence  of  what 
an  organic  culture  of  interrelated  arts, 
music,  dancing,  speech,  drama — may 
mean. 

In  all  California  there  is  not  a  statue 
or  bust  of  Shakespeare — no  memorial 
of  this  most  representative  name  in 
the  history  of  dramatic  art.  So  the 


Entrance  to  the  Bohemian  Grove,  located  about  ninety  miles  north  of  San  Francisco. 


272 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Drama  League  proposes  to  raise  such  a 
memorial  in  San  Francisco. 

In  Northhampton,  Massachusetts, 
there  is  a  municipal  theatre — as  in  so 
tnany  towns  of  Europe,  where  the  peo- 
ple of  the  city  find  their  intellectual, 
esthetic  and  social  delight.  The  best 
seats  are  seventy-five  cents.  Street  cars 
carry  free  advertisements.  The  plays 
are  chosen  by  a  committee  representa- 
tive of  all  classes  and  tastes.  The  au- 
dience is  in  close  connection  with  the 
creative  part  of  the  drama.  One  thou- 
sand persons — it  is  a  town  of  twenty 
thousand — pledge  to  support  a  stock 
company  to  produce  the  best  plays. 
These  are  not  by  any  means  "high 
brow,"  for  instance  Pomander  Walk, 
Fortune  Hunter,  Sister  Beatrice,  Cot- 
tage in  the  Air,  Our  Wives,  Lights  of 
St.  Agnes,  Frederic  Le  Maitre, 
Clothes,  The  Family. 

Perhaps  we  cannot  have  everywhere 
such  municipal  theatres  yet.  But  the 
San  Francisco  Drama  League  aims  to 
stimulate  and  pledge  support  to  a  stock 
company  in  plays  of  ideals  and  ideas. 
Moving  pictures  need  not  "take  every- 
thing," as  the  saying  goes.  They  can- 


not. Their  values  are  based  on  action. 
In  order  to  make  a  story  obvious  it 
must  depend  entirely  on  its  objective 
appeal.  Life  must  be  portrayed  in 
black  and  white. 

Are  all  the  finer  shades — all  drama 
of  character  and  ideas,  then,  to  be  lost 
— and  much  of  it  must  be  to  us,  so  far 
away  from  producing  centers.  Must 
the  next  generation  scarcely  know  the 
fantasy  of  such  plays  as  "Peter  Pan," 
the  Poetry  of  "Sister  Beatrice,"  the 
wit  and  satire  of  Oscar  Wilde? 

To  inspire  those  interested  in  the 
Drama  League  and  its  work,  there  has 
been  a  visit  from  Lady  Gregory. 
Among  others  to  come  is  Luther  B. 
Anthony  who  gives  to  the  League 
a  very  interesting  demonstration  of 
the  building  of  a  play,  apparently  writ- 
ing and  producing  it  before  them.  "For 
indeed  this  writing  of  plays  is  a  great 
matter."  As  says  Bernard  Shaw: 
"Forming  as  it  does,  the  mind  and  af- 
fections of  men  in  such  sort  that  what- 
soever they  see  done  in  show  on  the 
stage  they  will  presently  be  doing  in 
earnest  in  the  world,  which  is  but  a 
larger  stage." 


A  glimpse  between  trees. 


A  Corner  of  San  Francisco  Bay 


By  Roger  Sprague 
Illustrated   With   Photographs  by  the   Author 


IN  the  United  States,  rural  life  is  be- 
coming more  and  more  a  tradition. 
More  and  more  do  men  crowd  to- 
gether    in     great     municipalities, 
where  a  business  with     ramifications 
nation-wide  may  be  conducted.     But 
there  still  remains  instinct  in  the  hu- 
man heart,  the  love  for  hills  and  trees 
and   sun-kissed  shores  and  sweeping 
views  over  the  emerald  water  of  har- 
bors where  commerce  hurries  back  and 
forth.    So  it  comes  about  that  the  man 
who  has  his  office  on  the  fourteenth  or 


the  fortieth  floor  of  a  sky-scraper  may 
have  his  home  miles  away,  on  some 
height  where  he  sees  the  city  only  as 
a  blurr  in  the  distance. 

Thus  it  is  that,  within  easy  reach  of 
all  our  larger  cities,  there  may  be 
found  scores  of  delightful  residential 
communities  tributary  to  the  metropo- 
lis. There  are  many  such  near  San 
Francisco.  I  like  nothing  better,  on  a 
spring  morning,  than  to  cross  the  har- 
bor and  to  spend  a  few  hours  rambling 
among  their  hillside  homes. 


274 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


And  that  is  just  what  we  shall  do 
in  the  course  of  this  sketch. 

The  sun  was  shining  on  the  bay,  but 
the  fog  still  hung  on  San  Francisco's 
hills  in  great  fluffy,  billowy  waves.  Be- 
low lay  the  fringe  of  wharves  and 
piers,  from  one  of  which  the  steamer 
Sausalito  crept  cautiously  out. 

The  long  black  walking-beam  bal- 
anced for  a  moment;  then  recom- 


many-windowed  bulk  of  a  huge  hotel. 
It  loomed  between  two  masses  of  fog, 
which  rolled  together  presently  and 
concealed  it. 

My  gaze  fell  to  the  piers  in  the  fore- 
ground, where  coastwise  and  ocean 
steamers  were  lying — steamers  for  San 
Diego,  steamers  for  Seattle,  steamers 
for  Honolulu,  steamers  for  Nome. 
Their  names  showed  in  white  letters 


House  boats  and  yachts  below  Belvedere. 


menced  its  solemn  see-saw  as  the 
Sausalito  turned  northward  toward  the 
little  suburban  communities  which 
stand  on  the  slopes  rising  so  steeply 
to  the  north  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

I  stood  on  the  upper  deck  and 
leaned  against  the  pilot  house.  I 
looked  up  to  the  top  of  San  Francisco's 
hills,  and  on  those  hills  I  saw  the 


on  the  black  iron — Yucatan  of  San 
Francisco,  Sierra  of  San  Francisco, 
Menes  of  Hamburg.  I  heard  the 
snarling  of  winches,  the  snorting  of  en- 
gines; I  saw  the  stevedores  rushing 
back  and  forth.  The  long  sheds  on 
the  piers  were  sharply  outlined  be- 
neath the  crisp  April  sunshine,  with 
its  vivid  lights  and  shadows.  Whole 


Blue  gums,  framing  Bacon  Hall,  Berkeley. 


colonies  of  sea-gulls  roosted  on  their 
roofs.  Above  those  roofs  I  saw  the 
long  sign  boards,  reading  "Sacramento 
River  Boats/'  "Pacific  Coast  Steam- 
ship Company,"  "American-Hawaiian 
Steamship  Company."  The  great  nu- 
merals on  their  ends  stared  me  in  the 
face. 

Back  of  the  sheds  there  rose  the 
green  slopes  of  Telegraph  Hill,  half 
covered  with  houses.  In  its  front 
yard  yawned  immense  excavations, 
where  rock  had  been  blasted  to  build 
the  seawall. 

I  opened  my  camera  and  clicked  the 
shutter  a  few  times  to  make  sure  it 
was  in  working  order,  but  decided  to 
use  no  plates  until  I  got  to  my  desti- 
nation— Belvedere.  My  plan  was  to 
climb  the  hills,  enjoy  a  tramp  in  the 
open  air,  and  make  a  few  snap-shots. 


The  trip  would  be  an  enjoyable  day's 
outing. 

Meanwhile,  I  turned  to  the  east, 
where  I  could  watch  a  river  steamer 
steering  toward  the  Sacramento.  Its 
single,  huge  wheel,  placed  at  the  stern, 
lifted  a  roll  of  feathery  foam  as  it 
propelled  the  high  white  hulk  across 
the  water.  I  watched  the  steam  escap- 
ing from  the  stack  in  rhythmic,  regu- 
lar puffs,  to  float  away  in  a  line  of  lit- 
tle clouds  which  quickly  faded. 

Farther  out  in  the  bay  I  could  see  a 
long  white  four-masted  schooner.  It 
made  a  pretty  picture,  with  a  single 
yard  crossing  its  foremast,  its  white 
'hull  lying  low  on  the  water,  deep  laden 
with  a  cargo  of  sugar  from  the  Ha- 
waiian Isles. 

All  around  there  lay  the  customary 
and  familiar  sights  of  the  harbor;  the 


A  sentry  of  a  garden. 


dark  green  water,  sea-going  ships  and 
steamers,  broad  ferryboats,  shallow 
river  steamers,  while  from  the  land 
there  rose  hills,  hills,  hills,  far  and 
near.  Hills  even  rose  from  the  water 
in  the  form  of  islands.  The  Sausalito 
was  now  approaching  one  of  these. 

It  was  Alcatraz  Island.  Its  terraced 
sides  were  crowned  with  the  huge  bulk 
of  the  federal  prison,  above  which  rose 
the  white  shaft  of  a  light-house. 

Alcatraz  means  gull,  for  when  that 
island  was  named,  gulls  composed  its 
whole  population.  And  they  still  make 
its  shore  their  rendezvous. 

They  were  wheeling  and  whirling  all 
around  the  Sausalito.  Some  sailed 
along  on  level  wings,  not  ten  feet  from 
the  rail,  keeping  even  pace  with  the 
steamer.  Others  were  dipping,  soar- 
ing and  gliding  before  and  behind. 
And  when  any  scraps  were  thrown 
overboard,  what  a  screaming! 

I  noted  the  contrast  between  differ- 
ent varieties.  The  yellow-beaked  her- 
ring-gull is  the  more  graceful  of  the 
two  found  in  San  Francisco  Bay. 
Slate  colored  above  the  wings  and 
pure  white  beneath,  with  lemon-yellow 
beak,  it  is  a  beautiful  bird;  all  the 
more  so  in  comparison  with  the  com- 
mon gray  gull. 

A  small  boy  stood  at  the  rail,  toss- 


ing bread  to  the  birds  to  watch  them 
catch  it.  Sometimes  the  bread  seemed 
to  fly  straight  from  his  fingers  down 
the  throat  of  the  gull,  so  neatly  was  it 
caught.  Then  he  threw  a  larger  piece, 
as  long  as  his  hand.  A  herring-gull 
and  a  gray  gull  caught  at  the  same  in- 
stant. Neither  would  let  go.  They 
lost  their  balance.  Down  they  went, 
heels  over  head,  to  strike  the  water 
with  a  splash.  The  crust  broke.  Each 
gull  gulped  his  portion,  and  made  a 
stab  at  his  rival.  But  they  couldn't 
wait  for  further  hostilities.  They  were 
up  and  away  and  after  the  steamer  as 
soon  as  they  could  get  started.  In  two 
minutes  they  were  back  at  the  rail,  as 
eager  for  bread  as  before.  There 
seems  to  be  no  limit  to  a  gull's  appe- 
tite. 

Beyond  Alcatraz  Island  I  saw  the 
Golden  Gate.  More  than  a  mile  in 
width,  it  opened  broadly  to  the 
ocean.  A  cool,  gentle  breeze  blew  in- 
to the  harbor. 

Beyond  the  Golden  Gate,  the  ocean 
road  stretched  away  without  break  or 
interruption  clear  to  the  Orient.  A 
heavy  bank  of  fog  hung  between  the 
Heads.  And  from  out  that  fog  there 
came  a  steamer  fresh  from  Manila, 
Hong-Kong  and  Yokohama;  fresh 
from  where  two-thirds  of  the  world's 


A  CORNER  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY. 


277 


population  live.  The  morning  sun  fell 
full  on  the  long  black  hull.  With  its 
white  superstructure  and  yellow  fun- 
nels, it  made  a  striking  picture  as  it 
floated  on  the  olive-tinted  water.  A 
column  of  black  smoke  was  pouring 
from  the  after  funnel.  <A  string  of 
gaudy  signal  flags  were  fluttering  from 
the  foremast.  At  the  jack-staff  there 
flew  the  Japanese  ensign — with  its 
white  field  and  blood-red  sun. 

In  such  fashion  the  Sausalito 
crossed  the  bay.  How  cool  and  quiet 
and  restful  it  was,  out  there  on  the 
water.  The  passengers  sat  on  the 
outside  benches,  eager  to  enjoy  the 
fresh,  soft  air.  Whirled  onward  over 
the  emerald  water,  exhilarated  by  the 
sparkling  sunshine,  fanned  by  the  cool 
ocean  breeze,  all  gave  themselves  to 
the  enjoyment  of  the  day. 

It  was  fascinating  to  sit  there  and 
idly  enjoy  the  pictures  all  about  us — 
the  seagulls  and  the  water  and  the 
hills ;  the  steamers  coming  through  the 
Golden  Gate;  the  islands  with  their 
steep  and  rugged  sides.  Behind  us  on 
the  San  Francisco  shore  we  saw  the 
domes  and  walls  of  Exposition  pal- 
aces. Behind  them  the  streets  of  the 
city  climbed  straight  up  the  hillside, 
shining  bands  against  the  background. 

Once  across  the  Golden  Gate,  and 
we  had  the  tide  behind  us.  We  ran 
into  Richardson's  Bay.  Fifty  minutes 
after  leaving  San  Francisco,  I  landed 
at  Tiburon. 

I  climbed  a  low  hill.  From  its  sum- 
mit I  could  look  westward  across  the 
smooth  surface  of  a  little  inlet.  A 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  a  strip  of  yel- 
low beach,  a  high  hillside  almost  cov- 
ered with  trees,  great  scars  of  red 
earth  showing  through  the  green, 
scores  of  pretty  homes  clinging  to  the 
slope  from  base  to  top,  rose  abruptly 
from  the  water.  All  those  homes  were 
set  in  a  setting  of  the  deepest,  richest 
green.  Some  were  partly  silhouetted 
against  the  sky.  On  the  very  sum- 
mit a  grove  of  evergreens  were  over- 
looked by  a  taller  grove  of  eucalyp- 
tus. That  hill  was  Belvedere. 

How  quiet  and  fresh  and  shady  it 
looked !  The  very  place  for  "a  walk  in 


Entrance  to  a  wayside  house. 

the  open  air."    I  descended  to  where 
a  causeway  led  westward. 

On  one  side  of  that  causeway  there 
lay  the  inlet;  on  the  other  side  a 
tidal  marsh.  The  houses  on  either 
hand  were  a  study  in  themselves.  All 
were  built  on  piles.  At  low  tide  the 
ground  beneath  many  of  them  lay  dry. 
At  high  tide  the  water  would  rise  to 
their  front  steps.  Many  of  them  were 
low,  one-story  structures,  built  on  the 
plan  of  the  house-boats  that  could  be 
seen  at  anchor  in  the  inlet — low  and 
square,  with  a  narrow  veranda.  From 
the  back  door  a  flight  of  steps  led  to 
the  water,  where  lay  a  sailboat  or  a 
motor-launch.  Beneath  them  I  heard 
the  water  playing,  with  measured 
splash  and  gurgle.  The  tide  was  com- 
ing in.  The  low  ripples  of  the  bay 
were  sliding  shoreward,  to  run  beneath 
those  homes.  They  slapped  gently 
down  upon  the  gravel,  rattling  it  as 
they  withdrew,  then  urging  it  up  the 
beach  as  they  came  again.  And  every 
ripple  reached  a  little  higher. 


278 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Before  those  houses  the  broad  yel- 
low road  stretched  smooth  and  level. 
There  was  no  dust,  for  recent  rains 
had  washed  it  all  away.  A  motor  car 
came  shrieking  around  the  curve  at  its 
farther  end,  and  fled  past  to  rumble 
across  a  bridge  and  dart  down  to  the 
ferry  at  Tiburon.  But  even  it  left  no 
cloud  behind  it. 

On  my  right,  as  I  walked  westward, 
the  receding  tide  had  left  a  stretch  of 
ground  partly  bare  and  partly  flooded. 
A  few  hours  later  all  would  be  under 
water,  as  the  flood  came  in.  Now  it 
was  thronged  with  seagulls,  who  were 
exploring  the  shallow  pools. 

The  road  from  the  ferry  at  Tiburon 
to  the  hill  of  Belvedere  is  about  half 
a  mile  long.  At  its  mid-point  it 
crosses  a  bridge,  so  that  Belvedere  is, 
strictly  speaking,  an  island.  Its  ridge 
is  more  than  a  mile  long  from  north 
to  south,  and  very  narrow.  On  its 
eastern  slope  there  is  a  luxuriant  na- 
tive growth  of  a  species  of  live-oak. 
Some  twenty  years  ago  some  one  no- 
ticed the  possibilities  of  the  place.  A 
suburban  community  was  planned  and 
planted  among  the  oaks  of  the  eastern 
slope.  It  is  purely  residential. 

I  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and 
turned  to  follow  the  long  carriage  road. 
It  led  southward,  rising  at  the  gentlest 
possible  slope. 

On  my  left  the  road  was  guarded  by 
an  iron  railing,  for  the  ground  fell 
away  as  steeply  as  a  cliff.  I  could 
look  down  on  a  narrow  strip  of  pebbly 
beach,  where  little  yachts  had  been 
hauled  up.  Men  were  at  work  on  their 
sides — caulking,  carpentering,  paint- 
ing, varnishing.  Little  wooden  boat- 
landings  ran  out  fifty  or  a  hundred 
feet.  Beyond  them  house-boats  lay 
at  anchor.  Farther  out  were  sail-boats. 
A  perfect  swarm  lay  before  the  Corin- 
thian Yacht  Club  at  Tiburon. 

Presently  the  road  had  risen  high 
enough  to  reach  the  grove  of  live- 
oaks.  And  wherever  an  oak  was  lack- 
ing, a  cypress,  an  acacia  or  a  magnolia 
had  been  set.  The  way  was  bordered 
with  camellias  and  marigolds  and  scar- 
let geraniums.  Ivy  trailed  on  the 
trees.  The  odor  of  lilac  and  lavender 


drifted  down  the  hillside. 

It  was  enchanting  to  loiter  along 
that  shady,  winding  drive.  It  lay 
along  the  hillside,  like  a  broad  ribbon 
trailed  at  the  feet  of  the  dark  oaks. 
Every  few  steps  an  opening  showed  in 
the  foliage  on  my  right,  and  in  each 
opening  I  saw  a  curving  flight  of  gray 
stone  steps,  leading  upward.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  way  to  some  home.  Or  else 
it  was  a  little  lane,  connecting  two  long 
bends  of  the  road. 

On  my  left,  pergolas  led  to  the  up- 
per verandas  of  the  homes  below  me. 
I  stopped  before  an  entrance.  Above, 
below,  on  every  side  were  trees.  The 
hedge  was  of  box,  the  walls  of  the 
house  were  dark  brown,  a  pergola 
wreathed  around  with  roses  led  to  the 
little  veranda.  Broad  windows  over- 
looked the  bay. 

So  it  is  with  all  of  those  hillside 
homes.  They  are  all  provided  with 
a  succession  of  verandas  and  a  multi- 
plicity of  wide  windows  where  the 
owners  may  gaze  out  over  dreamy 
California  landscapes,  above  which 
drift  billowy  summer  clouds  floating 
in  a  warm  blue  sky.  Looking  down  to 
the  shore,  they  see  the  boat  landings. 
Beyond  each  landing  there  lies  the 
waters  of  the  inlet.  The  dark  surface 
is  spangled  with  house  boats  and 
yachts  and  motor  launches,  their  white 
sides  glittering  in  the  sunlight.  Be- 
yond, the  water  rise  the  hills  of  Tib- 
uron. Cloud  shadows  drift  over  those 
hills.  Their  green  slopes  stretch  away 
far  to  the  southeast,  where  pale  blue 
hills  melt  into  a  pale  blue  sky,  which 
deepens  in  tone  as  it  rises;  a  sky 
blurred  in  places  with  great  wreaths 
of  smoke  from  factories  located  on  the 
bay  shore. 

If  they  look  southward  they  can 
see  the  heights  of  San  Francisco, 
barred  by  the  broad,  bright  bands  of 
the  city  streets.  Between  them  and 
the  city  lies  the  Golden  Gate,  its  com- 
merce passing  back  and  forth. 

I  resumed  my  walk,  for  I  was  en- 
joying the  crisp  April  sunshine,  the 
shade  of  the  trees,  and  the  picturesque 
glimpses  between  their  branches.  And 
then  there  were  the  flowers. 


Looking  down  on  Tiburon. 


280 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


I  saw  the  blue  of  wistaria,  the  daz- 
ling  white  of  clematis,  and  the  golden 
yellow  of  broom  trees.  By  the  side 
of  stone  steps  there  grew  great  clusters 
of  Shasta  daisies,  with  their  long, 
white  rays  and  golden  hearts.  Dark 
green  vines,  spattered  with  blossoms 
of  brilliant  scarlet,  climbed  the  col- 
umns of  a  pergola  and  trailed  on  the 
trellis  overhead.  The  odor  of  helio- 
trope and  honeysuckle  rolled  across 
the  road  from  either  side.  And  more 
noticeable  than  all  other  flowers  were 
the  roses. 

They  were  white  and  buff  and  yel- 
low, with  reds  ranging  from  the  deep- 
est crimson  to  the  palest  pink.  I  no- 
ticed a  single  bush,  trained  clear 
across  a  roof,  which  it  half  covered 
with  its  white  frost-work. 

I  left  the  road,  and  descended  to  the 
shore.  I  walked  out  to  the  end  of  a 
boat  landing,  where  I  rested,  turning 
to  admire  the  picture  made  by  the 
hillside.  From  where  I  was  I  could  not 
see  the  summit  of  the  hill  directly  be- 
fore me,  for  it  rose  too  steeply.  But  I 
could  look  northward  along  the  beach. 
Commencing  at  a  point  two  hundred 
yards  away,  I  could  command  a  view 
of  the  whole  hillside  from  base  to  top. 
It  rose — one  great  slope  of  green,  tow- 
ering three  hundred  feet  above  me. 
Below  me  the  water  was  crisped  by 
a  tiny  breeze,  which  fluttered  the  pages 
of  my  note  book.  A  hundred  feet 
away,  the  tide  rippled  on  the  shore. 
Behind  me,  a  great  side-wheel  steamer 
paddled  to  Tuburon.  I  heard  the 
splash  of  its  paddles  and  the  deep 
groan  of  its  whistle.  From  the  railroad 
yard  a  mile  away  came  the  snorting 
of  engines.  And  before  me  spread  a 
picture  on  which  my  eyes  might  lin- 
ger. 

In  the  foreground  there  lay  the 
olive  green  water.  A  boat  landing  led 
to  the  shore.  From  the  landing  a  nar- 
row flight  of  concrete  steps — a  twist- 
ing ribbon  of  white — crept  up  the  hill- 
side. On  both  sides  it  was  bordered 
with  a  line  of  scarlet  geraniums,  their 
color  contracting  with  that  of  the  dark 
evergreen  ivy  that  hid  the  yellow  rocks 
and  earth.  The  stairs  led  to  a  little 


home,  with  dark  wooden  walls  and 
white  framed  windows  and  red  chim- 
neys. Below  it  the  ground  had  been 
planted  with  marigolds,  for  the  slope 
was  too  steep  for  a  lawn.  They  made 
a  great  splash  of  brilliant  orange, 
which  blazed  on  the  face  of  the  hill. 
Directly  above  that  cottage  and  seem- 
ingly balanced  on  its  chimneys,  was 
another,  with  shingled  walls  and  dark 
green  roof,  and  a  tower  surrounded 
with  deep  balconies.  Above  it,  an- 
other home,  with  dull  red  walls  and 
steep  gables,  peeped  out  from  a  tangle 
of  trees;  while  on  the  very  summit 
there  loomed  still  another,  the  largest 
of  all.  Its  tall  yellow  chimney  and 
steep  roof  stood  out  clear  and  sharp 
against  a  great  pearl  white  cloud  just 
peeping  into  view. 

And  that  combination  was  only  one 
of  many  that  I  might  have  commanded 
by  seeking  other  boat  landings,  or  by 
skirting  the  shore  in  a  skiff.  Every- 
where were  perfect  pictures,  with  such 
a  profusion  of  tangled  oaks  and  trail- 
ing ivy,  of  brilliant  flowers  and  dark 
woodwork,  from  the  golden  blossoms 
that  glowed  in  the  foreground  to  the 
more  delicate  pink  that  drooped  from 
windows,  that  it  seemed  as  though  no 
change  could  be  made  without  work- 
ing an  injury.  But  it  was  time  for  me 
to  continue  my  walk.  I  climbed  again 
to  the  carriage-road. 

The  road,  climbing  higher  all  the 
while,  circled  the  southern  end  of  the 
hill.  I  came  to  its  western  slope.  Here 
the  native  growth  of  trees  was  scanty, 
and  had  been  supplemented  heavily 
with  eucalyptus  and  evergreens. 

There  are  not  many  homes  on  the 
western  face  of  the  hill.  Nevertheless, 
there  are  some.  White  walls  and  red 
roof-tiles  peep  out  from  between  the 
dark  green  branches. 

I  stood  before  an  opening  between 
the  trunks.  I  studied  the  picture 
which  they  framed.  Below  me,  in  the 
foreground,  a  schooner  lay  at  anchor. 
Beyond  it,  the  surface  of  Richardson's 
Bay  stretched  to  the  Marin  County 
shore,  a  mile  away,  where  height  rose 
behind  height,  each  overlooking  the 
one  before  it. 


A  CORNER  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY. 


281 


I  could  see  the  fringe  of  homes 
along  the  beach,  the  lower  slopes 
covered  with  trees,  the  higher  slopes 
rising  smooth  and  green  a  thousand 
feet  or  more.  I  noted  a  railway  train 
coming  from  the  north.  Its  long  gray 
plume  of  smoke  drifted  above  it.  The 
hoot  of  the  whistle  came  across  the 
water,  mellowed  and  softened  by  the 
distance. 

Before  that  green  background  of 
hills  a  mosquito  fleet  of  yachts  and 
house-boats  and  motor-launches  were 
anchored  along  the  shore.  A  few  tor- 
pedo boats  and  destroyers  loomed 
large  in  comparison. 

The  hoarse  bellow  of  a  deep-sea 
freighter  came  faintly  from  the 
Golden  Gate.  That  and  the  fresh 
breath  of  the  sea  breeze,  tingling  with 
the  tang  of  salt  water,  filled  my  mind 
with  suggestions  of  the  sea. 

I  stood  beneath  the  eucalyptus  trees 
and  looked  across  to  where  there  float- 
ed on  the  bay  the  battered  hulk  of 
what  had  been  a  noble  ship.  Its  rig- 
ging gone;  the  jib-boom  showed  bare. 
Only  parts  of  the  masts  remained.  The 
mainmast  was  crossed  by  a  single 
spar.  The  dark,  heavy  hull  rode  high 
on  the  water.  Ambitionless,  it  canted 
to  one  side. 

It  was  a  relic  left  to  tell  the  story 
of  a  vanished  era.  It  recalled  the 
days  of  twenty,  thirty  and  forty  years 
ago,  when  great  fleets  of  three-masted 
and  four-masted  ships  crowded  to  San 
Francisco  Bay.  They  came  to  carry 
the  grain  of  California  to  Europe. 

Those  were  the  days  of  sailing 
ships.  From  New  York  and  Philadel- 
phia, from  London  and  Liverpool,  they 
came,  their  hulls  filled  with  consign- 
ments of  Pittsburg  rails  or  Cardiff 
coal  or  Portland  cement.  They  came, 
slipping  in  through  the  Golden  Gate 
with  all  sail  set,  to  be  towed  out  to 
sea  by  powerful  towboats  later,  deep 
laden  with  wheat  and  bound  to 
"Queenstown  for  orders."  Then  their 
sails  were  loosed,  the  yards  hoisted, 
and  they  steered  southward  towards 
Cape  Horn.  Racing  beneath  the 
strong  northwest  winds  of  the  Califor- 
nia coast,  drifting  in  equatorial  calms, 


or  swinging  along  before  the  steady 
rush  of  the  trade-winds,  they  reached 
the  South  Pacific,  where  the  "brave 
west  winds"  sent  them  surging  east- 
ward around  the  stormy  cape. 

Rounding  that  lonely  headland,  they 
scudded  up  the  South  Atlantic  before 
the  stiff  pamperos.  They  crossed  the 
Torrid  Zone  once  more,  and  held  their 
northward  course  until  they  drifted  in- 
to Queenstown  harbor,  four  months  out 
from  San  Francisco. 

In  those  days,  California's  annual 
wheat  production  was  sixteen  hundred 
thousand  tons.  To-day  it  is  about  one- 
tenth  of  that  figure.  In  those  days, 
California  fed  the  world.  To-day  the 
State  imports  more  wheat  than  it  pro- 
duces. The  farmers  have  turned  their 
attention  to  vines  and  fruits  and  al- 
falfa. 

In  the  days  of  the  wheat  trade,  it 
frequently  happened  that  an  oversup- 
ply  of  ships  arrived  in  the  bay.  In 
such  years  they  Jiad  their  regular 
points  of  rendezvous,  where  they 
might  lie  at  anchor  for  months  while 
waiting  for  a  cargo.  The  stretch  of 
water  below  me,  a  little  arm  of  San 
Francisco  Bay,  known  as  Richard- 
son's Bay,  was  one  of  their  anchoring 
grounds.  In  the  '80's  I  had  seen  a 
dozen  tall  seaworthy  ships  lying  where 
now  I  saw  one  worm-eaten  wreck,  bar- 
nacles clustering  on  its  timbers. 

Such  old  hulks  form  interesting  sub- 
jects for  reverie  and  speculation.  If 
those  old  timbers  could  talk,  what  stor- 
ies they  might  tell!  And  what  sea- 
pictures  would  fill  those  tales! — pic- 
tures of  nights  in  the  tropics,  the 
waves  curling  to  the  rush  of  the  trade 
wind,  their  white  crests  glittering  in 
the  glory  of  the  moon-beams,  the  great 
white  moon  poised  high  in  the  heav- 
ens, pouring  its  rays  down  on  the 
broad  white  sails  and  clean-washed 
deck,  while  the  shadows  lay  in  inky 
blackness.  For  contrast,  there  would 
be  pictures  of  pitiless  nights  off  Cape 
Horn,  where  storms  roar  all  the  year 
round. 

There  would  be  stories  of  snowy 
days  and  escapes  from  floating  ice,  as 
the  tall  ship  stemmed  its  way  where, 


Vista>  fraternity  house,  Berkeley, 


in  the  southern  hemisphere,  that  vast 
desert  of  water  rolls  around  the  world. 
Those  tales  would  be  filled  with  the 
howling  of  gales,  the  thunderous  rum- 
ble of  giant  seas;  pictures  of  cloud- 
racked  skies  hovering  ab6ve  storm- 
driven  water  wastes ;  sky  and  sea,  sea 
and  sky,  the  great  ship  buffeted  from 
wave  to  wave,  a  mere  atom  in  the  im- 
mensity. But  the  stout  hull  came 
through  it  all,  to  lie  asleep  at  last  on 


the  smooth  surface  of  that  quiet  inlet 
overlooked  by  the  green  heights  of 
Belvedere. 

But,  if  the  old  timbers  can't  talk,  the 
old  captains  can.  When  the  sailing 
ships  were  shelved,  the  men  who  com- 
manded them  must  needs  retire  also. 
Men  of  that  class  are  notable  story- 
tellers. Their  experiences  in  good  for- 
tune and  in  bad,  in  many  ports  and 
seas,  give  them  a  ready  fund  of  anec- 


Corner  in  the  Conservatory,  University  of  California. 


dote,  which  some  of  them  can  supple- 
ment from  a  vivid  imagination. 

One  of  those  old  captains  lives  at 
Belvedere,  and  it  is  a  treat  to  hear  him 
when  to  a  select  coterie  he  tells  his 
experiences.  He  was  shipwrecked 
more  than  once.  The  first  occasion 
threw  him  on  one  of  the  coral  islands 
of  the  Pacific,  where  he  and  his  com- 
panions remained  many  weeks,  living 
on  a  diet  of  fish  and  sea-birds,  until 
rescued  by  a  passing  steamer.  He 
loves  to  tell  the  story  of  his  life  un- 
der those  strange  conditions.  With  a 
wealth  of  illustration,  he  pictures  that 
island  home  with  its  palm  trees  and 


its  coral,  and  its  sand — the  billows 
foaming  on  the  shallow  reef — the 
wind-blown  clouds  afloat  in  the  blue 
sky — a  signal  flying  from  the  highest 
hill  to  send  across  the  ocean's  wide  ex- 
panse a  call  for  help  from  vessels 
steaming  by. 

And  he  has  other  stories — stories  of 
expeditions  in  search  of  lost  treasure, 
of  expeditions  to  lift  richly  laden 
wrecks;  stories  of  thunder-storms  off 
Cape  Horn,  and  of  typhoons  in  the 
China  Sea.  All  in  all,  his  forty  years 
at  sea  gave  the  captain  a  rare  fund  of 
anecdote. 

So  my  thoughts  ran  on.    I  had  been 


284 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


dreaming  beneath  the  trees,  for  the 
spot  was  congenial  to  dreams.  The 
sun's  rays  filtered  through  the  foliage. 
A  tiny  breeze  rustled  the  leaves.  The 
sound  of  a  ship's  bell  barely  reached 
me  from  one  of  the  torpedo-boats. 
Peace,  quiet,  a  glorious  view — I  had 
them  all.  I  was  reluctant  to  leave  that 
drowsy,  dreamy,  restful  place.  But  I 
rose  and  continued  my  walk  north- 
ward. 

There  were  no  homes  where  I  was 
walking  now.  Trees  were  scarce.  The 
immaculate  carriage  road  had  degen- 
erated into  a  track  in  the  red  dirt. 

Once  around  the  northern  end  of  the 
hill,  and  there  came  a  change.  Instead 
of  the  eucalyptus  trees,  with  their 
scanty  foliage,  the  way  plunged  down- 
ward beneath  a  tangle  of  live-oaks, 
with  their  close,  cool  shade.  But  I 
heard  the  whistle  of  the  ferry  steamer 
and  I  saw  it  coming. 

I  hurried  down  the  road  to  Tiburon. 
Ten  minutes  afterward  I  was  on  board 
the  boat,  and  the  boat  was  moving. 
From  its  deck  I  looked  up  to  the  dark 
heights  of  Belvedere.  I  enjoyed  a 
final  view  of  those  delightful  homes. 
One  above  the  other  they  rose,  each 


looking  down  on  its  neighbor  next  be- 
low. And  all  looked  down  on  the  strip 
of  yellow  beach,  with  its  boat  landings 
running  out  over  the  smooth  water  of 
the  inlet.  Sea-gulls  were  perched  on 
those  landings,  or  fwere  flying  along 
the  shore.  And  everything  was  shel- 
tered by  the  shade  of  the  hill,  which 
protected  the  green  slope  from  the 

warm  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun. 
*  *  *  * 

The  Sausalito  had  completed  the  re- 
turn trip  to  San  Francisco,  and  had 
swung  into  its  slip.  I  joined  the  rush 
over  the  gang-plank  and  out  through 
the  ferry  building.  A  moment  more 
and  I  was  hurrying  up  Market  street, 
between  the  solid  fronts  of  brick  and 
concrete  which  bordered  the  way  on 
either  hand.  Motorcycles  screamed 
past  explosively.  Street-cars,  jangling 
and  jouncing,  clattered  over  the  cross- 
ings. I  heard  the  clang  of  the  gongs 
and  the  shouts  of  truck  drivers  and  the 
raucous  notes  of  automobiles.  All  the 
din  and  roar  and  rattle  and  tumult  of 
a  crowded  city  re-echoed  on  every 
side. 

And  I  thought  of  Belvedere,  with  its 
trees  and  water  and  sky  and  sea-gulls. 


^ 


One  O'  Them  Greeks 


By   Sarah   H.  Kelly 


GRACE,"  said  Marie,  rolling  out 
the  dough  for  her  famous  bis- 
cuit; "Grace,  I  think  he's  hor- 
rid. Always  cross  and  black 
and  dirty,  and  banging  his  kettles 
around  as  if  he  wanted  to  kill  some- 
body." 

"Oh,  Jimmie's  not  dirty  for  a  Greek 
boy,"  I  modified,  wondering  if  the 
roast  pork  would  be  ready  by  serving 
time.  "But  he  sure  is  cross." 

This  was  my  third  week  as  second 
cook  in  the  big  cafeteria,  where  I  had 
come  in  search  of  "atmosphere,"  my 
chief  assets  being  a  talent  for  plain 
cooking  and  an  overwhelming  desire 
to  write  about  Real  Life.  I  found 
plenty  of  real  life  there,  for  the  help 
took  me  for  granted  as  one  of  them- 
selves. 

Marie  answered  me  absently:  "Oh, 
I  don't  know  as  them  Greeks  is  so 
much  different  from  other  folks,  just 
their  talk  and  ways,  and  Jimmy  looks 
like  an  American.  He's  real  hand- 
some if  he  weren't  so  cranky  disposi- 
tioned." 

A  little  later  Jimmy  came  over  to 
the  pastry  table  with  some  clean  pans 
which  he  threw  down  surlily  before 
Marie.  She  set  aside  the  pie  she  was 
pinching  the  edges  of,  and  turned  to 
her  cupboard. 

"I  know  what  you  need,  Jimmy," 
she  said,  handing  him  a  slice  of  choc- 
olate cake.  "Here,  take  this — the  boss 
ain't  looking — and  cheer  up." 

I  was  putting  on  my  big  apron  the 
next  morning  when  Jimmy  came  to 
me.  -"Mees  Grace,  I  think  Mees  Ma- 
rie, she  nize  girl.  She  no  marry, 
Mees  Grace?  No?  Thas  funny.  She 
good  cook.  She  strong,  too.  I'll  be 
strong  man  some  day" — he  crooked 


his  arm  to  show  the  big  muscles — 
"Mees  Marie,  I  think  she  don't  like 
I  don't  spik  good  Angliss.  I  get  book, 
I  learn  read,  and  write,  and  talk,  then 
maybe  Mees  Marie  she  like  me  talk 
to  her.  I'm  shamed.  You  help  me, 
Mees  Grace?  I  fix  for  you  the  po- 
tatoes, Mees  Grace." 

He  had  found  somewhere  a  cracked 
piece  of  mirror,  which  he  hung  above 
his  tubs,  and  daily  hereafter  inspected 
his  appearance  therein.  I,  too,  noted 
thankfully,  the  increased  bodily  clean- 
liness and  neatness,  the  smooth  brush- 
ing of  his  luxuriant  black  curls,  and 
the  esthetic  tone  of  the  red  rose  (or 
piece  of  cabbage  leaf  when  no  rose 
was  available)  over  his  ear.  Always 
now  he  smiled  and  sang  the  songs  of 
his  "gundree"  in  a  strange,  high  key, 
above  the  subdued  clatter  of  his  ket- 
tles or  the  swish  of  his  mop.  All  his 
spare  time  he  spent  with  copy  book 
and  pencil  or  the  primer  I  loaned  him. 
With  what  pride  he  slowly  spelled 
out:  "I  have  a  kitty.  Biby,  see  the 
kitty!"  I  helped  him  occasionally 
with  this,  and  to  me  he  poured  out  all 
his  hopes  and  aspirations.  He  would 
study  hard,  and  some  day  be  a  real 
American.  He  would  save  up  much 
money,  and  have  a  little  farm  in  Ari- 
zona, with  a  "nize"  house,  and  there 
he  would  install  Marie  as  goddess, 
queen  and  home  maker. 

"But,  Jimmy,"  I  protested,  "Marie 
is  older  than  you.  While  you  are  still 
a  young  man,  she'll  be  an  old  lady,"  I 
exaggerated  without  conscience. 

"Yes,  alright.  We  have  little  farm. 
We  have  little  boys,  maybe.  The  lit- 
tle boys  and  me,  we  take  care  of  Mees 
Marie  when  she's  old  lady." 

"But  you're  a  Catholic,  Jimmy,  and 
3 


286 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Marie  isn't;  so  you  can't  marry  her, 
anyhow." 

"Yes,  alright.  You  and  Mees  Marie 
and  me,  we  go  to  Mees  Marie's 
church.  Then  maybe  I  learn  to  go  to 
Mees  Mane's  church." 

He  had  answered  all  my  objections 
before  they  were  made.  But  never  a 
word  did  he  say  to  Marie  herself. 
"They  don't  do  that  way  in  my  gun- 
dree  "  he  explained  with  dignity,  and 
contented  himself  with  "Good-morn- 
ing" and  "Thank  you,"  for  the  occa- 
sional goodies  with  which  she  re- 
warded his  devoted  errand  running 
and  egg  beating. 

Her  gentle  nature  was  genuinely 
distressed  when  I  told  her  of  the  situ- 
ation. Extreme  shyness  had  kept  her 
girlhood  from  its  due  pleasures,  and 
now  she  was  flowering  out  in  a  sort 
of  maternal  care  and  tenderness  to- 
ward every  one,  even  "them  dirty 
Greeks,"  so  this  brought  an  entirely 
new  phase  of  life  to  her. 

"I  can't  stay  here  no  more  if  he 
feels  like  that,"  she  said.  "Poor  boy! 
Do  you  think  the  boss  '11  mind  if  I 
make  him  a  little  cake  all  for  him- 
self? Is  he  real  in  earnest,  Grace? 
Why,  I  can't  stay  here  no  more  now! 
Oh,  dear,  ain't  men  queer,  Grace?" 

The  first  morning  that  the  gaunt,  un- 


attractive figure  of  Mrs.  Martin  took 
Marie's  place  at  the  pastry  table, 
Jimmy  threw  away  the  sprig  of  pars- 
ley that  adorned  his  ear,  banged  the 
kettles  fiercely,  but  sang,  whistled  and 
talked  more  noisily  and  less  intelligi- 
bly than  ever,  though  he  soon  quieted 
down  and  went  energetically  at  his 
books.  He  had  progressed  to  read- 
ing nev/spapers  now,  and  could  write 
quite  legibly  on  his  slate,  "My  dere 
Miss  Marie,  I  luf  you  fore  my  wife." 

One  day  I  received  a  very  puzzling 
letter  from  Marie.  She  said:  "When 
you're  way  off  on  a  farm,  do  you  think 
it  makes  so  much  difference  if  your 
man  can't  talk  such  good  English,  so 
long  as  you  understand  him?  Them 
Greeks  ain't  so  different  from  us,  after 
all,  do  you  think?  I  made  me  a  new 
dress  yesterday — kinda  pretty,  but  it's 
awful  lonesome  here.  I  kinda  think 
a  woman  needs  some  one  to  take  care 
of.  How  is  everybody  there  ?  Jimmy 
can  read  writing  by  this  time,  can't 
he?" 

Jimmy  came  over  and  carefully 
stirred  a  pan  of  boiling  water.  Then 
he  pulled  an  envelope  from  beneath 
his  shirt. 

"I  got  letter,"  he  announced,  radi- 
antly. "Mees  Marie,  I  think  maybe 
she  come  back." 


THE     DAY 


The  Day;  thou  patient  child  of  Time, 
Born  aeons  gone,  thy  birth  Divine; 
Ordained  of  Him  to  keep  aright 
The  record  of  Old  Time  in  flight, 
And  to  transcribe  results  defined 
Across  the  dial-plate  of  Time. 

The  Day;  who  shall  say  when  thy  birth 
Gave  omnilucent  life  to  earth; 
Looped  up  the  shroud  of  chaos  and 
Gave  life  and  light  throughout  the  land  ? 
Oh!  let  thy  answer  ever  shine 
Across  the  dial-plate  of  Time. 

STILLMAN  WILLIAMS. 


A  Case  of  Supposition 


By  Arthur  Wallace  Peach 


IT  ALL  came  about  from  a  common- 
place incident.  Carl  Boyd,  tow- 
headed,  stubby  and  seven  years  of 
age,  helped  Miss  Jean  Wright  weed 
her  small  but  pretty  garden,  where 
the  roses  in  the  spring  and  early  sum- 
mer simply  ran  riot. 

He  was  a  willing  little  worker,  and 
such  cheerful  company  that,  after  the 
work  was  done  and  as  she  paid  him, 
she  said: 

"I  wish  I  had  a  little  boy  like  you." 

Now,  Miss  Jean  Wright  was  pretty; 
her  eyes  were  of  a  hazel  shade,  her 
hair  was  thick  and  dark,  but  the  years 
had  been  stealing  a  little  bloom  from 
her  cheeks,  and  they  had  turned  to 
silver  some  of  the  strands  of  hair  that 
waved  so  oddly  and  prettily  over  her 
temples.  She  had  never  married;  the 
village  people  said  she  was  too  good 
for  any  of  the  chaps  who  wanted  her, 
and  she  had  never  gotten  out  where  the 
finer  men  could  see  her.  So  she  lived 
alone  in  the  quiet  little  house  on  the 
wide  village  street. 

When  she  said,  "I  wish  I  had  a  little 
boy  like  you,"  Carl  missed  much  of 
the  tenderness  and  the  longing  in  her 
voice,  but  his  boyish  mind  was 
reached,  however.  He  explained  to 
her  very  carefully  that  he  belonged 
to  his  mother,  but  that  he  thought  there 
must  be  some  boy  who  would  like 
Miss  Wright  for  a  mother. 

She  smiled  a  little  strangely  at  that 
statement. 

The  next  day  she  opened  her  door 
to  a  light  knock,  and  saw  before  her 
the  stubby  Carl  and  another  figure, 
slight  and  boyish,  dark-haired  and 
eyed,  with  timid  but  hopeful  face  up- 
lifted. 

"I've  brought  you  a  boy,"  Carl  an- 
nounced, proudly.  "I  thought  of  him 
yesterday  when  I  was  here.  He  goes 
to  the  School,  but  you  can  have  him 


if  you  want  him.  He  ain't  got  a 
mother." 

Touched  by  the  childish  faith  that 
such  things  as  were  involved  in  the 
gift  are  at  the  summons  of  the  heart, 
Miss  Wright  listened,  and  then  she 
made  them  at  home.  The  shy  boy, 
whose  name  was  Egbert  Ransom,  was 
of  an  aristocratic  type;  beside  the 
plebeian  Boyd,  the  traits  of  blood  and 
breeding  were  evident.  Soon  Miss 
Wright  had  the  story. 

He  was  a  student  in  a  private  board- 
ing school  known  as  the  Elm  School  in 
the  village.  To  the  school  wealthy 
parents  sent  their  children,  and  she 
had  often  heard  that  some  of  the 
children  were  left  there  the  year 
around.  She  had  pitied  them,  and 
she  was  moved  as  she  heard  the  little 
fellow  unfold  his  heart  to  her.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  secured  permission 
to  go  with  Carl  to  Carl's  house,  and 
as  her  house  was  on  the  way,  no  rule 
had  been  broken  by  their  stopping 
at  her  house. 

She  set  the  boys  to  playing,  and 
soon  the  quiet  confines  of  her  home 
were  ringing  with  boyish  laughter  and 
echo  of  play.  She  listened  and 
watched,  and  once  in  a  while  she 
played  a  little  with  them,  but  more 
often  she  sat  simply  watching  them 
with  very  tender  and  gentle  eyes. 

When  the  time  came  for  departure, 
Carl  announced,  while  Egbert  waited 
with  silent  and  anxious  interest,  that 
she  could  have  her  boy  two  afternoons 
every  week,  and  she,  a  little  appre- 
hensive, but  eager  herself,  said  that 
she  would  like  to  have  him. 

However,  before  she  entered  into 
any  agreement  with  the  youngsters, 
she  saw  the  principal  of  the  school 
and  learned  from  him  that  Egbert  did 
have  a  mother,  who  took  but  little  in- 
terest in  him,  the  principal  reluctantly 


288 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


confessed,  and  that  there  would  be  no 
objection  to  Egbert's  visiting. 

The  afternoons  speedily  became 
bright  spots  in  her  week.  He  had 
many  of  the  traits  that  her  Dream  Boy 
had;  nothing  entered  into  their  rela- 
tionship to  break  the  illusion  of 
mother  and  child  except  in  the  mo- 
ments when  he  referred  to  his  real 
mother — moments  very  seldom  ap- 
pearing. He  seemed  whole  heartedly 
content  with  her,  and  she  with  him. 

One  evening  another  figure  entered 
into  the  little  drama  of  her  life.  A 
tall,  graceful  figure  came  to  her  door, 
and  when  asked  to  come  in,  as  was 
customary  in  the  village,  appeared  a 
man  of  about  middle  age,  fine  of  coun- 
tenance and  manner.  He  introduced 
himself  in  a  hesitating  way,  and  in  a 
moment  she  guessed  who  he  was:  the 
same  dark  eyes  and  the  same  shy  man- 
ner— the  father  of  Egbert. 

He  gave  his  name  as  Mr.  Ransom, 
and  mentioned  his  pleasure  in  having 
heard  from  the  boy  of  good  times  he 
had  had  with  her.  The  topic  gave  a 
good  opening,  and  soon  their  conversa- 
tion was  running  smoothly  in  interest- 
ing channels. 

When  an  hour  later  the  door  had 
closed  upon  the  tall  figure,  Miss 
Wright  turned  to  find  herself  with  the 
roses'  ghosts  in  her  cheeks  and  a 
warmth  about  her  heart.  Into  the  lit- 
tle harbor  of  her  heart  had  come  the 
ripple  that  reaches  around  and  over 
the  world,  touching  every  heart  sooner 
or  later. 

It  seemed  that  he  came  out  to  see 
Egbert  from  the  great  city  to  the  east 
about  once  in  two  weeks,  and  when 
he  came  the  next  time  he  came  to  see 
her.  Again  the  evening  passed  in  a 
quiet  way,  but  in  a  way  that  seemed 
to  appeal  to  them  both.  It  was  indeed 
a  happy  day  when  Egbert  came  in  the 
afternoon  and  his  father  in  the  even- 
ing before  he  took  the  train  for  the 
city. 

One  eventful  twilight  she  heard  on 
the  walk  the  sound  of  his  even,  regu- 
larly falling  step.  She  stilled  the  lit- 
tle tumult  in  her  heart  with  a  word  of 
reproach,  and  went  to  greet  him. 


When  he  stepped  in,  she  saw  he 
held  in  his  arms  a  long  box.  He  pre- 
sented it  to  her  with  a  shy  word  of 
greeting. 

She  opened  it,  while  wondering  a 
little  what  he  might  bring  her,  and 
before  her  eyes  lay  in  careful  order  a 
large  bouquet  of  rare  flowers  of  which 
she  had  dreamed  and  read,  but  which 
she  had  never  seen. 

She  turned  to  him  impulsively,  with 
her  hands  held  out. 

He  caught  them,  but  did  not  let  go, 
and  the  grip  was  firm. 

There  was  something  in  her  eyes, 
an  enveloping  tenderness  that  seemed 
to  mesmerize  her;  the  Something 
which  she  had  never  seen  was  in 
them.  The  firm  hands  drew  her,  and 
trembling,  she  yielded  to  them,  won- 
dering the  while  what  strange  joy  had 
taken  possession  of  her.  Before  she 
realized  it,  her  head  was  on  his  shoul- 
der, her  body  held  by  a  strength  un- 
expected, and  she  was  kissed. 

The  touch  of  his  lips  shook  her  to 
consciousness  of  what  they  had  done. 
At  her  low  exclamation,  he  released 
her,  and  they  stood  apart,  each  wait- 
ing in  the  awful  suspense  while  the 
mind  passes  upon  ,the  acts  of  the 
heart. 

Then  came  her  faint  reproach :  "Mr. 
Ransom,  how  could  we  ?  Your  wife — " 

"My  wife!"  he  exclaimed.  "Why, 
I  have  no  wife;  and,  Jean,  I've  been 
planning  to  make  you  mine  since  the 
time  I  saw  you  first." 

"But  Egbert!"  she  urged,  the  earth 
beginning  to  grow  unsteady  again  un- 
der her. 

"Is  the  son  of  my  brother,  who  died 
three  years  ago.  I  pitied  the  little  lad 
for  many  reasons,  and  I  have  been 
trying  to  help  him.  I  supposed  you 
understood." 

"And  I  supposed  it  was  just  as  I 
imagined  it,  but  it  seems  I  was  wrong." 
She  looked  up  suddenly  and  said  a  lit- 
tle breathlessly,  for  the  step  was  a 
great  one: 

"I'm  glad  I  was  wrong!" 

He  did  not  agree  verbally — but  in 
the  old,  immortal  way  that  has  ever 
been  better  than  speech. 


The  Faith  of    'Aortar"  Jim 


By  Ralph  Cummins 


FOLLOWING  the  custom  of  years, 
Old  Jim  Kyle,  upon  the  morning 
of  that  eventful  Sunday,  lay 
abed  a  full  hour  later  than  us- 
ual. That,  however,  was  only  one  of 
his  ways  of  observing  the  Sabbath, 
for  the  seventh  day  he  always  had  hot- 
cakes  for  breakfast,  and  worked  only 
five  hours,  while  on  ordinary  days  he 
ate  Dutch  oven  sourdough  and  labored 
ten  hours. 

That  hour  between  five  and  six  on 
Sunday  morning  was  but  a  series  of 
catnaps,  for  the  habit  of  a  lifetime  was 
strong  upon  the  old  miner.  Sandwiched 
between  the  catnaps  were  dreams  and 
plans  and  catties  built  against  the  time 
when  riches  would  be  his. 

On  this  Sunday  morning  the  cat- 
naps were  few  and  the  memory  pic- 
tures many  and  especially  vivid,  for 
during  the  past  week  old  Jim  had  felt 
more  painfully  than  ever  before  the 
gripping  fingers  of  old  age.  It  had 
taken  him  longer  to  put  in  his  round  of 
holes;  he  had  found  it  necessary  to 
pause  oftener  as  he  shoveled  the  muck 
into  the  car,  and  he  had  felt  a  weary- 
ing weakness  as  he  stood  churning  the 
pestle  into  the  mortar  of  his  quartz 
mill.  He  was  growing  old.  Father 
Time,  and  the  long  years  of  hardship 
and  toil  and  hope  deferred  were  ex- 
acting their  toll  at  last. 

Stretched  upon  his  rude  bunk  he 
looked  upon  the  interior  of  the  crum- 
bling cabin.  His  faded  grey  eyes 
rested  for  an  instant  on  the  great  stone 
fire  place  with  its  jumbled  accompani- 
ment of  pots  and  pans,  and  its  mantel 
shelf  loaded  with  junk,  then  passed  on 
to  the  old  puncheon  table  overflowing 
with  odds  and  ends  of  dishes  and  grub 
sacks. 


"Got  to  clean  up  that  table  to-day," 
the  old  man  mused  aloud.  Then  he 
chuckled  as  he  thought  how  often  that 
cleaning  process  was  promised  and 
how  seldom  performed.  He  knew  that 
in  the  heaped  up  mass  of  scrap  iron 
and  old  tools  in  the  corner  were  arti- 
cles that  had  lain  undisturbed  for 
twenty  years.  His  glance  moved  by 
the  sagging  oaken  door  and  the 
patched-up  pane  of  glass,  to  the  far- 
ther end,  where  one  of  the  great  fir 
logs  had  rotted  quite  away,-  leaving  a 
hole  that  was  partly  covered  with  ce- 
dar shakes. 

"Forty  years !"  he  muttered.  "Forty 
years,"  and  his  mind  had  leaped  back 
to  the  time  when  the  cabin  was  new. 

Jim  Kyle  was  eighteen  when  he 
came  to  Murphy's  Bar.  He  dashed  in 
with  the  gold  rush  and  stayed  to  work 
the  rich  placers  of  the  North  Fork. 
And  when  the  streams  and  gulches 
were  worked  out,  and  the  great  army 
moved  on,  Jim  stayed,  for  far  up  the 
side  of  Madrone  Ridge  he  had  found 
a  little  stringer  of  brownish  quartz  that 
carried  gold. 

Mighty  little  Jim  Kyle  knew  of 
quartz  mining,  for  everything  was 
gravel  in  those  days.  Still,  he  had 
heard  of  rich  veins  where  the  rock  was 
half  gold,  and  he  firmly  believed  that 
his  little  seam,  scarce  half  an  inch 
wide,  would  lead  to  something  big.  So 
he  began  the  study  of  quartz  mining, 
built  this  cabin,  and  started  to  dig. 

Started  to  dig! 

The  old  man  groaned,  then  laughed 
aloud,  as  his  mind  leaped  forward.  He 
had  been  following  that  little  stranger 
for  forty  years ! 

The  quartz  mine  was  rich,  but  after 
following  it  for  hundreds  of  feet,  and 


290 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


cutting  it  on  half  a  dozen  levels,  the 
ledge  still  was  less  than  a  foot  in 
width.  The  gold  bearing  rock  in  the 
little  vein  was  partly  decomposed  and 
of  a  rusty  reddish  color  that  success- 
fully hid  the  gold  from  sight  until  it 
was  cm  shed  and  the  powdered  rock 
washed  away. 

Although  a  gold  fortune  had  not 
come,  the  mine  had  been  Jim  Kyle's 
living  during  all  those  years.  He  had 
rigged  up  a  mortar,  with  a  pestle  that 
he  operated  by  hand,  and  in  this  primi- 
tive mill  he  pounded  up  the  quartz  that 
he  took  from  his  tunnels.  This  gave 
him  a  bare  existence,  for  he  persisted 
in  following  the  vein,  and  never  took 
out  pay  rock  that  was  not  in  the  line 
of  his  development.  Always  there  was 
the  hope — the  expectation — that  the 
ledge  would  widen,  or  increase  to  the 
dreamed-of  richness. 

"She's  in  there,"  Old  Jim  would  state 
confidently.  "Some  day  I'll  strike  it." 
As  the  years  passed,  and  the  nickname 
of  "Mortar"  became  fixed,  fche  old 
miner's  faith  never  wavered;  if  any- 
thing it  grew  with  each  day  and  with 
each  foot  of  depth  upon  his  ledge. 

He  had  many  offers  for  his  property, 
but  they  were  all  ridiculous  from  the 
golden  viewpoint  of  his  faith. 

"Shucks,"  he  would  say,  "what's  a 
thousand  dollars,  or  five,  or  twenty 
thousand  dollars  worth  of  stock?  Why 
there's  a  million  in  that  old  hill!" 

So  he  kept  on  and  dreamed  of  the 
time  when  the  big  clean-up  would  come 
and  he  could  go  back  to  the  old  home 
and  buy  comfort  and  happiness  for 
the  loved  ones  there.  But  as  the 
years  passed,  his  castles  fell,  as  the 
old  folks  one  by  one,  his  brothers  and 
sisters  died.  After  the  arrival  of  each 
black  bordered  letter,  he  would  have 
an  hour  of  fierce  resentment  against 
the  fate  that  allowed  the  loved  ones  to 
die  before  the  big  strike  came.  Then 
his  great  faith  would  swing  the  balance 
back,  and  he  would  plunge  again  into 
his  work.  At  last  there  remained  on 
the  old  homestead  only  Mary,  little 
Mary,  a  baby  when  he  went  away,  a 
grandmother  now. 

Old  Jim  threw  off  the  faded  comfort 


and  rolled  stiffly  from  his  bed.  He 
pulled  on  his  ragged  blue  overalls,  and 
stuck  his  feet  into  his  heavy  hob-nailed 
shoes.  He  kindled  a  fire,  then  took  a 
tin  bucket  and  shuffled  to  the  spring. 
Returning,  he  stopped  to  wash  in  a 
basin  beside  the  door.  After  drying 
his  gray  beard  on  a  piece  of  flour  sack 
he  dabbed  at  his  fringe  of  hair  with  the 
remains  of  a  comb  and  went  in  to  his 
breakfast. 

When  he  had  washed  down  the  last 
remnant  of  flapjack,  with  the  last  swal- 
low of  muddy  coffee,  Old  Mortar  cov- 
ered the  dirty  dishes  with  the  worn-out 
shirt  that  passed  as  a  wiping  cloth. 
With  his  blackened  corn-cob  pipe  in 
steaming  action  he  went  out  and 
climbed  a  trail  back  of  the  cabin. 
Rounding  a  point  he  came  within  sight 
of  the  ten  or  twelve  dumps  that  testi- 
fied to  his  years  of  toil.  He  crossed 
to  the  lowest  of  these. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel  he 
paused  to  light  a  candle,  and  to  stick 
the  sharp  point  of  the  holder  into  the 
front  of  a  little  car  that  stood  on  a 
wooden  track.  Pushing  the  car  be- 
fore him,  he  entered  the  mine. 

The  tunnel  was  four  feet  wide  and 
six  high,  and  was  carefully  timbered 
to  prevent  caving.  At  four  foot  inter- 
vals a  set  of  three  six-inch  poles — an 
upright  on  each  side  and  one  piece 
across  the  top — held  the  end  of  split 
boards  placed  back  of  them. 

Four  hundred  feet  from  the  mouth  of 
the  tunnel  the  miner  pushed  his  car 
under  a  large  windlass  and  stopped. 
With  the  end  of  the  windlass  rope  at- 
tached to  it  he  pushed  the  car  over  the 
brink  of  the  incline,  and  with  his  foot 
upon  a  brake,  listened  to  the  rattle  as 
the  car  shot  downward.  When  the 
rope  went  slack.  Old  Jim  stumbled  his 
way  down  the  rough  rock  steps. 

The  four  hundred  feet  of  horizon- 
tal tunnel  had  been  run  to  strike  the 
ledge  below  the  earlier  workings.  Be- 
cause the  quartz  vein  pitched  down- 
ward at  an  angle  of  30  degrees,  the  in- 
clined tunnel  was  necessary  in  order  to 
follow  it. 

Upon  reaching  the  car  the  old  man 
pressed  around  it,  and  confronted  the 


THE  FAITH  OF  "MORTAR"  JIM 


291 


heap  of  debris  that  his  shots  of  the  day 
before  had  broken  down.  This  "muck" 
was  the  country  rock,  or  valueless  ma- 
terial under  the  quartz.  The  miner 
squinted  up  at  the  mass  of  discolored 
quartz  that  hung  just  below  the  ceil- 
ing. 

"Good  clean  shot,"  he  remarked. 
"Might  have  busted  the  pay  down, 
though,  while  it  was  about  it." 

He  began  throwing  the  larger  lumps 
of  rock  into  the  car.  When  it  was 
full,  he  climbed  to  the  windlass,  wound 
the  load  up  to  the  head  of  the  incline 
and  pushed  it  out  to  the  dump.  The 
fifth  load  cleaned  it  up. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  tunnel  with 
the  last  load,  an  undersized  boy  of 
fourteen  seated  on  a  powder  box  ac- 
costed him: 

"Mornin',  Mortar:  how's  she  com- 
ing?" 

"Purty  good,  Joe.  How's  things 
below?" 

"Humming.     I  brought  your  mail." 

"That's  good." 

The  old  man  took  the  bundle  of  pa- 
pers and  the  single  letter  and  seated 
himself  on  the  car.  The  letter  was 
from  Mary. 

"They  made  a  strike  last  week  in 
the  Happy  Jack/  volunteered  the  boy. 
"Thousand  dollars  a  ton.  Struck  it  in 
them  two  new  levels." 

Old  Jim  was  interested  and  fumbled 
the  letter  idly. 

"That's  the  ticket!"  he  exclaimed. 
"She's  in  there,  all  right.  That  makes 
three  mines  this  year  that's  struck  the 
rich  stuff.  And  the  others  are  holding 
out,  too." 

He  opened  the  letter,  but  his  mind 
was  on  the  news  of  the  strike. 

"And  the  Happy  Jack's  only  twenty 
miles  from  here." 

His  eyes  fell  to  the  letter,  and  care- 
fully adjusting  it  to  the  proper  distance 
he  painfully  spelled  it  out. 

As  he  read,  his  heart  slipped  back 
to  the  old  home,  and  a  deadening  wave 
of  homesickness  swept  over  him.  Sev- 
eral times  he  read  the  final  passage. 

"Times  is  awful  hard  here,  Jim,  and 
I  don't  know  what  we're  going  to  do. 
We'll  lose  the  old  place  next  month, 


if  we  can't  raise  a  thousand  dollars, 
and  God  knows  we  can't  do  it.  And 
Jennie's  baby's  going  to  die  if  they 
can'  have  that  operation.  I  tell  you 
it's  hard " 

The  old  man  blinked,  rubbed  his 
hand  across  his  eyes  and  rose. 

"Much  obliged,  Joe,"  he  said.  "Git 
some  apples  from  the  lower  tree  as 
you  go  down.  They're  purty  good 
now." 

Trundling  the  car  before  him,  he 
plodded  back  into  the  tunnel. 

"Poor  Mary,"  he  sighed,  as  he 
tapped  the  hanging  quartz  with  a 
pick.  "That's  sure  hard  lines.  And 
me  with  a  fortune  right  here.  Lord! 
Why  couldn't  I  strike  it  now  afore  it's 
too  late?" 

Finding  his  pick  useless,  he  threw  it 
down  and  took  up  a  sledge.  Several 
times  he  swung  the  heavy  hammer; 
the  quartz  cracked,  but  did  not  fall. 

"Darn  the  stuff.  Sticks  like  it  had 
wires  in  it." 

With  his  pick  he  pried  a  big  chunk 
down.  It  broke  into  small  pieces  as  it 
struck  the  rock  floor. 

"And  they  made  a  strike  in  the 
Happy  Jack" — the  old  man  was  talk- 
ing aloud — "I  always  said  them  boys 
would  make  it  there.  Jest  have  to  go 
down  on  it,  that's  all." 

He  began  picking  up  the  brown 
lumps  and  placing  them  in  a  canvas 
sack.  When  it  was  full  he  lifted  the 
sack  into  the  car,  and  looked  up  at 
the  jagged  pieces  of  quartz. 

"Oh,  that's  enough  for  to-day.  It'll 
take  me  three  hours  to  run  that 
through." 

He  wheeled  the  car  to  the  outside, 
shouldered  the  sack  and  limped  down 
a  trail  into  the  gulch.  The  sack 
seemed  heavier  than  usual,  but  Mortar 
Jim  was  getting  old, 

He  came  out  upon  a  little  bench  near 
the  creek  and  dropped  the  sack  be- 
side his  quartz  mill.  From  a  bottle  he 
poured  some  quicksilver  into  a  steel 
mortar  that  was  full  of  water,  and  into 
which  a  small  stream  ran  from  a 
trough.  Dumping  a  double  handful  of 
rock  from  his  sack  into  the  mortar,  he 
began  churning  with  a  pestle,  made 


292 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


from  a  steel  crowbar.  This  pestle 
was  hung  on  a  spring  pole  in  such  a 
way  that  the  lower  end  could  not  be 
raised  above  the  top  of  the  water  in 
the  mortar.  As  Old  Jim  pounded  the 
quartz  was  pulverized,  the  lighter  mat- 
ter being  forced  over  the  side  of  the 
mortar  with  the  water.  There  it  fell 
into  a  wide  box,  and  was  washed  down 
over  a  plate  of  copper  that  had  been 
coated  with  quicksilver.  Occasionally 
he  threw  a  handful  of  quartz  into  the 
mortar,  but  never  ceased  the  monoton- 
ous churning.  He  knew  that  the 
pounding  would  reduce  the  rock  to 
powder  and  release  the  particles  of 
gold.  This  gold  would  at  once  be 
taken  up  by  the  quicksilver.  When  the 
sack  of  rock  was  crushed  he  would 
pour  the  contents  of  the  mortar  into 
a  gold  pan  and  "clean  up"  by  washing 
off  the  sand  and  pieces  of  rock.  That 
which  remained  would  be  the  gold 
partly  concealed  in  the  lightning-like 
quicksilver.  He  would  squeeze  this 
in  a  piece  of  chamois-skin,  forcing  the 
quicksilver  through.  The  silver  col- 
ored lump  remaining  in  the  chamois 
would  be  amalgam — gold  and  quick- 
silver. Later,  by  the  fire,  he  would 
retort  the  amalgam,  that  is,  burn  away 
the  quicksilver,  leaving  a  lump  of  pure 
gold.  He  also  knew  that  he  would  get 
nearly  a  dollar's  worth  of  gold  from 
the  sackful  of  ore ;  about  once  a  week 
he  would  scrape  off  the  amalgam  on 
the  copper  plate,  and  get  a  little  gold, 
the  finer,  lighter  particles  that  were 
sloshed  over  the  side  of  the  mortar. 

As  Old  Jim  churned  with  his  pestle 
his  mind  was  busy:  the  hard  times  at 
the  old  home — Mary — the  strike  at  the 
Happy  Jack. 

"Thousand  dollar  ore!  By  George, 
if  I  could  get  only  a  quarter  of  that  I'd 
be  fixed.  I'd  borrow  the  money  of 
young  Blue  and  put  in  a  little  two- 
stamp  mill.  Seven  tons  a  day — that's 
what  I  could  do." 

Figuring  the  cost,  planning  the  work 
in  the  mine,  building  in  fancy  the  lit- 
tle mill,  he  did  not  notice  the  gradual 


change  in  the  action  of  his  pestle. 
Hung  balanced  on  the  spring  pole  it 
had  a  stroke  of  eight  inches,  and  was 
lifted  with  a  slight  effort.  Now  the 
length  of  the  stroke  was  shortened  to 
four  inches,  and  the  miner  was  uncon- 
sciously pulling  on  the  pestle  at  every 
stroke. 

"If  I  only  could  do  something  for 
Mary!" 

He  paused  in  his  pounding  to  wipe 
his  mud-streaked  hand  across  his  eyes. 
As  he  resumed  his  work,  he  noticed 
something  wrong.  He  gave  a  tentative 
stroke. 

"Funny.    Never  filled  up  before." 

Rolling  up  the  sleeve  of  his  old  jum- 
per, he  stuck  his  hand  into  the  mortar. 
Even  as  his  fingers  passed  through  the 
water  a  strange  electric  shock  passed 
through  him.  His  heart  stopped  beat- 
ing and  his  lungs  refused  to  act.  He 
dug  his  fingers  into  the  clogging  sub- 
stance and  drew  it  up  to  view.  Drop- 
ping it  quickly  he  reached  with  his 
right  hand  for  a  hammer,  and  with  his 
left  for  the  sack.  His  breath  came  in 
short,  sharp  gasps.  His  heart  now 
beat  furiously.  He  struck  a  piece  of 
quartz  with  the  hammer.  It  broke  in 
a  dozen  pieces,  but  did  not  fall  apart. 
Nervously  he  dumped  the  rock  upon 
the  ground  and  pawed  it  over.  One 
of  the  larger  chunks  he  cracked,  but 
he  did  not  pry  the  pieces  apart.  He 
knew  now  what  the  wires  were  that 
held  it  together. 

Half-fainting,  with  tears  rolling 
down  his  leathery  cheeks,  he  stumbled 
to  the  mortar.  With  trembling  hands 
he  tipped  its  contents  into  the  gold 
pan. 

Out  into  the  light  flashed  a  yellow 
gleam  touched  here  and  there  by  the 
white  of  the  quicksilver. 

Sobbing  and  moaning,  old  Mortar 
Jim  groveled  on  his  knees  beside  the 
pan  and  ran  his  fingers  through  the 
dull,  shining  mass. 

"A  thousand  a  ton!"  he  cried.  "A 
thousand  a  ton!  My  God!  There's 
a  thousand  here!" 


A  Dream  that  Came  True 


By  Elizabeth  Vore 


TIM  BARKER  put  another  stick 
on  the  fire  and  set  a  pan  of  ba- 
con where  it  would  brown.  He 
was  an  epicure  in  his  way,  and 
a  chef  might  have  envied  his  skill. 
He  was  cooking  out  of  doors  because 
of  the  heat.  For  three  days  he  had 
not  made  a  fire  in  his  cabin  because  of 
the  heat,  and  the  consequent  coolness 
of  the  one  room  it  afforded  repaid  him 
for  it  when  he  returned  in  the  evening 
from  washing  dirt.  A  sound  behind 
him  caused  him  to  turn  abruptly.  A 
startled  exclamation  escaped  him. 
For  a  moment  he  stood,  filled  with 
amazement  too  great  for  words. 

A  slender  young  girl,  white  of  face, 
with  wide,  frightened  eyes,  stood  be- 
fore him.  From  whence  she  came  he 
could  not  imagine — how  long  she  had 
been  standing  there  he  had  no  idea. 
To  Barker,  untutored  and  unlettered, 
she  seemed  like  a  being  from  another 
world.  As  soon  as  he  could  regain  his 
mental  equilibrium  he  gasped: 

"In  the  name  of  great  Jehosephat, 
who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Sara,"  she  replied  gravely. 
"I  came  from  the  wagon." 

"Aigh?  Sara — but  you  must  have 
some  other  name.  You're  Sara  Some- 
thing, I  reckon — ain't  you?" 

"Just  Sara,"  she  said,  sorrowfully. 
Perhaps — I  don't  remember.  It  may 
have  been  something,  once."  She 
passed  her  hand  wearily  across  her 
eyes,  and  reeled  as  she  spoke,  throw- 
ing up  helpless,  slender  young  hands, 
with  a  little,  piteous,  impotent  cry  that 
went  straight  to  Tim  Barker's  big,  ten- 
der heart. 

"Why,  God  bless  the  little  gal— she 
is  sick !  The  little  woman-child's  been 
done  for  in  some  blasted  way!"  he  ex- 


claimed, as  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
caught  her  as  she  fell. 

"By  gracious!  There's  something 
mighty  near  wrong  in  her  little  upper 
story — or  my  name  ain't  Tim  Barker!" 
He  laid  her  down  gently  under  the 
shade  of  a  tree,  and  poured  a  few 
drops  of  water  down  her  throat,  from 
a  flask  he  carried  in  his  pocket.  "Yep ! 
there's  something  very  near  wrong  in 
her  head — looks  like  reason  was  just 
ready  to  totter — and  her  the  whitest, 
innocentest  little  child  that  ever 
strayed  into  a  miner's  camp — or  any 
other  feller's  camp.  I'd  swear  to 
that!" 

Chafing  her  hands  and  bathing  her 
face  with  cold  water,  the  remarkable 
beauty  of  the  girlish  face,  the  pathos 
and  suffering  upon  it,  struck  him  with 
sudden  trembling.  His  heart  was 
stirred  to  its  depths. 

"God  Almighty  helping  me,  I'm  go- 
ing to  see  her  through.  But  it's  a  seri- 
ous matter  I've  run  up  against,"  he 
muttered. 

He  was  rewarded  at  last  by  a  faint 
color  coming  into  her  face.  She  op- 
ened her  eyes,  a  low  moan  escaping 
her  lips. 

"Come,  now,  you're  better — of 
course  you  are!"  he  exclaimed  cheer- 
fully. 

"Dad!"  she  moaned.  "Dad — oh, 
Daddy!" 

"Now,  that's  talking!"  cried  Tim. 
"Where  is  your  Daddy,  little  'un?  You 
said  a  spell  ago  you  come  from  the 
wagon.  Is  your  Daddy  there,  aigh?" 

"He  was!"  she  said,  with  those  wide 
tearless  eyes,  looking  mournfully  at 
him.  She  terrified  him  by  bursting  in- 
to wild  sobbing. 

"Daddy!     Daddy!"  she  cried. 


294 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Barker  knelt  down  beside  her  and 
lifted  her  head  as  tenderly  as  a  woman 
might  have  done. 

"Little  child,"  he  said,  tenderly, 
"won't  you  tell  me  where  your  Daddy 
is?  I  swear  by  all  I  love  in  heaven 
and  on  earth  that  I  will  go  and  get  him 
for  you — if  he's  to  be  found." 

"Daddy!  Daddy!"  she  moaned, 
over  and  over  again,  her  slight  form 
shaken  with  sobs. 

"Good  God  Almighty!"  he  groaned, 
"I  can't  stand  much  more  of  this! 
Why,  the  little  child's  brain  is  just 
trembling  in  the  balance." 

He  took  her  up  gently  in  his  arms 
and  rocked  her  to  and  fro,  crooning  soft 
words  of  pity  and  reassurance,  as  one 
does  to  a  baby.  The  perspiration  stood 
on  his  forehead  in  drops. 

"I  can't  do  nothing,"  he  said.  "They 
ain't  nobody  on  earth  can  help  this 
little  child  but  God  himself.  It  stands 
to  reason  he  feels  more  for  his  than 
I  do.  I  ain't  prayed  for  years — I  ain't 
fit  to  pray!  Not  that  I've  been  a  ras- 
cal— I  haven't  never  lied  when  it  hurt 
anybody,  and  I  ain't  cussed  unless  I 
had  to.  Somebody's  got  to  pray  for 
this  little  gal  right  now,  and  I  just 
plumb  got  to  tackle  the  job !  Oh,  God ! 
Here's  a  sneak  other  fellows  calls  Tim 
Barker.  He  never  prayed  to  you  till 
he  got  into  trouble,  and  he  never  come 
to  you  till  he  was  in  a  scrape!"  The 
sweat  poured  down  Tim's  face;  he 
caught  his  breath  sharply — "but  for 
the  sake  of  this  little  woman-child 
that  can't  hold  on  to  herself  any  longer, 
do  something  for  her!" 

Back  through  the  vista  of  the  years 
came  his  mother's  tranquil  voice,  read- 
ing from  a  book  she  loved  in  life  and 
in  death. 

"Like  as  a  father  protects  his 
children— Yes,  Lord,  that's  it:  I 
knowed  there  must  be  something  that 
would  show  what  you  was  like — Like 
as  a  father  protects  his  children!  I 
know  by  that  you  ain't  agoing  to  for- 
sake this  here  little  child  of  your'n." 

Even  while  his  heart  was  lifted  in 
this  strange  prayer,  he  realized  that 
she  had  stopped  sobbing;  her  head 
rested  heavily  upon  his  shoulder.  Had 


she  fainted  again?  He  gently  lifted 
the  long  strand  of  fair  hair  which  had 
fallen  across  her  face ;  her  eyes  were 
closed;  her  breath  came  regularly. 
She  was  sleeping — a  natural  slumber. 

Barker  gulped  hard,  swallowing 
something  that  had  come  up  in  his 
throat.  He  showed  no  other  sign  of 
emotion. 

For  twenty  minutes  he  sat  and  held 
her  in  his  arms ;  then,  finding  that  she 
continued  to  sleep,  he  arose  softly, 
and  carrying  her  into  the  cabin,  laid 
her  on  the  bed,  and  going  out  closed 
the  door  noiselessly  behind  him. 

"Now  I've  got  to  find  that  there 
wagon  and  see  why  her  Daddy  ain't 
come  to  see  where  she  went,"  he  said, 
striking  off  up  the  trail  to  the  main- 
traveled  road. 

It  was  not  a  difficult  search.  He  had 
not  gone  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile  be- 
fore he  saw  the  team  and  wagon.  The 
horses,  jaded  and  exhausted,  were 
standing  stock-still.  Barker  uttered  a 
cry  of  amazement,  as  his  eyes  rested 
upon  them.  They  appeared  like  mere 
skeletons  in  harness.  No  human  be- 
ing was  in  sight.  Had  the  girl's  father 
wandered  away  and  been  lost  in  the 
desert,  as  many  another  had  before 
him? 

He  went  up  to  the  wagon.  With  a 
sudden  start  he  recoiled;  an  exclama- 
tion-of  horror  escaped  him.  A  motion- 
less object  covered  with  a  blanket 
struck  him  dumb  with  amazement,  al- 
though fear  was  almost  unknown  to 
him,  he  found  himself  trembling  as 
with  an  ague.  Even  in  that  first  mo- 
ment he  knew  the  truth. 

"Good  God!"  he  ejaculated.  "That 
little  child-woman.  That  little  child!" 

He  stepped  up  and  gently  drew  the 
covering  away  from  the  face.  Remov- 
ing his  hat,  he  stood  for  a  moment  with 
bared  head.  The  man  had  been  dead 
for  hours.  Although  his  face  was 
stamped  with  great  suffering,  a  smile 
of  inexpressible  sweetness  rested  upon 
it. 

Barker's  face  was  convulsed  with 
emotion.  The  tragedy  was  too  great 
for  words ;  he  witnessed  it  mute-lipped 
while  the  tears  fell  over  his  face  like 


A   DREAM  THAT  CAME  TRUE 


295 


rain.  He  stood  thus  in  silence  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  drew  the  cov- 
ering back  over  the  quiet  face,  and  re- 
turned with  all  possible  speed  to  the 
cabin.  To  his  great  relief  he  found 
that  the  young  girl  still  slept.  Taking 
a  spade,  he  went  again  to  the  wagon. 
It  did  not  take  long  to  make  the 
necessary  arrangements. 

"I'm  taking  a  heap  on  myself/'  he 
said,  "but,  God  helping  me,  I'm  going 
to  do  it.  It's  best  for  him,  and  anyway 
it's  the  only  thing  to  do.  She  just 
mustn't  see  him  again,  and  somehow 
she'll  be  helped  to  bear  it."  He  laid 
the  dead  man  in  his  last  earthly  resting 
place,  and  gathering  a  few  flowers  he 
placed  them  in  his  hands. 

"Posies  are  like  a  benediction  in 
church,"  he  murmured.  "In  this  case 
they'll  have  to  take  the  place  of  a  ser- 
mon. But  from  that  look  in  his  face 
he's  past  muster,  anyway,  and  panned 
out  riches  for  the  next  world  as  he 
never  would  have  for  this  one — he 
ain't  built  for  the  part." 

When  he  had  finished,  he  went  back 
once  more  to  the  cabin,  and  found  his 
young  guest  still  sleeping. 

"Best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
her,"  he  thought.  "If  she  sleeps  like 
that  all  night  she'll  wake  O.  K.  in  the 
morning." 

He  did  not  make  a  fire  for  his  even- 
ing meal,  but  took  a  cold  supper.  Af- 
terward he  brought  out  a  blanket  and 
lay  down  under  the  trees  near  the 
cabin.  Worn  out  with  the  afternoon's 
excitement  and  anxiety,  before  he 
realized  it,  sleep  took  him  unawares. 

When  he  awakened,  the  sun  was 
shining.  He  sat  up  hastily.  Slowly 
the  facts  of  the  day  before  came  back 
to  him. 

"Poor  little  gal— poor  little  child!" 
he  murmured.  The  words  had  scarcely 
escaped  him  when  a  vision  in  the 
open  doorway  of  his  cabin  caused  him 
to  spring  to  his  feet  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  amazement.  The  young  girl 
stood  there  regarding  him  gravely  with 
clear,  wide  eyes.  She  was  as  calm  and 
self-controlled  as  if  no  storm  of  yes- 
terday's wild  sorrow  had  ever  shaken 
her  almost  beyond  her  strength  of  en- 


durance. It  had  spent  itself  and 
passed,  and  her  white,  child-like  face 
was  only  touched  by  its  shadow.  Some- 
thing in  its  calm  endurance  and  seren- 
ity, at  such  strange  variance  with  the 
childish  soul  looking  out  of  those  clear 
eyes,  touched  Barker  beyond  any  emo- 
tion which  she  could  have  shown. 

"Breakfast  is  ready,"  she  said 
quietly.  Her  tone  was  very  matter-of- 
fact. 

"What!"  cried  Barker.  His  own 
self-control  deserted  him  utterly.  He 
gazed  at  her  in  astonishment,  doubting 
his  senses.  Was  this  the  child  he  had 
rocked  in  his  arms  but  a  few  hours 
ago?  Whose  reason  had  grappled 
with  a  tragedy  too  great  for  its  child- 
ish strength — a  tragedy  which  had  ap- 
palled a  man's  stout  heart. 

"Jumping  Jehosephat!"  he  gasped. 
"Little  child,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  have  got  breakfast  while  a 
great  lazy  chap  slept!" 

She  smiled  faintly — very  faintly — 
yet  it  was  a  smile.  "I  was  glad  to  get 
it,"  she  said  simply.  "It — it — kept  me 
from  thinking  of "  Her  voice  fal- 
tered, but  she  finished  bravely:  "You 
had  better  come  and  eat  it  while  it  is 
hot." 

"Come !  You  can  bet  that  I'll  come 
without  urging!"  he  cried.  "Why,  lit- 
tle Major,  I'm  the  most  obedient  feller 
alive  when  there's  a  meal  on  hand!" 
He  was  regarding  her  with  deep  ad- 
miration. The  pluck  of  her,  the 
strength  and  courage  bound  up  in  that 
delicate  body  overwhelmed  him. 

"Why,  Lord  love  you,  child!"  he 
broke  out  again,  as  he  sat  down  to  the 
table,  "there  ain't  anybody  cooked  a 
meal  of  vittles  for  me  for  a  year,  ex- 
cepting myself.  And  if  you  ain't  got 
hot  biscuit  an'  the  bacon  browned  to  a 
turn — and  coffee !  Why,  I  ain't  smelled 
coffee  like  this  for  ages !  In  the  name 
of  wonder,  where  did  you  learn  cook- 
ing lessons  with  all  that  book  learning 
in  that  little  noggin  of  your'n?" 

She  told  him  then  a  little  of  her 
story,  in  her  soft,  low  tones,  and  he  en- 
couraged her  to  talk,  knowing  it  would 
do  her  good.  Her  voice  was  the  sweet- 
est music  Barker  had  ever  heard;  it 


296 


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caught  him  in  its  spell  and  held  his 
big,  tender  heart — a  poet's  heart  by 
nature. 

"It  sounds  like  the  water  of  the 
stream  up  yonder  in  the  hills,  rippling 
over  them  scarlet  and  gold  pebbles, 
and  sparkling  mica,  when  the  sunshine 
catches  it,"  he  thought,  as  he  listened 
in  silence. 

She  spoke  of  the  small  ranch  on  the 
edge  of  the  desert,  where  she  was  born, 
and  which  her  father  had  tried  to  make 
pay,  hoping  each  year  for  better  re- 
turns. Of  the  loneliness  and  isolation 
which  had  characterized  her  child- 
hood, of  her  father's  illness  for  years. 
How  in  the  midst  of  suffering  and  in- 
creasing adversity  he  had  been  her 
tutor,  for  her  father,  she  said  with 
much  pride,  had  been  a  great  scholar; 
he  had  taught  her  himself,  that  she 
might  be  able  to  take  her  place  in  the 
world  that  he  and  her  mother  had 
known  before  they  made  the  mistake 
of  coming  to  the  wilderness  to  make  a 
home  and  regain  the  health  which  was 
only  a  myth  and  never  regained.  She 
had  learned  from  her  good  mother 
everything  pertaining  to  the  comfort  of 
a  home.  And  when  that  mother  had 
died,  she  had  tried  to  take  her  place, 
until  her  father's  failing  health  caused 
them  to  give  up  the  barren  and  heavily 
mortgaged  ranch,  and  start  by  wagon, 
with  their  small  store  of  money,  for 
the  old  home  in  the  East,  where  her 
father  had  friends.  They  had  lost 
their  way  in  the  desert.  Her  father 
grew  worse — and — " 

"Don't  go  on,"  said  Barker,  very 
gently.  "I  know  the  rest." 

He  coughed,  choked  and  blurted  out 
unsteadily : 

"Why,  you  little  lion-hearted  mite 
of  humanity.  You're  the  gamest  little 
gal  I  ever  seen — or  dreamed  of!  And 
you  sitting  here  talking  about  it  as 
calm  as  a  meeting  house!" 

He  told  her,  then — thanking  God 
fervently,  that  she  had  so  fine  a  cour- 
age to  endure — what  he  had  done  while 
.she  slept.  When  he  had  finished  the 
difficult  task,  from  which  there  had 
been  no  escape,  he  drew  a  deep,  in- 
voluntary sigh  of  relief,  and  was  sur- 


prised to  find  that  his  big,  bronzed 
hand  was  trembling,  and  that  the  fair 
face  before  him  was  dim  for  the  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

"I — I  put  posies  in,  little  child,"  he 
said,  a  trifle  shyly.  "He  held  them 
in  his  hands,  and  he  smiled  beautiful, 
as  if  he  was  glad  to  rest  and  not  suf- 
fer!" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  slender 
young  hands.  "He  was,"  she  sobbed, 
"he  was." 

He  did  not  speak  to  her  again;  but 
got  up  and  went  out  softly.  He  did  not 
shut  the  door,  but  left  it  open,  that  the 
autumn  sunshine  might  enter,  and  the 
perfume  of  the  flowers  and  the  songs 
of  the  birds  might  cheer  her  bruised 
young  heart  and  bring  comfort  to  its 
desolation. 

Himself,  he  stood  just  outside  the 
door,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  kept 
watch,  his  handsome  head  bowed — a 
guardian  with  a  most  sacred  trust. 

"May  God  Almighty  deal  with 
me,  as  I  deal  with  that  little  child  in 
there!"  he  said  solemnly. 

Two  days  had  passed.  To  Tim 
Barker  they  were  like  a  dream.  His 
heart  sang  with  thanksgiving  and  joy 
of  the  present.  He  had  not  cared  to 
analyze  its  joy — he  had  not  yet  awak- 
ened to  the  grave  significance  of  the 
situation. 

Again,  he  stood  just  outside  the  door 
of  his  cabin,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  lis- 
tening to  the  lowsung  notes  of  a  song 
with  a  miner's  strain,  sung  in  a  girl's 
tender  voice. 

The  leaves  of  the  trees,  touched  by 
the  red  and  gold  of  autumn,  were 
stirred  gently  by  the  wind  of  evening. 
The  western  sky  was  a  blaze  of  golden 
flame,  as  the  sun  slipped  down  be- 
hind the  purple  mountains. 

Barker's  face  did  not  reflect  the 
peace  of  the  evening.  It  was  stern 
and  convulsed.  In  its  white,  tense 
lines  was  written  the  evidence  of  the 
conflict  within  his  soul.  He  was  hav- 
ing a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  with  him- 
self, and  during  that  time  he  was  be- 
coming acquainted  with  a  Tim  Bar- 
ker hitherto  unknown  to  him,  and  from 
the  expression  of  his  face  he  was  not 


DREAM  THAT  CAME  TRUE 


297 


pleased  with  the  acquaintance, 

During  the  last  few  days  he  had 
been  tried  almost  beyond  the  limit, 
and  his  iron  nerve,  was  shaken  and  his 
rugged  strength  was  giving  way.  He 
felt  himself  to  be  fighting  a  one-hand- 
ed battle  with  fate.  And  he  was  ap- 
palled to  think  that  destiny  seemed 
certain  to  come  off  conqueror. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  groaned.  "God 
Almighty.  I  ain't  equal  to  it.  It's 
more  than  a  human  man  can  handle, 
and  feel  anything  but  uncertainly.  I 
want  that  little  gal,  in  there,  wuss  than 
I  ever  wanted  anything  on  earth — wuss 
than  I  ever  will  want  anything  again — 
the  little,  loving  child  that  don't  sense 
that  she  is  a  woman  yet.  Good  God, 
I  see  the  situation,  just  as  it  is.  I've 
tried  to  deceive  myself — without  real- 
izing it,  but  I  can't  do  it  any  longer. 
I've  done  a  blamed  lot  of  cussed  things 
during  my  life  time.  But  I  ain't  never 
been  a  coward.  I've  called  a  spade  a 
spade,  and  I  ain't  never  stooped  to 
calling  it  anything  else." 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes, 
his  face  whitened  under  its  tan,  and  his 
lips  moved.  No  man  might  know 
what  was  in  his  mind  at  that  moment, 
but  much  of  the  conflict  went  out  of 
his  face — his  eyes  grew  steady. 

"I've  been  dreaming,"  he  said, 
"dreaming;  but  I'm  awake  now,  and  I 
know  what  that  little  innocent  girl  in 
there  don't  know,  and  that  is,  that  she 
mustn't  stay  here  at  my  house.  She 
couldn't  stay  here  only  as  my  wife — " 
He  drew  in  his  breath  sharply.  "God 
help  me,  I  dass'n't  think  of  that.  I 
would  be  a  mean  cuss  to  take  advan- 
tage of  her  gratitude  and  tie  her  up  for 
life  to  a  rough,  uneducated  feller  like 
me.  Not  but  what  I  would  try  to 
learn — I  ain't  a  fool!  but  no — I  ain't 
her  equal.  Why,  she's  a  lady — the 
book  kind,  that's  born  of  generations  of 
book  folks!  No,  she's  got  to  go.  It's 
one  of  the  things  that  must  be,  and  she 
don't  know  it,  and  I — good  God !  I  got 
to  send  her  away."  Grim-set  though 
his  mouth  was,  it  quivered,  suddenly. 

"Little  child,"  he  said  brokenly,  as 
though  she  were  present,  "I  had 
thought  of  heaven.  It  was  just  a 


dream,  and  now  I  am  awake.  I  didn't 
realize  that  I  was  letting  myself  pic- 
ture life,  with  you  a-making  it  sun- 
shine, and  glorifying  it  with  that  brave, 
sweet  smile  of  yours,  and  the  proud 
look  in  your  sweet  eyes,  and  the  sound 
of  your  voice  that  is  sweeter  than  any 
bird's  song.  Yes,  it  was  a  dream  that 
I  hadn't  ought  to  have  had,  and  now, 
God  pity  me,  I  am  awake.  I  know  this 
is  the  time  for  action.  I've  got  to  go 
in  there  and  face  you,  you  little,  ten- 
der thing,  and  tell  you  the  truth.  I 
would  rather  face  a  canon  if  I  had 
been  given  a  chance.  You  are  going 
away  to-night,  little  one — at  once, 
there  ain't  no  future  time  for  a  man 
that's  facing  temptation — there  ain't 
no  future  time  for  a  little  white  soul 
that's  got  a  claim  to  protection.  Please 
God,  you  shall  leave  as  blameless  as 
when  you  came  under  my  roof." 

He  turned  and  went  into  the  house. 
Something  in  the  set  resolve  of  his 
face  the  girl  felt  vaguely ;  the  song  was 
suddenly  hushed  upon  her  lips. 

He  went  at  it  man-fashion,  blurting 
out  the  words,  though  his  voice  was 
husky  with  emotion. 

"Little  child,"  he  said,  his  very  soul 
seemed  shaken  with  the  effort  it  cost 
him  to  speak,  "there's  something  I  got 
to  say — right  now — it  can't  be  put  off. 
I  ain't  any  hand  at  talking — wasn't  ed- 
ucated for  conversing  with  people  with 
book  learning,  but  I've  got  to  say  what 
I  have  to  say  the  best  I  can.  Once,  lit- 
tle gal,  there  was  a  feller  that  had  a 
dream.  To  him  it  was  the  sweetest 
spell  of  heaven  that  he  ever  had,  sleep- 
ing and  waking,  and  suddent-like  he 
waked  up  and  knowed  that  it  was  a 
dream,  and  that  in  this  every  day  un- 
dreaming world  it  couldn't  be  true.  He 
knowed  something  else,  suddent-like, 
and  knowed  it  sure — and  that  was,  that 
dreams— day  dreams — are  powerful 
dangerous  sometimes,  and  a  man  must 
wake  up  for  good  and  dream  no  more. 
That  foolish  feller  was  me,  little  child, 
and  I  have  waked  up  for  good." 

The  girl  was  looking  at  him  with 
wide,  unknowing  eyes.  She  did  not 
yet  comprehend.  There  had  been  none 
to  explain  to  her  the  mystery  of  wo- 


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OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


manhood;  she  had  not  yet  passed  be- 
yond the  border  of  childhood's  ignor- 
ance into  the  heritage  of  a  woman's 
knowledge.  Looking  into  those  undis- 
turbed eyes,  Barker  strangled  a  groan, 
stunned  by  the  full  force  of  her  inno- 
cence. 

"Little  gal,"  he  said,  unsteadily,  "I 
ain't  never  had  a  home  since  my 
mother  who  went  to  heaven  made  one 
for  me,  when  I  was  a  little  chap.  I 
dreamed  of  home,  with  you— it  was 
just  a  dream,  and  couldn't  come  true. 
They — they  ain't  but  one  way  that  you 
could  stay  here,  little  child,  and  that  is 
as  my  wife."  He  broke  off  suddenly, 
a  choking  sound  in  his  throat,  some- 
thing in  her  face,  in  her  widening, 
startled  eyes  warned  him.  He  passed 
his  hand  unconsciously  across  his  fore- 
head, where  great  drops  of  sweat  had 
gathered. 

The  girl  had  whitened  to  the  sweet, 
childish  crimson  curves  of  her  lips; 
she  gazed  at  him  with  bewildered  eyes. 
Some  force,  hitherto  unknown  to  her, 
had  her  in  its  grasp. 

"As  my  wife,"  he  repeated  huskily, 
"that  would  be  the  nearest  heaven  life 
could  hold  for  me,  little  child,  but  I 
ain't  a  fool  nor  a  scoundrel,  and  I  am 
the  last  man  on  earth  to  take  advan- 
tage of  your  defenselessness  and  tie 
you,  a  refined,  educated  little  lady,  to 
a  rough,  uneducated  man  like  me. 
Why,  I  can't  talk  grammar  any  better 
than  a  heathen.  There's  just  one  thing 
to  do,  and  that's  for  me  to  take  you 


over  to  Render's  ranch  to-night,  and 
send  you  to  Losingville  by  stage.  I've 
got  to  send  you  away,  little  child — 
now.  There  ain't  no  postponing  it.  I 
can't  be  such  a  sneak  as  to  marry  you 
— you  are  as  high  above  me  as  the 
stars  are  above  the  earth." 

Still  gazing  at  him  with  troubled 
eyes — suddenly  she  understood.  In 
that  moment  the  child  stepped  across 
the  border  into  the  heritage  of  her 
womanhood. 

"I  am  not!"  she  cried  passionately. 
"If  you  send  me  away  from  you,  I 
shall  never  speak  another  word  of 
good  English  in  my  life!" 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him 
with  a  cry  of  unutterable  sorrow,  her 
lips  quivered  with  sobs  she  could  not 
repress. 

"Good  God!"  said  Barker,  hoarsely, 
but  said  it  reverently  with  bowed  head. 
Instinctively  he  leaned  toward  her,  and 
her  strong  young  arms  went  about  his 
neck  and  held  him  captive. 

For  several  moments  neither  of  them 
broke  the  silence.  It  was  the  girl  who 
spoke  first. 

"Dear,"  she  said,  softly;  "will  your 
dream  come  true,  or  not?" 

"Will  it  come  true?"  he  cried,  joy- 
ously. "Little  child,  you  are  going  to 
Render's  Ranch — but  I'm  bound  for 
Loningville.  to  get  the  preacher  and 
the  license.  My  dream  has  come  true 
— and  it  can't  be  any  truer  till  I  come 
home  again  and  bring  my  wife  with 
me!" 


A     WISH 


When  love  light  leaps  from  eye  to  eye, 

And  passion  surges  high; 

Then  love  alone  sits  on  her  throne 

And  waves  her  magic  wand 

O'er  the  inward  land  of  dream. 

Would  all  the  world  could  move  along 

On  that  one,  flawless  beam. 

CEDELIA  BARTHOLOMEW. 


Outline  of  the  Progress  of  Women  in 
the   Last  Sixty  Years 


By  Annie  Martin  Tyler 


IN  THE  FORTIES  of  the  last  cen- 
tury the  old  common  law  of  Eng- 
land that  had  held  back  the  devel- 
opment and  unfolding  of  the  char- 
acter of  women  and  her  liberty  for  un- 
told ages  was  still  in  force.  If  she 
were  married,  she  was  civilly  dead. 
All  property  rights  belonged  to  the 
men.  Women  were  not  allowed  to 
hold  any  property  whatever.  Should 
a  wife  earn  money,  it  belonged  to  the 
husband.  The  clothes  she  wore  and 
those  of  her  children  belonged  exclu- 
sively to  her  husband,  according  to 
that  law.  America  seemed  to  inherit 
this  law  from  England,  and  it  was 
thought  a  disgrace  for  any  woman  to 
be  independent  of  men  by  earning  her 
own  living. 

The  masses  of  women  were  illiter- 
ate. They  were  barred  from  all 
schools  and  colleges.  Oberlin  was  the 
first  school  to  admit  girls,  but  they  had 
a  special  course  prescribed  for  them — 
they  were  not  admitted  on  equal  terms 
with  young  men.  Two  or  three  girls 
graduated  from  that  school  in  the  early 
forties,  but  not  on  an  equality  with 
men.  A  little  later  Antioch  College, 
another  Ohio  school,  was  the  first  to 
admit  girls  on  exactly  the  same  terms 
as  men,  and  from  that  time  the  ad- 
mittance of  girls  to  all  schools  was 
rapid  and  astonishing.  Soon  girls 
were  attending  schools  and  colleges  all 
over  the  great  East  and  Middle  West. 
In  1848  a  convention  was  held  at  the 
home  of  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton 
in  Seneca  Falls,  N.  Y.  At  her  instiga- 
tion and  request,  a  woman's  declara- 
tion of  independence  was  adopted  and 
subscribed  to.  The  author,  of  which 


was  Mrs.  Stanton  herself.  The  sum 
and  substance  of  this  declaration  was 
that  women  should  have  and  must  have 
equal  rights  with  men  in  all  things, 
including  the  right  to  a  voice  in  the 
government  and  its  laws.  This  was 
the  beginning  of  a  most  superhuman 
task  of  setting  women  free  from  the 
bondage  of  centuries.  Not  very  long 
after  this,  some  of  the  States 
passed  laws  giving  women  the  right 
to  hold  property,  which  was  the  be- 
ginning of  woman's  freedom  from  le- 
gal slavery. 

In  the  early  fifties  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton  and  Su- 
san B.  Anthony  came  together  in  one 
common  cause,  and  that  cause  was  the 
enfranchisement  of  women.  They 
worked,  talked,  lectured  and  wrote  for 
the  cause  all  through  the  fifties,  and 
saw  their  cause  slowly  progressing 
against  the  stone  wall  of  prejudice  and 
sordid  public  opinion.  They  were  rid- 
iculed and  denounced  from  one  end 
of  the  land  to  the  other.  They  never 
stopped,  and  went  on  with  determined 
will  and  unflinching  courage.  They 
also  worked  for  the  freedom  of  the 
blacks  in  the  South.  They  believed  in 
equal  rights  to  all — women  and  men 
alike,  whether  black  or  white. 

In  the  early  fifties,  also,  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe's  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin" 
came  before  the  reading  public.  This 
book  was  more  instrumental  in  chang- 
ing public  opinion  than  anything  else 
that  has  ever  been  before  the  public 
in  book  form  or  in  public  addresses. 
It  was  the  instrument  that  inflamed  and 
aroused  public  opinion  to  the  awful- 
ness  of  the  crimes  that  were  going  on 


300 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


and  permitted  on  account  of  the  slav- 
ery of  the  black  man.  There  never 
was  a  book  more  universally  read.  It 
is  estimated  that  over  300,000  volumes 
were  sold  the  first  year  in  the  United 
States  alone.  The  book  was  read  and 
re-read  all  over  this  land  of  ours,  and 
translated  into  almost  every  language 
of  the  world.  The  power  this  book 
had  to  arouse  public  opinion  and  bring 
about  the  freedom  of  the  black  race 
can  never  be  estimated.  Lincoln  and 
the  Republican  party  had  their  share 
in  doing  away  with  negro  slavery,  and 
we  honor  the  men  who  fought,  bled 
and  died  in  the  dreadful  war  waged 
to  free  the  negro  and  save  our  national 
union.  But,  back  of  it  all,  and  shining 
through  it  all,  is  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 
with  her  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  I 
should  like  to  draw  a  picture  of  the 
whole  scene  with  Mrs.  Stowe  back  of 
it  all  handing  out  her  "Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin"  for  the  aid  and  betterment  of 
humanity.  This  one  book,  written  by 
this  great  woman,  has  had  more  to 
do  with  the  present  trend  of  public 
opinion  than  any  other  book  of  the 
last  century.  In  fact,  it  brought  about 
a  great  revolution,  and  so,  while  Eliza- 
beth Cady  Stanton  and  Susan  B.  An- 
thony were  striving  to  bring  public 
opinion  up  to  the  standard  of  women's 
enfranchisement  and  equal  rights  to 
all,  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  was  quietly 
bringing  public  opinion  up  to  the  stand- 
ard of  favoring  the  emancipation  of 
the  thousands  of  colored  people  in  the 
South.  So  much  for  the  work  and  in- 
fluence of  three  women  in  one  decade. 

Then  began  the  great  civil  war  in 
the  early  sixties,  and  every  mind  was 
turned  toward  the  South  and  the  ad- 
vocation  of  women's  suffrage  was 
abandoned  during  the  four  years  of 
war.  Every  woman  was  doing  her 
best  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of  the 
wounded  and  bleeding  men  who  were 
engaged  in  battle. 

When  the  war  closed,  the  thousands 
of  men  who  were  killed  and  maimed 
during  the  struggle  left  their  wives, 
mothers  and  sisters  without  any  means 
of  livelihood.  There  was  no  alterna- 
tive then  for  them  than  to  do  the  best 


they  could  to  earn  their  own  living  and 
that  of  their  families.  Farmers'  wives 
went  to  the  field  to  plant  and  cultivate 
the  crops;  business  men's  wives  took 
up  their  husband's  business  where 
they  had  left  off,  etc.,  so  that  in  every 
industry  women  were  doing  their  best 
to  earn  a  livelihood.  From  this  time 
on,  no  woman  was  obliged  to  depend 
on  some  male  relative  for  her  liveli- 
hood. In  this  way  they  proved  their 
ability  to  be  independent  of  men.  At 
this  time  all  of  the  large  universities 
opened  their  doors  to  them  on  equal 
footing  with  men.  Women  were  no 
longer  debarred  from  entering  a  wage 
earning  occupation  or  any  profession 
she  might  choose  to  follow.  Thus, 
while  the  cruel  war  freed  the  colored 
man,  it  also,  in  a  measure,  freed  wo- 
men. 

We  have  not  spoken  of  the  country 
west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  during 
these  times.  In  the  forties,  while  new 
ideas  were  beginning  to  take  root  in 
the  East,  there  were  but  a  very  few 
white  people  west  of  these  mountains. 
During  the  latter  part  of  the  forties 
there  was  a  large  emigration  from  the 
East  and  Middle  West  to  the  Pacific 
Coast,  and  with  these  there  was  a 
large  number  of  missionaries,  all  in 
trains  of  prairie  schooners.  These 
missionaries  were  educated  men  and 
had  broad  minds,  with  kindly  hearts. 
In  1847  and  from  that  time  on,  large 
emigrations  came  every  year.  In  1849 
and  1.850,  after  gold  was  discovered 
in  California,  thousands  of  the  most 
adventurous,  progressive  and  ener- 
getic people  came  west  to  Washington 
and  Oregon,  as  well  as  to  California, 
and  with  them  some  of  the  best  intel- 
lect from  the  Eastern  States.  They 
soon  started  schools  everywhere,  and 
girls  as  well  as  boys  were  getting  the 
rudiments  of  an  education.  These 
schools  in  the  very  early  days  were 
largely  taught  by  the  missionaries.  By 
the  latter  part  of  the  fifties,  public 
schools  and  colleges  were  well  under 
way  and  flourishing.  The  young  girl 
of  the  West  became  the  equal  of  her 
brother,  and  often  his  superior.  Some 
of  our  most  influential  men  and  wo- 


AMOR  INVICTUS. 


301 


men  were  reared  and  educated  in  the 
West.  It  was  Marcus  Whitman  who, 
with  his  bride,  came  West  as  a  mis- 
sionary, who  was  the  means  of  an- 
nexing all  the  territory  then  called 
Oregon  to  the  United  States'.  Then 
also  came  the  Reverend  Gushing  Eels, 
Reverend  Elcaney  Walker,  Harvey 
Clark  and  others,  who  established  a 
mission  school  at  Forest  Grove,  Ore- 
gon, thirty  miles  west  of  Portland, 
which  developed  into  a  university 
where  girls  had  the  same  opportunity 
as  boys. 

Harvey  W.  Scott,  who  was  for  many 
years  the  editor  of  the  "Portland  Ore- 
gonian,"  one  of  the  most  influential 
papers  of  the  Pacific  Slope,  was  the 
first  graduate  on  this  University.  He 
crossed  the  plains  in  an  ox  wagon 
when  a  mere  child.  Joaquin  Miller, 
whom  Oregon  and  Washington  has  a 
claim  on  as  well  as  California,  and 
Bret  Harte,  have  wielded  a  large  in- 
fluence in  the  entire  West.  Abigal 
Scott  Dunaway,  the  author  of  "Cap- 
tain Gay's  Company,"  crossed  the 
plains.  She  is  a  woman  who  has  ex- 
erted a  very  broad  influence  in  favor 
of  women  in  the  West.  In  1873,  or 
thereabouts,  Susan  B.  Anthony  came 
West  to  advocate  the  cause  of  woman 
and  to  start  the  West  on  the  way  to- 
ward their  enfranchisement.  There 


were  a  great  many  Western  people 
who  ridiculed  her.  She  was,  never- 
theless, the  means  of  getting  a  great 
many  young  minds  to  favor  her  cause, 
and  when  she  went  back  East  the  man- 
tle fell  upon  Abigal  Scott  Dunaday, 
who  soon  afterward  began  editing  a 
paper  called  "The  New  Northwest," 
published  in  Portland,  Oregon,  which 
did  a  great  work  by  educating  people 
and  bringing  them  up  to  the  standard 
of  equal  rights  to  all.  The  paper  was 
dedicated  wholly  to  woman's  enfran- 
chisement. 

It  is  very  gratifying  to  know  that 
Mrs.  Dunaway  is  still  living  and  has 
lived  long  enough  to  see  her  cause  tri- 
umphant. In  California,  the  Univer- 
sity of  California,  fostered  by  Mrs. 
Phoebe  Hearst,  and  Stanford  Univer- 
sity, built  by  Mrs.  Jane  Stanford,  will 
ever  hand  down  the  names  of  these 
two  noble  women  to  posterity. 

And  now  as  the  women  of  all  the 
Western  States  work  from  the  most 
intelligent  standpoint,  with  societies 
and  clubs  well  organized,  the  future 
will  be  largely  what  they  choose  to 
make  it.  All  this,  in  less  than  two 
generations.  Are  we  not  proud  of  our 
great  West  when  we  hear  of  our  East- 
ern sisters  being  compelled  to  stay, 
at  least  a  little  longer,  on  the  back 
seat. 


A/AOR     INVICTUS 

If  bars  should  shut  me  from  God's  sunlit  day, 

And  granite  masonry  should  seal  me  fast 
As  some  frail  insect  where  the  salt  waves  play, 

Encased  in  amber  through  the  ages  past — 
If  every  golden  shaft  the  bright  sun  sped 

From  blue  ethereal  realms  should  hidden  lie, 
And  all  my  life  through  grey-stoled  shadow  led, 

Fraught  with  pain-haunted  dreams  where  faint  hopes  die, 
Still  would  the  thought  of  you  lend  silvern  wings 

To  speed  my  spirit  on  its  outward  way, 
Nor  would  I  reck  the  tortures  that  fate  flings 

Across  the  pathway  of  my  earthly  stay. 
Mine  then  the  whole  world's  varied  pageantry, 

And  joy  as  boundless  as  the  foam-fringed  sea! 

R.  R.  GREENWOOD, 


Dutch   Guiana 


A  Field  for  United  States  Capital 
By  J.  Barkley  Fercival 


SURINAM,  or  Dutch  Guiana,  which 
is  to-day  offering  the  best  oppor- 
tunities in  the  world  for  United 
States  enterprise,  is  situated  on 
the  northeast  coast  of  South  America, 
and  is  300  miles  long  and  260  miles 
broad.    It  is  beyond  a  doubt  the  rich- 
est possession  of  the  Dutch,  and  can 
fairly  lay  claim  to  be  the  rarest  jewel 
in  the  crown  of  the  Netherlands. 

The  Dutch  parliament  voted  a  sum 
of  money  for  opening  up  the  country 
by  a  railroad  from  Paramaribo  (the 
capital  of  the  colony,  to  the  hinterland) 
with  a  view  to  developing  the  vast  re- 
sources of  this  rich  country.  This  pro- 
ject received  universal  and  hearty  en- 
dorsement, and  already  100  miles  of 
rail  is  open  for  traffic. 

Dutch  Guiana  is  a  rich  country — it 
needs  only  good  roads  and  steamcraft 
on  her  waterways  to  become  one  of 
the  richest  on  earth.  The  soil  yields 
abundantly  without  any  process  of 
fertilization,  the  forests  are  full  of 
valuable  woods,  and  the  ground  con- 
tains gold  and  precious  stones.  Ag- 
riculture, lumbering  and  mining  will 
flourish  more  when  proper  means  of 
communication  between  the  coast  and 
interior  are  established. 

The  Klondyke  excitement  turned 
for  a  moment  all  eyes  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Alaska.  But  there  are  many 
disadvantages  connected  with  the  get- 
ting of  gold  in  that  region  of  almost 
perpetual  winter.  The  obstacles  to 
be  overcome  before  the  riches  of  the 
region  can  be  obtained  are  many  and 
great.  No  such  difficulties  present 
themselves  in  the  gold  fields  of  Suri- 
nam. Here  there  is  eternal  summer, 
easily  navigable  waterways,  cheap 
food  and  cheap  labor,  and  the  richest 
gold  fields  in  the  world  in  which  to 
operate. 

There  are  no  hardships  associated  in 
getting  out  the  gold  in  the  placer 
mines  of  Surinam.  An  efficient  man- 
agement located  at  Paramaribo,  which, 


notwithstanding  its  hot  climate,  is 
one  of  the  most  salubrious  cities  in  the 
world,  can  direct  all  the  operations 
and  work  the  mines  successfully.  There 
is  no  danger  to  life  and  nothing  to 
dread  from  thieves  or  schemers.  There 
is  no  place  in  the  world  where  prop- 
erty is  safer  than  Surinam. 

Placer  mining  in  Dutch  Guiana  can 
be  counted  on  with  as  much  certainty 
as  manufacturing  pursuits  elsewhere. 
It  is  usually  possible  to  estimate  be- 
forehand, with  considerable  certainty, 
whether  the  returns  from  a  given  un- 
dertaking are  likely  to  pay  for  the 
expense  of  operating  the  mine.  There 
is  little  fear  of  a  mine  petering  out 
so  long  as  there  is  a  good  gravel  bank 
in  sight,  and  the  means  for  working 
it  are  at  hand.  Hence  only  a  few 
placer  mines  are  worked  at  a  loss. 

There  is  a  rare  opportunity  at  pres- 
ent for  the  investment  of  capital  in 
Dutch  Guiana. 

Gold  is  found  in  almost  every  part 
of  South  America,  from  the  Orinoco 
delta  to  the  Straits  of  Magellan,  but 
nowhere  is  it  in  such  quantities  as  in 
the  gold  belt  traversing  Dutch  Gui- 
ana. With  the*  introduction  of  the 
hydraulic  system  for  washing  in  the 
placer  mines,  there  will  be  undoubt- 
edly a  largely  increased  gold  field  in 
the  near  future. 

Diamonds  and  other  precious  stones 
are  to  be  found  throughout  the  colony 
associated  with  gold,  just  as  they 
have  been  discovered  in  Brazil.  The 
discovery  is  said  to  have  been  made 
in  Brazil  by  a  Portuguese  student  of 
the  University  of  Lisbon,  who  was  sent 
to  collect  mineralogical  specimens 
for  the  college.  While  examining  the 
worked  out  placer  mines,  he  found  a 
large  diamond  amongst  a  heap  of 
gravel.  Pursuing  his  search,  he  was 
amazed  to  find  that  the  abandoned 
gold  mines  were  rich  diamond  mines. 
Here,  too,  it  appeared,  the  gold  and 
the  diamond  went  hand  in  hand.  He 


DUTCH   GUIANA. 


303 


gathered  numbers  of  diamonds  for 
his  own  special  benefit,  and  got  back 
to  Portugal  as  speedily  as  possible. 
Arriving  home,  he  sent  his  brother  to 
Brazil,  who  soon  gathered  a  fortune 
for  himself,  but  something  about  his 
conduct  caused  his  arrest,  and  he  was 
thrown  into  prison.  To  purchase  his 
liberty  he  gave  up  his  diamonds,  and 
after  obtaining  his  freedom  was  ap- 
pointed by  the  king  to  instruct  the 
gold  miners  how  to  search  for  dia- 
monds. Under  his  supervision  all  the 
abandoned  placers  were  rewashed, 
and  out  of  the  gravel  were  taken  annu- 
ally diamonds  to  the  value  of  many 
millions  of  dollars. 

The  largest  diamond  ever  discovered 
in  the  world  at  that  time  was  found  in 
Brazil,  namely,  The  King  of  Portugal ; 
it  weighed  1,660  carats,  and  is  the  size 
of  a  hen's  egg.  It  is  still  uncut. 

Throughout  the  gold  belt,  which 
runs  from  Venezuela  to  Brazil,  dia- 
monds and  rubies  are  constantly  be- 
ing found,  some  of  them  of  large 
value.  As  Dutch  Guiana  is  an  enor- 
mously rich  gold  region,  it  will  not 
be  surprising  if  a  great  diamond  dis- 
covery is  some  early  day  made  here. 
The  diamond  fields  in  British  Guiana 
are  yielding  handsome  returns. 

Surinam  would  seem  to  be  the  ap- 
propriate territory  for  such  a  discov- 
ery, for  here  are  the  richest  placer 
mines  between  the  Orinoco  and  the 
Amazon.  Several  diamonds  of  small 
size  have  been  found  repeatedly  in 
the  debris  of  old  placer  workings  on 
the  Surinam  River.  The  micaceous 
quartzose  schist,  containing  talcose 
minerals,  are  intersected  by  quartz 
veins,  which  is  the  parent  of  the  Bra- 
zilian diamond,  the  stracoleomete ;  in 
short,  metamorphic  in  character,  and 
distinguishes  the  mineralogica'l  fea- 
tures of  the  gold  belt  of  Surinam. 

South  America  seems  to  be  the  natu- 
ral home  of  gold  and  gems,  and  the 
writer  predicts  that  the  next  great 
diamond  discovery  will  be  in  the 
Surinam  wilds. 

The  colony  of  Surinam  is  also  one 
of  the  richest  in  aboreal  vegetation,  in 
truth  a  perfect  garden,  the  wild  luxu- 


riance of  whose  products  furnishes  a 
perpetual  pleasure  to  the  eye,  and 
forms  a  shelter  to  myriads  of  brightly 
plumaged  birds  and  a  heterogeneous 
collection  of  the  animal  life  peculiar 
to  tropical  forest.  It  is  said  of  this 
marvelously  fertile  region  that  even 
Central  Africa,  with  its  luxurious  and 
illimitable  seas  of  verdure,  present  no 
such  extensive  space  under  conditions 
and  uninterrupted  vegetation  as  the 
woodlands  of  the  Guiana  seaboard, 
and  those  of  the  Amazon  basin  and  its 
affluents.  And  it  may  be  added  that 
this  territory  contributes  to  the  use  of 
humanity  more  herbs,  roots  and  plants 
for  medicinal  and  food  purposes  than 
any  other  land  of  equal  extent  on  the 
face  of  the  globe.  The  earth  here  is 
in  brief  teeming  with  vegetable 
wealth,  and  the  landscapes  are  conse- 
quently gorgeously  rich  in  scenic 
beauty. 

In  a  territory  so  rich  in  fruits  and 
arboreal  products,  practically  inex- 
haustible as  far  as  regards  its  fecun- 
dity, it  is  natural  that  there  should  be 
large  varieties  of  animal  life.  It  is  a 
noted  fact,  however,  that  there  are  no 
gigantic  animals  of  the  pachyderma- 
tous species,  such  as  are  common  to 
the  jungles  of  Africa  and  Asia,  except 
the  tapir. 

Although  the  Colony  of  Dutch  Gui- 
ana is  no  field  for  the  poor  white  man, 
a  capitalist  may  live  in  comfort  in 
Paramaribo,  and  direct  the  operations 
of  gold  mines  in  the  interior  worked 
by  native  labor.  There  is  no  greater 
mortality  in  Paramaribo  than  there 
is  in  a  city  of  similar  size  in  the  tem- 
perate zone,  the  sanitary  arrange- 
ment? being  perfect  and  surroundings 
salubrious.  A  man  with  a  moderate 
•capital  could  hardly  employ  himself 
better,  provided  he  could  secure  a  con- 
cession in  the  gold  belt,  than  to  reside 
in  the  city,  and  conduct  the  work  in  his 
mines  through  instructions  to  his  na- 
tive helps,  who,  as  a  rule,  find  the 
bush  innocuous  and  the  labor  profit- 
able. In  a  few  years  a  man  with  a 
moderate  capital  operating  in  this  way 
could  be  almost  sure  to  accumulate  a 
large  fortune. 


What    is   Theosophy? 


By  Cornett  T.  Stark 


THOSE  who  fully  comprehend 
the  scheme  of  Creation,  seek  to 
convey  a  better  understanding 
of  it  to  those  as  yet  less  highly 
evolved,  but  who  wish  to  know  more  of 
Truth.  These  Initiates  or  Adepts  are 
termed  Masters,  because  they  teach. 
Their  teachings  comprise  Occultism,  or 
nature,  method  and  purpose  of  life; 
and  Mysticism  or  devotional  aspira- 
tion. Theosophy  has  long  been  the 
name  for  the  ancient  Wisdom-relig- 
ion: those  basic  truths  that  have  al- 
ways been  the  life  of  religion,  philoso- 
phy, science  and  art.  This  being  a 
world  of  growth,  the  practical  value 
of  Theosophy  lies  most  in  its  cultiva- 
tion of  discernment  between  non-es- 
sentials and  the  things  that  are  worth 
while,  resulting  in  determination  to 
achieve  true  progress.  Judgment  be- 
tween Desire  and  Intuition  becomes 
keener,  and  the  pupil  is  impressed 
with  the  importance  of  fixing  his  atten- 
tion on  consistent  conduct  instead  of  al- 
lowing Impulse  to  affect  him.  This 
poise  and  oversight  is  much  helped 
by  mental,  emotional  and  physical 
conservation  of  the  life  principle,  be- 
cause imperfect  health  dulls  discrimi- 
nation, increasing  bodily  self-con- 
sciousness, whereas  the  effort  should 
be  to  efface  the  grosser  and  increase 
the  finer  sense  of  Awareness. 

It  Explains  Life  and  Death. 

Divine-Wisdom  or  Theos-sophia  is 
that  which  has  been  the  enlightening 
principle  of  all  culture  and  of  every 
civilization.  Beside  Brotherhood,  its 
tenets  with  which  we  have  most  con- 
cern are  unfailing  Compensation  or 
"Karma,"  and  Reincarnation,  which  of 
necessity  follows. 


This  law  of  Periodicity  as  applied 
to  our  appearance  on  Earth,  is  ex- 
pounded as  being  consistent  with  all 
other  natural  processes,  and  such  re- 
appearance should  not  be  confused 
with  the  theory  of  Transmigration  or 
incarnation  at  random  in  the  physical 
kingdoms — Metempsychosis.  Rather,  it 
is  an  orderly  succession  of  lives  in 
forms  continuously  more  plastic  and 
adapted  to  the  needs  of  increasing  in- 
telligence gained  by  experience.  We 
are  taught  that  as  long  as  the  portion 
of  Consciousness  which  we  recognize 
as  ourself  is  seemingly  separate  from 
all  others,  it  is  focused  in  one  or  an- 
other of  three  of  the  seven  worlds  or 
conditions  of  Matter:  Physical,  Emo- 
tional, Mental — the  planes  of  Nature. 
The  limitations  of  the  bodies  or  vehi- 
cles of  expression  peculiar  to  each 
world,  confine  our  attention  for  the 
time,  but  after  a  time  we  die  from  the 
outer,  to  be  born  to  the  ever  more  real 
worlds,  thereby  expanding  this  per- 
sonal consciousness.  Then  if  still  im- 
perfect and  subject  to  Desire  instead 
of  Aspiration,  we  are  by  reaction 
brought  back  world  by  world  to  the 
physical  one,  and  in  that  manner  con- 
tinue to  separately  function  in  those 
three,  until  by  experience  we  have  at- 
tained to  transcendent  wisdom  and 
sympathy,  thereafter  to  remain  free 
from  the  need  of  rebirth.  The  goal  of 
humanity  as  such  is  to  outgrow  the 
"cycle  of  necessity"  (individual  intel- 
ligence having  matured),  and  in  the 
worlds  of  full  realization  to  attain  con- 
scious completeness.  It  is  a  state  of 
desirelessness,  a  condition  of  well-be- 
ing in  perfection  where  the  knowledge 
of  the  Oneness  of  all  suffices  to  char- 
acterize life  as  absolutely  real  and 
beneficent:  the  place  of  At-one-ment. 


SUNSET. 


305 


Annihilation  is  an  erroneous  Western 
idea  of  Nirvana. 

Evolution  is  the  Divine  Will,  and 
once  seen  as  such  we  feel  that 

We  Must  Do  What  We  Know. 

That  is  the  Occultism  which  en- 
joins complete  purification:  a  willing- 
ness to  part  with  whatever  we  have 
outgrown.  To  reach  a  condition  of 
permanent  and  wholesome  happiness  is 
our  constant  home.  To  do  so  we  must 
be  building  our  future  accordingly,  be- 
cause natural  Compensation  is  invari- 
able. True  theosophists  do  not  strive 
for  magical  powers :  strength  of  char- 


acter is  their  ideal.  Altruism,  and  the 
analyzing  of  the  personal  self  with  a 
view  to  overcoming  imperfections, 
should  be  among  the  aims  of  all  ear- 
nest persons.  Disregard  of  duty  to 
others  intensifies  the  illusion  of  sepa- 
rateness,  and  all  can  attest  that  sel- 
fishness does  not  satisfy.  Suffering  is 
the  karma  or  logical  result  of  failure 
to  live  our  knowledge  throughout  the 
long  past,  and  the  more  we  intelligently 
co-operate  with  Evolution — which  im- 
partially considers  the  welfare  of  all 
— the  sooner  shall  we  attain  to  free- 
dom from  error,  and  to  consequent  lib- 
eration from  birth  in  the  worlds  of  par- 
tial expression. 


SUNSET 


When  the  day  with  its  toil  is  done, 

And  my  thoughts,  like  the  winds,  run  free, 
Then  I  long  for  the  silent  shore 

As  the  sun  slips  into  the  sea. 
Where  I  stand  on  the  farthest  rock 

While  the  warmth  and  the  light  it  gives 
Flashes  back  to  my  world-tired  heart 

And  my  soul  catches  fire  and  lives ! 
Like  a  king  on  his  royal  throne 

So  the  sun  slowly  sinks  to  rest, 
Throwing  one  farewell  kiss  of  flame 

To  the  spray  on  each  white  wave  crest. 
Silver  sands  reflect  its  splendor 

While  the  sea  turns  to  gold  with  light, 
And  the  hills  with  new  glory  shine — 

Then  the  purpling  robes  of  night! 

Who  could  have  painted  this  picture 
At  the  end  of  your  day  and  mine  ? 

Ah,  none  but  the  greatest  painter, 
The  hand  of  the  Master,  divine ! 


VERA  HEATHMAN  COLE. 


A  Daughter  of  the  Sun 

By   Billee  Glynn 

Chapter  II 
(Continued  From  Last  Month) 


BESIDES  being  "an  angel,"  as 
Myra  called  her,  Margaret  Al- 
lan "did  things"  in  black  and 
white.  She  did  none  of  them 
very  well,  and  she  realized  it  herself, 
but  it  was  pastime  nevertheless,  so  she 
had  fallen  into  this  habit  of  pen  and 
ink  and  crayon  sketches — and  most  of 
the  scenes  about  and  people  she  knew 
had  "suffered  her  attacks,"  for  that 
was  the  way  she  put  it.  It  was  small 
wonder,  then,  that  very  soon  after  his 
arrival  she  conceived  the  idea  of  draw- 
ing John  Hamilton.  To  say  the  least 
he  was  a  striking  figure,  and  by  rea- 
son of  such  an  unusual  model,  perhaps, 
the  girl  this  time  decided  on  a  paint- 
ing. She  had  broached  the  subject  to 
him  just  as  soon  as  she  felt  herself 
well  enough  acquainted,  so  it  came 
about  that  he  sat  almost  daily  for  her, 
with  the  patience  so  characteristic  of 
him,  in  the  Japanese  summer  house, 
while  she  painted.  The  first  picture 
took  a  week,  but  partly  through  acci- 
dent, partly  in  itself,  proved  an  abso- 
lute failure — so  they  had  to  go  all  over 
it  again.  Both  were  enjoying  it  thor- 
oughly, and  the  time  didn't  matter. 
Ever  since  that  second  meeting,  when 
she  had  accused  him  so  straightfor- 
wardly of  his  crudeness,  John  Ham- 
ilton had  endeavored  to  be  particu- 
larly nice  to  her — to  make  up  in  gen- 
tleness for  the  other  things  he  couldn't 
help,  and  which  he  had  gathered  from 
the  ends  of  creation.  He  owed  it  to 
her  for  her  kindness  to  Myra,  he  said 
to  himself,  and  this  was  true.  Yet 
there  were  often  times  in  the  silences 
of  those  sittings — as  he  watched  her 
working  with  brush  and  met  her  eyes 


glancing  around  at  him  every  now  and 
then — that  the  man  with  a  queer  sense 
of  self-desertion  felt  that  somehow  he 
was  growing  a  stranger  to  himself. 
There  were  times,  too,  afterwards  in 
the  purple  float  of  the  twilight,  gen- 
erally when  he  was  alone,  that  he 
would  stand  for  minutes  gazing  out 
toward  the  sunset — the  way  his  trail 
lay — a  pondering,  uneasy  expression 
on  his  face.  Yet  this  rest  was  doing 
him  good.  Myra  told  him  he  looked 
ten  years  younger.  The  girl  expressed 
something  of  the  same  thing  one  day 
as  she  drew. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "you've 
improved  wonderfully  in  these  last 
two  weeks — the  lines  of  your  face,  I 
mean.  You're  not  nearly  so  gaunt,  so 
xieserty  like." 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  real 
note  of  alarm.  "I  hope  I'm  not  get- 
ting a  tenderfoot,  stay-at-home  sort 
of  expression,  am  I?" 

She  smiled  with  a  lingering,  askance 
look  out  of  the  hazel  eyes  at  him — a 
part  of  the  expression  that  was  more 
characteristic  of  her  than  speech. 

"You  knew,  of  course,  when  you  said 
that,"  she  breathed,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  her  face  again  turned  toward 
the  picture,  "that  I  am  what  you  would 
call  a  tenderfoot  and  a  stay-at-home." 

The  sudden  hurt  in  the  tone  brought 
John  Hamilton  to  his  feet,  absolutely 
forgetful  of  the  fact  that  [he  was  pos- 
ing for  a  picture. 

"Why,  Miss  Allan,"  he  began,  put- 
ting out  a  hand  as  if  to  touch  her  shoul- 
der, then  letting  it  fall  awkwardly, 
since  she  didn't  look  up.  "You  know 
I  could  never  throw  anything  like  that 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN. 


307 


at  you — you  know  I  wouldn't.  I  was 
not  talking  about  women — I  wasn't 
even  talking  about  men.  I  just  meant 
that  some  of  us  had  found  a  certain 
thing  we  had  to  follow.  Surely  you 
know  what  I  think  about  you?" 

She  turned  around  at  him  with  a  lit- 
tle earnest  stare.  "I  am  sure  I  don't," 
she  doubted.  "I  am  sure  I  don't!" 
She  repeated  it,  tapping  her  finger  em- 
phatically with  the  end  of  her  brush. 

For  an  instant  the  man  paused, 
fumbling  for  words — then  he  spoke 
slowly.  "Why,  I  think  of  you,"  he 
said,  "just  what  Myra  thinks  of  you.  I 
think — I  think  you  are  the  finest  wo- 
man I  ever  met." 

Then  he  stood  there  with  an  odd 
sense  of  confusion,  and  the  girl  glanced 
up  at  him  with  a  surge  of  something 
that  instantly  controlled  itself,  and 
might  have  been  gladness — in  her 
face. 

"Perhaps,"  she  half  apologized,  "I 
shouldn't  have  said  'gaunt  and  des- 
erty,'  either.  I  meant  only  that  there 
is  a  certain  tenderness  about  you  now 
there  wasn't  at  first.  I  think  it's  from 
being  with  Myra — from  feeling  for 
her.  I  don't  mean,  you  know,  that  you 
were  not  in  the  habit  of  feeling  things, 
but  just  that  they  weren't  things  of 
that  kind — were  they  ?  It  does  a  man 
good  sometimes  to  know  there's  a  wo- 
man in  the  world — perhaps  most  of  all 
a  woman  like  Myra." 

John  Hamilton,  on  his  chair  again, 
sat  in  a  sort  of  reflection.  "Poor 
Myra,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  wish  I 
could  do  something  for  her." 

A  short  silence  followed,  in  which 
the  girl  made  a  couple  of  strokes  with 
her  brush.  Then  she  looked  around  at 
him. 

"There  is  something  you  could  do 
for  her  if  you  wished,"  she  stated 
slowly,  as  if  she  had  thoroughly  con- 
sidered the  matter.  "You  could  stay 
here  with  her  and  not  go  to  Australia. 
Why  do  you  want  to  go  there,  anyway, 
so  far  away  from  her?" 

John  Hamilton  smiled  gravely  at  the 
sunshine  glinting  in  at  him  through  the 
door.  He  seemed  to  weigh  his  words 
as  he  spoke. 


"Myra's  heart,"  he  said,  "is  so  com- 
pletely filled  with  her  husband  that  no 
matter  how  much  she  appears  to  like 
my  visit,  I  could  not  in  the  long  run 
add  one  iota  to  her  happiness.  I  could 
not  give  her  any  more  comforts  than 
she  has — so  it  is  simply  a  case  of  my- 
self. Piece  by  piece,  Miss  Allan,  I 
think  I've  told  you  the  whole  story  of 
my  life,  and  yet  you  don't  seem  to 
understand  me." 

She  dropped  her  brush  and  came  a 
step  toward  him,  something  bright  and 
eloquent  in  her  face.  "I  do  under- 
stand you,"  she  declared  quickly.  "I 
didn't  at  first,  but  I  do  now.  I  think 
you're  big  and  brave  for  all  you've 
been  through — I  know  that  it's  your 
sort  of  men  that  have  won  the  wilder- 
ness for  us — and  I  know  the  passion 
to  go  on  that  comes  to  you.  I  think 
that  in  its  way  is  big  and  brave,  too — 
but  I  don't  think  it's  so  much  so  as 
giving  it  up  for  somebody  else.  And 
Myra  wants  you." 

Her  companion  had  got  on  his  feet, 
his  hands  clenching  and  unclenching 
themselves  behind  his  back. 

"Miss  Allan,"  he  averred — so  that 
her  cheeks  flushed  suddenly — "I  know 
that  you  believe  in  what  you  say.  You 
are  pleading  for  Myra — and  yet  you're 
mistaken — you're  wrong.  Just  as  I've 
said,  I  couldn't  make  her  a.  bit  hap- 
pier than  she  is  by  staying,  or  give 
her  another  comfort.  And  even  if  she 
needed  me — even  if  she  needed  me — " 

"Well,  if  she  needed  you?"  put  in 
the  girl  eagerly,  filling  the  break. 

The  man,  looking  straight  into  the 
sunset  now  streaming  in  the  door  at 
him,  drew  a  strange,  hoarse  breath. 

"If  she  really  needed  me,"  he  stated 
slowly  and  in  a  tone  queerly  tinged 
with  regret,  "if  she  really  needed  me 
— well,  I  guess  I'd  just  leave  her  what 
money  I  got — and  have  to  go  on  fol- 
lowing the  trail." 

He  still  stood  looking  outward  dur- 
ing the  tingling  silence  that  ensued, 
and  could  not  see  the  expression  on 
the  girl's  face;  the  mouth  that  had 
drawn  itself  open,  as  it  were,  in  a  lit- 
tle, gaping  wound. 

Then,  without  saying  anything,  she 


308 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


turned  and  began  putting  away  her 
brushes  and  paint.  A  sigh  somehow 
seemed  to  haunt  the  roses  that  clus- 
tered around. 

"With  just  one  or  two  lines  which  I 
can  retouch  myself,"  she  said,  at 
length,  "the  picture  will  be  finished." 

And  yet  it  was  as  if  she  hadn't 
spoken — for  the  former  silence  still 
clung  there — remained  with  them  even 

after  they  had  parted. 

*  *  *  * 

The  next  day,  as  it  happened,  was 
Sunday — a  warm,  mellow  day  with  a 
lilt  of  wind.  John  Hamilton  arose 
early  and  was  out  wandering  with  a 
boy's  delight  in  the  bit  of  a  park  which 
the  town  afforded — till  his  shoes  were 
shining  with  wet,  and  striding  so  close 
that  the  fragrant  evergreens  plucked 
at  him  with  glad,  clinging  hands  and 
seemed  to  have  splashed  their  dew  in 
his  eyes.  His  elation  was  new  to  him 
— strange,  indeed.  It  wasn't  as  be- 
fore a  ripple  blown  on  the  calm  appre- 
ciation of  the  child  of  nature — for  it 
had  youth  in  it.  Moreover,  and  deeper 
still,  it  was  founded  on  ecstasy — a 
thing  that  the  man,  had  he  thought 
about  it,  would  have  resented  from  all 
the  grimness  and  nonchalance  of  his 
years  of  wandering.  He  didn't  think 
of  it,  however;  but  simply  ascribed 
these  new  fluctuations  of  his  spirit  to 
being  with  Myra  again — the  holidays 
with  her  he  meant  to  enjoy. 

Coming  back  to  breakfast,  he  found 
his  sister  in  one  of  her  prettiest  moods. 
Picking  her  up,  chair  and  all,  he  car- 
ried her  to  the  table,  and  she  held  his 
head  down  and  wouldn't  let  him  go  till 
he  had  kissed  her  three  times  in  front 
of  her  husband.  Then  she  poured  the 
coffee  for  "her  two  men,"  as  she  called 
them,  and  John  Hamilton,  out  of  the 
joy  of  his  heart,  toasted  her  with  a 
Western  toast.  "And  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  before?"  he  said,  when  they 
mentioned  the  famous  forest  of  red- 
woods close  at  hand.  "I'm  going  right 
out  there  and  lie  around  the  whole 
day." 

He  did — glancing  lingeringly  and 
with  an  air  of  comradeship  toward 
the  Allan  place  as  he  went ;  but  no  one 


there  was  yet  stirring.  In  spite  of  his 
high  feelings  he  was  haunted  by  a 
half-poignant  regret  that  he  had  been 
so  rude — for  that  was  the  way  he  now 
thought  about  it — to  Margaret  plead- 
ing for  Myra  the  evening  before.  What 
he  said  was  true,  of  course,  but  he 
need  not  have  said  it.  So  he  thought 
of  these  things  under  the  redwoods, 
and  under  a  redwood  a  man  cannot 
help  but  dream,  too — even  though  he 
may  not  know  it. 

When  John  Hamilton  reached  town 
again,  people  were  on  their  way  to 
evening  service  in  the  different 
churches ;  as  he  swung  with  long  stride 
up  to  the  Allan  residence,  Margaret 
was  just  coming  out  of  the  gate,  at- 
tended by  a  strange  gentleman  in  high 
hat  and  frock  coat.  She  paused  long 
enough  to  smile  sweetly  and  introduce 
her  companion,  and  John  Hamilton 
went  on  his  way  feeling  a  sudden 
silence  within  himself,  and  carrying 
his  impression  of  Mr.  Clarence  Bur- 
ton— a  man  of  polish,  coldness  and 
business  sagacity.  Myra,  on  her  own 
account,  had  told  him  of  him  casually 

a  little  later.     He  lived  in  S ,  a 

large  town  twenty  miles  distant,  was  a 
prominent  merchant  there,  and  for 
three  years  deeply  in  love  with  Mar- 
garet Allan.  Myra — without  being 
asked  about  it — did  not  know  whether 
Margaret  would  marry  him  or  not.  She 
certainly  wouldn't  if  she  didn't  like 
him  well  enough,  and  she  didn't  see 
how  she  could  do  that.  John  Hamil- 
ton asked  why,  but  in  such  a  manner 
that  the  question  seemed  simply  to 
drift — and  fell  into  a  smoking  silence 
while  his  sister  regarded  him  keenly 
out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye.  What- 
ever the  inward  workings,  however, 
there  was  nothing  in  the  nonchalant, 
dreaming  exterior  of  the  man  upon 
which  to  fasten  feeling  or  analysis. 
After  a  while  he  went  out  and  contin- 
ued his  smoke  under  the  quiet  of  the 
stars — and  for  an  hour  perhaps  stood, 
his  arms  crossed  on  the  front  gate- 
post and  looking  out  towards  the  west. 
Then  the  shimmer  of  a  white  dress 
came  down  the  walk — and  Margaret 
Allan  paused  and  said  good-night. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN. 


309 


John  Hamilton  stirred — as  the  sea 
stirs  suddenly — with  a  sort  of  half 
sigh.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "you  are  back 
so  soon?"  The  words  seemed  to  lin- 
ger significantly  in  the  air. 

"From  church? — why  a  long  time! 
I  have  just  been  up  to  Mrs.  O'Keefe's, 
and  thought  I  would  drop  in  and  see 
Myra  on  my  way  back." 

He  opened  the  gate  for  her,  then  re- 
sumed his  former  posture,  clicking  the 
pipe  between  his  teeth.  Inside,  the 
girl  made  a  movement  as  if  to  go  on, 
then  glanced  at  him — paused  again. 
Her  breath  came  with  a  slight  suffer- 
ance, and  she  appeared  to  be  weighing 
an  impulse — yet  there  was  nothing  to 
that  effect  in  her  words. 

"Myra's  light  is  out,"  she  said, 
"and  she  must  have  gone  to  bed.  But 
I'll  go  home  this  way." 

John  Hamilton  made  no  response, 
but  turned  and  went  with  her.  They 
passed  through  the  little  gate  and 
down  the  avenue  of  palms  in  silence. 
Once  she  glanced  at  him,  as  though 
to  read  his  thoughts,  but  after  all,  he 
was  a  man  of  quietness,  and  there 
might  be  nothing  unusual  in  his  man- 
ner. At  the  steps  of  the  house  she 
stopped  apparently  to  say  good-night, 
then  stood  battling,  it  seemed,  the 
same  impulse  as  before.  This  time, 
however,  it  mastered  her,  and  she  put 
out  a  hand  that  touched  with  the  shy 
point  of  a  finger  Jonh  Hamilton's  coat 
sleeve — then  fell  to  her  side. 

"Mr.  Hamilton,"  she  asserted,  "I 
know  I  can  trust  you.  I  know  you  have 
a  quick  knowledge  of  men — and  I 
want  to  ask  you  something.  What  do 
you  think — of  Mr.  Clarence  Burton?" 

Her  companion  looked  up,  but  with 
no  stare  of  surprise  to  wound  her 
struggling  sensitiveness.  Perhaps,  in- 
deed, he  didn't  feel  it  himself. 

;'Why,  Miss  Allan,"  he  returned,  "I 
think  he's  alright — in  his  own  way. 
Why  did  you  want  to  know?" 

She  paused,  looking  at  a  leaf  she 
plucked  from  a  hanging  rose  tree,  and 
tore  it  in  bits  between  her  fingers. 

"Because  to-day  he  asked  me  to 
marry  him,"  she  said  at  length,  "and 
I  am  to  let  him  know  in  two  weeks — 


when  he.  comes  back  a  week  from 
Sunday." 

The  silence  that  ensued  twitched 
like  a  newly-lit  street  lamp.  John 
Hamilton,  as  it  were,  burst  into  it,  yet 
he  spoke  quietly  enough,  too. 

"Are  you  going  to?"  he  articulated. 

The  girl  suddenly  crumpled  the  bits 
of  leaf  between  her  palms.  "I  don't 

know,"  she  said.     "Good-night." 
*  *  *  * 

The  week  which  followed  seemed  to 
gently  sigh  past — a  sigh  unconscious, 
however,  behind  expressed  endeavor 
and  comradeship.  It  was  the  time  of 
year  when  Margaret  Allen  always 
turned  her  attention  to  the  grounds — 
a  work  of  which  she  was  so  zealous — 
and  made  any  new  arrangements  she 
had  in  mind.  On  this  occasion,  be- 
sides other  lesser  changes,  she  had  de- 
cided that  sylvia  would  be  a  much 
prettier  border  than  the  dogwood  al- 
ready lining  the  oval  of  palms ;  so  the 
dogwood  was  rooted  out,  the  ground 
cultivated,  and  the  planting  of  the  syl- 
via begun.  As  the  girl  remarked  to 
John  Hamilton:  "Those  red  blossoms 
have  always  haunted  me  ever  since  I 
visited  Stanford  and  saw  them  grow- 
ing in  such  profusion  there — and  I  sim- 
ply had  to  have  them.  The  dear  old 
dogwood,  I  am  sorry  for  it,  of  course, 
but  one  can't  help  everything  always, 
can  they?" 

Naturally,  too,  she  must  do  the 
planting  in  her  own  careful  way;  not 
scatter  the  seeds  willy-nilly,  but  place 
them  in  one  by  one,  and  at  equal  dis- 
tance apart — and  the  ground,  as  well, 
must  be  all  gently  shaken  up  again 
before  planting  with  a  kind  of  trowel, 
and  patted  afterwards  for  good  beha- 
vior. 

"They  say  sylvia  does  not  grow  well 
in  this  section,"  she  explained,  "and 
that  is  the  reason  I  am  so  particular." 

"But  it  will  take  you  a  long  time 
to  plant  all  the  ground  you  have  ready 
at  this  rate,"  suggested  John  Hamil- 
ton in  rejoinder.  "Have  you  so  much 
patience?" 

"Indeed  I  have,"  she  replied.  "All 
the  patience  in  the  world — with  flow- 
ers, or  shrubs,  or  men,"  and  she 


310 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


glanced  playfully  up  at  him.  "And  you 
see  I  have  lots  of  time.  If  you  get 
tired,  though,  you  needn't  work  for 
me,  mind." 

John  Hamilton  wasn't  tired,  how- 
ever— not  even  if  his  efforts  had  been 
accepted  only  after  apprenticeship.  He 
wasn't  even  thinking  of  being  tired. 
Neither  was  he  the  sort  of  man  to  stand 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fence  and 
smoke  his  pipe  while  he  watched  a 
woman  do  her  own  planting — though 
he  might  have  had  lots  to  reflect  upon 
had  he  done  so.  It  was  much  more 
pleasant,  after  all,  on  Margaret's  side 
— and  not  to  reflect  at  all.  So  every 
afternoon  found  them  planting  sylvia 
together,  in  a  talkative  or  industrious 
fashion,  as  the  notion  took  them. 
'As  Margaret  had  said,  there  was  lots 
of  time.  And  Myra,  whenever  her 
chair  was  moved  to  a  certain  window 
and  she  could  glimpse  them  through 
the  foliage,  smiled  and  hoped  to  her- 
self a  little,  but  said  nothing  that  could 
be  in  any  way  suspicious  to  a  man  of 
the  trail — unaccustomed  and  uncaring 
for  women.  Their  intimate  relations, 
indeed,  she  accepted  on  both  sides  in 
the  most  matter-of-fact  way.  "One 
cannot  help  but  be  friends  with  Mar- 
garet," she  remarked  at  the  tea-table 
one  night.  "She  is  such  a  perfect  wo- 
man. When  she  marries  Mr.  Burton 
I  am  going  to  miss  her  a  great  deal." 
And  to  Margaret  she  said :  "I  am  glad 
to  see  that  you  and  John  are  such  good 
friends."  This  evidently  was  all  of 
her  observation,  and  she  had  even 
quit  having  her  chair  wheeled  outside 
as  had  been  occasionally  her  pleasure. 

There  were  times;,  however — /in 
spite  of  his  apparent  enjoyment,  per- 
haps because  of  it,  in  fact — when  John 
Hamilton  was  seriously  troubled  about 
himself.  Times  when  he  stood  with 
that  uneasy  expression  on  his  face  and 
wondered  at  the  tentacles  of  another 
personality,  stretching  up  from  no- 
where, as  it  seemed,  and  crowding  the 
things  of  custom  in  his  soul.  It  was 
only  a  mood,  of  course,  he  understood, 
and  there  was  no  reason  that  his 
friendship  with  Margaret  Allan — the 
only  friendship  with  a  woman  his  life 


had  ever  developed — should  show  it- 
self in  connection.  It  was  just  a  mor- 
"bid  feeling,  that  was  all,  and  yet  a 
feeling  that  grew  on  him  with  the  days 
and  which  he  couldn't  bear — of  being 
'shut  out  when  the  sun  beckoned  on  the 
bend  of  the  horizon  in  the  West. 

He  was  standing  one  night  looking 
in  that  direction,  his  arms  on  the  gate- 
post, as  usual,  when  the  servant  came 
to  the  door  and  called  to  him.  And 
when  he  entered  Myra's  room  she 
handed  him  a  letter  which  she  said 
the  postman  had  brought  that  after- 
noon, but  which  she  had  forgotten  to 
give  him.  He  opened  and  read  it,  his 
face  and  whole  bearing  lighting  sud- 
denly. 

"It's  from  Robertson,"  he  said, 
"the  owner  of  'The  Jackpot' — which  I 
am  going  to  work  for  him.  He's  ar- 
rived in  San  Francisco,  and  tells  me 
to  be  there  on  business  a  day  before 
we  sail — a  week  from  yesterday.  That 
means  I  leave  on  Friday,  or  Saturday 
morning,  sis.  This  is  Monday,  isn't 
it?" 

But  a  look  of  blight  had  come  into 
Myra's  face.  "Have  I  used  you  so 
badly,"  she  said,  "when  you're  so  glad 
to  get  away?  I  would  not  try  to  pre- 
vent your  going,  of  course,  when  you 
say  you  have  to — but  it  hurts  to  see 
you  so  very  glad  about  it." 

He  went  to  her,  bending  over  her 
and  caressing  the  rumpling,  wayward 
hair.  "Forgive  me,  girlie,"  he  pleaded. 
"It  was  only  the  part  of  me  that  won't 
be  still  that  spoke.  Though  I  cannot 
stay  myself,  you  know  my  heart  is 
with  you." 

So  by  and  bye  he  soothed  her  back 
to  her  dimpled,  smiling  little  self — 
and  spoke  to  her  of  the  letter  no  more. 

Mentioning  it  to  Margaret  Allan  the 
next  afternoon,  however,  it  was  with 
the  same  zest  he  had  betrayed  to 
Myra — the  ecstasy  of  the  camp  struck 
and  new  ground.  With  the  letter  in 
his  hand  the  whole  habit  of  his  life 
seemed  to  rouse  itself,  in  a  throb  of 
relief  like  wine,  and  swing  back  to 
him — utterly  dominant  and  forgetful. 

The  girl  glanced  up  at  him  in  her 
quiet  way,  then  down  again.  As  us- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN. 


311 


ual,  he  had  found  her  planting  sylvia 
seeds — and  planting  them  carefully. 
Her  hands  paused  for  just  an  instant 
as  she  listened  to  him,  then  her  face, 
turned  away,  bent  lower  over  her  task 
— as  she  gouged  out  a  refractory  root. 
When  she  looked  up  at  him  again,  the 
next  minute,  it  was  with  an  expression 
almost  as  zestful  as  his  own. 

"It's  nice  to  be  going  so  soon,  isn't 
it,"  she  said.  "I  do  hope  you'll  have 
a  pleasant  voyage  and  like  Australia 
well  enough  to  settle  there." 

There  was  at  once  a  carelessness 
and  sincerity  about  the  words — a  sort 
of  metallic  ring — that  somewhere 
touched  a  shadow  in  the  man,  a  dis- 
appointment he  couldn't  name.  She 
had  said  the  proper  thing,  of  course, 
yet  somehow  it  sobered  him  strangely. 
Was  it  the  woman  herself,  who  seem- 
ed different  to-day,  now  that  he  had 
time  to  realize  it — different  with  a 
woman's  unexpectedness  ?  John  Ham- 
ilton was  not  much  on  analysis. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  I  will  settle 
there,"  he  almost  corrected.  "I  shall 
come  back  to  America  in  the  end." 

"But  I  have  heard  that  Australia  is 
such  a  fine  country."  It  was  the  same 
tone — and  her  companion  paused 
crushing  a  twig  in  his  hand. 

"They  have  different  stories  about 
it,"  he  said  gravely. 

To  this  the  girl  made  no  rejoinder, 
but  went  on  planting  slyvia  seeds.  As 
for  John  Hamilton,  in  the  moments  of 
silence  which  followed,  he  sat  there 
realizing  his  strangerhood  to  himself 
— worried  at  his  sudden  change  of  tone 
without  reason,  and  at  the  morbidness 
that  had  again  come  over  him.  Even 
his  manner  of  announcing  his  news 
was  not  his  usual  self.  A  new  trail 
was  nothing  uncustomary,  nothing 
about  which  to  boast — to  be  boyish 
over.  A  habit,  that  was  all,  for  which 
he  put  out  his  hand  as  he  put  it  out 
for  his  pipe  and  tobacco — to  enjoy 
with  quiet  and  relish. 

Yet  it  was  with  a  part  of  that  same 
manner — with  an  inward  spirit  of 
combativeness  almost — that  he  again 
took  up  the  conversation.  He  spoke 
not  of  Australia,  a  land  to  settle  in, 


but  other  lands  beyond.  Some  of 
them  were  old  lands,  perhaps,  but  he 
had  never  seen  them  yet — and  a  man 
must  keep  moving.  China  and  Japan 
had  old  mines  worth  investigating. 
Siberia  was  practically  unexplored  yet 
and  India — he  must  see  India  and  the 
countries  around. 

The  girl  listened  for  a  while,  smiling 
brightly — then  stirred  to  her  feet  with 
a  restless  movement. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hamilton,"  she  interrupt- 
ed, "I  received  a  present  Saturday 
which  I  intended  showing  you,  but 
forgot.  Would  you  care  to  walk  to  the 
house  with  me  now?  I  would  like  to 
know  what  you  think  of  it." 

Her  companion  was  on  his  feet  im- 
mediately, and  followed  her  down  the 
walk  in  silence.  His  senses  were 
again  groping  in  shadow — at  the  cer- 
tain bright  aloofness  in  her,  a  new- 
ness that  worried  him  because  of  its 
seeming  power  of  impressing  itself 
and  swinging  his  own  moods.  In  the 
habit  of  selecting  his  impressions  and 
holding  them  calmly  without  analysis, 
sensitiveness  bothered  him,  because 
he  couldn't  reason  it.  And  now — even 
the  bunch  of  dull  red  roses  in  the  par- 
lor, where  she  had  ushered  him  and 
he  sat  waiting  her  return,  seemed  to 
flare  up  at  him,  to  smother  his  senses. 
Even  while  he  thought  of  them  calmly 
they  flared — new  roses  inspired  fool- 
ishly somewhere  in  a  wilting,  and  un- 
explainable. 

When  the  girl  returned  to  the  room 
she  carried  a  large  framed  picture, 
and,  turning  it  about,  held  it  on  the 
corner  of  the  table  for  his  inspection. 
There  was  a  half  gay  challenge  in  her 
manner  that  seemed  to  tremble  tense- 
ly with  the  moment — but  John  Hamil- 
ton's gaze  was  glued  on  the  picture. 
It  was  that  of  the  girl  before  him  and 
Clarence  Burton.  The  man  was  stand- 
ing smiling  down  at  her,  and  she  was 
looking  up  in  his  face.  The  attitude 
bespoke  all  her  gentle  sweetness. 
There  was  a  gladness  in  the  man's 
bearing,  as  though  the  blossom  of  her 
womanhood  were  his  to  pluck.  His 
hand,  indeed,  seemed  to  go  out  to  her. 
The  framing  was  a  peculiarly  beauti- 


312 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ful  arrangement  of  pieces  of  shell  on 
an  oak  base  that  waved  out  at  the 
'sides  and  corners  in  imitation  of 
clinging  seaweed. 

"He  got  it  enlarged  in  San  Francisco 
from  a  small  snapshot  we  had  taken," 
the  girl  explained,  "and  sent  it  to  me 
by  yesterday's  express.  Don't  you 
think  it's  beautiful?" 

John  Hamilton  paused  before  he  an- 
swered. He  cleared  his  throat  slightly 
and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"It  is,"  he  said,  "very  beautiful." 
He  wasn't  looking  at  the  picture,  how- 
ever, but  at  the  roses.  He  was  won- 
dering why  their  colors  had  taken  to 
leaping  about  his  brain — roses  that 
bloomed,  that  wilted  and  flared  up 
again. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  getting  a  hold  on 
himself  before  his  manner  might  be- 
come strange.  "It  is  a  very  beautiful 
picture.  It  is  a  wonder  he  did  not 
keep  it  for  himself — though  it  is  likely 
he  has  another  copy." 

"I  suppose  so,"  rejoined  the  girl.  "I 
shall  ask  him  when  he  comes  down.  I 
told  you,  I  think,  that  he  was  coming 
next  Sunday." 

There  was  a  significance  in  the 
words  that  John  Hamilton  did  not 
miss.  He  had  a  vision  of  his  burros 
running  away  from  him  in  the  desert 


once  with  the  water-bags  strapped  to 
the  saddles.  There  was  a  crush  of 
loneliness  and  unalterable  fatality 
about  his  heart. 

"Sunday/  he  announced;  "that  is 
the  day  I  am  to  sail.  Yes,  you  did 
tell  me  he  was  coming  Sunday." 

The  girl  had  set  the  picture  down 
and  was  looking  at  him  out  of  bright, 
combative  eyes;  spear  points  they 
were,  distancing  her  aloofness,  and 
smiling  at  former  associations. 

John  Hamilton  smiled  back  at  her 
bravely,  and  then  stepped  toward  the 
door. 

"I  will  not  be  going  out  again  this 
afternoon,  Mr.  Hamilton,"  she  made 
known.  "And  if  you  will  just  set  the 
box  of  seeds,  or  any  of  the  other  little 
things,  off  the  drive  for  me,  if  they 
happen  to  be  on!" 

John  Hamilton  did  so^then  went 
for  a  long  walk  to  the  redwood  forest. 

When  he  came  back  that  night, 
Myra  told  him  that  she  had  never  seen 
him  looking  so  worried.  He  made  re- 
ply he  had  no  reason,  then.  And  nei- 
ther was  he  yet  sure  in  his  heart  that 
he  had.  Why,  after  all,  should  a  wo- 
man's lightness  of  manner  worry  him 
just  because  he  had  been  used  to  her 
tenderness  and  depth.  Yet  it  did 
worry  him — and  all  the  next  day. 


(To  be  Continued] 


/AY     NEIGHBOR 

She  lives  next  door — my  neighbor  poor 

And  old  and  palsy-weak, 
While  I  have  wealth  and  youth;  and  health 

Glows  crimson  in  my  cheek. 

And  yet,  whene'er  I  see  her  pass — 

Devout  parishioner — 
Each  Sunday  on  her  way  to  mass — 

Ah,  God!  I  envy  her. 

For  she  has  kept  what  years  have  swept 

From  me,  like  phantom-wraith, 
That  refuge  warm,  that  staff,  that  charm — 

A  glad,  unquestioning  faith. 

DOROTHY  DE  JAGERS. 


Overland  Stampede  of  1849 


By  Frank  /A.  Vancil 


THE  year  of  1849  marks  an  im- 
portant epoch  in  the  history  of 
the  United  States.  The  indus- 
trial world  was  wrought  up  in 
feverish  excitement  over  the  discov- 
ery of  gold  in  our  then  newly-acquired 
territory  of  California.  The  western 
Eldorado  was  the  Mecca  to  which  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  people  turned 
their  weary  footsteps  in  the  mad  pur- 
suit of  wealth.  It  has  been  estimated 
that  fully  one  hundred  thousand  pil- 
grims crossed  the  plains,  and  perhaps 
half  as  many  more  reached  the  sunset 
lands  by  ocean  passage,  via  Panama 
and  Cape  Horn.  The  ocean  route  oc- 
cupied the  major  part  of  a  month  in 
completion,  while  that  overland  con- 
sumed the  spring  and  summer,  from 
April  to  September. 

Among  the  vast  multitude  of  over- 
land emigrants  in  1849,  that  sought 
the  golden  shores  of  the  Pacific,  was 
a  well  equipped  party  from  Spring- 
field, 111.,  known  as  the  Captain  Web- 
ber Company.  Two  of  the  party,  who 
figure  conspicuously  in  the  long  march, 
were  Colonel  James  Parkinson  and 
John  Walters  of  Sangamon  County. 

The  company  left  Springfield  about 
the  first  of  May,  and  reached  Council 
Bluffs,  the  border  outfitting  point, 
some  weeks  later.  This,  then,  strag- 
gling village,  presented  a  very  ani- 
mated appearance,  as  it  was  the  chief 
depot  of  supplies,  preparatory  to  en- 
tering the  Great  Plains,  a  vast  treeless 
expanse,  inhabited  by  thousands  of 
buffalo  and  wandering  bands  of  In- 
dians. 

The  trail  lay  up  the  treacherous 
Platte  River,  the  valley  of  which  af- 
forded ample  pasturage  for  the  stock. 
It  was  sometimes  necessary,  however, 
to  go  back  a  number  of  rods  from  the 


beaten  road  to  secure  sufficient  grass, 
in  which  case  one  or  more  men  were 
selected  to  stand  guard  to  prevent  a 
stampede  by  lurking  savages,  who 
were  ever  on  the  alert  to  capture  stock. 

The  first  rendezvous  reached  after 
leaving  Council  Bluffs  was  at  Fort 
Kearney,  situated  on  the  south  side  of 
the  Platte  River,  nearly  opposite  the 
present  city  of  Kearney,  Nebraska. 
Here  a  motley  crowd  of  adventurers 
was  constantly  coming  and  departing, 
and  our  little  band  halted  for  rest  and 
repairs,  and  to  receive  tidings  from 
loved  ones  at  home,  and  to  report  pro- 
gress back  after  a  month's  pilgrimage. 
What  an  anxious,  restless  throng  be- 
sieged the  little  pioneer  postoffice,  and 
with  what  zest  was  each  white-winged 
messenger  scanned.  It  may  be  stated 
that  this  historic  spot,  once  the  scene 
of  so  much  activity  and  interest,  is 
now  marked  only  by  a  few  mounds  of 
earth  and  patriarchal  cottonwood  trees. 

A  day  or  two  of  recuperation  here 
and  the  party  joined  the  endless  train 
up  the  valley,  past  Chimney  Rock,  to 
Fort  Laramie,  the  next  island  port  in 
the  great  ocean  wilderness.  At  this 
point  the  details  of  the  former  stop- 
page were  repeated,  and  the  same  con- 
glomerate mass  of  struggling  human- 
ity was  witnessed.  The  country  be- 
gan to  assume  a  more  diversified  and 
rugged  aspect,  and  the  foothills  of  the 
mighty  Rockies  were  plainly  in  evi- 
dence. Far  away  to  the  north,  the 
dark  outlines  of  the  Black  Hills  were 
observed,  while  eastward  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  could  be  seen  a  limit- 
less string  of  white-topped  wagons, 
winding  in  and  out  like  a  mighty  ser- 
pent on  a  waterless  sea.  Interspersed 
and  commingling  with  the  prairie 
schooners  could  be  discerned  almost 


314 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


every  conceivable  contrivance  of  con- 
veyane,  from  a  rustic  wheelbarrow  to 
a  one-horse  shay. 

In  this  locality,  extending  out  upon 
the  level  plain  at  frequent  intervals 
for  miles  in  extent,  were  seen  the 
wonderful  prairie  dog  towns.  The 
burrows  or  abodes  of  the  little  animals 
are  laid  out  with  apparent  street  like 
regularity,  and  the  opening  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  cone  of  earth  some  eigh- 
teen inches  high,  which  the  occupant 
uses  as  a  watch  tower. 

The  prairie  dog  resembles  a  squir- 
rel in  appearance  more  than  any  other 
animal,  but  it  has  a  sharp  yelp  like 
that  of  a  dog — hence  the  name.  The 
little  rodent  is  fond  of  sitting  erect 
near  the  entrance  of  its  burrow  and 
barking;  and  when  frightened,  re- 
treats into  its  hole  in  a  tumbling,  comi- 
cal manner.  Rattlesnakes  and  a  small 
species  of  owl  occupy  the  burrow  with 
the  dogs. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  year 
1849  is  memorable  as  the  period  of  the 
dreadful  cholera  epidemic  in  the 
United  States,  and  the  overland  emi- 
grants were  not  exempt  from  many  fa- 
talities. Scores  of  freshly  made 
graves  lined  the  great  *  thoroughfare — 
a  little  mound  of  earth,  a  rough  pine 
board,  with  initials  rudely  carved,  and 
the  mortal  remains  of  the  departed 
were  left  to  mingle  with  mother  earth, 
to  become  wholly  obliterated  in  a  few 
short  years — the  silent  stars  their 
vigils,  and  the  whistling  winds  their 
requiems. 

In  this  connection  there  might  be 
mentioned  an  incident  of  travel  which 
befell  the  little  company  of  more  than 
passing  interest.  Captain  Webber, 
who  was  in  command  of  the  company, 
was  vigorously  opposed  to  the  use  of 
intoxicating  liquors,  and  exacted  from 
each  member  of  the  party  before  start- 
ing a  solemn,  written  pledge  to  not 
only  abstain  wholly  from  its  use,  but 
not  to  include  it  among  the  necessary 
articles  of  the  expedition.  However, 
where  there  is  a  will  there  is  generally 
a  way,  and  a  number  of  the  less  pro- 
nounced prohibitionists  managed  to 
obtain  a  demijohn  of  brandy  and  to  se- 


crete it  in  the  rear  of  one  of  the 
wagons.  Before  reaching  the  moun- 
tains, Webber  was  taken  seriously  ill, 
and  all  remedial  agencies  offered 
proved  unavailing.  Stretched  out  up- 
on an  oscillating  cot  in  one  of  the 
wagons,  amidst  dust  and  heat,  the  suf- 
ferer was  fast  descending  into  a  fever- 
ish unconsciousness  when  aroused  by 
the  cheery  tones  of  Colonel  Parkin- 
son. 

"Well,  Captain,  how  are  you  mak- 
ing it?" 

"Badly!  Very  badly,  indeed,  Colo- 
nel," came  in  sober  tones  from  the  in- 
valid. "This  everlasting  jostle  and 
stifling  heat  is  wearing  me  out.  I  can 
get  nothing  I  want — nothing  to  do  me 
any  good." 

"You  mustn't  give  up,"  said  the 
Colonel.  "If  there's  anything  possible 
to  do  for  you,  depend  upon  it,  there  are 
plenty  of  willing  hands  to  assist  you, 
What  is  it  that  you  most  desire?" 

"Oh,  something  to  stimulate  my 
flagging  spirits — to  alleviate  this  con- 
suming thirst.  If  I  only  had  a  little 
good  brandy  I  believe  I  could  pull 
through." 

Quietly  and  secretly,  Colonel  Par- 
kison  slipped  around  to  where  the 
demijohn  was  hidden,  and  drew  forth 
a  half  pint  of  the  contraband  liquor 
and  hurriedly  returned  to  the  prostrate 
form. 

"Here,  Captain,"  he  exclaimed,  "is 
a  little  of  the  desired  elixir  of  life. 
Now  drink,  and  let's  see  you  out  of 
this  at  once." 

"My  God,  Colonel,  where  did  you 
get  that?"  amazingly  retorted  the  sick 
man,  as  he  nervously  clutched  the 
proffered  bottle. 

"Oh,"  continued  Parkinson,  "we  ex- 
pected just  such  a  demand  as  this,  and 
smuggled  it  in  before  leaving  Spring- 
field." 

"Well,"  said  Webber,  "it  was  a  wise 
thought  after  all;  and  now,  Colonel 
don't  let  any  of  the  boys  know  of  this, 
and  keep  the  location  of  the  liquor  a 
secret." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  Cap- 
tain rapidly  recovered,  and  that  one 
solemn  vow  at  least  was  sadly  ig- 


OVERLAND   STAMPEDE  OF   1849 


315 


nored  the  remainder  of  the  journey. 

South  Pass  and  Hell  Gate,  a  natural 
avenue  through  the  great  backbone  of 
the  continent,  was  occupied  for  a  4th 
of  July  celebration,  where  the  starry 
banner  was  unfurled  and  snowballs 
were  served  instead  of  lemonade.  Upon 
the  smooth,  eroded  walls  of  this  natu- 
ral passageway  were  carved  thousands 
of  names  of  the  spirited  throng,  en 
route  to  the  land  of  gold. 

A  little  further  on,  where  the  waters 
ripple  towards  the  Pacific,  Fort  Hall 
was  reached,  the  radiating  point  to  the 
Pacific  Coast.  This  fort  was  built  in 
1834  as  a  trading  post,  and  was  well 
situated  for  defense  on  a  beautiful 
mountain  stream  of  water,  some  fif- 
teen miles  north  of  the  present  city 
of  Pocatello,  Idaho.  The  greater  part 
of  the  buildings  were  of  adobe  brick, 
and  to-day  little  remains  of  the  origi- 
nal structures,  except  an  adobe  chim- 
ney, to  which  a  log  cabin  has  been 
built. 

Proceeding  south,  the  wild  and  im- 
petuous Bear  River  was  crossed,  and 
the  valley  of  the  Saints  was  entered. 
The  isolated  Mormon  colony  was  but 
a  village  then,  but  a  neighborhood  of 
busy  and  industrious  workers.  Com- 
pleting preparations  here  for  the  most 
trying  ordeal,  that  of  crossing  the 
great  American  desert  and  the  alka- 
line desert  beyond,  the  Webber  com- 
pany moved  on  and  into  the  vast  Sa- 
hara. The  trackless  desert  region, 
formerly  included  in  the  lake,  lies  just 
west  of  Great  Salt  Lake,  and  was  a 
level,  shifting  bed  of  sand,  varying 
in  width  from  twenty  to  one  hun- 
dred miles.  At  this  season  of  the 
year  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun  was 
intense,  and  the  wagon  wheels  in 
places  cut  down  half  way  to  the  hubs, 
rendering  travel  exceedingly  tedious 
and  difficult.  To  avoid  the  tropical 
heat  of  midday,  the  dreary  waste  was 
crossed  in  the  night. 

For  some  unaccountable  reason,  the 
Webber  party  and  a  few  others  wan- 
dered from  the  trail,  and  the  blazing 
light  of  the  morning  found  them  a  fam- 
ishing, wandering  band,  groping  here 
and  there  for  an  exit.  Realizing  that 


they  were  lost  and  would  probably 
'perish,  the  greatest  consternation  pre- 
vailed. Their  supply  of  water  was 
nearly  gone,  and  their  thirsty  teams 
were  nigh  exhausted  from  fatigue. 
Resting  a  portion  of  the  day  amid  the 
blistering,  scorching  days  of  a  mid- 
summer sun,  the  disconsolate  travel- 
ers plodded  on  and  on,  stimulated  by 
the  deceptive  visions  of  the  ever-pres- 
ent mirage.  Several  miles  were  made 
the  second  night,  but  the  dazzling 
splendor  of  aurora  revealed  no  prom- 
ising hopes  of  deliverance.  Frequent 
islets  of  vernal  beauty,  apparently  re- 
flecting mountain  lakes  of  crystal 
waters,  would  arise  from  the  shoreless 
ocean  of  sand,  only  to  disappear  upon 
a  near  approach. 

The  situation  was  indeed  appalling. 
Already  one  of  the  party — Jim  Wal- 
ters— was  prostrated,  and  lay  uncon- 
scious in  one  of  the  slowly  moving 
wagons.  Teams  had  fallen  and  were 
unable  to  rise,  and  the  progress  was 
interrupted  and  snail-like.  About 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
second  day,  another  oasis  appeared  a 
few  miles  to  the  westward,  which 
seemed  more  distinct  and  real  than  the 
elusive  ones  heretofore  observed.  The 
disheartened  wanderers  pulled  for  a 
nearer  observation,  and  joy  unspeak- 
able— it  proved  to  be  real.  The  haven 
was  reached  a  little  before  sunset — 
a  slightly  elevated  mound  of  solid 
earth,  some  ten  acres  in  extent,  cov- 
ered with  scrubby  trees  and  dense 
bushes.  This  betokened  water.  Never 
was  a  spot  more  rapturously  welcomed 
— a  fruitful  island  to  the  storm-tossed, 
famished  mariner  on  a  wide  waste  of 
waters.  Search  disclosed  a  sparkling 
spring  of  pure  cooling  water,  bubbling 
forth,  only  to  disappear  a  few  rods  be- 
low in  the  sun  parched  earth.  All 
haste  was  made  for  the  invalid,  Wal- 
ters, who  was  borne,  limp  and  insen- 
sible, and  rolled  into  the  channel  and 
thoroughly  saturated.  Soon  the  spark 
of  life  revived,  and  but  a  short  time 
elapsed  ere  the  sufferer  was  restored 
to  vitality. 

The  company  remained  here  a  num- 
ber of  days,  and  upon  proceeding, 


316 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


found  the  lost  trail  but  a  short  dis- 
tance beyond,  which  was  pursued  with 
renewed  hopefulness  and  energy.  The 
route  extended  down  the  famous  Hum- 
boldt  River,  appropriately  termed 
"The  River  of  Bones,"  as  such  was  the 
loss  of  stock  from  alkali  water  that  the 
margin  of  the  river's  course  was  whit- 
ened by  animal  skeletons. 

The  Sierras  were  crossed  without  in- 
cident worthy  of  note,  and  the  Sacra- 


mento Valley  reached  in  due  time.  The 
more  than  three  score  of  years  that 
have  elapsed  since  the  stirring  scenes 
of  the  great  overland  exodus  were 
enacted,  have  left  but  very  few  vener- 
able pioneers  who  were  eye  witnesses 
of  the  events  narrated.  The  old  Cali- 
fornia and  Oregon  trail  is  yet  visible 
in  isolated  places,  but  like  its  aged 
originators,  must  soon  be  known  only 
in  history. 


THE     SEA-CALL 


Let  me  away  from  this  close,  pent  town — 

Let  me  away  and  away! 
What  is  there  good  in  streets  of  brown? 

What  is  there  fair  in  skies  of  gray? 

Only  one  tie  to  bind  me  here, 

Away  from  my  mistress'  charm — 
My  wife — aye,  truly  I  hold  her  dear, 

And  that  wee  thing  on  her  arm. 

But  what  is  a  wife,  or  what  is  a  child, 

When  the  Sea  winds  call  to  me? 
For  She  has  a  power  to  drive  men  wild, 

If  they  Her  lovers  be. 

I've  pillowed  my  head  on  Her  breast, 

I've  kissed  Her  lips  in  the  spray, 
She's  treated  me  as  She  treats  the  rest, 

But — I  long  for  Her  arms  to-day. 

Cold  is  Her  breast  and  Her  bed  of  blue, 

(Eyes  of  my  child!) — and  yet 
I  must  away — though  I  would  be  true — 

I  must  away,  and  forget. 

SARAH  HAMMOND  KELLY. 


By  Ox-Team  to  California 


Personal  Narrative  of  Nancy  A.  Hunt 


Prepared  from  original  manuscript  by  Professor  Rockwell  D.  Hunt,  Pro- 
fessor in  the  University  of  Southern  California,  and  President  of  the  Histori- 
cal Society  of  Southern  California.  The  original  manuscript  was  prepared 
more  than  twenty  years  ago,  with  great  care  and  considerable  research,  but 
of  course  chiefly  from  memory. 


Mrs.  Nancy  Hunt. 

ONE  of  my  sons  has  requested 
me  to  write  the  story  of  my 
early  life.     Whether  he  is  in 
jest  or  in  earnest    I     do     not 
know:  if  in  earnest,  I  know  not  why 
he  thinks  I  could  do  such  a  thing.    It 
must  be  either  because  I  have  given 
birth  and  raised  to  stalwart  manhood 
seven  sons,  or  because  I  was  a  pioneer 
in  the  great  State  of  Illinois,  and  also 
in  our  sunny  State,   California.     He 


must  have  some  reason  for  it :  perhaps 
it  is  this — just  to  know  something  of 
our  family  history.  I  myself  have 
often  wished  I  knew  more  of  the  his- 
tory of  my  parents  and  ancestors;  so 
I  will  do  what  I  can  to  grant  my  son's 
request  for  this  reason,  if  fqr  no  other. 

I  must  begin  back  with  my  an- 
cestors. From  a  rare  old  book,  "The 
Pioneer  Families  of  Missouri,"  I  have 
learned  that  Jacob  Zumwalt  emigrated 
from  Germany  to  America  during  co- 
lonial times  and  settled  first  in  Penn- 
sylvania, at  the  present  site  of  Little 
York.  Mr.  Zumwalt  was  married 
twice.  By  his  first  wife  he  had  two 
sons  and  two  daughters,  and  by  his 
second  five  sons  and  one  daughter.  It 
is  said  that  his  son  Jacob  built  the  first 
hewed  log  house  that  was  ever  erected 
on  the  north  side  of  the  Missouri  River 
in  1798,  about  one  and  a  half  miles 
northwest  of  O 'Fallen  Station,  on  the 
St.  Louis,  Kansas  City  and  Northern 
Railway.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
trace  the  connection  between  the  Mis- 
souri Zumwalts  and  my  own  parents, 
though  all  were  no  doubt  related. 

The  name  of  my  great-great-grand- 
father was  Adam  Zumwalt.  His  son, 
George  Zumwalt,  emigrated  from  Ger- 
many to  America,  and  lived  in  Vir- 
ginia, where  my  grandfather,  Jacob 
Zumwalt,  was  born.  The  names  of 
great-grandfather's  children  were 
Jacob,  Elizabeth,  Henry,  Mary,  Mag- 
dalene, Christina,  Philip,  Christian, 
and  John.  My  grandfather  (Jacob 


318 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Zumwalt),  also  had  nine  children, 
whose  names  were  Sarah,  Mary,  Jo- 
seph, Daniel,  Jacob,  Elizabeth,  Elea- 
nor, George  and  John.  The  fifth  of 
these,  Jacob  Zumwalt,  was  my  father. 

Grandmother  Zumwalt's  maiden 
name  was  Nancy  Ann  Spurgeon. 
She  was  born  in  Pennsylvania,  of  par- 
ents who  had  come  from  England,  and 
so  was  related  to  the  Spurgeons  of 
that  country. 

My  mother's  maiden  name  was  Su- 
sanna Smith.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  Reuben  Smith,  whose  children 
were  Sally,  John,  Joel,  Anna,  Joseph, 
Phoebe,  Reuben,  Stephen,  Mary  Ann, 
Clarenda,  Elizabeth,  Susanna  and 
Cynthia.  My  great  grandparents, 
Oliver  Smith  and  Sarah  Herrick,  who 
were  born  and  married  in  England, 
came  to  America  about  1770.  Sarah 
Herrick  was  a  very  large  woman, 
taller  than  Reuben  Smith,  who  was 
six  feet  six  inches  tail;  Oliver  Smith 
was  a  physician  and  surgeon,  and  was 
quite  wealthy  until  the  Indians  took 
and  destroyed  his  property.  Grand- 
mother Smith  died  January  17,  1834; 
and  grandfather  Reuben  Smith  died 
September  25,  1840. 

My  own  parents  were  both  born  and 
raised  in  Ohio,  as  farmers.  They  re- 
ceived only  a  moderate  education,  as 
colleges  and  seminaries  were  then  un- 
known in  that  part  of  the  country. 
They  had  no  carriages  to  go  riding  in 
when  they  were  young.  A  walk  of 
five  or  six  miles  was  not  considered 
much;  but  horseback  riding  was  very 
fashionable  among  old  and  young 
alike.  To  go  to  church  on  Sunday,  or 
to  market  or  to  mill  with  bag  of  corn, 
wheat  or  buckwheat  swung  across  the 
horse's  back,  or  even  to  weddings,  ten, 
twenty  or  more  miles  away — all  these 
were  the  most  common,  every-day  af- 
fairs. 

When  my  parents  were  married 
father  was  twenty-two  and  mother 
nineteen.  Father  came  twenty  miles 
on  horseback  with  his  company  of 
family  relatives  and  friends.  On  ar- 
riving at  mother's  home,  they  all  rode 
around  the  house  three  times  for  good 
cheer,  according  to  the  style  of  the 


day.  On  these  long  rides  it  was  cus- 
tomary for  the  young  men  to  carry 
the  girls'  collarettes  in  their  high  silk 
hats,  so  they  would  not  get  mussed  up. 

The  day  after  the  wedding  they, 
with  their  company,  went  to  my 
father's  home  for  the  Infair.  Accord- 
nig  to  previous  arrangement,  they 
started  after  just  one  week  to  emigrate 
to  Indiana.  This  was  a  wedding  trip 
that  some  of  our  young  folks  wouldn't 
like  very  well  nowadays — especially 
to  go  as  my  parents  went,  with  their 
own  team,  taking  in  the  wagon  all 
they  possessed,  except  their  five 
horses  and  the  cow  named  "Pink."  I 
can  remember  hearing  mother  calling, 
"Suke — Pink;"  and  the  cow  would 
come  home  from  as  far  as  she  could 
hear  the  call,  out  of  the  thick  woods. 

When  they  reached  their  journey's 
end,  they  settled  in  the  beech  and 
maple  timber  that  was  so  thick  they 
had  to  cut  down  trees  and  clear  out  a 
spot  big  enough  on  which  to  build 
their  little  log  house  of  one  room.  But 
since  they  were  married  in  June  and 
had  started  at  once,  the  house  was 
built  before  winter  set  in. 

Yet  when  they  moved  in,  the  only 
door  was  a  quilt  hung  up,  and  the  only 
curtain  was  another  quilt  at  the  little 
square  window  without  glass.  Later 
the  fireplace  chimney  was  completed 
with  split  sticks  chinked  up  with  mud 
plaster.  Father  split  some  puncheons 
from  the  big  hard-wood  trees  and  put 
down  a  floor  big  enough  for  the  bed. 

By  keeping  diligently  at  work,  they 
had  soon  made  a  door,  bed-stead,  etc. 
A  few  hens  were  brought  from  a  dis- 
tant neighbor:  mother  borrowed  a 
rooster  and  made  a  little  chicken- 
house  from  small  trees  she  had  cut 
down;  so  in  a  short  time  they  had 
plenty  of  chickens. 

Father  was  a  skilful  hunter,  so  they 
fared  well  for  meat,  deer  and  other 
wild  game  being  plentiful.  They 
lived  in  happiness. 

In  the  spring  thejy  made  enough 
maple  sugar,  syrup  (or  molasses,  as 
we  always  called  it)  and  vinegar  to 
do  for  the  year.  And  they  also  had  a 
splendid  garden,  having  been  provided 


BY    OX-TEAM    TO    CALIFORNIA 


319 


Professor  Rockwell  D.  Hunt,  Univer- 
sity of  Southern  California, 
Los  Angeles. 

with  seeds  before  leaving  home.  They 
had  everything  necessary  that  was 
good  to  eat,  and  live  well. 

But  on  account  of  exposure  and 
hard  work,  mother  was  troubled  with 
rheumatism  and  both  had  chills  and 
fever;  so  they  concluded  to  go  on  to 
Illinois  and  try  it  there. 

The  five  horse  team  was  hitched  on 
to  the  great  covered  wagon,  and  old 
"Pink,"  with  her  tinkling  bell  and 
playful  progeny  was  made  ready  for 
another  journey.  Father  and  mother 
had  found  two  little  girls  in  the  tim- 
ber of  Indiana:  my  sister,  Sarah,  and 
I  were  born  there,  Hoosiers:  and 
sometimes  I  feel  glad,  even  proud,  that 
I  was  born  a  sturdy,  hardy  Hoosier. 
I  was  then  three  years  old,  and  Sarah 
was  six  weeks  old — pretty  young  to 
be  an  emigrant  to  a  new  country,  to 
be  one  of  the  pioneers! 

My  parents  and  my  uncle,  Joseph 
Zumwalt,  and  his  family,  arrived  in 
Will  County,  Illinois,  at  Troutman's 
Grove,  near  Joliet,  in  the  spring  of 
1834,  there  to  begin  a  pioneer  life  over 


again  by  starting  a  new  home:  and  it 
had  to  be  done  very  much  as  the  first 
one  had  been. 

Here  my  school  days  began.  One 
of  our  neighbors  who  had  come  there 
about  1831,  and  was  educated,  was 
hired  to  teach  the  first  school  ever 
kept  in  that  place.  Scholars  being 
scarce,  the  teacher  got  my  parents  to 
let  me  go,  although  a  baby  not  four 
years  old  yet:  but  even  now  I  can  re- 
member some  things  I  did  then.  The 
teacher's  name  was  Henry  Watkins: 
he  used  to  carry  me  home  for  dinner, 
for  we  lived  near  the  little  log  school 
house.  A  row  of  wooden  pins  driven 
into  the  logs  served  for  hooks  for  the 
boys'  coats  and  hats  and  the  girls' 
sunbonnets,  hoods  and  kiss-me-quicks. 
Our  seats  were  slabs  from  the  saw- 
mill, with  limbs  of  trees  driven  in  for 
legs.  Oar  writing  desks  were  rough 
boards  about  a  foot  and  a  half  wide, 
made  fast  and  sloping  a -little  along 
the  sides  of  the  school  room. 

Our  teacher,  who  was  a  Baptist, 
read  a  chapter  from  the  Bible  every 
morning,  and  prayed,  with  every  scho- 
lar— big  or  little — kneeling  down.  Oh, 
that  our  public  schools  could  follow 
that  good  old-fashioned  way  now! 
The  teacher  set  our  copies  for  writing 
and  made  our  pens  of  goose  quills.  We 
made  our  own  ink  out  of  oak  bark.  I 
never  saw  red  ink  in  those  days. 

We  did  not  stay  there  long.  Father 
thought  best  to  move  about  five  miles 
to  the  edge  of  Jackson's  Grove,  to  be 
sheltered  from  the  cold,  bleak  winds 
and  storms.  Then  I  had  to  walk  more 
than  a  mile  to  school.  I  remember 
getting  badly  scared  twice  when  alone 
— once  when  I  saw  a  big  snake  lying 
across  the  path,  and  once  when  a 
mother  pheasant  came  running  after 
me  to  protect  her  brood  of  young. 

About  this  time,  stoves  were  com- 
ing into  use,  and  father  bought  one 
for  our  home:  it  was  an  odd-looking 
concern.  One  day  the  teacher 
brought  home  from  Chicago  a  few 
matches.  We  thought  it  very  strange 
that  fire  should  come  out  of  a  little 
stick  when  he  struck  a  match  on  the 
stove  pipe. 


320 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


The  girls  never  studied  arithmetic 
in  the  school  there,  but  did  study 
grammar:  the  boys  studied  arithme- 
tic, but  no  grammar.  I  was  consid,- 
ered  very  good  in  Kirkham's  Gram- 
mar. At  times  Mr.  Watkins  would  let 
the  entire  school  study  out  loud  for 
five  minutes;  and  then  what  a  clatter- 
ing and  chattering  we  would  have! 

During  the  winter  time  we  often 
had  spelling  schools  in  the  evening: 
sometimes  they  would  choose  up  and 
spell  down  several  times  the  same 
evening.  We  also  had  singing  school, 
which  I  attended  after  I  became  old 
enough;  father  usually  went  with  us, 
which  made  it  very  pleasant. 

My  father  was  uncommonly  ingeni- 
ous: he  was  able  to  make  almost 
everything  that  we  needed  to  use  in 
the  pioneer  days  of  Indiana  and  Illi- 
nois. He  would  go  down  by  the  Oplane 
River,  cut  down  a  cedar  tree  and  rive 
out  the  staves.  The  wood  next  to  the 
bark  was  white  and  the  inside  was 
red :  he  made  his  staves  each  half  red 
and  half  white,  so  that  it  worked  up 
very  prettily  into  washtubs,  kegs, 
buckets,  keelers,  and  whatever  we 
needed,  taking  young  hickory  trees 
and  splitting  them  into  strips  for 
hoops  to  use  on  the  utensils.  Of  larger 
hickories  he  made  scrubbing  brooms, 
by  sawing  a  ring  round  the  stick,  then 
working  the  upper  part  down  for  the 
handle  and  splitting  the  other  end  into 
fine  splints.  He  also  used  hickory 
splints  for  chair  bottoms.  He  tanned 
the  deer  skin  and  made  mittens,  whip 
lashes  and  some  gloves.  He  made 
and  mended  our  shoes  and  boots,  and 
did  much  of  that  for  the  neighbors. 
He  did  his  own  blacksmithing,  and 
was  a  pretty  good  carpenter,  too,  mak- 
ing all  his  own  axe-handles,  etc.  He 
made  very  good,  coarse  combs  and 
back-combs  from  cow's  horn. 

After  I  was  about  ten  years  old,  my 
mother  was  an  invalid  most  of  the 
time  till  we  came  to  California:  so 
Sarah  and  I  had  most  of  the  house- 
work to  do.  We  were  very  early 
taught  to  work,  not  only  in  the  house, 
but  out  of  doors,  too.  When  I  was 
sixteen  years  old,  mother  sent  to  In- 


diana for  feathers  to  make  me  a  bed. 

I  first  became  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Cotton,  my  first  husband,  at  school, 
and  at  temperance  meetings.  He  and 
his  sister  used  to  sing  temperance 
songs,  sometimes  comic  ones,  which  I 
thought  were  nice  and  appropriate. 
But  when  they  lent  me  their  book  my 
father  said  no  they  were  not  religious 
songs;  so  I  had  to  return  the  book 
right  away. 

I  do  not  know  how  old  I  was  when 
I  began  the  Christian  warfare:  I  was 
too  young  to  remember  anything  about 
it.  My  parents  always  went  and  took 
all  of  us  children  to  the  social  and  re- 
vival meetings — class,  camp,  quar- 
terly, protracted,  etc.  I  was  a  bash- 
ful, timid  Christian,  when  I  was  young 
— so  bashful  that  father  threatened 
sending  me  away  from  home  to  live 
with  a  talkative  milliner  in  Joliet.  This 
very  lady  afterwards  made  my  wed- 
ding dress  and  presented  me  with  a 
beautiful  head-dress  for  my  marriage. 

At  seventeen  and  a  half  years  I  was 
married :  no  one  seemed  to  think  I  was 
too  young,  nor  my  husband,  Alexander 
Cotton,  who  was  just  past  nineteen. 
My  parents  made  a  large  wedding 
for  us.  I  was  dressed  in  white  nain- 
sook, trimmed  with  lace.  I  wore  pink 
and  white  ribbons  and  a  long  bow  to 
my  waist,  the  ribbon  reaching  almost 
to  the  bottom  of  the  dress,  with  bows 
at  my  wrists  and  neck.  My  back  hair 
was  braided  and  put  up  around  a 
horse-shoe  back  comb,  and  in  front 
I  had  three  long  curls  hung  from  be- 
hind each  ear. 

The  wedding  was  at  two  o'clock: 
then  came  the  dinner,  such  a  repast  as 
the  fertile  State  of  Illinois  could  af- 
ford, for  the  whole  company  of  about 
seventy-five  persons.  We  did  not  go 
off  for  a  wedding  trip  in  those  days; 
but  stayed  at  home,  letting  our  par- 
ents and  friends  share  in  the  festivi- 
ties. 

We  spent  the  evening  sociably  un- 
til near  midnight:  but  about  eleven, 
two  of  the  girls  went  unstairs  with  me 
to  my  room,  and  then  I  went  to  bed. 
After  the  girls  had  gone  down,  in 
came  my  husband:  he  drew  me  up 


BY    OX-TEAM    TO    CALIFORNIA 


321 


from  the  back  part  of  the  bed,  onto 
his  arm,  and  just  then  the  company 
came  thronging  at  the  door  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  us  in  bed.  Then  they  left 
us,  and  soon  were  on  the  way  to  their 
homes. 

The  next  day,  with  some  of  our 
brothers  and  sisters,  we  went  to  Wil- 
mington by  invitation,  to  have  our  in- 
fair  at  the  home  of  a  sister  of  my  hus- 
band. 

Father  had  recently  bought  a  farm 
of  eighty  acres,  with  ten  acres  of 
woodland  and  a  sugar  camp.  He  now 
said:  "Children,  go  onto  the  place 
and  see  how  much  you  can  make;  and 
have  all  you  make."  We  went,  and  we 
worked,  too!  Father  gave  me  a  good 
young  horse  and  two  cows,  besides 
hogs,  sheep,  chickens,  and  everything 
we  had  in  the  house.  I  fully  believe 
there  never  was  a  happier  couple ;  and 
oh,  how  we  did  work!  We  made  ma- 
ple sugar  in  the  spring,  picked  wild 
strawberries  in  abundance,  and  in 
winter  trapped  all  the  prairie  chickens 
and  quail  we  wanted.  We  always 
found  time  to  drive  over  to  our  old 
home  about  once  a  week,  and  to  raise 
a  few  beautiful  flowers  in  summer. 

We  lived  on  this  place  only  three 
years  before  we  had  enough  saved  up, 
with  another  "lift"  from  my  father, 
to  buy  thirty  acres  of  our  own,  in  the 
edge  of  what  was  called  Little  Grove, 
then,  but  afterwards  called  Starr's 
Grove.  There  we  had  a  beautiful 
place,  with  new  house  and  fine  creek 
of  running  water — everything,  it 
seemed,  to  make  us  happy. 

But  this  was  not  to  last  long.  My 
husband  began  coughing,  and  rapidly 
grew  worse  and  worse,  until  he  went 
into  the  dread  disease,  consumption. 
Then  our  troubles  began:  and  if  we 
had  not  both  learned  to  leave  them 
with  the  great  Burden  Bearer,  we 
would  have  been  much  worse  off  than 
we  were. 

We  had  two  darling  little  sons,  Al- 
bert and  Joel;  but  our  dear  little 
daughter,  Irene,  inherited  her  father's 
weakness,  and  died  when  but  four 
months  old. 

After     strong     and     unmistakable 


symptoms,  my  father  was  taken  with 
the  California  fever  in  the  year  1849, 
when  his  brother  (my  uncle  Zumwalt) 
crossed  the  Great  Plains  and  came  to 
California,  bringing  his  wife  and 
eleven  children  with  him. 

Well,  after  that  spring  it  seemed 
that  all  my  father  could  do  was  to 
read  every  item  of  California  news 
he  could  get  and  talk  about  the  new 
wonderland — for  mother  would  not  be 
persuaded  to  undertake  such  a  jour- 
ney. 

But  father  kept  reading  and  talking. 
One  day  he  read  that  wheat  and 
peaches  were  a  sure  crop  every  year: 
that  greatly  increased  his  desire  to 
come.  That  desire,  which  was  shared 
by  all  six  of  his  sons  and  daughters, 
never  waned  nor  grew  cold. 

At  last,  early  in  1854,  the  doctors 
told  us  the  only  chance  there  was  for 
my  husband  to  live  was  to  come  to 
California  that  year.  Of  course,  I  at 
once  told  my  parents  I  was  going  to 
venture  all  and  make  the  start  with 
him  for  California:  we  began  at  once 
to  make  arrangements  to  come. 

Then  my  sister  Sarah  and  her  hus- 
band, James  Shoemaker,  decided  they 
would  come  with  us.  And  next, 
father's  fever  never  having  abated, 
mother  consented  to  come,  providing 
the  old  homestead  could  be  kept  un- 
encumbered to  return  to  in  case  we 
should  not  like  California. 

All  went  to  work  with  a  will  to  get 
ready  for  the  great  journey.  Father 
began  buying  oxen  and  having  new 
wagons  made,  good  and  strong.  Times 
were  very  lively  with  us  all  that  win- 
ter, selling  home  effects  and  buying 
our  outfit.  We  had  to  part  with  all  of 
our  old  and  dear  keepsakes,  memen- 
toes of  our  childhood,  for  we  could 
take  only  just  what  we  would  need  on 
the  way. 

My  uncle  Joseph  and  family,  who 
had  gone  to  California  in  '49,  and  re- 
turned to  Illinois,  were  now  ready  for 
their  second  journey.  Father's  sister, 
Mrs.  Nellie  Troxel,  and  her  family, 
with  neighbors  and  friends,  made  up 
a  party  that  started  on  with  teams  and 
live  stock  about  the  middle  of  March, 


322 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


even  before  the  snow  and  ice  had 
gone.  But  never  mind  that — they 
were  on  their  way  to  the  great  new 
country ! 

About  the  middle  of  April,  the  re- 
mainder of  our  party,  having  remained 
behind  to  finish  the  business  affairs, 
started  from  Joliet  by  rail,  and  went 
to  the  terminus  at  Peoria.  Then  we 
took  the  steamboat  down  the  Illinois 
River  to  the  Mississippi,  and  down 
the  great  river  as  far  as  St.  Louis. 
From  St.  Louis  we  proceeded  up  the 
Missouri  to  Kainsville.  The  Missouri 
River  was  then  very  low,  and  was  full 
of  mud,  sandbars,  snags,  etc.;  so  we 
had  a  hard  time  at  the  very  outset  of 
our  journey.  The  steamboat  was 
badly  snagged,  and  it  leaked  so  fast 
that  it  was  necessary  to  unload  every- 
thing and  put  it  onto  another  boat.  I 
had  the  quinsy  and  was  seriously  sick 
with  it;  and  my  husband,  by  taking 
cold,  was  very  low  and  indeed  near  to 
death  with  his  disease. 

But  as  soon  as  we  were  again  on 
land,  all  began  to  feel  better.  The 
old  boat  never  made  another  trip 
down  the  river;  they  left  it  at  Kains- 
ville to  be  used  as  a  ferry  boat.  Here 
we  met  my  father  and  the  members  of 
the  advance  guard.  After  a  few  days' 
preparation,  we  crossed  the  Missouri 
and  our  long,  hard  camping  trip 
across  the  Great  Plains  was  begun. 

We  found  all  the  ox  drivers  we 
needed,  simply  for  their  board  along 
the  way.  There  were  in  our  train  be- 
sides our  immediate  family,  which  in- 
cluded by  brothers  John,  Joseph  and 
Daniel,  and  my  sisters,  Sarah  and  Liz- 
zie, and  those  of  uncle  Joseph  Zumwalt 
and  aunt  Nellie  Troxel,  neighbors  and 
friends  occupying  in  all  twenty-five 
wagons  and  teams,  nearly  all  of  them 
ox  teams  of  five  yoke  for  each  wagon. 

When  we  camped  at  night  we  would 
drive  our  wagons  so  they  would  form 
a  circle,  and  by  putting  the  pole,  or 
tongue,  of  each  wagon  upon  the  back 
axle-tree  of  the  next,  all  around  the 
circle,  we  had  a  pretty  good  corral. 

But  our  large  company  could  not 
remain  together  long;  so  much  stock 
required  more  grass  than  could  be 


found  in  one  place  near  the  road,  for 
each  family  had  besides  the  teams 
more  or  less  loose  stock,  cows,  calves, 
etc. 

Some  members  of  the  company 
would  become  impatient  and  wish  to 
hurry  along  as  fast  as  their  teams 
could  go :  after  a  few  days  we  would 
usually  overtake  them  and.  crawl 
along  past  them,  as  they  would  be 
stopped  by  the  roadside  to  rest  their 
cattle.  We  always  went  along  slowly 
but  steadily,  stopping  half  a  day  each 
week,  whenever  we  possibly  could,  to 
do  our  washing. 

We  always  laid  by  over  Sunday,  I 
believe.  Once  we  made  a  mistake: 
thinking  it  was  Saturday,  we  were 
washing  when  some  traders  came 
along,  from  whom  we  learned  it  was 
Sunday.  We  quickly  put  away  the 
washing  for  that  day.  That  was  the 
only  time  we  completely  lost  track  of 
the  day  of  the  week. 

Our  wagons  were  big  and  strong, 
and  had  good,  stout  bows,  covered 
with  thick,  white  drilling :  so  there  was 
a  nice  room  in  each  wagon,  as  every- 
thing was  clean  and  fresh  and  new. 
Two  strong  iron  hooks  were  fastened 
on  the  top  of  each  side  of  our  wagon- 
box,  and  a  pole  (called  a  spring-pole) 
laid  in  these  hooks.  Boards  were  laid 
across  from  pole  to  pole,  thus  making 
a  spring  bed  that  was  very  comfort- 
able for  my  sick  husband,  after  a  good 
feather  bed  and  plenty  of  covering 
were  put  in  place.  We  had  but  one 
wagon  of  our  own,  with  five  yoke  of 
oxen  and  two  cows. 

Most  of  the  emigrant  wagons  had 
the  names  of  the  owners,  place  where 
they  were  from  and  where  they  were 
bound,  marked  in  large  letters  on 
the  outside  of  the  cover. 

There  were  stations  along  the  way 
at  great  intervals:  these  were  called 
trading  posts,  and  they  kept  supplies 
of  provision,  ammunition,  etc. ;  but  the 
emigrants  had  to  pay  dearly  for  every- 
thing at  these  stations.  The  traders 
were  glad  to  buy  such  dried  fruits, 
jellies,  jams,  pickles,  preserves,  etc., 
as  the  emigrants  had  to  spare. 

We  called  it  a  good  day's  drive  if 


Motor  car  tourists  going  over  one  of  th  e  desert  trails  to  California. 


we  went  twenty  miles,  and  a  big 
drive  if  we  went  twenty-five  miles; 
but  in  the  mountains,  and  where  we 
had  streams  to  cross,  we  worked  hard 
many  times  and  went  only  five  miles. 
I  think  I  must  have  walked  half  of  the 
way  to  California.  Many  times  I  did 
not  get  into  the  wagon  to  ride  all 
day.  Oh,  the  roads  we  passed  over 
were  terrible! 

In  some  places  in  the  mountains  the 
men  had  to  let  the  wagons  down  the 
deep  pitches  with  chains:  in  other 
places  it  would  take  ten  yoke  of  oxen, 
or  more,  to  pull  a  wagon  up  the  steep, 
slippery  grades.  But  parts  of  our 
road  were  just  beautiful,  being  level 
as  a  floor  and  bordered  with  carpets 
of  green  grass  intermingled  with  flow- 
ers of  every  color. 

We  often  saw  herds  of  buffalo  at  a 
distance,  but  they  were  wild  enough 
to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  emigrants. 
At  their  watering  places  we  saw  dead 
ones  partly  eaten  by  wolves  or  Other 
wild  beasts.  We  frequently  had  buf- 
falo meat,  as  well  as  bear,  elk,  deer, 
antelope,  and  fish,  ducks  and  other 
wild  game. 

We  always  treated  the  Indians  well 
and  with  respect,  and  they  never  mo- 


lested us. at  any  time.  Day  after  day 
we  heard  stories  of  how  the  Indians 
had  been  treated  badly  by  the  emi- 
grants, and  how  they  were  threaten- 
ing to  take  the  next  train  that  came 
along  to  get  revenge.  Some  emigrants 
did  have  trouble  that  year.  We  al- 
ways gave  them  something  to  eat  when 
they  asked  for  it.  I  believe  the 
Golden  Rule  helped  us  to  get  through 
safely. 

As  soon  as  we  went  into  camp,  if 
any  Indians  were  in  hearing  distance, 
they  would  come  to  see  us.  They 
climbed  up  and  looked  into  our  wag- 
ons with  great  curiosity;  yes,  and  as- 
tonishment, too,  when  they  saw  the 
display  of  guns  and  ammunition  we 
had.  We  always  had  these  hanging 
rather  artistically  on  the  inside  of  the 
wagon*  cover,  so  they  would  be  the 
first  thing  to  attract  the  visitors'  at- 
tention, and  they  always  looked  sober 
at  sight  of  them. 

At  night  we  placed  our  weapons  of 
defense  by  the  sides  of  our  beds  in 
our  tents.  I  claimed  the  ax  for  mine, 
and  always  saw  that  it  was  close  to 
me ;  but  I  never  had  occasion  to  use  it 
on  an  Indian. 

Sometimes  it  was  trying  to  notice 


324 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


how  the  Indians  would  act  with  things 
we  gave  them.  For  instance,  on  one 
occasion  a  big  Indian  and  a  pitiful  lit- 
tle fellow  begged  food,  and  we  gave 
each  a  plateful.  The  big  fellow  soon 
cleaned  his  plate  and  then  took  the 
little  one's  plate  away  from  him,  bring- 
ing a  sorrowful  look  to  the  little  face. 
When  we  showed  our  astonishment, 
he  said  by  way  of  explanation,  plac- 
ing his  hand  upon  his  stomach,  then 
pointing  to  his  companion:  "Me  heap 
big:  him  little  belly!"  The  little  boy 
looked  sorry,  but  did  not  cry — I  sur- 
mise he  was  used  to  such  treatment. 

One  night  in  particular,  more  than 
any  other,  we  expected  to  be  killed  or 
taken  as  captives.  (Imagine  for  one 
moment  what  a  feeling  that  is!)  The 
Indians  formed  in  line  on  both  sides 
of  our  camp.  It  was  very  dark;  but 
when  they  built  fires  on  both  sides,  we 
knew  they  were  in  line.  Then  they 
set  up  their  terrible  war-whoop,  and 
kept  it  up  until  late  into  the  night. 
Greatly  frightened,  we  made  ready  for 
an  attack.  But  fortunately  they  did 
not  molest  us  at  all,  except  as  we  suf- 
fered in  our  minds  from  our  fright. 
That  night  we  kept  ample  guard,  and 
what  little  sleep  we  did  get  we  took 
with  our  hands  on  our  weapons.  Early 
the  next  morning  we  moved  on  quietly 
as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

We  had  music  in  camp  many  an 
evening.  Some  of  the  company  hav- 
ing brought  their  musical  instruments, 
such  as  violins  or  guitars;  and  when 
not  too  tired  we  would  sing  hymns  of 
praise.  The  young  people  had  a  good 
time  and  a  great  deal  of  fun.  They 
were  free  from  care,  and  could  ride 
on  horseback  or  in  the  wagons  all 
they  pleased,  or  could  walk  along  the 
road  together. 

We  managed  to  sew  enough  to  keep 
our  clothes  in  order  while  the  oxen 
were  poking  along  where  the  road  was 
level.  Some  worked  at  crocheting  or 
knitting  a  little  occasionally,  just  for 
pastime.  We  had  nothing  to  read  but 
our  Bibles  and  a  few  hymn  books. 

I  did  not  notice  the  cold  or  heat 
very  much  on  our  trip.  We  had  many 
hard,  cold  rain  and  hail  storms.  I 


think  the  most  severe  were  encoun- 
tered while  we  were  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  Sometimes  they  would 
sluice  us  out  of  our  tents;  so  we  were 
compelled  to  hurry  our  beds  and 
everything  up  into  the  wagons.  I  re- 
member one  night  especially  when  I 
worked  in  the  rain  till  I  was  drenched 
through  and  through :  my  feet  squished 
in  my  shoes.  In  that  condition  I  did 
not  dare  to  get  into  bed  with  my  poor, 
sick  husband  and  my  little  children 
for  fear  of  giving  them  cold :  so  I  drew 
myself  up  into  the  front  end  of  the 
wagon  as  far  as  I  could,  with  my  feet 
extending  outside,  and  very  soon  I 
dropped  off  to  sleep  and  slept  soundly, 
being  so  tired  out.  Such  exposure 
never  hurt  me  in  the  least — we  could 
live  in  almost  any  way  out  of  doors,  so 
hardened  were  we  by  that  manner  of 
life.  And  right  here  I  want  to  recom- 
mend living  out  of  doors  for  the  in- 
valid when  the  weather  will  at  all 
permit;  I  believe  it  to  be  better  than 
medicine. 

For  about  three  weeks  I  was  sick 
with  what  was  called  mountain  fever. 
We  were  then  traveling  along  the 
Humboldt  River,  where  we  could  get 
no  good  water,  although  constantly  in 
sight  of  plenty  of  snow.  Oh,  how 
good  that  snow  looked  to  me!  Surely, 
I  thought,  if  any  one  of  the  rest  of 
our  company  were  burning  up  with 
fever,  as  I  was,  and  I  was  well,  I 
would  go  and  get  some  snow — it 
looked  so  near!  And  yet  they  said  it 
must  be  a  hundred  miles  from  us.  Dis- 
tance was  very  deceiving. 

After  the  fever  had  had  its  run,  I 
recovered,  with  God's  care — for  little 
care  did  I  have  but  his,  before  we 
came  to  the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains. 

While  the  young  folk  were  having 
their  good  times,  some  of  the  mothers 
were  giving  birth  to  their  babes :  three 
babies  were  born  in  our  company  that 
summer.  My  cousin  Emily  Ibe  (later 
Emily  West  of  Dixon)  gave  birth  to 
a  son  in  Utah,  forty  miles  north  of 
Great  Salt  Lake,  one  evening;  and  the 
next  morning  she  traveled  on  until 
noon,  when  a  stop  was  made,  and  an- 
other child  was  born — this  time  Susan 


I 


Fort  Laramie  at  the  time  of  the  Pony  Express  across  the  plains  to  California 


Longmire  was  the  mother  made  happy 
by  the  advent  of  little  Ellen.  The 
third  birth  occurred  after  we  had  sep- 
arated from  Uncle  Joseph's  family: 
the  wife  of  my  cousin  Jacob  Zumwalt 
gave  birth  to  a  daughter  while  travel- 
ing in  the  Sierra  Nevada.  To  this 
baby  they  gave  the  name  Alice  Ne- 
vada. In  every  instance,  after  the 
birth,  we  traveled  right  along  the  next 
day,  mothers  and  babes  with  the  rest 
of  us. 

We  had  an  unusual  commotion  one 
afternoon  and  night,  near  the  fork  of 
the  Sweetwater  River.  My  youngest 
sister,  Lizzie,  then  twelve  years  old, 
was  lost.  She  had  started  off  in 
search  of  firewood  and  completely  lost 
her  bearings.  Finally  she  found  the 
road  and  walked  back  on  it  five  miles, 
when  she  came  to  a  camp  of  emi- 
grants. Two  of  them  brought  her  into 
our  excited  camp  about  eleven  o'clock 
at  night.  My  mother  was  nearly  be- 
side herself  when  they  brought  her  in 
all  safe  and  sound  but  very  tired. 

Our  train  went  north  of  Salt  Lake 
and  passed  what  was  known  as  Sub- 
let's  Cutoff,  where  Ogden  now  is.  As 
most  of  our  company  wished  to  go 
through  by  Salt  Lake,  we  were  again 
divided,  our  own  party  having  but  one 
other  family  besides  my  father's — 
Mrs.  Neff,  a  widow,  with  her  three 
sons,  Jim,  Dan  and  John,  and  a  daugh- 
ter named  Sarah.  Jim  was  married, 
having  with  him  his  wife  and  son. 

He  was  very  sick  through  Nevada. 
At  Carson  we  thought  he  would  die, 


but  he  refused  to  take  our  medicine 
(calomel  and  quinine),  saying  he 
would  die  first.  Coming  so  near  to 
death's  door,  he  finally  concluded  to 
take  the  medicine,  so  he  got  well  in 
due  time.  He  was  a  soft  kind  of  man, 
with  little  grit  or  vim  in  him. 

Day  after  day  we  traveled  along, 
slowly,  very  slowly.  The  "roads  were 
almost  impassable :  the  days  were  hot 
and  the  nights  freezing  cold.  Near 
the  summit  of  the  Sierras  we  came  to 
the  snow:  it  was  the  month  of  Au- 
gust. 

It  was  here,  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
mountains,  that  I  met  with  the  greatest 
trial  and  loss  of  my  life,  up  to  this 
time.  It  was  the  loss  of  my  dear 
husband,  the  father  of  my  two  little 
boys.  He  died  August  21st,  1854.  He 
was  a  noble,  good  Christian  man.  Oh, 
the  patience  he  showed  all  along  the 
road!  Never  recovering  sufficient 
strength  to  get  out,  he  sat  there  in  the 
wagon  alone  through  those  long 
months,  except  for  a  few  weeks  along 
the  Sweetwater  River.  How  proud  he 
was  then :  and  I,  too !  We  thought  he 
would  get  well.  But  when  we  came 
into  the  Sierras,  he  took  fresh  cold, 
from  which  he  never  recovered.  The 
long,  lingering  disease  had  run  its 
course  and  ended  his  short  life :  his 
brave  spirit  departed  at  Twin  Lakes, 
a  beautiful  little  valley  on  this  side 
of  the  summit — so  he  died  in  Cali- 
fornia. 

We  laid  the  body  away  in  the  best 
manner  we  possibly  could,  specially 


326 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


marking  the  grave  so  that  emigrants 
passing  that  way  for  years  afterwards 
would  take  particular  notice  of  it:  in 
this  way  we  could  hear  from  it  some- 
times. We  could  not  linger  there  be- 
tween the  two  majestic  pines  where 
my  husband's  body  was  tenderly  laid 
to  rest;  there  was  no  grass  for  the  cat- 
tle. We  must  push  on. 

That  night  we  found  grass,  so  de- 
cided to  remain  for  a  day  or  two  for 
washing  and  other  needful  prepara- 
tions; for  we  were  now  almost  at  our 
journey's  end. 

Only  two  or  three  days  more  and  we 
sighted  the  beautiful  valley  of  the 
Cosumnes,  We  went  on  through  to 
Sacramento,  which  had  grown  up 
around  Sutter's  Fort  into  a  thriving 
city.  Then  we  remained  out  on  the 
American  River  (a  branch  of  the  Sac- 
ramento) for  two  weeks,  while  my 
father  was  looking  about  for  a  place  to 
live.  After  looking  over  several  dif- 
ferent places,  including  the  vicinity  of 
Dixon — which  he  pronounced  worth- 
less for  farming — he  bought  his  farm 
on  Deer  Creek,  near  Daylor's  Ranch, 
on  the  Cosumnes.  It  had  a  good, 
comfortable  house,  considering  the 
early  date. 

I  remained  with  my  parents,  with 
my  two  little  boys:  but  after  a  while, 
so  many  came  to  ask  me  to  work  for 
them,  I  concluded  to  hire  out  to  work, 
although  I  had  never  worked  away 
from  home.  For  my  work  I  never  re- 
ceived less  than  $50  a  month,  and  for 
a  part  of  the  time  I  received  $75.  Wo- 
men were  scarce  in  California  in  com- 
parison to  men,  and  it  was  hard  to  se- 
cure woman's  help.  I  would  leave  the 
children  with  mother,  as  she  didn't 
have  much  work  to  do  in  those  days. 
My  wagon  I  had  sold,  a  part  of  the 
money  received  for  it  being  two  fifty- 
dollar  California  slugs,  one  of  them 
round  and  the  other  eight-sided.  They 
were  no  rarety  in  those  days,  being 
quite  plentiful  as  currency. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  Mr.  D. 
R.  Hunt  was  made  by  riding  with  him 
for  thirty  miles  on  his  grain  wagon  to 
the  place  where  I  went  to  work,  a 
large  country  hotel  called  the  Somer- 


set House.  He  was  then  hauling  bar- 
ley to  Coloma,  and  the  landlord  ar- 
ranged with  him  to  take  me  up. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  Mr.  Hunt, 
being  an  old  bachelor  who  had  come 
to  California  four  years  earlier,  would 
come  into  the  parlor  a  little  while  on 
his  arrival  with  every  load  to  inquire 
how  the  young  widow  was  getting 
along,  bring  some  message  from 
home,  or  take  some  word  back  to  my 
folks.  Each  time  I  went  to  visit  at 
home.  T  went  with  him  on  his  grain 
or  hay  wagon. 

I  did  not  remain  long  at  the  Somer- 
set House.  One  of  the  owners,  whose 
wife  was  with  him,  sold  out  to  the 
other,  whose  wife  was  still  in  Bos- 
ton; so  if  I  were  to  remain  I  would  be 
the  only  woman  there  and  must  take 
the  place  of  landlady.  Mr.  Lindsey 
offered  me  $75  a  month  for  all  winter, 
and  said  I  might  keep  little  Albert  and 
Joel  with  me,  as  well  as  do  sewing 
and  washing  besides  my  wages.  But 
no;  I  would  not  consent  to  stay. 

In  a  little  while  I  began  working  for 
the  Eldorado  House  on  the  Placerville 
road,  being  engaged  as  cook  for  the 
house.  Of  course,  teaming  from  the 
Hunt  ranch  paid  better  on  the  Placer- 
ville road  now;  so  I  still  had  good  op- 
portunity of  hearing  from  home  often ! 

I  remained  at  the  Eldorado  House 
until  May;  then  Mr.  Hunt  thought  I 
had  better  not  work  out  any  more.  So 
I  did  up  a  good  lot  of  sewing  for  my- 
self and  children,  feeling  quite  inde- 
pendent about  my  clothes,  as  I  had 
earned  the  money  to  buy  them  myself. 
Mr.  Hunt  had  a  squatter's  right  to 
some  land  on  a  Spanish  grant,  only 
half  a  mile  from  my  father's  house. 
He  had  built  a  small  house  of  four 
rooms,  but  these  were  not  finished 
then. 

So  we  were  married  in  my  father's 
house,  August  5th,  1855. 1  was  dressed 
in  white,  with  embroidered  pink  flow- 
ers. Thus  I  began  my  married  life  in 
California.  It  has  brought  many  joys 
and  many  sorrows.  And  now  my  five 
stalwart  sons,  all  native  sons  of  Cali- 
fornia, the  fruit  of  my  second  mar- 
riage, have  grown  to  manhood's  estate. 


A  Klamath  Bridge,  California.    The  old  form  of  crossing  the  river. 


A  Rediscovered  River 


By  Edward  C  Grossman 


TIMES  were  when  it  flowed  along 
in   undisturbed   serenity.     The 
Klamaths  and  the  Modocs  met 
at   the   dividing   line     of     the 
Shasta   River   and   along   the     rocky 
bluffs  of  its  junction  with  the  mighty 
Klamath,  fought  peacefully  over  the 
fishing  privileges.    The  ways  of  white 
men  had  not  arrived  to  persuade  them 
that  the  country  belonged  to  neither 
tribe,  but  to  the  usurper. 

Save  for  the  golden  grains,  the 
river  might  have  continued  to  flow 
along  through  its  timbered  solitudes, 
undisturbed  save  by  the  few  ranchers 
along  its  banks,  but  its  sands  were 
mixed  with  the  disturbing  metal. 

In  the  early  '50's  came  the  argo- 
nauts from  the  Oregon  trail,  and  from 


the  diggings  along  the  upper  Sacra- 
mento, and  the  country  of  the  Trinity. 
They  found  gold  in  the  sands  of  the 
Klamath.  That  spelled  the  finish  of 
the  Indians,  and  times  of  peace  along 
the  great  brown  stream. 

At  every  gravel  bar  sprang  up  the 
little  settlements  of  the  '49ers.  Al- 
ways they  were  called  "Bars,"  and  the 
old  nomenclature  clings  to  the  present 
day.  There  was  Hamburg  Bar,  and 
Oak  Bar,  and  Gottville  Bar — all  bars 
because  only  at  bars  was  there  an  ex- 
cuse for  a  settlement.  Only  at  bars 
did  the  precious  yellow  grains  lie  in 
quantity  sufficient  to  make  digging  at- 
tractive to  the  hurrying  argonauts, 
and  only  in  the  bars  was  the  yellow 
dust  accessible. 


Gottville,  Cala.}  an  old  roaring  mining  camp,  of  the  Bret  Harte  type,  now 
dead  and  buried.    The  bears  come  down  from  the  hillside  and  steal  little 

pigs  from  the  streets. 


Wing  dams  crept  out  into  the  brown 
hurrying  current,  shouldering  the 
waters  away  from  the  work  of  the 
miners.  Painstakingly  the  rocks  were 
hoisted  out  of  the  bed  of  the  stream, 
and  then  the  precious  gravel  down  to 
the  storehouse  of  the  red  rock. 

The  upper  Sierra  camps  of  Bret 
Harte  lived  along  the  Klamath.  Civi- 
lization lay  far  away.  San  Francisco 
lay  four  hundred  miles  to  the  south — 
either  by  the  long,  dangerous  trail 
down  river  to  the  sea,  and  then  south 
on  ship,  or  else  up  river  to  the  Oregon 
trail,  and  then  down  to  Red  Bluff,  and 
the  head  of  the  navigation  on  the  Sac- 
ramento. 

When  the  Indians  got  to  troubling 
— the  symptom  was  the  mutilated  body 
of  some  miner  turning  up  in  some 
lonely  canyon  along  the  river — then, 
as  was  the  custom  of  the  West  in  the 
'50's,  the  miners  laid  aside  their  picks 
and  pans  and  Long  Toms,  and  devoted 
a  week  or  so  making  good  Indians  out 


of  bad  ones.  The  missionary  appli- 
ances were  simple,  a  muzzle-loader 
rifle,  and  shoot  on  sight.  Two  or  three 
times  soldiers  came  in  via  the  sea, 
and  helped  to  make  the  climate  of 
the  river  more  healthful  for  solitary 
miners  in  the  lonely  gulches. 

Presently  the  impatient  gold  seek- 
ers deemed  the  bars  petered  out,  and 
moved  on.  Swiftly  the  little  settle- 
ments fell  into  decay.  Goldsmith's 
Deserted  Village  was  not  more  pa- 
thetic. Then  came  the  Chinese,  sym- 
pathetic, painstaking,  knowing  the 
value  of  co-operative  labor — and 
driven  out  of  Trinity  County  to  the 
south  by  the  intolerant  and  envious 
white  men. 

They  gleaned  the  leavings  of  the 
hurrying  argonauts,  and  they  took  out 
more  gold  than  did  the  discoverers. 
The  abandoned  Roaring  Camps  be- 
came once  more  peopled,  this  time 
with  pig-tailed  heathen  instead  of  the 
red-shirted  argonauts.  The  nasal  sing- 


A  hydraulic  mine.    The  huge  basin  back  to   the   bluffs  was  torn    out    and 
washed  away  by  the  white  plume  of  water. 


song  of  the  Chinese  language  pro- 
faned the  silence  of  the  hills,  undis- 
turbed save  for  the  hearty  oaths  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  miners.  Fan-tan  took 
the  place  of  faro  and  monte  and  poker. 
Men  were  not  killed  in  the  open  in 
fair  fight — they  disappeared  over- 
night, if  their  disappearance  became 
advisable  to  the  powers  that  were,  ac- 
cording to  the  Chinese  method  of 
thinking. 

Then  even  the  Chinese  moved  on, 
the  river  and  its  bars  were  no  longer 
workable  with  their  crude  methods. 
The  rough  houses  fell  in  or  were 
hauled  away  by  the  few  ranchers  who 
seeped  into  the  remote  valley.  The 
bears  came  down  and  snuffed  through 
the  few  streets. 

Kanakas  from  the  Sandwich  Islands 
drifted  into  the  narrow  gorge  of  the 
river,  and  settled  down,  and  raised 
families  and  enough  for  them  to  live 
upon.  Only  here  and  there  does  the 
turbulent  river  allow  room  enough  for 
a  plot  of  ground  that  will  do  for  a 


home,  and  acreage  enough  to  support 
the  little  family. 

Fifty  years  have  shown  little  change 
in  the  Klamath  Gorge.  Still  the  road 
winds  up  at  Happy  Camp.  Crude  fer- 
ries, current  propelled  and  cable-held 
against  the  swift  push  of  the  stream, 
supplement  the  few  bridges.  Rumors 
there  are  that  the  strange,  spontaneous 
combustion  of  one  or  two  that  have 
gone  up  in  smoke  were  the  result  of 
the  peeve  of  some  ferryman  or  other 
who  found  his  living  gone  with  the 
coming  of  the  bridge. 

Tn  the  canyons — never  canyons  but 
always  "creeks,"  in  the  vernacular  of 
the  Klamath,  which  is  the  vernacular 
of  gold  seekers  still — the  black  and 
brown  bears  roam  the  summer  long. 
Deer  tracks  across  the  road  provoke 
no  notice.  One  is  shown  the  spot 
where  a  pair  of  mountain  lions  killed 
the  small  son  of  a  rancher  on  the  river 
as  he  trudged  along  the  road  in  the 
twilight,  very  close  to  home. 

Here  and  there    modern    methods, 


In  the  Bret  Harte  Country. 


sadly  handicapped  by  the  rough  moun- 
tain road  and  the  distance  from  the 
rail,  attack  the  problem  of  making  the 
river  and  the  bars  give  up  the  gold 
that  was  forbidden  to  the  crude  in- 
struments of  the  argonaut  of  the  '50's. 
At  Hamburg  bar  is  a  dredge  held 
out  in  the  swift  current  off  the  bar,  a 
current  which  laughed  at  the  efforts 
of  the  early  gold  seekers  to  block  it  off 
with  crude  wing  dams.  Divers,  pro- 
tected by  steel  caissons,  go  down  to 
the  bottom  in  the  fierce,  swift,  cold 
current,  and  move  the  rocks.  A  suc- 
tion pipe  picks  up  the  gravel  that  lies 
on  the  bed  rock  and  runs  it  over  the 


screens  on  the  dredge.  Every  plate 
in  the  boilers,  every  timber  in  the  hull, 
was  hauled  down  the  long  60  miles  of 
rough,  rocky  mountain  road  that  lies 
'twixt  Hamburg  and  the  Southern  Pa- 
cific Railroad. 

Farther  up  river,  working  remorse- 
lessly through  a  long  bar  nearly  a 
mile  long,  and  thirty  feet  deep,  an- 
other dredge  on  rollers  is  solving  the 
problem  that  baffled  the  angry  argo- 
nauts who  knew  the  richness  of  the 
gravel  that  lay  down  on  bed  rock,  and 
who  also  knew  the  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  tons  of  gravel  that  lay  on  that 
same  strata  of  richness. 


1 

.^ 

55 


An  abandoned  sluicing  claim  on  the    river. 


Abandoned  cabin  of  an  old  gold  seeker. 


COMMANDEERED 


333 


Now,  a  swift,  roaring  jet  of  water, 
with  the  energy  of  a  fall  from  the 
heights  of  the  surrounding  hills,  tears 
down  the  bank  of  the  gravel  ahead  of 
the  dredge,  and  the  chain  of  buckets 
pick?  it  up  and  runs  it  and  much  water 
over  the  gold  saving  screens  behind. 
Then  when  the  treasure  house  of  the 
bed  rock  is  reached,  the  modern  gold 
seekers  get  down  on  their  knees  and 
go  into  every  cranny  and  crevice  of  the 
living  rock  and  sweep  out  the  golden 
grains  with  whisk  brooms  and  loving 
care  that  housewife  ne'er  exhibited  in 
her  own  sweeping  in  the  corners. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year,  when  the 
snows  on  the  heights  commence  to 
melt,  and  the  mountain  streams  thun- 
der down  the  canyons,  white  plumes 
of  water  from  huge  nozzles  of  Little 
Giants  commence  to  gnaw  at  the  banks 
of  red  gravel  at  the  mouths  of  the 
gulches. 

As  they  begin  to  crumble  beneath 
the  tearing  of  the  water,  the  earth  is 
washed  down  into  the  long  lines  of  the 
flumes  and  sluice  boxes,  and  the 
golden  grains  drop  down  into  the  pit- 
falls of  "the  blocks  that  line  the  bot- 
toms of  the  boxes.  From  the  heights 


run  the  long  flumes,  and  then  the  huge 
steel  pipes,  in  which  the  water  surges 
with  all  the  force  of  its  thousand-foot 
fall. 

Then  as  it  roars  from  the  six-inch 
nozzle  of  the  little  giant  comes  the  les- 
son of  the  power  of  falling  water. 
Sweep  a  sword  down  through  the 
stream  with  all  the  swiftness  in  your 
power — and  it  will  be  instantly 
wrenched  from  your  grasp  and  your 
arm  broken.  Let  a  man  stand  within 
the  zone  of  that  roaring  white  plume — 
and  he  is  killed  as  promptly  as  if  it 
had  been  a  cannon.  The  paltry  stream 
of  a  fire  engine  will  knock  men  off 
their  feet;  the  drive  of  the  nozzles  of 
a  fire  boat  will  tear  down  walls,  but 
none  of  them  are  in  the  class  of  the 
full  blown  stream  from  the  little  giant, 
six  inches  at  the  start,  and  with  the 
fall  of  probably  a  thousand  feet  back 
of  it. 

Probably  no  river  in  these  United 
States  is  so  large,  so  long,  and  yet  so 
little  known  to  the  average  American 
as  this  huge  Klamath,  brown-hued, 
Missouri-sized  and  conducting  itself 
with  the  rollicksome  abandon  of  a 
mountain  brook. 


C  O  A  A  A  N  D  E  E  R  E  D 


Last  year  he  drew  the  harvest  home, 
Along  the  winding  upland  lane ; 

The  children  twisted  marigolds 

And  clover  flowers  to  deck  his  mane. 

Last  year — he  drew  the  harvest  home. 

To-day — with  puzzled,  patient  face, 
With  ears  adroop  and  weary  feet, 

He  marches  to  the  sound  of  drums, 
And  draws  the  gun  along  the  street. 

To-day  he  draws  the  guns  of  war! 


CHARLOTTE  MOBERLY. 
6 


Upper — Newport  Bay,  Balboa,  Southern  California,  before  the  storm. 
Middle — The  rising  waters  of  the  approaching  storm.  Lower — Geysers  of 
spray  shot  high  in  the  air  in  efforts  to  pass  the  barrier. 


;  :  ^  Storm  Bound  in  Balboa 

By  Delia  Phillips 

(Balboa  is  a  Small  Town  on  Newport  Bay,  About  Thirty  /Ailes 
Southeast  of  Los  Angeles,  Cal.) 


THE  wind  had  blown  all  night 
from  the  southeast — the  "rain 
quarter,"  as  we  say  on  this  part 
of  the  Pacific  Coast.  When  I 
awoke,  the  canvas  walls  of  my  little 
tent  house  were  still  flapping  in  the 
gale;  and  the  sullen,  continuous  roar 
of  the  ocean,  warned  me  there  was 
something  doing  outside. 

I  hurried  into  my  clothes,  a  woman's 
shrill  scream  from  somewhere  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  pier  increasing  my  ner- 
vuos  haste.  I  was  wild  to  find  out 
what  the  old  ocean  had  been  up  to 
while  I  slept,  and  the  cause  of  that 
scream. 

I  was  not  long  in  doubt,  for  as  I 
opened  the  tent  door,  a  great  wave 
lifted  itself  to  the  top  of  the  seawall 
and  broke  in  a  thunderous  crash, 
showering  a  cascade  of  spray  higher 
than  the  two  story  bungalow  before  it. 
Already  the  water  had  broken  through 
the  seawall  and  was  plowing  its  way  in 
rivulets  across  the  sands  only  a  few 
feet  from  our  own  back  yard. 

The  woman  who  had  screamed  was 
running  back  from  the  pier  sobbing, 
hysterically : 

"Our  town  will  be  ruined!"  she  cried 
as  she  passed  me. 

I  hurried  out  on  the  pier,  but  re- 
treated in  greater  haste  as  a  big  wave 
broke  evenly  on  either  side  of  me  with 
a  mighty  splash  that  shook  the  whole 
structure.  As  far  as  I  could  see,  the 
waves  had  eaten  away  the  sand  clear 
of  the  seawall,  and  had  broken 
through  in  numberless  places. 


Standing  at  the  head  of  the  pier 
where  the  waves  were  not  so  threaten- 
ing, I  could  command  a  good  view  of 
the  little  peninsula  on  which  our  town 
is  situated,  and  was  amazed  at  what  I 
saw — at  the  spectacle  of  the  ocean 
when  really  peeved,  and  at  the  work 
it  had,  in  its  rage,  already  accom- 
plished. 

There  was  a  seven  foot  tide  that 
morning — not  an  unusually  high  one, 
but  formidable  when  backed  by  a 
gale.  There  were  waves  that  took  a 
running  broad  jump,  and  some  that 
pole  vaulted,  but  all  broke  over  the 
sea-wall,  spurting  up  such  geysers  of 
spray  as  few  of  the  spectators  had 
ever  witnessed.  The  waves  them- 
selves were  splashing  over  the  veran- 
das of  the  houses,  and  a  few  leaped 
to  the  second  story  balconies.  Foaming 
streams  of  water  were  cutting  out 
channels  across  the  sands,  already  far 
on  their  way  to  meet  the  rapidly  rising 
bay. 

Heavy  timbers  were  every  mo- 
ment being  ripped  from  the  sea-wall, 
and  carried  half  way  across  the  nar- 
row peninsula  before  the  waves  that 
tore  them  from  the  pilings  had  spent 
their  force. 

Every  house  on  the  ocean  front  was 
endangered  and  one  practically  in 
ruins. 

It  was  now  half-past  seven,  and  the 
tide  would  not  reach  its  crest  until 
eight-thirty.  Every  man  and  boy  that 
could  wield  a  shovel  was  on  the  scene 
filling  sand  bags  for  the  protection 


336 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


of  the  houses  against  the  still  rising 
floods. 

Leaving  the  pier,  I  made  my  way, 
somewhat  perilously,  along  Central 
avenue,  the  one  street  the  peninsula 
has  space  for.  By  this  time,  the  ad- 
venturous streams  of  water,  spurting 
through  the  sea-wall,  had  found  their 
way  across  the  sands  to  the  bay.  In 
numerous  places  the  cement  pave- 
ments were  crumbling  and  up-ending 
in  irregular  blocks  as  the  sands  washed 
out  from  under  them. 

As  one  of  the  women  watchers  re- 
marked: "When  the  water's  after  you 
from  both  sides,  it's  no  joke." 

Two  houses  were  plainly  doomed, 
and  from  these  the  furniture  was  re- 
moved; and  attention  centered  on  sav- 
ing the  others.  Mattresses,  sand  bags, 
old  clothes,  anything  that  might  pre- 
vent those  swirling  tongues  of  water 
from  licking  the  sands  from  under  the 
houses  were  thrown  down. 

Few  people  were  in  their  homes — it 
being  the  winter  season,  and  Balboa 
mostly  a  summer  resort — so  the  own- 
ers were  spared  much  needless  worry 
and  alarm.  The  few  of  us  who  live 
here  the  year  around,  and  who  have 
learned  to  love  the  Beautiful  little 
coast  resort,  felt  an  uncontrollable 
sinking  of  the  heart  as  we  saw  the 
handsome  structures  ruined,  and  real- 
ized that  many  more  were  in  peril. 

A  new  bungalow,  costing  thousands 
of  dollars,  was  one  of  the  first  to  be 
undermined,  the  water  gaming  en- 
trance through  the  sea-wall  directly  in 
front  of  the  place. 

Here,  the  sand  was  eaten  out  in 
great  mouthfuls  until  the  big  structure 
went  down  by  the  head  in  the  hole 
made  by  the  sea.  A  china  cabinet,  not 
yet  removed  to  a  place  of  safety,  skid- 
ded merrily  down  the  sharply  inclined 
floor,  and  put  to  sea  through  the  open- 
ing in  the  wall. 

In  spite  of  the  destruction,  one  was 
compelled  to  take  notice  of  a  sort 
of  grim  humor  that  characterized  this 
display  of  the  elements.  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that  the  ocean  was,  after 
all,  merely  at  play.  The  waves,  pour- 
ing eagerly  through  the  breaches  in 


the  wall,  ripped  boards  from  the 
houses  and  carried  them  outside,  only 
to  bring  them  gleefully  back  for  use 
in  battering  off  more  boards.  Thick 
timbers  from  the  sea-wall  were  tossed 
high  in  the  air  by  the  waves  and  later 
thrown  across  the  breaches  in  the 
sidewalks,  as  if  to  repair  the  damage 
done  by  the  streams  of  water. 

The  sea  appeared  to  be  bent  on 
changing  the  topography  of  the  whole 
place.  It  pushed  a  small  bungalow  to 
one  side,  and  ate  out  the  lot  on  which 
it  stood. 

A  little  cottage  was  lifted  by  the 
waves  and  deposited  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  bungalow.  Some  small 
buildings  were  merely  moved  across 
the  street,  and  the  tiny  houses  of  the 
Japanese  servant,  in  the  rear  of  one 
of  the  handsome  bay  houses,  was  left 
leaning  its  head  against  one  corner 
of  the  large  structure,  looking  "as  if 
it  was  trying  to  butt  it  over,"  as  one 
man  remarked. 

Two  tent  houses,  standing  side  by 
side  in  the  rear  of  a  large  house  on 
the  bay  front,  separated  as  if  by  com- 
mon consent,  and  slipped  gently  into 
the  bay,  one  on  each  side  of  the  house. 
They  rejoined  one  another  at  a  pier 
farther  down  the  peninsula. 

A  garage,  on  which  the  only  pair  of 
bantam  chicks  in  Balboa  was  perched 
for  safety,  was  lifted  by  the  waves, 
turned  around,  and  deposited  in  the 
same  place;  but  the  entrance  is  now 
on  the  side  instead  of  the  street,  as  be- 
fore. 

The  human  element  of  humor  was 
also  present.  In  a  portable  house, 
surrounded  by  water,  and  with  two  feet 
of  it  inside,  a  graphophone  played 
"Home,  Sweet  Home,"  while  the 
house's  owner  exulted  over  the  fact 
that  the  sand  of  his  dearest  enemy 
was  washing  over  his  own  lot.  "If  I 
only  had  a  surf  board,"  he  remarked 
as  he  watched  the  leaping,  big  waves, 
"I  could  ride  the  waves  clear  across 
the  bay  to  the  bluffs  beyond." 

Our  town  marshal,  a  big,  soft- 
hearted fellow,  always  busy  doing 
nothing  much  in  particular,  and  who 
takes  himself  and  his  duties  more  seri- 


STORM  BOUND  IN  BALBOA 


337 


ously  than  any  one  else  has  ever  done, 
was  on  hand.  The  look  of  "You  can 
depend  on  me"  that  he  carried  down 
the  line  was  worth  going  far  to  see. 
On  every  man,  woman  and  child  he 
passed  was  bestowed  a  look  of,  "I'll 
save  you,  never  fear,"  whether  they 
were  in  danger  or  not. 

Therefore,  when  our  windly  and  be- 
nevolent marshal  suddenly  went  down 
to  his  waistline  in  a  patch  of  quick- 
sand, freshly  deposited  by  tne  waves, 
all  Balboa  gasped  in  dismay.  For, 
how  could  we  withstand  the  encroach- 
ments of  an  angry  ocean  if  our  doughty 
marshal  was  not  on  hand  to  drag  it 
back  by  the  tail?  However,  the 
brave  man  scrambled  out  onto  firm 
ground,  and  will  no  doubt  live  to  tell 
his  grandchildren  of  his  narrow  es- 
cape from  death  on  this  memorable 
occasion. 

By  this  time,  Balboa  Island,  a  small 
oval  in  the  midst  of  Newport  Bay,  was 
under  water,  and  people  were  going 
about  all  over  it  in  boats.  There  was 
now  sufficient  water  on  the  lower  half 
of  the  peninsula  to  permit  a  freight 
boat  to  work  its  way  to  the  endan- 
gered houses  and  remove  the  furni- 
ture. 

Up  to  this  time,  we  spectators  had 
been  so  engrossed  by  the  scenes  be- 
fore us  that  we  had  failed  to  notice 
how  wide  the  stream  of  water,  cutting 
off  our  retreat,  had  become.  The  water 
had  been  flowing  across  in  the  low 
places  only,  as  we  passed  down;  but 
now,  rivulet  had  joined  rivulet,  until 
a  broad,  shallow  river  obstructed  our 
return. 

"I  must  save  those  women,"  our 
faithful  marshal  called,  heroically 
abandoning  the  prosaic  work  of  filling 
the  sand  bags  to  run  to  our  rescue. 

The  water  was  neither  deep  nor 
dangerous,  but  the  good  marshal 
sounded  the  order  for  retreat.  "We 


must  take  no  risks,"  he  declared,  roll- 
ing up  his  trousers  and  wading  out 
before  us. 

With  much  splattering  and  laughter, 
and  some  real  danger  where  the  heavy 
timbers  were  piling  up — we  made  our 
way  to  higher  ground. 

Here  shivering  in  our  wet  shoes 
and  damp  clothing,  yet  unwilling  to 
lose  anything  of  the  wonderful  spec- 
tacle, we  waited  until  the  turning  of 
the  tide. 

By  and  by,  the  waves  began  to  fall 
back,  little  by  little,  as  the  tide  re- 
ceded. They  towered  and  crashed 
till  near  noon ;  but  their  terrible  impact 
gradually  abated — to  our  infinite  re- 
lief— without  wrecking  other  than  the 
two  houses. 

When  it  was  all  over  every  one  vis- 
ited the  lower  peninsula  to  see  how 
much  of  it  remained  after  the  waters 
receded.  It  appeared  to  be  all  there, 
but  as  our  witty  friend  remarked: 
"Real  estate  has  been  moving  lively," 
and  he  was  on  the  lookout  for  one  of 
his  own  lots  which  he  believed  had 
sat  down  on  the  front  lawn  of  a  neigh- 
bor. 

The  sand  dunes  had  been  leveled 
until  the  peninsula  was  one  smooth 
hard  floor,  and  the  playful  ocean  had 
built  up  an  entire  new  lot  in  front 
of  one  of  the  handsome  bay  houses. 

"I  wanted  to  be  on  the  bay  front," 
remarked  the  owner,  in  disgust,  "and 
now  I  have  an  inside  lot." 

But  the  most  impressive  work  of  the 
storm  was  to  uncover  an  old,  old  hulk 
of  a  boat  which,  according  to  tradi- 
tion, had  sunk  many  years  before. 
The  heavy  ribs  stuck  gauntly  up  from 
the  sands  so  close  in  to  the  beach  that 
it  offered  positive  proof  of  the  fact 
that  it  had.  not  been  a  century  ago 
since  our  little  peninsula  either  ex- 
isted not  at  all,  or  was  much  farther 
under  water  than  at  present. 


A  Woman  the  West  Mas  Given 


By  /A.  N.  Bunker 


"You  never  can  tell  what  your  thoughts 

will  do, 

In  bringing  you  hate  or  love; 
For    thoughts    are    things,  and  their 

airy  wings 

Are  swifter  than  carrier  doves. 
They  follow  the  law  of  the  universe — 

Each  thing  must  create  its  kind; 
And  they  speed  o'er  the  track  to  bring 

you  back 

Whatever     went     out     from     your 
mind." 

MIGHTY  pines — thousands  and 
thousands  of  them  stretching 
for  mile  upon  mile  away  from 
the  banks  of  the  Willamette, 
filling  the  air  with  their  fragrance  and 
the  song  of  their  waving  branches  on 
a  clear,  spring  day,  or  surging  and 
tearing  in  a  wintry  storm — these,  and 
a  busy,  bustling,  hustling  saw  mill 
where  men  fed  huge  logs  into  the  great 
iron  jaws  to  be  turned  out  as  lumber 
for  the  whole  world — that's  a  unique 
place  for  a  girl  to  spend  her  baby- 
hood, and  grow  into  young  woman- 
hood, maybe,  but  whether  it  is  or 
not,  that  is  just  the  kind  of  a  place 
that  Elizabeth  Towne,  one  of  the 
West's  greatest  offerings  to  Twenti- 
eth Century  advancement,  spent  the 
majority  of  the  years  which  Time  has 
tolled  for  her.  Her  name  wasn't 
Towne  then ;  instead,  it  was  just  plain 
Jones,  and  her  father's  father  was  a 
pioneer  who  settled  in  the  Oregon 
country  in  1852,  after  a  long,  tedious 
prairie  schooner  journey  from  New 
York:  The  new  land  must  have 
pleased  the  foot-sore  pilgrims,  too,  for 
eleven  years  later,  in  1863,  when 
young  Jim  Halsey  Jones  yearned  for  a 
companion,  he  made  the  long  journey 
back  to  New  York  State,  where,  join- 


ing fates  with  a  daughter  of  the  East, 
he  again  turned  his  face  westward, 
and  by  way  of  Panama  answered  the 
call  of  the  land  of  the  setting  sun.  Two 
years  later,  a  baby  girl  came  into  the 
new  home.  They  called  her  Eliza- 
beth. Later  three  other  children  came 
into  that  same  home — two  more  girls 
and  a  boy ;  then  the  mother  died,  leav- 
ing nine-year  old  Elizabeth  and  the 
other  three  to  a  life  that  Mrs.  Towne, 
looking  back  at,  tells  most  graphically 
to  those  who  question  her.  This  is 
the  story  as  she  tells  it,  frankly,  inter- 
estingly and  with  a  distinct  flavor  of 
her  own  wonderful  personality: 

"From  thence  we  'growed,'  like 
Topsy,  with  a  succession  of  more  or 
less  (mostly  less)  capable  house- 
keepers to  look  after  our  material 
needs.  Many  times  there  were  inter- 
ims when  the  house  was  not  kept  at 
all.  We  went  to  school,  'bummed 
around,'  and  ate  crackers,  cheese, 
baker's  bread  and  pickles  at  the  kit- 
chen table,  with  'Pa.'  We  liked  that 
way  of  keeping  house  best.  When 
we  wanted  anything  to  eat,  we  skipped 
over  to  the  grocery  and  had  it  'charged 
to  Pa.'  And  Pa  always  came  home 
from  his  lumber  yard  or  mill  with  a 
load  of  fruit  or  cookies  bought  on  the 
way.  When  we  wanted  something  new 
to  wear  we  went  to  the  store  and  had 
it  'charged.'  " 

That  is  the  kind  of  a  "bringing  up" 
Elizabeth  Towne  had  in  among  the 
trees  of  the  lumber  country.  It  may 
look  like  a  bad  condition,  but  it  was 
not — at  least,  not  all  bad.  Elizabeth 
will  tell  you  that  to-day,  and  she  is 
lots  wiser  than  in  those  days,  and 
knows  enough  to  see  faulty  places  as 
well  as  perfect  ones;  but  she  will 
tell  you  that  those  "hit-and-miss" 


A  WOMAN  THE  WEST  HAS  GIVEN 


339 


housekeeping  days  had  their  good  as 
well  as  their  bad,  and  more  than  that 
— she  will  tell  you  that  there  is  good 
in  everything  if  you  will  only  find  it, 
and  that  if  you  will  not  find  it,  that 
the  good  is  still  there.  This  isn't  any 
senseless  assertion — it  isn't  a  "fool's 
philosophy,  either,  and  more  than  all, 
it  is  not  a  scheme  for  fame  of  financial 
advancement.  Mrs.  Towne  isn't  wor- 
rying about  such  things — it  is  even 
impossible  to  imagine  such  things  of 
her  when  you  know  her  well,  for  her 
every  effort  is  so  wholesomely  free 
from  fakism  and  her  greeting  is  so 
genial  that  you  must  actually  absorb 
some  of  her  wholesomeness.  The  Good 
Gray  Poet — Walt  Whitman — must 
have  had  some  such  great  soul  in  mind 
when  he  wrote : 

"I  celebrate  myself  and  sing  myself, 
And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume, 
For  every  atom  belonging  to  me  as 
good  belongs  to  you." 

But  this  is  Elizabeth  as  she  is  now 
— not  as  she  was  when  she  was  fif- 
teen. It  was  when  she  had  reached 
that  age  that  she  married,  as  she  ex- 
presses it,  "another  kid,"  but  the  other 
"kid"  was  a  little  older — eighteen  or 
nineteen;  however,  that  doesn't  mat- 
ter, for  neither  of  them  knew  anything 
about  making  a  home,  or  for  that  mat- 
ter living  and  getting  along  comfort- 
ably together.  And  the  more  they 
tried  to  do  these  things,  the  worse  off 
they  became,  until — but  that  is  get- 
ting ahead  of  the  story. 

Fortunately  after  they  were  mar- 
ried these  two  youngsters  did  not  have 
to  commence  housekeeping  at  once; 
instead,  his  parent's — Elizabeth's 
father-in-law  and  mother-in-law  took 
them  in  and  kept  them  for  two  years 
and  until  little  Catherine  was  born. 
Then  Elizabeth  and  her  husband,  Holt 
Struble,  went  to  live  in  a  house  that 
her  father  gave  to  them.  And  they 
tried  the  game  of  keeping  house,  but 
always  it  was  a  losing  game — a  game 
they  did  not  understand;  a  game  they 
each  tried  to  master,  but  one  that 
made  them  farther  and  farther  apart 


because  they  failed  to  try  together. 
After  awhile  there  was  a  baby  boy, 
and  then  the  young  mother  had  a 
worse  time  of  it  than  ever.  They  were 
in  debt;  and  if  they  were  helped  out 
of  debt  one  day  they  were  just  as  bad 
off  the  next,  as  they  would  have  been 
if  there  had  been  no  help. 

Then  one  day  Elizabeth  woke  up 
to  the  fact  that  she  was  mentally  in 
a  rut;  she  was  having  difficulties  be- 
cause she  was  thinking  difficulties  in- 
stead of  thinking  and  expecting  and 
believing  in  good  things  to  come.  This 
awakening  was  the  start;  it  was  the 
beginning  of  the  career  that  has  made 
that  same  Elizabeth,  but  still  a  differ- 
ent Elizabeth,  too,  one  of  America's 
greatest  of  great  women — one  that  a 
great  Eastern  magazine  has  said  has 
almost,  if  not  the  greatest,  influence 
through  her  written  messages  of  any 
woman  of  this  age.  Those  messages! 
They  are  the  vibrating  power,  the  pur- 
ity, the  wonderfulness  of  the  West, 
and  because  they  are,  they  prove  Eliz- 
abeth's philosophy,  that  there  is  good 
in  everything — even  our  worst  years  of 
struggling  doubt. 

Elizabeth  and  her  boy  husband 
parted  good  friends ;  they  had  come  to 
the  parting  of  the  ways  in  very  truth, 
and  so  each  took  their  own  course,  but 
the  separation  was  without  a  trace  of 
bitterness.  They,  in  their  inmost  souls 
felt  that  the  new  way  was  the  better 
way,  and  so  they  accepted  it  fully, 
freely. 

And  the  new  way  has  been  the  bet- 
ter way,  for  since  that  day  out  on  the 
Pacific  Slope  among  the  pines,  Eliza- 
beth has  given  new  hope,  new  cour- 
age and  new  faith  to  thousands.  And 
more  than  all  she  has  helped  them  to 
realize  that  to  help  themselves  is  bet- 
ter than  to  be  helped — that  they  can  if 
they  will. 

She  has  demonstrated  her  philoso- 
phy, too.  She  began  in  a  new  enter- 
prise— one  in  which  she  had  neither 
training  nor  knowledge — the  publica- 
tion of  a  magazine,  and  she  has  suc- 
ceeded. She  has  succeeded,  not  be- 
cause of  financial  influence  back  of 
the  printed  page,  but  because  she  be- 


340 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


lieved  that  her  work  was  good  and 
that  she  would  succeed.  And  she  has. 
In  1900  she  moved  East  and  joined 
hands  with  William  E.  Towne,  who  is 
also  a  publisher.  But  they  do  busi- 
ness on  an  individual  basis — Eliza- 
beth runs  her  own  business  and  Wil- 
liam runs  his,  and  they  are  good  com- 
rades, good  partners,  if  you  will,  and 
so  prove  the  justice  and  right  of  equal- 
ity of  mankind — and  of  womankind, 
too. 

To-day  Mrs.  Towne's  magazine, 
"The  Nautilus,"  has  a  circulation  cov- 
ering the  entire  North  American  con- 
tinent, and  extending  into  every  land 
where  English  is  written  and  read; 
she  goes  here  and  there  on  lecture 
tours;  she  was  sent  as  a  delegate  to 
the  first  Progressive  Convention — and 
she  does  everything  that  she  does  do 
at  all  in  a  big  way;  in  a  way  that  des- 
pises the  mean  or  narrow,  and  holds 
to  the  pure  and  strong  and  broad — 
the  Western  way. 

On  the  title  page  of  "The  Nautilus" 
Elizabeth  runs  a  verse  of  Holmes', 
"The  Chambered  Nautilus" : 


"Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  oh, 

my  soul; 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll! 
Let  each  new  temple  nobler  than  the 

last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome 

more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  are  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's 

unresting  sea." 

Which  is  prophetic  of  the  future,  for 
day  by  day  this  great  woman  from  the 
Oregon  country,  who  breathes,  and 
writes  and  believes  the  Spirit  of  Pro- 
gress does  indeed  gain  greater  breadth 
of  thought  and  action.  But  "The 
Chambered  Nautilus"  is  only  pro- 
phetic ;  it  is  Walt  Whitman's : 

"I  am  an  acme  of  things  accom- 
plished, and  I  am  encloser  of  things 
to  be." 

This  is  really  a  true  picture 'of  en- 
ergetic, capable,  Elizabeth  Towne  of 
Holyoke,  Massachusetts — the  greatest 
woman  "New  Thought"  editor  of  the 
century,  and  one  of  the  West's  great- 
est offerings  to  mankind. 


RESURGA/A 

(A  Shakespearean  Sonnet  in  Commemoration    of    the    three 
hundredth  anniversary  of  the  great  Poet's  death.) 


I  will  arise.    My  face  I  will  uplift 

Even  as  the  gold-hued  shining  April  flowers 
Uplift  edenic  faces  to  the  rift 

Of  clouds  that  pour  down  gentle  freshening  showers! 
I  will  to-day  exult  in  soul  even  as  a  bird 

That  threnodies  in  wonder  over  its  nest; 
I  will  exalt  me  in  the  mystic  Word 

Spoken  by  stream  and  tree ;  and  I  will  rest 
In  the  white  sunshine  of  this  rapturous  day. 

No  more  shall  I  be  overlade  with  sorrow ; 
No  more  be  weighted  as  with  heavy  clay: 

For  now  I  know  there  is  a  happy  morrow ; 
Yea,  now  the  Light  shall  lift  me  from  this  gloom, 

And  Joy  shall  blow — a  lily  in  full  bloom ! 

HENRY  MEADE  BLAND. 


General  Average 


By  A.  C  Harrison 


ONE  of  the  most  ancient  laws  in 
existence  with  us  is  that  known 
as  General  Average.  The  cus- 
tom known  under  this  title  is 
one  which  had  for  its  primary  purpose 
the  distribution  of  some  loss  to  a  mari- 
time venture  suffered  by  a  sacrifice  of 
a  part  made  deliberately  in  order  to 
save  the  remainder.  It  would  be  mani- 
festly unfair  that  either  the  shipowner 
or  any  owner  of  cargo  should  suffer 
individually  by  the  sacrifice  of  his 
property  in  order  that  the  property  of 
others  might  be  saved.  Hence  the 
custom  of  ascertaining  the  amount  of 
the  sacrifice  and  charging  each  party 
who  is  interested  in  the  maritime  ven- 
ture with  a  percentage  of  the  loss,  so 
that  no  one  would  suffer  a  greater  per- 
centage of  damage  than  any  of  the 
others. 

The  law  comes  to  us  from  the  Ro- 
mans, the  most  direct  authority  being 
the  "Digest  of  Justinian,"  issued 
somewhere  about  530  years  B.  C.,  in 
which  he  quotes  Paulus.  Other  writ- 
ers of  the  day  also  refer  to  the  custom, 
and,  from  the  best  evidence  obtain- 
able, it  appears  that  the  custom  prob- 
ably commenced  somewhere  between 
700  and  1,000  years  before  the  Christ- 
ian era,  being  contemporaneous  with 
the  rise  in  maritime  commerce  of  the 
Rhodians.  However,  it  is  not  alto- 
gether improbable  that  its  beginning 
was  even  further  back  when  Sidon 
and  Tyre  were  at  the  zenith  of  their 
maritime'  prosperity. 

Nowadays,  the  custom  is  associated 
directly  with  marine  insurance,  but  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  marine  insurance,  except  that  a 
loss  or  a  charge  to  an  assured  of  this 
nature  is  nearly  always  paid  by  the 
marine  underwriter.  Marine  insur- 
ance, according  to  the  most  careful  re- 


search, cannot  be  traced  back  beyond 
the  laws  of  Oleron,  1194,  or  the  laws 
of  Wisby,  compiled  about  the  close  of 
the  13th  century,  or  the  much  more  re- 
cent Hanseatic  laws,  published  at  Lu- 
beck  about  the  end  of  the  16th  cen- 
tury, although  from  other  slight  refer- 
ences, there  might  have  been  insurance 
about  1000  A.  D.,  but  it  is  perfectly 
safe  to  say  that  General  Average  was 
fully  developed  and  in  constant  use  by 
the  greatest  maritime  powers  nearly 
2,000  years  before  we  find  the  slight- 
est trace  of  marine  insurance. 

Marine  insurance  has  been  devel- 
oped since  its  beginning  eight  or  nine 
hundred  years  ago,  until  now  the  ship- 
owner or  the  merchant  has  an  oppor- 
tunity of  protecting  himself  against 
almost  every  known  loss  or  peril  to 
which  his  property  may  be  subjected. 
Even  climatic  effects  upon  various 
kinds  of  cargoe  are  often  covered.  Po- 
litical consequences,  like  seizure  or  de- 
tention by  foreign  powers  at  war  with 
each  other  are  fully  covered.  The 
length  of  a  ship's  passage,  that  is  to 
say,  a  loss  caused  by  an  extraordinar- 
ily long  passage,  is  often  insured  by 
the  underwriters.  Imposition  of  tar- 
iffs by  various  governments,  and  some- 
times the  fall  of  the  market,  are  in- 
sured. Almost  every  known  peril  of 
the  sea  or  land  can  be  provided 
against  by  the  payment  of  an  ade- 
quate premium.  There  are  so  many 
contingencies  which  may  or  may  not 
threaten  a  shipment  by  sea,  that  an 
assured  is  often  perfectly  willing  to 
run  his  own  risk  with  respect  to  some 
of  them,  and  this  of  itself  produces  a 
great  divergence  in  the  kinds  of  poli- 
cies commonly  issued. 

In  fire  insurance,  or  perhaps  in  life 
insurance,  as  well  as  in  many  other 
kinds,  there  exist  what  are  known  as 


342 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


standard  iorm  policies,  but  we  can 
hardly  say  that  this  is  true  with  re- 
gard to  marine  insurance.  Every  un- 
derwriter doing  a  general  business,  not 
only  has  occasion  to  issue  dozens  of 
kinds  of  policies,  but  he  has  occasion 
to  consider  daily  new  features  or  lim- 
its of  risks  which  are  being  put  before 
him,  and  a  successful  marine  under- 
writer must  be  equipped  with  knowl- 
edge on  a  great  variety  of  subjects, 
and  is  called  upon  to  exercise  and 
pass  judgment  upon  new  hazards  con- 
stantly, and  upon  the  correctness  of 
the  judgment  depends  the  result  at  the 
end  of  the  year  for  his  insurance  com- 
pany. 

The  subject  of  General  Average  to 
which  attention  was  first  called,  is  one 
that  has  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
great  many  people  who  are  not  affect- 
ed by  it,  because  of  its  curious  fea- 
tures and  the  great  obscurity  in  its 
beginning. 

It  is  particularly  intricate,  and  even 
to  the  average  owner  of  cargo  whose 
interest  is  affected  by  it,  and  further 
the  average  underwriter  who  protects 
the  assured  against  losses  by  general 
average,  does  not  begin  to  understand 
fully  the  various  intricacies,  nor  the 
correctness  of  the  result  obtained  by 
professionals  known  as  average  ad- 
justers. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  note  that 
only  a  few  countries  have  statutes 
bearing  on  the  subject.  Most  coun- 
tries depend  upon  the  precedent  and 
custom.  The  customs  followed  by  the 
average  adjusters  are  very  different  as 
between  one  nation  and  another,  and 
as  the  great  volume  of  business  done 
at  sea  is  on  voyages  that  begin  in  one 
country  and  end  in  a  foreign  country, 
one  can  readily  see  how  constant  bick- 
erings continue  with  regard  to  the  pro- 
priety of  certain  decisions  of  the  ad- 
justers. It  is  a  general  rule,  how- 
ever, that  the  laws  in  use  at  the  port 
of  destination  of  a  maritime  venture, 
control,  although  in  certain  cases, 
when  the  voyage  is  interrupted,  or 
where  a  vessel  goes  to  two  foreign 
ports,  thereby  possibly  involving  the 
laws  of  three  countries,  each  foreign 


to  the  other,  great  complications  arise. 
Another  custom  is  that  the  owner  of 
the  ship  has  the  sole  and  undisputed 
right  to  appoint  the  adjuster.  This 
right  has  grown  out  of  the  original 
custom  where  it  was  the  shipowner's 
duty  to  adjust  the  loss  and  apportion 
the  same  himself  without  any  fee  or 
charges.  It  would  seem  as  though 
now  when  cargoes  usually  run  much 
more  in  value  and  oftentimes  several 
times  the  value  of  the  ship,  that  cargo 
owners  should  have  something  to  say 
'with  respect  to  the  party  who  is  to 
adjust  the  loss,  but  not  so.  Neither 
the  cargo  owner  nor  the  insurance 
companies  carrying  the  hull  risk,  as  a 
rule,  have  a  word  to  say  with  respect 
to  naming  the  adjuster,  except  what 
moral  pressure  they  can  put  on  the 
shipowner  when  he  is  about  to  make 
his  appointment.  This  situation  in 
America  has  brought  about  the  prac- 
tice of  large  shipowners  giving  their 
insurance  business  to  place  to  certain 
brokers,  which  brokers  also,  when  oc- 
casion requires,  adjust  the  losses,  the 
agreement  being,  when  the  insurance 
order  is  given  to  the  broker,  that  this 
broker  is  also  to  have  the  adjustment 
of  any  losses  which  may  occur  on  the 
ships  during  the  twelve  months  which 
they  are  insured.  It  is  generally  rec- 
ognized by  our  laws  that  the  insurance 
broker  placing  insurance  for  an  owner 
of  the  ship  is  the  agent  for  the  ship- 
owner, although  his  pay,  in  the  way  of 
commissions,  comes  from  the  insur- 
ance company.  It  is  fully  agreed  by 
all  that  the  policies  and  clauses  which 
he  constructs  for  the  protection  of  the 
shipowner  are  all  drawn  with  a  view  of 
getting  everything  that  he  possibly  can 
for  the  benefit  of  his  employer.  If 
then,  later,  a  loss  occurs,  and  the  ad- 
justment, according  to  the  above  agree- 
ment with  the  shipowner  falls  into  his 
hands,  is  it  not  very  plainly  to  be  seen 
that  his  neutrality  as  between  ship- 
owner and  cargo  owner  can  be  easily 
questioned?  The  broker  knows  very 
well  that  unless  in  the  settlement  of 
a  General  Average,  he  puts  in  all  ex- 
penses, claims,  etc.,  that  his  employer 
wants  put  in,  or  for  which  there  is 


GENERAL  AVERAGE 


343 


the  slightest  color  of  right  on  behalf 
of  the  shipowner,  that  he  is  not  likely 
to  receive  a  renewal  of  his  orders  for 
the  placing  of  the  insurance  for  the 
next  year.  It  may  be  admitted  at 
once  that  the  majority  of  adjusters 
who  are  doing  both  an  insurance,  brok- 
erage and  an  adjustment  business  as 
above,  are  men  of  great  ability,  and 
generally  men  of  integrity,  but  it 
would  not  be  human  to  suppose  that 
they  would  err  against  the  ship-owner, 
whereas  with  the  cargo  owner,  they 
care  but  little  for  his  criticism.  He 
has  nothing  to  say  with  regard  to  their 
appointment,  and  he  has  no  influence 
with  regard  to  giving  him  the  business 
for  another  year,  so  that  it  is  quite 
possible  for  an  adjuster  to  do  what  he 
thinks  to  be  the  correct  thing,  and  yet 
to  be,  in  a  measure,  an  advocate  for 
the  shipowner. 

It  is  largely  because  of  this  situa- 
tion that  a  great  many  people  who  pay 
general  average  losses  and  sacrifices, 
and  the  very  large  amount  of  expenses 
incident  to  it,  have  for  many  years 
sought  a  way  to  do  away  with  the  cus- 
tom. A  recent  writer  of  considerable 
authority  has  made  the  statement: 
"General  Average  is  a  time  honored 
principle,  and  as  has  been  well  said,  is 
based  upon  natural  justice.  If,  as  it  is 
claimed,  abuses  have  crept  in  its  appli- 
cation, let  us  correct  these  abuses,  but 
to  abolish  the  principal  that  is  based 
upon  natural  law  and  justice,  the  an- 
swer must  be  no/'  Needless  to  say, 
this  authority  was  an  average  adjuster, 
and  there  are  some  average  adjusting 
firms  in  the  United  States  that  get  a 
larger  return  annually  than  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States,  and  when 
such  inducements  are  held  out  to  peo- 
ple, and  when  the  evil  cannot  be  abol- 
ished without  abolishing  a  large  part 
of  the  inducement,  one  does  not  have 
to  think  long  to  reach  me  conclusion 
that  you  must  abolish  both  to  remedy 
the  evils. 

One  of  the  most  important  subjects 
before  the  United  States  to-day  is  the 
desired  increase  of  our  maritime  af- 
fairs. How  can  the  maritime  affairs 
of  the  country  be  increased  when  they 


are  hampered  by  a  great  number  of 
drawbacks  like  these.  Our  material 
makers  and  our  ship  builders  operate 
under  a  protective  tariff  that  is  too 
high.  Our  shipowners  are  not  al- 
lowed to  buy  ships  abroad.  Our  labor 
unions  do  not  permit  competition  in 
labor.  Our  oversea  laws  do  not  per- 
mit us  to  hire  our  seamen  where  we 
can  get  the  best  service  for  the  least 
money,  and  again,  I  say  in  customs 
like  General  Average,  too  much  op- 
portunity is  allowed  for  outrageous 
charges.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  after  a 
General  Average  loss  occurs,  the  ad- 
juster, the  shipowner,  the  printer,  the 
surveyor  and  some  others  who  fatten 
because  of  these  disasters,  usually  get 
from  twenty  to  twenty-five  per  cent  of 
the  total  amount  before  it  is  finally  set- 
tled. The  cargo  owner,  the  ship  owner, 
or  the  underwriters  usually  have  a  lot 
of  their  money  tied  up,  sometimes  in 
the  hands  of  the  shipowner,  but  more 
often  in  the  hands  of  an  adjuster  for  a 
great  number  of  years,  thereby  taking 
large  amounts  of  capital  out  of  cur- 
rent circulation,  and  curtailing  the 
business  of  the  merchant  or  the  under- 
writer who  would  profit  were  his  capi- 
tal available  for  constant  use. 

There  has  recently  been  published  a 
pamphlet  with  a  plan  to  abolish  Gen- 
eral Average  altogether.  The  plan  is 
a  very  simple  one,  which  need  not  nec- 
essarily be  repeated  here,  any  more 
than  to  say  that  the  necessity  of  an 
adjustment  along  the  lines  of  Gen- 
eral Average  is  done  away  with  en- 
tirely through  the  simple  arrangement 
of  having  the  ship,  her  freight,  dis- 
bursements, cargo,  advances,  duties, 
etc.,  all  insured  under  a  single  policy, 
each  underwriter  accepting  the  same 
percentage  of  each  particular  interest, 
thereby  making  it  immaterial  to  him 
on  which  particular  part  a  loss  shall 
have  occurred,  thus  offering  a  way  to 
facilitate  commerce,  to  settle  losses 
within  a  few  weeks  instead  of  years, 
relieve  all  parties  of  the  necessity  of 
tying  up  money,  or  fretting  over  in- 
tricate problems,  based  on  the  laws  of 
antiquity  and  doing  away  with  the  ad- 
justers altogether. 


Conditions  of  Acceptable,  Effective 

Prayer        ; 

By   C.  T.    Russell 

Pastor  New  York,  Washington  and  Cleveland  Temples  and   the 
Brooklyn  and  London  Tabernacles 


"//  ye  abide  in  Me,  and  My  words 
abide  in  you,  ye  shall  ask  what  ye 
will,  and  it  shall  be  done  unto  yon'' — 
John  15:7. 

A  VERY  remarkable  promise  is 
this  text.  It  is  limited  to  cer- 
tain people  under  certain  con- 
ditions. It  does  not  say  that 
anybody  may  ask  what  he  will.  The 
class  that  may  so  ask  are  those  who 
abide  in  Christ.  Before  any  one  can 
abide  in  Christ,  he  must  come  into 
Christ.  No  one  can  be  said  to  abide  in 
Him  who  has  not  come  into  Him  as  a 
member  of  His  body,  the  Church. 
More  and  more  the  Lord's  people  are 
learning  that  a  solemn  transaction 
takes  place  when  one  becomes  a  mem- 
ber of  Christ.  To  say,  "I  have  com- 
panied  with  Christian  people  for  sev- 
eral years,  and  I  go  to  church  every 
Sunday,"  would  not  constitute  one's 
being  in  Christ,  nor  would  simply  say- 
ing, "I  joined  this  or  that  donomina- 
tion  when  a  child,"  or  at  any  later  age. 
None  of  these  steps  would  necessarily 
bring  one  into  Christ. 

When  we  look  over  into  Europe  and 
see  present  conditions  there,  we  have 
an  illustration  of  what  it  is  to  be 
merely  a  church  member.  We  see  that 
in  centuries  past  people  got  a  wrong 
idea  into  their  minds — that  the  Church 
was  to  convert  the  world,  so  as  to  keep 
all  mankind  from  going  to  eternal  tor- 
ment. This  error  was  first  held  by  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church,  and  was 
largely  retained  by  the  Protestants, 
who  later  came  out  from  the  Catholic 


Church,  and  to  whom  much  of  her  er- 
ror adhered.  It  is  very  difficult  to  get 
entirely  out  of  error  all  at  once. 

Let  us  consider  the  facts.  St.  Au- 
gustine, one  of  the  Church  Fathers, 
was  the  one  who  especially  advanced 
the  theory  that  whoever  died  without 
having  been  baptized  in  water  would 
go  to  eternal  torment.  His  ideas  were 
generally  accepted,  and  as  a  result 
infant  baptism  was  practised.  The 
Bishops  had  gotten  the  thought  that 
they  had  the  right  to  make  doctrines 
and  creeds  for  the  Church.  Another 
wrong  idea  that  had  crept  into  the 
Church  was  the  doctrine  that  whoever 
died  outside  of  membership  in  the 
church  organization  would  go  to  end- 
less torture;  but  that  church  members 
would  at  death  go  to  Purgatory  for  a 
longer  or  shorter  time  for  purgation 
— a  condition  far  better  than  that  of  a 
Hell  of  endless  woe.  As  surely  as 
any  one  was  baptized  into  the  Church 
and  buried  in  consecrated  ground,  so 
surely  would  he  escape  Hell  and  be 
safe  in  Purgatory. 

Wrong  Conceptions  are  Injurious. 

This  being  the  general  thought, 
strenuous  efforts  were  made  by  all 
church  members  to  get  all  of  their 
families  and  friends  into  the  Church; 
for  they  did  not  care  to  have  their 
loved  ones  go  to  eternal  torment.  Un- 
der the  influence  of  this  great  error 
nearly  everybody  was  drawn  into  the 
church  organization,  just  as  we  see  it 
over  in  Europe  to-day. 


CONDITIONS  OF  ACCEPTABLE,    EFFECTIVE  PRAYER        345 


All  wish  to  be  right.  Nobody  de- 
sires to  be  wrong.  But  in  the  increas- 
ing light  of  our  day  we  perceive  that 
our  forefathers  had  become  sadly 
confused  respecting  the  true  teachings 
of  the  Bible.  However,  we  do  not 
blame  them;  for  the  Scriptures  place 
the  responsibility  for  the  confusion 
upon  the  Devil,  who  introduced  "doc- 
trines of  demons"  during  the  Dark 
Ages. — 2  Corinthians  4:4;  1  Timothy 
4:1;  Matthew  13:37-41. 

We  all  see  what  these  warring  na- 
tions that  are  supposed  to  be  95  per 
cent  Christian  are  doing.  Each  side 
is  jealous  of  the  other.  And  yet 
both  sides  claim  to  be  almost  all 
Christian.  The  Italians,  however, 
claim  to  be  100  per  cent  Christian. 
Everybody  in  Italy  is  a  Christian.  But 
judging  from  the  conduct  of  some  of 
the  Italians  whom  we  see  here  in 
America,  who  would  know  that  they 
are  all  Christians! 

This  wrong  conception,  this  telling 
people  that  they  are  Christians  when 
they  are  not  Christians,  this  telling 
them  that  they  are  in  the  Church  of 
Christ,  when  they  are  not,  surely  leads 
to  hypocrisy.  The  churches  that  have 
promulgated  these  wrong  theories  do 
not  like  to  tell  the  people  the  truth, 
that  they  are  not  in  the  Church  of 
Christ,  that  no  one  can  get  into  the 
true  Church  except  in  the  way  that 
our  Lord  Jesus  Himself  directed.  In- 
deed, they  are  all  confused.  We  re- 
member that  the  Apostle  Paul  says, 
"If  any  man  have  not  the  Spirit  of 
Christ,  he  is  none  of  His."  (Romans 
8:9.)  Our  Lord  Jesus  declares,  "By 
their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them." 
(Matthew  7:20.)  Look  at  the  fruits 
in  Great  Britain,  in  Germany,  in 
France,  in  Italy,  in  Austria!  Do  we 
see  the  fruits  of  the  Spirit  of  Christ 
there  ? 

Chrisfs  Spirit  Versus  Satan's  Spirit. 

What  are  the  fruits  of  the  Spirit  of 
Christ?  Hear  St.  Paul :  "The  fruit  of 
the  Spirit  is  love,  joy,  peace,  gentle- 
ness, goodness,  faith,  meekness,  self- 
control."  (Galatians  5:22,  23.)  Hear 
also  St.  Peter:  "Giving  all  diligence, 


add  to  your  faith  fortitude,  and  to  for- 
titude knowledge,  and  to  knowledge 
self-control,  and  to  self-control  pa- 
tience, and  to  patience  godliness,  and 
to  godliness  brotherly-kindness,  and 
to  brotherly  kindness  love."  (2  Peter 
1:5-8.)  We  see  very  little  of  these 
fruits  in  Europe  to-day — only  in  a  few 
of  God's  true  saints. 

The  Apostle  Paul  also  tells  us  the 
characteristics  of  the  opposite  spirit. 
He  says,  "The  works  of  the  flesh  are 
manifest,  which  are  these:  .  .  .  ha- 
tred, variance,  emulations,  wrath, 
strife,  envy,  murder,"  etc.  He  did  not 
add  bomb-throwing,  asphyxiation  by 
poisonous  gases  and  other  modern  de- 
'vices  for  killing  and  mangling  our  fel- 
low-men; but  all  this  is  included  with 
murder  and  other  devilishness.  (Ga- 
latians 5:19-21.)  No  savages  ever 
fought  more  viciously  than  do  these 
people  who  are  deceived  into  thinking 
that  they  are  Christians.  They  are 
not  Christians  at  all.  If  ever  we  have 
had  that  idea,  the  sooner  we  get  it 
out  of  our  heads  the  better. 

The  Body  of  Christ  a  Company. 

Our  text  presupposes  that  those  ad- 
dressed have  come  into  Christ.  The 
appropriate  question  is,  How  may 
we  be  sure  that  we  have  come  into 
Christ  ?  One  might  have  much  knowl- 
edge of  Present  Truth  and  yet  not  be 
a  member  of  the  Body  of  Christ.  This 
Body  of  Christ  is  composed  of  saints, 
those  who  are  really  following  Jesus 
in  the  narrow  way.  It  is  a  company, 
a  body,  in  the  same  sense  that  Con- 
gress is  a  body.  There  are  many  mem- 
bers in  the  Body  of  Congress,  all  of 
whom  are  under  a  head.  So  with  the 
Church.  The  Body  of  Christ,  the 
Church,  is  composed  of  many  mem- 
bers, over  whom  God  has  appointed  a 
Head. 

The  head  of  the  Church  is  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.  (Ephesians  1 :22, 
23.)  He  came  first;  and  since  then 
His  members  have  been  gradually 
united  to  Him  throughout  this  Age. 
The  Body  of  Christ  is  now  almost 
completed.  The  Heavenly  Father 
has  done  the  calling  and  the  electing 


346 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


of  this  class.  But  each  individual  who 
is  called  must  make  his  own  calling 
and  election  sure.  The  word  Christ 
means  Anointed.  Long  before  the 
foundation  of  the  world  God  had  pur- 
posed The  Christ — Jesus  the  Head  and 
the  Church  the  Body.  The  Apostle 
tells  us  that  even  our  Lord  Jesus  took 
not  this  honor  unto  himself,  but  that 
He  was  called  of  God. — Hebrews 
5 :4-6. 

King  David  was  called  of  God  to 
an  earthly  kingship.  He  was  a  type  of 
Christ.  There  was  also  an  earthly 
priest,  Aaron,  anointed  of  God.  He  was 
a  type  of  Christ  as  a  sacrificing  priest. 
God  has  anointed  Christ  to  a  still 
higher  Kingship  and  a  still  higher 
priesthood.  In  His  glorified  and  ex- 
alted condition  He  is  "a  Priest  after 
the  Order  of  Melchizedek."  This  Mel- 
chizedek  was  a  grand  character  who 
lived  in  Abraham's  day.  He  was  king 
and  priest  at  the  same  time.  Long, 
long  ago,  God  appointed  Jesus  to  be 
the  Head  of  the  Priesthood  that  was 
typified  by  Melchizedek — a  priest  up- 
on His  Throne.— Psalm  110:4;  He- 
brews 7:11-17. 

When  Jesus  presented  Himself  in 
consecration  to  God  at  Jordan,  and 
was  there  begotten  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 
it  was  for  Him  to  make  His  calling  and 
election  sure  to  the  Readship  of  that 
Priesthood.  He  said,  "I  delight  to 
do  Thy  will,  O  my  God!"  He  gave 
His  life  to  the  doing  of  the  Father's 
will.  He  finished  his  course  grandly, 
faithfully.  The  Apostle,  after  telling 
us  of  our  Lord's  faithfulness  even  un- 
to the  death  of  the  cross,  says, 
"Wherefore,  God  hath  highly  exalted 
Him,  and  given  Him  a  name  that  is 
above  every  name."  (Philippians 
2:8-11.)  Our  Lord  is  now  the  great 
Prophet,  Priest  and  King  after  the 
Order  of  Melchizedek. 

Rigid  Conditions  of  Membership. 

According  to  the  Master's  own  state- 
ment, it  is  necessary  that  He  be  found 
faithful;  otherwise  He  would  have 
forfeited  His  life.  Moreover,  He  was 
to  be  the  Head  of  the  Church,  which 
is  the  Body  of  Christ.  Of  the  Christ 


Body,  the  Apostle  says  that  God,  who 
foreknew  Jesus,  foreknew  the  Church 
also.  He  who  foreknew  Jesus  as  His 
Anointed,  foreknew  that  there  would 
be  a  body  of  a  limited  number  of  mem- 
bers anointed  in  Him.  That  number 
is  given  in  Revelation  as  144,000.  This 
we  believe  to  be  a  literal  number 

Each  one  of  this  class  has  been 
drawn  of  the  Father  through  the 
Truth.  God  has  called  them  in  the 
sense  that  He  has  sent  forth  His  mes- 
sage speaking  peace  through  Jesus 
Christ.  If  we  have  heard  this  mes- 
sage and  have  responded  to  it,  this 
constitutes  our  call.  Nobody  has  been 
forced.  As  that  message  of  Truth  has 
come,  some  have  been  greatly  at- 
tracted, others  have  been  slightly  at- 
tracted, and  others  have  not  been  at- 
tracted at  all.  For  1900  years  God 
has  been  passing  the  Magnet  of  Truth 
up  and  down  the  earth,  to  find  that  par- 
ticular class  which  has  been  drawn 
and  held  by  the  Truth.  Just  as  soon 
as  that  work  is  completed,  another 
work  v/ill  be  inaugurated. 

The  Lord  permits  the  storms  of  life 
to  blow  upon  this  class  which  now  re- 
sponds to  God's  message.  If  these  ex- 
periences blow  any  individual  of  this 
class  off  from  the  magnet,  he  is  not 
of  the  kind  for  whom  God  is  looking. 
He  is  looking  for  those  who  will  stick 
to  the  truth  Despite  any  pressure  that 
may  be  brought  against  them.  He 
permits  trials  and  difficulties  for  the 
developing  and  proving  of  those  who 
have  responded  to  the  call.  These 
testings  will  blow  off  all  who  do  not 
love  the  Lord  and  His  service  above 
all  things  else.  He  purposes  to  sepa- 
rate those  who  are  of  this  true  charac- 
ter from  all  others.  He  seeks  those 
who  are  loyal  of  heart,  and  only  those. 

God  Himself  is  the  one  who  has  the 
attraction.  It  is  not  that  we  first 
loved  Him,  but  that  He  first  loved  us. 
(1  John  4:19.)  It  is  the  love  of  God, 
the  love  of  Christ,  that  binds  us  to 
this  magnet.  God's  wonderful  wis- 
dom, love,  mercy  and  power  have  in- 
deed been  a  magnet  to  our  souls.  The 
more  we  know  Him,  the  more  we  are 
attracted  to  Him.  There  is  something 


CONDITIONS  OF  ACCEPTABLE,    EFFECTIVE  PRAYER         347 


about  the  divine  character  that  is  so 
wonderful  that  nothing  else  can  com- 
pare with  it.  We  are  glad  to  leave  all 
things  else  for  His  sake. 

New  Creatures  in  Christ. 

We  hear  God's  message,  speaking 
peace  through  Christ,  telling  us  that 
we  may  have  forgiveness  of  sins,  tell- 
ing us  that  God  is  now  selecting  a 
special  class  of  people  from  the  world 
for  the  purpose  of  blessing  all  the 
families  of  the  earth.  This  is  the  mes- 
sage that  reaches  our  hearts.  Then 
we  take  the  Apostle's  advice,  and  pre- 
sent our  body  a  living  sacrifice,  our 
reasonable  service.  (Romans  12:1.) 
No  one  has  come  into  the  family  of 
God  who  has  not  done  this.  No  one 
has  become  a  member  of  the  Church 
of  Christ  until  he  has  taken  this  step. 

Our  Lord  Jesus  thus  presented  Him- 
self to  God.  He  said,  "I  came  not  to 
do  mine  own  will,  but  the  will  of  Him 
that  sent  me."  In  one  respect,  how- 
ever, there  was  a  difference  in  His 
case.  He  was  holy,  perfect;  there- 
fore He  needed  no  advocate  with  the 
Father.  But  the  members  of  His  body 
need  the  imputation  of  His  merit  to 
cover  the  blemishes  which  they  have 
by  nature.  His  merit  is  like  a  cov- 
ering robe.  So  we  have  an  advocate 
with  the  Father,  and  it  is  His  advo- 
cacy which  makes  us  acceptable  to 
God.  Thus  we  become  united  to  Christ 
as  joint  sacrificers  with  Himself. 

As  we  are  received,  God  gives  us 
the  begetting  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  This 
constitutes  us  New  Creatures.  Just  as 
an  earthly  begetting  starts  an  earthly 
being,  so  this  spirit  begetting  starts  us 
as  spirit  beings.  Thenceforth,  al- 
though the  flesh  is  of  the  human  nature 
— a  child  of  Adam — the  new  creature 
is  the  germ  of  a  spirit  being,  begotten 
in  the  fleshly  body.  This  new  nature 
is  to  grow  and  develop  until  finally  it 
is  brought  to  the  birth,  in  the  First 
Resurrection. 

God's  Will  Their  Delight. 
It  is  not  that  our  flesh  is  different  or 
that  our  brains  are  different  from  what 
they  were  before;  but  that  with  this 


new  mind  and  this  new  will  our  pur- 
poses and  our  aspirations  are  en- 
tirely different.  We  are  to  be  mem- 
bers of  the  body  of  Christ,  and  are 
to  follow  the  will  of  our  Head  in  every 
particular.  And  so  during  all  the  days 
of  our  life  thenceforth,  we  should  be 
thinking,  "What  is  the  Lord's  will  con- 
cerning me?" 

Those  who  become  New  Creatures 
in  Christ  are  no  longer  to  follow  their 
own  wills.  Whether  they  eat  or  drink, 
or  whatsoever  they  do,  they  are  to  do 
all  to  the  glory  of  God.  The  New 
Creature  is  to  be  guided  by  the  will 
of  the  Lord  and  not  by  his  own  incli- 
nations. But  he  is  not  to  remain  a 
babe.  A  babe  cannot  understand  at 
first  what  its  parents  are  saying  to  it; 
but  a  healthy  babe  will  grow  and  learn 
very  quickly.  If  you  watch  a  babe, 
you  will  observe  that  it  looks  at  its 
parents  to  see  whether  it  may  or  may 
not  do  a  certain  thing.  So. the  child 
of  God  should  always  be  looking  to 
see  what  our  Father  wishes  him  to  do. 
Thus  we  become  dear  children,  as  the 
Apostle  says;  children  whom  God  es- 
pecially loves. 

Now,  then,  we  have  before  our 
minds  the  class  of  whom  our  Lord 
speaks  in  our  text.  Those  who  abide 
in  Him  are  those  who  have  been  be- 
gotten of  the  Spirit,  and  who  are  walk- 
ing in  the  narrow  way.  These  consti- 
tute the  Church  of  the  living  God,  Je- 
sus being  their  Head,  their  Forerun- 
ner and  their  redeemer. 

Conditions  of  Abiding  in  Christ. 

"If  ye  abide  in  Me,  and  My  words 
abide  in  you,  ye  shall  ask  what  ye  will 
and  it  shall  be  done  unto  you,"  is  the 
Master's  promise  to  His  faithful  fol- 
lowers. We  abide  in  Him  by  continu- 
ing as  we  began.  The  Apostle  says, 
"I  beseech  you,  brethren,  by  the  mer- 
cies of  God,  that  ye  present  your  bod- 
ies a  living  sacrifice."  This  applies 
to  us  not  only  when  we  began  our 
Christian  course,  but  every  day  until 
the  end.  We  have  suggested  that  every 
morning  we  make  a  fresh  presentation 
of  ourselves  to  the  Lord,  not  as  mak- 
ing a  new  sacrifice,  but  as  confirming 


348 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


the  one  already  made,  saying  in  effect, 
"My  little  offering  is  still  here;  and  I 
am  hoping  that  it  may  be  used  of  Thee 
to-day  in  some  manner,  that  I  may 
have  some  opportunity  of  laying  down 
my  life  for  the  brethren  and  for  the 
truth,  that  I  may  glorify  ^Thee." 

This  is  the  way  to  abide  in  Him — 
by  keeping  our  contract.  Daily  we 
are  to  grow  in  knowledge,  that  we  may 
continually  have  better  opportunity  to 
make  something  out  of  the  day.  Each 
day,  perhaps,  there  are  fresh  privi- 
leges of  sacrifice. 

If  we  would  have  the  master's  words 
abiding  in  us,  we  must  study  the 
Bible.  This  is  the  only  way  to  know 
what  God  has  said  to  us.  The  Lord 
calls  the  Bible  a  Storehouse.  The 
Master  represents  Himself  as  the  great 
chef  and  servant  of  God's  household, 
who  "brings  forth  things  new  and 
old."  God  provides  for  His  own  more 
and  more  information  on  what  relates 
to  His  purposes,  the  fulfillment  of  pro- 
phecies, etc.  As  time  goes  by,  we  are 


getting  a  better  understanding  of  the 
Bible,  since  the  day  when  we  said 
from  the  heart,  "Thy  will,  not  mine, 
be  done." 

Dear  reader,  let  us  first  make  sure 
that  we  are  in  Christ.  Then  let  us 
abide  in  Him;  let  us  never  even  think 
of  getting  out  of  relationship  to  Him. 
Study  the  Word,  to  know  what  He 
has  promised  and  what  He  has  not 
promised.  Use  all  the  privileges  which 
God  has  granted  to  His  saints.  Who- 
ever faithfully  does  this  may  ask  what 
he  will,  and  rest  assured  that  he  will 
receive  it.  But  those  who  are  thus 
abiding  in  Him  will  ask  chiefly  for 
spiritual  blessings.  They  will  ask 
continually  for  the  Holy  Spirit;  for 
the  Word  declares  that  the  Father  is 
pleased  to  have  His  children  ask  for 
this  gift.  (Luke  11:13.)  This  holy 
influence  will  enable  us  to  develop  the 
fruits  of  the  Holy  Spirit — meekness, 
gentleness,  patience,  brotherly  kind- 
ness, love.  Thus  let  us  daily  grow  in 
His  love  and  grace. 


AT  THE  LINCOLN  A\EA\ORIAL  TEAPLE 

(Hodgenville,  Kentucky.) 

We  raise  this  marble  temple  here 

To  shelter  logs  that  saw  his  birth, 
And  build  with  lasting  stone  for  fear 

This  hut  sink  back  to  common  earth. 
In  words  that  tremble  with  our  love 

We  speak  what  praise  our  hearts  have  power, 
And  pray  that  He  who  rules  above 

May  bless  the  motive  of  this  hour. 

But  yet  we  know  that  God  on  High 

Has  reared  a  temple  nobler  far 
Than  this  we  offer  to  the  sky 

In  puny  rock  and  beam  and  spar. 
Our  structure  is  but  crumbling  stone; 

But  God's  is  built  of  Deathless  Fame; 
And  long  when  Time  has  ruined  our  own, 

Fame's  Temple  will  enshrine  this  name. 


CARL  HOLLIDAY. 


L.  A.  Friedman,  President  and  General  Manager  Rochester  Mines  Company 
and  Seven  Troughs  Coalition  Mining   Company.  — See  407 


A  charming  bit  of  water  pictured  on  the  route. 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


MONTHLY 


BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LXVII 


San  Francisco,  May,  1916 


No.  5 


/Motoring 
Above 

the 

Clouds 
on  the 
Summit 

of 
Pike's  Peak 

By 
N.  L.  Drew 


AGAIN  have  the  eyes  of  motor- 
dom  turned  westward  to  the 
Nation's  Playground  to  witness 
the  virtual  completion  of    the 
Pike's  Peak  Auto  Highway,    highest 
and  most  wonderful  of  the  earth's  mo- 
tor roads.     The  road  is  wonderful  in 
its   marvelous   engineering   triumphs; 
wonderful  in  that  it  reaches  into  the 


clouds  14,109  feet  above  the  sea,  and 
still  more  wonderful  in  the  magnifi- 
cence of  its  scenery.  Climbing  as  it 
does  the  north  or  precipitous  side  of 
the  mountain,  every  mile  is  crowded 
with  scenic  interest,  and  from  its  ter- 
minus more  miles  of  mountain  and 
plain  are  visible  than  from  any  other 
point  on  the  globe  reached  by  automo- 


On  the  highest  motor  road  in  America,  13,000  feet  elevation. 


bile.  Sixty  thousand  square  miles  in 
one  vast  limitless  view,  with  a  down- 
ward sweep  to  a  greater  depth  than  the 
Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona;  8,109  feet 
from  the  snow  clad  summit  to  the  roll- 
ing plain  below ;  while  indented  on  the 
western  sky  are  a  thousand  pallid  mon- 
sters of  the  Rockies,  sublime  in  their 
massive  grandeur.  Long  has  Colorado 
Springs  dreamed  of  such  a  road.  Many 
efforts  were  made  to  have  it  built,  but 
owing  to  the  tremendous  obstacles  its 
construction  presented,  all  were  fail- 
ures. At  last,  realizing  the  great  im- 
portance that  such  a  road  would  be  to 
Colorado,  Eugene  A.  Sunderlin,  of  Col- 
orado Springs,  a  prominent  railway  ex- 
ecutive, who  at  one  time  had  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  the  youngest  railway 
president  in  the  United  States,  set 
about  over  a  year  ago  to  overcome 
these  obstacles.  Consultations  were 
had  with  City,  County  and  State  au- 
thorities, which  resulted  in  a  petition 


being  made  to  the  United  States  For- 
est Service  for  a  permit  for  a  toll  road 
through  the  Pike  National  Forest  re- 
serve. The  Department,  finding  pub- 
lic sentiment  unanimously  in  its  favor, 
granted  the  permit  without  delay. 
Pledges  of  financial  support  were  se- 
cured from  Spencer  Penrose,  promi- 
nent in  financial  affairs  of  Colorado, 
Charles  M.  MacNeill,  copper  mag- 
nate of  New  York  and  Colorado 
Springs,  William  A.  Otis,  investment 
banker  of  the  city,  Albert  E.  Carleton, 
Cripple  Creek  mining  man,  and  other 
public  spirited  citizens  who  were  will- 
ing to  give  of  their  gold  to  promote 
the  welfare  of  the  community  in  which 
they  lived;  thus  in  May  of  the  present 
year  the  titanic  undertaking  was  be- 
gun under  the  personal  direction  of  Mr. 
Sunderlin,  its  builder.  His  specifica- 
tions were  not  merely  for  an  ordinary 
road,  but  a  double  track  mountain  bou- 
levard wide  enough  that  two  machines 


A  touch  of  snow  early  in  the  fall. 


Near  ing  civilization. 


Following  a  river  course  for  a  change. 


might  go  abreast  or  pass  at  any  point 
from  its  beginning  to  end.  "Safety 
First"  was  the  keynote  of  construction 
— and  lastly,  but  of  prime  importance 
— the  grade  was  not  to  exceed  10  per 
cent.  Construction  camps  were  estab- 
lished every  mile  or  so.  Experienced 
rock  workers  and  tons  and  tons  of  pow- 
der were  brought  in  to  force  the  way 
through  fields  of  massive  boulders 
and  up  the  sheer  granite  walls  of  the 
Peak.  Nearly  a  carload  of  high  ex- 
plosives were  required  for  each  mile 
of  road.  Finishing  gangs  with  wide- 
tired  Good  Roads  trucks  followed  in 
their  wake  to  pack  and  smooth  the 
surface.  What  sort  of  a  road  has  this 
builder  built?  Not  only  has  it  been 
made  double  track  all  the  way,  but 
three  and  four  machines  may  go 
abreast  at  many  points.  Wide  pull-outs 
are  provided  at  the  more  interesting 
points  for  rest  and  an  uninterrupted 


view  of  the  magnificent  scenery.  The 
grade  has  been  held  to  an  average  of 
6  per  cent  with  a  maximum  of  10  per 
cent,  so  that  any  machine  may  climb 
to  the  summit  with  comparative  ease. 
All  the  sharpest  curves  are  26  to  50 
feet  wide  and  super-elevated.  Ma- 
sonry parapet  and  curve  guard  rail 
walls  are  provided  where  needed. 
Staunch  bridges  of  reinforced  con- 
crete of  the  ballasted  deck  type  are 
located  on  tangents  only,  and  may  be 
seen  300  feet  away.  The  minimum 
sight  distance  is  200  feet,  except  in  two 
places  where  but  125  feet  could  be  ob- 
tained. The  average  is  400  feet.  Sur- 
face ditches  are  dug  continuously  on 
the  upper  edge,  with  Armco  pipe  cul- 
verts set  in  concrete  headings  to  carry 
the  water  away.  Up  to  date  gravity  or 
wind  mill  tank  and  hose  water  stations 
are  spaced  every  third  mile  with  au- 
tomobile supply  stations  at  convenient 


* 


• 


f 


358 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


points.  Local  and  long  distance  tele- 
phone stations  afford  communication 
with  the  outside  world.  The  cross  sec- 
tion of  the  road  is  a  parabolic  curve, 
and  surface  material  is  nearly  all  of  a 
disintegrated  granite  formation,  which 
packs  down  to  a  hard,  smooth  surface 
exceptionally  easy  on  tires.  Each  mile 
with  its  elevation  is  announced  by 
metal  sign  posts.  Each  curve  has  its 
signal.  It  is  also  the  intention  to  build 
a  beautiful  Swiss  chalet  at  Glen  Cove, 
a  natural  amphitheatre  near  timber- 
line  in  mile  11,  where  the  traveler  may 
enjoy  the  solitude  of  the  mountains  and 
drink  of  the  cold,  pure  water  that 
gushes  out  of  the  rock  walled  side  of 
the  mountain.  Any  one  may  drive  his 
own  machine  to  the  summit,  and  in 
addition,  a  large  fleet  of  automobiles 
have  been  provided  to  carry  tourists 
from  Colorado  Springs  and  Manitou. 
The  round  trip  can  be  made  in  five 
hours.  The  new  highway  offers  ideal 
conditions  for  a  "Supreme  Hill  Climb- 
ing" test,  and  plans  are  already  under 
way  for  such  a  contest  to  be  held  next 
year.  Substantial  prizes  have  been 
pledged,  one  being  a  $1,000  cup  do- 
nated by  Mr.  Spencer  Penrose.  The 
route  from  Colorado  Springs  is  by  way 
of  the  far  famed  Garden  of  the  Gods 
to  Manitou;  thence  up  historic  Ute 
Pass  to  Cascade,  12  miles  west  of 
Colorado  Springs,  starting  point  of  the 
Pike's  Peak  Highway.  From  here 
the  18  mile  motor  trip  to  the  summit 
has  a  perpendicular  rise  of  6,694  feet. 
Miles  1  and  2  wind  up  the  forested 
side  of  Cascade  Mountain  to  Observa- 
tion Point,  then  along  Cascade  Creek 


through  picturesque  scenes  to  Crystal 
Creek  summit,  and  on  to  its  headwaters 
in  miles  7  and  8.  Glen  Cove  is  reached 
rby  skirting  the  front  range,  where  con- 
tact is  made  with  the  granite  walls  of 
the  Peak.  Timberline  is  reached  just 
beyond  Glen  Cove,  where  the  ascent 
of  the  mountain's  rocky  cliff  begins. 
Up  and  up  in  ten  swings,  reaching 
the  crest  of  the  Rampart  range  in  mile 
14,  at  an  elevation  of  13,000  feet,  but 
so  easy  has  been  the  rise  that  one 
scarcely  realizes  he  has  motored  to  the 
top  of  the  world.  What  a  magnificent 
vision  greets  the  eye!  South,  west 
and  north  are  300  miles  of  giant  peaks 
mantled  with  eternal  snows.  East- 
ward the  billowy  plain  rolls  far  out  into 
Kansas,  while  below,  mile  upon  mile 
of  the  Highway  winds  gracefully  up 
through  the  National  Forest,  whose 
towering  pines,  from  this  altitude, 
seem  but  blades  of  grass.  Down  be- 
low on  the  eastward  side,  Colorado 
Springs  is  seen  as  a  checkerboard  on 
the  edge  of  the  plain  and  directly  be- 
neath on  the  west,  the  great  Cripple 
Creek  mining  district  appears  no 
larger  than  your  car.  A  tiny  lake;  a 
speck  of  a  farm  or  a  mountain  town 
are  scattered  here  and  there  like  dots, 
in  the  blackness  of  the  forest.  The 
course  now  follows  the  backbone  of 
the  continent  on  nearly  level  grades  to 
mile  17,  the  last  pull  to  the  rock- 
strewn  summit,  three  miles  high.  Such 
is  the  Pike's  Peak  Auto  Highway, 
highest  and  most  wonderful  of  the 
earth's  motor  roads.  Long  will  it  stand 
as  a  monument  to  the  genius  and  pluck 
of  its  builder. 


Maud  Meagher,  author  of  1916  Partheneia  "Aranyani  of  the  Jasmine  Vine." 

The  Partheneia  of  the  University  of 

California 

By  Jean  Q.  Watson  and  Frances  L.  Brown 


THERE     are    many  who  yearly 
journey  far  to  see  the  Parthe- 
neia, the  masque    of    woman- 
hood, under  the  live  oaks   in 
Faculty  Glade  on  the  University  of 
California  campus,  and  who  find  in  it 
something  of  rare  beauty,  a  genuine 
expression  of  the  ideals  of  the  college 
woman,   an   expression  unmarred  by 
adherence  to  precedent  and  untouched 
by  influences  without  its  own  circle. 
The  Partheneia  is  as  the  college  wo- 


man makes  it,  and  to  it  she  gives  her 
best.  In  an  institution  in  which  the 
activities  are  largely  conducted  by 
men  the  dominating  interest  being  ath- 
letics, women  have  little  opportunity 
for  the  portrayal  of  ideals.  The  Par- 
theneia is  the  one  event  of  the  year 
wholly  devoted  to  women  in  which 
their  ideas  find  untrammeled  vent  in 
the  writing,  managing,  costuming  and 
producing  of  the  masque — the  concrete 
presentation  of  their  ideals.  As  the 


CO 

CJ 

t 


fril 


THE  PARTHENEIA  OF  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


361 


Athletic  Rally  is  the  spontaneous  out- 
burst of  virile  college  manhood,  so  the 
Partheneia  is  the  naive  revelation  of 
the  spirit  of  womanhood. 

The  theme  of  the  Partheneia  is  the 
transition  of  girlhood  to  womanhood, 
the  first  realization  of  the  maiden  that 
she  has  passed  from  the  carefree 
realm  of  childhood  and  must  now  as- 
sume the  responsibilities  of  woman- 
hood and  the  consequent  joys  and  sor- 
rows. Character  development  of  the 
maiden  who  takes  the  leading  part  is 
one  of  the  essential  phases  of  this 
spring  measure.  It  is  this  develop- 
ment, and  by  what  means  accom- 
plished, which  forms  the  plot  of  the 
Partheneia.  An  important  character- 
istic is  the  close  connection  between 
the  human  and  the  natural  worlds  with 
the  addition  of  the  imaginative,  the 
diminutive  fairies  and  fays.  The  al- 
legory always  draws  largely  from  na- 
ture and  her  storehouse.  The  sylvan 
setting  of  Faculty  Glade  bounded  by 
the  sparkling  brook  invites  elfin  folk 
— Pan,  wood  nymphs,  water  lily 
sprites,  dryads  and  fairies.  In  every 
Partheneia  nature  plays  an  important 
part  not  only  as  the  setting — for  the 
masque  is  always  given  out-of-doors 
and  the  audience  is  seated  on  the 
greensward  of  the  natural  amphithea- 
tre— but  in  the  interpretative  dancing 
groups.  The  weather  moods  are  in- 
terpreted by  dancing  choruses  dressed 
in  colors  suited  to  the  season  repre- 
sented, flitting  over  the  grass  in  move- 
ment with  the  music  of  many  musi- 
cians. 

"Aranyani  of  the  Jasmine  Vine," 
written  by  Maude-  Meagher,  a  San 
Francisco  girl  registered  as  a  Junior, 
has  been  the  scenario  chosen  for  pre- 
sentation by  the  college  woman  in 
April  on  the  campus  fresh  with  spring 
growth.  The  setting,  character  and 
atmosphere  are  Hindu  and  differ  de- 
cidedly from  all  former  productions 
except  in  the  general  theme.  Miss 
Catherine  Urner,  a  student  in  the  mu- 
sic department,  has  composed  several 
musical  episodes  and  song  accompani- 
ments for  the  Partheneia.  Her  com- 
positions are  of  great  creative  value 


Dorothy  Epping,  who  took  a  leading 

part  in  the  1915  Partheneia,  and  is  in 

charge  of  designing  the  costumes 

for  the  1916  Partheneia. 


362 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


and  marked  originality,  according  to 
musical  critics. 

The  leading  role  of  "Aranyani  of  the 
Jasmine  Vine"  is  the  character,  Aran- 
yani, who  lives  with  her  hermit  father 
deep  in  the  dense  forest.  Her  only 
friend  is  Girija,  whom  she  has  known 
from  boyhood.  Into  this  woodland  se- 
clusion rides  Wasuki,  the  prince,  who 
has  lost  his  way  while  hunting  in  the 
forest.  He  persuades  Aranyani  to  go 
to  the  Oriental  court  with  him  and  his 
gay,  luxuriously  dressed  followers.  In 
the  second  episode  the  forest  is  deso- 
late and  the  vine  covered  home  sadly 
lacking  the  care  of  Aranyani.  The 
father  and  Girija  are  saddened  and 
unhappy,  and  even  the  forest  and  birds 
seem  to  yearn  for  Aranyani.  In  the 
midst  of  this  loneliness  comes  Aran- 
yani laden  with  the  jewels  and  dress 
of  court,  but  sick  at  heart  with  the  ar- 
tificial life  she  has  been  living.  The 
courtiers  pursue  her  mockingly.  The 
Prince's  jailer,  Ghaiwi,  the  hideous 
dwarf  personifying  fear,  attempts  to 
seize  her  and  drag  her  back  to  court 
when  their  persuasions  fail.  Girija, 
not  recognizing  his  former  playmate, 
springs  to  her  aid  and  drives  away  her 
tormentors.  But  as  he  turns  again  to 
Aranyani  he  recognizes  her  despite 
the  transformation  wrought  by  her 
stay  in  court.  Then  in  the  words  of 
the  Partheneia,  "Girija  puts  out  his 
arms  pitifully  and  wearily,  and  she 
moves  into  them  with  a  little  weary 
gesture." 

The  pageant  is  in  two  episodes  sep- 
arated by  an  intermission  filled  with 
dances  symbolic  of  the  passing  of  the 
year,  and  affords  excellent  opportunity 
for  unusual  and  striking  costume  ef- 
fects. The  principal  dances  for  the 
interlude  are :  Sprites  of  Spring ;  Sum- 
mer and  Autumn;  and  the  group  por- 
traying Winter  are:  Gray  Clouds; 
Lightning  Flashes  and  Rain  Spirits. 

Miss  Meagher  will  graduate  from 
the  University  in  May,  1917,  taking 
her  bachelor  degree  in  the  College  of 
Letters  and  Sciences,  She  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Prytapean,  the  upper  class 
women's  honor  society,  and  of  the  Eng- 
lish club.  Miss  Meagher  took  the  part 


of  Margot,  the  leading  role  in  the  1915 
Partheneia,  "The  Queen's  Masque," 
which  required  a  delicacy  of  interpre- 
tation and  a  portrayal  of  emotion  in  the 
character  that  well  fitted  her  for  writ- 
ing a  Partheneia. 

As  the  name  suggests,  Partheneia 
means  the  Spirit  of  Young  Woman- 
hood, and  is  of  Greek  derivation.  The 
Partheneia  was  begun  in  1912  in  the 
form  of  a  masque  with  interpretative 
music  and  dancing.  The  whole  pre- 
sentation was  to  be  the  sole  work  of 
women.  Professor  Lucy  Sprague,  for- 
merly Dean  of  Women,  was  desirous 
that  the  women  of  California  should 
give  an  annual  pageant  that  should 
represent  their  highest  ideals.  From 
this  conception  there  originated  in 
1912  the  institution  of  the  Partheneia. 
The  scenario  of  Miss  Anna  Reardon, 
senior  in  the  College  of  Letters,  was 
chosen  for  the  first  Partheneia.  It  was 
called  a  "Masque  of  Maidenhood." 

The  second  Partheneia  given  in  1913 
was  written  by  Miss  Evelyn  Steel,  also 
a  senior  in  the  College  of  Letters.  Her 
production,  "The  Awakening  of  Every 
Maid,"  was  staged  by  Miss  Mayde 
Hatch  of  Wellesley  College.  Miss 
Helen  Cornelius  wrote  the  1914  Par- 
theneia called  "The  Dream  of  Dei- 
dre."  This  Celtic  masque  was  staged 
by  Dr.  H.  E.  Corey.  For  the  past 
two  years  Dean  Lucy  Ward  Stebbins 
and  Dr.  Corey  have  been  active  ad- 
visors in  the  production  of  the  Parthe- 
neias. 

"The  Queen's  Masque,"  written  by 
Miss  Mary  Van  Orden,  '06,  was  pre- 
sented last  April  and  repeated  in  Au- 
gust under  the  direction  of  Porter 
Garnet.  Vinnie  Robinson,  '15,  was 
the  student  manager. 

This  year's  masque  will  be  one  of 
the  largest  dramatic  presentations 
ever  undertaken  by  any  university. 
The  dramatic  side  alone  will  call  for 
five  hundred  women,  and  the  executive 
side  will  demand  the  services  of  the 
entire  feminine  part  of  the  university. 
Many  nimble  fingers  and  clever  brains 
are  needed  to  design,  cut  and  create 
appropriate  costumes  for  the  five  hun- 
dred participants,  so  that  the  dancing 


364 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


groups  will  be  banked  against  the 
background  of  greenery  in  masses  of 
delicate  color.  Financially,  the  Par- 
theneias  have  always  been  success- 
ful, though  the  total  expenditure 
reaches  approximately  $2,000.  The 
Associated  Women  Students  advance 
the  money  necessary  for  the  fall  se- 
mester. In  this  way  the  Partheneia 
becomes  not  the  vehicle  for  the  ex- 
pression of  a  few  talented  actresses, 
but  the  pageant  of  all  the  women  in 
which  all  have  a  share. 

Costume  designing  is  one  of  the 
most  artistic  features  of  this  year's 
pageant,  and  is  being  directed  by  Miss 
Dorothy  Epping,  also  a  Junior,  and 
registered  in  the  College  of  Architec- 
ture. The  "Butterfly  Dance"  is  one  of 
the  principal  dancing  choruses,  and  in 
order  to  get  the  proper  realistic  touch, 
Miss  Epping  is  studying  the  butter- 
flies on  exhibit  in  the  cases  of  the  Ag- 
ricultural Department.  From  their 
anatomy  will  come  the  lines,  coloring 
and  general  plan  of  the  costumes  to  be 
worn  by  the  thirty  or  forty  dancers  in 
"The  Butterfly"  episode.  Miss  Ep- 
ping will  sketch  the  costume  which 
will  be  turned  over  to  the  costume  ex- 
ecutive committee,  who  will  cut  and 
sew  and  fit  and  match  materials  until 
all  the  butterfly  wings  and  drapery 
are  ready  for  human  wear. 

The  costumes  of  those  in  the  masque 
will  be  Oriental,  and  in  order  to  cre- 
ate costumes  as  nearly  those  actually 
worn  in  India,  Miss  Epping  and  her 
committee  are  searching  the  library 
for  books  and  illustrations  regarding 
Oriental  costume.  The  costumes  will 
vary  from  those  of  an  ornate,  extrava- 
gant court  to  those  of  the  hermit  and 
of  Girija,  the  humble  forest  dwellers. 
It  is  truly  marvelous  how  the  women 
of  the  University  can  contrive  robes 
of  royalty  from  cheese  cloth  and  silk- 
olene.  If  the  right  color  for  a  costume 


cannot  be  secured  at  the  shops,  one 
corner  of  Hearst  Hall,  the  women's 
gymnasium,  is  turned  into  a  dyeing  es- 
tablishment and  experiments  are  tried 
until  the  desired  color  is  at  last  pro- 
duced. 

Nor  does  the  creative  work  stop 
merely  with  the  characters.  There 
still  remains  the  setting.  A  hut  and 
fountain,  vine  covered,  must  be  built 
in  Faculty  Glade,  and  long,  interwo- 
ven strands  of  vines  must  run  in  thick 
ropes  from  tree  to  tree.  Flowers  of 
India  must  be  made  by  the  girls  in 
sororities  and  clubs  as  they  sit  around 
the  fire  after  dinner,  and  must  be 
placed  in  the  Glade  along  the  creek 
bank.  Trappings  must  be  made  for 
the  horses  and  ornaments  for  the  bri- 
dles. Properties,  scenery  and  cos- 
tumes are  all  produced  by  the  women. 

The  Partheneia  is  important  in  that 
it  is  one  of  the  few  real  folk  perform- 
ances of  the  country.  It  is  a  pageant 
in  which  all  the  three  thousand  women 
have  an  opportunity  to  share,  and 
which,  though  produced  entirely  by 
women,  has  always  been  successful  in 
an  artistic  and  financial  way.  It  is  rich 
in  youth  and  happiness,  replete  with 
blending  colors  and  harmonious  with 
music  of  voice  and  instrument.  To  the 
poetry  of  setting  and  of  word  is  added 
the  rhythm  of  movement.  The  danc- 
ing groups  flitting  across  the  sward 
joying  in  the  very  movement  of  the 
dance,  are  pleasing  sights  in  a  com- 
mercial world. 

The  undergraduate  college  man 
scorns  the  Partheneia  and  would  at- 
tend only  under  compulsion.  Yet  he 
manifests  enough  interest  to  climb  in 
the  oaks  and  sit  there  during  one  long 
afternoon  of  the  final  dress  rehearsal. 
The  idealism  and  the  allegory  seem  to 
frighten  man  away,  his  idea  of  a  worth 
while  presentation  being  a  well- 
matched  football  game. 


Takeshi  Kanno  as  Sagano,  Gertrude  Boyle  Kanno  as  Saarashi,  in  the  for- 
mer's play,  "Creation  Dawn,"  performed  at    Carmel-by-th  e-Sea,    Monterey 
County,  California,  in  the  summer  of   1913.    Mrs.  Kanno  represents  an  astral 
shape,  hence  the  veil  she  wears. 


A  California  Sculptress 


By  Aarian  Taylor 


THE  Panama-Pacific  International 
Exposition  gave  great  impetus 
to  the  art  of  California,  not  so 
much  through  the  presentation 
of  work  from  other  lands,  as  by  the 
rousing  of  appreciation  for  that  which 
we  already  have  in  the  work  of  our 
own  artists — work  that  we  believe  will 
not  suffer  by  comparison. 

It  is  a  trite  saying  that  "a  prophet  is 
not  without  honor  save  in  his  own 
country,"  but,  nevertheless,  it  is  la- 


mentably true.  We  find  it  verified  in 
the  domain  of  literature  as  well  as  in 
that  of  art.  For  instance,  the  editor  of 
the  London  "Outlook"  sent  posters  all 
over  England  calling  attention  to  Ina 
Coolbrith  and  stating  that  her  volume, 
"Songs  of  the  Golden  Gate,"  placed 
her  in  the  front  rank  of  poets;  yet 
California  does  not  pay  her  the  defer- 
ence due  her  genius.  Again,  Joaquin 
Miller  fairly  electrified  other  lands  by 
the  riches  of  his  poetic  imagery,  and 


Medallion  of  John  Muir 


Cast  of  Mrs.  Susan  Mills 


yet,  Oakland — where  he  lived  for  over 
a  quarter  of  a  century — is  as  slow  to 
take  him  at  his  true  valuation  as  is 
San  Francisco  to  honor  the  woman 
who  helped  to  lay  the  foundation  of 
Western  literature. 

And,  in  the  realm  of  art,  we  have 
Gertrude  Boyle  Kanno,  who,  though 
lauded  by  critics  from  abroad,  seems 
to  be  very  largely  overlooked  because 
— as  one  writer  aptly  puts  it,  "she  does 
not  come  to  us  with  the  Paris  stamp 
upon  her."  She  herself,  however,  has 
great  faith  in  the  Golden  State,  would 
it  only  rise  to  its  great  opportunity.  To 
quote  her : 

"California  is  prolific  in  its  birth  of 
art,  but  a  poor  place  for  it  to  thrive  in. 
It  is  slow  to  recognize  originality,  and 
must  ever  wait  for  the  approval  of 
others.  I  believe  it  could  lead  the 
world  in  art  would  it  only  nourish  that 
which  it  is  capable  of  giving  birth  to." 

And  surely,  originality  and  uncon- 
ventionality  are  her  hand-maidens  in 
her  own  work.  A  New  York  artist  who 
has  recently  settled  here,  an  instructor 
at  Pratt  Institute  for  many  years,  calls 
her  "the  Rodin  of  the  West,"  on  ac- 


count of  her  creative  capacity;  and,  if 
she  may  be  said  to  model  after  any  one 
it  is  that  great  master  of  sculpture. 
Her  visit  to  the  World's  Fair  at  St. 
Louis  some  years  ago,  saw,  indeed,  the 
birth  of  a  soul,  for  it  was  there  and 
then  that,  gazing  at  the  works  of  Ro- 
din, she  felt  the  following  message 
communicated  to  her:  "Go  home  and 
get  it  out  of  yourself.  Europe  cannot 
give  it  to  you.  Nature  and  spirit  are 
everywhere,  Go  home.  Go  West,  for 
the  West  is  as  yet  untrammeled  in  art." 

And  so  the  spirit  which  pervades  life 
— life  with  its  symbolisms,  its  myster- 
ies, its  yearnings,  its  struggles  and 
philosophies — became  her  guide  and 
inspiration.  Avoiding  the  beaten 
paths,  scorning  imitation,  absolutely 
above  commercialism,  she  ever  abides 
by  her  ideals  and  convictions,  whether 
they  be  in  conformity  with  those  of 
others  or  not. 

From  childhood,  Gertrude  Boyle 
gave  evidence  of  unusual  talent.  It 
seemed  second  nature  for  her  to  take 
a  shapeless  lump  of  clay  and  mould  it 
into  a  thing  of  beauty.  As  time 
passed,  she  became  a  diligent  student 


A  CALIFORNIA  SCULPTRESS 


367 


at  the  Mark  Hopkins'  Institute  of  Art, 
under  Arthur  Matthews  and  Douglas 
Tilden.  A  prominent  divine  of  San 
Francisco  wished  to  raise  money  to 
send  her  abroad  for  advanced  study, 
but  she  refused  the  offer,  preferring  to 
be  free  and  inspirational  in  her  art, 
which  she  felt  she  could  scarcely  be 
were  she  the  protege  of  others. 

And  therein  is  revealed  her  genius 
that,  without  foreign  training,  without 
even  the  stimulus  of  a  trip  to  the  art 
centers  of  the  world,  her  work  shows 
such  power  and  breadth.  Those  fa- 
miliar with  the  treasures  of  the  Louvre 


she  would  have  assuredly  become  a 
notable  writer.  Of  cultured  Anglo- 
Irish-Canadian  parentage,  Gertrude 
Farquharson  Boyle  was  born  in  San 
Francisco,  where  her  mother  was  a 
teacher  in  the  Girls'  High  School.  Her 
maternal  grandmother  also  taught — 
mathematics  and  literature — in  the 
same  school,  retaining  her  position  un- 
til she  reached  the  advanced  age  of 
seventy-five  years,  previous  to  which 
she  had  been  Dean  of  the  Training 
School  for  Teachers  at  Toronto,  Can- 
ada. 

Since  launching  on  her  career  as  a 


This  poster  figure  is  considered  one  of  the  most  lyrical  drawings  of  Miss 

Gertrude  Boyle  Kanno 


and  the  masterpieces  of  Italy  pay  tri- 
bute to  this  gifted  Native  Daughter. 
As  a  Florentine  sculptor  very  naively 
said:  "Her  work  has  the  juice  in  it." 
The  elusive  something  that  vitalizes 
inanimate  clay  when  handled  by  one 
who  goes  direct  to  the  elemental  for 
inspiration. 

Perhaps  this  is  best  explained  by 
the  fact  that  her  mentality  is  of  a 
high  order.  Her  pen  even  shows  the 
lightning  stroke  of  power,  and  had  she 
not  been  destined  to  be  a  sculptress, 


sculptress,  the  artist  has  been  par- 
ticularly successful  in  her  delineation 
of  celebrated  people;  her  work  in  this 
direction  embracing  such  names  of 
national  renown  as  General  Fremont, 
Joaquin  Miller,  Luther  Burbank,  John 
Muir,  William  Keith,  Professor  Le 
Conte,  Mrs.  Susan  Mills — founder  of 
the  only  Woman's  College  in  Califor- 
nia— David  Starr  Jordan  and  others. 

The  bust  of  Fremont  adorns  the 
High  School  named  after  the  great  sol- 
dier who,  sighting  the  narrow  strait 


368 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


connecting  the  San  Francisco  Bay  with 
the  waters  of  the  Pacific,  gave  it  the 
inspired  name  "Golden  Gate,"  that  has 
made  us  famous  throughout  the  world. 
The  Le  Conte  bust  may  be  found  in 
the  library  of  the  University  of  Cali- 
fornia. 

The  Keith  bust  will  finally  find  its 
place  beneath  the  oaks  of  the  Berkeley 
campus,  and  is  considered  a  fine  in- 
terpretation of  personality.  One  of  the 
heads  of  the  American  Academy  of 
Design,  New  York,  said  he  never  saw 
such  life  in  sculptured  eyes  as  in  this 
piece  of  work,  and  urged  the  artist  to 
send  it  East;  she,  however,  feeling  it 
belonged  to  the  West,  refused  to  do  so. 

About  nine  years  ago,  Joaquin  Mil- 
ler sent  for  this  gifted  woman  to  model 
a  bust  of  his  mother  for  the  Univer- 
sity of  Oregon.  That  accomplished, 
she  married  the  poet-philosopher, 
Takeshi  Kanno,  and  with  him  became 
a  permanent  part  of  the  small  but  lit- 
erary and  artistic  colony  of  "The 
Rights. "  Hence,  she  had  opportuni- 
ties for  a  life  study  of  the  Poet  of  the 
Sierras  not  possible  to  others,  and  the 
result  may  be  seen  in  two  very  fine  re- 
productions of  him.  One  the  artist 
calls  "The  Spirit  of  the  West,"  and— 
catching  his  expression  at  the  vital 
moment  when  he  was  fighting  a  fire  in 
the  hills — it  breathes  of  elemental 
force  and  power.  The  later  bust  pre- 
sents him  in  his  familiar  sombrero,  and 
its  fidelity  to  life  is  truly  remarkable. 

Just  now  most  interest  attaches  to 
the  artist's  modeling  of  the  recently 
deceased  great  naturalist,  which  came 
to  pass  in  the  following  way: 

About  ten  years  ago  a  member  of 
the  staff  of  the  Overland  Monthly 
suggested  to  her  that  she  model  John 
Muir,  and  carrying  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion from  that  gentleman,  she  went  to 
the  Muir  ranch  in  the  Alhambra  Val- 
ley, near  Martinez,  where  arrange- 
ments were  made  for  future  sittings. 
The  work  was  done,  however,  at  the 
adjoining  ranch  house  of  their  mutual 
friend,  John  Swett,  pioneer  educator 
and  first  Superintendent  of  Public 
Schools  of  California.  The  Boyles 
and  Swetts  were  such  old  time  friends, 


in  fact,  that  the  latter  took  a  personal 
interest  in  the  young  artist. 

Gertrude  Boyle  secured  what  John 
Swett  called  "a  happy  likeness,"  and 
she  has  the  distinction  of  being  the 
only  sculptor  to  have  made  a  life  study 
of  this  man,  so  greatly  beloved.  Her 
portrayal  reveals  all  the  ruggedness 
of  the  mountaineer,  and  yet  a  rugged- 
ness  spiritualized  into  something  in- 
finitely fine  by  the  vision  of  the  seer. 

This  noble  bronze  was  in  the  Acad- 
emy of  Sciences,  San  Francisco,  but 
was  destroyed  by  the  fire  of  1906.  For- 
tunately it  was  a  copy  only,  and  the 
original  still  remains.  While  the  bust 
breathes  of  life  in  the  open,  a  medal- 
lion executed  about  the  same  time  por- 
trays the  naturalist  more  as  the  man 
of  letters,  a  recounter  of  the  wonder- 
ful things  revealed  to  him  by  nature  in 
all  its  phases.  Charming  to  relate,  it 
was  his  neighbor  and  friend,  John 
Swett,  who  first  suggested  to  him  that 
he  put  on  paper  the  thrilling  stories  he 
told  so  well;  and  for  that  the  world 
owes  the  California  educator  a  lasting 
debt  of  gratitude. 

While  modeling  the  man  of  ^the 
mountains,  the  artist  became  inspired 
by  him  to  seek  more  of  the  out  door 
life.  He  saw  the  risk  to  health  of  an 
undue  absorption  in  art;  therefore,  he 
emphasized  the  necessity  of  being  in 
the  air  as  much  as  possible;  and  with 
that  in  view,  volunteered  to  make  her 
a  member  of  the  Sierra  Club — of 
which  he  was  the  founder. 

For  over  a  year  the  idea  has  been 
entertained  of  placing  this  bronze  bust 
— or  a  life  size  statue  of  Muir — in  the 
Muir  Woods,  but  since  his  death  that 
idea  may  be  merged  into  the  larger 
one  of  a  memorial  in  the  Yosemite 
Valley. 

The  artist's  smaller  pieces  include  a 
very  unique  candlestick  which  she  fe- 
licitously calls  "The  Spirit  of  the 
Flame,"  and  which  portrays  the 
shadowy  forms  of  two  women — the 
new  San  Francisco  rising  from  the 
ashes  of  the  old — the  upper  figure 
holding  aloft  the  deathless  flame  of 
faith  and  courage. 

She  has  also  a  striking  model  called 


A  CALIFORNIA  SCULPTRESS 


369 


"Self-bound."  A  woman  with  hands 
bound  behind  her  striving  in  vain  to 
advance.  A  Rodinesque  piece  is  her 
"Love-Dream,"  which  recalls  the  much 
talked  of  "Love  and  Psyche"  of  the 
great  master;  but,  for  a  heart  appeal 
we  would  select  "The  Broken  Wing." 
This  touching  model  she  executed 
when  the  Redlight  Abatement  Bill  was 
being  discussed,  with  the  unfortunate 
woman  of  the  street  in  mind,  and  it  is 
truly  a  sermon  in  clay. 

Mrs.  Kanno's  drawings,  too,  are  well 
worthy  of  comment,  for  they  are  as 
striking  in  their  way  as  are  the  pictures 
of  Wiertz  in  the  Museum  at  Brussels. 
As  a  critic  has  said:  "With  a  few 
strokes  her  figures  breathe."  That  they 
appeal  to  people — in  spite  of  a  certain 
daring — was  evidenced  at  Carmel-by- 
the-Sea,  a  year  or  two  ago,  when  the 
posters  she  drew  for  her  husband's 
play,  "Creation-Dawn,"  were  torn 
down  and  carried  away  as  souvenirs. 

Her  work  is  replete  with  originality, 
and  she  knows  how  to  give  it  the  right 
artistic  setting,  for  she  makes  her  stu- 
dio in  the  old  Safe  Deposit  Building — 
situated  on  the  corner  of  Montgomery 
and  California  streets — one  of  the  few 
remaining  land-marks  of  the  San 
Francisco  of  former  days :  a  fitting 
place,  surely,  wherein  to  house  her 
life-like  portrait  busts  of  our  great 
men,  dead  and  gone.  Her  desire  is  to 
add  Tolstoi  and  Whitman  to  the  list 
before  laying  her  gift  upon  the  altar 
of  symbolic  sculpture — her  dream  of 
the  future — for  which  she  feels  she  has 
special  aptitude.  Needless  to  say, 
those  who  realize  the  riches  of  her 
imaginative  mind  can  see  in  that  do- 
main opportunities  altogether  worthy 
of  her. 

The  celebrated  statue  of  Minerva 
which  stood  in  the  Acropolis  at  Athens 


was  renowned  for  its  graceful  beauty 
and  its  exquisite  sculpture,  but  there 
was  in  it  another  feature  which  no 
close  observer  failed  to  notice.  Deeply 
engraven  in  the  buckler  on  the  statue 
was  the  image  of  Phidias,  the  sculptor : 
it  was  so  deftly  impressed  that  it  could 
be  effaced  only  by  destroying  the  work 
of  art  itself. 

What  was  literally  true  in  that  in- 
stance is  figuratively  so  in  every  case 
where  work  is  the  product  of  genius. 
The  artist  ever  puts  himself,  the  im- 
press of  his  best  and  highest  into  what 
he  does.  It  is  the  one  indefinable 
•quality  differentiating  excellence  from 
mediocrity.  And  it  is  just  this  touch 
to  the  clay  modeling  of  Gertrude 
Boyle  Kanno  that  forecasts  recogni- 
tion and  appreciation  for  her  at  the 
hands  of  all  true  lovers  of  art. 

Adelaide  Hanscome,  when  making 
illustrations  for  the  R.ubaiyat,  used  the 
sculptress  as  a  model,  her  tall,  slender 
figure  and  vivid,  sensitive  face  easily 
lending  themselves  to  effective  por- 
traiture in  colors.  But  any  picture  or 
description  of  her  must  necessarily 
fall  short  of  what  might  be  desired,  be- 
cause the  spirit  that  animates  her  is 
the  vital  spark  of  her.  May  we  not 
define  it  as  the  Spirit  of  the  West,  an 
analysis  of  which  great  force  reveals 
undying  courage,  sublime  faith  and 
absolute  fearlessness? 

The  Spirit  of  the  West  is  that  which 
has  never  been  conquered,  even  by 
earthquake  or  fire.  It  is  that  which 
hurled  itself  upon  the  masses  of  brick, 
lying  like  gruesome  monuments  on  the 
streets  of  a  stricken  city,  and  built 
them  up  again  into  things  of  symmetry 
and  beauty.  Hence,  man  or  woman 
dominated  by  that  spirit  may  rise  to 
undreamed  of  heights. 

All  hail,  thou  Spirit  of  the  West! 


Richard  Bret  Harte 


Bret  Marie's  Grandson 


RICHARD  Bret  Harte,  grandson 
of  the  Bret  Harte  whose  genius 
so  substantially  founded  Over- 
land Monthly  forty-eight  years 
ago  (1868),  dropped  into  the  Overland 
Monthly  office  last  month,  as  naturally 
as  though  he  was  entering  his  old-time 
home.  He  is  a  slenderly  built  young 
man  of  light  build  and  coloring,  with 
slight  traces  of  the  features  of  his  fam- 
ous grandfather,  as  the  accompanying 
photograph  indicates.  Most  members 
of  this  Harte  family  possess  artistic 
expression  in  some  form,  and  young 
Harte's  bent  in  that  direction  is  best 
expressed  in  drawing  and  coloring.  He 
covers  this  field  from  caricatures  to 
serious  subjects. 

Ever  since  his  childhood  in  England 
young  Harte  has  yearned  to  see  Cali- 
fornia, because  of  the  wonderful 
stories  he  heard  around  the  fireside.  He 
is  far  from  robust,  and  he  felt  that  the 


mild  and  equable  climate  here  would 
prove  kindly  to  him.  Accordingly, 
when  he  finished  the  backbone  on  his 
education  in  England,  at  the  Lucton, 
Herefordshire,  and  topped  it  with  his 
art  studies  at  the  Academic  des  Beaux 
Arts,  Belgium,  and  a  finish  of  Euro- 
pean travel  ending  in  a  return  to  Lon- 
don, he  decided  on  a  leisurely  round- 
about trip  to  California,  a  trip  that 
would  give  him  a  good  bird's-eye  view 
of  selected  sections  of  America  and  its 
people.  He  has  always  regarded  him- 
self as  an  American,  and  he  wanted  to 
get  acquainted  with  his  fellow  citizens. 
In  this  frame  of  mind  he  landed  in 
New  York  five  years  ago,  and,  possess- 
ing practical  ideas  of  writing  and  il- 
lustrating his  impressions,  he  readily 
found  an  opening  for  his  services  on 
the  New  York  Herald.  Later,  in  his 
zest  to  see  America,  he  planned  an 
itinerary  criss-crossing  the  interesting 


RICHARD  BRET  HARTE 


371 


cities  that  form  a  chain  reaching 
across  the  continent  to  the  Pacific 
shore.  This  drifting  course  westward 
substantially  benefited  his  health  and 
occupied  several  years,  the  larger  part 
of  the  time  being  spent  in  Philadel- 
phia, Mobile  and  Los  Angeles.  In 
these  and  other  cities  he  devoted  his 
working  hours  to  portraying  in  carica- 
ture and  letter-press  comments  his 
ideas  of  the  life,  atmosphere,  foibles 
and  eccentricities  he  encountered,  all 
of  which  met  with  unusual  success  in 
the  leading  papers  of  the  respective 
cities.  In  several  of  these  cities  a  num- 
ber of  unusual  public  festival  events 
occurred,  and  young  Harte  made  a  dis- 
tinct hit  by  contributing  numbers  of  ar- 
tistic posters  and  designing  numbers 
of  strikingly  attractive  costumes  for 
the  leading  characters  in  the  pageants, 
all  reflections  of  his  European  studies. 

The  further  he  drifted  westward  the 
more  compelling  became  the  call  of 
California,  the  Golden  Gate  and  San 
Francisco.  And  here  in  a  spirit  of 
complete  content  he  has  elected  to 
make  his  home  and  bide  his  time. 

The  Harte  family  is  now  plentifully 
represented  both  here  in  California  and 
abroad.  His  grandmother,  Anna 
Griswold  Harte,  is  now  living  in  Har- 
row, just  outside  London.  His  father 
and  mother  are  sojourning  in  Lau- 
sanne, Switzerland.  On  account  of  Mr. 
Harte's  health,  they  spend  their  time 
in  leisurely  drifting  about  the  Conti- 
nent. Young  Harte's  brother,  Geoffry, 
is  living  in  England,  and  a  half- 
brother,  Bouton  Smith,  is  fighting  in 
the  side  of  England  in  the  present  war. 
Several  of  young  Harte's  cousins  are 
helping  to  defend  the  French  trenches. 
This  family  trait  in  war  might  indicate 
that  young  Bret  Harte  may  very  read- 
ily develop  an  inclination  to  join  in  the 
Mexico  uprisings,  but  so  far  he  has  de- 
veloped no  such  compelling  impulse. 
Oakland  and  Berkeley,  on  the  opposite 
shore  of  San  Francisco  Bay,  contain 
several  branches  of  the  Harte  family 
of  three  generations.  It  is  interesting 
to  know  that  a  number  of  these  repre- 
sentatives have  strong  predilections 
along  some  artistic  line.  Mrs.  B.  H. 


Wyman  of  Piedmont  is  a  sister-in-law 
of  young  Harte's  grandmother.  Coral 
Eberts,  a  cousin,  attending  the  Uni- 
versity of  California,  shares  this  ar- 
tistic temperament  of  the  family,  and 
expresses  it  in  her  endeavors  to  de- 
velop histrionic  art  in  that  famous  cen- 
ter of  pageant  plays.  Wyman  Taylor, 
another  cousin,  is  an  unusually  clever 
artist. 

Young  Harte  remembers  his  grand- 
father quite  well.  At  the  time  of  the 
latter's  death  at  Camberly,  Surrey,  he 
was  a  lad  twelve  years  of  age.  The 
family  was  living  at  Richmond,  Surrey, 
and  Bret  Harte  was  then  representing 
the  United  States  as  Consul  at  Lon- 
don ;  he  had  been  originally  appointed 
to  the  consulate  at  Dusseldorf,  Ger- 
many, thence  to  Glasgow,  Scotland, 
and  finally  to  London.  Harte  was  ex- 
tremely devoted  to  his  two  grandchild- 
ren and  two  step-grandchildren,  and 
frequently  visited  their  home  at  War- 
ren Hight  House,  Caversham,  Read- 
ing, near  the  Thames.  On  most  of 
these  visits  he  brought  them  pres- 
ents, especially  mechanical  toys. 
Young  Harte  remembers  him  as  la 
kindly,  sympathetic,  white  haired  man. 
He  died  at  Camberly,  Surrey,  at  the 
home  of  Mme.  Van  de  Veldte,  a  promi- 
nent woman  of  letters,  and  one  of 
Bret  Harte's  greatest  friends.  She  was 
devoted  to  his  grandchildren.  He  was 
buried  in  the  Frimley  churchyard,  in 
1902. 

The  first  intimation  that  young 
Harte  had  of  his  grandfather's  ap- 
proaching death  was  when  his  father 
and  mother  left  to  go  to  his  grand- 
father's bedside.  Young  Harte  and  his 
brother  Geoffrey,  then  seven  years  old, 
remained  at  home.  A  daily  London 
newspaper  was  delivered  as  usual,  and 
on  opening  the  paper  his  eyes  caught 
the  headlines  announcing  the  death  of 
his  grandfather.  He  read  the  glowing 
tribute  paid  to  the  great  author,  and 
that  was  the  first  intimation  to  young 
Harte  that  his  grandfather  was  so  fam- 
ous a  man.  The  reading  public  of  Eng- 
land was  greatly  stirred  by  his  de- 
mise, and  for  a  time  there  followed  a 
stream  of  laudations  describing  his 


372 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


genius.  Lonuun  never  forgot  his  sim- 
ple and  appealing  verses,  "Dickens  in 
Camp,"  when  that  great  novelist 
passed  away. 

In  his  meandering  course  across  the 
continent  to  San  Francisco,  young 
Harte  met  with  numerous  unusual  ex- 
periences and  visited  many  interest- 
ing places.  Overland  Monthly  has 
made  arrangements  to  have  these 
kaleidoscopic  impressions  of  life  writ- 
ten up  and  illustrated.  Naturally, 
there  will  be  nothing  in  these  contri- 
butions to  compare  with  the  argonau- 
tic  times  and  life  that  formed  the 
background  of  the  tales  Bret  Harte 
wrote  so  vividly.  There  is  a  span  of 
forty  years  between  them,  and  young 
Harte's  methods  belong  to  the  new 
period,  as  exemplified  in  the  leading 
periodicals.  He  is  quick  to  deprecate 
any  attempt  on  the  part  of  kindly  ac- 
quaintances to  suggest  that  he  has  in- 
herited any  of  the  talents  of  his  fam- 
ous grandfather  and  insists  that  the 
best  expression  of  his  modest  talent 
lies  in  his  drawings,  caricature  effects, 
color  designs  in  posters  and  original 
designed  costumes.  In  his  writing,  he 
simply  tries  to  express  his  opinions 


in  a  care-free,     natural     and     semi- 
satirical  manner. 

He  has  already  joined  John  McMul- 
lin,  a  well  known  San  Francisco  dec- 
orator, in  preparing  new  features  in 
original  designs  of  theatrical,  fancy 
dress  and  pageant  character.  At  their 
new  shop  young  Harte  already  has  on 
exhibit  a  variety  of  unique  and  capti- 
vating designs  in  colors  of  flower-like 
effects,  harmoniously  blended  in  a 
way  that  subtly  frames  the  face  and 
figure,  and  transforms  the  wearer  into 
an  individual  picture.  Several  of 
these  designs  show  deft  touches  of  the 
very  latest  European  ideas  in  fancy 
dress  and  stage  effects,  some  of  them 
exquisitely  Parisian  and  marking  the 
newest  note.  These  illustrations  are 
on  translucent  paper  and  mounted  be- 
fore a  soft  light  which  brings  out  the 
deft  modeling  lines  of  the  raiment  and 
diffuses  the  harmonious  colors  into 
rarely  beautiful  stage,  pageant  and 

fancy  dress  effects. 

*  *  * 

Mr.  Harte's  interesting  series  of  ar- 
ticles, illustrated  with  caricatures,  will 
begin  in  the  next  issue,  the  June  num- 
ber of  Overland  Monthly. 


. 


Seeing  Without  Eyes 


By  Alvin  E.  Dyer 


Am  enrolled  as  student  in  the  Department  of  Journalism,  University  of 
Washington,  age  23,  and  for  the  past  year  have  been  preparing  to  be  a 
writer  on  political  and  social  conditions.  In  order  to  get  a  practical  know- 
ledge of  the  field,  I  spend  every  Saturday  mingling  with  the  crowds  in  the 
waterfront  district,  so  that  I  will  be  able  as  much  as  possible  to  understand 
and  sympathize  with  this  less  fortunate  class  of  society.  The  study  of 
text  books  is  merely  a  sideline ;  the  real  source  of  information  is  humanity 
itself.  Most  of  my  writing  has  been  on  labor  subjects.  I  spend  the  sum- 
mers working  on  a  railroad  section  crew  or  some  other  hard,  strenuous 
labor,  just  to  keep  in  mind  how  it  seems.  As  soon  as  I  learned  of  the 
three  blind  boys  I  made  it  a  point  to  get  in  touch  with  them,  to  get  their 
viewpoint  of  life.  The  lesson  they  taught  me  was  this :  "The  salvation  of 
mankind  lies  not  so  much  in  making  the  pathway  easier  as  in  developing 
man  strong  enough  to  overcome,  to  achieve  his  own  salvation."  This  prin- 
ciple lay  at  the  foundation  of  Henry  Pauly's  Hotel  Liberty  at  Seattle,  self- 
help  for  the  unemployed.  Instead  of  having  the  men  out  of  work  accept 
charity,  he  organized  them  so  they  could  make  work  for  themselves. 


Alvin  E.  Dyer 


TO  SEE  them  wailk  about  the 
University  of  Washington  cam- 
pus you  would  not  know  that 
they  were  blind.  No  one  ac- 
companies or  leads  them  about;  each 
one  goes  unaided  from  home  to  school, 
finds  his  own  seat  in  the  class  room, 
travels  where  he  pleases,  and  acts  in 
every  way  just  as  an  ordinary  student. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  school  year, 
some  one  helped  each  one  to  the  ex- 
tent of  taking  them  over  the  different 
routes  so  that  they  could  know  the 
way.  Now  they  go  every  place  they 
desire  as  rapidly  and  as  confidently  as 
any  one  who  has  the  advantage  of 
sight. 

These  three  blind  boys  have  clever 
ways  of  determining  where  they  are 
going.  Two  use  canes  to  aid  in  avoid- 
ing ordinary  bumps  in  roads,  but  these 
canes  are  never  used  to  feel  the  edge 
of  the  street  curb  when  walking,  as  is 
ordinarily  the  case  with  the  blind.  In 
fact,  a  great  many  of  the  paths  they 
travel  through  the  campus  have  no 
3 


374 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


curbs  or  even  sidewalks  to  follow.  In- 
stinct and  hearing  are  the  subtle  forces 
they  depend  on  for  guidance.  When 
they  hear  an  auto  coming,  they  listen 
and  determine  which  direction  it  is 
coming  from  and  the  rate  of  speed, 
and  govern  their  action  accordingly. 
If  they  are  walking  on  a  sidewalk  they 
can  tell  if  there  is  an  object  ahead, 
because  there  is  a  slight  echo,  and  the 
ordinary  ring  is  changed  slightly.  We, 
who  can  see,  would  never  notice  it, 
but  the  ears  of  the  blind  are  acute. 

The  boys  say  that  once  they  have 
learned  a  locality,  instinct  tells  them 
where  they  are.  They  say  that  any 
person  can  blindfold  himself  and  be 
able  to  tell  when  he  has  passed  a 
telephone  pole  or  building  as  he  walks 
along  the  street.  This  would  seem  to 
be  a  very  difficult  thing  to  do,  and  it 
may  be  that  when  the  blind  boys  have 
learned  their  route  they  unconsciously 
count  their  steps  and  therefore  know 
where  they  are.  Any  of  these  boys 
can  come  straight  down  a  sidewalk  and 
without  touching  either  side  of  the 
walk,  will  turn  just  at  the  right  time 
and  go  up  a  side  street  on  a  perfect 
right  angle. 

"We  learn  the  practice  of  physics 
and  mathematics  taught  us  in  high 
school,"  said  one  of  the  three.  He 
was  right.  With  these  boys  life  is 
just  mathematics;  they  have  done  it 
so  long  that  they  figure  out  everything 
by  mathematics  without  being  con- 
scious of  the  fact.  When  they  cross 
a  street  they  have  to  figure  out  the 
speed  velocity  of  everything  that  is 
moving,  and  then  determine  what  an- 
gle they  will  cross  on.  Not  having 
eyes,  they  are  dependent  altogether  on 
the  accuracy  of  these  calculations. 
They  consider  street  cars  the  bane  of 
their  lives,  because  the  noise  is  likely 
to  make  them  unaware  of  an  ap- 
proaching auto.  Hilly  country,  when 
paved,  is  the  easiest  to  travel,  because 
there  is  a  level  spot  at  the  end  of 
each  block  where  the  side  street  joins. 

George  Baily,  the  youngest,  goes 
through  life  with  a  whistle;  whenever 
there  is  anything  in  his  way  the  sound 
changes,  and  he  can  tell  that  the  path 


is  blocked.  He  never  carries  a  cane, 
and  depends  upon  his  sense  of  hearing 
alone  for  guidance. 

The  boys  received  their  common 
school  education  in  institutions  for  the 
blind.  As  soon  as  they  came  to  think 
very  much  for  themselves,  they  real- 
ized that  this  was  not  advantageous, 
because  their  future  life  was  to  be 
lived  among  men  who  could  see,  and 
not  among  the  blind;  so  they  entered 
the  general  public  high  school,  in 
which  the  work  was  very  difficult,  be- 
cause of  the  abrupt  change  from  de- 
pendence on  the  sight  of  others  to  com- 
plete self  reliance.  The  handicap  of 
being  sightless  was  too  great  to  be 
easily  overcome,  but  the  manner  in 
which  these  boys  succeeded  can  be 
judged  from  the  fact  that  George  Mey- 
ers was  chosen  valedictorian  for  his 
class  on  the  day  of  graduation. 

College  is  not  so  difficult.  They  are 
able  to  take  lecture  notes  in  the  writ- 
ing of  the  blind,  which  consists  in 
making  raised  dots  in  different  posi- 
tions on  a  line.  Their  many  friends 
tactfully  invite  them  to  listen  while 
one  who  has  eyes,  reads  his  own  les- 
sons aloud;  the  blind  listen  to  the 
reading  and  depend  on  memory  alto- 
gether for  the  examinations.  In  sub- 
jects that  require  a  great  deal  of  ori- 
ginal thought,  the  blind  excel,  because 
they  are  freed  from  the  distraction  of 
surrounding  objects,  and  they  have 
many,  many  hours  in  which  they  have 
nothing  else  to  do  but  think ;  it  is  their 
chief  occupation. 

More  wonderful  than  the  fact  that 
they  who  are  sightless  excel  in  intel- 
lectual work  in  competition  with  the 
others  who  are  not  so  handicapped 
and  working  under  the  system  made 
for  the  majority,  is  the  social  develop- 
ment they  have  obtained,  which  would 
be  impossible  in  an  institution  of  the 
blind.  In  the  first  place  the  three 
boys  are  together  very  little.  To  club 
together  would  be  their  natural  tend- 
dency  and  the  course  of  least  resist- 
ance, but  they  realize  that  few  of  the 
people  they  meet  in  after  life  will  be 
blind;  they  must  compete  in  a  heart- 
less world  of  people  having  the  ad- 


SEEING  WITHOUT  EYES 


375 


vantage  of  sight,  and  during  the  col- 
lege career,  which  is  the  period  of  pre- 
paration, they  must  get  used  to  asso- 
ciation with  this  severe  handicap. 

Consequently  each  one  attends  the 
social  functions  of  the  school,  even 
the  dances.  All  are  excellent  dancers, 
and  with  the  aid  of  the  girl  friends 
they  know,  and  who  guide  so  that  they 
do  not  get  in  the  way  of  others  on  the 
floor,  they  act  so  natural  that  few 
would  be  able  to  know  of  their  afflic- 
tion. Canoeing  is  a  favorite  outdoor 
recreation. 

Exercise  is  essential  to  good  health; 
they  realize  this,  and  attend  the  gym- 
nasium classes.  In  the  marching,  the 
sound  of  the  footsteps  keeps  them  in 
line,  and  they  have  mastered  the  exer- 
cises so  that  they  keep  perfect  count. 

"Of  all  people,  the  blind  man  must 
be  the  broadest,"  says  Geo.  Meyers. 
"In  after  life  they  are  denied  the  op- 
portunity to  read  and  pick  up  subjects 
and  information  as  others.  They  are 
forced  to  utilize  every  opportunity 
of  association  to  overcome  this  disad- 
vantage." 

So  the  boys  spend  their  time  culti- 
vating friends,  these  are  their  text- 
books. These  friends  they  can  always 
tell  by  the  handshake  and  voice;  gen- 
erally they  can  tell  by  the  footstep.  It 
is  not  an  uncommon  experience  to  ap- 
proach one  of  these  boys  and  have  him 
shout  out  a  greeting  to  you  and  call 
you  by  name  a  dozen  feet  away.  In- 
cidentally they  do  not  consider  any 
effort  on  the  part  of  their  friends  to 
make  things  easier  for  them  true  kind- 
ness, although  they  appreciate  deeply 
the  motive  which  impells  the  act.  "I 
think,  fellows,  you  had  better  let  me 
figure  out  the  way  alone.  I  won't  have 
you  with  me  always."  Two  of  the 
three  have  thought  it  best  not  to  stay 
at  home,  but  board  out  at  the  houses 
with  the  other  boys.  They  consider 
that  it  is  a  sterner  but  also  much  bet- 
ter training. 

Joe  Wood,  the  oldest,  has  been  self- 
supporting  for  a  number  of  years;  he 
is  an  expert  stenographer  by  the  use 
of  the  dictaphone.  Last  month  he 
considered  his  salary  sufficient  for  the 


support  of  two,  and  married  one  of 
his  class  mates,  one  with  whom  he 
had  become  acquainted  through  her 
kindness  in  preparing  her  lessons  with 
him  and  reading  aloud  for  his  benefit. 

George  Baily  is  already  a  noted  mu- 
sician in  the  city,  and  is  a  teacher  of 
piano.  A  great  source  of  his  income 
comes  from  the  proceeds  of  musical 
recitals  he  gives  each  month.  He  is 
taking  the  musical  course  at  the  uni- 
versity. 

The  most  versatile  of  all  is  George 
Meyers,  Not  only  is  he  a  talented 
singer  and  pianist,  but  an  investigator 
in  political  and  sociological  lines  of 
study.  Much  of  his  time  is  spent  in 
the  work  of  chemistry,  which  is  indeed 
dangerous  to  him;  what  a  cruel  mis- 
take it  would  be  if  the  sightless  boy 
would  ever  get  the  fluids  mixed  so  as 
to  cause  an  explosion.  Electricity,  too, 
is  a  hobby;  he  takes  great  delight  in 
fooling  with  wiring  arrangements; 
here,  too,  he  invites  disaster  in  the 
form  of  a  shock. 

You  would  think  that  these  boys  are 
barred  from  pleasure.  This  is  not 
the  case.  All  of  them  attend  operas, 
plays  and  lectures.  They  miss  the 
beautiful  scenery,  but  the  beauty  of 
the  music  strikes  their  sensitive  ears 
with  a  deeper  beauty.  They  even  at- 
tend the  motion  pictures  with  friends, 
who  explain  the  reel  scene  by  scene  as 
it  is  thrown  on  the  screen.  At  the 
school  it  is  considered  a  compliment  to 
a  student's  ablity  of  description  if  one 
of  the  blind  boys  invite  him  to  attend 
a  "movie"  with  him.  When  they  go 
to  downtown  musical  shows  they  go 
back  and  forth  alone,  and  depend  on 
the  kindness  of  the  conductor  to  re- 
member their  street. 

Life  would  have  been  much  easier 
for  these  boys  had  they  attended  in- 
stitutions for  the  blind,  but  the  life 
then  would  have  been  narrow,  and 
they  would  have  been  in  a  measure  a 
burden  on  society.  Instead,  they 
chose  the  most  difficult,  to  compete 
openly  and  without  favor  against 
others  who  had  the  advantage  of  sight, 
but  whom  they  would  have  to  meet  in 
later  life.  They  have  more  than  made 


376 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


good,  because  they  have  made  them- 
selves self-supporting,  and  have  laid 
the  foundations  for  brilliant  careers 
in  lines  of  mental  activity  in  which 
the  blind  are  not  at  so  great  a  handi- 
cap as  in  the  physical  labor. 

"Do  you  miss  the  sights  and  the 
beauty  so  common  to  us  and  which  we 
tell  you  of,"  one  of  them  was  asked. 

"Not  so  much  as  you  think,"  was  the 


reply,  "Had  we  once  seen  it  all  and 
then  been  blind,  it  would  have  been 
terrible,  but  we  do  not  miss  very  much 
that  which  we  have  never  seen  or 
experienced.  We  have  been  raised  in 
a  different  world  altogether,  one  which 
is  as  beautiful  to  us  as  yours  is  to  you. 
You  live  in  a  world  of  sights;  we  live 
in  a  world  of  thought  and  thought 
dreams." 


THE   DEVIL'S    DAY 


The  Devil's  kingdom  is  come, 

111  is  the  news  we  tell, 

The  Devil's  will  is  done 

On  earth  as  it  is  in  hell, 

He  has  us  in  his  net, 

We  cannot  break  the  spell. 

The  Devil's  will  is  done, 
There  is  none  to  say  him  nay, 
The  Devil's  kingdom  is  come, 
His  poor  thralls  can  but  pray; 
We  pray  in  the  black  midnight 
To  the  saints  of  the  beautiful  Day. 

The  Devil  rides  us  down, 

He  treads  us  in  the  mire, 

He  is  Prince  of  the  power  of  the  air, 

He  has  power  over  wafer  and  fire ; 

We  can  but  knock  at  the  gate 

Of  the  Inn  of  our  Desire. 

The  Devil  keeps  his  feast, 

His  court  and  kingdom  and  reign, 

Our  Joy  is  hidden  and  changed 

To  sick  and  angry  pain; 

Mary,  Cause  of  our  Joy, 

Show  us  our  Joy  again. 


R.  i .  (> 


Trapped 


By  Arthur  Wallace  Peach 


SHERIFF  Tom  Heffron  sighed 
with  relief  as  he  turned  his 
brown  pony  into  the  dry  bed  of 
the  canyon  from  the  flat.  In 
front  of  him  rode  a  dejected  figure,  de- 
fiant in  attitude,  but  evidently  weary 
in  body.  He  was  a  half-breed  by  the 
name  of  Lascar,  the  murderer,  so  the 
rumor  had  been,  of  a  girl  in  the  saloon 
at  Johnson's  Dip.  Heffron  watched 
the  grim,  silent  figure,  and  smiled  once 
as  the  lined,  brutal  face  turned  to 
glance  backward. 

Heffron's  sigh  was  not  a  good  omen. 
They  had  gone  hardly  a  rod  into  the 
space  between  the  rocks  and  dropped 
with  the  fall  of  the  bed  when  Heff- 
ron's horse,  a  veteran  of  many  cam- 
paigns, stopped  and  breathed  loudly. 

Sharply,  the  sheriff  called  to  the 
half-breed  to  halt.  Though  not  a  be- 
liever in  signs,  he  knew  that  when  his 
old  companion  of  the  trails  warned,  it 
was  time  to  watch  out. 

They  stood,  a  silent  group,  staring 
ahead. 

In  front  of  them,  as  far  as  they  could 
see,  the  rocks  were  piled  in  disorder. 
There  was  nothing  living  to  be  seen, 
but  Heffron  knew  that  the  group  of 
infuriated  men  who  had  been  on  Las- 
car's trail  earlier  in  the  day  may  have 
outwitted  him  by  taking  a  long  chance 
that  he  and  his  prisoner  would  head 
from  the  settlement  over  the  seldom 
used  Marcy  trail. 

Deciding  that  some  animal  might 
have  aroused  his  horse,  he  was  in  the 
act  of  bringing  a  spur  back,  when  there 
was  a  flash  from  among  the  rocks.  The 
horse  that  Lascar  was  riding  stag- 
gered back,  and  sighing,  sank  to  its 
knees.  Instantly  all  was  action  around 
them. 

"Back!"  Heffron  shouted  to  the  half 


breed,  who  whirled  and  darted  back 
among  the  rocks.  Heffron  was  with 
him  in  a  moment.  The  lines  of  battle 
formed. 

Beyond  them  shifting  figures  dashed 
from  great  boulder  to  boulder,  or 
leaped  the  smaller  rocks,  but  when 
Heffron's  heavy  guns  answered  de- 
fiantly, the  figures  disappeared.  He 
and  Lascar  were  hidden  behind  a  fair 
barricade;  beyond  and  back  of  them 
in  the  hollow  stood  Heffron's  horse, 
ears  up  and  nostrils  blowing,  but  too 
old  a  campaigner  to  be  scared  into 
flight.  Lascar  lay  close  to  his  shel- 
tering rock,  his  swarthy  face  ashen 
under  its  color,  for  he  knew  what  was 
in  store  for  him,  if  the  band  of  men 
beyond  ever  took  ,him.  He  watched 
Heffron's  face  with  uneasy  eyes;  he 
knew  it  would  be  an  easy  way  out  of 
the  situation  for  Heffron  to  give  him 
up. 

But  that  was  what  Heffron  was 
grimly  determining  not  to  do.  No 
prisoner  had  ever  been  taken  from 
him;  he  was  proud  of  the  record,  and 
he  did  not  intend  to  have  it  broken 
then. 

There  was  a  dangerous  silence 
among  the  rocks  in  front  of  them,  and 
Heffron  wondered  if  they  were  at- 
tempting to  creep  in  back  of  him,  but 
a  hasty  glance  told  him  that  such  an 
effort  would  be  useless.  He  under- 
stood the  meaning  of  the  silence  when 
a  sombrero  that  had  once  been  white 
was  held  in  the  air. 

"All  right!  What  is  it?"  he  called 
down. 

A  tall  figure  rose  and  a  harsh  voice 
said: 

"Tom,  we've  nothin'  agin  ye,  but 
we're  going  to  git  that  skunk  with  ye. 
He  killed  Martin's  gal ;  we're  going  to 


378 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


git  him  and  skin  him  alive.  He  shot 
a  gal!" 

"No,  no!"  the  half-breed  broke  in 
quickly.  "I  no  shoot  her;  I  shoot  at 
Martin;  she  run  in  front." 

"Shut  up!"  Heffron  said  sharply, 
and  turned  to  the  man  beyond  them. 

"Look  here,  Stacey,  the  breed  is  go- 
ing to  jail,  acpording  to  order,  and  you 
won't  get  him.  That's  all.  Take  your 
choice." 

"I  take  it  then!"  came  back  the 
hoarse  answer,  and  his  lifted  hand 
bulged  into  a  blot  of  flame  a  moment 
before  Heffron's  blue  weapon  flamed. 

The  tall  figure  sank,  but  Heffron 
dropped  behind  his  barirer  with  an 
elbow  loose. 

The  half-breed  looked  on  with  yel- 
low eyes  distended,  and  he  drew  him- 
self up  with  a  catlike  movement. 

"I  fix  it,"  he  offered. 

While  the  half-breed  bound  the 
wounded  arm,  Heffron  kept  watch,  and 
made  his  shots  with  his  left  hand 
count  with  their  nearness  if  not  their 
deadliness. 

The  line  of  fire  grew  closer,  and  he 
could  not  shoot  with  accuracy.  He 
knew  it,  and  he  knew  that  the  drunken, 
crazy,  but  determined  men  out  among 
the  rocks  knew  it,  and  that  they  were 
aiming  to  get  closer  for  the  death  rush. 
His  attention  was  drawn  to  the  half- 
breed,  who  beckoned  for  the  extra 
gun.  Heffron  looked  at  him.  The 
man's  eyes  were  dilated,  and  in  them 
was  the  lust  for  blood.  If  he  had  that 
gun  it  would  be  a  simple  matter  for 
him  to  blow  out  Heffron's  brains,  take 
the  waiting  horse  and  speed  away. 

Heffron  hesitated,  then  a  plan 
formed  in  his  mind, 

"Crawl  over  there,"  he  ordered. 

Lascar's  eyes  lost  some  of  their 
gleam,  and  he  crawled  in  the  direction 
that  Heffron  indicated,  placing  himself 
in  a  position  where  he  could  not  shoot 
his  captor. 

The  two  guns  speaking  startled  the 
men  below,  but  only  for  a  short  time. 
Then  behind  the  shelter  of  the  rocks 
the  death  net  began  to  draw  closer. 

As  Heffron  saw  a  man  with  a  yell 
of  triumph  slide  into  a  position  that 


almost  placed  him  where  he  could 
shoot  them  down,  a  grim  resolve 
formed  in  his  mind.  He  had  never 
had  a  prisoner  taken  from  him;  he 
would  not  this  time.  He  would  let 
him  go! 

"Here,  you  breed,  take  the  pony, 
and— hike!" 

The  half-breed  face  turned  dumbly 
toward  him,  and  Heffron  repeated  his 
order.  Under  the  dusky  skin  the 
blood  changed.  Lascar  crept  back  as 
a  crab  goes. 

Half-smiling,  Heffron  thought  that 
there  was  no  danger  of  the  half-breed 
shooting  him,  for  he  was  the  last  bar- 
rier between  Lascar  and  the  men  who 
would  be  after  him  on  the  ponies  hid- 
den, no  doubt,  somewnere  beyond 
them  among  the  curves  of  the  canyon. 

Heffron's  ear  caught  the  slight  rattle 
of  gravel.  Unseen  and  safely,  the 
half-breed  was  going  down  the  slope 
from  the  ridge — going  to  freedom. 

Grimly  Heffron  turned  to  his  work, 
a  fierce  joy  taking  possession  of  him 
at  the  thought  that  still,  to  the  very 
end,  he  had  the  record  safe  that  he 
cherished. 

The  net  grew  closer  around  him,  but 
a  well  placed  shot  that  silenced  a 
shifting  form  forever  among  the  rocks 
checked  for  a  moment  the  eagerness 
of  the  others.  His  head  was  clear,  but 
he  was  weak  from  loss  of  blood  and 
the  shock  of  the  blow.  The  heavy 
slug  of  the  big  six-shooter  had  torn  a 
ragged  hole.  He  knew  it  was  only  a 
question  of  time  before  the  last  open 
space  would  be  crossed  and  the  end 
come,  but  he  held  to  his  post. 

Then  came  what  he  feared.  Across 
his  vision  moved  bits  of  what  seemed 
like  fog.  He  was  weakening.  The 
men  among  the  rocks  seemed  to  have 
become  bolder,  evidently  believing 
from  the  fact  that  only  one  gun  was 
being  fired  that  they  had  silenced  the 
other.  There  was  a  humming  sound  in 
his  ears;  he  listened  to  it  with  inter- 
est; it  was  the  curious  sound  that  pre- 
cedes the  slow  drifting  of  the  mind  in- 
to unconsciousness.  A  shadow  rose  in 
the  open  place  and  darted  forward; 
with  an  effort  he  cleared  his  sight  and 


GOOD-MORNING 


379 


the  shadow  that  became  a  rushing  man 
crumpled  into  the  yellow  sand. 

The  mist  and  the  humming  closed 
around  him;  he  strove  to  rise,  to  clear 
his  sight,  to  draw  the  trigger  of  his 
gun;  he  seemed  to  be  sinking.  As  he 
sank,  there  seemed  to  be  dancing  fig- 
ures about  him  and  sounds  like  thun- 
der, cut  suddenly  short. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  to  find  himself 
looking  into  the  grinning  face  of  Las- 
car. 

"What — you — here?"  he  gasped. 

"You  won't  know  what,  where  or 
anything  else,  if  you  don't  let  me  fix 
this  up,"  a  voice  rasped  in  his  ear. 

He  turned  at  the  sound  and  full  con- 
sciousness came.  About  him  stood  a 
little  group  of  the  cavalry  men  from 
the  fort,  and  a  surgeon  evidently  was 
bending  over  him. 


"How'd  this  happen?"  Heffron  de- 
manded. 

"Well,  word  was  sent  to  the  post 
that  a  bunch  of  men  were  headed  this 
way  bent  on  mischief.  We  thought 
we  would  be  too  late  for  you,  Tom, 
'  we  would  follow  along,  and  we  did, 
but  we  would  have  been  too  late  for 
you,  Tom,  if  this  chap  hadn't  caught 
up  with  us  on  the  other  trail,  hustled 
us  back  and  taken  a  good  part  in  the 
scrap  itself,"  said  the  young  officer 
who  had  approached  in  time  to  catch 
Heffron's  question. 

Heffron  looked  across  to  Lascar,, 
and  held  out  his  hand.  "I  never  ex- 
pected to  see  you  again.  You  can  bank 
on  me,  Lascar,  if  you  ever  want  a 
friend." 

Lascar  shook  the  hand  awkwardly. 
"We  good  friends,  yes,"  he  agreed. 


GOOD-WORN  ING 


When  twilight  shadows  falling, 
Shut  away  the  light  of  day — 
And  flowers  kneel  in  ghostly  aisles — 
Their  evening  prayers  to  say — 
When  from  behind  the  silent  hills, 
The  moon  trails  soft  her  gown, 
And  one  by  one  the  stars  come  out, 
To  gem  night's  sapphire  crown; 
When  murmuring  grasses,  bending, 
Tell  their  beads  of  sparkling  dew, 
Ah,  then  I  bid  the  world  "Good-night" 
And  dream,  sweetheart,  of  you. 

When  in  the  East,  the  blushing  dawn, 
Opes  morning's  lattice  wide, 
And  slips  the  jeweled  key  upon 
The  girdle  at  her  side; 
When  nature's  face  is  smiling, 
'Neath  the  beams  of  golden  light, 
And  shadows  all  have  vanished, 
In  the  dreams  of  yester-night ; 
When  the  lark  a  song  is  trilling, 
To  the  roses  newly  born, 
I  bid  the  scented,  waking  day, 
Kiss  you,  my  love,  "Good-morn." 

AGNES  LOCKHART  HUGHES. 


When  the  Governor  Left  the  State 


By  Pierre  Dorion 


GOVERNOR  Van  Cott  stood  on 
the  railway  platform  in  Chey- 
enne a  picture  of  amazement 
and  chagrin.  Crushed  in  his 
fist  he  held  a  telegram,  while  close 
about  him  members  of  his  staff,  in 
their  gaudy  uniforms,  State  officials, 
Judges  of  the  Supreme  Court,  and 
other  men  high  in  the  councils  of  the 
party  in  power,  looked  on  with  keen 
interest.  All  around  this  little  group 
there  was  commotion  and  hilarity,  as 
the  excursionists  poured  from  the  spe- 
cial train  to  be  greeted  by  the  hun- 
dreds who  crowded  about  the  station. 
On  the  outskirts  the  inevitable  brass 
band  was  doing  its  level  best  with 
"Hail  to  the  Chief." 

These  excursionists  were  in  Chey- 
enne to  meet  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  the  idol  of  the  West;  to 
escort  him  in  fitting  style  back  to  their 
own  proud  State ;  to  show  him  the  hon- 
ors to  which  he  was  entitled,  and  in- 
cidentally, to  add  impetus  to  his  boom 
for  re-election.  It  was  a  crowd  bub- 
bling over  with  enthusiasm. 

Governor  Van  Cott  had  excused 
himself  and  turned  from  the  reception 
committee  to  read  the  telegram  handed 
him  on  his  arrival.  It  was  clear  that 
he  was  upset  by  what  he  read.  The 
smile  faded  from  his  countenance,  a 
dark  scowl  took  its  place  and  a  mut- 
tered curse  told  the  watchers  that 
something  had  gone  wrong.  But  young 
as  he  was,  years  in  positions  of  re- 
sponsibility had  taught  the  man  to  act 
with  decision. 

"Joe,"  he  called  sharply  to  young 
Fletcher,  his  private  secretary,  who 
was  with  some  of  the  youngsters  of  the 
party  at  a  little  distance ;  "get  hold  of 
Harrison  as  quick  as  you  can.  Tell 
him  I  must  see  him  at  once." 


"Sorry,  Governor,"  the  secretary 
explained,  hurrying  forward;  "but  Mr. 
Harrison  dropped  off  at  Marysville  to 
have  a  look  at  his  sheep  ranch.  We 
are  to  pick  him  up  as  we  go  back." 

"Oh,  misery!" 

This  sounded  like  an  oath.  Before 
the  Governor  could  say  more,  Judge 
Clawson  caught  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Horace,  what's  gone  wrong?"  he 
demanded. 

For  reply,  the  Governor  straightened 
out  the  telegram  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"Read  that,"  he  said. 

Judge  Clawson  read  aloud: 

"Randolph  acting  Governor.  Claims 
absence  of  you  and  Harrison  creates 
vacancy.  Will  appoint  Oliver  to  Sen- 
ate. Looks  bad.  What  shall  I  do  ?— 
Wesley  K.  Norton."  ^ 

These  astute  politicians  about  the 
Governor  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence.  Like  a  flash  they  saw  it  all. 
They  were  caught  napping,  and  the  op- 
position was  in  the  saddle. 

Here  was  the  situation  in  a  nutshell : 
At  the  previous  election  the  Governor 
and  his  party  had  swept  the  State,  all 
except  the  legislature.  That  had  gone 
overwhelmingly  to  the  opposition.  But 
in  the  session  that  followed  there  was 
a  tangle,  a  deadlock,  bitter  fighting 
within  the  party,  charges  of  bribery 
and  final  adjournment  without  an  elec- 
tion of  a  United  States  senator. 

Governor  Van  Cott,  young,  ambitious 
and  intensely  partisan,  had  made  no 
effort  to  fill  the  vacancy,  for  two  rea- 
sons— that  vacancy  stood  as  a  rebuke 
to  the  incompetency  of  the  opposition ; 
and,  as  the  Governor  was  a  candidate 
for  the  Senate  himself,  he  saw  much 
better  chance  of  reaching  his  ultimate 
goal  at  the  coming  election  with  two 
senators  to  elect. 


WHEN  THE  GOVERNOR  LEFT  THE  STATE 


381 


But  now  this  brief  telegram  from 
Chairman  Norton  made  it  clear  that 
the  opposition  leaders  had  jumped  in- 
to the  breach,  had  taken  advantage  of 
the  State  officials,  and  were  deter- 
mined to  recover  their  lost  ground  and 
gain  a  seat  in  the  Senate.  This  was 
of  vital  importance  nationally.  The 
great  tariff  bill  was  hanging  in  the 
balance.  The  parties  were  evenly 
divided,  and  this  one  vote  might  de- 
cide the  issue. 

"But  I  don't  see  yet  how  Chad  Ran- 
dolph can  run  things  with  such  a  high 
hand,"  said  one  of  the  Wyoming  offi- 
cials. 

"Oh,  he's  got  us  all  right,"  Attorney- 
xGeneral  Breeden  explained.  "You  see, 
Randolph  was  president  of  the  State 
Senate — is  still,  for  that  matter — and 
the  State  constitution  provides  that 
when  the  Governor  and  Secretary  of 
State  die,  are  impeached,  are  removed, 
resign,  or  are  absent  from  the  State, 
the  President  of  the  Senate  shall  act  as 
Governor." 

"There  you  have  it,"  was  the  Gov- 
ernor's comment.  "Chad  Randolph  is 
President  of  the  Senate.  Harrison  and 
I  are  absent  from  the  State.  There- 
fore, Chad  Randolph  is  Governor,  with 
all  a  Governor's  powers.  Here's  an- 
other thing:  Randolph  is  the  leader  of 
his  party  now,  and  he  has  nerve  to 
burn.  Just  for  pure  devilment  he  will 
send  old  Oliver  to  the  Senate,  and  a 
shrewder,  more  unscrupulous  political 
schemer  never  struck  the  West." 

This  statement  was  generally  ac- 
cepted. 

"There  is  just  one  chance  left,  but  it 
is  such  a  slim  one  that  it  is  hardly 
worth  considering,"  Judge  Clawson 
suggested  after  the  Governor  had  fin- 
ished. 

"What's  that?"  came  eagerly  from 
a  half  dozen. 

"The  courts  have  held,"  the  judge 
explained  in  his  deliberate  way,  "that 
a  State  official  must  be  absent  from 
the  State  a  whole  day,  or  24  hours,  to 
be  absent  at  all.  We  left  home  at 
three  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon.  If 
the  Governor  or  Harrison  could  get 
back  there  at  3  o'clock  to-day  there 


would  be  no  legal  absence;  Chad  Ran- 
dolph would  not  be  authorized  by  law 
to  act  as  Governor,  and  this  little 
scheme  of  the  opposition  would  be 
knocked  in  the  head." 

The  effect  of  this  was  electrical. 

"By  the  eternal!"  cried  the  Gov- 
ernor excitedly;  "if  that's  the  case  I'll 
be  back  in  the  State  House  before  3 
o'clock  or  I'll  die  trying  to  get  there. 
I'll  beat  these  three-by-six  schemers 
yet !  Hustle,  now,  fellows ;  get  me  an 
engine  and  I'll  make  a  run  for  it!" 

Horace  Van  Cott  was  never  in  more 
deadly  earnest.  He  never  acted  with 
more  vigor.  His  lieutenants  were 
given  minute  instructions  as  to  the  re- 
ception to  be  given  the  president  on  the 
arrival  of  his  train  in  Cheyenne  later 
in  the  day.  He  rushed  off  a  telegram 
to  Chairman  Norton,  telling  him  of  his 
coming.  He  set  in  motion  the  machin- 
ery for  a  special  engine  and  car,  and 
in  less  than  an  hour,  with  Joe  Fisher 
alone  as  company,  he  was  off  over  the 
track  in  his  race  against  time. 

Trainmen  on  the  Union  Pacific,  all 
the  way  from  Cheyenne  west,  still  tell 
of  the  wild  dash  of  that  engine  and 
car.  At  Rock  Springs  there  was  a  de- 
lay of  a  half  hour  to  let  the  Overland 
go  by,  and  throughout  the  half  hour 
the  Governor  fretted  and  fumed  like 
a  tiger  in  leash.  From  Rock  Springs 
to  Green  River,  the  track  was  clear 
and  the  Governor's  spirits  rose  as  he 
dashed  through  space.  Already  he 
could  see  his  old  political  foe,  Chad 
Randolph,  and  that  wily  old  fox,  War- 
wick J.  Oliver,  whipped  and  discred- 
ited. He  could  see  the  reception  in  the 
capital  city  in  honor  of  the  President 
greater  than  ever  because  of  the  de- 
feat of  the  opposition.  He  could  see 
himself  riding  down  Main  street  in  the 
same  automobile  with  the  chief  execu- 
tive of  the  nation,  with  the  cheering 
thousands  banked  on  each  side.  He 
could  see  the  parade — the  regulars 
from  the  fort,  the  national  guard,  the 
Indians  from  the  reservation,  the 
Rough  Riders  from  the  plains.  He 
could  see  the  demonstration  in  the  vast 
auditorium — the  waving  flags,  the  blar- 
ing trumpets,  the  shouting  crowds.  He 


382 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


could  hear  his  own  voice  as  he  intro- 
duced to  that  audience  "The  First  Citi- 
zen of  the  Civilized  World." 

It  was  to  be  glorious !  He  was  still 
rounding  out  some  of  his  finest  periods 
when  his  car  came  to  a  stop  with  a 
jolt.  Then  there  was  hurrying  to  and 
fro  until  the  word  was  brought  back 
to  the  Governor  that  there  was  a 
freight  wrack  ahead.  Cars  and  their 
contents  were  scrambled  in  a  heap  in 
a  deep  cut,  while  two  trainmen  were 
stretched  on  the  bank  badly  crushed. 

Split  rail,  was  the  way  they  ex- 
plained it. 

Pleading,  cursing,  offers  of  money — 
all  were  in  vain  now.  Governor  Van 
Cott  could  storm  around  in  his  im- 
potent rage  as  much  as  he  pleased.  It 
would  take  hours,  several  of  them,  to 
clear  that  track.  It  was  out  of  the 
question  for  his  engine  and  car  to  go 
another  mile  to  the  west  before  night. 

Then  the  Governor  saw  a  different 
picture.  He  saw  his  enemy  in  tri- 
umph at  home.  He  saw  the  heart 
taken  out  of  the  reception  to  the 
President.  He  saw  himself  the  butt 
of  ridicule.  He  saw  his  own  political 
future  blasted,  and  through  it  all  he 
could  see  the  smile  of  Chad  Randolph. 

The  remainder  of  that  journey  to  the 
capital  will  ever  remain  a  nightmare 
to  Horace  Van  Cott.  Through  the  wit 
and  energy  of  Joe  Fisher  he  was  soon 
on  a  handcar  making  the  best  time 
possible  for  Challic  Junction,  38  miles 
away.  There  an  automobile  was  se- 
cured, and  a  final  dash  made  overland 
for  the  capital.  But  after  the  last 
ounce  of  energy  had  been  expended; 
after  it  was  admitted,  even  by  the  im- 
patient Governor,  that  everything  pos- 
sible had  been  done,  still  it  was  near- 
ing  five  o'clock  when  the  State  House 
was  reached. 

Long  before  this,  Governor  Van  Cott 
had  forced  himself  to  accept  defeat. 
Then  he  relapsed  into  a  sad  state  of  de- 
pression after  the  exciting  events  of 
the  day.  But  he  was  resolved  to  go 
at  once  to  his  office  to  learn  the  worst 
at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 

The  first  to  greet  him  as  he  entered 
was  Eleanor  Zane,  deputy  in  the  of- 


fice of  the  Secretary  of  State,  and 
State  Chairman  Norton.  Before  a 
word  of  explanation  could  be  uttered 
he  was  hurried  to  the  office  of  the  Sec- 
retary of  State,  where  everything 
seemed  to  be  in  disorder. 

Here  the  Governor  found  a  crowd 
of  angry,  excited  men,  some  of  them 
apparently  ready  for  open  violence. 
They  charged  upon  the  Governor  as  he 
entered;  all  speaking  at  once,  all  ges- 
ticulating wildly,  all  denouncing  some 
"damnable  outrage,"  all  demanding 
that  the  laws  of  the  State  be  respected 
and  the  rights  of.  the  people  upheld. 
Judge  Oliver  was  loudest  of  all.  His 
rasping  voice  could  be  heard  far  out 
in  the  corridors  as  he  inveighed  against 
"high-handed  and  infamous  political 
trickery." 

Governor  Van  Cott  looked  from  one 
man  to  the  other  in  blank  amazement. 
He  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  what 
it  all  meant.  Finally  he  held  up  his 
hand  and  demanded  silence.  Then 
turning  to  Miss  Zane,  who  had  been 
left  in  charge  of  the  office,  he  de- 
manded an  explanation. 

"He's  in  there,"  the  girl  said  in  a 
subdued  voice,  pointing  to  the  door  of 
the  vault. 

"Who's  in  there?"  the  Governor  de- 
manded. 

"Mr.  Randolph." 

"Yes,"  broke  in  Judge  Oliver,  bit- 
terly, unable  longer  to  restrain  himself, 
"and  if  somebody  don't  suffer  for  this 
infamy  there  is  no  law  in  this  State  or 
nation." 

"Just  a  moment,  gentlemen,'  pleaded 
the  Governor.  "Let  us  get  at  the  situa- 
tion here.  Miss  Zane,  will  you  please 
tell  me  what  has  happened?" 

Thus  appealed  to,  the  young  woman 
told  a  simple  and  straightforward 
story.  She  said: 

"Mr.  Randolph  came  in  this  after- 
noon when  I  was  all  alone  in  the  of- 
fice. He  said  that  as  you  and  Mr.  Har- 
rison were  out  of  the  State  it  became 
his  sworn  duty  to  act  as  Governor.  He 
showed  me  what  it  says  in  the  consti- 
tution. He  said  he  wished  to  appoint 
Judge  Oliver  to  the  Senate  in  order 
that  the  State  might  be  properly  rep- 


SUPPLICATION 


383 


resented  in  Washington  in  these  trying 
times,  and  then  he  asked  me  to  attach 
the  State  seal  to  the  certificate  of  ap- 
pointment. 

"I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  told 
Mr.  Randolph  I  would  like  to  talk  to 
Chairman  Norton  or  the  assistant  at- 
torney-general, but  he  would  not  wait. 
He  said  he  must  act  at  once.  I  was 
awfully  worried.  I  didn't  know  which 
way  to  turn.  I  didn't  think  it  right  to 
do  such  things  in  the  absence  of  Mr. 
Harrison.  When  I  finally  refused  to 
do  anything,  Mr.  Randolph  jumped 
right  over  the  counter  and  ran  into  the 
vault  to  get  the  seal  himself.  I  just 
slammed  the  door  shut,  and  he's  in 
there  yet,  because  I'm  the  only  one 
who  knows  the  combination,  except 
Mr.  Harrison  and  Colonel  Squires,  and 
they  both  went  on  the  special  train." 

Governor  Van  Cott  tried  hard  to 
make  his  voice  seem  stern  and  to  sup- 
press the  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he  said : 


"This  is  a  very  serious  matter.  I 
am  afraid,  Miss  Zane,  that  you  have 
been  guilty  of  a  grave  offense.  Open 
the  vault  door  at  once." 

With  trembling  fingers  and  a  flushed 
face,  Miss  Zane  twisted  the  little  knob 
until  the  right  combination  was  found 
and  the  great  vault  swung  back  on  its 
hinges,  and  Chad  Randolph,  sadly 
crestfallen,  stepped  out.  But  as  he 
looked  quickly  about  he  recovered  his 
old  bravado  and  the*  quality  that  had 
made  him  a  successful  and  popular 
party  leader  came  at  once  to  the  sur- 
face. 

"Young  woman,"  he  said,  with  a 
courtly  bow,  addressing  Miss  Zane, 
"my  hat  is  off  to  you.  You  win.  We 
had  the  Governor  and  his  gang 
whipped  to  a  frazzle  but  for  your  wit 
and  your  nerve.  It  will  not  save  them 
always." 

Then  he  led  the  disgruntled  opposi- 
tion from  the  State  House. 


SUPPLICATION 


To-day,  we  want  your  smile, 
Not  in  some  cold  to-morrow. 
"To-morrow"  may  beguile 
A  heart  unused  to  sorrow, 
But  dawn  may  never  come 
For  souls  with  sorrow  dumb. 

To-day,  we  ask  the  word 
That  helps  our  sordid  striving ; 
To-morrow  may  be  heard 
Acclaimed  success  arriving; 
But  that  will  not  allay 
Pain  which  endured  to-day. 

Give  us  the  hope  to-day 
For  which  we  sadly  languish, 
A  kindly  thought  may  stay 
The  sweeping  flood  of  anguish 
And  help  some  struggling  soul 
To  nobly  reach  its  goal. 


MABEL  PORTER  PITTS. 


A  Daughter  of  the  Sun 

By   Billee  Glynn 

Chapter  III 
(Continued  From  Last  AVonth) 


MARGARET  ALLAN  came 
early  to  her  planting  that 
Wednesday.  It  could  not 
have  been  more  than  ten 
o'clock  when  John,  coming  out  of 
the  house,  saw  her  in  the  opposite 
yard.  Usually  she  did  not  appear  till 
the  afternoon.  It  was  a  morning  of 
buttery,  yellow  sunshine  that  seemed 
to  melt  and  run  all  over.  The  fresh- 
ness of  a  new  creation  breathed  in  the 
air,  and  from  a  live  oak  at  the  way- 
side a  bunch  of  jolly  blackbirds  twit- 
tered and  twittered  like  the  drawing 
of  heart  strings.  It  was  a  morning  to 
smooth  one  out,  and  John  Hamilton 
relaxed  to  it  with  a  feeling  of  relief. 
So  he  plunged  around,  almost  succeed- 
ing in  forgetting  that  he  had  been  im- 
aginative and  sensitive  the  day  be- 
fore. It  took  him  quite  half  an  hour, 
indeed,  to  accomplish  the  other  yard, 
and  by  that  time  his  first  smoke  was 
over. 

Margaret  Allan  met  him  with  a 
pleasant  good-morning,  then  went  on 
with  her  work,  while  he  stood  there 
watching  her.  She  was  quite  happy, 
too,  apparently,  for  by  and  by  she 
burst  into  a  fluty  trill  of  a  song — some- 
thing the  man  had  never  heard  her  do 
before.  It  beat  outward  with  crisp  en- 
joyment— a  splash  of  silver  that 
seemed  to  harden  as  it  fell.  As  has 
been  said,  John  Hamilton  stood  and 
watched  her.  She  was  a  delicious  pic- 
ture there  in  the  morning  sunlight — 
that  meshed  her  golden-brown  hair. 
The  morning,  indeed,  seemed  to  gather 
around  her.  It  brought  out  the  clear 
tints  of  her  skin,  the  beautiful,  white 
mobility  of  her  hands,  and  quivered 


the  grace  and  strength  of  her  form,  the 
utter,  expressed  womanhood  of  her  be- 
ing to  a  sort  of  radiance.  Her  blue 
dress,  so  simply  made,  clung  about  her 
in  soft  lights  and  lost  itself  in  the 
bare  delicacy  of  her  throat.  John 
Hamilton  realized  all  this — realized  it 
unconsciously  with  a  half  pang.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  hardening  of  her  sil- 
very song  as  it  fell. 

Then  he  stirred  himself  and  bent 
down  beside  her  to  help  her  with  her 
task  as  usual.  But  she  moved  over 
suddenly  with  a  little  gesture  and  note 
of  deprecation. 

"Oh,  don't,  Mr.  Hamilton !"  she  ex- 
claimed. "These  are  pansies!  I  am 
planting  a  few  rows  between — and  you 
can't  do  it.  There!  Oh,  you  man — 
you  have  tramped  on  my  ground." 

He  had — and  rose  to  his  feet,  a 
slight  color  in  his  face.  She  glanced 
up  at  him,  smiling  something  of  an 
apology. 

"You've  been  so  good  helping  me, 
you  see,  I  am  not  going  to  impose  on 
you  by  teaching  you  to  plant  pansies, 
too." 

He  smiled  back.  "I  see,"  he  said. 
He  wasn't  thinking  of  her  words,  how- 
ever, but  of  her  manner  when  she  had 
put  him  away  from  her. 

After  a  while  she  glanced  up  at  him 
again.  "It's  this  evening,  isn't  it,  you 
are  going  away?"  she  inquired  lightly. 

So  she  had  forgotten  over  night! 
"Why,  no,"  he  said  kindly  enough.  "I 
stay  till  Friday  night — the  nine  train; 
that  is,  if  I  don't  decide  to  go  before." 

She  burst  into  her  silvery,  splattery 
song  once  more.  The  shadow  of  a 
palm  leaf  lifted,  tipping  its  sunshine 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN 


385 


in  fuller  glory  upon  her  head.  John 
Hamilton  paused  there,  realizing  again 
the  picture  she  made.  Then  he 
stirred  uneasily. 

"I  think  I'll  go  over,"  he  said,  "and 
see  how  Myra  is  getting  along." 

"You'll  be  back,  won't  you?"  she 
invited,  courteously. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  responded.  "I'll 
be  back." 

He  did  go  into  see  Myra,  but  only 
to  pet  her  for  a  moment,  to  rub  the 
xhair  down  playfully  over  the  eyes  that 
always  lit  at  his  coming — then  he  sat 
on  a  bench  on  the  back  veranda  argu- 
ing his  own  feelings.  His  mind,  how- 
ever, was  in  a  fog.  Somewhat  of  a 
sphinx  in  its  settled,  far-molded  char- 
acteristics, it  no  longer  looked  se- 
renely out  to  the  horizon  of  its  clear, 
gaunt  ways,  but  stood  enthroned  in 
a  new  and  perplexing  atmosphere 
awakening  to  new  sensations.  From 
where  he  sat  he  could  see  Margaret 
Allan  still  at  her  work.  He  did  jiot 
see  her  as  herself,  however,  but  as 
another  personality  that  flung  a  bar- 
rier to  herself — beyond  which  her  real 
self  shone  sweeter  than  ever  in  its  im- 
possibility. It  was  that  withdrawal 
which  hurt  him — the  chiffon  exterior, 
the  flower  of  womanhood  behind.  Its 
perfume  and  beauty  had  breathed  up- 
on him  from  the  beginning;  its  per- 
fume and  beauty  were  there  to  breathe 
upon  him  still.  He  could  only  know 
and  behold,  however — he  had  been 
shut  out.  Into  the  reasons  for  that 
shutting  out  he  did  not  delve.  It,  it- 
self, was  the  poignant  thing — a 
glimpse  of  its  perpetuity  startled  him. 

He  took  to  walking  up  and  down 
the  veranda  in  a  sober  way.  It  had  al- 
ways been  his  pride  that  he  betrayed 
little.  Perhaps  in  this  case  it  was  his 
misfortune.  Finally  he  found  himself 
for  another  time  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fence.  Twice  again  he  visited 
Margaret  Allan  at  her  work  that  morn- 
ing and  twice  came  away.  She  always 
spoke  quite  pleasantly  to  him,  and 
always  he  spoke  pleasantly  to  her.  She 
invariably  invited  him  back  with  a 
tone  of  her  old  self  that  almost  made 
him  stay — and  invariably  burst  into 


her  careless,  silvery,  splattery  song 
that  hardened  as  it  fell,  when  he  had 
come. 

He  wondered,  indeed,  if  it  wasn't 
just  a  matter  of  his  own  morbidness. 
Yet  that  very  afternoon  he  saw  the 
real  Margaret  Allen  as  she  revealed 
herself  to  Myra — and  knew  the  differ- 
ence. Never  had  she  failed  to  pay 
that  little  daily  visit  to  her  friend. 
When  she  entered,  John  Hamilton 
was  in  the  inner  room.  The  door  was 
open,  but  the  blinds  were  drawn,  and 
she  did  not  see  him  on  the  couch.  She 
stooped  over  his  sister  and  kissed  her 
— she  held  her  hands.  Myra  in  her 
first  words  had  spoken  of  not  feeling 
so  well.  She  sat  down  beside  her,  and 
reproached  her  for  not  taking  care  of 
herself.  Her  womanhood  seemed  to 
hover  in  the  delicate  quality  of  its 
kindness.  When  she  had  left  a  sense 
of  violets  remained.  Myra  sighed  au- 
dibly. In  the  other  room  John  Hamil- 
ton echoed  the  sigh.  A  few  minutes, 
and  he  was  again  walking  the  back  ve- 
randa soberly.  It  was  two  o'clock,  and 
Margaret  Allan  did  not  resume  her 
work  till  three.  When  she  appeared, 
the  sun  had  fought  for  her  a  clear 
space  among  the  trees.  It  seemed  to 
nestle  her,  to  point  her  out,  to  aure- 
ole the  supreme  qualities  the  man  had 
seen  her  betray.  The  hope  was  irre- 
sistible. He  want  over  to  her  and 
spoke  casually,  gravely,  of  his  going 
away.  She  answered  him  carelessly. 
He  found  an  excuse,  presently,  went 
away,  and  then  came  back  again.  He 
lingered  for  moments  watching  the 
trowel  pile  up  barriers.  Suddenly  she 
glanced  up  and  spoke  with  anticipa- 
tion— of  Clarence  Burton  coming  Sun- 
day. John  Hamilton  answered  not, 
however;  only  watched  the  trowel.  He 
was  glad  of  one  thing — she  did  not 
sing.  A  certain  reserve  had  come  into 
her  manner.  Instantly  he  fancied  he 
heard  Myra  call,  and  thought  he  had 
better  go  and  see  if  she  hadn't.  This 
time  he  did  not  mean  to  return. 

He  did  for  all.  Half  an  hour  later 
he  came  out  to  see  the  girl  moving  a 
heavy  step-ladder  in  the  direction  of 
the  walnut  tree  where  the  vine  with 


386 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


the  blue  flowers  grew.  It  was  only 
courtesy,  of  course,  to  go  and  assist 
her,  to  offer  even  to  prune  the  vine 
when  she  had  made  known  such  was 
her  intention.  In  placing  the  ladder 
their  hands  met  and  lingered  by  acci- 
dent. The  girl  smiled  at  him  with 
sudden  graciousness,  clipping  her 
pruning  shears  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  you  have  been  too  good  to  me 
already,  Mr.  Hamilton,"  she  said. 
"Then,  I  want  to  try  a  new  idea  in 
pruning." 

Her  foot  was  on  the  lower  step  of 
the  ladder,  and  she  paused  smiling  at 
him  again.  "I  would  like  you  to  go 
and  plant  sylvia  seeds  for  me  now,  if 
you  don't  mind,"  she  suggested.  A 
slight  color  was  in  her  cheeks. 

John  Hamilton  understood  and 
walked  away  to  the  sylvia  planting. 
He  didn't  do  any  of  it,  however.  He 
was  unthinkingly,  tremendously  glad. 
The  Margaret  Allan  who  had  spoken 
and  smiled  at  him  was  at  last  the  Mar- 
garet Allan  who  had  spoken  and 
smiled  at  Myra  that  afternoon.  The 
barriers  were  down.  The  thought 
sang  itself  over  and  over  in  his  brain. 
Suddenly  on  top  of  that  singing  came 
a  cry  and  the  sound  of  a  fall.  Spring- 
ing to  his  feet,  John  Hamilton  rushed 
back  to  see  what  had  happened. 

The  ladder  had  overturned;  beside 
it  the  girl  lay  unconscious.  He  bent 
over  her  quickly,  raising  her  in  his 
arms.  Then  even  as  he  did  so,  even 
in  that  moment  of  fatality,  perhaps, 
he  paused,  staring.  A  branch  had 
swept  the  opening  of  the  dress  in  front, 
leaving  the  white  throat  and  upper 
bosom  bare,  a  crimson  stain  threading 
it.  Around  the  neck  by  a  gold  chain 
a  locket  hung — had  been  flung  open,  a 
picture  in  it.  And  it  was  his  own 
face  that  looked  back  at  John  Hamil- 
ton— a  tiny  miniature  he  had  given 
her  to  assist  in  her  painting  of  him. 
But  it  was  the  words  that  held  his 
sentences  most — to  which  his  blood 
ran  wildly.  For  underneath  had  been 
written,  like  a  cry:  "My  Love,  my 
Love!" 

'  Sometimes  the  whole  ocean  seems 
to  gather  in  a  single  wave.    In  that  in- 


stant the  being  of  the  man  bending 
over  the  woman  had  rushed  to  such  a 
climax.  He  bent  closer  to  her — he  al- 
most kissed  her  lips.  Then  instantly 
the  calm  forces  that  made  himself,  the 
forces  that  had  always  been,  that  won- 
dered and  seemed  unchangeable,  spoke 
from  beneath  his  madness,  and  he  felt 
ashamed!  Swiftly  he  closed  the  locket 
and  fastening  the  dress  over  it  as  well 
as  he  might,  he  picked  up  the  limp 
form  in  his  arms  and  carried  it  to  the 
fountain.  As  he  set  her  down  she 
stirred  softly  and  opened  her  eyes.  He 
supported  her  while  he  held  a  wet 
handkerchief  to  her  brow,  then  helped 
her  to  a  seat.  In  a  few  minutes  she 
had  recovered  sufficiently  to  let  him 
escort  her  to  the  house. 

John  Hamilton  walked  back  down 
the  avenue  of  palms  slowly.  A  great 
gravity  had  settled  upon  him. 

PART  II. 

Two  days  may  be  either  a  short  or 
a  long  time.  The  Thursday  and  Fri- 
day that  followed  were  both.  Short 
because  of  the  time  itself,  they  were 
long  because  into  them  a  woman  put 
her  total  sweetness,  her  power  to  claim 
and  battle  for  ownership — and  be- 
cause to  a  man  the  hours  passed  like 
the  dying  of  pansies. 

Margaret  Allan  in  her  fall  had  suf- 
fered a  heavy  shock  to  her  side,  and 
was  in  a  convalescent  state.  So  most 
of  the  time  she  spent  sitting  out  on  the 
wide  front  portico  arbored  by  its  roses, 
or  in  the  hammock  under  the  trees 
where  the  birds  twittered  domestically 
from  morning  till  night.  And  nearly 
always  was  John  Hamilton  to  be  found 
with  her.  He  blamed  himself  for  her 
fall,  he  had  explained,  with  a  cavalier- 
ness  new  to  him,  for  it  must  have  been 
that  he  had  not  fixed  the  ladder  right. 
Now  it  was  his  duty  to  take  care  of  her 
as  well  as  he  could  during  the  two 
days  he  had  left. 

The  girl,  however,  did  not  speak  of 
his  going  away.  She  accepted  his  at- 
tentions, as  a  woman  always  accepts 
the  things  she  desires  and  that  are 
given  to  her,  with  an  easy  smile,  that 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN 


387 


was  all — then  out  of  the  pathos  of  her 
somewhat  helpless  state  commanded 
them.  It  was  thus  she  fought  for  him 
— fought  for  him  with  all  the  power  of 
her  woman's  soul,  but  without  any  ap- 
parent art  of  fighting.  For  it  was  only 
the  expression  of  herself  she  wielded, 
the  full  revelation  of  her  tender,  in- 
finite lure  and  truth.  And  John  Ham- 
ilton, with  the  other  revelation  that 
had  been  made  to  him,  couldn't  help 
know  but  that  she  fought  for  him.  Yet 
it  was  not  her  struggle  he  saw,  but  the 
woman  herself.  So  he  watched  her, 
the  pure  thrill  of  her  womanhood 
storming  her  being,  eating  into  his 
pulse,  but  beneath  all  the  calm,  sure, 
and  ever  restless  forces  that  had  be- 
come his  fate.  Forces  that  sometimes 
brought  a  shame  to  his  cheek  because 
he  did  watch  the  woman  and  knew 
what  she  thought  he  did  not  know — 
sometimes  were  forgotten  in  the  abso- 
lute, unqualified  joy  of  her;  but  were 
always  there  as  ineradicable  and  mea- 
sureless as  the  sea  breaking  on  the 
sands.  By  himself  he  fell  into  strange 
moods  of  gravity — moods  in  which  lit- 
tle flashes  of  ecstasy  ran;  and  his 
hands  had  learned  to  clench  them- 
selves, something  they  had  never  been 
in  the  habit  of  doing. 

Shadows  of  this  sort  haunted  him 
even  with  the  girl.  There  were  times, 
too,  when  he  sat  in  far  silences  with 
her — when  from  utter  primitiveness, 
from  somewhere  away  in  the  begin- 
ning before  man  knew  woman  at  all 
sheer  antagonisms  roused  themselves 
in  his  nature  to  wonder  at  her.  On  the 
whole,  however,  his  manner  toward  her 
had  become  characterized  by  a  rough 
tenderness.  At  any  rate,  it  always 
came  back  to  that — in  its  awkwardness 
carrying  a  touch  of  the  profund.  This 
was  because  perhaps  to  his  other 
moods  the  girl  never  brought  anything 
different.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice 
them,  indeed.  She  was  always  sim- 
ply herself — but  it  was  that  which  was 
beyond  comprehension.  It  was  the 
marvel  of  her  naturalness  that  wrought 
and  blossomed  before  his  eyes. 

Then  when  a  man  is  silent  a  woman 
can  have  always  something  to  do. 


Margaret  Allan  had  her  crocheting — 
and  crocheting  beyond  itself  is  an  ex- 
pression. The  girl  always  smiled  a 
little  at  her  work  or  mused  over  it. 
It  might  have  been  destiny  with  her. 
She  watched  it  with  drifting  regrets 
and  tints  of  expression.  A  rose  would 
ruffle  so  in  a  breeze.  Beyond  all,  there 
was  a  hovering  joy.  Perhaps  the  milk 
line  of  her  teeth  showed,  or  the  sun 
stole  slantwise  through  the  branches 
on  her  hair.  Anyway  it  was  hair  that 
was  a  sun  to  itself — and  against  it 
her  ears  nestled.  Have  you  noticed 
some  women's  ears?  They  are  like 
shells  picked  on  a  shore  of  dreams. 
Margaret  Allan's  were  that  kind.  Her 
arms  were  a  roundness  that  blushed, 
that  massaged  themselves  in  move- 
ment. Her  dress  a  part  of  her  that 
stirred  in  life  with  her  breathing.  It 
was  in  her  delicate  bounty  her  appeal 
lay — her  attributes  clustered  her 
about.  If  they  drooped  a  little  in  their 
invitation  it  was  as  unconsciously  as 
grapes  droop  upon  their  stem.  And 
it  was  with  the  same  delicious  sense 
of  dew,  and  dawn,  and  sun. 

Any  man  couldn't  help  but  have 
seen  her  thus — and  John  Hamilton 
saw  her  for  hours  at  a  time.  It  was 
his  difference  that  he  could  fall  into 
such  silences  as  he  watched  her.  Yet 
it  was  something  to  see  her  crochet. 
Her  fingers  were  wonderful,  supple 
things — and  perhaps  she  smiled  up  at 
him  from  her  task.  Her  smile  wasn't 
only  a  smile — it  was  the  ripple  of  her 
whole  being.  Perhaps  she  made  some 
casual  remark  that  didn't  require  an 
answer.  Or  it  might  be  a  shadow  of 
pain  crossed  her  face  as  she  stirred 
and  felt  again  the  hurt  at  her  side.  It 
was  Myra  who  had  told  John  Hamil- 
ton how  bad  that  hurt  really  was.  On 
account  of  it  there  were  times,  too, 
when  she  required  little  attentions.  To 
these,  or  that  twinge  of  pain  in  her 
face  the  man  even  in  moments  of  deep- 
est brooding  never  failed  to  arouse 
himself.  It  wasn't  himself,  indeed, 
but  a  leaping  impulse  of  tenderness 
which  swept  him  back  to  himself — and 
which  swept  him  back  more  vividly, 
maybe,  than  it  left  him  without  rea- 


388 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


son  for  being  anything  else.  Was  it 
fair,  after  all,  to  remember  her  secret 
that  had  been  reaveled  to  him?  Was 
it  even  fair  to  believe  in  it,  that  it  left 
him  a  churl  or  light-headed  clasping 
impossible  things.  The  woman  was 
only  herself — could  he  blame  her  for 
being  that!  Could  he  blame  himself 
for  his  appreciation  of  her  as  such — 
even  though  appreciating  were  an 
oddity  that  ran  in  the  blood.  At  any 
rate,  response  to  her  present  state  was 
the  merest  sort  of  courtesy — for  she 
herself  was  one  who  had  heart  even 
for  a  worm.  And  how  brief  the  time 
that  was  left! 

In  thoughts  ancl  feelings  like  these 
John  Hamilton  lived  those  last  hours 
that  were  to  be  with  the  woman.  And 
they  were  hours  that  linked  themselves 
in  adorable  wearing  like  the  pearls  of 
a  queen's  necklace,  or  lay  all  together 
crushed  in  a  little  futile  heap  of 
shadow. 

Besides  her  crocheting,  Margaret  on 
Thursday  afternoon  took  Tennyson 
and  one  or  two  of  the  other  poets  out 
to  the  hammock  with  her.  These  she 
read  to  the  man  at  intervals — because 
if  she  used  her  needle  long  it  caused 
her  side  to  pain.  So  it  was  that  John 
Hamilton,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
came  to  an  appreciation  of  poetry 
through  the  tones  of  her  voice.  More- 
over, he  became  interested  in  the  man 
who  had  written  such  things — men  who 
had  lived  and  loved  so  passionately; 
and  Margaret  answered  his  questions 
with  tales  of  the  beauty  or  sadness  of 
their  lives.  She  told  him  of  Edgar  Al- 
lan Poe  and  his  deathless  love  for  his 
child-bride,  Virginia  Clemm;  of  Dante 
and  Beatrice — and  Ben  Jonson  who 
had  never  grown  older  than  his  "Drink 
to  Me  Only  With  Thine  Eyes."  She 
spoke  of  the  beautiful,  white  passion 
of  the  two  Brownings;  of  Bobbie 
Burns'  loveliest  dream,  his  Highland 
Mary;  and  the  divine  friendship  Ten- 
nyson sang  in  "In  Memoriam." 
^  To  these  accounts  John  Hamilton 
listened  like  a  child,  and  of  the  things 
she  read,  more  than  any,  was  he  inter- 
ested in  the  "Idylls  of  the  King."  It 
was  their  simplicity  appealed  to  him, 


perhaps — and  was  it  by  chance,  se- 
lecting one  to  read  to  him  that  Thurs- 
day afternoon,  it  happened  to  be  "Lan- 
celot and  Elaine?"  At  any  rate,  John 
Hamilton  took  part  in  the  selection 
himself — for  when  the  girl  had  read 
only  a  couple  of  passages  from  the 
piece  to  him,  and  paused  fluttering  the 
leaves,  he  begged  that  she  read  it  all. 
Before  she  finished,  twilight,  with  its 
scampering,  returning  shadows,  had 
crept  to  them,  gray,  silent  and  mouse- 
like, and  in  it  the  tones  of  the  girl's 
voice  became  a  half  hushed  sacred 
thing. 

It  was  that  tiny,  leaping  echo 
of  restraint,  perhaps,  which  .made  the 
reading  so  vivid.  Just  so  Elaine,  the 
lily  maid,  in  shimmering  white  and 
drooping  twilight,  might  have  recited 
her  own  story,  and  told  with  tender, 
trembling  reserve  of  her  hopeless  love 
for  Lancelot.  At  any  rate,  the  silent 
barge  bearing  its  stately  burden  of 
death,  seemed  to  drift  there  in  reality 
before  the  gaze  of  the  man — and  the 
wonder  of  the  dusk  enclosing  them  be- 
came the  wonder  that  even  Lancelot 
'could  fail  to  return  such  a  love. 

The  girl  could  just  see  to  read  the 
last  few  lines,  and  when  she  finished 
it  was  with  a  pause  during  which  she 
still  held  the  book  before  her  eyes.  But 
John  Hamilton  sat  looking  away — his 
hands  locked  together  in  front  of  him. 
The  gloom  was  haunted,  as  it  were,  by 
a  sense  of  fallen,  wasted  petals — it 
wasn't  evening  so  much  as  if  the  day 
had  wilted  about  them.  Finally  the 
man  stirred  himself,  and  the  girl 
stirred  too. 

"It  is  beautiful,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

John  Hamilton  spoke  slowly.  "Yes, 
but  do  you  reckon  a  woman  could  ever 
think  that  much  of  a  man?" 

The  hands  lying  across  the  book  on 
her  lap  seemed  to  tense  and  hold  them- 
selves for  an  instant.  "I  think  she 
could,"  she  replied ;  "but  most  women 
would  be  too  strong  to  die  of  their  love 
— even  though  it  were  so  great  as 
that." 

"Most  women,  I  imagine,  would 
marry  some  one  else  and  forget  about 
it."  The  words  sounded  harsh  even  in 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN 


389 


John  Hamilton's  own  ears,  but  the  girl 
answered  them  simply. 

"She  might  marry  some  one  else," 
she  said,  "some  one  who  would  be 
kind  to  her,  for  a  woman  needs  kind- 
ness and  companionship — but  I  don't 
think  she  could  ever  forget.  I  am  sure 
she  wouldn't — no  more  than  Edgar  Al- 
lan Poe  could  forget  Virginia  Clemm. 
It  is  always  a  woman's  dearest  wish  to 
love  and  be  loved  like  that — do  you 
think  she  could  possibly  forget  her 
dearest  wish?" 

"Perhaps  not,"  returned  John  Ham- 
ilton, courteously.  "I  guess  I  don't 
know  women  and  shouldn't  judge  'em. 
It's  a  case,  perhaps,  of  the  good  of  Jem 
being  too  good  for  us  and  the  bad  too 
bad.  And  man,  maybe,  is  about  the 
worst  thing  that  ever  happened  to  wo- 
man." 

"And  the  best,"  gently  announced 
the  girl,  rising  from  the  hammock  and 
closing  the  book  in  her  hand,  "and  the 
best!  Even  Elaine  did  not  regret  her 
love.  The  regret  was  that  Lancelot 
could  not  return  it.  I  think,  perhaps, 
it  was  the  incomprehensible  thing,  too. 
It  was  her  difference  that  most  girls 
would  have  been  too  proud  for  his 
pity.  A  woman  wants  a  man's  heart 
only  when  she  can  command  it.  She 
wants  to  be  above  all  his  other  loves, 
and  him  to  recognize  her  as  such — 
otherwise  I  think  she  might  prefer  her 
regret."  She  put  out  her  hand  sud- 
denly. "I  am  going  in  now,"  she  con- 
cluded. "We  will  be  able  to  read  some 
more  of  Tennyson  to-morrow." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes.  There  can  be 
many  things  in  a  handclasp — and  in 
his  one  John  Hamilton  found  himself 
accepting  the  ultimatum  of  the  girl's 
soul,  simple  and  profound  as  she  had 
expressed  it.  For  somehow  the  mo- 
ment was  charged  with  the  feeling  that 
she  had  expressed  it — that  she  had 
wished  to  place  herself  on  record.  It 
was  as  if  she  divined  to  rid  herself — 
even  beyond  his  farthest  guess — of 
any  part  of  Elaine's  garb  of  pity,  and 
would  stand  robed  only  in  her  own 
lure.  And  placing  her  beyond  his  pity 
it  placed  her  beyond  his  secret  knowl- 


edge of  her — though  that  of  himself 
he  had  always  endeavored  to  put  aside 
as  unfair.  The  difference  was  that 
now  he  seemed  to  stand  vowed  to  her 
in  the  matter.  The  rare  and  lovely 
quality  of  her  response  spoke  to  him 
in  the  warm  mobility  of  her  hand,  and 
because  of  it  the  thrill  of  her  inde- 
pendence came  to  him  a  greater  thrill. 
Yet  it  was  challenge — and  even  in  that 
moment,  perhaps  because  of  its  very 
danger,  to  meet  it  leapt  monstrous  the 
thing  of  habit  that  above  all  others 
seemed  his  soul.  He  didn't  try  to  quell 
it — it  was  as  something  beyond  his 
control.  Besides,  by  her  own  words, 
it  was  for  her  to  quell  though  he 
proved  unworthy  of  her  in  her  failure. 
And  answering  the  smile  in  her  eyes, 
he  could  feel  her  failure. 

Then  suddenly  she  had  turned  and 
gone — and  he  watched  her  white  dress 
moving  away  from,  him  in  the  shadows 
— the  light  slowly  dying  from  his  face. 
In  the  quick  sense  of  loneliness  she 
left  behind  he  seemed  to  feel  her  in- 
difference of  some  future  day — the  in- 
difference that  might  belong  to  her 
pride.  A  moment  ago,  and  he  had 
been  secretly  glad  of  that  pride — now 
it  came  to  him  a  throbbing,  winged 
thing  of  strange  regret  in  the  night.  It 
was  as  if  the  air  had  instantly  become 
thick  with  the  ghosts  of  other  men's 
loves — singing,  unwonted  passions 
she  had  told  him  of.  And  for  mo- 
ments after  she  had  disappeared  he 
stood  in  the  surge  of  these  things. 
Then  he  roused  himself  to  a  sickening 
sense  of  his  own  growing  sensitive- 
ness. The  only  motive  that  stood  out 
clear  in  all  was  that  monster  thing 
that  had  sprung  even  to  their  hand- 
clasp. It  came  to  him  now  a  throb  of 
safety — a  safety  that  lifted  itself  out 
bodily  from  other  turmoil.  His  hands 
had  locked  themselves  unconsciously 
in  front  of  him,  and  he  drew  them 
apart,  pausing  to  notice  their  unwield- 
iness,  then  the  closed  fist.  The  gaze 
brought  purpose  to  him,  as  it  were,  for 
he  set  off  walking  toward  the  house — 
he  had  decided  to  'phone  an  express- 
man even  then  to  come  for  his  trunk 
on  the  morrow.  Yet  as  he  went,  these 

4 


390 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ghosts  of  the  air  plucked  at  him  with 
tingling  fingers,  and  his  blood  beat  at 
the  warmth  and  perfume  of  their 

breath. 

m  *  #  * 

As  she  had  promised  at  parting  with 
him,  Margaret  Allan  did  read  for  her 
companion  the  day  following.  It  was 
one  of  those  days  of  half-rosy,  purple 
distances  tilting  towards  and  enclosing 
one  like  petals,  one  of  those  days  when 
all  the  world  seems  to  have  gathered 
in  a  single  blossom  of  space,  and  life 
is  dim-hued  and  dewy  in  its  own  fra- 
grance. John  Hamilton  had  awak- 
ened late  from  a  restless  night — that 
is,  it  was  late  for  him — but  the  dew 
was  still  on  the  grass  and  the  birds 
reveled.  From  out  this  liquid,  throaty 
paradise,  the  man  had  a  sense  of  his 
trunk  being  carried — he  had  locked 
and  strapped  that  trunk  before  he  left 
his  room — and  the  immediate  hours 
he  could  feel  en  masse,  white-robed, 
beautiful  things  that  came  separately 
and  reverentially  to  take  farewell.  Or 
it  was  as  though  they  were  a  bouquet, 
a  vital,  fragile  gift  of  beauty  crushed 
in  an  unintentional  hand  to  a  sorely 
a  wounded,  odorous  memory.  Such 
feelings  as  these,  then,  sought  out 
John  Hamilton  in  the  clinging  fresh- 
ness of  the  morning,  and  as  the  day 
waxed  to  hazy  indistinctness,  gather- 
ing its  purply  petals  in  closer  centre 
about  them,  haunted  him,  a  pulse  that 
wouldn't  be  still,  with  Margaret. 

There  was  something  peculiarly  ten- 
der about  her  to-day.  It  wasn't  a  ten- 
derness expressed,  but  a  little  reserve 
that  was  as  the  haze  on  the  hills.  Per- 
haps, even  when  it  most  reveals  itself, 
a  woman's  soul  is  like  this — like  the 
crowding,  purple  distances  of  a  day, 
not  to  be  analyzed  but  to  satisfy  with 
its  loveliness.  At  any  rate,  it  was  as 
if  Margaret  Allan  had  stripped  a  veil 
off,  being  only  to  reveal  it  in  rarer  and 
more  inexplicable  manners.  Her  ten- 
derness was  its  own  guard. 

John  Hamilton,  on  his  part,  took  to 
noticing  things  in  her  he  had  never 
noticed  before.  Her  expressions  had 
become  a  lingering  of  other  expres- 
sions. Her  personality  was  as  the  see- 


ing of  some  divine  growth  and  the 
pausing  impulse  of  its  colors  with  a 
sigh  to  being  and  the  joyful  infinity  of 
life.  All  the  petals  of  the  day  seemed 
to  slope  toward  her,  and  she  was  as 
the  heart  of  its  flower — its  natural  and 
utmost  evolution.  So  much  was  this 
so,  her  smiles  hovered  her  about  as 
witnesses  to  her  seriousness.  The  rip- 
pling actions  of  her  hands  always 
pointed  back  to  herself.  Ajid  the  shad- 
ing of  her  glance,  her  lips,  was  the 
movement  of  music  while  it  is  still  in- 
spiration and  before  it  reaches  sound. 
In  his  inmost  heart  John  Hamilton  was 
a  poet — as  men  of  single  passions 
usually  are. 

It  was  thus,  at  any  rate,  he  saw  the 
woman  that  day — a  day  that  beneath 
all  was  tinkly  with  silences  and  sling- 
ing, slipping  thought — hours  that 
surged  to  them — and  on  this  day,  too, 
he  most  of  all  found  her  early.  He 
found  her  early  in  the  afternoon  again 
— and,  as  had  been  said,  she  read  to 
him.  It  was  he  who  suggested  she 
read  "Lancelot  and  Elaine"  once  more, 
and  she  did  so  with  just  a  little  hesita- 
tion. Her  voice,  too,  carried  a  slightly 
muffled  tone,  as  though  she  would 
hide  Elaine's  pity.  But  that  John 
Hamilton  had  put  from  him,  so  far  as 
unconscious  and  belonging  forces  may 
be  put,  and  saw  only  the  white  won- 
der of  the  maid,  or  sat  staring  at  the 
thrill  of  her  unaccepted  gift  that  had 
turned  to  stone  in  her  lily  hand. 

It  was  in  the  pause,  when  she  had 
finished,  that  a  wagon  clattered  up — 
and  an  expressman  swung  the  gate  of 
the  opposite  yard  and  walked  sturdily 
in.  He  came  out  a  minute  later  with 
John  Hamilton's  trunk  on  his  shoul- 
der. It  was  only  a  minute,  and  nei- 
ther had  broken  the  silence.  Even 
now,  if  the  girl  saw — and  John  Hamil- 
ton knew  she  saw — she  did  not  say 
anything.  When  the  wagon  had  driven 
away  she  turned  to  another  poem  and 
read  it,  that  was  all.  Then,  as  it  was 
near  to  sunset,  she  got  up  and  held  out 
her  hand  to  him.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
as  usual,  like  the  night  before,  a  pres- 
ent parting — but  John  Hamilton  fan- 
cied in  it  something  more.  He  turned 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN 


391 


away  a  couple  of  paces — then  spoke 
with  a  touch  of  embarrassment: 

"I've  decided  not  to  go  till  to-mor- 
row night,"  he  said.  "Myra,  I  think, 

would  like  me  to  stay." 

*  *  *  * 

It  was  that  following  morning  he 
received  the  telegram.  It  carried  a 
sort  of  expostulation: 

"What's  the  matter?  Ship  sails 
Sunday  morning,  8:30.  Be  here." — 
Robertson. 

John  Hamilton  crunched  the  slip  of 
yellow  paper  in  his  pocket  and  did  not 
say  anything  even  to  Myra.  He  meant 
to  stay  away  from  Margaret  Allan  that 
day,  however — that  had  been  decided 
the  night  before.  It  was  one  of  those 
nights  of  odorous,  heavy  stillnesses  in 
which  one  can  imagine  the  drip  of  dew, 
one  of  those  nights,  warm-breathed 
and  velvet-padded,  that  seem  to  close 
about  and  hold  one,  and  immensity  be- 
comes a  prison.  It  came  to  John  Ham- 
ilton with  a  sense  of  smothering  sweet- 
ness in  which  his  weakness  stood  out 
like  a  mildew.  For  he  admitted  to 
himself  now  that  he  was  weak,  that 
this  unwonted  thing  of  woman  and 
place  had  become  a  struggle  with  him 
— and  he  was  glad  that  the  girl  had 
made  it  a  struggle  only  on  behalf  of 
himself.  So  he  meant  to  stay  from 
her,  to  plead  having  been  busy,  and 
go  over  only  to  bid  her  farewell.  A 
pang,  and  then  the  swing  of  the  trail 
under  free  feet  again!  And  the  tele- 
gram coming  shortly  after  nine  o'clock 
was  further  realization  of  his  need. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  again  settled  the 
matter. 

So  he  spent  an  hour  chatting  with 
Myra — an  hour  in  which  he  knew 
there  was  no  one  in  the  opposite  yard ; 
another  hour  which  he  moped  miser- 
ably in  his  own  room — the  last  half  of 
which  he  did  know  there  was  some 
one  in  the  opposite  yard,  and  the  glint 
of  a  white  dress  was  apparent  through 
a  side  window.  Then — suddenly  and 
impatiently — he  took  himself  out  and 
joined  her.  So  the  matter  settled  it- 
self. 

After  all,  it  was  his  nature  to  battle, 
not  evade  things;  and  underlying 


everything  in  him  was  a  chivalrous 
fairness.  Nothing  was  asked  of  him 
that  he  could  hold  back;  he  did  not 
even  dare  to  know  anything.  Only  the 
pang  of  his  unfriendliness  stood  out 
clear.  And  another  day  with  the  girl 
began. 

This  Saturday  Margaret  Allan  had 
something  blue  about  her  throat.  It 
was  one  of  those  high,  soft  neck- 
pieces, that  like  in  an  old  daguerro- 
type  lift  a  woman's  face  an  adoration 
of  sudden,  vivid  features.  The  tints 
of  her  skin  in  contrast  had  never 
shown  so  charmingly,  and  her  hair, 
massed  behind  like  a  painter's  dream. 
Perhaps  there  was,  too,  just  a  hint  of 
further  reserve  nestling  her — a  silken, 
purple  robe  out  of  which  her  graces 
rustled.  And  yet,  for  all,  she  was  the 
same  Margaret.  Only  the  hours  car- 
ried more  of  tinkly,  dripping  silences, 
of  little,  drifting  conversations,  and 
less  reading  aloud;  the  instant's  re- 
deem in  the  flash  of  camaraderie  that 
can  belong  to  a  smile — then  other 
silences  in  which  John  Hamilton  beat 
his  foot,  or  the  girl  hummed  in  a  mus- 
ing underbreath — each  seeming  to 
time  the  minutes  that  trickled  con- 
stantly up  and  past  them.  That  last 
hour  of  the  afternoon,  indeed,  as  the 
sun  slid  down  before  their  eyes,  was 
one  almost  of  restraint  and  absolute 
silence.  And  yet  the  girl  smiled  once 
at  him  during  it — John  Hamilton  was 
sure  of  that.  She  smiled  an  instant 
even  now  as  he  watched  the  last  rays 
of  sunlight  dying  on  her  hair.  Per- 
haps it  was  his  gaze  that  made  her 
restless,  for  she  moved  nervously,  and 
John  Hamilton  got  to  his  feet.  She 
arose  beside  him,  and  they  stood  for  a 
minute  looking  toward  the  West — be- 
fore he  broke  the  silence. 

"I  will  want  to  leave  you — good-by," 
he  said.  "Where  will  I  find  you?" 

He  spoke  as  though,  whatever  else, 
their  good-bye  was  necessarily  sacred 
and  must  be  by  itself. 

The  girl  answered  him  quietly.  "If 
you  will  come  to  the  summer  house," 
she  said,  "just  before  you  leave,  I'll 
be  there." 

Neither  had  looked  in  the  other's 


392 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


eyes.  But  John  Hamilton  for  another 
time  watched  her  go  away  from  him 
— and  turned  to  gaze  back  into  the  sun- 
set, a  cloud  on  his  face. 

*  *  *  * 

It  was  only  after  he  Shad  done  every- 
thing else  that  he  came  to  the  summer 
house  that  night — after  he  had  left 
Myra  a  tender  good-bye,  and  with  his 
grip  carried  as  far  as  the  fence  and 
waiting  him.  As  for  Myra's  husband 
he  also  waited  him  at  the  station,  for 
Donald  Martin  had  been  called  out 
that  evening.  Surely  he  had  made  it 
so  there  could  be  no  turning  back.  He 
strode  briskly  along  the  path  to  the 
summer  house  and  saw  her  there  in 
white,  standing  on  the  low  broad  step 
before  the  massed-  shadows  of  the 
door.  She  moved  as  if  to  go  out  to 
meet  him,  but  held  instantly  back,  her 
hand  grasping  the  framework  behind 
her — the  motion  of  a  leaf  an  autumn 
wind  has  stirred.  Then  he  was  close 
to  her;  their  hands  met — and  the 
moon-sheen  was  like  running  silver  in 
her  hair.  Just  for  an  instant  their 
glance  mingled  as  warm  wines  run  to- 
gether, then  something  seemed  to  swim 
between  them,  a  surging  dizziness  in 
which  an  universe  throbbed.  In  the 
midst  of  it  John  Hamilton  heard  him- 


self mumble  his  good-bye — words  that 
fell  like  the  under  dripping  of  blood, 
like  murder  done  that  palpitating  thing 
of  the  air.  It  was  in  the  hushed, 
dazed  sense  of  fatality  which  followed 
that  he  turned  and  went — the  only 
thing  left  him  to  do.  He  caught  over 
his  shoulder,  as  if  in  phantasmagora, 
the  blighted  vision  of  her  as  she 
swayed  back  a  step  or  two  into  the 
shadows  of  the  summer  house,  her 
hands  clutched  white  on  the  door;  he 
felt  his  legs  striding  under  him,  and 
knew  that  he  picked  up  his  grip  and 
carried  it  to  his  own  gate.  Then  he 
set  it  down  there,  and  leaned  on  his 
arms  on  the  gatepost  in  his  charac- 
teristic attitude.  It  was  only  a  mo- 
ment— his  last  look  toward  the  trail. 
Like  a  tentacle,  a  cold  lash,  fear  came 
to  tighten  about  his  heart.  He  turned 
suddenly  and  rushed  back,  peering 
with  blearing  eyes  for  the  glimmer  of 
a  white  dress  that  might  be  disap- 
pearing— that  might  be  disappearing 
forever.  But  she  was  still  in  the  sum- 
mer house  and  he  found  her  there.  She 
was  sobbing  softly — huddled  in  a  heap 
on  the  bench.  John  Hamilton  didn't 
utter  a  word,  but  he  took  her  in  his 


arms. 


(The  End.) 


RECOGNITION 

Our  poems  praise  the  warrior  heart, 
Our  marbles  mark  his  deeds. 

No  voice  proclaims  the  nobler  part 
Of  him  who  inward  bleeds. 

Seek  not  the  tomb's  encastled  clay, 
The  stanza's  throbbing  beat — 

We  elbow  heroes  day  by  day 
On  every  square  and  street. 

Ye,  lauding  martyred  womanhood, 
May  learn — and  feel  the  knife ! — 

That  unsuspected  heroine's  blood 
Runs  in  thy  faithful  wife. 

So  let  us  blend — for  in  life's  hive 
Their  courage  ours  has  fed — 

Due  recognition  of  the  live 
With  reverence  for  the  dead. 

ARTHUR   POWELL. 


The  Sandalwood  Box 


(Dedicated  to  the  Aan  Who  Bought  the  Box  in  Delhi) 


By  Aaude  Irene  Haere 


THIS  is  a  strange  story,  but  I 
have  heard  stranger  that  were 
true.  In  a  latitude  of  28  deg. 
38  m.  N.,  77  deg.  13  m.  E.,  when 
rain  falls  there  is  a  certain  murkiness 
in  the  blood.  Dennis  S.  Donnell,  four 
years  in  the  Desert  of  Thar,  felt  it. 
He  stood  in  front  of  a  shop  in  the 
Chadni  Chauk  (The  Silver  street)  and 
'felt  it.  There  is  no  other  street  in  an- 
cient Delhi,  or  in  all  the  world  for  that 
matter,  so  famous  for  its  merchandise 
of  finely  carved  wood  and  ivory.  Den- 
nis S.  Donnell  marveled  at  the  wonder- 
ful wood  things  in  the  shop  before 
which  he  was  standing.  He  was  a 
skilled  engineer,  and  the  better  part 
of  his  four  years'  service  had  gone 
into  the  construction  of  the  Rajputant 
Malwa  and  Bombay-Baroda  Railway. 
There  were  still  years  of  such  work 
before  him.  Its  iron  fingers  held  him ; 
he  liked  it;  but — every  human  being 
knows  how  it  was — love  of  work  and 
sheer  devotion  to  it  cannot  do  every- 
thing. A  frightful  loneliness  seized 
him  at  times ;  it  was  always  worse  dur- 
ing vacations;  he  dreaded  them.  Whe- 
ther he  found  himself  under  the  peo- 
pled dome  of  Vimala's  temple,  or  con- 
fronting the  spacious  wonder  of  the 
Taj  Mahal,  always  it  came  back,  that 
keen  sense  of  isolation  and  loneliness. 
He  felt  sometimes  as  if — well,  he  had 
come  to  look  upon  his  loneliness  with 
a  degree  of  fear. 

He  felt  the  subtle  intimations  of  this 
fear  to-day  as  he  stood  under  the 
dreamy,  cloud-cloaked  sky  of  Delhi, 
watching  the  motley  world  coiling 
through  the  long  streets.  In  Delhi, 


as  in  all  great  cities,  one  sees  the 
world  in  epitome,  a  microcosm,  re- 
sounding with  all  the  tongues  of  Babel 
and  mirroring  the  faces  of  Barbarian, 
Scythian,  bond  and  free.  It  was  aw- 
ful to  think  that  since  the  days  of  Shah 
Jahan,  and  before,  this  tireless  multi- 
tude had  been  moving  through  these 
same  streets.  There  was  -  the  blue 
lungi  of  the  rich,  the  student's  tarbush, 
the  old  auga  of  the  conservative  Del- 
hians,  and  the  more  up  to  date  adikan 
— dress,  faces  and  tongues  of  native 
and  stranger  in  endless  variety.  Den- 
nis S.  Donnell  leaned  comfortably 
against  the  door  post  of  the  shop  and 
watched  the  human  caravan. 

Suddenly  his  eye  fell  on  a  band  of 
vagrant  gypsies  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street.  It  was  a  welcome  sight. 
He  smiled  to  think  of  the  wonder  and 
admiration  he  had  lavished  upon  these 
strange  people  as  a  boy.  He  recalled 
with  interest  the  curiosity  and  conster- 
nation with  which  he  used  to  regard 
the  tribe  that  camped  annually  on  the 
road  by  his  grandfather's  estate,  and 
not  far  enough  from  the  big  house  to 
render  its  occupants  wholly  at  ease 
as  to  their  barnyard  possessions.  He 
recalled  the  day  when  he  rashly  ven- 
tured to  the  tent,  and  a  woman,  more 
powerful  looking  than  the  rest,  with 
gauds  and  trinkets  about  her  arms  and 
hair,  pressed  open  his  reluctant  palm 
and  told  him  he  would  grow  to  be  a 
tall  man  and  travel  in  strange  coun- 
tries. 

He  stood  watching  the  tribe  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  Their 
faces  seemed  like  the  faces  of  friend- 


394 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ship  here  in  this  far  away  country.  A 
strange  fancy  seized  him.  A  tall  wo- 
man, the  oldest  and  most  powerful 
looking  of  them  all,  was  standing  in 
front  of  the  booth.  He  rushed  over 
to  where  she  stood  and  extended  his 
palm;  she  took  it  with  an  astute  and 
furtive  glance  into  his  face. 

"You  are  homesick,"  she  said  in  his 
native  tongue. 

Donnell  was  surprised  and  pleased 
at  the  familiar  sound  of  the  words. 

She  paused,  studying  his  face  more 
than  his  palm,  it  seemed  to  him. 

"Go  on,"  he  said. 

"You  came  from  far  away  States. 
When  the  spring  comes,  it  is  very 
pleasant  in  the  most  high  State;  the 
grass  is  green;  and  you  sometimes 
wish  you  were  back " 

Donnell  started. 

"Near  Poltoon  the  muscadines  and 
wild  grapes  grow  thick  and  purple  in 
autumn,  and  you  are  hungry  for  them 
and  for  climbing  the  trees  where  the 
yellow  vines  are  matted " 

She  broke  off  sharply  at  the  keen, 
searching  look  which  he  gave  her. 
Then,  abruptly  raising  her  arm,  she  ex- 
tended a  long,  shriveled  finger  in  the 
direction  of  the  shop  across  the  street. 

"Bring  me  the  box  in  the  window," 
she  said  peremptorily,  "and  I  will  read 
your  to-morrow." 

"The  sandalwood  box?" 

"The  good  box  with  the  proud  birds 
— yes.  To-morrow  we  go  back  to  the 
States  and  sell  them  to  fine  ladies," 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  goodly  collec- 
tion of  Hindoo  curiosities  inside  the 
booth.  "The  ladies  are  very  glad  to 
buy.  I  put  a  future  inside.  Bring  me 
the  box;  a  lovely  lady  will  buy  it  for 
much  money,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
things  I  see!" 

There  was  a  shrewd,  businesslike 
air  about  this  queer  old  woman;  but 
there  was  something  other  also.  Den- 
nis S.  Donnell  looked  at  her  a  moment 
and  wondered  whether  the  tribe  had 
not  made  the  stolen  daughter  of  a 
fairer  and  finer  race  its  queen  and 
principal  stay. 

"Bring  me  the  box,"  she  said,  with  a 
firm  blink  of  her  sharp  old  eyes. 


"That  box!"  he  said,  breaking  into 
an  amused  laugh.  "Woman,  that  box 
would  cost  me  fifty  rupees!" 

"Bring  it!"  she  said. 

"My  name  is  Tattoo  Mara,"  the  old 
woman  continued  loftily.  "I  can  work 
wonders;  there  is  no  one  born  of  the 
tribe  to  follow  me.  I  am  old;  I  have 
always  kept  my  promises.!  Bring  me 
the  box;  a  fair  woman  across  the  sea 
shall  buy  it,  and  be  a  wife  to  you." 

"There,  Tattoo  Mara,"  he  said,  toss- 
ing a  rupee  into  the  lean  and  ancient 
palm,  "tell  me  my  fortune,  and  let  me 
be  off.  Come,  what  is  it  you  see  in 
my  hand  ?" 

Tattoo  Mara  lifted  the  coin  proudly 
and  dropped  it  deftly  into  his  side 
pocket. 

"Good-day,  blind  Sahib,"  she  said, 
and  was  entering  the  booth  with  never 
a  backward  glance. 

Donnell  called  to  her. 

"Sahib,"  she  said  with  dignity  and 
grandeur  befitting  a  princess,  "there  is 
only  one  condition  on  which  I  will  tell 
your  future;  it  is  the  box." 

Donnell  hesitated  a  minute,  smiling 
indulgently  to  himself  as  men  do  in  a 
holiday  mood.  Then  he  turned  blithely 
and,  crossing  the  street,  entered  the 
shop  where  the  wonderful  box  was  dis- 
played. 

"A  hundred  rupees,"  the  keeper, 
looking  more  like  a  confirmed  taxider- 
mist than  anything  else  in  the  world, 
replied.  Donnell  gasped,  but  the  holi- 
day mood  was  on,  and  the  rupees  rang 
sportively  in  the  crusty  old  hand  of  the 
shopkeeper;  and  Dennis  S.  Donnell 
recrossed  the  street  bearing  triumph- 
antly the  price  of  his  future. 

Tattoo  Mara  looked  gloatingly  at 
the  precious  box,  and  the  strong  odor 
of  sandalwood  crept  up  into  her  dis- 
tended old  nostrils,  and  she  smiled. 

"Allah,  but  it  is  great!"  she  cried, 
touching  it  reverently  with  her  long, 
brown  hands. 

And,  indeed,  the  box  was  worthy 
the  admiration  of  a  connoisseur.  It 
was  of  finest  sandalwood,  and  no  in- 
strument save  the  carver's  point  had 
ever  touched  it.  In  the  center  of  the 
lid  a  brace  of  peacocks  was  carved. 


THE  SANDALWOOD  BOX 


395 


The  intricacy  and  minutiae  of  detail 
displayed  in  depicting  the  birds  was 
astonishing  to  an  occidental  eye.  The 
riotous  luxury  of  the  distended  plumes, 
too  delicate  for  the  naked  eye  to  ap- 
preciate, was  a  miracle  of  workman- 
ship. On  the  lid  around  this  central 
design,  was  a  border  of  precious  mar- 
quetry, of  red  and  purple  porphyry, 
and  beyond  this  a  margin  of  carved 
wood  in  profligate  trellises  and  sing- 
ing birds.  The  sides  of  the  box  re- 
sembled the  lid  in  outline.  A  carved 
representation  of  the  four  seasons  ran 
riot  in  the  central  panels.  The  skilled 
and  loving  fingers  of  the  magician  art- 
ist had  touched  it,  and  lo !  it  blossomed 
like  Aaron's  rod. 

Donnell  was  rapt  in  contemplation 
of  the  luxurious  beauty  of  the  box 
when  Tattoo  Mara  spoke : 

"Come,  I  will  read  you,"  she  cried,  a 
high  note  of  inspiration  in  her  voice. 

Donnell  held  out  his  hand  with  a 
faint  smile  of  interest.  She  was  look- 
ing steadfastly  into  his  face;  he 
raised  his  eyes,  and  a  fleeting  glimpse 
of  something  like  maternal  tenderness 
surprised  him.  Abruptly  the  voice  of 
the  old  woman  rose  in  rhythmic  deliv- 
ery, and  her  features  assumed  almost  a 
prophetic  aspect  as  she  swept  on 
through  the  narrative  of  length  of  days 
and  prosperity  in  store  for  him.  .  .  . 
And  there  would  be  no  more  days  of 
desert  loneliness,  for  a  rose  would 
blossom,  a  white  rose  in  a  fair  gar- 
den across  the  sea ;  and  he  would  pluck 
it  and  bear  it  away  in  his  bosom,  and 
never  sigh  again  at  sunset  time,  look- 
ing westward,  any  more  .... 

"Tattoo  Mara,"  said  Dennis  S. 
Donnell,  as  one  in  a  dream,  "let  me  put 
this  future  you  would  sell  into  the 
box." 

"Hunter  of  birds'  nests,  put  it  in," 
the  old  woman  said,  solemnly. 

Then  he  sat  on  a  low  stool  and  wrote 
on  a  piece  of  paper  and  folded  it  and 
turned  the  golden  key  in  the  box  and 
handed  it  to  the  woman. 

"Do  not  forget  to  give  her  the  key, 
the  woman  who  buys,"  he  said,  with 
a  smile,  as  he  turned  to  go. 

The  strange  eyes  of  the  old  woman 


'held  him  as  he  turned  to  go,  and  again 
he  recognized  a  sort  of  kindness,  a  ma- 
ternal light  in  the  parting  look  bent 
upon  him. 

"Tattoo  Mara,"  she  said,  and  the 
name  sounded  for  the  moment  like 
something  he  had  heard  long  ago, 
"Tattoo  Mara  never  forgets  her  prom- 
ises," and  she  vanished  inside  the 
booth. 

Then  Dennis  S.  Donnell  walked 
down  by  the  River  Jumna,  and  thought 
what  a  fool  he  had  been. 

But  it  was  true,  nevertheless,  that, 
his  vacation  ended,  he  went  back  to 
his  work  with  the  growing  fears  of 
his  loneliness  conquered.  The  scrap 
of  paper  in  the  sandalwood  box  had 
somehow  defeated  them. 

And  then,  at  last,  it  was  autumn, 
again,  on  the  hills  about  Poltoon.  The 
muscadines  and  wild  grapes  were  ripe, 
and  the  woods  were  yellow.  In  the 
old  farmhouse,  that  had  sheltered  five 
generations  of  master  ship-builders, 
the  lights  burned  high  and  young 
voices  echoed  blithely  The  old  man, 
who  still  ably  sustained  the  traditions 
of  honor  and  hospitality  in  the  house, 
set  in  the  great  chair  of  his  fathers, 
and  smiled  with  patriarchal  benignity 
on  the  young  faces  about  him.  The 
smile  was  a  decree  of  happiness  for 
all;  for  this  was  the  last  night  which 
Dennis,  who  stood  in  a  son's  place  to 
him — the  only  son  of  an  only  brother 
— would  spend  with  the  friends  of  his 
boyhood;  and  the  old  man  would  see 
them  all  happy. 

But  the  boy  was  not  altogether 
happy,  because  pretty  Mary  Rolfe, 
who  had  come  from  a  distant  Western 
State  three  years  before  to  live  with 
her  aunt  and  uncle-in-law,  had  won 
his  heart  that  first  day  of  his  arrival 
the  preceding  spring;  and  from  that 
hour  had  held  it  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
the  tempting  belles  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. It  was  quite  plain  to  himself 
and  others  that  he  felt  the  presence  of 
Mary  Rolfe  above  them  all.  Unluck- 
ily, so  did  Mark  Delauny  also.  Don- 
nell was  going  back  to  the  desert. 

The  evening  wore  on,  and  the  guests 
were  gone  at  last.  Then  Dennis  S. 


396 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Donnell  rested  one  heavy  arm  on  the 
ponderous  mantel  and  looked 
thoughtfully  into  the  face  of  Mary 
Rolfe,  who  stood  before  him. 

"I  am  going  back  to  the  desert  of 
Thar,"  he  said  solemnly. 

There  was  an  uncertain  pause. 

"May  I  tell  you  a  little  story?'  he  re- 
sumed steadily,  "before  I  go." 

"Men  who  live  and  work  alone  for 
a  long  time  in  the  world  of  Oriental 
mysticism  grow  credulous,  I  suppose. 
I  did.  The  years  are  very  long  there, 
and  I  was  lonely.  It  was  almost  a 
year  ago  to-day  on  the  Chandui  Chauk 
and  a  facetious  holiday  mood  was  up- 
on me.  There  was  a  wonderful  box 
in  a  shop  window,  and  an  old  gipsy 
woman  would  read  my  fortune  for 
nothing  else.  I  bought  it  for  her.  She 
said  a  woman  across  the  sea,  a  white 
woman,  would  buy  it,  and  be  my  wife. 
I  humored  the  fancy,  and  put  a  mes- 
sage in  it  for  the  woman.  It  is  a  thing 
to  laugh  at  now,  perhaps ;  but  it  be- 
came more  than  a  fancy  to  me ;  it  was 
a  dream,  a  hope.  I  came  to  believe 
in  the  mission  and  destiny  of  the  mes- 
sage in  the  box;  and  it  saved  me  from 
— well,  loneliness. 

"At  last  I  came  to  find  the  woman. 
It  is  a  foolish  tale,  I  know;  and  yet 
I  think  I  never  can  forget  the  grow- 
ing faith  that  came  to  me  through  the 
long  months,  that  I  should  find  her. 
But  I  have  found  instead — you,  Mary 
Rolfe,  and  you  are  better  than  my 
dreams.  I  go  back  to  the  Desert  of 
Thar  in  two  days;  it  is  very  lonely 
there.  Will  you  go  with  me?" 

He  looked  up,  and  in  the  same  mo- 
ment she  was  gone. 

His  eyes  rested  wistfully  upon  the 
floor  for  a  moment,  then  he  glanced 
thoughtfully  up  to  the  face  of  his  old 
grandfather  above  the  mantel.  When 
he  turned  again  she  was  in  the  doorway 
holding  a  marvelous  sandalwood  box 
wrought  with  festive  birds  and  the 
four  seasons. 

For  a  moment  he  stared  hard  in 
amazement.  Then  the  girl  laughed 
a  little  laugh  that  brought  him  to  his 
senses. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  he  asked. 


"Tattoo  Mara  brought  it  to  me  from 
Delhi.  Uncle  Ned  says  the  gipsies 
have  camped  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road  for  many  years.  I  have  been  out 
to  see  them  every  year  since  I  came. 
The  second  year  their  little  boy  died, 
the  young  chief,  they  called  him.  I 
carried  him  milk  when  he  was  sick, 
and  went  to  see  him  buried.  The  old 
woman  became  a  sort  of  friend,  you 
see.  She  told  me  wonderful  tales  of 
a  strong  man  over  the  sea.  Then  I 
read  your  message  in  the  box.  That 
very  night  Mark  Delauney  asked  me 
to  marry  him.  I  think  I  had  meant  to 
accept  him  until  that  day. 

She  paused.  Dennis  S.  Donnell 
turned  the  little  gold  key  in  the  box 
as  she  held  it,  and  lifting  the  lid  took 
out  a  paper  and  read  with  deeper 
seriousness  than  he  had  written: 

"Little  white  woman  across  the  sea, 
Will  you  wait  for  me,  will  you  wait  for 
me? 

"My  hands  are  brown  and  my  heart  is 

tired 

With  weight  of  the  Desert  of  Thar; 
I've  toiled  in  the  East,  I've  toiled  in  the 

West, 
I've  wandered  a-near  and  afar. 

"I  am  sick  for  a  face  of  my  people 

again, 

A  face  with  an  open  look ; 
For  the  orhna,  the  veil,  of  the  women 

of  Thar, 
Is  dull  as  a  heathen  book. 

"At  night  on  the  Orient  silence  far, 
The  broad-starred  welkin  burns, 
And  I  dream  in  my  restless  bungalow 
Till  the  smell  of  the  East  returns. 

"The  brown  land  reeks  in  its  heavy 
sloth, 

And  the  cities  leer  in  their  ease, 

And  the  fear  and  pain  of  my  loneli- 
ness, 

Is  hard  as  a  slow  disease. 

"O  little  white  woman  across  the  sea, 
Will  you  wait  for  me,  will  you  wait 
forme?" 


JOHN  MUIR                                                 397 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Her  been  made  to  blossom  as  the  rose  for 
eyes  dropped  to  the  brace  of  royal  one  man  who  had  found  it  a  wilder- 
birds  on  the  box,  and  the  warm  color  ness  before.  And  they  say  that  the 
swept  her  face.  cosiest  house  in  India  has  in  its  great 

"I  have  waited,"  she  said.  hall  a  majestic  table,  in  the  center  of 

Then  Dennis  S.  Donnell  set  the  box  which,  on  a  background  of  cloth-of- 
on  the  high-backed  cabinet,  and  what  gold,  rests  a  marvelous  sandalwood 
took  place  is  simply  out  of  the  ques-  box  inlaid  with  red  and  purple  por- 
tion to  try  to  relate  here.  phyry  and  divinely  carved  on  the  top 

Anyway,  the  Desert    of    Thar  has  and  sides. 


JOHN     /A  U  I  R 

(1838-1914) 

Tenting,  journeying  by  God's  clock, 

Along  the  lofty  ways; 
Reading  the  cypher  of  the  rock — 

The  field  book  of  the  days; 

John  Muir  resolved  what  empery 
Shall  perish,  what  shall  stand — 

Himself  risen  to  such  sovereignty, 
The  wild  things  licked  his  hand. 

Young  yet  at  his  three-score  and  ten, 
Love's  wonder-world  he  trod, 

Glad,  far  aloof  from  sated  men 
As  stars  are  from  the  sod. 

The  trailing  mist,  the  waving  boughs, 
Beckoned  to  fresh  surprise, 

Sweet  as  the  flowers  have  when  they 

rouse, 
Morning  in  their  eyes. 

Patience  employed  with  saving  power, 

Courage  with  sturdy  art, 
Vision  foreshadowing  the  fateful  hour, 

Love  arming  for  it  his  heart. 

Skyward  he  climbed,  nor  dreamed  how 
high 

Over  the  peaks  he  rose, 
Into  the  white  toward  which  they  try, 

The  purged,  eternal  snows. 

Rich  in  the  trust,  the  mother  lore, 
But  Youth,  long-lived,  may  learn, 

If  much  he  stored,  he  gave  back  more : 
It  overflows  his  urn. 

JOHN   VANCE  CHENEY. 


A  Deal  in  Cotton  Land 


By  the  Rev.  Gabriel  Biel 


I  DO  NOT  know  what  made  me  do 
this,  even  to  the  writing  of  it  after 
all  was  over.  It  is  really  no  part 
of  a  preacher's  normal  experience. 

But  we  were  flat  broke.  Just  to  be 
broke  might  be  considered  normal. 
With  us  it  was  not  average.  It  was  the 
end.  The  whole  situation  seemed  just 
plain  hopeless  from  the  point  of  view 
of  dollars  and  cents. 

We  had  begun  wrong.  We  had 
dribbled  away  our  other  income,  ex- 
pecting that  before  we  reached  the  end 
of  it  the  parish  would  be  built  up 
strong  enough  to  do  better  by  us.  It 
was  growing  splendidly.  The  city  life 
was  becoming  far  superior  as  an  aid 
to  ambition  than  those  previous  eight 
long  years  hid  amongst  the  people  of 
the  far-off  mountain  congregation. 
But  the  money  was  not  going  to  hold 
out  till  we  had  made  good.  That  was 
plain  now.  Therein  lay  our  tragedy. 

Whether  it  was  pique  or  desperation 
after  the  city  bank  found  that  it  could 
not  loan  us  a  small  $250  on  my  minis- 
terial face,  that  the  village  bank  would 
have  done  without  question,  I  do  not 
now  consider.  It  may  have  been  only 
simple  providence  that  led  my  eye  to 
the  short  double  header  at  the  top  of 
the  last  column  on  the  stock  market 
page  of  the  Evening  Post.  It  sounds 
now,  however,  more  like  a  special 
variety  since  this  is  an  unusual  page 
for  the  ruminations  of  a  man  of  the 
cloth. 

But  read  it  for  yourself.    Here  it  is : 

"California  to  Have  Cotton  Industry. 

It  is  announced  to-day  that  John 
Cody,  the  Chicago  wheat  king,  in  con- 
cert with  several  Eastern  capitalists, 
has  secured  an  option  on  200,000  acres 
of  land  adjoining  his  32,000  acre  ranch 


in  Imperial  Valley,  for  the  purpose  of 
raising  Egyptian  cotton. 

It  is  expected  that  this  new  impetus 
may  eventually  make  California  one 
of  the  great  cotton  producers  of  the 
world.  Plants  to  gin  the  cotton  and 
factories  for  the  manufacture  of  the 
cloth,  it  is  said,  will  be  erected  within 
easy  shipping  distance,  which  will,  of 
course,  add  greatly  to  the  State's  com- 
merce. 

If  the  present  plans  are  carried  out, 
the  Cody  property  should  be  one  of 
the  largest  cotton  holdings  in  the 
world." 

Perhaps  nothing  subtle  would  ever 
occur  to  your  pure  mind  after  reading 
this  alluring  industrial  skit.  But  as 
I  turned  the  page,  it  struck  me  that 
this  had  all  the  perfect  ear-marks  of 
a  press  agent,  and  such  a  one  as  some 
J.  Rufus  Wallingford  might  employ  or 
take  advantage  of  to  exploit  the  tradi- 
tionally gullible  public.  So  when  my 
friend,  Stanley  Compton,  dropped  in 
at  the  study  that  evening  for  a  bit  of  a 
'chat  (we  had  been  college  chums  in 
early  days,  and  it  was  largely  through 
hi?  influence  that  I  became  his  pastor) 
an  inspiration  came  to  me  that  did  not 
cease  till  it  had  become  a  shivering- 
perspiration. 

You  see,  Compton  got  rich  in  the 
quake  era,  and  then  blew  up  in  the 
southern  Nevada  furore  that  followed. 
After  that  he  took  to  promoting  and 
did  fairly  well  at  it.  One  day  he  stood 
to  make  a  pile.  The  next  week  it  was 
a  question  whether  he  could  stand  off 
his  ordinary  creditors  till  he  had 
weathered  the  necessity  of  compromis- 
ing on  a  commission  rather  than  let 
Jake  Rauer,  the  nemesis  of  shaky 
debtors,  know  where  his  real  assets 
were  invested. 


A  DEAL  IN  COTTON  LAND 


399 


"Alfalfa  is  the  stuff,"  Compton  was 
saying  as  he  was  going  out  the  door. 
"Alfalfa  is  king.  I've  got  an  option 
on  four  thousand  acres  of  the  deepest, 
most  fertile  soil  in  Imperial  Valley, 
and  if  I  only  had  $10,000  to  swing  the 
deal,  I  could  turn  it  over  for  a  hun- 
dred thousand  in  three  months  provid- 
ing the  spring  is  not  unusual." 

Then  between  a  sigh  and  a  whistle 
he  sauntered  out  into  the  night. 

A  moment  later  I  was  at  my  desk, 
writing  at  a  little  thing  not  more  than 
three  lines  long,  but  which  took  nearly 
a  dozen  tries  before  it  became  an  ad- 
vertisement copy  directed  to  the  Post, 
to  be  inserted  on  the  stock  market 
page,  upper  right  hand  corner  pre- 
ferred. Enclosed  with  it  I  put  a  dol- 
lar bill,  a  souvenir  from  other  days 
when  we  lived  in  the  paper  currency 
country.  It  was  for  as  many  insertions 
at  the  rate  would  allow.  I  reached  the 
mail-box  just  as  the  carrier  on  the 
graveyard  shift  was  making  his  mid- 
night collection.  Then  I  went  home 
and  to  bed,  with  the  queer  feeling  of 
having  committed  something  between 
a  ioke  and  a  crime. 

The  "ad."  came  out  the  next  even- 
ing as  follows : 

"Safe  Investment. — The  Imperial 
Valley  Egyptian  Cotton  Co.,  Ltd.  Open 
only  to  California  investors.  R'm  723 
Onderdonk  Bldg." 

Well,  I  must  say  that  it  does  not 
appear  so  very  criminal  now  that  I 
look  over  my  ghoulish  work  with  more 
deliberation.  If  it  was  a  la  Walling- 
ford,  nevertheless  I  could  truly  say 
that  the  money  would  be  in  safe 
hands.  On  the  whole,  I  calmed  a 
nameless  intermittent  qualm  with  the 
assurance  that  it  was  only  the  work 
of  a  whim. 

If  there  should  be  any  inquiries 
made  at  Compton's  office,  which  was 
the  $"723"  of  the  ad.,  there  would  be 
sufficient  time  afterward  to  make  ex- 
r^anations.  • 

Compton  had  gone  south  on  his  pro- 
motion schemes.  Near  noon  of  that 
day  I  found  that  he  had  not  returned 
the  membership  list  of  the  new  men's 
club  of  the  church,  to  whom  a  letter 


must  be  sent  out  at  once  on  important 
business. 

So  I  'phoned  his  office. 

"Hello!  Is  that  you,  Bryson?  Yes, 
oh,  yes,  this  is  Biel.  I  want  a  list  of 
names  that  ought  to  be  right  on  top  of 
Mr.  Compton's  desk.  Yes,  a  church 
memo.  What  ?  Imperial — Company, 
did  you  say?  Say,  Bry.,  you  hold  all 
of  them.  They  are  for  me.  I'll  be 
down  right  away." 

And  would  you  believe  it?  There 
were  fourteen  of  them  that  had  arrived 
by  the  first  two  mails,  and  they  con- 
tained $216.45  to  be  invested  in  the 
Imperial  Valley  Egyptian  Cotton  Co., 
Ltd.  The  next  day's  mail  brought 
$986.50.  On  the  seventh  day  I  had 
heard  from  219  persons,  and  checks 
and  money  orders  were  in  my  hand 
for  $9,783.31.  I  cannot  tell  you  where 
the  one  cent  came  from,  but  I  can  both 
swear  and  affirm,  either  way  first,  that 
I  was  nearly  dead  with  fright. 

It  was  very  evident  that  continuous 
Southern  California  "brag"  about 
deepest  soil  and  most  salubrious  cli- 
mate in  the  world,  and  all  the  Garden 
of  Eden  fairy  tale  that  goes  along 
with  a  considerable  amount  of  basic 
truth,  really  had  a  money  value.  It 
was  also  evident  that  I  was  an  exceed- 
ingly clumsy  fish  out  of  water  trying 
to  mix  the  ministry  in  business. 

Helpless?  Why,  I  sat  there  in 
Compton's  inner  office  with  my  eyes 
glued  to  the  door  in  fear  some  one  of 
those  confiding  investors  might  just 
happen  to  drop  in  to  examine  "the 
works."  At  night  I  dreamed  of  postal 
inspectors  and  policemen.  Holding  all 
that  representation  of  money  so  got  on 
my  nerve  that  I  never  once  stopped  to 
consider  what  I  might  do  for  anybody's 
advantage  with  my  windfall. 

Just  as  I  had  about  decided  for  the 
fortieth  time  to  send  it  all  back  to  the 
various  depositors,  and  then  once  more 
had  redetermined  that  I  would  at  least 
have  the  pleasure  of  putting  it  in  the 
bank  over  night,  and  give  my  fear- 
some banker  a  shock  for  his  timiditv 
over  lending  me  that  $250  on  my  good 
looks,  the  week  before,  in  came  Stan- 
ley Compton,  back  from  Imperial  Val- 


400 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ley,  and  its  quest,  fagged,  dejected 
and  ready  to  take  out  his  defeat  and 
chagrin  on  the  first  confidant  he  might 
meet.  So  I  became  for  him  a  minis- 
terial punching  abg. 

"It's  all  up!"  he  finally  finished.  "I 
cannot  raise  it.  I'm  letting  go  one  of 
the  best  propositions  in  my  life.  See 
that  option  ?  It's  cast  iron.  And  Jack 
Cody,  on  the  quiet,  wants  the  land  so 
badly  for  some  big  Egyptian  cotton 
raising  scheme  that  he  will  gladlv 
come  through  any  time  with  a  hundred 
thousand  for  it.  But  I  cannot  make  a 
stir." 

Then  I  came  to  life. 

"Stanley,"  I  said,  "the  Imperial  Val- 
ley Egyptian  Cotton  Co.,  Ltd.,  will  ad- 
vance you  the  $10,000,  if  you  can  turn 
this  over  in  a  week  and  will  give  them 
a  half  of  your  net  for  their  interest." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 
Compton  sharply  inquired  by  way  of 
reply.  "That  is  the  Cody  crowd  itself, 
isn't  it?  I  was  told  in  the  South  that 
they  already  had  opened  offices  up 
here." 

"Well,  now,  the  Imperial  Valley 
Egyptian  Cotton  Co.,  Ltd.,  isn't  Cody 
at  all,"  I  replied,  full  of  fire  in  the  mat- 
ter. "The  company  is  right  here  un- 
der my  hat.  If  you  will  be  quick  I 
will  do  business  with  you." 

"But  first  of  all,  Bryson,"  I  contin- 
ued, directing  my  words  to  the  won- 


dering clerk,  "get  the  landlord's  let- 
terer  to  come  up  here  at  once  and  put 
on  this  door  the  company's  name.  Then 
tell  all  who  inquire  that  the  president 
will  be  back  for  important  business 
with  the  investors  just  as  soon  as  he 
can  conclude  a  hurried  trip  to  the  val- 
ley. 

"Now,  Compton,  come  with  me  to 
the  bank  while  I  make  a  little  deposit 
of  some  ten  thousand  dollars.  Your 
fortune  is  already  made  as  far  as  I 
can  see. 

"You  have  not  only  got  a  pile  out  of 
the  deal  for  yourself,  but  you  have 
a  clientele  that  will  stay  by  you  for- 
ever when  I  cut  this  melon  for  them 
on  the  first,  and  give  them,  within 
ten  days  of  investment,  five  dollars  for 
every  one  which  they  put  so  blindly  in- 
to the  concern." 

"But  how  about  you?"  Stanley 
laughingly  replied  when  I  had  dis- 
closed to  him  all  the  details  of  the  en- 
terprise. "Where  do  you  get  off  in  this 
matter?" 

"Oh,  that's  so,"  I  meditatively  an- 
swered, awakened  from  my  subcon- 
scious relaxation,  being  just  the  minis- 
ter again,  and  no  longer  exposed  to 
the  risky  Wallingford  role. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  I  concluded. 
"Maybe  now  the  bank  will  take  a 
chance  on  loaning  me  the  $250  on  my 
face." 


THERMOPYLAE 

Yester  the  day  of  it, 
This  was  the  way  of  it: 

Molly  and  me 

Met  where  we  couldn't  pass — 
Heigh-ho!  alack!  alas! 

'Cushla  macree! 

Met  hands  and  hearts  and  lips, 
Where  virgin  honey  sips 

Daylong  the  bee; 

Where,  tho'  the  world  stretches  wide, 
Open  on  every  side, 

Pass  could  not  we, 

Molly  and  me, 

'Cushla  macree. 

HARRY  COWELL. 


By  Stella  Walthall 


Stella  Walthall,  a  Californian  by  birth.  Graduate  of  Mills.  Studied  in 
Europe.  Lived  in  San  Francisco  and  contributed  regularly  to  various 
periodicals  until  time  of  fire.  Written  under  several  names:  Stella  Wal- 
thall, Stella  Walthall  Belcher,  Polly  Prim,  Mrs.  James  Patterson.  Had 
stories  accepted  by  the  Century  Company,  Cosmopolitan,  Outing,  Vogue, 
Youth's  Companion,  Argonaut  and  other  periodicals.  Author  of  "God's 
Way,"  (Colliers.)  One  of  the  stories  accepted  in  the  Collier  short  story 
contest.  Author  of  "Chiquitita,"  "Taming  a  Cub,"  and  other  stories. 


IT  IS  a  matter  of  tradition  in  Trinity 
County,  that  wild,  picturesque,  al- 
most roadless  country  in  the  North, 
that   Madam   was   handsome   and 
gay,  and  a  good  comrade.     That  she 
was  given  to  garishness  in  dress  and 
had  a  loud,  hearty  voice  that  would 
have  been  unseemly  in  polished  society 
was  of  no  importance  in  the  early  fif- 
ties, when  Madam  was  having  "her 
day."     What  was  more  to  the  point 
with  the  miners  was  her  unfailing  gen- 
erosity and  kindness.     Men  speak  of 
her  even  to  this  day  with  an  accent  of 
respect. 

Madam  certainly  understood  men 
and  fairly  earned  her  popularity.  She 
made  pies  for  them  when  they  were 
homesick;  nursed  them  when  they 
were  bruised  and  broken,  and  helped 
make  their  coffins  when  that  was  all 
they  needed.  And  being  young  and 
gay,  and  unfettered  by  conventions, 
she  shared  in  their  drunken  revels. 
That  was  when  the  Bar  was  a  bustling 
mining  community  and  hundreds  of 
pioneers  washed  and  rocked  for  gold. 
Being  a  lone  woman  among  many 
men  she  was  weaker  and  stronger  than 
other  women  of  her  class,  and  in  pro- 
portion paid  penalty  for  her  shortcom- 
ings like  a  man,  and  took  her  praise 
and  adulation  like  a  very  feminine  wo- 
man. 


There  are  some  facts  in  this  story, 
if  we  are  to  believe  the  testimony  of 
the  oldest  inhabitant.  And  some  fic- 
tion. I,  also,  refer  you  to  the  oldest 
inhabitant.  When  Scotty  of  Hoopa 
gravely  assures  me  that  he  helped 
bury  "tha  puir  woman  and  her  saix 
children  side  by  side  with  her  puir 
dead  husband,"  and  on  the  other  hand 
"Chicken  Masten"  asserts  with  heat 
that  "the  Madam  never  had  chick  nor 
child — never  had  a  husband — only  a 
dawg" — I  am  constrained  to  admit 
that  history  of  the  early  fifties  in 
Trinity  County  is  a  composite. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  dip  into 
Madam's  story  prior  to  her  advent  on 
the  Trinity.  Her  past  as  it  was  told 
to  me  may  be  pure  fiction.  Facts  be- 
'gin  to  illuminate  the  trail  when  Juan 
'Zapisto  bore  down  on  the  community 
with  his  burro  and  his  Mexican  hair- 
less dog. 

Madam  had  just  stepped  out  of  the 
house  to  gather  the  late  Castillian 
roses  that  she  had  coaxed  through  a 
hot  summer  when  Juan  and  his  dog 
came  round  the  corner.  Chihuahua 
flew  at  the  woman's  skirts,  capering 
like  a  mad  thing.  Instantly  she  swung 
him  up  in  her  arms,  taking  the  frantic 
kisses  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"Where  did  you  get  him?  Such  a 
darling!  See  how  he  loves  me  al- 


402 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ready — the  poor,  shivery,  little  beast!" 

Don  Juan  (the  miners  had  promptly 
tacken  on  the  title)  made  her  a  grave, 
respectful  salutation  with  his  big  som- 
brero. His  well  bred  air  distinguished 
him  as  a  gentleman — a  romantic,  ne'er- 
do-well  sort  of  gentleman  who  would 
not  be  overfond  of  work,  but  would 
glory  in  an  adventure  that  would  wear 
him  to  the  bone. 

Madam  instinctively  paid  tribute. 
She  smoothed  some  stray  locks  that 
hung  around  her  ears,  and  under  cover 
of  the  little  dog,  pulled  the  neck  of 
her  waist  together. 

"I  am  pleased  that  you  like  my  lit- 
tle dog,"  said  Zapisto.  "I  brought 
him  all  the  way  from  San  Diego  with 
me.  He  is  a  devoted  little  creature." 

"That  is  often  the  way,"  sighed 
Madam.  "These  little  dogs  will  do  so 
much  for  us,  and  I'll  venture  that  the 
miners  give  him  many  a  sly  kick  just 
because  he  is  so  little  and  helpless. 
"Come  into  the  house,,  won't  you,"  she 
added.  "I  want  to  give  him  a  bit  of 
venison." 

Anything  small  and  helpless  ap- 
pealed to  Madam's  maternal  instinct, 
and  it  amused  the  men  to  see  her 
motherly  solicitude  while  the  little  dog 
ate.  Don  Juan  stood  near,  politely 
smiling  and  listening  with  evident 
pleasure  to  the  feminine  chatter.  A 
few  hours  later  he  strolled  away  with 
some  provisions  under  his  arm. 
Madam  followed  him  to  the  door.  She 
was  subdued  in  manner  to  suit  the 
manner  of  the  man — trust  Madam  for 
that.  After  he  was  gone,  she  stood 
there  a  long  time,  but  her  eyes  fol- 
lowed him  until  he  disappeared  in  the 
dense  woods  beyond  the  clearing. 

She  was  observed,  of  course.  A 
dozen  men  were  lounging  inside  the 
big  room,  which  was  saloon,  living- 
room,  store  and  postoffice.  Above  was 
an  attic  where  the  men  slept,  and  at 
one  side  was  a  lean-to  kitchen  with 
a  curtained-off  recess  for  Madam. 
She  must  have  endured  many  hard- 
ships in  that  kitchen  and  seen  some 
sights  that  would  have  frozen  the 
blood  of  a  less  virile  woman,  but,  his- 
tory mellowed  by  age,  kindly  softens 


these  facts  in  Madam's  life. 

After  a  few  weeks  Don  Juan  was 
coming  daily  to  the  log  house,  osten- 
sibly to  get  provisions,  and  Madam  no 
longer  was  careless  about  her  dress. 
She  spent  hours  in  patching  her  worn 
clothing,  and  in  arranging  her  hair  in 
a  fashionable  waterfall.  Their  friend- 
ship ripened  like  the  late  peaches — 
all  in  a  day,  and  its  possibilities  was 
the  principal  theme  of  conversation  in 
the  camp. 

Late  in  the  summer,  however,  more 
serious  business  was  afoot  than  watch- 
ing a  rival.  The  long-suffering  In- 
dians had  risen  against  the  whites. 
Far-seeing  men  had  expected  this 
reckoning  day.  And  it  came  as  they 
prophesied,  with  burning  and  killing. 
The  word  of  it  traveled  hot-footed 
down  the  trail. 

Before  the  whites  had  time  to  see 
their  danger  they  were  cut  off  from  the 
coast.  Fort  Humboldt  was  garrisoned 
with  soldiers,  but  between  the  bar  on 
the  Trinity  and  the  fort  spread  a  chain 
of  high  mountains  which  made  an  ef- 
fectual barrier  against  a  rapid  retreat. 
The  trail  to  the  southeast  was  alive 
with  hostile  Indians,  and  the  only 
other  outlet  was  by  the  way  of  New 
River.  Some  of  the  miners  had  al- 
ready started  in  that  direction.  Most 
of  the  men  as  they  passed  the  log 
house  stopped  and  tried  to  persuade 
Madam  to  go  with  them.  They  had  a 
genuine  friendship  for  this  comrade, 
and  wanted  to  help  her,  but  Madam 
lingered.  She  pretended  not  to  believe 
the  reports. 

One  morning  during  the  excitement 
Don  Juan  came  to  the  house  with  his 
little  dog. 

"I  want  to  leave  Chihuahua  here 
with  you,"  he  said.  "Some  of  us  are 
going  across  the  Trinity  on  a  scouting 
trip.  It's  a  great  Chance  to  see  what 
is  going  on  over  there.  I'll  be  back 
to-night  for  Chihuahua.  Adios,  amiga 
mia." 

Madam  followed  him  outside  the 
house. 

"Juan,"  she  whispered,  "don't  go — 
for  my  sake,  don't  go.  Come  with  me 
by  the  way  of  New  River.  The  In- 


MADAM 


403 


dians  are  friendly  that  way.  I  am 
afraid  something  will  happen  to  you 
over  there." 

"There  is  no  danger.  Nothing  could 
happen  to  me,"  protested  Juan.  "Keep 
out  of  danger  yourself,  querida  amiga 
mia." 

Suddenly  Madam  stretched  out  her 
arms  to  the  man.  Her  coarse,  hand- 
some face  was  convulsed  and  white. 

"But  Juan,"  she  pleaded,  "I  can't 
let  you  go.  I  love  you — better  than 
my  life.  I  want  you  to  come  with  me 
and  have  a  respectable  home  some- 
where. I  am  dead  tired  of  this." 

The  Spaniard  took  her  trembling 
hands  and  pressed  them  to  his  heart. 

"Madam,  you  do  me  great  honor." 
He  addressed  her  with  all  the  respect 
that  he  would  have  used  to  a  queen. 
"To  be  loved  by  you  is  supreme  hap- 
piness. I  love  you,  querida.  You  are 

the  flower  of  my  heart.  But "  he 

drew  himself  up  proudly,  "ten  years 
ago  I  was  married  to  the  Senorita 
Carmen  Vallejo  of  San  Francisco." 

For  an  unforgettable  moment  they 
gazed  in  one  another's  eyes.  Juan 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  but  Madam  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  half  blindly  made 
her  way  into  the  lean-to. 

Later  in  the  day  some  men  rushed 
in  with  the  news  that  the  Indians  had 
burned  the  ranch  a  few  miles  up  the 
river,  and  had  made  threats  to  burn 
the  house  at  the  Bar  and  murder  every 
white  man  in  the  community. 

It  was  strange  to  see  the  matter  of 
fact  way  in  which  Madam  received 
the  news.  She  stood  calmly  by  while 
the  men  got  together  the  packs  which 
they  intended  to  carry  on  their  backs. 
They  one  and  all  took  it  for  granted 
that  she  would  go  with  them.  But 
when  they  were  ready  to  leave  she  in- 
sisted that  there  was  no  danger,  and 
that  she  would  wait  until  evening. 

The  men  were  exasperated  at  what 
they  called  "damned  contrariness." 
Two  of  them  half-dragged  her  out  of 
the  house  and  tried  to  force  her  up 
the  trail.  She  was  struggling  furi- 
ously to  get  away  when  a  man  came 
running  after  them. 


"Zapisto  was  killed  just  now  across 
the  river,"  he  panted.  "The  devils 
will  catch  us  if  we  don't  hurry.  For 
God's  sake,  woman,  come  along!  Don't 
hold  us  back!" 

Madam's  taut  muscles  suddenly  re- 
laxed. For  a  moment  they  thought 
she  would  faint,  but  it  was  only  a  pass- 
ing weakness.  She  pulled  herself  to- 
gether, and  meekly  fell  into  the  step  of 
the  man  who  clutched  her  arm.  Her 
bent  shoulders  and  drooping  head 
conveyed  a  poignant  sense  of  woe  to 
the  soft-hearted  miners.  When  her 
feet  now  and  then  slipped  on  the  sharp 
rocks  in  the  trail  they  reached  invol- 
untary aid,  and  talked  of  her  in 
hushed  whispers  among  themselves. 

As  evening  came  on  they  made  camp 
in  a  deserted  shack.  The  owner  was 
ahead  on  the  trail.  Madam  refused  to 
eat  the  food  they  offered  her,  and  sat 
apart,  white  and  silent,  while  the  men 
made  their  plans  for  the  night.  One 
of  them  tossed  her  a  blanket  and  went 
to  bed  in  the  corner  with  his  arms  for 
a  pillow.  A  night  guard  was  dis- 
pensed with,  and  most  of  the  men 
made  their  beds  on  the  ground  outside 
the  shack. 

Madam  crept  under  the  blanket  and 
made  a  feint  of  sleeping.  After  a 
while,  convinced  that  none  of  the  men 
were  awake,  she  stole  out  of  the  cabin 
and  ran  down  the  trail  that  led  to  the 
Bar.  She  never  looked  back  to  see  if 
she  were  followed.  Her  knowledge 
of  men  was  sure.  She  reasoned  that 
when  they  found  that  she  had  really 
slipped  away  that  they  would  curse 
a  little  and  give  it  up  as  a  thankless 
job. 

The  bar  was  ten  miles  away.  It 
was  too  dark  to  see  the  trail,  but  the 
going  was  easily  down  hill,  and 
Madam  swung  along  at  a  running  gait. 
At  a  little  past  midnight  she  came  to 
the  foot  of  the  trail.  The  log  house 
was  dark,  and  apparently  deserted, 
but  a  small  piercing  sound  answered 
her  straining  ears.  Madam  fully  real- 
ized her  danger  as  she  paused  for  a 
moment  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing  to 
satisfy  herself  that  no  other  sounds 
were  coming  from  the  house.  She 


404 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


knew  it  was  possible  that  some  of  the 
Indians  had  broken  into  the  big  room 
and  gotten  the  liquors  under  the  saloon 
bar,  but  in  that  event  they  would  be 
on  the  floor  in  a  drunken  stupor.  The 
greatest  danger  lurked  in  the  shadow 
of  the  dence  woods.  There  was  no 
time  to  hesitate.  Gathering  up  her 
full  skirts.  Madam  ran  swiftly  to  the 
kitchen  door,  and  pushing  it  open 
noiselessly,  caught  the  little  hairless 
dog  in  her  arms. 

Several  times  on  the  trail  she  had 
spoken  to  the  men  about  the  dog.  They 
had  laughed  at  her  in  derision.  The 
Indians  would  burn  the  house  and  the 
dog  in  it,  they  comforted  her.  The 
beast  would  never  have  a  chance  to 
starve  to  death.  Madam  was  not  an 
imaginative  person,  but  the  vision  of 
Chihuahua  gnawing  out  his  vitals  was 
unbearable. 

Ominous  sounds  coming  across  the 
clearing  roused  Madam  to  immediate 
action.  It  was  a  case  now  of  running 
for  her  life.  Snatching  a  blanket  from 
the  bed,  she  wrapped  the  dog  in  it,  and 
slipped  out  of  the  house  and  into  the 
nearest  brush  thicket.  For  a  moment 
she  stood  quivering  with  fear.  She 
knew  that  the  quick  ear  of  the  Indians 
would  catch  the  sfrnallesti  sound  of 
snapping  twigs,  and  that  they  would 
follow  that  sound  with  unerring  in- 
stinct. 

She  began  making  her  way  through 
the  brush,  cautiously,  with  the  idea  of 
reaching  the  spring  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  When  at  last  she  felt  the  moist 
earth  give  under  her  feet,  she  dropped 
into  the  tangle  of  ferns  and  under- 
growth ^and  tore  it  away  with  her  free 
hand  till  she  touched  water.  Then, 
plunging  her  face  into  it  again  and 
again,  something  of  its  coolness  en- 
tered her  fevered  blood. 

She  had  not  taken  thought  of  food  or 
drink  since  she  had  heard  of  Juan's 
death.  The  terrible  void  in  her  did 
not  clamor  for  food  or  drink.  Holding 
Chihuahua  close  she  broke  into  dry, 
noiseless  sobs.  How  near  and  sweet 
and  brief  happiness  had  been!  Why 
should  she  fear  death?  Had  she  not 
reached  the  zenith  of  her  life  when  she 


loved  a  man  for  himself? 

But  after  all,  self-preservation  is  an 
animal  instinct,  and  though  Madam 
reasoned,  she  did  not  reassure  herself. 
The  first  yell  of  the  Indians  sent  a 
thrill  of  sickening  fear  over  her.  Very 
soon  flecks  of  blood  red  light  came 
dancing  into  her  retreat,  and  the  sound 
of  crackling  flames  made  the  dog 
squirm  on  her  arm.  She  hushed  him, 
and  wrapped  him  closer  in  the  blan- 
ket. His  warm  little  body  gave  a 
sense  of  comfort  to  her  quivering 
nerves.  In  the  hours  of  waiting  for 
the  Indians  to  finish  their  work  of  re- 
venge she  fell  into  a  stupor,  which  was 
broken  by  the  crash  of  timber  and 
shouts  of  drunken  revelry. 

Madam  believed  that  they  would 
soon  leave  the  smouldering  ruins  and 
start  in  pursuit  of  the  miners.  It 
seemed  to  her  wholly  improbable  that 
they  would  pass  the  spring,  hidden  as 
it  was  in  the  undergrowth,  but  she  was 
also  aware  that  Indians  act  on  in- 
stincts peculiar  to  themselves.  She 
did  not  comfort  herself  with  any  sense 
of  false  security.  Her  ears  were 
strained  for  every  tell  tale  sound,  and 
when  she  heard  voices  coming  in  her 
direction  she  huddled  closer  to  the 
ground  in  breathless  fear.  In  those 
tense  moments  when  the  Indians  were 
passing,  the  strong  passion-scarred  wo- 
man sounded  the  depths  of  her  sordid 
life.  Incidents  that  had  long  since 
passed  out  of  memory,  suddenly  stood 
out  before  her.  Two  men  that  had 
fought  bare-handed  to  their  death  for 
her,  she  had  cared  for  neither  of 
them — had  cast  off  their  memory  as 
easily  as  a  falling  leaf.  Now  she  shud- 
dered, and  long-delayed  shame  and  re- 
gret welled  up  from  the  depths  of  her 
and  made  her  rock  to  and  fro  in  mis- 
erable penitence. 

^The  guttural  voices  trailed  into  the 
distance,  and  melted  into  the  roar  of 
the  river.  The  stillness  was  ominous, 
and  Madam  was  painfully  alert  again. 
Half-formed  questions  raced  through 
her  mind.  Why  had  the  Indians  come 
that  way?  What  were  they  looking 
for?  Where  had  they  gone? 

Madam  drew  a  painful  breath  and 


THE  DREAM  GARDEN. 


405 


cautiously  straightened  out  her 
cramped  arms  and  legs.  Every  muscle 
ached.  And  little  Chihuahua — she 
had  held  him  so  close — he  must  be 
half-smothered.  She  carefully  un- 
wrapped the  blanket  and  let  it  fall 
away  from  him. 

The  little  beast  covered  her  hands 
with  kisses  as  he  struggled  to  get 
down.  All  at  once  he  stiffened  in  her 
arms.  Madam  was  looking  into  black- 
ness, but  she  knew  the  dog  had  seen. 
With  a  startled  gasp  she  dropped  back 
on  the  ground.  But  Chihuahua  knew 
his  duty  and  broke  into  the  sharp  yap 
of  his  kind. 

Instantly  a  husre  body  plunged  into 
the  thicket.  With  a  guttural  yell,  the 


grapevines  were  torn  apart  and  the 
dull  light  from  the  smouldering  ruins 

fell  on  Madame  and  the  barking  dog. 
*  *  *  * 

A  few  days  later  some  miners  who 
had  come  out  of  hiding  found  the  bod- 
ies of  Madam  Weaver  and  the  little 
dog  at  the  spring.  Madam's  scalp  was 

dangling  at  an  Indian's  belt. 

*  *  *  * 

When  you  motor  along  the  new 
Trinity  highway  this  coming  year  or 
the  next  year,  they  will  show  you  the 
spring  where  Madam  gave  up  her  life 
for  the  little  dog,  and  will  tell  you,  per- 
haps, that  my  story  is  mostly  fiction. 
I  am  not  so  sure.  As  Don  Juan  would 
have  said:  Quien  sabe.  Sabe  Dios. 


THE   DREA/A   GARDEN 

I  have  a  garden  whose  unknown  confines 
Lie  cradled  in  the  still  vale  of  the  night, 
Where  happy  skies  were  tinged  with   gold, 
And  draperies  of  the  wet  mist,  ghostly  white, 
Enshroud  the  last  faint  vestige  of  the  day. 

Where  through  the  silent  reaches,  pale  on  pale, 
My  soul  takes  flight  borne  on  the  Dream-God's  wings, 
Deep  through  the  caverns  where  the  hours  that  were 
Bloom  in  the  darkness,  and  the  shadow  rings 
With  every  song  my  heart  knew  in  the  past. 

Ah !    Love,  the  life  we  knew  can  never  be 
Forgotten  while  those  flowers  wanly  gleam 
Or  while  the  voices  surge,  forever  sweet, 
Through  that  deep-shaded  garden  of  my  dream 
Where  all  our  treasures  sanctuary  find. 

R.  R.  GREENWOOD. 


8.1 

1 


The  Aaking  of  a  Aan  and  a  Country 


By  F.  E.  Becker 


THIS  is  the  story  of  a  new  mining 
country  and  the  man  who  rose 
with  it.  The  possibilities  of  one 
in  large  measure  made  possible 
the  other.  Together  they  constitute 
a  chapter  in  Western  mining  history 
which  is  now  being  written  in  large 
letters;  an  epic  story  of  the  mineral 
development  of  the  great  West  of 
America,  the  world's  storehouse  of 
precious  metals.  In  it  are  interwoven 
the  lives  of  the  men  who  made  it  pos- 
sible, who  stand  above  the  common 
level  as  the  visionaries  of  earlier  times 
and  the  shrewd-minded  men  of  wealth 
of  to-day. 

In  no  other  pursuit  or  industry  which 
has  for  its  purpose  the  increase  of  the 
world's  wealth,  are  the  stirring  ele- 
ments of  romance  and  tragedy  so  fre- 
quently commingled  with  the  rise  of 
whole  States  and  sections  as  in  min- 
ing. Perhaps  nowhere  in  the  world, 
with  the  exception  of  South  Africa, 
has  there  been  more  of  the  glamour  of 
adventure  and  sudden  riches  than  in 
the  mineral  development  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains  and  Alaska,  while 
the  inter-mountain  country  and  par- 
ticularly the  forbiding  deserts  of  Ne- 
vada have  been  swept  by  the  maddest 
rushes  of  greed-crazed  men. 

The  "Romance  of  the  Anaconda"  is 
a  tale  of  fabulous  wealth  and  of  strong 
men.  The  Dalys,  the  Clarks  and  the 
Ryans  are  the  names  written  in  this 
history  which  has  yet  to  reach  its  cli- 
max, seemingly  destined  to  find  its 
greatest  glory  in  the  Andean  ramparts 
of  South  America. 

The  "Glory  of  the  Comstock"  and 
the  "Gold  Rush  of  California"  held  the 
stage  for  their  allotted  time,  casting 
up  from  the  frenzied  whirl  the  strong 
swimmers  who  have  been  the  financial 


leaders  of  the  last  half  century  and 
laying  the  foundations  of  the  fortunes 
that  made  the  rich  West  of  to-day. 

"The  Glitter  of  Cripple  Creek"  and 
the  "Rise  of  the  Porphyries,"  as  typi- 
fied by  Bingham,  are  absorbing  stories 
in  themselves,  bringing  into  the  lime- 
light the  Strattons,  the  Bradys  and  the 
Jacklings;  making  empires  of  states 
and  furnishing  labor,  happiness  and 
wealth  to  countless  masses. 

Tonopah  and  Goldfield,  with  which 
the  name  of  George  Wingfield  will  be 
forever  linked,  are  rather  in  a  class  by 
themselves.  They  came  out  of  the 
desert  much  as  though  the  fabled  end 
of  the  rainbow  had  been  found.  They 
drew  men  across  miles  of  waste,  they 
milled  in  a  maelstrom  of  stolid  en- 
deavor, which  drew  as  if  by  magic  the 
golden  millions  won  in  other  camps, 
and  even  from  the  hard-fisted  sons  of 
the  soil  way  back  to  the  rock-bound 
coasts  of  Maine.  It  has  been  said  at 
the  time  that  Goldfield  dragged  many 
millions  of  dollars  from  contributing 
purses  which  were  swallowed  up  in 
the  capacious  maw  of  speculation.  The 
fact  remains  that  the  treasure  ledges 
of  Goldfield  have  made  good  in  dou- 
ble measure,  and  are  still  pouring  forth 
their  golden  stream,  while  Tonopah 
sits  like  a  queen  of  the  hills,  dispen- 
sing her  gold  and  silver  largess  into 
the  hands  of  those  who  are  willing  to 
pay  her  tribute. 

Except  in  one  or  two  spectacular 
rushes,  modesty  has  usually  marked 
the  progress  of  northern  Nevada.  She 
saw  the  building  of  camps  over  night. 
She  saw  the  swarming  of  the  horde, 
composed  in  great  part  by  the  para- 
sites of  society,  unorganized  society 
in  its  first  analysis,  brought  to  riotous 
of  prosperity  by  the  careless 


Prospectors  on  their  way  to  the  mines. 


disregard  of  money  of  those  who  never 
earned  but  were  always  able  to  spend. 
They  breed  in  the  rich  spots  of  the 
great  human  body;  they  swarm  again 
wherever  untoward  fatness  manifests 
itself.  In  any  event,  their  presence 
is  indissolubly  mixed  with  the  origin 
of  every  mining  camp,  great  or  bad, 
and  will  doubtless  be  until  the  end  of 
time. 

Following  the  golden  days  of  the 
Comstock,  of  Eureka,  Aurora,  Tusca- 
rora,  there  was  a  long  hiatus.  The 
sage  brush  wastes  of  Nevada  and  the 
purple  canyons  laid  seemingly  secure 
from  the  onslaughts  of  human  endea- 
vor. The  Humboldt  range,  with  its 
great  Queen  of  Sheba,  De  Soto  and 
Humboldt  Queen  mines,  had  already 
laid  the  foundation  of  the  Hearst  for- 
tunes. 


It  is  merely  a  whimsical  stretch  of 
the  imagination  to  hear  those  silver 
lodes  of  the  long  ago  talking  through 
the  Hearst  pages  to-day.  Little  did 
the  old-timers  dream,  as  they  prodded 
their  oxen  to  brackish  water  holes 
with  creaking  loads  of  ore,  that  the 
stuff  they  carried  would  some  day  be 
shaping  national  destiny  in  screaming 
headline.  Yet  so  surely  as  the  wester- 
ing sun  passes  on  to  glory  will  the  sons 
of  men  press  forward.  The  day  is  at 
hand  when  these  phantom  peaks  of 
the  desert  must  unburden  themselves 
in  full  measure  to  salve  the  wounds 
of  Europe's  awful  tragedy.  This  is 
the  new  country — it  must  bear  the 
mistakes  of  the  old.  From  the  womb 
of  these  mountains  will  be  born  new 
strength  to  be  used  for  weal  or  woe. 

The  Humboldts  are  of  northern  Ne- 


A  strip  of  sagebrush  plain  looking  towards  the  snow-capped 
Sierra  Nevada  Mountains. 


vada  and  of  Humboldt  County,  with 
which  this  story  is  chiefly  concerned. 
They  were  touched  lightly  in  the  old 
days  through  mere  love  of  wealth. 
The  Comstock  was  called  upon  in  time 
of  national  stress  to  repair  the  waste 
of  the  Civil  War.  Nevada,  as  the  Bat- 
tle Born  State,  responded  nobly.  It 
seems  as  though  she  must  again  come 
forward  to  minister  against  the  havoc 
of  world  hatred.  She  will  respond 
readily,  this  time  dipping  a  generous 
hand  into  the  coffers  of  her  northern 
provinces,  where  in  the  Humboldts 
and  the  mountains  of  the  Seven 
Troughs  ranges  lies  wealth  uncounted. 

And  thus  we  come  to  the  new  coun- 
try and  the  men  who  are  making  it. 

Seven  Troughs  was  born  as  an  af- 
termath of  the  Goldfield  rush.  It 
came  as  one  of  that  epidemic  of  early 
1907  which  approximates  the  appear- 


ance of  Bullfrog,  Searchlight,  Rawhide 
and  others  of  those  lurid  flushes  on 
the  face  of  the  Nevada  desert  which 
marked  the  sporadic  efforts  of  the 
boomers  to  continue  the  glory  of  the 
Goldfield  days.  At  that  time,  every 
one  lived  on  a  self-starting  basis  ready 
to  kick  dust  for  new  fields  on  any  pre- 
text. The  whispered  word  in  a  dance 
hall  became  a  barking  roar  of  motors 
at  sunrise,  the  pearly-pink  of  the  mal- 
apai  dawn  being  oft  obscured  by  the 
fog  of  disappearing  cars,  streaking 
across  the  desert  to  some  new  and  as- 
sured El  Dorado. 

Seven  Troughs  was  farther  north 
than  most  of  them,  and  it  had  an  un- 
usual name.  Therefore  it  was  most 
desirable.  It  came  by  its  name  hon- 
estly enough,  for  there  were  only 
seven  troughs  in  that  particular  can- 
yon where  the  cattle  came  to  drink. 


Staking  a  horse  on  the  plains  for  a  breathing  spell. 


Being  a  considerable  distance  away, 
it  must  be  good,  and  the  argonauts 
flocked  there  by  the  thousands,  bring- 
ing with  them  the  emblems  of  their  of- 
fice, which  included  a  pick,  a  compass, 
a  blow-pipe,  a  faro  table  and  a  saloon 
license.  With  them  came  L.  A.  Fried- 
man, who  had  been  flirting  with  the 
mining  buzz-saw  down  around  Gold- 
field  and  Fairview,  and  whose  chief 
claim  to  distinction  up  to  that  time 
was  the  fact  that  he  had  been  the 
youngest  mayor  in  captivity. .  It  oc- 
curred in  Dyersville,  Iowa,  when  he 
was  about  22.  He  has  been  trying  to 
live  it  down  ever  since. 

Something  happened  just  about  that 
time  which  made  a  profound  effect 
upon  the  subsequent  development  of 
Humboldt  County,  insensibly  fashion- 
ing the  career  of  Mr.  Friedman,  who, 
too  busy  to  pose  as  a  captain  of  indus- 
try, has  nevertheless  been  a  controll- 
ing factor  in  the  destinies  of  Seven 
Troughs  and  Rochester,  the  latter  be- 
ing thus  far  his  greatest  achievement. 

The  thing  to  which  we  refer  was  the 
failure  of  outside  support.  It  hap- 


pened when  Seven  Troughs  was  at  its 
high  tide  of  imagined  prosperity,  and 
just  between  the  time  when  the  victims 
of  the  Goldfield  "wild-catters"  had 
quit  investing  with  disgust,  and  before 
the  Goldfield  mines  began  to  make 
good  on  their  own  account.  Some  will 
say  that  the  financial  panic  in  Wall 
street  that  year  tightened  money 
everywhere.  To  a  large  extent  it  did, 
but  the  loud  wail  of  anguish  emitted 
by  the  honest  sons  of  toil  from  Michi- 
gan's "coral  strand"  to  Florida's 
"snowy  mountains,"  gave  the  mining 
industry  in  the  west  a  setback  from 
which  it  has  not  completely  recovered 
to  this  day.  The  terrible  toll  of  wild- 
cat stock  selling  in  its  demoralization 
of  mining  development  throughout  the 
west  during  succeeding  years  can 
never  be  calculated. 

It  is  an  outstanding  feature  of  the 
development  of  Northern  Nevada  that 
most  of  the  mines  have  paid  their  own 
way.  They  were  opened  by  the  labor 
and  money  of  those  actually  concerned 
in  their  ownership  and  management. 
If  their  discoverers  over-played  their 


A  prospector's  camp. 


judgment,  they  themselves  were  the 
losers.  There  have  been  no  wild  pro- 
motions, no  "wild-catting,"  no  stock 
jobbing.  The  mines  have  forged 
steadily  forward  under  the  patient, 
consistent  effort  of  the  men  directly 
concerned,  their  progress  unattended 
by  the  clamorous  publicity  enjoyed  by 
the  more  spectacular  camps  which 
"eagerly"  allowed  the  great  American 
public  to  get  in  on  the  good  things, 
and  which  were  far  more  concerned  in 
organizing  corporations  with  ready- 
selling  stock  than  in  showing  up  pay- 
ing properties. 

The  fever  of  Goldfield  was  still  on, 
and  the  generally  accepted  theory  that 
anything  that  looked  like  a  mine  could 
be  sold  to  credulous  investors  still  ob- 
tained. 

.Friedman  had  made  a  little  money 
in  his  peregrinations  in  Southern  Ne- 
vada, and  with  his  ear  close  to  the 
ground  had  grub-staked  certain  trusty 
individuals  for  the  new  Camp  of 
Seven  Troughs.  At  that  time  he  was 
probably  inoculated  by  the  same  virus 
which  meant  that  if  you  struck  some- 
thing that  looked  good,  there  was  al- 
ways a  large,  confiding  public  to  sell 
it  to.  We  say  that  he  may  have  had 


it  at  that  time,  but  he  got  sadly  over  it 
later  when  it  came  to  a  question  of 
putting  up  all  his  worldly  goods  to  bol- 
ster a  property  he  believed  in  but 
which  brought  him  no  converts. 

Those  were  probably  the  last  days 
of  the  real  stampeding  regime,  with 
the  exception  of  Rochester,  that  have 
been  experienced  in  the  West. 

There  was  a  peripatetic  population 
in  Navada  at  that  time  that  has  never 
been  equaled  since.  Prospectors 
were  busy  in  all  the  hills,  lured  on  by 
the  famous  days  of  Goldfield,  where 
fortunes  were  made  and  lost  in  a  day. 
Prospecting,  however,  is  just  the  first 
blush  of  the  mining  game  as  they 
knew  it  then.  That  simply  gave  the 
rest  of  the  great  floating  folk  an  ex- 
cuse for  being.  At  the  first  report  of 
a  find  they  could  pull  stakes  and 
"beat  it"  to  the  new  spot. 

They  flocked  into  Seven  Troughs  by 
the  thousands  which,  by  fortunate  co- 
incidence, brought  forward  from  the 
grass  roots  some  of  the  richest  gold 
ore  that  has  ever  been  found.  The 
new-comers  hailed  the  camp  with  de- 
light. It  was  a  canyon  in  forbidding 
mountains.  It  carried  rich  gold  show- 
ings. It  held  all  the  elements  that 


Bird's-eye  view  of  Rochester  Mining  Camp,  Rochester,  Nevcn\ 


would  mark  another  chance  to  let  in 
the  big  outside  world  on  a  new  El 
Dorado. 

At  that  time  the  town  of  Lovelock 
on  the  railroad,  about  thirty  miles 
from  Seven  Troughs,  was  an  unpre- 
tentious farming  village  set  in  the 
heart  of  the  rich  Lovelock  Valley, 
which  has  since  become  famous  for  its 
alfalfa  that  fattens  cattle  for  San 
Franciscans.  By  grace  of  good  for- 
tune, Lovelock  happens  to  sit  on  a  po- 
tential point,  the  center  of  a  great  min- 
eral circle  which  includes  the  Seven 
Troughs,  the  Humboldts,  the  Trinities, 
the  Muttleberrys,  the  Silver  and  the 
East  ranges.  In  fact,  Lovelock  seems 
destined  to  become  the  distributing 
metropolis  for  a  great  portion  of 
Northern  Nevada  through  the  gateway 
of  the  Black  Rock  desert.  That  is  all 
virgin  country.  It  will  reckon  heavily 
later  on. 

The  advancing  stampeders  descend- 
ed upon  Lovelock  and  vitalized  it. 

Lovelock,  however,  was  only  the 
first  stopping  place.  Seven  Troughs 


was  the  goal,  Lovelock  merely  the 
gateway. 

Seven  Troughs  had  its  year  of  fever- 
ish activity.  Prospectors  and  leasers 
broke  the  surface  rock  for  three  and 
four  miles  along  the  ore  zone,  while 
the  narrow  canyon  rang  and  jingled 
to  the  noises  of  mining  camp  life  with 
tin  pianos  as  the  prevailing  note.  At 
the  same  time  many  claims  were 
grouped  in  corporations  designed  to 
tempt  the  outside  public  through  stock 
speculations,  and  thus  revive  the 
golden  harvest,  in  stock  selling,  as 
practiced  in  former  camps. 

It  was  then  that  the  reaction  al- 
ready referred  to  came  about.  Fortu- 
nately, this  "lamb"  chasing  brought 
no  results  in  coin.  So  realizing  that  the 
camp  was  up  against  the  rigid  propo- 
sition of  developing  its  own  mines 
with  drill  and  powder  instead  of 
paper,  the  boomers  began  to  drift 
away  in  1908,  relegating  Seven 
Troughs,  supposedly,  to  one  of  the 
"has-beens"  of  Nevada.  How  greatly 
they  were  mistaken  is  shown  by  the 


NFNZEk  HILL 
ROCHESTER  MINES  CO 


\d  Nenzel  Hill,  the  ground  occupied  by  the  Rochester  Mining  Company 
I  — From  a  recent  panoramic  photograph. 


fact  that  Seven  Troughs  to-day  pos- 
sesses one  of  the  greatest  gold  mines 
ever  opened  in  the  West,  while  the 
deep  work  being  done  in  the  Coalition 
is  daily  furnishing  increasing  evidence 
that  the  Seven  Troughs  hills  may  even- 
tually open  one  of  the  great  gold  lodes 
of  the  world. 

Friedman  came  into  the  camp  in  the 
spring  of  1906.  Through  his  represen- 
tatives he  had  acquired  some  interests, 
but  it  was  not  until  the  Mazuma  Hills, 
the  Therien  and  the  Kindergarten 
ground  began  to  show  evidences  of  the 
possibilities  of  the  region  that  the 
Seven  Troughs  Coalition  was  formed 
at  his  instance,  September,  1908.  The 
two  latter  properties  with  some  ad- 
joining ground  were  included  in  this 
combination,  destined  through  suc- 
ceeding years  to  become  the  leading 
property  of  the  camp  and  the  well- 
known  Coalition  of  to-day.  Mazuma 
Hills,  just  across  the  -canyon,  and  con- 
ceded by  geologists  to  be  part  of  the 
Coalition  vein  system,  produced  a 
quarter  of  a  million.  Those  miners 


who  drifted  in  the  early  days  of  the 
camp  are  coming  back  because  they 
can  see  that  "any  one  should  have 
known  that  the  Seven  Troughs  ore- 
bodies  would  get  better  at  depth." 

The  story  of  Coalition  is  a  romance 
in  itself.  Friedman  directed  the  at- 
tack and  the  mine  paid  until  along 
about  the  1100  level,  when  one  day 
they  ran  out  of  ore.  A  fault  had  cut 
the  ore. 

To  match  this  misfortune,  the  sky 
lowered  one  hot  afternoon  around  the 
head  of  Seven  Troughs  canyon  and 
a  cloudburst  broke  against  the  peaks. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  ten  lives 
were  wiped  out,  a  great  portion  of  the 
town  of  Seven  Troughs,  and  all  of  Ma- 
zuma at  the  mouth  of  the  canyon  were 
carried  away.  With  the  flood  went 
the  cyanide  plant  of  the  Coalition  mill, 
carrying  some  $80,000  in  precipitates. 
Aside  from  the  loss  of  life  and  the  in- 
dividual property  destruction,  Seven 
Troughs  Coalition  was  set  back  a 
round  $100,000  in  bullion  and  mill 
equipment,  to  say  nothing  of  having 


414 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


lost  the  vein. 

In  that  dark  and  forbidding  situa- 
tion the  courage,  resourcefulness  and 
ability  of  Northern  Nevada's  new  min- 
ing king  made  good.  Others  had 
placed  confidence  in  him  by  investing 
money  in  his  projects.  He  was  deter- 
mined that  they  should  not  lose  if  it 
took  the  accumulation  of  years  to  jus- 
tify his  judgment. 

Seven  Troughs  was  prone  during 
this  depressing  period  and  the  suc- 
ceeding months  were  trying  ones.  The 
camp  would  in  all  probability  have 
passed  into  peaceful  oblivion  but  for 
the  steadfast  purpose  of  the  head  of 
the  Coalition  Company,  who  sacrificed 
every  available  resource  that  he  had 
to  prove  that  Coalition  was  really  a 
mine. 

His  bank  in  Lovelock,  his  extensive 
ranch  property  of  Idaho  and  elsewhere 
— every  collateral  that  he  could  lay  his 
hands  upon — furnished  money  in  the 
search  for  the  faulted  vein.  It  was  a 
battle  practically  single-handed,  be- 
cause confidence  in  Western  mining 
ventures  was  then  at  lowest  ebb,  and 
financiers  ridiculed  the  optimist  who 
wished  to  pour  more  money  into  a  hole 
in  the  ground. 

Somehow  the  men  were  kept  at 
work  driving  the  long  drifts  and  cross- 
cuts that  mark  the  underground  work- 
ings of  the  Coalition,  and  one  day  in 
the  summer  of  1914,  after  nearly  two 
years  of  uncertain  and  discouraging 
exploration,  the  inspiriting  announce- 
ment was  made  that  Coalition  had 
picked  up  the  fault  and  the  miners 
were  again  in  the  ore. 

The  find  proved  to  be  the  old  vein, 
bigger  and  better  than  before.  Re- 
newed faith  lent  new  enthusiasm  to 
the  development,  and  gradually  it  be- 
came noised  abroad  that  Seven 
Troughs  had  come  back.  The  few 
faithful  business  men  and  residents 
who  had  either  been  compelled  to 
"stick,"  or  who  had  cast  their  inter- 
ests with  Friedman's  judgment,  threw 
out  old  accounts  and  wiped  the  slate 
clean  for  the  promising  new  era. 

A  detailed  description  of  the  Coali- 
tion mine  is  not  necessary.  Suffice  it 


to  say  that  as  a  producer  of  precious 
metals  it  has  proved  consistent.  In  ad- 
dition, the  geological  sheets  of  every 
month's  development  point  almost 
conclusively  to  the  fact  that  greater 
depths  of  the  Seven  Troughs  lode  will 
prove  it  one  of  the  bonanzas  of  West- 
ern history. 

Within  a  short  time  from  the  re- 
sumption of  active  production  the 
mine  began  turning  out  gold  bullion  at 
the  rate  of  $1,000  a  day,  which  was 
the  normal  rate  for  over  a  year,  last- 
ing well  into  the  fall  of  1915.  Deeper 
levels  revealed  greater  deposits  of 
high  grade  ore,  and  the  summer  of 
1915  was  enlivened  by  reports  of 
gradually  increasing  output  running 
up  to  $2,000  a  day,  showing  a  banner 
month  in  October  with  a  splendid  to- 
tal of  nearly  $70,000.  In  1915  the 
mine  produced  $416,084.37  from  4,509 
tons  of  ore,  being  an  average  of  about 
$93  a  ton,  and  a  record  average  of  any 
mine  in  the  West.  Ten  thousand  dol- 
lar assays  cause  no  excitement  in  the 
Coalition.  In  1915  the  company  paid 
$180,378.35  in  dividends,  or  a  total  of 
dividends  in  13  months  of  $216,492.91. 

This  story,  however,  is  not  to  deal 
with  mere  statistical  tables  because 
there  are  more  interesting  things  to 
consider,  chief  of  which  is  the  expert 
geological  opinion  concerning  the  fu- 
ture of  the  Coalition  mine  and  the 
Seven  Troughs  lode. 

Men  of  ability  and  repute  are  draw- 
ing a  close  analogy  between  Seven 
Troughs  and  the  Comstock  lode,  tak- 
ing the  showings  in  the  former,  now 
open  to  the  1600  level.  They  de- 
clare that  the  physical  conditons  and 
the  mineral  constituents  of  the  ore 
are  almost  identical,  as  well  as  the 
never-failing  ratio  between  the  gold 
and  silver  content.  They  declare  that 
the  showings  along  the  1500-foot  level, 
with  a  gradual  increase  in  size  and 
richness  of  ore  bodies  toward  the 
1600,  draw  a  most  exciting  parallel 
to  the  conditions  at  Virginia  City  be- 
tween the  800  and  the  1200-foot  lev- 
els, when  the  great  bonanzas  were 
opened,  electrifying  the  mining  world, 
brought  the  Floods  and  the  Fairs  into 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN  AND  A  COUNTRY. 


415 


the  limelight,  and  made  San  Francisco 
a  city  of  many  millionaires. 

In  the  dark  days  of  the  Coalition, 
and  while  the  little  town  of  Seven 
Troughs  was  clinging  desperately  to 
the  canyon  against  the  sharp  winds  of 
adversity,  a  noise  began  to  emanate 
from  another  canyon  across  the  Hum- 
boldt  River,  some  forty  miles  away 
among  the  high  peaks  of  the  Hum- 
boldts;  the  first  clarion  call  from 
Rochester  came  in  December,  1912. 

Newspaper  articles  were  published 
throughout  Nevada,  and  even  in  New 
York,  telling  of  a  massive  silver  out- 
cropping along  the  crest  of  Rochester 
Hill  which  was  so  rich  that  miners 
could  break  rocks  off  the  frowning 
ramparts  and  ship  them  away  to  the 
smelter,  sure  of  a  good  return.  It 
made  good  copy  in  the  newspapers, 
and  it  was  true  in  many  respects.  Some 
mining  was  actually  done  directly  off 
of  the  outcropping  veins,  which  in 
many  places  stuck  up  like  the  ruins  of 
abandoned  castles,  and  it  is  a  fact  that 
the  first  shipment  from  the  camp  was 
in  the  form  of  the  "float"  rock  weath- 
ered by  the  ages  from  these  same  bat- 
tlements. 

Again  there  was  one  of  those  hair- 
raising  stampedes,  the  latest  of  any 
consequence  that  Nevada  has  wit- 
nessed. The  new  camp  was  but  25 
miles  northeast  of  Lovelock,  which  for 
a  second  time  came  in  for  stampede 
activity,  more  sedately  accepted  by 
reason  of  the  dignity  of  new  business 
blocks  and  buildings.  Automobile 
traffic  took  a  tremendous  jump  from 
a  few  leisurely  cars  to  scurrying  doz- 
ens, rushing  out  across  the  country 
each  day  in  billows  of  dust,  carrying 
limit  loads  of  eager  visitors  to  the  new 
camp,  which  was  promised  as  the  very 
latest  sensation  in  gigantic  silver  de- 
posits. It  is  fair  to  remark  here  that 
Rochester  has  never  gone  back  on 
those  early  prognostications.  Instead, 
she  has  opened  up  her  great  ore  bod- 
ies to  great  depth,  and  has  proven 
that  gold  will  become  a  most  import- 
ant element  in  the  ore. 

Within  three  months,  in  spite  of  the 
winter  snows,  there  were  three  thou- 


sand people  in  Rochester  Canyon, 
where  there  had  been  no  man  before. 
Tents  lined  the  canyon  for  two  miles, 
constituting  the  towns  of  Upper  and 
Lower  Rochester  with  one  long,  main 
street,  alive  with  varied  activities. 

The  Rochester  Mines  Company  leads 
off  in  production  from  the  claims 
crowning  the  great  buttresses  of  the 
out-cropping  veins  where  leasers 
blasted  and  thundered,  frequently 
loosing  great  boulders  that  bounded 
down  the  mountain  side. 

Rochester  lived  through  the  early 
vicissitudes  of  litigation  and  incompe- 
tent "engineers."  The  latter  came  in 
large  numbers  from  all  over  the  great 
United  States,  duly  gave  their  opin- 
ion that  the  veins  could  not  go  down, 
and  then  went  on  their  way.  There 
are  many  practical  miners  throughout 
the  West  who  like  to  have  the  "engi- 
neers" condemn  a  camp  before  they 
start  to  work. 

Harassed  by  the  strenuous  diffi- 
culty of  keeping  Coalition  afloat,  Mr. 
Friedman  was  unable  to  take  a  leading 
part  in  the  early  manifestations  of 
the  Rochester  boom.  Perhaps  he 
waited  for  the  camp  to  make  good  its 
earliest  promises — suffice  it  to  say  that 
it  was  not  until  late  in  1914  that  his 
hand  became  evident  in  the  shaping 
of  the  destinies  of  the  camp.  Since 
then  his  ability  for  business  manage- 
ment and  his  personality  have  been 
the  guiding  spirits,  pushing  the  com- 
pany clear  of  all  entanglements,  and 
placing  it  on  an  earning  basis,  while 
developing  what  is  now  classed  among 
the  great  silver  mines  of  Nevada. 

It  is  permissible  for  a  moment  to  re- 
fer to  figures  just  to  show  the  great 
things  accomplished  by  Rochester 
Mines  in  three  years,  the  later  and  im- 
portant part  of  the  regime  being  un- 
der the  direction  of  Mr.  Friedman. 

The  property  has  produced  consid- 
erably over  one  million  dollars,  and 
will,  it  is  calculated,  produce  more 
than  half  a  million  dollars  this  year. 
The  company  has  built  a  mill  with  a 
capacity  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  tons, 
and  the  mine  has  financed  an  ore- 
carrying  road  into  Rochester  Canyon. 


416 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Over  20,000  feet  of  underground  work 
has  been  done,  including  the  Fried- 
man Tunnel,  1,500  ft.  in  length,  which 
taps  Rochester  Hill,  proving  the  veins 
to  a  known  depth  of  1200  feet.  Inci- 
dentally, a  great  silver  and  gold  bear- 
ing fissure  has  been  opened  from  the 
700-foot  point  on  the  dip,  indicating 
that  the  East  vein  of  the  Rochester 
Mines  Company  is  twenty  feet  wide 
from  that  point  to  the  surface,  carry- 
ing ore  ranging  from  $15  to  $40  a  ton. 
The  company  has  several  hundred 
thousand  tons  of  ore  blocked  out — 
enough  to  keep  the  mill  running  sev- 
eral years,  even  if  the  capacity  is  dou- 
bled, as  now  planned.  Thinking  men 
capable  of  forming  just  mining  esti- 
mates have  recently  declared  that  the 
property  opened  up  by  the  Rochester 
Mines  Company  already  intrinsically 
warrants  a  doubling  and  even  a  trip- 


ling of  the  capitalization  of  $2,250,- 
000. 

Northern  Nevada,  including  Hum- 
boldt  County,  is  just  coming  into  its 
own  as  a  remarkable  mineral  trea- 
sure region.  With  strange  persis- 
tency, the  story  of  the  rise  is  insep- 
arably linked  with  the  Friedman  per- 
sonality, which  stands  for  vigorous, 
open-handed  aggressiveness  and  in- 
domitable courage  which  will  not  ad- 
mit defeat.  Like  all  men  of  larger 
mould  he  has  the  wider  vision  which 
sees  no  goal  short  of  making  northern 
Nevada  a  great  center  of  mining 
activity.  His  sudden  rise  from  modest 
circumstances  to  the  millionaire  class, 
more  through  persistent  effort  than 
fortuitous  circumstance,  points  the 
convincing  and  heartening  moral  that 
the  West  is  still  the  golden  land  of 
opportunity. 


DARE  YOU   FORGET? 

Dare  you  forget  the  hours  of  old, 
Where  Happy  skies  were  tinged  with  gold, 
And  all  the  days  from  morn  to  night 
Were  fraught  with  ardent  Love's  delight, 
For  time  was  sweet  and  youth  was  bold  ? 

Whate'er  the  future  dared  withhold, 
We  saw  glad  landscapes  far  outrolled, 
Agleam  with  visions  fair  and  bright; 
Dare  you  forget? 

Whate'er  mute  years  may  yet  unfold, 
The  past  was  true  when  love  was  told : 
But  if  the  dream  should  take  its  flight, 
And  youthful  transport  suffer  blight, 
If  hope  should  fade  and  Love  grow  cold, 
Dare  you  forget? 


CLARENCE  H.  URNER. 


The  Free  Lance 


By  Jessie  Louise  Goerner 


AT  SUNRISE,  the  inhabitants 
of  a  little  mountain  town  were 
aroused  by  the  reports  of  guns 
and  the  explosion  of  powder 
in  the  adjoining  diggin's.  The  echoes 
resounded,  a  few  dogs  barked— then 
silence.  The  day  of  the  County  Fair 
was  ushered  in  with  proper  ceremony. 

A  few  minutes  later,  familiar  sounds 
issued  from  the  houses:  the  opening 
and  shutting  of  doors,  and  the  barking 
of  affectionate  dogs  greeting  their 
masters;  then  the  monotonous  drone 
of  the  pump,  the  splash  of  water,  and 
the  echo  of  retreating  footsteps.  Thin, 
perpendicular  columns  of  blue  smoke 
foretold  of  early  breakfasts.  Later, 
the  clang  of  heavy  iron  doors  an- 
nounced that  the  stores  were  open  for 
business ;  although  a  holiday,  the  store- 
keepers remained  open  for  the  extra 
trade  that  was  sure  to  come  with  the 
visitors  who  gathered  there  every  year 
for  the  celebration.  Sounds  of  life 
stirred  the  quiet  of  the  hotel,  and 
awoke  the  sleepers. 

Through  the  open  windows  of  a 
certain  room  came  these  words,  uttered 
in  a  deep,  gruff  voice: 

"Your  luck — try  it.  Once  a  year, 
once  only,  comes  the  County  Fair.  Try 
your  luck — prove  it  at  the  r-ring 
game!" 

"Goodness!"  exclaimed  drowsy 
June.  "I  thought  you  said  that  this 
was  a  quiet  place!  First,  the  noise  ot 
those  reports.  Now,  that  man  opposite 
spieling  for  his  r-ring  game.  'The  Fair 
comes  but  once  a  year/  "  she  mimicked 
the  voice.  "I  wish  he  would  keep  quiet 
for  a  while." 

"Listen  to  that!"  laughed  Helen. 

The  same  voice  continued :  "When 
I  was  a  boy  in  Denver,  Colorado" — 


but  the  rest  of  the  sentence  was 
drowned  out  by  other  men's  voices  de- 
manding that  he  keep  quiet,  as  the 
hotel  guests  desired  to  sleep. 

June  Layton  surprised  her  friend  by 
springing  out  of  bed. 

"Come,  Helen,  get  up,"  and  she  at- 
tempted to  pull  the  coverings  from  the 
bed. 

"What's  the  matter?  I  thought  you 
wished  to  sleep!" 

"I  did,  until  I  recalled  where  I  am! 
My  first  morning  in  the  mountains! 
How  I  have  longed  for  them :  and  now 
I  have  them,  I  shall  not  waste  a  mo- 
ment of  my  visit.  For  two  years  you 
have  told  me  about  the  romance  of 
this  old  town.  Now  I  want  to  see  it." 

"Romance!  A  lot  you  will  find  here 
now,"  Helen  Garwood  replied  scorn- 
fully. 

"There  must  be  some  fragments  left. 
Think  of  the  men  who  have  lived  here 
since  the  rush  of  the  early  days — 
even  you  have  told  me  tales  of  those 
early  days.  That  reminds  me,  I  want 
to  see  the  old  hall  that  was  built  in 
the  fifties.  Is  it  true  that  the  original 
owners  still  live  there?" 

"Yes,  the  Johnstons  still  live  there. 
We'll  stop  on  our  way  back  from  the 
ball  game." 

They  hurried  dressing,  for  June  de- 
clared that  she  did  not  want  to  miss 
anything.  After  breakfast  the  hotel 
porch  was  crowded  with  people  from 
the  surrounding  towns,  who  arrived 
early  for  the  celebration.  Helen 
greeted  some  people  and  introduced 
June. 

They  started  early  for  the  ball 
grounds,  which  was  really  no  more 
than  a  cleared  level  meadow.  They 
found  a  shady  spot  and  sat  down. 


418 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Around  the  field,  under  the  trees,  the 
available  places  were  crowded  with 
spectators.  The  home  team  stood  ar- 
guing, but  let  out  a  shout  of  welcome 
as  the  opposing  team  arrived  and  dis- 
mounted from  a  nondescript  four- 
seated  carryall.  After  greeting  their 
friends  who  gathered  about  the  vehi- 
cle, they  took  their  places  in  the  field, 
and  the  game  started. 

June  forgot  the  people  there  and  the 
companion  at  her  side,  for  she  was  lost 
in  admiration  of  the  scene  about  her. 
At  her  feet  spread  a  carpet  of  pine 
needles;  below,  the  mahogany- 
limbed  manzanitas  rose  in  clumps, 
and  beyond  her  the  tall  pines  grew  to- 
gether so  dense  that  only  a  few  truant 
sunbeams  danced  their  way  into  their 
midst. 

Their  delicious  fragrance  filled  the 
air.  In  vain  she  listened  to  hear  the 
wind  sigh  and  perhaps  moan  in  the 
branches.  She  drank  in  the  scene  be- 
fore her  like  one  long  thirsty,  for  the 
moments  were  lost  in  the  joy  of  the 
realization  of  dreams  come  true. 

All  too  soon  Helen's  voice  aroused 
her,  telling  her  it  was  time  to  start. 
They  walked  briskly  along  the  path 
that  led  through  the  pines  and  to  the 
road.  Sometime  later,  Helen  pointed 
down  the  road  to  a  large  wooden  build- 
ing with  tall  cottonwood  sentinels  be- 
fore it. 

"There  is  the  Johnston's  place,"  she 
announced. 

"We'll  stop  for  a  few  moments  and 
rest.  Mrs.  Johnston  is  always  pleased 
to  meet  newcomers.  Mayhap  she  may 
recall  a  romance  for  you." 

They  left  the  road.  At  this  point  a 
rude  pedestrian  path  began  and  hugged 
the  fences  of  the  scattered  cottages. 
Before  the  "Hall,"  as  the  Johnston's 
place  was  called,  a  board  walk  ex- 
tended from  the  house  to  the  cotton- 
woods,  and  over  this  a  sloping  roof 
gave  the  effect  of  a  porch.  Between 
the  trees,  boards  had  been  nailed  for 
seats.  The  doors  of  the  living  room 
opened  out  onto  this  porch,  and  a  few 
chairs  obstructed  the  way. 

They  entered  a  passage  that  led  to 
the  hall.  Half-way  down,  a  few  steps 


indicated  the  entrance  to  the  Johnston's 
home,  which  was  really  the  front  part 
of  the  building.  Helen  found  the  long 
living  room  deserted,  and  returned  to 
her  companion,  who  had  lingered  in 
the  passage.  Arm  in  arm,  they  con- 
tinued to  the  hall.  They  entered  and 
looked  about. 

The  rusticity  of  the  Hall  spoke  of 
early  mining  days,  when  great  pros- 
perity prevailed  and  many  unpreten- 
tious buildings  sprang  up  over  night, 
only  to  be  deserted  later  when  the  hy- 
draulic mines  ceased  their  operations, 
and  the  gold  seekers  flocked  else- 
where. This  building  had  been  built 
in  the  "good  times"  of  '65,  when  it 
filled  the  threefold  function  of  Court 
House,  Dance  Hall  and  Opera  House. 
The  builder,  a  rude  carpenter,  had  con- 
structed the  house  according  to  his  own 
peculiar  ideas  and  frontier  fashion. 
At  the  right  end  of  the  old  Hall  a  stage 
had  been  erected  with  its  accompany- 
ing dressing  rooms.  Above  the  pros- 
cenium arch,  a  decorative  painting,  em- 
bossed with  the  owner's  name  in  large 
letters,  still  retained  its  bright  coloring. 
On  the  opposite  side  a  hanging  bal- 
cony, suspended  on  iron  brackets  and 
recently  strengthened  with  iron  braces, 
faced  the  stage.  Two  alcoves  in  the 
center  of  the  other  two  walls  contained 
stoves  which  provided  heat  during  the 
cold  weather.  A  row  of  chairs  had 
been  placed  around  the  walls  and  a 
great  pile  of  pine  boughs  hastily 
dropped  upon  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Johnston  called  from  the  bal- 
cony: "Girls,  come  up  here!" 

Helen,  who  was  familiar  with  the 
place,  re-entered  the  passage,  and,  a 
few  paces  up  the  incline,  opened  a 
small  door  and  ran  up  the  narrow 
stairs. 

Mrs.  Johnston  sat  there,  surrounded 
by  her  daughters.  Heaped  in  their 
laps  were  rolls  of  crepe  paper  which 
'they  had  been  cutting  into  narrow 
strips  to  be  used  later  for  decorating 
the  hall.  They  greeted  Helen  cordi- 
ally, and,  after  June  had  been  intro- 
duced, proposed  returning  to  the  par- 
lor. Mrs.  Johnston  opened  a  door 
back  of  her.  They  descended  three 


THE  FREE  LANCE. 


419 


steps  and  found  themselves  in  the 
long  living  room. 

It  was  in  the  parlor  that  June  se- 
lected the  least  uncomfortable  chair, 
sank  into  it,  and  listened  to  Helen's 
account  of  the  game.  The  family  had 
remained  at  home  to  prepare  the  mid- 
night supper  which  they  always  fur- 
nished when  they  rented  the  hall  for 
dances;  for  this  building  was  the  only 
heritage  the  miner  had  left  his  family 
and  the  income  from  it  supplied  the 
family  needs. 

Helen  had  hardly  finished  before  a 
loud  knock  was  heard.  The  oldest 
daughter  returned,  accompanied  by  a 
tall,  blonde  young  man. 

"Well,  well!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  John- 
ston, in  genuine  surprinse:  "I'm  glad 
to  see  you,  Grant.  Come  in." 

She  offered  her  hand,  which  the 
newcomer  shook  cordially. 

"Helen,  you  know  Grant  Carey. 
This  is  Helen's  friend,  Miss  Layton. 
Every  one  about  here  knows  Grant 
Carey." 

They  acknowledged  the  introduc- 
tion. 

"I  called  to  see  if  my  aunt  was 
here,"  began  Grant  Carey. 

"Up  at  the  ball  game,"  Mrs.  John- 
ston informed  him.  "She  ought  to  be 
back  any  minute  now.  Wait  for  her; 
she's  sure  to  drop  in." 

He  found  a  chair  near  June. 

"Why  didn't  you  go  to  the  game, 
Grant?"  inquired  the  hostess. 

"Just  arrived,"  he  announced. 

June  looked  surprised.  "How  do 
you  explain  your  timely  arrival,  Mr. 
Carey?  Common  folks  arrive  at  mid- 
night; perhaps  you  have  a  fairy  god- 
mother." 

"Perhaps  I  have,  Miss  Layton.  Some 
mortals  are  even  favored  by  the  gods 
nowadays.  There  is  nothing  remark- 
able about  it.  I  didn't  come  in  an  aero- 
plane or  on  my  trusty  steed.  It  was 
rather  plebeian,  I  must  confess:  I 
came  in  a  caboose  of  an  East-bound 
freight  train." 

"Indeed,"  laughed  June;  "however 
unromantic  your  conveyance,  it  cer- 
tainly got  you  here  in  good  time." 

"Is  this  your  first  visit     to     these 


mountains?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes;  to  these  mountains,  Of 
course,  I  have  been  to  the  Santa  Cruz 
mountains,  but  they  are  as  hills  com- 
pared with  these  ranges.  These  are 
wonderful!"  She  paused  and  glanced 
toward  Helen,  who  was  talking  with 
the  old  lady.  Then  she  resumed: 

"It  was  dusk  when  the  train  began 
the  ascent  and  midnight  when  we  ar- 
rived. The  first  glimpse  of  this  town 
will  remain  always  fresh  in  my  mem- 
ory. I  must  confess  that  the  ride  from 
the  station  was  a  little  terrifying— the 
roads  were  so  rough.  Several  times 
I  expected  the  strange  vehicle  to  turn 
us  into  the  dust.  However,  the  wild 
ride  hardly  prepared  us  for  the  sight 
that  met  our  eyes.  Such  a  picturesque 
street  I  had  never  seen,  bordered  by 
tall  poplars  and  shimmering  cotton- 
woods.  I  thought  I  had  stepped  into 
fairy  land  as  I  walked  on  the  sawdust 
covered  road.  The  moon  shone 
brightly  and  made  the  electric  lights, 
which  were,  strung  across  the  road  look 
like  so  many  fireflies." 

"It  is  like  that  each  year,"  he  began; 
but  Mrs.  Johnston  interposed. 

"Seems  to  me,  Grant,  it's  about  time 
for  you  to  settle  down  in  your  bunga- 
low. It's  three  years  now  since  your 
uncle  died.  Have  you  found  any  girl 
that  suits  you?" 

"No,  not  yet,"  Grant's  laugh  rang 
loud.  "I'm  still  a  free  lance." 

At  this  moment  voices  were  heard 
in  the  living  room.  "Grant  here!"  ex- 
claimed a  woman's  voice,  incredulous- 
ly; "how  did  he  get  here?" 

Greatly  astonished,  Mrs.  Carey  hur- 
ried into  the  parlor  to  greet  her  ne- 
phew. 

Formalities  over,  the  conversation 
became  general.  Helen  rose  to  go 
and  glanced  toward  June,  who  was 
deep  in  conversation  with  Grant 
Carey. 

"We  must  hurry,  June,  or  we  shall 
be  late  for  luncheon." 

Reluctantly,  she  rose.  Mrs.  John- 
ston cautioned  them  "not  to  be  strang- 
ers" during  their  visit. 

As  they  turned  down  the  shaded 
street,  Grant  Carey  joined  them. 


420 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


"I  hope  you  don't  think  that  I  have 
a  nerve  to  join  you,"  he  apologized. 
"I'm  here  for  a  couple  of  days,  and 
can't  afford  to  lose  a  moment.  I  want 
to  beg  the  pleasure  of  your  company 
to-night— that  is,  if  you  haven't  al- 
ready made  your  plans  for  the  dance." 

His  audacity  was  irresistible. 
Somehow,  June  was  not  offended.  She 
hesitated  a  moment,  but  a  glance  at 
Helen  reassured  her. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Carey. 
Of  course,  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  with 
you." 

They  were  at  the  hotel.  A  loud  bell 
announced  that  luncheon  was  ready. 
Helen  had  gone  in  and  June  started  to 
follow. 

"Just  a  moment,  Miss  Layton:  I 
want  you  and  Miss  Garwood  to  share  a 
cool  spot  that  I  have  selected  to  view 
the  main  feature  of  the  celebration. 
Now,  don't  say  no — please  don't.  I 
have  my  heart  set  upon  it." 

She  was  about  to  make  an  excuse, 
but  the  look  in  his  eyes  arrested  her. 
She  hesitated. 

"You  will!"  he  answered  for  her. 

A  short  time  later,  Grant  led  June 
to  a  bench  under  a  shady  tree  which 
afforded  them  an  unobstructed  view  of 
the  road.  Helen  had  excused  herself 
and  gone  off  with  some  of  her  friends. 
Grant  entertained  his  companion  with 
stories  of  the  early  days  when  the 
mines  were  operating  and  the  village 
had  been  a  thriving  town  with  a  char- 
ter, and  the  houses  had  reached  beyond 
the  diggings.  Even  the  ground  upon 
which  the  remaining  houses  stood  was 
rich  in  ore  and  could  be  reached  easily 
by  tunnels,  but  he  declared  the  owners 
lacked  the  necessary  funds  to  start  the 
work.  He  spoke  of  his  frequent  trip 
to  the  village,  usually  to  send  supplies 
to  a  camp  which  he  maintained  down 
at  the  mine.  He  did  not  say  that  he 
owned  the  mine,  and  June  wondered 

what  interest  he  had  in  it. 

*  *  *  * 

When  they  entered  the  Hall  that 
night,  the  dancing  had  started,  but 
neither  June  nor  Helen  lacked  partners 
• — special  favors  were  always  be- 
stowed on  newcomers.  They  found 


seats  under  the  balcony,  and  were  be- 
sieged for  dances.  Grant  held  out  his 
arm,  and  claimed  June  for  a  waltz. 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  me  pre- 
sumptious,  Miss  Layton,"  he  said,  "but 
I  want  every  third  dance.  Programs 
are  unknown  here,  so  each  man  must 
speak  for  himself.  Don't  refuse  me," 
he  begged. 

"If  you  persuade  me  properly,  I 
might  consent." 

So  they  danced  many  times  that 
night.  The  magnetism  of  her  nearness 
overwhelmed  him :  a  great  desire  filled 
his  heart;  he  wanted  to  clasp  her  to 
him  and  take  her  away  into  the  still- 
ness of  the  night — to  the  river  and  to 
the  bungalow  that  overlooked  it.  Then 
he  paused  and  wondered  if  he  was 
really  falling  in  love  with  this  girl 
whom  he  had  met  only  a  few  hours  be- 
fore. Surely  it  was  longer  than  that; 
it  seemed  as  if  he  had  known  her  al- 
ways. It  was  with  a  pang  in  his  heart 
that  he  recalled  that  he  would  not  see 
her  again  after  this  night.  The  more 
he  thought  about  it — he  could  not  help 
doing  so — the  less  he  relished  the  idea. 
It  was  during  another  waltz  that  the 
breeze  from  the  open  window  un- 
loosed a  lock  of  June's  dark  hair,  and 
touched  his  cheek;  a  thrill  went 
through  him.  She  tried  to  replace  the 
lock;  their  hands  touched,  and  her  dark 
eyes  met  his  in  a  long  look.  He  had 
found  a  kindred  soul.  Contented  with 
her  nearness,  he  did  not  speak  a  word; 
she  likewise  was  silent. 

The  dance  ended.  Thev  were  at  the 
door.  Silently,  as  she  took  his  arm,  he 
led  her  out  into  the  night.  Under  the 
cottonwoods  they  found  a  bench  and 
seated  themselves.  Staring  before 
him  in  introspection,  he  spoke  softly: 

"Once  upon  a  time,  an  eccentric  old 
man  made  a  will,  leaving  a  fortune  to 
his  favorite  nephew.  There  was  an 
odd  condition  attached  to  the  bequest. 
It  was  that  he  marry  and  live  six 
months  of  each  year  in  a  bunealow 
which  he  had  built  upon  his  mining 
property  overlooking  the  American 
River.  No  time  was  set  to  fulfill  this 
obligation.  In  the  meantime  the  ne- 
phew managed  the  mine,  which  is 


THE   VOICE   OF   RACHEL  WEEPING.  421 

still  operating.    It  is  three  years  now,  to  go  a  step  farther,  for  fear  that  he 

and  the  nephew  has  not  married.    He  could  not  get  the  flower,  but  would 

has  never  met  a  girl  whom  he  could  slip  in  the  abyss  below."    He  paused, 

ask  to  share  the  ridiculous  conditions  and  took  her  hand, 

of  that  will.     Possessing  a  rather  ro-  "June,  you  are  the  girl  I  want.  Give 

mantic  nature  himself,  and  loving  the  me  a  chance  to  prove  that  I  am  in 

solitude  of  the  mountains,  he  hesitated  earnest.    Let  me  earn  your  friendship, 

to  share  his  retreat  with  an  uncongenial  and  your  love,  and  when  I  have  earned 

mate.  both,  be  my  wife.    Tell  me,  little  girl, 

"But  there  came  a  moment  in  his  life  shall  I  go  or  stay?" 
when  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  some-  He  held  out  his  arms.    With  burn- 
thing  he  had  been  seeking,  a  wonder-  ing  cheeks  and  palpitating  heart,  she 
ful  white  flower  which  grew  on  the  lifted  her  dark  eyes,  and  his  strong 
edge  of  the  precipice.    He  was  afraid  arms  closed  about  her. 


THE  VOICE  OF  RACHEL  WEEPING 
(Belgium,  1915) 


Beloved,  little  beloved,  where  shall  I  find  you? 

Not  at  the  ends  of  the  earth,  in  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
On  the  winds,  in  the  stars,  in  the  desolate  spaces  of  heaven. 

Yesterday  mine,  to-day  you  have  ceased  to  be ! 

The  kings  of  the  earth  and  the  rulers  take  counsel  together, 
But  your  voice  and  your  eyes  that  looked  love  to  my  eyes 

are  gone. 

Fire  and  rapine  and  sword  are  flaming  around  me, 
They  have  ravished  my  child  from  my  life,  and  my  life 
goes  on. 

Beloved,  little  beloved,  where  shall  I  find  you? 

I  gave  you  your  shape  and  your  smile  and  your  innocent 

breath, 
And  the  travail  of  birth  that  I  knew  was  as  naught  to  the 

rending 
Of  my  body  and  spirit  and  soul  in  this  travail  of  death. 

All  religions  forsake,  and  philosophies  fail  me, 

Dark  as  the  primal  mother  I  stand  alone. 
One  wild  question  cries  in  my  night  and  the  answer 

Comes  not — His  sky  is  silent,  His  earth  a  stone. 

God  of  our  fathers — speak,  reveal,  enlighten! 

Lo,  with  despair  my  soul  grows  wan  and  wild! 
Yet,  O  God,  hear  me  not,  heed  me  not,  count  me  as  nothing — 

Only  let  it  be  well  with  her,  my  child ! 

BEATRICE  CREGAN. 
6 


The  Only  Way  to  Lasting  Peace 


(From  a  British  Point  of  View) 
By  A.  Shadwell 


THE  YEAR  1915  drew  towards  its 
peace.  Seasonable  in  the  eon- 
close  in  a  babble  of  talk  about 
ventional  Christmas  sense,  but 
futile  in  fact.  It  is  all  in  the  enemy's 
interest,  started  by  German  agents,  in 
spite  of  the  Chancellor's  denial  in  the 
Reichstag,  and  carried  on  by  German 
catspaws,  conscious  or  unconscious. 
But  it  will  serve  a  useful  purpose  if 
it  leads  people  to  think  and  form  for 
themselves  a  clearer  conception  of  the 
problem.  There  is  no  inclination  here 
in  any  quarter  that  matters  to  entertain 
proposals  for  peace  at  the  present 
juncture,  but  the  refusal  is  rather  in- 
stinctive or  impulsive  than  thought 
out.  It  arises  from  a  feeling  that  this 
is  the  wrong  time  for  bargaining,  not 
from  a  reasoned  comprehension  of 
what  is  implied  by  bargaining  at  all, 
and  it  is  an  insufficient  protection 
against  specious  arguments  and  con- 
fused thinking.  We  need  a  clearer 
view  of  the  position  to  guide  our  coun- 
sels and  determine  our  action. 

The  first  point  to  grasp  is  that  there 
is  only  one  will  among  the  Central 
Powers,  and  that  is  Germany's.  It  is 
not  wholly  independent  of  the  others, 
and  may  have  to  accommodate  itself 
to  theirs  in  this  or  that  particular ;  but 
it  is  so  predominant  that  in  large  af- 
fairs it  is  the  only  one  that  counts.  It 
was  predominant  before  the  war  and 
has  become  more  and  more  so  as  the 
war  has  proceeded.  It  is  Germany 
with  whom  we  have  to  deal.  This  is 
recognized  in  a  general  way.  Indeed, 
in  this  country  we  hardly  feel  con- 
scious of  any  other  enemy,  and  it  is 
the  same  in  France.  For  Russia  and 
Serbia,  too,  the  enemy,  who  was  Aus- 
tria, has  during  the  last  six  months  be- 
come Germany.  As  time  goes  on  it 
becomes  ever  clearer  that  but  for  Ger- 
many there  would  have  been  no  war 


at  all,  and  but  for  her  it  might  be 
ended  now  by  negotiation  or  reference 
to  an  international  court.  What  is  im- 
plied by  this,  however,  is  less  clearly 
perceived. 

The  war  cannot  be  ended  by  nego- 
tiation or  compromise,  because  no 
treaty  of  peace  concluded  with  Ger- 
many would  be  worth  the  paper  it  is 
written  on.  A  nominal  agreement 
might  conceivably  be  reached  which 
would  permit  a  cessation  of  hostilities ; 
but  not  a  single  nation  would  have  the 
-smallest  faith  in  it,  and  every  one 
would  immediately  prepare  for  a  re- 
newal of  war.  I  do  not  mean  only 
those  which  are  now  fighting,  but  neu- 
tral countries,  too.  None  of  them 
trusts  Germany  now.  Those  nearest  to 
her  are  armed  to  the  teeth  and  anx- 
iously watching  their  frontiers  day  and 
night,  because  they  know  that  their 
neutrality  would  be  violated  to-morrow 
if  the  Germans  thought  they  could  vio- 
late it  with  advantage.  A  neutral  ob- 
server, who  has  recently  studied  the 
feeling  in  Switzerland,  says  that  even 
the  German-Swiss,  who  are  sympa- 
thetic to  Germany,  do  not  trust  her 
(The  Times,  December  17.)  When  a 
man  of  business  repudiates  his  obli- 
gations nobody  trusts  him  again;  his 
credit  is  gone.  Germany  is  in  that  po- 
sition, and  much  worse.  She  is  like  a 
man  who  has  not  only  dishonored  his 
own  signature  but  justifies  that  con- 
duct on  principle.  How  can  any  one 
trust  him?  With  the  best  will  in  the 
world  it  is  impossible.  The  other  na- 
tions might  try  to  believe  in  Germany's 
good  faith,  but  they  could  not.  Her 
own  allies  could  not.  They  do  not 
now.  They  try,  but  they  have  no  con- 
fidence; only  hopes  alternating  with 
fears. 

Eager  pacificists  ignore  this  cardi- 
nal factor  in  the  problem.    They  shut 


THE  ONLY  WAY  TO  LASTING  PEACE. 


423 


their  eyes  to  the  conduct  of  Germany 
and  to  the  maxims  laid  down  to  justify 
it,  that  might  is  right  and  that  neces- 
sity— which  means  the     interests     of 
Germany — overrides  all  rules  and  obli- 
gations.    Consequently  they     do  not 
see — or  affect  not  to     see — that    the 
peace  they  desire  could  only  stereo- 
type the  evils  they  deplore.    It  would 
make  militarism  the  universal  rule  and 
impose  the  necessity  of  constant  and 
perfect  preparation  for  war,  because 
any  weakness  on  the  part  of  Powers 
who  possess  anything  that  Germany 
wants  in  her  present  frame  of  mind 
would  be  her  opportunity  for  the  re- 
newal of  war.     The  past  proves  that 
she  would  be  at  no  loss  for  pretexts, 
and  the  only  security  for  peace  would 
be  a  bristling  front.    The  competition 
in  armaments  would  be  intensified  and 
would  demand  far  more  of  the  national 
energies  than  ever  before.     Compul- 
sory military  service  would  be  inevi- 
table.   If  it  be  argued  that  this  might 
be  averted  by  the  terms  of  the  treaty 
of  peace,  in  which  some  measure  of 
disarmament  might  be  one  of  the  con- 
ditions, the  answer  is  that  reliance  on 
any  such  provision  assumes  confidence 
in  Germany's  good  faith.    It  is  the  old 
fallacy  again.     Guarantees  would  be 
worthless;  the  German     preparations 
would  be  made  in  secret,  and  Powers 
who  carried  out  the  bargain  would  be 
the   victims   of     a     confidence  trick. 
There  is  no  escape  from  the  position 
taken  up  by  Germany,  no  third  course 
between  surrender  and  fighting  it  out. 
Nobody  will  hear  of   surrender — not 
even  the  pacificists — but  the  danger  is 
that  it  may  be  so  wrapped  up  as  to 
look  like  something  else.    That  is,  in- 
deed, what  the  Germans  are  seeking 
and  the  pacificists  are  helping  them  to 
secure.     What  we  have  to  realize  here 
is  that  the  Germans  have  not  abated  a 
jot  of  their  ultimate  aims,  but  rather 
the    contrary.     The   original   purpose 
was  to  proceed  by  steps  on  the  tradi- 
tional plan ;  to  knock  out  France,  hold 
Russia  in,  consolidate     the     Central 
Powers  under  German  hegemony,  ex- 
tend the   bloc  north  and   south,  gain 
new  naval  bases,  so  as  to  command 


the  North  Sea,  the  Channel,  and  the 
Mediterranean,  while  pushing  east  by 
land,  with  the  aid  of  Turkey,  towards 
Persia  and  Egypt.  All  this  was  pre- 
paratory to  the  final  step,  which  was 
seizure  of  the  command  of  the  sea  and 
the  subjection  of  Great  Britain.  Our 
entry  into  the  war  spoiled  it  right  off 
at  the  start;  but  it  was  too  late  for 
Germany  to  withdraw  then,  and  the  at- 
tempt was  made  to  take  the  whole  pro- 
gramme in  one. 

The  first  item  was  to  take  Paris  and 
crush  France.    Sweeping  through  Bel- 
gium did  not  count  as  an  item.    It  was 
taken  as  a  mere  preliminary  and  a 
matter  of  course;  but  the  calculation 
went  wrong  at  Liege  and  the  error  al- 
tered the  whole  course  of  the  war.  The 
man  who  beat  the  Germans  was  Gen- 
eral Leman.     The  advance  on  Paris 
failed,  and  six  weeks  after  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war  the  first  peace  kites 
were   sent  up  by  Germany.     People 
have  perhaps  forgotten  it,  but  the  sug- 
gestion was  put  about  that  the  war 
should  be  declared  off  and  called  a 
draw.     The   object  was  obvious.     It 
was  to  retreat  for  another  spring  under 
more  favorable  conditions.     The  bait 
was  not  taken,  and  ever  since  then  the 
aim  of  Germany's  higher  policy  has 
been  to  bring  this  war  to  an  end  with 
as  little  loss  and  as  much  advantage  in 
hand  as  possible,  in  order  to  prepare 
for  the  next.    In  this  connection,  con- 
firmation may  be  drawn  from  Fried- 
rich  Naumann's  book,  "Mitteleuropa," 
which  is  attracting  great  attention  in 
Germany.    It  was  summarized  in  The 
Times  of  December  6.    The  book  deals 
with  future  German  policy  on  the  Con- 
tinent, but  the  point  is  the  writer's  ad- 
mission that  German  opinion  was  pre- 
pared for  war  with  France,  with  Rus- 
sia, and  with  England,  but  not  for  war 
with  all  three  at  once.    That  unfortu- 
nate occurrence  upset  the  plans  and 
caused  them  to  be  reconstructed,  but 
not  abandoned.     The  immediate  aim 
is  first  to  secure  peace  and  then  build 
up  a  stronger  Central  Empire  by  in- 
ducing or  forcing  Austria  formally  to 
enter  the  German  Economic  League. 
Belgium  would  be  included  and  Hoi- 


424 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


land  could  hardly  keep  out.  Every 
inducement  would  be  offered  to  the 
Dutch  to  come  in,  and  if  that  failed, 
pressure  could  easily  be  applied  to 
compel  them.  The  Balkan  States 
would  be  helpless,  and  whatever  form 
their  relations  might  take  they  would 
actually  be  appendages  of  the  new 
Mitteleuropa.  Thus  the  scheme  of 
German  hegemony  from  the  North  Sea 
to  the  Mediterranean  would  in  effect 
be  realized.  Nor  would  Turkey  offer 
any  serious  obstacle  to  its  extension 
eastward.  Germany  would  have  a 
clear  run  from  Antwerp  and  Hamburg 
to  Salonica  and  Constantinople  and 
beyond.  In  this  position  she  could 
prepare  at  leisure  for  a  final  reckoning 
with  the  British  Empire.  An  arrange- 
ment might  be  made  with  Russia  or 
France  or  both;  but  failing  that,  Ger- 
many would  in  a  few  years  be  strong 
enough  to  tackle  all  three.  She  could 
easily  make  it  impossible  for  us  to  hold 
the  Suez  Canal  and  Egypt,  and  with 
those  gone  India  would  be  imperiled. 
India  would  probably  be  held  out  as  a 
bait  to  Russia  and  a  compensation  for 
withdrawing  in  Europe  and  leaving  the 
Southern  Slavs  to  the  new  Germanic 
Empire. 

If  Germany  could  secure  peace  now 
this  program  would  be  quite  feasible 
within  a  few  years,  nor  could  we  pre- 
vent its  realization.  And  thus  the 
great  blunder  of  the  present  war,  from 
the  German  point  of  view,  would  be 
retrieved.  No  one  who  studies  the 
current  war  literature  of  Germany  can 
doubt  the  intention,  and  only  those 
who  wilfully  ignore  the  lessons  of  ex- 
perience can  doubt  that  complete  plans 
for  carrying  it  out  have  been  prepared 
in  detail.  But  there  is  no  clear  per- 
ception of  the  truth  among  us,  and 
there  are  various  schools  of  teachers 
who  obscure  it  in  different  ways.  The 
professed  pacificists  are  the  least  im- 
portant. They  would  have  every  one 
follow  their  own  example,  take  a  dose 
of  opium  and  sink  into  the  drugged 
sleep  of  the  sluggard  and  the  coward ; 
but  as  the  nation  happily  does  not 
consist  of  sluggards  and  cowards,  their 
advice  is  rejected  with  growing  resent- 


ment. More  insidious  is  the  influence 
of  a  confused  way  of  thinking  which, 
without  being  definitely  pacificist,  re- 
gards Germany  as  a  Power  with  whom 
we  might — and  sometime  shall — ne- 
gotiate. People  who  think  in  this  way 
do  not  propose  to  negotiate  now,  but 
they  look  forward  vaguely  to  doing  so 
presently  when  the  military  situation 
has  changed  more  to  the  advantage  of 
the  Allies.  If  one  attentively  studies 
current  comment,  and  especially  ref- 
erences to  the  end  of  the  war  and  the 
future — of  which  the  newspapers  are 
full — one  perceives  a  certain  assump- 
tion underlying  it  all.  Germany  is 
always  thought  of  as  she  is.  She  is 
somehow  to  be  reduced  to  a  position 
in  which  she  will  make  peace  on  our 
terms.  She  will  be  worsted  and  forced 
to  admit  it,  but  otherwise  she  will  be 
the  same  Germany,  and  those  who  act 
for  her  will  be  those  who  act  for  her 
now.  This  tacit  assumption  is  particu- 
larly noticeable  as  the  background  of 
all  the  plans  for  dealing  with  German 
trade  after  the  war  which  are  being 
urged  with  so  much  assiduity.  They 
imply  a  continuance  of  enmity,  and 
the  motive  is  either  revenge  or  com- 
mercial subjugation.  In  either  case 
Germany  is  viewed  as  an  enemy,  that 
is  to  say,  as  she  is.  This  attitude  un- 
consciously coincides  with  the  German 
view  of  the  end  of  the  war.  They  too 
look  forward  to  a  continuance  of  en- 
mity, and  are  preparing  to  transfer 
their  operations  to  the  commercial 
field.  Such  a  state  of  things  must  in- 
fallibly lead  to  a  renewal  of  war,  if 
nothing  else  did. 

Another  current  of  opinion,  starting 
from  an  entirely  different  standpoint 
and  proceeding  on  different  lines,  is 
really  based  on  the  same  assumption; 
and  it  is  a  highly  popular  one.  I  mean 
the  quasi-military  view  that  Germany 
is  already  beaten.  The  business  re- 
quires some  finishing  off,  but  that  will 
be  all  right.  Such  is  the  cheerful  and 
easy  reading  of  the  situation  one  hears 
every  day  from  "optimists,"  who  pride 
themselves  upon  it.  Optimists,  by  the 
way,  always  slap  themselves  on  the 
chest  and  let  one  know  what  fine  fel- 


THE  ONLY  WAY  TO  LASTING  PEACE. 


425 


lows  they  are  and  how  superior  to 
pessimists.  The  real  difference  be- 
tween them  is  that  an  optimist  is  a 
selt-satisfied  tool  and  a  pessimist  a 
diffident  one.  The  one  bases  expecta- 
tion entirely  on  hopes,  the  other  on 
fears ;  the  wise  man  hopes  tor  the  best 
but  prepares  for  the  worst.  But  that 
is  an  obiter  dictum.  To  return  to  the 
point,  the  view  that  Germany  is  virtu- 
ally beaten  contemplates  peace  con- 
cluded with  her  when  the  little  busi- 
ness of  finishing  off  the  beating  is 
brought  to  a  happy  conclusion.  The 
notion  Is  that  the  German  armies  will 
be  "rolled  back"  on  the  western  side 
while  Russia  has  another  go  in  on  the 
eastern,  and  by  that  time  the  Central 
Powers,  being  exhausted,  and  seeing 
that  the  game  is  up,  will  give  in  and 
perforce  agree  to  our  terms.  This 
reading  oi  events  is  essentially  the 
same  as  that  of  the  after  the  war-ites; 
only  it  is  concerned  with  the  imme- 
diate, and  the  other  with  the  later,  fu- 
ture. Both  envisage  Germany  as  she 
is,  and  are  prepared  to  negotiate  with 
her  at  the  right  time.  The  difference 
between  them  and  the  pacificists  is 
that  the  latter  think  the  right  time  is 
now,  the  others  would  put  it  off;  but 
they  all  assume  an  end  to  the  war  by 
bargaining  with  Germany  as  an  inte- 
gral Power.  The  newspaper  com- 
ments on  the  German  Chancellor's 
speech  on  the  9th  of  December  all  im- 
ply this. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  great  deal  of 
difference  between  negotiating  in  the 
present  state  of  the  war  and  at  a  later 
stage,  when  the  enemy  is  in  a  worse 
position,  as  we  all  believe  and  expect; 
but  the  difference  is  merely  one  of 
relative  circumstances  and  does  not 
touch  the  vital  point.  Any  terms  ar- 
ranged with  Germany  as  she  is,  whe- 
ther now  or  later,  are  open  to  the  ob- 
jection raised  at  the  beginning  of  this 
article,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
rely  on  their  observance.  Peace  would 
only  be  an  armistice  devoted  to  further 
warlike  preparation,  with  an  embit- 
tered and  ruinous  trade  war  to  fill  up 
the  interval.  If  it  be  argued,  as  some 
argue,  that  Germany  must  be  so  weak- 


ened or  crushed  or  kept  under  that  she 
could  not  begin  again,  the  reply  is  two- 
fold— (1)  that  this  would  be  adopting 
the  German  policy  and  methods,  which 
are  precisely  what  we  are  fighting 
against;  (2)  that  it  is  impossible  in 
practice.  All  history  proves  that  the 
attempt  to  keep  a  nation  in  a  state  of 
permanent  subjection  or  enforced  dis- 
ability is  an  unfailing  source  of  trou- 
ble and  eventually  unsuccessful.  That 
is  the  case  even  with  small,  weak  and 
backward  peoples.  The  mere  idea  of 
applying  it  to  a  nation  so  large,  ener- 
getic, capable  and  proud  as  the  Ger- 
mans is  equally  silly  and  base.  The 
more  they  were  kept  down  the  more 
certainly  they  would  spring  up.  There 
is  no  lasting  peace  to  be  got  by  that 
road. 

What,  then,  is  to  be  done?  If  we 
can  neither  trust  nor  compel  Germany 
to  keep  the  peace,  what  hope  is  there 
for  the  future  ?  The  answer  to  this  lies 
in  the  meaning  attached  to  the  word 
"Germany."  The  Germany  that  no- 
body can  trust  is  the  Germany  that  has 
revealed  himself  in  this  war,  the  Ger- 
many that  acknowledges  no  law  or  ob- 
ligation but  her  own  interests,  the  Ger- 
many that  tears  up  treaties,  murders 
non-combatants  and  neutrals  whole- 
sale, plots  arson  and  outrages  and 
crimes  of  violence  in  neutral  (that  is 
friendly)  countries,  that  maltreats 
prisoners  of  war  and  violates  even  the 
few  strict  rules  of  warfare  uncondi- 
tionally laid  down  in  its  own  cynic 
war  book,  which  allows  almost  every- 
thing by  way  of  exception  under  the 
plea  of  necessity.  So  long  as  that 
Germany  remains  on  that  moral  plane 
and  in  that  state  of  mind,  there  can  be 
no  real  peace,  and  to  negotiate  with 
her,  whether  early  or  late,  is  to  lose  the 
war  in  effect,  if  not  in  appearance. 

The  only  way  to  win  it  is  to  convert 
that  Germany  into  a  different  one, 
and  the  way  to  do  that  is  to  convince 
the  German  people  that  they  have  been 
worshipping  false  gods  and  following 
lying  prophets.  They  must  come  to 
their  senses  of  themselves  and  throw 
their  own  gods  into  the  fire.  They  will 
do  it  when  their  gods  fail  them  and 


426 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


they  find  that  the  worship  they  have 
been  taught  brings  disaster. 

But  this  involves  a  tremendous  task, 
which  will  not  be  achieved  unless  its 
nature  and  magnitude  are  clearly  real- 
ized. The  Germans  will  not  abandon 
the  beliefs  and  principles  in  which  two 
generations  have  been  bred  and  syste- 
matically trained  until  they  are  re- 
duced to  desperation,  because  they  are 
not  the  people  to  fashion  new  ones  and 
change  quickly.  They  are,  more  than 
any  other,  the  creatures  of  drill  and 
habit,  and  unable  to  adapt  themselves 
to  new  conditions.  And  let  there  be 
no  mistake;  it  is  the  German  people 
who  have  to  be  convinced.  All  the 
talk  about  the  Kaiser  or  the  Junkers 
or  the  Military  Party,  as  though  they 
were  separate  from  the  general  body 
of  the  people,  is  shallow  and  ignorant. 
When  German  writers  declare  that 
people  and  army  are  one  they  say  no 
more  than  the  truth.  Certainly  the 
Kaiser  is  officially  responsible  for  the 
war,  and  the  military  interests  were 
most  urgent  in  pressing  it;  but  he  is 
the  German  Kaiser  and  must  lead  his 
people.  That  he  led  them  whither 
they  would  go  is  convincingly  proved 
by  the  sequel.  Never  popular  before, 
he  at  once  became  so  on  declaring  war, 
and  he  is  now  idolized  because  he  has 
stuck  manfully  to  it.  He  shares  the 
affection  of  the  people  with  von  Hin- 
denburg,  who  is  the  most  successful 
warrior  they  have.  The  Crown  Prince 
of  Prussia,  who  was  a  popular  idol 
when  he  led  the  military  party,  has 
fallen  from  that  high  estate  because  he 
has  failed  as  a  soldier  and  made  a  dis- 
creditable exhibition  of  himself.  The 
people  are  arrogant  and  bellicose,  and 
they  turn  to  the  men  in  high  position 
who  best  serve  their  mood. 

There  was  in  the  August  number 
of  this  Review  a  brilliant  and  remark- 
able sketch,  cast  in  dramatic  form, 
which  received  far  less  notice  than  it 
deserved.  It  was  by  Sir  Thomas  Bar- 
clay, and  was  entitled  "The  Sands  of 
Fate— Berlin,  July  24  to  31,  1914:  A 
Historical  Phantasy."  It  purports  to 
give  the  history  of  the  week  preceding 
the  declaration  of  war  in  a  series  of 


scenes  enacted  at  Potsdam  between  the 
Kaiser  and  his  chief  advisers,  and  it 
represents  him  vacillating  between 
peace  and  war,  until  the  issue  is  finally 
decided  by  the  crowds  outside  cheer- 
ing for  war.  The  Kaiser  says  to  his 
Chancellor : 

"It's  too  late,  Bethmann,  to  talk  of 
peace  now.  Did  you  see  those  crowds 
— do  you  suppose  we  can  draw  back 
after  we  have  picked  up  the  glove  in 
the  face  of  the  whole  world?  ...  I 
wanted  peace,  Bethmann.  Now  I  want 
war.  The  lion  in  me  is  roused.  When 
I  heard  those  shouts  of  triumph'!  knew 
they  were  the  shouts  of  the  nation  be- 
hind them,  the  shouts  of  those  fifty 
thousand  cheering  Germans!  The 
voice  of  the  nation — the  cry  of  the  na- 
tion to  their  leader!  There's  no  longer 
an  open  question,  Bethmann.  The  die 
was  cast  when  those  crowds  cheered. 
It's  the  Divine  will  spoken  through  the 
tongue  of  the  humble.  I  must  obey 
that  will — the  will  of  God  which  tells 
me  that  this  nation  is  destined  to  rule 
the  earth." 

I  believe  that  this  "historical  phan- 
tasy" represents  with  singular  felicity 
the  interplay  of  the  several  influences 
which  determined  the  fatal  decision 
and  their  relative  importance.  A  good 
many  writers  about  war  and  peace  and 
Germany  might  study  it  with  advan- 
tage. It  is  undeniable  that  the  war 
chimed  with  popular  sentiment  in  Ger- 
many, and  has  been  supported  with 
general  enthusiasm  and  devotion.  Nor 
is  that  disposed  of  by  saying  that  the 
people  have  been  deceived.  Populus 
vult  decipi:  decipiatur.  Still  less  to 
the  point  is  the  notion — popular  in 
Radical  quarters — that  it  is  all  the  fault 
of  the  Junkers  or  the  landed  gentry. 
They  have  no  influence  over  the  great 
urban  populations  which  now  form  the 
largest,  most  energetic  and  most  ar- 
ticulate section  of  the  people;  but  the 
contrary.  When  these  two  join  hands, 
as  they  have,  it  is  from  some  larger 
motive  which  envelops  both. 

To  enter  fully  into  the  present  men- 
tality (to  borrow  a  useful  word  from 
the  French)  of  the  German  people 
would  lead  me  too  far  from  the  imme- 


THE  ONLY  WAY  TO  LASTING  PEACE. 


427 


diate  point;  but  it  is  pertinent  to  say 
briefly  that  two  main  influences  have 
developed  it — one  theoretical  and  a 
priori,  the  other  practical  and  a  pos- 
teriori. The  first  is  the  teaching  of  the 
"intellectuals;"  the  second  is  the  great 
material  success  of  the  existing  order, 
which  that  teaching  supports  and  ex- 
tols. The  dovetailing  of  the  two  pre- 
sents the  most  convincing  argument 
that  can  be  conceived,  and  exercises 
an  irresistible  sway  over  minds  so  logi- 
cal yet  so  childlike,  so  critical  yet  so 
docile  as  those  of  the  German  people. 
With  regard  to  the  "intellectuals,"  I 
am  tired  of  pointing  out  their  respon- 
sibility, but  as  it  is  still  the  fashion 
here  to  put  everything  down  to  the 
Kaiser  and  the  military,  I  must  once 
more  emphasize  the  point.  The  truth 
is  that  all  the  plans  and  projects;  all 
the  arguments  and  excuses  for  out- 
rages; all  the  forensic  tricks  and 
dodges;  all  the  talk  about  Kultur  (a 
word  of  which  every  one  but  the  Pro- 
fessors must  be  sick) ;  all  the  theories 
— ethnological,  historical,  geographi- 
cal, political,  economic  and  social — 
about  Germany's  mission,  past,  pres- 
ent and  to  come ;  all  the  proofs  of  Ger- 
man superiority  and  the  incomparable 
merits  of  German  bodies,  minds  and 
souls,  the  contrasted  inferiority  of  the 
rest  of  the  world  in  general  and  the 
miserable  endowments,  incalculable 
baseness  and  unqualified  rottenness  of 
Germany's  enemies  in  particular — all 
these  are  gurnished  by  the  intellectuals 
in  a  copious  stream  from  which  the 
Kaiser,  his  Ministers,  his  Generals,  his 
press,  and  the  mob  all  drink  and  de- 
rive their  mental  sustenance. 

This  is  the  source  from  which  is 
nourished  that  national  overbearing 
arrogance,  which  is  at  the  bottom  of 
the  war.  The  Greeks  of  old  knew  it, 
and  the  punishment  it  entails.  Euri- 
pides calls  it  the  desire  to  be  mightier 
than  gods.  The  victims  of  this  mad- 
ness think  themselves  above  all  law, 
and  that  is  the  teaching  of  all  German 
intellectuals.  They  applaud  the  aim- 
less sinking  of  passenger  ships  and 
wanton  destruction  of  life  and  justify 
every  barbarity.  There  is  Herr  Heinz 


Potthoff,  who  advocates  starving  all 
the  civilian  inhabitants  of  the  occupied 
territories  and  massacreing  all  prison- 
ers of  war.  His  book  has  been  banned 
by  order,  but  the  proposals  have  not 
been  condemned  by  the  newspapers, 
and  they  have  been  repeated  by  a 
German  editor  at  Prag. 

It  is  possible  that  the  doctrine  of 
German  supremacy,  however  flattering 
to  exalted  persons,  would  not  have 
gained  hold  on  the  people  at  large  if 
it  had  not  been  accompanied  and  con- 
firmed by  the  great  increase  of  wealth 
and  material  prosperity  which  has 
been  the  pride  of  Germany  in  recent 
years.  It  is  the  tangible  evidence  of 
German  super-merit  and  a  convincing 
demonstration  of  the  excellence  of  the 
existing  order  under  which  it  has  been 
attained.  It  has  reconciled  the  Ger- 
man people  as  a  whole  to  Prussian 
domination  and  Prussian  policy. 

That  policy  brought  them  to  war — 
war  which  was  hailed  with  delight  as 
another  opportunity  to  prove  their 
superlative  merit  and  another  step  on 
the  road  to  their  destined  greatness. 
It  really  matters  very  little  for  the 
purpose  of  the  present  argument  whe- 
ther the  war  is  called  offensive  or  de- 
fensive. In  either  case  it  was  to  be 
a  great  triumph  for  German  arms,  a 
demonstration  of  their  superiority  and 
a  vindication  of  those  claims  to  lead 
the  world  which  have  been  so  assidu- 
ously instilled  into  their  minds.  Above 
all,  it  was  to  increase  riches  and  honor 
and  power,  as  a  recompense  for  the 
effort  and  sacrifice  involved.  So  far 
they  have  been  broadly  confirmed  in 
their  convictions.  There  have  been 
some  disappointments  and  disillusions, 
particularly  in  regard  to  the  prolonga- 
tion of  the  conflict;  but  on  the  whole 
they  are  very  well  satisfied  with  them- 
selves, and  rather  strengthened  than 
weakened  in  their  devotion  to  the  ex- 
isting order  and  their  belief  in  its  vir- 
tue. Nor  is  this  due  in  any  great  mea- 
sure to  deception  about  the  true  state 
of  things.  Their  authorities  and  news- 
papers do  suppress  some  things  and 
color  others,  and  that  helps  to  swell 
their  satisfaction;  but  the  impression 


428 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


I  have  gained  from  a  fairly  attentive 
study  is  that  the  German  war  news  is 
at  least  as  full  and  accurate  as  any 
other. 

It  can,  in  truth,  afford  to  be;  for 
their  military  situation  has  enor- 
mously improved,  at  least  on  the  map, 
during  the  past  year.  So  long  as  they 
go  on  making  progress  somewhere 
there  is  always  good  news,  and  the 
failures,  the  balked  plans  and  unfin- 
ished enterprises  left  behind  in  other 
quarters  are  easily  forgotten.  The  up- 
shot is  that  so  far  we  have  made  no 
progress  towards  converting  them 
from  the  worship  of  their  idols,  but 
rather  the  contrary.  One  point  must 
be  excepted,  and  it  is  of  considerable 
importance.  They  have  been  convert- 
ed— at  least  the  military  people  have 
— from  contempt  to  respect  for  the 
soldiers  of  the  Allies,  and  particularly 
for  ours,  who  were  the  most  despised. 
That  is  a  good  beginning,  for  German 
arrogance  rests  on  the  basis  of  belief 
in  their  immeasurable  fighting  super- 
iority. They  still,  apparently,  ridi- 
cule our  navy,  although  the  mastery 
of  the  German  submarines  is  by  far 
the  greatest  achievement  of  the  war 
up  to  now.  It  is  a  wholly  new  de- 
velopment, an  emergency  met  by  the 
ingenuity,  resourcefulness  and  energy 
of  our  naval  men,  who  have  proved 
fully  equal  to  the  great  traditions  of 
their  calling.  But  the  Germans  seem 
to  have  been  kept  in  the  dark  about  it. 

Respect  for  our  soldiers  is  a  begin- 
ning; but  we  have  evidently  a  very 
long  way  to  travel  before  we  convince 
them  that  they  have  followed  false 
teaching  and  imagined  a  vain  thing, 
that  they  are  not  demi-gods  with  a 
mission  to  set  the  whole  world  right 
and  force  their  Kultur  upon  other  na- 
tions. They  regard  the  war  as  al- 
ready won,  and,  in  a  sense,  it  is — so 
far.  The  original  plan  of  campaign 
broke  down,  it  is  true;  but  they  have 
thrust  the  enemy  far  back,  occupied 
enormous  stretches  of  his  territories, 
and  subjugated  Serbia,  which  was  the 
primary  object.  No  wonder  they  are 
exalted  in  their  own  eyes.  Any  other 
people  in  their  place  would  be.  To 


reverse  all  that  will  demand  the  utmost 
effort  and  determination  that  we  can 
bring  to  bear.  It  will  not  be  done  by 
assuring  ourselves — in  words — that 
the  Germans  are  already  beaten,  and 
nonsense  of  that  kind,  but  by  realiz- 
ing the  magnitude  of  the  task  and  for- 
mulating the  elements  necessary  for 
its  accomplishment. 

The  German  successes  are  due  to 
three  main  factors:  (1)  Preparation; 
(2)  Unity  of  direction;  (3)  Confusion, 
vacillation  and  incompetence  on  our 
side.  With  regard  to  the  first,  we  have 
now  had  time  to  make  good  our  back- 
wardness and  have,  I  believe,  substan- 
tially done  so.  We  have  turned  the 
corner  and  are  immeasurably  stronger 
than  a  year  ago.  About  the  third  I 
will  only  say  that  weakness  seems 
to  be  recognized  at  last  and  that  at- 
tempts are  being  made  to  remedy  it; 
but  we  cannot  achieve  the  unity  of  di- 
rection exercised  on  the  other  side. 
The  single  will  mentioned  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  article  has  been  an  asset 
of  incalculable  value  to  the  enemy.  It 
is  embodied  in  the  German  Kaiser,  but 
behind  him  is  the  united  will  of  the 
German  people.  That  is  their  great 
strength,  and  so  long  as  it  remains 
there  can  be  no  possibility  of  peace, 
because  they  will  still  be  of  the  same 
mind.  The  neutral  observer  mentioned 
above,  who  has  been  touring  in  Ger- 
many for  some  months,  and  lately  con- 
tributed his  impressions  to  The  Times, 
dealt  with  this  point  in  a  very  inform- 
ing article  published  on  the  llth  of 
December,  and  emphasizes  "the  fact 
that  German  unity  of  opinion  is  still 
absolute."  When  that  unity  begins  to 
crack,  we  shall  have  the  first  sign  of 
the  conversion  which  must  precede  a 
real  peace.  It  can  only  come  by  an 
internal  break-up  in  Germany  itself, 
which  will  be  the  prelude  to  a  new  or- 
der; and  the  process  will  begin  with 
Austria.  It  will  happen  if  we  stick  to 
the  task  and  put  all  the  strength  and 
endurance  we  have  into  it;  but  not 
otherwise.  The  alternative  is  the 
peace  of  bargaining  with  the  old  Ger- 
many, which  can  be  no  peace,  what- 
ever professions  her  rulers  may  make. 


The  Lesser  Princes 

By  Llewellyn  B.  Peck 

(Some  thirty  American  manufacturers,  some  ot  them  comparatively  unimportant  in  the  financial  world,  have  re- 
fused  very  profitable  European  war  orders,  for  humanitarian  reason) 

Enthroned  in  seats  of  worldly  power — 

And  valiant  armies  theirs — 
The  lesser  princes  watched  the  hour 

That  caught  them  unawares. 
Unplanned  by  them,  Fate  spoke  to  them : 

"Each  may  a  kingdom  own!" 
The  princes  looked.    Without  a  sigh 

Each  prince  refused  the  crown. 

(For  garbed  as  keen,  remorseless  Fate 
The  Prince  of  Hell  stood  there. 

Below,  he  spread  the  wide,  fair  world 
And  bade  each  pick  his  share. 

He  swept  them  to  the  mountain  top ; 
They  left  him  scowling  there.) 

"All  power  and  wealth  that  men  hold  dear," 

Fate  touched  the  nerves  of  pride; 
"The  happiness  to  men  most  near, 

And  power  for  good  beside. 
"None  will  gainsay  this  easy  way, 

From  all  dishonor  free. 
"I  yield  a  safe,  unsullied  crown 

If  each  will  worship  me." 

(Mean,  slouching  hordes  strove  hard  that  day 
The  mountain  top  to  win. 

They  could  not  rule,  nor  price  could  pay, 
So  might  not  try  to  sin. 

The  princes  saw  the  new-oped  way, 
But  would  not  enter  in.) 

"You  cannot  e'er  my  scepter  take," 

Fate  scoffed  in  light  surprise. 
"Think  you  my  sovereignty  to  shake, 

When  all  men  love  my  lies? 
"The  priests  of  Light  to  mortal  fight 

The  myriad  legions  urge. 
"And  you,  poor  witless  unseen  fools, 

Hope  you  to  stay  my  scourge?" 

(The  solemn  princes  through  a  pall 
Of  smoke  saw  rifles  flame. 

Clear-eyed  and  free  the  princes  all 
Slow  down  the  mountain  came. 

And  a  million  mothers  seemed  to  call 
Their  blessings  on  each  name.) 


California 


By  William  Greer  Harrison 


THE  origin  of  the  word  California 
is  an  interesting  study  that  has 
occupied  many  minds.  Not  only 
is  California  a  land  of  romance ; 
its  name  is  of  romantic  origin.  It  is 
to  be  found  in  one  of  the  most  roman- 
tic books  ever  published — the  "Life 
and  Adventures  of  Las  Sergas  de  Ex- 
planadian,"  son  of  Amadis  of  Gaul, 
the  gallant  knight  whom  Cervantes 
took  for  the  prototype  of  his  hero,  Don 
Quixote.  The  book  was  written  by 
Vasco  de  Lobeyra,  a  Portuguese,  and 
it  was  translated  into  Spanish  by  Gar- 
cia Ordognez  de  Montalvo,  who  pub- 
lished it  in  1510.  From  the  Spanish  it 
was  translated  into  English  by  Robert 
Southey.  Long  before  the  discovery 
of  California  all  Spain  was  familiar 
with  the  entrancing  romances  of  Mon- 
talvo. In  these  works  is  to  be  found 
the  origin  of  the  belief  of  all  the  early 
Spanish  navigators,  including  Colum- 
bus, that  in  the  Indian  Ocean  they 
would  find  the  Isle  of  Sweet  Content — 
Paradise.  Montalvo  makes  his  hero 
lead  an  expedition  in  search  of  this 
isle.  Instead,  he  discovered  the  Isle 
of  the  Amazons — women,  women 
everywhere,  and  not  a  man  to  mate. 
This  island  was  called  by  its  Queen, 
California  (spelled  in  1510  just  as  we 
spell  it  to-day.)  Its  Queen  was  named 
Califia  (beautiful.)  She  had  quite  a 
fleet  and  an  army  of  Griffens  and 
Amazons.  She  received  the  expedition 
most  courteously  and  was  persuaded 
by  the  hero  to  join  forces  against  the 
Turks  who  were  at  war  with  Spain. 
On  her  arrival  in  Europe,  Califia 
elected  to  join  the  Turks  rather  than 
the  Spaniards.  This  offended  Amadis 
of  Gaul  and  Explandian,  both  of  whom 
were  challenged  to  mortal  combat  by 
the  heroic  Queen.  Explanadian  ac- 


cepted the  challenge,  which  read  as 
follows:  "I,  Califia,  Queen  of  Califor- 
nia, a  region  rich  in  gold  and  silver 
and  precious  stones,  challenge  you, 
Amadis  of  Gaul,  and  Explandian,  your 
son,  Knight  of  the  Serpent,  to  com- 
bat." The  duel  took  place  and  Ex- 
plandian conquered  the  Sultan  of  a 
Turkish  island  and  Amadis  subdued 
the  queen.  To  soften  her  defeat,  Ama- 
dis bestowed  upon  the  queen  his  ne- 
phew, and  these  two  returned  to  Cali- 
fornia, the  Isle  of  the  Amazons. 

In  the  challenge  made  by  Califia, 
the  word  California  is  for  the  first  time 
presented  to  the  world.  The  ques- 
tion naturally  arises,  where  did  Mon- 
talvo get  the  word?  The  answer  is 
that  he  coined  it.  He  was  a  native  of 
Medino  del  Campo.  He  had  a  rela- 
tive who  died  some  twenty  miles  dis- 
tant. This  gentleman's  name  was 
Calahorra  or  Calaforro  (the  letters  h 
and  f  being  interchangeable  in  Span- 
ish.) It  is  more  than  a  guess  that 
Calaforra  was  used  by  Montalvo  as 
the  basis  for  California.  It  is  a  mat- 
ter of  history  that  for  perhaps  two 
hundred  years  after  the  discovery  of 
California  it  was  believed  to  be  an 
island.  Cortez  and  Diaz  (his  histor- 
ian) were  quite  familiar  with  Mon- 
talvo's  romance.  When  they  visited 
the  peninsula  of  Lower  California,  be- 
lieving it  to  be  an  island,  it  is  quite 
likely  that  they  recognized  a  likeness 
to  the  Isle  of  Amazons,  and  that  Cor- 
tez applied  the  name  California  to 
Lower  California,  the  name  formally 
given  to  the  State  as  it  was  and  is. 
Diaz,  in  describing  the  scenes  wit- 
nessed by  Cortez  and  himself,  says 
that  the  scenes  described  in  reference 
to  Califia's  California  established  a 
degree  of  comparison.  The  point  he 


THE  SOLDIER!-  OF  THE  SOUTH.                            431 

made  is  that  Diaz  and  Cortez  were  fa-  hence  California, 

miliar  with  Montalvo's  legend;  hence  The  Rev.  E.  C.  Hale  disposes  of  all 

the  island  and  hence  "California."  the  guesses  by  reminding  his  readers 

Of  course  there  was  much  specula-  that  the  word  California  was  in  print 

tion  in  reference  to  the  word  Califor-  and  in  use  twenty-five  years  before  the 

nia.     Calida  Fornax,  the  Latin  for  a  discovery  of  California;  referring  his 

hot  furnace — a  guess  with  nothing  to  readers  to  Montalvo's  works,     where 

sustain  it.    Another  writer  presents  the  the  name   of   our  State   is  first  pre- 

theory  that  the  Indians  of  California  sented. 

were  descendants  of  Coreans,  who  had  It  is  a  beautiful  State,  has  a  beauti- 

made  their  way  to  California,  and  that  ful  name,  and  we  can't,  even  if  we 

the  Coreans  called  themselves  Caoli,  wanted  to,  help  loving  it. 


THE   SOLDIER   OF   THE   SOUTH 
(A  mountain  village  on  the  French  Riviera,  December,  1915) 

Under  the  flag  o'  France  for  which  he  died 

This  child  of  hers  we  lay, 

In  the  small  churchyard  upon  the  mountainside 

Where  once  he  used  to  pray 

With  her  who  all  alone  is  weeping  here  to-day. 

The  blue,  blue  skies 

Keep  watch  above  the  village  where  he  lies, 
But  never  more  will  gaze  into  his  eyes ; 
And  in  his  ears  there  ne'er  again  will  be 
The  crooning  song  that  sings  eternally 
The  blue,  blue  sea. 

***** 

O  Mother  France, 

Thou  of  the  steadfast  glance 

And  grave,  sweet  mouth! 

Of  all  thy  sons  who  gave  their  all  for  thee, 

Hath  any  given  a  greater  gift  than  he 

Who  for  thy  sake 

His  birthright  did  forsake 

In  this  all-radiant  country  of  the  South? 

As  one  who  goes  out  from  the  warmth  and  light. 

To  breast  the  bitter  night, 

He  left  the  orange  groves,  the  olive  trees 

That  turn  to  silver  in  the  scented  breeze ; 

He  left  his  darling  there, 

A  red  carnation  in  her  twilight  hair; 

Left  love  and  song  and  sunshine — and  went  forth 

To  fight  thy  battle  in  the  snow-swept  North. 

Mother,  tho'  thy  brave  eyes  with  tears  be  dim, 

Shed  one  more  tear  for  him, 

And  let  the  memory  in  thy  heart  abide 

Of  him  whom  on  this  day 

Within  his  little  mountain-church  we  lay 

Under  thy  flag,  O  France,  for  whom  he  died. 

GEORGE  GREENLAND. 


God's  Justice  and  Love  Perfectly 

Poised 

By  C.  T.  Russell 

Pastor  New  York,  Washington  and    Cleveland  Temples  and  the 
Brooklyn  and  London  Tabernacles 


"Mercy  rejoiceth  against  judgment!' 
— James  2:13. 

LOVE  has  gained  a  victory  over 
Justice,  according  to  our  text. 
Mercy  is  an  outward  expression 
of  Love.  Let  us  reason  as  to  the 
way  in  which  Divine  Mercy,  or  Love, 
gains  the  victory  over  Divine  Justice. 
In  so  doing,  I  believe  that  we  shall  be 
learning  something  as  to  our  proper 
attitude;  for  we  should  copy  God's 
character.  We  should  study  His 
methods,  His  ways,  that  we  may  have 
Heavenly  wisdom.  When,  therefore, 
we  see  how  God's  Love  gains  the  vic- 
tory over  His  Justice,  we  shall  see  how 
it  should  be  with  us,  in  order  that  we 
may  become  like  Him. 

In  considering  Divine  Love  and  Di- 
vine Justice,  we  are  to  remember  that 
God  is  perfect  in  all  His  attributes. 
Both  His  Justice  and  His  Love  are 
perfect.  But  inasmuch  as  these  are  in- 
herent, invisible  qualities  of  the  Di- 
vine Nature,  we  could  not  study  them 
unless  they  were  manifested.  Thus 
far  they  have  been  manifested  only  to 
a  faithful  few.  It  is  the  manifestation 
of  these  qualities  that  especially  in- 
terests us.  Let  us  note  how  these  at- 
tributes manifest  themselves,  that  we 
may  thus  learn  valuable  lessons. 

Justice  the  Foundation  of  God's  Throne 

Undoubtedly  there  is  no  lesson  that 
the  people  of  God  need  to  learn  more 
than  this  particular  one  of  the  relation- 


ship of  justice  to  love,  in  order  to 
know  how  to  exercise  these  qualities 
as  God  exercises  them,  and  yet  with 
some  variations;  for  He  has  some 
rights  which  we  do  not  possess.  We 
see  that  God's  Love  operated  in  the 
very  beginning,  when  He  created  His 
Son  to  be  His  Logos.  His  Love  was 
afterwards  seen  in  His  creation  of  an- 
gels and  men,  in  His  own  image.  Then 
we  see  that  the  fall  of  our  race  brought 
into  operation  Divine  Justice;  for  it 
was  Justice  which  decreed  that  man, 
because  of  his  disobedience,  should 
not  live. 

"Dying,  thou  shalt  die,"  was  the  fiat 
of  Divine  Justice  (Genesis  2:17.) 
When  Justice  decreed  that  death  must 
result  from  transgression,  Divine  Love 
agreed  the  sentence  was  altogether 
proper,  not  only  because  it  is  right  for 
God  to  be  just  and  in  harmony  with 
His  own  Law,  but  also  because  it 
would  not  be  good  for  men  to  live  ever- 
lastingly in  a  fallen  condition. 

If  God  had  permitted  men  to  live 
on  in  imperfection,  we  can  scarcely 
imagine  the  tremendous  power  he 
would  have  had  by  this  time.  As  it  is, 
we  see  that  some  of  our  race  in  three 
score  and  ten  years  are  able  to  culti- 
vate such  qualities  of  mind  and  char- 
acter as  to  give  them  an  ascendency 
over  their  fellows;  and  were  they  al- 
lowed to  live  on  indefinitely  in  sin, 
they  would  undoubtedly  bring  all 
others  into  captivity  to  themselves. 
Except  man  should  exercise  the  at- 


GOD'S  JUSTICE  AND  LOVE  PERFECTLY  POISED. 


433 


tributes  of  his  character  in  harmony 
with  the  Divine  character,  he  should 
not  be  permitted  to  live,  because  of 
the  great  injury  which  he  would  do  to 
others.  Thus,  in  the  Divine  arrange- 
ment, we  see  Love  agreeing  with  Jus- 
tice that  sinful  man  should  die. 

Why  God  Permitted  Sin. 

Again,  when  our  race  came  under 
the  death  sentence,  God  might  have 
cut  us  off  more  quickly  than  He  did 
had  He  not  had  in  mind  the  very  Plan 
of  which  we  are  now  leading — the 
Divine  Plan  of  the  Ages.  (Ephesians 
3:11,  Diaglott.)  Man  was  to  learn 
certain  lessons  during  the  present  life 
in  order  that  he  might  profit  by  them 
in  the  future  life.  We  see,  then,  that 
God  has  arranged  a  very  reasonable 
and  loving  way  in  dealing  with  the 
sinner  race.  In  His  wonderful  Pur- 
pose He  planned  to  redeem  man  from 
this  death  condition,  and  to  restore 
the  race  in  due  time. 

All  the  experiences  of  the  present 
life  will  have  a  bearing  upon  the  mem- 
bers of  the  fallen  race  during  the  per- 
iod of  their  restoration,  in  the  incom- 
ing Age.  God  planned  that  mankind 
should  have  experiences  of  pain  and 
death,  thus  to  learn  the  needful  les- 
sons. For  six  thousand  years  the 
world  has  been  getting  its  education 
along  the  lines  iof  sin — lessons  as  to 
what  a  terrible  thing  sin  is,  how  hard 
it  is  to  control,  how  ruinous  are  its 
effects,  how  hardening  of  the  heart 
and  that  final  death  will  inevitably  re- 
sult from  its  continued  practice.  Thus 
twenty  billions  of  our  race  have  had  a 
great  schooling-time  during  the  past 
six  thousand  years. 

Love  Plans  Man's  Redemption. 

As  we  study  the  matter,  we  can  see 
great  wisdom  in  God's  course.  Love 
was  not  indifferent,  though  for  a  time 
God  could  not  show  man  His  interest. 
Love  had  beforehand  arranged  a 
Plan  whereby  redemption  would  come, 
whereby  Love  would  triumph  over 
Justice.  In  God's  due  time  a  purchase 
price  for  man  would  be  given.  Then, 
after  Justice  should  reign  for  six 


thousand  years,  during  which  the 
world  would  learn  its  needed  lessons 
with  respect  to  the  heinousness  of  sin 
in  all  its  manifold  forms,  Redeeming 
Love  should  become  Restoring  Love, 
calling  mankind  forth  from  the  tomb, 
during  the  thousand  years'  Reign  of 
the  One  who  purchased  them. 

So  ultimately,  when  death  and  hell 
(the  grave)  shall  have  delivered  up 
all  that  are  in  them,  and  when  the 
curse  of  death  shall  be  no  more,  Love 
will  have  triumphed  over  Justice.  Thus 
we  read,  "O  Death,  where  is  thy 
sting?  O  Grave,  where  is  thy  vic- 
tory?" "Thanks  be  to  God,  who  giv- 
eth  us  the  victory  through  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ!" — 1  Corinthians  15:55, 
57. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
things  that  we  see  in  the  Bible — the 
more  wonderful  as  we  understand  it 
the  more.  God  always  maintains  His 
Justice,  and  He  always  maintains  His 
Love;  and  we  are  blessed  by  both. 
Justice,  having  triumphed  over  the 
world  for  six  thousand  years,  has 
brought  our  race  down  to  Sheol, 
Hades — the  tomb.  Love,  in  the  mean- 
time, began  to  operate,  though  in  har- 
mony with  Justice;  and  it  has  given 
the  great  sacrifice  of  Jesus,  and  has 
arranged  that  at  the  time  of  the  Sec- 
ond Advent  of  Christ,  and  through  His 
Refen  of  a  thousand  years,  He  shall 
awaken  all  humanity  from  the  sleep 
of  death. 

How  One  Could  Purchase  a  Race. 

We  can  thus  see  in  the  Bible  what 
a  great  equalization,  or  balance,  God 
has  arranged.  Since  twenty  thousand 
millions  of  souls  have  sinned,  it  would, 
in  any  other  way  than  God's  way, 
have  required  twenty  thousand  mil- 
lion redeemers.  But  when  we  see  how 
God  is  operating,  we  wonder  at  His 
arrangement.  He  provided  that  only 
one  man  should  be  condemned  to 
death,  and  that  through  this  one  man 
condemnation  should  come  upon  all 
men  while  still  in  his  loins.  Thus  one 
man  could  pay  the  penalty  for  all.  "For 
since  by  man  (Adam)  came  death,  by 
man  (Jesus)  comes  the  resurrection  of 


434 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


the  dead."  (1  Corinthians  15:21.) 
One  man  was  /a  sinner ;  one  Man  was 
the  Redeemer. 

Beautiful !  We  never  heard  of  any- 
thing like  this  except  in  God's  Plan. 
Think  of  a  great  Plan,  covering  six 
thousand  years,  in  which  the  salva- 
tion of  twenty  billions  of  human  crea- 
tures is  involved,  and  yet  all  so  easily 
and  perfectly  poised!  Justice  will 
never  be  cheated  out  of  its  dues;  yet 
Love  gains  the  victory  and  provides 
the  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  and  does 
this  at  the  expense  of  the  One 
through  whom  the  whole  Plan  is  con- 
summated— our  blessed  Lord  Jesus. 

The  penalty  resting  upon  mankind 
was  met  by  the  sacrifice  of  Jesus'  life. 
But  was  not  that  unjust?  Oh,  no.  The 
Bible  assures  us  that  God  stated  the 
proposition  beforehand  to  the  Son,  and 
that  the  Son  was  in  full  agreement 
with  it — not  the  Man  Jesus,  ,but  the 
Logos,  the  Word,  the  Messenger — 
Michael,  the  Godlike  One.  The  prop- 
osition was  made  to  Him  that  by  the 
purchase  of  the  whole  race  of  man 
through  His  sacrifice  He  might  obtain 
the  honor  and  glory  of  Messiah — the 
opportunity  of  delivering  and  bless- 
ing the  thousands  of  millions  of  hu- 
manity who  had  been  condemned  to 
death  in  Adam.  And  then,  what  more  ? 
Oh,  much  more! — that  He  should  be 
supremely  exalted,  even  to  the  Di- 
vine Nature,  for  all  eternity — far 
above  angels,  principalities,  powers 
and  every  name  that  is  named.  (Phil- 
ippians  2:5-11.)  ALL  THIS  IS  THE 
GREAT  TRIUMPH  OF  LOVE  OVER 
JUSTICE.  While  Justice  remains 
forever  inviolate,  yet  Love  is  the  Vic- 
tor. "Mercy  rejoiceth  against  Judg- 
ment"— Justice. 

God's  Wonderful  Plan  of    the    Ages. 

When  we  see  the  Bible  teaching 
concerning  the  Divine  Plan,  it  gives  us 
a  confidence  in  the  Bible  that  we  can 
get  from  no  other  quarter.  It  is  the 
study  of  the  Bible  from  the  outside, 
by  those  who  try  to  tear  it  into  shreds, 
and  the  employment  of  their  brains 
against  the  Bible,  that  proves  the  pro- 
fessors of  our  day  the  worst  of  all 


times.  Only  when  we  perceive  from 
the  inside  can  we  see  the  strength  of 
the  Bible.  No  human  xnind  ever  ori- 
ginated such  a  Plan.  It  is  surely  Di- 
vine, surely  Biblical.  We  did  not  dis- 
cover it,  but  it  was  shown  to  the  faith- 
ful "in  due  time." 

We  know  that  this  great  Plan  is  of 
God;  and  the  Book  that  contains  such 
a  wonderful  Message  is  surely  the 
Word  of  God.  It  must  be  that  those 
"holy  men  of  old  spake  as  they  were 
moved  by  the  Holy  Spirit."  The 
Spirit  of  God  indited  this  wonderful 
Message.  The  many  men,  in  various 
times  and  places,  who  uttered  the 
words  did  not  know  what  they  meant. 
The  understanding  was  not  then  due. 
But  their  words  constitute  a  harmo- 
nious whole,  and  "were  written  for  our 
instruction,  upon  whom  the  ends  of 
"the  ages  have  come." — 1  Peter  1 :10- 
12;  1  Corinthians  10:11;  Romans  15:4. 

Nor  could  we  understand  their 
words  until  we  received  the  begetting 
of  the  Holy  Spirit  with  its  consequent 
enlightenment.  This  brought  these 
things  to  our  attention  in  God's  due 
time,  and  enabled  us  to  understand 
their  meaning.  So  the  Apostle  Paul 
writes  to  some,  "After  ye  were  illumi- 
nated, ye  endured."  (Hebrews  10:32, 
33.)  We  now  understand  what  it 
means  to  be  illuminated.  The  illumi- 
nation is  the  work  of  the  Holy  Spirit; 
which  we  received  at  the  time  of  our 
consecration  unto  death.  This  illu- 
mination of  the  Church  had  its  begin- 
ning at  Pentecost.  Up  to  that  time  the 
Spirit  had  not  been  given — John  7:39. 

The  Church  is  a  special  class,  called 
out  in  advance  of  the  world.  The 
early  Church  had  to  wait  until  Jesus 
had  finished  His  sacrifice  for  sin,  had 
ascended  up  on  High  as  the  great 
High  Priest,  to  appear  in  the  presence 
of  God  for  us  (the  Church,  not  yet  for 
the  world),  to  sprinkle  the  blood  of 
His  sacrifice  upon  the  Mercy-Seat  on 
our  behalf,  and  had  become  the  Ad- 
vocate of  those  who  would  follow  in 
His  steps.  (Hebrews  9:24.)  Having 
made  satisfaction  for  the  sins  of  the 
consecrated,  He  imputed  His  own 
merit  to  them,  thereby  making  them 


GOD'S  JUSTICE  AND  LOVE  PERFECTLY  POISED. 


435 


acceptable  to  the  Father.  Not  until 
then  could  they  receive  the  begetting 
of  the  Holy  Spirit.  Ever  since  that 
time  the  Holy  Spirit  has  been  with  the 
Church,  begetting  each  one  who  came 
into  this  class. 

With  this  begetting  comes  the  illu- 
mination. We  are  then  sons  of  God. 
Not  only  does  this  illumination  enable 
us  to  understand  things  previously 
hidden  from  our  eyes,  but  thereafter 
all  the  Word  of  God  becomes  food  to 
us.  that  thereby  we  may  grow  in 
grace,  in  knowledge,  in  justice,  in  love, 
in  all  qualities  of  the  Divine  character, 
that  thus  we  may  become  more  like 
our  Father  who  is  in  Heaven. 

Deliverance  of  the  World  Now  Due. 

Having,  then,  seen  how  Divine  Jus- 
tice has  operated  till  now  for  the  fu- 
ture blessing  of  mankind,  we  look  fur- 
ther, and  see  that  Divine  Mercy  is  now 
about  to  gain  a  great  victory  for  the 
whole  world.  As  soon  as  the  Church  is 
glorified,  the  merit  of  the  Redeemer  is 
to  be  applied  for  all  the  human  race. 
But  it  will  require  the  entire  thousand 
years  of  Messiah's  Reign  before 
Mercy  shall  have  fully  triumphed 
over  Justice.  We  now  perceive  what 
Love  will  be  doing  for  the  world 
throughout  those  thousand  years.  It 
will  be  awakening  mankind  from 
death  and  lifting  them  up  from  degra- 
dation to  holiness  and  life. 

This  will  all  come  through  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  who  will  be  God's  Agent, 
the  Agent  of  Justice  and  of  Love.  The 
faithful  Church  will  be  associated  with 
Him  in  all  His  Kingdom  glory  and 
honor.  In  order  that  we  may  be  of 
this  class,  not  only  must  we  be  begot- 
ten of  the  Spirit  of  God,  but  we  must 
also  manifest  the  fruits  of  that  Spirit, 
we  must  be  quickened  by  it.  Then  in 
the  First  Resurrection  we  shall  be 
born  of  the  Spirit,  and  shall  share  with 
our  Lord  this  work  of  love  for  all 
mankind,  and  shall  .also  share  His 
glory  forever.  At  the  conclusion  of 
the  Millennial  Reign  this  glorious 
work  of  Divine  Love  will  have  been 
accomplished.  Through  all  the  out- 
workings  of  this  wonderful  Plan,  the 


principles  of  absolute  Justice  and  ab- 
solute Love  will  be  observed,  operat- 
ing in  full  harmony. 

In  what  manner  will  God's  Justice 
operate  during  the  next  Age  toward 
mankind?  may  be  asked.  Some  have 
difficulty  in  seeing  how  the  world  in 
the  future  will  have  their  sins  for- 
given? Will  the  murderer  have  the 
same  opportunity  as  those  who  have 
been  more  noble  in  their  lives  ?  How 
will  Justice  then  be  represented? 

We  believe  that  God's  dealings  will 
be  in  full  harmony  with  Justice;  that 
while  love  will  be  especially  operative 
or  manifest  during  the  Millennial  Age, 
yet  Justice  will  never  be  violated.  Will 
mankind,  in  the  future,  then,  be  pun- 
ished for  their  sins  in  the  present 
life?  Yet,  and  no.  They  will  not  be 
punished  in  the  sense  of  being  held 
legally  accountable  for  sins  of  the  past 
— for  this  would  nullify  the  work  which 
Christ  accomplished  in  His  death  in 
providing  satisfaction  for  Adamic  sin. 
Christ  having  made  satisfaction  for 
the  sins  of  believers,  this  class  are  no 
longer  legally  responsible  for  them. 
The  same  principle  will  operate  with 
the  world  in  the  future. 

How  Justice  Operates. 

For  the  present  we  will  consider  the 
Church  of  Christ.  Suppose  one  had 
lived  in  such  a  way  as  to  have  gotten 
himself  into  a  bad  condition  of  body, 
mind  or  morals.  These  things  will  be 
more  or  less  as  a  penalty  upon  him  af- 
ter he  has  become  a  Christian.  Al- 
though God  has  forgiven  his  sins  and 
cleans  him  from  all  unrighteousness, 
nevertheless  such  a  one  will  have  in 
his  body  or  in  his  mind  certain  natu- 
ral penalties  resulting  from  his  pre- 
vious sinful  course.  If  he  had  lived 
a  sinful  life  for  many  years,  the  evil 
would  be  so  much  the  more  deeply  en- 
trenched; and  he  will  have  all  the 
greater  fight  to  overcome  these  deeply 
imbedded  tendencies  to  sin.  One  who 
has  lived  a  conscientious,  moral  life 
will  have  just  that  much  less  to  over- 
come. 

If  through  evil  thoughts     or     evil 


436 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


deeds  the  mind  of  that  person  has  be- 
come poisoned,  he  may  have  to  battle 
all  his  life  against  the  seeds  of  sin, 
not  in  the  way  of  direct  punishment 
for  his  wrong  doing,  but  through  natu- 
ral law;  for  the  New  Creature  is  to  be 
developed  while  tabernacling  in  the 
flesh  wherein  the  evil  seeds  have  been 
sown.  It  is  like  a  piece  of  land  which 
has  long  been  given  over  to  weeds,  in 
which  case  the  roots  would  have  be- 
come deeply  entrenched  in  the  soil. 
This  land  may  afterward  be  changed 
into  a  wheat-field;  but  we  know  from 
experience  that  the  weeds  will  be  there 
also,  and  that  the  wheat  will  not  flour- 
ish so  readily,  because  of  this  fact. 


It  is  even  so  with  our  hearts  and  our 
bodies.  After  we  have  given  them  to 
the  Lord  the  fleshly  tendencies  are  still 
there.  God  has  accepted  us  as  New 
Creatures;  His  grace  has  covered  our 
sins;  and  they  are  no  longer  charge- 
able to  us.  But  whoever  has  had  a 
larger  planting  of  sin  in  his  former 
life  may  have  to  his  dying  day  a  great 
battle  against  these  poisonous  weeds ; 
and  that  will  be  a  proper  and  natural 
punishment  for  his  past  course.  So  it 
will  be  in  the  future.  The  world  will 
get  retribution  for  their  sins,  just  as 
we  do  for  ours,  and  ft  will  take  many 
"years  to  get  entirely  free  from  the  ef- 
fects of  sin. 


THE     A  1ST 


Out  of  the  sea  I  rise,  I  rise, 

Out  of  the  tumbling  waves ; 
I  veil  the  sun  in  the  blinding  skies, 
And  cover  the  cliff  where  the  curlew  cries, 

And  muffle  the  roaring  caves. 

Over  the  bay  I  slip,  I  slip, 

Over  the  level  bay — 
Into  my  path  there  steers  a  ship — 
The  mast  is  gleaming,  the  sail-yards  drip — 

And  I  fold  it  in  film  away. 

On  to  the  shore  I  creep,  I  creep, 

On  to  the  pebbled  strand; 
I  hush  the  waters  that  foam  and  leap, 
And  finger  the  rushes  until  they  weep 

And  glisten  beneath  my  hand. 

Over  the  fields  I  glide,  I  glide, 

Over  the  meadow  grass ; 
Spiders  spin  on  the  daisies  pied, 
And  long  I  linger  their  looms  beside, 

To  jewel  them  e'er  I  pass. 

Into  the  air  I  drift,  I  drift, 

Into  the  burning  sky; 
Torn  by  the  rising  winds  that  shift, 
Tattered  and  thin,  my  veil  I  lift 

Unto  the  sun,  and  die. 

ELEANOR  MYERS. 


The    Holiness   of   /fountains. 

By  Everett  Earle  Stanard 

When  great  Jehovah  chose  of  old  to  speak 
His  thought  to  man  as  "a  familiar  friend." 

He  stood  upon  a  lofty  mountain  peak, 

And  with  his  voice  did  Sinia's  thunders  blend; 

This  towering  hill  sole  worthy  rostrum  then 

Whence  God  might  hold  communion  close  with  men. 

The  mountains  still  are  holy.     No  sound  mars 
The  sacred  calm  that  wraps  Tacoma  round  — 

The  crest  so  near  to  the  pure  twinkling  stars, 
And  every  slope  a  bit  of  holy  ground. 

I  marvel  not  that  savage  nations  said, 

"Ah,  surely  this  is  God,  bow  low  the  head!" 


O 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LXVII 


San  Francisco,  June,  1916 


Margaret  Hollinghead. 


Seattle 


to 


Skagway 


By 


Margaret  Hollinshead 


WHEN  reference  is  made     to 
Alaska  in  far  away  Chicago 
or  New  York,  even  in  San 
Francisco  or  Seattle,  people 
— meaning    people    in    general — are 
wont  to  think  of  a  land  perpetually 
mantled  in  snow  and  ice  somewhere  in 
the  region  of  the  North  Pole,  where 
gold  may  be  had  for  the  getting,  but 
uninhabitable  except  by  Eskimos  and 
more  or  less  zoological  men  designated 
miners.    And  a  pity  it  is  that  a  view 
so  erroneous  should  prevail,  for  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  Alaska  is  one    of  the 
most  beautiful,  most  keenly  alive,  and 


most  interesting  places  in  the  world. 
The  person  who  can  find  nothing  be- 
yond the  glare  of  city  lights  and  who 
cannot  adapt  himself  to  the  discom- 
forts necessarily  to  be  found  in  fron- 
tier life  has  no  business  in  Alaska; 
but  the  man  or  woman  who  loves  the 
great  big  out-of-doors  with  its  mystic 
silence,  its  splendid  mountains  and 
majestic  trees,  whose  very  soul  quiv- 
ers in  exultation  at  the  beholding  of 
nature  unaltered  by  the  hand  of  con- 
vention, who  loves  life  for  its  big  op- 
portunities and  big  rewards — such  a 
person  cannot  fail  to  delight  in  Alaska. 


340 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Totem  pole,  Alert  Bay,  British 
Columbia. 

But  here  I've  been  saying  Alaska 
when  I  mean  to  tell  you  only  about 
Southeastern  Alaska — or  the  Alexan- 
der Archipelago,  or  "The  Panhandle," 
whichever  one  chooses  to  call  it.  For  a 
theme  so  extensive  as  "Alaska"  or 
"Travels  in  Alaska,"  could  scarcely  be 
creditably  treated  within  the  confines 
of  a  magazine  article.  So  I  propose 
to  take  my  readers  on  a  little  excur- 
sion from  Seattle  to  Skagway  and  back 
— such  as  the  steamship  companies  of- 
fer in  summer  for  sixty-six  dollars,  ex- 
cept that  by  paying  the  sixty-six  dol- 
lars the  sight-seer  may  see  through  his 
own  eyes  instead  of  the  eyes  of  a 
scribbler. 

Leaving  dock  at  Seattle,  the  steamer 
churns  its  way  out  into  the  shimmer- 


ing, sparkling  water  of  Puget  Sound. 
First  we  are  conscious  only  of  the 
friends  who  wave  and  shout  good-bye 
from  the  pier,  then  we  see  the  rim  of 
a  city  with  its  high  buildings  and 
residences  spotted  hills  grow  dimmer 
and  dimmer  until  lost  from  view.  Be- 
fore we  know  it,  we  are  crossing  the 
Straits  of  Juan  de  Fuca,  and  the  ma- 
jestic silvery  crested  Olympic  Moun- 
tains are  towering  at  our  left.  A  little 
while  later  we  are  dodging  in  and  out 
among  the  beautiful  little  San  Juan 
Islands.  And  toward  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon  we  go  through  the  nar- 
row "Plumper's  Pass,"  winding  pic- 
turesquely between  lovely  islands  that 
mirror  themselves  in  its  depths.  To- 
ward evening  we  pass  Burrard  Inlet 
and  Vancouver  with  its  background  of 
snow-crowned  mountains. 

For  a  day  and"  a  half  now  we  steam 
between  Vancouver  Island  and  the 
mainland  of  British  Columbia.  It  is 
a  wonderful  stretch  of  travel.  On  either 
side  is  an  ever-changing  panorama  of 
precipitous  mountains,  conifer  clad 
and  very  green  save  for  the  snows  that 
lay  on  their  tops.  The  line  is  broken 
constantly  with  hundreds  of  pictur- 
esque inlets.  Adding  to  the  effect  of 
this  grandeur  are  dozens  of  tiny  islets 
that  put  one  in  mind  of  huge  emeralds 
with  the  turbulent  water  lashing  itself 
into  gleaming  spray  about  their  rock- 
bound  edges. 

At  Queen  Charlotte  Sound  the  swells 
of  the  ocean  begin  to  be  felt,  and  from 
there  until  behind  the  barriers  of  the 
Queen  Charlotte  Islands  the  vessel 
pitches  and  rolls  in  a  way  that  puts 
food  at  enmity  with  the  stomach.  This 
and  the  stretch  across  Dixon  Entrance 
are  the  only  portions  of  the  "Inside 
Passage"  where  the  ships  ride  on  the 
open  ocean.  All  the  rest  of  the  way 
is  as  smooth  as  Puget  Sound  itself. 

At  Prince  Rupert  we  may  stop  for 
a  few  hours  and  take  a  look  about  the 
Pacific  terminal  of  Canada's  second 
transcontinental  railroad.  The  name 
Prince  Rupert  is  not  familiar  to  all  be- 
cause it  wasn't  on  the  map  yet  when 
most  of  us  went  to  school.  From  1908 
to  1914  that  busy  little  town  sprang 


The  mouth  of  the  famous  Muir  Glacier,  Alaska. 


from  a  barren  hill  of  solid  rock  into  a 
modern  town  of  six  thousand  souls. 
When  Prince  Rupert  for  a  transconti- 
nental terminal  was  first  suggested,  the 
idea  was  ridiculed  throughout  the 
country;  but  the  Grand  Trunk  Com- 
pany knew  what  they  were  doing — 
they  knew  that  they  could  ship  freight 
to  the  Orient  via  Prince  Rupert  in 
eighteen  hours'  less  time  than  could  be 
done  by  any  other  of  America's  trans- 
continentals.  They  saw,  too,  the  stra- 
tegic advantage  of  the  location,  for  the 
timber  and  mineral  resources  of  North- 
ern British  Columbia  are  practically 
untouched,  and  to  all  this  vast  terri- 
tory Prince  Rupert  is  the  natural  out- 
let. The  town  also  has  an  excellent 
harbor — very  spacious  and  the  deep- 
est on  the  Pacific  Coast. 

While  stopping,  we  may  have  time 
to  visit  the  large  fish  cold-storage  plant 
owned  and  operated  by  the  Canadian 
Fish  and  Cold  Storage  Company.  A 
sally  into  the  frosty  storage  rooms  re- 
veals to  us  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
pounds  of  halibut,  salmon,  herring, 
place  and  other  fish  frozen  as  hard  as 
wood,  in  which  state  it  keeps  inde- 
finitely. In  another  part  of  the  plant 


we  see  cod  being  dried  and  salmon  be- 
ing pickled  for  shipment  to  Europe. 
The  plant's  capacity  is  three  million 
pounds. 

But  in  order  to  get  any  conception 
at  all  of  British  Columbia's  fishing  in- 
dustry we  should  stop  over  at  Prince 
Rupert  and  make  the  trip  to  Port  Es- 
sington  up  the  Skeena  River.  It  is 
very  interesting  and  well  worth  one's 
time.  During  the  summer  months  the 
Skeena  is  always  dotted  with  fishing 
boats,  each  with  its  huge  net  spread 
and  marked  by  a  circle  of  buoys.  They 
all  but  blockade  the  river.  When  the 
fisherman  makes  a  haul  he  not  infre- 
quently brings  up  a  stray  fish  head 
or  two,  which  tells  him  a  hair  seal 
has  been  hunting  and  made  a  dinner 
of  the  missing  body;  and  the  fact  that 
the  head  invariably  belongs  to  a  pink 
salmon  tells  him  that  the  hair-seal  is 
a  discriminating,  if  voracious,  animal. 
One  should  not  forget  to  bring  field 
glasses  along  on  this  trip — not  so 
much  to  watch  the  operations  of  the 
fishermen  as  to  get  a  good  look  at 
those  bald-headed  specks  in  the  trees. 
They  are  eagles.  The  Skeena  is  lined 
with  salmon  canneries,  and  at  any  of 


Mt.  Juneau  rises  like  a  great  sentinel  3590  feet  into  the  clouds  behind  the 

town  of  Juneau. 


them  one  may  watch  the  process  of 
canning  salmon.  But  fish  and  fisheries 
are  not  the  only  attraction  of  the 
Skeena  River  trip.  There  is  much 
beautiful  scenery  to  be  enjoyed  as 
well.  Here  as  elsewhere  in  the  north- 
'ern  country  are  the  ubiquitous  snow- 
capped mountains  and  picturesque  is- 
lands and  winding  waterways. 

After  leaving  Prince  Rupert,  the 
next  stop  is  Ketchikan,  the  port  of  en- 
try to  Alaska.  Before  we  may  be  per- 
mitted to  land,  the  quarantine  officer 
boards  the  ship  and  gives  us  the  once- 
over, asks  when  we  expect  to  come 
back,  and  bids  us  God-speed.  Ketchi- 
kan is  a  town  of  some  twenty-five  hun- 
dred people,  and  is  situated  on  the 
Prince  of  Wales  Island.  The  impres- 
sion of  the  town  that  the  tourist  car- 
ries away  with  him  is  mostly  of  a  very 
high  and  precipitous  mountain.  Un- 
der the  wing  of  the  mountain  is  nestled 
the  town.  The  one  thing  that  he  never 
forgets  about  his  visit  to  Ketchikan, 
though  he  forget  all  else,  is  the  sight 
of  the  salmon  jumping  the  Ketchikan 
Falls.  Just  below  the  falls  are  hun- 


dreds of  fish  that  have  not  yet  made 
the  successful  leap,  swarming  like  flies 
in  a  molasses  jar — a  sight  which  re- 
quires seeing  to  believe.  They  do  get 
over  the  falls  in  time,  however,  though 
they  may  first  make  many  unsuccess- 
ful attempts,  and  continue  on  their 
way  to  the  spawning  grounds. 

At  Wrangell  we  are  surprised  at  the 
splendid  vegetable  gardens  we  see. 
Contrary  to  the  once  universal  belief 
the  United  States  department  of  agri- 
culture has  proven  that  vegetables  can 
be  very  successfully  grown  and  nearly 
every  housewife  now  has  her  kitchen 
garden.  Shortly  after  leaving  Wran- 
gell we  enter  Wrangell  Narrows,  a  pas- 
sageway no  wider  than  a  river,  and 
very  beautiful. 

All  the  while  we  are  traveling  among 
the  islands  of  the  Alexander  Archipel- 
ago— the  northern  part  of  the  sub- 
merged Island  Mountain  System, 
through  the  same  intricate  waterways 
that  Captain  George  Vancouver  ex- 
plored and  charted  in  1794.  It's  a 
wonderful  place,  and  we  want  to  be  on 
deck  every  moment  lest  some  tiny  por- 


I 

I 

o 


Salmon  fishers  on  an  Alaskan  river  drawing  in  their  seines. 


tion  of  the  scenery  escape  us.  Every- 
where are  the  lovely  emerald  islets  be- 
ing lashed  by  the  tongues  of  wanton 
water.  Everywhere  the  waterways 
wind  and  wind  in  picturesque  fashion, 
perhaps  going  into  an  inlet  to  meet 
some  mountain  cascade  or  a  glacier,  or 
perhaps  only  following  the  shore  line 
of  an  island.  The  trees  that  we  see 
are  mostly  hemlock  and  spruce,  though 
there  is  considerable  yellow  or  Alaska 
cedar.  Mountain  sides  are  bald  from 
glacial  action,  but  the  tops  are  luxu- 
riously wooded  and  most  of  them 
capped  with  snow.  There  is  no  beach, 
the  shore  line  being  very  precipitous 
and  rugged.  It  is  not  unlike  the  coast 
of  Norway,  but  is  more  bold  and 
craggy. 

Juneau,  being  the  capital  of  Alaska 
as  well  as  its  largest  industrial  center, 
is  an  important  town.  Like  Ketchikan, 
one's  first  and  most  lasting  impression 
of  the  town  is  of  the  big  mountain  be- 
hind it — Mt.  Juneau.  The  town  of  Ju- 
neau lies  literally  on  a  shelf  at  its 
base.  Along  the  back  of  the  shelf 
flows  Gold  Creek.  It  was  along  this 
creek  that  Joseph  Juneau  and  Richard 


Harris  fought  their  way  in  1880  in 
search  of  gold.  And  they  found  it — 
a  rich  quartz  ledge  at  the  head  of  what 
they  called  Snow  Slide  Gulch.  Juneau 
is  situated  in  what  is  known  as  the 
Juneau  Gold  Belt,  which  extends  from 
about  fifty  miles  south  to  fifty  miles 
north  of  there,  running  in  a  north- 
easterly direction  parallel  with  Lynn 
Canal.  The  belt  averages  from  three 
to  four  miles  in  width,  and,  geologi- 
cally speaking,  is  made  up  of  slates, 
schists,  quartzites,  porpyries  and  in- 
trusive dikes  of  greenstone  and  dio- 
rites.  The  hanging  wall  is  a  high 
range  of  mountains  paralleling  its  en- 
tire course.  They  are  intrusive  in 
character,  and  of  later  origin  than  the 
country  rock,  hence  probably  respon- 
sible for  the  fractures  that  allowed 
the  mineral  deposits  to  form.  As  one 
walks  across  the  country  one  can  eas- 
ily read  the  story  of  mountain  forma- 
tion in  the  upturned  strata;  it  lies 
nearly  horizontal  and  some  of  it  is 
greatly  inverted. 

Juneau  has  a  number  of  mines  in 
operation,  chief  of  which  is  the  Tread- 
well — the  largest  gold  mine  in  the 


448 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY 


world.  Its  capacity  is  5,000  tons  per 
day.  The  Alaska  Gastineau,  however, 
expects  to  double  this  amount  when 
their  plant  shall  have  been  completed. 
The  first  unit  of  the  latter  plant  be- 
gan operation  early  in  1914.  With 
fifteen  thousand  tons  of  rock  being 
scooped  out  of  the  earth  daily  it  would, 
seem  only  a  matter  of  time  before  all 
inside  of  the  earth  would  be  on  the 
outside,  wouldn't  it?  The  ore  of  the 
belt  is  very  low  grade,  running  abou^ 
$2.50  per  ton;  hence  the  necessity  of 
working  it  on  a  large  scale.  Mining 
in  these  parts  is  no  poor  man's  propo- 
sition. 

A  shoot  into  the  mines  is  a  thrilling 
experience  to  one  so  fortunate  as  to 
be  accorded  that  privilege.  Imagine 
dropping  2,100  feet  below  the  surface 
of  the  earth — nearly  half  a  mile — 
worse  still,  following  the  drifts  away 
out  under  Gastineau  Channel.  The 
drifts  of  the  Alaska  Gastineau  mines 
will  connect  with  those  of  the  Tread- 
well,  so  that  one  might  go  from  Ju- 
neau  to  Treadwell  by  boat  and  return 
on  foot  underneath  the  water.  The 
"pay  dirt"  is  loosened  by  dynamite, 


compressed-air  drills  being  used  to 
bore  the  holes  for  it.  Utilizing  the 
force  of  gravity,  the  arrangement  is 
•  such  that  the  ore  falls  by  its  own 
weight  through  finger  chutes  into  tram 
cars  which  are  drawn  to  the  shaft  in 
trains  of  five  cars  by  horses.  It  is 
interesting  to  note  that  these  horses 
never  leave  the  mine  as  long  as  they 
work  there;  and  they  are  so  well 
trained  that  the  driver  while  loading 
simply  yells  "car  ahead,"  when  each 
car  is  filled,  and  the  animal  steps  up 
just  far  enough  to  bring  the  next  car 
into  place  beneath  the  chute. 

And  as  one  looks  about — above, 
about  and  underneath — all  is  aglitter. 
In  the  Mexican  Mine  of  the  Tread- 
well  group  is  a  hollowed  out  cavity 
called  a  stope,  large  enough  to  hold 
a  house  or  two.  When  lighted  up  it  is 
a  magnificent  thing — the  millions  of 
specks  of  ore  in  its  roughly  hewn  walls 
suggest  to  the  beholder  some  mammoth 
fairy  palace. 

After  being  trammed  to  the  bins  at 
the  mine  shaft  the  ore  is  loaded  into 
ships  and  hoisted  to  the  surface,  where 
it  goes  through  the  rock  breakers  and 


Thousands  of  halibut  frozen  in  cold  storage  awaiting  a  market. 


Salmon  traps  on  a  riper  in  British   Columbia. 


continues  on  its  journey  to  the  stamp 
mill.  The  tram  cars  by  which  it  jour- 
neys dump  it  into  the  big  central  bin 
of  the  stamp  mill,  and  it  slides  by  its 
own  weight  as  it  is  needed  through  nu- 
merous chutes  and  into  the  stamp  mor- 
tars, where  it  is  crushed  to  sand.  A 
stamp  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  an 
iron  pole  about  fifteen  feet  long,  stand- 
ing upright  with  an  iron  shoe  attached 
at  the  lower  end.  Under  it  is  conven- 
iently placed  the  mortar  into  which 
the  shoe  stamps  after  the  manner  of 
an  old  fashioned  churn  dasher.  Each 
mill  at  the  Treadwell  has  three  hun- 
dred stamps  arranged  in  groups  of 
five  each;  and  each  stamp  drops  at 
the  rate  of  ninety-eight  times  a  min- 
ute with  a  weight  of  about  1,100 
pounds,  thus  quickly  pulverizing  the 
ore  in  the  mortars.  This  sand  is 
washed  out  of  the  mortars  as  fast  as 
ground  and  flowed  over  copper  plated 


that  have  previously  been  treated  with 
quicksilver.  The  quicksilver  catches 
the  free  gold,  and  the  rest  which  is 
held  in  the  iron  pyrites  passes  with  the 
sand  to  the  vanner  mill. 

Upon  entering  this  latter  mill  we  are 
completely  puzzled.  Hundreds  of 
table-like  objects  are  jiggling  curi- 
ously and  by  observation  we  discover 
that  they  are  separating  the  glittering 
substance  from  the  sand  and  saving  it. 
We  put  our  wits  to  work  and  study 
out  the  process;  after  all,  it  is  quite 
simple.  A  vanner  is  a  slightly  inclined 
surface  something  like  a  table  with 
a  rubber  apron  revolving  around  it. 
The  jiggling  motion  causes  the  pyrites 
to  sink  to  the  bottom  where  they  stick 
to  the  rubber  apron,  and  are  carried 
upward  out  of  danger,  while  the  sand 
is  washed  away  and  goes  down  the 
tail  race  to  Gastineau  Channel. 

Thus  saved,  the  cyanide  plant  ac- 


Three  camps  of  tourist  mountain  climbers  on  their  way  up  Mt.  St.  Elias. 


452 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY 


A  pet  at  one  of  the  stations. 

complishes  the  work  of  recovering  the 
gold  from  the  pyrites.  First  they  are 
put  into  a  solution  of  cyanide  of  potas- 
sium which  eats  the  gold.  It  in  turn 
is  run  over  zinc  shavings  which  re- 
cover the  gold  from  the  cyanide  solu- 
tion, and  are  then  melted  when  at  last 
the  gold  is  free.  The  process  is  very 
intricate  and  tedious,  but  of  course 
every  fraction  of  an  ounce  of  the  pure 
metal  is  very  valuable.  Once  a  month 
the  copper  plates  in  the  stamp  mill 
are  scraped  and  the  amalgam  retorted, 
a  process  that  volatizes  the  quicksilver 
and  leaves  the  gold  in  the  bottom  of 
the  retort.  When  cleared  of  all  for- 
eign matter  this  molten  gold  is  poured 
into  molds  and  allowed  to  cool,  then 
sampled,  assayed  and  shipped  to  San 
Francisco. 


But  Juneau  is  not  all  mines  and 
stamp  mills.  There  is  much  beautiful 
scenery  as  well,  and  to  the  summer 
tourist  all  things  are  subordinate  to 
scenery.  The  scenic  panorama  along 
Gestineau  Channel  is  all  mountains, 
with  dainty  clouds  hovering  about 
their  venerable  heads  and  foaming  sil- 
very cascades  dashing  down  their  rock 
ribbed  sides.  One  is  never  out  of 
sight  of  the  water,  either,  which,  with 
its  picturesquely  winding  shore  line, 
vastly  augments  the  beauty  of  the 
mountains. 

A  number  of  side  trips  are  available 
from  Juneau,  chief  of  which  is  that  to 
Taku  Glacier.  The  glacier  is  up  Taku 
Inlet,  and  viewed  from  the  boat  is  a 
bold,  vertical  wall  of  ice  over  two 
hundred  feet  high  and  a  mile  wide. 
One  must  not  be  startled  by  the  can- 
non-like reports  that  break  upon  one's 
ears,  for  they  are  only  the  report  of 
icebergs  breaking  away  from  the 
mother  mass.  Taku  has  two  glaciers 
exemplifying  the  living  and  the  dead; 
one  is  bright,  while  the  other  is  gray 
and  dingy.  The  sight  is  certainly  a 
superb  one,  especially  if  the  sun  hap- 
pens to  be  shining. 

The  grand  climax  of  the  whole  In- 
side Passage  is  reached  at  Lynn  Ca- 
nal. Nothing  in  the  world  can  possibly 
surpass  it  in  its  intrinsic  beauty  and 
grandeur.  Like  Gastineau  Channel,  it 
is  lined  with  mountains — only  these  of 
Lynn  Canal  are  much  higher,  averag- 
ing from  8,000  to  9,000  feet  above  sea- 
level.  Some  are  snow  domes,  others 
are  only  capped  in  snow  with  their 
heads  nestled  among  the  clouds,  and 
their  slopes  of  the  richest  emerald 
green,  streaked  with  what  appears  at 
a  distance  to  be  silvery  ribbons,  but 
what  prove  upon  nearer  approach  to 
be  one  of  the  numerous  cascades. 
They  ripple  over  rocky  beds  or  drop 
from  lofty  cliffs,  bewildering  one  with 
their  slow,  rhythmatic,  never-ceasing 
fall.  And  when  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  come  out  with  brush  and  palette 
the  whole  takes  on  the  immortal  pur- 
ple and  gold  that  poets  like  to  write 
about. 

At  the  head  of  Lynn     Canal     lies 


SEATTLE  TO   SKAGWAY 


453 


Skagway.  It  isn't  a  very  becoming 
town  these  days,  but  it  used  to  be. 
Skagway  was  one  of  those  towns  that 
sprang  up  over  night  like  a  mushroom 
as  a  result  of  the  Klondike  "rush."  We 
almost  .shudder  as  we  think  of  the  hun- 
dreds of  brave  and  sturdy  men  who 
passed  through  this  little  town  in  their 
mad  rush  for  the  yellow  metal,  that 
meant  more  than  everything  else  in 
the  world  to  them,  only  to  be  disap- 
pointed or  to  leave  their  bones  to 
bleach  along  some  lonely  trail  or  at 
the  bottom  of  some  glacier  crevice. 
There  were  others,  too,  more  fortunate, 
and  as  a  result  our  country  is  a  few 


below,  now  darting  between  bold,  rug- 
ged cliffs,  and  again  crossing  steel 
bridges  over  canyons  more  than  two 
hundred  feet  deep.  At  first  we  are 
held  by  the  increasing  grandeur  of 
Lynn  Canal,  more  magnificent  as  we 
climb  higher  and  higher,  and  just  be- 
fore rounding  the  seven  mile  point  we 
take  a  last  look  at  the  panorama  in  its 
most  exalted  splendor.  Snow  peaks, 
cascades,  picturesque  rocky  cliffs,  the 
rugged,  craggy  Saw-Tooth  Mountains, 
pass  in  quick  succession,  and  before 
we  are  aware,  we  find  ourselves  at  the 
little  red  station  called  White  Pass. 
With  one  stride  we  may  step  from  the 


Feeding  dogs  in  the  winter,  Alaska. 


million  dollars  richer  because  there  is 
an  Alaska  and  a  Klondike.  If  we 
could  view  all  the  gold  that  has  passed 
through  Skagway  we  might  not  un- 
likely find  ourselves  victims  of  the 
"gold  fever." 

From  Skagway  we  will  want  to 
make  the  trip  to  White  Pass,  the  sum- 
mit of  the  Pass  and  the  international 
boundary  line  between  Alaska  and  Yu- 
kon Territory.  The  trip  will  take  us 
two  hours  and  a  half.  Leaving  Skag- 
way on  one  of  the  White  Pass  trains, 
we  begin  the  gradual  ascent,  now  cling- 
ing sheer  to  a  wall  of  rock  with  the 
Skagway  River  roaring  and  foaming 


government  of  Uncle  Sam  to  that  of 
John  Bull.  Over  there  among  the  hills 
lies  the  tiny  Summit  Lake,  to  all  ap- 
pearances no  larger  than  a  pond,  from 
which  the  great  Yukon  finds  its  source. 
It  is  interesting  to  note  that  this  mighty 
river,  one  of  the  longest  in  the  world, 
rises  within  twenty  miles  of  the  ocean 
and  flows  2,300  miles,  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  the  Arctic  Circle,  before  it  ul- 
timately finds  its  way  to  the  sea. 

Leaving  White  Pass  we  return  to 
Skagway,  and  start  on  the  homeward 
journey. 

Muir  Glacier  we  pass  both  ways,  but 
realizing  that  we  will  now  soon  be  far 


454 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY 


away  from  the  fascinating  northland, 
we  view  it  the  last  time  with  keener 
interest.  The  glacier  has  an  area  350 
square  miles,  is  two  miles  wide  and 
stands  from  one  to  two  hundred  feet 
above  the  water.  The  rate  of  its  flow 
is  seven  feet  daily.  Between  the  years 
of  1899  and  1907  this  great  river  of 
ice  receded  eight  and  a  half  miles,  the 
recession  probably  being  due  to  the 
Yakatat  Bay  earthquake  of  September, 
1899.  Muir  is  not  so  high  as  Taku 
Glacier,  but,  if  possible,  it  is  more 
beautiful. 


town  and  capital  of  Alaska.  The 
marks  of  Russian  days  are  still  appar- 
ent and  conspicuous  in  the  old  block 
houses  and  quaint  log  buildings  of  the 
town.  The  monuments  in  the  old 
graveyard,  too,  are  Russian  in  design 
and  inscription.  Among  the  points  of 
interest  are  the  native  town  where  live 
several  hundred  Haida  Indians,  the 
"Indian  River  Park,"  and  the  govern- 
ment's collection  of  totem  poles,  the 
Sheldon-Jackson  Museum,  and  the 
Shepherd  Industrial  School.  Foremost 
of  interest  to  tourists  is  the  old  Greek 


Hunters  crossing  a  stream  on  their  return  from  a  caribou  hunt,  Alaska. 


Sitka  we  pass  on  the  homeward  trip 
— Sitka,  that  quaint  and  unique  town 
founded  in  the  earliest  fur-trading  days 
of  Russian  rule.  As  we  steam  into  the 
bay  we  are  for  the  moment  conscious 
only  of  the  lovely  snow  clad  Seven 
Sister  Mountains  in  the  background. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  bay  is  Mt. 
Edgecombe,  an  extinct  volcano.  Sitka 
was  for  years  the  center  of  operations 
of  the  Russian-American  Fur  Com- 
pany, and  until  1899  was  the  principal 


church.  It  is  of  a  style  of  architecture 
quite  different  from  anything  we  ever 
saw,  and  contains  a  number  of  art 
treasures,  among  which  is  a  Madonna 
valued  at  over  $20,000. 

Leaving  Sitka,  we  resume  the  home- 
ward journey,  traversing  again  the  su- 
perlatively beautiful  waterways  of  the 
Alexander  Archipelago  and  pausing  at 
Wrangell  and  Ketchikan,  and  three 
days  later  find  ourselves  back  again  in 
the  land  we  call  home. 


E^AEDICA 


Impressions  of  New  York 

By  Richard  Bret  Harte 

CHAPTER  I 


(Mr.  Richard  Bret  Harte,  who  has  spent  his  early  life  in  Europe,  where 
he  was  educated,  returns  to  his  native  land  and  describes  with  his  own 
caricatures  his  various  impressions  gathered  during  a  five  year  ramble 
across  the  continent  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco.  This  is  the  first 
installment  of  the  series.) 


ARRIVING  in  New  York    after 
more  than  twenty  years  in  Eu- 
rope is  a  most  appalling  and 
bewildering  sensation.    To  me 
it  seemed  like  falling  entirely  off  the 
earth  into  an  over-civilized  planet,  an 
H.   G.   Wells   affair,  literally   bilious 
with  automatic  life  and  all  the  scien- 
tific wonders  and  inventions     of  the 
next  millennium. 

However,  after  I  had  gotten  over 
the  gaping  period  that  temporarily  af- 
flicts every  stranger  to  the  great  city, 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  in  some 
districts  New  York  was  rather  Euro- 
pean after  all — in  atmosphere  at  least. 
Fifth  avenue,  for  instance,  seemed 
pervaded  with  the  blazeness  of  Bond 
Street  and  the  "de  trop"  of  the  Rue  de 
la  Paix.  Here  men  with  miniature 


mustache  and  ivory  complexion,  fault- 
lessly attired  in  the  latest  "imported" 
tweeds,  sauntered  up  and  down  smok- 
ing "imported"  cigarettes  and  carrying 
"imported"  canes,  all  with  an  air  of 
aristocratic  abandon — also  "imported." 
The  women  were  beautiful  but  "im- 
ported" to  distraction.  They  glided 
silently  by,  dressed,  or  rather  draped 
in  vari-colored  Parisian  gossamers,  ex- 
haling every  possible  perfume  to  be 
found  in  Europe,  Asia,  Africa  and  pos- 
sibly the  Polar  regions. 

To  me  all  this  seemed  distressingly 
un-American.  My  conception  of  Am- 
erican beauty  had  been  cultivated  by 
Gibson,  but  apparently  the  "Gibson 
period"  had  gone  out  of  date  like  the 
Pompadour  or  the  prehistoric.  To  as- 
sociate the  Gibson  girl  with  the  mod- 


456 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY 


ern  New  York  styles  would  be  as  ri- 
diculous as  trying  to  imagine  Venus 
in  a  basque  and  tight  skirt,  or  Shakes- 
peare in  a  fedora  and  balmacan.  In- 
deed, considering  some  of  the  pre- 
vailing modes  I  saw  in  Fifth  Avenue, 
I  was  confident  that  the  Gibson  girl 
had  retired  with  a  clear  conscience. 

Broadway  was  more  foreign  than 
ever,  particularly  at  night  when  it 
burst  into  a  stream  of  lights  and  friv- 
olities. The  maze  of  illuminated 
signs  flashing  and  flickering  in  an 
ever  changing  avalanche  of  colors ;  the 
gorgeous  hotels  and  cafes  alive  with 
the  chatter  of  mirthful  epicureans  and 
the  impassioned,  bohemian  strains  of 
Hungarian  orchestras;  the  animated 
theatre  lobbies;  the  roar  of  the  traffic 
and  the  unending  streams  of  pleasure- 
seekers, — all  had  a  luring,  kind  of 
why-Mary-left-home  fascination  about 
it  that  made  me  feel  like  a  minister's 
son  astray  in  Montmarte,  Picadilly — 
anywhere  but  in  New  York. 

I  further  found  Broadway  so  ag- 
gressively cosmopolitan  that  even  an 
interpreter  would  have  been  utterly 
confused.  What  little  English  I  did 
hear  was  so  hybrid  or  "slanged,"  it 
might  have  been  anything  from  San- 
scrit to  antidiluvian  Dutch.  But  I  will 
say  of  this  "Broadway  patois"  that  it 
possessed  a  predominant  flavor  of  He- 
brew. 

However,  in  all  this  foreign  atmos- 
phere there  was  something  conspicu- 
ously, unmistakably  American.  I  sup- 
pose it  was  a  kind  of  "local  color."  In 
Europe  this  artistic  element  is  noted 
for  its  abundance  of  picturesque  types, 
generally  rural  and  refreshingly 
quaint.  But  in  America  this  "local 
color"  is  very  apparently  black.  It 
has  astrican  hair,  a  perpetual  grin,  and 
moves  ^languidly  on  large  feet.  You 
find  it  in  the  streets,  in  the  hotels,  in 
the  houses,  on  the  trains,  on  board 
ship;  in  fact,  everywhere,  though  I 
have  since  discovered  that  the  only 
place  it  is  never  found  is  in  the  water, 
to  which  it  seems  to  have  a  particular 
aversion. 

Once  away  from  these  foreign  high- 
ways and  down  amid  the  skyscrapers, 


I  felt  myself  at  last  in  the  New  York 
of  my  dreams  and  fancies,  that  afore- 
mentioned H.  G.  Wells  affair  that 
might  have  been  Mars. 

The  first  genuine  American  sensa- 
tion I  experienced  was  ascending  the 
Woolworth  Building  in  a  so-called 
"express"  elevator.  It  was  a  sensation 
I  shall  never  forget,  for  the  very  good 
reason  that  I  had  just  previously  in- 


'A  predominant  flavor   of    Hebrew." 


an  entire  population  engaged  in  clerical  pursuits  and  pastimes  awaits 

him." 


dulged  in  a  heavy  breakfast — which 
to  me  had  been  another  American 
sensation — in  the  form  of  nine  buck- 
wheat cakes.  Now  I  do  not  wish  to 
argue  over  the  nutritive  qualities  of 
this  delicacy,  but  I  do  remember  that 


those  buckwheat  cakes  performed 
some  extraordinary  feats  in  that  ex- 
press elevator. 

As  soon  as  the  car  shot  upwards  my 
entire  anatomy  suddenly  adhered  to 
the  ceiling.  I  seemed  to  be  folding  up 


458 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY 


in  the  crown  of  my  hat,  my  legs  dang- 
ling down  like  a  long  strip  of  moist 
chewing  gum.  It  was  at  this  embar- 
rassing moment  that  the  buckwheat 
cakes  performed.  To  describe  the  per- 
formance in  detail  would  be  quite  in- 
delicate. Eventually,  the  elevator 
stopped,  and  I  found  myself  in  a  bal- 
cony, gazing  down  at  New  York,  hun- 
dreds of  feet  below. 

It  was  a  wonderful  sight. 

At  first  I  could  see  nothing  but  rows 
upon  rows  of  windows  in  tall,  narrow 
walls  of  white,  shooting  up  into  the 
sky  as  if  to  free  themselves  from  the 
"undergrowth"  of  roofs  and  smoking 
chimneys  below.  Gradually  these 
walls  of  windows  grouped  themselves 
into  towering  skyscrapers,  but  they 
were  so  positively  riddled  with  win- 
dows that  I  wondered  they  did  not  col- 
lapse or  at  least  get  out  of  shape.  It 
was  fascinating  to  look  down  on  the 
elevated  trains  dashing  in  and  out  o.f, 
the  labyrinth  of  streets,  just  like  a 
swarm  of  terrified  caterpillars,  while 
the  unending  streams  of  pedestrians, 
trolleys  and  vehicles  merged  them- 
selves into  a  rolling  sea  of  specks  and 
shadows. 

It  was  the  business  section,  the 
"skyscraper  zone"  that  appealed  to  me 
more  than  anything  else  in  New  York. 
Down  around  the  City  Hall,  in  the  en- 
virons of  Wall  Street  and  William 
Street,  I  spent  most  of  my  time.  Here 
I  found  that  illustrious  super-being, 
human  prodigy  of  this  great  New  Age 
—the  American  millionaire  in  his  "na- 
tive haunts." 

And  they  were  certainly  haunts  de 
luxe. 

As  I  entered  one  of  the  gigantic  of- 
fice buildings,  I  thought  at  first  I  had 
wandered  into  some  musical-comedy 
setting  or  possibly  a  fashionable  ar- 
cade in  some  foreign  exposition.  There 
were  barbers,  perfumers,  Turkish 
baths,  chiropodists,  cigars,  manicure, 
massage,  flowers,  candies,  and  every 
other  temptation  under  the  sun  utterly 
and  ridiculously  inconsistent  with  my 
conception  of  the  shrewd,  conventional 
business  man. 

Gradually   the    significance   of   this 


luxury  dawned  upon  me.  I  was  in  one 
of  the  "New  Age"  temples,  one  of  the 
"native  haunts"  of  this  great  new  race 
of  super-beings,  the  American  Mil- 
lionaires. 

What  fastidious  and  immaculate 
creatures  these  "males  of  the  million- 
aire species"  must  be!  I  tried  to  im- 
agine one  of  them  going  through  the 
daily  routine  of  his  duties.  It  is  ap- 
parently part  of  his  creed  to  be  thor- 
oughly cleansed,  purified  and  per- 
fumed before  transacting  any  business. 
I  can  see  him  passing  the  early  morn- 
ing hours,  first  in  the  Turkish  bath, 
then  in  the  barber's  chair,  where  he  is 
shaved,  massaged,  manicured  "chirop- 
odised"  and  perfumed  into  a  radiant 
Apollo.  This  elaborate  toilet  being 
somewhat  boring,  he  then  retires  for  a 
few  moments  to  the  cigar  and  candy 
counter.  Tasting  a  few  dainty  morsels, 
he  selects  his  favorite  cigar  and  con- 
verses casually  with  the  salesgirl,  dis- 
cussing baseball,  theatrical  scandals, 
and  other  topics  of  passing  interest.  He 
is  then  conducted  by  express  elevator 
to  his  spacious  offices  above  the  earth, 
where  an  entire  population,  engaged 
in  clerical  pursuits  and  pastimes, 
awaits  him.  Here  in  the  seclusion  of 
his  private  office  he  follows  the  bent 
of  his  wonderful  race,  creating  gigan- 
tic schemes  that  make  and  multiply 
into  millions. 

There  is  no  limit  to  his  power  and 
accomplishments.  In  a  day  he  may 
have  established  a  dozen  factories, 
sold  a  few  railroads,  invented  a  sub- 
stitute for  cream  cheese,  raised  the. 
price  of  cuff-buttons,  bought  a  couple 
of  European  monarchs  to  enrich  his 
collection  of  heathen  curios,  presented 
his  housemaid  with  a  library,  and  yet 
have  time  to  spare,  with  an  extra  odd 
million  or  so  in  his  vest  pocket. 

Certainly  this  wonderful  new  race 
seemed  to  be  opening  a  new  epoch  in 
civilization,  an  era  of  science  and  in- 
dustry. The  age  of  Rafaels,  Shakes- 
peares  and  Wagners  had  passed  for- 
ever. The  Immortals  of  to-morrow 
would  be  Robinsons  and  Smiths,  whose 
fame  would  be  venerably  perpetuated, 
not  on  canvas,  not  in  books,  but  on 


CHRISTIAN  SCIENCE 


459 


cans  of  potted  meat,  soap  labels,  silk 
hose,  comforters,  corrugated  iron,  and 
the  like,  which,  although  could  hardly 
be  termed  "treasures  of  art,"  or 
"classics,"  would  nevertheless  be  mas- 
terpieces for  all  that. 

I  trust  the  reader  will  forgive  me 
for  these  visionary  musings.     But  to 


one  who  was  still  "dusty"  with  the  an- 
tiquity of  Europe,  life  in  a  New  York 
skyscraper  was  a  revelation  of  won- 
ders inspiring  to  the  extreme. 


Next  month,  "A  Few  Mild  Experi- 
ences in  the  Big  City.") 


Christian  Science  Meals  the  Sick  and 
Reforms  the  Sinner 

By  Thomas  F.  Watson 


THE  Overland  Monthly  recently 
published,  March  issue,  an  ar- 
ticle  by  F.   W.    Plaenker,    in 
which  he  gives  his  opinion  of 
"Christian    Science — Viewed    in    Its 
Own  Light  and  that  of  the  Bible." 

Notwithstanding  the  statement  that 
Mr.  Plaenker  was  at  one  time  a  stu- 
dent of  Christian  Science,  his  asser- 
tion that  "Christian  Science  is  an  anti- 
Christian  religion,  undermining  faith 
in  the  Bible  and  in  the  God  of  the 
Bible,"  is  entirely  disproved  by  the 
fact  that  thousands  have  been  healed 
of  infidelity  and  agnosticism  as  well 
as  of  sickness  through  the  ministra- 
tions of  this  Science,  and  have  there- 
after become  earnest  students  of  the 
Bible  and  followers  of  the  teachings  of 
Christ  Jesus.  This  is  sufficient  proof 
to  any  thoughtful  person  that  Christian 
Science  is  in  harmony  with  the  teach- 
ings of  the  Bible.  The  first  tenet  of 
Christian  Science  as  given  in  Science 
and  Health  with  Key  to  the  Scriptures, 
by  Mary  Baker  Eddy,  on  page  497,  is 
as  follows :  "As  adherents  of  Truth,  we 


take  the  inspired  Word  of  the  Bible  as 
our  sufficient  guide  to  eternal  Life," 
and  it  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  Christ- 
ian Scientists  are  earnest  students  of 
the  Bible,  and  that  their  faith  in  its 
teachings  have  been  strengthened  by 
the  study  of  Christian  Science. 

Our  critic  complains  that  Christian 
Science  encourages  man  to  believe 
that  he  has  "an  inherited  right  to  im- 
mortality." But  this  is  not  said  of 
mortals.  Science  and  Health  teaches 
that  "By  putting  'off  the  old  man  with 
his  deeds,'  mortals  'put  on  immortal- 
ity.' "  Page  262. 

The  critic  asks:  "How  does  'Christ- 
ian Science  as  it  is'  compare  with 
Jesus'  teachings?"  Christian  Science 
heals  the  sick  and  sinful  in  obedience 
to  Jesus'  command,  thus  proving  its 
faith  by  its  works.  The  fact  that 
Truth  destroys  sin  and  sickness  proves 
that  they  are  no  part  of  God's  creation, 
which  He  pronounced  "very  good." 

It  is  difficult  to  see  why  Mr.  Plaen- 
ker objects  to  the  phrase  on  page  16  of 
Science  and  Health,  "Thy  kingdom  is 


460 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY 


come,"  when  the  Master  said,  "The 
kingdom  of  God  is  within  you,"  also 
"The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  at  hand." 
And  as  to  the  question  of  a  "personal 
God,"  the  Bible  teaches  that  God  is 
Love,  and  that  He  is  Spirit  and  every- 
where present.  "Do  not  I  fill  heaven 
and  earth?  saith  the  Lord."  Jeremiah 
23 :24.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of 
God  as  a  person  and  as  omnipotent 
and  omniscient  as  the  Scriptures  teach 
us.  Christian  Science  has  given  the 
highest  proof  as  to  its  efficacy,  its 
Science  and  its  Christianity  in  the 
healing  of  thousands  of  cases  of  sin 
and  sickness,  as  well  as  reformation 
of  character. 

The  critic's  contention  that  "If  God 
did  Dot  antedate  man  He  could  not 
create  him,"  is  answered  in  that  man 
as  the  image  and  likeness  of  God,  or 
His  reflection,  has  always  been  with 
the  Father,  for,  as  it  is  impossible  to 
think  of  the  sun  without  its  rays,  so  we 
cannot  conceive  of  the  infinite  Intelli- 
gence or  Mind  as  existing  without  its 
representative  idea  or  man.  What  of- 
ten seems  to  us  as  a  new  creation  of 
Truth  is  only  a  revelation  of  that 
which  always  existed.  Jesus  said, 
"Before  Abraham  was  I  am." 

Again,  a  patient  healed  by  Christian 
Science  who  increases  in  weight  does 
not  disprove  the  teaching  of  Christian 
Science  concerning  God's  allness,  or 
the  Bible  teaching  that  God  (Spirit) 
is  everywhere  present  (see  Psalms 
139) ,  any  more  than  the  fact  that  Jesus 
brought  Lazarus  back  in  a  fleshly  body 
disproves  his  teaching  that  the  "flesh 
profiteth  nothing." 

The  gentleman  says,  "When  the  pa- 
tient dies,  is  the  allness  of  Spirit  dem- 
onstrated?" In  the  same  spirit  one 
might  ask :  "When  Paul  passed  away 
from  this  earth  did  that  disprove  his 
statement  that  "Jesus  Christ  .... 
hath  abolished  death?" 

The  Bible  tells  us  that  God  gave 
man  dominion  over  all  the  earth.  (See 
Genesis  1:26.)  Again,  "Thou  hast 
put  all  things  under  his  feet."  Yet  we 
read  in  Hebrews  2,  "But  now  we  see 
not  yet  all  things  put  under  him."  Nor 
is  this  a  contradiction,  for  there  are 


many  things  even  on  a  material  plane 
which  our  limited  vision  "sees  not 
yet." 

In  answer  to  the  question,  "When 
will  'Christian  Science  as  it  is'  be 
demonstrated,"  we  may  say  that  one 
can  only  demonstrate  Christian  Sci- 
ence in  proportion  to  his  understanding 
of  it. 

Again,  our  critic  says,  "If  God 
knows  nothing  of  sickness,  sin  and 
death,  what  suggested  to  Him  the  need 
of  Science  and  Health?"  The  Bible 
says,  "Thou  art  of  purer  eyes  than  to 
behold  evil,  and  canst  not  look  on  in- 
iquity," yet  we  read  in  John  3:  "God 
so  loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his 
only  begotten  Son,  that  whosoever  be- 
lieveth  in  him  should  not  perish,  but 
have  everlasting  life."  The  sun  does 
not  need  to  know  of  the  darkness  it 
destroys. 

The  gentleman  tells  us  that  he  "is 
not  endeavoring  to  ridicule  Mrs.  Eddy, 
for  he  was  at  one  time  in  the  same  con- 
fusion." It  is  quite  apparent  to  any 
one  who  understands  Christian  Sci- 
ence that  this  critic's  ideas  of  Christ- 
ian Science  are  still  confused. 

He  then  wrests  a  few  incomplete 
sentences  from  their  surrounding  con- 
text, and  tells  us  that  "those  who  ac- 
cept the  Bible  as  God's  Word  can  see 
from  the  following  list  of  quotations 
that  Christian  Science  is  an  anti- 
Christian,  Ransom-denying  doctrine." 
This  unfair  proceeding  of  wresting  a 
few  lines  from  their  context  would 
make  a  mere  jargon  of  any  piece  of 
literature.  By  such  a  process  one 
might  prove  by  the  Bible  that  "there 
is  no  God."  Given  in  its  complete- 
ness the  statement  reads:  "The  fool 
hath  said  in  his  heart,  there  is  no 
God." 

Our  friend  may  also  find  that  the 
Bible  says,  "Judge  not  lest  ye  be 
judged."  Also  in  Romans  2:  "There- 
fore thou  art  inexcusable,  O  man,  who- 
soever thou  art  that  judgest:  for 
wherein  thou  judgest  another,  thou 
condemnest  thyself."  A  religion  that 
heals  the  sick  and  reforms  the  sinner, 
as  Christian  Science  is  doing,  cannot 
be  called  anti-Christian. 


Conroy's  Lucky  Strike 


By  Dr.  Justus  /Aarchal  Wheate 


WHEN  the  water-logged  ferry- 
boat, poled  by  a  red-headed 
man  and  his  half-breed  wife, 
bumped  into  the  north  bank 
of  the  Snake  River,  Frank  Conroy 
coaxed  his  jaded  team  ashore,  paid 
the  ferryman,  and  found  himself,  save 
for  his  two  companions  and  the  boat- 
man, in  what  seemed  a  manless  land, 
with  one  lone  dollar  in  his  lean  pocket. 
He  had  traveled  six  hundred  miles 
across  mountain  and  plain,  sage-brush 
and  sand,  and  most  of  the  way  over 
a  trail  of  his  own  making,  bound  for 
the  land  of  gold.  Fifty  miles  to  the 
north,  where  the  snow  gleamed  on 
the  crest  of  the  Sawtooth  Range,  he 
had  yet  to  go  to  reach  the  end  of  the 
rainbow. 

His  wagon  was  old  and  rickety,  and 
of  questionable  utility  when  he  set  out 
on  the  long  -journey,  and  its  six  hun- 
dred miles  of  rough  usage  had  added 
greatly  to  its  decrepitude ;  so  that  now 
it  appeared  to  be  worth  not  much  more 
than  the  lonesome  dollar,  which  lacked 
companionship  in  his  pocket.  The  ill- 
mated  pair — a  skinny  mule  and  a 
bony,  blind  horse,  like  the  wagon  had 
grown  older  untimely,  and  would  not 
have  fetched  the  price  of  the  feed  in 
this  barren  country  necessary  to  keep 
them  through  the  approaching  winter. 
A  primitive  camp  equipage,  and  the 
meagre  remains  of  his  share  of  the 
stock  of  provisions,  the  few  miner's 
tools,  and  his  gun,  these  constituted  the 
sum  total  of  his  earthly  assets. 

There  remained  one  valuable  pos- 
session, however,  not  easy  to  inven- 
tory in  Conroy's  case.  It  consisted  of 
an  unconquerable  purpose  in  combina- 
tion with  an  indomitable  perseverance, 

A  year  ago  he  had  landed  at  San 
Francisco  from  a  brigantine,  eighteen 


months  out  from  Liverpool.  He  had 
sought  this  only  available  means  to 
reach  the  Land  of  Promise;  for  he 
had  dreamed  youthful  dreams  while 
tending  his  flocks  on  his  native  downs, 
and  these  dreams  were  ever  of  gold; 
"gold!  gold!  hard  to  get  and  heavy  to 
hold" — in  Scotland ;  and  he  had  heard 
that  gold,  much  gold,  was  to  be  dug 
from  the  sands  and  the  hills  in  Cali- 
fornia. Within  a  week  after  carrying 
his  dunnage  ashore,  he  had  discovered 
that  the  rainbow's  end  had  vanished 
from  the  burning  sands  of  the  Sacra- 
mento, and,  where  men  had  reveled  in 
those  rich  placers  before  his  day,  there 
remained  now  only  boulder-strewn 
waste,  and  the  adventurous  knights  of 
pick  and  shovel  had  gone  hence  to 
share  in  the  excitement  of  the  newer 
finds  in  the  mountains  of  Nevada. 

Thus  he  heard  the  call,  and  the  lure 
of  the  unseen  yellow  gold  led  him 
eastward  and  upward  to  Virginia  City. 
Once  arrived  at  this  famed  camp,  he 
was  again  disillusioned.  He  soon 
found  that  his  ideas  of  acquiring 
wealth  by  a  process  of  turning  over  the 
willing  earth  and  gathering  up  the 
waiting  lumps  of  priceless  metal  were 
far  removed  from  reality,  and,  after 
prospecting  vainly  more  than  a  month, 
he  had  scarcely  learned  to  distinguish 
porphyry,  gold-bearing  quartz  and  iron 
pyrites,  and  he  hardly  knew  the  dif- 
ference between  black  sand  and  the 
trampled 'cinders  from  the  blacksmith 
shop  by  the  creek.  Acknowledging  his 
failure  to  accumulate  treasure  in  this 
uncertain  manner,  and  with  his  mea- 
gre savings  from  his  sailor's  wage 
nearly  gone,  he  was  glad  to  go  to  work 
on  another  and  luckier  man's  claim 
for  wages;  and  the  six  dollars  a  day 
he  received  for  digging  another  man's 
3 


462 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


gold  seemed  a  princely  sum  to  the 
stranded  Conroy. 

Nine  months  he  continued  to  swing 
his  pick  or  shovel  or  sledge  for  this 
and  other  employers,  frugally  hoarding 
his  savings,  still  dreaming  his  dreams. 
Then  came  the  sudden  termination  of 
the  Golconda,  and  "pay  dirt"  was  no 
longer  to  be  found  by  the  small  pros- 
pector, and  Conroy  awakened  from 
his  dream  when  he  found  himself  out 
of  employment.  But,  coincident  with 
the  closing  of  the  worked  out  claims, 
came  lurid  reports  of  a  big  strike  in 
the  country  to  the  north;  and  in  a  night 
the  busy  camp  folded  its  tent  and 
moved  away,  and  there  remained  little 
more  than  a  memory,  and  the  march 
was  on  to  the  new  diggings. 

By  means  of  his  savings  Conroy 
managed  to  acquire  a  well-worn  wagon 
— now  no  longer  needed  by  its  former 
owner,  and  by  shrewd  bargaining,  he 
became  the  opulent  owner  of  a  mule 
and  a  blind  horse.  With  a  patched- 
up  harness,  finished  out  with  a  pair 
of  rope  lines,  his  overland  express 
was  complete. 

He  found  two  willing  companions 
eager  to  grubstake  the  outfit  for  the 
privilege  of  sharing  his  transportation, 
and  after  five  weary  weeks  of  trials 
and  hardships,  the  travel-worn  argo- 
nauts were  ferried  over  the  Snake  and 
set  out  on  the  last  lap  of  their  long 
journey,  which  would  bring  them  to  the 
rainbow's  end.  A  grueling  climb  and 
a  long  one  brought  them  out  of  the 
canyon  on  to  the  plain,  and  to  the  end- 
less miles  of  sage  brush  once  more.  A 
few  miles  farther  out,  they  encoun- 
tered a  well  marked  trail,  showing  evi- 
dence of  much  recent  travel,  and  they 
knew  they  were  on  the  right  road.  They 
fell  into  this  landmark  with  renewed 
spirits  and  headed  toward  the  distant 
range  that  bounded  the  north  horizon. 
Near  nightfall,  three  days  later,  they 
made  camp  on  the  bank  of  the  Big 
Wood,  where  a  thousand  eager  and 
hopeful  men  already  had  preceded 
them. 

Adams  and  Whitlock,  his  two  fellow 
soldiers  of  fortune,  feeling  themselves 
free  from  further  obligation,  at  once 


mingled  with  the  enthusiastic  com- 
pany, which  talked  only  of  "colors" 
and  "prospects,"  and  became  imbued 
with  the  excitement;  and,  the  next 
morning,  shouldered  pick  and  shovel 
and  joined  the  ever-unsatisfied  quest. 
But  the  canny  Scott  had  gained  wis- 
dom of  his  brief  experience  with  mines 
and  miners.  He  early  discovered  that 
the  professional  miner  is  a  living  para- 
dox; that  his  life  is  a  complex  made 
from  the  extremes  of  the  emotions; 
capable  of  enduring  prolonged  and 
trying  privations  with  cheerful  optim- 
ism when  luck  was  against  him,  he  was 
proverbially  improvident  as  long  even 
as  "prospects"  were  encouraging,  and 
flagrantly,  often  ostentatiously,  prodi- 
gal in  exchanging  the  fruit  of  his  toil 
for  the  simple  comforts  he  had  neg- 
lected to  provide,  when  the  "color 
showed  strong  in  the  pan." 

Here  were  a  thousand  men,  many  of 
whom  were  making  rapid  strides  to- 
ward wealth;  all  were  optimistically 
expectant,  and  such  as  had  not  been 
so  fortunate  as  to  locate  a  claim  for 
himself  found  ready  employment 
working  for  others  at  fabulous  wages, 
so  that  money,  or  rather  its  equivalent 
in  "dust,"  flowed  without  stint  for 
whatever  its  possessor  craved  that 
could  be  had.  His  practical  nature  ad- 
monished him  that  the  staples  of  life 
were  of  first  importance,  and  that  the 
demand  was  not  regulated  altogether 
by  the  fluctuating  fortunes  of  the  indi- 
vidual. With  the  judgment  of  a  finan- 
cier, he  recognized  that,  in  this  camp 
on  the  barren  hillsides,  fuel  as  well  as 
food  was  one  of  the  chief  requisites; 
thus  it  came  about  that  he  found  his 
first  profitable  employment  in  cutting 
and  rafting  cord  wood,  and  pine  logs 
for  cabin  building,  from  the  timber 
belt  twelve  miles  up  the  river  from  the 
camp.  In  this  he  found  employment 
for  his  team,  and  his  earnings  far  out- 
ran those  of  the  day-laborers  in  the 
mines. 

At  his  earliest  opportunity  he  built 
for  himself  a  roomy  cabin,  and  also  a 
substantial  shed  for  his  team;  for  a 
new  opportunity  had  presented  to  his 
alert  senses,  and  he  required  the  best 


CONROY'S  LUCKY  STRIKE 


463 


that  was  in  his  team,  and  it  must  be 
well  treated.  The  camp  had  come 
ahead  of  its  camp  followers  with  the 
usual  supplies,  and  men  in  their  rest- 
less search  for  gold,  trusted  to  others 
to  provide  their  material  wants.  It 
was  recognition  of  this  situation  that 
laid  the  foundation  for  the  real  suc- 
cess of  Frank  Conroy. 

Eagle  Rock  lay  a  hundred  and  forty 
miles  to  the  southeast,  and  was  the 
nearest  railroad  shipping  point  from 
which  to  draw  supplies  for  the  new 
camp.  As  soon  as  he  had  completed 
his  cabin,  he  set  out  with  his  now  re- 
cuperated team  and  repaired  wagon, 
and  two  hundred  dollars  he  had  accu- 
mulated, to  bring  back  a  miscellaneous 
stock  of  camp  utilities  and  provisions. 
It  was  now  well  along  in  November, 
and  he  must  make  all  haste  to  return 
before  the  snow  would  prohibit  travel. 
He  would  return  in  time  to  help  the 
miners  celebrate  Christmas  by  bring- 
ing luxuries  as  well  as  necessaries  for 
their  holiday.  The  camp  was  proving 
a  bonanza,  and  gave  every  indication 
of  being  permanent.  Work  would  con- 
tinue all  winter,  and  he  was  thus  rea- 
sonably assured  that  he  would  make  a 
most  profitable  venture  in  merchan- 
dise. 

With  flour  at  thirty  dollars  a  barrel, 
coffee  at  a  dollar  a  pound,  with  bacon 
and  beans  at  even  higher  relative 
prices,  Conroy  found  himself  reveling 
in  his  unguessed  good  fortune  when  he 
counted  up  his  profits  after  his  goods 
had  all  been  sold.  He  began  at  once 
to  elaborate  his  plans  for  the  future. 
He  made  a  trip  to  a  ranch  settlement 
thirty  miles  down  the  river,  and  bought 
a  team  of  sturdy  bronchos  and  a  good 
wagon,  bringing  back  a  load  of  forage 
for  his  teams.  He  wasted  not  a  day 
during  the  winter  when  it  was  possible 
for  man  or  beast  to  work,  but  continued 
to  make  big  wages  cutting  and  hauling 
fuel  from  the  mountains  above  the 
camp,  and  was  ready  with  the  first 
break  in  the  drifts  to  start  again  to 
Eagle  Rock.  He  found  a  driver  for 
his  extra  team,  and  together  they 
started  on  the  long  trip.  His  dreams 
by  this  time  had  lost  some  of  their 


idealism,  and  taken  on  a  more  lucid 
and  material  aspect.  He  had  planned 
as  he  worked,  and  worked  all  the  time, 
and  when  he  set  out  on  this  trip,  he 
.till  had  other  developments  in  store. 
In  addition  to  the  staples  required  by 
the  miners,  he  brought  back  a  plow 
and  various  other  necessary  farm  im- 
plements, and  an  assortment  of  farm 
and  garden  seed.  Constant  additions 
to  the  population  of  the  camp,  whose 
fame  was  spreading,  foretold  the  great 
demand  for  food.  The  growing  thou- 
sands of  healthy  appetites  must  be 
satisfied,  and  it  required  much  and 
varying  food  to  accomplish  it. 

A  thrifty  Chinaman  had  already  ap- 
peared on  the  scene,  and  was  busy 
with  preparations  for  a  garden  on  a 
strip  of  level  bench  below  the  camp, 
and  his  progress  bore  evidence  of  his 
genius.  This  pioneer  enterprise  of  the 
Celestial  was  as  the  beginning  of  wis- 
dom for  Conroy.  The  camp — by  this 
time  it  had  dignified  itself  with  the 
name  of  Canyon  City — lay  sprawled 
on  both  sides  of  the  turbulent  little 
river  that  rushed  down  the  long,  gold- 
laden  canyon,  and  a  mile  below  its 
outermost  fringe,  the  river  made  a 
wide  swing  to  the  southwest,  leaving 
on  its  right  a  beautiful  stretch  of  level 
valley,  only  a  few  feet  ,above  the 
water,  and  covered  with  a  dense 
growth  of  sagebrush,  with  occasional 
biles  as  large  as  a  man's  thigh,  indi- 
cating soil  of  incomparable  richness. 
It  was  on  this  natural  farm  site  that 
Conroy  took  up  his  squatter's  sover- 
eignty and  set  about  his  pastoral 
duties.  Only  the  most  primitive  engi- 
neering was  required  to  plow  out  a 
ditch,  beginning  half  a  mile  above, 
which  gave  water  in  abundance  to  ir- 
rigate all  the  land  he  could  cultivate, 
and,  while  the  hired  'man  continued 
freighting,  Conroy  devoted  all  his  en- 
ergies to  the  new  duties  of  farming.  Ir- 
rigation was  an  untried  art  with  him, 
and  his  methods  were  crude,  his  efforts 
often  wasted ;  but  he  watched  the  skil- 
ful Chinaman  and  freely  asked  his  ad- 
vice when  in  doubt.  He  worked  during 
all  trie  hours  of  the  day  on  the  farm, 
and  stood  behind  the  rude  counter  in 


464 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


his  little  store  to  wait  on  the  miners  at 
night. 

When  the  strenuous  season  came  to 
a  close,  he  was  more  than  pleased  with 
the  rewards  the  experiment  had 
brought.  The  profits  irom  the  store 
and  freight  traffic  averaged  nearly  a 
hundred  dollars  a  month;  besides  for- 
age for  his  two  teams  sufficient  for 
the  winter,  an  expensive  item  in  itself 
heretofore,  he  had  four  hundreds  bush- 
els of  the  finest  potatoes,  which  found 
ready  sale  during  the  winter  at  three 
dollars  the  bushel ;  two  hundred  bush- 
els of  turnips  that  brought  an  equal 
number  of  dollars;  and  a  hundred  dol- 
lars worth  of  cabbages.  Besides  these 
he  had  sold  more  than  a  hundred  dol- 
lars of  fresh  vegetables  during  the 
summer. 

The  expenses  chargeable  to  the  farm 
were  for  hired  help  at  ninety  dollars 
a  month,  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
for  implements  and  permanent  sup- 
plies, and  seventy  dollars  for  seed;  in 
all,  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
His  own  living  he  reckoned  as  negligi- 
ble: he  lived  primitively  and  did  -his 
own  cooking  like  most  others  of  his 
kind  and  time.  Thus,  at  the  close  of 
his  first  year  in  business,  he  found 
himself  richer  by  nearly  eighteen  hun- 
dred dollars  in  gold,  gold  that  he  him- 
self had  not  mined  in  the  picturesque 
manner  he  had  planned  originally;  but 
what  was  really  of  greater  worth,  he 
had  twenty  acres  of  the  richest  soil 
under  the  sun,  virgin,  volcanic  ash,  all 
ready  for  the  coming  season's  seed. 

Winter  shut  down  the  freighting; 
but  he  had  seen  to  it  that  the  little 
store  was  stocked  with  enough  supplies 
to  carry  over  until  the  trail  was  broken 
in  the  spring.  However,  he  was  by 
no  means  idle,  nor  the  loser  by  reason 
of  winter.  He  put  both  teams  to  work 
clearing  sage-brush  from  an  additional 
tract  of  land.  This  he  did  effectively 
and  rapidly  by  means  of  a  team 
hitched  at  either  end  of  a  heavy  split 
log,  dragging  the  sharp  edge  against 
the  frozen  brush,  which  snapped  clean 
and  even  with  the  ground,  leaving  only 
the  shallow  roots  to  be  turned  out  with 
the  plow.  When  spring  came  again, 


he  had  an  additional  hundred  acres 
ready  for  the  plow  and  leveler.  The 
sage  brush  trunks  proved  a  good  har- 
vest, and  were  sold  for  fuel,  bringing 
income  enough  to  pay  the  wages  of  the 
hired  help. 

Plans  for  the  second  season  were 
made  carefully.  His  mistakes  and  a 
few  fruitless  experiments  of  the  first 
summer  were  not  wholly  without  value, 
for  he  carefully  avoided  them  in  his 
future  calculations.  No  detail  that 
could  be  foreseen  had  been  neglected, 
and  the  results  were  proportionately 
profitable.  The  greatly  increased  acre- 
age necessitated  additional  help;  but 
there  were  always  unfortunate  or  dis- 
appointed miners  willing  to  work  on 
the  ranch  long  enough  to  acquire  suffi- 
cient for  another  "stake,"  and  Conroy 
found  no  great  difficulty  in  securing 
the  necessary  assistance,  even  though 
usually  unskilled.  Indeed,  one  of  the 
first  to  apply  during  the  early  spring 
was  Adams,  who  had  gone  broke  as  a 
penalty  for  too  frequent  attendance 
and  too  little  familiarity  at  faro,  during 
the  winter.  He  bought  another  team 
and  put  it  to  work  on  the  ranch,  while 
one  was  kept  continually  freighting, 
and  another  made  occasional  trips 
when  it  could  be  spared  from  the 
ranch;  for  there  was  an  increased  de- 
mand for  supplies  at  both  ranch  and 
store,  and  his  income  was  more  than 
enough  to  cover  his  added  expenses. 
Other  freighters  had  entered  the  lucra- 
tive field,  and  several  saloons,  some  of 
which  carried  considerable  stocks  of 
miscellaneous  staples,  were  already 
competing  with  the  pioneer  Conroy, 
but  the  efficient  and  frugal  Scot  with 
his  integrity  and  fair  dealing  found 
competition  no  obstacle  to  success. 

The  summer  passed  rapidly,  so  Con- 
roy thought:  for  each  hour,  was  util- 
ized profitably,  and  there  seemed  not 
enough  of  them  to  use.  Success  was 
in  the  air;  fortunes  were  in  sight  in 
the  camp;  one  or  perhaps  two  fabu- 
lous ledges  had  been  uncovered.  Op- 
timism unrestrained  made  all  men 
think  in  big  figures,  for  there  were 
enough  successes  on  every  hand  to 
justify  the  enthusiasm.  When  Con- 


GONROY'S  LUCKY  STRIKE 


465 


roy  counted  up  the  season's  profits,  he 
was  content  to  believe  he  had  found  a 
blazed  trail  to  fortune.  He  had  now 
a  hundred  and  twenty  acres  in  cultiva- 
tion, eighty  of  which  were  in  alfalfa, 
and  he  had  all  the  farm  equipment  he 
could  use  with  the  help  available.  With 
all  this,  he  remained  not  quite  satis- 
fied; he  felt  that  he  had  omitted  the 
one  essential  that  was  destined  to  lead 
to  the  big  success  he  owed  himself. 
The  rich  green  of  the  alfalfa  ever  re- 
minded him  of  green  hills  across  the 
sea;  hills  across  whose  green  canvas 
spread  the  moving  picture  of  flocks  of 
blooded  sheep  feeding  contentedly  on 
the  luscious  meadows,  and  hills  cov- 
ered with  gorse  and  heather,  recalled 
by  the  pungent,  aromatic  sage  on  every 
hand.  As  he  looked  about  at  the  limit- 
less range  of  grazing  land,  free  as  the 
air  he  breathed,  and  with  neither  hoof 
nor  horn  to  utilize  it,  his  thrifty  soul 
revolted  at  the  waste.  He  must  have 
sheep.  This  was  the  ideal  sheep  coun- 
try. Free  range  of  the  most  nutritious 
grass  and  healthful  climate  eight 
months  in  the  year,  and  richer  alfalfa 
in  abundance  to  carry  them  through 
the  winter.  The  thought  became  an 
obsession.  He  would  have  sheep. 

As  soon  as  the  crops  were  harvested, 
he  took  one  of  the  ranch-hands,  and  a 
week's  rations,  and  went  on  the  hunt 
for  sheep.  He  found  them  at  a  dis- 
tant Mormon  settlement  on  Lost  River, 
and  in  three  weeks  he  was  back  with 
a  hundred  head,  for  which  he  had  paid 
ten  dollars  apiece.  He  felt  that  he 
had  really  begun  his  career,  and  was 
genuinely  happy.  When  Christmas 
came  again,  he  took  stock  of  his  be- 
longings, and  the  inventory  showed, 
besides  his  ranch  and  its  equipment, 
two  thousand  dollars  in  money  and 
"dust,"  a  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
sheep,  and  plenty  of  feed  for  them  and 
his  three  teams,  and  a  six  hundred  dol- 
lar stock  of  merchandise  with  no  in- 
debtedness. 

Three  more  prosperous  years  went 
by.  Canyon  City  had  doubled  in  pop- 
ulation, and  had  taken  on  the  air  and 
appearance  of  substantiality.  Many 
fairly  pretentious  buildings  lined  the 


main  street  where  originally  tents  and 
log  huts  housed  the  transient  popula- 
tion. A  big  sawmill  supplied  lumber 
for  the  growing  town;  a  gravity  sys- 
tem of  works  supplied  the  purest  of 
mountain  water;  and  electric  lights 
would  soon  make  their  appearance, 
since  a  hydro-electric  plant  was  near- 
ing  completion  at  the  cataract  above 
the  town.  Conroy's  original  capital  of 
purpose  and  perseverance  had  suf- 
fered nothing  by  its  continuous  em- 
ployment. His  perseverance  had  been 
in  constant  use,  and  his  purpose  was 
in  evidence  on  every  hand.  Each  year 
had  added  amazingly  to  his  assets, 
each  year  his  flocks  had  increased  by 
purchase  and  by  the  bounty  of  nature, 
until  now  they  were  spread  like  a 
fleecy  summer  cloud  over  the  range  at 
his  door.  He  had  abandoned  his  log 
cabin  for  a  commodious  frame  build- 
ing, combining  store  and  living  rooms 
with  modern  plumbing,  and  wired  for 
the  electric  lights  that  would  replace 
the  old  lamps  at  an  early  date. 

Five  years  from  the  evening  when 
this  Scotch  soldier  of  fortune  un- 
hitched his  bony  mule  and  blind  horse 
at  the  portal  of  the  future  city  of  Can- 
yon, he  sat  by  the  big  stove  in  the  rear 
of  his  thriving  general  store,  indulg- 
ing in  pleasing  reminiscence.  He  had 
never  wandered  from  his  dominant 
purpose  to  find  gold  since  he  dreamed 
his  boyish  dreams  while  tending  an- 
other man's  flocks.  Up  to  the  time  of 
his  arrival  at  this  camp,  he  had  no 
plan  other  than  to  dig  it  from  its  hid- 
den source  in  the  rugged  hills;  but, 
when  he  took  a  mental  inventory  of  his 
belongings  as  he  sat  there  by  his  fire, 
he  found" himself  the  possessor  of  half 
a  square  mile  of  well  tilled  and  highly 
productive  ranch,  which  would  be  his 
in  all  due  regularity  in  another  six 
months  when  he  had  completed  his 
homestead  requirements;  he  had  a 
string  of  freight  teams  of  four  and  six 
horse  capacity,  each  making  money ;  a 
ten  thousand  dollar  stock  of  merchan- 
dise and  a  profitable  trade;  a  half  in- 
terest in  a  producing  mine  a  little  way 
up  the  canyon,  in  which  he  himself 
had  never  stuck  a  pick,  but  which  had 


466 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


been  turning  in  big  dividends  for  a 
year;  but  above  all  these,  the  one  as- 
set he  cherished  most  was  his  band  of 
two  thousand  sheep  now  scattered  over 
the  foothills  beyond  the  town,  and 
doubling  in  numbers  and  value  each 
year;  and  he  felt  something  of  pride 
in  his  accomplishment  when  he  re- 
flected that  his  check  drawn  on  the  lo- 
cal bank  for  any  amount  under  five 
figures  would  be  paid  without  going  to 
the  trouble  of  looking  up  his  bal- 
ance. ; 

"This  is  a  mine,  all  right,  and  all 
mine,"  he  mused,  then  chuckled  si- 
lently at  his  unpremeditated  pun,  as  he 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and 
prepared  to  turn  in.  "If  I  can  keep  this 
gait  for  ten  years  more,  I'll  be  the 
greatest  shepherd  since  the  day  of 
Abraham." 

As  he  turned  out  the  first  of  the 
swinging  oil  lamps,  the  door  opened 
and  in  walked  Whitlock,  his  remaining 
companion  in  adventure  of  five  years 
ago. 

"Hello,  Frank,"  he  ventured,  with 


an  assumed  buoyant  and  confident  air 
of  familiarity  between  old  friends,  but 
which  quickly  gave  place  to  that  of 
the  derelict  accustomed  to  meet  ad- 
versity with  a  grouch. 

"Pete  Dugan's  just  got  in  from  the 
Salmon  River,  and  he  says  they're 
findin'  all  kinds  of  color  over  there. 
Biggest  thing  in  Idaho.  Beats  the 
best  days  Boise  Basin  ever  saw.  I 
just  dropped  in  to  see  if  you  wouldn't 
maybe  like  to  grubstake  me  for  three 
months  to  go  over  there." 

Then  noting  the  half  smile  of  clever 
understanding  of  the  canny  Scot,  who 
knew  too  well  the  childish  credulity  of 
the  miner  of  Whitlock's  type,  his 
cheerful  confidence  became  almost  a 
whimpering  plea  when  he  continued: 
"I  want  to  get  over  there,  bad,  Frank, 
I've  got  to  get  out  of  here.  This  God- 
forsaken hole  ain't  no  place  for  an 
honest  man  no  more.  If  I  can  get  a 
stake  to  try  it  over  the  divide,  I  just 
know  I'll  make  a  lucky  strike  this 
time." 

He  got  his  stake. 


"WHEN    THERE    IS    PEACE" 


"When  there  is  Peace  this  land  no  more 
Will  be  the  land  we  knew   of  yore." 
Thus  do  the  facile  sears  foretell 
The  truth  that  none  can  buy  or  sell 
And  e'en  the  wisest  must  ignore. 

When  we  have  bled  at  every  pore, 
Shall  we  still  strive  for  gear  and  store? 
Will  it  be  Heaven,  will  it  be  Hell, 
When  there  is  Peace? 

This  let  us  pray  for — this  implore — 
That,  all  base  dreams  thrust  out  at  door, 
We  may  in  nobler  aims  excel, 
And,  like  men  waking  from  a  spell, 
Grow  stronger,  worthier  than  before, 
When  there  is  Peace ! 


AUSTIN  DOBSON. 


The  Regeneration  of  Hick  AcCoy 


By  Frank  Thunen 


What  I  have  done  in  the  short-story  field  has  been  merely  a  recreative 
side-line.  In  the  period  from  1909  to  1912  I  have  contributed  to  different 
magazines,  including  Overland  Monthly:  Nine  Cats,  Some  Yankee  and  a 
Goat,  The  Burning  at  Bald  Rock,  Lief  Hunter's  Coyote  Traps,  The  Stormy 
Love  of  Piute  Jennie,  The  Man  Who  Stole  the  Sun,  A  Jesuit's  Inquest,  The 
Man  Who  Found  the  Pole,  The  Dark  Canyon  Buck,  Over  the  Gorge,  The 
Unhonored  Heroes  of  Morris  Ravine. 

I  am  a  native  Californian.  The  serious  business  of  my  life  since  1904, 
when  I  was  admitted  to  the  California  bar,  has  been  the  practice  of  law  in 
California  and  Nevada,  having  been  admitted  to  the  bar  of  the  latter 
State  in  1907.  Before  preparing  myself  for  the  bar,  I  was  a  printer. — 
The  Author. 


Frank  Thunen 

MORE  than  anything  else,  Hick 
McCoy  needed  reform.    Next 
to  that  he  needed  a  hair-cut 
and  a  change  of  linen.    But  of 
his  moral   defections:   He  got  drunk 
and  made  rhymes,  and  with  his  spare 
time  he  did  nothing  at  all,  except  at 


irregular  and  rather  infrequent  inter- 
vals, when  he  adopted  temporarily  the 
vocation  of  his  father,  a  stevedore  on 
the  San  Francisco  water-front. 

One  Saturday  evening,  when  Hick 
had  been  enjoying  a  protracted  period 
of  saturated  idleness,  his  parent  took 
him  to  task  in  the  kitchen  of  their 
home  on  Stockton  street.  "You're  a 
pretty  looking  specimen  of  a  McCoy, 
ain't  you  now  ?  Twenty-two  years  old 
at  that!  Where'd  ye  get  it?  Your 
father's  a  hard-working  man,  and  your 
mother,  when  she  was  alive,  wasn't  no 
drinking  woman;  so  she  wasn't.  There 
is  Tom,  younger  than  you,  with  a 
good  job  running  the  elevator,  and 
Maggie  dishin'  up  in  the  cafeteria. 
Where'd  ye  get  your  drunken  habits?" 

Hick  was  feeling  mellow.  He  gen- 
tly turned  the  page  of  his  magazine, 
on  which  was  pictured  an  assortment 
of  movie  queens  in  various  attractive 
poses,  and  raking  his  fingers  through 
his  tawny  mane,  answered  in  soothing 
cadence : 

"Now,  dad,  don't  show  your  piety, 
Cause  I've  had  your  society 
When  you  was  inebriety." 

"There  ye  go  with  your  crazy  poe- 
try. What  d'ye  mean  by  that?" 

Hick  closed  the  magazine,  removed 
his  feet  from  the  cold  kitchen  stove, 


468 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


and  arose  from  his  chair.  "Nothing 
personal,  dad,  but  last  Saturday  night 
your  wayward  son  had  to  put  you  to 
bed." 

"Saturday  night,"  repeated  the 
father  in  a  tone  of  extenuation;  "but, 
by  golly,  I  was  on  the  job  at  seven 
Monday  morning." 

"Well,  this  is  Saturday  night,"  re- 
torted Hick,  moving  toward  the  door. 
"I'm  following  in  father's  feetsteps." 

"You  get  out  o'  here,"  argued  John 
McCoy,  administering  a  swift  paternal 
kick. 

Experienced  as  a  human  shock  ab- 
sorber, the  resilient  Hick  synchro- 
nously bowed  his  back  and  scarcely 
felt  the  impact  of  the  heavy  boot  as 
he  shot  through  the  door.  For  as  much 
as  fifteen  seconds  the  elder  McCoy 
stood  in  the  doorway  watching  his  off- 
spring, who  stood  in  the  street  waver- 
ing under  a  torment  of  indecision  as 
to  which  direction  he  should  go.  Then 
the  father  turned  back  and  entered  the 
house. 

Hick  looked  across  the  city  toward 
Market  street,  where  the  electroliers 
already  cast  a  soft  halo  in  the  gather- 
ing dusk.  But  Market  street  did  not 
seem  to  be  just  the  place  for  him.  A 
joint  along  the  Barbary  Coast  would 
fit  in  better  with  his  mood.  Chance  and 
his  desire  for  conviviality  conspired 
to  throw  him  into  the  nearest  one, 
Jackson's  place,  five  blocks  away  on 
Columbus  avenue. 

There  Hick  found  a  young  sailor, 
half-seas  over  and  cheerful,  with  the 
remnants  of  his  recent  pay  in  his 
pocket.  Cursing  amiably,  the  sailor 
led  Hick  up  to  the  bar  and  offered  him 
up  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  god  of  thirst. 
The  presiding  assuager  gave  Hick  a 
slight  nod  of  recognition  and  poured 
two  foaming  glasses. 

"Tha's  m'  wife,"  gurgled  the  sailor 
succulently,  pointing  an  unsteady  fore- 
finger in  the  general  direction  of  his 
glass.  "Give  'er  a  toas',  mate,"  he 
bubbled,  grasping  the  glass  clumsily 
and  spilling  half  its  contents  over  the 
bar. 

Hick  rose  to  the  occasion.  Spread- 
ing his  hands  above  the  sailor's  glass, 


as  if  about  to  pronounce  a  benedic- 
tion upon  it,  he  said: 

"Here's  to  the  wife  of  the  sailor  boy, 

(Then  lifting  his  own  glass) 
And  here's  to  the  cup  of  cheer. 
A  wife  is  man's  supremest  joy, 
But  give  me  a  glass  of  beer." 

"Tha's  aw  ri';  tha's  aw  ri',  mate," 
applauded  the  sailor.  "Gimme  yer 
flipper.  Come  on,  le't  have  'nuther." 

Their  capacity  measured  their  limi- 
tations, for  the  bar-tender  made  none, 
and  at  ten  cents  a  throw  the  sailor's 
money  held  out  very  well.  In  the 
earlier  stages  they  stood  at  the  bar 
between  drinks,  but  in  the  course  of 
an  hour  they  began  to  oscillate  be- 
tween the  bar  and  a  bench  in  the  cor- 
ner. Later  they  stayed  with  the  bench 
and  the  bar-tender  obligingly  brought 
the  refreshments  to  them. 

About  ten  o'clock  Hick  was  aroused 
from  a  state  of  semi-consciousness  by 
the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice  at  the 
bar  ordering  a  drink.  John  McCoy 
had  not  forgotten  that  it  was  Saturday 
night,  the  night  set  apart  for  the  mov- 
ies, and  later  a  tall  glass  or  so  at 
Jackson's  Place.  He  had  not  seen 
Hick  in  the  dark  corner,  and  at  a 
covert  sign  from  the  bar-tender  the 
younger  McCoy  made  an  unobtrusive 
exit  to  the  street. 

Once  again  Hick's  maudlin  mind  be- 
came involved  in  thought,  just  as  it 
had  that  other  time  earlier  in  the  even- 
ing when  he  moved  into  the  street  to 
escape  his  parent.  Which  way  should 
he  go  ?  That  was  Hick's  problem.  He 
could  not  decide  it  offhand,  so  down 
Columbus  avenue  he  wandered  aim- 
lessly. The  garish  Barbary  Coast 
lights  held  him  a  full  minute  at  the 
Pacific  street  crossing,  but  his  appe- 
tite for  conviviality  had  had  its  keen 
edge  turned.  He  passed  on.  Again  at 
the  Kearny  street  junction  he  wavered 
a  moment,  then  proceeded  along  the 
latter  street  until  he  reached  Ports- 
mouth Square.  Taking  the  first  path 
leading  from  the  sidewalk,  he  ambled 
along  between  grass  plot  and  flower 
bed  to  the  Stevenson  Memorial  in  the 


THE  REGENERATION  OF  HICK  McCOY 


469 


center  of  the  square,  and  dropped  onto 
a  bench. 

A  thin,  chill  mist  had  drifted  in 
through  the  Golden  Gate.  The  better 
to  protect  himself  from  it,  Hick  folded 
himself  across  the  middle,  his  elbows 
resting  on  his  knees  and  his  palms 
supporting  his  chin.  Thus  he  sat, 
looking  down  over  the  shrub-grown 
slope  of  the  square,  across  Kearny 
street,  and  straight  into  the  frowning 
face  of  the  Hall  of  Justice.  Once,  fol- 
lowing an  altercation  with  a  soldier  in 
a  Barbary  Coast  dance  hall,  Hick  had 
seen  the  inside  of  that  temple  for  the 
vindication  of  the  peace  and  dignity 
of  the  people  of  the  State  of  Califor- 
nia. Then  for  ten  days  he  had  dallied 
with  other  petty  offenders  in  an  en- 
closed place,  where  the  atmosphere, 
dank,  musty  and  half -lighted,  smelt  of 
chloride  of  lime.  But  mostly  Hick's 
lapses  were  conducted  with  such  de- 
corum that  the  Law  knew  them  not, 
and  he  readily  forgave  the  Law  its  one 
act  of  vengeance. 

Presently  the  youth  became  aware 
that  he  was  not  alone  in  the  park. 
Slow  and  measured  steps  crunched 
along  the  graveled  walk  from  behind, 
and  to  his  right.  To  Hick's  trained  ear 
it  was  the  tread  of  one  who  had  no 
destination  in  particular,  with  the 
whole  night  in  which  to  reach  it,  and 
he  knew  that  Officer  Dooley  of  the 
Chinatown  detail  had  entered  the  park 
from  his  beat  along  Clay  street.  Hick 
sat  up  straight,  his  pose  taking  on 
something  of  alertness  against  the 
coming  of  the  policeman.  Directly 
back  of  the  memorial  a  powerful  arc 
lamp  threw  a  too  brilliant  light  across 
the  square,  but  two  or  three  stunted 
poplars  intervened,  and  the  youth  did 
his  best  to  merge  himself  into  their 
friendly  shadow. 

The  officer  came  steadily  on  until 
within  ten  feet  of  the  bench,  where  he 
stopped  and  deliberately  scrutinized 
its  unoffending  occupant.  Under  the 
concerted  gaze  of  the  bluecoat  and  the 
Hall  of  Justice,  Hick  felt  a  sudden  and 
almost  irresistible  impulse  to  arise  and 
leave  the  square,  but  his  head  swam 
the  least  bit,  and  he  doubted  the  in- 


tegrity of  his  legs.  It  was  safer  to 
sit  it  out.  He  was  sober  enough  to 
think  of  that. 

With  an  effort  at  indifference  he 
scooped  a  little  tobacco  and  much  lint 
from  the  bottom  of  his  pocket,  resur- 
rected a  much  wrinkled  brown  paper, 
and  with  trembling  fingers  rolled  a 
pill. 

Still  the  officer  stood  and  silently 
watched,  and  still  the  Hall  of  Justice 
presented  its  frowning  front.  To  get 
his  mind  centered  on  more  wholesome 
things,  Hick  tried  to  count  the  stars 
that  would  fall  in  Portmouth  Square 
if  they  should  become  dislodged  from 
their  settings  in  the  sky.  Mentally 
tagging  the  nineteenth  luminary,  he 
mechanically  dug  up  a  match  and  was 
about  to  strike  it  when  it  occurred  to 
him  that  it  might  be  wiser  not  to  ad- 
vertise his  identity  by  holding  a  flar- 
ing match  in  his  own  face. 

It  was  an  awkward  juncture.  Why 
did  the  bull  persist  in  standing  there 
and  staring  at  him?  Why  didn't  he 
travel  his  beat?  Resentment  and  an- 
ger were  added  to  Hick's  mental  tor- 
ture. He  lost  count  of  the  stars.  If  he 
had  had  a  handkerchief  he  would  have 
trumpeted  into  it,  but,  lacking  that 
convenience,  he  sniffed  and  dragged 
his  sleeve  athwart  his  nose.  Then  his 
eyes  began  to  blur.  The  situation  was 
becoming  desperate  when  the  blue- 
coat  turned  its  back  and  went  slowly 
on  its  way  to  nowhere  in  particular. 

The  crisis  past,  Hick  gave  up  to  a 
fit  of  maudlin  tears.  He  threw  him- 
self upon  the  bench  and  wept  unre- 
strainedly. Let  the  bull  hear  it  if  he 
would.  The  strain  had  been  too  great, 
and  Hick  was  bound  to  have  relief. 
Somehow,  everybody  seemed  to  be 
against  him.  His  own  father's  last 
mark  of  attention  had  been  a  kick. 
Huddled  on  the  bench,  the  unhappy 
Ishmael  dug  his  fists  into  his  stream- 
ing eyes,  while  he  hiccoughed  and 
heaved  like  a  cow  trying  to  raise  a 
stubborn  cud. 

Thus  engaged,  it  was  no  wonder  he 
failed  to  hear  the  brisk  steps  of  the 
young  woman  with  a  destination  some- 
where beyond  the  precincts  of  Ports- 


470 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


mouth  Square  and  a  sincere  desire  to 
leave  the  square  behind  as  quickly  as 
possible.  As  she  same  nearer,  Hick's 
too  evident  distress  arrested  her.  She 
could  see  that  he  was  young.  A  poor, 
friendless  youth  suffering  some  great 
grief,  she  thought,  as  she  left  the  path 
and  approached  the  bench.  "Poor 
boy!"  she  exclaimed,  laying  a  com- 
forting hand  on  his  shoulder.  "What 
is  it?  What  is  the  trouble?" 

Hick  looked  up,  blinked,  sniffled 
and  whetted  his  beak  on  his  sleeve. 
Too  far  gone  to  be  ashamed  of  him- 
self, he  wept  afresh  as  he  pitied  him- 
self. "Nobody  cares  what  becomes  oi; 
me,"  he  wailed.  "My  own  father 
ki-kickedme!" 

It  is  not  always  easy  to  distinguish 
between  genuine  grief  and  the  lachry- 
mose eruption  of  a  crying  jag.  Even 
Hick  was  not  sure?  which  he  had.  It 
could  not  be  expected  of  the  sympa- 
thetic young  lady,  who,  perhaps,  had 
never  experienced  either.  Her  large 
round  eyes,  clear  and  innocent,  looked 
straight  into  Hick's  bleary  ones  as  she 
sought  to  console  him. 

"Your  father  kicked  you  ?  My  good- 
ness, how  can  a  father  be  so  brutal! 
But  don't  give  up  to  grief — don't  des- 
pair. Don't  give  up  for  a  minute.  If 
your  faith  is  right  all  will  come  out 
right  in  the  end.  There  is  one  who 
cares." 

Hick  suddenly  brightened.  He  did 
not  fully  understand,  but  her  tone  was 
encouraging.  Did  she  mean  that  she 
cared?  Her  gentle  sympathy  would 
be  a  full  recompense  for  all  his  woes. 
He  promptly  blinked  away  the  last  of 
his  maudlin  tears  and  put  the  matter 
squarely  up  to  her.  "Do  you  mean  you 
care?"  he  blurted. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  smile 
that  Hick  did  not  get.  "And  your 
Father  in  Heaven  cares.  Do  you  ever 
pray?" 

Hick  was  seeing  more  clearly  now. 
The  situation  somehow  looked  differ- 
ent. "N-no!"  he  confessed.  "Do 
you?" 

She  laughed  outright  this  time.  "Of 
course  I  do,  and  so  should  you.  I  am 
just  now  on  my  way  home  from  the 


loveliest  meeting  at  the  Lif t-the-Fallen 
Mission  on  Pacific  street.  Do  you 
know  where  it  is  ?" 

"Yes,  sure;  right  next  to  the  Spider 
dance  hall.  I  seen  it  lots  of  times.  Do 
you  go  there — to  that  mission?" 

"Quite  often,  yes.  It's  open  all  the 
time,  and  there  are  services  every 
evening.  There  is  a  reading  room,  too, 
where  you  can  see  the  papers  and 
magazines,  and  some  awfully  nice 
books.  I  do  wish  you  would  come 
some  time.  I  know  you'd  enjoy  it  ever 
so  much." 

"Can  a  fellow  go  in  any  time?"  in- 
quired Hick,  already  secretly  resolved 
to  cultivate  an  acquaintance  with  Lift- 
the-Fallen  missionary  work. 

"Any  time,  yes;  and  I  wish  you 
could  bring  your  father.  I  know  he 
needs  our  help,  too.  Can't  you  come 
to-morrow  morning?  We  meet  at  ten. 
But  I  must  go  now." 

Hick  readily  promised  to  present 
himself  at  the  mission  in  the  morning, 
and  the  young  woman  quickly  whisked 
away  into  the  night. 

Hick  had  not  left  the  bench  when, 
fifteen  minutes  later,  he  came  out  of 
a  raw  umber  study,  and  chanced  to  no- 
tice the  cigarette  still  crushed  between 
his  first  and  second  fingers.  "I'll  quit 
that,  too,"  he  said  aloud,  flicking  the 
coffin-nail  into  the  shrubbery.  Then, 
actuated  by  a  fine  resolve,  he  got  up 
and  strode  out  of  the  square  with  the 
firm  step  of  one  with  a  destination  and 
a  purpose. 

At  home,  young  McCoy  found  his 
father  sitting  alone,  humped  forlornly 
in  a  chair,  gazing  into  the  fireless 
grate.  The  parent  stared  in  surprise 
as  his  son  came  briskly  to  where  he 
sat. 

"Dad,"  exclaimed  the  youth,  "I've 
cut  it  out!  I'm  on  the  water  wagon 
from  now  on!" 

The  old  man  twitched  his  grizzled 
beard  in  astonishment.  "What — how 
is  that?"  he  demanded. 

Hick  felt  a  dithyrambic  attack  com- 
ing on  and  backed  off  a  few  feet,  his 
arms  awave  as  if  he  would  hypnotize 
his  father  into  a  receptive  state. 

"Listen,  dad : 


THE  REGENERATION  OF  HICK  McCOY 


471 


"In  Portsmouth  Square,  weighed  down 

with  care, 

I  sat  and  hoped  I'd  die, 
When  out  of  the  night  a  sweet  angel  of 

light 
Seemed  to  swoop " 

"Oh,  can  that  stuff!  You're  so 
drunk  you  don't  know  what  you're 
saying." 

Hick's  swelling  gas  bag  was  punc- 
tured. His  inspired  words  began  to 
spatter  out  in  prosaic  figures.  "No; 
you're  wrong,  dad.  I've  busted  with 
old  John  Bacchus;  I've  took  a  fresh 
start.  I'm  on  the  water  wagon  from 
now  on,  and  I  feel  like  the  stopper  in 
a  bottle  of  soda  pop.  Come  on,  let's 
shake." 

"By  golly,  I  will !"  exclaimed  John 
McCoy,  getting  to  his  feet  and  giving 
his  son's  hand  a  hearty  squeeze.  "And 
what's  more,  I'll  quit,  too.  You  quit, 
and  I'll  show  you  that  your  father  can 
quit.  That  ought  to  be  fair." 

"Sure  thing,  dad."  They  shook 
hands  again,  and  Hick  related  the  de- 
tails of  his  whirlwind  reconstruction  in 
Portsmouth  Square.  "And  she's  sure 
a  peach,  dad,"  he  ended.  "So  sym- 
pathetic and  all.  I  ain't  ever  had  any- 
body talk  to  me  like  she  did." 

"By  golly,  I'm  glad,"  was  all  the 
father  could  say. 

John  McCoy's  was  not  an  impulsive 
nature.  He  experienced  few  ups  and 
downs  of  sentiment;  yet,  somehow,  an 
unusual  peace  seemed  to  permeate  his 
slumber  that  night.  Hick  tossed  in 
happy  wakefulness  till  early  morning; 
nor  did  he  oversleep,  but  was  up  and 
preened  and  on  his  way  to  the  Lif  t-the- 
Fallen  mission  almost  an  hour  ahead  of 
time. 

Early  as  was  the  hour,  the  mission 
doors  were  open.  A  gray-haired,  el- 
derly lady,  after  giving  him  the  once 
over,  directed  him  to  the  reading  room. 
A  few  shabby  books  graced  the  single 
shelf,  and  on  the  long  pine  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  were  a  number  of 
antiquated  magazines,  coverless  for 
the  most  part.  Hick  passed  up  both 
magazines  and  books, (  and  was  indus- 
triously conning  the  sporting  page  of 


a  week-old  newspaper  when  the  Angel 
of  Light  arrived. 

To  Hick  she  appeared  even  more  an- 
gelic by  daylight  than  she  had  under 
the  arc  lamp  in  Portsmouth  Square. 
"You  are  the  young  man  I  met  last 
night?"  she  guessed.  "Did  you  bring 
your  father?  I  don't  see  him.  Per- 
haps he  is  coming  later.  Is  he?" 

"No,"  replied  Hick.  "I  left  the  old 
man  home  pounding  his  ear." 

"Left  him  doing  what?"  she  de- 
manded with  concern. 

"Sleeping,"  explained  Hick,  with  a 
patronizing  grin  at  her  ignorance. 

Two  more  ladies  came  shortly  after- 
ward, also  four  or  five  men.  They  ad- 
dressed the  Angel  of  Light  as  Sister 
Smith,  and  Hick  was  introduced  all 
round.  He  was  Brother  McCoyed  and 
shaken  by  the  hand  until  he  came  to 
feel  like  a  pillar  of  the  institution. 

Suddenly,  without  prelude  or  warn- 
ing, they  broke  out  singing  a  hymn. 
The  tune  was  not  unfamiliar  to  Hick, 
and  he  joined  in.  The  last  note  of  the 
final  chorus  had  hardly  died  away 
when  Brother  Jenkins  knelt  and  be- 
gan a  vehement  prayer  for  the  uplift 
of  the  sin-ridden.  In  the  midst  of  it, 
one  of  the  special  objects  of  his  peti- 
tion wobbled  in  under  his  load  of  sin 
and  other  things,  and  threw  himself 
heavily  into  a  rear  bench. 

It  was  the  proselyte  Hick  who  hur- 
ried to  the  poor  wretch's  side  and  de- 
livered a  fifteen  minute  homily  on  the 
mockery  of  wine,  the  raging  propen- 
sity of  strong  drink,  and  the  unwisdom 
of  him  who  is  deceived  thereby.  In 
the  end  there  was  placed  before  the 
penitent  a  printed  form  of  pledge 
within  a  gilt  border,  and  set  off  by  the 
pathetic  figure  of  a  haggard  and  sad- 
faced  woman  in  an  attitude  of  prayer, 
her  arm  about  a  ragged  little  girl,  and 
overhead  a  flock  of  cherubim  in  full 
flight.  With  infinite  labor  the  inebri- 
ate affixed  a  clumsy  scrawl.  Brothers 
McCoy  and  Jenkins  signed  as  wit- 
nesses and  sponsors,  after  which,  under 
the  leadership  of  Sister  Smith,  they 
all  stood  up  and  sang  "We're  Going  to 
hang  King  Alcohol." 

It  was  a  light  heart  and  a  beaming 


472 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


face  that  Hick  brought  home  to  his 
father  that  day.  "It's  the  only  thing, 
dad,"  he  announced  enthusiastically. 
"It's  the  straight  and  narrow  for  mine 
from  now  on.  And,  say — that  girl,  she 
is  sure  some  peacherino.  I'm  going  to 
ask  her  to  marry  me." 

"By  golly,  I  wish  you  would.  It'd 
be  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
you.  Maybe  she'd  keep  you  working 
and  sober.  I  can't." 

"Well,  that's  all  over  now,  dad.  I'm 
mustered  out  of  the  unemployed  army 
now,  and  I'm  going  to  get  me  a  steady 
job." 

"Let's  shake  on  that,"  suggested  the 
elder  McCoy,  and  so  the  resolution  was 
sealed. 

Again  that  night  Hick  attended  the 
mission  service;  likewise  the  evening 
following,  and  so  on  through  the  week, 
each  meeting  adding  something  to  his 
determination  to  lead  a  clean  and  use- 
ful life.  He  dared  to  hope  that  in  time 
he  might  win  his  ideal  and  inspiration, 
the  Angel  of  Light,  the  messenger  of 
hope  sent  to  him  by  Providence  as  he 
sat,  lonely  and  miserable,  in  Ports- 
mouth Square,  weighed  down  with  a 
bitterness  he  did  not  believe  could  ever 
be  lifted  from  his  soul. 

Nor  was  the  elder  McCoy  indiffer- 
ent. He  rejoiced  moderately  in  the 
transformation  of  his  son,  and  he  was 
mildly  grateful  to  the  young  lady  from 
the  mission  to  whom  he  gave  all  credit. 
But  there  were  times  when  he  felt  that 
the  price  he  himself  had  volunteered 
to  pay  for  the  boy's  salvation  was  both 
exorbitant  and  unnecessary.  He  was 
getting  well  along  in  years;  there  was 
little  of  cheer  in  life  for  him.  His 
children  were  grown,  and  he  had  no 
real  companionship.  An  occasional 
drink  would  do  him  no  harm.  He 
could  take  it  or  leave  it  at  will. 

Tuesday  night  he  willed  to  take  it — 
just  one  glass  at  Jackson's.  But  just 
before  he  reached  the  place  his  con- 
science intervened,  and  he  passed  by. 
All  day  Wednesday  he  chided  himself 
for  his  weakness  of  the  previous  even- 
ing and  mentally  renewed  his  covenant 
with  Hick.  On  Thursday  night  he  had 
his  second  struggle  and  again  he  con- 


quered his  thirst.  Friday  night  was 
easy,  but  on  Saturday  night  the  crisis 
came.  It  was  the  night  by  custom  set 
apart  for  the  movies,  and  later  a  tall 
glass  or  so  at  Jackson's  place.  It  had 
come  to  be  a  system.  Saturday  night 
had  always  been  a  night  of  weakness 
for  John  McCoy,  and  he  fell,  explain- 
ing to  himself  as  he  did  so  that  a  hard- 
working stevedore  required  a  little 
stimulant  now  and  again.  Several 
glasses  of  liquid  ballast  had  been 
dumped  down  his  hatchway  before  he 
quit  the  place.  But  John  was  a  stable 
craft.  With  a  full  bilge  and  an  even 
keel  he  cut  a  straight  course  for  home 
at  five  knots. 

Maggie  and  Tom,  of  course,  worked 
late  that  night,  and  Hick  had  gone 
early  to  his  mission  meeting.  The 
house  was  empty  when  John  McCoy 
returned.  Fully  clothed,  he  dropped 
upon  the  couch  in  the  living  room,  and 
lay  there  a  long  time,  brooding  in  the 
darkness. 

Maybe  he  fell  asleep.  He  did  not 
know.  The  house  was  still  empty,  save 
for  him.  when  he  was  aroused  by  some 
one  fumbling  at  the  night  latch,  fol- 
lowed by  uncertain  steps  along  the 
dark  hallway.  He  raised  himself  from 
the  couch  and  waited,  listening,  while 
the  steps  came  nearer  down  the  hall 
and  stopped  a  moment  at  the  doorway 
leading  into  the  living  room.  The  elec- 
tric turn  button  beside  the  door 
snapped,  flooding  the  room  with  light. 

Hick  McCoy,  his  hat  pulled  slouch- 
ily  over  one  ear,  confronted  his  father. 
King  Alcohol  was  still  unhung! 

The  youth  blinked  and  swayed  in 
silence  under  the  man's  accusing  eyes. 
An  awkward  minute  passed  before 
the  father  spoke.  "And  you  told  me 
you  quit  drinking,"  he  reproved.  "I 
didn't  think  it'd  last.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself,  a  young  man  with 
your  education  and  opportunities. 
Where  do  you  ever  expect  to  end,  any- 
way?" 

Hick  shifted  his  weight  to  his  right 
leg,  propped  his  left  elbow  against  the 
door  jamb,  and  steadied  his  head  in 
his  palm.  With  a  sweep  of  his  right 
hand  he  removed  his  hat  and  parodied : 


"SPRING-FEVER  MONTH."  473 

"Oh,  why  should  I  look  to  you,  father,  any  time.     I  know  what's  the  matter 

Oh,  why  should  I  look  to  you  with  you.     You  asked  that     girl     to 

For  advice  to  give  to  your  drunken  son  marry  you,  and  she  turned  you  down, 

When  you  are,  drunken,  too?"  didn't  she?" 

"You  guessed  it  the  first  time,  dad," 

"I   ain't   drunk,"   defended   McCoy  acknowledged  Hick.    "I  asks  her  to- 

the  elder.    I  had  a  glass  or  so  at  Jack-  night  if  she'll  have  me,  and  she  tells 

son's,  but  what's  that?  I  ain't  no  slave  me  she's  already  married  to  the  mis- 

to  drink.    I  can  take  it  or  leave  it  alone  sion  superintendent." 


"SPRING-FEVER     AONTM  " 


It  now  has  hold  of  me  ... 

The  hills  call  with  their  myriad  voices — 

Birds  .  .  .  flowers  .  .  .  spicy  odors  .  .  . 

Creeping,  crawling  things  I  cannot  see.  .  .  . 

Draw — draw — and  quite  enrapture  me ! 

The  wind  that  walks  among  the  flowers; 

That  bends  the  Brodia's  head, 

Loosens  the  Poppy's  cap, 

That  finally,  tiring  of  Earth-play 

Tosses  the  trees,  torments  the  lazy  clouds 

Until  they  rage  in  slanting,  driving  showers ! 

My  veins  riot  with  Spring-Fever  madness ! 

My  feet  stray  from  the  roads : 

Find  undiscovered  .  .  .  wind-swept  ways  .  .  . 

Moss  grown — fern  studded  .  .  .  flower  scented  .  .  . 

My  heart  misses  a  beat — and  leaps  to  gladness ! 

The  lizard  suns  ...  as  I  sun  .  .  . 

The  linnet  is  my  brother  .  .  .as  he  bathes,  I  bathe 

In  the  shallow  scooped-out  stone. 

The  butterflies  are  kin  to  me. 

Panting,  afraid — with  the  rabbit 

In  the  brush  I  run! 

I  carry  pieces  of  grass  and  thistledown,  with  the  birds  .  .  . 

The  linnets — the  meadow  larks — 

And  build  with  the  wren  in  the  cactus : 

Follow  hill-paths  with  the  Road  Runner. 

Without  knowing  why,  without  words 

I  am  one  with  my  Brothers, 

The  World  is  all  mine  .  .  .  mine  and  my  Lover's. 

There  is  nothing  I  do  not  claim  for  us : 

No  experience  not  ours — 

All  the  world  of  imagining  .  .  .  mine  and  Another's ! 

Not  one  wonderful  thing 

Do  I  miss,  as  out  on  the  hill — with  the  Poppies 

One  after  another  baring  their  heads  to  me ; 

With  the  "Middle  of  Spring-Fever  Month." 

Madness  upon  me,  I  intrigue  with  Spring. 

EDNA  HEALD  McCoy. 


The  Spider  and  the  Fly 


By  /Ainna  Irving 


A  SLIM,  gray  house-spider  took 
up  her  quarters  in  the  corner 
of  the  upper  sash  >of  my  din- 
ing room  window,  and  wove  a 
cleverly  constructed  bridge  from 
her  lair  to  the  brass  rod  that  held  the 
muslin  sash  curtain,  thus  ingeniously 
enclosing  the  entire  middle  pane.  A 
member  of  the  family  with  a  turn  for 
natural  history  took  the  spider  under 
his  protection,  with  a  view  to  studying 
the  habits  of  the  little  creature.  For 
a  few  days  she  waxed  fat  on  the  un- 
wary flies  that  sunned  themselves  on 
the  middle  pane.  Then  the  warning 
word  went  round  in  flydom,  and  the 
glass  promenade  beneath  the  delicate 
and  dangerous  cables  was  tabooed. 
The  natural  history  student  now  be- 
gan to  catch  flies  for  his  pet,  and 
learned  a  number  of  new  facts  about 
flies  as  well  as  spiders.  The  spider 
would  not  touch  a  dead  fly,  no  matter, 
how  recently  killed;  she  would  not 
even  come  out  to  look  at  one.  A  weak 
fly  that  did  not  buzz  and  made  no  ef- 
fort to  get  away,  was  also  ignored, 
even  if  she  had  fasted  all  day.  Some- 
times a  fly  with  more  than  usual  intel- 
ligence— or  was  it  instinct  triumphing 
over  blind  terror? — would  cease  its 
struggles  and  play  dead  when  the 
monster  approached.  The  spider  then 
would  draw  off  and  appear  to  scruti- 
nize her  victim  for  signs  of  life.  If 
she  detected  none,  she  would  retire  to 
her  curtained  corner,  but  if  the 
'trapped  insect  allowed  the  tip  of  a 
wing  to  quiver,  or  wriggled  a  leg,  it 
was  pounced  on  with  lightning  like  ra- 
pidity and  dragged  off  to  be  devoured. 
The  buzzing  of  a  fly  held  close  to  her 
retreat,  but  out  of  sight,  brought  an 
alert  forefoot  into  view,  ready  for 
prompt  action,  but  the  spider  kept  her 


body  concealed  behind  her  silken 
screen — the  landing  of  the  lively 
prize  in  the  web  called  her  instantly 
to  the  fray.  One  day  a  big  blue-bottle 
blundered  on  the  airy  suspension 
bridge,  and  the  spider  shot  out  and 
boldly  seized  it.  Then  ensued  a  battle 
royal,  ending  in  victorious  escape  for 
the  blue-bottle,  which  proved  too 
strong  for  the  valiant  little  spider. 

Alcohol  is  swift  and  sure  death  to 
flies,  even  a  minute  drop  being  fatal. 
Cautious  experiments  were  made  with 
it  on  the  spider,  as  there  was  no  de- 
sire to  kill  her.  It  was  dropped  on  the 
web  here  and  there  in  globules  like 
dew,  but  as  this  did  not  appear  to 
cause  her  any  discomfort,  the  window 
casing  above  was  sprayed  with  it,  so 
that  it  ran  down  and  flooded  her  lair. 
She  did  not  even  move,  but  continued 
to  dine  on  a  fat  fly  she  had  just  cap- 
tured. A  highly-scented  cologne 
water  was  next  used,  and  this  was  evi- 
dently very  displeasing  to  her,  for  she 
hurried  out  on  her  bridge  and  remained 
there  for  several  hours  until  the  odor 
had  evaporated. 

It  was  now  thought  she  might  enjoy 
a  change  of  diet,  so  a  potato-bug  was 
presented  to  her.  The  spider  took  no 
notice  of  the  disturbance,  though  the 
spotted  stranger  kicked  and  struggled 
desperately  to  free  itself  from  the 
meshes  of  the  web.  Finally,  with  dig- 
nified deliberation,  and  without  so 
much  as  a  look  at  her  unwelcome  pris- 
oner, the  spider  emerged  from  her 
hiding  place,  traveled  quietly  up  the 
window  frame,  struck  out  across  the 
wide  area  of  wallpaper,  and  journeyed 
to  the  top  of  a  book-case,  where,  five 
minutes  after  her  arrival,  she  was  bus- 
ily constructing  a  new  web  of  an  en- 
tirely different  pattern. 


Stabbed 


By   William  DC  Ryee 


I  HAPPENED  to  be  standing  in 
front  of  that  superb  statue  of  Rob- 
ert Burns  in  San  Francisco's 
Golden  Gate  Park  when  her  child- 
ish voice  hailed  me  sweetly  from  the 
walk. 

"Please,  sir,  can  you  direct  me  to 
the  McAllister  cars?" 

I  turned  and,  for  the  first  time,  saw 
her — a  slight  girl,  dressed  all  in  white, 
with  immense  gray  eyes  and  short- 
cropped,  flaming-red  hair. 

Standing  there,  she  made  a  startling 
picture — beautiful  beyond  description. 

"Certainly,"  I  hastened  to  say.  "As 
it  happens,  I  am  going  in  that  direc- 
tion. If  you  will  accompany  me  to 
Stanyan  street  I  will  show  you  the 
way." 

She  acquiesced,  a  little  reluctantly, 
I  thought.  We  walked  along  in  si- 
lence for  a  space.  Then  abruptly  she 
asked : 

"Do  you  know  what  time  the  train 
leaves  for  Los  Angeles?" 

"About  six-thirty,  I  believe.  If  you 
are  thinking  of " 

"Oh,  I  must  catch  that  train!"  she 
interrupted  me  tragically.  "But  I — 
do  you" — and  to  my  amazement  she 
stifled  a  sob — "do  you  think  the  pawn 
shops  are  open?" 

She  had  hold  of  my  arm  now,  and 
was  hurrying  me  along  at  a  rapid  pace. 
I  was  struck  by  her  extraordinary 
beauty;  bewildered  by  her  strange  ac- 
tions. 

"I  fear  they  will  be  closed  by  the 

time "  I  stopped  short  and  gazed 

at  her  in  dumb  amazement.  The  child 
— for  she  was  more  of  a  child  than  a 
woman — was  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

"Look  here!"  I  broke  out  at  last. 
"Why  don't  you  tell  me  your  troubles? 


I  am  a  gentleman,  and  will  do  all  I 
can  to  help  you." 

We  had  emerged  from  the  park  and 
were  standing  under  the  glare  of  an 
arc  light  on  Stanyan  street.  A  half- 
block  to  our  left,  a  taxi  was  unloading 
some  people.  I  hailed  the  chauffeur. 

"Now,  little  girl,  tell  me  all,"  I  said 
encouragingly,  when  we  were  inside 
and  bowling  toward  town. 

Receiving  no  answer,  I  switched  on 
the  light.  My  protege  had  stopped 
crying,  and  her  great  sorrowful  eyes 
were  turned  full  upon  me."  I  thought 
I  saw  the  ghost  of  a  smile  play  about 
her  perfect  little  mouth.  She  seemed 
a  mere  child — and  yet,  what  a  profile 
for  a  Joan  of  Arc ! 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  murmured, 
"but  you  are  not  as  old  as  I  thought 
you  were.  Have  you  a  cigarette?" 

I  fairly  bounded  out  of  my  seat.  "A 
cigarette!"  I  gasped. 

"Yes.  I'm  dying  for  a  smoke.  I'll 
tell  you  all  my  troubles  if  you'll  give 
me  a  cigarette." 

"But,'  I  expostulated,  "where  in  the 
world  did  you " 

"Please!"  she  said,  laying  one  small 
hand  over  mine.  "Positively,  I  am  not 
wicked.  I  acquired  the  habit  from  the 
boys  on  the  ranch." 

"Well!"    And  I  proffered  my  case. 

"Troubles,"  I  insinuated. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked  ir- 
relevantly. 

I  consulted  my  watch. 

"Six-ten." 

"Oh!"  She  heaved  a  little  sigh  and 
glanced  apprehensively  out  of  the 
window.  "I  wonder  if  we  can  make 
it?" 

"Easily,"  I  assured  her.  "This  is 
Fillmore.  We'll  be  down  there  inside 
of  three  minutes." 


476 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


More  than  once  I  had  noticed  her 
twisting  a  large  ring  around  the  middle 
finger  of  her  left  hand. 

"That's  a  beautiful  ring,"  I  ventured 
tentatively. 

She  seemed  to  snatch  at  the  sugges- 
tion. 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  Her  tone 
was  joyous.  "I'm  going  to  ask  a  hun- 
dred on  it.  Is  that  too  much?". 

She  slipped  it  off  and  handed  it  to 
me — a  massive,  greenish  gild  circle  of 
an  odd  design ;  the  nude  figures  of  two 
nymphs  upholding  above  their  heads 
goblets  of  wine — the  wine  being  repre- 
sented by  a  magnificent  ruby — while 
sunk  into  their  breasts  were  four  sap- 
phires, evidently  Burmahs  from  their 
pale,  dazzling  luster.  Serpents  with 
emerald  heads  were  coiled  about  the 
waists  and  limbs  of  the  tiny,  but  per- 
fectly formed,  figures.  The  whole  ef- 
fect was  repulsive,  yet  fascinating. 

"That  certainly  is  a  remarkable  em- 
blem of  Bacchus,"  I  said.  "You  could 
borrow  two  hundred  on  it  as  easily  as 
one."  And  such  was  my  earnest  con- 
viction, even  at  the  time. 

She  turned  away  from  me  abruptly, 
and  at  that  moment  the  cab  stopped,  as 
I  had  directed,  at  a  pawn-broker's  on 
Fifth  street. 

I  drew  the  curtain. 

The  place  was  closed. 

A  muffled  groan  came  from  my  com- 
panion. "Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  do 
not  know  what  to  do." 

And  then,  to  my  utter  astonishment : 

"My  God!  Won't  you  get  me  some 
money  with  this  ring?  It's  valuable. 
Honest,  it  cost  five  hundred  dollars. 
Oh,  I  must  have  it.  I've  got  to  go  to 
Los  Angeles  to-night.  I  can't  stay 
here— I  can't— I  can't!" 

Snatching  up  the  speaking  tube,  I 
ordered,  "The  Station — quick!" 

"But  I  haven't  any  money!"  She 
was  all  but  shrieking  now.  "Oh,  my 
poor — poor  little " 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  hush!"  I  re- 
monstrated. "People  will  think  you 
are  being  murdered.  If  you  must  go — 
then  you  must.  I  happened  to  draw 
some  money  from  the  bank  to-day. 
How  much  do  you  need?" 


"I  need  as  much  as  I  can  get." 

"Well,  I  will  keep  the  ring  as  secur- 
ity for  two  hundred.  Here -"  And 

selecting  several  bills  from  my  wallet, 
I  handed  them  to  her. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed  with  delight. 

"Oh!"  seemed  to  be  her  favorite  ex- 
pression. From  her,  it  was  music,  and 
even  to  this  day  I  would  never  grow 
weary  of  hearing  her  say  it,  if  only — 
if  only  she But  I  am  digressing. 

Her  child-like  expressions  of  joy 
seemed  to  me  too  spontaneous,  too 
natural  not  to  be  sincere. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  exuberantly,  the 
while  she  fondled,  and  even  kissed, 
the  bills  I  had  given  her.  "My!  you 
are  so  good !  Honest,  you  are  the  best 
man  I  have  ever  known,  Mister — 
Mister " 

"Brunlee — Jack  Brunless.  And 
you?" 

"Joan." 

"Joan  of  Arc?" 

"No.  Joan  Marten.  Here's  your 
ring.  Now  you  must  give  me  your  ad- 
dress so  I  can  send  for  it  when  I  get 
to  Phoe " 

"Ah-ha!  Phoenix!  So  you  live  on 
a  ranch  near  Phoenix,  eh?" 

"Ye-es," 

"And  do  you  like  ranch  life?" 

"No,"  dreamily,  "I  love  it!" 

Whether  it  was  her  extraordinary 
beauty  that  caused  it,  or  the  hint  of 
sadness  in  her  voice,  or  both,  I  could 
not  determine,  but  my  heart  suddenly 
bounded  foolishly.  I  sat,  speechless, 
gazing  at  the  exquisite  loveliness  of 
her  face,  trying  in  vain  to  fathom  a 
strange  sense  of  yearning  that  was 
dominating  me.  I  felt  that  I  was 
about  to  lose  something  infinitely  valu- 
able— and  lose  it,  -perchance,  forever. 
It  was  a  wholly  new  sensation  to  me. 

"Joan,"  I  managed  to  say  at  last — 
and  realized,  with  a  start,  that  my 
voice  was  husky — "Joan,  I  wish  you 
-wouldn't  go  away  to-night." 

She  brightened  up  instantly. 

"Ohs  but  I  must!" 

Then  I  suddenly  became  aware  of 
what  it  was  I  valued  so  highly,  and 
was,  I  thought,  about  to  lose.  It  was 
she!  It  was  Joan  Marten  I  wanted — 


STABBED 


477 


a  beautiful  red-haired  child-woman,  of 
whose  very  existence  I  had  been  ig- 
norant an  hour  before. 

"I'll  give  you  back  your  ring,"  I  said 
passionately,  "if  you  will  let  me  go 
with  you  to  Los  Angeles.  Why  not 
let  me  see  you  safely  home — in  Phoe- 
nix? I  would  consider  it " 

"No."  She  said  it  simply,  and  shook 
her  head  for  emphasis. 

I  actually  felt  my  hands  turn  icy- 
cold  at  her  decisive  manner.  She  was 
so  close  to  me,  and  yet,  so  far.  I 
caught  myself  imagining,  or  rather, 
trying  to  imagine,  the  bliss  of  kissing 
her  neck  just  below  her  bobbed  red 
hair.  And  mentally  cursing  myself  for 
a  fool,  I  made  another  effort  at  saving 
myself — as  though  from  some  irrepar- 
able loss. 

"Then  please  stay  over  and  pose  for 
me  to-morrow.  God!  what  a  picture 
you  would  make — just  as  you  are!" 

My  pulses  quickened  again,  for  I 
saw  something  akin  to  wonderment 
kindle  in  her  great  eyes.  She  looked 
at  me  with  renewed  interest. 

"Oh,  how  nice  that  would  be!  Why, 
I  had  no  idea  you  were  an  artist.  But 
I  can't  do  it — I  would  love  to,  though. 
I  love  things  like  that." 

"I  believe  you  are  a  little  poetess," 
I  said. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  am — I  love  the 
beautiful  in  everything." 

"Look  here,"  I  urged  desperately, 
"won't  you  give  me  your  address  so  I 
can  write  to  you.  You  haven't  told 
me  a  thing  about  yourself.  What  are 
you  doing  here  in  San  Francisco?" 

Her  eyes  sparkled  mischievously. 

"Poor  man !"  she  laughed.  "Honest, 
you  act  as  though  you  had  known  me 
for  years." 

"Thousands!"  I  replied  fervently; 
then  added:  "Won't  you  please  give 
me  your  address  ?" 

"Not  till  I  get  home.  Then  I'll 
write  you  a  letter." 

"Promise?" 

"Cross  my  heart." 

"I'm  going  to  write  you     to-night, 


anyway — Phoenix,  G.  D." 

Again  her  eyes  danced. 

"I'll  never  get  it,"  she  teased. 
"Phoenix  is  not  our  Postoffice." 

At  that  moment  the  taxi  jerked  to  a 
standstill,  and  with  something  of  the 
sensation  a  criminal  must  have  when 
he  hears  the  judge  pronounce  his  sen- 
tence, I  helped  Joan  out,  paid  the  fare, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  ticket  office. 

Another  moment  and  we  stood  at 
the  parting  of  the  ways.  Joan  was 
very  close  to  me  now,  those  wonderful 
gray  eyes  looking  up  into  mine,  and 
one  short  lock  of  red  hair  caressing  a 
velvety  cheek. 

"Good-bye,  little  girl,"  I  stammered. 

"Jack,"  she  whispered,  "you  may 
kiss  me — if  you  want  to." 

Heavens!  I  took  her  in  my  arms 
and  kissed  her — first  tenderly,  then 
passionately — kissed  her  brow,  her 
hair,  her  dear  lips.  When  I  thrust  her 
from  me,  almost  rudely,  the  tears  were 
streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

Lord,  what  puzzles  women  are! 

Then  the  train  puffed  out,  and  she 
stood  on  the  back  platform,  waving  a 
tiny  handkerchief.  I  gazed  after  her 
figure  until  my  eyes  ached,  until  far 
away  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  hair 
as  it  flashed  in  the  sunlight,  and  had 
I  but  known — yet  again  I  digress. 

The  next  morning  I  went  around  to 
a  pawn-broker's. 

"How  much  will  you  lend  me  on 
this?"  I  asked  of  the  cashier. 

He  examined  the  ring  for  a  moment ; 
then  went  to  the  rear. 

Presently  he  returned. 

"Four  hundred,"  he  said  laconically. 

I  made  my  excuses  and  left  the 
place. 

"Not  for  a  thousand!"  I  muttered,  as 
I  sauntered  down  Market  street. 

An  hour  later  I  read  about  the 
wreck.  A  special  train  had  been  sent 
out  from  Los  Angeles  to  take  the 
wounded  and  dead  back  to  that  city. 
There  was  a  long  list  of  the  dead.  And 
in  that  list  I  found — oh,  God ! — I  found 
the  name :  Joan  Marten! 


The  Sensible  Thing 


By  Jo.  Mailman 


STEELE  had  thought  the  matter 
over  from  every  angle.    Yes,  he 
was  doing  decidedly  the  sensible 
thing.       Mildred     Rives     would 
make  an  ideal  wife — and  he  had  the 
future  to  consider.    She  was  cultured, 
accomplished,  with  a     sweet    blonde 
beauty  that  was  pleasing  to  the  eye. 
Added  to  her  personal  charms,     she 
was  an  heiress,  an  only  child,  and  in 
love  with  him! 

Something  vague  twinged  at  his 
heart.  Was  he  worthy  of  her?  Well, 
from  the  world's  viewpoint,  emphati- 
cally so ;  he  was  president  of  the  Mid- 
Western  Securities  Company,  on  a 
solid  financial  and  social  basis,  with 
no  openly  bad  record.  He  had  been 
very  discreet,  or  rather  fortunate, 
about  his  affair  with  Nannae.  None 
of  his  friends  to  whom  it  would  have 
made  any  difference  ever  heard  of  it 
— the  others  didn't  care. 

Nannae!  Ah,  now  he  divined  the 
trouble :  it  was  not  a  question  of  con- 
science in  regard  to  Mildred,  it  was — 
Nannae!  Of  course  she  was  quite  in- 
dependent and  capable — her  voice  had 
lost  none  of  its  charm — she  would  get 
along.  Then  the  vision  of  Adolph 
Todd,  who  had  been  wild  about  her 
for  two  years,  flitted  disconcertingly 
across  his  mind.  She  might  go  to  that 
cad.  If  she  were  only  the  regulation 
type  that  play  on  the  stage  of  life — 
but  Nannae  was  different.  Lord,  how 
he  could  have  loved  her  if  there  hadn't 
been  Rex  Cully  and  young  Melford, 
and  that  despicable  old  Count  Rouix! 
But  as  it  was,  he  had  his  mother  and 
sisters  to  think  about — and  his  sons 
to  be.  He  must  break  with  her  as  ten- 
derly as  he  could — and  finally! 

The  telephone  rang.  Some  one 
called  Reggie  Steele.  It  was  Nannae. 


He  thrilled  at  the  sound  of  her  voice; 
he  hadn't  seen  her  for  an  interminable 
week. 

"Reggie,  I've  a  feeling  that  you 
have  something  to  tell  me.  Can  you 
meet  me  at  Wycourt  Garden?  We'll 
have  lunch  to  Dofenelli's  wonderful 
orchestra,  and  afterwards — we  can 
talk!" 

Exactly  the  thing  he  should  have 
suggested.  Nannae  did  have  such  tact 
— such  intuition.  It  would  be  hard  to 
get  used  to  another  woman's  ways — 
but  time  worked  wonders  in  these  sort 
of  affairs !  And,  pshaw,  she  was  mak- 
ing it  easy  for  him — he  mustn't  get 
sentimental  and  spoil  it! 

"Sure,  Girlie,  I'll  be  there,  seven 
o'clock.  Be  sure  to  wear  that  new 
Dorchet  creation — you  look  like  a 
queen  in  it!" 

He  hung  up  the  receiver.  He  would 
enjoy  this  last  evening — he  was  proud 
of  Nannae!  He  liked  to  see  the  fel- 
lows green  with  envy  while  she  would 
sit,  serene  and  oblivious  of  all  but 
him.  Somehow  the  life  she  had  led 
had  not  told  on  her.  Her  deep  violet 
eyes  were  as  innocent  as  a  baby's.  If 

he  only  didn't  know He  lit  a 

heavy  black  cigar,  locked  his  desk  and 

went  out  into  the  street. 

*  *  *  * 

The  lights  were  soft  and  colored, 
and  the  palm  trees  stirred  faintly.  The 
white  moon  floated  out  of  a  summer 
'cloud.  Donfenelli's  orchestra  was 
playing  Schubert's  Serenade.  Nannae 
reached  a  little  gloved  hand  over  on 
Steele's  arm. 

"Reggie,  does  not  this  remind  you  of 
Venice,  its  lights  and  music,  the  gon- 
dola, and — our  first  kiss?" 

Steele's  hand  closed  over  her  slen- 
der fingers. 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


479 


"Don't!"  he  said  in  a  husky  voice. 

Nannae,  Steele  thought,  had  never 
looked  so  beautiful,  entrancing.  And 
there  was  that  drawling-voiced  Todd 
at  the  next  table,  almost  devouring  her 
with  his  gaze! 

"Have  you  something  on  your  mind, 
Reggie?"  She  looked  at  him  straight. 
"Don't  you  want  to  talk  to  me?" 

"I  want  to  see  you,  Nannae — you 
were  never  so  wonderful!" 

They  finished  their  supper  in  si- 
lence. Afterwards  they  drove  to 
Nannae's  apartments.  They  sat  for  a 
while  before  the  open  grate.  Then 
Nannae  slipped  down  on  the  quaint 
Persian  rug  and  settled  herself  at 
Steele's  feet.  She  took  his  hand  and 
held  it  against  her  cheek.  Heavens, 
how  she  made  him  suffer!  No,  he 
simply  couldn't  tell  her  to-night! 

"Reggie,  the  end  has  come,  and  you 
haven't  the  courage  to  tell  me — is  that 
it,  dear?" 

"Oh,  Nannae,"  he  groaned.  "Dar- 
ling, how  did  you  know?" 

"A  woman  knows  these  things,  Reg- 
gie. I've  tried  to  make  it  easy  for  you 
by  being  prepared.  I  shan't  make  a 
fuss,  and — I  want  you  to  be  happy. 
I've  prayed  over  it  until  I  can  say  it 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  You 
will  miss  me  at  first,  but  it  won't  be 
for  long." 

"Is  it— is  it  that  Todd  thing?"  he 
hisse.d.  "By  gad,  he  can't  have  you!" 

"Listen,  Reggie,  it  isn't  he — nor  any 
other.  I  once  thought  I  might  win  you 
for  myself,  that  you  might  be  generous 
enough  to  understand  my  past.  But 


when  I  found  it  wasn't  to  be,  I  knew 
this  must  come.  I've  sold  my  jewels, 
Reggie,  and  I've  bought  a  ranch  in 
California.  I've  always  loved  the  big 
out  of  doors,  the  open  spaces.  And 
I've  a  plan  to  help  other  women  like 
myself — those  who  want  to  be  helped. 
So,  you  see,  you  need  not  grieve  for 
me,  dear,  I " 

He  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and 
smothered  her  with  kisses. 

"Nannae,"  he  groaned  again,  "I've 
been  so  stupid,  so  conceited,  so  un- 
fair!" 

"You've  been  just — a  man,  Reggie," 
she  apologized.  "And  now  you  must 
go.  I  have  given  up  the  apartment  and 
made  all  arrangements  to  leave  to- 
morrow." 

Steele  noticed  that  she  held  her 
hand  over  her  heart,  but  her  manner 
had  lost  nothing  of  its  tranquil  tender- 
ness. 

"Must  I  go — to-night?"  he  whis- 
pered caressingly  in  her  ear. 

"To-night,  dear — now." 

She  led  him  to  the  door.  He  felt 
that  he  would  go  mad!  If  she  would 
only  shriek  and  make  a  scene — do  any 
of  the  disgusting  things  expected  un- 
der the  circumstances ! 

"Good-bye.  Heaven  bless  you,  Reg- 
gie," she  said,  simply,  and  gave  him 
her  hand. 

Steele  staggered  down  the  steps  and 
made  for  the  club.  After  a  time  he 
hailed  a  taxi.  Once  inside,  his  poise 
gradually  returned;  he  was  relieved — 
maybe.  Anyway,  the  thing — the  sen- 
sible thing — was  done! 


Acts  of  the  Redcoat  Apostles 


By  /AcD.  Tait 


NO  BODY  of  men  have  been 
more  deservedly  praised  than 
the  apostles  of  law  and  order 
on  the  plains  of  Western  Can- 
ada. The  organization  came  into  be- 
ing at  a  time  of  great  unrest  on  the 
prairies  of  the  West.  The  buffalo  had 
disappeared  from  the  ranges,  and  30,- 
000  "plain"  Indians  were  starving. 
They  blamed  the  white  man  for  the 
depletion  of  their  main  food  supply, 
and  in  this  State  they  were  dangerous 
to  trifle  with.  Riff-raff  from  the  north- 
ern cities  of  the  United  States  flocked 
across  the  border  and  traders  from  the 
posts  of  the  northwestern  States 
crowded  in,  debauching  the  Red  Men 
of  the  Bow  and  Belly  rivers  with  bad 
whisky. 

Law — there  was  none.  An  instance 
of  how  justice  was  meted  out  is  seen 
in  a  conversation  with  a  trader  at 
Fort  Whoopup  when  a  white  settler 
announced  to  him  that  the  Mounted  Po- 
lice were  on  their  way  from  the  East. 

"Hallow,  where  you're  goin'?"  was 
the  enquiry. 

"Oh,  I'm  busy  announcing  the  ad- 
vent of  the  Mounted  Police,"  replied 
the  white  settler. 

"What's  them  fellers  comin'  for?" 

"Why,  to  regulate  the  country." 

"There's  no  need  of  that — we  do  it. 
You  know  if  there's  a  real  bad  man 
turns  up,  his  course  is  short;  we  just 

put  him  away.  Now  there's  ;  he 

was  a  desperado,  but  he  sleeps  at  Slide 

out,  and  there's  .  Well,  we  laid 

him  away  at  Freeze  Out." 

It  was  in  the  early  seventies  that  the 
monopoly  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany ceased,  and  the  Dominion  Gov- 
ernment took  over  judicial  rights  in 
all  that  vast  territory  which  lies  north 
of  the  forty-ninth  parallel  of  latitude. 


The  ending  of  the  monopoly  was  the 
signal  for  an  inrush  of  adventurers. 
Gamblers,  smugglers,  criminals  of 
every  stripe,  struck  across  from  the 
Missouri  into  the  Canadian  territory 
at  the  foothills  of  the  Rockies.  With- 
out a  white  population,  these  adven- 
turers could  not  ply  their  usual  "wide 
open"  traffic.  The  only  way  to  wealth 
was  by  the  fur  trade;  and  the  easiest 
way  to  obtain  the  furs  was  by  smug- 
gling whisky  into  the  country  in  small 
quantities,  diluting  this  and  trading  it 
to  the  Indians  for  pelts. 

Chances  of  interference  were  nil; 
for  the  Canadian  government  was 
thousands  of  miles  distant,  without 
either  telegraph  or  railway  connection. 
But  the  game  was  not  without  its 
dangers.  The  country  at  the  foothills 
was  inhabited  by  the  confederacy  of 
the  Blackfeet — Bloods,  Peigans  and 
Blackfeet — tigers  of  the  prairie  when 
sober,  and  worse  than  tigers  when 
drunk.  The  Missouri  whisky  smug- 
glers found  they  must  either  organize 
for  defense  or  pay  for  their  fun  by  be- 
ing exterminated.  How  many  whites 
Tvere  massacred  in  these  drinking  frays 
will  never  be  known;  but  all  around 
the  Old  Man's  River  and  Fort  Mcleod 
are  gruesome  landmarks  known  as  the 
places  where  such  and  such  parties 
were  destroyed  in  the  seventies.  The 
upshot  was  that  the  smugglers  emu- 
lated the  old  fur  traders  and  built  per- 
manent forts,  where  they  plied  their 
trade  in  whisky. 

In  May,  1873,  Sir  John  A.  MacDon- 
ald,  then  premier  of  Canada,  acting  on 
the  report  of  Colonel  Robertson-Ross, 
decided  to  form  a  police  force  to  deal 
with  the  Indians  and  whisky  traders 
from  whom  he  was  constantly  receiv- 
ing disquieting  rumors.  He  desired  a 


ACTS  OF  THE  REDCOAT  APOSTLES 


481 


capable,  ready  force  with  as  much  effi- 
ciency and  "as  little  gold  lace"  as  pos- 
sible. Hence  in  May,  1873,  a  bill  was 
carried  through  the  Commons  at  Ot- 
tawa, authorizing  the  establishment  of 
a  force  of  300  mounted  police  in  the 
West. 

This  force  was  put  under  the  com- 
mand of  Lieut.-Col.  French  and  was 
recruited  in  Toronto,  Ontario.  Imme- 
diately upon  organization  they  started 
to  Fargo,  North  Dakota,  by  rail,  and 
made  a  march  to  Dufferin.  The  com- 
mencement of  their  famous  march 
through  800  miles  westward  to  the 
Rocky  Mountains  with  two  field  pieces 
and  two  mortars,  and  relying  wholly 
upon  their  own  transport  train  for  sup- 
plies, followed. 

Here,  on  October  10th,  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  Blackfeet  country,  where 
no  man's  life  was  safe,  Fort  Macleod, 
the  first  Mounted  Police  fort  in  the 
Northwest,  was  completed.  Another 
force  was  sent  north  to  Edmonton 
among  the  Assiniboines  and  Wood 
Crees.  The  main  body  turned  back 
across  the  plains  to  Fort  Pelley,  and 
thence  to  Dufferin,  so  that  in  four 
months  the  force  had  traveled  1959 
miles.  These  300  police  had  accom- 
plished, without  losing  a  life,  that 
which  had  been  declared  as  impossible 
without  the  use  of  an  army — the  tak- 
ing possession  of  the  Great  Lone 
Land.  In  1875,  Inspector  Brisbois 
built  a  police  fort  where  Calgary  now 
stands.  This  was  at  first  called  "Fort 
Brisbois,"  but  was  renamed  "Cal- 
garry"  by  Colonel  Macleod  after  his 
old  birthplace  in  Scotland.  The  spell- 
ing became  modified  to  Calgary. 

For  a  long  time  the  chief  work  of 
the  force  consisted  in  managing  the 
Indians,  in  acting  for  them  as  arbiters 
and  protectors,  in  reconciling  them  to 
the  coming  of  the  whites,  in  stopping 
the  excessive  sale  of  liquor  to  them,  in 
winning  their  confidence,  respect  and 
even  friendship,  and  in  protecting  the 
surveyors  who  were  parceling  out  the 
land  from  the  railway.  They  had  to 
arrest  criminals  and  lawbreakers  both 
red  and  white.  These  they  were  com- 
pelled to  take  to  Winnipeg  for  trial,  a 


distance  of  over  800  miles,  and  this 
continued  till  1876.  They  were  also 
deputed  to  collect  custom  dues  on  the 
American  frontier,  and  while  the  wars 
between  Indians  and  American  whites 
were  going  on  across  the  boundary 
they  were  constantly  watching  the  line. 
During  this  period  they  exercised  a 
truly  astounding  moral  influence,  not 
only  over  the  Canadian  Indians,  but 
over  large  bands  of  American  Red 
Men  who  crossed  the  line  at  sundry 
times. 

During  a  period  of  agitation  and 
unrest  caused  by  some  unpopular  leg- 
islation dealing  with  the  preservation 
of  the  buffalo,  Sitting  Bull,  the  famous 
Sioux  chief,  who  had  massacred  Gen- 
eral Custer  and  his  men  in  1876,  tried 
to  stir  up  trouble  amongst  the  Cana- 
dian Indians.  Nothing  but  the  firm- 
ness, the  diplomacy  and  the  constant 
vigilance  of  the  Northwest  Mounted 
Police  saved  the  country -from  an  In- 
dian war,  with  all  the  horrors  that  have 
followed  such  outbreaks  in  the  neigh- 
boring States  of  the  American  Repub- 
lic. 

In  1882  the  police  had  become  re- 
sponsible for  the  lives  of  many  thou- 
sands of  people  and  property  scattered 
over  375,000  square  miles  of  country. 
Trading  posts  were  developing  into 
towns,  and  cattlemen  were  bringing  in 
large  herds.  They  wanted  to  push 
the  Indians  from  the  land,  and  this 
begot  severe  resentment.  The  Indian 
had  become,  to  some  extent,  an  uncer- 
tain quantity,  owing  to  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  buffalo,  and  his  struggle 
for  existence.  The  Canadian  Pacific 
Railway  was  building,  and  it  was  nec- 
essary to  maintain  law  amongst  the 
thousands  of  foreigners  at  work  along 
the  line.  These  and  other  considera- 
tions made  it  necessary  to  increase  the 
force  to  500  men. 

Begg,  in  his  "History  of  the  North- 
west," gives  an  instance  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  Mounted  Police  ex- 
ercised moral  influence  over  the  In- 
dians : 

"A  small  party  ,of  Sioux  had  had  all 
their  horses  stolen,  and  applied  to  As- 
sistant Commissioner  Irvine,  then  sta- 


482 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


tioned  at  Fort  Walsh,  to  have  them  re- 
covered. This  officer  accompanied  by 
a  sub-inspector  and  six  men,  set  out 
to  find  the  guilty  parties,  and  after 
scouring  the  country  for  some  distance, 
at  last  located  the  animals.  The  fol- 
lowing is  the  report  of  Col.  Irvine. 

"  'It  was  a  large  camp  of  350  lodges 
at  Milk  River,  Assinaboines  and  Gros 
Ventres,  on  a  creek  near  the  west  end 
of  these  hills.  I  thought  it  not  safe 
to  take  the  Sioux  Indians  into  the 
camp,  especially  after  dark,  so  left  my 
wagon  with  two  men  and  a  Sioux  In- 
dian, about  two  or  three  miles  from  the 
camp,  and  rode  in  with  Sub-inspector 
Mcllree  and  four  men.  It  was  quite 
dark  when  I  got  into  the  camp.  I  went 
straight  to  the  Chief's  lodge.  It  was 
surrounded  with  Indians.'  I  told  the 
Chief  I  knew  he  had  the  stolen  horses 
in  the  camp  and  had  come  to  get  them. 
He  said  he  did  not  think  his  young 
men  would  give  them  up,  and  that  the 
Americans  were  very  strong  and 
would  not  allow  any  white  man  to 
harm  them.  I  told  him  we  could  not 
allow  any  one  to  steal  horses  on  this 
side  of  the  line,  and  that  he  should 
have  to  give  an  answer  before  I  left 
the  lodge.  He  then  said:  'When  you 
come  in  the  morning  I  will  hand  you 
over  every  one  of  them.'  I  went  in  the 
morning,  and  they  handed  me  over  all 
they  could  find. 

'  'It  would  have  been  impossible 
for  me,  with  only  four  men,  to  have 
made  any  arrests;  besides,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  have  found  the 
guilty  parties.  However,  I  gave  them 
a  good  lecture,  and  they  promised  to 
behave  themselves  in  future.' " 

What  an  example  of  moral  force! 
An  officer  with  only  five  men  goes  into 
a  camp  of  a  thousand  or  more  warlike 
Indians,  compels  them  to  deliver  up 
stolen  property,  and  then  lectured 
them  about  the  consequences  if  they 
steal  any  more. 

An  intelligent  Obibbeway  trader 
told  Father  Scollen,  who  was  an  early 
missionary  among  the  Blackfeet  and 
Crees,  that  the  change  after  the  com- 
ing of  the  police  was  wonderful.  "Be- 
fore the  Queen's  government  came," 


he  said,  "we  were  never  safe,  and  now 
I  can  sleep  in  my  tent  anywhere,  and 
have  no  fear.  I  can  go  to  the  Black- 
feet  and  Cree  camps,  and  they  treat 
me  as  a  friend." 

The  year  1879  was  a  most  anxious 
time  for  the  police.  The  Plain  In- 
dians were  left  without  any  food  or 
resources.  In  some  cases  they  went 
over  to  United  States  territory  and 
hunted,  for  there  were  still  buffalo 
south  of  the  boundary  line.  The 
American  authorities,  however,  or- 
dered them  to  return,  and  so  they  had 
to  face  starvation.  The  Blackfoot 
tribes,  we  read,  "when  visited  in  1879, 
were  found  to  be  in  a  most  pitiable 
plight.  The  old  and  infirm  had  largely 
perished;  strong  young  braves  were 
reduced  to  skeletons,  their  ponies 
traded  for  food,  their  dogs  eaten ;  they 
were  dependent  for  sustenance  on 
what  gophers,  mice  and  other  small 
ground  animals  they  could  find."  In 
the  year  referred  to,  E.  H.  Maunsell 
found  that  he  had  59  out  of  a  bunch 
of  133  cattle.  The  Indians  had  taken 
the  pioneer  rancher's  cattle  as  a  gift 
from  the  Great  Spirit.  Other  ranch- 
men had  suffered  equally,  or  worse. 
This  called  for  stern  measures  from 
the  police.  A  case  where  Indians  were 
caught  redhanded  with  fresh  meat 
killed  on  the  prairie,  is  told  by  Dr. 
MacRae  in  his  "History  of  Alberta." 
The  story  is  from  a  report  by  Superin- 
tendent Steele,  then  in  command  of 
Macleod  district: 

"A  party  of  police  under  Staff-Ser- 
geant Hilliard,  left  the  Stand  Off  de- 
tachment soon  after  dark,  to  intercept 
a  band  of  whisky  smugglers  that  our 
scouts  had  located  about  ten  miles  up 
the  river.  Soon  after  the  police  party 
started  they  separated,  Alexander  and 
Ryan  being  instructed  to  scout  down 
the  river  and  cross  at  the  Cochrane's 
crossing.  They  then  ascended  to  the 
high  land  at  the  other  side,  all  the 
time  on  the  alert  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  whisky  smugglers.  Soon  after 
reaching  the  high  ground,  Alexander 
caught  sight  of  something  moving  in 
the  distance,  which  on  nearer  approach 
proved  to  be  horsemen  with  two  pack 


ACTS  OF  THE  REDCOAT  APOSTLES 


483 


animals.  The  constables  immediately 
gave  chase  at  full  gallop,  and  on  com- 
ing up  with  the  fugitives  discovered 
them  to  be  Indians  with  fresh-killed 
meat. 

"As  they  galloped  up  to  make  the 
arrest,  one  of  the  Indians  threw  his 
rifle  into  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  point- 
ing it  at  Alexander,  and  as  the  con- 
stable dashed  in  to  seize  him,  fired 
point  blank  at  his  head,  the  bullet  tak- 
ing effect  in  the  neck.  Ryan,  seeing 
Alexander  reel  in  his  saddle,  and  im- 
agining him  to  be  seriously  injured, 
if  not  killed,  drew  his  revolver  and 
fired  on  the  Indian,  who  returned  it, 
one  bullet  passing  very  close  to  Ryan's 
head,  while  one  of  Ryan's  shots  struck 
the  Indian  in  the  back,  passing  through 
his  lungs  and  coming  out  at  his  left 
breast." 

Neither  of  the  shot  wounds  proved 
serious,  and  both  men  were  able  to  go 
around  in  a  few  days.  The  incident 
shows  the  danger  that  these  guardians 
of  the  law  were  frequently  exposed  to 
in  the  discharge  of  patrol  duties. 

One  of  the  principal  reasons  for  the 
success  of  the  Redcoats  among  the  In- 
dians was  the  fact  that  they  recognized 
that  the  Indians  had  rights  in  the 
Westland.  In  Quebec  and  New  Eng- 
land, in  Ohio  and  Arizona,  in  Mexico 
and  Minnesota,  every  forward  step  of 
settlement  has  been  marked  by  blood- 
shed and  massacres  that  are  untellable 
in  horror.  How  the  Royal  Northwest 
Mountain  Police  averted  serious  trou- 
ble and  yet  showed  the  iron  hand  and 
iron  nerve  is  well  exemplified  in  the 
story  of  Red  Crow,  Chief  of  the  Blood 
Indians,  as  told  by  Hayden  in  his 
"Riders  of  the  Plains" : 

"Two  members  of  Red  Crow's  band 
were  wanted  on  a  charge  of  cattle 
killing,  'Prairie  Chicken  Old  Man' 
being  the  picturesque  name  of  one. 
Both  men  were  known  to  be  in  the 
Blackfoot  Camp  in  the  vicinity  of 
Stand  Off,  and  a  sergeant  and  con- 
stable were  sent  out  to  arrest  them. 
With  all  promptitude  they  marched 
straight  to  the  encampment.  Having 
secured  their  prisoners  they  were 
about  to  lead  them  away,  when  their 


howls  brought  a  number  of  squaws 
and  young  braves  to  the  spot.  There 
was  a  scuffle  and  the  police  found  their 
captives  forcibly  wrested  from  them. 
In  the  excitement  the  youthful  consta- 
ble drew  his  revolver,  and  a  worse 
riot  would  have  been  precipitated  had 
not  the  sergeant  immediately  ordered 
him  to  replace  the  weapon. 

"Recognizing  that  it  was  more  dis- 
creet to  retire  for  the  time  being,  the 
policemen  returned  to  Fort  Macleod  to 
report  to  Superintendent  Steele.  That 
officer  approved  of  their  action  in  the 
circumstances,  but  he  had  no  intention 
of  allowing  the  Indians  to  defy  him. 
He  accordingly  ordered  Inspector 
Wood,  Dr.  S.  M,  Fraser,  and  a  non- 
commissioned officer,  with  twenty 
troopers,  to  proceed  at  once  to  the 
camp  and  demand  the  surrender  of  the 
two  men.  With  them  went  that  faith- 
ful ally,  Jerry  Potts,  the  half-breed  in- 
terpreter. 

"The  little  company  marched  out  to 
within  a  mile  or  so  of  the  camp,  which 
lay  on  the  other  side  of  some  low  hills. 
Then  Potts  was  sent  forward  to  make 
known  that  Superintendent  Steel  re- 
quired both  men  previously  arrested 
and  those  who  had  aided  and  abetted 
their  release.  In  due  time  the  inter- 
preter returned  to  announce  that  Red 
Crow  was  smoking  his  pipe,  and  would 
think  the  matter  over.  The  chief  sent 
word  also  that  his  young  braves  were 
very  excited,  a  Sun-dance  was  being 
held,  and  they  were  getting  out  of 
hand.  In  a  word,  the  old  Indian  game 
of  'bluff'  was  being  tried.  To  this,  In- 
spector Woods  replied  curtly:  'Tell 
Red  Crow  that  we  must  have  the  two 
men  wanted,  and  those  who  helped  to 
rescue  them,  within  an  hour's  time; 
and  Red  Crow  must  bring  them  in  per- 
son. Otherwise  we  shall  ride  in  and 
take  them,  in  which  case  Red  Crow 
will  have  to  abide  the  consequences.'  " 

When  the  ultimatum  was  delivered 
by  Potts  there  was  great  uproar  in  the 
camp.  The  young  men  of  the  band 
were  worked  up  to  a  high  pitch  of  ex- 
citement by  the  dance,  and  were  more 
in  the  mood  for  fighting  than  before. 
The  situation  was  a  critical  one.  The 


484 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


minutes  slipped  by,  and  the  time  limit 
fixed  was  nearly  reached  without  any 
sign  of  the  Indians.  It  was  a  tense 
moment  for  the  police  as  they  waited. 
There  was  no  knowing  that  they  were 
not  in  for  a  pretty  stiff  tussle.  At  last 
— the  hour  having  expired — the  in- 
spector gave  the  word  to  mount,  and 
the  troopers  got  ready  to  move,  when 
suddenly  a  solitary  Indian  appeared 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill.  After  him 
came  another,  then  two  more,  followed 
by  others  in  small  parties,  until  quite 
a  number  were  seen  to  be  approaching. 
Among  them  was  the  chief,  Red  Crow, 
himself. 

With  the  police  by  their  side,  the 
whole  mob  was  marched  into  Fort 
Macleod,  where  Superintendent  Steele 
was  ready  to  sit  in  judgment  on  them. 
Those  who  had  helped  in  the  recap- 
ture of  the  prisoners  were  dealth  with 
first,  and  then  severely  admonished 
for  their  behavior.  Then  Red  Crow 
was  summoned  to  receive  a  sharp  lec- 
ture on  his  conduct.  After  him  "Prai- 
rie Chicken  Old  Man"  was  brought  in, 
handcuffed,  sentenced  and  led  out  in 
full  view  of  his  friends  to  the  guard 
room.  The  second  prisoner  was  simi- 
larly served,  none  of  the  other  Indians 
daring  to  lift  a  finger  in  defense. 
^  This  sharp  lesson  had  its  effect.  Red 
Crow's  band  was  duly  impressed,  and 
departed  back  to  their  camps  with 
chastened  hearts.  In  consideration  of 
their  final  good  behavior,  however, 
and  of  the  fact  that  they  had  come 
some  distance,  the  Superintendent 
made  them  a  few  presents  of  tea,  to- 
bacco  and  other  things  before  they 
left.  It  should  be  added  that  "Prairie 
Chicken  Old  Man"  and  his  brother  in 
crime,  subsequently  each  received  a 
sentence  of  seven  years'  imprison- 
ment. 

Begg,  in  his  History  of  the  North- 
west, refers  to  the  Royal  Northwest 
Mounted  Police  in  the  following  lan- 
guage: 

"A  mere  handful  in  that  vast  wil- 
derness, they  have  at  all  times  shown 
themselves  ready  to  do  anything  and 
go  anywhere.  They  have  often  had 
to  act  on  occasions  demanding  the 


combined  individual  pluck  and  pru- 
dence rarely  to  be  found  amongst  any 
soldiery,  and  there  has  not  been  a  sin- 
gle occasion  on  which  any  member  of 
the  force  has  lost  his  temper  under 
trying  circumstances  or  has  not  ful- 
filled his  mission  as  a  guardian  of 
the  peace.  Severe  journeys  in  the 
winter,  and  difficult  arrests,  have  had 
to  be  effected  in  the  center  of  savage 
tribes,  and  not  once  has  the  moral 
'prestige,  which  was  in  reality  their 
only  weapon,  been  found  insufficient 
to  cope  with  difficulties  which  in  Am- 
erica have  often  baffled  the  efforts  of 
whole  columns  of  armed  men." 

Major-General  Selby  Smythe,  once 
commander  of  the  Canadian  militia, 
after  an  inspection  of  the  Royal  North- 
west Mounted  Police,  said: 

"Of  the  constables  and  sub-consta- 
bles I  can  speak  generally,  that  they 
are  an  able  body  of  men,  of  excellent 
material  and  conspicuous  for  willing- 
ness, endurance  and  as  far  as  I  can 
learn,  integrity  of  character.  They 
are  fairly  disciplined,  but  there  has 
hardly  been  an  opportunity  yet  for 
maturing  discipline  to  the  extent  de- 
sirable in  bodies  of  armed  men,  and, 
dispersed  as  they  are  through  the  im- 
mensity of  space,  without  much  com- 
munication with  headquarters,  a  great 
deal  must  depend  upon  the  individual 
intelligence,  acquirements  and  steadi- 
ness of  the  inspectors  in  perfecting 
discipline,  drill,  interior  economy, 
equitation  and  care  of  horses,  saddlery 
and  equipment,  together  with  police 
duties  on  which  they  might  be  occa- 
sionally required." 

The  stability  of  many  individual 
constables  may  be  seen  in  the  story 
of  a  well  known  mounted  police  ser- 
geant, who  was  very  badly  wounded 
in  the  Riel  Rebellion.  When  the  sur- 
geon came  to  see  him  he  was  appar- 
ently unconscious.  After  examining 
the  wounded  man,  he  declared  he 
would  die.  The  Sergeant  suddenly 
opened  his  eyes  and  remarked  very 
vigorously:  "You're  a  blankety  blank 
liar."  The  badly  injured  man  duly 
recovered,  and  still  is  in  the  land  of 
the  living. 


Woman's  Share  in  the  War's  Work 


By  /Aary  Frances  Billington 


ON  a  wonderful  summer's  morn- 
ing in  mid-August,  1914,  at 
about  seven  o'clock,  I  was  one 
of  a  little  group  in  the  Square 
of  Chelsea  Barracks,  when  the  Third 
Battalion  of  the  Coldstream  Guards 
were  waiting  to  march  out  for  a  desti- 
nation unknown.  They  were  almost 
the  earliest  unit  to  go  on  active  ser- 
vice, and  their  womenfolk — mothers, 
wives,  sisters,  sweethearts — knew  that 
the  call  of  war,  real  war,  as  the  first 
terrible  stories  from  Belgium  *wejre 
telling,  had  come  to  the  British  Army. 
Farewells  were  said  quietly  and  calm- 
ly, the  babies  and  toddling  mites  were 
held  up  for  a  last  kiss,  girls  braced 
themselves  up  to  smile  even  as  they 
said  and  he^ard  the  patting  words. 
Every  woman  in  that  group  bore  her- 
self with*  a  superb  self-restraint  and 
a  proud  confidence  that  now,  after 
more  than  fifteen  months,  one  realizes 
was  a  true  foreshadowing  of  the  atti- 
tude of  the  women  of  the  Empire  dur- 
ing the  war. 

The  wider  word  of  Empire  rather 
than  the  nation  is  used  with  intent.  In 
Canada  and  Australia,  in  New  Zealand 
and  South  Africa,  the  women  have 
shown  devotion  and  a  readiness  to  help 
not  one  whit  less  than  those  of  the 
Motherland.  An  awakening  has  come 
even  to  India's  women,  and  the  ladies 
of  the  ruling  chiefs  as  well  as  those 
of  the  wealthy  mercantile  families  of 
Calcutta,  Bombay  and  Madras  have 
supported  Red  Cross  work  for  the  In- 
dian troops  sent  oversea,  and  have 
contributed  comforts  in  money  and  in 
kind. 

It  is  natural  in  any  survey  of  the 
help  that  women  have  rendered  in  this 
country  to  give  pride  of  place  to  the 
splendid  services  of  the  nurses.  After 


the  South  African  war  it  became  quite 
'evident  that  even  with  the  system  of  a 
Reserve  that  the  Princess  Christian 
had  brought  about,  the  old  Army 
Nursing  Service  was  inadequate  for 
any  huge  demand  that  should  arise  at 
any  time. 

An  entire  reconstitution  of  it  took 
place  early  in  the  last  reign,  and  it 
became  Queen  Alexandra's  Imperial 
Military  Nursing  Service  with  a  Ma- 
tron-in-Chief  officially  installed  at  the 
War  Office.  Later  there  was  linked 
to  it  in  an  elastic  kind  of  way  the 
nursing  of  the  twenty-three  General 
Hospitals  which  were  part  of  the  ter- 
ritorial scheme  of  defense  in  the  event 
of  invasion.  This  service  of  territorial 
nursing  also  had  its  Matron-in-Chief. 
Beyond  that  again  came  a  system  of 
hospitals  directed  by  the  British  Red 
Cross  Society,  which  were  to  utilize 
the  services  of  Voluntary  Aid  Detach- 
ments that  had  prepared  themselves  in 
peace  time  for  the  demands  that  war 
might  make. 

Soon  after  the  war  cloud  burst,  the 
regular  Army  Nursing  Service  num- 
bered 24  matrons,  104  sisters,  156 
nurses,  and  a  large  reserve  who  could 
be  called  upon  for  active  service.  In 
these  very  early  days,  too,  the  terri- 
torial hospitals  were  mobilized,  and 
none  save  the  matrons  of  the  great 
civil  hospitals  will  ever  know  the 
strain  and  difficulty  those  calls  in- 
volved when,  as  in  the  case  of  the  1st 
London  General  Hospital  at  St.  Ga- 
briel's College,  Camberwell,  it  was 
entirely  staffed  from  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's. Yet  one  and  another  adapted 
herself  to  the  changed  conditions,  and 
each  sister  and  each  nurse  who  re- 
mained in  the  civilian  wards  cheer- 
fully remained  on  duty  for  extra  hours 


486 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


till  readjustments  could  be  brought 
about. 

Even  to-day  we  do  not  know  what 
were  the  first  calls  made  on  the  pro- 
fession. One  ship  alone  took  away 
some  250  to  a  port  in  France,  and  be- 
fore the  end  ot  September  there  were 
many  large  contingents  sent  out  to  re- 
inforce them.  Meanwhile  various 
modifications  of  the  original  plans  for 
the  treatment  of  the  wounded  have 
been  made.  At  this  moment,  the 
wounded  or  sick  are  kept  no  longer 
than  is  possible  in  the  base  hospitals 
in  France,  Alexandria  or  Malta,  but 
are  transferred  home  to  vast  auxiliary 
military  hospitals.  The  regular  Army 
Service  has  been  supplemented  from 
many  directions.  Canadian  and  Aus- 
tralasian nurses  have  come  over  by 
scores  and  by  hundreds  not  only  to 
tend  their  own  kith  and  kin  in  the  spe- 
cial hospitals  maintained  for  them  by 
private  generosity,  but  to  be  unre- 
servedly at  the  orders  of  the  Matron- 
in-Chief  to  go  wherever  they  are 
needed. 

But  even  were  it  possible  to  give  the 
actual  numbers  of  women  who  are 
tending  the  sick  and  wounded,  that 
would  be  a  very  formal  and  inade- 
quate record  of  their  work  in  this 
direction.  Through  the  British  Red 
Cross  Society,  through  organizations 
like  the  French  Flag  Nursing  Corps, 
through  the  hospitals  equipped  by 
special  efforts,  this  has  been  a  truly 
splendid  phase  of  woman's  work.  It 
has  been  recognized  in  the  dispatches 
of  Sir  John  French ;  we  have  heard  of 
Violetta  Thurston  calmly  going  on 
with  her  almost  hopeless  task  of  miti- 
gating the  wretchedness  in  the  War- 
saw hospital  with  the  shells  dropping 
in  the  street  below;  we  have  read  of 
the  wonderful  exertions  by  which  Sis- 
ter Kiddle,  from  Guy's  Hospital,  and 
her  co-workers,  transformed  and  made 
ready  in  a  few  hours  a  great  chateau 
near  Versailles  for  the  reception  of 
the  wounded;  we  have  gained  a 
glimpse  of  Miss  Muriel  Benington  and 
the  other  nurses  who  endured  the 
wretchedness  of  that  wild  night  in  Oc- 
tober, 1914,  when  the  hospital  ship 


Rohilla  went  to  pieces  on  the  coast 
near  Whitby,  and  who  volunteered  af- 
ter a  few  days'  rest  to  resume  similar 
work  on  another  hospital  ship  rather 
than  accept  less  dangerous  posts  in 
a  naval  hospital  ashore ;  and  we  have 
bent  our  heads  in  humble  tribute  to 
Mrs.  Percy  Dearmer  and  those  other 
noble  women  who  succumbed  to  the 
epidemic  of  typhus  in  Serbia  last 
spring. 

These  are  the  embodiments  of  the 
finely  animating  spirit  that  has  run 
through  the  hundreds  who  have  given 
their  willing  devotion.  It  has  in- 
spired the  quiet  little  member  of  a 
Voluntary  Aid  Detachment  in  some 
humble  or  monotonous  task  in  which 
she  has  served;  it  has  led  women  of 
education  to  go  into  hospital  stores  and 
kitchens,  to  do,  if  need  be,  the  dullest 
of  menial  tasks. 

We  had  had  quite  eight  months  of 
war  before  the  government  discov- 
ered that  women  would  have  to  take 
a  much  greater  share  in  the  organized 
industry  of  the  country  and  the  pro- 
vision of  war  munitions  than  had 
hitherto  been  admitted.  Let  it  be  con- 
ceded to  the  leaders  of  the  Suffragist 
movement,  both  militant  and*  constitu- 
tional, that  they  had  foreseen  a  much 
greater  scope  for  women's  collabora- 
tion than  the  heads  of  either  govern- 
ment departments  or  those  in  direction 
of  trades  unions.  Within  a  very  few 
days  of  the  commencement  of  hostili- 
ties we  had  women's  emergency  corps 
offering  to  supply  women  as  lift  at- 
tendants or  ticket  collectors;  as  tram 
and  omnibus  conductors,  or  to  take 
charge  of  delivery  vans;  as  assistants 
in  trades  like  that  of  grocery,  hitherto 
reserved  by  men  for  themselves,  or  to 
act  as  porters,  commissionaires,  and 
so  forth- 
Such  proposals  were  received  at 
first  with  good  natured  smiles  of  mild 
interest.  But  all  these  claims  have 
been  made  good.  These  are  the  very 
tasks  that  women  are  fulfilling  at  this 
moment,  together  with  many  more  like 
them.  The  messenger  girl  is  bringing 
you  the  urgent  communication  that 
canno.t  wait  for  the  past.  In  the  Post 


WOMAN'S  SHARE  IN  THE  WAR'S  WORK 


487 


Office  itself  there  are  between  500  and 
600  women  sorters  employed  in  Lon- 
don alone,  and  in  the  suburbs  are  200 
post  women  engaged  in  the  daily  de- 
livery of  letters.  The  railways  are 
availing  themselves  of  feminine  ser- 
vice in  their  various  clerical  depart- 
ments as  well  as  in  the  issue  and  the 
collection  of  tickets,  while  at  the  book- 
stall it  will  be  from  the  hands  of  a 
girl  that  you  receive  your  newspaper 
or  magazine.  We  are  quite  accus- 
tomed now  to  seeing  the  milk  or  the 
bread  or  the  meat  brought  to  the  door 
by  a  young  woman,  unless  in  the  gen- 
eral shortage  of  supernumerary  labor- 
ers we  have  had  a  polite  request  to 
call  for  and  carry  home  these  com- 
modities for  ourselves.  The  tea,  the 
butter  and  the  cheese  are  no  less  deft- 
ly weighed  and  packed  by  the  girl  be- 
hind the  grocer's  counter  than  by  her 
brother. 

In  farm  and  agricultural  work  they 
have  been  of  real  help.  Men  over 
middle  age  and  lads  under  seventeen 
have  done  the  heavier  labor  of  plough- 
ing and  manure  carrying  on  the  land, 
but  women  have  shown  themselves 
capable  of  managing  the  cows  and 
the  sheep.  Many  girls  have  learned 
how  to  milk,  and  under  the  present 
system,  by  which  practically  all  the 
milk  is  sent  away  to  the  towns,  there 
is  very  little  on  a  large  dairy  farm 
that  women  cannot  manage.  The  fac- 
tory system  has,  in  fact,  spread  far 
and  wide  into  dairying,  and  if  the 
milk  is  not  consigned  to  the  dealers, 
it  is  taken  to  creameries,  where  in  but- 
ter and  cheese  making  skilled  women 
with  technical  knowledge  are  largely 
employed.  Of  course  in  the  rearing 
of  calves  and  in  poultry  management 
there  is  nothing  that  women  cannot 
manage  unassisted  by  men. 

The  schools  of  horticulture  and  gar- 
dening have  never  had  a  year  so 
busy  as  this  has  been,  and  girls  have 
wanted  to  learn  the  elements  of  fruit 
and  vegetable  growing  in  order  to  turn 
to  the  utmost  account  any  ground  at 
their  disposal.  Last  spring  such  ef- 
forts made  a  useful  contribution  to 
the  food  supplies  of  the  country;  in 


the  coming  months  they  will  do  a 
great  deal  more,  especially  after  the 
encouragement  that  County  Councils 
have  bestowed  upon  such  efforts.  The 
rural  clergy  of  the  Church  of  England, 
and  the  ministers  of  the  Nonconform- 
ist Churches,  have  often  had  it  in  their 
power  to  advise  that  more  attention 
should  be  paid  to  the  garden  and  its 
produce,  and  right  well  has  it  been 
exercised.  Viscount  Milner's  Depart- 
mental Committee  at  the  Board  of 
Agriculture  has  pointed  out  that  pigs 
might  again  be  advantageously  reared 
in  connection  with  small  holdings,  and 
for  that  purpose  the  utilization  of  all 
land  that  will  grow  even  coarse  crops 
may  well  enjoy  the  consideration  of 
women. 

It  was  in  April  that  the  Board  of 
Trade  put  forward  its  first  appeal  to 
women  to  register  themselves,  as  will- 
ing to  learn  to  make  shell  and  ammu- 
nition, to  do  leather  work  and  brush- 
making — three  phases  of  industry  of 
special  importance  to  armies  in  the 
field,  and  the  last  particularly  so,  from 
the  part  that  motor  machinery  is  play- 
ing in  the  war.  The  response  of  wo- 
men at  first  somewhat  tarried.  It  was 
an  initial  mistake  to  utilize  the  Labor 
Exchanges  as  the  only  recording 
agency.  The  board  itself  always  set 
great  store  by  them,  but  the  average 
woman,  and  especially  the  better  class 
domestic  servant,  the  typist,  the  clerk, 
and  largely  the  dressmaker,  regarded 
them  as  a  kind  of  last  resource  when 
all  other  means  of  finding  employment 
had  failed. 

Some,  however,  of  the  more  edu- 
cated women,  willing  to  do  anything 
that  would  be  of  service,  overcame 
their  prejudices  and  went  to  them. 
Then  came  delays,  due  largely  to  the 
problems  of  securing  the  exquisitely 
fine  tools  necessary  in  munition  work, 
and  also  to  the  fact  that  the  enor- 
mously enhanced  demands  for  explo- 
sives and  projectiles  of  all  calibres 
meant  also  the  erection  of  vast  ranges 
of  buildings  when  labor  was  constant- 
ly becoming  scarcer.  The  great  pri- 
vate firms  of  Vickers,  Kynochs,  Eleys, 
and  so  forth,  secured  women  workers 


488 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


literally  by  the  thousand,  and  those 
who  had  ministered  to  the  "luxury 
trades"  had  only  to  transfer  them- 
selves to  the  vocations  that  needed 
them,  while  various  measures  were 
taken  to  give  the  preliminary  instruc- 
tion. It  is  a  splendid  and  inspiring 
record  to  hear  of  what  they  have  done 
in  this  direction  for  the  State.  None 
are,  perhaps,  in  a  better  position  to  es- 
timate the  real  increase  in  the  feminine 
army  of  industry  than  the  Young  Wo- 
men's Christian  Association,  which 
from  the  outset  of  the  call  of  the  mu- 
nition factories  for  women's  labor,  set 
themselves  to  deal  with  the  new  prob- 
lems of  catering  and  recreation  that 
would  present  themselves.  Their  lat- 
est returns  point  to  the  fact  that  some- 
thing over  a  million  more  women  and 
girls  are  engaged  in  industrial  employ 
than  was  the  case  before  the  war. 

Another  very  significant  fact  is  that 
the  Queen's  "Work  for  Women"  Fund, 
started  to  meet  the  distress  which  it 
was  expected  would  be  felt  throughout 
the  dressmaking,  millinery  and  blouse 
making  trades,  has  been  able  to  close 
all  its  centers,  save  one  or  two  in  which 
elderly  and  somewhat  unhelpable  wo- 
men are  receiving  some  practical  in- 
struction that  would  make  them  use- 
ful as  home  helps  to  working-class 
mothers.  The  fund  last  winter  ren- 
dered very  useful  service  in  utilizing 
the  labor  of  those  who  had  adapted 
themselves  to  the  new  conditions,  and 
made  clothing  for  the  destitute  Belgian 
refugees,  while  it  taught  to  many  the 
art  of  re-making  partly  worn  gar- 
ments, and  how  children's  school  wear 
might  be  made  on  lines  that  would  be 
hygienic  and  comfortable  to  them- 
selves and  lessen  the  mother's  labors 
at  the  washtub.  It  opened  classes, 
too,  for  girls,  in  which  to  learn  various 
skilled  crafts,  and  the  $850,000  or  so 
that  was  subscribed  undoubtedly 
helped  greatly  in  the  transition  period 
when  the  old  demands  had  passed, 
and  the  new  openings  had  not  yet  been 
found. 

So  unexpected  have  been  many  of 
the  actual  results  of  the  war,  that  wise 
people  are  not  surprised  now  at  any 


strange  consequences.  About  thirty 
years  ago  the  educationist  of  the  day 
deprecated  an  insistence  upon  the 
teaching  of  needlework  and  knitting. 
We  all  know  the  line  of  argument. 
The  factory  has  superseded  handicraft 
— why,  therefore,  waste  a  girl's  time 
on  learning  to  make  the  things  she  can 
buy  cheaper?  Yet,  by  one  of  those 
astonishing  examples  of  the  irony  of 
things,  it  has  been  precisely  ver  these 
rather  despised  efforts  that  women 
have  rendered  help  so  entirely  valu- 
able that  there  has  arisen  a  new  de- 
partment under  the  War  Office  with  a 
Director-General  of  Voluntary  Organi- 
zations, in  the  capable  and  genial  per- 
sonality of  Colonel  Sir  Edward  Ward, 
in  order  that  the  country  shall  util- 
ize to  the  utmost  the  good  will  and  the 
stitchery  of  women. 

The  Queen  it  was  who  first  recog- 
nized that  with  some  method  and  en- 
couragement there  was  a  latent  field 
of  energy  in  this  direction  that  might 
be  turned  to  the  most  valuable  ac- 
count. For  many  years  past  her  Ma- 
jesty has  been  intimately  associated 
with  the  Needlework  Guild.  It  was 
in  fact  a  connection  that  dated  from 
her  own  girlhood,  and  since  her  mar- 
riage, as  Duchess  of  York,  as  Princess 
of  Wales,  and  as  Queen,  no  winter  has 
passed  without  her  actual  supervision 
of  the  collection  made  in  London,  and 
its  classification  for  the  use  of  hospi- 
tals, poor  parishes,  such  centers  as 
the  Bermondsey  Settlement  or  the 
Crossways  Mission,  iand  other  reli- 
gious and  philanthropic  organizations. 
Thousands  of  useful  garments  were 
contributed  year  by  year,  and  the 
Queen  was  therefore  in  possession  of 
knowledge  as  to  the  capacities  of  wo- 
men to  collaborate  in  meeting  the  new 
needs  certain  to  arise. 

The  appeal  was  put  forward  within 
ten  days  of  the  outbreak  of  the  war. 
Queen  Mary's  Needlework  Guild  was 
to  be  the  great  clearing  house  of  all 
that  women  were  prepared  to  make, 
and  the  first  need  was  that  of  flannel 
shirts.  The  supplies  were  insufficient 
for  the  men  being  hurried  out  to 
France.  Some  three  days  later  nearly 


WOMAN'S  SHARE  IN  THE  WAR'S  WORK 


489 


every  woman  was  struggling  with  the 
intricacies  of  "band  and  gusset  and 
seam,"  and  the  range  of  sizes  sent  in 
would  have  enabled  a  pygmy  or  a 
giant  to  be  fitted.  But  the  average 
Englishwoman  has  the  saving  grace 
of  common  sense,  and  it  occurred  to 
not  a  few  when  they  compared  their 
amateur  efforts  with  the  shapely  and 
well  fitting  garments  of  their  hus- 
bands' or  brothers'  wear  that  it  might 
after  all  be  better  either  to  buy  them 
ready-made  or  to  pay  expert  workers 
to  make  them.  Thus  was  distress 
averted  and  suitable  shirts  came  in  to 
St.  James's  Palace,  the  headquarters 
of  the  Guild. 

In  the  autumn  of  1914,  the  fear  of 
paralyzed  industries  and  want  of  em- 
ployment, with  consequent  widespread 
distress,  were  gloomy  anticipations 
that  affected  the  character  of  the  work 
sent  in.  Clothing  for  poor  women  and 
children  it  was  thought  would  be 
widely  needed,  and  as  a  fact,  before 
the  smooth  working  of  the  system  of 
separation  allowances,  the  Soldiers' 
and  Sailors'  Families  Association  dis- 
tributed something  like  62,000  useful 
items  of  attire  to  wives  and  children 
of  those  called  at  short  notice  to  the 
front.  In  the  months  now  concluding 
entirely  changed  needs  have  had  to 
be  met.  Taken  all  round,  the  working 
class  woman,  including  the  soldier's 
wife,  is  better  off  than  she  has  ever 
been  before.  In  fact,  the  difficulty  of 
the  "pushing"  outfitters  in  populous 
districts  has  been  that  they  cannot,  on 
account  of  the  shortage  of  women 
workers,  get  the  smart  little  frocks  and 
jackets,  the  velveteen  suits  and  the 
colored  jerseys  that  mothers  in  their 
comparative  affluence  are  wanting  for 
the  girls  and  boys.  The  marked  im- 
provement in  the  general  standard  of 
children's  clothing  has  been  noticed 
over  and  over  again  by  experienced 
school  teachers. 

That  does  not,  however,  imply  that 
the  activities  of  the  Queen's  Guild 
have  ceased.  On  the  contrary,  there 
are  greater  needs  than  ever,  which  are 
exercising  women's  skill  in  a  wholly 
new  direction.  In  January  last  it  oc- 


curred to  a  little  group  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  living  in  Kensington  that 
they  might  usefully  undertake  to  sup- 
ply bandages,  night  shirts  and  similar 
hospital  requisites.  They  made  a  suc- 
cessful start,  and  then  the  borough  of 
Marylebone  thought  that  they  could 
do  something  of  the  same  character. 
In  their  midst  lived  Miss  Ethel  Mc- 
Caul,  R.  R.  C.,  one  of  the  most  experi- 
enced of  war  nurses,  who  had  been  all 
through  South  Africa,  and  who  through 
Queen  Alexandra's  special  intervention 
was  attached  to  the  Red  Cross  Service 
of  Japan  in  the  war  with  Russia.  An 
influential  committee  was  formed,  and 
she  was  called  in  as  honorary  organ- 
izer. She  knew,  of  course,  all  the  sub- 
tleties of  "many  tail"  and  "T"  ban- 
dages, she  knew  the  lines  that  a  night 
shirt  for  a  helpless  case  should  follow, 
she  understood  what  was  wanted  in 
pneumonia  jackets, .or  ward  shoes  to 
cover  feet  swollen  and  'bandaged  to 
perhaps  four  times  the  normal  pro- 
portions. 

Very  gladly  did  a  band  of  ladies  at 
first  work  under  her  directions.  More 
and  still  more,  however,  wanted  to 
come  and  assist,  until  the  fine  mansion 
in  Cavendish  Square  of  Lord  Craw- 
ford was  none  too  large  to  take  in  the 
workers  in  the  several  departments. 
The  Queen  gave  her  recognition  to  this 
work  by  constituting  it  the  Surgical 
'Branch  of  her  own  Guild,  but  out  of  it 
now  has  grown  a  colossal  work  of 
mercy.  Up  and  down  the  country  have 
sprung  up  something  like  fifty  Surgi- 
cal Supply  Associations,  all  of  which 
are  in  affiliation  with  it,  and  each  one 
represented  on  the  Central  Council. 
More  recently  still,  the  British  Red 
Cross  Society  has  turned  its  attention 
to  this  branch  of  service,  and  the 
President  and  Council  of  the  Royal 
Academy  have  set  apart  a  number  of 
the  Galleries  at  other  times  devoted 
to  the  year's  modern  art,  or  the  loan 
collections  of  the  old  Masters,  for  this 
beneficent  labor  of  mercy.  Both  these 
bodies,  as  well  as  the  Order  of  St. 
John,  are  working  in  the  most  complete 
accord  with  the  new  department  of 
Voluntary  Organization. 


490 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Obviously,  if  surgeons  and  nurses 
are  to  be  practically  assisted,  it  is 
necessary  that  everything  made  should 
conform  to  the  standard  patterns  of 
the  leading  hospitals.  Without  cen- 
tral control,  working  patties  would 
have  made  things  on  the  lines  and  the 
proportions  they  imagined  to  be  right, 
and  when  it  came  to  the  dressing  of  a 
shattered  shoulder  and  chest,  the 
"many  tail"  might  have  proved  just 
too  short  or  too  narrow  for  what  was 
wanted.  Moreover,  should  a  call  come 
from  the  bases  for  500  pneumonia 
jackets  or  10,000  or  some  particular 
shape  of  sterilized  swab,  the  new  de- 
partment knows  where  any  working 
party  has  specialized  in  those  direc- 
tions. 

The  final  distinction  that  these  wo- 
men, working  so  quietly  and  without 
fuss  or  parade,  have  won  is  that  of 
earning  a  war  service  badge.  It  will 
not  be  bestowed  for  less  than  three 
months  of  regular  effort  in  connection 
with  one  of  the  organizations  officially 
recognized  by  the  Director-General, 
and  the  worker  must  be  recommended 
for  it  by  the  responsible  head  of  the 
workroom  committee,  as  the  Mayor  or 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  town  or  county 
center.  It  is  the  tribute  that  the  gentle, 
the  more  homely  means  of  aid,  have 
gained  before  many  more  showy  and 
assertive  efforts,  and  its  significance  is 
undeniable. 

Medical  women  have  rendered  very 
valuable  aid,  and  in  so  doing  have  ad- 
vanced their  own  position  in  a  marked 
degree.  Their  useful  help  in  France 
under  Dr.  Louisa  Garrett  Anderson 
and  Dr.  Flora  Murray  led  the  Army 
Medical  Department  to  recall  these 
ladies  to  take  up  the  greater  responsi- 
bility of  the  Military  Hospital  of  520 
beds  in  Endell  street,  and  this  was 
their  first  triumph;  their  second  was 
when  the  Scottish  Women's  Hospital 
Unit  was  stopped  in  the  Mediterranean 
on  the  voyage  to  Serbia  to  take  charge 
of  the  wounded  who  were  being 
brought  to  Malta  from  the  Darda- 
nelles. But  even  among  those  now 
rendering  the  most  devoted  service  to 
the  victims  of  the  war,  there  is  a  sense 


that  this  is  is  but  a  passing  phase  of 
what  they  have  accomplished.  When 
the  special  calls  on  behalf  of  the  sick 
and  wounded  have  ceased,  their  real 
advance  will  be  found  in  the  opening — 
never  to  be  closed  again — that  they 
have  gained  in  the  house  appointments 
of  the  great  hospitals.  They  have 
come  to  their  own,  by  rising  to  the  op- 
portunity when  it  presented  itself. 

We  shall  never  be  able  to  reduce  to 
cold  figures  and  statistics  the  work 
of  our  women.  There  is  not  a  parish 
up  and  down  the  land  in  which  the 
clamant  needs  of  our  men  have  not 
brought  all  together,  regardless  of  the 
church  they  attend,  to  work  in  the  way 
that  seemed  most  useful.  Congrega- 
tions have  made  themselves  responsi- 
ble for  the  comfort  of  perhaps  three  or 
four  men  who  formerly  worshiped  with 
them,  and  who  in  the  trenches,  or  more 
still  in  the  prisoners'  camps  in  Ger- 
many, have  been  thankful  for  the  com- 
forts in  clothing  or  the  welcome  boxes 
of  provisions  supplied  through  femi- 
nine organization  and  goodwill.  The 
Young  Men's  Christian  Association  en- 
listed the  support  of  Princess  Victoria 
in  their  truly  great  work  of  supplying 
huts  at  the  railway  termini  here  and 
at  the  camps  in  France,  and  new  in- 
fluences have  been  quietly  at  work  that 
have  led  many  a  man  to  think  far  more 
seriously  on  those  things  which  be- 
long unto  his  peace. 

It  is  no  very  alluring  task,  to  come 
down  night  after  night  to  a  buffet  on 
a  draughty  railway  platform  or  even 
in  a  hut,  to  serve  men  with  coffee  and 
other  refreshments.  Yet  for  months, 
ladies  accustomed  to  comfortable  and 
luxurious  surroundings  have  done  it. 
One  recalls  Mr.  Kipling's  mention  of  a 
French  Countess  whom  he  knew  when 
she  thought  life  impossible  without 
two  maids,  a  manicurist,  and  some  one 
to  look  after  her  pet  dogs.  When  he 
met  her  on  his  last  visit  to  France,  she 
was  spending  all  her  days  and  a  good 
part  of  her  nights  mending  and  disin- 
fecting the  clothing  of  soldiers. 

Of  the  individual  acts  of  heroism 
that  the  war  has  brought  forward  on 
the  part  of  women  there  are  enough  to 


WOMAN'S  SHARE  IN  THE  WAR'S  WORK 


491 


fill  volumes.  Not  the  least  splendid 
have  been  some  of  those  of  the  French 
Sisters  of  Mercy.  They  have  won  the 
distinction  of  mention  in  Army  Or- 
ders, while  other  French  nurses  have 
done  wonders.  Quite  recently  the 
King  conferred  the  Cross  of  the  Or- 
der of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem  on  Made- 
moiselle Juliette  Caron,  who  rendered 
the  most  valuable  help  to  the  wounded 
in  the  retirement  after  Mons,  and  who 
has  linked  her  name  with  one  of  the 
British  army's  immortal  deeds  of  valor 
by  saving  the  survivors  of  the  daunt- 
less L  Battery  of  Royal  Field  Artil- 
lery. Further,  the  French  War  Office 
has  mentioned  the  names  of  over 
twenty  nurses  for  specially  splendid 
service  in  dispatches,  and  has  con- 
ferred the  medal — only  won  for  very 
exceptional  care  and  devotion — for 
nursing  infectious  diseases  upon  four- 
teen dauntless  women.  An  English 
nurse,  Miss  Florence  Cross,  who  re- 
ceived her  training  at  the  Middlesex 
Hospital,  has  also  earned  a  Medaille 
d'Honneur  while  with  the  French  Flag 
Nursing  Corps,  which  has  rendered 
such  fine  service  to  our  Allies.  It  came 
to  her  with  a  diploma  personally 
signed  by  M.  Millerand,  the  French 
War  Minister,  and  this  refers  to  the 
devotion  she  displayed  during  an  epi- 
demic of  diphtheria  which  she  con- 
tracted herself  almost  to  the  loss  of  her 
own  life. 

The  Empire  may  well  thank  God  it 
has  women  of  the  type  of  Edith  Cavell, 
who  for  all  time  will  take  her  place 
amid  the  noble  army  of  martyrs.  Less 
would  one  speak  of  the  quiet  calm  of 
mind  which  could  be  grateful  to  her 
jailers  for  ten  weeks  in  which  to  think, 
for  the  true  spirit  of  faith  that  realized 
there  was  something  even  beyond 
patriotism,  and  that  would  not  take  a 
bitter  thought  to  the  grave  and  gate  of 
death,  than  of  the  universal  tribute  of 
recognition  of  all  these  qualities.  For 
this  has  shown  that  certain  manifesta- 
tions of  cynicism,  things  that  seemed 
to  some  a  passing  of  the  sense  of  rever- 
ence, a  tendency,  perhaps,  to  belittle 
the  ideal  and  the  spiritual,  were  mere 
bubbles  on  the  surface.  It  is  good  to 


realize  that  as  a  people  we  still  vener- 
ate a  great  example  of  duty  well  ful- 
filled in  life  and  the  Christian  courage 
in  death.  When  the  noble  memorial 
that  Sir  George  Frampton  is  designing 
as  a  labor  of  love  to  be  expressed  in 
the  beautiful  marbles  and  metals  that 
the  "Shilling  Fund"  of  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph— one  of  the  most  immediately 
successful  that  the  paper  ever  had — 
is  providing  for  his  use,  it  will  be  one 
of  the  highest  of  the  inspirations  that 
will  have  come  out  of  the  suffering 
and  sorrow  of  all  the  war. 

There  are,  too,  the  many  acts  of 
self-denial  and  kindliness  that  never 
earn  any  record  in  writing.  No  fame 
and  no  distinction  is  to  be  earned  by 
going  to  read  the  paper  daily  to  some 
elderly  folk  who  have  a  grandson  at 
the  front;  it  is  quite  commonplace  to 
take  charge  of  a  group  of  boisterous 
youngsters  in  order  that  their  mother 
may  attend  an  intercessory  service;  it 
may  be  thankless  work  to  act  as  a  wo- 
man patrol  in  the  vicinity  of  a  camp  on 
dark  and  gloomy  evenings.  "I  am 
trying  to  do  my  bit,"  is  the  only  ex- 
planation that  you  will  hear  if  you 
comment  on  what  may  seem  some  par- 
ticularly arduous  and  irksome  task. 

These  are  not  yet  the  days  to  pre- 
dict the  social  and  economic  results  to 
follow  the  war.  But  we  do  know  that 
many  extravagances  of  dress,  and  per- 
sonal luxury  and  indulgence  have  been 
checked,  and  that  the  calls  to  avoid  all 
waste  in  household  expenditure  have 
enjoyed  the  most  intelligent  acceptance 
'by  women.  They  have  realized  with  a 
clearness  of  vision  that  a  few  months 
before  the  war  would  have  seemed  im- 
possible, that  the  conservation  of  our 
food  supplies  may  have  very  import- 
ant bearings  as  the  war  goes  on.  The 
wise  outlay  of  money  that  shall  main- 
tain the  volume  of  trade  that  is  desir- 
able, and  at  the  same  time  avoid  what 
is  useless  and  unnecessary,  has  led 
them  to  consider  these  problems  from 
wholly  new  points  of  view. 

"The  women  have  been  splendid," 
has  been  said  by  more  than  one  ob- 
server of  their  work,  whether  in  nurs- 
ing or  industry,  in  providing  for  the 


492 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


comfort  of  the  men,  and  in  keeping  the 
social  organization  up  to  efficiency. 
Some  few  have  wished  there  had  been 
a  more  outwardly  marked  religious  re- 
vival as  a  result  of  all  these  weeks  and 
months  of  strain.  But  in  this  direction 
people  do  not  perhaps  look  sufficiently 
below  the  surface.  The  attendance  at 
public  worship  is  distinctly  better ;  and 
there  is  most  certainly  a  more  thought- 
ful and  inquiring  feeling  as  to  the  deep 
things  that  matter.  These  are  points 
that  the  more  pessimistic  will  admit. 
Others,  like  Rupert  Brooke,  are  satis- 
fied: 

Blow!  bugles  blow!  they  brought  us 

for  dearth, 
Holiness  lacked  so  long,  and  Love  and 

Pain; 
Honor  has  come  back  as  a  king  to 

earth, 


And  paid  his   subjects  with  a  royal 

wage; 
And  nobleness  walks  in  our  ways 

again, 
And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

As  yet  we  do  not  know  the  fullness 
of  the  uplifting.  But  there  has  been  a 
passing  of  much  materialism,  a  truce 
to  many  factions  not  to  be  reopened 
again.  Women  have  "found  them- 
selves" as  never  before,  in  a  world 
torn  by  stress  and  suffering  on  which 
they  have  looked  with  calm,  sturdy 
perception  to  discover  paths  that  are  to 
lead  them  to  yet  greater  service  to  hu- 
manity. They  have  responded  to 
every  call  made  upon  them,  and  it  will 
not  be  until  we  can  measure  their  ef- 
forts in  the  full  light  of  what  they 
have  meant  in  the  final  reckoning  with 
our  enemies  that  the  work  can  be  well 
and  truly  appraised. 


HILLS    OF    AE/AORY 


Hills  rising  through  rose  mists  at  evening  time 
To  kiss  pearl-tinted  clouds  against  the  sky; 

Bare  rocks,  sun-scorched,  that  stir  soul  thoughts  sublime ; 
Pale  blooms  that  only  cause  the  heart  to  sigh ; 

A  dusty,  winding  trail,  star-lit — and  long; 

Through  canyons  echoes  of  forgotten  song. 

Here,  in  the  purple  gloom  of  mystic  dell 

All  the  memories  of  my  soul  awake, 
And  creep,  ghost-like,  a-down  old  trails  to  dwell 

Again  in  mists  of  fancy,  till  dawn  break. 
Ah,  healing  balm  of  mem'ry  crowded  hills! 
You  waken  that  which  haunts  me,  while  it  thrills. 

The  empty  years  stretch  on  o'er  burning  plain, 
The  weary  span  of  life  is  but  half  done : 

Yet  I  can  bear  whatever  there  be  of  pain, 
Or  e'en  the  blinding  heat  of  noonday  sun. 

For  when  the  evening  purples  toward  the  west 

I  turn  back  to  my  hills — and  there  find  rest. 

SARA  E.  MCDONNALD. 


Laguna-by~the~Sea 


By  Margaret  Adelaide  Wilson 


THERE  is  more  than  one  Laguna 
on  the  map  of  Southern  Cali- 
fornia, I  am  told;  but  to  us  the 
name  stands  for  that  little  ham- 
let among  the  tawny  cliffs  twelve  miles 
over  the  hills  from  San  Juan  Capis- 
trano.     No  railroad  has    ever     pene- 
trated this  quiet  nook,  and  it  can  be 
approached  only  by  the  old  Spanish 
highway  along  the  coast,  or  by  the 
lovely  winding  road  that  comes  down 
through  Laguna  Canyon  from  Santa 
Ana,  twenty  miles  away. 

"Dear,  dirty  little  old  Laguna,"  was 
the  way  we  first  heard  it  spoken  of; 
and  in  the  same  breath:  "But  once 
you've  stayed  there,  you'll  love  every 
stick  and  stone  of  it." 

We  were  hunting  for  a  place  in 
which  to  spend  our  short  vacation,  and 
something  in  the  speaker's  tone  fired 
bur  interest;  so  one  August  morning 
we  went  speeding  down  through  in- 
land valleys,  over  the  Red  Mountain 
Grade,  through  glorious  wooded  Val- 
lecitos  Canyon,  till  we  reached  El 
Camino  Real,  that  ancient  highway, 
with  its  Mission  bells  on  every  guide 
post  and  its  charming  names — Pala 
and  Santa  Ysabel  and  San  Luis  Rey. 

At  San  Luis  Rey  we  might  have 
stepped  out  of  America  into  some  old- 
world  village.  The  Mission,  still 
beautiful  after  almost  two  centuries 
of  varying  fortunes,  was  dimly  lighted 
with  tapers  and  heavy  with  incense, 
and  a  scattering  of  old  men  and  dark 
faced  women  were  hearing  mass  for 
the  Pope,  who  had  died  a  few  days 
before.  A  young  Mexican  woman 
with  the  brow  of  a  Madonna  knelt 
near  us,  and  interrupted  her  prayers 
occasionally  to  keep  her  two  shock- 
headed  little  boys  in  order.  As  they 
rose  to  go  out,  she  dipped  reverently 


in  the  font  of  holy  water,  motioning 
her  chubby  lads  to  follow  her  exam- 
ple. The  youngest,  evidently  of  a 
thorough  nature,  ended  his  devotions 
by  taking  another  handful  of  holy 
water  and  drinking  it. 

From  San  Luis  Rey  we  ran  down  to 
Oceanside,  and  from  there  along  the 
sea  through  the  ranch  of  Santa  Mar- 
garita y  Las  Flores,  over  salt  marshes 
where  the  car  went  slipping  hither 
and  yon,  along  sandy  bluffs  where 
there  seemed  to  be  no  road  at  all,  fin- 
ally returning  to  the  main  highway 
near  the  old  village  of  San  Juan 
'Capistrano. 

Rocks  and  coves  now  began  to  vary 
the  shore  line,  and  shortly  after  noon 
we  passed  the  pretty  little  colony  of 
Arch  Beach,  and  sped  down  a  long 
slope  to  the  cove  where  lies  Laguna, 
hidden  in  its  grove  of  fine  old  euca- 
lyptus trees. 

The  big,  weather-beaten  hotel  ram- 
bles about  a  quiet  little  courtyard 
filled  with  brightly  colored  flowers  and 
sleek  kittens  sleeping  in  the  sun. 
There  is  not  a  vestige  of  the  smart 
beach  resort  about  it,  but  some  grace- 
ful bits  of  furniture  catch  the  eye  as 
one  steps  into  the  shady  hall  and  the 
bedrooms,  with  their  freshly  painted 
floors  and  pretty  grass  dugs  are  full 
of  the  wholesome  smell  of  sea  winds 
that  blow  through  them  all  the  day 
long. 

In  fact,  one  feels  as  if  one  were  al- 
most living  on  the  sea,  for  at  night 
the  phosphorescent  breakers  thunder 
up  the  sands  almost  to  the  foot  of  the 
veranda,  and  the  surf  at  changing  of 
the  tides  makes  the  solid  foundations 
creek  and  groan.  The  first  night  we 
waked  with  almost  every  large  wave 
and  wondered  if  we  could  ever  get 
5 


Upper — A  fisherman's  cove.    Lower — A  haunt  of  the  mermaids. 


used  to  the  uproar.  But  after  three 
days  we  were  sleeping  so  soundly  that 
a  night  of  storm  left  us  entirely  un- 
aware of  it. 

The  village,  one  admits  with  regret, 
is  little  and  old  and  dirty.  Each 
street  is  on  a  different  level  from  its 
sister  street  above  and  below,  and  al- 


most every  dwelling  sits  at  its  own  an- 
gle. Ash  heaps  rest  lovingly  at  the 
foot  of  fine  old  palms  that  a  king's 
garden  might  covet,  and  geraniums 
and  honeysuckle  and  royal  bougain- 
villea  clamber  over  fences  from  which 
every  other  picket  is  missing.  Yet 
one  ceases  to  see  these  things  after 


LAGUNA-BY-THE-SEA 


495 


a  day  or  two.  The  inhabitants,  un- 
fretted  by  the  urgency  of  civic  im- 
provement, have  -time  to  cultivate 
graciousness  toward  the  stranger 
within  their  gates,  and  the  perfect 
courtesy  of  their  welcome  more  than 
atones  for  a  certain  slackness  appar- 
ent in  their  manner  of  life. 

Besides,  if  one  pines  for  modern 
thrift,  it  is  only  a  step  to  the  higher 
cliffs  where  the  cottages  of  the  sum- 
mer dwellers  are.  Here  one  can  find 
winding  drives  rolled  and  oiled  to 
suburban  smoothness  and  trim  shin- 
gled cottages  built  in  the  most  ap- 
proved bungalow  style.  Everything 
is  up  to  date  and  very  comfortable  in 
this  newer  settlement,  yet  we  rarely 
took  this  road  in  our  ramblings.  It 
was  the  sort  of  scenery  that  repeats 
itself  at  any  beach  resort  along  the 
coast. 

We  had  been  warned  beforehand 
that  there  was  nothing  to  do  at  La- 
guna.  There  are  no  plunges,  no  golf 
links,  and  the  only  tennis  court  in  the 
place  seems  to  Jiave  died  a  natural 
death.  I  can  imagine  a  commercial 
traveler  losing  his  mind  with  boredom 
if  he  had  to  stay  there  long.  Yet  the 
reading  and  sewing  with  which  we  had 
planned  to  fill  our  idle  hours  went  un- 
touched, and  when  we  said  goodbye  to 
the  little  place  we  felt  as  if  we  had 
made  only  a  beginning  of  exploring 
its  charms. 

In  the  first  place,  there  are-the  cliffs. 
"The  colorings  of  Palermo,"  said  an 
artist  who  had  spent  years  in  record- 
ing the  lights  of  those  dun  and  flame- 
colored  bluffs  and  the  turquoise  sea 
that  beat  below.  All  the  vegetation 
seems  to  run  to  vivid  colorings  as 
well ;  the  exquisite  pink  ice  plant,  with 
its  continual  sparkle  of  tears;  the 
dwarfed  mahogany  and  paler  manzan- 
ita,  clinging  boldly  to  the  scarred 
precipices;  and  the  pungent  vbrown 
and  golden  grasses  and  dozing  creep- 
ing plants  to  which  we  could  put  no 
name.  Back  of  the  cliffs  sunny  mead- 
ows roll  away  to  the  hills,  and  every 
now  and  again  the  hills  close  down  on 
the  meadows  and  go  shouldering  their 
way  to  the  sea,  their  frowning  head- 


lands forming  sheltered  little  coves, 
each  one  of  which  has  its  special  name. 
There  is  Fisherman's  Cove,  where  the 
boats  ride  over  the  breakers  in  the 
first  gray  of  dawn  to  bring  in  the  nets ; 
Coward's  Cove,  where  one  can  dive 
off  a  rocky  ledge  into  water  so  clear 
that  the  sands  below  are  plainly  vis- 
ible; and  Nigger  Canyon  Cove,  the 
farthest  and  most  picturesque  of  all. 

On  the  reefs  flanking  the  headlands 
one  finds  at  low  tide  all  sorts  of  trea- 
sures cast  up  by  the  sea,  anemones 
and  limpets  and  urchins  and  pop- 
eyed  crabs  and  pools  radiant  with  deli- 
cate rose  and  green  sea  ferns.  One 
finds  traces  of  an  ancient  and  terrible 
upheaval  along  these  reefs.  Some  are 
formed  entirely  of  molten  lava  which 
has  been  worn  by  the  waves  into  arches 
and  subterranean  passages  through 
which  the  tide  ebbs  and  flows  with  a 
thousand  melancholy  voices.  We 
spent  one  whole  day  exploring  the 
longest  of  these  reefs,  reaching  it  by 
waiting  our  chance  with  the  waves  and 
climbing  through  an  arch  of  yellowish 
rock  that  had  melted  and  run  like 
syrup,  so  that  one  could  perfectly 
trace  its  slow  cooling  and  hardening 
after  all  the  centuries. 

How  Stevenson  would  have  loved 
that  place.  Once  on  the  reef  we  were 
as  alone  as  if  we  were  the  last  human 
beings  on  earth.  Above  was  the  pre- 
cipice, seamed  and  worn  into  a  hun- 
dred fantastic  shapes  by  the  beating 
surf,  and  with  no  foothold  for  man  on 
its  bleak  sides.  Gulls  and  black- 
winged  sea  birds  fluttered  in  and  out 
of  its  recesses  with  plaintive  cries,  and 
the  waves  on  the  outer  reef  kept  up 
an  incessant  thundering  in  our  ears. 

Half  way  across  the  reef  ran  a 
chasm  about  four  feet  wide,  and  as  we 
knelt  and  peered  fearfully  into  its 
shadowy  depths,  we  could  hear  the  sea 
sobbing  in  and  out  far  below.  We 
listened  a  moment  with  half-fearful 
interest,  then  by  common  impulse  re- 
treated to  the  arch  again,  where  we 
could  keep  watch  that  the  tide  did  not 
slip  in  unawares  and  cut  us  off  from 
our  narrow  retreat. 

Another  unfailing  source  of   inter- 


Upper — "The  village  of  Laguna  is  little   and 

w  ay side. 


old."     Lower — Along    the 


est  during  our  week  was  the  Aqua- 
rium of  the  Pomona  College  labora- 
tory. The  laboratory  stands  in  a 
grassy  little  basin  between  the  village 
and  the  higher  cliffs,  its  pillared  white 
portico  facing  the  sea  like  some  old 
temple  of  Poseidon.  Here  the  wild 
things  of  the  hills  and  the  wild  things 


of  the  sea  found  a  common  meeting 
place.  On  one  side,  hairy  black  taran- 
tulas crawled  sullenly  about  their 
glass  prisons,  while  across  the  aisle 
'long-legged  insects  of  the  sea  "had 
their  dwelling.  Two  great  rattlesnakes, 
buzzed  a  warning  to  the  meddlesome 
from  their  v.  ire-covered  box  near  the 


RETROSPECTION. 


497 


door,  and  we  had  the  privilege  of 
watching  the  larger  one  through  the 
tedious  process  of  shedding  his  skin, 
a  business  which  he  had  accomplished 
all  but  the  tail,  when  we  bade  him  a 
regretful  farewell  at  the  week's  end. 

Across  from  the  rattlesnakes,  their 
sea-brother  in  guile,  a  baby  devil  fish, 
swam  about  in  a  tall  jar,  watching  us 
out  of  the  same  sort  of  hooded,  crafty 
eye.  He  came  to  a  sad  end  before  we 
left.  One  night  he  crawled  out  of  his 
iar,  and  in  the  morning  a  student  found 
him  with  his  back  against  a  table  leg, 
weak,  but  still  game.  He  did  not  re- 
cover from  his  night  on  the  cold  stone 
floor,  and  when  we  saw  his  empty 
house  next  day  we  caught  ourselves 
actually  feeling  a  little  sad  over  his 
mishap. 

"You  must  have  been  having  a  dull 
time,"  said  some  one  scornfully,  "if 
you  had  time  to  get  attached  to  a 


devil  fish." 

But  there  is  the  trouble  of  trying  to 
explain  Laguna.  It  will  seem  a  dull 
place  if  one  goes  there  expecting 
something  to  do.  Yet  we  do  not  travel 
half  across  the  world  to  Palermo  or 
Amalfi  or  the  northern  Riviera  with 
the  idea  of  finding  golf  and  tennis 
and  the  artificial  amusements  with 
which  we  have  dulled  our  natural  ca- 
pacity for  extracting  interest  from  life. 
For  half  a  century  and  more  we  Am- 
ericans have  been  devoted  pilgrims  to 
these  lovely  but  sleepy  and  not  too 
'clean  historic  spots.  We  rave  about 
their  seas  and  skies,  and  are  not  im- 
patient at  spending  days  and  weeks 
amidst  their  beauty.  Right  here  at 
home  we  have  as  fair  a  place  to  rest 
and  dream,  and  I  believe  that  hav- 
ing gone  once,  the  most  of  us  will  not 
be  content  until  we  have  gone  again  tq 
quiet  little  Laguna-by-the-Sea. 


RETROSPECTION 


Tower  of  Jewels,  Panama -Pacific  International  Exposition. 


The  frosts  of  polar  dawns,  sun-smitten  through 

And  through;  turquoise,  opal  and  amethyst; 

All  color  woven  in  a  wondrous  mist 
Of  radiance;  the  sheen  of  morning  dew; 
Old  moonlight  crystallized  and  veiled  with  dreams 

Of  all  the  poets  of  the  centuries; 

Pale  starlight  gathered  from  far  southern  seas ; 
The  glitter  of  a  thousand  singing  streams; — 
All  these  it  seemed,  and  yet  'twas  something  more, 

Yea  more  than  any  miracle  of  light, 

For  here  beneath  our  tranquil  evening  skies, 
And  here  beside  our  golden  Western  shore 
The  soul  of  the  Ideal,  uplifting,  white, 

Was  first  made  visible  to  mortal  eyes ! 

HERBERT  BASHFORD. 


A  Aother  of  Suffrage  in  the  West 


By  Fred  Lockley 


ABIGAIL  Scott  Duniway,  "The 
Mother  of  Woman  Suffrage  in 
Oregon,"  died  in  Portland  a 
few  months  ago  at  the  age  of 
81  years.  She  was  the  sister  of  the 
well  known  Harvey  W.  Scott,  who  for 
many  years  was  editor  of  The  Ore- 
gonian,  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  in- 
fluential newspapers  west  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  Mrs.  Duniway  had 
a  picturesque  career.  She  was  born 
in  Pleasant  Grove,  Illinois,  in  1834, 
and  with  her  parents  came  to  Oregon 
by  ox-team  in  1852.  She  had  but  five 
months'  schooling,  but  this  did  not 
deter  her  from  securing  a  position  as 
school  teacher  when  she  was  16.  At 
18  she  was  married,  and  moved  on  a 
farm.  A  mortgage,  the  interest  on 
which  was  2  per  cent  a  month,  took 
all  the  money  that  the  young  couple 
could  raise,  and  finally  took  the  farm 
also. 

Mrs.  Duniway  went  back  to  teach- 
ing. Her  husband  was  injured  in  a 
runaway,  and  was  never  able  to  work 
again.  Mrs.  Duniway  got  up  at  3 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  did  her  wash- 
ing, got  breakfast  for  her  boarders, 
did  the  housework,  got  her  children 
ready  for  school,  and  then  went  to 
school  to  put  in  a  strenuous  day.  After 
school  she  got  supper  for  the  board- 
ers, and  did  the  housework  and  the 
mending.  For  two  years  she  aver- 
aged to  work  18  hours  a  day. 

"I  wish  some  of  these  bridge  whist, 
pink  tea,  ping-pong  anti- women  suf- 
fragists had  to  work  as  I  did  to  keep 
their  heads  and  the  heads  of  those  de- 
pendent upon  them  above  water,  and 
they  would  not  have  so  much  time  to 
work  against  woman  suffrage,"  said 
Mrs.  Duniway.  For  a  while,  Mrs. 
Duniway  taught  school  in  Albany, 


Abigail  Scott  Duniway. 

Oregon,  and  then  started  a  millinery 
store. 

She  soon  found  out  that  a  woman 
in  Oregon  had  no  legal  existence.  She 
discovered  that  a  woman  could  work 
from  daylight  to  dark  to  accumulate 
a  little  property,  and  then  had  no  say 
in  the  disposal  of  it. 

Mrs.  Duniway  told  me,  a  few  months 
before  she  died,  of  the  first  speech  she 
ever  made  for  woman  suffrage.  "I 
was  at  the  depot  at  Oregon  City  wait- 
ing for  the  train,"  said  Mrs.  Duniway. 
"A  farmer's  wife  came  into  the  ticket 
office  with  two  milk  pails  of  wild 
blackberries.  She  sold  them  for 
enough  to  buy  a  ticket  to  Portland. 
Friends  of  hers  were  visiting  in  Port- 
land, and  had  written  to  her  asking 
her  to  come  and  see  them. 


A  MOTHER  OF  SUFFRAGE  IN  THE  WEST 


499 


"Just  before  the  train  was  due,  a 
German  farmer  rode  up  on  his  horse, 
got  off  and  tied  the  animal.  He  strode 
into  the  depot.  Walking  up  to  his  wife, 
who  was  trembling  with  fright,  he 
said  angrily :  'Where  is  the  money  for 
those  wild  blackberries?'  'I  bought 
a  ticket  to  Portland,  so  I  could  go  and 
see  my  friends/  she  said. 

"  'Give  it  here/  he  said. 

"She  handed  the  ticket  to  him.  He 
tore  it  in  two,  threw  it  on  the  floor, 
and  said:  'Now,  get  home,  and  get  to 
work.' 

"She  started  up  the  road,  he  on 
horseback  forcing  her  along,  as  if  she 
was  a  cow  he  had  just  bought  and  was 
driving  home.  She  stumbled  along  up 
the  rough  road,  her  eyes  blinded  with 
tears. 

"With  a  sob  in  my  throat,  I  turned 
to  the  few  men  in  the  depot  and  made 
my  first  public  speech.  'Men  and 
brethren/  I  said,  'the  day  will  come  in 
Oregon  when  men  will  not  stand  su- 
pinely by  and  see  a  woman  abused  as 
you  have  let  this  woman  be.' 

"I  resolved  never  to  rest  till  women 
were  free.  I  realized  that  in  place  of 
woman  being  man's  equal  that  most 
of  them  were  drudges/some  of  them 
were  dolls,  and  the  rest  were  fools.  I 
resolved  that  in  spite  of  the  loss  of 
friends,  disgrace,  contumely  and  jeers 
I  would  never  rest  till  women  were 
able  to  vote  and  improve  the  condi- 
tions of  society. 

"On  May  5,  1871,  I  started  a  news- 
paper to  work  for  the  freedom  of 
women.  I  wrote  the  editorials,  so- 


licited the  subscriptions  and  advertis- 
ing during  the^day  and  in  the  evening  I 
delivered  lectures.  My  friends  drew 
their  skirts  aside  when  I  passed  them 
on  the  streets,  when  I  started  to  pray 
or  speak  at  prayer  meeting  the  min- 
ister would  announce  a  hymn  and  the 
congregation  would  drown  me  out 
with  their  voices,  which  were  often 
more  lusty  than  harmonious.  Wherever 
I  arose  I  would  hear  some  one  shout, 
'Sing  her  down.'  After  forty  years  of 
work,  the  tide  turned,  and  they  began 
calling  me  'the  Grand  Old  Woman  of 
Oregon/  " 

On  July  16,  1898,  Mrs.  Duniway 
made  an  address  before  the  Constitu- 
tional Convention  of  Idaho,  and  se- 
cured a  pledge  that  the  question  of 
suffrage  should  be  submitted  to  the 
voters  at  the  first  election  after  Idaho 
received  Statehood.  Ten  years  later, 
when  Oregon  was  celebrating  the  for- 
tieth anniversary  of  its  admission  as 
a  State,  Mrs.  Duniway  made  the  prin- 
cipal address  before  the  joint  conven- 
tion of  the  House  and  Senate  of  the 
Oregon  Legislature.  At  the  Lewis  & 
Clark  Exposition,  one  day  was  set 
apart  as  Abigail  Scott  Duniway  Day. 
In  January,  1910,  (she  was  Oregon's 
delegate  to  the  Conservation  Congress 
of  Governors,  held  in  Washington,  D. 
C.,  and  made  a  powerful  and  con- 
vincing argument  for  universal  woman 
suffrage.  She  had  six  children,  and 
she  loved  her  home  life  and  believed 
it  to  be  a  woman's  highest  privilege 
and  duty  to  be  a  homemaker  and 
mother. 


The  Pioneer  Belle  of  Long  Ago 


By  Eleanor  Duncan  Wood 


In  the  dusk  of  our  dim  old  garret 

Hang  wrecks  of  an  earlier  day — 
Hoops  that  spread  like  the  bay-tree, 

Bonnets,  faded  and  gay; 
And  far  in  a  cobwebby  corner 

From  the  sunshine's  ribbon  broad, 
A  spinning  wheel,  on  it  carven : 

"Ann  Ward,  by  the  grace  of  God." 


They  say  you  could  shoot  like  a  hunter, 

You  had  need  of  that  knowledge  too, 
And  you  taught  to     your     thronging 
babies 

The  little  lore  you  knew: — 
The  Horn-Book,  that  ancient  primer, 

Where  Zaccheus  outgrew  his  tree, 
How  to  tame  the  mutinous  goosequill, 

The  Creed,  and  the  Rule  of  Three. 


And  the  clothes  you  wove,  and  the 
blankets 

And  quilts,  'twas  a  goodly  store, 
Though  you  gave  like  a  queen  to  the 
stranger, 

If  only  his  need  were  sore ; 
And  the  wayfarer  found  a  welcome 

By  the  cabin's  hearthstone  broad; 
There  are  many  lessons  you  teach  us, 

"Ann  Ward,  by  the  grace  of  God": 


Long  ago,  great-grandmother, 

You  were  a  belle  of  renown; 
'Mid  the  gallants  and  fops  you  queened 
it 

In  old  Alexandria  town; 
But  Love  is  a  potent  master; 

To  the  far  frontier  you  came, 
And  the  hands  that  had  toyed  with  the 
lutestrings 

Kindled  the  hearthfire's  flame. 


Though  near  or  afar  lurked  danger, 

Blithe  you  were  as  the  day, 
And  along  with  the  endless  toiling 

There  was  time  for  a  song  alway ; 
Seeds  from  your  girlhood's  garden 

By  your  humble  threshold  grew, 
And  wooed  by  your  loving  fingers 

Burst  in  riot  of  bloom  anew. 


Courage  to  face  life's  problems 

And  choose  what  is  best  worth  while, 
To  weave  in  the  warp  of  duty 

The  golden  thread  of  a  smile; 
To  give  ourselves  in  our  giving; 

To  trust  in  God  and  be  true. 
Hands,  that  could  weave  a  Nation, 

Teach  us  to  work  like  you! 


A  Reminiscence  of  the  Old  Stage  Line 


By  Bernetta  Alphin  Atkinson 


The  author  of  the  Western  sketch  presented  herewith  is  Mrs.  Bernetta 
Alphin  Atkinson  of  Los  Angeles.  She  was  born  in  Salt  Lake  City  more 
than  forty-nine  years  ago,  when  the  traditional  West  of  Indian  raids  and 
cowboy  romance,  of  adventure  and  daring  and  gold,  was  merging  into  the 
civilization  brought  by  rapid  transportation  and  Eastern  capital.  Her 
father,  John  Henry  Alphin,  was  a  '49er,  and  the  type  of  pioneer  who  loved 
to  speculate  in  the  chances  afforded  by  new  mining  camps,  and  the  big 
enterprises  of  those  times  and  places.  Therefore,  his  field  of  action 
shifted  from  one  new  mining  camp  to  a  still  newer,  and  Mrs.  Atkinson,  as 
a  child  and  young  woman,  had  an  exceptional  experience  in  the  West  of 
earlier  days.  Her  remembrances  o  f  the  "ghost  towns"  of  Nevada,  Utah, 
Colorado  and  Montana,  when  they  were  booming  centers  of  activities,  are 
intensely  interesting.  She  rehabilitates  those  ancient  Eldorados  of  the 
mountains  and  the  deserts  with  the  spirit  of  their  prime,  when  she  tells 
the  little  true  story  of  her  own  experiences  in  those  early  days. 


NOW  is  a  good  time  for  that  Mon- 
tana story,  Aunty,"  said  Jack, 
as  he  stretched  his  six  feet  one 
on  a  rug  under  the  trees  where 
we  were  picnicking,  and  looked  the 
personification  of  comfort  in  his  white 
flannels  and  neglige  shirt.  My  eldest 
niece,  Marion,  sat  near  him,  playfully 
tickling  his  ear  with  a  blade  of  grass, 
and  smothered  a  laugh  as  he  kept 
brushing  away  an  imaginary  fly.  Mar- 
ion and  Jack  had  been  engaged  just 
long  enough  to  begin  to  be  interested 
somewhat  in  matters  outside  them- 
selves. We  had  started  out  early  for 
the  canyon  with  a  big  touring  car  full 
of  a  family  picnic  party  bound  for  a 
day  among  the  hills  and  a  luncheon  in 
the  canyon.  We  had  just  finished  a 
most  satisfying  meal,  and  were  dis- 
tributed on  rugs  under  the  shade  for 
an  hour's  rest  before  going  on  through 
the  beautiful  scenes  of  the  Santa  Ana 
Canyon  of  Southern  California. 

My  early  life  in  the  mining  west 
had  been  the  basis  of  a  series  of  stor- 
ies which  had  proved  very  interesting 
to  the  young  folks,  who  knew  the 


West  only  as  a  land  of  plenty  and  re- 
finement with  just  the  dash  of  the  old 


Bernetta  A.  Atkinson 


502 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


pioneer  spirit  to  give  it  charm.  My 
little  niece  Catherine,  ever  eager  for 
a  story,  drew  near  my  side,  and  laid 
her  golden  head  in  my  lap. 

"Let  me  see/'  I  replied;  "the  last 
story  was  about  the  driving  of  the  gol- 
den spike  when  the  Central  Pacific 
Railroad  from  the  West,  and  the  Un- 
ion Pacific  from  the  East,  met  in  Utah. 
Soon  after  the  completion  of  the  over- 
land road,  father,  with  the  pioneer's 
longing  for  new  fields,  moved  his 
headquarters  from  the  little  town  of 
Corinne,  at  the  junction  of  the  roads^ 
to  Helena,  Montana,  then  a  booming 
mining  camp. 

The  journey  had  to  be  made  by 
stage  coach,  and  reservations  for  seats 
for  our  little  family  had  to  be  secured 
weeks  ahead.  My  father  had  attended 
to  this  matter,  and  then  hurried  away 
to  his  new  field  of  action.  As  I  look 
back  across  the  years,  one  of  the  things 
which  stand  out  clearly  is  that  journey 
with  its  every  detail.  Perhaps  this 
vivid  impression  is  due  to  a  feeling 
of  fear  which  I  experienced  when  I 
heard  my  mother's  friends  and  neigh- 
bors begging  her  not  to  go  to  that  wild 
country,  and  prophesying  that  she 
would  never  reach  it  alive;  that  she 
and  her  children  would  be  scalped  by 
Indians  or  shot  down  by  stage  rob- 
bers. It  was  a  hazardous  trip  at  best 
and  over  a  wild  and  rugged  road,  five 
days  and  nights  to  make  the  trip,  stop- 
ping just  long  enough  at  stage  stations 
to  eat,  change  horses  and  rest  for  an 
hour  or  so. 

Father  had  been  careful  to  secure 
for  mother  a  comfortable  back  seat  in 
the  big  Concord  Coach,  for  she  had  a 
six  months  old  baby  to  hold,  and  I  was 
at  the  troublesome  age  of  six  years. 
We  were  all  on  the  porch  waiting  when 
Gilmer  and  Saulsberry's  unwieldy 
stage  swung  round  the  corner  and 
pulled  up  in  front  of  the  house.  Amid 
the  weeping  and  wailing  of  mother's 
friends,  we  were  loaded  into  the  coach 
— the  baby  was  handed  to  mother  last, 
followed  by  a  large,  bright  carpet  bag, 
which  was  my  special  pride.  The 
driver  slammed  the  door,  complaining 
that  he  was  late,  any  way.  This  was 


his  plan  to  cut  short  the  leave-takings. 
He  climbed  on  the  box,  gathered  up 
the  reins,  and  we  were  off.  There 
were  eight  passengers  inside,  four 
men,  mother  and  her  two  children,  and 
two  women  from  the  East,  who  were 
going  to  Helena  to  visit  a  brother  who 
was  some  high  State  official  in  Mon- 
tana. Of  this  we  were  very  frequently 
reminded  with  a  view  toward  estab- 
lishing their  own  social  dignity.  They 
had  never  traveled  by  stage  before, 
and  from  the  moment  we  left  Corrinne 
they  had  been  loud  in  their  complaints 
of  the  discomfort  of  the  trip. 

They  felt  sure  that  occupying  the 
front  seat  would  be  the  death  of  them, 
as  they  never  could  sit  backward  while 
riding  without  making  them  ill.  The 
second  day  out,  mother,  tired  of  hear- 
ing the  continued  complaint,  gave 
them  her  precious  back  seat,  which 
father  had  waited  so  patiently  to  se- 
cure, and  which  had  cost  him,  besides, 
a  substantial  tip.  The  male  passen- 
gers looked  unapprovingly  upon  the 
charge,  as  my  mother  had  an  infant 
to  hold,  but  the  beneficiaries  smiled 
sweetly  and  accepted.  Mother  never 
complained  throughout  the  entire  trip. 

One  of  the  lady  passengers  was  an 
old  maid  well  along  in  the  forties,  but 
carefully  preserved  with  a  remnant  of 
prettiness.  Her  vis-a-vis  was  a  large, 
broad  shouldered  man  of  the  pioneer 
Western  type.  He  belonged  in  Helena 
— and  was  returning  from  a  business 
trip  to  the  East.  There  seemed  to  be 
a  mutual  attraction  between  the  two 
from  the  first  day  out.  He  was  not 
the  least  daunted  by  her  lady-like 
complaining,  but  rather  seemed  to  ac- 
cept it  as  a  token  of  refinement.  He 
was  solicitous  concerning  her  comfort, 
adjusting  her  cushions,  tucking  the 
robe  comfortably  about  her,  and  doing 
many  little  services  in  return  for  which 
she  smirked  and  giggled  like  a  sixteen 
year  old  school  girl.  All  this  was 
highly  amusing  to  the  other  passen- 
gers, who  winked  and  nodded  stealth- 
ily to  each  other  when  they  dared.  She 
was  the  only  one  who  seemed  to  pre- 
sent a  neat  and  faultless  appearance. 
Her  little  cork-screw  ringlets  in  a  row 


Hang  Tree,  1868,  Helena,  Mont. 


on  each  side  of  her  head  were  always 
in  perfect  order,  with  not  a  hair  out 
of  place,  which  was  a  mystery  to  the 
rest  of  the  passengers,  who  were  all 
becoming  disheveled  and  untidy. 

The  last  lap  of  the  journey  is  very 
vividly  impressed  upon  my  mind.  We 
were  jogging  along  in  the  night,  with 
the  prospect  of  reaching  Helena  early 
in  the  morning,  dozing  when  we  were 


able  to,  when  the  coach  suddenly 
stopped,  the  door  was  jerked  open,  and 
a  lighted  lantern  thrust  into  the  faces 
of  the  sleepy  passengers.  A  man 
with  a  bear  skin  overcoat  and  a  fur 
cap  drawn  tightly  over  his  head,  keen- 
ly scanned  the  faces  of  the  passen- 
gers, then  grabbed  one  of  the  men, 
crying,  "Come  out  of  here!" 

Thinking  we  had  been  held  up  by 


504 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


stage  robbers,  the  women  all  screamed 
and  the  men  put  up  their  hands  obedi- 
ently. For  a  moment  there  was  tense 
excitement;  then  we  learned  that  the 
man  was  Eex  Bigler,  the  sheriff  from 
Helena.  He  had  been  out  with  a  posse 
hunting  horse  thieves,  and  remember- 
ing that  he  was  expecting  a  friend 
from  the  East  on  that  stage,  came  over 
to  welcome  him.  He  celebrated  the 
occasion  by  passing  a  bottle  around 
among  the  men,  the  ladies  declining. 

We  resumed  our  way  just  as  the  first 
glimmer  of  dawn  began  to  appear  in 
the  East.  Presently  the  stage  stopped 
and  the  driver  gallantly  invited  us  to 
get  out  and  look  at  the  "Hangman's 
Tree."  We  were  all  glad  to  scramble 
out  and  take  the  opportunity  to  limber 
up  a  little.  We  saw  an  immense  pine 
with  one  long  limb  extending  across 
the  gulch.  We  were  told  that  the 
Vigilantes  had  been  hanging  their 
victims  on  that  tree  since  1864.  Many 
of  the  branches  had  broken  off  under 
their  ghastly  burdens.  The  driver  re- 
marked that  on  his  last  trip  two  men 
were  hanging  on  the  tree. 

The  first  lynching  occurred  in  1864, 
when  a  gambler  was  hanged  who  had 
killed  a  Chinese  woman  called  "Gold- 
dust  Mary,"  for  her  money.  A  mob 
formed,  and,  as  he  stood  in  front  of 
a  store,  a  rope  was  thrown  around 
his  neck,  and  he  was  dragged  to  Dry 
Gulch,  where  he  met  his  fate.  Since 
that  time  it  had  been  a  common  oc- 
currence to  find  dead  men  hanging 
from  the  tree  in  the  morning.  We  felt 
creepy  as  we  crept  back  into  the  stage 
and  resumed  our  course. 

It  was  a  happy  time  when  we  pulled 
up  in  front  of  Wells-Fargo  Company's 
place  and  found  father  waiting  to  meet 
us.  As  the  big  Westerner  helped  his 
lady  carefully  out  of  the  stage,  a  rough 
man  sprang  forward  and  slapped  him 
soundly  on  .the  back,  saying: 

"Pard,  we've  struck  a  richer  vein 
than  ever.  It's  the  biggest  little  mine 
in  the  State." 

Hand-shaking  and  congratulations? 
from  the  by-standers  followed.  We 
were  somewhat  surprised  to  discover 
that  our  traveling  companion  was  the 


Bonanza  King  of  Helena.  That  night 
we  were  all  invited  to  the  wedding, 
gotten  up,  even  at  that  short  notice, 
regardless  of  expense.  The  bride  got 
out  her  prettiest  dress,  her  important 
relative  was  on  hand  to  give  her  away, 
and  the  groom  offered  a  banquet  fit 
for  a  king  to  all  his  acquaintances. 
Later,  as  wealth  poured  in  from  the 
lucky  strike,  the  couple  became  the  ac- 
knowledged leaders  of  the  bon-ton  in 
Helena. 

Helena  was  a  wide  awake  mining 
camp  at  that  time.  Judging  from  the 
lawlessness  prevalent  and  the  activi- 
ties of  the  Vigilantes,  it  might  be  con- 
jectured that  all  the  inhabitants  were 
of  the  tough  variety.  This,  however, 
was  not  the  case.  The  majority  of  the 
citizens  of  Helena  were  law-abiding 
and  progressive,  many  of  them  edu- 
cated and  refined.  The  lawless  ele- 
ment was  there,  as  it  always  is  in  such 
communities,  but  it  was  not  in  the  pre- 
ponderance. 

The  town  boasted  already  of  an  op- 
era house  and  a  stock  company,  play- 
ing to  crowded  houses.  Churches, 
schools,  fraternal  lodges  and  the  so- 
cial cliques  and  petty  rivalries  existed 
the  same  as  to-day.  Money  was  plen- 
tiful and  expenditure  lavish.  When  a 
ball  was  given,  usually  by  the  Ma- 
sonic or  Odd  Fellow  fraternities,  the 
ladies  vied  with  each  other  in  the 
splendor  and  cost  of  their  costumes. 
They  often  sent  to  San  Francisco,  New 
York  and,  if  a  particularly  smart  affair 
was  to  be  staged,  they  might  even  or- 
der their  gowns  from  Worth  in  Paris. 
The  wealthy  class  had  their  children 
educated  in  the  East  or  abroad.  Pianos 
and  organs  were  brought  in  by  special 
wagons  before  the  railroad  reached 
that  point. 

We  spent  a  year  in  Helena;  then 
father  sold  his  business  there,  and  a 
new  mining  boom  being  on  in  Nevada, 
decided  to  enter  that  field.  The  old 
Forty-niner  was  always  ready  for  a 
new  adventure.  We  accordingly  pre- 
pared to  return  to  Corrinne,  the  junc- 
tion of  the  Overland  railroad. 

We  were  unfortunate  in  taking  pas- 
sage on  the  stage  when  it  carried  an 


A  REMINISCENCE  OF  THE  OLD  STAGE  LINE 


505 


unusually  heavy  shipment  of  bullion 
from  the  mines,  and  money  from  the 
miners  to  their  families  in  the  East. 
It  was  immediately  after  pay-day,  and 
the  miners  always  made  a  point  of 
sending  home  their  money  by  Wells- 
Fargo  Express,  as  the  company  was 
responsible  for  the  safe  delivery  of 
the  sums  entrusted  to  it.  A  messenger 
always  accompanied  the  treasure,  who 
was  called  in  those  days  a  "shotgun 
messenger."  He  was  expected  to  fight 
to  the  death  to  protect  the  treasure, 
and,  in  case  of  an  attack,  was  usually 
killed.  I  remember  hearing  of  a  well 
known  character  of  Helena  who,  hav- 
ing met  with  reverses,  and  being  known 
as  a  very  fearless  man,  was  offered 
the  position  of  Wells-Fargo  messen- 
ger. He  shook  his  head  and  declined 
the  offer,  saying: 

"I'm  broke  and  need  the  money, 
but  I  am  afraid  I  might  get  killed  and 
lose  my  job." 

We  had  been  out  but  one  day  and 
a  part  of  the  night  when  we  were 
aroused  by  a  rough  voice,  crying: 
'Halt!'  The  driver  obeyed  very 
promptly,  why  should  he  not,  with  sev- 
eral rifles  pointed  at  his  head?  It 
was  the  stage  robber  sure  enough.  One 
of  the  bandits  threw  open  the  door 
of  the  coach,  and,  .covering  us  with 
two  revolvers,  ordered  every  one  out, 
and  to  hold  up  their  hands.  No  one 
needed  a  second  invitation.  From  the 
light  of  a  lantern  they  could  see  the 
rifles  gleaming  through  the  darkness. 

One  passenger  was  a  Chinaman  who 
had  made  ten  thousand  dollars  in  the 
laundry  business  in  Helena.  He  was 
now  returning  to  the  Flowery  King- 
dom, intending  to  retire  with  the  pro- 
ceeds of  his  industry.  At  that  time 
the  Chinese  were  not  so  well  posted  in 
American  methods,  and  he  was  ignor- 
ant of  the  fact  that  he  could  send  his 
money  by  express  and  collect  the 
amount  at  the  other  end  of  his  jour- 
ney. The  Chinese  custom  was  to  con- 
vert their  money  and  gold  dust  into 
currency  and  sew  it  into  the  padding 
of  their  blouse. 

The  bandits  evidently  were  aware 
of  this  custom,  for,  after  relieving  the 


other  passengers  of  their  money  and 
valuables,  they  grabbed  John  China- 
man by  his  pig- tail  and  ordered  him 
to  hand  over  his  money.  Notwith- 
standing the  critical  situation,  it  was 
a  ludicrous  sight,  even  to  a  child  like 
myself  to  see  the  frightened  Oriental, 
with  his  hands  over  his  head,  dancing 
and  capering  around  wildly  in  his  ter- 
ror, and  shrieking: 

"Me  got  no  money!  Me  bloke. 
Me  going  to  Flisco  to  work!" 

For  answer  to  this  appeal,  the  rob- 
ber drew  a  bowie  knife  from  his  belt 
and  began  to  carve  the  padded  blouse. 
The  women  began  to  scream,  thinking 
that  the  Chinaman  was  about  to  be 
murdered,  and  begged  for  poor  John's 
life.  The  robber,  however,  was  only 
taking  this  means  to  make  a  quick  job 
of  his  work,  and  soon  found  the  bills, 
carefully  spread  out  between  the  pad- 
ding of  the  blouse.  Meanwhile  the 
shadowy  figures  at  the  .side  of  the 
road  had  the  driver  and  messenger 
covered  with  their  rifles,  which  glis- 
tened weirdly  in  the  darkness,  lighted 
only  by  the  glimmer  of  the  single  lan- 
tern. 

The  robber  next  demanded  the  U. 
S.  Mail  and  the  express  from  the 
driver.  At  the  first  move  toward  the 
treasure,  the  messenger  promptly 
fired,  but  the  bandit,  anticipating  this, 
fired  simultaneously.  The  poor  mes- 
senger's ball  flew  wide  of  the  mark, 
and  he  fell  dead,  shot  through  the 
heart. 

After  looting  the  stage  of  all  its 
treasure,  the  bandits  disappeared, 
first  warning  the  driver  to  drive  on 
rapidly,  and  not  to  look  back  at  the 
peril  of  his  life.  This  he  did,  leaving 
the  dead  messenger  by  the  roadside. 
I  am  sure  no  one  dared  to  look  back, 
for  the  men  were  thoroughly  awed  by 
what  they  had  seen,  and  the  women 
hysterical. 

When  we  reached  the  nearest  sta- 
tion, about  five  miles  from  the  scene 
of  the  tragedy,  arrangements  were 
made  to  bring  in  the  body  of  the  mes- 
senger, and  word  of  the  catastrophe 
was  sent  to  Helena.  But  so  well  did 
the  bandits  cover  up  their  tracks  that 


506                                       OVERLAND  MONTHLY 

they  were  never  captured,     although  heard  the  whistle  of  the  steam  trains, 

the   sheriff  and  posse     scoured     the  we  rejoiced  to  know  that  a  new  era 

country  in  an  effort  to  bring  them  to  was  dawning  for  the  traveler  in  the 

justice.  far  West,  that  much  of  the  discom- 

The  Chinaman  who  had  been  robbed  fort  of  journeying  over  this  vast,  un- 
decided to  return  to  Helena,  and  inhabited  region  was  being  eliminated 
once  more  go  to  his  laundry  work.  He  by  modern  and  efficient  means  of  lo- 
had  set  his  heart  on  going  back  to  comotion. 

China  with  a  competence,  and  the  last  The  following  winter  we  spent  in 

we  saw  of  him  he  was  still  crying  Salt  Lake  City,  and  in  the  spring  of 

over  his  disappointment.  71  father  went  to  the  new  strike  at 

The  remainder  of  our  trip  was  Pioche,  Nevada,  leaving  us  in  Salt 
without  incident,  for  which  we  were  Lake  until  he  could  prepare  a  suit- 
grateful,  having  had  enough  of  ex-  able  place  for  us  to  live.  Sometime, 
citement  and  danger.  On  the  day  when  we  are  together  again,  I  will  tell 
when  we  pulled  into  Corrinne,  and  you  of  the  stirring  days  of  Pioche. " 


SENTINEL  OF  HAWAII 

A  silent  sentinel :  Diamond  Head ! 
He  stood,  as  he  stands,  in  primeval  soil; 
In  sand  the  Book  of  the  Day  was  read, 
Unprinted  in  type  of  human  toil; — 

Koolau  commanded  life  instead. 

A  silent  sentinel:  Diamond  Head! 
A  fleet  from  over  the  sea  drew  nigh ; 
Never  a  word  nor  a  prayer  he  said 
As  Kamehameha  passed  him  by; — 

In  challenge  Koolau  raised  his  head. 

A  silent  sentinel:  Diamond  Head! 
He  looked  askance,  nor  welcome  gave, 
When  landed  the  monarch  in  gold  and  red — 
Who  paused  where  leapt  Oahu's  brave 

Koolau  stands  guard  o'er  those  death-sped. 

A  silent  sentinel:  Diamond  Head! 
New  England  sought  his  uncharted  shore, 
Enchained  the  water,  the  desert  fled, 
Nestled  a  town,  embowered  o'er; — 

Koolau  eternal  his  haus  spread. 

A  silent  sentinel :  Diamond  Head ! 
Doth  proud  o'er  the  sea  his  solitude  keep 
While  the  shores  grown  fair,  to  Industry  wed, 
Breeze-flung  alohas  waft  o'er  the  deep; — 

In  pride,  Koolau  doth  rainbows  shed. 

RUTH  WHEELER  MANNIX 

Diamond  Head  is  a  massive  pinnacle  of  rock  at  the  entrance  of  Honolulu  Harbor, 
the  first  land  sighted  between  America  and  Asia.  The  central  mountain  range  of  ihe 
island,  Oahu,  is  the  Koolau  range.  Kamehameha  was  the  conquering  chief  of 
this  island.  Missionaries  from  New  England  were  the  first  while  settlers.  Aloha  is 
the  Hawaiian  word  for  welcome  or  greeting.  Hau  is  a  native  tree  of  Hawaii. 


A  Lucky  Prospector 


By  Charles  Ellenvail 


THAT  Western  America  in  gen- 
eral, and  the  State  of  Califor- 
nia in  particular,  possesses  an 
abundance  of  opportunity  for 
those  in  whom  the  principles  of  hon- 
est endeavor  and  untiring  diligence  are 
predominant,  has  been  proclaimed 
again  and  again  by  cinematograph, 
pen  and  voice. 

Recent  events  have  conclusively 
proved  that  there  is  special  opportu- 
nity for  those  who  have  made  metal- 
lurgy and  mineralogy  their  special 
line  of  study;  but  study  alone  is  not 
sufficient.  It  must  be  accompanied  by 
hard  gained  experience,  forensic  fore- 
sight, and  careful  attention  to  detail; 
besides  a  knowledge  of  the  laws  and 
customs  of  the  districts  prospected. 

The  greatest  excitement  that  has 
stirred  the  mining  community  of  Cali- 
fornia for  several  years  now  pervades 
the  city  of  Grass  Valley,  California. 

The  cause  of  this  mental  disturb- 
ance is  the  location  by  Mr.  L.  G.  Be- 
loud,  a  resident  of  the  city,  upon  a 
plat  of  land  comprising  about  ten 
acres  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  one 
of  the  most  famous  gold  producing 
mines  of  the  world,  "The  Empire  Min- 
ing Company."  In  fact,  the  newly 
acquired  claim  of  this  enterprising 
prospector  is  immediately  at  the  door 
of  the  Empire  Mine  itself. 

A  map  of  the  district  from  the  gov- 
ernment offices  declared  the  land  to 
belong  to  the  U.  S.  Government  and 
open  to  location.  Just  how  it  hap- 
pened that  such  valuable  property — 
immediately  adjoining  the  famous 
mines — remained  unlocated  for  so 
many  years  seems  to  be  nobody's 
knowledge;  nor  can  it  cease  to  be  a 
grave  question  in  the  mind  of  the  peo- 
ple, why  this  identical  plat  was  sold 


in  June,  1915,  at  a  State  tax  sale  held 
in  the  Nevada  County  office.  Of 
course,  the  person  holding  redemption 
papers  had  no  right  nor  title  to  the 
land,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it 
had  never  passed  from  the  hands  of 
Uncle  Sam,  and  consequently  could  not 
be  sold  for  taxes. 

The  value  of  the  newly  acquired 
holdings  of  Mr.  Beloud  has  been  vari- 
ously estimated,  but  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Chronicle  proclaim  it  to  be  worth 
at  least  a  million  dollars.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  obtain  information  con- 
cerning the  earnings  of  the  adjoining 
property  extending  over  a  period  of 
years,  but  it  is  probably  over  a  hun- 
dred million  dollars.  During  a  recent 
law  suit  between  the  Empire  and  the 
North  Star  Companies  pertaining  to 
apex  rights,  the  former  company  val- 
ued its  property  at  seven  million  dol- 
lars. The  ditch  of  the  North  Star 
Company,  another  very  rich  concern, 
passes  through  Mr.  Beloud's  land. 

Whether  the  Empire  Company  in- 
tends to  dispute  Mr.  Beloud's  right  to 
the  land  remains  to  be  seen;  but  the 
public  sympathy  is  largely  in  favor 
of  the  prospecting  Davi,d,  and  ad- 
verse to  the  mining  Goliath. 

Mr.  Beloud  is  a  man  of  energy  and 
ready  enterprise,  and  these  forces 
have  been  strained  to  the  utmost  dur- 
ing the  last  few  years;  as  his  increas- 
ing family  demanded  that  no  stone 
be  left  unturned  to  provide  a  favorable 
future  for  them. 

Three  years  ago  he  spent  all  that 
he  possessed  in  a  mining  venture, 
when  he  tried  to  recover  the  fine  par- 
ticles of  gold  escaping  from  the  plant 
of  a  large  mine  operating  on  the  banks 
of  Deer  Creek,  by  the  use  of  appara- 
tus procured  from  a  Western  firm, 


508 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


which  was  guaranteed  to  remove  five 
hundred  yards  of  gravel  per  day.  It 
moved  about  five,  and  Mr.  Beloud 
lost  his  all. 

Since  that  time  his  efforts  to  make 
a  strike  have  been  unfailing ;  and  when 
he  procured  a  government  map  of  the 
district  and  selected  some  vacant  land 
for  prospecting  purposes,  he  was  not 
aware  of  the  vicinity  of  his  gigantic 
neighbor,  and  it  was  purely  a  matter 
of  chance  that  it  fell  to  his  hand. 

It  happened  in  this  way:  He  had 
two  companions,  as  portrayed  in  the 
accompanying  photo,  and  three  tracts 
of  land,  that  were  declared  vacant  by 
maps  from  the  government  offices,  and 
these  were  selected  for  prospecting 
purposes.  After  mineral  had  been 
discovered  upon  them,  a  "hat  drawing" 
was  arranged,  and  the  "claim"  adjoin- 
ing the  famous  mine  was  won  by  Mr. 
Beloud.  Mr.  Ellenvail  drew  twenty 
acres  in  another  section,  and  Mr.  Par- 
tridge twenty  acres  adjoining  that  of 
Mr.  Ellenvail,  all  proven  mineral 
land  and  open  to  location. 

Mr.  Beloud  made  every  effort  to  dis- 
cover any  prior  rights,  but  after  com- 
municating with  the  U.  S.  Attorney- 
General  at  Washington,  the  U.  S.  Gen- 
eral Land  Office,  the  U.  S.  District 
Land  Office,  and  engaging  counsel  to 
search  Sacramento  Land  Office  rec- 
ords and  making  maps,  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  plain  sailing  lay  ahead 
and  located  the  land  according  to  the 

usual  requirements. 

*  *  #  * 

It  was  a  fine  morning  in  February 
when  Mr.  Beloud  decided  to  make  the 
trip  to  the  vacant  land  as  indicated  by 
the  U.  S.  Survey  map.  In  conse- 
quence of  a  thaw  during  the  last  few 
days,  the  roads  were  in  bad  condition, 
but  it  was  propitious  for  the  purpose 
of  exploration  and  excavation  in 
search  of  gold.  He  harnessed  his 
pony  "May,"  to  an  old  cart,  and  ac- 
companied by  myself  and  Mr.  Par- 
tridge, started  on  his  quest. 

We  arrived  at  what  we  considered 
to  be  the  locality,  and  the  discovery 
of  an  old  section  corner  post  proved 
our  judgment  to  be  correct.  "May" 


was  unhitched  and  tethered  to  a  small 
tree  stump  that  protruded  about  a 
foot  from  the  ground.  She  was  made 
doubly  secure,  as  we  did  not  relish  a 
walk  home  through  the  mud. 

By  survey  tape  and  compass  we  dis- 
covered that  an  old  house  was  standing 
directly  upon  the  plat,  indicated  as  va- 
cant upon  the  map.  Outside  this 
dwelling  an  old  woman  was  cleaning 
chickens,  probably  preparatory  to 
sending  them  to  market.  The  offals, 
including  crops  and  gizzards,  were 
dropped  into  a  bucket  at  her  feet. 

We  had  hardly  taken  cognizance  of 
the  situation  when  we  heard  a  stamp- 
ing from  where  "May"  had  been  teth- 
ered, and  upon  making  for  the  spot, 
discovered  that,  in  her  struggles  to  se- 
cure feed,  and  consequent  upon  the 
thaw  and  gravelly  nature  of  the  soil, 
she  had  drawn  the  stump,  roots  and  all, 
from  the  ground;  and  there,  in  the 
hole  left  by  the  stump  a  ledge  of  quartz 
lay.  "Bull  quartz,"  pronounced  old 
Partridge,  disparagingly. 

Beloud  said  nothing,  but  raising  his 
prospecting  pick,  brought  down  the 
blunt  end  upon  the  rock  with  a  crash, 
and  broke  off  a  piece  as  large  as  a 
sheep's  head.  A  casual  examination 
was  sufficient.  It  was  highly  charged 
with  sulphurettes  that  assayed  $400 
to  the  ton.  We  procured  several  pieces 
more  of  the  quartz,  and  blazing  a  tree 
close  by,  filled  up  the  hole,  and  hav- 
ing once  more  secured  "May,"  pro- 
ceeded with  the  survey. 

Two  lads  were  playing  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  old  lady,  pulling  up  great 
tufts  of  long  grass  and  beating  each 
other  about  the  head  with  the  roots 
thereof,  but  seeing  that  they  wore 
"wide-awake"  hats  of  heavy  texture 
that  turned  up  at  the  rims,  they  were 
not  hurting  each  other. 

It  was  in  admonishing  the  boys  to 
better  behavior  that  she  looked  up  and 
caught  sight  of  our  group,  at  the  mo- 
ment when  Mr.  Beloud  took  from  his 
pocket  a  location  notice,  a  paper  al- 
ways carried  by  prospectors. 

She  watched  us  suspiciously  as  we 
duly  filled  in  the  blank  spaces  of  the 
notice  as  it  was  spread  on  the  trunk  of 


510 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


a  large  pine.  We  had  just  signed,  ac- 
cording to  law,  when  she  made  a  move 
in  our  direction. 

Mr.  Partridge  had  been  carrying 
some  stakes  under  his  arm,  and  he  im- 
mediately drove  one  into  the  ground. 
I  collected  a  number  of  rocks  and 
piled  them  around  the  stake.  Beloud 
had  just  nailed  his  notice  of  location 
upon  the  pine  tree,  when  the  old  lady 
reached  the  spot. 

She  carried  a  heavy  stick  in  her 
hand  and  gripped  it  threateningly.  She 
made  for  the  pine  tree,  read  the  rio- 
tice,  and  then  glanced  at  the  stake  in 
its  monument  of  stones. 

"What  does  this  mean,"  she  angrily 
demanded. 

"Madam,"  replied  Beloud,  "I  have 
just  located  this  land  according  to  the 
mining  laws  of  the  State  of  California 
and  the  United  States.  Just  how  it 
happens  that  you  are  living  here  on 
government  land  is  a  matter  for  ex- 
planation. 

The  old  lady  glared.  "Mining 
claim,  eh?  Mining  claim  fiddlesticks. 
This  land  is  mine  and  has  been  for 
many  years.  See!"  She  stepped  for- 
ward, and  with  one  sweep  of  her  hand 
the  location  notice  disappeared  from 
the  tree. 

Mj.  Beloud  was  in  no  wise  dis- 
turbed. "Madam,"  he  said,  "your  act 
in  no  way  invalidates  my  claim,  as  my 
witnesses  are  here  and  the  ground  is 
located.  You  will  be  in  no  way  dis- 
turbed in  your  residence  here.  You 
may  remain  for  the  rest  of  your  natu- 
ral life." 

During  this  passage,  the  two  boys 
had  approached  close  to  the  party,  and 
during  his  statement  Mr.  Beloud  had 
been  staring  at  the  head  of  the  boy 
nearest  to  him. 

"Think  as  y'll  know  me  nex'  time  as 
yer  sees  me?"  asked  the  boy,  saucily. 

"Yes,  my  son,  I  daresay  that  I  shall, 
but  I  was  looking  at  the  hat;  it's  only 
an  old  one,  but  I  have  a  fine  one  at 
home  made  of  the  same  color  of  ma- 
terial, and  I  burnt  a  hole  in  it,  and 
would  like  it  repaired.  Say,  kid,  I'll 
give  you  a  dollar  for  your  old  hat." 

The  boy  looked  incredulous.     Very 


likely  the  hat  had  cost  only  fifty  cents 
before.  The  rim  was  flat  and  straight 
then,  although  now  it  was  worn  and 
curled. 

"Show  us  yer  dollar,"  said  the  boy, 
jeeringly. 

In  a  second  the  dollar  was  in  the 
boy's  hand  and  the  hat  very  carefully 
removed  from  his  head  by  Mr.  Beloud, 
who  took  great  pains  to  fold  it  so  that 
the  rims  turned  more  inwardly  still. 

The  old  woman  gradually  assumed 
a  pitying  expression  and  attitude. 
"Dear  me!  Dear  me!"  she  said. 
"Where  'as  yer  'scaped  from." 

Mr.  Beloud's  eyes  were  snapping 
open  and  shut  quickly,  like  a  man 
who  was  doing  some  sharp  and  start- 
ling thinking,  and  he  was  staring  at  a 
dozen  chickens  which  were  scratching 
and  pecking  among  some  newly  turned 
up  earth. 

"Madam,"  he  answered  slowly,  "we 
have  just  escaped  from  home,  where 
I  keep  about  a  dozen  cats,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  find  food  for  them  all,  and 
so  if  you  will  let  me  have  the  offal 
that  you  have  in  the  bucket  where  you 
have  been  cleaning  the  chickens,  I 
will  give  you  twenty-five  cents  for 
it." 

The  eyes  of  the  old  woman  gleamed, 
"Make  it  fifty  cents  and  it's  yours." 

"Fifty  cents  it  is,"  said  Beloud,  and 
the  stuff  was  soon  wrapped  in  an  old 
newspaper  and  deposited  in  Mr.  Par- 
tridge's pack-saddle. 

As  we  moved  away,  the  old  woman 
called  out:  "Come  agen  soon,  there's 
giblets  an'  old  'ats  'ere  every  day," 
having  entirely  lost  sight  of  the  first 
issue. 

When  we  were  hidden  from  the 
house  by  the  trees,  we  stopped,  and 
myself  and  companion  looked  inquir- 
ingly at  Beloud. 

"Well,"  said  Partridge,  "that  was 
one  way  of  getting  rid  of  the  old  wo- 
man." 

Beloud  slowly  unfolded  the  hat  and 
stared  into  the  hollow  of  the  rims.  I 
looked  also,  and  the  cause  of  his  odd 
act  became  obvious.  The  earth  in  the 
rim  showed  a  light  sprinkle  of  very 
fine  particles  of  gold. 


FROM  THE   HOSPITAL 


511 


"And  why  the  chicken  rubbish?"  I 
asked,  ungrammatically. 

"Wait  till  we  get  home  and  see,"  re- 
plied Beloud, '  and  knowing  his  tem- 
perament, I  held  my  peace. 

Placer  and  quartz  notices  were 
quickly  prepared,  and  nailed  on  trees; 
the  ledge  was  measured  and  staked 
fifteen  hundred  ft.  long  and  three  hun- 
dred feet  at  each  side,  and  line  posts 
driven  in  according  to  law.  "May"  was 
quickly  put  in,  and  we  drove  to  town. 
Beloud  went  to  Nevada  City  and  re- 
corded his  claim  according  to  law,  and 
the  day's  work  was  done. 

"Lordy,  Lordy,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's 
like  a  fairy  tale.  I've  located  on  land 
more  -valuable  than  the  block  upon 
which  stands  the  Flat  Iron  and  other 
buildings  in  New  York." 

"That's  true,"  I  gasped,  without 
envy.  "You're  a  millionaire." 

"True  it  is,"  gurgled  Beloud  con- 
tentedly, "and  I  gave  that  old  woman 
my  last  cent.  Lend  me  a  quarter,  and 
I'll  buy  cigars  round." 

Amid  the  general  laugh,  I  produced 


the  coin,  and  Beloud  went  for  the 
cigars. 

The  chicken  crops  and  gizzards 
yielded  gold  to  the  value  of  $7.40.  The 
quartz  specimens  assayed  at  $40  per 
ton,  and  that  on  the  surface.  Of 
course  the  story  soon  got  abroad. 
Prospectors  will  tell  you  that  it  is  al- 
most impossible  to  keep  a  secret  con- 
cerning gold.  In  the  same  manner  it 
seems  at  present  impossible  to  account 
for  the  psychological  effect  upon  the 
people.  Folks  become  possessed  of  a 
form  of  mania  that  is  called  "gold 
fever,"  and  so  it  was  that  an  era  of 
prosperity  opened  up  for  the  old  lady 
living  upon  the  land. 

Mr.  Beloud  -has  secured  the  old 
lady's  house  and  garden  to  her  for 
life;  and  the  last  time  we  visited  her 
she  was  all  smiles  and  took  her  mar- 
ried daughter— who  was  paying  her  a 
visit,  to  assist  in  conducting  the  boom 
in  the  chicken  business — out  to  show 
the  location  notice,  and  as  we  all  stood 
by,  she  pointed  to  it  with  pride  as  the 
one  cause  of  her  abounding  prosperity. 


FRO/A    THE    HOSPITAL 


(And  one  shall  be  taken,  and  the  other  left.) 

The  ceaseless  sound  of  falling  rain, 

The  silent  halls,  the  shaded  light, 
The  restlessness  and  pain, 

Make  early  hours  seem  deep  of  night — 
And  when  we  meet  again, 

Oh,  it  will  be  another  day — and  late. 

It  seems  so  long  to  wait! 

If  I  could  hear  the  falling  rain, 

And  feel  your  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  let  my  fond  arms  strain 

About  you,  while  in  peaceful  rest 
We  dreamed,  and  knew  not  pain — 

Oh,  swift  the  hours  would  fly  until  the  dawn. 

But  you — and  dreams — are  gone ! 

SARAH  H.  KELLY. 


England's  Landholders  After  the  War 


By  F.  W.  H. 


WHEN  I  look  at  War  Bargains 
in  "Country  Life,"  or  turn 
over  the  racy  pages  of  Cor- 
bett's  "Rural  Rides/'  I  ask 
myself :  What  will  be  the  fate  of  the 
British  land-owner  after  this  war? 

When  hard  times  came  upon  the 
Irish  land-owner  he  was  saved,  or  ^par- 
tially  saved,  not  by  his  own  exertions, 
but  by  the  employment  on  what  was 
considered  a  very  great  scale  of  Brit- 
ish capital.  The  total  Irish  land  stock 
outstanding  is  just  over  90  millions. 
But  British  capital  is  now  being  em- 
ployed at  the  rate,  it  seems,  of  160 
millions  a  month  on  war  and  destruc- 
tion. And  the  longer  the  war  goes  on 
the  less  public  credit  will  remain  for 
any  new  purposes  such  as  the  relief  of 
what  used  to  be  called  the  privileged 
classes.  During  this  war,  British  and 
Irish  agriculture  has  indeed  been  very 
prosperous,  considering  the  serious 
and  ever-increasing  shortage  of  labor, 
due  to  a  ruthless  (and  must  we  add  an 
unreflecting?)  enlargement  of  the 
army,  undertaken  as  it  seems  in  de- 
fiance of  common  sense  and  without 
reference  to  the  vital  needs  of  indus- 
try, transport,  shipping  and  finance. 

During  the  Napoleonic  wars  agri- 
culture from  the  landlord's  point  of 
view  was  far  more  prosperous  than  it 
is  to-day.  The  rent  roll  of  England 
was  probably  doubled,  that  of  Scot- 
land was  far  more  than  doubled  (from 
$10,000,000  to  $26,390,000)  between 
1795  and  1815.  Unfortunately  for  the 
landlords  in  most  cases  their  standard 
of  living  and  their  extravagance  kept 
pace  with  their  rents.  It  was  a  period 
of  luxury  as  well  as  of  dissipation  and 
corruption.  Grand  houses  were  built, 
and  there  was  a  plentiful  demand  for 
good  pictures.  After  1815  the  price 


of  wheat,  which  has  risen  frequently 
during  the  war  above  100s.  a  quarter, 
dropped  sharply;  and,  though  it  con- 
tinued to  fluctuate  wildly,  the  fluctua- 
tions were  at  a  much  lower  level.  Con- 
sequently a  vast  amount  of  land  which 
it  had  been  profitable  to  cultivate  re- 
turned to  waste,  "The  fall  in  the 
price  of  corn  at  the  end  of  1815,"  to 
quote  Spencer  Walpole's  "History  of 
England,"  "deprived  the  farmers  of  all 
probability  of  profit;  and  farms  in 
every  part  of  the  kingdom  were 
thrown  out  of  cultivation."  It  is  esti- 
mated by  the  Board  of  Agriculture  that 
in  one  year  the  rent  roll  of  English 
landlords  fell  by  one  quarter — from  36 
to  25  millions,  sterling.  Farmers,  In 
fact,  were  ruined  in  all  directions,  and 
when  fanners  are  ruined  landlords 
cannot  prosper.  Moreover,  all  over 
the  country  pauperism  had  been  in- 
creasing fast.  In  1775,  the  total  poor 
rates  were  only  about  $8,500,000.  At 
the  end  of  the  wars  with  Napoleon 
they  were  over  six  millions.  In  many 
rural  parishes  most  of  the  inhabitants 
were  paupers.  In  some  the  rates  ex- 
ceeded the  rateable  value.  Conse- 
quently while  the  farmers'  rent  had 
risen,  their  contributions  to  poor  rate 
had  also  greatly  increased.  Thus 
landlords  were  thrown  into  great  dis- 
tress all  over  the  country;  but  they 
were  able  to  find  two  remedies,  a1; 
they  had  an  overwhelming  majority  in 
Parliament.  The  £irst  remedy  was  a 
very  high  protective  tariff  for  corn, 
known  as  the  Corn  Laws,  which  lasted 
down  to  1846.  This  kept  the  price  of 
corn  in  ordinary  times  far  above  its 
natural  level,  and  made  cheap  food  im- 
possible. Under  the  Corn  Laws  white 
bread  was  a  luxury  which  the  agricul- 
tural laborer  could  seldom  afford.  The 


ENGLAND'S  LANDHOLDERS  AFTER  THE  WAR 


513 


Corn  Laws  undoubtedly  accounted  in 
a  large  measure  for  a  long  series  of 
famines  in  Lancashire,  Yorkshire  and 
Scotland,  for  rick  burnings,  for  Lud- 
dite  disturbances,  and     bread     riots, 
which  led  to  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832, 
then  to  Poor  Law  and  municipal  re- 
forms, and  finally  to  the  repeal  of  the 
Corn  Laws  by  Sir  Robert     Peel     in 
1846.     Thus  poverty    engendered  by 
the  Corn  Laws  produced  the  political 
discontent  and  the  political  reforma- 
tion which  destroyed  them.     But  the 
distressed  landlords — and  they  really 
were  distressed  by  the  ruin  of  so  many 
thousands  of  farmers  in  1816  and  1817 
— had  another  remedy,  namely,     the 
repeal  of  the  income  and  property  tax, 
which  was  levied  at  a  flat  rate  of  2s. 
in  the  pound  on  all  incomes  over  one 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  with  abate- 
ments on  incomes  over  $300  to  $1,000. 
As  soon  as  the  war  was    over,    the 
House  of  Commons,  overruling     the 
government  of  the  day,  insisted  upon 
an  immediate  repeal  of  the  income  tax, 
and  also  a  reduction  of  the  malt  duty. 
These  measures  made  relief     of  the 
taxes  on  consumption   (the  principal 
cause  of  the  pauperism  of  the  poor)  a 
fiscal  impossibility.     But  in  spite    of 
these  measures  a  very  large  number 
of  old  landed  proprietors  disappeared. 
Many  fine  estates,  especially  in  the 
South  of  England,  were  sold  to  suc- 
cessful stock  jobbers.     Many  aristo- 
cratic families  were  forced  to  econo- 
mize severely.     "Luxuries  were  dis- 
used; and  works  of  art,  which  a  few 
months  before  had  been  regarded  as 
priceless  treasures,  were  disposed  of 
for  less  than  a  tenth  tof  their  value. 
Two  Claudes,  which  had  been  bought 
three  years  previously  for  a  thousand 
guineas  each,  were  sold  by  auction  in 
April,  1816,  for  70  and  80  guineas  re- 
spectively."   But  neither  can  the  land- 
lord of  to-day  look  back  to  the  long 
run  of  prosperity  which  his  predeces- 
sor of  a  century  ago  had  enjoyed,  nor 
does  he  possess  control  of  Parliament. 
No  doubt  pictures  and  curios    of  all 
sorts  can  and  will  be   sold  at  good 
prices  for  export  to  the  United  States, 
Holland,  Denmark  and  other  countries 


which  have  prospered  during  the  war. 
But  an  over-taxed  squire  cannot  hope 
for  a  reduction,  much  less  for  an  aboli- 
tion of  the  income  tax.  jLord  Inch- 
cape,  one  of  our  shrewdest  men  of 
business,  has  been  speculating  in  the 
city  on  the  possible  need  for  adding 
50  per  cent  to  our  present  war  taxation 
after  the  war  is  over.  Upon  that  as- 
sumption I  shall  not  be  accused  of  pes- 
simism if  I  advise  the  country  gen- 
tleman to  anticipate  an  income  tax 
ranging,  according  to  his  income,  from 
four  or  five  to  perhaps  nine  or  ten 
shillings  in  the  pound.  His  rent  roll 
may  have  improved  a  little  since  the 
war,  but  unless  he  can  cultivate  busi- 
ness habits  he  is  not  likely  to  get  back 
much  of  the  war  burden  from  his  ten- 
ants when  peace  lowers  prices.  The 
prospect  of  even  a  modest  corn  law  is 
not  very  good,  for  the  taxation  of  food 
is  unpopular  with  the  great  mass  of 
the  voters.  If  the  Socialists  get  con- 
trol, they  may  find  Mr.  Lloyd  George 
or  another  Mr.  Lloyd  George  to  tax, 
land  in  earnest.  Mr.  Lloyd  George 
in  an  interview  with  a  newspaper  man 
has  just  declared  that  after  the  war, 
"this  country,  so  far  from  being  im- 
poverished, will  be  richer  in  every- 
thing that  constitutes  real  and  true 
wealth."  I  am  afraid  I  am  too  dense 
to  be  able  to  attach  any  meaning  to 
this.  A  man  who  has  a  $25  note  and 
burns  it  may  be  spiritually  richer  after 
it  has  gone  up  the  chimney  in  smoke; 
he  may  feel  morally  stronger;  he  may 
want  to  work  harder;  but  he  will  not 
be  wealthier.  After  this  war  the  na- 
tion will  be  taxed  to  the  hilt  to  pay  the 
interest  on  a  dead  weight  debt,  run- 
ning up  to  2,000  or  3,000  or  4,000 
millions. 

From  all  this  my  first  conclusion  is : 
large  country  houses,  and  especially 
places  whose  upkeep  is  costly,  will  be 
thrown  on  the  market;  and  it  is  not 
likely  that  there  will  be  enough  "War 
Profiteers"  about  to  buy  them  at  any- 
thing but  "bargain"  prices.  Many 
great  estates  will  probably  be  broken 
up  and  sold  to  the  tenant  farmers, 
who  should  be  in  a  position  to  buy  at 
moderate  prices. 


Fseudo  Apostles  of  the  Present  Day 

Study  of  Church  History  in  the  Light  of  the  Bible  Proves  Claims 
of  Church  Dignitaries  Unfounded 

By  Pastor  Russell 


(This  is  the  First  of  a  Series  of  Three  Contributions  to  the  "Overland" 
from  the  famous  Pastor  of  The  New  York  City  Temple  and  Brooklyn  and 
London  Tabernacles.) 


"And  thou  hast  tried  them  which  say 
they  are  Apostles  and  are  not,  and  hast 
found  them  liars." — Revelation  2 :2. 

PART  I. 

THERE  is  just  one  class  in  the 
world  to-day  and  for  centuries 
past  who  have  been  claiming  to 
be  Apostles,  and  who  are  not 
Apostles,  according  to  our  text.    The 
Bible  shows  us  unmistakably  that  God 
never  designed  that  there  should  be 
more  than  twelve    Apostles     of     the 
Lamb.     Let  us  refresh  your  memory 
on  this  point:  Our  Lord  Jesus,  in  re- 
sponse to  a  question  by  the  Apostle 
Peter,  said  to  the  Twelve:  "Verily  I 
say  unto  you  that  ye  which  have  fol- 
lowed Me,  in  the  Regeneration,  when 
the  Son  of  Man  shall  sit  in  the  Throne 
of  His  Glory,  shall  also     sit     upon 
Twelve  Thrones,  judging  the  twelve 
tribes  of  Israel."     (Matthew  19:28.) 
There  were  to  be  only  Twelve  Aposto- 
lic Thrones — no  more.    Again,  in  Rev- 
elation 12 :1,  we  have  a  picture  given 
of  the  Church.    She  is  shown  as  a  wo- 
man clothed  with  the  sun   (the  Gos- 
pel), having  the  moon   (the     Jewish 
Law,  which  supports  the  Church,  but 
is  not  the  source  of  her  light)  under  her 
feet,  and  having  on  her  head  a  Crown 
of  Twelve  Stars  (her  Divinely  appoint- 
ed and  inspired  teachers).     We  see 


that  there  were  only  Twelve  of  these 
Stars  authorized  by  God,  St.  Paul  tak- 
ing the  place  of  Judas. 

I  remind  you  of  another  picture  of 
this  matter  given  by  our  Lord  Jesus  to 
John  the  Revelator,  who  was  one  of 
The  Twelve.  In  Revelation  21:9-27 
the  glorified  Church  is  shown — see  also 
verses  2-5.  The  Church  is  here  pic- 
tured as  coming  down  out  of  Heaven  to 
begin  her  great  work  for  the  blessing 
of  the  world  of  mankind.  Now  note 
particularly  that  this  glorified  Church 
is  shown  as  having  Twelve  Founda- 
tions, and  in  these  foundations  the 
names  of  the  Twelve  Apostles  of  the 
Lamb.  (Verse  14.)  There  were  never 
any  more  purposed  by  the  Lord.  So 
we  see  that  it  is  through  some  very 
serious  blunder  that  our  Roman  Catho- 
lic friends  have  Bishops  claiming  to  be 
Apostolic  Bishops.  And  it  is  by  a 
similar  blunder  that  our  Church  of 
England  friends  claim  that  they  have 
Apostolic  Bishops.  It  is  the  same  with 
our  Greek  Catholic  friends. 

God's  Word  Must  Be  Spoken 
Faithfully. 

Jesus  says  that  those  who  make 
claims  of  being  Apostles  when  they 
are  not  are  lying.  You  and  I  are  not 
to  follow  what  the  customs  of  the  past 
centuries  have  taught  us,  but  what  the 


PSEUDO  APOSTLES    OF  THE  PRESENT  DAY 


515 


Lord  Jesus  Himself  says.  He  is  the 
Authority.  We  have  a  certain  amount 
of  sympathy  for  these  gentlemen,  who 
have  dropped  into  certain  positions, 
and  who  have  been  taught  for  centur- 
ies that  they  were  Apostles  just  the 
same  as  the  original  Twelve  appointed 
by  our  Lord,  having  the  same  inspira- 
tion and  speaking  with  the  same  au- 
thority. We  have  sympathy  for  them 
in  that  they  are  sadly  deluded,  but  this 
will  not  hinder  any  of  us,  I  trust,  from 
remembering  what  Jesus  said  and  tak- 
ing the  right  viewpoint.  "Thou  hast 
tried  them  which  say  they  are  Apos- 
tles, and  are  not,  and  hast  found  them 
liars."  We  are  not  saying  anything  un- 
charitable, for  we  are  to  speak  the 
Lord's  Word.  "He  that  hath  a  dream 
(an  imagination),  let  him  tell  a  dream; 
but  he  that  hath  My  Word,  let  him 
speak  My  Word  faithfully."  (Jeremiah 
23:28.)  If  we  hold  back  for  fear  of 
man,  then  we  would  be  sharing  in  the 
sin  and  wrong. 

It  may  be  asked,  What  is  the  differ- 
ence whether  they  call  themselves 
Apostolic  Bishops  or  not?  I  answer, 
There  is  much  difference.  While  at 
the  present  time  these  men  have  dis- 
carded the  great  claims  once  made,  or 
at  least  do  not  attempt  to  speak  with 
the  authority  of  former  days,  because 
mankind  are  becoming  more  enlight- 
ened and  their  claims  would  appear 
more  and  more  absurd,  yet  they  still 
claim  that  they  are  the  only  ones  who 
have  the  right  to  give  authority  to  any 
to  preach.  They  claim  that  if  they  do 
not  ordain  a  man  to  preach  he  has  no 
right  to  speak  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 
at  all.  They  claim  this  right  because 
they  are  "Apostolic  Bishops."  They 
are,  however,  not  pressing  this  claim 
before  the  world  and  before  the  Metho- 
dists, Baptists,  Lutherans  and  others 
so  loudly  as  formerly.  These  others 
inquire :  "Why  do  you  stand  aloof  from 
us?"  and  they  do  not  quite  like  to  tell 
fully  their  reasons.  They  hesitate  to 
say  to  them,  We  are  the  Church,  We 
are  the  Apostles,  and  you  have  no 
right  to  preach  unless  we  ordain  you; 
you  are  not  God's  servants.  They  do 
not  like  to  state  this,  and  hence  they 


are  in  a  somewhat  vacillating  condition 
to-day. 

We  remember  that  about  four  years 
ago  the  Bishops  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, the  Episcopal  Church,  held  a 
meeting  in  Detroit,  and  there  passed 
resolutions  that  they  would  be  willing 
to  fraternize  with  other  denominations 
provided  they  were  orthodox,  which 
meant,  provided  they  were  in  harmony 
with  the  teachings  of  Episcopalians. 
Anybody  else  would  be  unorthodox, 
and  that  would  mean  that  they  would 
refuse  to  recognize  them  in  any  way — 
they  would  have  no  right  to  preach. 

How  the  People   Became   Dependent 
on  the  Clergy. 

These  claims  of  Apostolic  Succes- 
sion in  the  past  got  the  Church  into  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  and  confusion, 
from  which  we  have  not  yet  recovered. 
The  great  mass  of  Christian  people  are 
still  bewildered.  Beginning  some  time 
before  the  year  325  A.  D.,  this  doctrine 
had  been  growing.  The  bishops  were 
beginning  to  "lord  it  over  God's  heri- 
tage," as  the  Apostle  Peter  says  (1 
Peter  5:3),  and  to  manifest  the  senti- 
ment, "We  are  higher  than  you — you 
are  only  the  common  people;  we  are 
of  a  different  class  altogether."  This 
lording  came  in  very  gradually,  as  such 
things  generally  do,  and  was  asso- 
ciated later  with  the  declaration  that 
the  people  were  the  "laity,"  and  that 
the  Church  was  composed  of  the 
"clergy" — the  priests,  Bishops,  arch- 
Bishops,  Cardinals  and  the  Pope.  All 
had  the  general  thought  that  these  were 
Apostles,  and  had  their  varying  de- 
grees of  authority  from  the  Lord. 

We  are  to  remember  that  until  a  few 
centuries  ago  copies  of  the  Bible  were 
very  scarce,  and  a  Bible  was  worth 
really  a  fortune,  because  they  had  to 
be  printed  out  by  pen  by  scholars,  and 
these  were  few.  They  had  to  be 
printed  upon  fine  vellum  parchment,  as 
there  were  at  that  time  no  printing 
presses  nor  paper.  These  things  were 
later  inventions.  One  copy  of  the 
manuscripts  of  Scripture,  carefully 
done  by  hand,  would  cost  from  $500 


516 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


to  $1,000,  because  it  would  require  a 
long  time  to  write  out  the  entire  Bible 
under  such  circumstances.  Hence  few 
had  Bibles,  and  there  were  very  few 
who  could  read  at  that  time.  In  those 
days  education  was  only  for  the  weal- 
thy and  favored  class,  and  even  in  the 
British  Parliament  some  could  not 
write  their  names,  and  a  bill  was 
passed  permitting  any  member  of  the 
House  of  Lords  who  could  not  sign  his 
name  to  make  an  X  instead.  Under 
such  conditions,  the  people  were  very 
dependent  upon  the  Church  Bishops. 
When  these  began  to  claim  that  they 
were  Apostolic  Bishops,  from  that  time 
on,  instead  of  reading  the  Scriptures  to 
the  people,  they  gave  them  to  under- 
stand that  they  were  the  proper  ones 
to  read  and  interpret  the  'Scriptures, 
that  they  had  received  this  authority 
from  the  Lord. 

Jesus  said  to  the  Twelve  Apostles 
that  whatsoever  they  should  bind  on 
earth  should  be  bound  in  Heaven,  and 
that  whatsoever  they  should  loose  on 
earth  should  be  loosed  in  Heaven. 
Their  writings  were  especially  super- 
vised by  the  Lord  and  their  doctrinal 
utterances  inspired.  So  you  see  that 
these  inspired  writings  of  the  Apostles 
in  their  various  Epistles  are  as  authori- 
tative as  were  the  words  of  Jesus. 
(Romans  16 :25-27 ;  2  Corinthians  12 :7, 
Galatians  1:11,  12.)  The  Apostle  Paul 
assures  us  that  "the  Word  of  God  is 
sufficient  that  the  man  of  God  may  be 
perfect,  thoroughly  furnished  unto 
every  good  work."  Hence  we  need 
no  further  doctrinal  .utterances  and  no 
more  writings  than  the  Scriptures  sup- 
ply, and  we  have  no  need  of  any  more 
Apostles  than  the  original  Twelve — St. 
Paul  taking  Judas'  place.  Since  the 
advent  of  printing  and  since  the  close 
of  the  1.260  symbolic  days— 1260  years 
— of  Papal  persecution,  Bibles  have 
been  printed  in  immense  quantities  and 
scattered  far  and  wide  by  the  Bible  so- 
cieties, and  education  has  become  gen- 
eral. To-day,  Bibles  are  everywhere 
and  are  very  cheap,  so  that  all  can 
read. 

Let  us  go  back  again  to  the  year  325 
A.  D.  By  that  time  the  Church  bish- 


ops were  claiming  that  they  were  Apos- 
tolic Bishops,  with  Apostolic  authority. 
They  claimed  that  they  were  the  liv- 
ing Apostles,  whose  teachings  were 
the  voice  of  God.  But  these  Apostles 
did  not  agree  among  themselves  as  did 
the  early  Apostles,  the  real  Apostles; 
for  when  we  read  the  writings  of  the 
Apostles  appointed  by  our  Lord  we 
find  that  they  all  agree.  But  by  the 
year  325  A.  D.  a  positive  position  was 
taken  as  to  belief.  Emperor  Constan- 
tine  of  Rome  called  for  a  Council  of 
Bishops  to  be  held  in  the  city  of  Nice, 
or  Nicea,  in  Bithynia,  Asia  Minor.  The 
Emperor  was  apparently  a  very  wise 
man,  according  to  worldly  standards, 
and  he  had  said  to  himself:  "My  pa- 
gan supporters  are  gradually  slipping 
from  me,  and  the  Christian  religion 
seems  to  be  coming  to  the  front.  I 
think  I  can  make  a  good  stroke  of  pol- 
icy by  joining  in  with  the  Christians." 

Origin  of  the  Niocene  Creed. 

The  Emperor  did  not  become  a  real 
Christian;  for  he  was  never  baptized 
to  his  dying  day.  He  professed  Chris- 
tianity for  policy'  sake.  While  we  can- 
not judge  his  heart,  and  say  that  he 
had  no  motive  of  sincerity  whatever, 
still  the  policy  idea  was  surely  there,  as 
evidenced  all  through  the  matter.  In 
this  year,  325  A.  D.,  he  sent  out  a  call 
everywhere  to  all  the  Bishops  of  the 
churches  to  come  to  the  city  of  Nicea 
for  a  general  convention.  He  offered 
to  pay  all  expenses.  So  about  384 
Bishops — far  from  the  entire  number — 
came  together,  and  a  conference  was 
held.  This  was  the  first  Ecumenical 
Council,  aside  from  the  one  held  at 
Jerusalem  by  the  Apostles  of  Jesus 
themselves.  This  was  claimed  to  be 
another  meeting  of  Apostles,  and  the 
Emperor,  not  knowing  but  that  they 
were  fully  authorized,  made  the  follow- 
ing proposition  to  them: 

You  all  claim  to  be  Apostles,  but  you 
have  different  theories,  and  there  are 
Dissensions  among  you.  Evidently 
there  is  something  wrong.  I  will  sug- 
gest what  will  set  you  all  straight:  I 
propose  that  at  this  Council  you  set 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND 


517 


forth  your  views,  what  you  consider 
the  proper  orthodox  doctrines.  Agree 
among  you  as  to  what  these  are.  Then 
hereafter,  whatever  shall  be  taught  by 
any  that  differs  from  these  agreed-upon 
doctrines  shall  be  heterodox — heresy. 
Further,  I  propose  to  join  myself  to 
you,  to  unite  with  your  Church.  I 
want  your  support,  and  you  need  my 
support.  When  you  get  my  support, 
the  pagan  peoples  will  flock  into  your 
Church  by  hordes — they  will  be  anx- 
ious to  get  in.  I  will  back  up  your, 
doctrines  and  all  heretics  will  have  a 
hard  time  in  the  Roman  Empire.  You 
make  the  Creed  and  declare  what  is 
Orthodoxy,  and  then  leave  its  enforce- 
ment to  me.  I  will  attend  to  the  he- 
retics in  the  present  life,  and  you  can 
tell  them  of  their  eternal  roastings 
throughout  the  future. 

Thus  trie  Nicene  Creed  was  formu- 
lated, the  first  of  the  great  creeds,  and 


it  was  made  by  these  self-appointed 
"Apostolic  Bishops."  So  between  the 
Emperor  and  the  Bishops  a  heavy  hand 
was  laid  upon  the  people.  The  Bish- 
ops had  a  strong  grasp  upon  them, 
Being  uneducated,  the  Church  lead- 
ers had  them  largely  at  their  mercy. 
These  Bishops  had  assured  the  Em- 
peror that  they  had  full  authority  from 
God  to  decide  as  to  what  were  the 
teachings  of  Scripture,  and  the  Em- 
peror took  their  word  for  it.  That  was 
the  end  of  Bible  study,  you  see ;  there 
was  no  more  use  for  the  Bible.  It  was 
all  interpreted  for  them.  They  were 
to  follow  the  Nicene  Creed.  It  was 
not  necessary  for  them  to  study  for 
themselves  the  writings  of  Moses  and 
the  Prophets,  or  what  the  Jewish  Apos- 
tles of  Jesus  said.  They  had  "apos- 
tles" inspired  of  God  right  with  them, 
and  these  could  teach  them  all  they 
needed  to  know. 


In  the  Realm  of  Bookland 


"Filibusters  and  Financiers,"  by  Wil- 
liam O.  Scroggs,  Ph.  D.  Professor  of 
Economics  and  Sociology  in  the  Lou- 
isiana State  University. 

Professor  Scroggs  has  written  a  very 
valuable  supplement  to  American  his- 
tory in  this  account  of  the  activities  of 
William  Walker  and  his  associates  in 
the  filibustering  activities  of  the  mid- 
nineteenth  century.  Nothing  but  scant 
notice  has  ever  been  accorded  by  his- 
torians to  Walker's  exploits  in  Central 
America  and  consequently  one  has 
never  been  able  to  form  a  just  appre- 
ciation of  the  Latin-American  attitude 
toward  the  United  States.  Walker 
and  his  band  were  Americans,  and  it 
was  as  Americans  that  Nicaraguans 
and  Costa  Ricans  came  to  distrust  and 
fear  them.  The  author  in  his  preface 
says :  "The  part  played  in  Walker's  ca- 
reer and  in  Central  American  politics 
by  American  financiers  and  captains  of 


industry;  the  designs  of  Walker  upon 
Cuba;  his  utter  repudiation  of  the  an- 
nexation of  his  conquests  to  the 
United  States;  the  appeals  of  Central 
American  governments  to  the  leading 
European  powers  for  deliverance  from 
the  filibusters ;  the  thinly  veiled  machi- 
nations of  Great  Britain,  Spain  and 
France  against  the  American  adventur- 
ers— these  are  some  of  the  facts  hither- 
to overlooked  or  ignored,  which  it  is 
here  sought  to  set  forth  in  their  true 
light." 

Cloth,  8vo.,  frontispiece  and  maps, 
$2.50.  Published  by  The  Macmillan 
Company,  New  York. 


"The  Crimson  Gardenia,"     by     Rex 
Beach. 

The  initial  story,  from  which  the 
book  takes  its  title,  is  a  spirited  bit  of 
adventurous  experience  into  which  a 
young  New  Yorker  finds  himself  sud- 


518 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


denly  involved  during  the  Mardi  Gras 
carnival  at  New  Orleans.  There  is 
something  of  a  "Prisoner  of  Zenda" 
flavor  in  the  romantic  and  breathless 
way  that  one  complication  gives  way 
only  to  resolve  itself  into  another,  and 
our  unwitting  Northern  youth  Ends 
himself  called  upon  to  play  a  strenu- 
ous part  in  behalf  of  a  French  maiden 
in  the  space  of  a  few  brief  hours.  The 
two  following  stories — "Rope's  End" 
and  "Inocencio"  are  tales  of  Hayti  and 
the  Caribbean — stories  in  which  blood 
flows  and  passions  are  loosed  in  the 
fierce  heat  of  the  tropics. 

But  the  remainder  of  the  volume — 
in  fact,  the  greater  part  of  it— consists 
of  tales  of  Alaska,  an  environment 
which  this  author  has  almost  pre-empt- 
ed for  himself  since  the  publication  of 
"The  Spoilers."  Here  Mr.  Beach's 
genius  is  very  much  at  home,  and  has 
free  play  in  depicting  a  life  which  he 
knows  thoroughly.  In  the  bleak  air  of 
the  North  the  thoughts  and  deeds  of 
men  take  on  a  sharp  and  startling  real- 
ity, like  objects  viewed  through  a  rari- 
fied  atmosphere.  Mr.  Beach  has  done 
nothing  finer  than  these  Alaskan  tales. 

Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Franklin  Square,  New  York. 

Private  Gaspard,  A  Soldier  of  France, 
by  Rene  Benjamin. 

This  book  won  the  Acadamie  Gon- 
court  prize  for  the  author. 

In  France  the  book  has  sold  in  the 
hundreds  of  thousands,  and  deservedly 
so.  There  is  no  book  in  any  language 
which^  gives  the  real  atmosphere  of 
war  times  in  a  country  as  does  this 
remarkable  piece  of  writing.  This 
book  shows  us  War  as  it  is  felt  by 
the  hearts  of  a  people  fighting  and 
struggling  for  its  very  existence.  It  is 
the  very  atmosphere  of  France  as  it  is 
breathed  by  its  soldiers  and  citizens — 
by  its  citizens  in  their  homes  and 
streets,  by  its  soldiers  on  the  march 
and  in  the  trenches.  It  is  a  living,  pal- 
pitating book,  realizing  the  very  spirit 
of  place.  Here  are  met  the  citizens 
anxious  and  fearful  on  the  eve  of  the 
terrible  event;  here  are  met  the  same 


citizens  marching  in  fear  and  tremb- 
ling, fighting  gaily,  suffering  nobly,  dy- 
ing heroically.  In  the  person  of  the  ir- 
repressible Gaspard,  the  author  takes 
a  typical  tradesman  called  to  the  front, 
and  takes  us  with  him  through -all  his 
experiences  of  enlistment,  marching 
and  fighting.  Gaspard  is  wounded  in 
his  first  engagement,  but  he  returns  to 
the  front  and  comes  back  minus  a  leg. 
But  the  spirit  of  the  man  is  the  spirit 
of  France — gay  and  brave  even  in  the 
face  of  death. 

Published  by  Brentano,  New  York. 


"Behold  the  Woman,"  by  T.  Everett 
Harre. 

In  the  character  of  Mary,  the  power- 
ful Alexandrian  courtesan  whose 
beauty  was  "the  glory  of  Egypt,"  the 
author  presents  the  struggle  of  woman- 
hood in  its  integrity  and  nobility  with 
man's  age  long  exploitation,  and  inter- 
prets that  eternal  struggle  which  is  to- 
day finding  one  of  its  expressions  in 
the  feminist  movement.  It  is  the  ab- 
sorbing story  of  a  woman's  quest  of 
love  amid  the  vices  and  excesses  of  an 
age  when  wantoness  was  an  art  and  a 
woman  became  eminent  through  her 
shame,  and  of  this  woman's  finding  re- 
demption. A  novel  teeming  with  the 
turbulent  excitement,  intrigue  and  ro- 
mance of  the  most  splendid  and  licen- 
tious age  of  the  world.  The  time  is  the 
final  conflict  between  Paganism  and 
Christianity. 

Price  $1.35  net.  Postage  extra.  Pub- 
lished by  J.  B.  Lippincott,  Philadel- 
phia. 


"Why  War?"  is  the  suggestive  title 
of  a  new  book  by  Frederic  C.  Howe, 
shortly  to  be  published  by  the  Scrib- 
ners.  "Wars,"  says  Dr.  Howe,  "are 
not  made  by  peoples.  Wars  are  made 
by  irresponsible  monarchs,  by  ruling 
aristocracies,  by  foreign  ministers,  and 
by  diplomats.  Wars  are  made  by 
privileged  interests,  by  financiers,  by 
commercial  groups,  seeking  private 
profit  in  foreign  lands.  Wars  are  made 
behind  closed  doors." 


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