Full text of "The Overland monthly"

Ff °m the

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The Overland Monthly

Vol. LXVIII— Second Series

July-December 1916

35»WSKSa«^

OVERLAND MONTHLY CO., Publishers

259 MINNA STREET SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.

INDEX

A BAD NAME

A FIELD OF CALIFORNIA POPPIES. Verse
A FORT IN THE TUBERCULOSIS WAR

Illustrated from Photographs.

A FRAGMENT. Story

A LEGEND OF THE POND LILY. Versa

A SUMMER DAY. Verse

A VIKING OF THE AIR

Illustrated from photographs.
ACROSS THE BORDER. Story

AFTERWARDS? Verse

AMERICA! FIRST AND FOREVER. Verse .
AN OUTCAST. Verse

Illustrated.
ANNUAL PLAYS AT CARMEL'S FOREST
THEATRE

Illustrated from photographs.
AT THE SIGN OF THE GRAY OWL- Story .

BOULDER CREEK GULCH. Verse

BRET HARTE AS A WELLS FARGO EXPRES S

GUN GUARD
BROTHERHOOD. Verse

ELDRIDGE REEVES JOHNSON 420
JOHN N. HARBAUGH 114

CECIL FAIRFIELD LANELL 370

BOYD CABLE
AGNES LOCKHART HUGH
ELEANORE MYERS
MINNIE IRVING

H. K. ADDIS
W. E. BRCDERSEN
KINAHAM CORNWALLIS
STANTON ELLIOTT

GRACE MacFARLAND

WILLIAM FREEMAN
EDITH CHURCH BURKE

JOHN R. COLTER
ARTHUR POWELL
M. P. C.

LYMAN SEELYE
JOAQUIN MILLER
JOE WHITNAH

^. 221

MYRA ABBOTT MACLAY

M. W. SHINN

LOUIS ROLLER
ROCKWELL D. HUNT
WM. DE RYEE

WILLIAM DE RYEE

BRET HARTE

HARRY DAVID KERR, DL. B.

R. R. GREENWOOD

225
61

35
349
146
112

239

289
158

535
176

72
403
265
177

BUBBLES. Verse

BY THE AID OF TINKER. Story ....
CALIFORNIA'S GOLDEN POPPY. Verse
CARMEL-BY-THE-SEA. Verse ....

Illustrated.

CHARLES KEELER, POET

Illustrated from photographs.

CHEROKEE BOB

The Original Jack Hamlin.
Illustrated from a photograph.
CONVERTING THE DESERT. Verse
CORNELIUS COLE, A CALIFORNIA PIONEER
COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE. (Continued Story)

Illustrated from photographs.
COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE. Continued Story

Illustrated from a photograph.
COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE ....

Continued Story.
COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE (Concluded)

DICKENS IN CAMP. Verse

DOES DRUNKENNESS FOLLOW PROHIBITION?

EVENING. Verse

FACSIMILE OF THE COVER OF MONTALVOS NOVEL

FAMOUS PONY EXPRESS RIDERS . . ROBERT N. REEVES

FREMONT AND THE BEAR FLAG . . C. J. HICKMAN

Illustrated from photographs.
FRONTISPIECE — Section in the Mission, San Francisco after the earthquake, April 18, 1906 10
FRONTISPIECE. Character of the great Mountain Ranges in British Columbia and Alaska 188

FRONTISPIECE. "The Lady of the Land," Del Mar, California 274

FRONTISPIECE— Machine Gun Company, Fifth Inf., N. G. C, lined up prior to their depar-
ture for the Front

FRONTISPIECE. The Word. (Verse) . . JOHN MASEFIEDD

Illustrated.
FRONTISPIECE— A CARAVAL: BALBOA

539

130
255
153

214

294

377
550
341
387
442
525
474

353

"GRANDPA."

GREATEST SHARK IN THE WORLD

Illustrated from a photograph.
HIGH PRICES— CAUSES AND REMEDIES .

"HEIMWEH." Verse

HER LETTER. Verse

HIS FIRST CLIENT. Story ....

HOPALONG RATTLESNAKE. Story
HOW BASQUET LOST HIS HORSES. Story
HOW THE YOUTH OF CALIFORNIA REGARD

PROHIBITION
IL RELIGOSO .......

Illustrated from a photograph.

IMPORTED LITERATURE

IN THE REALM OF BOOKLAND

RICHARD BRET HARTE
LILLIAN E. ZEH

439-440
528
244

OBED CALVIN BILLMAN, M. P. L. 337

RUTH E. HENDERSON
BRET HARTE
EDITH HECHT
LOUIS ROLLER
C. C. HAMMERLY

EMILY INEZ DENNY

ANNA SEAFORTH

316

537

119

425

210
431

INDEX

IN THE TEMPERATE WINE COUNTRIES

INTUITION. Verse

INDIAN SUMMER. Verse ....
JEHOVAH'S SAINTLY JEWELS
KNIGHTS OF THE OPEN. Verse

C>Jk— THE PLACE OF PROMISE

LIFE. V<

1856

VPN SAN FRANCISCO,
Illustrated from photographs.

ARTHUR H. DUTTON

RUTH E. HENDERSON

ALICE PHILLIPS

C. T. RUSSELL

HELEN FITZGERALD SANDERS

CORNETT T. STARK

ROBERT H. DOWN

CHARLES B. TURRILL

WASHINGTON VAN DUSEN
W. H. HUDSON
ROGER SPRAGUE

ERNESTINE BLACK

JULIA H. S. BUGEIA

Verse

LIFE'S GREAT INHERITANCE. Verse
LITTLE GIRLS I HAVE MET. Story .
LOCAL COLOR IN SAN FRANCISCO. Sketch

Illustrated with photographs.
LOIS WEBER SMALLEY ....

Illustrated from a photograph.

MANZANITA. Verse

MARSHALL'S DISCOVERY OF GOLD

(From the Official Report Made to the United States Government)

Illustrated from photographs.

MATURITY. Verse WILLIAM DE RYEE

MONTALVOS FAMOUS STORY OF "CALIFORNIA"

MORE TENDER THAN THE LIPS OF DUSK. Verse ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH
MRS. MARGARET E. LAWREY— PIONEER WOMAN

OF CALIFORNIA . . . ADA GILMAN HEACOCK

Illustrated from Photographs.
MT. TAMALPAIS. Verse
MY PROPHETIC DREAMS. Story
MY WILD FLOWER OF THE WEST.

NATIONAL ADVERTISING

NATIONS "WEIGHED IN THE BALANCES"
NOT UP TO SPECIFICATIONS. Story .
O WERE YOU ON THE UVAS? Verse .

ON LU JAN'S TRAIL. Verse

ON RE-READING MERRIMEE'S CARMEN. Verse

ONE DAY AT A TIME. Verse

OVER COLD CREEK DIVIDE. Story

PHANTOM SWEETHEARTS. Verse

PHOTOGRAPHS OF EIGHT BEAUTIFUL SCENES

PHOTOGRAPHS OF SCENES TAKEN IN THE WAR DEVASTATING EUROPE

POISON -OAK ED. Story ALICE A. HARRISON and

ANETTE WINDELE

PORTRAIT OF BRET HARTE

PORTOLA DISCOVERS THE BAY OF SAN
FRANCISCO .

Illustrated from photographs.
PSEUDO APOSTLES OF THE PRESENT DAY
PSEUDO APOSTLES OF THE PRESENT DAY
ROMANCE OF THE WORD "CALIFORNIA"
SAN CARLOS— FIRST VESSEL TO ENTER THE
GOLDEN GATE .

SAN FRANCISCO. Verse

SAN FRANCISCO'S BIG FIRE OF 1906 .

Illustrated from photographs.
SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA. Chapter II

I. MacDONADD

KATE L. WHITTEN

LOUIS ROLLER

N. C. KINGSBURY

PASTOR RUSSELL

OSCAR LEWIS

EDITH ELLERY PATTON

ELIZABETH PRICE

R. R. GREENWOOD

AGNES LOCKHART HUGHES

RALPH CUMMINS

LUCY BETTY McRAYE

249
369
305
262
197
413
34
495

159

198

224

479

50
444
229

416

131

254
238
325
428
388
111
424
213
340
201

266-273

1-9

126
441

CARLOS DURANT

PASTOR C. T. RUSSELL
PASTOR RUSSELL
WILLIAM GREER HARRISON

NELLIE VAN DE G. SANCHEZ
MARY CAROLYN DA VIES

Chap. Ill

Illustrated by sketches.
SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA.

Illustrated from sketches.
SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA

Illustrated from sketches by the author.
SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA

Illustrated from Sketches by the Author.

SENORA ARELLANES M

SEVEN BEAUTIFUL SCENES IN CALIFORNIA
SITE OF SAN FRANCISCO, 1831

Illustrated from photographs.
SKETCHES OF INDIAN LIFE
SOME AMERICAN PROBLEMS
SONNET TO KING LOVE. Verse

RICHARD BRET HARTB
RICHARD BRET HARTE
RICHARD BRET HARTE
RICHARD BRET HARTE
RICHARD BRET HARTE
C. FREDERICK

SHERROD HARDING

RUTH JOCELYN WATTLES
W. R. CASTLE
JO. HARTMAN

445

78
174
443

453
118
506

148

234

322

409

315

354-360

448

170
51

408

INDEX

Story

STORY OF THE OVERLAND MONTHLY

TEN DAYS ON A GLACIER

Illustrated by photographs taken by the author.
TEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF BEAUTIFUL SCENERY
THE AMBER NECKLACE. Story ....

THE ANZAC. Story

THE CAPTURE OF EL CAPITAN. Story
THE CHURCH'S HOPE— THE WORLD'S HOPE

THE CITY. Verse

THE CRITICISM OF THE "GRAY DAWN"

THE END OF THE TRAIL. Story ....

THE ENDURING. Verse

THE EQUATION. Story

THE FOG FLURRY. Verse

THE FACE IN THE LOCKET. Story

THE FORGOTTEN. Verse

THE GLORY OF GOD. Verse

THE GRAY DAYS. Verse

THE GREAT WAR'S EFFECT ON IMMIGRATION
THE HOOPAS THEN AND NOW ....

Illustrated from Photographs.
THE INVISIBLE CAT. Story ....

THE LAND OF THE LAWLESS ....

Continued Story.
THE LAND OF THE LAWLESS. Continued Story
THE LAND OF THE LAWLESS ....

Continued Story.
THE LAND OF YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW

Illustrated from photographs.

THE LAST HERO. Verse

THE LINE-MAN. Verse

THE LITTLE FRENCH WOMAN. Story
THE LOST MINE IN THE SANTA LUCIAS.
THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP
THE OAK AND THE SAPLING. Verse
THE OLD SPANISH MISSIONS

Illustrated from photographs.
THE OLD SPANISH TOWN OF SONOMA

Illustrated from photographs.
THE ORIGIN OF "TENNESSEE'S PARTNER"

From Narratives Related by Frank Stocking.

Illustrated from photographs.
THE PASSING OF GERMAN EAST AFRICA .
THE PASSING OF THE PACHECOS
THE SAND STORM. Verse ....

THE SCIMITAR. Story

THE SUNFLOWER ROAD. Verse
THE SNAKE DANCE AT CHIMOPOVY

Illustrated from photographs.
THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE ....

THE STEVENSON HOUSE. Verse .
THE TASK OF THE NATIONAL GUARD

Illustrated from photographs.

THE TORCH. Verse

THE UNSOUGHT GOAL. Verse

THE VALE AFAR. Verse ....

THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE OF '56 .

Illustrated from photographs.

THE WATCHER. Verse

THE WEDDING OF MARGARET VAN LANCE, story

Illustrated.
THEIR STORY AFTER DEATH. Story

TO A FRIEND. Verse

TO THE WESTERN SONG SPARROW. Verse
WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH THE PHILIPPINES
WHAT THE BOWMAN SAYS. Verse

Illustrated.
WHY THE CONVICT BROKE PAROLE. Story
WILKES EXPLORING EXPEDITION IN CALI-
FORNIA, 1841 ....

GEO. FREDERIC COGGAN

IN CALIFORNIA
DON W. RICHARDS
FRANK FOX

ELEANOR F. STEVENSON
C. T. RUSSELL
JAMES NORMAN HALL
CHAS. B. TURRILL
H. P. HOLT

ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH
BILLEE GLYNN
ADA PEARL CROUCH
BILLEE GLYNN
THOMAS GORDON LUKE
RUTH E. HENDERSON
VERA HEATHMAN COLE
FRANK B. LENZ
AGNES SHEA

JOSEPHINE C. McCRACKIN
CARDINAL GOODWIN

CARDINAL GOODWIN
CARDINAL GOODWIN

BELLE SUMNER ANGIER

551
18$

. 178-187
46

T05

A. E.

R. R. GREENWOOD ■

LYLE WOLF

CHARLES CLARK

BRET HARTE

FRED EMERSON BROOKS

RAMON PERALTA

OTTO VON GEDDERN

T. G. .A

HARRY E. BURGESS
W. W. WELLMAN
JOHN BRIGGS, JR.
ELLIOTT C. LINCOLN
MAY M. LONGEMBAUGH

DESIREE WELBY
JOE WHITNAH
MARSHALL BREEDEN

MARY CAROLYN DAVIE S
MARY CAROLYN DAVIES
ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH
JOHN L. KING

R. R. GREENWOOD
IDA ALEXANDER

CARL HOLLIDAY
LENNA B. MELTON
EVERETT EARLE STANARD
W. F. NORRIS
ELIZABETH B. THOMPSON

M. F. CUNNINGHAM

HELEN RAMAGE

74
306
293
123
219

30
314

45
398
138
361

42
115

246
311

275

393
167
386
317
544
385
459

522

531

113
251
250
83
152
280

168

336

310
209
376
509

41
399

230
125
321
406
59

394

470

OVERLAND
MONTHLY

eeliV Tbip<25
Id America c_)

RI CHADD
bULT- HARTE,

6G G

HART£

TEN CENTS

1 LONG flKrA

Patrick Henry Addressing the First Continental Congress, Philadelphia, 1774

One Nation; One People

WHEN Patrick Henry declared
that oppression had effaced the
boundaries of the several colonies, he
voiced the spirit of the First Conti-
nental Congress.

In the crisis, the colonies were
willing to unite for their common
safety, but at that time the people
could not immediately act as a whole
because it took so long for news to
travel from colony to colony.

The early handicaps of distance
and delay were greatly reduced and
direct communication was established
between communities with the coming
of the railroads and the telegraph.
They connected places. The tele-
phone connects persons irrespective
of place. The telephone system has
provided the means of individual

communication which brings into
one national family, so to speak, the
whole people.

Country wide in its scope, the Bell
System carries the spoken word from
person to person anywhere, annihilat-
ing both time and distance.

The people have become so abso-
lutely unified by means of the facilities
for transportation and communication
that in any crisis they can decide as a
united people and act simultaneously,
wherever the location of the seat
of government.

In the early days, the capital was
moved from place to place because of
sectional rivalry, but today Independ-
ence Hall is a symbol of union, re-
vered alike in Philadelphia and the
most distant American city.

American Telephone and Telegraph Company

One Policy

And Associated Companies

One System

Universal Service

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wherever there is a Victrola

The Victrola is always as ready to play as the
/ f young- folks are to dance.

y It is just the kind of music they want — all the
newest dances. The kind of music every one
appreciates — perfect in tone, volume and rhythm.
The faultless playing- of famous bands and orches-
tras whose superb dance music bring-s joy to the
heart — and feet.

And on the Victrola it be-
comes the deligfht of count-
less thousands.

There are Victors and Victrolas in
great variety from $10 to $400. Any
Victor dealer will gladly demonstrate
them and play the latest dance music or
any other music you wish to hear.

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

Berliner Gramophone Co., Montreal
Canadian Distributors

Important warning. Victor Records
can be safely and satisfactorily played
only with Victor Needle* or Tunga-
tone Stylus on Victors or Victrolas.
Victor Records cannot be safely played
on machines with jeweled or other re-
producing points.

New Victor Records demonstrated at
all dealers on the 28th of each month

J&M

Victrola

TO insure Victor qual-
ity, always look for
the famous trademark.
"His Muter'i Voice.''
Ky«ry Victor. Victrola

It. You iostsnt
dry tfe« g«s>uln«

Victrola XVI,
Victrola XVI, electric, $250

Mahogany or oak

Vol. LXVIII

No. 1

JHnnttjUj

AN ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF THE WEST

■ »»»«««

CONTENTS FOR JULY, 1916

PHOTOGRAPHS OF SCENES TAKEN IN THE
FRONTISPIECE— Section in the Mission, San Franc
LOCAL COLOR IN SAN FRANCISCO. Sketch

Illustrated with photographs.
HIS FIRST CLIENT. Story
PHANTOM SWEETHEARTS. Verse
HOPALONG RATTLESNAKE. Story
THE FACE IN THE LOCKET. Story
LIFE. Verse ....

ACROSS THE BORDER. Story
THE WATCHER. Verse
THE INVISIBLE CAT. Story
THE GLORY OF GOD. Verse .
THE AMBER NECKLACE. Story
MATURITY. Verse
SOME AMERICAN PROBLEMS
WHAT THE BOWMAN SAYS. Verse

Illustrated.
SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA. Chapter II

Illustrated by sketches.
A VIKING OF THE AIR

Illustrated from photographs.
CHARLES KEELER, POET ....

Illustrated from photographs.
IL RELIGOSO T

Illustrated from a photograph.

BUBBLES. Verse

THE CRITICISM OF THE "GRAY DAWN"
LIFE'S GREAT INHERITANCE. Verse
PSEUDO APOSTLES OF THE PRESENT DAY
THE SCIMITAR. Story

WAR DEVASTATING EUROPE
sco after the earthquake, April 18,
ROGER SPRAGUE

EDITH HECHT

LUCY BETTY McRAYE

LOUIS ROLLER

BILLEE GLYNN

ROBERT H. DOWN

H. K. ADDIS

R. R. GREENWOOD

JOSEPHINE C. McCRACKIN

RUTH E. HENDERSON

DON W. RICHARDS

WILLIAM DE RYEE

W. R. CASTLE

ELIZABETH B. THOMPSON

RICHARD BRET HARTE

MINNIE IRVING

MYRA ABBOTT MACLAY

EMILY INEZ DENNY

M. P. C.

CHAS. B. TURRILL
WASHINGTON VAN DUSEN
PASTOR C. T. RUSSELL
JOHN BRIGGS, JR.

1-9

1906 10

21
24
25
30
34
35
41
42
45
46
50
51

»»»«<«< •

NOTICE. — Contributions to the Overland Monthly should be typewritten, accompanied by full
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Manuscripts should never be rolled.

The publisher of the Overland Monthly will not be responsible for the preservation of unso-
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Issued Monthly. $1.20 per year In advance. Ten cents per copy
Copyrighted, 1916, 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.

■ Entered
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* The Best Story *

Harold Bell Wrifcht

Has Yet Written

W'HEN I Ready August 10th |

A MAN'S A MAN

Illustrations and Decorations by the Author

This novel is the best the author has yet written, because it is strongest in love,
mystery, action and uplift, character work, nature description and word picture,
philosophy and psychology, pathos and sentiment. It is a bi&, wholesome novel
with a bi& plot and a bi& theme. But — it's just a story. A very real story of true
Western life in that &reat unfenced land of ru&&ed mountains, wide mesas and
fertile valleys — Northern Arizona.

Author's Monogram Numbered Copies

Place your order with your bookseller now and make secure a special numbered
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publication day will number about 600,000.

Cloth 12mo $1.35

The author's other novels have sold nearly seven million copies — That Printer
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HOTEL CUMBERLAND

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Three generations

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Delivered in your home free of charge. Old instruments
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VOSE & SONS PIANO CO.

? 189 Boylston Street Boston, Mass.

W(o)teKe> I E

CNIVERMSH

If s a "painter's varnish'* — but
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OVERLAND

Founded 1868

MONTHLY

BRET HARTE

VOL. LXVIII

San Francisco, July, 1916

No. 1

Hillside homes in San Francisco.

Local

Color

San Francisco

(A Sketch)

Roger Sprague

Illustrated from photos by the author

IT WAS a cloudy afternoon on San
Francisco Bay. A cold March
wind was blowing from the south,
the sky was heavily overcast, the
water seemed a mass of molten lead.
In the distance a veil of fog and smoke
hung over the hills of the city, the
wharves and larger buildings looming

dimly beneath. White columns of
steam from the vessels lying at the
piers, drifted obliquely across the
dusky background. The effect was
that of a dark, dun-colored cloud,
streaked with streamers of white,
weighing down upon the hills and
water, and struggling to conceal the

OVERLAND MONTHLY

angular outlines of tall business build-
ings which feebly tried to peer through
the haze.

A chill and cheerless scene.

So thought Kenneth Cuttle, newly
arrived from New York, as he stood
on the forward deck of the ferry boat
and gazed at the unfamiliar pictures.

He saw a ferry steamer passing in
the opposite direction. He noted its
high white sides, pierced by a score
of square windows. Above it the black
walking beam solemnly see-sawed. A
crowd of screaming gulls were wheel-
ing and whirling above the wake.

Cuttle turned and transferred his at-
tention to the hills of San Francisco,
which were about two miles away. All
that he saw had the attraction of nov-
elty, for this was his first visit to
California. But, as he looked, he
asked himself:

"Is there any true local color left
to San Francisco? Of course, it has
its sea gulls and it has its climate —
which seems detestable to-day, with
all this grayness and moisture and
raw, chilly breeze — and it has its en-
vironment. But is there anything dis-
tinctive in the lives of its people ? Are
not their customs pretty much the
same as in any other American metrop-
olis?"

And Kenneth Cuttle thought regret-
fully of the days of gold, sixty years
ago, and of those other days thirty and
forty years later, when fleets of four-
masted ships crowded to San Fran-
cisco bay, until the wharves were a
forest of masts.

"Plenty of local color in those days,"
he murmured, regretfully. "But the
sailing ships are gone now, or nearly
gone. Commerce is carried on in the
ocean tramp or tanker, and they are
the same the world over. When I
land in the city, I bet I'll feel as
though I were in New York, for all
the novelty I'll see."

By this time they had reached the
San Francisco shore. The paddles
stopped turning, the steamer drifted
onward, and slid into its slip. The
captain pulled a cord; a bell clanged
in the engine room. The great wheels

churned the water for a moment as
their motion was reversed, and with
a gentle bump the boat came to the
landing.

Cuttle joined the rush across the
gang plank and out through the ferry
building. He heard the clang and
clatter of electric cars, the sirens of
automobiles, and all the other custom-
ary city noises. He glanced up at the
great clock in the tower, and saw that
it marked ten minutes to one.

"I'd better telephone," he thought.
"I'll let Chill know I'm here before I
start up town," and he turned toward
the telephone booth, where he called
up Heather & Company in the Bal-
boa Building.

"Hello: is Mr. Chill in?"

"Just a moment, please."

He heard the connections rattle,
and then he heard Chill's familiar
voice.

"This is Mr. Chill."

"Hello, Chill. This is Kenneth Cut-
tle, from the Boston office. You had
my letter, I suppose. I've just ar-
rived. I'm at the ferry building, and
I'm on my way to the office."

"Well, I'm glad you called me up,"
was the answer, after a few perfunc-
tory inquires regarding Cuttle's jour-
ney. "I take lunch about this time,
and should have made my escape be-
fore you got here. What do you say
to meeting me at the lunch place, in-
stead of here?"

"Very good. I haven't lunched
yet."

"Fine," and Chill went on to give
the address.

"It's right on the street leading up
from the ferry. Take almost any car,
get off at Third and Market, and look
for the number. If you don't see me
when you get there, go ahead, and I'll
join you when I come in."

Cuttle left the car at the right block,
but he turned toward the wrong side-
walk. He stood on the pavement for
a moment, studying the numbers on
the buildings as a first step in finding
the address Chill had given him.

"But what have we here?" he
thought. "This looks like local color."

A cliff dwelling on Taylor street, San Francisco.

The party who had caught Cuttle's
attention was a man of more than av-
erage size and of very dark complex-
ion; apparently an Italian. But his
costume was what attracted the eye.

He was dressed in a suit of rich red
velvet and the velvet was ornamented
with horizontal stripes or slashes of
golden yellow. Above it he wore a
sleeveless leather coat, fastened in
front with straps and buckles. His
leggins were of yellow leather. Over
his drab slouch hat there drooped a
gray plume. The broad brim was
caught by a scarlet rosette. With his
brilliant medieval dress and his dark
complexion, which seemed to rival
the leather of his coat, he was a strik-
ing picture. Romantic enough he
looked, but his occupation was very
prosaic.

He carried a placard announcing
that an Italian restaurant was located

within the building. As Cuttle eyed
him, he thought:

"What a picture that fellow makes,
with his drooping dove-colored hat,
his close-fitting coat of leather, and
his suit of red and yellow. If he had
a halberd in his hand, instead of that
absurd placard, he'd be sublime. Now,
he's only ridiculous."

But the advertisement reminded Cut-
tle that somewhere he had read of a
type of restaurant very popular on the
Pacific Coast — the cafeteria, and he
decided to look for one as he walked
along.

The block was in the very center of
San Francisco's retail district. The
way was lined with shops of all sorts,
between which yawned the entrances
to tall office buildings. Every fifty
yards there was a moving picture show
— its presence announced by gaudy
posters, by photographs of recent

OVERLAND MONTHLY

events, and by the clanging chords of
gigantic music boxes built on the plan
of a pipe organ. And then Cuttle saw
a sign which read "Quaker Cafeteria."

"More local color," he thought.

At the entrance there stood a portly
gentleman of rosy countenance and
well-fed appearance. His long over-
coat was of Quaker drab, his hair
was govered with a gray wig — such a
wig as the author of Robinson Crusoe
might have worn. He supported a
leather banner, announcing the hours
during which the place was open. It
also gave the further information that
"Tourists and families were welcome."

"He looks more like an Irishman
than a Quaker," thought Cuttle, as he
studied the man, and then he remem-
bered that there are Quakers in Ire-
land.

"I wonder if there are any more
such places in this block," he medi-
tated, and he crossed the way to where
he saw the entrance to a very large
business building. Sure enough, there
was the name of another cafeteria.

On one side of the door he saw the
sign, "Lunch Now Ready — 11 a. m. to
2 p. m." On the other side, the bill
of fare was displayed : "Split pea soup,
roast spring chicken, steamed rice, hot
chocolate, etc." And then Cuttle no-
ticed that the address was the one for
which he was looking.

"Good. If I take lunch here, I'll
get the lunch and a lot of local color,
too," and he descended the marble
staircase leading to the basement of
the building.

The room which he entered was so
large that the ceiling seemed low, al-
though a full twelve feet above the
floor. Cuttle noted the long rows of
little square tables for four, all set
obliquely, their corners pointing to the
wall. Upon them the diffused day-
light descended through skylights set
in the sidewalk. The wavy glass
showed dim outlines of the passers-
by, tramping above, a succession of
moving shadows. He scanned the
room for a glimpse of his friend, but
there was no sign of Chill.

The counter on Cuttle's right now

claimed his attention. At that counter
lunch was being served. He saw a line
of diners helping themselves each to a
tray from a high pile, and filing before
a line of attendants — men in white
jackets and long white aprons, women
in white dresses, who were dealing out
the orders. Cuttle joined the line, tak-
ing a tray and napkin in which the
necessary knife, fork and spoon
seemed to be wrapped.

He now saw that at this counter only
hot dishes — soups, meats, vegetables —
were being served. Ahead, running at
right angles to the first, he saw a
second counter, set with an array of
cold dishes — salads, pies, etc.

As he faced the first attendant, she
rattled off a list. Cuttle named an or-
der, which was promptly dished from
a steaming pan. In such fashion he
edged his way past the two counters,
filling his tray as he went. At the ex-
treme end of the second he came to
a cash register.

Here a dark-haired young lady sat
on a high stool. As Cuttle approached,
she cast an eagle eye over his tray,
and then twisted a crank attached to
the register. It printed and spat out a
ticket. This she placed among the
dishes. It indicated the sum which he
must "please pay the cashier." Cuttle
noted that it amounted to thirty-one
cents.

Leaving the cash register, he head-
ed toward the tables. But, before
reaching them, he must pass a marble
drinking fountain. Here an array of
glasses were set for the convenience of
the guests.

Cuttle, while stopping to draw a
glass of water, observed that the ceil-
ing was supported by a long line of
rectangular columns. These were sur-
rounded with mirrors for a distance of
about three feet above the tables.
Above each table was a row of hooks.
Above these hooks the upper part of
each column was very tastefully dec-
orated with strings of artificial vines,
leaves and roses. It was on a table
placed against a column that he put
his tray.

He hung his hat and overcoat on one

Ruins of the big fire of April 18, 1906, still standing in the heart
of the city.

of the hooks above, seated himself,
and transferred his dishes to the table.
The tray was removed by an attend-
ant.

On the table there rested a silver
stand, crowned by a crimson shade,
within which an electric bulb gleamed.
As Cuttle noticed the graceful com-
bination — the white damask cloth, the
colored light, the sparkling mirrors,
and the vine leaves above — it looked
good to him.

"There seems to be some style about
this place," was his thought, as he
glanced toward the buff-tinted walls,
adorned with bunches of palms and
flowers, presumably artificial.

The seat which he had chosen com-
manded a view of the entrance. As
he began to eat, he kept a watch for
his friend, whom he presently saw en-
tering. The recognition was mutual.

Five minutes afterward, Chill was
placing his steaming tray on the op-
posite side of the table, and the two

friends were greeting each other.

Mr. George Chill, smooth shaven,
dark complexioned, dressed in a suit
of well tailored blue, was a very pleas-
ing representative of that class of bus-
iness men who spend half their time
on the road and half in the office. The
hearty cordiality of the hand clasp
with which he welcomed Cuttle was
strictly in character.

For a quarter of an hour the talk
ran along personal lines, until Cuttle
happened to refer to the fact that a
cafeteria was a novelty to him.

"I declare, I had altogether forgot-
ten that they don't have many in the
East." answered Chill. "Otherwise, I
should have had you come up to the
office first, so that I might escort you
to the place myself and initiate you
into its methods. However, you seem
to have made yourself right at home.
And it seemed a pity to have you come
out of your way, clear to my office up
in the Balboa Building."

OVERLAND MONTHLY

"Well, I'm learning something about
San Francisco's local color. I had
my doubts as to whether such a thing
existed here any longer."

"Local color," answered Chill.
"Why, the whole city fairly reeks with
local color."

"Go slow, Chill. We have a China-
town in New York."

"Oh, I didn't refer to Chinatown. If
that were all we had to show to
strangers, I'd emigrate to New York,"
and Chill launched into his favorite
topic, the advantages of the Golden
State as a place of residence, for he
was a native son. Furthermore, he
had invested his savings in California
real estate.

The phrases rolled from his lips:
"Our matchless harbor," "our marvel-
ous climate," "our diversified indus-
tries," "our sun-kissed valleys and
snowy mountain tops."

"And such sites for homes," he
went on. "You should let me take you
to a tract I — I happen to know of,
which overlooks the bay from the
east. I'll show you plenty of local
color; great concrete mansions, crown-
ing low foothills which roll away to-
ward the water in a succession of long
green waves; fan palms, with great
brown trunks two feet thick, and broad
green fans that rustle and sway in the
gentle air; long stone walls hidden be-
neath the pink and green of ivy gera-
niums. We'll find them all."

"Oh, I don't doubt that you have all
of those things in California," said
Cuttle. "In an area of over one hun-
dred and fifty thousand square miles
one ought to find much which is dis-
tinctive and delightful. But here in
San Francisco?"

"Yes, right here in San Francisco
there is plenty of local color," an-
swered Chill. "Come on, we've had
our lunch. Climb Taylor street hill
with me."

Cuttle and Crane walked to the
cashier's desk to settle their reckoning.
Then they left the building by a door
opposite to the one by which Cuttle
had entered. They walked up O'Far-
rell street to Taylor. There they

stopped and turned toward the north.
They looked up Taylor street hill.

Cuttle counted the blocks to the top :
one, two, three, four, five, six, each
a little steeper than the one below it.
The last was so steep as to be al-
most unavailable for ordinary traffic.
Grass grew between the cobblestones.
From where Cuttle stood, it showed in
bright green patches against the gray.

The two friends were half way up
the last block when Cuttle noticed on
his left the ruins of what had been
a palatial residence. Nothing remained
but the bulkhead and basement walls.
They had been built of yellow brick.
With their arched openings, some high
and wide, others small and narrow and
guarded with curving bars of rusty
iron, the effect was picturesque as
well as interesting.

They climbed to the top of the hill,
where they leaned on a rough wooden
fence which protected the front of
the property. They gazed down into
what had been the basement, where
they saw a chaos of broken bricks,
among which rusty fragments of iron
pipe lay scattered.

"The portal was of marble," Chill
explained. "It was left in very fair
condition by the fire, and was moved
to the Park, where it now ornaments
the shore of a little lake," and he
went on:

"In 1906 this section of the city
contained nothing but local color of
this sort, but nowadays one has to
know where to find it."

Cuttle stifled a yawn as he turned
to the east and inquired:

"Isn't there some point where we
can get a view out over the bay?"

"Yes. Let me take you to Jones
street hill. It isn't far, and the view
is superb."

"But wait. Are there any steep
hills to climb on the way?"

"Oh, nothing bad. That is, there
are none on the route I'll follow."

"All right," and the two friends
turned toward a point half a mile
away.

They came to the corner of Jones
and Broadway, walked fifty yards to

A San Francisco churchy Lone Mountain in the distance.

the east, and stood on the brow of the
hill. The sky had cleared and the
sun was shining now, and the view, as
Chili had promised, was superb.

Below them the hill fell away twice
as steeply as the one up which they
had come. Directly on their left a
series of homes clung to the hillside,
descending step by step. Their ter-
raced gardens, filled with trees and
shrubs and flowering plants, over-
hung the sidewalk.

After its first plunge the street
stretched away to the wharves, a long
gray band, on either side of which
the city lay, a sea of flat roofs from
which rose the narrow tower of the
ferry building. Beyond was the bay.
An island bulked large in its center.
Half a dozen ferry boats, some pump-
kin colored, some white, were coming
and going. Behind each was a broad
splash of foam, which presently re-*
solved itself into three narrow white
ribbons. Beyond the water, the view
to the east was bounded by the Con-
tra Costa hills, above which hung a
gray drift of clouds. Here and there
a patch of pearl white peeped through
the gray.

The city front was less than a mile
away, and it was fascinating to watch
the traffic on the water. A river

steamer paddled past the wharves and
piers. The afternoon sun shone full
on its long white side, above which
rose the square pilot house and tall
black funnel. The great red wheel
was churning a roll of foam.

From the north there came a steam
schooner, marked by its black hull
and high white bow and deckload of
lumber.

"This point gives the view to the
east," said Chill. "If you'll come two
blocks farther, I can show you the
view to the north."

"Delighted!" answered Cuttle, for
now he was thoroughly interested.

Ten minutes later they stood at the
corner of Jones and Green. For two
hundred yards the street descended
so steeply as to be practically useless
for traffic. The cobbles were almost
hidden by the grass which grew be-
tween them.

"And the block next below is just
as bad,' explained Chill, for the slope
was so steep that they couldn't see the
lower half.

Farther down, the street stretched
away toward the yellow clay and sand
which bordered the water. Beyond the
beach lay that portion of the harbor
known as the quarantine ground. A
great four masted sailing ship was an-

The McKinley Memorial, Golden Gate Park, San Francisco.

The hospital of the Southern Pacific Company

is shown in the background.

chored there, as well as a steamer just
in from the Hawaiian Isles.

They noted the picture the steamship
made, with its dark brown hull, its
white upper works, and its yellow
spars and stacks. The health officer's

boat lay alongside, but presently they
saw it move away. Immediately a
cloud of light gray smoke floated
from the steamer's funnel, as it pre-
pared to up-anchor.

Farther out, white ferry steamers

LOCAL COLOR IN SAN FRANCISCO

were plying north and south. Each
trailed a broad white ribbon of foam.
In the distance an ocean tramp was
steering up the bay. They noted its
long black side and scarlet stack and
lazy plume of smoke.

Directly in the line in which they
looked, a little island rose from the
crisp green water. Its steep sides
were crowned with the white walls of
the Federal prison and the shaft of a
lighthouse. And directly beyond that
they saw the broad green slopes of a
much larger island, and beyond that
the hills of the mainland, melting away
into the purple distance; and above
those hills there hung in the blue a
long white roll of cumulus clouds.

The picture afforded such a combi-
nation of golden sunshine and green
water, of yellow beach and emerald
islands, of moving vessels and purple
hills and blue sky and floating clouds,
that it seemed like an artist's dream.

"Some pictures, eh?" asked Chill.

"I guess yes," answered Cuttle.

Cuttle's gaze returned from explor-
ing the horizon. Now he noted the
steep descent of the pavement below
him. The concrete sidewalk had been
pitted deeply, so as to afford a foot-
hold. But even then it didn't look any
too promising. He doubted whether
he could make the descent without
slipping, unless he should wear rubber-
soled shoes.

Just then a San Franciscan ap-
proached and looked down the slope.
He contemplated the sidewalk for a
minute, but he didn't seem to like it.
Then he turned to the cobbles, and
shuffling sidewise, commenced a gin-
gerly crablike descent. As Cuttle
watched him, he decided that they
had come to the steepest place of all.

On their right, as the two friends
stood looking down the hill, there rose
a high bank of yellow clay and rock.
A rough flight of wooden steps led to
the top.

"Wouldn't the view up there be bet-
ter?" asked Cuttle.

"It would be more comprehensive,"
answered Chill. "The view where we
are is like that through the window of

a house, while the view up there is like
the one to be had from the roof."

"The roof for me," answered Cuttle,
and they climbed the stairs.

But, when they stood at the top, the
improvement was only in quantity and
not in quality. It's true they could
see all around them now, except to the
south. The view was no longer con-
fined to the north. But the picture
contained such a mass of detail as to
be rather bewildering and unsatisfac-
tory. The eye saw everything and set-
tled on nothing.

For a quarter of an hour they sat on
the edge of a little wooden platform,
for it made a comfortable resting
place. Then they descended the steps
and returned to Taylor street.

But Chill had one more card to play,
one more bit of local color with which
he proposed to silence Cuttle's doubts.
As they walked along, on their way
to a car line, he stopped his friend
and asked him to look back at an
apartment house which they had
passed a minute before.

It rose against a hillside which was
as steep as any of those down which
they had looked, and its architecture
had been specially adapted to its lo-
cation. It ascended the hillside in a
series of gigantic steps.

With walls of gray concrete and
arched entrances and square, deep-
sunk windows, it climbed the hill in
a series of terraces. Gallery rose be-
hind gallery, each overlooking the one
next below, and all were adorned with
the red and green of growing flowers.
A blaze of scarlet geraniums glowed
on the very roof. The whole place
looked like the dream of a futurist,
and yet was purely a product of local
conditions.

"Have you anything like that in
New York?" asked Chill.

And Cuttle had nothing to say.

It was two weeks later. Mr. Ken-
neth Cuttle, eastward bound, was cross-
ing San Francisco Bay. He stood on
the after deck, and watched the sea-
gulls wheeling and whirling in the

In the Chinese quarter, where numbers of buildings were given
a semi-pagoda character, after the fire.

HIS FIRST CLIENT

wake of the ferry boat. Beyond them
he saw the heights of the city dwindle
in the distance, and he recollected a
stanza he had seen in a daily paper
that morning:

"Sea gulls about me, and before me

lessening
A city set on hills, its shining streets

Fresh washed with rain, and golden

at its back
The sweet and gracious sun that seeks

its rest."

"In four days I shall be in New
York," he soliloquized. "Well, I shall
be able to tell them San Francisco
still has local color."

Mis First Client

By Edith Hecht

THERE was pride in the house of
Armstrong when Harold was
admitted to the bar. The fatted
calf, figuratively speaking, was
not only killed, but also prepared with
infinite gusto; for no member of the
household was prouder of the newly-
fledged lawyer than Wong, the Chi-
nese cook.

He had been over thirty years in the
Armstrong family, and had dandled
them all on his knee; but Harold, of
course, the youngest of the family, and
the only man child, was Wong's idol;
and Wong had surpassed himself on
to-night's dinner in honor of the new
attorney.

He had cooked nothing but Harold's
favorites, of course, on this momentous
occasion, and had fairly outdone him-
self. A very proud and happy family
gathering it was, all absorbed in inno-
cent hero worship. The two freckled
little terrors looked respectfully upon
the uncle who could send them to jail ;
and Dick Bennett, Harold's young
brother-in-law, offered to retain Har-
old for his future divorce suit — hold-
his wife's hand the while. Every-
one was promising to give Harold his
first case ; each one would be that mys-
terious unknown, Harold's first client.
Of course, as customary, unknown

to the family, Wong peeked in from
the butler's pantry; but this time he
did not escape unseen, as usual. At
the black coffee, his pride got the bet-
ter of his discretion; and, standing a
little too far forward, Harold espied
him.

Harold arose and pulled Wong in,
decidedly nonplussed. "Wong, you old
beggar, come here," he called, as he
dragged the reluctant Celestial into the
center of the room. "You've cooked
every one of my favorites to-night,
even down to the ice cream meringues
I used to steal when your back was
turned — now come along and congratu-
late me." He gave the faithful China-
man's hand a hearty clasp.

Wong's keen, shrewd face lit up.
"You lawyer now, Mlssa Harold?" he
queried. "You slendee bad boys steal
cookies from kitchen to jail," with a
meaning glance at two freckled faces.
"You heap big man now, like your
flader, eh?"

"Well, I'm a lawyer now, Wong, but
I don't know about the rest — except the
cookie matter, of course," Harold was
somewhat amused, but more touched,
by the faithful soul's obvious pride.

"You makee heap money, Mlssa
Harold, now?"

"Maybe yes, maybe no, Wong. I

OVERLAND MONTHLY

have to get cases — people have to get
in trouble and hire me to get them out
of it. That's how I'd make the
money."

"You not got first case, yet?"

There was a laugh at this, for Har-
old's admission to the bar was not a
day old. "Maybe I gibbee first case,
yet. Maybe makee heap money, you
gettee mallied, eh?"

There was a laugh at this, and Har-
old blushed fiery red. For the family
suspected, and with truth, that Harold
had a girl. Blue-eyed Sallie Everett,
who didn't reach beyond his shoulder,
had his heart safely in tow.

They all arose from the table, and
Wong departed for his kitchen, well
pleased with the laugh he had raised.
The practical thrusts of the old-time,
shrewd Chinese retainer usually drove
home.

"This dinner is so good," Armstrong,
Sr., remarked, as he lit his cigar, "that
I hate to think it's practically the last
for a year to come. Mother," Charles
Armstrong turned to his wife, "I'll give
up that trip even now, and stay home
and let Wong cook for us. That's va-
cation enough for me."

Mrs. Armstrong shook her head.
This dropping of all cares for a year's
trip around the world had been her
dream. The very next day Harold
moved to his club, and the Armstrong
parents sailed on a Pacific liner bound
for the Orient.

The Armstrongs were to leave for
the Orient on the morrow, and Mrs.
Armstrong wanted Wong to go to one
of her daughters; he refused, going in-
stead to work in a laundry in which he
had an interest.

The Armstrong parents had sailed
only twenty-four hours. Harold, his
name modestly printed at the end of a
line of seven, had "his offices" in the
quarters of a big corporation lawyer,
one of his father's friends. Work for
the firm had kept him busy enough not
to worry over the clients of his own,
who had not as yet materialized.

At this particular moment, however,
in his club at 6 :30 p. m., Harold's mind
was not on clients. He was tying his

necktie in a hurry. Sally Everett had
an impromptu dinner and theatre party,
and his tie was behaving, as it usually
does when one is late and one's best
girl is waiting. Parenthetically be it
remarked, he had told his sister Bessie
that "work at the office" had prevented
his dining with her — at which she had
sniffed incredulously. He was cursing
luridly when there was a knock at his
door. "Mr. Armstrong was wanted at
the telephone." Swearing a little bit
more, he answered the call.

It was the City Prison that wanted
him — a client of his was there who de-
sired him immediately — he couldn't
catch the name — and the desk sergeant
hung up. "A client" not "the client,"
the desk sergeant had said. Even in
his vexation, Harold grinned, as he
quoted the indefinite article in his ex-
cuses to Sally Everett, with an eye to
the impression on Papa E. He took
Sally's scolding sadly, promised to join
the party later, and caught the street
car — it was before the days of mo-
tors — to the City Prison.

"Here's your client," said the desk
sergeant, leading the way to the grat-
ing. The turnkey unlocked the door,
and there, sad and dejected, sat Wong,
all the happiness out of his shrewd,
bright face.

"In for spittin' on clothes," the
turnkey explained.

Then Harold knew it all. The Chi-
nese laundrymen, when they dampened
the clothes for ironing, took a swallow
of water in their mouths and sprinkled
it through their teeth, to obtain just the
proper degree of moisture. This was
a most reprehensible practice, and a
newly awakened antiseptic public con-
science had just obtained, and was rig-
idly enforcing an ordinance against this
time-honored custom; Wong's was one
of the first arrests under this new act.
He had been caught in the act. The
policeman on the beat himself had
seen the misdemeanor, and had brought
him in by the nape of the neck, as it
were. There was no possible plea but
guilty.

It was impossible to convince Wong
of the error of his ways. It was a good

HIS FIRST CLIENT

custom, a time-honored custom. Every

respectable Chinaman laundered thus.
It was a good way. Every garment m
the Armstrong hsusenoid had been sc
dampened for thirty years— Harold

and would be again. Against the
Great Wall of China, Harold soon
ceased to argue. He put his hand in
pocket and paid Wong's bail, at
which Wong nearly wept. He himself
could have had bail long ago, but a
Chinaman is never extravagant The
cell was cozy and warm, with five
omer Chinese, anr. why, ever tempor-
arily, throw out mat cash for one

The next morning, Harold entered an
eloquent plea of "faithful old servitor"
and "ignorance of Occidental customs"
— coupled with a promise of "never
again." He trembled at that, for he
knew full well that there would be an
"again" in the first hour after release ;
but he got his client off with a warning.

Wong beamed with pride through-

out the proceedings. He didn't resent
a thing the district attorney said about
him. It gave his boy a chance to talk
back.

Once out of the courtroom, Harold
talked himself hoarse over the danger
of a second offense, and begged Wong
to desist Wong answered: "You no
worry, Mlssa Harold. There be no
other time. Cop no catchee me again.
Me pullee down him blinds."

With that Harold had to be content

"You heap gland lawyer, Mlssa Har-
old. Talkee heap loud. Me payee
bill."

Up went Wongs hands to his head,
and somewhere from the plaits of his
queue, he produced a fifty cent piece.

"You takee him. You earnee him."
As Harold protested: "Me insulted.
Now you lawyer for my firm. Ludder
boys gettee in tlubbel, spittee on
the clothes, I send for you. You gland
lawyer. Holler heap louder dan udder
feller. I what your flader callee him:
I your first clilent, anyhow."

Phantom Sweethearts

By Lucy Betty A\cRaye

Oh, have I lived to love, who knows,
When all the earth was young,
A shepherd in a grass green glade, whose pipes of reed glad music made,
Around my neck a garland hung,
Each bud dew pearled, and all the world,
Fresh as an opening rose.

And you, a nymph with gleaming feet,

And cheeks and forehead pale and fair,
Your wildwood violet eyes, so sweet,
/ Shone through your clouds of hair.

Or were we lovers, under skies,
Sun flooded amethyst,
And wandered on the red gold sands, as burnished as the red gold bands,
Pure twisted gold, on neck and wrist,
The gems you wore pale before
The flame within your eyes.

You were some slim Egyptian maid,

I some barbaric king, your grace,
Your level brows, your hair's black braid,

I loved — your glowing face.

Or was it only yesterday
We danced the minuet,
Your eyes kissed mine across the room, your powdered hair, your cheek's
rich bloom,

The roguish patch, I see them yet,
My flashing sword, the harpsichord,
When all the night was gay.

You were the toast of half the town,

And I your beau, the gossip ran,
As trailing your brocaded gown,

You flirted with your fan.

We live to-day, my girl of girls,
To kiss the lips we love,
I liked the fashion of your dress, an Empire was it, or Princess?
I liked your perfect Paris glove,
Your wide-winged hat, and under that
Your hair's soft waves and curls.

Your little high-heeled shoe displayed

The prettiest foot, oh, kindly fate,
Go, Sweetheart Shades, that faint and fade,

I love you up to date.

Hopalong Rattlesnake

By Louis Roller

I have put in ten years in this Western country rotating periodically be-
tween the sagebrush and the timbered regions. I have been lumberjack,
homesteader and rancher in succession, and have thus acquired a store of
valuable experience and knowledge which will be of great benefit to me
in my literary ambitions. Some years ago, when the Government threw
open the Coeur d'Alene Indian Reservation in Idaho, I took up a home-
stead there, and enjoyed living in the wilds with Indians for neighbors
and Nature's creatures for companions. Only last week an enormous
mountain lion was brought into town, shot by a half-breed out in the hills.
As I stood and looked at his long, sharp claws and sinewy body, I won-
dered how many defenseless does and fawns he had pounced upon and half
devoured before life was extinct. I was gratified to see his lifeless body
lying there before me, and envied not a little the half-breed who had put an
end to his murderous career.

I have not much to say introducing myself to you. I am twenty-eight
years of age, and through circumstances I cannot help, a native born
Hoosier. I have written some poetry. I think the Great West, with its
musical waterfalls, its rugged mountain expanses, the sagebrush and
prairie, unending miles of primitive forests and mirrored lakes mean more
to the writer than the artificial surrounding of unromantic Chicago, or the
brazen atmosphere of Fifth avenue. Literary Indiana may be all right,
Mark Twain's beloved Mississippi may be highly esteemed, but give to
me the land of Bret Harte, with the soothing cadences of Joaquin Miller.

Lou Roller.

ALTHOUGH the sun's rays were the hills. A lone track here and there
vertical and the heat intense, bespoke the presence of the coyote
there was a cool, unrelenting who prowled about at night looking for
breeze blowing up out of the God knows what, and hiding during
sagebrush and coulees that was re- the torridness of the day, God only
freshing to the wilted camas which knows where. This dust devilish ex-
grew in the barren waste spots where panse was what Owen Wister once
the little ruvulets of sand drifted in the termed the God awful Big Bend,
wheel-tracks. A drink of water here in this hot,
The rattlesnakes lay here and there arid country will not quench a thirst,
in the hot sand uncoiled and stretched but it is supremely gratifying to the
out full length, as if trying to catch as thirsty one — even though it be brack-
much of the cool breeze as possible, ish and bitter it may still retain a cer-
A forlorn magpie perched upon a pile tain sweet taste and stay the unsati-
of scabrock, with drooping wings and ated thirst until one is able to reach
mouth open, gazed dumbly at the dust the Columbia or the Snake,
devils chasing the tumbleweeds over As worthless as this country may

OVERLAND MONTHLY

have looked to Owen Wister a few
years have wrought a most remarkable
change. The rattlesnake is still evi-
dent along with the coyote, but the
sagebrush is fast disappearing. In its
stead is to be found sections of sum-
merfallow and waving grain. The
homeseeker is pushing steadily and
unrestrainedly on toward the Colum-
bia. In a single day's journey over-
land I would not be in the least sur-
prised to see a railroad here or a new
town springing up there. Such is the
history of the Great West — the West
we like to think of or read about, the
gray expanse of sagebrush and cou-
lees are fast disappearing, and is
marred here and there or entirely ob-
literated by the wheat fields of the
newly arrived homesteader.

A little siding where a crew of men
were unloading a new threshing rig,
near by a new elevator built in expec-
tation of a bumper wheat crop, and a
half dozen new stores huddled together
bespoke the optimism of those who
had followed the wheeltracks in the
sand and volcanic ash a year or two
ago, and drove their tent stakes and
plowed well their furrows. A young
man of perhaps thirty summers is
superintending the unloading of the
threshing outfit, and under the broad
brim of his felt hat is to be seen the
tan of the sun mellowed into a deep
brown by the cool wind that ever
blows up out of the mysterious, lone-
some land. He, too, like the rest of
them, has not lived long enough in the
new country to call it his own, having
located in the center of the Indian
country over on the Coeur d'Alene
Reservation two years previous. The
seriousness of his blue eyes, the square
jaw and the rugged features foretell in
him a comprehensive intent of pur-
pose and a reckoning of things vital.
His two years among the Indians of
the great lonesome land have not come
amiss, and his knowledge thereof has
not been gained in vain.

Gibson Sterling was a man who

Louis Roller

voiced the sentiments of this new coun-
try — a man who was willing to stake
his all, and if he lost so much the bet-
ter, it only fanned the more his flame
of ambition and revealed his ultimate
goal more distinctly from the obscure.

Ill

A long streak of dust was rising up
out of the coulee. The sun was just
emeiging up from the sagebrush hills
to the east, and its rays slanted with
a gaudy splendor on the new red sepa-
rator and the brass and copper trim-
mings of the engine, which was emit-
ting a regular chickety-chick and
creeping along in the early coolness of
the morning toward the new wheat
fields out on the flats.

Gibson Sterling felt an exuberant
thrill permeating his being that kept
time to the rhythmical exhaust of the
engine, and as he opened up the throt-
tle a little more here or closed it there,
or deftly handled the steering wheel
to avoid a boulder or round a bend,

HOPALONG RATTLESNAKE

he could not help but entertain the
pleasantest of thoughts, and smiled
to himself as he pictured the quarter
section that was soon to be his over
in the Indian country. His nearest
neighbor, old Hopalong Rattlesnake,
a most peculiar breed of savage who
with his prized buffalo horn could lure
the rattlesnake from his lair — a snake
charmer, but an honest Injun whose
peculiar antics had pleasantly helped
while away the lonesome hours and
tedious monotony of homesteading out
in the lonesome land where a section
was bounded by an invisible line that
followed a newly driven stake or a
freshly made blaze. Coming up to.
where the road merged on to the flat,
Gibson turned the engine sharply to
the left and entered a field of recently
cut wheat. The breath of harvest time
was in the fragrant breeze and the
wheat straw glistened with a fresh-
ness that was pleasing to behold. Na-
ture was giving forth a bountiful har-
vest to the hard working homesteader
and the great sweeps of territory that
sloped off gradually toward the Co-
lumbia was slowly coming into its own.

Here where the tumble weed had
been accustomed to roll unhindered all
day long, it now found occasionally a
barbed wire fence to obstruct its natu-
ral course or banged up against the
side of a new shack. The coyote who
had been wont to travel the great arid
waste without heed or hindrance in his
aimless wanderlust now instinctively
took unto himself certain precautions
heretofore deemed unnecessary.

The separator set with its long red
tail to the leeward, the engine backed
off to a respective distance, the belt
was thrown on, and a signal from the,
oiler to the engineer set the droning
separator into motion. Two loads of
bundles now drew up one on either
side, the spike pitchers climbed up and
soon the sack sewers and jiggers were
busily engaged while the cyclone
stacker was piling the bright, shining
straw in a half circle at the rear.

Gibson, standing on the deck of the
engine, absorbed it all in a satisfying
gaze. A good run without any bad

luck, and he could pay for the outfit
and prove up on his homestead and
have a neat little sum left over out of
the profits. He watched the strawpile
looming up, and saw with satisfaction
the pile of sacks growing larger. The
owner of the wheat walked up and
pleasantly commented on the yield,
while Gibson beamed with satisfac-
tion. Everything was going to his
heart's satisfaction, and the big loads
of bundles were coming in from the
field and the empty wagons were going
out after more. He assured himself
he was lucky in possessing a good
crew to start with and best of all a
new machine.

Just then the field boss came riding
in on a gallop and said one of the
men had been bitten by a rattler. He
also conveyed to Gibson the startling
information the dangerous reptiles
were so numerous the pitchers had
been almost thrown into a panic and
each wheat shock had from one to a
dozen under it. The homesteader ad-
mitted the rattlers were numerous out
in the sagebrush, but had not thought
they would prove such a menace in
the wheatfields, but they were there
apparently, and in large numbers;
furthermore, a man does not relish the
thought of being bitten by a poison-
ous rattlesnake when it means sure
death if not properly attended to.

At noon, when the field men came
in, they unanimously informed Gibson
they had quit and would not go back
to work again under any considera-
tion. And Gibson could not blame
them; it was really too much to ask
a man to expose himself to the lurk-
ing danger in the wheat stubble. Here
was a problem which was stunning to
Gibson, and a pang of remorse seized
him as he saw his fond hopes fade
away in thin air. It was of no use to
send to Spokane for a new crew of
pitchers. Gibson was too much of a
man to ask anybody else do what he
himself would not attempt. He stud-
ied the situation from all angles, and
could arrive at no definite conclusions.
He was simply up against it. He
would lose his machine and possibly

OVERLAND MONTHLY

his homestead also, as he had gone
in debt to acquire the threshing out-
fit, and the only conclusion he could
arrive at was that the threshing was
all off, or to make a hundred mile
move over into the Palouse away from
the rattlesnake infested region.

The poor homesteader begged him
to stay and not leave, as they could
not possibly get another machine in
there. Gibson could not help but con-
sider his pleadings in the face of a
hundred mile pull overland and pos-
sibly only a very short run after he
arrived there. Try as he could he
could conceive of no way in which
to overcome the rattlers. That night
he dared not lie down in clear com-
fortable straw, ' as is the custom of
harvest hands all through the West,
for fear of the dread reptiles. He sat
and pondered the question over and
over, and considered different plans
and schemes, only to reject them all
as useless or impracticable.

The homesteaders of the surround-
ing neighborhood had called on him
and offered to double the price per
sack for threshing if he would only
remain with them. This was indeed
a great incentive to reach a solution
of the question. All at once he
thought of something that brought
back his hopes with the speed of a
bullet. Was it possible, could it be
practicable? Yes, snakes were sus-
ceptible to charms. He would do it.
Old Hopalong Rattlesnake and his buf-
falo horn could undoubtedly help in
dispensing with the peril. He decided
at once to leave for the Indian country
early in the morning. Old Hopalong,
why had he not thought of him before ?

Early morning, an hour before sun-
up — and the sun rises early in the sage
brush country during the summer
months — found Gibson astride a pinto
saddle pony and headed for the Coeur
d'Alene Reservation. A cross-country
ride was very exhilarating at this
time of the morning before the breeze
had begun to stir the cool, fragrant at-
mosphere, and while the dew faintly

sparkled in the stunted sagebrush.

A hungry coyote who was still
prowling about in the lonesomeness,
heard the hoofbeats of the horse and
set up his weird ki-yi-ing, and skulked
off over a ridge to secrete himself
somewhere before the sun's rays
streaked the east.

An all day jog through the hot sun
brought Gibson out of the nauseating
aridness and rattlesnake infested re-
gion up into the cooler altitude of the
Reservation and the calm of the scat-
tered pine trees and luxuriant bunch-
grass which grew here in abundance.
He was not long in seeking out Hopa-
long's tepee, and found the old siwash
at home. After relating his predica-
ment, Hopalong gave a grunt of com-
prehension and said: "Lots um rattle-
snakes; no count um, me catch um,
skookum alright." "Will you go back
to the Big Bend with me in the morn-
ing, Hopalong? I will pay you well,"
said Gibson, and Hopalong gave a
grunting nod of assent.

The next morning after a cool, re-
freshing night's sleep under the pine
trees, the only pleasant and satisfying
night's rest Gibson had experienced
for some time, they headed for the
sagebrush, Gibson ahead and Hopa-
long following on his cayuse. "Medi-
cine man buffalo horn," said Hopa-
long, "me fix um rattlesnake; you run
um threshing machine, no have trou-
ble." All day they journeyed thus,
Gibson pushing enthusiastically ahead
and the Indian stolidly following,
showing only a morbid interest occa-
sionally when spoken to. He rode
bending forward, and his cayuse am-
bled aimlessly along with its head
listlessly drooping. Once in a while
it bit cff a mouthful of the unapposite
sage leaves or stopped at an occasional
bunch of grass, when Hopalong would
mutter under his breath, and the cay-
use would prick up its ears and jog
nonchalently on. Evidently neither
cayuse or rider relished being abroad
in the hot, simmering prairie, and por-
trayed marked unresemblance to the
other rider who was pushing energeti-
cally ahead.

HOPALONG RATTLESNAKE

Arriving at their destination late
that night, Gibson was utterly exhaust-
ed, and climbed into a bundle wagon
and slept until late next day. When
he awoke the next morning the sun
had been up an hour, likewise Hopa-
long, who was suspiciously inspecting
the threshing machine. "Good morn-
ing, Hopalong," said Gibson, feeling
relieved after a good night's rest.
"What do you think of the outfit?"
"Skookum paleface," replied Hopa-
long, eyeing the engine furtively; "In-
jun no catch um high up fire. Great
Spirit no like Injun any more. Great
Spirit catch um white man's wheat
and thresh um. Injun no good any
more." "What about the rattle-
snakes?" Gibson anxiously inquired.
"To-night," replied Hopalong, "when
sun go down me catch um."

That night the crew all assembled,
speculatively anxious to see what
Hopalong was going to do. Some of
the homesteaders had gathered around
hoping against hope that this strange
Indian could do something to alleviate
their predicament. But they enter-
tained grave fears of doubt as to his
power to help them in this particular
instance.

No sooner had the bright harvest
moon risen and flooded the broad ex-
panse with its silvery rays than Hop-
along got out his old buffalo horn and
sent forth a weird, enchanting strain,
barbaric in its moving cadences that
carried on the still night air for miles.
He continued for about ten minutes a
droning, muffled tone, now shrill and
now barely audible. Presently, just as
some of the crew began to have mis-
givings, there was a faintly audible

commotion all about. The wheat stub-
ble began to jerk and oscillate in the
moonlight, and those assembled per-
ceived snakes — hundreds of them and
thousands, slipping through the wheat
stubble in a vivid effectual stream, as
if they were following old Lucifer
himself.

Hopalong marched ahead of the rep-
tiles in a triumphant stride, winding
the unmusical buffalo horn now wild
and shrill, and now deep and dolorous.
Snakes, and nothing but snakes,
passed in endless stream all in one
direction long after Hopalong had dis-
appeared over a distant hill. The
tone of the weird buffalo horn con-
tinued growing fainter and fainter,

until finally it died out altogether.
* * * *

The next morning the crew was up
bright and early, and the threshing
machine was humming merrily away
again. Not a rattler was to be seen.
The only evidence of reptiles was
the rumpled up wheat stubble and the
millions of criss-crossing and tangled
trails in the sand and volcanic ash,
while a certain lake two miles distant
at the foot of a high bluff was literally
alive with rattlesnakes.

Gibson Sterling stood upon the deck
of the engine and mentally prospected
on what his profits would amount to
at twice the price originally agreed
upon. A lone Indian rode off through
the sagebrush toward the rising sun,
glancing now and then at the long
slopes of wheat fields on either side,
seeing nothing spectacular in what he
had accomplished the night before in
Owen Wister's land of the God awful
Big Bend.

The Face in the Locket

By Billee Glynn

THE blue bay-roll in the harbor
of Papeete lolled shoreward
with a somnolent note. The
steamer Mariposa had just
come to dock, and while she still
strained testily at her cables, the pas-
sengers hurried down the gangplank
to where natives and Chinamen waited
to handle their luggage. A mixed
group of citizens, representing all the
degrees of population of Papette,
watched the proceedings interestedly.
And among the smiling throng, like
tropical roses dusky with dreams,
shone the faces and burning eyes of
the French Creoles— none the less at-
tractive that in instances she showed
an admixture of native blood. Catch-
ing a glance from a pair of such eyes,
the valet of Mr. Robert McVey missed
his footing on the gangway and almost
fell. His master, who was behind him,
reprimanded him sharply. He was a
stout man, somewhere between fifty or
sixty years of age, and wearing a
stern, irritable expression. The head
of one of the largest manufacturing
concerns -in San Francisco, he had
come to Tahiti for his health, and was
in a nervous state bordering on panic.
Consequently, little things affected
him. He had a reputation for having
always disliked women individually
and socially. Never having been there
before, he had dreamt of Tahiti as a
paradise of rest, where only was the
murmur of the sea and every personal-
ity became as a shell on the shore, and
neither business nor sex menaced the
joy of drifting. Robert McVey was
out for one quiet time with himself,
and to the extent, that he even ill-
treated his lackey because for reasons
of convenience he had been obliged to
take him along. Since the lackey hap-

pened to be a sturdy, Irish block, and
was infinitely capable of taking care
of himself, sympathy in the matter is
not necessary, however.

The principal "hotera," or hotel, re-
ceived McVey cordially. He found
upstair apartments overlooking the
sea. And the narrow streets of Pa-
peete appealed to him as lanes down
which he might wander in peace. His
first meal, agreeing comfortably with
his badgered stomach, adduced in him
a feeling of delightful languor. Then
down in the lobby of the hotel — it was
but a small place — the manager, Mon-
sieur Durant, introduced him to Mad-
ame Gordon. In Tahiti, hospitality is
not confined to any particular form.
Besides, the manufacturer always car-
ried the look of a man of importance,
and, as his host guessed, might be
staying in Papeete for some time,
where every newcomer is worth at
least investigation. The lady had been
calling on Madame Durant, and the
two women crossed the lobby together.
Then it was that Monsieur Durant had
brought McVey over to them.

Madame Gordon, a lithe, flower-like
creature, received him almost shyly.
She was gowned in mauve silk, deli-
ciously clinging, and seemed made up
of dreaming fires. Her eyes were like
those beautiful twilights in which a
man remembers his loves. And her
olive complexion had the perfect finish
of a pansy petal. By the side of Mad-
ame Durant, who was rather coarse
and fat, she shone like a delicately
nurtured dove in comparison with an
overfed field-sparrow.

The introductions had scarcely been
made when a tall, broad-shouldered
young man, clad in white duck, swung
open the hotel door and came up to

THE FACE IN THE LOCKET

the group smiling. While McVey
caught his breath and drew slightly
away, the three received him heartily.
And the hand of Madame Gordon went
out to him caressingly.

"I happened to be passing," he ex-
plained to her, "and saw that I was
just in time to take you home with me,
dear."

She gave him a look of love, fond-
ling his arm with her hand. Then,
with instinctive courtesy, she turned
quickly. "Meet Mr. McVey, Arnold,"
she said. "My husband, sir."

The manufacturer, who had been
about to withdraw, turned suddenly
with a stern look. At the confronta-
tion the blood swept Arnold Gordon's
face till it seemed to dye the blonde
locks of his nestling hair, and his
mouth opened in an unutterable gasp.
Fortunately the others were regarding
the manufacturer. Then, instantly, he
controlled himself, his gray eyes nar-
rowing into a glance of tempered steel.

"I am glad to meet you," he articu-
lated, without extending his hand.
"Will you be long in Papeete?"

"For some little time, I believe. It
seems to me that I have seen you be-
fore."

The other met the scarcely repressed
irony without flinching. "I have been
in business in the island for the last
five years. We do not accumulate
wealth here, but we find happiness. "

"I suppose the climate agrees with
you better than might be the case in
some other places."

"Possibly!" There was a restraint
in the word which communicated itself
to the other.

"I will be in my own apartment up
till nine o'clock this evening," he said.
"There is a business project I have in
mind, and it strikes me that, perhaps,
you could help me with it."

In anywhere but lazy, loving Pa-
peete the conversation might have
struck the curiosity of the company.
But in that climate even curiosity is
too much of an effort. Certain that he
had made himself understood, McVey
withdrew, bowing with a peculiar
smile to an invitation from Madame

Gordon to attend a dance at her house
the following night. Monsieur Durant
shrugged his French shoulders as he
disappeared.

"It is so often the tragedy of the
rich," he said, "that no amount of
money can buy good manners."

In his own quarters, with the lattice
doors flung open to the sea air, the
manufacturer walked up and down,
frowning. He had come to Tahiti for
health and pleasure, and now this
criminal had to show himself. Very
well, he would be prosecuted with all
the more vengeance. He had always
vowed that he would get him some-
time, and, at last, after five years, he
had succeeded. It might prove good
business, too — the restoration of ten
thousand dollars to the firm. Anyway
an embezzler would be brought to jus-
tice. The American consul would be
only too glad to lend his assistance in
the matter.

He turned to his valet arranging the
writing table. "Martin, I expect a gen-
tleman here to see me before eight
o'clock. Wake me when he comes. I
am going to take a siesta."

And he went to sleep haunted by the
eyes of Madame Gordon, eyes that
somehow belonged to the divine ten-
derness of life, the lost springtime be-
neath the drifted snow of years. At
the age of fifty-six Robert McVey was
still a bachelor.

It was half-past eight when he
awoke and his valet informed him that
no one had called. Without waiting
to eat anything, he dressed quickly,
and, with his valet in attendance, left
the hotel. He had nervous visions of
his man having already escaped. The
house in which the Gordons lived he
found quite a distance down the prin-
cipal street. Like most of the habita-
tions of Papeete, it was a wooden, one-
story structure, but covering, with a
certain endeavor at picturesqueness,
considerable ground space. Flowers
and vines lent decoration to it, and a
bamboo veranda ran entirely around,
giving it the appearance of a cup and
saucer. The dreaming moonlight of
the clear, Tahitian night steeped it in

OVERLAND MONTHLY

a strange mellow quaintness. Or-
dering his valet to wait for him out-
side, the manufacturer knocked harsh-
ly at the door. It was opened by Mad-
ame Gordon, who recognized him, it
seemed, with something of tremulous
apprehension. Yet her greeting was
charming.

"I came to see your husband, Mad-
ame. My man will wait for me with-
out."

Gordon himself sauntered leisurely
into the hall. "Come into the parlor,"
he said, coolly.

McVey's temper rose at his easy
manner and tone. He followed him,
swinging his shoulders angrily, and, at
the other's repeated suggestion, seated
himself in a bamboo rocker.

Gordon glanced at his wife. "You
have an engagement this evening with
Mrs. Scott across the street, have you
not, dear?"

"That is so," she acquiesced. And
she left the room, drawing the portieres
carefully behind her.

Her husband paused to listen for a
moment to make sure that she was
gone, then he turned to his companion,
who had by this time worked himself
into somewhat of a sweat. "You have
something to say to me?" he sug-
gested.

The other could scarcely command
himself. "To say to you, to say to
you," he reiterated in a rage. "I have
something to do with you. You are
going back with me to California and
to San Quentin — yes, as sure as you
are going to Hell."

Arnold Gordon smiled. "It might,
perhaps, please me to go to Hell
first."

McVey was regarding him with un-
appeased anger. "I waited for you at
the hotel, and you did not put in an
appearance," he flung, savagely.

"I trusted to your business discre-
tion in looking me up."

The manufacturer leaned toward
him, measuring him hotly with his
glance. "You are the typical villain,"
he pronounced. "Your insolence is in-
finite. Why, you have not even
changed your name. A poor job-lot of

detectives they were when they did not
get you."

The younger man corrected him
quietly. "I am known here as Arnold
Gordon. In San Francisco it was
George. My full Christian name is
George Arnold." He held out his
cigar case. "Will you have a cigar?"

McVey thrust it aside with a wave
of his hand. "I would sooner smoke
with the devil," he declared. "What
I want to know is, if you can make
restitution of the ten thousand dollars
you embezzled in the position of cash-
ier to my company when you left San
Francisco five years ago?"

"I lost it on the horse-races in Mex-
ico," explained the other, biting his
cigar with a look of regret. "My co-
pra business here I have built up
through my own industry."

McVey sneered. "Fancied that
you would be perfectly safe here al-
ways, eh? Married, too. Was the
lady in on the game, also?"

Gordon rose to his feet leisurely,
laying his cigar on the table. He
pointed to a brace of pistols, hanging
on the wall. "You are speaking of my
wife, sir," he emphasized, "who to me
is the sweetest and finest woman in
the world. I met her here in Tahiti
and married her. She knows nothing
of my misdeeds. I love her with a-
love that must ever be the soul of me,
a love as high and deep as the sky and
the sea outside. If you dare to speak
ill of her, I will kill you like a dog."
There was something finer than spring-
time in his eyes as he spoke, a sweep
to his voice that had the precision of
a blade.

His companion was cowed in spite
of himself. He gaped at him, then
motioned him to sit down. "I have
nothing to say against your wife," he
stated, more quietly. "I think she is
beautiful. But you — you are a scoun-
drel."

"I am not particular as to your opin-
ion on that score. My own idea is
that we stand about quits. My father,
also in your employ, was shot to death
by burglars while protecting your
money-box. He saved it for you, but

THE FACE IN THE LOCKET

what did you do for my mother ? Left
her to bring me up in utter poverty.
Those days of scraping and dry crusts
I shall never forget. Then at thirteen
I entered your employment and in ten
years became your cashier. My mo-
ther in the meantime had died. Then
I took to playing the races, and finally
got away with your ten thousand dol-
lars. Well, how much have you lost
on the family?"

"A pretty story," countered the
manufacturer, "but it does not alter the
fact that you are a thief."

The blood surged into the other's
face. "If you say that word again,"
he hissed, "I'll choke you."

McVey with a gesture of impatience
got on his feet. "I am going," he an-
nounced.

"Very well," responded the younger
man. "Go ahead and do your worst.
I know that I am in your power and
how useless it would be to oppose
you. As for begging your mercy, I
would suffer anything rather than do
that. Nor would it get me anything.
I have only one request to make — that
you let the whole matter stand over
till after to-morrow night. My wife
has her heart set on the dance she is
giving then, and I would not care to
see her pleasure spoiled. I am speak-
ing with the greatest seriousness."

McVey laughed harshly. "And give
you the much desired chance to es-
cape," he insinuated. "I should say
not. You will be arrested immedi-
ately — to-night."

He strode toward the portieres an-
grily, and Gordon, with a heavy sigh,
turned to the table, making no attempt
to stop him. But as he put out his
hand to sweep the portieres apart, he
started and stepped back quickly,
staring into the barrel of a revolver.
The white hand that held it tensed
trembling, but with a finger on the
trigger. It was Madame Gordon who
confronted him, the whole flame of
her in her eyes.

"I have heard everything that has
been said," she voiced, including both
him and her husband in her glance,
"and if you go to prosecute Arnold, you

shall never leave this room." She was
magnificent, a pantheress guarding her
young, primitive in her revelation as
the most primitive thing in the world.
The startled eyes of her husband
lightened to her with intoxicated
pride. Even McVey stared as much at
her beauty and dramatic attitude as at
the pistol.

"Don't you realize," he articulated
weakly at length, "that your husband
has done wrong — a great wrong — and
must pay the penalty of the law?"

"Whatever he has done," she re-
sponded, "I love him. I have heard
his explanation, and it is good enough
for me. Anyway, it isn't what a man
is, it is what he is to a woman. I love
him, and you shall not disgrace him."

Her husband strode quickly over
took the revolver from her hand. "It
would be far worse than imprisonment
or death for you to commit a crime on
my account, sweetheart," he pleaded.
She made quite a struggle of it, how-
ever, and a locket fell from her neck.
McVey stooped to pick it up, in an at-
tempt to get out of range of the pistol.

The face in the locket caught his
eye. He stared at it a moment, and
returned it to Mrs. Gorden, his de-
meanor completely changed. She ac-
cepted it hastily, anger still agitating
her.

"The resemblance is speaking," ven-
tured McVey. "A relative?"

"My mother."

"So I conjectured. And now, Mrs.
Gordon, I want to apologize to you
and your husband for my intemperate
acts. I came down here on sick leave
from business to benefit my health, if
possible, but this scene has proven to
me only too well that I am in a worse
condition mentally and physically than
I suspected. Pray be lenient, both of
you, for my outburst. I promise never
to lose control of myself again."

He bowed and started toward the
door. "I shall likely leave here on
the next steamer, but before I go, may
I drop in occasionally and see you
both?"

"Certainly," replied Gordon. "If
the old understanding is wiped out on

OVERLAND MONTHLY

the explanation I made you. I've tried
to play the game of life straight since
then, and," glancing at his wife, "I
mean to do the right thing — for her
sake."

"I understand," nodded McVey. "By
the way, Gordon, drop in on me in an
hour, if you find it convenient." He
bowed again and was gone.

McVey and Gordon were chatting
over cool drinks, when McVey re-
marked: "Gordon, I hope you'll prize

your wife. By the way, if you are
agreeable, I'd like to put $10,000 into
your business here on a partnership
basis."

Gordon regarded him with puzzled
surprise.

McVey looked him squarely in the
eye, an interrogating gleam.

"I — I — knew her mother very well."

The two men clasped hands with a
wringing grip of confidence and un-
derstanding.

LIFE

What is Li£e? An endless bubble
Surging with the mist and foam
Of the Ages' ocean moan.

Farther from the vortex whirling
Lost and broken! Without flaw;
Part of God's eternal law.

On the strand we pace and wander :
Hear the floating, flooding main,
Tell the story once again.

Heeding not His voice imparting,
Seeing not the deeper meaning,
In the whitened waters' gleaming.

Life is neither joy nor sorrow,

Neither struggle, nor yet fate

Of destined, helpless, hopeless state.

On the Ocean's farthest billows,
To this broken, rocky shore
Life is hurried evermore,

Always striving for the higher.
Children of Almighty Power!
Hear the voices of the Choir!

Robert H. Down.

Across the Border

H. K. Addis

My name is Ahmed Noureddin Harold K. P. Addis. The first two
names indicate my religious beliefs. In Christian countries, Moslems are
not usually considered wholly human; therefore, I very often do not make
use of that part of my name. I was born in Ohio in 1884. Have attended
various schools, among which was the Ohio State University. Have trav-
eled over a great part of European Turkey, and a part of Asiatic Turkey.
Resided in Constantinople. Was closely associated with some of the lead-
ing members of the Committee of Union and Progress of the Young Turk
Party prior to the revolution of July, 1908.

Do not get the idea that I am a Turk or Turkish-American. I have not;
so far as I know, one drop of Turkish blood, and my sympathy for that
really noble race is simply based upon my knowledge and understanding
of their many sterling qualities.

WHAT can be taking place at
the house of our neighbor,
Hagop?" exclaimed biyouk
Osman, the demirdji (black-
smith), to his wife as he sat before his
vine-clad doorway, smoking after the
evening meal.

"Indeed, I do not know, my hus-
band," replied his wife, Halide, as she
paused from her task, looking through
the open door toward the house in
question. "All day long I have heard
singing, mingled with shouts and cries
as of cursing in the rough Armenian
language. Now and again, too, it
seemed that some one would try to
argue with the others, but their loud
rough voices would soon drown him
out."

"I think I will see Hagop this even-
ing and have a little talk with him.
Moustafa Fazil, the Kurdish chief, was
at the shop to-day, and while there
he tried to make me believe that the
Armenians were plotting against us.
Moustafa says that we should be on
our guard lest they attempt some
treacherous work here, but I told him
that Hagop Sirkedjian and I were too

H. K. Addis

old friends for there to be any sus-
picion between us. If Hagop so much

OVERLAND MONTHLY

as imagined that we were in danger
he would certainly let us know at once.
Yet in a way Moustafa is right: we
Moslems are few, and they are many."
Osman leaned back meditatively,
watching the smoke as it curled from
his bubbling narghile.

"Please God all will be well with us,
but I have had a strange feeling to-
day, husband. Sometimes it has
seemed that I must open my heart to
Diemile, and so I should have done
but that it is such a pity to mar the
poor girl's happiness. If anything
should happen to her it would ruin
Husseyn's life, for never did brother
love sister as our Husseyn loves Dje-
mile ; may God watch over them both,"
and great tears welled up into the
eyes of the tender-hearted Halide Ha-
num, as her maternal ears caught the
sound of Djemile's happy young voice
humming an old Turkish love-song.

The mouthpiece of the large water-
pipe fell to Osman's lap, as with curi-
ous eyes he scrutinized his wife's face.
"I, too, have had a sense of danger
to-day — a foreboding of ill that I
could not drive from my mind. God
grant that we may both be mistaken."

Theirs is an unusual life. So much
so that when we stop to consider the
conditions under which these villagers
normally live, we no longer are sur-
prised at the significance which they
are prone to attach to a mental depres-
sion which may indicate nothing more
serious than a too-hearty indulgence
in a recent meal. To them such mental
disturbances have a meaning — and lit-
tle wonder! In the fertile valleys of
that mountainous country which lies
to the southward from the eastern ex-
tremity of the Black Sea, the various
inassimilable elements which go to
make up the population exist in a state
of continuous eruption. When one
never knows at what moment his
neighbor's hand may be uplifted
against him, seeking his life-blood, or
that of his wife or daughter, he is ex-
tremely likely to give heed to any oc-
currence which is capable of being
construed as a premonition of danger.

"Strangely enough, though," con-

tinued Osman, "where you thought of
Djemile, my thoughts were with Hus-
seyn. Do you know that to-day the
Kurd, Moustafa, told me that Hus-
seyn's regiment has been transferred
from Constantinople, and it is now
guarding the frontier just to the north
of us?"

"What! On the northern frontier?
But that's good news — good news! I
don't see how you could feel gloomy
after hearing that," exclaimed Halide
Hanum reproachfully. "Just think,
with only that distance between us
our boy may be walking in on us at
any time."

"No, my dear wife. No, indeed.
This military service is a serious mat-
ter. Only in case of absolute neces-
sity would they grant him leave of
absence," replied Osman.

"Well, anyway I am glad my boy
is getting out and away from the great
city. Now he will get more training
and be better able to advance himself
in the army. Something tells me that
he will be yuz-bashi, bin-bashi, and
finally the tails of a pasha will grace
my wonderful boy."

"I had hoped that he might go up
to Constantinople and enter one of the
great institutions of learning there and
become a doctor of medicine or of the
law. He is an intelligent boy, and
would do honor to one of the learned
professions," rejoined Osman reflec-
tively.

"But think of Husseyn's earliest in-
clinations. Remember how he used to
set up sticks and drill them for sol-
diers," argued his wife.

"His desire for books was no less
great. Besides, the Hodja says that
he is the best educated boy in the vil-
lage. Husseyn loves learning, and
would make a great and useful man
in one of the professions."

"Just imagine, though, our boy, with
his handsome face and stalwart form
in the uniform of a pasha. Think of
the decorations and the medals, the
gold lace and the plumes- "

"Yes, gold lace and decorations —
medals and more gold lace. My dear
wife, I find that you are still very

ACROSS THE BORDER

much of a woman." And Osman
laughed heartily to find that his clear-
headed and intensely practical wife
was after all very feminine.

A sudden noise brought Osman to
his feet. From a nearby street came
a motley of sounds — a babel of voices
in which apparently all the primitive,
emotion-expressing sounds of the hu-
man race were represented. It was a
moan, a rumble, a roar. It was the
sound of the breaking surf, and the
impending storm. It was menacing,
terrible — capable of striking fear — ab-
ject, whimpering fear to the stoutest
heart. Osman heard it — biyouk
(large) Osman, the blacksmith, the
strongest man in ten villages. He
stretched himself calmly. "I must
go," he said, "and see friend Hagop,
the Armenian, and while I am out I
may as well find out the cause of this
noise."

"Don't go, Osman — husband, don't
go. It's nothing, nothing but some
drunken Christians in a street brawl.
Don't go," implored Halide Hanum,
and knew it was not the truth when
she spoke. But knowing how he hated
drunkenness and all connected with it,
she hoped to turn her husband from
his purpose.

To no effect was her imploring cry^,
for Osman knew as well as she the
meaning of that dreadful din. But as
she watched her husband's broad back
disappear around the corner in the
direction from which came the riotous
noises, she crumpled up and an on-
looker might have seen the courageous
Halide Hanum, her head bowed in
her arms, weeping bitterly. As her
eyes followed the form of her de-
parting husband, over her mind there
came the thought, gripping, compell-
ing — as an obsession — that this, then,
was their last farewell.

Just as Osman turned the corner, a
terrible sight broke across his range
ot vision — terrible, yet it attracted and
held his fascinated gaze as a magnet
attracts steel. For there before his
eyes was a vast plundering mob, a
mob of fanaticism — and lust-crazed
Armenians. Their weapons were

strange, yet admirably suited to the
work they had to do. Scythes, axes
and knives constituted their arms,
while some with plain clubs and others
with torches were completing the
scheme of destruction which was be-
ing carried out by their more com-
batively armed comrades. Wild songs,
doubtless inspired by hate and fanati-
cism, assailed Osman's ears, and from
the throats of the marauders burst
harsh cries of lust and rage, and sheer
blood-madness and love of slaughter
in the uncouth language, to him but
semi-intelligible. While above all —
louder and yet louder, more piteous
and heart-rending, rose the cries of
their victims. The agonized groans
of men butchered with dull axes and
heavy clubs, the wails of little child-
ren subjected to fiendish tortures, the
shrill screams of Moslem women at
the idea of a fate worse than death.

Into this saturnalia of lust and hate
Osman gazed fascinated. Nearer and
nearer came the mob, louder and
louder grew the cries from their lust-
inflamed throats, higher and more
piercing came the screams of the wo-
men. Moslem women — women whose
lives had passed in the peace and se-
curity of Moslem homes, were being
dragged forth to death — and worse
than death, there before his very eyes.
His sisters might be among the dead,
or possibly among those who were
carried screaming to the rear to be
violated and butchered later.

Osman's mind worked with light-
ning rapidiy. Still he did not move.
The horrible spectacle of which he was
a witness exerted a hypnotic attraction
upon him. Suddenly, from behind,
through the darkness came a hurrying
form. To the blacksmith it seemed
that he recognized something familiar
in the figure, the peculiar motion of
the shoulders, the sound of the foot-
steps. He looked again : "Hagop," he
called softly, "Hagop." The form ap-
proached and said something in Ar-
menian which Osman did not under-
stand.

"It is I, Hagop. Osman, the de-
mirdji, your old friend and neighbor.

OVERLAND MONTHLY

For God's sake, Hagop, dc something
to put an end to this awful butchery.
You are a man of influence among the
Armenians. You can do "

Unnoticed by Osman, as he was
speaking the figure had noiselessly
raised its arm, and as these words left
his lips a large hammer held in the
hand of his former friend struck him
a heavy blow in the temple. Osman
crumpled under the blow, and fell
limply face downward to the earth.

"One less Moslem dog," growled the

dark shape, grimly.

* * * *

A dash of cold water in his face,
the first dreamlike impressions of an
unreal world betokening, a returning
consciousness, and Osman opened his
eyes to look into the face of Mous-
tafa Fazil, the Kurdish chief, the Kizil-
bashi. He attempted to rise to a sit-
ting posture, but fell back, his swim-
ming head almost bursting with the
bone-splitting, nerve-racking pain of
the injured temple.

"Lie still, friend. The danger is
past. The Armenians are gone. They
fled when they saw us coming, but
we were too late to save many of the
Turks," volunteered Moustafa kindly,
when he observed what he took to be
a look of inquiry on Osman's face.

The injured man, with a supreme ef-
fort, struggled feebly to his feet. Re-
fusing assistance, or even company,
he laboriously made his painful way
over the little distance which sepa-
rated him from his house. Slowly,
racked by unutterable suffering both
physical and mental, supporting him-
self, and guilding his uncertain foot-
steps by clinging to every object in
his path, which would so much as fur-
nish a hand-hold, Osmand reached his
home.

^ Just within the door to the harem-
lik, the head, horribly crushed and
bearing innumerable mutilations on the
torso, lay the body of his beloved com-
panion, Halide Hanum. At the awful
discovery Osman for the time forgot
his own grave injuries. Oblivious to
his enfeebled condition, his tortured
head forgotten, Osman stooped, and

with his old giant strength lifted the
mangled form of his wife as one might
pick up an infant. Already the form
was cold and stiff, and an anguished
groan escaping his lips, Osman carried
his burden to another room, where he
placed it tenderly on a sofa. There
his roving eyes fell upon a little heap
of gray ashes and a large charred area
on the wall, which told him that the
incendiary attempts of the murderers
had failed. But now for the first time
he thought of his daughter, Djemile.
In the excitement of his earlier dis-
covery, her very existence had es-
caped Osman's memory. He hurried
through the hous^, searching every
room, looking carefully in every nook
and comer, hoping, yet fearful of what
the next glance might reveal. The girl
was not to be found, however. Over
and over again the grief-crazed father
frantically searched the house, but to
o avail.

At length Osman paused, realizing
that his search was over, and for the
first time allowed himself to imagine
his daughter's fate. All his former
torturing pains came over him with re-
newed severity. With a nameless
dread, the stricken man dragged him-
self to the street. There he found a
young man, a Turk named Reshad,
from a neighboring village, who told
Osman that he had seen Krikor Ka-
rakashian ride at breakneck speed
through his village, carrying what ap-
peared to be the insensible form of a
woman before him on the saddle. This
had aroused Reshad's fears as well
as his curiosity, for, knowing Krikor
by reputation, he suspected some foul
work. So he had come, and finding his
worst fears increditably surpassed,
was doing what he could to alleviate
the suffering of the wounded.

Reshad brought some old ladies who
had escaped the slaughter, and they
took charge of the remains of the un-
fortunate Halide, preparing the body
for burial. Osman was worn out. His
wound ached; his poor, overwrought
mind was at the breaking point. Sit-
ting in the sun outside his house, he
mentally reviewed the terrible calam-

ACROSS THE BORDER

ity which had overtaken him. Now and
then as he sat there an old friend
would appear, and turning his grief-
stricken face towards Osman, silently
salute him and as silently hurry on.
For in that village few Turks had es-
caped the slaughter, and none had es-
caped the loss of a dear friend or
relative.

Of the many sad processions to the
little cypress-grown cemetery on the
hillside the following day, one was
that of Osman, who with bowed head
and aching heart, guided his tottering
footsteps behind the remains of his
faithful companion, borne on the
shoulders of Reshad and some other
young men who had accompanied him
from his village. Many thoughts
crowded themselves through Osman's
mind as he silently followed his wife's
bier, and when they were of the living
they were not less sad than when of
the dead.

He thought of his son, Husseyn, and
his stalwart young manhood. To Os-
man's mind all the virile promise of
the Ottoman race was typified in Hus-
seyn. He thought of the boy's love
for his mother and sister, and at the
thought sounded the depths of his
misery. How could he bring himself
to tell his son of this overwhelming
misfortune, this cataclysm which had
overtaken them. However, Osman re-
solved that a letter must be written to
Husseyn that very night.

But even as the broken and deso-
lated father's mind turned toward his
absent son, and in all the unfathom-
able depths of his own despair found
it still possible to commiserate the
son's grief, at a lonely cross-roads near
the northern frontier the same sun
shone upon another scene. There an
alert-looking young Turkish soldier,
who during his period off duty was
amusing himself by strolling through
the half-cultivated fields, unconscious-
ly happy in the enjoyment of his
youthful, effervescing health and spir-
its, was finding amusement and in-
struction in solitary communion with
Nature's works.

After a time, upon the introspective

soldier's consciousness was borne the
fact that in the not far distant highway
at short intervals, sometimes alone,
then again by twos and threes, swift
riding horsemen were passing with
surprising regularity. This strange oc-
currence in a roadway usually almost
deserted, aroused the young man's in-
terest, and, on approaching nearer the
crossroads, he observed that the rid-
ers were Armenians. Why, he asked
himself when concealed from view be-
hind a cluster of thickly growing
shrubs which bordered the road, were
those tired horsemen spurring their
jaded mounts to the very limit of their
last remnants of speed ? As he looked
on, inquisitively, fascinated, the mys-
terious procession continued. They
would arrive, halt a moment at the
cross-roads, and, exchanging a few
words with their companions, be off
again to the north. Some passed
through without slackening their pace.

At length the soldier saw slowly ap-
proaching on the dusty highway a
horse which bore a double burden. The
splendid horse was in the final stages
of exhaustion. Evidently they had
come far, and judging from the fre-
quency with which one of the riders
looked back over the road, fear rode
at their heels to spur them on. The
horseman alighted and lifted his inert
companion from the horse, as though
the thing he handled were a bag of
meal. The woman, if woman it was,
was so swathed in robes as to render
impossible a guess as to who or what
she might be. She was able to stand,
which led the observer to the conclu-
sion that she was not drugged, as was
his first impression, but that fear and
sheer inability to help herself, or even
hope for release, was responsible for
her sluggish, inert condition.

"Give me your horse," insolently
commanded the stranded horseman, as
another rode up on a rather fresh-look-
ing horse.

"Who are you, fellow, to demand my
horse in that manner?" asked the new-
comer.

"I am Krikor, the bandit, and not
accustomed to having my orders dis-

OVERLAND MONTHLY

obeyed," boasted the horseman, draw-
ing himself up.

"Very well, Krikor, I fear you will
be forced to accustom yourself to be-
ing disobeyed if you remain long in
my company. You may be a little ty-
rant among your own band of cut-
throats, but you must remember that
Garabed Ekmekdjian calls no man
chief." And with this introduction the
newcomer leaped from his horse and
approaching the bandit continued:
"But what is this, Krikor? By my
soul, I" wager he's carrying away
somebody's grandmother." And he
indicated the black-robed figure that
stood immovable by Krikor's side.

"No; by God, it's the most beautiful
girl in Erziroum. I destroyed a whole
village; put men to the sword, raped
women, and dashed the brains of little
children against the stones in the
pavement, in order to get this girl,"
flashed Krikor in reply.

"Yes, as ever a braggart, I see. Why,
in my town, when they say 'boastful as
Krikor Karakashian,' we all under-
stand. Oh! it's a good joke, an ex-
cellent joke." Garabed laughed un-
roariously.

"But," he continued, seeing the
gathering anger in Krikor's face, and
wishing to irritate him still further, "if
you wish to cross the border yourself,
I'm going that way. You can just
leave your grandmother here and get
on my horse with me, and I will carry
you across."

Fierce, blinding wrath seized Kri-
kor at the continued taunts of Garabed.
"Look, you lying dog," he cried, and
grasping the head-coverings of the
black figure which stood silently at his
side, with one quick wrench he tore
them from her, leaving the face, head
and streaming hair uncovered in the
sunlight. It was a surpassingly beau-
tiful face which he thus cruelly ex-
posed to view, and the long golden hair
was of wondrous shade and texture.

The Turkish soldier who was a wit-
ness to this disgraceful interview
swayed and put his hand to his head
when his eyes fell upon the face of
the girl, and as he stepped into the

open, her eyes met his and a glad
light came into them.

"Hasseyn — brother!" she cried, and
in the excess of her emotions burst
into tears.

With the angered cry of a wild beast
which flies to the protection of its
young, Husseyn sprang at the throat
of the bandit chief. A feeling of in-
expressible satisfaction came over him
as he felt his hands close over the Ar-
menian's windpipe. Down, down,
with all his strength, he pressed his
thumbs into the man's jugular veins —
pressed until his steel-like hands
could feel the throat growing lax, and
he could hear the gurgling sound as
the breath pent up within his adver-
sary's heaving chest labored to force
an exit. The bandit's efforts to free
himself grew weaker; the end of the
struggle was near. Husseyn for an in-
stant took his eyes off the face of his
antagonist. His sister stood dry-
eyed now, as she breathlessly watched
the struggle.

"Run, Djemile. Save yourself. Hide
yourself," he cried, as suddenly he
realized the overwhelming odds
against which they would find them-
selves pitted in case other members of
Krikor's band should arrive to find his
sister there. The spell broken, Dje-
mile obeyed.

At last Krikor's wildly gripping
hands encountered the handle of the
knife which hung from his belt. Once,
twice, thrice, with rhythmic precision
his arm rose and fell as he plunged the
dagger into Husseyn's back. The dag-
ger found his heart, but still Husseyn
held on, and with his fast glazing eyes
followed the flying form of his sister.
At last, as by sheer force of will, he
held within himself the soul which was
struggling to be free; he felt the ban-
dit's body grow limp within his grasp,
and as it slithered to the dusty road-
way, Husseyn's heroic soul was re-
leased, and his body lay stretched
across that of the dead bandit.

Garabed Ekmekdjian lightly
watched the death-struggle with a
careless interest. When with a final
quiver the body of Husseyn lay still,

THE WATCHER

he leaped to the saddle and in response
to a twist of the rein and a touch of
the spur, the well trained horse was
galloping down the road in pursuit of
the fleeing girl. Bending low in the
saddle, the skilled rider with one arm
seized the girl, and, placing her on the
horse in front of himself, without
checking his speed, wheeled about and
spurring his horse sped away north-
ward toward the border.

That evening when the muezzin
climbed the stairway to the minaret of

the little mosque in Osman's desolated
village and called to the evening
prayer, a trembling, stricken old man,
old before his time, answered the call.
With his face turned toward Mecca
and his heart toward the ever-living
God, the old man bowed his head and
prayed, and as he prayed, it seemed
that God's angels came, and standing
on either side of the worshiper, minis-
tered unto him. And a great peace en-
tered into Osman's heart for God, the
comforter, the merciful, was with him.
Next day they found him thus, dead
in the attitude of prayer.

THE WATCHER

There's a grey mist o'er the land, dear,
And a grey shroud veils the sea,
And the songs of summer, dear, are gone,
Lost to the heart of me.

Mine eyes are dimmed with pain, dear,
Watching the leaden sky,
Watching for sails that will never come
Where the white gulls wheel and fly.

For there's never a dawn that breaks, dear,
But my thoughts turn back to thee,
And never a night that falls, sweetheart,
But my prayers are on the sea.

Seeking the soul of one that's gone —
And there's no day knows the sun
Nor ever the golden hours that were
Nor the songs that love has sung.

R. R. Greenwood.

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The Invisible Cat

Josephine Clifford /AcCrackin

IT WAS at my own request that Jack
— our faithful old dog — was dis-
patched to the happy hunting
grounds. Not because I found him
at all hours of the day and night, with
his nose pressed against the door of
his dead master's empty room, whin-
ing piteously for admittance, and
breaking into wild howls when denied
entrance; I loved the beast all the
more for his faithfulness and affec-
tion. But the infirmities of age were
upon him ; lame, half blind and wholly
deaf from an incurable ailment of the
ears, I felt that no one would care
for him as his master and I -had
done, and I knew that a time had
come when I should have to leave him
to the mercy of others occasionally
when my temporary absence from
home became necessary.

So one afternoon when all was ready,
I ran, as if for life, over to the doctor's,
and just as Jack discovered I had gone,
and came to the east door, out of his
master's room, to look for me, a mer-
ciful ball from our neighbor's gun
brought down the dog without a strug-
gle.

I hope it is not wicked to speak of
that first home coming after the dog's
death. I could not help raising my
eyes to the front veranda, and strain-
ing my ears for the quavering little
cries and yelps, issuing from a griz-
zled, trembling old snout in which the
teeth were chattering with excitement
and impatience. "Hurry, hurry," he
seemed to implore, "I want you to
stroke my head and pat my back once
more before I die, and you know I'm
so lame it hurts me to climb down the
steps. Come quick — come quick."
And I used to run as fast as I could to
reach him, while he beat the devil's

tatoo with his forepaws on the floor of
the porch, and raised his half-blind,
faithful old eyes to mine with the most
humanly loving expression, when I
could lay my hand on him at last.

I never wanted another dog, I said,
after Jack died; it breaks one's heart
to part with an old friend, even a four-
footed one. But every one who came
to the house said: "The place is too
lonesome without a dog; you must
have a dog on the ranch by all
means." Instead of that, I got a cat,
though I really did not hanker after
one at all.

I had spent the night at Villa Berg-
stedt, and in the cold gray of the
early dawn I heard the most persistent
and pitiful mew of a young kitten,
and saw the little waif slipping along
behind shrubs and plants, never for a
moment ceasing in its wild appeal for
food and shelter. Elsie Goldman said
some one had "thrown it away," and
she had managed to feed it yesterday
after driving it up from the ravine to
the house. On the instant I said : "I'll
take the cat if you can catch it" —
perhaps not thinking that it could be
done. But Elsie caught the cat, lugged
it over to my house, and we spent the
day and night "gentling" it. Though
only in part successful, we neverthe-
less allowed the kitten the freedom of
the ranch next day, and as she did not
return at night, I was all the more
pleased to find her on hand the morn-
ing following, though in a really and
truly critical position. That is, Elsie,
who can do anything and everything,
had set a rat-trap, one of those flat,
square little boards with a "snap" to
it, and placed it in a box turned with
its open side to the wall, on the back
porch.

THE INVISIBLE CAT

Softly tilting back this box, in the
glad expectation of finding a defunct
wood rat, I was startled to see instead
a live kitten resting peacefully be-
side the deadly instrument. Careful
as I was, the cat felt the box move,
and sprang up in affright, jumped
right across the trap and made tracks
for the open, with that dreadful trap
clamped fast to the extreme tip of her
tail. I stood petrified for a moment,
but was recalled to my senses by one
wild yell and the clatter of the rat trap,
which had caught against the shoe-
scraper on the edge of the porch, de-
tached itself from the pussey's tail
and landed close beside me, after a
hilarious spin in the air. Of course,
there was no use calling "Kitty, Kitty"
in my most persuasive tones. Kitty
was out of reach in a very few sec-
onds, and I went about mourning for
the cat that might have become a pet,

So there was neither dog nor cat on
the ranch; but after a day or two I
thought I heard a faint "mee-ow" un-
der the house, and I instantly went to
the west side of the building, where
three steps lead from my room on to
the terrace. The steps lie along the
side of the house, and just at the foot
there was left an opening in the wall,
low down on the ground, which open-
ing is closed only by some short, loose
boards. Crouching down on the ter-
race and removing these, I began to
call and coax, eliciting at last another
faint cat call, though never seeing a
cat. But I carried milk to this open-
ing, moved it inside and closed up
the space again. After a little while
the milk had vanished, and I put meat
in the same place with the same result,
and kept this up for days, rewarded
sometimes by a "mew," but never a
sight of the cat. At last, one day, to-
ward evening, after I had heard re-
peated "mee-ows," I stepped, or rather
rushed, as I always do, out on the back
porch, coffee-pot in hand, full of cold
water, luckily, which I was shaking
vigorously prior to dashing it on the
clump of guelder roses that stood
against the north wall of the house. At
that moment I noticed a white spot

among the bushes, heading my way,
and just as it flashed through my brain
"The cat is coming to make friends,"
a gallon or two of cold water was fly-
ing through the air, and the next in-
stant a soaked cat was hurling itself
around the corner of the house and dis-
appearing under the west side of it,
anxious, evidently, to draw the shel-
tering boards in after it; at least they
lay in a heap on the outside of the
open space.

Again the cat became invisible, this
time for weeks, while it silently ab-
sorbed milk and meat as much as I
could put under the house for it. Then
came a lady to visit me, from San Jose,
and as by this time the cat had learned
to followed me from room to room, un-
der the house, I startled this lady one
day by holding conversation with an
invisible cat.

"Oh, Kitty," I said, "why don't you
come up and lie by the kitchen fire;
it's so rainy and cold." Asked the lady
in alarm: "Whom are you talking to?"

And I said : "To my cat, to be sure."
"But you've got no cat," she said, pos-
itively. "Oh, yes, I have; only it's in-
visible." When I had related the de-
tails of the rat-trap incident, and the
cold water accident, she said, "I know
how to bring out that cat and gentle it
for all time to come."

So we waited till one day the "mee-
ows" were loud and numerous, and we
both kneeled down on the terrace by
the steps, and she held a long, slender
switch, with which she was to tickle
pussy's nose, and get it to play. Just
as I was growing too hoarse to call
any more, a white paw was thrust
out from the gloom, and a white nose
with a black smut across it, was stuck
curiously forward. This was the mo-
ment for which my friend had waited.
But alas! the end of the switch had
gotten tangled up in some loose rose
clippings, with the thorny side out, and
gaining impetus from the weight, it
came in sudden contact with the cat's
head in so unexpected and overwhelm-
ing a manner that the cat-to-be-gen-
tled fled in wildest dismay, and be-
came inaudible as well as invisible

OVERLAND MONTHLY

after the third attempt at civilization.

Then I was called to Santa Cruz on
business, and my young friend said:
"Well, I'd get either a dog or a cat
and bring it home!" So I tried to get
a dog.

The first try I made was up on High
street. A certain young lady there
owned five dogs, and I said with the
directness for which I am rather cele-
brated: "Dear young lady, please give
me cne of your dogs." I shall never
forget the startled, grieved expression
in the great, luminous eyes she raised
to mine, for she was just presenting,
in the most gracious manner, a plate
of cake to me. "Yes," she said, after
a moment's hesitation, "oh, yes." But
I knew she did not mean that kind of
yes, and I did not blame her when
later I saw a magnificent greyhound,
a beautiful spaniel, another hound, a
terrier, and some other dogs which I
would not have parted with either, had
they belonged to me. There was a
possible Great Dane mentioned, and
I said I'd take him, too, if I could get
him.

Next day I was to go home; and
walking up Pacific avenue, I saw a
lovely spaniel lying on the sidewalk
in front of a hardware store, just the
kind of a dog I should have liked. I
stood still awhile pretending to look
at the pots and pans in the windows,
but really looking at the dog. One
of the number of gentlemen conversing
in front of the store turned to go; but
the dog did not follow him, nor did the
other two pay any attention to the
spaniel. "A stray dog," I said to my-
self, for I had read in the "Sentinel"
that too many of them were running
in the streets.

So I asked one of the gentlemen:
"Is that your dog?" and he said "No."
He did not know whose it was. "All
right," I said, "I'll take him then,"
and I proceeded to gather up the little
black creature at once. "Hold on," in-
terposed the gentlemen; "some one in
the store may own him," and sure
enough, some one did own him, so this
attempt at kidnapping was nipped in
the bud.

It was getting on toward noon; my
train would leave a little past one,
and it was now a case of "get a dog;
honestly, if may be, but get a dog."
Calling on some friends — whose name
perhaps I had better not mention — and
making known my desire for the pos-
session of a dog, I was told of one
that could perhaps be — well, let us say
— gotten. It was understood that he
was to be brought to the train for me,
and I trotted off quite happy.

Now, it so happened that to that
train, that day, there came shining le-
gal lights, weighty editors, editor's
wives with keen perceptions of the ri-
diculous, and literary ladies as famed
for sarcasm as for fine talents in satire.
Finding myself amongst these people,
I was naturally anxious to appear dig-
nified and calm as a woman of my
years ought to be. and I tried to talk
rationally and look wise. I might have
succeeded had I not suddenly discov-
ered the approach of an unknown in-
dividual leading a diminutive dog by
a line. "Oh, here's my dog!" I ex-
claimed, and I jumped up from my
seat, ran through the crowded car,
snatched up the dog and returned with
the frantic animal struggling in my
arms, just as the train started.

Such a shout of laughter went up
to the roof of that car! Everybody
wanted to see the dog; they all made
fun of him, and me, too, I'm afraid;
but they were all good-natured, and
some one always telegraphed or tele-
phoned to me every time the conduc-
tor hove in sight; and the dog regu-
larly went into eclipse, at such time,
under my big black coat. But Mon-
key, as everybody called the little
brute on sight, after struggling des-
perately for a while, became perfectly
tractable, and still as a mouse, when
allowed to slip out of my lap to the
floor of the car.

The crucial test of my courage came
when we approached Wrights, and I
knew I should have to carry the beast
out in my arms or lose him. But I
gathered up my courage and the
"purp," struggled down the aisle to-
ward the door, and making the best

THE GLORY OF GOD

possible courtesy to the editor, said
in tones of deepest apology: "I've
never done it before and I'll never do
it again, if you will only please for-
give me this time."

At Wrights depot a lady friend
awaited me, and just as I was exhibit-
ing my prize to her, the little beast got
loose and made off swiftly toward the
tunnel.

My yell brought help from all sides ;
we gave chase with a will, for I knew
that if he entered the tunnel he was
lost to me. Then, just as I shouted
my loudest, the mean little monkey
turned, crouched low on the ground,
and seemed to say "Pick me up,
please; do you think I'm fool enough

to run into that tunnel?"

Before we reached home we both
agreed that the dog was a treasure,
and he proved his good sense again
when we got home. There was natu-
rally a struggle as we got out of the
wagon, for I feared he would run back
down the road. Instead of that, when
he made his escape, he ran up the
steps of the front verandah, measured
with his sharp, black eyes the distance
between the two pillars at the head of
the steps, sat down exactly in the mid-
dle and watched us two women climb
up, his tail kinked over his back and
waggling from side to side in an evi-
dent attempt at giving expression to
a "welcome home."

THE GLORY OF GOD

My Father is God of the rolling clouds

And the storm shaken trees;

My Father is God of the gentle blue sky

And the tender breeze;

My Father is God of the rosy glow

That wraps the world in the twilight hours ;

My Father is God of the shimmering leaves

And the pure-petalled, delicate flowers;

The God of the little twittering birds

And wondering, wide-eyed deer;

The God of the still, sweet moonlight,

And stars far glimmering cheer;

The God of magnificent mountain heights,

Resplendent in glittering rainbow lights;

The God of the rollicking chanting streams

That dance down canyons with sunbright gleams

The God of all of the glory glints

That garb the world as a queen of dreams

In a myriad marvelous tints; —

My Father, my Father, the artist-God!

Ruth E. Henderson.

The Amber Necklace

By Don W. Richards

IT WAS to be their last day together.
Merrel sat in the reception room
of the Chester Apartments and
waited for Miss Ainsley to appear.
He had been tardy, delayed by the
"covering" of an unexpected assign-
ment, and he had arrived somewhat
out of breath and a trifle anxious as
to how he would be received. But his
apprehension had been groundless, for
she was not yet ready. He was glad
he had brought the violets, however —
he knew it was her favorite flower.^

Merrel was a nice, clean looking
boy. His work had not yet stolen the
fresh pink from his skin or gravedthe
lines of experience. He was straight
limbed and lithe, and the close fitting
tweed suit showed his build to advan-
tage. His head was good, with a high
forehead, and his mouth straight and
firm, while his eyes, not to be disguised
by the tortoise pince-nez, twinkled
delightfully. He was a true Western
type.

The boy glanced repeatedly at his
watch, without realizing it had stopped
an hour ago, and his heart palpitated
a bit at each sound of approaching
footsteps. The wait seemed intermin-
able to him, though in reality it was
but a few moments since he had sent
up his card.

At last the door opened, and the
fair haired lady stood before him.
The sudden leap which his heart gave
showed the reason for its previous pal-
pitation. Moreover, a lump seemed
to rise in his throat, and his eyes be-
came misty at the vision of her. For
a moment he could not speak, but ris-
ing slowly, he dropped the violets and
advanced to her with out-stretched
hand. She smiled at him.

"I kept you waiting?" she said. Her

voice was low and musical, and she
had a little trick of smiling with parted
lips.

"Why, I was late myself," he ans-
wered. "I was afraid I was very late."
Then he recovered the forgotten flow-
ers.

"Violets," she exclaimed. "Aren't
they beauties." And to Merrel they
were even more beautiful by her ap-
proval.

He watched her as she arranged the
bouquet. She was dressed in^ golden
brown broadcloth, trimmed with soft
beaver, and her turban also bore a
touch of fur. Her hair, framing her
piquant face, was light brown and
wavy, and Merrel longed to put forth
his hand and smooth one erring curl
back into place. She was slender and
of just the stature that made that
slenderness appealing, and as she
raised herself on tip-toe to observe the
flowers in the mirror one could see a
trim ankle and well-shod foot. To
Merrel she was the most desirable girl
in the world.

She turned to him for approval, and
his eyes gave it so heartily that she
blushed, and her lashes drooped al-
luringly. When she raised them again
Merrel stood quite close, and with one
hand he gently tilted her face to look
into his. His nervousness had quite
gone, and there remained only a plead-
ing little tremor in his voice.

"Look at me," he commanded, and
she brought her wavering glance to
his. "It's our last time together." He
must have dreamed that a tear glis-
tened for a moment in her eye.

"Yes," she said softly, "our last
time." Then quite suddenly she melt-
ed into his arms and snuggled against
his shoulder.

THE AMBER NECKLACE

"Oh, Bob, I'm so unhappy. I don't
want to go." Merrel, it was plain, did
not want her to go either, for he held
her very close to him for a long time.
Indeed, we cannot doubt that, if it lay
within his power, he would not have
even permitted her to think of going.

Florence Ainsley and her mother
were of that vast throng who had come
to California in the Exposition year.
The mother, ill in health, mourning her
husband's death, had yielded to her
daughter's urging and had crossed the
continent. They had remained longer
than they intended. One reason for
this was the improvement in Mrs.
Ainsley's health, and the other was
Bob Merrel. He had met Miss Ains-
ley at the Massachusetts Building,
where on some special day he had
"covered" the story. She had served
him with tea, they had chatted a while,
and the casual acquaintance soon rip-
ened into friendship and more. Too
swiftly had the days passed, and they
were at last brought to realize that
their dream was almost at an end. The
Ainsleys were forced through finan-
cial strictures to return to Boston, and
Bob's slender salary forbade any at-
tempt to hold the lady of his heart
near him. Sometimes he built dreams
of the future, but he knew they were
only dreams after all. Their last day
had arrived.

"Come," she said, "let's walk some-
where," and leaving the apartment,
they turned into California street. A
slight breeze blowing up from the bay
fell lightly upon their faces, and un-
consciously they breathed deeply,
and then smiled at each other.

"It's like rare wine, this San Fran-
cisco air," she said. "It makes me
quite giddy. I feel as if I could walk
right over the roof tops and on across
the water," and unwitting of passers-
by. she took his hand as if to lead
him with her in her flight.

"Where shall be go?" he asked.

"Chinatown — let's. Remember how
you took me there one evening and we
went into all those weird little shops
and ate queer things?" and Merrel re-
membered how she looked that night,

and that was all.

How often they had descended Nob
Hill before, bent on this or that ex-
cursion. The reporter knew his San
Francisco well, and he had led her to
the many romantic spots the city
abounds in. Tales he told her of the
old city before the fire — stories he had
garnered in press room and street, the
paean of long dead days. To the East-
ern girl it was like the Arabian night's
enchantment — a living romance — small
wonder that Merrel won her heart.

With little exclamations of glee the
girl turned from this display to that,
fingering silken Oriental garments, or
tracing the pattern of vase and orna-
ment. Obliging clerks, a mixture of
Orient and Occident, brought forth
treasures for the eyes of the pretty
American. Even in the Sing Set ba-
zaar, where cool indifference usually
awaits the tourist, the silent little yel-
low gentlemen served her smilingly.

The afternoon passed quickly. They
turned at last back up Grant avenue,
pausing now and then to admire some
display. Suddenly the girl paused be-
fore an antique shop. Her sharp ex-
clamation drew Merrel to her side. An
amber necklace lay in the window, A
single ray of the afternoon sun
gleamed on it, bringing out all the
liquid clearness of the flawless beads.
The other articles in the case were dull
and dusty — only the necklace seemed
a living thing.

"Oh, how exquisite. See." She
pressed her face close to the glass.
"Let's go in and look at it."

They entered the shop and the neck-
lace was brought forth for inspection.
It was perfect in its fashion. The
beads were finely cut, each like unto
its fellow, graded expertly through the
long strand. The facets still seemed
still to hold the gleam caught from the
sun a moment before. It was really
beautiful.

Merrel watched the girl clasp it
caressingly about her neck, and he
motioned to the shop-keeper.

"How much?"

"Twenty dolla'," the Chinese gave
Merrel a shrewd, sidelong glance.

OVERLAND MONTHLY

"Too much." The reporter was wise
in the ways of Oriental bargaining.

"Wha' foh too muchee? Cost 'urn
moah — ten dolla' moan."

Merrel turned away and looked up-
on his lady, who still toyed with the
ornament, then back to the smooth
Celestial.

"I give you fifteen dollars," he said.

"No can do. Cost 'urn twenty —
thirty dolla' — you take twenty dolla'."

The girl, hearing, hurried to Merrel
and dropped the necklace on the coun-
ter.

"Please don't, Bob; I won't let you
buy it It's too much. It isn't worth it,
really."

"Twenty dolla'," persisted the Chi-
nese. "Long time — three year — I
catch um from man — sailah — I pay
twenty dolla. You take 'um, twenty
dolla'."

"No," said the little lady, torn be-
tween desire and impatience with her-
self for that desire. "No," and that
ended it.

* * * *

Two duties faced Merrel upon the
morrow— one, to procure the amber
necklace — the other to bid the Ains-
leys good-bye.

It was a sad moment for the two
young people, and Mrs. Ainsley, real-
izing it, left them alone. It was only
an instant of parting, but it might be
forever. It was sacred to them — we
will leave it so.

The last thing Merrel did as the
train pulled out was to slip a small
package into Florence Ainsley's hand.
A few moments later, when she had
in some measure dried her tears, she
opened the box. There lay the amber
necklace. The enclosed note read:
"Amber for luck— Forever, Bob." The
little lady pressed it to her lips and
tears again stole forth from eyes that
had wept very much lately.

It was November. The fine snow
had fallen steadily all morning long.
It lay softly over street and walk, and
sarth bore lightly the white robe which
clothed her winter nakedness. There

was a tang in the air which forecast a
heavier storm and warned the less
adventurous to stay close by their
hearth-sides.

Florence Ainsley stood before the
glowing grate in the reception hall of
her uncle's Boston residence. Here
among their kin she and her mother
had made their home upon the return
from the West, and had taken their
place in the inner circle of society.
Florence, young, chic, and personable,
had soon achieved popularity in the
younger set, and thanks to the kind-
ness of her aunt, she was not without
the wherewithal to maintain her posi-
tion. The dreams of the West were
somewhat dim. At first she and Mer-
rel had corresponded regularly — at
such short intervals that the postman
smiled as he handed in the familiar
missives from California. Then grad-
ually the letters became less frequent,
days of silence unaccountably inter-
vened, and Florence sometimes, pen in
hand, found that she could not bring
herself to write. In the beginning she
had hated herself for these lapses, but
later had excused it upon some trifling
pretext or other. His letters also were
sometimes unsatisfactory, as if he
wrote from duty or was a little wearied
by the effort. She accepted this now
with a slight indifference. That she
loved him she was sure, but love grows
very subdued with long separation.
And she found pleasure in the com-
pany of other men — the young fellows
in her set. With them she was natu-
rally popular, and could the distant
Merrel have observed the manner in
which they danced attendance, his
heart would have ached, undoubtedly.

To-day the little lady mused as she
waited a caller. A smile was on her
lips as she realized how often she had
waited this same person of late. Still
smiling, she caught the postman's
whistle and received the letter he
handed in. She recognized the writing
and returned to her place by the fire
before opening the envelope.

"Dearest (the brief note read),
what I am about to say will perhaps
hurt you a great deal — as it has hurt

THE AMBER NECKLACE

me. I hope you understand that what
I am doing is right and just to you, to
every one. I am trying very hard to
tell you. I see no future of our hap-
piness together. The raise in salary is
still a long way off, and I see the folly
of risking your happiness on such
slim prospects. I can't ask you to
marry a pauper. I love you, but I
must release you from your promise.

I can't say more. I am always yours,
Bob."

Florence sat in silence for a moment
and then dropped her head upon her
arms, sobbing gently. The letter lay
crumpled at her feet. What it had
cost Merrel to write she knew, for not
once did any doubt of him enter her
mind. She knew the future held little
for them without the comforts money
could buy. In the life around her
wealth was necessary for happiness,
and that other happiness — that of self-
denial — was never known.

A footstep sounded in the hall and
she rose, a little startled, and turned
to meet young Forbes. He saw the
tear-dimmed eye, radiant for all that,
and noticed the crushed letter on the
rug.

"No bad news, I hope?" he asked.
She caught her breath sharply.

"No — that — is — no. A letter, that
was all. It is nothing." His gentle
solicitation impressed her, and she
smiled kindly at him. He was very
attractive and possessed that air of
breeding which proclaimed him a
born gentleman. Strangely enough, a
joking word from her uncle that morn-
ing concerning young Forbes, had
brought a flush to her cheek which
bothered her not a little.

Conscious that her hand still lay in
his, she withdrew it quickly and
turned to the table for her gloves.
Then with a nod to her escort, she hur-
ried out of the house to the waiting
limousine. She sighed as she sank
back luxuriously among the cushions.

II was pleasant to have money and
enjoy the luxuries it could command,
and little mercenary thoughts crossed
her mind. Forbes made some slight
adjustment to her comfort, and she

smiled at him with such sweetness that
his hand stole out and covered hers,
and she did not withdraw it.

They were silent during the ride
down town. Forbes because he was
very much in love, and Florence be-
cause she was thinking of many
things. Her hand still lay idly in his,
but her thoughts were far away. She
looked out upon the expanse of snow,
but saw instead, as from a vast dis-
tance, fields of wild flowers rippling
and swaying in the gentle western
breeze. She saw rolling hills and
sheltered valleys, rich in verdure and
trees laden with snowy blossoms —
miles on miles of orchard and meadow
land. And again, blue waters and
white sailed ships and the sun glinting
upon the golden roofs of an enchanted
city which touched the water's edge —
a city where happiness had sought and
found her.

The little lady shivered as an icy
blast swept down the street. Her
dream vanished, and she drew closer
to her companion. The car turned in-
to the fashionable shopping district,
and now, peering from the glass, she
watched the throng, which, in spite of
weather, hurried hither and thither.
Great motors glided past, brilliant in
color and design, and her companion
pointed out those whose occupants he
knew. Then, leaning forward, he gave
an order to the driver, who quickened
speed a trifle and soon drew up at the
curb. The girl gave Forbes a ques-
tioning glance.

"It is the jeweler's — Roucault's," he
said. "You wished to stop here."

"Thanks," and aided by the atten-
tive Forbes, she alighted and crossed
to the shop.

Once within, out of the cold, she
searched the cases for her desire, a
small present for a friend, while her
companion sauntered on to where the
rings were displayed.

The little lady exclaimed over each
new trinket which the clerk offered
for her approval. The proprietor
himself, a vivacious little Frenchman,
waited on her attentively and smiled
delightedly at her manifest pleasure.

OVERLAND MONTHLY

At length with his aid she settled upon
a neat pendant, and in trying it on,
removed the amber necklace which she
wore so constantly. She noted the
eyes of the jeweler upon it, and with
a smile inquired:

"How much is that necklace worth ?"

The proprietor picked up the beads
and examined them casually. Then
his interest visibly increased with the
inspection. Suddenly he applied his
glass to his eye, and went over each
bead searchingly. Then called in ex-
cited voice to his assistant. There
followed a babble of vociferous
French, interspersed with extravagant
gestures. The beads seemed to be the
center of interest. Miss Ainsley,
amused, interested, repeated her ques-
tion:

"Well, what are they worth?"

In a voice trembling with excite-
ment, the little Frenchman leaned to-
ward her and exclaimed:

"Ninety thousand dollars, mad-
ame."

The little lady clutched the counter
for support.

"Ninety thousand dollars."

"Oui, madame. You are startled,
naturally. It is incredible, but it is
true."

"But how ?" her mind groped.

"It is the Imperial Amber presented
by the great Napoleon to Josephine.
Behold! On each bead it is engraved

so finely Napoleon to Josephine.
Mon Dieu!"

An assistant had rushed up with a
ledger.

"Here, madame, is the record."

He pointed out the line and her con-
fused brain caught fragments of the
print :

"The Imperial Amber Necklace —
Napoleon to Josephine. Stolen from
Paris Museum, June, 1887. Valued at
over hour hundred thousand francs.
Chief value — romantic history."

The book dropped from her hands.

"Ninety thousand — are you sure?"

"Oui, madame. I will purchase it
myself for that. I am a Frenchman!"

Just then young Forbes wandere4
up with a most indulgent smile. He
had just made an excellent investment
in diamonds, for the future.

"Have you found what you
wanted ?"

The little lady awoke from her
daze. She turned with a great light
shining in her eyes, and seizing the be-
wildered gentleman's arm, she danced
up and down in ecstacy.

"Yes, yes, I have — I have! I can't
believe it — Amber for luck — for luck.
Quick — I've got to telegraph!" and she
rushed out of the shop into the falling
snow.

And in spite of subsequent events,
young Mr. Forbes could never quite
understand what it was all about.

MATURITY

I said that I would climb to the heights of Fame,
And stand among the favored of the earth ;

That all the world should know and vaunt my name —
When I was young, 'twas this I held of worth.

Now of such golden-dreaming am I free;

Though Fame has slipped my grasp, yet am I glad
For Home and Love are all the world to me,

Dearer than laurels that I might have had!

William De Ryee.

Some American Problems

From An English Point of View

By W. R. Castle

THERE are two ideas which in-
spire Americans as a people,
two ideas which are believed
to represent the nation and
which are expressed by the words
progress and democracy. The terms
remain the same, but their implication
changes year by year. Progress, until
recently, meant the economic develop-
ment of the country, the invention and
perfection of machinery, the building
of innumerable railroads, above all the
amassing of wealth. To-day more
stress is put on social legislation. Pro-
gress means something very nearly ap-
proaching social revolution. The
most progressive man is afraid of
great wealth, inclined to consider it a
symptom of decadence, a thing in it-
self evil and almost surely the result
of dishonesty. So also has the mean-
ing of democracy changed. As the
ideal of the framers of the American
Constitution and the guiding star of
such widely different builders of the
nation as Washington, Jefferson and
Lincoln, it implied equal opportunity
and it included in such opportunity the
just use of all resources, whether in-
tellect or wealth, which were at the
disposal of the individual. This
meaning has been lost. Democracy
tends in modern America to mean the
leveling of all distinction, whether nat-
ural or artificial. It distrusts both
wealth and intellectual power. It
would foist into positions of responsi-
bility those who lack real qualifica-
tions, and that not only by endowing
them with imaginary resources, but
also, lest the contrast be too obvious,
by minimizing or condemning as dan-

gerous the real qualifications of others.
It is enough if a man has risen from
the ranks. Let there be no captious
scrutiny of the means whereby he has
risen. That may be left to another
generation. The sons of the upstart,
in their turn, will have to be demeaned,
for they will not have started at the
bottom. To be really representative
to-day, a man must have climbed from
the lowest rung of the social ladder.
He is profoundly to be distrusted if,
like Washington and Jefferson, he
started somewhere near the top.

It is, therefore, clear that these two
greatly moving ideas have grown more
closely together, and that, for the time
being, at least, their combined impulse
is irresistible. To make the impulse
even more powerful, the cry of con-
tinually increased democracy as evi-
dence of progress has been adopted,
in different degree to be sure, by the
leaders of the great political parties.
Indeed, it may fairly be said that if
Mr. Roosevelt ooened the sluice gates
of radicalism, Mr. Wilson has blown
up the dam. The flood will be de-
structive or purifying according to the
point of view. Certainly it has already
obliterated such landmarks as, in a new
country, are still called old. It is fill-
ing the valleys and submerging the
hill tops. Politicians say that its voice
is the voice of the people. Its strength
is irresistible. It overrides the rights
of individuals, of property, in the name
of the common good and of progress.
It is conscious and believes itself be-
neficent, for it claims to be the tide
of democracy. Yet the thinker, swept
along by the flood though he may be,

OVERLAND MONTHLY

still questions its ultimate meaning.

Since 1865 there have been in Amer-
ica two great political parties, the Re-
publican and the Democratic, corre-
sponding, with certain curious differ-
ences, to the Unionists and the Liber-
als of England. The South has al-
ways been strongly Democratic be-
cause it was the Republican party
which, under President Lincoln, freed
the negroes and gave them political
rights. In spite of this, however, the
Republican Party, with the passing of
the years, has come to be the great bul-
wark of conservatism, friendly to le-
gitimate business interests, favoring
high tariff, conscious of tradition. A
few years ago the principal point of
difference was the tariff — really a
more or less academic distinction for
all practical purposes, but sufficient to
create effective party lines. In 1896
Mr. Bryan, a wonderfully clever public
orator, succeeded in imposing on the
Democratic Party his free silver theo-
ries and three times led his party to
disastrous defeat. There was too much
economic good sense in America to run
blindly into a financial policy which
would have ruined popular credit. Dur-
ing his administration, from 1904 to
1908. Mr. Roosevelt realized that all
the clamor against the trusts had
raised a real national issue, that whe-
ther or not the average man was being
accorded his rights, he believed that
he was not, and that, in consequence,
the successful party would be that one
which appeared most successfully to
safeguard the privileges of the com-
mon people. With great political sa-
gacity, therefore, as well as because
he is by nature a reformer, Mr. Roose-
velt began effective and far-reaching
prosecution of illegal combinations of
capital. He would not run for Presi-
dent in 1908, but his nominee, Mr.
Taft, easily defeated his old and in-
conspicuous Democratic opponent. Mr.
Taft proved unable, however, to
hold popular sympathy. He was hon-
estly conservative and the country was
not in a conservative mood. When,
therefore, he was given the nomination
in 1912, Mr. Roosevelt, this time the

defeated Republican nominee, decided
to run independently as a Progressive
candiate. The result of this was the
election of Mr. Wilson, the Democratic
candidate, who, nevertheless, had a
minority of the votes of the country.
Mr. Wilson was nominated on a radi-
cal platform, but because he was a
university president and a distin-
guished writer on political economy he
was given the votes of many conser-
vatives. His election was directly the
result of the breakdown of the two-
party system, but it is fair to say that
in the* present enthusiasm of progress,
as represented by increasing popular
control, no conservative Republican
could have been chosen President. It
is still to be proved how far his gov-
ernment will satisfy the turbulent ma-
jority.

If a democracy is a popular govern-
ment which executes the mandates of
public opinion, the American Govern-
ment has never been a true democracy,
because in America there is seldom
true public opinion, even in a limited
area of the country; there is never, one
might fairly say, a national public
opinion. There was, to be sure, a
strong, but divided, opinion in 1860,
and its result was the Civil War. Real
public opinion may well exist in a
small, homogeneous country. Except
in the clear case of an insult to national
honor it is almost inconceivable in one
so huge as the United States, where
the problems of different sections are
inevitably different, often conflicting.
California would exclude all Orien-
tals, because they compete with white
labor; Hawaii would cease to exist,
economically, if Orientals were ex-
cluded, for it can obtain no other labor.
Massachusetts has its manufacturing
interests and Kansas its farming ; each
is vital on the spot, but neither inter-
ests the other. It is, therefore, im-
possible to devise national legislation
which is not based on compromise or
which will not injure some States as
much as it benefits others, since there
cannot be equal distribution of indus-
tries. A compromise is never satis-
factory to a man who believes strongly

SOME AMERICAN PROBLEMS

and, though compromise there must
always be, most federal regulations, if
they touch popular imagination at all,
offend one section quite as much as
they please another. A case in point
is, of course, the new tariff law, which
was greatly beneficial to the Southern
States and at the same time was a
staggering blow to many of the in-
dustries of New England. Other ex-
amples are the attempts to fix railroad
rates and to regulate inter-State com-
merce, attempts which almost always
come into disagreement with State
laws. It must be remembered also that
the difficulty is increased by jealous
defense on the part of each State of its
own rights.

Serious politically as these sec-
tional divisions may be, however, they
are not as dangerous for national wel-
fare as are the divisions which arise
on questions of more general import.
In matters of financial legislation and
regulation of business there is again
sharp divergence of interest. In re-
cent years such laws are, or appear to
be, class legislation, and there results
in consequence a horizontal division.
When the income tax law was passed,
for example, few complaints were
heard as to the justice of the principle
of taxing incomes, but there was, on
the one hand, an outcry from the one-
half of one per cent of the population
taxed that the measure was confisca-
tion rather than taxation, and on the
other, an even louder shout that at
last the dishonest rich must bear the
burden and the honest poor go free.
What made it more dangerous in its
effect on the popular imagination was
that the minimum of taxable income
was put as high as $3,000 for a single
and $4,000 for a married man, thus
enforcing the idea already shaping it-
self in the mind of the laboring classes
that government has an inherent right
to take money from a rich man but
no right to take it from a poor man.
So also, the so-called trust bills are
considered bv the most part of the
business world — the honest rather
more than the dishonest part — as un-
warranted interference with quite le-

gitimate business; whereas the labor-
ing classes again, who understand these
bills not at all, look on them with en-
thusiasm as instruments to punish the
rich, as democratic levellers. It will
be seen that such measures as these,
which are, and announce themselves as
being, social legislation, attack the
question in just the opposite way from
which it has been taken up in England
and on the Continent. In England,
the attempt has been directly to help
the poor through such measures as the
Insurance Act and the Old Age Pen-
sion Bill. In America it is indirectly
to help the poor through attacking the
rich — a method, by the way, which
gains wider popular applause.

That the fact of such legislation
proves an unhealthy condition in the
Commonwealth; that, in other words,
representative government has not
been a complete success, is generally
admitted. But avoiding the extremes
of opinion, represented on the one
hand by the very few and usually
silent men who see no future for Amer-
ica except in division into small re-
publics or in a strongly centralized
government, and on the other by those
who are frankly anarchists, there re-
main two middle groups, each with its
clearly defined opinion as to the rem-
edy. One group, numerically small
but financially powerful, would put the
governing power more and more into
the hands of experts. They would
create a class which, without being
very much in the public eye, would
consistently run the machinery of gov-
ernment from year to year — officials
more or less corresponding to English
permanent under-secretaries but with
greater authority. They would extend
the civil service. They would have
the government managed in a business
like manner. The other group be-
lieves profoundly that the voice of the
people is the voice of God. They
would, therefore, cure the illness of the
body-politic by steadily enlarging the
power of the people. They urge the
referendum and the initiative, the re-
call of judges and of judicial decisions.
According to them, the people should

OVERLAND MONTHLY

not only make but also interpret the
laws. They are jealous of experts and
therefore of the civil service, fearful
of any permanent office — still more of
any permanent office-holder. This
group is now completely in the as-
cendant, and under its dictation the
country is steadily developing a policy
of business restriction, the outcome of
which no intelligent man can pro-
phesy, but which the ignorant man
hails with joy. Furthermore, the ten-
dency is strongly towards a general
policy of government ownership of
public utilities, a condition of which
many doubt the economic wisdom in
any State, but which, under a govern-
ment that shifts with every change of
popular feeling, is big with possibili-
ties of disaster.

Whether the faults of a democracy
can be eradicated by making the gov-
ernment more democratic is a question
which only a bold man would attempt
to answer. This is, nevertheless, the
method at present being used in
America and achievements are thus far
not encouraging. The general referen-
dum and initiative have been adopted
in some twenty States. They will soon
be added to the Constitutions of other
States. Many urge that they be made
national. The results in a dozen
States are summarized in the very use-
ful appendix to President Lowell's re-
cent book, "Public Opinion and Popu-
lar Government" The referendum,
omitting that on constitutional amend-
ments, which is usual in most States,
has been used, through 1912, forty-nine
times, and twenty-five times the Legis-
latures have been upheld. The initia-
tive has been used one hundred and
twenty-eight times (seventy-six times
in the State of Oregon) and has been
successful fifty-nine times. This
seems a fair average of success and
failure, and is hailed by the support-
ers of the experiment as proof of its
success. Such proof, however, really
depends on whether the measures have
elicited true public opinion, and analy-
sis of the vote would show that this
has seldom been accomplished. In
many cases there probably was no

public opinion. Personality in Ameri-
can elections counts for more than
principles. The voters turn out almost
invariably for this or that man, where-
as in England they cast their ballots
more for this or that principle. On
such broad questions as woman suf-
frage and the prohibition of liquor,
questions on which almost every one
has an opinion, there have occasionally
been heavy votes ; on questions affect-
ing some particular district, moreover,
the voting has been often general in
the district concerned; but in most of
the matters submitted by referendum
and initiative the people have evinced
little interest, usually because they
had no facts on which to base an opin-
ion. It would be absurd, for example,
to call the following a true expression
of public opinion. An initiative was
proposed in the State of Colorado
for the publication of a pamphlet con-
taining arguments on all measures to
be referred to the people. This was
lost, approximately 37,000 voting for
and 38,000 against. Furthermore, only
29 per cent of those at the election
voted at all, and probably not more
than 75 per cent of the registered vot-
ers went to the polls. Nor does it
seem a much more valuable index of
public opinion when a much larger
proportion of those at the polls, 78 per
cent in fact, voted in Oregon on a
State income tax, 52,702 approving
and 52,948 opposing the measure. Per-
haps the most significant fact, how-
ever, as one scans the lists, is the ten-
dency shown in the results. Practically
all laws to tax corporations, to apolish
poll taxes, to add to the direct power
of the people by permitting the recall
or by greater extension of initiative or
veto, have been acted on affirmatively.
Correspondingly all laws to make judi-
cial functions more independent, to re-
strict the power of labor unions, or to
levy proportional taxes on all citizens,
have been defeated.

A pertinent question to ask, there-
fore, even if it be admitted that refer-
endum and initiative actually test pub-
lic opinion, is whether the people who
make up the majority of voters are

SOME AMERICAN PROBLEMS

competent to judge. The opinion of
one may be as good as that of another
on such general and clearly under-
stood question as woman suffrage or
the prohibition of liquor, but why
should the uneducated voter be able to
form any sound opinion on a compli-
cated legal matter? He would shrink
from giving technical advice on the
management of a business in which
his savings were invested. There is
no reason to believe that his advice is
any more useful in the management of
the business of government. Why,
furthermore, should a resident of one
part of a State understand the local
needs of a distant section? In the
Legislature such questions can be fully
discussed, and the conflicting argu-
ments weighed by the legislators.
Among the electorate at large this is
impossible. Yet a decision arrived at
by the people's representatives is held
in little esteem, whereas a direct de-
cision, even if secured from a minority
of the people, is devoutly accepted as
the will of God — except by suffragists
and prohibitionists when the vote goes
against them. It is notable also that
this divine fiat is most strenuously as-
serted when the vote has been particu-
larly close.

The impulse of the uneducated citi-
zen is to vote to curb the activities of
the successful man of affairs, of whom
he is jealous, and to secure himself
from direct taxation. As Professor
Barrett Wendell said several years
ago in his prophetic book, "The Privi-
leged Classes" : "... in the course of
the last century or so one great maxim
of the American Revolution seems to
have got queerly turned around. Our
forefathers protested against taxation
without representation; our fellow
citizens now demand, as their natural
right, something very like representa-
tion without taxation." This statement
was derided as fantastic exaggeration.
To-day it is literally true. One hears
nothing of the demand because it is
accorded, and as a "natural right."
Poll taxes, long the only tax on labor-
ing men, have in many places been
abolished, and everywhere they are

evaded, yet these people, who pay no
taxes, have representation in the full-
est measure. They now demand con-
trol, and to grant it is everywhere the
tendency. Because they are in the
majority they insist that through their
representatives, or better by direct
legislation, they should have, for ex-
ample, the spending of money which
others have contributed. The natural
result is gross extravagance. The
spendthrift who comes into a great in-
heritance is proverbially the prey of
his friends, spends his substance reck-
lessly, and so the man of the people,
suddenly elevated to office, first re-
wards his friends by installing them in
positions for which they may be quite
as little fitted as he is for his, and
then together they expend the funds
collected in taxes from corporations
and the richer citizens. This is not to
accuse them of dishonesty. They are
sometimes extravagant through ignor-
ance of business methods; some-
times through a quite honest carrying
out of their social and political creed
that it is the duty of a successful candi-
date for office to repay his supporters.
A natural result of this is that only
men who hold this creed stand a real
chance of election. Those who have
paid the taxes and who have the great-
est interest in the proper spending of
public funds, have little influence.
Massachusetts, long considered one of
the most conservative States of the
Union, is now typical of all. Its Lieu-
tenant-Governor went not long ago to
Washington to protest against the ap-
pointment to Federal offices of "high-
brows" — his own contemptuous appel-
lation for all who have inherited social
position or independent means. Af-
ter an election in a certain State, an
unusually intelligent postman was
asked for whom he voted for Governor.
"For the Democrat," was his immedi-
ate response. "I knew he wasn't as
good as either of the other candidates,
but he has worked up from the bottom
and the others have not, so I thought
he deserved to be rewarded." Such in-
cidents are unimportant, except that
they are symptomatic of the trend of

OVERLAND MONTHLY

American politics. Men, not principles,
carry elections, and it is rapidly be-
coming universal to estimate men not
for what they are at the moment, not
for what their abilities may enable
them to accomplish for the State or for
the nation, but rather for what their
origins have been. Viewed from this
angle, the excellent man who has
started near the top is not comparable
with the mediocre man who has started
at the bottom. Even though the latter
has not caught up, he has climbed far-
ther. Although he may be less effi-
cient for a particular work, he is more
spectacular. Those who are still at the
bottom trust him because they recog-
nize in him one of themselves. Many
vote for him because he represents
their idea of democracy. Many also
vote for him because they know that
he will reward them by turning over
to them a part of the public money of
which their support has made him the
temporary guardian and disburser. The
result is that public offices are filled
with men who are technically incompe-
tent.

Men are elected to office, therefore,
on a basis which ignores technical fit-
ness and is ultra-democratic. While in
office, however, they are given free rein
and have distinctly autocratic author-
ity — an authority to initiate legislation
and an almost despotic power over the
rights of individuals. President Wil-
son has been called the most despotic
of modern rulers, and this is hardly an
over-statement, since he has chosen to
exert his personal authority as no
President has done before. But there
is no complaint. He claims no author-
ity by the divine right of inheritance,
which claim brought revolution in
France, but by a divine right expressed
through the suffrage. The people
therefore acquiesce. The President is
secure because of the origin of his
power and because, in his official acts,
he is supposed to represent the popu-
lar will. Had that will been formu-
lated in clear principles, his hands
would be tied, but he was not elected
to carry out a definite programme.
Party platforms are subordinate to

party leaders. A President is elected
because he represents, or is supposed
to represent, the restless and perhaps
rapidly changing wishes of the people.
Just now these popular aspirations are
towards a vague radicalism, and this
Mr. Wilson was expected to work out
in detail as he saw fit. The President
thus has more power of personal in-
itiative, a wider scope of action, than
is ever the case with a British Prime
Minister.

Inactivity is seldom the dominant
fault of American officials. They are
only too ready to make as many laws
as can be crowded into their terms of
office. As a result, there is in America
the anomaly of what prides itself on
being a radical democracy under which
people submit quietly to multitudinous
and often vexatious rules and regula-
tions. Personal liberty is circum-
scribed to an often exasperating ex-
tent, sometimes merely by the idle
whim of an official, as in the order of
the Secretary of the Navy that offi-
cers should not drink. The time may
come when the country will no longer
submit to ill-considered regulations,
but there is a present danger of the
forcible breaking of the bonds because
different men are affected in different
ways. The seed of revolution sprouts
only when very large numbers have a
common grievance.

One reason for the law-making
mania is, unquestionably, that the av-
erage citizen has at present little pro-
tection at law. The rules of evidence,
the possibility of numberless appeals
on trivial technicalities, the whole
weary course of judicial procedure,
make of the law a game in which the
man with the largest purse is sure to
win. Such a mass of absurd conven-
tions and technicalities has grown up
that people say, with some fairness,
that the cleverness of the lawyer, not
the justice of the cause, or that the
rules of the game, determine the re-
sult. Some of the courts, moreover,
have calendars so overburdened that
no new case can reach them for years
to come. The bar quite clearly realizes
the situation and is foremost in de-

SOME AMERICAN PROBLEMS

manding reform, and is taking active
measures to bring it about. The peo-
ple demand, not reform — they do not
understand what is to be reformed —
but relief, and they would find it in a
curtailment of judicial power; until
that can be achieved, in the enactment
of precise and, as they hope, easily in-
terpreted laws.

It is no longer enough, however,
that these laws should be precise.
They must, to satisfy the popular
clamor, be clearly favorable to one sec-
tion of the people, the laboring class,
as against another section, the capi-
talist class. The ancient idea of
special privilege must be retained, but
reversed in application. One often
hears it said that the labor problem
in America is not as serious as it is
in England, and although this may at
the moment be true, it bids fair within
a few years to be far more serious.
The explanation of this is not difficult
to find. America, more than any other
country, has gone mad during the last
century over the idea of material
progress. Wealth has increased to an
almost inconceivable degree. Rail-
roads have penetrated all parts of the
land, and with ease of transportation,
factories have everywhere sprung into
being. But agriculture has not kept
pace with machinery. Consequently
the population has tended more and
more to focus itself in the cities where
the opportunities seemed greatest.
Colossal fortunes have been made, but
the money of the nation has fallen
into the hands of comparatively few
individuals. Wages have risen, but the
cost of living has risen with even
greater rapidity, and the result is that,
although individuals may have more
money than individuals of correspond-
ing classes in Europe, the problem of
living is more difficult. This is in itself
enough to cause social unrest, and
when in addition the population is con-
centrated in cities, where the poor see
daily the luxury and extravagance of
the rich, where the sight of innumer-
able artificial devices for increasing the
comforts of life create correspondingly
artificial needs, the motives for revolt

are violently present. To all this must
be added also the fact that Americans
are, contrary to the European idea of
them, an intensely idealistic people.
Millionaires think no longer only of
building the biggest houses, but rather
of building the most beautiful houses.
The standard of taste is rising. Archi-
tecture is still experimental, but it
strives for something more than mere
show. Rich men give with a lavishness
unknown in the Old World to hos-
pitals, educational institutions, art gal-
leries, and these gifts, made for the
people, make them think more of the
people, of those artificially created
needs of theirs which are coming to be
considered as rights. All this means
a weakening of the solidarity of the
upper classes, united a few years ago
to defend themselves against reason-
able demands, and now that there is
nc longer question of resisting reason-
able demands the laboring classes are
united in pressing claims which ran
far beyond the bounds of reason. With
only feeble and spasmodic opposition
special class privilege is again rais-
ing its ugly head.

All these problems, finally, are com-
plicated by the necessity of distribut-
ing, civilizing and absorbing annually
some million of ignorant immigrants;
men and women, who crowd the city
slums, who lower standards of living,
who are always ready to swell the
ranks of the most turbulent elements,
because they expected to find in Amer-
ica an easy road to wealth and are dis-
appointed. They are disappointed to
find cobblestones, instead of gold pav-
ing the city streets, but in place of
wealth they find almost thrust upon
them American citizenship. This, in
fact, is a striking example of Ameri-
can idealism. The practical course
would be to educate the children of
these ignorant immigrants, to give
them American ideals, and then^ to
make them citizens. Instead, the im-
migrants themselves are almost in-
stantly given the ballot in the optimis-
tic belief that the exercise of citizen-
ship will, in some incomprehensible
way, teach the ideals on which such
5

OVERLAND MONTHLY

citizenship should be founded. Cour-
ageous legislators devise schemes in-
numerable to dam this flood of immi-
gration, but they are powerless be-
cause these people are necessary to
the revolutionary propaganda of the
unions. Only Oriental exclusion is
possible since the Chinese and Japan-
ese prefer personal liberty to union
domination. The European immi-
grants are eager to be naturalized, be-
cause they hope that the vote will
somehow bring them power and riches.

That the outlook is very grave no
one denies. As the only solution she
can devise of her own pressing ques-
tions American has chosen her path —
the increase of democracy, an ever
widening direct control of the ma-
jority. More and more she is throw-
ing into the hands of the people the
decision of momentous questions. She
is fearful of experts. She believes
that only the people can make and in-
terpret laws, and that a popular de-
cision is most surely right when least
influenced by those who have had ex-
perience; that only the people can re-
form legal procedure, determine what
is and what is not class legislation,
whether government or private owner-
ship of public utilities is wiser; that
the people only are competent to set-
tle with fairness to all the grave con-
flict between capital and labor. When
this program is complete America
may be no less excellent. It will cer-
tainly be very different. It will be no
longer an Anglo-Saxon nation.

So completely is this democratic
remedy in the ascendant that those
conservatives who dare to doubt its
transcendant virtues are accused of
lack of patriotism. Yet they are not
alarmists. They cannot agree that the
uneducated masses represent inevi-
tably the national will. Therefore they
do not consider it any lack of patriot-
ism to criticise a government which
caters only for this part of the popu-
lation, carries out the will of this part
only. They feel themselves, as patri-
ots, no more bound to submit unhesi-
tatingly to the dictates of what they
believe an unrepresentative majority

than they would to bow before the rule
of a single "hero." They disprove of
such sudden, carelessly considered and
radical changes as were brought about
by the new tariff law, but in such a
measure they see no national menace.
Here and there an industry is de-
stroyed which might have adjusted
itself to a gradual reduction of the
tariff, but, although unsettling to busi-
ness in general, they realize that such
local failures are not indicative of a
national decline of credit. The wealth
of the nation is not decreased. Capi-
tal must merely be readjusted and re-
distributed. What they really fear,
and see looming in the distance, is a
general government throttling of all
business, the certain result of a long
enough continued series of regulations
which aim to benefit the man below by
tying the hands of the man above.
They see the rewards of his industry
taken away from the industrious man
and distributed among those who hun-
ger and thirst after the wealth of
others, but who are too lazy or too ig-
norant to build up a competence for
themselves. They see success made
almost criminal. In the meantime
they watch the price of living climb
higher and higher. Their own divi-
dends are diminished year by year;
they give freely to help the poor; and
all the time they realize what the poor,
who are the majority and therefore the
lawmakers, are unable to understand,
that so long as taxes rise to meet the
growing extravagance of local and na-
tional governments, their own power
to aid is diminished and the necessities
of life grow no cheaper. They cry out
the truism that to be great a nation
must be prosperous, that no laws are
remedies which are not the outgrowth
of custom, that a nation can grow
sanely and strongly only when it con-
forms to the changeless law of Na-
ture, sets itself inalterably against
vice and oppression — whether that op-
pression be exerted by an individual or
by the masses, and acknowledges the
sacredness of individual liberty wher-
ever that divine right is honestly and
honorably exercised.

What the Bowman Says

By Elizabeth Ballard Thompson

In high, white light against the night We only see the breathless aim,

The Adventurous Bowman stands, The corded arm, the straining knee,

A raptured look upon his face, Revealing every power put forth —
A mighty bow within his hands. Emblem of human energy.

The while he turns an ardent eye What, then, is this The Bowman says,
The feathered arrow's flight to trace, Standing on high against the sky?

We reck not if it strikes the mark, "God does not ask that we succeed,
Or unregarded falls in space. He only asks that we should try."

IN/mEDIGA

Impressions of New York

By Richard Bret Harte

CHAPTER II.

"A Few Mild Experiences in the Big
City."

IT WAS over twenty years since I
had last seen New York. I have
no recollection of this visit for the

very good reason that at that time
I was engaged either in sucking a com-
forter or making idiotic noises in my
nurse's arms. But now I felt a
stranger in my own land.

I had begun to find myself very
lost and lonesome when the New York
Herald gallantly came to my rescue,
welcoming me with open arms. The
Herald Building had always attracted
me with the antique dignity of its ex-
terior, and as an example of the Ital-
ian Renaissance, it seemed so incon-
gruously out of place in the heart of
Broadway.

My good fortune came at the psy-
chological moment, when, longing for
a friend in whom I could confide my
impressions of New York, I found a
ready and appreciative listener in the
person of Mr. J. S. Petty, then Sunday
editor of the Herald. I shall always

remember him as that type of Ameri-
can the whole world loves. A big fel-
low, outspoken and jovial, with an ex-
pression of sincerity that penetrates
and assures.

. . with a most illiterate grin.'

IMPRESSIONS OF NEW YORK

I can never forget the Sunday my
impressions and caricatures were pub-
lished in the Herald. It was the first
time I had ever had anything pub-
lished in America. I would have felt
quite famous had it not been for the
photograph which accompanied the ar-
ticle. The camera had caught me with
a most illiterate grin that had about
as much significance to it as a Scotch
mist. It was the kind of photograph
that might have illuminated an adver-
tisement for a famous stomach-ache
cure, depicting a cured sufferer whose
life had been a tragedy of stomach-
aches from the very day of his birth.

The next morning I had the pleasure
of hearing my article criticised by one
of the manicurists at my hotel who
had actually found a resemblance in
the photograph. She was a girl of
considerable wit and beauty, whose
inviting scarcity of attire displayed —
amongst other things — a thorough
knowledge of the prevailing mode.

"Well," she concluded, putting the
final polish on the nail of my little fin-
ger, "well, it was some classy rot al-
right, but you sure know how to write
it good!"

That was the best balanced criticism
I ever heard.

During the time I was not writing
and caricaturing for the papers, I was
busily engaged in rambling over the
city, studying the different phases of
its cosmopolitan life, always discover-
ing something new, and incidentally
enjoying a number of delightful ex-
periences.

It was through some of these ran-
dom excursions that I nearly became
a "Movie" actor, secretary of a photo-
play school, a husband, and a travel-
ing companion to a mysterious for-
eigner who always dined at Considines
promptly at 8 p. m.

I was frightened out of the
"Movie" career by the leading lady
in a comedy picture, who, perceiving
that the director had disturbed my
equilibrium, soothingly assured me
that he was merely a "damned mutt!"

It was not so much her amazing
knowledge of modern rhetoric that as-

"... displayed amongst other things

a thorough knowledge of the prevailing

modes"

tonished me as the melting expression
of sanctified simplicity that character-
ized her girlish features. Fortunately
the incident happened before the pic-
ture was taken.

But I shall never forget my part.
After my humble mein had been

OVERLAND MONTHLY

duly beautified by various cosmetics,
etc., all I had to do was to walk on,
say "Good-bye," then kiss the lady
and leave. Being such a difficult and
exacting piece of "business," it had to
be rehearsed three times, but I so
thoroughly enjoyed it that I could have
renearsed it for a month without the
slightest objection.

For three weeks after that delight-
ful experience I entirely lost my appe-
tite. Everything I ate had an embar-
rassing flavor of lip-rouge about it that
went straight to my head instead of
the precious void below.

The other adventures I had lacked
any real romance, save perhaps the
one which might have landed me in
the serene oblivion (?) of matrimony.
It happened thus:

We met in an Art gallery. She had
lost her catalogue, and I had gallantly
given her mine. In this horribly pro-
saic manner we became acquainted.
The acquaintanceship first showed
signs of developing "roseate hues"
when I learned she was an art lover
and she learned I was an artist.

Now I am not going to weary the
reader by describing the sunset splen-
dors of her hair, the demure fluttering
of her eyelids, the lure of her lips, or
any other part of her anatomy ex-
posed or semi-exposed for the bene-
fit, uplift and salvation of the opposite
sex. I will merely state that she pos-
sessed all the powers required by a
Robert W. Chambers heroine to turn
a man's brain into that kaleidoscope
of dreams and nightmares we fondly
call "Romance."

Well, I saw her for three days at
the same hour in the same gallery.
Then she disappeared, whence or
whither I never knew. The only in-
formation I could gather about her
mysterious personality was from one
of the attendants at the gallery. He
told me that she was a frequent visi-
tor, and believed her to be a wealthy
widow, living somewhere on River-
side Drive.

I have since regarded the incident
as one of those inevitable enigmas
that form some part of the great riddle

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BBPET

"She was an art lover."

of Destiny. Perhaps, after all, a
widow must enter every man's life.
The least she can do is cultivate his
curiosity.

Sightseeing in New York from an
elevated train is very unsatisfactory.
The only sights I ever saw were win-
dows. In the early morning hours they
were invariably adorned with all kinds,

. . . soothingly assured me that he was a "damned mutt"

colors and conditions of bedding which
unfortunately in some cases were such
unsightly sights that they lent neither
enchantment to the view nor the
viewer.

But the unique charm of traveling
on the elevated lies in its ever-chang-
ing panorama of faces and figures.
There is nothing so unconsciously en-

tertaining as a cosmopolitan crowd. I
remember one morning, returning from
a ramble over the docks, I boarded an
elevated train filled with immigrants.
Opposite me, buried in a mountain of
cardboard suitcases and brightly col-
ored bundles, sat an Italian couple
with five freshly polished children all
as much alike as five freshly polished

OVERLAND MONTHLY

door-knobs. The entire family were
sucking oranges, with a calm, vacant
satisfaction, blandly indifferent of
which direction they emitted the pips.
But they were a wholesome looking
family, unassuming and intelligent,
with the brightness of hope in their
earnest black eyes. So I forgave them
for the erring pips.

Another morning, when I was trav-
eling on the elevated, I found myself
confronted by a number of oriental
gentlemen, well groomed, stylishly
dressed, talking excellent English, and
looking anything but "childlike and
bland." It seemed ridiculous to asso-
ciate them with such a menial occupa-
tion as the laundry business. If they
were descendants of the "Heathen
Chinee," then they were certainly an
up-to-date, prosperous looking genera-
tion. I have no doubt, though, they

inherited that remarkable ability of
their famous ancestor, which had en-
abled him to know things "he did not
understand." But that this "celestial"
gift had failed in Poker was no reason
it could not be adapted to considerable
advantage in modern business. So I
inferred that these oriental gentlemen
had prospered accordingly.

Referring again to my sightseeing
impressions in New York, I cannot say
that I found an abundance of the ar-
tistic. New York is essentially im-
posing with its wonderful contrasts of
height and immensity. It looks down
upon you, frowning, from the skies, as
if you were merely a flea that might
be crushed in the flash of a second.

The easiest way to see New York is
to lie on your back on the top of a taxi
with a pair of field glasses and a par-
asol. (Continued next month.)

A Viking of the Air

By Minnie Irving

FROM the isolation of a ranch high
up in the Colorado Rockies,
where the snow averages eight
feet deep at Christmas, and the
thermometer drops to 40 deg. below, to
tuning up big aerial war-craft for the
great powers of Europe — all in less
than a year, is the wonderful record of
Victor Carlstrom, the most romantic
and spectacular of the crop of 1915
aviators. This young Viking of the
air first flashed into public notice last
Thanksgiving Day, when he flew in a
stiff gale from Toronto, Canada, to
New York in a Curtiss military bi-
plane R-2 tractor, 160 h. p., with a
speed of 96 miles an hour, in 6 hours
and 41 minutes, thereby winning the
Aero Club's 1915 award for the notable
flight of the year, and a permanent

place for himself among the famous
birdmen of the world.

Mr. Carlstrom's achievement was all
the more remarkable because he had
but little previous experience in air-
craft except at the Toronto aviation
school. Unlike most airmen, he had
not even tried his hand at automobile
racing, but he took to the sky like a
wild duck at migration time; the air
is his native element, to cut figure 8's
on the atmosphere his unfailing de-
light. On reaching New York (where
he was hailed with enthusiasm by
brother birdmen), he was at once en-
rolled as a member of the Aero Club.
Later he was offered a position as
principal instructor at the Atlantic
Aeronautical Station at Newport News,
Va., where he has been testing out

Victor Cailstrom in Curtiss biplane starting on his record flight from

Toronto to New York.

new flying machines of different makes
up to date of present writing. One
of those successfully tried out by him
was a monster biplane for the Russian
Government intended for use in the
European war. This great machine
carried 1,000 pounds in the air, at-
tained a speed of 96 miles an hour,
and climbed at the rate of 500 feet per
minute. It takes a nervy man to han-
dle such an air machine, a very Kik-
ing of space, to ride such a monster
safely at a height of 5,000 feet or more
with the everlasting winds creating
aerial currents and undertows above
the clouds, as they always do along
the South Atlantic coast. But Carl-
strom jockeyed the big flier as if it
was a feather, and tuned it up to the
dernier cri of fitness and stability be-
fore passing it on as "air-broken, sound
and steady," as a steed of the sky
should be.

It looks delightfully easy to the

mere spectator below on good old terra
firma as he watches the airman rise
gracefully as an eagle, and soar and
dip, loop the loop, volplane and go
through all the stunts of the light-
winged swallow — and some the swal-
low would never think of trying, but
the man on the ground never realizes
what a firm hand, steady eye, steel
nerves and supreme courage, self-re-
liance and self-confidence are required
to become an expert aviator. The
brain, the eye and the hand must work
in perfect unison. A single mistake
means death, and above all there must
be no thought of what has happened
to others and may happen again while
between earth and sky. Once give
the imagination full rein, while in the
air; once become hypnotized by the
immensity above and around, and
something like air-fright is likely to
result — and the everlasting undoing of
the flyer. I fancy few aviators like to

OVERLAND MONTHLY

think when in the air of the mysterious
fate of Albert Jewell, who was seen
to ascend to a considerable height,
but never seen again on earth. When
I think of Jewell's last flight, I also
think of Jules Verne's "Trip to the
Moon," and the flattened body of the
dog that followed the airship through
space. I also think of an article, half
romance, half fact, published in the
Pall Mall Magazine a few years ago
about an unfortunate aviator who got
beyond gravity and was forced to
travel in space in an endless circle un-
til his bones and his machine disinte-
grated into dust. Not so very far-
fetched, after all, if we believe in the
fourth dimension. The tale had an
uncanny suggestion of what might
h&ve happened to Jewell — if science is
to be trusted — and may happen to any
other.

Lost Aviator

The birdman proudly took his seat,

The mighty outspread wings
Responsive to the engine, shook

Like eager, living things.
Upon those pinions, swift and strong,

It left earth's beaten track,
And rose into the pathless clouds,

But nevermore came back.

Oh, does it sail the upper air,

A tiny speck alone,
Beyond the atmosphere we breathe,

And gravitation's zone ?

Oh is it anchored to a star ?

Or has it found a crack
In Heaven's blue wall and ventured
through ?

It nevermore came back.

The aviator's dear ones watch,

With sad and tearful eyes,
Turned ever upward to the waste

Of wide, uncharted skies.
A derelict Columbus there,

Perhaps he drifts, alack !
And this must be his epitaph :

"He nevermore came back!"

There is little danger, however, that
Carlstrom, the young Newport News
aerial instructor, will ever take any
such involuntary excursion into the in-
finite zone. The latest record he has
captured is for altitude with a passen-
ger, having reached 16,500 feet.

He is too much at home in the won-
derful machine he pilots ever to lose
control of either his engine or his
nerves.

Like most of America's men in the
limelight, Carlstrom is a Western man,
and an ideal sailor of the sky, being
over 6 feet tall, bronzed as a hunter,
and clean-built as a Greek runner, al-
together presenting a most romantic
and dashing figure when armored and
hooded in leather he seats himself in
the aeroplane he loves. May he long
continue to break in the racers of the
air, and may he have many safe and
successful voyages among the stars!

Charles Keeler, Poet

What a man with faith in his message has done in New York and

the World Over

By /Aira Abbott /Aaclay

Charles Keeler.

EVERY poet is more or less a pro-
phet — blessed with vision to see
future outcome in present con-
ditions; with ability to look
straight into the heart of things and
perceive truth and the relationship of
the part to the whole — the infinite in
an atom ; and with more or less zeal for
righteousness — a passion for making
over the social and economic order.

Almost every poet, too, has in him
something of the wandering bard.
Blind Homer, they say, went from vil-
lage to village, singing his tales to

those who cared to listen. The min-
strel, troubadour, minnesinger — they
are one in spirit, almost in blood.

And one in blood and spirit with
them and a prophet among the pro-
phets, is Charles Keeler, the Berkeley
poet, who has returned to California
for a summer tour at least, after a five
year's absence — two abroad and three
in New York City.

Mr. Keeler distinctly feels that he
has a "message." Twofold it is: on
the one hand, a rebuke to the sins of
modern life — cynicism, pessimism, ar-
tificiality, the social wrongs that result
in the drunkard, the harlot, the un-
fathered child. On the other, a con-
structive message — a plea for the sim-
ple life, a philosophy that reads final
triumph and good rather than final de-
struction and doom into the vast vis-
ion that science given, succeeding cy-
cles, worlds and suns without end.

And Mr. Keeler has faith — big faith
— in this message, and feels an obliga-
tion to deliver it laid upon him. Poe-
try — lyrical and free in form as the
poetic passages which mark so many
great prose utterances — is his vehicle
of expression, and (is it because the
minstrel blood is there?) an inner
compulsion has sent him forth to wan-
der about the globe, reciting his poe-
try to audiences of diverse folks, ton-
gues and color. A picturesque figure
his — the West has produced few more
so.

Late in the summer of 1911 Mr. Kee-
ler set forth on his world-tour and
readings, sailing first for the Orient.
He had traveled considerably before

OVERLAND MONTHLY

this — all up and down the California
coast and through the California moun-
tains, in the wake of Stevenson through
the South Sea Islands, and in Alaska,
as a member of the famous Harriman
party. He had lived, too, with simple
people — in the Islands and with our
Indians, and with those yet earlier
folk, our little feathered friends of
field and grove, thus gaining a knowl-
edge of life where life is most unham-
pered by artificialities and conven-
tions.

It took Mr. Keeler two years to
make this pilgrimage "around," and
read his poems the world over. While
in Japan, one of his poetic tales was
translated into Japanese for the late
emperor at the request of the court
Master of Ceremonies, Mr. Nagasaki.
In India, he was the guest of the
poetess Sarajini Naidon at her home
in Hyderabad, and recited for a dis-
tinguished company of her friends. In
Florence, Italy, he recited at the his-
toric Villa Savanarola, and while in
England gave his first dance poem at
the Theosophical summer school at
Torquay.

These wide travel experiences in
turn enriched his poetry, for Mr. Kee-
ler has put into verse a bit of every
land visited — some old folk story,
some dramatic incident, some typical
character. He can give entire pro-
grams, drawing his material solely
from some one country, as the Islands,
Japan, India, Egypt.

A summer in California, followed by
a three year's stay in New York, has
followed these world-wanderings. In
the American metropolis he has again
appeared before large audiences in a
variety of programs — selections from
his verse, in original plays, and as a
reader for his dance poems.

These dance poems, or dance
rhythms as they are also called, are a
contribution to the play-side of life.
They consist of poems declaimed with
music, and accompanied with panto-
mimic dancing, thus uniting poetry
with the fine sensuous joy there is in
the throb of music, the dancer's charm
and grace, the beauty of her swirling

draperies and the play of light and
color.

"The Enchanted Forest" has had the
most brilliant production of these
dance poems. It was first given in the
grand ball room of the Waldorf-As-
toria, in one of the Moments Musicales
series, under the patronage of Met-
ropolitan artists. Mr. Keeler in cos-
tume was the reader. Four barefoot
dancers from the studio of Florence
Fleming Noyes enacted the pantomime
to orchestral music composed for the
poem by Miss Bertha Remick.

A background of rare old tapestries
completed the setting, and the audience
contained many people of note.

Miss Maud Madison has been the
soloist dancer to interpret other dance-
poems — "The Vampire," a bat dance;
"Princess Papilio," a butterfly dance;
"The Harper's Song of Iris," an Egyp-
tian dance. The accompanying music
is by Emil Rhodes.

Among the poetical plays produced
during this time is "The Bird's Christ-
mas Eve" (a play with a peace plea)
given last Christmastide by the Orange
Woman's Club; a Seneca Indian play,
given at the estate of Mrs. Cooley
Ward at Wyoming, near Rochester,
N. Y., and "The Triumph of Light,"
originally given in Berkeley and pre-
sented in the East at the Passiac, N.
J., Unitarian Church.

Mr. Keeler has given recitals at
Newport and Naragansett Pier, and in
New York at Edison's Little Thimble
Theatre, the White Cat Tea Shop
(where he gave a fashionable series of
dinner recitals), at Guido Bruno's
"garret," a gathering place for artists,
before a large number of schools and
clubs, including the Theatre Club, the
United Theatrical Association, the
New York Teachers of Oratory Club,
the Cosmos Club, the Pleiades Club
and the University Forum of America.
Everywhere, and all the time, he has
met with success — made a good big
"hit."

Various other people, too, are now
reciting from Mr. Keeler's poems in
New York. Miss Lois Fox and Mrs.
Ralph Waldo Trine both recite from

CHARLES KEELER, POET

"Elfin Songs of Sunland," and Mrs,
Waldo Richards includes selections
from Mr. Keeler in her readings from
contemporaneous American poets. A
number of his songs are also being
heard. Miss Kittie Chatham sings
many of them, and included four in
her recent book of songs. Three of
these were set to music by Harvey
Loomis, and one, "Fairy Bells," by
Mrs. Edith Simonds of Berkeley.

His book of child poems, "Elfin
Songs of Sunland," brought out first in
California, has been given a new edi-
tion, the Putnams being the publisher.
Guido Bruno recently published a chap
book, "Songs of the Cosmos," most of
the edition unfortunately being de-
stroyed by a fire in the storeroom.

Now comes "The Victory — Songs of
Triumph," published by Laurence
Gomme of New York, a man who has
brought out much of poetry and drama.
The expectations are that another
book, "The Mirror of Manhattan," a
series of interpretative pictures of the
New York of to-day, will soon follow.

Mr. Keeler's friends and readers will
find — and welcome — a few old, famil-
iar poems in this new book, such as
"The Dreamer and the Doer," "Faith
and Works," "To My Boy (On His
Birthday") "Man the Conqueror," etc.,
but the majority of the poems the pub-
lic will see for the first time within its
covers. They are short poems, mostly,
and chiefly lyrics in the free form that
Mr. Keeler uses almost altogether, and
which has so much appeal to moderns.
His cry is for freedom, and in his
verse he takes what he is reaching out
for — practices what he preaches. As
"The Outlook" once said: "Mr. Kee-
ler's verses have the real swing and
rush, indicating a fulness and richness
of thought sometime difficult to con-
dense by the rules of rhyme."

The poems selected for this new vol-
ume have the life of to-day for their
subject matter, and, as he has put it,
are "poems of No Man's Land," in
contrast to his work that is decidedly
national or provincial in character.
"The Chant of Life To-day," "The
Child Heart," "0 Whence, O Whither

Charles Keeler as reader, in "The

Enchanted Forest," given at the

Waldorf-Astoria.

Soul," "Playing the Part," "A Masque
of the City," so a few of the titles read,
telling their own story.

They show Mr. Keeler as a prophet
and a beauty lover; one who craves the
truth, however sober or unsavory it
may be; who holds all life sacred, that
of a bird no less than a man; who
stretches out an uplifting hand to the
downtrodden and oppressed; who

OVERLAND MONTHLY

pleads for less artificiality and more
naturalness. He delivers himself now
with the straight-out blow, now by
suggestion or indirection. He does not
shirk the ugly word or name, and yet
sees the world as so much plastic clay
to be shaped to forms of beauty.
"I sing of life," he says:

"I sing of life, not glozed with silk

and gems,
But grimed in sweat-shop, groggery

and dive,
Mocked in palatial halls of empty

pomp,
Flung from divorce courts and from

bated breath
Of scandal mongers, eager with their

tale
To damn the good name of their near-
est friend."

His demand is for fulness of life-
expression, not repression, as this from
"The Cry of Life" shows :

"I am no flagellant,
With whip and scourge
In hairy coat,
No faster, no ascetic I —
"Tis good to live, to breathe
Deep draughts of fragrant morn,
Deep draughts of dewey night,
To eat sweet simples of the earth.
"To feel the tender touch of hands,
Communicable thrills awake
By their caress the throb of life
That leaps with meeting lips.
"So is my cry not death
But life ! more life, replete
With all that sense can wring
Of beauty out of clay;
Full of the joy of light,
Of color and of sound,
Of redolence of flowers."
Here are passages that reflect the

quest of an earnest soul for truth, and

in that search doubt alike theologian

and scientist.

"I crave the truth, stark, naked un-
ashamed,

And should it smite me, let me face
the pang,

Aye, turn the other cheek, and cry,
again !

If I have coddled error to my breast,

Let me cast forth the viper ere it

sting.
"But Gililee, the iconoclast,
Not thus obesiance made to prejudice,
When he spied out God's order in the

skies,
And how the riven sun in pangs of

birth
Cast from its side the world,
Not e'en the Inquisition's grim intent
Could shake his proclamation of the

truth.
"So Darwin to the scoffers made reply
With piled facts no sophistry could

shake,
His the new Genesis from nature's

Bible,
Of creatures struggling through mil-

leniums,
Through patient cycles of ascending

forms.
"But Science is not God's elect disciple
And many an error has she treasured

fast
Beneath her academic cloak of smug

conceit.
Ah, savants, be not overproud, I pray,
There may be finer laws than you

dissolve,
With microscope and telescope and

spectrum,
More subtle forces than your prying

eyes
Can penetrate amid the unknown dark.
"What are your laws but visions of the

unseen Will?
What are your forces but the thinking

of the perfect Mind?
So open wide your heart to His great

light,
O seeker after truth."

Mr. Keeler is versatile, having a cop-
ious vocabulary and a wide range of
subjects. He is a mystic, too, with a
sense of the oneness of life here and
"there." "With the Dead" strikingly
brings this out; so does "The People
of the Grave."

He is always an optimist, serene, yet
at times tinged with something very
much like fatalism. He says:

"Milleniums of life
Through thee reverberate.
Uncounted cycles swing

CHARLES KEELER, POET

Through thy pre-natal pulse ;

Unreckoned aeon cast

Thy seed from life to life,

Fate plays at cards with thee,

Shuffles and cuts the pack

Through aeons ere thy birth,

And throws thee down upon the

board,
The last hand of the game."

But he does not counsel passivity :

"Ye cannot comprehend the cosmic

plan,
So dare to walk erect and face the

world.
Sing like the meadowlark in the rain

as well as the sun,
Like the snake in the springtime,

slough off the scales of care,
Cast the devils out of thee and be a

conqueror!"

As touching a little poem as the book
contains is called "Friends." It shows
the tender reaching out of a big heart
to those most in need of friendship. It
reads :

"Poor rum-soaked rounder of the ten-
derloin,

Discarded remnant of the bargain
counter,

Give me your hand, and talk to me, I
pray,

The more you fall the more you need
a friend.

"Frail painted plaything of the city
streets,

The poison of your kisses burn no
more.

The world may shun you as contami-
nate,

But in my heart I find a place for you.

"You little nameless playfellow of
shame,

The shame and infamy is all the
world's;

But if your father dares not claim his
own,

Let me be foster-father, friendless
waif."

The cosmic consciousness that seems
to be a necessary ingredient of the
modern poet has not been left out of
Mr. Keeler. He thinks in terms of
vast distances and tremendous spaces

of time. He sees the continuity of life
through changing cycles and countless
changing forms. His poetry is in fact
permeated with a sense of relationship
of the Now to all the Past and Present.
It gives a big note, as many of the
selections here quoted illustrate. Here
is another with the far outreach :

"But what reck we of the glory of en-
gines ?

We cry for man's glory and the glory
of the Lord.

Aye, the world is but clay to be shaped
into beauty,

And the stars in the vast are but can-
dles on the altar.

From the first to the last, in the earth

and heavens,
One miracle only can thrill with its

wonder —
When God breathes on atoms, and lo!

they are life,
When man breaks from matter, and lo !

he is love!"

There are a few personal poems in-
cluded in "The Victory." The one to
his little son Leonarde has been men-
tioned; the others are to noted Califor-
nians — Henry Holmes, the violinist;
Ina Coolbrith, the poet; William Keith,
the painter, and a close personal friend.

Among Mr. Keeler's other books of
poetry are "A Season's Sowing," "A
Wanderer's Songs of the Sea," "Idyls
of El Dorado," "Elfin Songs of Sun-
land," now in its second edition. He
has out also quite a bit of prose. His
"Bird Notes Afield" is an authority in
its line, and has passed into several
editions. "San Francisco and There-
abouts" is a well known volume, as is
his "The Simple Home." "San Fran-
cisco Through Earthquake and Fire,"
"Southern California" and "Evolution
of Color in the Birds of North Amer-
ica" are still other works from Mr.
Keeler's facile pen.

He is a member of the Bohemian
Club and wrote the Cremation of Care
ceremony for the 1913 jinks. He is
also a member of the Author's Club of
London, and the New York Author's
Club.

II Religoso

(Brother Ansclmo in the Great Forest, 1789)

By Emily Inez Denny

A native of the State of Washington, I grew up in the midst of what
were to me enchanting scenes. Deeply impressed by my environment, I
sought expression in painting records of nature. Then I tried a combina-
tion of illustrations, prose and short poems in magazine articles. One
comprised sketches of Puget Sound Indians, with pictures and poem,
"Achada: Indian Mother's Lament;" another was a story of an Indian prin-
cess, with several short poems and original drawings; a third described a
sojourn in a mountain park with copies of my own paintings of the spot
and a poem "Bluebells of the Cascades." During one winter I laid down
the brush while I diligently wrote three hours a day, the result being a
book of five hundred pages, published in 1909, entitled "Blazing the Way,"
a collection of stories, poems and sketches concerning pioneer days in
the Northwest. When asked where I preferred to live, I have answered :
"Almost anywhere on the Pacific Coast." Its aspects are inspiration for
both art and literature, the sounding of its seas and stately forests ever
fraught with spiritual messages.

FORTH I wandered from the clois-
ter, for bell and prayer and hol-
low murmurs did only fret in-
stead of calm my soul. As in a
trance I went until awakening, in
sooth I stood in the midst of a ma-
jestic forest; I breathed the sweet
air; I listened to the varied sounds,
I looked up and saw the branches
waving overhead, looked afar thro'
the vistas, marked the beauty all
around. Great thoughts strove with-
in me, overflowed to my lips, and
I lifted up my voice and said :

"O thou mysterious, shadowy, inter-
minable, evergreen forest!

"Thy multitudinous and venerable
company, grey-robed by the centur-
ies, white-bearded with streaming
mosses, as priests and patriarchs, the
Creator are evermore solemnly prais-
ing

"In thy lofty aisles, columned with
the cloud-seeking pine and fir trees,
vaulted with the blue of Heaven,
sprinkled with star-lamps, perfumed
from kalsamic censers, swung by

Inez Denny

BUBBLES

the acolyte wind-spirits, who could
wander without aspiration or wor-
ship?

'Are not the children of thy solitudes,
the flitting songster weaving his
golden thread of melody through the
woof of thy light and shadow, the
pure, meek monotropa, serving in its
sisterhood of beauty, the tossing
evergreen branches, sifting sun-
beams for the dwellers beneath, the
cataract from the mountain-side,
murmurously chanting in thy leafy
depths, evermore joyously prais-
ing?

'Lives then the soul though seared by
worldliness, benumbed by artificial-
ity and selfishness, that could not
thrill with responsive emotion and

awaken here to look up to the heaven
above in prayerful longing and love ?

"How glorious to be, even as thy mul-
titudinous and venerable company,
O majestic, mysterious, shadowy, il-
limitable forest, evermore stead-
fastly worshipping and praising!"

From afar in the dark recesses of the
forest came answering whispers:
"O children of men, if ye would
know worship and praise, prayer and
meditation, with joyous reward, re-
turn to my shadowy aisles, kneel in
my sunlit spaces, tarry under my
sheltering branches, banish care,
worldliness and futile sorrow, so
shall your souls be healed, and ye
be evermore worthily, steadfastly,
joyously praising!"

BUBBLES

From the Sausalito Ferry

Floating sunlighted on the blue bowl's rim,

Breathed from the foam through fragile pipe of clay

In eager effort of the child at play,

The bubble domes all iridescent swim,

Fresh blown by fancy on the sea fog dim,

Light wreathed to crown a nation's holiday.

Brief, evanescent, poised to drift away,

Reflected in their resting globes they limn

The image of the mirrored universe.

Its iridescent hopes, embodied thought,

The mimic forms, the myriad hues diverse

By the skilled artist hand in beauty wrought,

His visioned ideal ere their shapes disperse,

A wistful moment in their radiance caught. m. p. c.

A Criticism of "The Gray Dawn'

By Charles B. Turrill

Member Advisory Committee Historical Survey Committee

I HAD been asked by so many peo-
ple for my opinion of the accuracy
of Stewart Edward White's "Gray
Dawn," as a picture of the period
that I had intended preparing a criti-
cism from the work in its serial form.
Other matters interfered with such
work, and I had about abandoned the
idea until I read your criticism in the
January "Bookman."

You say Mr. White "has not so much
tried to tell a story as to paint an
epoch, the turbulent days of the early
fifties in California. Undeniably he
has done a good piece of work ....
He gets the atmosphere beyond ques-
tion ; the book is saturated with it, red-
olent of it ... it is idle to pretend
that the reader will become seriously
excited about the individual charac-
ters . . . but as a picture of San
Francisco in the days of the gold fever
and the Vigilantes and the volunteer
fire companies, the 'Gray Dawn' is dis-
tinctly worth while, it bears the hall-
mark of truth."

Were all your readers fully informed
regarding the period in question your
criticism would be received in the na-
ture of an after dinner speech to be in-
terpreted by the "brown taste" of the
morning after. But, unfortunately, the
majority of your readers are of those
to whom everything "Western" is a
terra incognita into which callow writ-
ers have adventured and have flooded
the book-stores with Munchausen
tales.

We of California, who have lived
riere nearly as long as the State has
been a part of the American Union
(and whose fathers and mothers were
here before us, each doing his or her

part in the work of founding a com-
monwealth), respecting the memories
of our forebears, their friends, neigh-
bors and associates, most earnestly
protest against the continued and sys-
tematic misrepresentation of the force-
ful and earnest life of the Pioneers of
California. We have a right to be
proud of those virile young men and
women who, endowed with the rest-
less nature of Americans, braved the
dangers of months of travel over al-
most untracked wastes or long and
oft tempestuous ocean voyages that
they might make for themselves homes
where there was room for their ener-
gies. They may not all have been
highly educated, they may not have
all been poc-marked by the corroding
punctualities of social precedence. But
they were warm blooded human be-
ings. For the number of inhabitants,
there was no greater number of adven-
turers or undesirables than among our
earlier ancestors in New England, or
Virginia. But those people of the
Californian early days lived their
lives honestly, as a rule. They did
not steal the livery of Heaven in which
to serve the Devil. They did not prac-
tice present-day subterfuges in an ef-
fort to gain caste by deception. Yes,
some of them drank, and possibly as
heavily as others did in New York, for
instance, at the same period. We
must recall that drinking was preva-
lent all over the* world, and had been
for at least a few thousand years. That
drinking was done openly and in a
convivial spirit. It was not considered
manly to talk prohibition and patron-
ize "blind pigs." Yes, there was gam-
bling. And that was done openly.

A CRITICISM OF "THE GRAY DAWN"

Bridge whist had not arisen above the
horizon of chance. In the sense that
everybody gambled, gambling in the
early days of California was no more
universal than at present in any other
community. It is a historic fact that
in San Francisco in the early days
when a street preacher began his ex-
hortation in front of a noted gambling
saloon, the proprietor of the place or-
dered all games stopped until the
preacher had finished. It was an era
of fair play. The man of God had
for the time no competition in the in-
terest of his auditors.

I do not dispute the fact that in that
great rush to California many unde-
sirable characters were to be found.
That undesirability was also a purely
relative quality. So long as those men
and women conducted themselves in a
manner which did not interfere with
the rights of others, they were not
interfered with. Whenever they
ceased to do so it was not long before,
they met with opposition. A man was
accepted at his own valuation and was
given an opportunity of conducting his
affairs as he thought best, regardless
of what he had been elsewhere. It
was the threat by James King of Wil-
liam that he would publish in the "Bul-
letin" the "record" of James P. Casey
in New York after Casey had told him
that he was trying to live down that
record which led Casey to shoot King,
which act was the direct cause of the
'56 Vigilance Committee.

In these days it is difficult to realize
the bitterness of political contests in
the '50's. All over the country institu-
tions were in a formative condition,
and on every topic everywhere party
sentiment was virile and aggressive.
It is not denied that political corrup-
tion existed. In our milk and water
purity of politics of later years we
can of course have no sympathy with
or charity for the frailities of those
who were half a century ago sacrific-
ing themselves for their country's good
at a regular per diem. Time has
brought refinements in methods.

In the "Gray Dawn" we read much
of the effect of technicalities of law.

This punctilio was not of California
origin. Our legal procedure was
founded on that of the other States,
to a great extent that of New Yor£
and Missouri. The men who were the
first to make names for themselves
here as lawyers were the bright young
men whose training had been in the
schools and courts of other States. It
is very doubtful whether their efforts
in these especial lines of jurisprudence
were more noted in California than
elsewhere either in the '50's or even
to-day. Half a century of experiment
has not materially lessened litigation
or hastened decisions.

As I was born in a different part of
California and had no relatives, nor
close friends in San Francisco in the
'50's, I feel I can object to some of
the statements in "The Gray Dawn"
without the imputation that I feel per-
sonally aggrieved. It would seem that
Mr. White had purposely heaped in-
sults on the memories of many while
striving to imagine "local color." I
shall not use the quoted words of his
characters, but rather Mr. White's own
comments.

Speaking of Wm. T. Coleman on
page 44 of "The Gray Dawn," the au-
thor writes: "His complexion was
florid, and this, in conjunction with a
sweeping blue-black mustache, gave
him exactly the appearance of a gam-
bler or bartender!" Again on page
206: "Coleman, quite, grim, compla-
cent, but looking, with his sweeping,
inky mustache and his florid complex-
ion, like a flashy 'sport.' " Was the
desire for "local color" the motive for
so falsely painting the man who came
to California in his active youth and
throughout a long life of active busi-
ness and civic probity, left an honor-
able name to be cherished not only by
his family, but by every Californian?
Before me as I write lies the copy of
a portrait of Wm. T. Coleman, which
was made just as he was leaving the
East for San Francisco, with high, in-
tellectual forehead, thoughtful eyes
and smoothly shaven face. Before me,
also, is the portrait of Coleman in the
prime of life. It is the picture of a

OVERLAND MONTHLY

clean-living man of affairs. We have
no gauge of measuring what is Mr.
White's conception of the features of
a gambler and "sport" other than a
florid face and long mustache, which
on one page is blue-black and on an-
other inky. There have probably been
several million men who have had
florid faces and who may have worn
mustaches. Were they all gamblers or
sports ?

On page 209, this critic of early
morality writes: "Many of these ex-
jailbirds rose to wealth and influence,
so that to this day the sound of their
names means aristocracy and birth to
those ignorant of local history. Their
descendants may be seen to-day ruf-
fling it proudly on the strength of their
'birth!'" This is an unqualified and
unnecessary insult. Society in Cali-
fornia rests on as firm a foundation
of real merit and worth as anywhere.
At the present time, as always, it is
less busy in "ruffling" (whatever that
may be), than in doing as it has al-
ways done, all in its power to help
the less successful and to alleviate to
the best of its abilities the sufferings
and needs of others.

There is scarcely a chapter that does
not bristle with inaccuracies. The
geography of the book is ridiculous.
The opening sentence is an index to
the author's ignorance or lack of care
in the little items that tend to make
for "local color." It has been said
of Sir Walter Scott that when planning
a romance he was so careful to secure
true "local color" that he visited the
proposed scenes of his story and even
noted in his note book the wild flowers
growing in the several localities. With
libraries full of accurate data he seems
to have been content with the most
hasty and imperfect gleaning. The
story begins: "On the veranda of the
Bella Union Hotel." There never was
a hotel of that name in San Francisco,
and the building bearing the name was
destitute of a veranda. The thrilling
description of the georgeous dining
room is a pure fiction. A little care of
investigation would have suggested the
Portsmouth House on the corner of

the Plaza diagonally opposite as the
home of the Sherwoods.

The time of the story is definitely es-
tablished by the statement on page
three, "which was the year of grace,
1852." Passing over other haphazard
statements, we come to Chapter XIX
which details the beginning of Keith's
legal advancement. How dramatic is
this chapter: "His door opened, and
a meek, mild little wisp of a man sidled
in. He held his hat in his hand, re-
vealing clearly sandy hair and a nar-
row forehead." How interesting! And
to think that that little man, who gave
his name as Dr. Jacob Jones was to
be the means of Keith's wealth and
advancement under the careful manipu-
lation of our author. How breathlessly
we read "Little Doctor Jones came to
him much depressed." How cleverly
does Keith tie up the money-grasping
Neil and astonish all the perverse dila-
tory lawyers of the city. It is all su-
perb. It is history paraphrased, for,
in the "Annals of San Francisco," we
read the full account of the Dr. Peter
Smith claims for the same services as
the story-teller's, "Dr. Jacob Jones,"
and note that even through the ma-
ligned courts of the time, judgment
had been rendered on the 25th of Feb-
ruary, 1851, and the sales of water lots
to satisfy the judgment, all took place
prior to "the year of grace, 1852,"
when the interesting personality, "Mil-
ton Keith, a young lawyer from Bal-
timore," appeared in San Francisco.
How the "Gray Dawn" really reeks
with local color! More than a year
after a certain incident occurred, which
is used to make the hero celebrated, a
garbled recital of the real incident is
dished up for our entertainment! Why
could not the book have been dated :
"In the year of grace 1850 or '51 ?" Or
is it possible that Keith might not
have been weaned so early in his life.
Thus we see the entire structure of
Keith's legal financial and social ad-
vancement is laid on shifting sand of
inaccuracy.

A fair sized book might be written
in correcting the palpable errors with-
out investigating the implied person-

LIFE'S GREAT INHERITANCE

alities referred to or hinted at. It is
enough to allege that the entire per-
formance is at such variance to fact
that it can be accepted as valueless as
a portrayal of the period. The story,
as a story, is outside the purview ot
my criticism. The literary style might
be improved materially. The use of
the words "chink" and "piffle" is un-
called for introduction of modern slang.
"The decoration committee had done
its most desperate," can scarcely be
styled elevating literature.

Each writer has the inalienable right
to the life and liberty of his charac-
ters into whom he has breathed the
breath of life to make each a living
soul. His success as a writer depends
on his creative ability to produce
mind-children worthy of life and de-
velopment. He can place them in any
environment that suits his fancy, and
by cleverness can let their lives de-

velop and produce natural effects on
the lives of other mind-children in his
story. He should be given reasonable
choice in the development of his story,
and may use to the exigencies of his
work such local atmosphere as best
fits his purposes. But when he in-
cludes in his story by implication or
by direct mention historical characters
he owes it to those characters and their
descendents to adhere to the fixed rec-
ord of history. It is to be regretted
that Stewart Edward White has care-
lessly done his work. To the unin-
formed reader he has given false ideas
of historical perspective. He has ad-
vanced arguments on false premises.
For this there has not been the ex-
cuse of necessity in the development
of his: story. He has given usi a
book called "The Gray Dawn," which
might as well have been called "The
Lurid Awakening."

LIFE'S GREAT INHERITANCE

A baron stood within his stately gate

Where blooming shrubs and roses charmed the air,

And proudly gazed upon the mansion there

That crowned the splendor of his broad estate,

So hardly won from long contending fate ;

Yet spite of all his riches, work and care,

His mind was like a desert, arid, bare,

With nothing in his outlook truly great :

For he ne'er knew the dreams that make true men
Nor felt the wealth a mighty Past has wrought;
The richest mine on earth, unseen, unsought,
Like hidden gold lay dark beyond his ken —
The treasures of the pencil and the pen,
Life's great inheritance — its Art and Thought.

Washington Van Dusen.

Pseudo Apostles of the Present Day

Study of Church History in the Light of the Bible Proves Claims
of Church Dignitaries Unfounded

By Pastor Russell

Pastor of The New York City Temple and Brooklyn and
London Tabernacles

PART II

Bible Restored After 1200 Years.

FROM the time the Nicene creed
was thus foisted upon the people
until twelve hundred years after,
the Bible was an unknown Book
to the people. During those twelve
hundred years there were, I think,
seventeen Councils held, and many of
these produced creeds having differ-
ent variations, all with much of non-
sense for people to be worried with.
And all this was done by those de-
ceived men who thought they were
Apostles and were not. It is all this
stuff that has given the so-called Chris-
tian world so much trouble.

At the close of this period, in the
year 1526 A. D., Professor Tyndale, a
scholarly Christian man, not fully in
accord with the Bishops, because he
was too Scriptural, but tolerated be-
cause of his learning and good Chris-
tian character, translated the Greek
New Testament into English, that the
people might know what were the
teachings of Jesus and His Apostles.
He felt that there had been too much
of the teachings of men. By that time
printing presses and paper had been
invented. Professor Tyndale was com-
pelled to go to Germany to get his
translation printed, after some diffi-
culty succeeding in having it done in
the city of Worms. This step was

made necessary because of the ad-
verse influence of the English Bishops.
The Testaments were then imported
to London. They were placed in the
shops for sale. The matter became
noised abroad, and the people were
anxious to get them. They desired
to know just what was taught by
Christ and the Apostles. It was pro-
posed that Bible classes be started and
educated men employed to read to the
people.

What did the Bishops then do?
They heard about the movement, and
being world-wise men, they knew what
the effect would be if the people
learned of the real teachings of the
Bible. Their own power and influence
would soon be gone. The people
would be asking, "Where did you
Bishops get your authority to make
creeds and to call yourselves Apostles ?
We find nothing of that kind in the
Bible." So the Bishops shrewdly de-
termined to nip this matter in the bud.
Accordingly they bought up the entire
edition and burned the books in front
of St. Paul's Cathedral in London. The
spot is marked to this day. It is a
matter of history. And these were
Protestant Bishops of the Church of
England! Moreover, this faithful ser-
vant of the Lord, Professor William
Tyndale, was later apprehended and
imprisoned nea^ Brussels, and after

PSEUDO APOSTLES OF THE PRESENT DAY

a protracted trial for ' heresy, was
strangled and his body burned at the
stake. How terrible are the blinding
influences of Satan !

For forty years after the burning of
the New Testament in London the peo-
ple kept complaining and wondering
why the Bishops took the Bible from
them. Finally the Bishops concluded
that perhaps they were going too far,
and that policy demanded that they
let the people have the Bible. So
they got out a special edition, which
they called "The Bishop's Bible."
They put them into the shops and told
the people they might buy them. They
assured them that it was the Bishops
who were giving them the Bible. How-
ever, they solemnly warned the people
of the great risk they were incurring
in reading the Bible for themselves,
and impressed upon them the necessity
of giving it no other interpretation than
what had been given by the Bishops,
because they were sure of going to
eternal torment if they did not prove
loyal to the creeds.

This warning had its desired effect.
Everybody was on the alert to keep in
line with the creed. The Catholic
Bishops soon were practically forced
to do as the Protestant Bishops had
done, and they issued the Douay Ver-
sion of the Bible, prepared at the cleri-
cal university of Douay, France. They
gave this to their Catholic flocks, ac-
companying it with the same warnings
as the Protestant Bishops had given to
their people. Thus the influence of
the Bible was for a long time largely
nullified, and the people were kept in
superstitious fear and under the in-
fluence of the Church authorities.

But the Bible could not be fully put
down, and in time the entire Scriptures
were translated into the various ton-
gues of the people, and as education
after the beginning or the Nineteenth
Century became much more general,
and Bible Societies sprang into exist-
ence, the people began to read for
themselves as never before, and su-
perstition has been gradually breaking
down, the people are daring to

think for themselves. Some are still
fettered by superstition, but the num-
ber is gradually lessening, and the
shackles breaking. It is the teaching
of the Roman Catholic Church that all
of their own people are to go to Pur-
gatory after death to be tortured
awhile. No Catholic expects to go at
death to Heaven. He must first have
certain experiences in Purgatory to
fit him for Heaven. To be a heretic,
from the Catholic standpoint, is to
commit the worst of crimes, and not
to believe the creed and their priests
is heresy. Heretics are bound, not for
Purgatory, but for eternal torture. So
a devout Catholic has geat fear of be-
ing a heretic. Thus we find but com-
paratively few Catholics even to-day
who dare to read the Bible.

Drunk With the Wine of Babylon.

How much trouble all this nonsense
and false teaching has caused! In-
stead of reading the Bible in the light
of the creeds, we should read the
creeds in the light of the Bible. Then
their absurdity is at once apparent.
They have been a sore bondage upon
God's people. But all this will be
overruled for good. It will teach man-
kind a never-to-be-forgotten lesson.
The Bible foretold it all. The Apos-
tle Paul declared that "many would
depart from the faith, giving heed to
seducing spirits and doctrines of de-
mons." (1 Timothy 4:1-3; Acts
20-29, 30.) It is upon these seducing
spirits that we lay the blame — Satan
and his fallen angels. We are not
claiming that our Catholic and Epis-
copalian friends have really intended
to perpetrate a fraud. But with the
Apostle Paul we claim that they were
deceived by the great Adversary and
his hosts of evil spirits.

We are beginning to see that a God
of Love could never arrange any such
Plan for His creatures as is claimed
by the creeds. Our loving Creator
has been painted blacker than the
blackest Devil imaginable. "Oh, that
is too strong!" says one. No, it is not,
my brother. If you will take a pencil

OVERLAND MONTHLY

and paper and sit down and deliber-
ately write out a description of the
worst Devil your imagination can pic-
ture — paint him as black as possible —
then compare your picture with what
the creeds have made out our God
to be, what they have declared He has
done and is doing, and will continue
to do through all eternity, you will
find that your description is less black
than our great Creator is painted.

We have been in the habit, especi-
ally we Protestants, of quoting the
text, "God is Love," and also, "Like
as a father pitieth his children, so the
Lord pitieth them that fear Him," and
"The Lord is merciful and gracious,
slow to anger and plenteous in mercy,"
and kindred passages of Scripture ; we
have hung these upon our walls. But
there must have come sober thoughts
when we have asked ourselves, How
can God be a God of Love, and how
can He be like a father that pities his
children, and how can He be plente-
ous in mercy, and at the same time
make a Plan before the world was cre-
ated for the eternal torture of the vast
majority of His human creatures,
brought into the world without any
volition of their own, and placed un-
der conditions that made it almost
impossible for the majority to do right
and to live Christian lives, many of
them untaught in the ways of right-
eousness ? We cannot help reasoning,
you know!

Now, what does the Bible say about
all this? The Lord Jesus declares,
in His Message through the Apostle
John in the Book of Revelation (17:
1-6), that we have all been drunk with
the wine of Babylon, the drink mixed
by the apostate Woman, the Mother of
Harlots. He says that this Woman
has held in her hand a golden cup full
of abominations and the filthiness of
her fornication, and that she made all
the nations drunk with the wine of her
false doctrines and blasphemies. Now
we see where these horrible doctrines
came from. The nations are still drunk
to-day. Very few know how to reason
straight on religious matters even yet.
People can reason on any other subject

than religion. We have been some-
thing like a man having delirium tre-
mens, who sees snakes and lizards
around his coat collar. In our bewil-
dered, intoxicated condition we have
seen visions of flames, and of devils
with tails and pitchforks, of poor hu-
manity writhing in these flames, and
the devils taking delight in prodding
them and seeing how much they could
add to their tortures. Some have come
to have a somewhat more refined idea
of Hell. They declare that the torture
will be eternal, but it will be mental
rather than physical, that it will con-
sist of agonies of terror and remorse,
which they say will be as bad or worse
than physical tortures. And these are
the kinds of imaginations we have la-
bored under in our blindness and in-
toxication.

With Greater Light Came Further
Satanic Devices.

Thank God that some of us are sob-
ering up! And we believe the major-
ity of intelligent people are beginning
to think a little more rationally. A
couple of centuries ago one's life
would have been seriously jeopardized
if he had dared to hint at the truth on
this subject. Let us rejoice that to-
day one dares to think and to express
the truth on this vital matter. This is
an- evidence of much progress.. Lu-
ther, Knox, Calvin, Wesley and other
reformers saw some light, and they
were noble men, Christian men, true
children of God, living up to their
light. But they did not have all the
light. We could not expect that at one
or two bounds men could get out of
all the darkness of more than twelve
centuries and into the full blaze of
Light and Truth, rould we ? They all
had on creed spectacles. They would
smash one set and get another.

But we praise God for the light they
did bring in. We surely are thankful
for one doctrine that Brother Martin
Luther gave us, or that God gave us
through him — the doctrine of justifi-
cation by faith, instead of justification
by penances and Masses, etc. The

PSEUDO APOSTLES OF THE PRESENT DAY

Bible says, "Being justified by faith,
we have peace with God, through our
Lord Jesus Christ.'* "The just shall
live by faith." God does not say that
we should wear hair jackets to torture
ourselves, nor anything else of that
kind, to do penance. All those things
came from people who meant well, but
who did not have the Bible, and who
thus got far away from its spirit.

So we praise God for the Reformers,
and I believe that whether we are
Catholics or Protestants we will agree
that the world has had a great libera-
tion from some of the stupidities and
darkness and from the "fog" that was
once so dense. But there is plenty to
learn yet; for we have not yet come in-
to the full light of the Perfect Day. Re-
specting the Reformation, through the
angel Gabriel in His Message to the
Prophet Daniel, the Lord speaks thus :
"Now when they (the true Church)
shall fall, they shall be holpen with a
little help; but many shall cleave to
them with flatteries." (Daniel 11:31-
35.) What did these Reformers do?
Well, they also made a mistake. I
think again it was the Adversary and
not themselves who caused this. They
were misled by the flatteries of kings
and princes who offered them their
backing in return for support of their
kingdoms.

The Apostle Paul tells us that Sa-
tan is always trying to be a leader,
and that he poses as an angel of light,
and that his apostles also do the same.
The Lutherans and Calvinists and the
others each made their creed, and so
to speak they fenced themselves off
and put down their stake, and said,
"Here we stand; we will live and die
by this creed." And they got no fur-
ther; they were fastened right there.
Each one said: "There is only one
Church, and we are it." We think
that is just what the Adversary de-
sired; for each sect persecuted the
others. They had gotten this sugges-
tion from the centuries behind them.
So the Catholics persecuted the Pro-
testants and the Protestants perse-
cuted the Catholics, and the different
sects of Protestantism persecuted each

other. This fact is familiar to all
who have studied history. They
thought that if God was going to send
these people to Hell to roast them
forever, why should they not be faith-
ful servants of God and help His work
along ?

But public sentiment gradually
changed. The people became more
educated, and the human mind was
thus more exercised, and Church Bish-
ops found it less popular to chase peo-
ple over the mountains, hinder them
from holding meetings, etc. Ever
since about 1846 we have been in the
place where all Christian denomina-
tions who are considered orthodox fel-
lowship one another, except the great
denominations of Roman and Greek
Catholicism and the Church of Eng-
land. These are still loth to recognize
the other churches, or any church ex-
cept themselves, because the others
did not get their ordination from them.
But the others have now become so in-
fluential that they do not need to care
much. They have a sort of general
creed among them that all subscribe
to. All must believe in eternal tor-
ment and in the inherent immortality
of the soul and in the Trinity.

These are all cardinal errors brought
down from the paganism of the Dark
Ages. None of these doctrines is
taught in the Bible! Not a word of
them ! We would be glad to help these
people out of the darkness, but it is
not possible with the majority as yet.
Why? Because each creed has set a
stake, and there is a sentiment among
them: "Don't be turncoats! Your
father and mother were Methodists, or
Baptists, or Presbyterians, or Luther-
ans, and you should be true to the re-
ligion of your fathers." This is a nar-
row, sectarian spirit. Did God ever
authorize any of these sects? No!
no! Then all these different denomi-
nations are without the slightest au-
thority from God or the Book of God.
Is not that true? It is true. Would
anybody dispute it? No, for it is in-
controvertible. Please read I Corin-
thian* 1:10-13. What does God tell
us is the right way? It is that the

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Church of Christ should be united —
not federated, each still holding to its
own creed, but united, in the one faith
once delivered to the saints.

Modern Hypocrisy and Lukewarmness

The Lord tells us in His Word that
"the path of the just is as the shining
light, that shineth more and more unto
the perfect day." He tells us that we
are to walk in the light, and that we
are not to become entangled in any
yoke of bondage. (Galatians 5:1).
We have neglected the Word of God.
We have gotten into bondage and sec-
tarianism. What is the condition to-
day ? The condition is a very sad and
sorrowful one. We would prefer not
to say what we feel that we must say,
because it seems like a very severe
arraignment. And yet, when you think
it over carefully, you will be convinced
that professed Christian people in gen-
eral are living in unrecognized hypoc-
risy. You ask them if they believe the
creed of their church, and the answer
will be, "Oh, no, I don't believe that!
None of our — well, I don't believe it!"
No, of course, he does not! "But,"
some may say, "when a great lot of
people are doing the same thing, it
doesn't seem so bad." We answer that
if one person professes a falsehood and
sails under false colors it is bad. If
two do it, it is twice as bad. If a thou-
sand do so, it is a thousand times as
bad. If millions do it, it is millions
of times as bad. The more there are
who are hypocritical the worse it is.
Is not that logical? Of course it is.
So if any one tells you he is a Presby-
terian and believes his creed, you may
be sure that he has not read it. And
so with the others.

We had a little discussion in the
newspapers some time ago, and the
reporters of the papers visited the
ministers of the different churches and

asked them if they believed their
creed. The majority said, "No; we
don't believe the creed ; we never read
it." But in taking the vow of alle-
giance to their denomination they pro-
fess to believe the creed. What, then,
do these ministers mean? So we see
the same condition in both pulpit and
pew. All persecution has ceased in
these denominations; they are enter-
tained by scholarly dissertations, fine
oratory and flowery essays that lull the
people to soft repose, and a general
condition of apathy and lukewarm-
ness exists. — Revelation 3:14-18.

This is a terrible state to be in.
Those who are awake, whose eyes are
open to present conditions, believe that
we are now at the very close of the
present Gospel Age. This great war
in Europe is the beginning of Arma-
geddon. Right along after this war is
coming the great "Earthquake" men-
tioned in Revelation — a mighty Revo-
lution — so mighty an "Earthquake" as
has never been since man has been up-
on the earth, overthrowing all these
kingdoms of the world. In Europe
they call themselves kingdoms of God,
and represent that they have authority
from God. Each kingdom thinks God
is on its side and against its foes, the
other kingdoms of God ( ?). None of
them have any authority from God
whatever. We see the conditions fast
ripening that will demolish in a mael-
strom of ruin and chaos all these king-
doms and governments of the world,
and then, just beyond that, the "fire"
of Anarchy, which will utterly destroy
present civilization. And beyond that,
what? Oh, thank God; the "still,
small voice" of the Lord Himself,
speaking peace through Emanuel —
the Kingdom of God's dear Son, the
Kingdom in which every true saint of
God is to have a share! "To him
that overcometh will I grant to sit with
Me in My Throne." — Revelation 3:21.

The Scimitar

By John Briggs, Jr.

HE STUDIO was in darkness
except for a splash of yellow
light above the chair in which
lay my friend. In a heavy
oaken frame on the opposite wall, il-
luminated by the upward flash of the
light, was a painting of a giant negro,
dressed in oriental garments of a deep
blue and grasping a great blue scimi-
tar. The painting was alive with sin-
ister personality. It was as though the
artist had caught the essence of some
evil power and had transmitted it bod-
ily to canvas. So vivid was the de-
lineation that one almost expected the
figure to step out of its shadowy back-
ground and down into the room.
My friend looked up.
"A peculiar picture," he said. "And
I painted it under peculiar circum-
stances. If you won't interrupt I'll tell
you the story. It happened five years
ago. Carter and I were playing
around at Chaddsford. We'd fixed up
a studio of sorts there. We'd paint
while the light held good; play the
rest of the time ; and slept not at all —
great life that. We made innumer-
able sketches of subjects ranging from
plump country maidens to even plum-
per pigs in clover, all of them shock-
ingly bad — and were quite happy.
Then one evening we ran into an ex-
perience that was anything but pleas-
ing and innocuous.

I had sent a canoe up to Northbrook.
We piled our supper and some painting
stuff into the boat, and at about three
o'clock went coasting down the
Brandywine towards Chaddsford. The
principle of the thing was quite beau-
tiful. You had only to stay in the
canoe and the current would take you
wherever you wanted to go; work was
not necessary. The day was one of

those pleasantly warm ones in Indian
summer that give a blue haze to the
hills and leave a smell of burning brush
tingling one's nostrils. I lay down on
the bottom of the canoe and went to
sleep. 1 was awakened by the shock
of cold water, and found myself float-
ing down the stream. I pulled myself
up on the bank and looked back. The
canoe had wrapped itself around a
rock in the middle of a rapid, and on
that rock sat Carter, daintily perched,
like a bird on a telegraph pole.

He splashed across from his rock;
came down to where I was; and we
looked things over. It seems to me he
had been asleep, too, and neither of
us had the faintest idea of where we
were. Going on was out of the ques-
tion; the canoe had a foot-long rip
in it. Besides it was getting late —
the sun was almost down, and we de-
cided that the best thing to do would
be to beg shelter for the night at
some farmhouse, always providing
that we were fortunate to find one, for
that part of the Brandywine Valley is
none too thickly populated.

We pulled the canoe up on the bank
and started across the field. There
wasn't a house in sight, just the long
expanse of meadow, covered with lush
grass, and the hills beyond. We head-
ed for those. It was a pretty scene.
All the colors were mellowed to pas-
tel indistinctness by the autumn haze.
The brown and green of the field was
split by the silver of the stream, and
on both sides rose up the gently
rounded hills. Everything was soft
and melting like a Corot landscape.

We were halfway up one of the
hills when we looked back. Over to
the right and nestling in by three big
willows, was a little house. We had

OVERLAND MONTHLY

needed the rising ground to see it.
"Our meat," said Carter, and over we
went. The place was enchanting —
and one of those close-stoned, white-
washed, cottages that are rambling
without being loose. Old it looked,
and somehow made you feel as though
you had stepped back a hundred
years. There was a small porch in
front; a porch which was covered
with masses of green vine that flaunt-
ed themselves in your face. The en-
tire place had a whimsically fascinat-
ing charm.

We knocked on the door and waited.
There was a long pause, during which
we heard the approach of hesitating
steps. Then the door was suddenly
flung open, and we stood face to face
with the most enormous negro I have
ever seen in my life. Framed in the
green of the porch he seemed positive-
ly unreal. Black as jet he was, with
eyes whose whites were unusually
large. His squat face was enormously
evil, and was twisted into a senseless
grin.

His eyes — and I've studied a good
many eyes — had so much of that hor-
ribly rolling white. It was not a
healthy color, but like the surface cov-
ering of a month-old snow. His face
was seared with lines of bad living,
and he had the loose mouth of the ex-
treme sensualist. The fellow's capa-
bilities as a model for a difficult pic-
ture I was then painting struck me in-
stantly, and I determined to get hold
of him and make him pose as soon as
possible. He had just the build I
wanted: a magnificent build, mighty
thighs, big shoulders and a small
waist. You could see the big muscles
rippling to and fro under the black
skin on his neck and shoulders like
the slow weaving coil and recoil of a
cobra, and with that face he was one
man in a hundred for me.

"There's nobody here," he said sul-
lenly.

"You're here, aren't you?" replied
little Carter.

The fellow convulsively gathered
himself up. It was evident that the
moment had unpleasant possibilities.

"Our canoe upset," I interposed,
hastily, supposing him to be a farm-
hand left in charge of some tenant-
house. "Can you put us up for the
night? We'll pay you well for your
trouble."

At the mention of money his face
lost something of its- scowl. It was
like the face of a bad child, tempted
by a stick of candy. I pulled out my
wallet and thrust a dollar bill into his
hands. The result was astounding. It
was as though an artist had painted
a hideously malignant face, and then,
with a single sweep of his brush, had
changed the expression to one of ab-
ject servility. The fellow actually be-
gan to bow and scrape. It was sicken-
ingly like the fawning of a dog. Then
he opened the door and bowed us in.
The room was clean and decently fur-
nished. A large oil lamp on the cen-
ter of a table fought back the gather-
ing gloom, and I began to think we'd
be quite comfortable.

"Can you get us anything to eat?"
I asked.

The negro disappeared into the next
room, evidently a kitchen, and brought
out hot sweet potatoes, liver and
bacon; pretty fair living for a farm-
hand. He placed the food before us,
and, always cringing, stepped back.
Yet to me it seemed that under his
outward shell of servility lay some-
thing deeper and infinitely more sin-
ister, just as the steel of a sword un-
derlies a velvet scabbard. It was as
though he were dissecting us, blindly
wondering at us. As we ate, I could
feel his gaze on the back of my neck,
cold, prying and yet, somehow, sense-
less. It was not a pleasant meal as
far as I was concerned, although I
doubt whether Carter was disturbed
in the least. Whenever I would turn,
casually around, there the negro
would be, subservient and cringing,
and yet, more and more, despite every
tightening hitch I gave to my mind,
he made me think of a great morio —
those hideous imbeciles that the lad-
ies of old Rome used to consider so
amusing. He fascinated the artist in
me, too. I thought of how I would

THE SCIMITAR

pose him; how I would arrange that
huge body. This feeling grew on me,
until I became quite mad to paint him.

It was almost seven o'clock when
we finished eating. The negro cleared
away the dishes, and we sat and
smoked our wet tobacco. Then he re-
appeared, carrying some dirty blan-
kets, put them down, asked us if there
was anything else we wanted, and at
our "no," went back into the kitchen.
Carter and I talked for a while and
then turned in on the floor with our
blankets about us. Carter, I am sure,
went to sleep almost at once. I closed
my eyes and began one of those end-
less thought-chains that most people
indulge in before sleeping, my mind
skipping heedlessly from one subject
to another. Yet always it came back
to this strange negro, and the painting
I would make of him. I could visual-
ize every bit of it; see the detail, every
pigment of the color. I really think I
could have painted it then precisely
as one colors a photograph, and al-
ways that giant black was the personi-
fication of it, as though I had always
painted him, and he had stepped bod-
ily out of the canvas.

I was awakened by little Carter
poking me in the side. I sat up and
rubbed the sleep from my eyes. The
room was flooded with soft light. It
startled me until I remembered that
the moon had risen. Everything, in-
doors and out, was bathed in that sil-
ver mellowness that only a harvest
moon gives. It must have been a
beautiful night, but still I couldn't un-
derstand why Carter should wake me
up to look at it; even a harvest moon
is common enough. I was preparing
to discuss his shortcomings in detail,
when he leaned over and whispered to
me:

"Our friend is holding an 'at home.'
He's been at it for some time now."

I listened and I could hear a low
murmur of voices coming from the
kitchen. The murmur was punctu-
ated here and there by a plainly aud-
ible oath. The thing was interesting;
Carter and I left our blankets, and
stole over to the kitchen door. It was

a battered affair with a wide gap by
each hinge, so that we could easily
see through.

It was a larger room than I had
thought, and looked older than the
rest of the house. In its center was
a great oaken table at each end of
which, jammed into the necks of two
broken bottles, were candles. The
flames of the candles went straight
up toward the ceiling. All the win-
dows were barred; there wasn't a
breath of air in the room. Around the
table, their faces grotesquely tinged
and shadowed in the dim light, sat a
strange company. They were all ne-
groes, and seemed to be playilng
nickel high-card. At the end of the
table, and facing us, was a dealer, a
little bullet-headed yellow man, his
neck encompassed with a high collar
and a red tie. A cigar butt, which he
chewed around and around, was stuck
in the corner of his mouth. He had
his thumbs in his vest, and was lean-
ing back in his chair. On his right
was an individual whom I would have
sworn was either a politician or a
minister. He was tall and lank and
dressed in rusty black. Opposite him
was a very dirty darkey, his clothes
in rags and tatters and his eyes roll-
ing with excitement. There was noth-
ing very distinct about the others to
me — just lumps of black flesh, but
behind the little yellow man, like a
distorted shadow, loomed up the ne-
gro who had let us in. The outlines
of his figure, merging with the smoky
wall behind him, were indistinct, but
his face — and what a face it was! —
stood out like a cameo cut in black
ivory. Have you ever seen a caged
animal who smells the food about to
be thrown to him. That's how that
giant black looked. His mask of ser-
vility had dropped from him as a wo-
man peels off a glove, and he was as
we had first seen him in the doorway.
It was as though he had changed his
very soul, and by some marvelous
transformation had brought the beast
in himself uppermost. His body was
hunched over as though he were wait-
ing to spring, his arms were slightly

OVERLAND MONTHLY

swinging, and across his face was
skewered that hideous, twisted, grin.

The game must have been a long
one, since some of the players had
many nickels before them, while
others had few. The little yellow man
deftly shuffled and gave out the cards.
Beads of sweat gathered on the fore-
head of the darky in rags. Slowly he
pushed out on the table all his remain-
ing money. Then with the utmost fur-
tiveness he reached down, pulled up
a card, and neatly substituted it for
the one he had received. The thing
was so beautifully done as to be al-
most imperceptible, but like a flash
the great negro leaped the table and
grasped the cheat by the throat. It
was as instantaneous as though pre-
arranged. That was all we saw, for
the next instant the candles were out
and there was wild confusion. We
could hear the beat of running feet
outside. Then came silence, followed
by the relighting of a single candle.
The room was empty except for the
little yellow man and his giant guard,
who was cringing under a berating he
was receiving. It made me think of
a great mongrel dog cowering at a
stick in the hands of a small child.
Gone was all the surly power, the evil
strength. The little yellow man strode
to the door and went out, slamming it
behind him.

Slowly, as though a hand were
pressing itself down upon his facial
muscles, the giant's expression
changed. Line by line the features
tightened, the liniaments shaping
themselves with a horrible precision
as though a sculptor were deftly mod-
eling them out of wet clay. Bit by
bit, with a thousand minor evolutions,
the face worked itself into a hideous
entirety, and there stood before us the
negro of the vine-covered doorway,
the negro who had leaped the table to
grasp the cheat by the throat. We
saw him gather himself up and grasp
the table with his great hands. The
muscles of his arms flexed and con-
tracted as though he were tearing
something to bits. Suddenly, with a
sweep of his hand, he brushed the

light from the candle. We jumped
back, and silently rolled up in our
blankets. Perhaps he might come in
to look at us; we were taking no
chances.

We were up early the next morning,
but the negro was up before us, the
fawning, docile creature we had come
to fear. He gave us breakfast — a good
breakfast — which we received with
our best attempts at naturalness. We
payed for our lodging, and I gave him
my card and an extra dollar, saying
that I wanted him a day or two as a
model. I impressed on him the fact
that he would be well paid for easy
work. That any one should want to
paint him seemed to give him a satis-
faction almost childlike. Sane or in-
sane, I wanted him; in fact, I needed
him and had to have him. Then we
left, Carter telling me that he felt as
though he had emerged from a par-
ticularly dark and disagreeable tunnel.
We hired a wagon to take us to
Chaddsford. The incident seemed
closed.

Carter went home soon after that,
and left me to myself. I improved
the opportunity by getting over a good
deal of work. I finished all the illus-
trations for the Arabian story, with
the exception of a single painting. It
was to be of a great blackamoor, with
scimitar uplifted, standing guard at a
harem gate. For that I needed a
model, and every available model
seemed totally inadequate in com-
parison with the negro of the tenant-
house. Daily I expected him, but he
always failed me, and somehow I did
not care to go get him. I imagine that
it was pure nervousness on my part,
but I didn't quite care to stick my head
into that hornet's nest again. I wasn't
quite sure just which incarnation I
should find him in. Meanwhile the
picture hung fire, and I went back to
sketching.

Then came a certain evening in the
beginning of November. I had turned
on the big incandescent lights we used
for night work, and was trying in their
blaze to make a few sketches. I had
been scribbling away for a couple of

THE SCIMITAR

hours and was becoming quite tired.
I yawned, got up, lpoked around, and
recoiled in horrible surprise. There
by the open bay window was the iden-
tical negro of the farm-house. I
closed my eyes and then looked again.
The nightmare figure was still there.
Hunched over he was, like a great ape
and senselessly swinging his arms, as
I had seen him do that other night.
His hands were clenching and re-
clenching, and his eyes were lit with
a kind of foolish cunning. That he
was now quite mad I never for an
instant doubted. How long he had
been there, or what particular bit of
devil's luck had brought him to me,
were questions which my mind was
totally unable to grasp, let alone solve.

We stood and stared at each other
for what must have been a full min-
ute. Then he took a step forward.

"You goin' to paint," he growled.
His voice was hideous, seeming to
come not from his throat, but from
deep down in his body.

With a tremendous effort, I pulled
myself together.

"I can't in this light," I said.

"You paint," he ordered, and came
forward a little more, tensed and
ready to spring. I could almost feel
the grip of those huge hands on my
throat. My mind worked furiously.
There must be some way out. Per-
haps he had done some terrible thing
and was even then fleeing. The con-
dition of his clothes supported me
in this belief. They were badly
ripped, and the tears appeared to be
fresh; besides, he was soaked to the
skin as though he had been fording
the river. His pursuers might be
just behind. If I could only keep the
Ladman in him down — make him

>mewhat nearer the fawning coward

had seen him to be, until help came!
anything that would occupy his mind
rould do.

"Strip and step over there," I said,

)inting to the model stand. I was

ilm by now, with a kind of icy dread,
ind was giving myself orders, pre-
:isely as a general behind the lines

mds instructions to his troops at the

front. I wondered dimly if he would
obey me. If he obeyed once, he
might obey again, and that would be
something gained. For just an instant,
while my heart stood still, he hesi-
tated and then ripping off his rags,
he stepped up on the stand ; I had won
the first point.

A canvas was strapped on the easel
before me, and feverishly I set to
work. That scene is forever burned
into my memory. If you were to take
a knife and rip up that painting, I
could do it again just as it was. That
huge madman standing up before me
like a great black panther, and I paint-
ing for my life. I can remember every
line of his glistening body, every
twist of his dreadful face. I moved
the easel slightly so that he could
plainly see it, and at the same time
I could see him without turning en-
tirely around. I prayed that he might
weaken, become again the cur — but
there was no sign of it.

Quickly the picture took shape — I
wasn't bothering with any preliminary
sketching — and I painted that nigger
as I saw him, and felt him, and feared
him. How long we were there I don't
know, but it seemed eternity. He be-
gan to grow restless. Color, I thought,
might hold him, and I swept my brush
in big blue swathes down the canvas.
Would help never come ! I was paint-
ing in a delirious dream when I heard
the beat of hoofs outside and a knock
at the door.

"Come in, come in!" I screamed.
"He's here. He's here!" — and then I
hurled myself across the room "

"Well" I said, "did they get him?"

"Yes," was the reply. "They got
him, though he fought like a wildcat.
He had been mentally deranged al-
though not actually insane from child-
hood. To those he feared, he was like
a great dog; to the others — well! The
little yellow man whom Carter and I
had seen that night was Spike Francis,
a notorious mulatto gambler. Spike
realized the capabilities of this nig-
ger and used him as a bully to terror-
ize the patrons of his games. He
played with fire once too often. The

OVERLAND MONTHLY

big negro had turned against Francis
and killed him. That was the push
that had sent the giant over into per-
manent insanity."

My friend paused for an instant,

and then laughed softly.

"The picture itself," he said, "I pol-
ished up and sent in with the others.
It was rejected. They called it 'un-
pleasant' "

"The Daughter of the Storage," by

William D. Howells.

Style in literature remains a quality
which evades the net of definition. But
if it refuses to be ensnared by the
critic for the purposes of scientific
dissection, yet for the reader its rec-
ognition is easy, almost immediate.
If it were possible to take up "The
Daughter of the Storage, and Other
Things in Prose and Verse," quite in
ignorance of its authorship, one would
instantly recognize the hand of a
writer skilled in his craft to an un-
common degree.

Mr. Howells's unchallenged posi-
tion in the forefront of American let-
ters renders notable any new volume
bearing his name. "The Daughter of
the Storage," which the Harpers have
just published, takes its title from the
initial story of a volume in which are
gathered all of Mr. Howell's recent un-
published work — short stories of vary-
ing degrees of shortness, prose stud-
ies, some fugitive verse, and a farce
or two, in which the dramatic form
usurps the place of narrative as the
more suitable vehicle for the author's
genial irony and delightful humor.

One is everywhere conscious of a
mellowness of art, an urbanity of man-
ner, an acuteness of insight and large-
ness of heart. Mr. Howells is of that
rare company of authors whom we
cannot read without feeling that we
have been ushered before a distin-

guished presence. His is a realism
coupled with such fineness of imagina-
tion and nicety of touch that his stor-
ies seem to develop themselves with-
out effort, and out of the simple stuff
of daily life, without recourse to the
melodramatic or to crude or highly
colored detail. And in depicting our
modern ways of doing and thinking, he
finds scope for a genial satire, good-
humored and benevolent.

Published by Harper & Brothers,
Franklin Square, New York.

"A History of Sculpture," by Harold

N. Fowler, Ph. D.

In this book the author gives a his-
tory of the art of sculpture from the
beginnings of civilization in Egypt
and Babylonia to the present day. A
single chapter deals with the art of
the Far East, because it has devel-
oped separate from Western art; the
sculpture of American aborigines, of
the negro races, and the tribes of
Oceania, on account of its lack of in-
trinsic value, as well as influence, has
been omitted. With these exceptions,
the author's discussion includes all
important developments in the art of
sculpture in ancient, medieval and
modern times, with such descriptions
of individual works and accounts of
individual artists as illustrate the
main tendencies in artistic history.

The book is profusely illustrated
with half-tones from photographs,

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drilling on the sports' field.

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Founded 1878.
Catalogue on application.

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OVERLAND MONTHLY

showing not only the masterpieces of
sculpture, but those works which have
been epoch-making, or have influenced
artistic development.

Decorated cloth, 8vo. Price $2.00.
Published by Macmillan Co., New
York.

'With the French in France and Sa-
lonika," by Richard Harding Davis.
Illustrated.

In writing this record of his second
trip to the front, Mr. Davis was great-
ly assisted by the impression made
upon the French authorities and offi-
cers by his last book, "With the Al-
lies." Because of this impression he
was accorded most unusual facilities
for seeing the fighting, living among
the soldiers and passing freely through
the lines. He gives most graphic ac-
counts of the bombardment and de-
struction of Arraz, of the mud trenches
of Artois, and the zizzag chalk
trenches of Champagne, of the fight-
ing in Argonne, of the retreat of the
Allies in Serbia, of the landing of re-
inforcements at Salonika, and count-
less other events and aspects of the
war in the winter of 1915-16. It is all
told with startling vividness, giving
impressions made on all the senses by
every detail of his remarkable experi-
ences. Mr. Davis revised the final
proofs just before his death.

$1.00 net. Published by Charles
Scribner's Sons, New York.

"The Answer: An Answer on Philoso-
phy," by W. J. Chidley.

Francis J. Anderson, Professor of
Philosophy, Sydney University, fur-
nishes an introduction to this book
which covers its scopes and aims ade-
quately. To quote: "Mr. Chidley
writes on philosophy and on the vari-
ous philosophical systems of the past,
with great fulness and knowledge, and
with much critical insight. He is a
man of broad culture and unselfish
aims. It would be unnecessary to
make this last remark, were it not
that Mr. Chidley is known to the
greater part of the public as a man

who has recently been prosecuted for
circulating what was alleged to be an
immoral book." The object of the
book involves the treatment of the
sexual problem. "Mr. Chidley may
be wrong in his main contention, both
in his statement of facts and his in-
terpretation of them, but there is noth-
ing in his exposition which justifies
the charge of immorality brought
against him." The question involved
is one that divides philosophers, and
ordinary human beings as well. Mr.
Chidley's object is to improve the hu-
man race, spiritually, mentally and
physically. There is no doubt as to
that point.

Published by Sydney D. Smith,
Sydney, Australia.

"The Gift of Mind to Spirit," by John
Kulamer.

This volume aims to bridge the
chasm between religion ad science, and
thus to lend a helping hand to those
who travel the road of doubt. The
author speaks of the human soul in
terms of science — of the soul not only
as the life giving principle, but as it
manifests itself in daily human inter-
course. Soulless science is unhuman,
and of little use indeed would be our
knowledge of the laws of nature unless
applied to the amelioration and en-
richment of our social relations so as to
make life more agreeable, more full
and more complete. On the other
hand, religion itself is of little or no
value unless it accomplishes the same
purposes. As the author makes plain,
the saving of an individual by obtain-
ing for him entrance into the realms
of individual bliss is too selfish a point
of view for the benefit of society.

Price, $1.35 net. Published by Sher-
man, French & Co.

"Paradoxical Pain," by Robert Max-
well Harbin, A. B., M. D., F. A. C.
S.

Paradoxical pain stands in a general
sense for all that is uncomfortable,
but which sooner or later serves some
beneficent purpose and is constructive

OVERLAND MONTHLY

in its effect, while the opposite kind
of pain is evil and works for harm and
destruction. A clear differentiation of
the two is made by the author in this
volume. In the process of his discus-
sion he shows that a Wise Order de-
crees that the line of all progress fol-
lows a course attended by more or less
effort, which is usually more or less
painful and uncomfortable. A moder-
ate amount of disease is seen to be nec-
essary to keep man in physical excel-
lence, which has been produced by an
acquired immunity from constant ex-
posure to infection, and without the
presence of disease man would revert
to a condition of vulnerability which
now afflicts the savage. Pain is not
merely an incident in the beneficent or-
der of things, but a profound cause
from which the greatest blessings flow.
Price, $1.25 net. Published by Sher-
man, French & Co., Boston, Mass.

"In the Garden of Abdullah and Other
Poems," by Adolphe Danziger. Au-
thor of "The Monk and the Hang-
man's Daughter." Second Edition.

A small volume of entertaining light
verse from a pen that is clever and
protean in its effects. The author is
an out-and-out cosmopolitan, drifting
hither and yon over the surface of the
earth, at rest in no place. San Fran-
cisco finally claimed him, and held
his attention for five years or so. On
the "News Letter" he was dramatic
critic for many years, and his trenchant
pen will be remembered by those who
hold the pen mightier than the sword.

Published by Western Authors' Pub-
lishing Company, Los Angeles, Cal.

Some time ago it was announced that
the publication of the second volume
of Maxim Gorky's autobiography
would be indefinitely postponed, owing
to the fact that the English translation
and printed sheets of the book were in-
terned in Berlin for the duration of the
war. But the Century Company, which
published the first volume, "My Child-
hood," has just received word that the
second volume is now running serially

in a Russian magazine. Hopes are en-
tertained that a fresh translation may
be undertaken immediately, and that
the book may appear sooner than had
been supposed possible. It is to be
called "In the World."

Tributes to Anna Howard Shaw.

At the luncheon given Dr. Anna
Howard Shaw in New York, a short
time ago, many speeches were made,
expressing the joy of the suffragists in
this return of their leader, after her
almost fatal illness of last winter. Eliz-
abeth Jordan, who collaborated with
Dr. Shaw in the preparation of her au-
tobiography, "The Story of a Pio-
neer," devoted her speech to the life
work of "the Pioneer." Miss Jordan
began by saying that this was her first
opportunity to tell what she thought
of Dr. Shaw, and that she intended to
talk all afternoon. She didn't do it,
however, but contented herself with a
few minutes' tribute, which deeply
touched Dr. Shaw.

"The Night Cometh," by Paul Bourget.

The scene of "The Night Cometh,"
by Paul Bourget, is a war clinique to
which are sent desperate surgical
cases. The surgeon-in-chief is a man
endowed with every intellectual power
— overwhelmed with all the favors of
fate. Yet at a time when his pre-emi-
nent abilities are most needed, when
the life of others depends upon the
clarity of his faculties and the sureness
of his hand, he is threatened by a mor-
tal disease. The sport of a cruel Des-
tiny, he faces what he believes is an-
nihilation, and he has planted in the
soul of his young wife the seeds of
his materialistic outlook.

As a champion against this view and
incidentally as a danger — a danger
recognized by the ageing husband — to
the stability of the young wife's affec-
tions, always more imaginary than
real, and under the domination of her
will power rather than her heart, there
enters, or rather is brought to the hos-
pital severely wounded, a young officer
full of the enthusiasm of faith, a de-

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OVERLAND MONTHLY

vout believer in the ways of God, how-
ever inscrutable. The combat of belief
regarding the ultimate truths of life no
less than the absorbing human battle
between the jealous husband, on the
one hand, whose hitherto noble poise
of character is giving way under the
double attack of disease and drugs,
and his ardent rival, on the other, who,
notwithstanding the control he exer-
cises over his heart, cannot conceal
from those suspicious eyes the trend of
his love — a love so closely guarded
that it is only incompletely recognized
by the woman who is the object of it —
make this story one of action as well
as of thought, and of both in an ex-
ceptional degree.

Published by G. P. Putnam's Sons,
New York.

The J. B. Lippincott Company pub-
lished this month "The Rise of Rail
Power in War and Conquest," by E. H.
Pratt, the noted expert, in which the
startling developments of rail power
are given a clear and interesting expo-
sition, with particular reference to the
military achievements of the great
world powers. In fiction, they offer
Dr. Nevil Monroe Hopkins' "The
Strange Cases of Mason Brant," in
which science and psychology are
handled by the author with the skill
bred of intimate acquaintance with
both branches of human knowledge;
and Mrs. Grace L. H. Lutz's new novel
of adventure, "The Finding of Jasper
Holt."

Nationality in History.

The varied manifestations of nation-
ality among the chief European nations
are studied in J. Holland Rose's "Na-
tionality in Modern History," pub-
lished by Macmillan Company. The
author, one of the ablest of modern
historians, supplies, in effect, the back-
ground of the conflict in Europe, con-
tributing largely to a clearer under-
standing of those factors which make
for war. Beginning with a discussion
of the dawn of the national idea, he
takes up in turn the growth of that idea
in France, Germany, Spain, Italy and
the Slavic Kingdoms, concluding with
a consideration of The German Theory
of the State, Nationality and Mili-
tarism, Nationality Since 1855 and In-
ternationalism.

IDEAL TOURIST SHOVEL.

A shovel for motorists and campers,
sold under the name Ideal, and adver-
tised on page xvii, is made by the
Ideal Mfg. Co., North Kansas City,
Mo. It will be noted in the illustra-
tion that the Ideal shovel has a tele-
scoping handle. This adjustable fea-
ture permits using the shovel with a
short, half or full length handle, or
when not in use the handle telescopes
into the hollow part of the blade, so
that the shovel can be placed in any
ordinary tool box. The blade is made
of carbon steel and measures 6V A by
8V2 inches. The length of the handle
extended is 16 inches, and the total
weight is 2 pounds.

Please Mention Overland Monthly When Writing Advertisers

The Vote Player Piano r * IB Jr ..«*»

is so . I that even a little -^*^^^^

child can play it. It combines our superior player
action with the renowned Vose Pianos which have
been manufactured during 63 years by three gene-
rations of the Vose family. In purchasing this in-
strument you secure quality, tone, and artistic merit
at a moderate price, on time payments, if desired,
•alogue and literature sent on request to those
interested. Send today.
A You should become a satisfied owner of a ^

PLAYER

vose

PIANO

VOSE & SONS PIANO CO., 189 BoyUton St.. Boston. Mast.

□

The

Outdoor

Girl

who loves her favorite sports and
takes interest in her social duties
must protect her complexion. Con-
stant exposure means a ruined skin.

Gouraud's

Oriental Cream

affords the complexion perfect pro-
tection under the most trying con-
ditions and renders a clear, soft,
pearly-white appearance to the skin.
In use for nearly three quarters of a
century.

Send lOc. for trial size 17

FERD. T. HOPKINS & SON

37 Great Jones Street New York City

i^3i

Scientific Dry Farming

Are you a dry farmer? Are you interested in the develop-
ment of a dry farm? Are you thinking of securing a home-
stead or of buying land in the semi-arid West? In any case you
should look before you leap. You should learn the principles
that are necessary to success in the new agriculture of the west.
You should

Learn the Campbell System

Learn the Campbell System of Soil Culture and you will not
fail. Subscribe for Campbell's Scientific Farmer, the only au-
thority published on the subject of scientific soil tillage, then
take a course in the Campbell Correspondence School of Soil
Culture, and you need not worry about crop failure. Send four
cents for a catalog and a sample copy of the Scientific Farmer.

Address,

Scientific Soil Culture Co.

BILLINGS, MONTANA

6®i®B®9

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LAKE TAHOE

A Night's Ride From San Francisco and

Oakland

Most beautiful mountain lake in most pict-
uresque region in America. The central
jewel in a brilliant diadem of Alpine lakes.

Attractive hotels and casinos. Comfortable
cottages, tents and camping facilities.

Accommodations and prices to suit all tastes.
Rates at various resorts from $2.50 per day
to $12 per week and up. American plan.

Trout fishing in lake and stream; motor boating
and automobiling. Mountain climbing,
dancing and evening entertainment.

Men and women fond of horse-back exercise
will find charm in the natural trails with
which the region abounds.

<U1 A OC DAILY <t1 O CA FRI- and SAT.

«P * **«^*J Limit 3 months *P 1 ^.W 15 . Day Li mit

Lv. San Francisco Ferry Station, 7.00 P. M. Lv. Oakland (Sixteenth St.) 7:37 P. M.

Through Pullman Sleeper from Oakland Pier to Truckee Commencing June 10th.

Connects at Truckee with Lake Tahoe Ry. for the Lake,
arriving at 8:45 A. M.

Ask for our beautifully illustrated folder

SOUTHERN PACIFIC

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rhe German Savings
and Loan Society

(The German Bank)
lavlngs Incorporated 1868 Commercial

526 California Street, San Francisco, Cal.
Member of the Associated Savings Banks of San

Francisco)
The following Branches for Receipt and Payment
>f Deposits only:

MISSION BRANCH

6. E. CORNER MISSION AND 21ST STREETS

RICHMOND DISTRICT BRANCH

S. W. CORNER CLEMENT AND 7TH AVENUE

HAIGHT STREET BRANCH

S. W. CORNER HAIGHT AND BELVEDERE

DECEMBER 31st, 1915

assets $ 61,849,662.02

Deposits 58,840,699.38

Capital actually paid up in Cash 1,000,000.00
leserve and Contingent Funds 2,008,962.64
employees' Pension Fund . 211,238.93

lumber of Depositors . . • 6 7,40 6

Office Hours: 10 o'clock A. M. t3 3 o'clock P. M.,
txcept Saturdays to 12 o'clock M. and Saturday
rvenlngs from 6 o'clock P. M. to 8 o'clock P. M.
or receipt of deposits only.

For the 6 months ending December 31, 1915,
dividend to depositors of 4 percent, per annum
ras declared.

T7FMA Psoriasis, cancer, goitre, tetter,
-V^^-ClVl/A. o)d sores, catarrah, dandruff,
ore eyes, rheumatism, neuralgia, stiff joints,
tching piles; cured or money refunded. Write
>r Darticulars. Prepaid $1.25.
:CZEMA REMEDY CO. Hot Springs, Ark.

y Death, Premature Old Age, Constipation

'isease Appendicitis, Calcination of Ar-

• umatism, Stomach-Kidney-Liver-Heart-

;n-&-Nerve-Troubles are caused by in-

POISONING of the system, created

oison producing Germs, living in the Intestines.

IURT, the Bulgarian Milk, destroys the auto-

and consequently removes nine-tenths of all

and prolongs life. Special Obesity Treat-

llars Yoghurt Co. (11) -Wash.

The Favorite Home Lamp

250 C. P.— I Cent a Day

Portable, safe, convenient. No
• ;nx wires or tubes. Oper-
ates 60 hours on one gallon of
gasoline, saves money and eyes.
Automatically cleaned , adjustable
high or low at will. Posit-
ively cannot clog. Ov
any position. Cuarantwd. !>.<•-
orated china shade free with each
lamp. Just the thing for homes,
hotels, doctors' and lawyers'
offices. Ask your local hard warn
dealer for a on. if he

doesn't carry it he can obtain it
from any Wholesale Hard wan*
House or writ'' direct tons.

National Stamping 4 Electric Works
431 So. Clinton St., Chicago, Illinois

AEN OF IDEAS

and Inventive ability
should write for new
"Lists of Needed Inven-

Patent Buyers and "How to Get Your Patent
•y." Advice FREE. Randolph A Co.,

Attorneys, Dept. 86, Washington, D. C.

A Typical
"Eagle Brand" Boy

Give your baby the right food during
the first twelve months of his little life
and the chances are that he will grow
to be a sturdy child.

You would travel far to find a more
rugged youngster than this boy. His
mother could not nurse him. When he
was two weeks old his aunt, who is a
physician, put him on

COndensED

THE ORIGINAL
He began to thrive at once and has
never had a set-back. His muscles are
hard— his flesh firm. Cort is not an ex-
ceptional child. There are thousands of
sturdy children like him whose mothers
have brought them up on

BORDEN'S

"Eagle ±*rand"— tne pure milk from
healthy cows which for nearly sixty years
has been used as a safe, easily prepared
baby food.

When you use "Eagle Brand"— either as
a pure food for your baby or as a rich
milk for cooking— you know that you are
getting rich, safe milk.

Send coupon today,

BORDEN'S CONDENSED MILK CO.

' 'Leaders of Quality " Est. 1 85 7, New York

Borden's Condensed Milk Co.

1*8 Hudson St.. N. Y.
Please land mo the booklets checked:
....■'The Important Huaineaa of Being a Mother,"

which toll* me how to keep my baby well.
...."Baby'a Biography," in which to record the im-
portant event* of my baby'a life,

nlen'a Kecipea. " which ihowt me how to
improve my cooking.

Name

Address

Ov. 7-16

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Magazine Donates

$10,000

Our Readers May Profit by Generosity of Western Magazine

Firm

A well-known Denver publishing house has appropriated
$10,000 to be used solely in a whirl-wind circulation campaign.
Their offer is so liberal and the magazine so interesting that
everybody is eager to send in his name.

The magazine referred to is thirteen years old, and each
month publishes stories of adventure, numerous engravings
and sketches of western life, cowboy capers, [descriptions of
famous ranches, irrigation projects, land news, rich gold mines,
etc., and tells how and where to get homesteads. Also, a depart-
ment telling how to find happiness, health and prosperity, and
how to do the most good in the world. It is the oldest, largest,
and finest magazine in the west. Readers say it is worth $3,
but in this surprising circulation campaign the publishers are
spending their money like water, and our readers may sub-
scribe one year for only 25c; three full years for 50c. It is
the biggest honest offer ever made. Remit in cash, postage
stamps or money order. Tell all your friends. This offer may
not appear again. Send today. Money back if not delighted.
Mention the Overland Monthly, and address,

Rocky Mountain Magazine

Station 92
Denver, Colorado

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Construction News
Press Clippings

Contractors, Material Men, Builders, Manu-
facturers, in fact, anybody interested in con-
struction news of all kinds, obtain from our
daily reports quick, reliable information.
Cur Bpecial correspondents all over the
country enable us to give our patrons the
news in advance of their competitors, and
before it has become common property.

Let us know what you want, and we will
send you samples and quote you prices.

Press clippings on any subject from all
the leading current newspapers, magazines,
trade and technical journals of the United
States and Canada. Public speakers, writ-
ers, students, club women, can secure re-
liable data for speeches, essays, debates, etc.
Special facilities for serving trade and class
journals, railroads and large industrial cor-
porations.

We read, through our staff of skilled
readers, a more comprehensive and better
selected list of publications than any other
bureau.

We aim to give prompt and intelligent ser-
vice at the lowest price consistent with
good work.

Write us about it. Send stamp for book-
let.

United States Press Clipping Bureau

Rand McNally Bldg.

CHICAGO, ILL-

California Xi)orrli»rr
EVERY SATURDAY $4.00 PER YEAR

Profusely Illustrated

rimely Editorials. Latest News of Society

Events. Theatrical Items of Interest.

Authority on Automobile, Financial

and Automobile Happenings.

10 Cts. the Copy. $4.00 the Year

• x I, It,

Kfc]

Handiest J| sJ "
Tool in ^^^^;
Camp

Just what the camper or woodsman
needs. The Ideal telescopes from
long-handled shovel to compact size
that fits any kit. Light-weight and
durable.

Made of high-carbon steel, nickel-
plated finish. Will stand a life-time
of hard work.

PRICE $2.00

Ask Your Dealer or Write Us

Dealers supplied through jobbing

trade

Ideal Manufacturing Co.

North Kansas City, Mo.

WHY BE STOUT?

50c Box FREE;"

To prove that ADIPO, a pleasant, harm,
less Obesity Treatment, will take fat off
any part of the body, we will send a
to anyone who
is too fat. Adipo
quires no
exercising or dieting, nor does it in-
terfere with your usual habits. Rheuma-
tism, Asthma, Kidney and Heart troubles,
that so often come with Obesity, im-
prove as you reduce. Let us prove It
at our expense. Write toil ly for the
FREE SOc Box and illustrated book.
Address ADIPO CO. .2995 Ashland
Building, New York C.ty.

TRADE IN YOUR OLD TYPEWRITER

ON THE LIGHT RUNNING FOX

Send us the name, model and serial number of your
typewriter and we will at once mail you our New
Catalog and write you exchange offer on the New Fox
Model No. 24, cash or time payments.

Write for New Schedule of Prices to Dealers-
Prices are the lowest ever made on high grade
•writers. We have a new model, new price, and a
wholly new policy under a new management. Please
mention Overland Monthly for Julv.

FOX TYPEWRITER COMPANY

4803-4813 FRONT AVENUE

GRAND RAPIDS, MICH.

xviii Please Mention Overland Monthly When Writing Advertisers

FOR SALE! $4,000

40 ACRES ON "LAS UVAS"

Santa Clara County, Cal.

The finest mountain stream in Santa Clara
County, facing the county Road.

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 Madrone8 miles, to Gilroy 12 miles,
to Almaden 11 miles, and to San Jose 21
miles.

For Further Particulars Address,

Owner, 21 Sutter Street
San Francisco - - California

Please Mention Overland Monthly When Writing Advertisers

xix

THE

Paul Gerson

DRAMATIC SCHOOL

Incorporated Under the Laws of the State of California

The Largest Training School
of Acting in America

The Ooly Dramatic School on the Pacific Coast

TENTH YEAR

Elocution, Oratory,
Dramatic Art

Advantages:
Professional Experience While Study-
ing. Positions Secured for Graduates.
Six Months Graduating Course. Stu-
dents Can Enter Any Time.

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

Paul Gerson Dramatic School Bldg.

McAllister and hyde street

San Francisco, Cal.
Write for Catalogue.

Women of Refinement

thousands of them— throughout the world
make daily use of the genuine

MURRAY $ LANMANS

(The Original, Century-old)

FLORIDA. "WATER

Widely regarded as an indispensable aid to
beauty and comfort. Its sprightly fragrance
is acceptable to the most discrim-
inating taste, and its delightful,
refreshing effect is best attained
when it is added to the bath.

Sold by Leading Druggists
and Perfumers

Sample size mailed for six cents

in stamps.

Booklet, "Beauty and Health"

sent on request.

LANMAN & KEMP
135 Water St., New York
llllllllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinii miiiiiiiii mill

F. MARRIOTT, Publisher

A Journal for the Cultured
Oldest and Brightest Week-
ly Newspaper on the Paci-
fic Coast. 10 Cents Per Copy

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10 YEARS

COPIES WANTED

Overland Monthly

We desire copies of
Overland Aonthly from
December 1875 to
January 1886 to com-
plete our files. Liberal
premiums will be paid,

MANAGER

Overland Monthly

21 SUTTER ST., SAN FRANCISCO

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][

]DC

$10.00

VACUUM SWEEPER

to OVERLAND MONTHLY

- SUBSCRIBERS -

$4.95

THE SUPERIOR— Combination Cleaner with Brush Attachment

has three highly efficient bellows, so arranged as to produce
a continuous even suction, so powerful, that we have en-
tirely eliminated the necessity of sliding or dragging the
nozzle and front end of the machine over the carpet.

This makes the machine run fifty per cent easier; saves
the nap on the carpet and makes it possible to run off and
onto rugs without lifting the machine from the floor. WE
ACHIEVE these results by supporting the front end of the
machine on two small side wheels just back of the nozzle.

In addition, our new Combination Sweeper is fitted with
a large revolving brush that will do its work as well as any
carpet sweeper.

This brush is full sweeper size and is very thick and
substantial, having 4 rows of genuine bristles with spiral
twist setting.

The brush may be instantly adjusted to brush deeply
into the nap of the carpet, to skim lightly and swiftly over
the surface or it may be raised up entirely out of use, all by
the touch of a finger.

Both dust pans are emptied instantly without over-
turning the machine by merely depressing one small lever
at the rear.

These attachments make the Superior combination
sweeper the premier sanitary cleaning device of the age.

THE COMBINATION SWEEPER RETAILS FOR $10 CASH.

Subscribers to the OVERLAND MONTHLY old and new will be sup-
plied with the Superior Vacuum Sweeper for $4. 95 when ordered
w th OVERLAND MONTHLY for One Year, Price $1.20.

]Q[

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Subscribe for the

LIVING AGE

IF YOU WANT every aspect of the great European War pre-
sented every week, in articles by the ablest English writers.

IF YOU WANT the leading English reviews, magazines and
journals sifted for you and their most important articles repro-
duced in convenient form without abridgment.

IF YOU WANT the Best Fiction, the Best Essays and the
Best Poetry to be found in contemporary periodical literature.

IF YOU WANT more than three thousand pages of fresh and
illuminating material during the year, reaching you in weekly
instalments, at the cost of a single subscription.

IF YOU WANT to find out for yourself the secret of the hold
which THE LIVING AGE has kept upon a highly intelligent
constituency for more than seventy years.

Subscription — $6 a Year. Specimen Copies Free

The Living Age Co.

6 BEACON STREET, BOSTON

Miss Hamlin's School
For Girls

Home Building or Pacific Avenue
of Miss Hamlin's School for Girls

Boarding and day pupils. Pupils received
at any time. Accredited by all accredit-
ing institutions, both in California and in
Eastern States. French school for little
children. Please call, phone or address

MISS HAMLIN

2230 PACIFIC AVENUE

TELEPHONE WEST 546

2117

2123
SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.

BROADWAY

The August

Overland
Monthly

In This Issue

COYOTE 0' THE RIO GRANDE

A Serial Story of the Texas-Mexico Border
By WILLIAM DE RYEE

Beginning this month

SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA

A Humorous Feature in Prose and Caricature
by

RICHARD BRETHARTE

Task of the National Guard QJ

By MARSHALL BREEDEN

And Other Good Features

Ten Cents

usAxasbf

•VD. Company

B.V. D. Is The National Gooler-Off

IET B.V. D. teach you the fine art of "Take-It-
Easy. ' It helps you get the most fun out of
^J your holiday. It makes a business of coolness
and brings coolness into business. It eases the
stifling discomfort of a hot day and lessens the fag
of a close evening. It's the National Cooler-Off.

MADE FOR THE! '

If it hasn' t

This Red

Woven Label

B.V D

It isn V
B. V. D.
Underwear

(Trade Mark Reg. U. S. Pat. Of. and Foreign Countries)

B.V.D. Closed Crotch
Union Suits ( Pat.
U. S. A.) $1.00 and
upward the Suit.

B.V.D. Coat Cut Under-
shirts and Knee Length
Drawers, 50c. and
upward the Garment.

The B.V. D. Company, New York.

|l*H'--|H:oB.|»n,.

Please Mention Overland Monthly When Writing Advertisers

The worlds greatest bands
parade before you on the Victrola

One famous band after another entertains you with
its inspiring music.

Sousa's Band, Pryor*s Band, Vessella's Band,
Conway's Band, U. S. Marine Band, Banda de Ala-
barderos of Madrid, Black Diamonds Band of London,
Band of H. M. Coldstream Guards, Garde Repub-
hcaine Band of France, German Cavalry Band, Kryl's
Bohemian Band, Police Band of Mexico Citv— the
greatest bands and orchestras of all the world.
With a Victrolayou can sit back in your easv chair and hear
these celebrated musical organizations.

^ ou can have them play for you any music you wish to hear.
And you hear it as only those great bands can plav it— as only
the Victrola brings it into your home.
,. Any Victor dealer will gladly "show you the complete
line of Victors and Victrolas-SlO to $400-and play the
music you know and like best.

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

Berlin* ■-. Montreal. flMlUlll Distributors

Important warning, victor Records can be safely
and satisfactorily played only with Victor Needle*
or Tungs-tone Stylus on Victors or Victrolas.
Victor Records cannot be safely played on machines
with jeweled or other reproducing points

^^ wimjcwcicu or oiner reproaucing points.

Victrola

"H ,M M e . "*S «"■»«*■ ■ lw «y« look 'or the famous trademark.
Hi, Ma.ter s Voice. Every Victor. Victrola. and Victor Record
■ bean it. You instantly identify the genuine.

Victrola XVI, $200

Victrola XVI, electric, $250 *

Mahogany or oak

©itrrlatrt • JSK JHontlf lu

AN ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF THE WEST

»>»xc<c« -

CONTENTS FOR AUGUST 1916

Photographs of Sylvan Scenes in the Mountains, Foothil
FRONTISPIECE— Machine Gun Company, Fifth Inf., N

ture for the Front

THE TASK OF THE NATIONAL GUARD

Illustrated from photographs.
O WERE YOU ON THE UVAS? Verse
AN OUTCAST. Verse

Illustrated.
THE PASSING OF GERMAN EAST AFRICA .
A FIELD OF CALIFORNIA POPPIES. Verse
THE LAND OF THE LAWLESS

Continued Story.

SAN FRANCISCO. Verse

HOW BASQUET LOST HIS HORSES. Story

THE EQUATION. Story

TO A FRIEND. Verse

POISON-OAKED. Story

CONVERTING THE DESERT. Verse

MY PROPHETIC DREAMS. Story

THE GREAT WAR'S EFFECT ON IMMIGRATION

THE ANZAC. Story

AMERICA! FIRST AND FOREVER. Verse .
SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA. Chap. Ill

Illustrated from sketches.
THE SUNFLOWER ROAD. Verse
COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE. (Continued Story)

Illustrated from photographs.
BOULDER CREEK GULCH. Verse
LITTLE GIRLS I HAVE MET. Story
THE LINE-MAN. Verse
THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE
SKETCHES OF INDIAN LIFE
PSEUDO APOSTLES OF THE PRESENT DAY
BROTHERHOOD. Verse

Is anud Valleys of California
. G. C, lined up prior to their

MARSHALL BREEDEN

EDITH ELLERY PAT TON
STANTON ELLIOTT

T. G. .A

JOHN N. HARBAUGH

CARDINAL GOODWIN

MARY CAROLYN DAVIE S
•::. C. HAMMERLY
BILLEE GLYNN
LENNA B. MELTON
ALICE A. HARRISON and
ANETTE WINDEDE
LOUIS ROLLER
I. MacDONALD
FRANK B. LENZ
FRANK FOX
KINAHAM CORNWALLIS
RICHARD BRET HARTE

ELLIOTT C. LINCOLN
WM. DE RYEE

EDITH CHURCH BURKE

W. H. HUDSON

R. R. GREENWOOD

DESCRIBE WELBY

RUTH JOCELYN WATTLES

PASTOR RUSSELL

ARTHUR POWELL

89-97
depar-

111

112

113

114

115

118
119

123
1 25

12G
130
131
13S
141
146
148

152
153

158
159
167
168
170
174
176

»>»XC«C< -

NOTICE. — Contributions to the Overland Monthly should be typewritten, accompanied by full
freturn postage and with the author's name and address plainly written in upper corner of first
page.
Manuscripts should never be rolled.
-.. The publisher of the Overland Monthly will not be responsible for the preservation of unso-
licited contributions and photographs.

Issued Monthly. $1.20 per year In advance. Ten cents per copy
Copyrighted, 1916, by the Overland Monthly Company.
Entered at the San Francisco, Cal., Postofflce as second-class mail matter.

Published by the OVERLAND MONTHLY COMPANY, San Francisco, California.

21 SUTTER STREET.

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GO EAST

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Toronto 98.50

Washington 108.50

Ogden, Salt Lake City and
other points upon request.

Good on All Trains

Pullman Standard and Tourist

Sleeping Cars

Best Dining Car In America
Stopovers
Going and Returning
$110.70 to New York is good between New Orleans and New
York by Southern Pacific's Atlantic S. S. Line, with sailings
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SALE DATES

July 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 11, 12, 13, 26,

27, 28.
Aug. 1, 2, 3, 8, 9, 10, 24, 25, 28,

29.
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Tickets will also be sold to
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28; to Chattanooga, Tenn., Sep-
tember 11 and 12.

Going Limit 15 days.
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1 [=11

OVERLAND

Founded 1868

MONTHLY

BRET HARTE

VOL. LXVI1I

San Francisco, August, 1916

No. 2

Hospital corps practicing constructive work in the field.

The Task of the National Guard

' I ^HEY are marching and counter-
marching up and down this
A broad land of ours. Preparing
and prepared mingle, each in-
tent upon gaining the knowledge of
how to handle the Springfield effi-
ciently. The prepared may know how
the preparing are going to school to
learn now.

Plattsburg, Monterey, Salt Lake

By Marshall Breeden

City, each has its Business Man's
training camp, but practically all of
the cities and towns have their
National Guard commands. The Busi-
ness Men's training camps are neces-
sarily very limited in scope because
they last only thirty days, and come
possibly but once in a man's life time.
The National Guard is really not lim-
ited at all. It is continuous, a man

A raider from another tent caught in the attempt to steal apples.

enlists for three years' service, and he
must faithfully fulfill the requirements
of that service.

A National Guard Command will
hold weekly drills in its armory the
year round, and then once every twelve
months attend a rigorous camp of in-
struction. Usually under the very
hardest and stringent military disci-
pline. Consequently the National
members and ex-members become
very good soldiers. The first camp is
really an eye-opener, the second a les-
son, and the third the graduation, pro-
vided, of course, that the man has
been a faithful attendant during the
winter months at the armory. Mili-
tary knowledge cannot be gained by
thirty days in camp. It comes like
other knowledge — slowly and with
physical and mental effort.

In spite of the need for trained men,
it is very difficult indeed to secure
enough enlistments in the National
Guard ; that is, enough to keep it up to
enlistment efficiency. The new pay
bill whereunder each man receives

cash compensation from the Govern-
ment will not aid in recruiting as much
as the National Guard members think
it will. But it will have the effect of
forcing better discipline, which per-
haps is as important almost as the se-
curing of additional men in large num-
bers.

There are many reasons why a
young man should associate himself
with the National Guard of his State.
But alas, the young men do not ap-
preciate that in order to be good sol-
diers, they must become good privates.
Consequently, it is hard to get enough
good privates. It is, on the contrary,
quite easy to get enough men who are
willing to service as commissioned
officers. To secure suitable members
is therefore the task of the National
Guard.

Owing to the great diversity among
the men, their ability, mental equip-
ment and general characteristics, the
procedure should be different for each
new man approached, according to
their separate and distinct ideals of

Field camp construction.

life. This would bring about the near-
est possible approach to a personal
bond between the officer and the en-
listed man, without which no National
Guard Command can be wholly effi-
cient. With this help and a common
understanding along strictly military
lines, each enlisted member can even-
tually be depended upon to seek new
recruits on his own initiative, a very
necessary preliminary to the comple-
tion of the personnel of any command.

By the closest possible approach to
a personal bond, is not meant personal
friendship, or a chummy attitude be-
tween officers and men.

In fact, that would have a very nega-
tive result, far more harmful than
beneficial. We enlisted men do not
care to associate socially with our offi-
cers, any more than they care to asso-
ciate socially with us, but we do want
that undefinable spirit to exist which
by its very intensity inspires confi-
dence, and which is sadly lacking in
many commands.

To get the fullest confidence of a
recruit the Commanding Officer should
deport himself strictly as a soldier, but

he should also keep an eye on the
personal welfare and comfort of the
man. He should know each man per-
sonally, and he should let each man
know that he is being watched over
carefully. In short, being taken care
of.

Right here is where so many officers
fall short of their possibilities and
their duty. And when an officer lacks
the respect of his men, his command
suffers in exact proportion. Friendli-
ness is not respect, and neither is re-
spect dependent upon personal ac-
quaintance outside the Armory. For
when we enlisted men speak of an of-
ficer as being a "fine fellow" we place
his personality ahead of his soldiering
qualities, and the latter suffers in con-
sequence, which is shown by the slack
discipline, and the lack of snap and
ginger appearing now and then in the
ranks, and which like all other roads
of least resistance soon becomes top
heavy and presently completely over
balances the military side, with the in-
evitable result of a poor company of
soldiers, and a fine group of good fel- ,
lows.

ci
<*>

ft.

ft*

2
ft.

•S

g
c

irrifff-i-**

Snapshot taken through the bore of a giant gun.

This relation between officers and
men is, however, not the chief diffi-
culty with which guardsmen have to
contend. The principal problem is the
securing of new recruits. The enlist-
ing of men who expect to serve in the
ranks and who look no higher perhaps
than to become good non-commissioned
officers.

This difficulty would be greatly re-
lieved if some such recruiting propa-
ganda or plan were employed as the
following.

To some men patriotic arguments
appeal more strongly than anything
else. If he is the son of a Veteran of
our Civil War, the brother of a Span-
ish War veteran, or a naturalized citi-
zen, raised in Europe, love of the na-
tion frequently overbalances all other
objections, and an argument along
patriotic lines will secure an enthusias-
tic recruit.

It is passing strange how many
young men know nothing of the Na-
tional Guard. Its purpose, organiza-
tion and mode of conduct. Evil tidings
always seem to gain credence while
truthful accounts are shoved into the
limbo of the past and quickly forgot-

ten. So it is with the National Guard.

During a somewhat varied career of
upwards of ten years as an enlisted
man in the guard, I have had great oc-
casion to observe the attitude of young
men with regard to the service, and in
a vast majority of cases the negative
attitude was uppermost in their minds.
They had to be educated along many
lines, first, before they would even
consider an enlistment and all of this
required time, printed matter and
much persuasion. It appears easier,
at times, to sell a man a policy of life
insurance which he does not want than
to cause him to enlist in the Guard.
His prejudices are frequently stronger
against the Guard than against the in-
surance. Some prejudice must there-
fore be overcome by patriotic appeal,
before the next step is taken, which
leads more directly to the enlistment
and the personal benefits to be derived
therefrom.

Right here is a strange analogy, the
most stubborn cases to persuade very
frequently made the best soldiers af-
ter they are once enlisted, provided,
of course, that the company has an
efficient commander. The Captain is

«2

106

OVERLAND MONTHLY

the vital officer because the lieuten-
ants are scarcely more than good file
closers or assistants to the Captain.
His is the dominating personality.

The idea of congenial associates
frequently goes a long way in the pro-
cess of persuasion. Whether you be-
lieve this statement or not, it is never-
theless true, that the average good en-
listment timber is lonesome. Down-
right lonesome. He wants congenial
companionship, at least temporarily
one degree removed from the blasphe-
mous fellows which our prospect en-
counters elsewhere. Recruits come
mainly from the working young men,
and not from the bank clerks, or weal-
thy fellows, and to these husky wagon
drivers, post men, and the like the
idea that they will make men friends
appears most desirable and appeals
strongly. Indeed, and it is very true,
the donning of the old uniform in the
armory tends to make even the rough-
est roughneck, moderately gentile and
careful in his speech and actions, and
extremely loyal to his comrades.

Rough target practice.

Every man, secretly or openly,
longs for a perfect body, strong mus-
cles, and a clear eye. Even if he be
a truck driver accustomed to hauling
heavy boxes all day, he nevertheless
wants other physical exercise, provid-
ed that it comes without the mental ef-
fort of the gymnasium. Right here is
a splendid recruit argument, for the
marching and counter marching, the
manual of arms, and the other duties
required of an enlisted guardsman fur-
nish an abundance of excellent exer-
cise. Excellent in that it is totally dif-
ferent from his ordinary daily toil.
Just as the act of swimming will in-
stantly relieve the tired muscles of the
post man, so will the military drill re-
lieve the throbbing arms of the truck
driver. And when that military exer-
cise is coupled directly with the ne-
cessity for an active brain, so much
the better. Mental exercise of the
military sort is almost exhilarating,
for the reason that it requires no con-
centrated effort like that of reading or
direct application. The soldier's mind
must be receptive only to the com-
mands, and since the commands are
usually given in a sharp, imperative
voice and compelling manner the mind
plays with them and romps joyously
through the maneuvres, finishing, as
it were, all a-tingle with anticipation,
entirely relieved from the labored or
phlegmatic attitude of the day.

The military training itself should
be very severe while it lasts until the
"will to obey" is much stronger than
the "will NOT to obey." Obedience
is the prime requisite of every man,
not necessarily for the soldier only.
That is, perhaps, why the military
training secured in the Guard service
tends not only to make the man a
good soldier, but a good economic unit
in the business world as well.

It is peculiar that right here in the
matter of training is perhaps both the
strongest and the weakest recruit ar-
gument. Strongest in that a large
number of young men recognize that
they are deficient in the ability to obey
without question or delay. They
know, for instance, that instantly upon

<*>
.§
So

108

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Unpacking camp cases.

receiving an order their ego springs in
the negative attitude, and it is with
involuntary reluctance and sluggish-
ness that they do obey the orders
which come up in their daily lives. To
these the idea of military discipline is
a haven, for they know that in mili-
tary life they must obey, quickly,
promptly and without question, and
they hope that such training will re-
lieve them of the forced obeying of
the day. This is quite true since the
military mind is so receptive when
they are in uniform that it catches and
retains the "will to obey" far more
easily than does the business mind.
Contrariwise there are numbers of
possible recruits whose egos will per-
mit of no dictation. They obey the
mandates of the business world sim-
ply because by so doing they are as-
sured of their livelihood, and while
obeying outwardly they are disobey-
ing inwardly. To this class the ap-
peal of the military training is very
repugnant, and has a tendency to keep
large numbers of otherwise good sol-
diers out of the ranks. Experience
has taught the wise recruiting officer
or man to steer a wide path away from
the suggestion of training when he ap-
proached one of this sort for an en-
listment. Unless he does neglect to
talk training, he may as well go on the
great traverse, for he'll never land the
prospect, no matter how he may view
the service from the other angles. Obe-
dience is the rock upon which many a
prospect is lost, and perhaps it is just
as well, for no command wants in-
subordination in its ranks.

Frequently it is said that the art of
shooting with the rifle is inborn with
the average American male. That is
reasonably close to the truth, for prac-
tically all prospects have the desire
in them to shoot; therefore they will
listen attentively to the argument that
in the Guard they will have an oppor-
tunity to try their skill with the
Springfield. A little subtle flattery,
here, well placed, will frequently act
as the closing argument with your
man. For every American seems to
think that he can shoot straight; that
is, he thinks so until he gets on the
range with the Springfield, when he
frequently makes the interesting dis-
covery that the rifle kicks like a mule,
and the bullet is about the size of the
point of his little finger, and has a
pernicious habit of missing the target.

While extolling the delights of the
target range it is well to refer to the
annual State encampment. Those en-
campments appeal to the primitive in
all of us. We like to picture ourselves
as maneuvering among the grass out
on scout duty and the like, and it is
perhaps the strongest recruiting argu-
ment, which is borne out by the fact
that recruits come easier just before
encampment time. It is the appeal of
nature, the call of the great outdoors,
especially to the city man, and should
be used a great deal stronger on the
recruit idea than it is.

Securing recruits is really scarcely
less than selling them the Guard ser-
vice. Therefore, it should be ap-
proached in much the same attitude.

Engineers laying out a camp.

O WERE YOU ON THE UVAS?

Ill

The recruit officer is really the sales-
man, and since it is a tenet of good
salesmanship to leave something with
the prospect after your argument is
done, so too the guard should supply
all of its members with an abundance
of booklets and pamphlets, explaining
in detail and with much elaboration
the different points of the service.

Selling enlistments, then, is no
harder than selling stocks, bonds or
insurance, for in all cases the sales-
man must first overcome the attitude
of his prospect's mind, which is usu-
ally negative.

Occasionally a man will be influ-
enced by the idea of promotions. This
is a dangerous precedent, for those
who enlist with that as the central idea
are apt to be of the domineering sort
who would work more havoc than ben-
efit to the organization. To some men
rank spells power, the right to bull-
doze, rather than a trust to be fostered
and exercised with care and judgment.

Still it must not always follow that be-
cause a man desired rapid promotion
he will prove unworthy, for contrari-
wise he may be ambitious and may
know that he possesses the required
ability to make a good officer, so the
promotion idea should be used spar-
ingly and discreetly. But assure him
that he will be given the square deal,
and then if he is truly ambitious you'll
get him, because his ability will
sooner or later be recognized and he
knows it.

It is, of course, easier to get a man
to accept a commission in the Guard;
the securing of men to serve as of-
ficers is not difficult at all, for most
any man will jump at the chance; the
real problem facing the National
Guard is to secure enough men to ser-
vice as privates, and it is a very se-
vere problem, and one that the en-
listed man himself is better qualified
to answer than the officer who never
served in the ranks.

O WERE YOU ON THE UVAS V

O were you on the Uvas, the silvery, sparkling Uvas,

And did you see young April come tripping down the hills,

Her green skirts hemmed with pansies, the little yellow pansies,
Her bodice, lupine purple, with silken poppy frills?

O were you on the Uvas, the shining, shimmering Uvas,
And did you see the young June bending over the stream,

Her warm lips stained with berries, her elf-ears ringed with
cherries,
Her frock of wild-rose petals, her cap, a gold sunbeam?

O were you on the Uvas, the placid, peaceful Uvas,
And did you see October weaving at her loom

Rich robes of reds and russets with amber seams and gussets,
Where golden-rod and asters shed gold and purple bloom?

O were you on the Uvas, the rushing, racing Uvas,
And did you see December, a poppy in his coat,

Pause in the rosy shower of a wild pink currant flower
To listen to the lilting of a lark's celestial note?

Edith Ellery Patton.

Marble statue (gold medal) by Attilio Piccirilli, in front of
Fine Arts Building at P. P. I. E.

AN OUTCAST

There is a darkness worse than death can bring

To those the world has thrown aside unclassed,

For death's release obliterates the past,

And in one void engulfs all suffering;

But what of that abandoned soul, that thing

More lowly than a beast that fate has cast

Within the vortex of a hell so vast

That life holds nothing to which hope may cling!

What depths of desolation and despair
Must shroud that soul, whose anguish knows no tears
Surcease, whose misery benumbs all fears,
Whose being is a sepulchre to share
A brotherhood with Cain throughout the years
That scourge you for the deeds whose curse you bear.

Stanton Elliott.

The Passing of German East Africa

By F. G. A.

It will not be many weeks before
the lifting of the veil which has so long
hidden coming events in German East
Africa from our expectant eyes, and
we may then hope to see the com-
forting spectacle of the lowering of
the black and yellow standard, with
the blasphemous reference to 1870,
in the Kaiser's last stronghold on
African soil. It is not going to be a
very easy "show," but the end is worth
waiting for, and we shall wait with
perfect confidence. Only last mail
brought a letter from a high official
at Nairobi, in which he said: "I wish I
could say more on the subject, but look
out for news in about six weeks' time."
And the context, which I do not feel at
liberty to quote (and which the Editor
would not publish if I did), indicated
a justification for the most optimistic
view of the situation.

German East Africa, the spoiled
child of the Reichskolonialamt, is
nearly as large as both our East Afri-
can Protectorates together, and is very
much richer, particularly in minerals,
including gold, iron and coal. The
population, Masai and Bantu, is also
estimated at close on ten millions —
a figure which, if correct, exceeds that
of British East Africa and Uganda
together, which aggregate no more
than eight millions at the outside. Yet
we need not attach undue importance
to this preponderance of native sub-
jects, since, in the first place, they are
not all equally well affected towards
their German masters; and in the sec-
ond, the campaign will be won and lost
by white men, as the enemy will real-
ize with the first considerable invasion
from the Rhodesian frontier.

The political position of German
East Africa could not well be worse

when the situation begins to develop.
It has not a mile of friendly or even
neutral territory on its borders.
Hemmed in by British, Belgian and
Portuguese territory, its chief port
menaced by Zanzibar, and its settle-
ments on Lake Victoria at the mercy
of our armed steamers, its outlook is
not a happy one. Utterly cut off from
the outer world, it must defend itself
with its present resources, and these,
though doubtless; provided during
many years of intelligent anticipation
at Dar es Salem, cannot be inexhaust-
ible. True, it has a more elaborate net-
work of railways than we have estab-
lished in the neighboring Protectorate,
but the irony of the situation is that a
considerable proportion of its thousand
miles of iron road has a commercial
rather than a strategic value ; and only
the main system, from the ocean to
Lake Tanganyika, will eventually be
of service in those rapid lateral con-
centrations by which the outnumbered
garrisons will alone be able to prolong
the inevitable decision in our favor.

It is not to be denied that, as pre-
liminary raids have already demon-
strated, our own Uganda Railway is
more vulnerable at some points than
could have been wished. Yet even
where it runs closest to German terri-
tory — say between Tsavo and the
Kilimanjaro district, it is so well
guarded that the enemy can only or-
ganize trifling affairs at night, doing
no more damage than can be repaired
by the available emergency gangs in
time for next day's train.

It may, therefore, without further
preamble, be assumed that, long before
the issue of the war is decided nearer
home, German East Africa will have
changed masters; and there remains
2

114

OVERLAND MONTHLY

the interesting problem of what is to
be done with it. Give it back to the
Wilhelmstrasse on the signing of
peace? Such a solution of the diffi-
culty may be relegated to the furtive
proceedings of peace meetings, which
are forever dinning into our ears that
a great imperial nation must have a
place in the sun, and that we have no
right, even when victorious, to bottle
Germany up inside her own frontiers.
The reply to which is quite obviously
that we asked nothing better than to
live at peace with our unpleasant
neighbors south of Vanga and Shirat,
and that they alone are to blame for
the unavoidable revision of the old
arrangement. It was by the grace of
Queen Victoria that the beautiful land
of the Unyamweis became German; it
will shortly be by the grace of King
George that it will become British.
What England gave, she can take
away.

Yet this does not settle the future of
the country. It is inconceivable that
this magnificent unit of African Empire
which is twice the size of British East
Africa, should henceforth rank as a
mere appenage of that Protectorate.
There is very little in common between
the two regions, since, though sisal
and cocoanut are of first importance in
the coast belt of both, our present ter-
ritory must be regarded as mainly pas-
toral, whereas, as has already been
pointed out, the mining interest, ab-
sent (and, as some think, fortunately)

from British East Africa, must inevi-
tably assume a prominent place in the
future development of the new colony.
This alone links it rather with Rhode-
sia ; and as it is an open secret that the
determining factor in German evacua-
tion is to come from that quarter, we
foresee a closer association with a
Greater Central Africa. The Govern-
ment at Nairobi, which, just before
the outbreak of the war, took over the
administration of Zanzibar, has its
hands full without the new and vast
responsibilities entailed in the control
of yet another ten million natives, and
the Colonial Office will in all proba-
bility arrive at a smoother solution of
the difficulty by bringing Dar es Sa-
lem in closer touch with Blantyre and
Salisbury. Apart from the many other
advantages of this settlement, this
would give both Nyasaland and Rho-
desia a British port on the ocean; an
outlet which, friendly as our relations
will always be with Portugal, cannot
but be preferable to their present de-
pendence on Beira and Chinde. To
those who prefer to pull a long face
over current events much of the fore-
going will no doubt savor of counting
our chickens before they are hatched.
I can only repeat that friends on the
spot who are able to see something of
the hatching in process are absolutely
confident that — to borrow a homely
phrase from sporting circles — all is
over in German East Africa bar the
shouting.

A FIELD OF CALIFORNIA POPPIES

Life up your eyes and look abroad

Where God hath strewn His living light;
It glorifies each humble clod

And maketh all the waste land bright.
The slender stems do bravely hold

Up to the burning eye of day
Their brimming cups of vivid gold,

Which to and fro like censers sway.
A vision of the heav'nly street,

A cloth of gold no king e'er trod,
A carpet fit for angels' feet —

This beauty from the looms of God.

Jno. N. Harbaugh.

The Land of the Lawless

By Cardinal Goodwin

(Continued Story)

Chapter I.

THE TRAIN rushed around the
foot of a mountain near a bend
of the river, out across a nar-
row strip of prairie, and
stopped at a little red station with
"B-R-A-G-S" written on one end in
big white letters. Sylvester Pattie
was the only passenger who got off at
the desolate looking place, and barely
had he stepped upon the platform
when the big engine puffed and
throbbed, and with its train rushed out
across the plains to become lost from
sight amid the gently rolling green
hills of the prairie. He watched it un-
til it had gone, and with its disappear-
ance, felt that the last link between
him and civilization had passed away.
Walking around to the opposite side
of the station, Sylvester placed his
portmanteau upon the platform and
looked out upon the little village. The
entire town lay easily within the range
of vision. Just in front of him was
the single street, with its five stores,
including the post office and a hotel.
Behind these were a few dwellings.
At one end of the street, horses stood
tethered to a post, but with this ex-
ception not a sign of life was dis-
cernible, and although it was a hot
day in the middle of July, all the
store doors were closed. It was a
pleasure to look from this deserted
town to the scenery which surrounded
it. Toward the east and south
stretched the green billowed expanse
of prairie; a skirt of heavy timber cut
off the view toward the north, and
rock-ribbed, shrub-clad mountains
were visible across a narrow strip of

prairie toward the west. Within those
mountains, he had already learned, the
"'Star Gang" found a safe retreat from
the marshals that the government sent
against them.

While he stood gazing and medi-
tating upon the setting of this beauti-
ful little village, which the conduc-
tor had styled "hell," a scene occurred
which led him to believe that the epi-
thet was not entirely inappropriate. A
store opened, and a negro with a Win-
chester came out and started to cross
the street. Almost at the same instant
another door opened at the farther
end of the street, and an Indian, simi-
larly armed, stepped out. He was still
looking at the Indian, when a sharp re-
port startled him, and he saw the In-
dian's hat fly off. The latter whirled
quickly, and seemingly without tak-
ing the slightest aim, fired. The ne-
gro, with upraised hands, fell face for-
ward in the street. In a moment, four
men in their shirt sleeves, with their
revolvers in their hands, came run-
ning, half bent, from the other side
of the station. When they saw what
had happened, however, they replaced
their weapons and walked slowly to-
ward the Indian, conversing as they
went. The five then mounted their
horses and rode quietly out of the vil-
lage.

"Ding it all to dingnation, if 'at nig-
ger 'd a lowered his sight a little there
would only been four of 'em pesky
fellers ridin' out o' here. Too bad they
hain't killed each other."

The words were spoken by a tall,
broad chested, wrinkled visaged fel-
low who had approached within a few
feet of Sylvester.

116

OVERLAND MONTHLY

"What does this mean?" the latter
inquired, turning towards the old man.

"Wall, stranger, I guess it means
there's one nigger less in this 'ere
town, and the Star Gang 'as one more
murder to answer fur."

"Was that the Star Gang?"

"That's 'em, sonny. D'ye notice a
black eyed feller in the gang?"

Young Pattie nodded.

"That was Schute. You've hearn of
Schute? Him an' Mose Miller is the
leaders of the gang. Mose went to
Eufala yistidy with some o' the men
and robbed a bank. They'll git back
some time to-day and have a whole
posse of U. S. marshals a follerin' 'em.
'Tain't no use, though. These people
'round here won't help the government
a bit. Why, scat my buttons, sonny,"
and the old fellow slapped his youth-
ful companion on the back as if to em-
phasize his remark, "scat my buttons
if I hain't seen 'em chuck dem out-
laws down 'n cellar, up the chimney,
jest any place to hide 'em from the
marshals. Ye see there's a silent con-
tract atween 'em. The outlaws, they
won't bother the citizens so long as
the citizens won't tell on the outlaws,
and '11 give 'em food and 'tection in a
tight."

"But who is that fellow that shot the
negro ?"

"Oh, that wus Henry Miller, Mose's
half-brother. Him and the nigger had
a game o' craps last night, and Henry
won all the money. The nigger said
he'd kill 'im, and ding my skin if he
didn't come purty nigh doin' it. But
it'll never do to miss any of 'em Star
fellers when you shoots at 'em, because
they never needs but one shot." And
after a moment's hesitation he asked
the young man :

"But I say, sonny, what yo're doing
here? I seen Schute eyeing you sus-
picious like when you got off the train.
We don't have many strangers stop
here, you know, and 'em that does
must give 'count of 'emselves. That
ain't no drummer's bag you got there,
so you ain't here to sell stuff to 'em
store keepers. Come, 'fess up, what's
your biz?"

"I'm a missionary," Sylvester re-
plied.

"Whhhhh, a parson be ye! Well, by
gum, you look kinder young fur this
'ere district. Guess you won't find
many sheep round here. Wolves keep
'em all scared off, you know." And
the stranger laughed heartily. "Well,
I say, parson, how long you 'spect to
be here?"

"Probably during the rest of the
summer."

"What you goin' to do?"

"Conduct a meeting."

The old man dropped his head a
minute and then raising it, fixed a keen
eye on the young man which softened
a bit as it lingered on his face.

"Dye know anything about this 'ere
place?" he asked.

"I've heard that it's the toughest
place in the territory, and from what
I've just seen I believe it will exceed
my expectations."

"I know nothin' 'bout your 'specta-
tions, sonny; I know nothing 'bout
your 'spectations," the old fellow said,
shaking his head slowly from side to
side, "but le'me tell you now that if
there's a hell anywhere, this is it."

He paused a moment while he
searched Sylvester's face with his
keen eyes for some indication of the
young man's thoughts.

"Wall, you still think you'll stay?"

"I think I shall remain for several
weeks," was the answer. Clasping the
hand of the younger man he squeezed
it until the former felt almost like cry-
ing out.

"You're the stuff, sonny," and then
casting a furtive glance about him, he
leaned forward, and added in a low
voice: "If there be anything old Joe
Farley can do for ye, just ye let 'im
know." And the old fellow dodged
around a corner of the station and was
gone.

Chapter II.

As soon as Joe disappeared, Syl-
vester took his portmanteau and made
his way towards Mrs. Maddin's — a
widow whose husband had been killed

THE LAND OF THE LAWLESS

117

by a member of the Star Gang, and
with whom he had already been in-
vited to stay while in Braggs. Her
house stood out most conspicuously
from the other dwellings of the little
village. A large lawn covered with
blue grass, and containing a few trees,
surrounded a cottage with a veranda
extending across the front and along
the sides. The clean whiteness of the
house, the judicious arrangement of
the shade trees, the dark green of the
grass, gave the place a comfortable
appearance, and indicated that even
in that wild district civilization was
planting its foot.

As Sylvester entered the front gate
a prolonged, agonizing squeal was
followed by a dull sound, and a pig ap-
peared, struggling through the front
door, dragging a small, sallow faced
urchin who lay upon his stomach with
his mouth open, and his tongue stick-
ing out, while he held on to the pig's
tail with both hands. It was probably
exhaustion from his labor that re-
lieved the pig of the first agonies of
his terror, and when he had crossed
half the width of the porch his feet
slipped from under him, he fell over
on his side, and responded to a series
of jerks which the lad performed upon
his tail with deep grunts of content-
ment. The two had not been lying in
that position long when a young lady
with an upraised broom rushed out,
and struck the prostrate swine across
the side. Renewed terror brought re-
newed energy. The pig sprang up,
rushed to the edge of the porch and
leaped off, dragging the small boy
with him. The young lady threw down
the broom and hurried anxiously to
the lad's assistance. There was no
cause for anxiety, however, for the
youngster, probably misinterpreting
her haste, sprang up and ran around
the house, laughing in great glee.

"I'm glad the young fellow sus-
tained no injury from his fall," Syl-
vester said, coming up.

She turned quickly and a slight
blush spread over her cheeks, but she
soon recovered her composure. "Oh,
you are Mr. Pattie," she said, smiling

sweetly. "Ned wrote me that you
were coming. We are so glad to have
you with us while you are in Braggs.
We have heard Ned speak of you so
often that we feel as if we knew you
already."

"It is very kind of you to take me
in, I'm sure." Then taking her out-
stretched hand, "And you are Miss
Maddin. No one could associate with
Ned Foster very long without learning
to know you."

"Dear old Ned!" she exclaimed.
"But you mustn't believe all that Ned
tells you of me. He has always been
decidedly prejudiced in my favor."

But further conversation was inter-
rupted by the appearance of Mrs.
Maddin. She was a neatly dressed,
rather stout woman about forty-five
years old, and very cordial in her man-
ner. She extended a hearty welcome
to Sylvester, invited him into the
house, and showed him immediately
to his room.

Weary from travel, he threw him-
self across the bed, and soon fell
asleep. The sun was shining through
the window when he woke, and his
clothes were wet with sweat. He got
up, bathed his face and hands, and
went out on the veranda. Mrs. Mad-
din was coming around from the front
of the house.

"Would you like to go for a ride?"
she said.

Sylvester told her that nothing
would give him greater pleasure.

"I thought you would like it. I told
Sam to saddle Trickster for you. If
he suits you he is to be your horse as
long as you remain in Braggs."

When he reached the front veranda
Sylvester saw a negro leading a bay
pony across the lot, and walked down
and met him at the gate.

"Is that pony for me ?" he inquired.

"Yes, sah."

Taking the reins out of the negro's
hands, Sylvester led the horse out into
the road, mounted him and rode off
through the woods toward the river at
a steady gallop. For nearly a mile he
saw no sign of human habitation, and
then the road led past fields, where

118

OVERLAND MONTHLY

cotton and corn grew in abundance.
As he proceeded, the ground became
more level, the soil blacker, and the
foliage more luxuriant. Finally he
came to a long level stretch of firm,
straight road, bounded on one side by
an immense cotton field, and on the
other by dense tropical foliage and
slushy swamps.

"Now, Trickster," the young man
said, "I'll see what you can do."

Leaning far over in his saddle, he
gave the pony a quick rap on the
shoulder with his hat, and then
straightened himself in the saddle. The
pony responded nobly. His ears fell
back, his nose shot out, his entire form
lowered several inches, and the great
cotton field began to turn as if on a
pivot. No one except the fellow who
has experienced it knows what a dare-
devil spirit it puts into a man to feel
the air fill his shirt and beat his hat
brim back as he is being hurled
through it, and hears the roar of iron
shod hoofs as they thunder over the
ground beneath him. Sylvester would
have been contented to have that ride
continue indefinitely, and had no in-
tention of stopping it, when he came
to the corner of the field. Here the
road turned at an angle out into the
woods. As he dashed around the
curve in the road, three men, one of
them leading a small mustang, ap-
peared around the next bend not a
hundred feet ahead. They frightened
Trickster, and he stopped suddenly,
turned half around, and came near
throwing young Pattie out of his sad-
dle. When Sylvester recovered his
balance and directed the horse's head
once more toward the men, they were
smiling and pushing back some half-

drawn revolvers. No one spoke a
word, and Sylvester rode by.

It was a close afternoon, and Trick-
ster had become heated from his ex-
ercise. White specks of sweat oozed
out of his shoulders and hips, and
large white flakes of foam appeared on
each side of his neck where the bridle
reins rubbed against it. The flies, too,
were very annoying. Sylvester was
just reaching over to kill one which
had alighted at the root of his horse's
mane, when the latter shied quickly
to one side. Looking up, young Pattie
saw about a dozen armed men riding
in single file through the woods to-
wards him. When they had drawn
closer he recognized the leader as one
of the United States marshals whom
he had seen in Muscogee.

"Did you meet any one on the road,
young man?" inquired the leader.

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Three."

"Were they armed ?"

Sylvester replied in the affirmative.

"Describe them."

"Two of them were Indians, and one
was a white boy about eighteen or
nineteen years old."

"Was one of the Indians a heavy-
set fellow with a scar across his
cheek?"

"Yes."

"Those are the fellows," he said,
turning to his men. And again address-
ing Sylvester: "How far ahead are
they?"

"Not over half a mile, I should
think."

"Come, fellows," and spurring their
weary horses into a gallop, they disap-
peared around a bend in the road.

(Continued next month.)

SAN FRANCISCO

The edge of the world and the edge of the sea,
Set where the farthest camp-fire gleamed,

City of youth and of youth to be —

The newest dream that the world has dreamed.

Mary Carolyn Davies.

How Basquet Lost His Horses

By C. C. Hammerly

(Born on Iowa farm and raised to manhood "between rows of corn," my
first event occurring forty-six years ago. the 27th of October. Attended
country schools until able to teach. Earned money teaching to pay way
through Iowa State Normal School at Cedar Falls. Parentage, father Ger-
man, mother Scotch, Welsh, Irish descent. Father one of five brothers in
Union Army. Spent ten years teaching — most of time since as printer and
publisher of weekly newspapers. Present home Portland, Ore. Lived in
Northwest last twenty years. Married, two sons.)

C. C. Hammerly

MR. TONEY, a bright-eyed, dap-
per, energetic little man,
came briskly into the dining
room of his home and set the
milk pail upon a side table. He had
just finished caring for his two cows
and delivering the evening milk, work
in which, despite his eighty-eight
years, he took keen delight.
Naturally, he was quite gray, and

his form was somewhat stooped. He
wore whiskers only upon the sides of
his face; none upon his upper lip and
chin. In traveling about he some-
times carried a cane, but he was by
no means dependent upon it, and was
as active as most men who have
reached the age of but sixty.

"A gentleman to see you, father,"
announced his daughter, with whom I
had been chatting for a few minutes
in the room in which they had pre-
ferred to remain after the evening
meal. The hearty hand shake, the
pleasant greeting, and the alert activ-
ity and friendliness of the old gentle-
man, immediately won my admiration.

She who had been his helpmeet for
the last sixty-four years, but who was
not in robust health, sat across the
room and listened to the conversation,
while the daughter remained near at
hand to help recall reminiscences or
parts of them that might possibly be
omitted. However, the old gentle-
man's faculties are still active and his
memory good.

"Yes, I came West in '47, the year
of the Whitman massacre," said he in
answer to a question. "I was twenty
years old then, and have lived here
ever since. I have never voted out-
side of the county, and haven't missed
many elections, either. Of course, I
have been away at times. In '49 and
'50, for a period of nine months, was

120

OVERLAND MONTHLY

in California, and in '48 was in the
Cayuse Indian war in the Walla Walla
country and Idaho, but I always con-
sidered this my home, so never voted
anywhere else.

"The discovery of gold led me to go
to California? Yes, it was the report
of gold; but I didn't find any of the
filthy lucre," he laughed; "at least I
didn't dig any of it out of the ground.

"When I went there I did not intend
to make it my permanent home, though
I might have been called a 'forty-
niner;' but I was an Oregonian before
I was a forty-niner. I owned land here
at the time gold was discovered there ;
but I wasn't specially tied down, so
when we heard of the golden oppor-
tunity, I decided to make the trip, to-
gether with Tom Rainey and Dan Bas-
quet. It was on that journey that
Basquet lost his horses.

"There was already considerable ex-
citement and a number of mining
camps in the northern part of the
State when we reached there, for
nearly every white who had gone
there before the summer of '48,
dropped everything and went to pros-
pecting ; and this end of the State was
especially favored.

"On this trip we spent considerable
time among the Indians, or in their
neighborhood, and learned much of
their ways and customs.

"Say," suddenly questioned my host
turning toward me with still more ani-
mation than he had exhibited before,
and extending his hand in the direc-
tion of my knee, "do you know how
the Indians make their arrowheads?"

"No," I acknowledged, "I do not. I
have seen the statement that it is not
known how they make them."

"Well, sir," said he, "most whites
don't seem to know how it is done.
They seem to think that the imple-
ments are beaten or hammered and
chipped into shape by means of a stone
or metal hammer. That is not the case
at till. That would break the rock in
every way, and they would not get
what they wanted at all.

"I have seen them at work many a
time. They use the duclaw of a deer.

That," said he, noting my evident be-
wilderment, "is a bone from the back
of the leg or hock of the animal, just
above the hoof. It is about five or six
inches long and perhaps three-fourths
of an inch wide, shaped very much like
a dagger. Both edges are sharp, and
they sharpen them still more by scrap-
ing the green bone with flint. Then
they, make a notch with the rough
edge of a piece of flint, perhaps an
inch from the wide end. This bone
makes an excellent knife for skinning
animals and many other purposes.

"Well, those Indians hook that notch
over the edge of the piece of flint, and
holding it down firmly, give it a side-
wise twist or swinging motion with the
hand like this," and he indicated as
he talked, "and so chip off piece after
piece of the flint with the razor-like
bone. It takes time, but not so much
as you would think, to get the desired
shape.

"The making of the entire arrow is a
very interesting process," he contin-
ued. "I got so I could make very good
ones myself, so far as the wooden part
was concerned.

"They make them of arrow wood.
That wood is very hard. They select
the long, straight stalks of last year's
growth, cut -them the right length for
arrows, and peal the bark off. Then
they wrap about fifty of them together
with wet rawhide. As the bundle dries
the rawhide shrinks, and when the ar-
rows are unbound they are straight and
true, all the defects having been rem-
edied by the tight binding.

"Next they fasten the fiint point to
the smaller end, and the two halves of
a split feather to the larger end of the
shaft of the arrow with stout string or
buckskin. The feather is put on
twisting, so that the weapon is given
a twisting motion like that of a bullet.

"You have probably heard, too," he
continued, "that the Indians start a
fire with two sticks. Well, they don't.
They use only one: a very dry, pithy
like piece of willow. They insert the
stick into a hole in a cedar bark block
and rub it around vigorously. The
bark has a notch in one side for the

POISON-OAKED

121

dust to run into, and this catches fire
very quickly from the energetic rub-
bing. They seem to get fire almost as
quickly as it can be gotten with a
match.

"Naturally they have to keep the
wood very dry, and to do so carry it
carefully wrapped in a buckskin sack.

"A peculiar custom we noticed in
Northern California was in connection
with the Indian widows — tar head
widows, they were called. Those wo-
men had the tops of their heads cov-
ered with what looked much like tar.
We learned that the covering on their
head — their bodies were not burdened
with any particular covering," he
chuckled, "was not tar at all, but the
burnt flesh of their former husband's
bodies.

"When the husband died, the hair on
the wife's head was clipped or shaved.
Then the flesh of the dead man was
burned and a coat of the smoke and
fire blackened, greasy concoction was
rubbed upon the scalp. Layer after
layer was added, until she had quite
a thickness of mourning to wear around
day and night. This remained upon
the head until the hair had grown out
to a sufficient length to loosen the load
of sorrow, when it could be gotten rid
of, and the squaw was free to marry
again.

"After we had spent some time
prospecting, we discovered one morn-
ing while in the vicinity of Chester
City that three of Basquet's horses had
disappeared. There was no doubt that
they had been run off by the Indians.
Of course there were white men mean
enough, but they were too busy hunt-
ing for the yellow nuggets to bother
with our horses.

"We hadn't made anything in the
prospecting line, so we were pretty
well exasperated at losing what we
had brought along in the way of horse-
flesh. We decided to go and hunt for
them.

"The Indians in the immediate lo-
cality were friendly, and there was
nothing to indicate that they had taken
them; but there was nothing to hold
us there, and no attractions for us, as

Rainey said, 'even among the tar
heads.'

"There were two directions in which
those horses might have been taken.
Away to the northeast, in the Klamath
and Goose Lake region in Southern
Oregon and Northeast California, were
the Modocs; while to the south of us
were the Pitt River Indians.

"You know what the Modocs were.
This was a long time before the Modoc
war, but even at that time those fel-
lows were ugly.

"Already they had killed arid robbed
quite a number of emigrants at one
time or another, and in the rough coun-
try where they lived they had every
advantage.

"Well," said Mr. Toney, with a
merry twinkle of the eye, followed by
an audible chuckle that was most sug-
gestive, "we made up our minds that
we had not lost any horses among the
Modocs; so we rode south to the Pitt
River, and then on to the Sacramento,
of which the Pitt is the most import-
ant branch.

"Before we struck the Sacramento,
we received information that made us
think that we were on the right track.
A couple of prospectors informed us
that they had met a band of Indians
traveling rapidly down the valley sev-
eral days before, and that they had no-
ticed horses that tallied with the de-
scription of those for which we were
looking.

"They also said that there were not
to exceed twenty-five or thirty in the
band; bucks, squaws and pappooses
included; and so we now hurried on
more rapidly than ever. About two
days later, along toward evening, we
came in sight of the smoke of a camp
some distance ahead.

" 'There are your horses, Basquet,'
said Rainey. 'I'll warrant those are
the scamps that took them.'

" 'I wouldn't be surprised/ said
Basquet. 'We had better mosey along,'
and we rode down upon them as rapid-
ly as possible.

"Well, sir," and the old gentleman
laughed heartily at the recollection, "it
was. We found the carcasses of what

122

OVERLAND MONTHLY

had certainly been the horses. Those
redskins had eaten them; or at least
the best parts of them, and what was
left," and again the old eyes grew
merry, "was of no value to us.

"Basquet was mad. 'You blamed
hounds,' he roared, shaking his fist in
rage as he gazed around in hope of
seeing some of them, T'd like to catch
you.' He even threw up his rifle and
fired at a hummock off about a hun-
dred yards, but of course he did not
think that was an Indian.

"As the horses were gone, I don't
imagine that any of us really wanted
to catch the thieves, for we would not
have wanted to take the lives of even
the men unless they showed fight, and
we would not have known what to do
with them had we caught any of the
women or children.

"But there wasn't a single Indian in
sight, though the country was very
level and we knew they were not far
away.

"You see all the Indians went naked.
None of those south of Eugene in the
west central part of Oregon wore any
clothing, and those in California were
the same way. They could lie quietly
in a depression of the ground, and their
bodies, being so nearly the color of
the earth, we could not see them.

"We didn't try very hard to find
them, anyway, as soon as Basquet's
wrath cooled down a little. It may
have been that as we rode around for
a few moments that a slight mound in
a hollow was about the size of an In-
dian urchin, but I took care not to ex-
amine too closely to find out.

"We did not need to fear them,
for we were much better armed than
they were. At that day very few of
them had guns, and what they did have
were generally of an inferior quality.
They did not have the advantage of
location, either, that the Modocs had;
and besides were not so warlike, al-
though they did give some trouble two
or three years later. Then, while they
would steal horses and make them-

selves a nuisance, they did not care to
go to war.

"Their supper, mainly a large kettle
full of a sort of mush made of man-
zanita berries, was still cooking over
the fire. The six of us — there were
six of us after the horses — ate it all
up," and again the jolly narrator
laughed merrily, but no more so than
he had over the joke, if joke it could
be called, that had been played upon
themselves.

"After we got through, to pay them
off we burned their camp; that is,
everything except what we could use.
Besides a large supply of arrows like
those I have described, we found quite
a lot of fishing tackle and took that
along. They had spears that they
used in fishing. These, like the ar-
rows, were long, straight sticks, but
they had the duclaw of the deer split
and fastened to a line, and when the
fish was impaled, the duclaw came
loose from the shaft of the spear and
spread so that the fish could not get
away, acting like the ordinary hook,
but being still more effective.

"My father and I went as far as San
Francisco on that trip. Wasn't much
there at that time," he continued remi-
niscently; "just a few dwekkubgs and
a warehouse or two. While there, we
cut out the timbers and boards for a
warehouse from redwood logs with a
whipsaw. My father was very good
at using the saw, and handled the end
that guided the work, and I was just
his helper. We made fine wages at it,
for workmen were hard to get, most
men preferring to hunt for gold.

"The result was that our journey to
California paid us all right in dollars
and cents as well as experience and
pleasure, even if we didn't find any
gold mine or look ahead and see the
future great city and make ourselves
rich by investing in its sandpile lots,"
and he leaned back good humoredly,
with evidently no special regrets over
failure to have taken advantage of past
opportunities.

tfi

The Equation

By Billee Glynn

THE history of Robert Hatter was
much the same as that of many
others. He had been born in
the country; ambition carried
him to the city; he had gone into busi-
ness, and become engrossed in it. At
the age of ten he sold Sunday papers
on the streets of his native town. The
mothers of lazy boys pointed him out
as an example. And such pointing was
all the more potent in that the father
of this exemplar was in fairly pros-
perous circumstances, having a small
business that kept his family nicely.
When but fifteen, Robert Hatter could
boast of a bank account. At that age,
indeed, he was too shrewd to waste a
peanut on an elephant. He had learned
the value of money, and his parents
were satisfied with him. They admitted
to themselves that neither of them had
possessed the hoarding instinct suffi-
ciently. They had not even taught it
to their son, though they approved it
in him and the energy which went with
it. Undoubtedly it had been inspired
by another person. While he was but
a little fellow, a plutocrat and politi-
cian, noted in the community for his
success, had patted the boy cordially
on the head and thus advised him:
"Always get something for everything
you do. You have only one life to live,
and don't forget that success is
money."

Robert Hatter never did forget.
When at twenty-four he set out to con-
quer the city it was with that idea in
mind, and repeating that axiom : "I
have only one life to live, and I have
no time to be a fool."

The gold-gathering lures of the me-
tropolis consequently enticed him lit-
tle. In three years, after serving a
necessary clerkship, he started in a

produce commission business for him-
self. This was the beginning of the
great engrossment. He worked from
gray morning till midnight. But to-
ward the end of his twenty-eighth
year he took the time and the trouble
to get married.

She had two thousand dollars, this
young lady, of intensely respectable
people, and she had a plain, wistful
face that constantly did its best to
smile. This faded out with the years
somewhat, but it appealed to Robert
Hatter then. He remembered always
the first day he saw her when she came
smiling toward him through a field of
dead autumn grass. Later she had
thrilled him by admitting how much
she admired his type of a man.

Fifteen years after he married her
she died. Robert Hatter was worth
a quarter of a million dollars by this
time. She had proven a very good
wife. It was a great loss, but the in-
terest in new investments helped him
over it. Though the look on the face
of the dead, the ashen futility which
death drew out from this attempt at
gratitude and self-compensation,
haunted him. Their only child, a boy
of thirteen, he sent away to boarding
school. He chose a select place where
he knew that only the proper code
would be taught him. This boy was
in general physical appearance like his
mother. He had his father's chin,
however, which was long and square-
set. And he had something, too, of
his father's vitality. Every six months
the father visited him at the school.
And he never failed to impress upon
him as they walked in the fields where
the wild birds sang and the flowers
gave up their perfume that Money was
the Great Power and the Great Success

124

OVERLAND MONTHLY

in the world, and that one must have
a great deal of it.

He was in the habit of thinking of
this son as a multimillionaire, a power
in the world of finance, and the vision
pleased him mightily. His ambition
belonged to himself as well, however,
else how could he have worked so
hard. Around that phrase: "I have
only one life to live," he had built his
gray matter. He had now several
businesses on his hands which took
up almost his entire time. A maiden
sister had been installed as his house-
keeper, and she gave him that sort
of animal loyalty and constant coun-
try sympathy which pertained to such
kinship and the provincial admiration
for money power.

With increasing years he found her
invaluable as a companion. In one
instance he prevented her possible
marriage, and she submitted easily to
his wishes when he explained that the
man was not quite satisfactory, and
that there would be many better
chances. He advised her to find more
friends of her own sex and age. Some-
times of a night he took her to the
theatre. He preferred comic opera
and broad humor, and laughed good-
naturedly. Certainly people might
have taken him for a philanthropist.
His sister always had the feeling of
protecting him from other designing
women. She disliked the idea of his
marrying again. Since he did not seem
to care about women, he gave her little
reason for uneasiness in the matter. If
she manufactured it — that was for her
own entertainment.

Things kept on apace for fourteen
more breathless years, with Robert
Hatter still hastening through his
pleasures and his meals. Even in what
he called relaxation haste had become
a habit with him. He had now accu-
mulated half a million dollars. His
son graduated from the university, and
he put him in a business North in
which he had invested seventy-five
thousand dollars. All his life he had
seen really little of the boy, scarcely
knew him, indeed. The advice he
gave him entering business life was

firm, forcible and to the point, and he
seemed to take it to heart. He sent
a trusted clerk with him to help him
conduct the business, but was rather
proud when in six months his son wrote
that he no longer needed this man, but
felt entirely capable of running things
himself. At his end, Robert Hatter
was as busy as ever. He had come to
look upon every hour as an entity rep-
resenting so much material advantage
to him. His health, however, was no
longer what it had once been.

A year and a half of initiation in
business, and Robert Hatter, Jr., mar-
ried. Oddly enough, the woman had
quietly divorced him before his father
had a chance to see her. Shortly af-
ter the business in the North went un-
expectedly bankrupt, and Robert Hat-
ter, Jr., came home. He blamed it on
the woman, bad advice, and inevitable
conditions, and the father believed
him. For pleading his own case thus,
he reflected, and somehow poignantly,
the saddened aspect of his mother,
though sadness had little part in his
general character. Besides, the matter
was somewhat swept away when Rob-
ert Hatter suffered a slight apoplectic
stroke. One arm and shoulder were
disabled. He kept the boy at home,
teaching him the handling of his dif-
ferent interests. In a few months'
time he, himself, had resumed as far
as was possible all of his former ac-
tivities. Then it became necessary
for him to go to the far East to estab-
lish an export trade in a certain com-
modity and look over some mining
prospects in China. The trip might re-
store his health, he thought.

He stayed away a year, spending the
last six months of it in the interior.
Coming back to Shanghai he found his
mail waiting him, and it foreshadowed
trouble at home. Accidentally, he en-
countered Jensen, the trusted clerk,
whom he had sent North with his son,
and whom the latter had let go. Un-
pleasant misgivings impelled him to
ply this man with questions. The ac-
count which Jensen gave made it cer-
tain that it was fast living, gambling,
dissolute companions and downright

TO A FRIEND

125

refusal to take advice on the part of
the young manager which had caused
the bankruptcy.

Robert Hatter reached home with a
saddened heart and an angry mind. He
was met by his chief lieutenant, who
told him another story. Robert Hat-
ter, Jr., had been impossible to con-
trol or advise. He had drawn large
sums out of the business and thrown it
to the winds. Five months past he
had married a girl after an hour's ac-
quaintance in a cafe, and in six weeks
she ran away with another man, taking
with her several thousand dollars'
worth of jewels which young Hatter
had bought for her. He was given a
divorce, but there was no chance to
prosecute. Then an actress with whom
the young man had evidently been as-
sociated a long time, and who probably
regretted the loss of the jewels brought
a breach of promise suit against him
for thirty thousand dollars, and won
it handily by virtue of a honeyed cor-
respondence she had had the wisdom
to preserve.

These unimaginable proceedings, so
utterly at variance with the tenets of
his own life and all that he expected
in his offspring, Robert Hatter heard
with feelings hard to describe. His

very blood went sick, his lungs seemed
to forget to breathe. The flood of his
years came upon him in an instant.

In a terrible rage, he sent for his
son. "You have cost me one hundred
and fifty thousand dollars," he said.
"You are thirty-two years old. What
do you mean by this wasteful, libertine
life?"

For the first time they stood un-
masked and facing each other in their
elementals. The long, square-set chin
of the boy had drawn out and down
with the stubbornness of his elder.
And he proved that he had inherited
something else besides. Unconscious
that he was using the other's phrase,
he replied with a flame in the words :

"I am your only heir, and I have only
one life to live. I represent the re-
pression of both my mother and your-
self."

This reply, so hard, so familiar, and
turned to such a meaning seemed to
stun Robert Hatter. He sank back in-
to his chair, his mouth twisted awry,
regarding his son. At this moment an-
other stroke came upon him, and with-
out the power of speech his face re-
tained that strange expression for the
few months which elapsed before his
death.

TO A FRIEND

Only a crescent of light in the heavens

Piercing with gold the deep shadow of night,
Only a blossom of infinite wonder

Born from the love-couch of Spring and sweet Light,
Only a lark calling clear at the dawning,

Springing and singing in rapturous flight,
Only a voice through a mystical silence

Thrilling the soul to loftier flight;

Only a message of love and kind friendship

Wafted through space to an answering heart,
Only a flash of soul understanding,

Sudden and clear as the lightning's dart :
These are the things that inspire our best soul powers,

More than e'en poetry, music, or art,
Yield us new meanings, new life-laws, and strengthen

Weary-grown lives to a nobler start.

Lenna B. Melton.

Poison-Oaked

By Alice A. Harrison and Anette Windclc

IT WOULD be an awful nuisance to
close the flat," sighed Laura Mur-
ray, when her long-legged husband
suggested a cottage in the country
for the spring and summer months.
"But, as you say, it's weeks since we've
spent a peaceful day together. Really,
Alan, I see so little of you alone that
I'm beginning to forget what you're ac-
tually like."

The Murrays had not been married
long. In fact, they were at that bliss-
ful stage when the most attractive
number in the world is "two," and the
addition of even one may constitute a
mob. Among a great number of friends
but few realized this state of affairs,
and an endless procession of callers
did their best to make this blessed
state, in Laura's eyes at any rate, a
"cussed" one.

They happened in, informally, for
breakfast, lunch and dinner — some-
times for all three. No hour seemed
too early, none too late for a noisy in-
vasion of the little flat. A tempting
supper for two would be happily
planned and prepared with loving care
by Mrs. Murray, to be ruthlessly in-
truded upon at the last minute, and no
evening, balmy or stormy, was im-
mune from the uninvited guest.

One night, in the precious after-din-
ner hour, Alan and Laura were sitting
hand in hand gossiping over the fire,
and lazily blinking into the "hollow
down by the flare."

"Who was the wise man who once
said that his idea of real bliss was
'four feet on the fender?' " she asked,
smiling at the two big and two little
shoes perched up to the blaze.

"I don't know, Honey, but he surely
was a wise man, whoever he was,"
answered Alan.

He had scarcely ceased to speak
when a loud, determined ring at the
door bell interrupted. Despairingly,
the Murrays looked at one another.

"I'm not going to answer," said
Laura. "This is the first night we've
had together all week, and I won't
have it spoiled."

Alan said nothing, but he stiffened a
little as the bell sounded again.

At the third ring, Laura's resolution
melted. "They make me sick, just
plumb sick," she muttered, as she
dragged her lazy length from the low,
cozy arm chair, and stumbled out into
the dark hall.

A minute later Cousin Mona's voice
filled the house. "What!" she ex-
claimed, as she flung into the living
room. "As I live! Spooning in the
dark, you Sentimental Sillies! There'll
be no more of that, not while Cousin
Mona is here," and she gaily snapped
on the lights.

Alan and Laura blinked in the sud-
den glare, but offered no protest as
she prattled on. "Althea and Tom
said they'd be in after the 'nick,' and
they're going to bring tamales, and
we'll all have a party," she concluded,
plumping down into Laura's chair.

"Fine! Fine!" exclaimed Alan, ab-
stractedly, as he leaned over to poke
the fire. His eyes carefully avoided
Laura's. Althea and Tom were as
good as their word, and the last night
in the week passed like all those be-
fore it, and, as Laura afterwards com-
plained to Alan, like most of the nights
to come probably would pass. Alan
stroked his wife's pretty hair. "I
think, dear, it's about time we did
something definite, or our beautiful
dispositions and our sense of hospital-
itv will be ruined forever."

POISON-OAKED

127

That night Alan Murray laid awake.
His head was filled with troubled
thoughts. Such a seemingly unim-
portant thing was disturbing the peace
of his little, new home, yet it was too
subtle a thing for his masculine mind
to cope with. He couldn't, much as he
might like to, put a sign over his front
door bearing the legend : "Keep Out —
This Means You!" Still nothing short
of some such drastic measure, he
feared, would prove effective.

All at once he had an idea. Why
not flee before a trouble too insidious
to wrestle with? A cottage in the
country for the spring and summer
months would settle the difficulty in
the very neatest of fashions, discour-
age the ever solicitous visitor, and
bring quiet and contentment to his lit-
tle wife.

When the subject was broached to
Laura, she seemed more or less hope-
ful. "We'll try it, anyway," she said,
"and if it doesn't work, let's feed them
arsenic!"

In the succeeding days the Murrays
learned that real estate ads. belong in
the great and ever increasing com-
pany of such as is not gold, but glit-
ters.

"Ten minutes from the station" they
found meant a perpendicular climb
that left them winded on the face of a
cliff after perhaps a half hour!
"Every convenience" usually com-
menced with one faucet in the whole
house, and the more enthusiastic
phrases they turned from shudder-
ingly.

At the end of one discouraging day,
they were homeward bound on the in-
terurban. Alan felt too tired and dis-
couraged to speak, but Laura, having
powdered her nose and a small sur-
rounding area seemed to have drawn
lastinp refreshment from the rite. "Of
all the appalling holes," she laughed.
"How any one could offer them to
civilized people to live in I can't imag-
ine!" With the lights of Sausalito
blinking ahead of them, Alan cheered
perceptibly.

"Never again!" he said. "We'll re-
at to our comfy little flat and tack

a sign on the door: 'Diphtheria — Keep
Out of This House.' "

Yet in spite of resolutions and dis-
couragements, they went once more in
pursuit of a rustic dwelling, and this
time fortune favored them. They
found a very duck of a place all ready
for occupancy.

For a week they fell over unfamiliar
furniture and learned the limitations
of the local emporium. Alan and the
morning train never seemed to hitch,
and the home-coming train and the
dinner hour were constitutionally in-
compatible, but these were minor dis-
comforts compared to the great peace
and quiet that filled their evenings and
made Laura's days a succession of
golden hours.

Their happiness reached a climax
when Alan came home Saturday noon.
A whole glorious day and a half, they
gurgled, with nothing to do but en-
joy themselves and each other. Laura
fixed a lunch full of thrilling sur-
prises, and like two youngsters let out
for a holiday, they trailed off to the
woods to loaf and "play with the
weather."

That night, tired but happy, they
toiled up the steep road to the cot-
tage. Mrs. Murray paused with her
hand on the gate.

"Some one is here, Alan!" Her
expression was comical in its dismay.

Alan took his pipe from his mouth.

"Who on earth " he exploded, but

was not allowed to finish. An excited
chorus of "Here they are" drowned
him out, and an avalanche of what
seemed to be Amazons swooped upon
them with welcoming roars. They
were forcibly seized and hustled into
their erstwhile peaceful house.

Cousin Mona boomed in Alan's ear
"delightful place — lovely spot —
charming view — so clever of you," and
somewhere in the middle distance the
excited chorus intoned: "We're crazy
about it!"

There they were, lined up, smiling
brightly and radiating capability and
satisfaction, a whole dozen of them at
that, instead of the homeopathic doses
to which the Murrays had been vie-

128

OVERLAND MONTHLY

tims in the city. To Laura's horror,
the fire was burning brightly, pots
were bubbling on the stove, and the
table was laid for what appeared to
her distracted gaze to be an army.

At ten o'clock on Monday morning
Laura Murray, with a grim expression
on her face, surveyed the wreck of her
little home. Pillows, mattresses, rugs,
blankets, cushions — anything that
could serve as bedding — bestrewed the
floor. The table was piled with break-
fast dishes left from the last meal of
that awful week-end. Cups and even
glasses stained with coffee dregs,
bowls and soup plates with bits of cold
mush clinging to their sides, a mass of
orange and banana peels completed
the picture. Mrs. Murray sat down in
the midst of the mess and shed a few
hearty tears, then put on the biggest
kitchen apron in the house and fell to
work.

"If only it were over now," she said
ruefully when Alan came home that
night; "but they all had a glorious
time, and swore they'd be back with
the bells on next Friday afternoon."

Alan with difficulty swallowed a
smile.

"Never mind, Angel Face," he com-
forted, "we may be able yet to think
of some way to lose the whole kit and
crew of them," and little knew that in
that speech lay phophecy. Inspira-
tion was to sit upon the brow of Laura
Murray, and to assist her in the ac-
complishment of the apparently im-
possible.

Poison oak as well as inspiration was
to sit there, however. Alan came
home on Thursday night to find her
itchy and miserable, and by the next
morning one of her pretty blue eyes
was almost closed.

When she saw herself in the glass
she was divided between tears and
laughter.

"Great guns!" she cried. "I look
like a sore-eyed kitten." And be it
said to Alan's everlasting credit that
he didn't even smile at her grotesque
appearance. Being one of those blessed
beings born immune from the disease,
he might, not realizing its painfulness,

have considered it funny. But he
didn't.

Then as it dawned upon Laura that
that same evening would see Cousin
Mona and the horde settling upon them
for another uproarious week-end, she
wailed: "You'll simply have to ring
them up as soon as you reach the city
and tell them I'm covered with this
horrid disease and wouldn't risk their
getting it for the world."

She achieved a hideous smile as it
struck her that at any rate peace would
be theirs over the week-end.

"That would never work, Foolish,"
laughed Alan. "Cousin Mona is a
walking compendium of First Aid, and
Horrible Hints for the Helpless! She
would be up here on the next train,
prepared to stay for an indefinite per-
iod and to nurse you back to life."

"I wish they'd all get it so bad they
couldn't see for a week!" she burst
out, and then at Alan's look of dis-
tressed amazement: "Oh, no, I don't.
But they are a nuisance, especially
now when I look like a toy balloon and
feel simply awful."

And at that moment the inspiration
glimmered.

When Alan was a mere speck on the
hillside she hurried to the woods and
gathered as many branches of the
ruddy leaved poison oak as she could
carry. Guiltily, she darted across the
road into the house, and then the plot
began to take shape.

She thought first of filling all the
jars and bowls as if for decorative
purposes. Then rejected this idea,
knowing they would recognize the leaf.

She could see Cousin Althea, who
was a school teacher and an enthusi-
astic botanist, ordering the whole
thing out of the house, and at the same
time giving a dissertation on the value
of a "little botanical knowledge," while
emptying the jars.

She racked her brain, and then
amazed at her own deviltry, set to
work.

She opened every available pillow
on the beds and couches, and feverish-
ly stuffed in as many leaves and
branches as would fit without detec-

POISON-OAKED

129

tion. It was hours before her task was
completed, and she was free to com-
mence putting her house in order,
and prepare for her guests. She flew
about making everything ready, feeling
like a gorgeous Borgia.

She was almost eager for the guests
to arrive.

When everything was ready she
waited on the porch. In a calm mo-
ment her conscience smote her. A
tiny thought reared its head. "What
if they really should become dread-
fully sick?"

"Nonsense; no one ever died of it,"
she told herself. "Anyway, I've got it
myself!"

She felt just a little uneasy, and
wished she hadn't done it. What
would Alan think? And right there
she decided that it would never do to
tell him. No, let them all die if they
had to, but Alan must never know.

"At any rate it's too late now," she
said to herself, as she saw them com-
ing up the road. Presently suitcases
like young trunks were thudding on
the porch, and solicitous cries of "You
poor thing! Use camphor! Baking
soda! Try peroxide!" rent the air.

Laura squirmed. She began to pity
her victims. They were kind. Oh,
how could she have done such an aw-
ful thing!

A few minutes later they were in-
vading her kitchen and permeating
every available inch of space. She
smiled grimly.

"Sic him, Tige!" she muttered.

"What, dear?" queried Alan, peer-
ing over the evening paper, behind
which he had taken a brief refuge.

"Nothing — just talking to myself."
Her tone was so blithe that he looked
suspiciously at her. She was bearing
this invasion alarmingly well.

The evening was chilly, and the
guests disposed themselves around the
fireplace to loaf and enjoy the blaze.
Louise picked up a pine pillow and
buried her face in it.

"Isn't it fragrant?" she said, taking
a mighty sniff. "I just love 'em!"
Mrs. Murray started guiltily. The
pine pillow had been treated liberally.

She pushed her chair out of the range
of the firelight.

"Face bad, dear?" asked Louise.

Cousin Mona looked up from hei
tatting. "Take care of yourself, Laura.
I remember a case at the settlement
when a child went stone deaf, and the
same year a perfectly lovely girl de-
veloped erysipelas from poison oak."

"You're awfully comforting, Mo/*
defended Alan, and Laura threw him
a grateful look.

Mrs. Murray tumbled out of bed
early the next morning, hoping to
salve her uneasy conscience by pre-
paring a specially tempting breakfast
lor her victims. Some one was mov-
ing about in the kitchen. Cousin Mona
in remarkable deshabille was peering
shortsightedly under the sink. She
straightened up heavily.

"That you, Laura? I was looking
for a pan or basin." Her voice was
husky with sleep, and she turned a
strangely splotched face on Laura.

The sight of the elder woman, usu-
ally so taut and trim, bulging in a
glaring kimona, was disconcerting. "I
seem to have gotten poison oak," her
tone was faintly accusing. "It's very
odd. I wasn't out at all."

Laura, red in the face, busied her-
self with the baking soda, and Mona
unwontedly subdued, submitted meek-
ly to her ministrations.

Having bathed and bandaged and
consoled her, Mrs. Murray induced her
to take another little cat-nap before
breakfast. Then she hastened to pre-
pare a meal for the rest of the mob.
She flew about, rattling pans and
dishes, cutting bread, laying the table
and trying by much speed and indus-
try to forget her own wretched share
in Cousin Mona's misfortune.

When finally she came into the din-
ing room with a plate of crisp, buttery
toast in one hand and a steaming cof-
fee pot in the other, she found a mot-
tled crowd gathered about the break-
fast table. One look at their speckled
visages, and one earful of their groans
and complaints proved too much for
her overstrained nerves. She sat
down on the floor in a heap, toast, cof-

130

OVERLAND MONTHLY

fee and all, and laughed and sobbed,
sobbed and laughed until Alan took
her by the shoulder and led her up-
stairs.

"Don't scold me, Alan," she pleaded.
"If you only knew! If you only
knew!"

"I know that my little girl is not
acting like herself one little bit; you
will simply have to pull yourself to-
gether while I go down and attend to
the speckled beauties below." She
heard his footsteps flying down the
stairs, and then she pitched herself on
the bed in an agony of laughter and
regret.

That day from the house of Mur-
ray there was a quiet but determined
exodus. Fortunately for Laura's peace
of mind her guests had reached the
conclusion that some one in the neigh-
borhood was burning the poisonous
growth, and so explained to their own
satisfaction, and to her unspeakable
relief, the strange misfortune that had
befallen them all. Not one had es-
caped the blight.

After it was all over, after the last
suitcase had been strapped, the last
germful kisses exchanged, and an al-
most solemn quiet pervaded the little
house, Laura determined to tell Alan.
The very idea made her feel weak in
the knees, but she knew that she never
could be quite happy till she did.
Maybe he'd never love her again
when he knew to what depths of vil-
lainy she had fallen ! Maybe he would
not want to live in the same house
with a creature capable of so wicked a
deed ! Maybe she had ruined her own
happiness forever! But whatever the
consequences she knew she must tell
him.

Two lovers strolling past the Mur-
ray cottage that night were rudely
awakened from their quiet contempla-
tion of the stars and their own bliss
by a man's sudden roar of laughter. It
came from the porch of the little
house, and seemed to echo and roll
over the landscape.

Laura Murray had confessed to
Alan.

CONVERTING THE DESERT

The desert silent sleeps the decades through,
Devoid of verdant pastures and of grain.
For centuries thus dormant it has lain
Somnambulent, save for the eagle who
Scans wide the horizon's unchanging blue.

Behold! he sees the arid fastness wane

Before the sturdy plowman in whose train

Comes streams of water kissed with mountain dew.

Now waves the golden grain where sagebrush grew,

Embryo cities new are rooted deep.

The shriek of steam, the hardrock drill's tattoo

That into mountain strongholds swiftly creep,

Converting ever old to ever new,

Awake, O silent land from peaceful sleep.

Louis Roller.

Ay Prophetic Dreams

By I. /AacDonald

HERBERT L. Stewart, writing in
"The Canadian Magazine/' on
the subject of "Dreams and
their Causes," cites many the-
ories advanced by prominent scientists
as an explanation of this curious ir-
regularity of the mind. One of the
most prevalent ideas about dreams
seems to be that they are merely an
illogical patchwork of such imagery,
familiar to the waking senses, as may
recur to the mind during sleep. This
no doubt is a satisfactory explanation
of such mental activity as is stimu-
lated by late suppers, etc., but the fact
that all dreams do not lend themselves
to this hypothesis is ignored by many
expert psychologists. It is, in fact, a
failing of the scientist to deny that
which does not fit in with such theories
as he or his school have advanced;
virtually he cuts his garment, and with
an egotistic satisfaction in his own
handiwork tries to make life itself fit
the tailor-made suit; those far shoots
and intricate tendrils which are awk-
ward to handle he would lop off — if
we let him.

Thus, for example, a negative at-
titude is adopted on the subject of pro-
phetic dreams. The argument is quite
a logical one: if the universe is go-
ing through a process of evolutionary
development there can be no possible
way of holding up a mirror to the fu-
ture, since even to the eye of Infin-
ite Consciousness the future is yet un-
formed. We are therefore told that a
dream is a mere mirage, or the reflec-
tion of some thought or act that has
been present in the mind before; that
in the case of the man who claims to
have had a distinct vision of the boat
on which he had booked his passage
being wrecked, upon which he took

warning and stayed at home, he is a
victim of some mental illusion, or an
uneducated and superstitious person.
This is the attitude taken up not mere-
ly by the man of higher learning, but
by the ordinary person who prides
himself upon his common sense.
Sometimes the latter is an orthodox
churchman, who firmly asserts his be-
lief in the miraculous, but tell him of
something bordering on the supernatu-
ral which has occurred in your life,
and with a supercilious air of incredul-
ity he will deny the possibility of any-
thing outside of his own experience.
The fact that another man may not
be on the same psychical plane as him-
self does not signify. And so through
a natural fear of ridicule, the sensitive
and imaginative person who is more
susceptible to such things, wisely
keeps his own counsel.

In drawing attention to those inci-
dents of my own life which I am about
to relate, I may say that while a
dream is commonly supposed to reach
a man only through the sense of sight
and fear, it will be my purpose to
prove that in a dream the mind may
not only retain the faculty of reason-
ing with itself, but may be affected
through the sense of touch, sound and
even that most illusive of all the
senses — the olfactory.

Perhaps all children are imaginative,
especially when there are hereditary
tendencies in the development of this
particular mental quality, and if the
child lacks the companionship of other
child life. Going back to my own
early years which were spent in a
lonely prairie home with none but my
parents and an elder brother, and such
companionship as I might find in the
animal life about me, I can see that

132

OVERLAND MONTHLY

both these forces were active in mak-
ing me drift into a dream world all
my own. There were no schools there
in those days, and the only form of in-
struction at all tempting to me was in
listening to stories of warriors and
other great people. I loved to picture
a battle, with the mounted soldiers
charging across the field as the enemy
galloped away before them. I was
particularly fond of horses, but I
could never see a real live horse that
looked exactly as I wanted it to. It
was only in picture books that one
saw a snow-white animal with arched
neck, flowing mane and fiery nostrils ;
so I used to conjure up pictures to
please myself. As a result of this,
such things began to flit through my
mind in sleep, and I would have an
occasional dream which portrayed all
sorts of men and animals and strange
experiences which I could only with
difficulty have conceived in my wak-
ing mind. Then I discovered that by
an effort of will, before going to sleep
each night, I could make myself dream
several nights in succession.

After a time this faculty of volun-
tary dreaming left me, and since then
I have been perhaps less prone to such
mental disturbances during sleep than
most people are. I have heard several
people confess that they had unpleas-
ant dreams every night of their lives,
which to me would seem the most dis-
tressing affliction. When I was about
seven years old, however, I had a
dream which made a strong impres-
sion on me, and which was the first of
a series of phophetic dreams which
have occurred to me at intervals all
through my life. It happened that
near our house was a well from which
the water was drawn up not through
a pump but by an old-fashioned pulley.
There had been a wooden bucket sus-
pended in the well, but this had in
some way been broken, and an iron
one substituted. It was a favorite
amusement of mine, if I discovered this
well open, to pull the rope and run
the bucket up and down. I did this un-
known to my father, who had strictly
forbidden me to go near the well, es-

pecially in the winter time, when the
edge was sheeted with ice. One night
I had a dream in which I saw myself
playing about the well as usual, and
conscious that I was doing wrong,
when suddenly a huge black snake
leaped out of the well and twined itself
about me. I shrieked in terror, and in
my effort to extricate myself from the
long, thin tail which had wound round
my ankles I struck out furiously at it,
and to my horror saw the head of the
reptile, which was the exact size and
shape of the iron bucket, shattered to
a thousand pieces. My fear of the
snake now turned to grief for what I
had done, and in a desire to cover up
my guilt I took up the pieces and tried
to stick them together again. Finding
all my efforts of no avail, I went off in
fear and trembling to tell my father.
If I could have hidden the deed I
would not have gone to him with my
confession, for I was very much afraid
of him, but as it was sure to be dis-
covered anyway, I thought honesty the
better policy. It was a crisp winter
morning, and I found my father stand-
ing talking to a young man, a neigh-
boring farmer who had driven up in a
wagon. I looked at the young man,
wondering what could have brought
him there at that time of the day; then
summoning up courage, I told my
father of what had happened. The lat-
ter was very angry with me, but the
visitor interceded on my behalf, and,
after giving him a grateful smile, I
turned and ran into the house.

It is a curious thing that this dream
did not warn me of that which might
possibly happen, for the next day, as
though it were the decree of fate, I
went to the well, and finding the cover,
which resembled a loose trap-door, off,
and the rope lying coiled on the ground
I started to pull it back and forth, de-
lighted at the frosty squeak of the pul-
ley. When my hands had got cold I
turned to run home, but as I did so my
foot caught in the rope and I fell. This
jerked the bucket up suddenly, and
in striking the edge of the well, it was
shattered to pieces. Disentangling
myself from the rope, I looked with

MY PROPHETIC DREAMS

133

consternation at what had happened,
realizing how. angry my father would
be when he knew of it. The thought
came into my mind that if there had
been any way of temporarily putting
the bucket together again I would have
done so, but that was impossible, so I
went off to try and find my father and
tell him about the accident. Just as I
had seen it in the dream, I found my
father talking to young McRae, who
lived about two miles from us, and
with the same query in my mind as to
why the latter should have been there
at that time of day, I made the confes-
sion to my father, who was very angry.
The visitor, seeing how frightened I
looked, attempted to take my part, tell-
ing my father I hadn't meant to do
wrong, and after giving him a look of
gratitude, I turned and ran into the
house.

The second dream of a prophetic
nature came to me when I was four-
teen years of age. I was then living
with relatives in New York City. In
my dream I seemed to be back at my
prairie home again. There was a lit-
tle grassy spot at the west end of the
house where I used to play a great
deal as a child. I seemed to be stand-
ing there looking out across the prai-
rie to that familiar spot on the hori-
zon where the sun sank to its couch
in a ruddy glow. Often I had stood
thus and watched the clouds rolling up
into great snowy peaks or figures of
recumbent giants. But the sky was
clear as I saw it in my dream, till sud-
denly there flashed forth a brilliant
cross, and beside it appeared the fig-
ure of the Savior, also radiant as the
sun. Now a marvelous thing happened,

for 1 seemed to see some one leave
le earth — I thought it was my mother
-and the Savior stretched forth his
is to receive her. It was all won-

lerfully real to me, and the conscious-

less that I was in the very presence of
God himself so overcame me with a
ise of awe that I fell on my knees

ind covered my face.
The only person to whom I cared
tell this dream was my little cousin's

lurse, who was an Irish woman and

superstitious. She listened to me very
seriously when I recited my experi-
ence to her, and told me to make a
note of it, because it had a meaning.
Going up to my room, I wrote on a lit-
tle slip of paper the date of the dream
and a few words to indicate what I had
seen in it. This had happened in the
fall of the year. About Christmas
time my mother came for me, and I
went back with her to my home on
the prairie. After a short illness my
mother died on the 15th of April, and
on the day of her death, as I turned
over the leaves of an old Sunday
School Bible, I discovered the little
slip of paper dated the 15th of October
— the day six months previous on
which I had apparently received an in-
timation of her death. If any one
asked for proof of this I could show
them the record of my dream, writ-
ten on this tiny slip of paper in a
school girl's handwriting, which is still
preserved in my Bible.

Equally remarkable was the fact
that my mother herself had a dream
which she believed to be a forewarn-
ing of her own death. She described
the day on which she died — the heavy
dark clouds and drifting snow; she also
saw an open grave with people stand-
ing round with sad faces, and as they
listened to the words of the minister
the sun burst forth and a little bird
sang in the trees nearby. The day of
her death corresponded to what she
had seen, as did also the day of her
funeral, on which the storm had
ceased and the warm spring sun come
out; and though my memory fails me
as to the singing of the little bird, it
was highly probable that this, too,
should have occurred.

Sometime after my mother died, I
dreamed that I heard her voice call me
sharply by name ; within a few seconds
after this it seemed as if a hand
touched my face. It was a hand that
was soft and warm, yet seemed to have
no bone structure to it; the palm
touched my face first, and then the fin-
gers were drawn down my cheek and
snatched away. I woke with a start
and called out. I still seemed to hear

134

OVERLAND MONTHLY

the voice and feel the impression of a
hand on my face — then I remembered
that my mother was not living. The
strange thing about this was the fact
that while one is rarely if ever con-
scious of a dream passing through the
mind in a few seconds, I realized that
both the sound and the touch had been
instantaneous as the shutter of a cam-
era would open and close.

It is worthy of note that when some
years later I began to read books on
higher criticism, and the philosophy of
Haechel and others, my dreams — par-
ticularly the one in which I had seen
Jesus in the personification of God and
felt the significance of that Divine
Presence — remained as the last prop
to my belief in the infallibility of the
Bible.

Some few years after the experi-
ences which I have last related, I was
living in a country town in Scotland.
One night I dreamed that just as the
dusk was falling and the street lamp
opposite our house had been lit, a mes-
senger boy came to the door with a
telegram. I went to the door, and
standing on the stone steps outside,
took the telegram from the boy's hand,
and as I did so the latter took from
his pocket a short yellow pencil, and,
offering it to me, asked if he should
wait for a reply. I went into the house,
and as I held the yellow envelope be-
tween my fingers, there came to me
suddenly the overpowering conscious-
ness that it contained some terrible
news. All at once there flashed upon
me a bright light from which I vainly
tried to escape. This light which beat
upon me cruelly seemed in some illogi-
cal way to be the same thing as the
contents of the letter — something of
which I had a terrible dread.

The following day as I sat in the
dim light of the little sitting-room with
the street lamp directly opposite shin-
ing in, I saw a messenger boy step up
to the door. I went outside and took
the cablegram from him. He asked
me if I wanted to write a reply, and
digging into his pocket produced a
short yellowish brown pencil. The
pencil had an individuality all its own,

such as one might expect in anything
which a boy had carried about with
him, and in spite of my anxiety to
know the contents of the cablegram I
looked at the pencil for a moment won-
deringly — then the memory of my
dream flashed into my mind, and I
knew that the cablegram contained
grave news. I opened it and learned
of my father's fatal illness. It was to-
tally unexpected, for I had not known
that my father, who was then in Amer-
ica, was in ill health.

Another remarkable dream was one
in which I saw some person lying in
bed wounded. I could see blood stains
and knew that he was very ill, but
whether it had been caused by an ac-
cident or not I could not tell. Some-
thing seemed to say to me that the
person — whom I knew was related to
me, but whom I could not identify —
had been hurt for his own good, and in
my sleeping mind I argued the unrea-
sonableness of this. Why should he
have submitted to such a thing, and
what good could it possibly do him?
It happened that in this little Scottish
town the postman arrived almost as
early in the morning as the milkman,
and I had scarcely wakened from my
dream when my aunt, opening my bed-
room door with a bunch of letters in
her hand, picked out one and handed
it to me. It was from my uncle in a
distant part of the country telling me
that he had not been well for some
time, and on an examination by the
doctor he had been ordered to undergo
an operation of a very serious nature.

In addition to the incidents above
related I have had premonitions occa-
sionally of things of more trivial con-
sequence, such, for instance, as having
seen in a dream a huge rock towering
above me, in the center of which was
a round hole through which I could
see the green branches of the trees
waving. The hole was large enough
for a man to climb through, and I won-
dered how it had come there. Some
little time after this I went with a
party of friends on a picnic to Niagara
Glen — a particularly attractive spot
among the woods along the Niagara

MY PROPHETIC DREAMS

135

River. What was my surprise to see
two or three large rocks of the exact
type I had seen in my dream, having
large round holes worn through them —
presumably by the action of water in
past ages.

Again I dreamed once that a man
came into the office where I was em-
ployed and asked me for a certain
book. The curious thing about the
man was that his voice made a strong
impression upon me. It was a particu-
larly soft and pleasant voice, and the
book which I handed him had a red
leather binding which was tempting to
handle. The sequence of this was
that one day while alone in the office
in which I was then working a man
telephoned and asked for information
as to the financial standing of a certain
firm who purchased goods from us.
His voice sounded familiar to me, and
I suddenly remembered that it was the
voice I had heard in the dream. Not
being able to give him the information
he then asked if we had a copy of
Dunn's or Bradstreet's reports. Re-
membering that one of the men in the
office had ordered a copy of Brad-
street's the day before, I went to
search for it, and on finding it, discov-
ered to my surprise that it was a book
with a red binding and soft to the
touch as had been the book I had han-
dled in my dreams.

One instance in which the strength
of imagination was shown was a case
in which I dreamed that some one was
administering chloroform to me. I
woke up with a stifled feeling, and so
certain was I of this that I distinctly
smelt the chloroform after waking, and
not until I had proved that the door
of my room was securely locked could
I convince myself that it was only a
dream.

A curious and interesting fact is that
one mind sometimes reacts on another
in sleep. I have been told by people
who have slept in the same room that
they have dreamed the same thing.
An example of this was an instance in
which I myself, having sat up late at
night to write a letter, became sud-
denly conscious that I was not alone

in the room. The room was well lit
up, and looking all round I could see
nothing to account for my strange feel-
ing of uneasiness. I took up my pen
again and tried to write, but I could
not — my fingers trembled with ner-
vousness. I rose and went upstairs
to my bedroom. I was still trembling
and frightened, when, just as I passed
my brother's room, I heard him turn
over with a distressed groan, and in-
stantly the spell under which I had
been held vanished. A few days after
this, while driving with my brother, he
remarked that he had had a "terrific
nightmare" recently. I asked him on
what night it had occurred. He men-
tioned the night on which I had been
overcome by a peculiar fear. "The
strange thing was," he remarked, "that
the dream was so real to me I lay
trembling with fright after I had wak-
ened, and just as I heard you passing
my door the spell seemed to be
broken."

Departing from the subject of
dreams, I might relate something
which happened while I was spending
a summer holiday in the little town of
Portstewart in the north of Ireland.
My cousin and I had climbed the hill
behind the town one Sunday morning,
and entering the little old Presbyter-
ian church a quarter of an hour before
service time, had selected a pew well
in the center of the church, but pretty
far back. One by one we watched
the straggling couples come in, and
by and by a stream of folks. Sudden-
ly turning to my cousin I said: "Mr.

McG is just coming in." "How

do you know?" she asked, looking at
the crowded doorway; "he is not in
sight." "No," I replied, "but I heard
his step outside." "But you couldn't
possibly hear his step and distinguish
it from the others, so how could you —
why, there he is now!' she exclaimed.
And it was he, though how it had been
possible for me to have "heard his
step" was a mystery to myself, only to
be explained perhaps by some sub-
conscious action of my mind.

A somewhat amusing experience
was told to me recently by a friend,

136

OVERLAND MONTHLY

who asserted that he had dreamed of
his partner in business having come
to him in great anxiety because he
could not find his wife. Offering his
assistance, he went with the distressed
husband to search for her, and finally
discovered that the missing wife had
eloped with another man (a mutual
friend) and gone to Chattanooga,
Tennessee. Turing to his partner he
said : "This is a thing one might dream
about, but to think of it really happen-
ing! It's hard to believe, isn't it?"
"That is so," the other replied. "Are
you going to go after her?" "No, in-
deed," the husband answered in an
unconcerned tone. "If she wanted to
leave, why shouldn't she?" My friend
thought this particularly funny, be-
cause his partner has not been married
very long and his wife and he are nat-
urally devoted to each other.

For several years I have not had a
dream which appeared to have any
significance until recently, when I saw
for the first time in my life a real
ghost. There is a wide fire place in
the room in which I sleep, and in a
dream one night I saw one side of the
fireplace illuminated, and in the cen-
ter of this light was revealed a deli-
cate, filmy veiled figure of a woman
leaning against one corner of the man-
telpiece. An interesting thing in con-
nection with this curious vision was
that in my dream I distinctly said to
myself: "This is how ghost stones
arise. What I am looking at just now
is nothing but an optical illusion; the
light cast on the mantel is coming
through the window from some light
on the street, and the figure I see is
probably caused by the curtain. If
I shut my eyes for a minute it will be
gone when I open them." I must have
used some effort of will to close my
eyes, for I woke up and was surprised
to find the room quite dark. Naturally
the dream, being a very unusual one,
made me feel that it was one of my
"prophetic" dreams. Now it happened
that I had been disappointed in not
getting any Christmas communications
from relatives who live in a certain
Eastern town — I being at the present

time on the Pacific Coast. There is
an old lady in the family, and I sur-
mised that she was ill. After waiting
for two or three weeks I received a
letter from her daughter telling me
that her mother had been very serious-
ly ill, but was then recovering. For
three days, the daughter said, her
mother's life had been despaired of.
The date of my dream would corre-
spond, I think, with that time. It is
interesting to note that as I lay awake
one night I discovered that a passing
automobile cast a light into my room
not unlike that which I had seen in
my dream, but it did not, of course,
account for the mysterious figure.

The last instance which I have to
relate of these inexplicable scenes
have come before me in sleep, is one
which does not appear to be a fore-
cast of any actual event, but is never-
theless interesting as an illustration of
how perfectly logical a dream may be
in its presentation to the mind. What
I saw was the interior of what ap-
peared to have been a farm house
somewhere on the battle front. There
was a stone partition inside which had
been destroyed, leaving only a ragged
portion, and thus throwing two rooms
into one. There were two entrances —
one to the front facing the enemy and
one to the back through which a hay-
stack and some farm implements were
visible quite near the house. The
place was being bombarded, and there
was the consciousness that at any mo-
ment it might be blown up. There
seemed to be several men in uniform
moving about inside the house, and
one woman. The latter was a young
person, slightly built, with a pale face
and dark hair and eyes. She wore a
white waist and black skirt, and while
not untidy, it was evident that she had
not had time to brush her hair or put
her waist on carefully. With an at-
tempt to jest at the seriousness of the
occasion, she said in words which I
cannot exactly recall, but the meaning
of which was: "You bet I wouldn't
have been here if I had known we were
going to have such a hot time." Now
all of a sudden the firing seemed to

MY PROPHETIC DREAMS

137

cease, and everything was very still —
the attention of the enemy having
been directed elsewhere. The thought
came into my mind that no doubt they
believed the occupants of the house to
be all dead. A strange thing was that
I was not distinctly conscious of being
there bodily, but only mentally. When
the firing outside had ceased, the men
seemed to have left the cottage. After
a brief space, however, a boy rushed
in through the front door. This door
swung back on a loose hinge, and a
man who appeared from somewhere
inside the house snatched up a gun
and sprang behind it. There was the
sound of a scuffle outside, and sud-
denly three men of the enemy rushed
in. The man hidden behind the door
fired on them as they entered, killing
two of them dead, but only wounding
the third. He was a thick-set man with
biack hair and eyes and a black mus-
tache. A few minutes after this, two
friendly officers entered, also by the
front door. They were tall, thin men.
One of them seemed to be in khaki,
but the others wore a light grey tweed
suit and leggins. He had fair hair, a
light mustache, wore eye-glasses and
carried a cane. The wounded man on
the floor looked up at him as he en-
tered, and an angry altercation took
place between the man and the officer.
The latter snapped his fingers at the
man, strode through the cottage, ap-
parently ordering every one to leave
with him, and before passing out
through the back entrance, turned
again and spoke contemptuously to
the man lying on the floor, as though
accusing him of some mean treach-
ery, and refusing to help him.

In conclusion, let me say that while
perhaps very few people nave had so
many unaccountable dreams as I have
had in my life, many people have had
at least a few. I remember my sur-
prise when I discovered in conversa-
tion with a friend whom I believed to
be, not only a particularly well in-
formed person, but one with a very
clear, practical mind, that she had had
a dream in which she had seen the
death of a little child who was related
to her. She said that when the mes-
sage was delivered to her she was
not in the least surprised, as even be-
fore the words were spoken she knew
what it was, for she had seen the
mother weeping over the dead child
the night before.

What is the explanation of such
things ? It is not my habit of mind to
be convinced of anything which I am
not compelled to believe in. If I
could "explain away" such weird jour-
neys as I have had through dreamland
I would gladly do so. But is it possi-
ble?

The only good solution which has
ever presented itself to me is that out-
side of our human physical existence
there is a reservoir of consciousness —
an omniscience to which even the fu-
ture is invisible. That during sleep
it may be possible for the mind to de-
tach itself from the body — such as we
may suppose to occur in death — and
that this fragment of consciousness
which has inhabited the body may
then merge for a time with that great
Infinite Consciousness which is also
the Well of Knowledge, bringing back
with it such little bits of light on the
future as it is permitted to retain.

The Great War's Effect on Immigration

By Frank B. Lcnz, Immigration Secretary Young Men's Christian
Association, San Francisco, California

SINCE the outbreak of the great
European conflict, there has been
a tremendous discussion about
the volume of immigration to this
country after peace has been restored.
It is always a rather dangerous policy
to venture a prophesy on such a con-
tingency as the possible migration of
peoples. But there are certain defin-
ite facts in relation to the immigration
question that cannot be overlooked.
Let us consider for a moment some of
the forces that govern the flow of im-
migration.

Briefly, the principal factors that
govern immigration may be divided
into two general groups — first, the ex-
pulsive and second the attractive. The
expulsive forces are the economic, po-
litical, social, racial and the spiritual.
Chiefest among the expulsive forces
is the economic. Unquestionably this
is the prime factor that has been driv-
ing immigrants to this country at the
rate of about a million a year. Be-
tween 1908 and the outbreak of the
war we had an average annual immi-
gration from Europe alone, of about
840,000, and had normal conditions
continued it is probable that the aver-
age would at least have been main-
tained. Since the war began, the an-
nual average has been something over
180,000. The economic conditions in
the United States have always been
superior to those in the countries of
emigration. The present war will in
no way improve the economic condi-
tions in Europe. Quite the contrary
will be the case. Taxation will be in-
creased because of the enormous war
debts, and this burden will fall on the
laboring people, some of whom would
have eventually been immigrants. The

laboring man will go where he can
sell his services at the highest price.
Labor will not stay in Europe. For
labor cannot get profitable work unless
capital is there to supply it, and in
many European countries capital will
be very scarce when the war is over.
In all probability capital will be least
impaired in the United States, and that
capital will call loudly for labor.

It is argued that strict emigration
laws will be passed to prevent the man
of all work from leaving his native
land, because he will be needed in the
economic reconstruction of his country.

Laborers undoubtedly will remain in
France and Belgium to reconstruct in-
dustry, trade and commerce, but in
countries like Italy, Russia and Aus-
tria-Hungary, which furnish the bulk
of immigration, economic reconstruc-
tion will take place very slowly. Eco-
nomic development has always been
far behind the growth of population in
these countries, and we cannot con-
ceive of a development in a month or
two that will change the old conditions
and make emigration unnecessary.

Men have always found ways of
evading restrictions, and they will con-
tinue to evade any laws that might in-
terfere with their movements. Ger-
many is certain to adopt restrictive leg-
islation toward the Jews if she retains
Poland. If Poland passes again under
Russian control, we can count on it that
Russia will not alter her former treat-
ment of the Jews. If a policy of tol-
erance is inaugurated by either of these
countries Jewish immigration will de-
cline, and here let me point out the
significance of the second factor among
the expulsive forces — the political.

Government oppression has always

THE GREAT WAR'S EFFECT ON IMMIGRATION

139

been one of the outstanding causes of
immigration. The desire to escape
military service has driven thousands
of immigrants from Germany alone.
The same is true of Russia; in fact, it
is true of any country that demands
compulsory military service of her
subjects. One has only to enquire
about him to learn that many of his
immigration neighbors "ran away"
from their native lands to escape ser-
vice in the army. In my own case, it
was not my neighbor, but my father.
Taxation, which is a political burden,
has caused hundreds of thousands to
flee Europe. The present war will in-
tensify and increase all these motives
to emigrate.

Then there is what we may call the
social force. Social cast changes when
a man desires a better lot for his son
than the lot to which he was born. Po-
tential immigrants can see better
homes for their sons in America after
the war than in Europe.

Racial and religious antagonisms ac-
count for much of our modern immi-
gration. Russia contains 172 races by
her own count, each kept at sword's
points as a matter of policy. Austria-
Hungary is a mixture of heterogenous
and discordant races. Economic con-
ditions which will be intensified after
the war will be made to assume a re-
ligious cloak, which in turn will en-
gender riot and rebellion. The horri-
ble persecutions of the Armenians are
driving many of them to this country.
More would come were escape pos-
sible. Spiritual forces that control im-
migration manifest themselves when
men and women sacrifice in order that
they might have opportunity for
greater freedom of thought ; when men
and women tear themselves away from
their beloved associations in the hope
that in their new home they may find
religious freedom and a greater oppor-
tunity of service to their brethren.

Briefly, now, let us simply enumer-
ate the attractive forces that govern
immigration. The attractive force is
a belief and hope that the new land of-
fers opportunities to relieve the un-
comfortableness that is felt at home.

The call for a new home is made
through one or more of the following
agencies: Letters from the immigrant
in America; the foreign press sent
home; the returned immigrant; the
prepaid ticket; the steamship ticket
agent and cheap transportation.

Statistics point out that after most
of the European wars there has been
an increased immigration to this coun-
try. This is true of the Napoleonic
wars, the Franco-Prussian war, the
Russian-Japanese war and the Balkan
war.

The Franco-Prussian war furnishes
the best guide in considering the rela-
tion between war and immigration. At
the time of the war in 1871 Germany
was the most important source of our
immigration. It was not until the early
eighties that the shift to the southern
part of Europe took place. The war
interrupted the movement for a time
from that country just as the present
war has checked immigration from
Italy and Russia, but it was resumed
immediately. In 1869 the immigra-
tion from Germany to the United
States was over 132,000, while in 1871
— the actual year of the war — it
dropped to 82,500. In 1872 it rose to
141,000, and in 1873 it reached about
150,000. The high water mark in Ger-
man immigration was not reached until
1882, when more than 250,000 came.
The immigration from France was
3,000 in 1871. In 1874 it rose to 14,-
800.

Because of our war with Great Brit-
ain in 1812 immigration was practi-
cally at a standstill. But as soon as
the treaty of peace was signed, there
was a suddeji influx to this country,
reaching 20,000 in 1817.

After the Crimean war our immi-
gration was smaller than before, but
this decrease was due to conditions in
the United States rather than in Eu-
rope.

Whatever the effect the present war
may have on immigration we can
safely say that with the end of the
war and the restoration of transporta-
tion facilities there will be an inward
and outward movement of peoples that

140

OVERLAND MONTHLY

may test the capacity of our carriers.
There is certain to be a reunion of
friends and relatives either here or in
Europe.

Another class which will come in
large numbers are those whose homes
have been destroyed and whose fami-
lies have scattered because of the war.
These will be compelled to make a new
start in life, and it is very probable
that they will make that start in a new
world. Already in many sections only
children and old women remain. Hope
of a better day will be at a low ebb
for years to come. Thousands of
these women and children will be as-
sisted to come by relatives who will
send money and who will at the same
time point out the attractiveness of
the United States. Even before the
war, from 70 to 80 per cent of those
coming from Italy, Russia, Austria-
Hungary and the Balkan states were
assisted in this way. The millions of
widows and orphans left by the war
will not be wanted at home, because
they will be a burden during the period
of reconstruction.

The war has taken from 15,000,000
t 0> 20,000,000 men from the mills,
mines, factories and farms. They have
experienced a new freedom. They
have been thrown on their own re-
sources. A spirit of independence has
taken possession of them, and with it
has come a feeling of restlessness. The
humdrum life of the farm or factory
no longer will appeal to them. A new
psychology will take hold of Europe.
Many men will resent their former
conditions. Thousands will never take
up their old life again. Thousands
will be led to migrate by a restless, rov-
ing, unsettled instinct which will in-
crease the flow to America.

Since the war began there has been
a marked decrease in the total immi-
gration. In 1914 the immigration from
all countries was 1,218,480. It dropped
to 326,700 in 1915. From July, 1915,
to March, 1916, the total immigration

was 206,481. In the month of March,
1915, the total immigration was 206,-
481. In the month of March, 1916, it
was 27,586. It will be impossible to
say what the proportions of immigra-
tion will be when the war ceases. Few
will question the prophesy that there
will be an increase. Authorities all
over the country seem pretty much
agreed upon that point. Thousands
and thousands of immigrants now in
this country predict a great increase
in immigration with the conclusion of
hostilities.

The immigration problem is com-
plex and baffling to an extreme degree
at present. It is one of the biggest
and most difficult problems this nation
has to deal with. The sorry side of the
whole question is that the government
is not dealing with it.

The Federal government has made
absolutely no preparation to meet and
solve the problem. She has devised
no methods of coping with extraordi-
nary conditions that might arise. The
tide of immigration is low. Now is
the time to act. Some of the States
like California are pointing out a way
through their Immigration Commis-
sion. The National Americanization
Committee has started a new move-
ment of assimilating the foreigner in
its dealings with governmental depart-
ments, schools, courts and churches.
As early as 1907 the Young Men's
Christian Association inaugurated an
international movement for the wel-
fare of immigrants to the United States
and Canada.

The matter of Americanizing the im-
migrant should not be left to private
enterprises alone. The Federal gov-
ernment should tackle the problem
now. A domestic program of assimi-
lation should be developed and put
in operation. The country needs pre-
paredness for the immigration prob-
lem, and the government should real-
ize that at present this is the real pre-
paredness that we need.

The Anzac

By Frank Fox

THE Anzac striding — or limping
— down the Strand with chal-
lenging glance has brought Aus-
tralasia actually home to the
Mother Country. The British Conti-
nent in the South Seas has been, of
course, represented in London these
many years, permanently, and at con-
ferences with politicians, of pressmen,
and the like, with the timidities and
discreet reservations of representative
persons. But here are the Australa-
sians, the men of the Bush, in London,
as remarkable, as significant almost
as the Dacians in the streets of an-
other Imperial capital two thousand
years ago. Easily can they be picked
out from the native population. They
walk the streets with a slightly ob-
vious swagger. When they are awed
a little it is a point of honor not to
show it. When they are critical a lit-
tle, it peeps out. Two by two, they
keep one another in countenance and
are fairly comfortable. Catch one
alone and you may see in his eyes a
hunger for a mate, a need for some
other Anzac. For all his bravura air,
the Anzac has no perfect self-confi-
dence; and he has a child's shy fear
of making himself ridiculous by a false
step. The same fear makes him dif-
ficult to know. He will often set up
as a "protective barrier against a real
knowledge of him, a stubborn tacitur-
nity, or a garrulous flow of what Aus-
tralasians call "skite" and Londoners
call "swank." I am tempted to try
and explain the Australian Anzac,
what manner of man he really is, and
what message he brings, this time of
war, leaving his splendid New Zea-
land comrade — also an Anzac — to
some other pen.
Hardly barbaroi, strangers, to the

warring England of to-day, stripping
for the ring and with rarely a regret-
ful glance back at discarded beliefs
that you've only to play fair to get
fair — rushing back to a primitive Eliz-
abethan Englishness which is quite
Australian. A little while ago it was
different. An Australian of seven
years' standing in London, I can con-
fess that I have often felt myself a lit-
tle of the barbarian in so smooth a
comity, where people loved moderate-
ly and hated very moderately ; walked
always by paths; were somewhat
ashamed of their own merits and
suavely tolerant of others' demerits;
and were nervous of allowing patriot-
ism to become "infected with the sin of
pride. Indeed, in moments of impa-
tience, I could sympathize with the
spirit of those who ostracized Aristi-
des because they were tired of his
justice. At other moments I was peni-
tent of this; and full of filial respect,
arguing to myself that the British atti-
tude was, of course, the proper atti-
tude for an adult nation, and that Aus-
tralasians were very young, and would
learn. Now I see the British people
renewing their lusty and tempestuous
youth to withstand the Hun; going
back to old-fashioned beliefs (such as
that an Englishman's home is his cas-
tle and he has the right and the duty
to fight for it), and drawing nearer to
their children's point of view. But the
Anzac still stands out as the young of
the British.

The young of the British, not of the
English only — though that is the mas-
ter element of the breed. The Anzac
is a close mixture of English, Scottish,
Irish and Welch colonists with practi-
cally no foreign taint. There is, how-
ever, a wild strain in the mixture. One

142

OVERLAND MONTHLY

of the first great tasks of Australasia
was to take the merino sheep of Spain
and make a new sheep of it — a task
brilliantly carried through. A concur-
rent task was to take black sheep from
the British Isles and make good white
stock out of them. The success in this
was just as complete. The "rebels" of
the Mother Country — Scottish crof-
ters, Irish agrarians, English Chartists
and poachers, mostly needed only full
elbow-room to make of them useful
men.

Even for Micawbers, a land of lots
of room was regenerative. Was it
Charles Lamb's quip that the early
population of the British colonies
should be good "because it was sent
out by the best judges?" That was a
truth spoken in jest. The first wild
strain was of notable value to a new
nation in the making. It came to Aus-
tralasia not only from the original set-
tlers but also from the rushes to the
goldfields. And — note here the first
sign that the Anzac people were to
be dominated by the English spirit
and were to keep the law even while
they forgot conventions — there was
never a Judge Lynch in an Australa-
sian mining camp. The King's writ
and Trial by Jury stood always.

The Anzac starts thus with good
blood. To carry a study of the type
to the next stage, to note how the breed
has been influenced by environment,
it is necessary at the outset to negative
the idea that the Australasian people
are engaged, to the exclusion of all
other interests, in the task of subduing
the wildnesses of their continent. They
have done, continue to do, their pio-
neer work well, but have always kept
some time for the arts and humanities.
To ignore this fact is, I think, a com-
mon mistake, even nowadays when
every European opera house of note
has heard an Australasian singer or
musician, every European salon has
shown Australasian pictures, and every
great British publishing house has Aus-
tralasians on its list of acceptable
writers.

"Does anybody in Australia then
have time to read Greek?" I recall a

schoolmaster's wife in England asking
me with surprise.

I answered with another question:
"Who is the great Greek scholar of the
day?"

"Professor Gilbert Murray."
"Well, he is an Australian."
It was a specious argument, for one
swallow does not make a summer. But
the truth — that Australasia produces
at a high rate mental as well as physi-
cal energy — could have been proven
catagorically. The southern British
continent has no great leisured culti-
vated class with inherited wealth to
make easy the succession of one edu-
cated generation by another. That one
fact excepted, it can stand any com-
parison for mental and spiritual ac-
tivity. It is difficult to put such a mat-
ter to the test of statistics. But any
publishing house will state that pro
rata of population, Australasia is the
greatest buyer of books. That is a
test of consumption. As regards pro-
duction, a rough analysis I made once
of European publishers' lists and acad-
emy catalogues, together with the rec-
ords of concert halls and opera houses,
indicated that, considering her popu-
lation, Australasia was doing about five
times her fair proportion of the Em-
pire's mental and artistic work.

Allow that much of this Australasian
work is "young" — wanting in matur-
ity. Its existence must still be given
value in estimating the national type.
The Australian is not only a pioneer
wrestling with the wilderness. He is
a creature of restless mental energy,
keenly (perhaps with something of a
spirit of vanity) eager to keep in the
current of world thought, following
closely not only his own politics but
also British and international politics;
a good patron of the arts ; a fertile pro-
ducer and exporter of poetasters,
minor philosophers, scientists, writers
and artists. There is nothing that the
Anzac, nationally, resents more than
to be regarded as a mere grower of
wool and wheat, a hewer of wood and
digger of minerals. He aspires to
share in all the things of life, to have
ranches and cathedrals, books and

THE ANZAC

143

sheep. Above all, perhaps, he has a
passion for la haute politique.

All this was in the blood. The
"wild strain" was not only of men who
found in the old country a physical
environment too narrow. It was partly
of men who desired a wider mental
horizon. Some very strange minor ele-
ments would show out in a detailed
analysis of early Australasian immi-
gration — disciples of Fourier, who gave
up great possessions in England to
seek an idealistic communism in the
Antipodes: recluse bookworms who
thought they could coil closer to their
volumes in primitive solitudes. But
one element was strong — the political
and economic doctrinaire ; and the con-
ditions of the new country encouraged
the growth of this element particularly,
so that Australia has won quite a fame
for political inventions (e. g. the "Aus-
tralian Ballot" and "the Torrens Land
Title.") But the general growth of
what may be termed a "thinking" class
was encouraged by the very isolation
which, it would seem at first thought
should have an opposite effect. Whilst
other young countries lost to older and
greater centers of population their
young, ambitious men, Australasia's
Antipodean position preserved her
from the full extent of the drain of
that mental law of gravity which
makes the big populations attract the
men who aspire to work with their
brains more than with their hands.
Australasia in the Imperial Family
Council will always be claiming atten-
tion not only as producer of wheat,
wool and well-knit men, but also of
ideas.

Those ideas of this young nation of
the British, nurtured in the Australa-
sian environment, would strike the
England of two years ago as naively
reactionary. The Anzac faced by nat-
ural elements which are inexorably
stern to folly, to weakness, to inde-
cision, but which are generously re-
sponsive to capable and dominating en-
ergy, has become more resourceful,
more resolute, more cruel, more impa-
tient than his British cousin. The men
who followed the drum of Drake were

more akin to the Australasian of to-
day than, say, such electors of Wands-
worth as would follow Sir John Simon
to the polls. I cite two extremes, but
the middle Englishman, neither Eliza-
bethan nor Simonian, who made up the
mass of the people before the war,
were much apart from the Anzac. The
latter in his superabounding national
confidence, his instinctive thought of
the British as the Chosen people of
destiny, his intolerance, his contempt
of incapacity, represents a tendency to
revert to an older national type. I can
recall a Balliol man's comment on an
outburst of "Australianism" before
him. The Australian had been rhapso-
dic about "our Imperial destiny" and
the like. "How ridiculously but how
delightfully old-fashioned!" was the
comment.

Australian Imperialism, in truth,
must have had for some years past a
fussy air to the cooler and calmer
minds of England; though the good
sense and good humor of the Mother
Country rarely allowed this to be seen.
When New South Wales insisted on
lending a hand in the little Soudan
war she was not snubbed. Nor was
Victoria, pressing at the same time a
still more unnecessary naval contin-
gent. In the South African war, Aus-
tralian eagerness to take a part was
more than generously recognized, and
when Australia next insisted on giving
help also in the suppression of the
Boxer rising, room was patientily
found for her naval contingent. About
which an illustrative story: When the
Australian gunboat Protector arrived
in Chinese waters, the British Admiral
went on board to pay his compliments
and was not stinting in praise of Aus-
tralian military and naval prowess.
Thereupon the Australian band is said
to have struck up with a tune from
"The Belle of New York:"

"Of course, you can never be like us."

It is perhaps true; certainly possible,
for there is a touch of gay impudence
in the Australian character which an
ex-Governor confessed to me he loved
"because it was so young."

144

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Always one comes back to that word
"young." It is, I am convinced, the
key to an understanding of the Anzac
— youth with its enthusiasms, rash-
nesses, faults, shynesses; youth, raw,
if you will, but of good generous breed
and high intentions; youth to be treat-
ed, if the best is to be got out of it,
after the early tradition of the Public
School.

Though so much younger in ideas,
the Anzac as a type is much more adult
than the British type on the practical
side of life. He starts work at an ear-
lier age. He has sterner work to do.
Resourcefulness was forced on the
Australian from the first. He had to
cut clean across all old-world conven-
tions and to carve out quite a new
world for himself. It was the deliber-
ate opinion of the early settlers, found-
ed on their first experiments with the
sail and the climate, that the continent
of Australia would never produce food
enough for five thousand persons, and
a small settlement could only be main-
tained amid inhospitable wastes with
the aid of regular food ships from Eng-
land. There was no native grain, no
native edible fruit nor roots, no native
animal to provide a good meat. A land
with no oxen, no corn, no fruit, the
very trees and grasses of which were
strange, the rare rivers of which
seemed mostly to flow inland — this was
no place for the resourceless man. It
offered the supreme test of the colon-
izing spirit. Other great European
races had touched on Australian shores
before the British came; and had left
them quickly. "This land is full of
devils," one old map records of Aus-
tralia; and forlorn, desolate, it must
have appeared to civilized eyes until
the Fairy Prince, British Colonization,
came to wake its sleeping beauties and
to bring to man's use its hidden riches.
The British colonizers were successful
because they had not lost (though they
had partly forgotten) the genius of
adaptation. All the problems of Aus-
tralia's new conditions in time found
their solutions; and in the search for
them the Australian colonists devel-
oped as race characteristics, resource,

stubbornness, disregard for conven-
tion.

To illustrate Australian resource — I
remember a little scene at a sheep
station, "Back of Beyond," as the Aus-
tralian phrase has it. To the squatter
(i. e. proprietor) came up a swagman
(the Australian bush-worker who, be-
cause of a nomadic disposition, elects
to live by tramping from sheep station
to sheep station, carrying his "swag,"
seeking work which he keeps until the
particular task is done and the mood
seizes to travel again.)

"Gotter job, boss?"

"No. Go to the store and draw ra-
tions."

That is the Australian formula to
pass on. The swagman has an acknow-
ledged right to draw a day's rations to
carry him on to the next sheep station.
The man did not wish to take the re-
fusal.

"I wanter get going."

"Sorry. Full up."

"Down at Diddibadgery they said
you'd have a job for me most likely.
The boss said he's written to you."

"Oh, you are Jack Sindon, then. I
was keeping a job for you. See, be-
hind the store there, you'll find two
wagons. They'll want some fixing;
and some of the yokes are missing. Fix
them up and make what yokes you
want at the blacksmith's shop. Then
back of the station house, about five
miles northeast, there's z paddock with
a tank ; a little herd of cattle run there.
Six of the bullocks have been broken
in to team work; pick out likely ones
and make up two teams of eight."

"All right, boss."

"When you have the teams ready
you'll take stores to the out-station. It's
about seventeen miles out, almost
straight east. They will have some
loading to bring back."

The man turned off to get busy. He
was expected to be wheelwright, sub-
duer of wild oxen to the yoke, sure
voyager along trackless plains; and
he would be, for that is the way of the
Anzac of the bush. The Anzac of the
towns is in his way almost as resource-
ful. He is accustomed to turn his hand

THE ANZAC

145

to anything, never to sit down under a
remediable evil, to make himself com-
fortable under all circumstances. It is
rare to find an Anzac, even a city man,
who cannot cook, build a shelter, man-
age a horse, and find his way about
without roads.

Australasian life leads to a certain
hardness of outlook that must seem
a little savage to the British citizen.
Life is prized, of course, but its loss —
neither of one's own nor of the other
fellow's — is not regarded with any
superstitious horror. Certainly it is not
considered the greatest evil. To go out
with a mate and to come back without
him and under the slightest suspicion
of not having taken the full share of
risk and hardship would be counted
greater. Living close up to Nature
(who can be very savage with tortures
of fire and thirst and flood), the back-
country Anzac — who sets the national
type — must learn to be wary and en-
during and sternly true to the duties of
mateship. The Bedouin of tradition
suggests the Anzac in his ideals of
mateship and of stoicism. The Anzac
follows the same desert school of chiv-
alry in his love for his horse and dog,
and his hospitality to the stranger
within his gates. He will share his
last water with the animal he is fond
of; and in the back-country the lonely
huts of the boundary riders are left
open to any chance caller, with a no-
tice, perhaps, as to where to find the
food stores, and to "put the treacle
back where the ants cannot get to it."
It is, of course, a point of honor not to
take except in case of need.

It is not easy to understand at first
the back-country code of ethics. An
English parson who now, back in his
rectory in one of the fairest counties of
England, often looks back with a feel-
ing almost of regret at his year in the
"Back of Beyond" of Australia, tells
me that his first impression was that
the Anzac of the bush was cruel and
pagan. His last impression was that
the Anzac was generally as fine a
Christian as any heaven for human be-
ings would want. An incident of this
parson's "conversation" (he related)

was the entry into a far-back town of
a band of five men carrying another
on a stretcher. The six were opal
miners with a little claim far out in
the desert. One had been very badly
mauled in an explosion. The others
stopped their profitable work at once
and set themselves to carry him in to
the nearest township with a hospital.
The distance was forty-five miles. On
the road some of the party almost per-
ished of thirst, but the wounded man
had his drink always, and always the
bandages on his crushed leg were kept
moist in the fierce heat of the sun. One
of the men was asked how they had
managed to make this sacrifice.

"It was better to use the water that
way than hear him moan."

The rough modesty was true Anzac ;
and just as true Anzac would it be for
the same man to "skite" with childish
vanity over some trifle.

British in breed, "young British" in
outlook, resourceful, ruthless a little,
the Anzac greeted this war with joy
rather than dismay. When Great Brit-
ain found that she must take up arms
against Germany, there was among
many in the Mother Country a serious
searching of heart as to whether there
could not have been some escape from
that action; and a great body of opin-
ion averse to the prosecution of the
war in any way which would show a
desire to crush Germany. On all sides,
nearly, there was a resolute effort to
study as far as possible the viewpoint
of the enemy and not to err against
canons of good form and of fair play
in fighting him. I am convinced that,
if the German had not proved such an
unspeakable hog in warfare, to this
day England would not be whole-
hearted in enmity to her. In Australia,
on the other hand, as I have said, the
war was greeted with joy, and the peo-
ple rushed with delighted promptness
to clear the Germans, bag and bag-
gage, out of Australia and New Zea-
land, and out of the South Pacific. The
Anzacs had made up their minds about
the German long before the war; and
in any case he was now the Empire's
enemy. There was no nice reasoning
4

146 OVERLAND MONTHLY

on fine points of ethics. Neither too the peace deliberations — the Canadian,

proud to fight nor too scrupulous the South African and the Anzac will

to take full advantage of his fair op- all expect to have a part — he may take

portunity, the Australian had his share up a simply dutiful attitude : the child

of the German "down and out" within has moods of that wind. But he is

a very few weeks, and was pouring more likely to come out in all his hon-

out to Europe a stream of eager young est intolerance and young candor; and

fighters to take a hand there. Neither what weight his voice will have will be

the trade nor the contracts of the Ger- raised against any soft dealing with the

mans had any more respect than their German, because his life has taught

colonies and their ships. No rules were him that in fighting dangerous enemies

broken. The fighting was clean. But the stern course is the best. It would

it was ruthless. break his heart almost if the German

If the Anzac is to have any part in were allowed back to the Pacific.

America! First and Forever!

Hymn to be Sung by Naturalized Citizens of the United States
By Kinaham Cornwallis

America! we bow to Thee alone!
Though subjects once of Lands across the sea,
No more we yield to alien State or throne!
We owe allegiance only unto Thee!

America ! we glorify thy name !
And proud are we Americans to be,
Rejoicing in thy grandeur and thy fame! —
Mighty, Magnificent, Progressive, Free!

Hail ! to thy lustrous galaxy of States !

The many that are radiant in one —

To share whose harvests old world Commerce waits,

While tireless Progress leads them swiftly on.

Hosannas for these great United States!
United less by laws — and wire and rail —
Than warm and loyal hearts and buried hates.
Grand units of our Great Republic, hail !

Hail! to Columbia's realm, where Plenty reigns,
And Nature wooes, with bounty in her hands —
Across the fertile prairies and the plains —
An endless sea-borne throng from other Lands!

AMERICA! FIRST AND FOREVER! 147

Hail! Splendid Daughters of our Chosen Land!
Whose grace and beauty bear away the palm
From rival beauty on each foreign strand,
Whose presence kindles love; whose smile is balm!

Hail! to the bright star-spangled flag we love —
That typifies our lasting Union!
Its stars are like the shining stars above,
But — mark! — how close is their Communion!

That Flag reflects our glory and our might,
With all our vast achievement and renown,
And as it flies — what more inspiring sight?
We see, in stars and stripes, Columbia's crown!

Hail! the Red, White and Blue, so near sublime!
Forever may that symbol wave on high,
And — Freedom's emblem! — range from clime to clime!
With patriotic pride we see it fly!

Prepared for war, yet let us shun its curse —
If peace, with honor, we can well maintain —
For war is woe, destruction, death and worse,
On all things civilized a blight and stain.

May Fortune ever smile on this fair Land!

For which, of yore, the Patriot Fathers fought!

Forever may the States United stand!

To cap what they — by Revolution — wrought !

Hail! to the great and wondrous deeds undone —
The Future's greater glory to be gained !
Our grandest work has only now begun !
Our destiny — behold! — is God ordained!

Here we have pledged our oath, our fortunes cast —
And where the treasure is the heart is too.
Yet to our native land Love holds us fast.
So to the old love and the new we're true!

"America! First, Last and All the Time!"
This undivided loyalty we feel!
And with the native born, as one, we chime!
While, hand in hand, we seek Columbia's weal!

Columbia! Thou with matchless glory bright!
Invincible alike on land and sea!
Great in thy splendoi, majesty and might! —
Our love and homage ever are for Thee!

*%f

££I/V'THL>VGt>

iiymEPicA

Getting Cultured in Philadelphia
By Richard Bret Harte

Chapter III

THE last time I saw Philadelphia
was many years ago, when one
cold, January morning I delight-
ed my parents by generously ar-
riving into the world. But it was only
a few days after this family exuber-
ance, and just as I was beginning to ap-
preciate the fact that I was an Ameri-
can, when we crossed over to Europe,
where I was destined to pass the early
part of my life.

Thus my native city was an utter
stranger to me. It seemed almost un-
canny to be returning to my birthplace
alone, knowing neither a soul nor even
the "house where I was born." I might
just as well have been born in the air.
The first thing that impressed, or de-
pressed me most, during my entire
sojourn in Philadelphia, was the pen-
sive seriousness of the people. They
seemed to be either going or coming
from a funeral, contemplating holy or-
ders, or pondering over their future in
the world beyond.

Their expression suggested a kind
of Dickens revival, with a noticeable
seasoning of O. Henry. Perhaps it
was merely a Quaker idiosyncracy, yet

this seemed so incongruous because
Philadelphia positively palpitates with
all the gaiety, glitter and high-life of
a typical modern American metropolis.

But this is strange, because is not the
very name of Philadelphia symbolical
of taste, culture and antiquity?

Antiquity! There you have the key
to the whole enigma.

Philadelphia revels in antiquity, the
people are afflicted with it, it is con-
tagious. For instance, every other
house in Philadelphia — and in the en-
tire State of Pennsylvania, for that
matter — has been "slept in" by Wash-
ington. Be it a one-roomed shack, and
outhouse or inn, if Washington has
slept there its fame will be handed
down to posterity. The room he in-
habited will be preserved in precisely
the same condition as he left it in.
The bed clothes rolled aside, the water
in the wash-basin containing the iden-
tical atoms of Pennsylvanian soil that
once tarnished his noble physiognomy,
and the soap beaming from the soap-
dish with a pride that seems to ex-
claim, "Behold me! I washed George
Washington!"

RbRETHARTE -15

'If Washington has slept there its fame will be handed down to posterity.'

Even the most casual topic of con-
rersation is not the weather, but Wash-

lgton, Penn or Benjamin Franklin.

r ashington is the idol; in fact, his
te has actually become an every-

ty expression in the emphatic utter-
ance of "By George !" One hears more
By-Georges in Philadelphia than in
any other part of the globe. To say
the least about it, it is an expression
with a pedigree and certainly vastly
superior to the popular, asinine out-

burst of "Land sakes," which has about
as much significance and euphony as
the "ventre blue" ("Blue stomach")
of the French.

Ancestry is another characteristic
ot the antique-adoring Philadelphian.
Ninety-five per cent of Philadelphian
ancestors are directly related to Wash-
ington; in consequence of which their
descendants are hopelessly submerged
in an impenetrable forest of family
trees. The colonial aristocrat carries

150

OVERLAND MONTHLY

his ancestry on his visiting card, which
frequently reads like a Dutch patent
medicine or an English rural address.

But this exuberance of antiquity is
not confined merely to the colonial
period. In some of the hotels, restau-
rants and even stores one finds fantas-
tic combinations of "imported" an-
tiquity, Elizabethan, Louis Quinze,
and some dating as far back as the
Normans. Restaurants and Rathskel-
lers invariably adopt the "medieval
atmosphere," hence it is nothing ex-
ceptional in Philadelphia to find one's
self enjoying such delicacies as "Mary
Queen of Scotts oats," "Chicken a la
Sans cullottes" or "William of Orange
marmalade."

One of these restaurants, which I
used to visit, situated on a prominent
corner in Chestnut street, was famous
for its "atmosphere." It was medieval
in every possible detail from the cash
register to the cook. Even the dust on
the window-sills might have been im-
ported from the Tower of London,
and you could possibly hire a suit of
English armour if you wished to dine
in real fourteenth century style, which
might be termed "dining a la Knight."
To quote my first impressions of this
"atmospheric cafe" (which were pub-
lished in the Philadelphia Record) :
"We ate from old English pewter, with
Edward the Confessor silver, and
drank "mead-cocktails" from Renais-
sance goblets, while the minstrals
shook with many "merrie melodies"
from 'Ragtime Louis Quinze.' The
banquet room was divided into small
compartments called inns, the same
adorned with lanterns and appetizing
wisdoms from Falstaff, etc. There
were English, Dutch, Flemish and
German inns, with their respective
'buxom wenches,' who chatted mirth-
fully with insurance cavaliers and
other fine gentlemen of business 'lar-
gesse.' "... "But what tickled me
most was an old Canterbury cut of
the medieval 'September Morn,' en-
titled 'Ye Ladye Godiving.' "

Shopping in Philadelphia is another
sensation. It is indulged in with all
the dignity, ceremony and display of

Dining a la Knighf

an ancient, cultivated people, giving
one the impression that Philadelphia
might at one time have been inhabited
by the Phoenicians or some other ob-
solete race of artistic merchants. Such
was one of the many impressions I
gathered on my first visit to the Wan-
amaker store.

In the first place, I did not feel that
I was in a department store at all.
The long tiled aisles and the show-
cases decorated with large oriental

GE0RGE-N0CKER5IC)aR. -TASKING T
7 i&N-tvEilGR.ELN-kyf HE-TITZHUMP5 -

— "reads like a Dutch patent medicine or an
English rural address" —

vases; the vast court with its towering pillars, its
rows of balconies, its winding foyers and the
great, massive organ, the whole had an Alma Ta-
dema atmosphere about it that suggested a Tem-
ple of Merchandise dedicated to Mars or Mam-
mon, or possibly some famous mythological an-
cestor of George Washington.

I had bought a pair of sky-blue socks — of the
fetchingly-transparent kind — and was artlessly
admiring the saleslady's fingernails as she scrib-
bled off the bill, when suddenly, like an explo-
sion of conflicting harmonies, a powerful organ
burst into a thundering furore of Wagnerian
opera. It is certainly nice to shop with opera, but
as I had never before experienced such an unique
pleasure, I was naturally confused. For a mo-
ment I felt as if I were in a cathedral; I should
have knelt down or removed my hat. But, of
course, that is pure absurdity, because people do
not usually buy socks in a cathedral, unless they
have been worn by some saint or blessed by a
priest.

But "music hath its charms
impressed me so much that I bought
another six pair of socks; in fact,
whenever I heard Wagner again I
would just buy them by the score, un-
til my wardrobe consisted of little else
but socks.

I learned that other shoppers were
just as susceptible. Whenever the
organ played those family-cuddling
melodie? of the "Home Sweet Home"
calibre, the hardware department was
crowded with home-loving shoppers
indulging in saucepans, kettles, tea-
pots and the like of which all "homey"
things are made in. "Madame Butter-
fly" favored the millinery department,
and "Hearts and Flowers" always as-

The organ recital
sured a

a successful sale of handker-
chiefs.

This "Musical Shopping" is cer-
tainly educational, and should be more
extensively advertised, thus:

OPERATIC SALE TO-DAY

Assorted Soaps with Chopin and

Pucini.

2 for 5 cents.

The most interesting spot of genu-
ine historical interest in Philadelphia
is Independence Hall. Unlike so
many European historical landmarks
it is not moss-covered and decayed or
crumbling into ruin. It stands to-day
just as it stood years ago, bright and

152

OVERLAND MONTHLY

fresh with all the picturesque dainti-
ness of the old colonial days.

The little museum on the ground
floor contains many objects of colonial
interest — including the attendant. I
do not know why it is, but museum
attendants invariably remind me of
cobwebs and reincarnation. Cobwebs
— because they are often very old and
gray, and reincarnation, because they
seem to have lived and died with the
very antiques over which they have
charge.

Having spent a few moments in pa-

triotic adoration before the dear old
Liberty Bell, I passed upstairs into
the banquet room. Here, with its
rows of colonial pictures and por-
traits, its pretty, white window case-
ments, and its dark, polished floor,
one feels at once the romantic atmos-
phere of days gone by. It takes no
effort of imagination to see the hall
bright with lighted candelabra, and
to hear the Virginia Reel, gay with
the twirl and twitter of crinolined
belles and the laughter of elegant
beaux.

THE SUNFLOWER ROAD

There's a land of opal mountains, singing creeks and springing

fountains,
A land of magic distances, in hazy, lazy light,
Where the pastel green and yellows, amber browns and purple

shadows,
Make a glory of the daytime ; and it's dusty blue at night.

When the summer sun is burning, there a friendly road is

turning,
Twisting, bending, rising, falling; just a trail among the hills;
But 'tis bordered by the graces of a million golden faces,
And the laughter of the sunflowers frees the heart of all its ills.

Now the winter snows are driven through the land; the trail is
hidden.

Desolate, the white hills glitter under skies of turquoise blue.

But 'twill soon be summer weather, and again we'll ride to-
gether

On that friendly, glowing, happy road, just wide enough for two.

Elliott C. Lincoln.

Coyote O' The Rio Grande

By William De Ryee

Author of "No Questions Asked," "His Dream Girl," Etc.

William De Ryee

A LATE supper was going on in
the bunk house of the Crescent
O Ranch when Dennis McAll
swung off his horse and planted
his huge form in the doorway.

"Jerry," he called, "where's Coy-
ote?"

"I don't know, Mister Dennie, 'less
she be a-hunting Imp. Now I do be-
lieves I heerd her saying somethin'

about him getting out o' the trap. Thet
cussed hoss "

"Git yer grub-wagon packed to-
night, Jerry, and have breakfast ready
at four. Beany, yuh ride the east and
west pasture fence. Gotch, yuh the
north and south. Spike, yuh and Dom-
ino catch up the mules and take the
hacks to Laredo for the 10:30 from
San Tone. And don't forgit yer car-
bines. I heerd Valtran cut up the
devil in Cactus last night. Better take
yer arsenals. Yuh've gotta protect a
gang o' Bostonians — friends and rela-
tions o' the Captain's — that's going to
hang out here fer a month or more.
The rest of yuh fellers git yer strings
ready fer the round-up. We'll start
moving at four-fifteen fer Maguey
Hill. I'll expect yuh fence-riders and
hack-drivers in camp to-morrow night.
Mind, no monkey-business. Them's
the orders fer manana."

There was a jingle of spurs, a swish
of chaps, and Dennie McAll disap-
peared into the night.

Jerry, the bunkhouse cook, left off
tending his corn bread to show him-
self in the kitchen door. He eyed the
double row of "punchers" belliger-
ently.

"Them's the orders," he echoed, "but
I adds one more, and it's this 'un:
Spike Gallagher, if yuh don't go by
Buck Weatherby's barber shop and git
thet razor o' mine, I pits pizen in yer
coffee when yer ain't "

A roar of laughter went up from the
diners, drowning out Jerry's vehement
speech. The cook's bald head, rotund-
ness and fiery temper were ever

154

OVERLAND MONTHLY

sources of great amusement to the
cowboys of the Crescent O. No sooner
had the speaker turned his back on
his tormentors than the man called
"Spike" seized a hot biscuit, and yell-
ing, "I'm on, Dance Hall!" sent it
spinning across the room. The mis-
sile landed squarely in the back of
Jerry's hairless head, where it paused
the fraction of a second as though un-
decided whether to stick there or not.
No one could have truthfully sworn
that it fell to the floor, for the good
reason that not one remained in his
seat long enough to see. Simultane-
ously with the biscuit's "smack," the
bunk-house eating room was a scene
of confusion. Like a flash, Jerry
sprang to a bag of stale potatoes.
Chairs clattered to the floor and men
scrambled for their Stetsons.

"Take them spuds!" shrieked the
enraged Jerry.

And more than one cowboy's laugh
was cut short before he reached the
outer air.

While this was going on in the
puncher's quarters, Dennis McAll sat
on the porch of his small, three-room
house, his shoulders stooped, his hat
pulled down low over his eyes. In
his right hand he held an old corn-cob
pipe, upon which he drew at inter-
vals. Near by stood his horse, still

saddled, the bridle-reins dragging up-
on the ground. The foreman was wait-
ing — and listening. Once he glanced
up to where the lights of the "Capi-
tol," as the boys called the big house,
gleamed on the crown of the hill. But
his gaze fell again, and he sighed
wearily. As range-boss of the largest
ranch in Webb County, Dennis McAll
was known and liked by every cattle-
man on the border. His popularity
was due to an in-born talent to boss
cow-punchers. Lack of education, a
too generous nature and an inherent
indifference to his material advance-
ment had hindered his rising beyond
a salaried man. But he loved the
work. He had the friendship and con-
fidence of his employer, Richard Carl-
ton, and he was admired and obeyed
by every man on the Crescent O
Ranch.

Suddenly the foreman straightened
up, listening. Out of the darkness
there had come to him a faint but
familiar sound. It was a plaintive,
childish voice, singing far down in the
valley. Distinctly now the words
floated up to him :

"A curse to all gold and all silver, too,
And to all purty gals who won't prove
true."

McAll rose and shook the ashes

The author on his favorite muslang-pony ("Imp") on Rattle-snake Trail.

COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE

155

from his pipe. "Just like her mammy,"
he muttered as he led his horse out to

the corral.

* * * *

"Listen! Thar's Coyote!"

The speaker was "Beany," a young
cow-puncher who had acquired his
nickname because of his extraordinary
fondness and capacity for Mexican
beans. He was sitting cross-legged
before the bunk-house, a little apart
from a score or more of his fellows,
some of whom, like himself, reposed
with their legs crossed under them,
others squatted on their heels, while
still others lounged indolently against
the wall of the house. Conversation
instantly ceased among the cowboys,
cigarettes were taken from lips to be
held in tough, sun-burned hands, and
in the ensuing silence, not far down
the trail, a clear, sweet voice rang out
over the hill :

"And I'll go away to some distant land
And thar I'll join some cowboy band.

"I'll stay on trail till the day I die,
And I'll cut mv way whar the bullets

fly."

Silence reigned for a moment; then,
amid a clatter of hoofs, and a cloud of
dust, Coyote thundered up the trail. As
she passed the bunk-house, she waved
her broad brimmed hat. and yelled:
"Helloa, boys!"

"Evenin'!"

"Hey thar!"

"Ho thar!"

"Whoop-ee!''

"Howdy!"

"Yip-ah!"

"A, que Coyote!"

"Wah-hoo!"

These a*!d ether greetings burst in
chorus from the lounging cow-punch-
err.

"I calls thet ramp good singing,"
challenged the youth who had first
heard Coyote's distant voice.

"So does I, Beany. I calls hit ramp
good singing," agreed Gotch Lumsey,
a yount' fellow with red hair and a
crossed left eye. "And Gotch Lum-
sey's heerd singing, fellers," he added

impressively. "Did any o' yuh ever
heer Nordickie?"

"I guess not," drawled Spike Galla-
ger. "Who's he?"

" 'Tain't no he,' and Gotch eyed
Spike with withering contempt; "it's a
female woman what I heerd in San
Tone last fall. Cost me a hull plunk
in the pee-roost, but everybody said
as how she were the best afloat, so I
coughed up. Well, let me tell yuh,
she was a warblin' gal from away back
— but shucks! why, I hopes to drop
plum dead this minit if Coyote's sing-
ing ain't soop-peer-reeor — far soop-
peer-ree-or! — Gimme a light."

Gotch got his "light" from Spike's
cigarette, and puffed vigorously for a
considerable space. There are mo-
ments when silence is more weighty
than speech. Presently he resumed :

"And I'll swallow a cob if Coyote
ain't got the biggest heart of any gal
yuh ever knowed."

"Yep!" chimed in Spike. "Fer once
yuh told the truth, Gotch."

"I knowed it," averred Gotch.
"Whimpering snakes ! I knowed Coy-
ote when I warn't no higher'n a goat.
Why, five years ago, afore lots of yuh
fellers had drifted this a-way, a bald-
face fool of a yearling got cut up purty
bad. It was winter and ramp cold,
too. The Captain wanted to git shed
o' the critter and told me to shoot it.
I was going for my gun when I heers
Coyote a-calling me.

" 'Gotch,' she says, a-running after
me, 'yuh ain't really gonna shoot thet
yearlin', be yuh?'

"'Why not?' says I. 'Them's the
Captain's orders, and he — I means the
yearlin' — ain't wurth a dead skunk.'

" 'He be wuth more'n a dead skunk,'
she says. 'Now, Gotch, yuh and Pinto
hitch up the mules and go git thet year-
lin' and put him in the HI' corral here,
'cause I be a-gonna cure thet poor lil'
cuss.'

"Wall, fellers, I allurs does what
Coyote wants me to. And despite the
fact thet thet yearlin's neck was cut
nigh plum into, I'm a grinnin' tom-cat
if Coyote didn't cure the critter in two
months — yes sir-ree!"

156

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Again the dead quiet was a compli-
ment to Gotch. But for once he failed
to appreciate his triumph. He fum-
bled for his cigarette papers.

"Them was great days," he muttered
reminiscently. "Coyote was a regular
HI' devi) them days. She be a-gittin'
tamer now, and purtier."

"Coyote be a ramp purty gal," ob-
served Spike, sententiously.

"Thet black hair o' her'n be ramp
long and glossy," ventured Domino,
who was by nature painfully reserved.

"And them big blue eyes!" chimed
in Beany; "they shore be makin' a fel-
ler uncomf'table."

"Coyote ees flirt — no good!" came
from Pinto, a tall, handsome Mexican,
who was ever at enmity with public
opinion in general and Gotch in par-
ticular.

Beany caught his breath. Spike's
dark eyes flashed menacingly. Two
or three cowboys shifted their posi-
tions.

Pinto, conscious of what he had
done, smiled contemptuously under
cover of his wide hat-brim. The Mexi-
can had gained some reputation with
a "hair trigger" gun. He had it on
now. Secretly, he had long loved
Coyote. He hated Gotch for his "gift
of gab," but mainly for the evident
good-fellowship between the cow-
puncher and Coyote. Pinto's advances
had been spurned until, perceiving the
hopelessness of his case, he had begun
to itch for revenge upon them both.
He believed Gotch to be a coward.
But that the Mexican's hand was mov-
ing slowly toward his hip showed to
what extent he realized his own limi-
tations. The continued quiet embold-
ened him. He spoke again :

"Coyote she kees me long 'go — love
me much. But now she ees "

"Shut up!"

The order came from Gotch and his
cocked pistol was leveled at Pinto.

II.

"If yuh move thet hand another
inch I'll kill yuh. Up with 'em ! High !
Now, keep 'em thar!"

Gotch arose and walked slowly to-

ward the Mexican, whom he still cov-
ered. His left hand drew Pinto's Colt
from its holster, and turned the muz-
zle on its owner. When the cowboy
spoke, as before, his voice was low,
cool, but hard — hard as steel.

"Now mem'rize this, Pinto : The tonk
don't live what can insult Coyote afore
me, if I've got breath and strength
enough to kill him. Better praise yer
saints I didn't let daylight through yer
greasy hide ; but if I ever catch yuh on
the Crescent O agin', I'll kill yuh
deader'n hell, so help me Jacob! Now

hit the trail."

* * * *

Back of the foreman's house, in the
corral, Coyote pushed a box of corn-
chops toward Imp.

"Thar, now, yuh lil' rascal, and don't
yuh turn hit over just 'cause I ain't got
no mirral 'cep'in' this 'un and it's full
of patallos fer daddy."

And giving the mustang a final lov-
ing pat, she turned to her luggage: a
baby carbine, a mirral half full of pa-
tallos (wild strawberries) and a jack-
rabbit she had shot that afternoon.
Coyote shouldered the gun and the pa-
tallos, picked up the rabbit, and made
for the house. She was small, slim
and straight as an Indian. Her hair,
black and straight, hung loose, blow-
ing in the wind. She walked with the
elastic, swinging stride of the experi-
enced bushwhacker. Her high crown-
ed, broad brimmed Stetson hat made
her small, oval face seem even baby-
ish, and in fact had the effect of mak-
ing her appear ludicrous in the eyes
of a stranger.

At the kitchen door, Coyote dropped
everything to spring into the arms of
Dennis McAll. After she had given
him the French kiss he had taught her
almost before she could talk, he asked,
"Who loves her daddy?"

The girl strained back in her father's
embrace to look into his eyes. The
light from the kitchen showed them
tired, but smiling.

"Love yuh?" she whispered. "Why,
I be a-lovin' yuh better'n — better'n the
hull world!" She kissed him again
and, wriggling from his arms, snatched

COYOTE O* THE RIO GRANDE

157

up the rabbit and patallos. "See what
I got fer yuh? We're gonna put on
some dog to-night. Bring my gun in,
please, daddy."

Coyote passed into the house and
Dennis McAll followed with the gun —
a small forty-four-forty carbine that
had been his present to her on her fif-
teenth birthday, exactly a year ago. He
smiled as he thought of the gift he had
for her to-night.

"I knows yuh be tired, daddy." And
Coyote dragged a rawhide-bottom
chair nearer the door. "Yuh just sit
yourself down here, and hit won't be
no time afore I'll have the grub ready."

"I'll be a-cleaning' yer gun," said
the foreman.

"And I'll be a-cleanin' the rabbit,"
laughed Coyote.

A half hour later, McAll and his
daughter sat down to eat. Their sup-
per consisted of sausage meat, biscuits,
milk and a bowl of patallos and sugar.

The two bowed their heads and the
foreman said grace in his deep, strong
voice :

"Dear Lord, we offer up thanks to
yuh fer this grub. We asks yuh to
bless us, and show us the right trails
from the wrong 'uns. Amen."

After the prayer, the foreman turned
his tin plate and glanced furtively at
Coyote.

She looked up at him frankly.
"Wall, daddy," she began. "I seen
two big bucks and — " She stopped
her eyes upon a small, neat package
before her.

Suddenly she was out of her chair
with a bound, and into her father's lap,
her slender arms about his sturdy neck,
her lips to his. Another instant and
she was back in her place again.

"Hit's my birthday present!" she
cried. "I were a-forgettin' hit. Oh,
daddy, yuh be the dearest old pap a
gal ever had!"

Hurriedly she unwrapped the pack-
age, disclosing to view a small, gilt-
edged, leather-bound bible.

"Oh, hit's a HI' Bible! Ain't hit
purty!"

Dennis McAll's big right hand closed
over one of Coyote's little ones. There

was a suspicion of moisture in the fore-
man's eyes.

"Thet HI' Bible were yer mother's
a-fore yuh, Coyote," he said huskily.
"Yer daddy's kept hit these sixteen
years fuh yur, and now he wants yuh
to read hit and bide by hit. Yuh will,
won't yuh, HI' gal?"

"I will, daddy. I'll read hit to-
night."

After another appreciative kiss
Coyote laid the present aside and the
meal began. The two ate in silence for
some time. Presently the father spoke.

"Honey, I got some news fer yuh."

"I hopes hit be good news, daddy."

"Hit be good news, HI' gal. John and
Kit Carlton's comin' home to-morrie."

"Oh, Jimminy! Ain't I glad!" And
Coyote clapped her hands excitedly,
while her blue eyes danced in anticipa-
tion of future frolics.

Dennis McAll chuckled.

"I knowed yuh'd be glad," he said.
"Hit be goin' nigh onto eight years
since they left fer thet high-ferlutin'
school in Boston, and I guess as how
they'll be glad to see yuh. Come ag'in
with them patallos. They'll be ramp
good 'uns."

Coyotte passed the bowl, but her
mind was elsewhere.

"Be they a-comin' alone," she said,
pointedly.

"Naw. Thar's a hull band o' 'em a-
headin' this a-way from Boston. Thet
is what the Captain's havin' the cor-
rals and shacks white-washed fer. He
were in mighty low spirits to-night'
'cause his ole woman's a-comin' with
'em. I can't blame him much, seein'
as how she allers was an ole cat and
never did like yuh, HI' gal."

"Poor ole Sadie'll have enough to
cook fer up yonder in the Capitol,"
sympathized Coyote. "Wonder if Kit'll
pitch in and help her?"

McAll drained his cup of milk.

"Guess we'll all be primpin' up some
with them Bostonians about," he pro-
phesied. "Yuh'd better wear yed HI'
white dress, to-morrie, Coyote. I don't
want Kit and John to be ashamed o'
yuh. John's a good boy, and I am
hoping he'll marry yuh, some day,

158

OVERLAND MONTHLY

honey."

But Coyote ignored the latter part
of her father's speech.

"Aw, daddy! I don't like thet dress
'cause hit gits dirty so ramp quick. I'll
wear my blue 'un and the purty blue
ribbon Gotch gave me this mornin'."

"Did Gotch Lumsey give yuh a blue
ribbon?"

Coyote's long, black lashes veiled
her blue eyes; her cheeks colored
rosily.

"Ye-ah," she admitted.

"What be Gotch a-givin' yuh ribbons
fer?"

"I — I dunno, daddy."

McAll's stern face relaxed into a
slow smile.

"Wall, yer daddy knows, 111* gal. It's
'cause Gotch be a-likin' yuh. But re-
member what I said about John. He's
the husband yer daddy picked fer yuh,
honey."

"Dennis! Oh, Dennis!"

The voice came from the front of
the house.

"Thet's Gotch now," said Coyote.
"Wonder what he wants?"

The foreman swung half-round in
his chair.

"Come in, Gotch," he called.

"I wants to see yuh privately, Den-
nis."

McAll rose and strode from the
room.

Left alone, Coyote picked up a bob-
tailed cat that had been purring about
her chair, and stroked the soft, black
fur caressingly.

"Poor lil' Bob," she said. "Nobody
pays no 'tention to the lil' cuss 'cep'in
to kick him out o' the way. Here,
Bob."

And "Bob" got his share of milk
and sausage.

Coyote was clearing off the table,
preparatory to washing the dishes, a
moment later, when three pistol-shots,
so rapid that the reports blended, rang
out, startling her so that she dropped
the pan of plates she was holding, and
stood for an instant dumbfounded.
Then, thinking only of her father's
safety, she snatched up her baby car-
bine and ran toward the front of the
house.

(To be continued)

BOULDER CREEK GULCH

Above the cool, dim depths that lie below,

Those granite walls in majesty arise,

And seem to meet the curve of azure skies,

Where lazy clouds in fleecy folds drift slow.

Far down below the hurrying brooklet sighs

As round the boulders huge and gray, it tries

To wend its many curved and tort'ous way.

A wandering sunbeam on the water lies,

And there a trout snaps at the dragon-flies.

A tiger-lily bends o'er some deep pool

To view its flaunting colors ere it dies.

While from the moss-grown walls so green and cool

The rare, sweet ferns hide from the garish day.

'Tis God's Cathedral, would that we might stay!

Edith Church Burke.

Little Girls I Have Aet

By W. H. Hudson

THEY were two quite small maid-
ies, aged respectively four and
six years with some odd months
in each case. They are older
now, and have probably forgotten the
stranger to whom they gave their un-
sophisticated little hearts, who pres-
ently left their country never to return,
for all this happened a long time ago —
I think about three years. In a way
they were rivals, yet had never seen
one another, perhaps never will, since
they inhabit two villages more than a
dozen miles apart in a wild, desolate,
hilly district of west Cornwall.

Let me first speak of Millicent, the
elder. I knew Millicent well, having
at various times spent several weeks
with her in her parents' house, and
she, an only child, was naturally re-
garded as the most important person
in it. In Cornwall it is always so.
Tall for her six years, straight and
slim, with no red color on her cheeks;
she had brown hair and large serious
grey eyes; those eyes and her general
air of gravity, and her forehead, which
was too broad for perfect beauty, made
me a little shy of her, and we were not
too intimate. And, indeed, that feel-
ing on my part, which made me a little
careful and ceremonious in our in-
tercourse, seemed to be only what she
expected of me. One day in a forget-
ful or expansive moment I happened
to call her "Millie," which caused her
to look at me in surprise. "Don't you
like me to call you Millie — for short?"
I questioned apologetically. "No,"
she returned gravely: "it is not my
name — my name is Millicent." And
so it had to be to the end of the
chapter.

Then there was her speech — I won-
dered how she got it! For it was un-

like that of the people she lived among
of her own class. No word-clipping
and slurring, no "naughty English"
and sing-song intonation with her ! She
spoke with an almost startling distinct-
ness, giving every syllable its proper
value, and her words were as if they
had been read out of a nicely written
book.

Nevertheless, we got on fairly well
together, meeting on most days at tea-
time in the kitchen, when we would
have nice little talks and look at her
lessons and books and pictures, some-
times unbending so far as to draw
little pigs on her slate with our eyes
shut, and laughing at the result just
like ordinary persons.

It was during my last visit, after an
absence of some months from that part
of the country, that one evening on
coming in I was told by her* mother
that Millicent had gone for the milk,
and that I would have to wait for my
tea till she came back. Now the farm
where the milk was got was away at
the other end of the village, quite half
a mile, and I went to meet her, but did
not see her until I had walked the
whole distance, when just as I arrived
she came out of the farm house bur-
dened with a basket of things in one
hand and a can of milk in the other.
She graciously allowed me to relieve
her of both, and taking basket and
can with one hand I gave her the other,
and so, hand in hand, very friendly, we
set off down the long, bleak, windy
road just when it was growing dark.

"I'm afraid you are rather thinly
clad for this bleak December even-
ing," I remarked. "Your little hands
feel cold as ice."

She smiled sweetly and said she
was not feeling cold, after which there

160

OVERLAND MONTHLY

was a long interval of silence. From
time to time we met a villager, a fisher-
man in his ponderous sea-boots, or a
farm-laborer homeward plodding in
•his weary way. But though heavy-
footed after his day's labor, he is never
so stolid as an English ploughman is
apt to be; invariably when giving us
a good-night in passing the man would
smile and look at Millicent very di-
rectly, with a meaning twinkle in his
Cornish eye. He might have been
congratulating her on having a male
companion to pay her all these little
attentions, and perhaps signaling the
hope that something would come of it.

Grave little Millicent, I was pleased
to observe, took no notice of this fool-
ishness. At length when we had
walked half the distance home in per-
fect silence she said, impressively':
"Mr. Goodenough" — Here I must
make a break to explain that "Mr.
Goodenough" is one of the aliases I
think it prudent to use during my oc-
casional visits to the Rocky Land of
Strangers, owing to the friendly warn-
ings (and unfriendly intimations) I
am accustomed to receive describing
what would happen to me should I be
recognized, as — well, as the author of
a book *in praise of this same Rocky
Land in which I have ventured to ex-
press the opinion that Cornishmen are
lacking in a sense of humor.

"Mr. Goodenough," said Millicent,
"I have something I want to tell you
very much."

I begged her to speak, pressing her
cold little hand.

She proceeded : "I shall never forget
that morning when you went away the
last time. You said you were going
to Truro : but I'm not sure — perhaps it
was to London, I only know that it
was very far away, and you were go-
ing for a very long time. It was early
in the morning and I was in bed. I
heard you calling me to come down
and say good-bye ; so I jumped up and
came down in my nightdress and saw
you standing waiting for me at the foot
of the stairs. Then, when I got down,
you took me up in your arms and
kissed me. I shall never forget it!"

"Why?" I said, rather lamely, just
because it was necessary to say
something. And after a little pause
she returned, "Because I shall never
forget it."

Then, as I said nothing, she re-
sumed: "That day after school I saw
Uncle Charlie and told him, and he
said: 'What! you allowed that tramp
to kiss you ! Then I don't want to take
you on my knee any more — you've
lowered yourself too much.' "

"Did he dare say that?" I returned.

"Yes, that's what Uncle Charlie said
— but it makes no difference. I told
him you were not a tramp but Mr.
Goodenough, and he said you could
call yourself Mr. What-you-liked, but
you were a tramp all the same, nothing
but a common tramp, and that I ought
to be ashamed of myself. 'You've dis-
graced the family,' that's what he said,
but I don't care — I shall never forget
it, the morning you went away and
took me up in your arms and kissed
me."

Here was a revelation! It saddened
me, and I made no reply although I
think she expected one. And so, after
a minute or two of uncomfortable
silence she repeated that she would
never forget it. For all the time I
was thinking of another and sweeter
one, who was also a person of import-
ance in her own home and village over
a dozen miles away.

In thoughtful silence we finished
our walk; then there were lights and
tea and general conversation; and if
Millicent had intended returning to the
subject she found no opportunity then
or afterwards.

It was better so, seeing that the
other charmer possessed my whole
heart.

II. Mab.
She was not intellectual : no one
would have said of her, for example,
that she would one day blossom into a
second Emily Bronte; that to future
generations her wild moorland village
would be the Haworth of the West.
She was perhaps something better — a
child of earth and sun, exquisite, with

LITTLE GIRLS I HAVE MET.

161

her hair a shining chestnut gold, her
eyes like the bugloss, her whole face
like a flower, or rather like a ripe
peach in bloom and color; we are apt
to associate these delicious little ones
with flavors as well as fragrances. But
I am not going to be so foolish as to
attempt to describe her.

Our first meeting was at the village
spring, where the women came with
pails and pitchers for water; she came,
and sitting on the stone rim regarded
me smiling with questioning eyes. I
started a conversation, but though
smiling she was shy. Luckily, I had
my luncheon, which consisted of fruit,
in my satchel, and telling her about it
she grew interested and confessed to
me that of all good things fruit was
what she loved most. I then opened
my stores, and selecting the brightest
yellow and richest purple fruits told
her that they were for her — on one con-
dition — that she would love me and
give me a kiss. O that kiss! And
what more can I find to say of it?
Why, nothing, unless one of the poets,
Crawshaw for preference, can tell me.
"My song," I might say with that mys-
tic, after an angel had kissed him —

"Tasted of that breakfast all day
long."

From that time we got on swim-
mingly, and were much in company,
for soon, just to be near her, I went to
stay at her village. I then made the
discovery that Mab, for that is what
they called her, although so unlike, so
much softer and sweeter than Milli-
cent. was yet like her in being a child
of character and of an indomitable
will. She never cried, never argued or
listere 1 to arguments, never demon-
ted after the fashion of wilful
children generally, by throwing her-
self down screaming and kicking; she
simply very gently insisted on having
her own way and living her own life.
In the end she always got it, and the
beautiful thing was that she never
wanted to be naughty or do anything
really wrong! She took a quite won-
derful interest in the life of the little

community and would always be where
others were, especially when any gath-
ering took place. Thus, long before I
knew her at the age of four, she made
the discovery that the village children,
or most of them, passed much of their
time in school, and to school she ac-
cordingly resolved to go. Her par-
ents opposed, and talked seriously to
her and used force to restrain her, but
she overcame them in the end, and to
the school they had to take her, where
she was refused admission on account
of her tender years. But she had re-
solved to go, and go she would; she
laid siege to the schoolmistress, to the
vicar, to others, and in the end, be-
cause of her importunity or sweetness,
they had to admit her.

When I went, during school hours,
to give a talk to the children, there I
found Mab, one of the forty, sitting
with her book, which told her nothing,
in her little hands. She listened to the
talk with an appearance of interest, al-
though understanding nothing, her
bugloss eyes on me, encouraging me
with a very sweet smile, whenever I
looked her way.

It was the same about attending
church. Her parents went to one ser-
vice on Sundays; she insisted on go-
ing to all three, and would sit and
stand and kneel, book in hand, as if
taking part in it all, but always when
you looked her way, her eyes would
meet yours and the sweet smile would
come to her lips.

I had been told by her mother that
Mab would not have dolls and toys,
and this fact, recalled at an opportune
moment, revealed to me her secret
mind — her baby philosophy. We, the
inhabitants of the village, grown-ups
and children as well as the domestic
animals, were her playmates and play-
things, so that she was independent of
sham blue-eyed babies made of wood
and inanimate fluffy Teddy-bears : she
was in possession of the real thing!
The cottages, streets, the church and
school, the fields and rocks and hills
and sea and sky were all contained in
her nursery or playground; and we,
her fellow-beings, were all occupied
5

162

OVERLAND MONTHLY

from morn to night in an endless com-
plicated game, which varied from day
to day according to the weather and
time of the year, and had many beau-
tiful surprises. She didn't understand
it all, but was determined to be in it
and to get all the fun she could out of
it.

This mental attitude came out strik-
ingly one day when we had a funeral
— always a feast to the villagers; that
is to say, an emotional feast; and on
this occasion the circumstances made
the ceremony a peculiarly impressive
one.

A young man, well known and gen-
erally liked, son of a small farmer,
died with tragic suddenness, and the
little stone farm house being situated
away on the borders of the parish, the
funeral procession had a considerable
distance to walk to the village. To the
church I went to view its approach;
built on a rock, the church stands high
in the center of the village, and from
the broad stone steps in front one got
a fine view of the inland country and
of the procession like an immense
black serpent winding along over green
fields and stiles, now disappearing in
some hollow in the ground or behind
gray masses of rock, then emerging on
the sight and the voices of the singers
bursting out loud and clear in that still
atmosphere.

When I arrived on the steps Mab
was already there; the whole village
would be at that spot presently, but
she was first. On that morning, no
sooner had she heard that the funeral
was going to take place than she gave
herself a holiday from school and
made her docile mother dress her in
her daintiest clothes. She welcomed
me with a glad face and put her wee
hand in mine; then the villagers — all
those not in the procession — began to
arrive, and very soon we were in the
middle of a throng; then, as the six
coffin-bearers came slowly toiling up
the many steps and the singing all at
once grew loud and swept like a wave
of sound over us, the people were
shaken with emotion, and all the faces,
even of the oldest men, were wet with

tears — all except ours, Mab's and
mine.

Our tearless condition — our ability
to keep dry when it was raining, so to
say — resulted from quite different
causes. Mine just then were the eyes
of a naturalist curiously observing the
demeanor of the beings around me.
To Mab the whole spectacle was an
act, an interlude, or scene in that won-
derful endless play which was a per-
petual delight to witness and in which
she, too, was taking a part. And to
see all her friends, her grown-up
playmates, enjoying themselves in this
unusual way, marching in a procession
to the church, in black, singing hymns
with tears in their eyes — why, this was
even better than school or Sunday ser-
vice, or romps in the playground, or a
children's tea. Every time I looked
down at my little mate she lifted a
rosy face to mine with her sweetest
smile and bugloss eyes aglow with in-
effable happiness.

And now that we are far apart my
loveliest memory of her is as she ap-
peared then. I would not spoil that
lovely image by going to look at her
again. Three years! It was said of
Lewis Carroll that he ceased to care
anything about his little Alices when
they had come to the age of ten or
twelve. Eleven is my limit: they are
perfect then; but in Mab's case the
peculiar, exquisite charm could hardly
have lasted beyond the age of six.

III. Freckles.

My meeting with Freckles only
served to confirm me in the belief, al-
most amounting to a conviction, that
the female of our species reaches its
full mental development at an extraor-
dinarily early age compared to that of
the male. In the male the receptive
and elastic or progressive period var-
ies greatly; but judging from the num-
bers of cases one meets with of men
who have continued gaining in intel-
lectual power to the end of their lives,
in spite of physical decay, it is reason-
able to conclude that the stationary in-
dividuals are only so because of the

LITTLE GIRLS I HAVE MET.

163

condition of their lives having been in-
imical. In fact, stagnation strikes us
as an unnatural condition of mind. The
man who dies at fifty or sixty or sev-
enty, after progressing all his life*,
doubtless would, if he had lived a year
or a decade longer, have attained to a
still greater height. "How disgusting
it is," cried Ruskin when he had
reached his three score years and ten,
"to find that just when one is getting
interested in life one has got to die!"
Many can say as much: all could say
it, had not the mental machinery been
disorganized by some accident, or be-
come rusted from neglect and care-
lessness. He who is no more in mind
at sixty than at thirty is but a half-
grown man: his is a case of arrested
development.

It is hardly necessary to remark
here that the mere accumulation of
knowledge is not the same thing as
power of mind and its increase: the
man who astonishes you with the
amount of knowledge stored in his
brain may be no greater in mind at
seventy than at twenty.

Comparing the sexes again, we
might say that the female mind
reaches perfection in childhood, long
before the physical change from a
generalized to a specialized form;
whereas the male retains a generalized
form to the end of life and never
ceases to advance mentally. The rea-
son is obvious. There is no need for
continued progression in women, and
Nature, like the grand old economist
she is, or can be when she likes, ma-
tures the mind quickly in one case and
slowly in the other ; so slowly that he,
the young male, goes crawling on all-
fours as if it were a long distance after
his little flying sister — slowly because
he has very far to go, and must keep
on for a very, very long time.

I met Freckles in one of those small
ancient out of the world market towns
of the West of England — Somerset, to
be precise — which are just like large
lages. where the turnpike road is
for half a mile or so a High Street,
wide at one point, where the market is
held. For a short distance there are

shops on either side, succeeded by
quiet, dignified houses set back among
trees, and then again by thatched cot-
tages, followed by fields and woods.

I had lunched at the large old inn
at noon on a hot summer's day; when
I sat down a black cloud was coming
up, and by and by there was thunder,
and when I went to the door it was
raining heavily. I leaned against the
frame of the door, sheltered from the
wet by a small tiled portico over my
head, to wait for the storm to pass be-
fore getting on my bicycle. Then the
innkeeper's child, aged five, came out
and placed herself against the door-
frame on the other side. We regarded
one another with a good deal of curi-
osity, for she was a queer looking little
thing. Her head, big for her size and
years, was as perfectly round as a
Dutch cheese, and her face so thickly
freckled that it was all freckles; she
had confluent freckles, and as the
spots and blotches were of different
shades, one could see that they over-
lapped like the scales of a fish. Her
head was bound tightly round with a
piece of white calico and no hair ap-
peared under it.

Just to open conversation I remarked
that she was a little girl rich in
freckles.

"Yes, I know," she returned, "there's
no one in the town with such a freckled
face."

"And that isn't all," I went on. "Why
is your head in a nightcap or a white
cloth as if you wanted to hide your
hair? or haven't you got any?"

"I can tell you about that," she re-
turned, not in the least resenting my
personal remarks. "It is because I've
had ringworm. My head was shaved,
and I'm not allowed to go to school."

"Well," said I, "all these unpleas-
ant experiences — ringworm, shaved
head, freckles, and expulsion from
school as an undesirable person — do
not appear to have depressed you
much. You appear quite happy."

She laughed good humoredly, then
looked up out of her blue eyes as if
asking what more I had to say.

Just then a small girl about thirteen

164

OVERLAND MONTHLY

years old passed us — a child with a
thin anxious face burned by the sun to
a dark brown, and deep-set, dark-blue
penetrating eyes. It was a face to
startle one; and as she went by, she
stared intently at the little freckled
girl.

Then I, to keep the talk going, said
I could guess the sort of life that
child led.

"What sort of life does she lead?"
asked Freckles.

She was, I said, a child from some
small farm in the neighborhood and
had a very hard life, and was obliged
to do a great deal more work indoors
and out than was quite good for her at
her tender age. "But I wonder why
she stared at you ?" I concluded.

"Did she stare at me! Why did she
stare?"

"I suppose it was because she saw
you, a mite of a child, with a nightcap
on her head, standing here at the door
of the inn talking to a stranger, just
like some old woman."

She laughed again, and said it was
funny for a child of five to be called
an old woman. Then, with a sudden
change to gravity, she assured me that
I had been quite right in what I had
said about that little girl. She lived
with her parents on a small farm,
where no maid was kept, and the little
girl did as much work or more than any
maid. She had to take the cows to
pasture and bring them back; she
worked in the fields and helped in the
cooking and washing, and came every
day to the town with a basket of butter
and eggs, which she had to deliver at
a number of houses. Sometimes she
came twice in a day, usually in a pony-
cart, but when the pony was wanted by
her father she had to come on foot with
the basket, and the farm was three
miles out. On Sundays she didn't come,
but had a good deal to do at home.

"Ah, poor little slave! No wonder
she gazed at you as she did; — she
was thinking how sweet your life must
be with people to love and care for
you, and no hard work for you to do."

"And was that what made her stare
at me, and not because I had a night-

cap on and was like an old woman talk-
ing to a stranger?" This without a
smile.

"No doubt. But you seem to know
a great deal about her. Now I wonder
if you can tell me something about this
beautiful young lady with an umbrella
coming toward us? I should much
like to know who she is — and I should
like to call on her."

"Yes, I can tell you all about her.
She is Miss Eva Langton, and lives at
the White House. You follow the
street till you get out of the town where
there is a pond at this end of the com-
mon, and just a little the other side of
the pond there are big trees, and be-
hind the trees a white gate. That's the
gate of the White House, only you
can't see it because the trees are in
the way. Are you going to call on
her?"

I explained that I did not know her,
and though I wished I did because she
was so pretty, it would not perhaps be
quite right to go to her house to see
her.

"I'm sorry you're not going to call,
she's such a nice young lady. Every-
body likes her." And then after a few
moments she looked up with a smile
and said: "Is there anything else I can
tell you about the people of the town ?
There's a man going by in the rain with
a lot of planks on his head — would you
like to know who he is and all about
him?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," I replied. "But
of course I don't care so much about
him as I do about that little brown
girl from the farm, and the nice Miss
Langton from the White House. But
it's really very pleasant to listen to
you whatever you talk about. I really
think you one of the most charming
little girls I have ever met, and I won-
der what you will be like in another
five years. I think I must come and
see for mvself."

"Oh, will you come back in five
years? Just to see me! My hair will
be grown then and I won't have a night
cap on, and I'll try to wash off the
freckles before you come."

"No, don't," I said. "I had forgot-

LITTLE GIRLS I HAVE MET.

165

ten all about them — I think they are
very nice."

She laughed, then looking up a little
archly, said: "You are saying all that
just for fun, are you not?"

"Oh, no, nothing of the sort. Just
lock at me and say if you do not be-
lieve what I tell you."

"Yes, I do," she answered frankly
enough, looking full in my eyes with
a great seriousness in her own.

That sudden seriousness and steady
gaze; that simple, frank declaration!
Would five years leave her in that
stage? I fancy not, for at ten she
would be self-conscious and the loss
would be greater than the gain. No,
I would not come back in five years to
see what she was like.

That was the end of our talk. She
locked towards the wet street and her
face changed, and with a glad cry she
darted out. The rain was over, and
a big man in a big gray tweed coat
was coming across the road to our
sice. She met him half-way, and
bending down, he picked her up and
set her on his shoulder and marched
with her into the house.

There were others, it seemed, who
were able to appreciate her bright
mind and could forget all about her
freckles and her nightcap.

IV. On Cromer Beach.

It is true that when little girls be-
come self-conscious they lose their
charm, or the best part of it; they are
at their best as a rule from five to
seven, after which begins a slow, al-
most imperceptible decline or evolu-
tion until the change is complete. The
charm in decline was not good enough
for Lewis Carroll; the successive lit-
avorites, we learn, were always
dropped at about twelve. That was
the limit. He either perceived with a
rare kind of spiritual sagacity resem-
bling that of certain animals with re-
to approaching weather-changes,
something had come into their
heart, or would shortly come, which
would make them no longer precious
to him. But that which had made them
precious was not far to seek : he would

find it elsewhere and could afford to
dismiss his Alice for the time being
from his heart and life, and even from
his memory, without a qualm.

To my seven-years' rule there are,
however, many exceptions — little girls
who keep the child's charm in spite of
the changes which years and a newly
developing sense can bring to them. I
have met with some rare instances of
the child being as much to us at ten as
at five.

One instance which I have in my
mind just now is of a little girl of nine,
or perhaps nearly ten, and it seemed
to me in this case that this new sense,
the very quality which is the spoiler
of the child charm, may sometimes
have the effect of enhancing it or re-
vealing it in a new and more beautiful
aspect.

I met her at Cromer, where she was
one of a small group of five visitors;
three ladies, one old, the others middle
aged, and a middle aged gentleman.
He and one of the two younger ladies
were perhaps her parents and the el-
derly lady her grandmother. What
and who these people were I never
heard, nor did I inquire; but the child
attracted me, and in a funny way we
became acquainted, and though we
never exchanged more than a dozen
words, I felt that we were intimate
and very dear friends.

The little group of grown-ups and
the child were always together on the
front, where I was accustomed to see
them sitting or slowly walking up and
down, always deep in conversation
and very serious, always regarding the
more or less gaudily attired females
on the parade with an expression of
repulsion. They were old-fashioned
in dress and appearance, invariably in
black — black silk and black broad-
cloth. I concluded that they were seri-
ous people, that they had inherited
and faithfully kept a religion, or re-
ligious temper, which has long been
outlived by the world in general— a
puritanism or Evangelicalism dating
back to the far days of Wilberforce
and Hannah More and the ancient or-
der of Claphamites.

166

OVERLAND MONTHLY

And the child was serious with them
and kept pace with them with slow,
staid steps. But she was beautiful,
and under the mask and mantle which
had been imposed on her had a shining
child's soul. Her large eyes were blue,
the rare blue of a perfect summer's
day. There was no need to ask her
where she had got that color ; undoubt-
edly in heaven "as she came through."
The features were perfect, and she was
pale, or so it had seemed to me at first,
but when viewing her more closely I
saw that color was an important ele-
ment in her loveliness — a color so
delicate that I fell to comparing her
flower-iike face with this or that par-
ticular flower. I had thought her as
like a snowdrop at first, then a wind-
flower, the March anemone with its
touch of crimson, then of various
white, ivory and cream-colored blos-
soms with a faintly-seen pink blush to
them.

Her dress, except the stockings, was
not black; it was gray or dove color,
and over it a cream or pale fawn col-
ored cloak with hood, which with its
lace border seemed just the right set-
ting for the delicate puritan face. She
walked in silence while they talked
and talked ever in grave, subdued
tones. Indeed, it would not have been
seemly for her to open her lips in such
company. I called her Priscilla, but
she was also like Milton's pensive nun,
devout and pure, only her looks were
not commercing with the skies; they
were generally cast down, although it
is probable that they did occasionally
venture to glance at the groups of
merry, pink-legged children romping
with the waves below.

I had seen her three or four or more
times on the front before we became
acquainted; and she, too, had noticed
me, just raising her blue eyes to mine
when we passed one another, with a
shy, sweet look in them — a question-
ing look; so that we were not exactly
strangers. Then one morning I sat on
the front when the black-clothed group
came by deep in serious talk as usual,
the silent child with them, and after
a turn or two they sat down close to

me. The tide was at its full and child-
ren were coming down to their old joy-
ous pastime of paddling. They were
a merry company. After watching
them I glanced at my little neighbor
and caught her eyes, and she knew
what the question in my mind was —
Why are not you with them ? And she
was pleased and troubled at the same
time, and her face was all at once in
a glow of beautiful color; it was the
color of the almond blossom — her sis-
ter flower on this occasion.

A day or two later we were more
fortunate. I went before breakfast to
the beach and was surprised to find
her there watching the tide coming in :
in a moment of extreme indulgence her
mother or her people had allowed her
to run down to look at the sea for a
minute by herself. She was standing
on the shingle, watching the green
waves break frothily at her feet, her
pale face transfigured with a gladness
which seemed almost unearthly. Even
then in that emotional moment the face
kept its tender flower-like character:
I could now only compare it to the
sweet-pea blossom, ivory white or
delicate pink; that Psyche-like flower
with wings upraised to fly, and expres-
sion of infantile innocence and fairy-
like joy in life.

I walked down to her and we then
exchanged our few and only words.
How beautiful the sea was and how de-
lightful to watch the waves coming in !
I remarked. She smiled and replied
that it was very, very beautiful. Then
a bigger wave came and compelled us
to step hurriedly back to save our feet
from a wetting, and we laughed to-
gether. Just at that spot there was a
small rock on which I stepped, and
asked her to give me her hand, so that
we could stand together and let the
next wave rush by without wetting us.
"Oh, do you think I may?" she said,
almost frightened at such an adven- I
ture. Then, after a moment's hesita-
tion, she put her hand in mine and we
stood on the little fragment of rock, I
and she watched the water rush up and I
surround us and break on the beach
with a fearful joy. And after that won-

THE LINE-MAN.

167

derf ul experience she had to leave me ;
she had only been allowed out by her-
self for five minutes, she said, and so
after a grateful smile, she hurried
back.

Our next encounter was on the par-
ade, where she appeared as usual with
her people, and nothing beyond one
swift glance of recognition and greet-
ing could pass between us. But it was
a quite wonderful glance she gave me,
it said so much — that we had a great
secret between us and were friends
and comrades forever. It would take
half a page to tell all that was con-
veyed in that glance. "I'm so glad to
see you," it said; "I was beginning to
fear you had gone away. And now
how unfortunate that you see me with
my people and we cannot speak. They
wouldn't understand. How could they,
since they don't belong to our world,

and know what we know? If I were
to explain that we are different from
them, that we want to play together on
the beach, and watch the waves and
paddle and build castles, they would
say, 'Oh, yes, that's all very well,
but' — I shouldn't know what they
meant by that, should you ! I do hope
we'll meet again some day and stand
once more hand in hand on the beach
— don't you?"

And with that she passed on and
was gone, and I saw her no more. Per-
haps that glance which said so much
had been observed, and she had been
hurriedly removed to some place of
safety at a great distance. But
though I never saw her again, never
again stood hand in hand with her on
the beach, and never shall, her beauti-
ful flower-like image still shines in my
memory.

THE LINE-WAN

Lithe, with bared throat, and face browned by the sun,

And strangely shod with steel-wrought spurs whose song

Is faint, metallic music borne along

Amid the street's harsh dissonance and hum,

The line-man mounts where teeming wires run —

A magic net above the city's throng —

Fearless that jeering fate should work him wrong

Or dizzy mists upon his vision come.

Blessed with the joy of life and toil-born pow'r

A miracle of rugged strength is he,

A bronzed Apollo of the modern hour,

His labors fraught with jest and laughter, free —

He seems in sinewed poise to be what our

Great God, in dreams, intended Man should be!

R. R. Greenwood.

The Spirit of France

By Desiree Wclby

NOTHING has more deeply im-
pressed those who have visited
France during the last year than
the change everywhere appar-
ent in the life of the people. The
somewhat popular belief hitherto held
by many in England, based no doubt
on a few weeks' holiday in Paris, that
the French were a highly strung emo-
tional race, given to expending much
energy on words and gesticulations,
has proved but a shallow interpreta-
tion of an outward form that has no
part in the real France. Those who
have seen her in her hour of trial, the
enemy within her gates, laying waste
her lands, destroying her cities, and
have watched her indomitable spirit in
the face of disaster, her determined
perseverance, and above all her calm
resignation, have realized that these
are no momentary displays of qualities
called forth by the exigencies of the
moment, but the moral force of char-
acter which comes from long appren-
ticeship and deep conviction in those
ideals which are the essence of her
faith and the foundation of her civili-
zation.

The entire surrender of the whole
population to the achievement of one
purpose, the universal abandonment of
pleasure and profitless occupation, the
utilization of all energy to the prosecu-
tion of one end, show an adaptability
and power of organization which fill us
with a great wonder and admiration;
an admiration the more profound be-
cause these results were accomplished
without resort to any expedients for
rousing a sense of responsibility, with-
out any appeals to patriotism or
promptings of leaders. There was
the simple call to duty, the people
obeyed it.

But if France has shown incompar-
able qualities of faith, devotion and
perseverance, she has also displayed
marvels in resource. Like other na-
tions she had miscalculated. She im-
mediately set herself to rectify mis-
takes and to adjust herself to new con-
ditions. She did not hesitate to make
changes wherever necessary, and to
subordinate all individual claims to
the one supreme issue. In spite of
the fact that her great coal area and
by far the largest proportion of her
iron and steel productions are in the
hands of the enemy, while some of her
most important factories are either de-
stroyed or being used against her, she
has managed to equip and supply vast
armies in the field, organizing her
labor and material with a skill that
we are just beginning to imitate.

Yet to the visitor in France, it is not
her resource and technical skill nor
her power of organization, but the
spirit of her men and women that
makes the direct appeal. The com-
plete absence of that parade, adver-
tisement and persuasion which go by
the name of recruiting and are neces-
sitated by a voluntary system cannot
fail to impress the Englishman. Such
have no place in the land of France.
The country is in danger, the men go
to her aid. There is no discussion,
there is nothing to discuss. It is their
duty, they do it. The women also
have shown they can play their part,
a part no less noble and comprehensive
than that of the men. Nothing is
more remarkable than the way in
which the Frenchwoman without any
demonstration quietly carries on the
life of the town and village. Stepping
into her husband's place, keeping his
business going, managing his affairs,

THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE.

169

she displays a capacity and grasp of
detail that do her the utmost credit,
bringing into play those very qualities
of thrift, industry and economy which
are part of her very self and the great-
est asset to a nation at war. We see
her in her home, rising early, going
to bed late, yet never too busy for a
few words of friendly intercourse,
quietly cheerful, invariably a smile
though the tears are not far behind,
her whole being set to the single pur-
pose of doing her share to the best of
her ability.

Again, the fact that women habitu-
ally participate so largely in the cul-
tivation of the soil is of the highest
value where the whole available man-
hood is liable suddenly to be called
away. There is something very splen-
did about these peasant women in their
rough clothes toiling incessantly in the
fields, but that which leaves inefface-
able memory are those bent figures,
hardly distinguishable from the newly
turned earth, working in districts
where the enemy has lately been. Vil-
lages ruined and lying in blackened
heaps surround them, the ground
scarred with recently filled in trenches,
trees cut down and lying where they
fell, and scattered everywhere, some-
times by the roadside, sometimes in
the middle of a ploughed field or hud-
dled together in a corner, those little
mounds which mark the graves of he-
roes. The women never murmur, but
with set faces bend their backs to the

task, for France will reap yet another
harvest.

To those who had only known her
superficially the Frenchwoman, as dis-
closed by war, is a new revelation, a
new inspiration. Her simple faith, her
silent endurance, her unshakable be-
lief in her man and her country, and
above all her conception of duty speak
with a deep significance and fill us with
a great humility by the very admira-
tion they call forth. The simplicity
of her virtues is at once the greatness
and the strength of France. Her creed
is a very simple one, but her people
understand it. It is summed up in
the words "La Patrie." And as we
see our great Ally torn, mutilated, suf-
fering, yet rising in that unconquer-
able spirit to the accomplishment of
her task and the fulfillment of her des-
tiny, we know that though delayed,
her day of deliverance is assured. It
is spirit not steel that makes for final
victory, and in the end the fate of a
nation is decided not only by the num-
ber of her army corps and Dread-
noughts but by the character of her
people.

The very measure of her sacrifice is
the measure of her gain, for there are
greater things in life than living. The
glories of France cannot fade nor the
deed? of her sons and daughters per-
ish, for the spirit of a nation is im-
mortal and lives on as the priceless
possession of posterity and its future
inspiration.

Sketches of Indian Life

THE NAVAJO WEDDING

By Ruth Jocelyn Wattles

IT IS NOT yet dark, but a single
star shines through the trees on a
Western hill. When it's light
shines through the branches of a
lone pine an Indian rises slowly from
beside one of many campfires. His
blanket is close wrapped about him,
for the night is chill. He winds slowly
among the fires, stopping at one to
ask, after the usual interval of silence,
"Was the hunting good?" In another
circle of light, widening and narrow-
ing with the leap of the fire, he sees
a group of young braves playing cards.
They continue the game, unconscious
that the greatest of the older hunters
has scanned every face in the group
before muttering: "Yez-gan is not
here," and passing on. Around a third
fire the feasting still continues, and
there is a grunt of satisfaction as the
old hunter fails to find there the face
he seeks. A little beyond the fires
some young men are noisily discussing
two ponies. Here the old hunter lin-
gers longer, half-hoping to see the face
he seeks, but he is disappointed. He
moves on, here stepping over a sleep-
ing child, there grunting an answer to
a question, but everywhere in the
glare of the flames or the dusk of the
shadows his keen eyes see gambling,
gluttony and laziness.

At last he reaches a fire around
which the amusement is wrestling.
A young man is contending with two
opponents. He has hardly worsted
them when a third attacks him and
then a fourth. But when these retire
the victor is only breathing a little
more deeply than usual. Here the
old hunter lingers longest, his eyes
always on the winner of the contest,

but when he passes on his satisfaction
appears in neither face nor gesture.

Apparently he has seen all he wishes
for he ceases his wandering among
the fires and walks directly out of
their circle of light. The trail he fol-
lows is not a worn one, and now many
stars are overhead, but he moves with-
out hesitation. And as he moves his
trained eyes reveal to him another
moving figure. To many it would
have been only a shadow in the star-
light, but the eyes of the hunter, Cle-
so-gi, are not so easily deceived. As
he pauses by a clump of oak brush,
the bright star of the West hangs di-
rectly above the lone pine. An in-
stant he waits, gazing at the star. "It
is time," he mutters. As he speaks,
the other figure stands before him.

Without a word the two men turn
from the trail which, little worn al-
though it is, is better than the un-
beaten way which they now follow
across a stream and up a hill be-
yond. Beside a huge rock they seat
themselves.

For many moments no word is
spoken. The night wind sweeps down
the ravine, and the men wrap their
blankets closer. A fire blazes high
at one end of the encampment. Cle-
so-gi's eyes are instantly on the writh-
ing forms of the wrestlers like black
gnomes against the light. Even at this
distance he can guess who wins.

With a grunted, "Yez-gan wins,"
Cle-so-gi directs his companion's eyes
to the wrestlers. The other turns as
though he had not before been watch-
ing this very group, but he makes no
answer. After a moment's silence Cle-
so-gi adds: "Yez-gan always wins."

SKETCHES OF INDIAN LIFE

171

Still there is no answer. Somewhere
along the mountain side a mare neighs
for a lost colt, down in the encamp-
ment a dog barks.

When Cle-so-gi speaks again the
fires are no longer leaping, and their
smoke has ceased to rise to the men
sitting on the mountain side. "Btske,"
he said, "Yez-gan must marry.' Btskfr'k
answer is: "All young men must
marry." For another long moment
Cle-so-gi sits silent, and then: "Yez-
gan leads the young hunters. He can
do more than I — but this he does not
know."

There is no enthusiasm in the an-
swer: "I have never known a better
hunter."

There is another long silence. Cle-
so-gi v.atches the bright star of the
West. It is setting, and when it shines
again through the branches of the lone
pine he speaks: "He killed the moun-
tain lion which stole sheep from the
Hos-clish people; every one else
feared. The lion was huge and fierce.
Many seasons it had killed sheep and
colts. The hunters of the Hos-clish
clan bear its marks — one in seams
across the face, another in a withered
arm. He was a fierce old thief. Yez-
gan laughed at the hunters of the Hos-
clish people: told them they were
children, and killed the creature with
only a bow and arrow."

This time Btske answers: "It is
known. He is a great hunter."

Cle-so-gi continues: "Yez-gan only
of all the young braves has made the
journey to the Turquoise Mountain for
a piece of the sacred stone. He fol-
lowed the rules we followed as young
men. He went alone. He ate only
such food as he killed on the way. He
crossed, instead of skirting the snow-
capped mountains. He came back
with a piece of the sacred stone."

"It is known," again answers Btske.

"In the Ya-ba-chi, the Harvest
Home dance he can dance longer than
the others. He can run farther than
his ponies, and can endure heat and
cold."

Again a long silence, and then the
voices are raised only in grunts and

murmurs. When they become distinct
again, Cle-so-gi is speaking. "I will
give fifteen ponies that Yez-gan may
take your Ne-ha to his tent to be his
wife."

Before Btske can answer a stone,
dislodged above them on the mountain
side rolls past them. Both men rise
and scan the open space around the
rock against which they lean, but nei-
ther parts the bushes on top.

"A loose stone," Btske mutters, re-
seating himself before answering:
"Fifteen ponies! It is the price of an
ordinary maiden." He pauses again
and then continues, his speech show-
ing that he too made the circle among
the camps : "Yez-gan was not feasting,
gambling or discussing the ponies. Ne-
ha was not sleeping or dancing with
the other girls. She was weaving the
headdress for the fire dancers." Cle-
so-gi nods in the darkness. He knows
this to be true.

Again the voices drop to a low mut-
tering. To the fifteen ponies Cle-so-
gi adds sheep, but the answer is: "Ne-
ha never tires in her father's service.
Her feet are ever willing feet. Her
tongue knows no scolding words. The
sun shines into the lodge when Ne-ha
enters. No other can weave as she
can. She is the most graceful and
beautiful of the maidens."

To the fifteen ponies and sheep Cle-
so-gi adds goats and wool, and in the
hour when the darkness is heaviest on
the rocks and thick brush, ten more
ponies.

Again there is silence, and then
Btske speaks : "Yez-gan may take Na-
na to his tent when this hunt is fin-
ished."

Scarcely are the words spoken when
there is a rustle among the brush be-
hind the men. The breeze of the
dawn has not yet arisen, and the men
listen intently for further sound to
reveal the prowler, but there is no fur-
ther sound. Cle-so-gi passes around
one side of the rock as Btske rounds
the other, but in the instant when they
listened a girlish figure, without a
blanket, for blankets catch on rocks
and brush, had fled up the mountain-

172

OVERLAND MONTHLY

side and crouched behind another
boulder.

When the fathers return to their
seats, Ne-ha rises from her hiding
place, and, though stiff with the cold,
for she has crouched all night behind
the men, she steps lightly over the un-
even ground between her and the faint
glow of the coals where there had been
a huge campfire. In her heart is a
great pride and joy. Her father v/ill
receive for her more ponies, wool,
sheep and goats than have ever before
been given for a maiden. Even now
she feels the honor and consideration
which will be shown the most highly
valued squaw in the ti ibe. In the years
to come, she sees herself old and wrin-
kled, but there will be no young
squaws so highly valued as she was as
a maiden.

In the very early dawn when Btske
returns to his tent. Ne-ha lies under
her gay blanket. She ; s so still that
he does not for an instant connect her
with the sounds which have dis-
turbed him on the mountain side.

When the hunting parties have dis-
persed for the day and the camp is
quiet, Ne-ha sits in the door of her
uncle's lodge. He is a Medicine Man
and has taught Ne-ha all she knows of
weaving and painting ceremonial ob-
jects. Now the head-dress which is
her work lies untouched on the
ground.

She is looking at a basket, about
twenty inches in diameter and four
inches deep, which hangs high on the
wall, well out of harm's way. It is a
plain, light weave, the only design be-
ing a band of red and black about two
inches from the edge. She points to
the basket. "Uncle, why is not the
pattern joined in the marriage basket?
Why is the open space left between
the ends of the red and black band?"
No one knows better than Ne-ha the
answer to her question, but she never
tires of hearing of the faith of her
people, and the old man answers as he
has answered many times before : "The
opening in the pattern is left that the
evil one may escape."

"And if the opening should be

closed?" Ne-ha leaned back against
a tumbled pile of blankets, the better
to gaze up at the basket. Through a
blue haze of tobacco smoke the old
man answers : "The maker of the bas-
ket would die and to the owner would
come evil luck forever and ever."

So the long days of the hunt pass
and the last night comes. There are
no leaping fires, but only redly glow-
ing beds of coals; there are no coon-
can games ; the horse traders are silent
and the wrestlers are without a cham-
pion. There is no moon and the hush
of the night reaches from shrub and
rock and hill to the silent, shining
stars.

Beyond the litter of the camps, all
the Indians sit in a compact circle. No
squaw speaks, no papoose cries. In
the center of the circle sits the old
Medicine Man. He faces the West,
and before him on the ground is the
marriage basket, the opening in the
pattern toward the East. It is filled
with a raw corn meal mush with a
half inch of yellow corn pollen spread
evenly over it. On the south side of
the basket sits Ne-ha and on the north
side Yez-gan.

Long moments pass and there is no
movement and no sound. At last with
his finger the Medicine Man draws a
deep furrow through the meal. From
east to west his finger moves, and the
furrow lies between Ne-ha and Yez-
gan, dividing the basket into halves.

Again there is a long pause, and
then the Medicine Man, pushing his
thumb and finger through the half- inch
of pollen, takes a pinch of the meal
and pollen and slowly eats it. Still,
there is no sound, but the Indians in
the silent circle nod their heads.

Though no word is spoken, Yez-gan
and Ne-ha know their part of the cere-
mony. Yez-gan takes a pinch of the
meal and pollen from his bride's side
of the basket and, leaning forward,
puts it in her mouth. When it is
eaten, she takes a pinch from his side
and puts it in his mouth.

Now the Medicine Man rises, and
holding the basket so that the space in
the pattern is always toward the east,

SKETCHES OF INDIAN LIFE

173

he passes it to Yez-gan's father. Cle-
so-gi knows well what he must do, and
taking his pinch of meal and pollen
from the south, or Ne-ha's side of the
basket, he eats it slowly as the others
have done. Then he passes the bas-
ket to his neighbor who, being a rela-
tive of Ne-ha, eats a bit from Yez-
gan's side. And so the basket passes
slowly and silently around the circle
— Yez-gan's relatives eating from Ne-
ha's side and Ne-ha's from Yez-gan's..
When all the relatives are served, the
basket passes among the friends of the
two families.

Now the Medicine Man rises. He
speaks to Ne-ha and Yez-gan, but all
can hear. He speaks of love and
good-will, of cleanliness and temper-
ance and morality. And Ne-ha and
Yez-gan listen quietly, silently. When
he ceases speaking the Indians rise
and move away to their camps. Now
there is shouting and laughter, and
Ne-ha and Yez-gan are the noisest of
all as they go away to their new lodge.

Tnqui? (How Much?)

Through all the preparations for the
wedding of the trader's daughter,
Alice, the Indians on the Reservation
watched every detail with interest and
curiosity. When the wedding day ar-
rived, three Indians sat on the floor in
one corner, silent spectators of the
ceremony. They saw the courtesy
shown the bride and nodded their ap-
proval — she was known and loved by
the Indians.

At last, one of the three silently
rose and approached the trader: "To-
qui?" (How much?) he asked.

"Nothing," was the trader's answer.

With an uncomprehending stare the
Indian varied the form of his question :
"How many ponies?"

"None," was the answer.

Again the stare and the question
changed to: "Dipee?" (Sheep?)

"None," was again the reply.

"Goats ?" questioned the Indian, but
now there was a troubled doubt in his
voice.

"None. No sheep, no goats, no
ponies," replied the trader.

Again and again question and an-
swer were repeated in varied form. At
last amazed comprehension dawned in
the Indian's eyes.

"You have given her away," he
questioned.

"Yes, given her away," was the an-
swei.

"White squaw do-hie-yea (no
good) ?" The question came in grieved
surprise, for Alice was the Navajo's
friend.

"Oh, yes, much good. Beautiful,
kind generous; we love her dearly,"
patiently explained the trader.

"But she not worth anything — no
horses, no sheep, no goats — nothing?"

"She is worth all the world to us."

"Worth all the world, and you give
her away? Worth nothing, nothing,"
the Indian muttered.

For an hour the trader explained the
white man's wedding customs, but
when he ceased the Indian merely
shook his head, and turned away still
muttering : "White squaw do hie yea —
not worth anything."

He spoke a few words to his com-
panions and they gathered their blan-
kets about them to leave. In vain the
trader offered them part of the wed-
ding feast. When Alice entreated her
red friends to stay they walked past
her in disdainful silence. She was be-
neath notice — a squaw worth nothing.

The weeks passed, and Alice was
happy in her new home in the Fort.
She made new friends among the army
men and their wives; her old friends
came and went. But never a Navajo
glanced at her or spoke. The old un-
derstanding and friendship was gone.
To them she was "do-hie-yea," worth
nothing, "the squaw given away."

Pseudo Apostles of the Present Day

By Pastor Russell

Pastor of The New York City Temple and Brooklyn and
London Tabernacles

PART III

"Ana thou hast tried them which say
they are Apostles, and are not, and
hast found them liars." — Revelation
2:2.

The Present Outlook.

NOW, this is what we are expect-
ing. We do not know just how
soon it will be. It may be
months, it may be a year or so.
But we see that it is very near. We
cannot think that the present condi-
tions in Europe will last very much
longer without revolution breaking out.
I shall be much astonished if some of
the countries do not enter into revolu-
tion within a year. These nations are
impoverishing themselves. Great
Britain has already contracted a debt
of thirteen billions of dollars, and her
minister of finance has told her that
nine billions more will be required to
keep the war running another year.
That will make twenty-two billions.
What does that mean? It means that
at 5 per cent interest, one billion one
hundred million of dollars would have
to be raised every year just to pay the
interest alone. Do you think the Brit-
ish people can afford to raise that
amount every year? Not at all! Do
you think they will do it? No. I be-
lieve these bonds will be repudiated,
and not in Great Britain alone, but the
same is true of France and of Russia.
Their children for generations to come
could not pay off those debts. They
are madly attempting to embargo fu-
ture generations. Yet all of these
countries are saying : "We will not give
in. We must conquer!" Well, we shall
see ! I stake my opinion on the Bible.

All these nations will become more
and more weakened, revolution every-
where will follow, and they will be
crumbled into dust. Every one of
them will pass away. Not a kingdom
will be left in all Europe.

Then what will come? Anarchy,
naturally enough. And all this be-
cause the rich and the poor will say:
"Never mind the law!" just as the na-
tions are now saying, in the same an-
archistic spirit, "Never mind inter-
national law!" Every one of these
nations has violated international law.
Is this a Christian war? Of course,
they all claim that they are fighting
for the good of the human race, for
the advancement of progress and civi-
lization. But they are fighting to main-
tain their commerce on the sea, and
they are willing to barter the lives of
hundreds of thousands, yes, millions
of men, if they can preserve their
financial standing and increase it and
have plenty of business for the future.
That is their attitude.

Until this war began it was thought
proper to sell even an enemy bread,
just as the Bible says, "If thine enemy
hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give
him drink." But the latest form of
Christian ( ?) doctrine is, "Starve him!
Let us take every advantage possi-
ble!" Not even by parcel post or in
any way can any food get into Ger-
many. All this is the spirit of anar-
chy. And it will spread from nations
to individuals. The Bible describes
what is coming: "Every man's hand
shall be against his brother. There
shall be no peace to him that goeth
out, nor to him that cometh in." —

PSEUDO APOSTLES OF THE PRESENT DAY

175

Zachariah 8:10; 14:13; Isaiah 9:19;
19:2; Ezekiel 38:21-23.

Man's Extremity God's Opportunity

Ominous as are present conditions,
the true children of God can with
peace and confidence look up and lift
up their heads, since they know that
however terrible may be the oncoming
troubles, God has provided that
through this doorway — Armageddon —
Messiah's Kingdom is to be ushered in
— the Kingdom of God's dear Son. It
will mean deliverance, first to the
Church of Christ, then to the world.
The Bible intimates very clearly that
just at the height of anarchy, when
men get to the place where everything
is going by the board, then will be the
opportune moment for Messiah to in-
tervene. Man's extremity will be God's
opportunity.

In the 107th Psalm, verses 25-31,
there is a picture given representing a
great storm at sea when men are
tossed about and in a terrible condi-
tion, and their souls melt within them.
"Then they cry unto the Lord in their
trouble, and He bringeth them out of
their distresses; He maketh the storm
a calm, so that the waves thereof are
still." Then there is another similar
picture. Our Lord Jesus stilled the
waves upon the sea of Galilee when
the storm was raging and threatening
to engulf the ship and all therein. The
disciples cried to the Master in their
distress, and He arose and rebuked
the wind and the waves, and said:
"Peace! be still!" and immediately
the billows were quiet and the winds
ceased, and all was calm. We believe
this is a picture of how the Kingdom
of Christ will be inaugurated. The
Lord will wait until the world is fren-
zied with fear and despair. They will
come to see then that unless the Lord
helps them all is lost, everything will
go to destruction. Then they will cry
unto Him as did the disciples of old,
when they said, "Master, carest Thou
not that we perish?"

The nations will not then pray to
the Lord as they are praying now, each

taking it for granted that He is on
their side — not as the Germans pray,
saying: "God is with us. Lord, give
us the victory over the Russians and
French and British!" and not as the
Russians, British and French are pray-
ing, "Lord bless our armies, and give
us the victory over the Germans; help
us to crush them!" No, no! It will
then be a prayer of real distress. They
will not be boasting then, they will
have become humble. For "The lofty
looks of man shall be humbled, and
the haughtiness of men shall be bowed
down, and the Lord alone shall be ex-
alted in that Day (the Day now be-
gun.)" (Isaiah 2:11, 12; 17-22.) But
the Lord will permit present civiliza-
tion to go into destruction, because He
has something far better for the
world. He will not put a patch upon
the old garment. He will have an al-
together new arrangement. There
will be a "new heavens," a new eccle-
siastical arrangement, the Church in
glory, and a "new earth," a new social
and political order, under control of
the Heavenly Kingdom then to take
the reins of government.

When we see that it is through the
portals of this great Time of Trouble,
a trouble such as never was since there
was a nation, that the wonderful bless-
ings of Messiah's Kingdom are to
come, then we can have confidence in
God and rest of heart even while we
see the clouds gathering blacker and
blacker. We can rejoice, not at the
pain and sorrow and trouble, but be-
cause we know that as soon as the
entire Church is glorified with her
Lord the Kingdom will be fully set up
in power, which is to bless and deliver
all the families of the earth and bring
to mankind the full, clear knowledge
of the true character of God, and scat-
ter all the ignorance and blindness,
and raise men up from their fallen
condition of sin, sorrow and death, up
into the light and blessedness of sons
of God — whosoever will, when clear
light and opportunity are given.

So our hearts are calm and restful
in the Lord, despite present conditions
and what is soon to come. It will be

176 OVERLAND MONTHLY

a brief, dark night, just before the great blessings beyond. Let us point

glorious Morning. It will be the wound them to the Lord Jesus Christ, in

of the kind but skilful Surgeon who whom alone there will be safety and

wounds to heal. The malady affect- rest and strength in this Time of Trou-

ing mankind requires thorough and ble. The great plowshare of sorrow

drastic treatment. Then, in view of must do its necessary work to prepare

these things, let us point men, not so mankind for the New Age, with its

much to the troubles now accumulat- uplifting blessings under the Kingdom

ing and just ahead, but rather to the of Christ.

BROTHERHOOD

How the flageolet of Lolo

Times shy Mimi's twinkling feet,
While birds orchestrate the solo,

Carolling where green boughs meet!
Come the Winter and the wolf howl,

Come the driving sleet and snow,
Lolo bending to the sky's scowl,

Mimi trembling in her woe.

Here the mart of Moneytaker

Where the gold discs roll and ring ;
Yonder toils the furrow maker —

Half a beggar, half a king.
Here's My Lord, a hero-bandit;

There's a gypsy is the same !
Brand o' lust? — Milady fanned it,

And yon farm lass knows its flame.

Squires and cottagers commingle;

Sunbeams play with umber shade.
Common coins hobnob and jingle

In the pouch of monk and blade.
High religion stoops to passion;

Rags extend their arms to Heaven.
Fools of wealth buy — 'tis the fashion! —

Ruth and rue . . . These are life's leaven!

What its heart? When large disaster
-Whelms alike both rich and poor,
One are prince and poetaster,

One both baronet and boor.
Hands across the narrowing chasm,

Helpful, indiscriminate,
Lay that ghost, the Ego-phasm —

Love how true, how transient hate!

Let disease but spread contagion,

Let black peril loom above, —
Man's no other than a brother

And low aims are lost in love !

Arthur Powell.

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IN THE REA/n OF BOOKLAND

"Body and Spirit," by Dr. John D.
Quackenbos.

Much misunderstanding and mis-
representation exist to-day regarding
psychotherapeutics, but the efficacy
and importance of mental suggestion
are slowly gaining headway in spite of
the skepticism and prejudice created
by the unfortunate activities of moun-
tebanks, religious fanatics, mystics,
devotees of "new thought." The medi-
cal world has come to recognize the
dominance of the mind over the body,
and modern medical practice is more
in accord with the theory of mental
suggestion than the public may realize.
Dr. John D. Quackenbos has long been
a prominent investigator in this field.
The conclusions which he has reached
after well nigh a quarter of a century
of careful study and experiment are
set forth in a volume entitled "Body
and Spirit: An Inquiry into the Sub-
conscious." This volume aims to ac-
quaint the public with the nature of
the true relation of the mind to the
body, how mental suggestion acts
through the subconscious mind or sub-
liminal self, and what its beneficent
effects are. It seems to do more than
free the body that is held in bondage
by a sluggish mind ; it shows how sug-
gestion may build the moral character
anew, thus making for a larger and
better spiritual as well as physical life.
The book is a sane and welcome con-
tribution to a subject which is too im-
portant to be allowed to remain be-
fogged by charlatans and fanatics.

Published by Harper & Bros., New
York.

A. C. McClurg & Co. announce that
they have in press for early publica-
tion a biography of Mrs. Ella Flagg
Young. The work deals mainly with
her public career and her labor of half
a century in the cause of education in
Chicago.

"What is Coming?" by H. G. Wells.

This book is a forecast of the con-
sequences of the war. The profound
psychological^ changes, the industrial
and diplomatic developments, the re-
organizations in society which are sure
to follow so great an upheaval of the
established institutions, are subjects to
which Mr. Wells devotes his deep in-
sight into men's minds as well as his
prophetic ability. Out of the mater-
ials of the past and the history-mak-
ing present, he constructs a brilliant
and persuasive picture of the future,
as sure of touch as his daring, imagi-
native essays, as full of interest as
his novels.

Of special interest are his chapters
on the United States, which set forth
the belief that here in the New World
there is being moulded a larger under-
standing of the kinship of nations; an
awakening from the great mistake that
ideals are geographically determined;
that in America there is the foundation
of a capacity for just estimate, which
will ultimately find its way into the
handling and directing of international
affairs. Out of the chaos will come
a dominant peace alliance, in which the
United States will take a leading part.

Published by the Macmillan Com-
pany, New York.

"Seven Miles to Arden," by Ruth
Sawyer.

It is refreshing to encounter a story
like "Seven Miles to Arden," by Ruth
Sawyer, recently published by the
Harpers. The author has high-hurled
at one bound the conventional railings
which beset the course of the novelist.
The reader is tempted to rub his eyes
and wonder if this is not some new and
delightful land of make-believe con-
jured up before him, although the
scene of the story, as a matter of plain
geography, can lie only a short train-
ride from New York. One is speedily
introduced to Patsy O'Connel, late of

OVERLAND MONTHLY

the Irish National Players, convales-
cent in a city hospital, and then, almost
as speedily, is whisked away with her
by train upon the maddest of chivalric
impulses: she is determined to over-
take the young man in the Balmacaan
coat and tell him that at least on hu-
man being in the world believes in
him.

Romance never went its way more
blithely or capriciously than in this
delightful story, for romance here has
caught some of the roguish charm of
the delightful Irish heroine herself,
and has entered into the spirit of the
whole thing as the author has so art-
lessly contrived it.

Patsy O'Connel, in her mad pursuit
of the strange young man, finds her-
self set down by the train in a lonely
place — seven miles from Arden. Not
one day, but seven, is required to en-
compass these seven baffling miles,
and each is a day of adventure and
surprises. Patsy encounters upon the
road a tinker in shabby state, and they
join forces. Gradually the tinker re-
veals himself for what he really is, and
in Arden — where it is reached at last
— Patsy discovers that tinker, Balma-
caan coat and her heart's desire have
all. somehow, merged together after a
climax of surprises for herself and the
reader.

Published by Harper & Brothers,
New York.

"With the French in France and Sa-
lonika." By Richard Harding Davis.

This book gives an account of Mr.
Davis's second trip to the front, the
strain of which undoubtedly contrib-
uted to his sudden death. On this
visit, due to the favorable impression
made by his former book, "With the
Allies," he was accorded every facility
for seeing the armies in action. With
the vividness and brilliancy charac-
teristic of all his writings, Mr. Davis
describes the bombardment and de-
struction of Arras, the fighting in
Champagne, the retreat of the Allies
in Serbia, and the landing of reinforce-
ments at Salonika. His analyses of

the political situation are most inter-
esting. Particularly does his chapter
entitled "Why King Constantine is
Neutral" throw much light on a situa-
tion which has been a puzzle to most
of us.

Price $1 net; 12mo. Published by
Charles Scribner Sons, New York.

"The Prisoner," by Alice Brown.

Alice Brown's latest novel is her
most ambitious, and the most import-
ant of her contributions to literature.
In this story of the return of a man
from a term of penal servitude to nor-
mal life she touches heights which
modern fiction does not often attain.
Her characters are true human beings
living in the grip of human problems,
impelled to action and thought by that
wild something which moves on for-
ever through all tumult and all change.
Miss Brown's charm of manner, wealth
of atmosphere and absorbing earnest-
ness have never been displayed to bet-
ter advantage than in "The Prisoner."

Price $1.50. Published by The
Macmillan Company, New York.

"Case of the Filipinos," by Maximo
M. Kalaw.

The author is a gifted Filipino, and
thoroughly understands his country.
No American who has not lived long
in the Philippines and followed per-
sonally the progress of the Filipino
movement for independence is com-
petent to discuss the Philippine ques-
tion without reading carefully the
pages of this book. No American,
however well posted on the details of
the issues involved, if he has lived in
the islands and really desires to see
justice done, will fail to purchase a
copy and read it through with inter-
est and profit. It is the work of one
who has grown to active manhood
while we have had this problem on our
hands.

Mr. Kalaw was born just seven years
before his native town of Lipa, Bantan-
gas, came under the American flag.
He was taught by an American in one
of the public schools which we have

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OVERLAND MONTHLY

established in the Philippines. From
this Batangas school he passed to the
University of the Philippines, where
he became editor in chief of the uni-
versity magazine, The College Folio.
Two years ago he graduated in law
at Georgetown University. He is now
private secretary of Hon. Manuel L.
Quezon, delegate in Congress for the
Filipino people; he is also manager of
the one Filipino publication in the
United States, The Filipino People.

Price $1.50 net. Published by the
Century Company, New York.

"A Study in the Philosophy of Berg-
son," by Gustavus Watts Cunning-
ham, A. M., Ph. D., George Nye
and Anne Walker Boardman.

This essay is a critique and not a
summary. Consequently the writer
has not hesitated to pass by many in-
teresting phases of Bergson's thought
and to confine his attention to what he
regards as his author's basic doctrine.
It will not be surprising, therefore, if
the reader finds that certain views
which he has been accustomed to as-
sociate with Bergson's name are
touched upon only incidentally, if at
all, while other matters which may
have seemed to him of small import
loom large in the discussion. The au-
thor hopes that it may to some extent
aid in the clarification of some of the
issues involved in Bergsonism and
also — if so bold a statement be per-
mitted — in the exposure of what to
many would seem to be errors which
the new philosophy threatens to per-
petuate.

Price $1.25 net. Published by Long-
mans, Green & Co., New York.

"The Sinn Fein."

terests and industries, and to further
economic undertakings, rather than for
political purposes. Out of it has
grown an organization which has as its
slogan: "We serve neither King nor
Kaiser, but Ireland!" — and to the ac-
tivities of this body of men the dis-
turbances which have recently oc-
curred may be attributed.

A Writer Revives a Patriot's Fame.

Eleanor Atkinson's book, "Johnny
Appleseed," has awakened so much in-
terest in this gentle pioneer that The
Indianapolis News was stimulated to
search for the grave of the missionary
orchardist. The grave is to be en-
closed in an iron railing and marked
with a headstone. Just recently the
Indiana Horticultural Society and Ap-
ple Growers Association erected a five
ton boulder monument at Fort Wayne,
and a copy of "Johnny Appleseed"
was placed in the crypt back of the
bronze tablet.

Published by Harper's.

"Poems of Panama and Other Verse,"
by George Warburton Lewis.

George Warburton Lewis is a sol-
dier, policeman, adventurer and writer
who tells you in his own virile and
vivid verse about the whir of hostile
bullets in many embattled lands, the
thrill of following man-trailing blood-
hounds after human prey, and of other
adventures.

Cloth, 12mo.; $1 net. Published by
Sherman, French & Co., Boston, Mass.

"Poems" by Chester Firkins.

The death of Chester Firkins last
year brought to a sudden end his short
and brilliant career as a journalist and
poet. The verses presented in this
volume are a selection from a much
larger number which have appeared
during the past twelve years in maga-
zines as diverse in type as the "Atlan-
tic Monthly" and "Puck," and in repre-
sentative newspapsrs of the Middle
West and New York City. Both sub-
ject matter and method of treatment
vary as greatly as do the publications

OVERLAND MONTHLY

to which the author was a contributor.
The poems range from the highest
plane of lyric imagination to the ex-
treme of nonsense verse. They natu-
rally divide themselves into four
groups : poems of city life, poems of
the Northwest, poems of childhood,
and humorous verse.

Price $1.25 net. Published by Sher-
man, French & Co., Boston, Mass.

"Everyman Militant, A Modern Mor-
ality," by Ewing Rafferty.
This play was written in a rather
iconoclastic mood, for the purpose of
proving the futility of preserving a
future state of universal peace, the
fallacy of the doctrine of the divine
right of kings, the absolute dictator-
ship of vanity and greed over the finer
feelings of man, the encouragement of
war by the munitions-maker and his
callousness toward its havoc, and also
as a commendation of the Church for
its disinterestedness and its refusal to
espouse the cause of any of the com-
batants.

$1 net. Published by Sherman,
French & Co., Boston, Mass.

"Albion and Rosamond and the Living
Voice." Two dramas by Anna Wol-
fram.

In "Albion and Rosamond" the au-
thor seeks to show that mixed races
are not the strongest. The greatest
gifts to civilization were given by
primitive peoples, the greatest force
of character was shown in primitive
people, and the great principles now
preached but not practiced in modern
life found their voice in the tribe. The
theme of "The Living Voice" is that
the voice of the Dead has a greater
influence than that of the Living.
$1.25 net. Published by Sherman,
French & Co., Boston, Mass.

New Harper Publication.

"Alfred Russel Wallace Letters and
Reminiscences," a new book by James
Marchant, has been just published by
the Harpers. The family of the great
English scientist put at the disposal
of the writer a mass of correspond-

ence from which he has chosen the
most important to illustrate the life,
work and aims of the famous explorer
and working scientist. In this book
for the first time the interesting and
historic correspondence between Wal-
lace and Darwin, relating to their sim-
ultaneous discovery of the theory of
Natural Selection, is published in full.
The chapters on Wallace's home life
make the man human and companion-
able.

The Sinn Fein.

Few persons who have read of the
disturbances in Ireland really under-
stand the conditions under which the
Sinn Fein was organized. Literally,
the words "Sinn Fein" mean "we our-
selves." This Irish society, which ac-
cording to the Standard Dictionary,
was founded in 1905, was promoted
for the purpose of protecting Irish in-
terests and industries, and to further
economic undertakings, rather than for
political purposes. Out of it has
grown an organization which has as its
slogan: "We serve neither King nor
Kaiser, but Ireland!" — and to the ac-
tivities of this body of men the dis-
turbances which have recently oc-
curred may be attributed.

John B. Henderson.

John B. Henderson, author of "The
Cruise of the Thomas Barrera," pub-
lished by G. P. Putnam & Sons, New
York, is a Regent of the Smithsonian
Institution and a member of many
other scientific bodies. He has been a
frequent contributor to technical mag-
azines on biological topics, but "The
Cruise of the Thomas Barrera" — an
account of the expedition undertaken
under the joint auspices of the Smith-
sonian Institution and the Cuban Gov-
ernment to Cape San Antonio and the
Colorados Reefs of Northwestern
Cuba — is the first "book" he has writ-
ten that makes a special appeal to
naturalists and lovers of the open. An
earlier book, "American Diplomatic
Questions," published in 1901, repre-
sents another interest of this author.

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ELICE LYNE

9/7/cJ Coloratura
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The blithe ecstasy in Felice Lyne's soaring, birdlike
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Through the Davey course of training by mail hundreds of young men, like
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(The German Bank)

ilf year ending Juno 30. lf>16 a dividend

been declared at the rate of four (4) per

ill deposit*, payable on and after
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isco.

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ma ii icuriiiij, removal superfluous liair.overcom-
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For the 6 months ending June 30th, 1916, a divi-
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FP7FMA Psoriasis, cancer, goitre, tetter,
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438 So. Clinton St., Chicago, Illinois

and inventive ability
should write for new
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tions," Patent Buyers and "How to Get Your Patent
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MEN OF IDEAS

A Typical
Eagle Brand" Boy

Give your baby the right food during
the first twelve months of his little life
and the chances are that he will grow
to be a sturdy child.

You would travel far to find a more
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mother could not nurse him. When he
was two weeks old his aunt, who is a
physician, put him on

BRAND

COndensED

THE. ORIGINAL
He began to thrive at once and has
never had a set-back. His muscles are
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BORDEN'S

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When you use "Eagle Brand" — either as
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Send coupon today.

BORDEN'S CONDENSED MILK CO.

"Leaders of Quality" Est. 1857, New York

Borden's Condensed Milk Co.

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Please send me the booklets checked:

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which tells me how to keep my baby well.
....''Baby'a Biography," in which to record the im

portant events of my baby's life.
...."Borden's Reclpea." which shows me how t
improve my cooking.

Name

Address

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LAKE TAHOE

A Night's Ride From San Francisco and

Oakland

Most beautiful mountain lake in most pict-
uresque region in America. The central
jewel in a brilliant diadem of Alpine lakes.

Attractive hotels and casinos. Comfortable
cottages, tents and camping facilities.

Accommodations and prices to suit all tastes.
Rates at various resorts from $2.^0 per day
to $12 per week and up. American plan.

Trout fishing in lake and stream; motor boating
and automobiling. Mountain climbing,
dancing and evening entertainment.

Men and women fond of horse-back exercise
will find charm in the natural trails with
which the region abounds.

d»1 A OJT DAILY <fc1 9 KCi FRI - and SAT -

'Pl'T'&O Limit 3 month. «pl^.Ol/ 15- Day Limit

Lv. San Francisco Ferry Station, 7.00 P. M. Lv. Oakland (Sixteenth St.) 7:37 P. M.

Through Pullman Sleeper from Oakland Pier to Truckee Commencing June 1 0th.

Connects at Truckee with Lake Tahoe Ry. for the Lake, ,
arriving at 8:45 A. M

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..ivited to consult our

QOI TTHFRM P ^ building. Union Office and
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^wvi t/vq . LANCASHIRE

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Nationaio.
438 So. Clintoi.

MEN OF IDEAS

and Inventive
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and Your Money." Advice FREE. Randolph & Co
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FESTINO — The enticing
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Home Building on Pacific Avenue
of Miss Hamlin's School for Girls

MISS HAMLIN

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market — played hav.

now Lobango really goes .

of attractive aluminium alloyFNUE

rust-proof, goat-proof, native-proof n.

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SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA

A Humorous Feature in Prose and Caricature
By RICHARD BRET HARTE

ON AN ALASKAI

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

By GEORGE FREDERICK CO'
* * *

OVER COLD CREEK DIVIDE

By RALPH CUMMINS

) OTHER ATTRACTIVE FEATUI
Ten Cents

^»

BUND MILTON DICTATING TO HIS DAUGHTER
From the original by Munkacay, in New York Public Library

The Vision of the

"Thousands at his bidding speed,
A nd post o 'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand
and wait "

Was the spirit of prophecy upon
John Milton when, more than two
hundred and fifty years ago, he dic-
tated those words to his daughter?

Did the " blind poet" have a vision
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speeding instantly over hundreds
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spanning the continent?

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At home with the
worlds greatest artists

Enjoying the exquisite interpretations of the most famous singers
and musicians is a pleasure which only the Victrola can afford you.
For the world's greatest artists make records only for the Victrola.

Any Victor dealer will gladly show you the complete line of Victors
and Victrolas — $10 to $400— and play the music you know and like best.

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

Berliner Gramophone Co., Montreal, Canadian Distributors

Important warning.

Victor Records can be safely
and satisfactorily played only
with Vicfor Needles or
TungM-tone Stylus on
Victors or Victrolas. Victor
Records cannot be safely
played on machines with
jeweled or other reproducing
points.

New Victor Records demonstrated at
all dealers on the 28th of each month

To insure Victor quality,
always look for the famous
trademark, "His Master's
Voice." It is on every
Victrola and every Victor
Record. It is the only way
to identify genuine Victrolas
and Victor Records.

Victrola

Vol. LXVIII

GDuerlanh •

No. 3

Jttmttfjlg

AN ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF THE WEST

CONTENTS FOR SEPTEMBER 1916

CARMEL-BY-THE-SEA. Verse .... JOE WHITNAH 177

Illustrated.

TEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF BEAUTIFUL SCENERY IN CALIFORNIA . 178-187
FRONTISPIECE. Character of the great Mountain Ranges in British Columbia and Alaska 188

TEN DAYS ON A GLACIER GEO. FREDERIC COGGAN 189

Illustrated by photographs taken by the author.

KNIGHTS OF THE OPEN. Verse . . HELEN FITZGERALD SANDERS 197

LOIS WEBER SMALLEY ERNESTINE BLACK 198

Illustrated from a photograph.

OVER COLD CREEK DIVIDE. Story . . RALPH CUMMINS 201

THE UNSOUGHT GOAL. Verse .... MARY CAROLYN DAVIES 209

IMPORTED LITERATURE ANNA SEAFORTH 210

ON RE-READING MERRIMEE'S CARMEN. Verse R. R. GREENWOOD 213

COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE. Continued Story WILLIAM DE RYEE 214

Illustrated from a photograph.

THE FOG FLURRY. Verse ... . . . ADA PEARL CROUCH 219

THE CAPTURE OF EL CAPITAN. Story . ELEANOR F. STEVENSON 220

MANZANITA. Verse JULIA H. S. BUGEIA 224

A FRAGMENT. Story BOYD CABLE 225

MORE TENDER THAN THE LIPS OF DUSK. Verse ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH 229

THEIR STORY AFTER DEATH. Story . CARL HOLLIDAY 230

SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA RICHARD BRET HARTE 234

Illustrated from sketches by the author.

MY WILD FLOWER OF THE WEST. Verse LOUIS ROLLER 238
ANNUAL PLAYS AT CARMEL'S FOREST

THEATRE .... GRACE MacFARLAND 239

Illustrated from photographs.

GREATEST SHARK IN THE WORLD . LILLIAN E. ZEH 244

Illustrated from a photograph.

THE LAND OF THE LAWLESS. Continued Story CARDINAL GOODWIN 246

IN THE TEMPERATE WINE COUNTRIES ARTHUR H. DUTTON 249

THE SAND STORM. Verse W. W. WELLMAN 250

THE PASSING OF THE PACHECOS ... HARRY E. BURGESS 251

MT. TAMALPAIS. Verse KATE L. WHITTEN 254

CORNELIUS COLE, A CALIFORNIA PIONEER ROCKWELL D. HUNT 255

A LEGEND OF THE POND LILY. Verse . AGNES LOCKHART HUGHES 261

JEHOVAH'S SAINTLY JEWELS . . . . C. T. RUSSELL 262

»»»«<«< •

The publisher of the Overland Monthly will not be responsible for the preservation of unso-
licited contributions and photographs.

Issued Monthly. $1.20 per year In advance. Ten cents per copy
Copyrighted, 1916, by the Overland Monthly Company.
Entered at the San Francisco, Cal., Postofflce as second-class mail matter.

Published by the OVERLAND MONTHLY COMPANY, San Francisco, California.

21 SUTTER STREET.

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iii

AMERICAN
PLAN
$3.50

UPWARD

Hotel Plaza

EUROPEAN

PLAN

$1.50
UPWARD

POST AND STOCKTON STREETS, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.

THE CENTER OF THE CITY OPPOSITE UNION SQUARE

An Hotel Designed to Appeal to the Conservative

DINING ROOM

FAMOUS FOR ITS CUISINE

BREAKFAST 50c. LUNCH 50c. DINNER $1.00

HOTEL PLAZA COMPANY, Management

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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 STREET AT DELAWARE AVENUE

BUFFALO, NEW YORK

MODERN

FIREPROOF

A unique Hotel, with a desirable location, insuring
quiet and cleanliness.

Convenient to all points of interest— popular with
visitors to Niagara Falls and Resorts in the vicinity
—cuisine and service unexcelled by the leading
hotels of the larger cities.

EUROPEAN PLAN
$1.50 per day up
Take Elmwood Ave, Car to North St., or Write
for Special Taxicab Arrangement.

Mav we send with our compliments a "Guide of 'Buffalo
and Niagara Falls" also our complete rates?
C. A. MINER, Managing Director

HOTEL ST. FRANCIS

SAN FRANCISCO

1 ,000 Rooms — Largest Hotel in Western America

MANAGEMENT — JAMES WOODS

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Meet Me at the
TILLER

For Value, Service
Home Comforts

NEW

HOTEL TULLER

DETROIT, MICHIGAN
Ont'-r of business on Grand Circus Park. Take
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ABSOLUTELY FIREPROOF
200 Rooms, Private Bath, $1.50 Single. $2.50 Up Double
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FERD. T. HOPKINS & SON

37 Great Joaca St., New York City

Scientific Dry Farming

Learn the Campbell System

Address,

Scientific Soil Culture Co.

BILLINGS. MONTANAi

afSOBBSB^SSQ

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Miss Hamlin's School
For Girls

■

|R f l8| 'if lEfl Hi

Jii

□

3SS

•*f/ 'HI

i " 1 lir _ ^ _r>*a

•i±=^— 4f ^v ■»

Home Building on Pacific Avenue
of Miss Hamlin's School for Girls

MISS HAMLIN

2230 PACIFIC AVENUE

TELEPHONE WEST 546

2117

2123

SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.

BROADWAY

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vii

Hitchcock Military Academy

San Rafael, Cal.

"Preparedness First" cadets of Hitchcock Military Academy
drilling on the sports' field.

A HOME school for boys, separate rooms, large
campus, progressive, efficient, thorough, Govern-
ment detail and full corps of experienced
instructors, accredited to the Universities.

Ideally located in the picturesque foothills of
Marin County, fifteen miles from San Francisco.

Founded 1878.
Catalogue on application.

REX W. SHERER President

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LAKE TAHOE

A Night's Ride From San Francisco and

Oakland

Most beautiful mountain lake in most pict-
uresque region in America. The central
jewel in a brilliant diadem of Alpine lakes.

Attractive hotels and casinos. Comfortable
cottages, tents and camping facilities.

Accommodations and prices to suit all tastes.
Rates at various resorts from $2.50 per day
to $12 per week and up. American plan.

Trout fishing in lake and stream; motor boating
and automobiling. Mountain climbing,
dancing and evening entertainment.

Men and women fond of horse-back exercise
will find charm in the natural trails with
which the region abounds.

Oil A 9 El DAILY <fc1 9 Cft ™- and SAT -

*P1 L T»£'0 Limit 3 months *P±^.OU 15 -Day Limit

Lv. San Francisco Ferry Station, 7.00 P. M. Lv. Oakland (Sixteenth St.) 7:37 P. M.

Through Pullman Sleeper from Oakland! Pier to Truckee Commencing June 10th.

Connects at Truckee with Lake Tahoe Ry. for the Lake,
arriving at 8:45 A. M.

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OVERLAND

Founded 1868

MONTHLY

BRET HARTE

VOL. LXVI1I

San Francisco, September, 1916

No. 3

East view of the Davidson Glacier, showing the saplings and firs on the

front of the moraine.

Ten Days On a Glacier

By George Frederick Coggan
Illustrated by photographs taken by the author

DAVIDSON Glacier, under its
snow covering, which is luring
me, is a branch of the great
Muir glacier, and was named
for Prof. George Davidson of the U. S.
Geological Survey. It belongs to the
type of "Mountain Glaciers" in con-
trast with the "Tidewater Glaciers" of

Glacier Bay and Taku Inlet.

Sailing up Lynn Canal in "The In-
side Passage," en route to Skagway,
tourists see Davidson Glacier on the
west side, not far from Haines. Like
a great ice-wedge, about three miles at
the base, it stretches back between its
mountain gateway for nearly thirty

Looking north along main part of Davidson Glacier, the dotted lines showing
the route taken by the party.

miles, to Muir Glacier. Between the
base of the ice, and tidewater, there is
a moraine, on which is a dense growth
of trees. These have probably sprung
up since the glacier's recession from
the bay. Some believe, however, it
has never descended that far, and al-
ways belonged to the group of Alaska's
"Mountain Glaciers." Reflecting the
unusual glow of an Alaskan sunset, Old
Davidson is one of the attractions of
the trip.

The Start — Fort Seward to Chilkat.

Leaving Fort William H. Seward on
February 1, 1915, at 9 a. m., with our
ten days' rations on a Yukon sled, Je-
swinne, my companion, and I proceed-
ed to Chilkat Village. Although it is
only three miles southwest of the fort,
it took us nearly three hours to reach
there, because of our task of taking our
sled — without dogs, up the hill and
over the beach. We were fresh, how-
ever, at the start, and "mushing it"

was not so very difficult. The term
"mushing" comes from the French
verb "marcher," to go on — a command
used by the old French traders to their
dog train.

Chilkat village, which might boast
of the first cannery established in
Alaska in 1889, is now quite deserted.
It was once the home of probably the
most aristocratic tribe of Alaska In-
dians — the Chilkats — who kept the
races to the north from advancing on
those of the Southeastern Peninsula.
We had to stay in the town over night,
to wait for a favorable wind to take
us down to Glacier Point. Finding a
hut, containing a fair cook stove, and
two bunks, and having our blankets
with us, we were not so badly off, as
we at first thought.

Glacier Ranches.

The idea of a ranch, almost at the
foot of a glacier! It does not seem
possible! But this big land, up here,

is full of surprises, and contrasts as
well. In a stretch of six or seven
miles there are four ranches — all log
huts, as the pictures indicate. Each
has a good barn, and root house, and
enough hay is harvested in September
to keep the stock all winter. These
four ranches have five horses, eight
head of cattle, and two dogs. There
is but one married man on the Point —
a Mr. Ward. His wife is also quite
distinguished, for she is the only wo-
man within a radius of twenty miles,
except a few natives who are found
camping out all winter, in the most un-
godly spots on earth.

The Ten Mile Sail to the Point.

The little dory, in which we are to
sail to the Point has been lying high
and dry on the beach, at the mercy of
the north wind, so it is necessary to
put pitch into her seams. This we
did, quite carefully, and at last sailed
away from Chilkat. By noon we were
on our ten mile journey to the Point,
with our own supplies, as well as those
of our host, Mr. Congar. There were
about sixteen hundred pounds in the
little boat, and of course it took all
the wind there was to keep moving.
As our caulking and pitch did not hold
we had to bail water most of the way.
Four hours elapsed before we made
the ten miles, and each of us was as
exhausted as if we had taken our dory
with the oars.

The scenery on the entire trip was
very interesting. On the east side is
Haines' Peninsula, and on the west
the mainland, and Chilkat Range, with
its rugged, snow-capped peaks, and
numerous glaciers — arms of the
Davidson Glacier. "Rainbow Glacier,"
three thousand feet up in the Chilkat
Range, has an appearance decidedly
like a rainbow — hence the name. On
the east side we sailed by "Smoke-
house Bay," named for "Smokehouse
Mike," who made his living there in
1896, smoking halibut, and selling it
to prospectors and trappers who were
going inside. Catchan Island, which

A giant crevasse.

Transportation on the snowfields of Alaska. "Mushing," Jesswinne in harness

we passed, to the westward, is only
inhabited by natives in the summer.
As we came nearer to Glacier Point
and the glacier, Sullivan Island and
Horton Point loomed up larger. The
latter receives its name from Mr. and
Mrs. Horton, who were murdered there
in 1898 by the Indians. The story of
this murder, due originally to the in-
fluence of a "witch-doctor" or "med-
icine man," is certainly thrilling, but
we are concerned here with a glacier,
not with Indian superstitions and jus-
tice, odd though they may be.

The Little Glacier Camp.

The log hut, where we are to dwell,
during the period of our glacier ex-
ploration, seems cramped to one used
to the space of a city home. A room
about twelve by fifteen feet, contain-
ing a cook stove, table, four chairs
and three bunks does service for sit-
ting room, sleeping room, dining room,
kitchen, as well as dark room for my
plates. As I write at one end of the
table, Mr. Congar, as chef, is prepar-
ing the famous "sourdough" biscuits
at the other end.

Our menu has been limited as far
as meat iss concerned, because the
game we expected to get has been dis-
appointing. After several attempts,
we succeeded in shooting a fine mal-
lard, but while he was hanging out-
side, awaiting a partner for the frying
pan, the tomcat, which came with us
from Skagway, ate him. "Nellie,"
the little spaniel, which braves the
iciest water, is also quite a thief, and
goes by the name of the "Bacon
Hound," because she has had her nose
fast in a can of bacon-grease.

The Awful Silence.

Jeswinne has reverted to the past,
for he is buried in a "Blue Book" mag-
azine only three years old ! But what
is the space of three short years in
this land, where time counts for noth-
ing at all? Are we not in the near
presence of an ice-mass, centuries up-
on centuries old? The little log hut
is crude and small, but it is as warm
and cosy as heart could wish. There
are compensations for its isolation,
and the fearful stillness outside, made
worse by the contrasting notes of the

On the roof of the Alaskan mountains.

The Covelman's ranch headquarters and some of the livestock.

Eldred Rock fog-horn. Here is the
only true "Hush," and "The Peace of
the World Piled on Top" that Robert
Service tells about in his "Spell of
the Yukon." That tremendous icy
thing, so near our door, that spectacle
of bigness and grandeur and frozen-
ness, makes one recall the following
lines :

"Were you ever out in the Great Alone
When the moon was awful clear,

And the icy mountains hemmed you in
With a silence you most could
hear?"

The Third Day — On the Glacier

On the third day we started for
the glacier, Jeswinne, an Indian trap-
per and myself. We took cameras,
tripod, creepers, and about one hun-
dred feet of stout rope. We went
south along the beach, about one and
a half miles to the Davidson river,
now frozen. Although there were
about two feet of snow, on top of the
ice, and we had no snow shoes, still
going was fairly good for us, as we

proceeded up the river. It took us
due west for about a mile, then a
sharp turn took us north, and we were
right under the ice-mass. It was so
overpowering in its majesty and im-
mensity that we just stood still and
looked. We had been told that what
we intended doing, getting on that
thing in winter, with the crevasses
covered with snow, was next to im-
possible. When we informed the
ranchers of our proposed undertaking
they called it a "Death Flirt," and
refused to accompany us. The trap-
per was the only one brave enough
to come with us. In spite of all dis-
couragements, we got on the ice and
proceeded due north, decidedly up-
hill. We had only gone about five or
six hundred feet when the snow let
Jeswinne through into a crevasse
about six feet deep. He went so sud-
denly that he was out of sight before
we could tighten the rope. This was
only a small hole, compared to some
bottomless ones twenty feet wide, to
the edge of which I climbed. Taking
this disappearance of my companion
as a warning, we went back and ap-

Mr. Ward's ranch. Mrs. Ward is the only white woman for miles around in

that region.

proached the main outlet from the
glacier to the river bed. I never ex-
pect to see a grander sight. Ice every-
where! Everywhere ice! The for-
mation is a perfect theatre dome,
about two hundred feet high, and four
hundred wide. The bed runs under
the ice about fifty feet, and the back-
ground of ice yawns out and up in
fan shape. It is pure sky blue — like
blue crystaline dolomite.

Surprises on the Glacier.

Not only did the temperature sur-
prise me, it being considerably warmer
here than on the beach, but the pres-
ence of mosquitoes. Imagine mosqui-
toes on a glacier! Verily, hundreds
of them — nearly as large as wasps!
They did not bother us as much as we
at first feared. Mosquitoes and gla-
cier ice! Another example of con-
trasts in this most unusual country.
A large flock of pretty snowbirds flew
around us, as if giving us welcome,
and then disappeared towards the

willows, and their moraine nests,
about a quarter of a mile or so away.

Prospecting.

Our next task, and pleasure, was to
prospect around in the rock and earth,
that is steadily working up from under
the ice, as the glacier recedes, form-
ing hills and mounds. There we
found float, quartz bearing mostly
slate and porphyry. We also found
copper, quartz and gold float.

View of the Main Body of Glacier.

Taking the southern bank of the
glacier, we proceeded up about two
thousand feet, partly on the ice, and
partly on the mountain and from there
"we photographed the main body of
the ice, and the river bed down to
the beach. We did quite a little
climbing on the ice at this point, but
it is dangerous, as it is next to im-
possible to tell what is underfoot until
the snow crust breaks. The same

Our leaking dory, in which we sailed ten miles from Chilkat to Glacier Point

trail took us back to camp, in about
six and one-half hours. I was greatly
tempted to cross the main body and
go along the beach from the other side
(which is a matter of about three and
a half or four miles) but decided to
wait until the snow is gone. Then it
will be an easy proposition.

Through a Glacier Forest.

February 4th and 5th kept us inside,
wind, snow and rain having a race
with each other. Saturday, the 6th,
was clear, with a fair breeze from the
north, and there was six inches of
snow on top of that we already had.
Not being able on our first trip to the
glacier to take a picture of the main
body of the ice, where it comes out,
and down, between the two mountains,
we again set out — this time we went
through the woods, due west from our
cabin door, penetrating the timber
line, which is nearly one-half a mile
of fir trees, some as high as one hun-
dred feet. Through the firs and the
"Devil Stickers" the going was good,
but we had one-half mile of saplings

and willows ahead of us. The snow
was three to five feet deep in places,
and we had to beat it down with our
hands, and then climb on top — only
to fall down again in a different place.
The nearest we reached the foot of
the glacier was about a quarter of a
mile. There was, however, a rise that
took us above most of the trees, and
after cutting down a few of the tall-
est, we were on a level with the gla-
cier, and had, at last, a clean sweep
of vision. Here was a mammoth chunk
of ice, three miles wide at the base,
stretching away about thirty miles to
its union with the main or Muir Gla-
cier. After looking as far as eye
could reach, and obtaining some pho-
tographs, I felt my curiosity and de-
sire were satisfied. There is pleasure
in doing what others tell you you can-
not do. I have seen, and been on
Davidson Glacier in winter, in spite
of warnings and hardships. I shall go
back to the fort, with my records and
pictures, hoping to return in the sum-
mer season, to behold the same won-
derful object, under a warmer sun,
without the winter's snow-covering.

Knights of the Open

By Helen Fitzgerald Sanders

O ! you're off, mv Knight of the Open,
Up, up on the swell of the trail,

You will ascend to those summits,
Where God and His forces prevail.

The white clouds above you will beckon,
The wind-bugle lure you ahead ;

And you will grow great with that greatness
Of which the world's heroes are bred.

Your soul will expand with new vision,
Your heart throb in perfect accord

With the Spaces, the Stars, the vast Open
And the elements wrought by the Lord.

The game that you play is of danger —
Yet danger but tempers the soul —

And who would sink down in stagnation
With a challenge, a chance and a goal !

You'll struggle and grapple and conquer
Each obstacle barring your way;

The fanged peak that looms up before you,
The wild thing that crouches at bay.

And I shall be caged in the city,
Oppressed by the hurrying crowds,

While my thoughts are with you in the mountains,
And my spirit's with yours in the clouds.

You're part of the Bigness Unbounded,
A part of the Freedom that flows

In the sweep of the rolling prairies
And the heights that are shrined in the snows.

And you'll win that deep peace that we've yearned for-
The peace that the mountains alone

Grant those of the tried and trusted
That the Solitudes mark for their own.

The passionate sunset will woo you;
The pale moon will yield you her beams,

And the thrall of the Wild will possess you —
But leave me, beloved, your Dreams!

When the trail is dim with the twilight
And the Ev'ning Star shines in the West,

And the earth is all hushed with that silence
That quickens the throb of the breast;

When the shadows steal up from the canyons,
And the forests seem awesome, strange,

And looming up on the horizon
Is the great painted sweep of the Range ; —

Then know that a presence is with you,
A Prayer-thought that thrills from afar,

Bridges the Silence, the Distance,
From a Watcher who hails the same Star!

Lois Weber Smalley

By Ernestine Black

ONE of the most interesting fig-
ures in the moving picture
world to-day is Lois Weber,
who in private life is Mrs.
Smalley. Mrs. Smalley is the most
distinguished and highest salaried wo-
man director in the world to-day, and
perhaps the only one who has made
good, measured up to the severest
standards applied to men.

Mrs. Smalley is at present with the
Universal Film Company in Los An-
geles, and she has not only directed,
but has written some of the record-
breaking photo plays that have the
unique distinction of a propaganda
slant. But because they never lean
backwards with propaganda they have
been a box office success. She has set
forth in a dignified and dramatic man-
ner some of the complex questions
which are challenging intelligent
thinkers the world over, who are iden-
tifying themselves with one group or
another interested in social readjust-
ment. .

Mrs. Smalley lives in a charming
house in Hollywood, and there she
gave a precious hour to an interviewer,
an hour amputated somehow from a
day so long that it stretches beyond
the imagination of those who punch a
time clock. For Mrs. Smalley not
only writes and produces the big, seri-
ous things put out by the Universal
people, but occasionally she acts in
them — just to fit another bit of work
into the mosaic of the days and weeks
and months!

She is a pioneer in the moving pic-
ture business — which means that she
has been in it about ten years. She
and her husband were ambitious young
people in the legitimate drama with
a bride-and-groom determination not

to take separate engagements. But the
managers did not look kindly upon
their marital resolve not to let the
stage separate them, and after a year
or two of unsatisfactory engagements
they wandered by chance into the mov-
ing picture field, then a newly plowed
field with few surface showing of the
rich soil which has yielded some art
and enormous profits.

That Mrs. Smalley has been a large
shareholder in holding up the stand-
ards of the moving picture industry
goes without dispute in the screen
world. She has been a director for
a number of the big companies, and is
one of the big personalities in the
photo-play world.

If one is looking for an adventure
in generalities, one must not by any
chance interview Mrs. Smalley.

She has a specific creed, an erect
and full grown idea about the place
and power of the moving picture, and
the marvel of it is that she has been
able to keep her creed and commercial
success moving in the same set!

Mrs. Smalley agrees with educators
and propagandists that the screen has
more exalted ends than have yet been
glimpsed by most producers. She is
one of the forward looking directors
who has helped make the fight to
give intellectual athleticism a place on
the screen instead of reserving it en-
tirely for comedy gymnastics and sob
slush.

The person most irrelevantly con-
cerned with the moving picture world
must realize how difficult it is to ac-
complish anything without the sustain-
ing confidence of the herd. Every time
Mrs. Smalley has put over a big idea
she has had to first convince the man-
agement that the public would stand

Lois Weber Smalley

for something not cut to the common-
place pattern, the sort of perfect 38,
guaranteed to fit the figure of any au-
dience. For managers as a class are,
of course, more interested in box re-
ceipts than in any departure from the
ubiquitous.

Yet so marvelous have been her suc-
cesses in putting over ideas of intellec-
tual quality that the big producers have
come to regard her as standing in
something of the same relation to mod-

ern propaganda as yeast does to the
deceptive dough.

Take, for example, the subject of
birth control. It is safe to assert that
no producer in the country would dare
to tackle that subject from the intel-
lectual standpoint and hope to make a
commercial success of it with any
other director than Mrs. Smalley.
There are plenty of directors and sce-
nario writers who would approach such
a subject with the ugly complacency

200

OVERLAND MONTHLY

generated by shabby feelings and sa-
laciousness.

But Mrs. Smalley is a woman of ex-
quisite feeling and high-minded dis-
crimination, combined with a gift for
keeping the preachment in a photo-
play so delicately balanced that the
dramatic integrity is never seriously
threatened.

To be sure, her play on Birth Con-
trol, called "Where Are My Child-
ren?" has not entirely satisfied the
Birth Control League. The members
of this organization have no quarrel
with the statement that the production
is done with force and seriousness, but
they would have liked to see the em-
phasis put in another place.

I expected Mrs. Smalley to rise in
wrath when I told her that the propa-
gandists were not at all satisfied with
it. But she patiently heard me out,
while I expatiated on their objections
— that the play puts all the emphasis
on abortion and the birth control move-
ment, which is antagonistic to the gen-
eral practice of abortion is, by infer-
ence, put in the position of defending
it.

The Birth Control League simply
asks the human race not to shirk the
study of the human family. It has the
civilized creed that instead of accident
and natural selection, human selection
and reason shall govern the size of
families. It makes a stand for better
babies, and in the long run that does
not even mean fewer babies, for no one
can dispute the statistics on child mor-
tality.

Mortality increases as the number of
children per family increases, until we
have a death rate in families of 8 and
more, which is 2^2 times as great as
that in families of 4 and under. A
record case is that which came under
the observation of Miss Jane Addams.
An Italian woman in the neighborhood
of Hull House bore 22 children, and
raised two of them. The records of all
nations show conclusively that there is
a startlingly lower mortality rate in
small families than in large ones.

Mrs. Smalley's picture starts in the
slums, and shows the dreadful condi-

tions under which child bearing and
rearing constantly menace the human
race. She introduces a doctor, a high-
minded idealist, who has come to be-
lieve in birth control through a study
of these conditions. He is sentenced
to imprisonment. In contrast to this
physician is the abortionist whose cli-
entele is among wealthy women who
refuse to accept motherhood.

"The Birth Control League," said
Mrs. Smalley, "would have all the em-
phasis on the first part. Well, say to
them that when the National Board of
Censorship gets through with a photo-
play the beautiful balance which may
have been in the original production is
apt to be destroyed, and the whole
thing wobbles over to one side or the
other. Then there are State and city
boards of censorship, and by the time
they have each taken a fling at a play
it may have lost all resemblance to the
original. For example, in my native
State of Pennsylvania the entire first
part of the play was excised by the
censors. The scenes in the slums, and
all the incidents going to prove that
under certain conditions birth control
was justifiable, were entirely cut out,
and any believers in birth control who
happened to see the play in that State
would not give me credit for stating
their cause at all.

"But I'll admit that the play just as
I produced it would not entirely satisfy
an ardent propagandist. The propa-
gandist who recognizes the moving
picture as a powerful means of putting
out a creed, never seems to have any
conception of the fact that an idea has
to come to terms with the dramatic if
it is to be a successful screen drama.
Very few propagandists can think in
pictures, and they would have us put
out a picture that no one in the world
but the people already interested in a
subject would ever go to see!"

The fact that Mrs. Smalley has made
such an enviable and honorable place
for herself as a director in the photo-
play world opens up vistas for other
women who are willing to bring to it
constant study and hard work in addi-
tion to creative talent.

Over Cold Creek Divide

By Ralph Cummins

THE light from a dozen fires
flickered upon a line of men
strung out across a gravel bar.
The men faced a boulder strewn
clearing at the farther side of which
stood an old log cabin; beyond the
cabin a wild mountain stream roared
upon the frosty night air.

The line wavered and swayed as
the men danced and swung their arms,
fighting the bitter cold, for in spite of
the ice and snow upon the ground the
men were very lightly dressed, bare
calves showing below some of the
overcoats or mackinaws that hung
about their shoulders. On the ground
before each man, or held in his hands,
were a hammer and a small piece of
board with a paper tacked upon it; in-
to each board a nail was started ready
to be driven.

In the rear shadows a number of
warmly clad men talked and laughed
among themselves, and forced unwel-
come advice upon the shivering ones
in front.

Down at the very end of the line a
small man with a little pointed cap
pushed back upon his close-cropped
gray head, rubbed a stinging ear with
his knarled hand. Impatiently he re-
assured a pestering group.

"Sure, I'm all right," he growled.
"Now, you boys, just quit worrying
about me. It's going to be just as
easy."

"Don't you forget big Mell Daskin,"
cautioned a friend. "He's a tough one
if he is a college kid. And he's
knocked around this country over a
year now. Made his brags, he has,
how he's going right away from you."

"Huh!" the little man snorted. "He
ain't got a chance. Them kids is all
right on a nice level track with a lot

of girls to yell and throw flowers. But
when it comes to the real thing like

this is going to be No, sir, he'll

find this ain't none of his Marathon
picnics."

"He says you're too old, Jack — says
you can't stand the grind."

"Old!" Iron Jack Ruddy straight-
ened. "Well, I am old. Sixty-one, I
am. But I'm still a better man than
that big kid. Why, I've hiked these
mountains all my life. That's what'll
count. Oh, they's nothing to it. He
won't last to the summit."

Up near the end of the line a tall
man held a watch to the lantern that
he carried.

"Five minutes!" he called sharply.

Half way down the rank a lean, boy-
ish giant towered above the heads of
an admiring court. He laughed and
joked, and refused to give serious at-
tention to warnings or advice.

"Too late," he bantered. "I can't
do any more training. It's all right,
though, boys. All my life I've run
long cross-country races and I've never
been beaten."

"You look out for Iron Jack," ad-
monished a pessimist. "He's the real
old-timer of this bunch, and he's
harder than that name of his. He's
been making fun of your chances all
the time."

The young man laughed good-nat-
uredly.

"Poor old chap. It would be a joke
if it wasn't so pathetic. Why, boys,
he's an old man. He may have been
an iron man once, and he may have
the nerve now, but age will tell. He
hasn't a chance. Youth and years of
scientific training — that's what he has
against him."

"That's all right," admitted the self-

202

OVERLAND MONTHLY

constituted coach; "but he's a moun-
taineer. He got that 'Iron' nickname
packing hundred-pound loads on his
back into the Devil's Slide country. He
may be old, but you mind what I say :
he's the one you've got to beat."

"The man with the watch hooked
his left arm through the handle of
the lantern and drew a revolver.

"Two minutes!" He walked briskly
to the center of the line and addressed
the men:

"Now, remember, boys ! This is the
north line of the Crazy Ann. You run
straight ahead five hundred feet to the
cabin and nail your notice anywhere on
the outside walls. Then you're off,
and for God's sake don't shove each
other off that footlog."

He looked at his watch.

"Forty seconds!"

The men in the line threw off their
surplus clothing and prepared for ac-
tion. Each gripped his hammer and
board, and felt to see that another
piece of paper was secure in its
pocket.

The starter trotted back and raised
his gun.

"Ten seconds! Ready!"

The men stood tense and grim. Some
leaned forward, others crouched hands
touching the ground in the manner of
sprinters, but mostly they stood erect,
waiting.

At the crack of the gun the line
broke into a scrambling mob. Men
collided with each other and fell, those
behind stumbling over their bodies.
Jostling and struggling, they swept
across the clearing.

Well ahead of the squirming mass
darted the tall figure of the athlete.
Anticipating the riot that would ensue
when ninety-seven men attempted, at
the same time, to nail a board upon
that cabin wall, he had '"beaten the
gun" in the manner of the experienced
runner. Sprinting easily, he reached
the cabin and tacked the first notice
upon the logs. Falling into a slow trot
he crossed the swaying footlog and
shot up the farther bank.

Iron Jack Ruddy was not a sprinter.
When he reached the cabin it was

deep in a swarm of swearing men.

'Not any of that for me," muttered
the old man, and waited until the
crowd thinned. When he saw an
opening he slipped in, nailed up his
board and ran down to the river. He
was nearly the last to cross the foot-
log.

Up the bank from the crossing the
men turned into a rough trail. They
trotted a few steps until the gaps were
closed, then all settled into a long-
stepped, shambling walk.

There was no need now for sprint-
ing, or hurrying, or crowding. For their
destination was Reeka, the countyseat,
sixty-three miles over the snow-
capped Cold Creek Divide.

* * * *

Old Sam Grout was queer in a num-
ber of ways, but the fact that he lo-
cated the Crazy Ann back in the fif-
ties and then never worked the rich
gravel, was evidence enough to prove
it.

The Crazy Ann really was rich. The
bar was the best on Indian River, the
claim above Grout's having yielded a
quarter of a million, while the one be-
low was said to have been even richer.

But Sam Grout just squatted there
and never mined the claim. And he
refused to sell or lease, although he
had some frantic offers as the years
passed and good placer ground be-
came scarce. Each year he did his as-
sessment work, wheeling into sluice-
boxes set in a little side stream. Just
one hundred dollars worth of work he
did, never a day more. From that as-
sessment work he took out enough
gold for his living — how much more
nobody knew.

After following this strange course
for over fifty years Sam Grout disap-
peared. Just dropped out, no one
knew how nor where. He had no
relatives that any one in the Indian
River District had ever heard of, and
his friends, owing to his crabbed, soli-
tude-loving nature, were very few. So
his neighbors poked through the
thicket above the cabin, and looked in
the big pool below, then put the mat-
ter out of their minds.

OVER COLD CREEK DIVIDE

203

A few days later, however, another
phase of the situation popped into
every one's head at the same time.
"What about the Crazy Ann?"

Old Grout was first missed in Au-
gust. His assessment work was not
done, for it was his custom to wait for
the water of the first fall rains. The
assessment work had to be done be-
fore January 1st, or the claim would
revert to the government and become
open for location.

As the months passed and the old
man did not re-appear, the whole
country became deeply interested in
the Crazy Ann. As early as October
a number of the Indian River miners
began planning to be on the ground at
midnight of December 31st. Many
others gave up the idea at the second
thought, for to make the location good
it was necessary for the locator to re-
cord his duplicate notice at the county-
seat. And Reeka was sixty-three miles
distant over an eight thousand foot
mountain range.

During seven months of the year
the whole Indian River country was
shut off from the east by the barrier
of the Cold Creek Mountains. To
reach Reeka in winter meant a detour
of several hundred miles by way of
the coast, or a dangerous, heart-break-
ing snow-shoe climb across the range.
So only the hardy ones thought seri-
ously of trying for the Crazy Ann, for
it was plain that it would mean a race
— a winter race over Cold Creek Di-
vide. It took nerve even to think of
it.

When it became evident that there
was small chance of old Grout return-
and that the location surely would
be made, several of the district's old-
rs got together and called a mass
meeting. Rules were agreed upon,
and arrangements were made for the
run to be conducted by a committee.
Though possible to use horses over
twenty miles of the distance, it was
finally decided to prohibit their use,
and to let human endurance alone de-
termine the outcome.

Ninety-seven men faced the starter
on that cold winter night, but only a

half-dozen were recognized as having
a chance. Among this handful were
Mell Daskin, a young college athlete,
who was learning quartz mining in the
Blue Lead, and Iron Jack Ruddy, old-
time miner and prospector. Both Das-
kin and Ruddy were men of proven
nerve and strength, the qualities that
would be drawn upon in such a test
of endurance. Each possessed, un-
limited confidence in his own physical
powers, and looked upon the possibil-
ity of losing as a joke. The feeling
caused by the rivalry between the two
had been fanned by well meaning
friends into a flame of bitter antagon-
ism that threatened to blaze into down-
right enmity.

So in the raw chill of that January
morning ninety-seven strong men
raced for the Crazy Ann. Snake-like,
the shadowy line wound up through
the rocks and chaparral clumps of a
steep ridge. Behind lay the dark gash
of Indian River, above, gleaming white
in the starlight, hung the saw-tooth
summit of Cold Creek Divide.

The men kept together, for the race
was not to the swift, but to the man
who possessed the will to drive his
body for thirty endless hours. They
knew that long before the summit was
reached the God of Defeat would be-
gin taking his toll, and each man was
well content to hold his place in the
line.

At snow line, fifteen miles ^ out,
friends of the contestants had pitched
a camp to furnish coffee and lunch. A
short stop was made while the men
stamped about a big fire eating sand-
wiches and gulping hot coffee. Then
they were off again, each man carrying
uoon his back a pair of "webs," for
within the next few miles they would
be forced to begin the dreaded battle
with twenty miles of snow.

The first beams of sunlight were
glimmering on Norcross Peak when
jack Ruddy clumped in a wide sweep
around Swede Alf, and slipped into
the tracks of the leader, Mell Daskin.

The old man darted a sharp glance
at his rival. The athlete was going
strong, but he had maintained his

204

OVERLAND MONTHLY

place in the lead, and breaking trail
through five miles of soft snow was
killing work. Evidently he imagined
that to step aside and force the next
man to take the lead would be a con-
fession of weakness.

Another, in Ruddy's position, might
have let the big fellow go on breaking
trail and thus reap a great advantage.
But to the mountaineer such a course
was impossible even if he had thought
of it.

"Spellin' time, Kid," he called.

Daskin twisted his head about. He
had not lived long enough in this big
country to be thoroughly familiar with
mountain ethics.

"What say?" he asked suspiciously
when Jack came up to him.

"Spellin' time," repeated the old
man. "Time to change. You're gettin'
so weak your knees are wobblin'. 'Bout
all in, ain't you?"

The blood flamed into the others
face.

"I'll be going hours after you have
quit," he snarled, as he backed from
the trail.

The mountaineer only snorted and
struck into the soft snow.

The trail was entirely obliterated.
All they could do was to follow the
ridge. The going was fearfully hard;
in some places twenty feet of snow
covered the ground, while in others
patches of jagged rocks confronted
them.

When Jack had broken trail for half
an hour, the athlete called to him. The
old man stepped aside.

"Thought you'd quit," he remarked.
"Better go back before you get plumb
played out."

The younger man stopped.

"See here, Ruddy, you've been mak-
ing remarks like that about me and to
me ever since this run was first
thought of. Why?"

Iron Jack whirled.

"Don't seem you've got any call to
roar. You been doin' some spoutin'
yourself."

The boy started to reply angrily,
then shrugged his big shoulders and
pushed forward.

At the end of the next half-hour
Jack called, "Time," and they changed
places without another word.

One hour, two hours, three, they
toiled up toward the white crest of the
divide. The ridge became steeper and
rougher as they neared the top. Several
times they were compelled to remove
their snowshoes to clamber up a cliff,
or over a pile of rocks. The sun shot
blinding rays acros c " the snow. The
sweat rolled into their eyes and oozed
from their bodies to weight heavily
their flannel shirts. Each half-hour
the man in the rear called out and the
other stepped, to one side to let him
pass.

Coming out upon a point, they saw,
far below, several ant-like figures
crawling up their trail.

"Darn fools," grunted Ruddy. "They
ought to have sense enough to • quit.
They'll never make it across."

The gray summit loomed nearer and
nearer. Struggling up the last sharp
rise, they came out upon a bare, wind-
swept jumble of granite a short hun-
dred yards from the top. But as Ruddy,
treading gingerly, attempted to reach
the snow-bank on the farther side, he
stepped on a treacherous rock and
stumbled. A great hole ripped across
the web of one of his shoes. Swearing
softly, the old man hitched himself to
one side and began untying the* dam-
aged shoe.

"Go ahead, Kid," he grumbled.
"This'll take me half an hour."

Mell stood for a moment regarding
the little mountaineer as he removed
his other shoe and pulled a handful of
thongs from his pocket. Then the
athlete produced a small repair kit and
stepped forward.

With the broken shoe stuck in the
snow between them, the two men deft-
ly took up the severed rawhide strips
and placed them into place. After a
ten minute delay they were again on
the move.

As they hurried on the old moun-
taineer let his keen eyes rest for an
observing instant upon the back of the
college man.

"He seems to be holding up well,"

OVER COLD CREEK DIVIDE

205

he decided. "It's his nerve, though.
He's mighty tired right now."

It was just noon when they crossed
the summit. A short distance down
the Reeks side they came upon a camp
fire, a light pack of grub spread upon
a blanket, and a lanky old-timer bend-
ing over a coffee pot.

"Got you a lunch, Jack," greeted the
man, glancing sharply at Ruddy. "How
you making it?"

"Good enough," drawled Iron Jack,
unfastening his shoes. "That coffee
sure smells right." He lowered him-
self upon a corner of the blanket and
took the tin plate his friend passed
him. "Come on, Mell, this'll brace
you up so you can make another mile
or two."

"No," refused Daskin, "I can't eat
your grub. There's no friendship and
not much courtesy in this game. I'd
rather not accept favors from the man
I'm going to beat."

"Beat hell!" exclaimed Ruddy, ac-
cepting a cup of steaming coffee.
"Why, Kid, you're such a nervy cuss
that I been figuring on giving you a
job on the Crazy Ann next winter."
Then as Mell opened his mouth to
make a hot retort: "Come on, don't be
a fool."

The boy checked a second refusal,
studied the old man appraisingly for
a moment, and advanced to the fire.
Silently he squatted by the dishes an
held out a cup for coffee.

"Well," Jack's friend remarked, "I
got you a trail broke from here down.
I'd 'a' cussed something awful if you
hadn't been in the lead."

"Good work,' commended Ruddy.
"Better stick around here, Van ; they'll
be some pretty played-out devils along
here to-night. Half of that bunch'll
make it up into the snow and get stuck
for the night." He rose stiffly. "I'll
end somebody up with grub and
blankets."

The two men laced the shoes again
upon their numb feet and turned down
the trail. They limped for a time for
the rest had stiffened the weary mus-
cles. But minds were not allowed to
dwell even for an instant, upon physi-

cal discomfort. Time enough for that
in another twelve hours. They had
covered twenty-eight miles — it was
thirty-five to Reeka.

The snowshoe track which they
were following dropped from the ridge
and crossed the meadows at the head
of Banner Creek. A high, gusty wind
that whistled down from the divide
had filled the trail with powdery snow.
Two terrible hours they spent wallow-
ing across that mile of open with its
fringes of snow-covered willows.

Working around the canyon wall be-
low to reach the rib-like ridge, Mell,
who was in the rear, slipped on an icy
stick and fell. Clawing wildly at the
sliding snow, he rolled down the slope.
With a jarring crash he brought up
against a large hemlock.

Jack wheeled at the sound of the
scramble, and with a half grin watched
the grotesque jumble of white figure,
and tossing arms and legs, and snow-
shoes. At the sharp impact, however,
his amusement was swept into concern.

"Hurt you, Mell?" he called.

The athlete slowly untangled him-
self and rolled over. Twisting his en-
cumbered feet around until he could
rise, he drew himself up. He stag-
gered against the tree and leaned there
while he brushed the snow from his
neck with his right hand. Then, kick-
ing great steps in the snow, he began
climbing back to the trail.

"Hurt you any," repeated the moun-
taineer as his companion fell in be-
hind.

The boy shot a probing glance at
the old man and shook his head.

"Just a little shaking up," he
evaded.

Ruddy plunged on, and soon they
were again slipping down a narrow
ridge. When it became time for
Mell to take the lead, they were turn-
ing into the more easy going of a suc-
cession of fir-clad flats.

As the young man passed him, Jack
observed that his face was very white
and that his cap was pulled down over
his eyes. The mountaineer said noth-
ing, but watched the boy closely. He
seemed to swing along with the same

206

OVERLAND MONTHLY

powerful, sweeping steps, but Ruddy
sensed an unnatural tenseness in his
movements.

"He'll make it out of the snow," the
mountaineer mused; "not much far-
ther. There ain't much danger of any
of the others catching us, so I'll stick
along until he drops, and build him a
fire. He'll never quit."

With a quickening of his heart-beats
and a strange feeling of depression, he
pictured the end, when only an iron
nerve remained to force that body on.
He saw the boy with physical energy
exhausted, and with conscious mind
entirely gone, dragging himself
through the snow. He felt the misery
of that crisis when the strong, power-
ful man of the morning became a
broken, sobbing Thing.

Oh, he'd seen such before, had
Iron Jack Ruddy. Men whose will to
press on rose mountains high above
their bodily strength. Men who strug-
gled on, and on, even after the last
shred of power to reason why was
gone. Yes, and he'd seen the very end
too, many times. And the cruel awak-
ening when staggering wrecks with
tears rolling down their cheeks whis-
pered curses on the body that had
failed them.

But dear to old Ruddy's heart were
those men of nerve, for even in their
failures they fulfilled his ideal. "To
fight to the very end — and far be-
yond," that was his creed.

"It'll be awful hard on the kid,"
sighed the old man. "He's one of that
proud breed that goes all to pieces
when they find they cant lick the
world. If he didn't have such a nerve
I wouldn't give a darn."

An hour later he could see no
change in the athlete. Jack noticed,
however, that he carried his left arm
always before him with the hand rest-
ing in the top of his light woolen trou-
sers.

"Wonder why he does that," fretted
the mountaineer.

With a great surge of relief they
dropped over a high-piled drift and
left the snow behind. Beside a large
rock at the edge of the last snow bank

several men and a cheering fire greeted
them.

"Here they come!" yelled one of the
group. "Old Iron Jack and the big
Kid."

This time there was no question as
to ethics. Mell slashed the fastenings,
kicked off his snow-shoes and was the
first to approach the fire.

The refreshment party was full of
questions, but the two men answered
them shortly, for even the act of speak-
ing had become an effort. They drank
cup after cup of black coffee, refusing
to eat the beans and rice and broiled
steak.

Ruddy, his worried eyes upon the
athlete, considered a serious appeal to
the boy to drop out. The grim face
of his rival decided him against the
attempt. His mind on that problem,
the old man scarcely noted that Daskin
still held his left arm before him with
the hand stuck in the trousers band.

It was nearly three in the afternoon
when they left the snow line camp. A
storm-battered sign board beside the
trail informed them that it was twenty-
seven miles to Reeka.

They now made good time, but at
the expense of continual torment. The
trail was steep and rough; each step
meant an uncertain drop of a foot or
more. The shock of that plunging
drop threw burning pangs into their
knees. It seemed as if the bone-ends
were grinding between them all the
sensitive nerves of their bodies. Their
shoulders ached from the weight of
their arms. The numbness in their
hands and arms grew into stinging
pains.

They continued to take turns in the
lead, for even that change made a
break in the monotony of the endless
miles.

As he swung round a curve Ruddy
glanced back at his companion. He
surprised the athlete gripping his left
arm with his right hand. The moun-
taineer spun about and trotted back
the few steps necessary to meet Das-
kin.

"Let me see that arm," he de-
manded.

OVER COLD CREEK DIVIDE

207

"Never mind," sputtered Mell. It's
all right. Go on."

"You let me see that arm,' Jack in-
sisted. His voice was gruff and
harsh, but his touch as he handled the
arm was as gentle as that of a woman.
Drawing the hand up from inside the
trousers-band, he lightly caressed the
forearm.

"You darn fool!' he cried roughly.
Then in a queerly changing tone : "You
darn fool!"

He eased the protesting boy down
upon a rock and began unbuttoning his
own flannel shirt.

"Just one bone, ain't it?"

"I think that's all," nodded Mell.
"Anyway, it dont drop down — just
twists around that way."

The old man slashed off the sleeves
of his own shirt and tore and cut them
into a number of strings and pads. He
then pawed over a clump of hazel
bushes and returned with half a dozen
sticks about a foot long. With his
knife he shaved these to a flat sur-
face on one side. Not until then did
he turn his attention to the broken
arm.

The boy had been following his pre-
parations with interest, and as Ruddy
slit the undershirt on the injured mem-
ber, he blurted:

"Wish you wouldn't bother with it."

"Got to set it," declared Jack. "You
couldn't hike far with the bone grind-
ing in the muscle. I'll have it done
in a jiffy."

With a rough skill gained through-
out a lifetime of observing experience
he grasped Mell's hand and pulled
steadily; then, twisting it back and
forth, he worked the bone into place
with the probing fingers of his other
hand.

The boy's jaws clamped, and his
face became the color of the snow in
the crevice beside him. Feebly he
tried to grin.

"You're quite a surgeon, Ruddy,"
he said. "You must have done this
before."

"Many a time I have," boasted the
mountaineer; "and done mighty ^ood
jobs, too." He carefully padded the

arm and surrounded it with the make-
shift splints.

"There,' he announced when he had
bandaged the arm tightly across Mell's
chest. "That feel all right?"

"Fine," nodded the boy. "I'm sorry,
though, Ruddy, that you did this. I'll
have to appear very ungrateful when
I leave you behind."

The old man laughed, then became
sober.

"Don't you worry about that, son.
When a man's in trouble and I help
him, I don't put no strings on him.
If you can beat me you just climb
right in and do it. You don't owe me
nothing."

For several seconds the athlete sat
hunched forward, his eyes staring
trance-like into the face of the moun-
taineer. Shaking his head as if to
break the train of thought, he rose.
"We're off," he said, and took the lead.

"Now wasn't that a nerve," chuckled
Ruddy, falling in behind. "Hiked
right along with that busted arm and
never said a word. That's the kind
of stuff I like to see in a boy."

The early darkness caught them as
they stumbled down the last pitch and
into the Cold Creek pack trail. At
the junction a great fire blazed cheer-
fully, and beside it steamed the ever-
welcome coffee pot.

There were no worrying questions
here, for a physician was in charge.
A big overcoat was slipped upon each
weary man and he was tucked on a
box by the fire. The doctor glanced
at the bandaged arm, and then at
Ruddy.

"It's all right," the mountaineer as-
sured him.

The man of medicine produced a
flask and served to each a large drink
of brandy. The raw liquor burned a
grateful warmth into their bodies, and
helped them to throw off the leaden
drowsiness that the fire induced. They
ate lightly and drank many cups of
coffee. They reveled in the luxury of
utter relaxation, and forced their
minds back from the least thought of
future effort.

It was five-thirty when they tore

208

OVERLAND MONTHLY

themselves away, and drove their pain
racked bodies against that barrier of
unending trail. Now a man walked
just behind and threw the light from a
big reflector lantern upon the trail.

"Eighteen miles, Kid," announced
Jack.

"Six hours," returned the athlete.

Ruddy, in his worshiping admiration
of the boy's nerve, had ceased to think
of Mell's defeat. Rather, he used his
wits to spur his companion on. Now
and then he would throw a stinging
shot across his shoulder: "I'll build
you a fire, Kid, when you're ready to
quit," he would jibe.

And the boy, his face twisted with
pain, would toss back: "Aw, I'm go-
ing to spurt pretty soon. Then you
look out."

Once as they changed places Jack
stopped the boy with mock serious-
ness.

"Say, Mell," he joshed, "I don't
think I can give you a job next win-
ter. You won't be over this little walk
by that time."

"Got any messages for the boys in
Reeka?" Mell retorted.

But banter had ceased to have a
sting for Iron Jack.

"Ain't he the nervy cuss," muttered
the mountaineer. "And he's holding
up, too. Lord, he must be taking an
awful punishment." For a long time
the old man watched the great shad-
owy figure before him. "He sure is a
real, honest-to-God man. That's the
kind of boy I'd have wanted if I'd
ever had one: big and strong, and
with a fighting nerve. God, I'd give
anything for a boy like that. I'd give

the Crazy Ann if I His thought

shot off at a tangent and he stopped
abruptly. The man with the light
roused him and he limped on. But he
kept dropping back, for the will to
drive his lagging muscles was with-
drawn to grapple with his problem.

Hour after age-long hour passed.
They had hazy impressions of camp
fires, and hot coffee, and groups of
waiting men. Now and then a mem-
ber of the committee stepped to the
side of the trail and flashed a light in

their faces. At the side creek fords
huge fires lighted their way across the
slippery foot-stones.

Eleven o'clock found them stagger-
ing into the wagon road and up to
the big fire that flared at the gate of
Durfy's Ranch. From around the fire
the inevitable circle of faces peered
out at them. A slim young man with
tight-fitting trousers pressed through
and tried to question the haggard men.
A brawny arm jerked him back, and
a deep voice growled:

"Not any of that, pardner. You can
just telephone your paper that Iron
Jack Ruddy and big Mell Daskin are
neck-and-neck at Durfy's Ranch."

Five minutes' rest and much black
coffee and they were off on the last
eight miles. Their progress now was
snail-like. Their feet were raw. Their
joints seemed to scrape and grind like
rusty hinges. Their leg muscles
fought each step with untold anguish.
Their arms and shoulders burned, and
mighty weights seemed fastened to
their hips.

The first hour from Durfy's they
made a mile and a half — the next only
a mile.

"What was that you said about six
hours from Cold Creek?" accused the
old man.

"I could have made it in that," Mell
retorted. "Look out. Another mile
and I'm going to spurt."

At three o'clock the moon rose and
the lantern bearer dropped out. They
were three miles from Reeka.

The mountaineer studied the big,
slouching figure.

"He'll make it now," Jack decided,
and deliberately sat down on the bank
by the roadside.

Mell kept on for a hundred yards,
discovered the desertion, and turned
back.

"What's the matter?" he ques-
tioned, when he had limped to where
Ruddy was seated.

" 'Fraid I'm in," the old man mum-
bled.

The boy scratched his head with a
worried frown.

"No," he insisted at last; "you'll

THE UNSOUGHT GOAL.

209

make it. Come on. Get hold of my
belt." Then catching the other's quick
upward glance — "where's all that iron
I've been hearing about? Thought
you wasn't a quitter."

But the mountaineer only dropped
his head. "I can't make it," he
groaned.

Mell's hand shot out and gripped
the old man's shoulder.

"Here!" he cried. "This won't do.
Brace up, Jack. You've got to make
it. Can't you see that I've been going
on my nerve all night? I can't make
a half mile, and some of the others
may be right behind."

Something like a tingling electric
shock stung into the brain of Iron Jack.
Slowly he lifted his eyes and let them
travel up the lean, wide-spread legs,
the narrow hips and waist, the broad,
muscular shoulders. His gaze came
to rest on the boy's face clear-cut in
the white moonlight.

The old man quietly rose, still star-
ing with awe into Mell's blazing eyes.

"Yes," he snorted, "you sure look
like you was played out. You big
faker! Why, you're good for twenty
miles."

It was now the boy's turn to stare.

"Faker, yourself!" he cried.

"Never you mind that," begged
Jack. "You hit her on in. I don't
need the old mine. I got a little ranch
up on Walker Creek. You "

"No, Dad," Mell pleaded. "The
mine should be yours. You do need it.
You're old. I'm young and strong and
I have a good job. Besides, Jack,

you're the kind of man I wish my
father had been. I want you to win."

The old man held out his hand.
"You're some man, yourself, Kid," he
grinned.

And the moon smiled as the two
strong men silently gripped each
other's hand.

Down Reeka's main street, human-
lined with half the county's popula-
tion, in the gray fog of early morning,
two men marched with limping, reel-
ing steps. They seemed to advance
together, yet always one or the other
was stumbling ahead or staggering
back.

At the entrance to the Court House
the men turned. Half-way up the
steps the smaller man tripped and fell
to his knees. His big companion
helped him up, and the nearer bystand-
ers heard the two laugh in a dry cackle
at the mishap.

Through the wide door — now arm in
arm — and up to a long counter they
marched. Behind the counter a man
waited with a watch in his hand and
a pen poised above a big book. Sup-
ported by the counter the two men
fumbled for an age, then as one man,
they each pushed forward a piece of
paper.

The man of the watch and pen
looked with a puzzled frown from one
to the other.

"Which first?" he asked.

"Suit yourself," mumbled the little
man. "It don't make no difference.
We're going to work the Crazy Ann
together."

THE UNSOUGHT GOAL

Kiss out the scars upon my breast,
The fear from out my eyes ;

I have found rest

Who only sought a prize.

Kiss out the burning from my brow,
And from my lips the flame;

I have love now

Who only asked for fame.

Mary Carolyn Davies.

Imported Literature

By Anna Seaforth

UNDOUBTEDLY no other coun-
try can boast such a vast pro-
duction of modern literature as
the United States — literature
ranging from the shoddiest paper-
backed novel to the highest standard
magazine — yet it is a curious fact that
it is the English writer rather than the
American who figures most promi-
nently in the higher class journals of
this country. Indeed, one cannot help
wondering why the American editor
and publisher should have conceived
such a mania for rounding up the big
game of the Old World, regardless of
whether or not it is wholly suitable to
the American palate. If we want to
know what our duty is in the present
crisis of history we appeal to such
men as Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, G.
K. Chesterton, John Galsworthy and
others across the water. It is true these
men all rank as prophets of greater or
less degree, but they are not our pro-
phets — that is a point worthy of con-
sideration.

Likewise, if we want a psychologi-
cal analysis of the feminine we appeal
to Mr. George, who poses as having
solved that which has taxed an Eng-
lishman's comprehension more than
any other man's; for surely none but
an Englishman would have so little
sense of humor as to attempt to ex-
plain the inexplicable.

G. K. Chesterton, intending to pay
a high tribute to Bret Harte, says of
the latter that he has "humor, "but
it is not American humor." Happily,
we may return the compliment by say-
ing of Mr. Chesterton himself that he
has humor, "but it is not English hu-
mor." He has indeed a vein of humor
which is not possessed by many con-
temporary writers of his nationality —

a humor which gives him a sympa-
thetic insight into human nature and
a whimsical but incisive criticism of
those who blunder in their interpreta-
tion of it. Thus it has fallen to Mr.
Chesterton to give us a singularly apt
eulogy of one of our own countrymen
of whom he says : "To him we owe the
realization of the fact that while mod-
ern barbarians of genius like Mr. Hen-
ley, and in his weaker moments Mr.
Rudyard Kipling, delight in describing
the coarseness and crude cynicism
and fierce humor of the unlettered
classes, the unlettered classes are in
reality highly sentimental and relig-
ious, and not in the least like the cre-
ations of Mr. Henley and Mr. Kipling.
Bret Harte tells the truth about the
wildest, the most rapacious of all the
districts of the earth — the truth that,
while it is very rare indeed in the
world to find a thoroughly good man,
it is rarer still, rare to the point of
monstrosity, to find a man who does
not either desire to be one, or imagine
that he is one already."

Could any one else have hit the nail
on the head more exactly? Here is
an Englishman who admits that the
failing of some of the most notable
English writers of the day is their in-
ability to interpret human nature sym-
pathetically — a faculty possessed to a
remarkable degree by all those great
English men and women of the Vic-
torian era. True, there are still some
sweet singers of domesticity — J. M.
Barrie, for instance — who have
achieved the art of putting real men,
and most of all real women, into their
books. In other words, they have
made the normal man heroic and
transformed the prosaic into the poetic.

The glory of Kipling, we suspect,

IMPORTED LITERATURE

211

will one day wane and the poetic ideas
of H. G. Wells fall flat through a recog-
nition of the fact that their humanity
does not ring true; for whatever the
philosophy, the religion or the ethics
we would convey to men, there is but
one instrument we can use in the pro-
mulgation of our beliefs or our theo-
ries — man himself. Kipling fails in
this respect because he denies the
feminine — not merely woman, whom
he treats with genuine Mohammedan
contempt — but the feminine attributes
in human nature without which, para-
doxically speaking, no man can be a
real man. True, he observes man-
kind with wonderful accuracy, but to
portray men exactly as they appear
to be instead of revealing what they
are in substance, is equivalent to giv-
ing us a photograph in place of an oil
painting — there is a depth, warmth
and inner light wanting, and a certain
vital truth and intrinsic beauty is ob-
scured through exactness of every de-
tail.

Do we really like Kipling's Tommy?
He is vigorous, of course — almost in-
spiring at times — but have we any real
blood connection with him? There is
a strong suspicion in our minds that he
is not a genuine Anglo-Saxon. There
is a void somewhere in him where
there ought to be imbedded things
which no mere sordidness of life or
coarseness of environment could take
from him — things which are bred in
the bone and sucked into the blood —
they will revive and re-assert them-
selves somewhere, sometime, in spite
of a multitude of incrustations. The
English Tommy may wallow in the
sunshine and sensuality of India and
Egypt and Africa, but it will not make
him a Mohammedan, nor will it make
the Calvanistic McAndrew a hypo-
crite, for there is a rigid pillar in the
center of his being.

What Chesterton says is true. The
ignorant and uncouth man is not nec-
essarily the possessor of a plebeian
soul; indeed, the man of the "unlet-
tered classes" is the man who has the
most optimistic belief in his own indi-
viduality. The feeling that he is a

mere cog in the wheels of some vast
machine — a mechanical God in a me-
chanical universe — is a feeling pos-
sessed only by the overly sophisti-
cated man of learning. Kipling at-
tempted to instill this doctrine of
force into the Anglo-Saxon people —
this doctrine of the mechanical God
and the nullity of human love and in-
dividual strength. Kipling who to-day
is saying of Germany that "Allah has
decreed that she shall perish by her
own act and the consequences of the
law that she professes," was the same
Kipling who but a few years ago sere-
naded England with tom-tom and bat-
tle slogan — piped to her till she arose
and stepped forth to battle, secure in
the faith of her poet-priest that the
God of the Hebrew would jusify the
sword of the Hebrew. Never before
in the long, noble history of the Anglo-
Saxon race had conquest been lauded
for conquest's sake. Throughout all
the internal and world-wide strife in
which England had taken part these
many centuries past her singers had
remained true to an ideal; the doctrine
of liberty, justice and equality was the
greatest bequest of the Anglo-Saxon
race to the world; then came this An-
glo-Indian and seduced the nation with
the religion of Allah.

Compare Robert Service's men in
the mining camps of the Yukon with
Kipling's Tommies on the South Afri-
can veldt. Many of them were the
same men — adventurers from over the
sea — wild and lawless at times, but
with kingly souls under their rough
exterior; for bravery is always born
of an innate gentleness and a rever-
ence for something whispered only to
oneself. The Canadian poet felt this
— the Anglo-Indian has missed it. One
might almost say of Kipling that when
he wrote "The Vampire" it was a skit
of his own genius, which had proved
itself unequal to the task of digging
up the roots of human nature; for the
woman depicted in this poem is the
last human being who could be de-
scribed as "a rag and a bone and a
hank of hair." She is the everlasting
Mona Lisa — tragic, mysterious, allur-

212

OVERLAND MONTHLY

ing — her soul the well of the world's
remorse.

We cannot but regret Kipling's pro-
nounced one-sidedness. We have an
inkling here and there — in Mary Glos-
ter and elsewhere — that he could have
done even greater things than tohse
for which the world has applauded
him — that he could have touched cer-
tain bedrock principles of human na-
ture which are more permanent than
the mountains of Allah; but that vein
of Oriental cynicism weakens the
whole structure.

Perhaps it is only good taste to pay
the highest possible tribute to foreign
genius, but surely Mr. Lawrence Gil-
man oversteps the mark when he says
of Mr. H. G. Wells: "It is a curious
fact — the significance of which we are
not prepared to divulge — that in Eng-
land, where there is little interest in
ideas, the novel of ideas has yet at
times come to so superb a flowering.
Only Mr. Wells, only an Englishman,
could have given us such a thing as
The Research Magnificent — not even
the amazing M. Romain Rolland could
have accomplished just this blend of
largeness and pungency, shrewdness
and imagination, breadth and swift-
ness, actuality and vision. Here is a
book at once epical and intense — the
book of a dreamer who is also a seer;
a dramatist who is also a lyric poet;
a philosopher who has walked among
men. Here, in short, is a masterpiece
— a book that enlarges and exalts the
sense of life, that brings back to us
the noble saying of Richter : that there
will come a time when man shall
awaken from his lofty dreams, and
find his dreams still there, and that
nothing has gone save his sleep."

It must be evident to any one who
has read The Research Magnificent
that Mr. Gilman has not said as much
about this original and somewhat dar-
ing book as he has left unsaid. In-
deed, we might conclude from the
varied criticisms we read of The Re-
search Magnificent that it resembles
the Bible somewhat in that we may find
much in it that isn't there and overlook
a great deal that is there. One of the

remarkable things about this book of
Mr. Wells' is that it defeats the very
purpose for which the writer appar-
ently produced it. It is true that the
author has in choice language, of
which he is a master, and with a lively
sense of the picturesque and poetic,
of which he is also a master, projected
a beautiful dream — a dream peculiarly
soothing and satisfying to men — hav-
ing in it a vision of the time when all
things will have been accomplished —
the things for which men have striven
and bled throughout all the past ages.
But Mr. Well's philosophy fails be-
cause the man he chose as his messen-
ger fails. We expect great things of
Benham when he starts out in the
spirit of Sir Galihad, striving, as he
says, after the "aristocratic life" and
his own "kingship." But does Ben-
ham really attain to these things
or does he remain a dreamer to the
end? — a dreamer whose eyes have
been blind to what happily is revealed
sooner or later to the average man,
namely: that the highest ideals is no
far-off vision to be achieved now or
"ten thousand years" hence, but is the
actual accomplishment of common
things with a divine grace. Is it not
true of quite the most ordinary youth
that he started on his sojourn with
"an incurable, an almost innate, per-
suasion that he had to live life nobly
and thoroughly," that his strongest de-
sire was to "get something out of his
individual existence, a flame, a jewel,
a splendor?" But how puerile was this
resolve when we consider all that Ben-
ham's life amounted to. Mr. Gilman
says he succeeded in conquering
"Fear, Indulgence and Jealousy" which
"restrict the soul of man." But does
a man ever establish his "kingship"
by denying the substance of himself
which after all is earthly and must
ever remain so? Does he attain this
by running away from himself and
following after far visions? The con-
quest of a man's lower nature must
come before and not after it has de-
feated his higher nature. "Fear, In-
dulgence and Jealousy" do not offer
a serious problem to be solved, for to

ON RE-READING MERRIMEE'S CARMEN

213

the normal human being they are but
a negligible portion of life if they have
any part in it at all. Love on the
other hand is such an indissoluble
part of life that it too raises no query
in the mind of the normal man. Love
has no relationship to passion, nor can
it be identified merely as Sex — it is
the driving force behind all the activi-
ties of life — it is the stimulus of the
man's mind and the woman's soul in
mature years ; and most of all it is the
thing which awakens men and women
to a moral consciousness of the mean-
ing of life.

Despite the fact that this book is
written by an Englishman "who ought
to know," Benham to our unsophisti-
cated Western minds is not an exem-
plary "aristocrat." Rather does he
raise in our minds the question as to
whether it is not difficult for those at
the extreme ends of society to preserve
that innate refinement — "aristocratic
mind" — with which the normal man is
endowed from birth. Benham hates
horses, but he makes up his mind to
roaster a horse because the men of his

class are expected "to drive." Does
not exhibit the fact that a man with a
pedigree is not free to follow the dic-
tates of his conscience or finer nature
to the same extent as the man who is
under no hereditary obligations to be
either a soldier or a sportsman? Can
one not imagine a young man whose
finer feelings revolt at the cowardice of
a fox hunt, and whose sense of the
beauty of life is jarred by the broken
wing of a phaesant, yet succeeding in
stifling that "still small voice" within
him because he is expected to do such
things.

In spite of all the social laxity of
the New World, her writers, like Bret
Harte, have always produced for us
the pure gold of human nature; they
have never gone off into fallacious
theories about any of the fundamental
things of life; they have never pre-
sumed to preach the doctrine of liber-
tinism in the guise of a new philoso-
phy, nor to tack their own inscriptions
on the guideposts of future genera-
tions. Such things have always come
to us from abroad.

ON RE-READING AERRl/AEE'S CAR/AEN

The mist-white bloom of jessamine that crowned
That dusky gypsy head — years since at rest —
Lives in my memory yet, for on the breast
Of time eternal is its fragrance found.
So, as with wine, I feel my pulses bound
When evening airs are by that scent caressed;
By passions flown, of other years, I'm pressed.
I live 'midst other sights, and pace the ground
Loved by the sons of a more glorious Spain,
Who knew her towered cities and her marts
Resounding to a myriad-footed tread;
Where rang the song of arms, and from the plain,
Gitanna met Hidalgo, throbbing hearts
That lived, and loved, and hated, long since dead!

R. R. Greenwood.

Coyote O' The Rio Grande

A Thrilling Novel of the Texas-Mexican Border
By William De Ryee

Author of "Lois of Lost Lagoon," "Stabbed," "Whirlwind Wally Takes a
Wife," "His Dream Girl," "The Genuine Article," "Pansy," etc., etc.

Continued From Last Month

CHAPTER III

THE Crescent Ranch sprawled
over an immense territory in
the heart of the Rio Grande
Valley. Captain Richard Carl-
ton, ex-Texas ranger, could have
boasted owning the largest ranch in
Southwest Texas, but Carlton was not
of a boastful nature. His popularity
was State-wide. But to-night neither
friends nor range afforded him the
least comfort. He sat on his porch,
endeavoring to entertain Ben Sidney,
owner of the Galvan Ranch, an outfit
bordering the Crescent O on the east.
There were times when the Captain
felt a strong desire to reorganize his
company of rangers for no other rea-
son than to wipe the Sidney outfit off
the face of the earth. For some time
he had noticed a slow but steady de-
crease in the multiplication of his stock
in the east pasture. But Carlton was
growing old. Rheumatism had claimed
him for its own, and his fighting spirit
had long since faded into a dreamy
memory of bygone days. Moreover,
there was no proof. Ben Sidney was
a wolf in sheep's clothing. Through
friends in Laredo, the county seat, he
had gotten himself appointed deputy
sheriff. Carlton even suspicioned that
the man was on intimate terms and
working in conjunction with Valtran,
the Mexican bandit. On an average
of every month the deputy paid Carl-
ton a "friendly call," after which he
would always lope down to see his

"dear ole friend, Dennis." Sidney's
smile was irresistible, his hand-clasp
hearty. He made friends easily, as a
rule, and, in short, he was a two-sided
man and a dangerous one.

Richard Carlton felt this more than
ever to-night. He cleared his throat
uneasily and stroked his long, gray
beard.

"Now, I ain't a-sayin' as how I'm
a-sproutin' wings," Sidney was drawl-
ing, "but I allers figgered hit out this
a-way: If yuh be a-treatin' everybody
far and squar, then yuh can expect to
be treated thet a-way yerself. Thet's
why I lent him the wagin and team.
But guess what I got out o' hit, Carl-
ton?"

"Nothing?" ventured the old man.

"Nothin' !" echoed Sidney. "Swiped
the hull blasted outfit and I didn't
even git 'Thank yuh.' Har! Har!
Har!" And the deputy laughed at his
story as he laughed at everything.
Still chuckling, he rose and held out
his hand.

"Guess I'll be hitin' the trail, Carl-
ton."

"Well — er — don't hurry "

"Nope. Gotta make Cactus a-fore
sun-up. Oughter be on the trail now,
but I'll drop by and see my dear ole
friend Dennis, fust. Come 'round
some time, Carlton. Adios."

"Adios."

Richard Carlton, standing on the
steps of his porch, heard Sidney's
horse clatter off in the direction of his
foreman's house.

COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE

215

Carlton loved Dennis McAll as a
brother. Ever since the death of the
foreman's young wife, fifteen years
before, he had wanted Dennis and
Coyote to live with him in the big
house. But each time he had broached
the subject to McAll, the range boss
had only shook his head and said,
sadly: "No; I've spent my happiest
days in thet 111' three-room house.
Thanks, Carlton, but I can't desert
hit."

As the old cattleman turned to en-
ter the Capitol, he was startled by the
sound of three shots fired in quick
succession. He halted, momentarily
bewildered; then, running out to the
gate, he listened intently. A terrible
premonition seized him. "Ben Sid-
ney!" he muttered, and hurried off
down the trail.

There was a crowd of cow-punchers
in front of his foreman't house when
Carlton arrived.

"What's the matter?" he demanded,
excitedly.

Spike Gallagher turned at sound of
the Captain's voice.

"Gotch Lumsey shot Dennis Mc-
All," he said.

"My God!" groaned the old man.
"My God!"

"Hey!" he called, "somebody go fer
Sadie. Coyote's fainted. Fellers,
Dennis McAll is dead."

CHAPTER IV.

Out of the lurid darkness of her own
tiny bedroom, Coyote, weakened and
wearied by long hours of the keenest
anguish she had ever before known
in her happy, care-free life, and still
attired in the dirty little calico dress
in which she had gathered patallos
for "daddy," tiptoed softly into the
semi-lighted room where lay the cold
and rigid form of her beloved father.

The dim light revealed Richard
Carlton's white face and silvery hair,
outlining less distinctly his sparse fig-
ure sitting motionless by the bed.

Sadie, Carlton's spinster-cook and
housekeeper, rose and with a motherly
sympathy surprising in one of her

blunt, matter-of-fact nature, folded
Coyote in two long brawny arms. For
all her eccentricities, Sadie was a
good old soul. And now, more than
ever since the first shock, Coyote felt
the need of a loving confidant; some
one to whom she could pour forth the
burden of her sorrow. She loved
Sadie. And she knew that Sadie loved
her. She tried to ask the spinster if
she loved her, but her quivering lips
could not form the words; she could
only cling tenaciously to Sadie's dress
while her great tearless eyes sought
familiar objects about the room — only
trifles, but they meant more to her
now than ever before. Why? Be-
cause this was "daddy's" room. But
everything would be associated with
her father now. The house, the fur-
niture, Imp and Bob — they would all
miss him. There would be no more
patallo hunts, no more happy little
suppers together, no more long walks.
Dear old "daddy" was gone . . . gone
forever! . . . Where? . . Where ?'[

At last that heavy, aching lump in
her breast seemed to burst, and Coy-
ote's small form trembled from the
strain of violent sobbing. Sadie's
strong arms gathered her up, and like
a stricken creature she was carried
back into the tiny room and laid upon
her bed. Sadie lit the lamp on the
quaint little sewing-machine which
had been Dennis McAll's wedding
present to his bride, but which for
years Coyote had used to make her
own dresses. The spinster rubbed her
blurred eyes, and picking up a small,
leather-bound, gilt-edged Bible that
lay uoon a blue ribbon near the lamp,
examined it critically.

"Gift from her daddy," she mut-
tered, dashing a tear from her wrinkled
cheek. "Poor lil' orphan." And care-
fully placing the book back on the
ribbon, she left the room. Presently
she returned and seating herself near
the bed, began mopping Coyote's fore-
head with a damp towel.

"Thar, thar, now, darlin'. Don't
yuh know yer daddy's up yonder
a-lookin' down at yuh, and yer cryin's
a-makin' him mighty uncomf 'table ?"

216

OVERLAND MONTHLY

The words had a magic effect. The
torrent of tears ceased, and Coyote
sat up, emitting little convulsive
gasps.

"I'm a-gonna be brave," she said,
holding the towel against her throb-
bing temples. "My head's . . about
.... to bust. Gotch didn't do hit . . .
did he, Sadie?"

Fumbling in her apron pocket, the
spinster produced a small bottle of
smelling salts.

"Here yuh be, honey. Don't whiff
hit too pert, 'cause hit's ramp strong
stuff."

Coyote took the battle and held it
to her nose.

"Jimminy! I feels hit clar to my
gizzard!"

After inhaling the salts for a little
while, Coyote corked the bottle and
looked up at the spinster disapprov-
ingly.

"Sadie, yuh didn't answer my ques-
tion," she said sternly. "I wants to
know if yuh believes Gotch killed
daddy, and then I wants to know if
thet cuss, Ben Sidney, has gone and
took Gotch off to Laredo."

Sadie coughed nervously under
Coyote's level gaze. Surely it was
Dennis McAll's compelling eyes look-
ing at her now from this baby face
before her.

"I'm a-feared " she faltered.

"Yuh know, honey, Spike Gallagher
heerd 'em a-quarrelin'. Beany says he
don't believe Gotch did hit. But Spike
and Ben Sidney swars they saw him
kill yer daddy, and Ben Sidney's took
him to Laredo."

"Gotch didn't do hit!" And again
Coyote's tousled head met the pillow,
whilst such a despairing wail rent the
air that Sadie threw up her hands, and
crying, "Lordie! Lordie!' commenced
weeping hysterically.

"Gotch didn't do hit! Gotch didn't
do it!" moaned Coyote, and repeating
this over and over, her voice trailed on
off into a sort of sleepy crooning that
finally faltered and stopped.

The spinster ceased her convulsions
of grief long enough to catch the
sound of Coyote's steady breathing,

and thinking the girl asleep, she
slipped quietly from the room.

After cleaning up the dishes in the
kitchen, the better to keep awake,
Sadie returned to the front room.
Richard Carlton still sat motionless
and pale beside the earthly remains of
his foreman.

"Hadn't yuh better go up to the
house and git some rest, Mister Carl-
ton?" suggested the spinster kindly.
"It be a-goin' nigh onto two o'clock,
and yuh'll be arful done up to-morrie.
Coyote's a-sleepin' good now, and I
can sit up the rest o' the night."

Receiving no answer, she surmised
that the old man had dozed off to
sleep. She shook him gently by the
shoulder.

"Mister Carlton ' Sadie stopped

aghast, as Richard Carlton's form
swayed, fell and lay motionless upon
the floor.

With a shriek, Sadie flew into Coy-
ote's room, only to find the bed empty.
Terrified, she rushed wildly out of the
house and ran screaming up the hill

to the Capitol.

* * * *

A full moon rising in the east threw
its amber light on Coyote and Imp lop-
ing along Huisache Trail. The trail
was a dim path — untraceable to the
stranger — that wound through mes-
quite and huisach from the Crescent
O Ranch to Laredo, a distance of
thirty miles.

The little mustang was breathing
hard, and Coyote pulled him up with
a jerk.

"Ten mile's 'nough fer any hoss to
lope without stoppin'," she muttered,
patting Imp's neck fondly. "Now yuh
can just take hit easy, baby. This is
Sandy Hill. Meg Ross's ain't more'n
five miles from here, and I know thet
lazy pelone, Ben Sidney, won't go
through to-night. He's on this a-here
trail somewhar. We've gotta be arful
quiet, Impie-boy. Jimminy! Thar'd
be blood to pay if we ran into 'em.
Thar'd be "

A sudden thought made her pull up
short. She turned in her saddle. The
great round moon still hung low on

COYOTE 0' THE RIO GRANDE

217

the horizon, leaving the trail shadowy
and indistinct.

"Jimminy!" she ejaculated, "we
plum forgot the Bar L trail. They
might've taken hit." She jumped
from her horse and tossing the reins
over his head, crouched down before
him. Presently she was up again and
into her saddle.

"Nope. We be right on to Ben Sid-
ney's dirty heels," she said softly,
urging the tired Imp into his accus-
tomed fox-trot. "Never mind, Impie-
boy, Coyote's got some chops in her
saddle-bags fer yuh. And when we
gits home — aw, hell! We ain't got
no home, Impie-boy. Daddy's gone,
and we'll never see him ag'in. Me
and yuh and Bob's all thet's left o'
the McAll family now. I don't guess
we'll all get turned out, though, as
long as Mister Carlton's alive."

Coyote ran one hand into the front
of her blouse, and drawing out a small
book, held it up in the moonlight.

"Yuh gave me this HI' Bible,
daddy," she said under her breath,
"and I'm a-gonna keep hit allers."

She replaced the book and lifted
her sad little face up to the vast dome
above. How many myriads of twink-
ling stars there were! And the big
amber moon! She turned in her sad-
dle again the better to look at it. She
had always loved the night. The stars
were her silent companions.

"Be yuh up thar, too, daddy, a-look-
ing down at me and Imp?" she whis-
pered.

And, as she listened, the wind in the
mesquites seemed to whisper back:

"I be here, HI' gal."

Coming suddenly out on the bald
brow of a hill, Imp deliberately
stopped and threw his ears forward.
Coyote drew her reins sharply, and
whirling the horse, loped back down
the trail. About two hundred yards
from the place she had turned she
swerved off to the left, and covering
approximately the same distance in
this direction, she then brought Imp
to a sudden standstill. She listened
intently for a few moments.

"Yuh HT chump!" she exclaimed at

Photo by Hartsook

Mabel Carlson as Coyote, in "Coyote
o y the Rio Grande."

last. "Yuh came thet nigh nickerin',
didn't yuh?'

CHAPTER V.

Coyote dismounted, and, removing
Imps bridle, staked him to a mesquite.
Untying a mirral, she poured into it
some chops from her saddle-bags, and
then slipped it over the animal's ears.
Imp sighed contentedly, and began
munching his meal. Taking her car-
bine from its holster, the girl set off
for Huisache Trail.

A three minutes' walk brought her
to the top of the hill. Here she left
the open trail, and paralleling it at a

218

OVERLAND MONTHLY

distance of some twenty feet, wound
her way in and out mesquite and hui-
sache, "wait-a-minute," tassajia and
prickly pear. Once she all but cried
out with pain when she stepped on a
cactus "pin-cushion." Gradually, she
descended into the valley, crossed a
creek and climbed to the opposite hill.
At last she came out into a small open-
ing, where she paused, discouraged. A
gust of wind blew sparks in her face.
She gasped and sank out of the moon-
light, her heart beating wildly.

When her eyes grew accustomed to
the darkness near the ground, she was
enabled to make out the forms of two
men stretched on their blankets,
scarcely six feet from her, their heads
pillowed in their saddles. Fearful lest
her presence had already been de-
tected, she crept on her hands and
knees back to the undergrowth, where,
under cover of the darkness, she sat
down to await the moonlight. Coyote
had intended — Coyote wasn't sure just
what her intentions were. Sadie be-
lieved Gbtch had killed her daddy.
Sadie was an old fool. And so was
anybody who would believe Ben Sid-
ney. Why, hadn't Gotch been her play-
mate years ago, along with John and
Kit Carlton? Hadn't her daddy been
almost like a father to him? No; he
couldn't have done it. But she must
know the truth from his own lips. If
he denied it, then Ben Sidney — the pig-
headed pup! — would never get him to
Laredo — no, sir-ree!

Ten minutes later she was creeping
cautiously toward one of the sleeping
forms. The moonlight now showed up
both of the men plainly, their ducking
jackets, their leather chaps, their wide-
brimmed sombreros. It played brightly
on the silvered Colt's revolver in Ben
Sidney's holster, gleamed from the
dented surface of a tin coffee-pot near
a bed of ashes, and revealed Gotch's
coarse red hair above his black ban-
danna.

Slipping the Colt from Ben Sidney's
holster, Coyote emptied the cylinder of
its six cartridges, and then carefully
replaced the gun. Keeping her carbine
leveled at Sidney, she backed over to

where Gotch lay on his face, his hands
tied fast behind him with a strand of
cowhide from a lariat. Moving in a
semi-circle, she stopped only when the
prisoner was between her and the dep-
uty, which enabled her to keep an eye
on the latter, while going through the
dangerous business of waking the cow-
boy. With her eyes still fixed on Sid-
ney, she knelt down beside her friend.

"Gotch," she breathed, her lips close
to his ear. "Gotch. Don't make a
noise. Hit's Coyote."

The cowboy's head moved slightly.

"Hit's Coyote, Gotch."

Suddenly he half raised on one el-
bow and blinked up at her.

"Coyote!" he exclaimed. "What — "

"Sh-h-h! Not so loud. Turn over
and I'll free yer hands."

From a long pocket in the side of her
skirt Coyote produced a small jack-
knife. The blade was dull, but she
sawed on the rawhide around Gotch's
wrists until it came in two.

The cow-puncher sat up and
stretched his arms with infinite gusto.

"Gotch, yuh didn't shoot daddy, did
yuh ?"

As the man looked down at the girl,
at her sweet, babyish face, her straight
black hair blowing in the wind, her
great blue eyes, wistful, and shining
like twin sapphires in the moonlight,
he thought he had never in all his life
seen a more beautiful creature. His
big heart went out to her now, not be-
cause he sympathized with her in her
great loss, but because she was, and
had always been, dearer to him than
anything else in the world. His tone
held a gentle reproof when he spoke.

"Lil' gal," he said, "be yuh a-think-
ing thet? Be yuh a-thinkin' Gotch
Lumsey would ever shoot Dennis Mc-
All?"

"Naw, Gotch."

"Yer'r right. He didn't."

"I knowed hit, Gotch. I knowed
yuh didn't do hit. Come on, let's git
now a-fore thet cuss wakes up. I took
his cartridges, but he might be a-pack-
ing another gun somewhars. We can
go-"

"Naw, lil* gal. Hit's best fer me to

THE FOG FLURRY

219

go on to Laredo. I've got some friends
thar, and Mister Carlton'll help me.
I'll come out all right."

Disappointment clouded the small
face under the huge Stetson.

"Aw, Gotch!"

"Hit's best," reiterated the cowboy.
"I don't want to be a-runnin' from the
sheriff."

"Did yuh quarrel with daddy,
Gotch?"

"Naw. I was a-tellin' him as how
I chased thet greaser Pinto off the
range. Pinto killed yer daddy, 111* gal.
He sneaked up behind me and grabbed
my gun an shot him a-fore I knowed
what had happened. He meant the
last two shots fer me, but they went
wild. One o' them just grazed my
scalp heah. Wish he'd a-got me 'stead
o' yer daddy. But thet's how things
allers happen. The Lord A'Mighty
seems to want the good 'uns and lets
the wuthless critters stay heah."

"What's Ben Sidney got ag'in yuh?"
queried the girl.

"Thet's what I don't know. We never
did hit hit off, somehow. I don't know
why, but Sidney and me wasn't cut
out to be friends. I wasn't surprised
when he swore he saw me shoot yer
daddy. 'Course Spike knowed he'd be
foreman with me out o' the way, so he
ups and swars along with Ben. But I
never done hit, lil' gal. Dennis, up
yonder, knows I never done hit. Poor
Dennis — "

Coyote saw a big tear roll down the
cow-puncher's cheek.

"Gotch," she whispered, her lips
trembling.

"Honey, I "

Somehow their hands met — the big
rough ones closed over the little soft
ones.

The next instant there came a metal-
lic click and a drawling voice:

"Well, I'm d d!"

(To be continued.)

THE FOG FLURRY

Veering wind and filming sky —
O'er the dune the piper's cry;
Foaming wave and flying sand —
Whir of wings above the strand.

Up the canyons narrow, deep,
Demon gales exulting sweep,
Shaking from their lawless wings
Diamond mists in gusty flings.

Strayed beyond his rocky home
Beetling o'er the ocean's foam,
Buffeted above, below,
Climbs a gull on pinions slow.

On the blurring line of sky,
Swaying low and reaching high,
Many a eucalyptus plume
Tosses in the whirling spume.

Ada Pearl Crouch.

The Capture of El Capitan

By Eleanor F. Stevenson

JUAN VALERA was loafing again.
For several days he worked stead-
ily, and now, propped against the
white-washed wall of the old
adobe church which fronts the messy
little plaza in the heart of Juarez, he
was pondering lazily as to the most
agreeable way of disposing of the ac-
cumulated pesos that were burning a
hole in his trousers pocket.

So many and varied were the means
which his native town offered for get-
ting rid of one's money that Juan was
rather at a loss now to decide among
them.

A heterogenous swarm of gambling
contrivances, born of the present fiesta
season, lined the Calle Toro not far
from the plaza, and opposite Juan a
corner saloon flaunted a glaring poster
announcing a series of cock fights for
that afternoon in the cock pit near the
bull ring; besides, there was always
Keno.

Juan was very partial to Keno. The
thrill of hearing the caller proclaim
the number needed to complete his
card and the cheery sound of the little
electric bell, as it announced to the
other players that he had "kenoed"
and thereby won the proceeds of all
the cards less the percentage which
went to the house, were pleasures such
as, in Juan's opinion, none of the other
gambling devices could offer. With-
out more ado, therefore, he set out
down the Calle Commercia in the di-
rection of his favorite Keno palace.

He had not gone far when he was
hailed by Manuel Gomez. Manuel, too,
was for the moment a bloated capital-
ist, and, like Juan, was seeking some
way of putting his wealth into circula-
tion.

"Come along with me," said Juan.

''We'll go halves if either of us ke-
noes."

But Manuel had another plan. "Let
us take in the races," he suggested. "A
twenty-to-one shot won the fourth race
yesterday, and we might strike some-
thing like that. Besides, the Monk is
to run to-day for the first time this sea-
son."

The trolley to the race track came
banging around the corner as he spoke,
and Juan, Keno forgotten in the pros-
pect of seeing the much advertised
Monk and the hope of multiplying his
pesos on a possible long shot, climbed
on the car, where he found a seat be-
tween a florid-faced, raven-moustached
man in a checked suit and a highly per-
fumed and much bedecked member of
the opposite sex who murmured some-
thing derogatory about "these fresh
Mexicans" as Juan squeezed in.

The jockeys were weighing in after
the first race when Juan and Manuel
reached the track, and the two lost no
time in seeking the book-maker's stall.
Here Juan, whose early education, like
that of most Mexican youths of his
class, had failed to "take," stood at-
tentively by while his more accom-
plished companion laboriously spelled
out the list of horses entered for the
next race, together with their estimated
chances to win, place or show. Among
the entries was "Flying Footsteps," a
thirty-to-one shot. On this horse, not
from any confidence instilled by the
name, the significance of which neither
understood, but merely because of the
tremendous odds, the two risked half
of their pesos. The wisdom of with-
holding a part of their funds was soon
apparent, for Flying Footsteps, utterly
belying her name, was hopelessly out-
classed from the start, and ambled in

THE CAPTURE OF EL CAPITAN

221

with an undisputed hold on last place.

The third race carried no long shots,
but El Capitan in the fourth was
booked at twenty-five-to-one. Manuel
reasoning that, as the fourth race had
been lucky for a long shot Tuesday, it
could hardly be so the following day,
determined to wait for the next, and
walked off to join an acquaintance
whom he had spied near the Judges'
stand. Juan, however, arriving by the
same process of reasoning at exactly
the opposite conclusion, placed his re-
maining pesos in the hand of one of
the bookmakers.

"El Capitan to win," he said.

The man glanced at him sharply as
he took the money, but handed him his
card without comment, and Juan, sta-
tioning himself in a convenient place
near the corner of the barrier, bent his
whole attention on the race that was
then taking place.

El Capitan was a long limbed, rangy
looking horse, whose work on the track
up to the present was uniformly poor.
He was ridden by a singularly ill-fav-
ored jockey in a bright red satin blouse
and cap. A mile race was scheduled,
and as the course was a mile and an
eighth in length, the start took place
at a distance from the judges' stand.
To Juan, watching intently from his
place at the barrier, the six horses
seemed to get away in a bunch, which
gradually opened out as they sped
down the opposite side of the track.
The brilliant red blouse of El Capitan's
rider enabled him to distinguish that
horse, which appeared to be holding a
position discomfortingly near the rear.
As they swept on around the course,
however, Juan observed to his delight
that El Capitan was gradually creeping
forward. Now he was nosing the
fourth horse; now he had shouldered
the third out of position: and as they
neared Juan, he was running neck and
neck with the second, while the favor-
ite, a sorrel mare with a two-twelve
record, was laboring a scant length to
the front.

The finish was in sight when El
Capitan's rider, raising his whip for
the first time, brought it down with

cruel vigor on the shoulders of his
steed.

The great beast answered with a
lunge that outdistanced the second
horse and brought him to the shoulder
of the leader. Another magnificent ef-
fort and they were neck and neck. A
frenzy of shouts burst from the stand.
Others besides Juan had backed the
long shot and shrill cheers mingled
with hoarse cries of disappointment as
El Capitan lunged under the wire a
nose in advance of the favorite.

Without waiting for a sight of the
Monk, who was to run in the next race,
Juan cashed in and hurriedly quitted
the track. He was uneasy lest Manuel,
who was ignorant of his companion's
good fortune, should learn of it and
claim the half which Juan had pro-
posed in connection with Keno, and
which he feared Manuel might assume
to have been tacitly extended to their
venture at the track.

"To any person apprehending the
said Cuco, popularly known as El Cap-
itan, the Alcalde of Juarez will pay the
sum of five hundred pesos." El Capi-
tan! Juan, stopping for a moment to
ascertain the meaning of the crowd
gathered before the municipal build-
ing in the Calle Commercia, started as
the name fell on his ears. Like the
rest of his fellow townsmen, he had a
wholesome fear of the notorious bandit
who, according to popular opinion, was
only less formidable than the dreaded
Zapata himself, and in ordinary cir-
cumstances he would not have given
the capture of the desperado a second
thought. But his success at the track
threw matters in a new light. Like all
Mexicans, Juan believed religiously in
signs and omens, and the pesos in his
pocket bore substantial evidence to his
success with the name El Capitan. Ac-
cordingly, even before the voice of the
reader of the proclamation had died
away, his resolution was taken. He,
Juan Valera, would, single handed, pur-
sue and capture El Capitan.

The redoubtable bandit, who had
won for himself this sobriquet, al-
though of Mexican parentage, was a
native of Texas and had received some

222

OVERLAND MONTHLY

little education in the public schools of
that State. Sentenced to a prison term
at eighteen for some petty robbery, he
had escaped from custody and had
fled to the mountains of Northern
Mexico. There he had joined a band
of desperadoes, among whom his cun-
ning and audacity had finally won for
him the position of chief with the
title "The Captain." Still a young man
and endowed with a bold sort of
beauty, he was inordinately vain and
fond of bedecking himself in the most
extravagant manner. His rich som-
breros were rumored to have cost fab-
ulous sums, his embroidered jackets
were marvels of workmanship, and his
gay sashes were the finest and glossi-
est of silk. Proud of his fluent Eng-
lish, he employed that language on
every possible occasion, even in inter-
course with his band, falling back on
his mother tongue, for which he seem-
ed to have a strange aversion, only
when absolutely necessary.

The bandits who had formerly con-
fined their activities to the capture of
a few sheep or cattle and the waylay-
ing of an occasional traveler had,
since the accession of El Capitan, in-
creased their depredations to an alarm-
ing extent. All attempts at rounding
up the band as a whole having come
to nothing, the authorities of Juarez
had decided to direct their efforts to-
wards the apprehension of El Capitan
himself. It was known that in his
various daring operations he was often
separated from his followers, and his
capture might be reasonably supposed
if not to disrupt the band completely,
at least to limit its depredations to their
old proportions. Such, then, was the
task which Juan Valera, solely on the
strength of a winning horse, proposed
to accomplish.

It was not long after dawn the next
morning when Juan Valera, armed
with his battered rifle, stole out of the
sleeping town and took the trail which
winds up the mountain side. At the
last moment he had felt some misgiv-
ings about setting out alone, and had
half decided to solicit the services of
one or more of his friends, but the

thought of having to divide the five
hundred pesos whetted his courage
and fortified him in his determination
to capture his prey single handed. He
had formed no plan of campaign and
had no clue to El Capitan's where-
abouts except that he was rumored to
have been recently lurking among the
mountains near Juarez ; but with a sub-
lime reliance on the resources of his
own luck, he climbed resolutely up the
steep trail, holding his gun at an angle
which, in event of its being dis-
charged by a chance stumble, would
inevitably have blown his brains out.

For several hours Juan wandered
about, clambering over obstacles and
occasionally dodging behind a conven-
ient rock at the sound of imaginary
footsteps. The sun was high now, and
it had grown uncomfortably warm.
Juan, who had neglected to bring a
flask, was consumed with thirst, while
his courage and his belief in his luck
alike were slowly evaporating. Sud-
denly the confused sound of voices
made him start, and peering cautiously
over a huge rock, a sight met his eyes
which sent the blood in a sudden rush
to his heart.

On the slope of the mountain some
distance away was a band of Mexi-
cans. They were picturesquely
dressed and fully armed. There
seemed to be a great many of them,
but Juan's eyes, sweeping the party
in a hasty glance, fastened themselves
instinctively on a bold looking, wildly
handsome man in a particularly ele-
gant sombrero, velvet jacket and crim-
son sash. Even at that distance Juan
could not fail to verify the descrip-
tion of El Capitan. The flowing mus-
tache, the rich costume — there could
be no doubt of his identity, but how
could one man armed only with a rusty
rifle hope to intimidate an entire band
of desperadoes and capture their
leader?

The blur of voices grew fainter and
another hasty peep apprized Juan that
the band was moving away in the op-
posite direction. Only one thought re-
mained with him — to get back to Jua-
rez in safety and with all possible

THE CAPTURE OF EL CAPITAN

223

speed. However, he dared not risk
discovery by setting out immediately,
and for some time longer he crouched
in his hiding place.

At length, judging that the bandits
must be quite out of sight and hear-
ing over the top of the ridge, he was
rising cautiously to his feet when the
crunch of approaching footsteps sent
him cowering back again. A moment
late, an imposing figure advanced
along the trail, and with a thrill Juan
recognized the object of his quest. Ex-
cept for a pearl-handled revolver stuck
jauntily in his red sash, he was un-
armed, and, walking slowly with eyes
fastened on the ground as if searching
for something he did not for the in-
stant observe the crouching form in
the shadow of the big rock.

It was a critical moment, but Juan's
star was again in the ascendant. At
sight of the desperado alone before
him, all his confidence returned in a
flash, and the next instant the new-
comer found himself gazing into the
muzzle of a battered but deadly look-
ing rifle held in the hands of a deter-
mined little Mexican.

"No talk," commanded Juan, who
out of deference for El Capitan's
known preference for that language,
drew on his scanty stock of English
for this admonition.

His injunction was answered by a
fierce torrent of eloquence, the context
of which was quite beyond Juan's
comprehension.

"No talk," he repeated, this time
with so significant a movement of his
rifle that the warning was heeded.

Without further protest, the captive
set off down the trail indicated by
Juan, while that favorite of fortune
brought up the rear, picturing to him-
self his triumphal entry into Juarez
and pondering various agreeable ways

of disposing of five hundred pesos.
• * * *

The manager of the "Star Moving
Picture Company" was lounging com-
fortably in the lobby of the Del Norte
Hotel in El Paso late that same after-
noon when he was accosted by Stacy,
his "heavy."

"Seen anything of Mack lately, Mur-
ray?"

"No," returned the manager, care-
lessly, "I haven't seen him since I left
you fellows on the other side this
morning. I suppose he's up in his
room pawing over those weeds he's
so dippy about."

"No, he isn't," said the other. "I've
just come from there. Fact is, Murray,
I'm a little uneasy about Mack. You
see, he left the crowd over on the
Mexican side soon after you did this
morning. Said he wanted to go back
to hunt for some flowers he'd seen and
wanted for his collection. Nobody
seems to have seen him since."

"Oh, he'll turn up all Tight," as-
serted the manager, easily. "Mack's
quite able to take care of himself, al-
though why a first class movie actor
wants to drag a lot of dried flowers
and weeds around the country with
him is more than I can make out."

"Well, I'm not so sure about his
turning up," responded Stacy, ignoring
the manager's deprecating allusion to
the hobby of his leading man. "You
remember Emory told us this morning
that a gang of desperadoes was loose
in the mountains across the river and
warned us not to go too far. Of
course, Mack wouldn't consider a little
thing like a desperado when there was
'a specimen in question, but it's my be-
lief they've got him."

A shrill cry of " 'Phone call, Mr,
Murray," cut short the manager's re-
ply, and a trifle alarmed at Stacy's
gloomy forebodings, he hurried off to
answer the call.

When he emerged from the booth a
few minutes later all sign of alarm had
completely vanished, and he was grin-
ning broadly.

"That's going to be some film, that
Mexican one, Stacy," he asserted com-
placently. "That costumer I got hold
of certainly knows his business."

"Yes, yes," returned Stacy impa-
patiently, "but about Mack?"

"It's him I was talking to," said the
manager. "The bandits didn't find
him, but that get-up of his was so
dashed realistic that he's been roped

224 OVERLAND MONTHLY

in for a bandit himself — El Capitan, says he's been hours getting them to

the chief of the gang Emory told us of let him 'phone me. I guess I better

this morning, he says." run along over and see about getting

"Where is he now?" gasped Stacy him out, for according to his story
when his mirth had subsided enough they ain't the most comfortable quar-
to permit of his speaking. ters in the world. Want to come along,

"In the cooler over in Juarez," re- Stacy? Believe me, that's going to be

turned the manager, cheerfully. "He some film!"

/AANZANITAS

On lonely forest ranges,

Deep shadowed haunts of gloom,
Are radiant isles of beauty

Where manzanitas bloom.
The stately pines are sighing

Within their solemn shade,
While spring, with song and sunshine,

Comes laughing down the glade.

The dark leaved manzanitas,

First favorites of the year,
With budding boughs a-tremble,

Have felt her coming near.
She crowns them with bright beauty —

Her darlings of the hills —
Their dainty, clustered chalices

With rosy nectar fills.

Along the sheltering hillsides

Where streams run merrily,
They hold a royal banquet —

To all the wood-folk free ;
The birds are swiftly coming

Their new love-songs to sing,
With blithe, melodious humming,

The bees are on the wing.

Their tender fronds unfurling,

While swells the springtime song,
The young ferns wave a greeting

Their shady banks along.
How softly falls the sunshine,

A blue sky bends above,
The live-oaks spread their branches

Along the hills I love !

blustering, ruthless winter,

Grim tirant of the North,
Naught care I where your forces

Are sternly marshalled forth ;
You can no more affright me,

Nor chill me with your gloom,
On God's great sun-lit mountains

Where manzanitas bloom.

Julia H. S. Bugeia.

A Fragment

By Boyd Cable

THIS is not a story, it is rather a
fragment, beginning where usu-
ally a battle story ends, with a
man being "casualtied," show-
ing the principal character in a pas-
sive part — and ending, I am afraid,
with a lot of unsatisfactory loose ends
ungathered up. I only tell it because
I fancy that at the back of it you may
find some hint of the spirit that has
helped the British Army in many a
tight corner.

Private Wally Ruthven was knocked
out by the bursting of a couple of
bombs in his battalion's charge on the
front line German trenches. Any ac-
count of the charge need not be given
here, except that it failed, and the bat-
talion making it, or what was left of
them, were beaten back. Private
Wally knew nothing of this, knew noth-
ing of the renewed British bombard-
ment, the renewed British attack half
a dozen hours later, and again its re-
newed failure. All this time he was
lying where the force of the bomb's
explosion had thrown him, in a hole
blasted out of the ground by a burst-
ing shell. During all that time he was
unconscious of anything except pain,
although certainly he had enough of
that to keep his mind very fully occu-
pied. He was brought back to an
agonizing consciousness by the hurried
grip of strong hands and a wrenching
lift that poured liquid flames of pain
through every nerve in his mangled
body. To say that he was badly
wounded hardly describes the case;
an R. A. M. C. orderly afterwards de-
scribed his appearance with painful
picturesqueness as "raw meat on a but-
cher's block," and indeed it is doubtful
if the stretcher-bearers who lifted him
from the shell hole would not rather

have left him lying there and given
their brief time and badly needed ser-
vices to a casualty more promising of
recovery, if they had seen at first Pri-
vate Ruthven's serious condition. As
it was, one stretcher bearer thought
and said the man was dead, and was
for tipping him off the stretcher again.
Ruthven heard that and opened his
eyes to look at the speaker, although at
the moment it would not have trou-
bled him much if he had been tipped
off again. But the other stretcher-
bearer said there was still life in him,
and partly because the ground about
them was pattering with bullets, and
the air about them clamant and rever-
berating with the rush and roar of
passing and exploding shells and
bombs, and that particular spot, there-
fore, no place or time for argument,
partly because stretcher bearers have
a stubborn conviction and fundamental
belief — which, by the way, has saved
many a life even against their own
momentary judgment — that while there
is life there is hope, that a man "isn't
dead till he's buried," and finally that
a stretcher must always be brought in
with a load, a live one if possible, and
the nearest thing to alive if not, they
brought him in.

The stretcher bearers carried their
burden into the front trench and there
attempted to set about the first bandag-
ing of their casualty. The job, how-
ever, was quite beyond them, but one
of them succeeded in finding a doctor,
who in all the uproar of a desperate
battle was playing Mahomet to the
mountain of such cases as could not
come to him in the field dressing sta-
tion. The orderly requested the doc-
tor to come to the casualty, who was
so badly wounded that "he near came

226

OVERLAND MONTHLY

to bits when we lifted him." The doc-
tor, who had several urgent cases
within arm's length of him as he
worked at the moment, said that he
would come as soon as he could, and
told the orderly in the meantime to go
and bandage any minor wounds his
casualty might have. The bearer re-
plied that there were no minor wounds,
that the man was "just nothing but one
big wound all over," and as for ban-
daging, that he "might as well try to
do first aid on a pound of meat that
had run through a mincing machine."
The doctor at last, hobbling painfully
and leaning on the stretcher bearer —
for he himself had been twice wound-
ed, once in the foot by a piece of shrap-
nel, and once through the tip of the
shoulder by a rifle bullet — came to
Private Ruthven. He spent a good
deal of time and innumerable yards of
bandage on him, so that when the
stretcher bearers brought him into the
dressing station there was little but
bandages to be seen of him. The
stretcher bearer delivered a message
from the doctor that there was very
little hope, so that Ruthven for the
time being was merely given an injec-
tion of morphia and put aside.

The approaches to the dressing sta-
tion and the station itself were under
so severe a fire for some hours after-
wards that it was impossible for any
ambulance to be brought near it. Such
casualties as could walk back walked,
others were carried slowly and pain-
fully to a point which the ambulances
had a fair sporting chance of reach-
ing intact. One way and another a
good many hours passed before Ruth-
ven's turn came to be removed. The
doctor who had bandaged him in the
firing line had by then returned to the
dressing station, mainly because his
foot had become too painful to allow
him to use it at all. Merely as an
aside, and although it has nothing to
do with Private Ruthven's case, it may
be worth mentioning that the same
doctor, having cleaned, sterilized and
bandaged his wounds, remained in the
dressing station for another twelve
hours, doing such work as could be ac-

complished sitting in a chair and with
a sound and an unsound arm. He saw
Private Ruthven for a moment as he
was being started on his journey to the
ambulance; he remembered the case,
as indeed everyone who handled or
saw that case remembered it for many
days, and, moved by professional in-
terest and some amazement that the
man was still alive, he hobbled from
his chair to look at him. He found
Private Ruthven returning his look, for
the passing of time and the excess of
pain had by now overcome the effects
of the morphia injection. There was
a hauntingly appealing look in the eyes
that looked up at him, and the doctor
tried to answer the question he imag-
ined those appealing eyes would have
conveyed.

"I don't know, my boy," he said,
"whether you'll pull through, but we'll
do the best we can for you. And now
we have you here we'll have you back
in the hospital in no time, and there
you'll get every chance there is."

He imagined the question remained
in those eyes still unsatisfied, and that
Ruthven gave just the suggestion of a
slow head-shake.

"Don't give up, my boy," he said,
briskly. "We might save you yet. I'm
going to take away the pain for you,"
and he called an orderly to bring a
hypodermic injection. While he was
finding a place among the bandages to
make the injection, the orderly who
was waiting spoke : "I believe, sir, he's
trying to ask something or say some-
thing."

It has to be told here that Private
Ruthven could say nothing in the
terms of ordinary speech, and would
never be able to do so again. Without
going into details it will be enough to
say that the whole lower part of — well,
his face was tightly bound about with
bandages, leaving little more than his
eyes clear. He was frowning now, and
again just shaking his head to denote
a negative, and his left hand, bound
to the bigness of a football in ban-
dages, moved slowly in an endeavor to
push aside the doctor's hands.

"It's all right, my lad," the doctor

A FRAGMENT

227

said soothingly. "I'm not going to
hurt you."

The frown cleared for an instant and
the eloquent eyes appeared to smile,
as indeed the lad might well have
smiled at the thought that any one
could "hurt" such a bundle of pain.
But although it appeared quite evident
that Ruthven did not want morphia,
the doctor in his wisdom decreed
otherwise, and the jolting journey
down the rough shell torn road, and
the longer but smoother journey in the
sweetly sprung motor ambulance, were
accomplished in sleep.

When he wakened again to con-
sciousness he lay for some time look-
ing about him, moving only his eyes
and very slowly his head. He took in
the canvas walls and roof of the big
hospital marquee, the scarlet-blanket
beds, the flitting figures of a couple of
silent footed Sisters, the screens about
two of the beds; the little clump of
figures, doctors, orderlies and Sister,
stooped over another bed. Presently
he caught the eye of a Sister as she
passed swiftly the foot of his bed, and
she, seeing the appealing look, the
barely perceptible upward twitch of
his head that was all he could do to
beckon, stopped and turned, and
moved quickly to his side. She
smoothed the pillow about his head
and the sheets across his shoulders,
and spoke softly.

"I wonder if there is anything you
want," she said. "You can't tell me,
can you — just close your eyes a minute
— if there is anything I can do."

The eyes closed instantly, opened,
and stared upward at her.

"Is it the pain?" she said. "Is it very
dreadful?"

The eyes held steady and unflicker-
upon hers. She knew well that
they did not speak the truth, and that
the oa in must indeed be very dread-
ful.

"We can stop the pain, you know,"
she said. "Is that what you want?"

The steady, unwinking eyes an-
swered "No" again, and to add empha-
sis to it the bandaged head shook
slowly from side to side on the pillow.

The Sister was puzzled; she could
find out what he wanted, of course, she
was confident of that, but it might take
some time and many questions, and
time just then was something that she
or no one else in the big clearing hos-
pital could find enough of for the work
in their hands. Even then urgent
work was calling her, so she left him,
promising to come again as soon as
she could.

She spoke to the doctor, and pres-
ently he came back with her to the
bedside. "It's marvelous," he said in
a low tone to the Sister, "that he has
held on to life so long."

Private Ruthven's wounds had been
dressed there on arrival, before he
woke out of the morphia sleep, and
the doctor had seen and knew.

"There is nothing we can do for
him," he said, "except morphia again,
to ease him out of his pain."

But again the boy, his brow wrink-
ling with the effort, attempted with his
bandaged hand to stay the needle in
the doctor's fingers.

"I'm sure," said the Sister, "he does
not want the morphia; he told me so,
didn't you?" appealing to the boy.

The eyes shut and gripped tight in
an emphatic answer, and the Sister ex-
plained their code.

"Listen!" she said gently. "The
doctor will only give you enough to
make you sleep for two or three hours,
and then I shall have time to come and
talk to you. Will that do?"

The unmoving eyes answered "No"
again, and the doctor stood up.

"If he can bear it, Sister," he said,
"we may as well leave him. I can't
understand it, though. I know how
these wounds must hurt."

They left him then, and he lay for
another couple of hours, his eyes set
on the canvas roof above his head,
dropped for an instant to any passing
figure lifting again to their fixed posi-
tion. The eyes and the mute appeal
in them haunted the Sister, and half
a dozen times, as she moved about the
beds, she fitted over to him, just to
drop a word that she had not forgotten
and she was coming presently.

228

OVERLAND MONTHLY

"Ycu want me to talk to you, don't
you?'' she said. "There is something
you want me to find out?"

"Yes — yes — yes," said the quickly
flickering eyelids.

The Sister read the label that was
tied to him when he was brought in.
She asked questions round the ward
of those who were able to answer them,
and sent an orderly to make inquiries
in the other tents. He came back
presently and reported the finding of
another man who belonged to Ruth-
ven's regiment and who knew him. So
presently, when she was relieved from
duty — the first relief for thirty-six
solid hours of physical stress and heart
tearing strain, she went straight to the
other tent and questioned the man who
knew Private Ruthven. He had a
hopelessly shattered arm but appeared
mightily content and amazingly cheer-
ful. He knew Wally, he said, was in
the same platoon with him; didn't
know much about him except that he
was a very decent sort; no, knew noth-
ing about his people or his home, al-
though he remembered — yes, there was
a girl. Wally had shown him her pho-
tograph once, "and a real ripper she is
too." Didn't know if Wally was en-
gaged to her, or anything more about
her, and certainly not her name.

The Sister went back to Wally. His
wrinkled brow cleared at the sight of
her, but she could see that the eyes
were sunk more deeply in his head,
that they were dulled, no doubt with
his suffering.

"I'm going to ask you a lot of ques-
tions," she said, "and you'll just close
your eyes again if I speak of what you
want to tell me. You do want to tell
me something, don't you?"

To her surprise, the "Yes" was not
signaled back to her. She was puzzled
a moment. "You want to ask me some-
thing?"

"Yes," the eyelids flickered back.

"Is it about a girl?" she asked.
("No.") "Is it about money of any
sort?" ("No.") "Is it about your
mother, or your people, or your home?
Is it about yourself?"

She had paused after each question

and went on to the next, but seeing no
sign on answering "Yes" she was baf-
fled for a moment. But she felt that
she could not go to her own bed to
which she had been dismissed, could
not go to the sleep she so badly need-
ed, until she had found and answered
the question in those pitiful eyes. She
tried again.

"Is it about your regiment?" she
asked, and the eyes snapped. "Yes,"
and "Yes," and "Yes," again. She
puzzled over that, and then went back
to the doctor in charge of the other
ward and brought back with her the
man who "knew Wally." Mentally
she clapped her hands at the light that
leaped to the boy's eyes. She had told
the man that it was something about
the regiment he wanted to know; told
him, too, his method of answering
"Yes," and "No," and to put his ques-
tions in such a form that they could be
so answered.

The friend advanced to the bedside
with clumsy caution.

"Hello, Wally!" he said cheerfully.
"They've pretty well chewed you up
and spit you out again, 'aven't they?
But you're all right, old son; you're
going to pull through, 'cause the O. C.
o' the Linseed Lancers here told me
so. But Sister here tells me you want
to ask something about some one in
the old crush." He hesitated a mo-
ment. "I can't think who it would be,"
he confessed. "It can't be his own
chum, 'cause he 'stopped one,' and
Wally saw it and knew he was dead
hours before. But look 'ere," he said,
determinedly, "I'll go through the
whole bloomin' regiment, from the O.
C. down to the cook, by name, and one
at a time, and you'll tip me a wink and
stop me at the right one. I'll start off
with your own platoon first; that ought
to do it," he said to the Sister.

"Perhaps," she said quickly, "he
wants to ask you about one of his of-
ficers. Is that it?" And she turned
to him.

The eyes looked at her long and
steadily, and then closed flutteringly
and hesitatingly.

"We're coming near it," she said,

MORE TENDER THAN THE LIPS OF DUSK."

229

"although he didn't seem sure about
that 'Yes.' "

"Look 'ere," said the other, with a
sudden inspiration, "there's no good o'
this 'Yes' and 'No' guessing game;
Wally and me was both in the flag-
wagging class, and we knows enough
to — there you are." He broke off in
triumph and nodded to Wally's flick-
ering eyelids, that danced rapidly in
the long and short of the Morse code.
"Y-e-s. Ac-ac-ac."

"Yes," he said. "If you'll get a bit
of paper, Sister, you can write down
the message while I spells it off. That
is what you want, ain't it, chum?"

The Sister took paper and pencil
and wrote the letters one by one as the
code ticked them off and the reader
called them to her.

"Ready. Begins!" "Go on, Miss,
write it down," as she hesitated. "Don-
I-Don— Did; W-E— we; Toc-ac-K-E—
take; Toc-H-E— the; Toc-R-E-N-C-H ;
ac-ac-ac. Did we take the trench ?"

The signaler being a very unimagi-
native man, possibly it might never
have occurred to him to lie, to have
told anything but the blunt truth that
they did not take the trench; that the
regiment had been cut to pieces in the
attemp to take it; that the further at-
tempt of another regiment on the same

trench had been beaten back with hor-
rible loss ; that the lines on both sides,
when he was sent to the rear late at
night, were held exactly as they had
been held before the attack; that the
whole result of the action was nil — ex-
cept for the casualty list. But he
caught just in time the softly sighing
whispered "Yes" from the unmoving
lips of the Sister, and he lied promptly
and swiftly, efficiently and at full
length.

"Yes," he said, "we took it. I thought
you knew that, and that you was
wounded on the other side of it; we
took it all right. Got a hammering of
course; but what was left of us cleared
it with the bayonet. You should 'ave
'eard 'em squeal when the bayonet
took 'em. There was one big brute — "

He was proceeding with a cheerful
imagination, colored by past experi-
ences, when the Sister stopped him.
Wally's eyes were closed.

"I think," she said quietly, "that's
all that Wally wants to know. Isn't it,
Wally?"

The lids lifted slowly, and the Sister
could have cried at the glory and satis-
faction that shone in them. They
closed once softly, lifted slowly, and
closed again, tiredly and gently. That
is all. Wally died an hour afterwards.

A\ORE TENDER THAN THE LIPS OF DUSK

More tender than the lips of dusk

Upon the cheek of day;
More softly than the twilight comes

Upon a far hillway,

Comes to the heart the deepening truth,
Though fame may be worth while,

Though wealth can buy the sweets of
earth,
Joy make the saddened smile,

The one possession men may own

Or be partakers of,
Which lasts while others dim and fade

Into the past — is Love!

Arthur Wallace Peach.

Their Story After Death

A Conception of the Life Hereafter
By Carl liolliday

HE HAD been dead several years
— how long he himself could
not tell. For out beyond there
are no hours and minutes. He
could only know that he had long been
wandering and struggling onward
through formless, chaotic darkness,
like a lost man creeping doggedly, sul-
lenly, through a vast, black fog. Many
memories of sins seemed to hinder his
progress; but these were as nothing
beside one great remorse that unceas-
ingly pressed upon him. Of course, it
was while in the flesh that he had
done this one deep wrong that hin-
dered him so mercilessly. He had
met her, the one he loved so passion-
ately, and they had sinned together. In
the world he had done much good, and
except for the sin mentioned, few evils.
When he — that is, his soul — had
passed out from his body, all had been
darkness and chaos, with an immense
feeling of weight upon him. He — that
is, his soul — felt so disturbed, so wret-
ched. It seemed to him that he con-
stantly tugged at these weights that re-
strained him from moving quickly for-
ward — he knew not where. Why he
should go forward, aside from a pas-
sionate longing to do so, and aside, too,
from the fact that the other shapeless,
dark forms seemed to be doing so, he
could not tell. All was confusion, be-
wilderment.

Slowly there came over him an in-
tense feeling of remorse, until it at
length grew into a terrific anguish.
Hew he began to loathe himself! All
the deeds done back there in the flesh
began to appear so petty, so low, so
beneath what a soul ought to have
done. The pain intensified. Each
weight now seemed to take a voice un-
to itself and to cry out against him. As
his consciousness became more alive

— perhaps because of the accusing
voices — a new pain appeared — a pain
unknown to him on earth — an agony
caused by his lack of form. He
seemed but a vast, unbounded mass, a
chaotic something that incessantly,
hopelessly struggled to bring itself to-
gether and think! He was abhorrent
to himself. Oh, for some guiding, con-
centrating principle, some spirit that
might show him what he could do, what
he should do ! Then there came to him
words he had heard so often in the
days of his flesh: "Heaven and hell
are within you."

"And this, then, is the hell that all
must suffer," he said, or, rather, felt
to himself in some confused way.
"Only conscience and confusion ! It is
sufficient, O God, it is sufficient!"

Struggle as he might, he could move
but slowly. A desire to sweep on, to
flee from the weights and their accus-
ing voices, burned within him, but he
observed, in the vague manner that
had become so characteristic of him
out here, that other souls, or at least
formless, gloomy masses, passed him,
glided more quickly toward that mys-
terious goal for which all seemed to
long. The voices of his own sins had
not ceased; if they would only be si-
lent for just a moment that he might
collect his bewildered thoughts! But
no; they clamored incessantly. And
yet, somehow, he felt that those voices
came not so much from his unseen hin-
drances as from within himself. If he
had been in the flesh he would long
since have gone mad. They showed
him himself with brutal unmerciful-
ness: he realized — oh, how vividly —
the loathsomeness of his deeds. The
bitter reflection came to him, at
length, that if he had never done these
things in the old days he might now

THEIR STORY AFTER DEATH

231

have been sweeping forward even
faster than some of the silent figures
that flowed past him. Yet none of
these ideas, he realized, were clean-
cut, clear; all was confusion and
gloomy shapelessness and darkness
and silence; for, after all, the voices
were silent and not spoken sounds.

Years may have passed thus — or
perhaps it was but a moment; he could
not tell, out here in his lonely wander-
ing and struggling. He had learned
to know fully now what he really was,
and all was bitter anguisji and self-
loathing. The longing for some guid-
ing spirit, some companion light, had
never ceased. Suddenly he seemed
to burst forth in a cry of agony.

"Oh, that I might find the One who
can lead me from this chaos! Oh, for
light! Oh, that I might know God!
Fcrsaken! Forsaken Too earthy, too
foul to know Him, to recognize Him,
even if He stood beside me here!
Spirit : whatever Thou art, forgive, for-
give!"

That moment his burden began to
grow lighter. Some of the smaller
weights seemed to dissolve and pass
from him ; some of the accusing voices
ceased to speak. Then, too, he seemed
in some way to be collecting himself —
to be finding the limits or boundaries
of himself.

"Less of shapelessness, less of
chaos!" he sobbed in relief. "And see,
too, I move faster."

But still many weights clung to him,
and one especially hung like a moun-
tain and clamored without rest. It was
the great sin — the deed of flesh with
her, the woman he had loved. Filth,
foul filth, he muttered; the rotten body
led me into this confusion of soul.
How can I ever know God? I, un-
clean, swinish, smelling of the flesh!"

The darkness about him had light-
ened the least bit. He could not tell
why; but he was sure that the other
figures now hurrying onward with him
— millions upon millions, he thought —
were more distinct. Each seemed a
shapeless gray mass, silent, morose,
wrapped within itself, each suggestive
of inexpressible gloom. It reminded

him of a picture he had seen of Indians
wrapped in their blankets sullenly
hurrying on in a driving storm. Yet,
though he noticed these things, he felt
more and more keenly the tugging
weights and the tireless voices. Ever
and anon, however, he realized that
some one of the burdens dropped or
melted away, and some one of the
voices became silent. It seemed to
him that this happened every time he
gave special heed to some persistent
accuser and felt sharp remorse touch
him to the quick.

There was some little cheer in all
this. "Perhaps," muttered he, "they
will all at length go from me, and then
I shall know God."

Why this intense passion to know
God ? He had never felt it in such de-
gree while on earth. Perhaps it was
because he had never before realized
the absolute necessity for some Guid-
ing Principle.

Sure enough, just as he had conjec-
tured, the weights and the voices grew
less and less evident, and at length
passed away. All? All but one —
that sin with her. He tried to reason
out the cause for this ; why all remorse
but this had gone. Long in vain he
strove for the solution. Long? It
might have been years or centuries, or
perhaps just a moment; he could not
discover out here where time and
space seemed unknown, where only
soul-experiences existed. At length
he began to wonder when she would
die and follow; she had promised at
his death-bed to be with him, if pos-
sible, after life. Then came a sudden
thought — a spasm of agony; he
seemed almost to stop in his onward
sweep. She — the soul he loved —
would she have to toil over the lonely
waste he had traveled? Would she,
too, have to struggle blindly on, suf-
fering remorse as he had, crying pas-
sionately in her desolation for the great
guiding Spirit just as he had cried?
Bitterness of bitterness! Would one
vast weight like this one about him,
one unceasing, accusing voice, forever
accompany her? Now indeed had the
fulness of his sin come upon him. But

232

OVERLAND MONTHLY

for him, she might, at death, have
sprung into the first rank of those souls
now sweeping past him, might have
hurried joyfully onward to the mys-
terious attractive Something beyond!
Infinite horror seized upon him, infinite
hatred of self, and a world of pity for
her, his fellow-sinner.

"O God! O Spirit!" he gasped,
"have mercy! Have mercy! Not upon
me, but upon her. Lay her weight of
guilt upon me! It is mine! It is
mine! Spirit of Mercy, pity her!"

That self-same moment the great
weight fell from him, and the last ac-
cusing voice was silent. God-like pity
had set him free. In the agony of his
remorse he had offered all that man
could offer — to place upon his own soul
the guilt of another. Greater love can
no man have than this, he thought to
himself, that he give up his soul for
another.

He could not be sure that the vast
burden had passed from her; but,
somehow, a great restful confidence
flooded him. The fact that the Spirit
had forgiven him, the chief of sinners,
made him believe that she, the tempt-
ed one, had also been forgiven.

While in the midst of these con-
tented contemplations he felt a pres-
ence near him, and, turning, he saw —
her ! There was rapture in her appear-
ance. He could not tell how he knew
it; there was no face, no concrete form
— only vague soul like himself. But
all the attitude was one of joy.

"I have come, beloved," she said;
yet he knew that it was not a spoken
voice.

They swept on side by side.

"Loved one," he inquired, as he
pressed nearer her, "how have you
passed so quickly over the journey
while I have toiled so long, so long?"

"Ah," she replied, "when in the old
days you died and went out from me,
my soul saw the folly of it all, and with
tears of agony I prayed the Spirit to
forgive. And all that mortal woman
could do to become pure I did in the
days that were left me. And when the
journey began I seemed, to my sur-
prise, to glide swiftly past the count-

less masses about me!"

"And was there no weight what-
ever?" he eagerly asked, and there
seemed to be about him an atmosphere
of joyful expectancy.

"Yes, yes, a great, a weary weight,
and a dreary, ceaseless voice — the old
sin, you know. But suddenly, while
thinking of you, I realized that you,
too, must be carrying that same weight,
and then came a pity that was bitter-
ness itself — a pity for you. Do you
understand? And do you know, that
same moment the burden about me dis-
solved, and the voice was silent, and
I bounded forward, and was — with
you!"

"Ah," thought he, "what power lies
in an intense desire expressed in
prayer! It thrills like an electric cur-
rent to the soul prayed for!"

Now the light grew more real. They
were sweeping on swiftly now, and,
side by side, in extreme content, they
observed the other hurrying shapes
that they passed. Strange to say, he
recognized many of them, although
some were thousands of years old.
some were kings and warriors of the
ancient days before Buddha and Con-
fucius and the Man of Galilee and
other thoughtful teachers had striven
to make men know God. They — the
kings and the warriors — had started
far back at their death, and after all
these ages had reached only that place
or station in the jrurney which he and
she had reached in so short a time.
Others of the ancients seemed to sweep
on cheerfully, confidently, and among
them he saw some of the philosophers
who through exalted thought had
formed some clear conception of the
nature of God. As the lovers went on
they came upon one poor soul who
seemed utterly weary and dejected. To
their astonishment they recognized him
as one of their childhood's teachers —
a man far famed for his cyclopedic
knowledge. In the old days it was
thought that he had mastered every
earthly fact; but he had failed to mas-
ter the One Great Fact. So busy had
he been in accumulating the dry items
of earthly existence that he had never

THEIR STORY AFTER DEATH

233

reflected upon the relationship between
himself and the Great Spirit, had never
drawn near to God, and now he was
groping onward like a bewildered
child.

The lovers in pity murmured a
prayer for him, but were soon far be-
yond him. And they were contented;
for they knew that some time, perhaps
far, far off, even that confused soul
would reach the knowledge of the
Guiding Principle.

The light was beautiful now. An
irresistible attraction drew them on as
toward a mighty magnet within a vast
circle. The light was more intense
beyond. They noticed now that the
souls were beginning to merge to-
gether. Instead of individual masses,
they were becoming like one far-
sweeping, circular wave.

"I wonder," he said to her, "if we
are to lose all individuality out here?
See how they all are absorbing all!"

She grew closer to him.

"Perhaps it is best," she replied.
"Perhaps individuality is simply one
of the vanities of the flesh. Would it
not be far better for us all to be
merged into the Mighty Personality,
the Great Spirit — to be of God and in
God?"

It seemed strange to him that the
idea gave him no rebellious thought.
Back on earth he had prided himself
on his individuality. But here his in-
dividuality appeared so petty, so pow-
erless, when separated from the Im-
mense Personality that flowed through
the merging souls. He turned to speak
to her about it; but lo! she was be-
coming a part of himself, and she com-
prehended his thoughts without his ut-
tering them; she understood them even
as they were forming; aye, she helped
form them! She was part of himself
and he a part of her.

And suddenly in that moment a
marvel was done. He saw all things
not only through his own spiritual eyes,
h a woman's! It was a new
vision and a new light. Nor was this
the end. The vast wave of souls grew
denser, more real, and calmly he en-
tered it and became a part of it. His

soul became merged with all the mil-
lions of souls that had gone before,
and he was no longer a separate per-
sonality, but an element in the great
throbbing circular wave. And as this
sensation grew, what vast wisdom en-
tered into him ! All the experiences of
every other soul in that innumerable
multitude became a part of his own
soul experience, and it seemed as
though he began to comprehend all
things in heaven and on earth. All
yearnings of poet, musician, artist, pro-
phet, all mysteries, all raptures — these
were his.

Hourly — if in that place there could
be such things as hours — he felt his
individuality slipping from him. But
measureless content was his. How im-
mense, how infinitely nobler was this
new universal personality! He felt,
he knew, he was becoming, not a part
of God, but God Himself. How far
beyond his former puny conception of
heavenly regard was this! To be in
God — in the vast Unity; it was a new
conception. New souls were con-
stantly merging into the wave. He
could tell it by the thrills of additional
knowledge and of added experience
that flooded him unceasingly. And, too,
these new spirits were not from his own
earth alone; they came from all the
earths of universal space. His sense
of knowledge and of experience was
now indeed God-like. The wave was
full of the light of understanding.

How long this went on he could not
have expressed. Time was not a mat-
ter for consideration when all the
thoughts and emotions of infinity and
eternity were his. But there came, at
length, a moment when the last of all
souls merged itself into the wave. The
circle was finished; the final Unity was
made ; God was completed. There was
no man; there was no woman. There
was only God, and they — the lovers —
were contained within It and were sub-
stance of It. They had entered the
Eternal Unity.

On earth they had sinned because
they had desired, above all other
things, union, oneness; in heaven, it
had been granted them — how fully !

EDIfl'THI/fGt?
E^YERICA

Getting Cultured in Philadelphia
By Richard Bret Harte

Chapted IV.

In a Quaker Village.

DURING my visit to Philadelphia
I stayed most of the time in
Langhorne, a picturesque Qua-
ker village about twenty miles
from the city. I went there on account
of my health and for the good reason
that my finances had reached that state
of "artistic uncertainty" usually con-
sidered typical of artists, journalists
and the like.

Under the restful influence of Lang-
horne my health rapidly improved. I
wrote and caricatured for the Philadel-
phia Record, which took me to the
city once a week; enjoyed a little man-
ual labor; dabbled in psychology with
an old Harvard professor, and ate
sweet potatoes galore.

Langhorne was the first American
village I had ever seen. Unlike the
English village, it had no thatched-
roof cottages or tall, flowery hedges.
There were no famed inns such as "The
King's Head" or "Ye Olde Cobwebs"
— merely a few ordinary saloons. But
in spite of these antique deficiencies,
Langhorne possessed a charm that one

can find only in America — the linger-
ing charm of the old colonial days,
which is seen so abundantly in and
around Philadelphia.

The principal atmosphere of the vil-
lage consisted of the "Friends." For
me it was a novel experience to meet
them and live with them, since I had
only read of the Quakers, and had
thought the sect to be almost extinct.
The Quaker vernacular reminded me
very much of a kind of badly spoken
Shakespearian dialect, in which the
pronouns "thee," "thou" and "thy"
flourished with considerable extrava-
gance and confusion, but making,
somehow, a pleasant, "antique season-
ing," as it were, for conversation, like
the seasoning of cloves in apple pie.

I found the Quaker somewhat of an
enigma. It was impossible to really
"get at him." His personality seemed
incased in a hide as tough and as thick
as a bide can be. He possessed humor
— but a morbid humor. For instance, I
remember on one occasion while at
dinner the family were discussing a
friend who had that day died. The de-
ceased had left little else behind him

The Professor with his ale.

than a reputation which, unfortunately,
was ninety per cent alcoholic. "Well,"
commented my host, "he's gone this
time, but as soon as he reached the
other side I bet he made straight for a
saloon." Now I think that the poor
man might at least have been given a
chance to reform, even if there were
saloons "on the other side."

Finding the "Friends" rather uncon-
genial, I sought the company of an old
Harvard professor. He was the only
:ual with an individuality in the
village, and probably the only one who
iid not spit tobacco-juice from sunrise
to sunset. In consequence of these
of civilization he was naturally
upon askance by the villagers.

The professor lived in a little
"shack" (as he loved to call it) sur-

rounded by a small garden. The ex-
terior of the house was commonplace,
but once inside the door, one immedi-
ately felt philosophy and Greek and
Latin psychology, and all the other
"ologies" that a professor revels in. In
the tiny parlor with its bulging book-
cases and its faded sofa, its rickety
chairs and its cracked, antique orna-
ments, we passed many hours in deep
discourse, and in pleasant conversation
in which his charming little wife would
oftimes join us.

He was a friend of Professor James,
and had himself published several psy-
chological works. One of the books I
shall never forget, on account of its
rather startling title of "The Nervous
System of Jesus." I was very youthful
at the time, and naturally such a trea-

236

OVERLAND MONTHLY

"A raging blizzard tried to blow me
overboard."

tise was vastly beyond my comprehen-
sion. Nervous systems, divine or other-
wise, had never appealed to me, but I
suppose a psychologist can find suf-
ficient psychology even in bunions to
fill a bookshelf.

However, the professor had not al-
lowed these ponderous studies to mo-
nopolize his soul; he was still human.
Knowing that I had been to school in
England and had lived there many
years, he very thoughtfully surmised
that I still retained a few English
tastes ; and accordingly, as I was about
to make my departure, he would beg
me stay a moment, hurriedly leave the
room, and return, smiling and joking,
v/ith two bottles of real, imported Eng-
lish ale.

I liked the professor, with his colos-
sal theories and "braininess," but how
I loved him with his ale that sparkled
no brighter than his wit and his broad,
English laughter.

Chapter V.

Off to the Sunny South.

My stay in Langhorne lasted but a
few months. I returned to Philadel-
phia, and was -just recovering from my
rest in the country when I suddenly
succumbed to bronchitis. My doctor
informed me that my health was un-
suited to the rigors of the Northern cli-
mate, and recommended the South. The
very idea of such a change speeded my
recovery. I hated the cold and the

'Oh, those niggers."

SEEIN* THINGS IN AMERICA

237

snows, a running nose for
four months and chilblains,
and irritating underwear as
thick as Turkish rugs, and
all the rest of those dread-
ful things that go with a
Northern winter.

So I boarded a Mer-
chants and Miners' steamer
bound for Jacksonville,
Florida, with a farewell
"Thank God," as a raging
blizzard made a frantic at-
tempt to blow me over-
board. The voyage was
quite uneventful, though
pleasant and calm the sec-
ond day out. The passen-
gers consisted of a number
of invalid mothers with ath-
letic daughters in sport-
coats, and also a large cargo
of youthful chamber maids,
house maids, ladies' maids
and various other types of
hotel "inducements" found
so abundantly at the Flor-
ida resorts.

One in particular, an at-
tractive blonde who chewed
gum and persistently mani-
cured her nails, was quite
interesting. She and I
were among the very few
that survived mal-de-mer,
and we sat next to each
other at table. In spite of
her rather gauche idiosyn-
cracies, she displayed con-
siderable education, and
was quite an intellectual
conversationalist. I could
imagine her secretly tutoring some of
the society matrons upon whom she
I during the winter, or teaching
Newport Apollo the English lan-
guage.

The steamer stopped at Savannah
for a few hours, and my heroine and
I went ashore. How picturesque and
quaint was Savannah! To me it was
so typically Southern, with its sun-
shine, and laziness and its niggers,
rs! Oh, those niggers. I can
ee them lying around in groups

"She was one of the few that had
survived mal-de-mer."

on the docks, chewing sugar-cane and
chatting in that care-free laughing way
that only the nigger possesses. I
shall never forget the street we passed
through on our way up to the city
from the docks. Both sides of the
thoroughfare were lined with the most
attractive looking pawn shops, and all
apparently doing a prosperous busi-
ness. It was a sight as discouraging

238

OVERLAND MONTHLY

as it was odd, suggesting for the mo-
ment that the city might be in pawn.
However, I suppose, after all it was
merely the Hebrew district.

Wandering on through the city, we
found innumerable little squares with
pretty flower beds and fine old trees
draped with Spanish moss. Every
square had one or several monuments;
in fact, half the population of the city
seemed to be monuments, and their
venerable presence created a strange,
reminiscent spell aquiver with the his-
tory and romance of the good old
Southern days.

It was probably due to this romantic
influence that I nearly missed my boat,
for I had been sitting in one of the

squares and had almost fallen asleep,
dreaming of Lafayette or Lee, or
somebody historical; and then Savan-
nah is such an ideal spot to dream in.
We landed at Jacksonville the next
morning. After I had said farewell to
my blonde steamer-companion who
was going on to Daytona, I sought
temporary headquarters. Owing to
restrained circumstances, I was forced
to select a rather mediocre hotel, one
of those tourist places with a solitary
male attendant who is bell boy, eleva-
tor man, porter, chambermaid, clerk,
etc., all in one, simultaneously, and
with an extraordinary ability for mak-
ing excuses.

(To be continued next month.)

f\Y WILD FLOWER OF THE WEST

Her heart yearned for the sagebrush and the hills,
She hungered for the West of old-time thrills;
The East had wearied her, her heart was sad
One look at those old hills would make her glad.

We bade the yawning city a farewell,
The beckoning hills with their alluring spell
Were calling, calling her in sweet refrain,
Resistless were the charms of hill and plain.

Out through the bad lands, Oh the thrilling view !
The breath of sagebrush mingled with the dew !
On through the canyons, o'er the roaring streams,
Her bosom heaved with joy ! Her land of dreams !

The tears of gladness glistened in her eyes.
Her mountains ! Ah, her prairies and her skies !
The land that gave her birth, the land that blest
Her as its own, My Wild Flower of the West!

Louis Roller

N the famous Forest Theatre at
Carmel-by-the-Sea was recently
given the seventh annual play of
the Forest Theatre Society. Out
)f two hundred manuscripts submitted
in the contest, the committee chose
'Yolanda of Cyprus," by Cale Young
Rice. He is the husband of Alice He-
Kan Rice, author of "Mrs. Wiggs of the
Cabbage Patch." The children's play,
"The Piper," by Josephine Preston
Peabody, followed in production.

When, in 1910, the Forest Theatre
Itaged its first annual drama, it was
almost the only natural, open-air thea-

tre in America. Here, in this "Flor-
ence of America," is a theatre on the
hillside at the edge of town, its wooden
benches ranged along the hill's own
curving slope, its back curtain, wings
and walls formed by pines, cypresses
and eucalypti that have been many de-
cades attaining their lofty stature. It
it such a theatre as housed the trage-
dies and comedies of the golden age of
Athenian drama. Since then, there
have sprung up many other similar
theatres, but this retains its unique
character and importance.

The Forest Theatre was fitted up for

240

OVERLAND MONTHLY

the express purpose of giving the peo-
ple of Carmel an opportunity to "try
out" their histrionic and dramatic
abilities. In order that it might never
fall into the control of a clique or spe-
cial group, the control of the Forest
Theatre was vested in a Board of Trus-
tees.

The question then arose as to when,
how and what should be staged. Any
of Carmel's people may put on a play,
whether of those who live there all the
year, or of those who come only when
the rush of business makes it possi-
ble. This, however, made no provi-
sion for the financial support of the
adequate presentation of any play. Ac-
cordingly, arrangements were made
with the Carmel Development Com-
pany for the financing of one play a
year.

It was decided to give this annual
play somewhere near the fourth of
July, a time when the many who loved
Carmel, but during a greater part of
the year, were kept away by business,
might be there to enjoy it.

Knowing that the children of to-day
are the playwrights and actors of to-
morrow, they determined to stage at
the same time a children's play which
would give the little folks an opportu-
nity of seeing and showing what his-
trionic ability they possessed. In stag-
ing these children's plays, the Arts and
Crafts Club has assisted.

A committee was appointed to pass
on the plays for the annual production.
Many manuscripts are submitted each
year, candidates for the honor having
found favor in the eyes of this Ameri-
can art center.

"David," a Biblical play by Con-
stance Skinner, was the first produc-
tion.

Twice during the six year since then
an annual play has been taken away
and produced elsewhere. In 1912
"The Toad," by Bertha Newberry, was
given in the Greek Theatre at Ber-
keley. The crowded amphitheatre was
sufficient proof of the importance
which had already attached to this new
institution, the Forest Theatre Annual
Play.

In 1915, "Junipero Serra," a pageant
of the life of that great pioneer foun-
der of the California Missions), by
Perry Newberry, was given at the
Panama-Pacific International Exposi-
tion at San Francisco. The perform-
ance attracted world wide notice, and
was made the subject of favorable
comment by dramatic critics from all
over the country.

Of the seven annual plays produced
by the Forest Theatre Society, only
one had ever been previously pro-
duced elsewhere. Their second play
was "Twelfth Night." Since then they
have stuck strictly to their purpose of
putting on only new plays, dramas by
amateur authors. Thus Carmel has the
distinction of being the only place in
the world to-day where there is a real,
organized society having a theatre and
financial backing to make it possible
for young playwrights to "try out" the
children of their pens.

Unlike their former productions,
"Yolanda of Cyprus" was not written
especially for the Forest Theatre, but
for an indoor theatre. Several years
ago it was submitted by Mr. Rice to
Julia Marlowe. Just as she was com-
pleting plans for starring in it, Mr.
Frohman finished arrangements for
her tour with E. K. Sothern in a
Shakespearean repertoire, and "Yo-
land of Cyprus" was laid aside.

"Thus," said the author in his cur-
tain speech on the opening night, "I
found myself in the position of a man
who, having long been accustomed to
look for the sun to rise in the east,
suddenly finds it rising in the west."

"Yolanda of Cyprus" is a dramati-
zation of Robert Browning's poem of
the same name. Its plot closely fol-
lows that of the poem. The lesson
brought out in the whole play is put
into the mouth of Yolanda in Act 3:
"Pity we owe to sin, not blame."

We have long been accustomed to
speak of Browning as a dramatic poet,
but the deep philosophical tendency of
many of his poems repels the average
reader. To such, the intense human-
ness of the appeal of both "Yolanda
of Cyprus" and "The Piper" was a

"The Piper ," produced at the annual children's play at Carmel. Left to
right — Veronika, Alice MacDougal; The Piper, Ludovic Bremner; Jan,
Phyllis Overstreet.

real revelation. With all the thrill and
vividness of a present day "problem
play," "Yolanda of Cyprus" combines
the mystery and glamour of sixteenth
century Italy, the land of sunshine and
romance.

It is the story of Yolanda, an or-
phan, who, to save her foster mother,
Berengere Lusignon, from the shame of
her guilty love for Camarin, Baron of
Papos, takes the blame upon herself.
She is betrothed to Berengere's only
son, Amaury, and is actuated in her
sacrifice by love of him as well as of
his mother. Driven by the scheming
of Vittia Pisani, a Lady of Venice, who
wishes to win Amaury, Yolanda finally
consents to marry Camarin. As the
last words of the marriage ceremony
are pronounced, a scream makes them
all pause. From a gateway, Alessa,
Yolanda 's lady in waiting, tells them:
"Lady Berengere is dead."

Thus seems to have vanished Yo-
landa's last hope of establishing her
innocence. In the last act, Berengere's

own words : "Though I were dead, this
sinning would awake me," are fulfilled.
The dead lips open and proclaim to a
startled household her own guilt and
Yolanda's innocence. To complete the
poetic justice, Camarin is killed by
Amaury. The lovers are at last united,
but even their bliss is clouded by the
shadow of Berengere's sinning.

Some idea of the importance which
attaches to these plays may be gath-
ered from the fact that all the San
Francisco dailies sent their dramatic
critics to view them, and thither came
many professional actors of repute,
such as Mr. J. Gribner, who recently
played the lead in "Omar the Tent-
maker."

Up to now, the dream of the Forest
Theatre Society to develop a truly
preat dramatist who would produce a
California drama which might justly
take its place among the great dramas
of the world, has not been realized.
This year's play, written as it was by
an author who had never before been

242

OVERLAND MONTHLY

in Carmel, seems to mark a departure
from that purpose.

Whether this widening of the field
of their activities so as to give all
amateurs from Carmel to Carolina, a
chance to take advantage of the Forest
Theatre is a step ahead or backwards,
is an open question. Perhaps, like
"Twelfth Night," "Yolanda of Cy-
prus," written by a New Yorker for an
indoor Theatre, is an experiment that
will not be repeated.

At any rate, regardless of the nativ-
ity of the author, this play goes to
prove that, after all, there is not such
an essential difference between dramas
for outdoor and indoor theatres. A
really good one, where plot and char-
acters are sufficiently strong, will, with
the help of a skillful producer such as
Paul Newberry proved to be, fit in
either place, and still make good. In
this day, when many or. the dramas de-
pend for ninety per cent of their in-
terest on the scenery and costuming,
this production of "Yolanda of Cy-
prus" in the Forest Theatre at Carmel
teaches a much needed lesson. Plot
and characters are worth more, in the
final anaylsis, than all the costumes
and scenery ever designed.

In the children's plays no attempt
has been made to secure originality.
Their purpose is principally to give
the children an opportunity to find and
develop their histrionic ability.

Yet the children's plays attract quite
as much attention as the annual plays.
The sweet, clean simplicity of their
plots and characters and the compell-
ing charm of the spontaneous enthu-
siasm of the little actors and actresses
offer a most refreshing change from the
drama of to-day.

Such plays are chosen as "Alice in
Wonderland," in 1912; "Strewel Peter"
in 1914, and this year "The Piper."
This was the prize play out of thou-
sands of manuscripts submitted in the
contest held in Stratford on Avon for
the opening of the Shakespeare Thea-
tre in 1910.

It takes up the story of the Pied
Piper of Hamelin just as the Piper re-
turns to claim his reward for freeing

the town of their plague of rats and
mice. Jacobus, the Burgomeister, and
Kurt, the Syndic, refuse. So, to teach
a lesson to the people of Hamelin, with
its "narrow cobbled streets and little
peeping windows that dream of what
the neighbors say and the neighbors
say," the Piper pipes the children of
Hamelin away.

One of the women, Veronika, a for-
eigner, Kurt's second wife, comes, with
her herd bell, to the "devil haunted
wood" seeking Jan, her crippled son.
The Piper has come to love this "little
shipwrecked star" who pipes almost as
well as he. Yet, after Veronika's
pleadings have failed, the face of the
Lonely Man on the wayside crucifix
wins the Piper's promise to bring back
the children.

He had hoped and dreamed of keep-
ing them always with him since Hame-
lin did not appreciate them. "For
who, says he, "appreciates a treasure
while it is his?" "What do you know
of children? 'some one to work for me
when I am old, some one to follow me
to the grave.' There's not one huddler
by the fire who would shift his seat to
a cold corner if it would bring back —
all the children of Hamelin."

But, by the time he does bring them
back, we feel that the people of Hame-
lin are, as they claim, "all altered
men," and if the Piper has not let them
out of the cage of Hamelin's narrow-
ness, he has at least made the cage
much less irksome to their young souls.

Such was The Piper who "Lived to
let things out of cages."

Have the Annual Plays accom-
plished the purpose for which they
were inaugurated? Thus far, no sec-
ond Euripides or Aristophanes, no 20th
century Shakespeare, has burst onto
the dramatic horizon. But, some of
those who have written for the Forest
Theatre stage have made good profes-
sionally.

In the cast of the "Piper" were two
examples of those whose histrionic
abilities had been born and nurtured
there. Ludovic Bremner, the Piper,
began his career as an actor in Carmel,
taking the part of Padre Palou in Ju-

"Yolanda of Cyprus." Left to right — Abessa, Bonnie Hale; Yolanda,
Katharine Cooke. Maurice, Marion Boke; Vittia Pisoni, Frances C. Pu-
dan; Berengere, Laura Maxwell.

nipero Serra last year. Since then he
has made a success touring the North-
west with a stock company in which he
has often played leads. He is now
planning to go on to the Orpheum
stage.

Little Phyllis Overstreet, who
played the part of Jan, has shown such
ability in this and former productions
that her parents are seriously consid-
ering the stage as a profession for her.

Frederick Preston Search, who com-
posed much of the music for both plays
and directed the orchestra, found at
Carmel the beginning of his musical
successes.

Lord Renier in "Yolanda of Cyprus,"
was played by Winter Watts. His
music is being sung and sought after
by many of the prominent singers and
players of the day. There is a simple
• a^out his compositions which
tinctive and promises a

really great future. The dirge in the
last act of "Yolanda of Cyprus" was
his work.

Then there is William Greer Harri-
son, who wrote "Runnymede," the an-
nual play for 1913; Mrs. Heron, who
is now a moving picture actress; Jea-
nette Hoagland, who gives promise of
some day taking her ^>lace among the
great dancers; and many others, all of
whom have "found themselves" in the
romantic Forest Theatre at Carmel by
the Sea.

Thus, aside from the pleasure they
give those who see and who take part,
this unique institution of the Annual
Play and the Children's Play has jus-
tified its existence in the "Athens of
America." We may reasonably hope
some day to see here the birth of a
drama such as was born beside the
blue waters of the Mediterranean two
thousand years ago.

Greatest Shark in the World

By Lillian E. Zen

HERE is the real thing in sharks
that could easily gulp without
wincing a half dozen of those
man-eating sharks that recently
have given vaudeville exhibitions by
swallowing a boy swimmer or two, in
the outskirts of New York harbor. As
sharks go, in the seven seas, also in
lineal feet measurement and in gusta-
tory acquirements, as Munchausend by
the yellow press of the Eastern sea-
board, our shark is the daddy of them
all. We sent him East a short time
ago to be exhibited to New Yorkers at
the Museum of Natural History, so that
they may become acquainted with a
real shark.

This marine wonder is a restoration
of the huge jaws, having the real fossil
teeth of the largest and most formid-
able fish that ever lived, which Science
has a positive record of, namely, the
great shark of the Tertiary Age, known
as Carcharodon. The tremendous bat-
tery of teeth, some being six and seven
inches long in the middle of the jaw,
were found in the phosphate deposits
of South Carolina. This ancient levia-
than is 80 to 100 feet long.

The largest of all fishes is the great
whale shark, which is widely distrib-
uted in tropical seas, and has been
found on the shores of Florida and the
Gulf of California. It reaches a length
of 50 and 60 feet. The next largest
fish is the basking shark, of colder
waters, which is credited with attain-
ing a length of more than forty feet.
Both of these sharks are entirely inof-
fensive, living chiefly at the surface of
the water, where they feed exclusively
op small marine life. The great blue
shark is, however, a fish of entirely dif-
ferent habits, being an active species
with a man-eating reputation. Speci-

mens of enormous size have been taken
— and it is believed by naturalists to
grow as long as forty feet.

The jaws of the great ancient shark
measure nine feet across, and when
widely opened, gaped about six feet.
A striking and realistic idea of the size
of the monster's jaws, as well as its
swallowing capacity, can be imagined
from the accompanying photograph,
showing the figures of six men stand-
ing in the jaw. In fact, an average
horse or small automobile could be
driven right into the wide gap of the
mouth. Owing to its spacious interior
the great shark could have swallowed
half a dozen Jonahs at once without
the slightest inconvenience. The daily
provisioning of this 80 foot, subway-
like stomach, meant the destruction of
thousands of various food fishes of that
time. Almost beyond calculation are
the billions upon billions of fishes
which passed through the seven foot
gaping jaws during its life-time. In
fact, so enormous was the rapacious
appetite of these sharks that they
practically swallowed and wiped out
of existence all the other various fishes
that were abundant at that time, for
the geologists fail to find a single con-
'. emporaneous fossil specimen.

Their absence has caused a great
gap and missing link as to the knowl-
edge, size, shape, etc., of the fish
funa of the Eocene. About 25 barrels
of fish would be an average meal for
the big shark, as some five barrels of
mackerel have been taken out of a
stranded shark of to-day. A remark-
able feature of the huge shark was the
savage battery of teeth of great length.
These were placed in the jaw in the
same manner as are found in the big
White Shark, or Man-Eater, of the

GREATEST SHARK IN THE WORLD

245

present day, which is the fossil shark's
nearest modern relative, and is thought
by scientists not to have differed much
in structure. The fossil teeth are ar-
ranged in rows above and below, those
in the middle of each row being the
largest. One of these measured four

teeth in the front row which may be
lost. The edges of each tooth are like
sharp knife blades, or to be more ac-
curate, sharp saw-edges since they are
separated. In spite of its extraordi-
nary size, the great shark in its day
was quite numerous, owing to the

ws of the greatest shark in the world

and a half inches wide at the base of
the crown and six inches long. There
are twenty-four teeth in the upper row
and twenty-four teeth in the lower, and
back of each row there are three other
rows, not seen in the front view, which
are intended to take the place of any

abundance of fossil teeth found in the
phosphate deposits in South Carolina
to-day. The only surviving species re-
lated to the Great Extinct Shark is the
White "Man-Eater," which is washed
up on the Atlantic coast once in a long
while.

The Land of the Lawless

By Cardinal Goodwin

CHAPTER III.

THE sun had gone down behind
a mountain when Sylvester dis-
mounted from Trickster at the
gate and led him across the lot
to the barn. He spent some time in
cleaning and feeding him, and then
came out, locked the barn door and
put the key into his pocket.

It was a beautiful night. In the east
the moon sat like a big yellow ball
upon the prairie and covered the plains
and clear sky with its soft light. A
few stars twinkled in the heavens, and
two small clouds hovered just above
the mountain top, their lower borders
dipped in the faint glow of the depart-
ing sun, their upper edges catching the
soft light from the moon and the stars.
From deep in the woods toward the
north came the melancholy call of the
whip-poor-will, while from the small
pond down in the pasture the incessant
croaking of numerous frogs disturbed
the stillness of the night. Sylvester
took off his hat and walked slowly to-
ward the house. Miss Maddin sat on
the veranda, her hands folded in her
lap, her eyes fixed dreamily upon the
rising moon.

"Ah, you're back at last," she said,
rising. "We've been waiting supper
for you. How do you like Trickster?"

"Trixster is worth his weight in
gold!" was Sylvester's enthusiastic re-
ply.

Miss Maddin led the way into a
small, plainly furnished dining room.
A circular table of peculiar construc-
tion stood in the middle of the room —
the only article of furniture which
would have attracted attention. The
outer portion, about eighteen inches in
width, was made stationary, and con-

tained plates and knives and forks. The
middle of the table rose about four
inches above the circumference and
was made to revolve. On this revolv-
ing portion were placed all the pro-
visions. The convenience of such an
arrangement can readily be seen. It
gave every one at the table independ-
ent access to the various dishes.

The meal was a plain, wholesome
one, containing one dish, however,
which is a favorite food among the
Indians. It is made from Indian corn,
and resembles old-fashioned lye hom-
iny in appearance, but is very different
in taste and in the way it is served.
The Indians eat it in cups with spoons,
and without seasoning of any kind.
The white man usually finds it neces-
sary to add salt and other seasoning
ingredients, which if done in the pres-
ence of an old full-blood rouses his in-
dignation immediately. But Mrs. Mad-
din and her daughter were neither full-
bloods nor old, so Sylvester did not
hesitate to fill his cup with sophkie,
season it with pepper and salt, and eat
it as he pleased.

Supper over, he went out on the
veranda and was joined a few minutes
later by Miss Maddin. They found
seats in the shadow and talked of vari-
ous things for a long time. He told
her of Ned, what a fine, loyal room-
mate the latter had during four years
together at school, of the pranks they
had played on each other, and on the
teachers, and she listened as inter-
estedly as if she hadn't heard many of
them many times already from Ned
himself. Then she told him of Ned's
early life with them, how he, a little
orphan three years old, had come to
make his home with them, how she
had grown to think of him as a brother,

THE LAND OF THE LAWLESS.

247

how he had been such a comfort to her
and her mother since her father met
his death at the hands of Mose Miller,
and how Ned had sworn to avenge that
death. Then they talked about the
Star Gang, and Sylvester told her of
meeting some of them while out riding,
and of the marshals who were follow-
ing them.

"The marshals here!" she ex-
claimed.

A pistol shot in the edge of the
woods prevented a reply, and almost
instantly a great flash arose from the
middle of the street near the station,
followed by a deafening explosion.
This was succeeded by the rapid fire
of guns and a blood-curdling yell.

The fiendish noise continued for
several seconds, and a number of
spent balls fell upon the house-top and
in the yard.

Sylvester crept to the edge of the
veranda and looked anxiously through
the moonlight toward the center of the
town. He waited for some time, but
not another sound could be heard.

"Mose and Schute are at the head of
that,'' said Miss Maddin. "They did it
to anger the marshals. They get off
something of the kind every time the
marshals come to Braggs. They won't
cause any more disturbance to-night,
however, you may feel sure of that."
And then rising abruptly, she said
good-night and went to her room.

The young minister remained lost in
thought and surrounded by the stillness
of the night. Not a human form was
discernible. Not even a light glim-
mered in the village, and through the
oppressive silence the call of the whip-
poor-will in the woods and the croak
of the frogs down in the pasture sound-
ed loud and clear.

He had often heard his father tell
of the oppressive stillness which sur-
rounded the Confederate army just be-
fore Lee issued the command to charge
the Union troops on the fatal field of
Gettysburg; and although the shooting
which broke the stillness of the night
in Braggs could have been nothing
like the thunder of the cannon which
shook the earth around that great bat-

tle field and destroyed men by the
thousands, the incident that had just
occurred gave Sylvester a more vivid
picture of what that contest must have
been.

CHAPTER IV.

The next day was an eventful one.
The marshals paraded the streets for
an hour or two in the early morning
and then rode out of the village. Syl-
vester spent the morning reading and
writing, took a nap and a ride in the
afternoon, and a short walk in the
early evening before beginning his
meeting. About seven o'clock he went
over to the little frame school house
which was to serve for a church, rang
the bell, lighted the lamps and selected
hymns for the service. A congrega-
tion of thirty or forty soon assembled
in front of the building, and among
them he saw his old friend, Joe Far-
ley.

Inviting the congregation to come in-
side, he began the services. Only one
verse of the first hymn had been sung
when Schute came in. He had two
large pistols buckled around his hips
and carried a repeating rifle in his
hand. Walking up towards the front,
he took a chair, carried it back to the
door, placed it down beside the open-
ing, sat and rested his rifle, butt end
downward, on the floor. Nor did he
change his position during the whole
service. He kept his keen eyes riv-
eted on Sylvester, much to the latter's
discomfort. The young minister's
courage rose as he proceeded with the
sermon, however, so that he got
through without revealing the embar-
rassment which he really felt.

After the benediction, Sylvester
went to the door to shake hands with
the members of the congregation as
they passed out. Schute dodged out,
however, before the minister got there,
but the latter saw him and shook hands
with him later. Converse, however,
Schute would not. He responded to all
Sylvester's questions with a nod of the
head, and never once took his keen,
black eyes from the minister's face.

248

OVERLAND MONTHLY

His general attitude, too, seemed to be
one of growing suspicion. Annoyed
by it, Sylvester finally asked him why
he kept staring in that strange manner.
The outlaw scowled, muttered some-
thing under his breath, and walked out
across the narrow strip of field toward
the woods, carrying his rifle under his
arm.

Sylvester soon overtook Miss Mad-
din, who had gone a short distance
down the road, and was waiting for
him.

"I was beginning to be just a little
uneasy," she said, as he joined her.
"Joe has just left me. He told me to
tell you to be very careful. Schute
and Mose are suspicious of you. He
thinks they believe you are here for
some other purpose than to carry on
meetings. He said he heard they had
agreed among themselves to watch you
for a week, and unless they are fully
convinced that you are what you pre-
tend to be. they intend to kill you.
They have appointed some of their
own men to watch you meanwhile, but
don't be alarmed, for Joe has already
made himself your guardian. You're
very fortunate in gaining Joe Farley's
friendship. — you will find that he may
be trusted fully, and that what he tells
you may be depended upon."

"But how does Joe know all this?
Which way did he go? I must see
him."

"Not to-night. He'll see you in a
few days, he said."

They reached the house, and Syl-
vester went immediatetly to his room.
He sat for hours thinking of what he

had seen and heard. Finally the close-
ness of his room and the beauty of the
night induced him to go out on the ve-
randa.

It was very late and he moved softly
to avoid disturbing any one in the
house. Scarcely had he gone a dozen
paces toward the front, however, when
voices, barely audible, reached his ear
and caused him to halt.

"But Maud, I tell you there's no
other way. You must." It was a man's
voice.

"But "

"Shhh, remember, no names; some
one might hear."

"Well, I can't do what you ask me
to. You know I hate him too much to
carry out such a scheme. Besides, it
won't work — I tell you, he won't be de-
ceived."

"But I tell ydu, Maud, it will work.
Thy it ; try it for the good of the cause
if for no other reason."

Then after a pause : "I'll try it for
your sake."

"And for your father's, Maud. Re-
member it is just two weeks from to-
night. I'll probably not see you again
until after the dance. Joe will bring
the whisky; the rest depends upon
you. Probably you'd better keep
everything hid from Sylvester for a
while. Good-bye."

Sylvester heard the grass rustling,
and got back to his room just in time
to avoid being seen. A crouching fig-
ure glided slowly around the veranda,
and as it passed out into the bright
moonlight he recognized Ned Foster.
(To be continued.)

In the Temperate Wine Countries

By Arthur li. Dutton, Formerly Lieutenant, U. S. Navy

YEARS ago, during my midship-
man days, it was my good for-
tune to make a two years'
cruise on the flagship of the
European squadron. During this
cruise I visited England, Portugal, Mo-
rocco, France, Italy, Egypt, Asia
Minor, Turkey and Greece. I went not
alone to the seaports of these coun-
tries, but to many places in the in-
terior.

My observations in these places,
combined with my experiences at home
in the United States, broadened con-
siderably my views on the subjejet of
the use of alcoholic liquors. I learned
lessons from both the wine drinking
and the spirits drinking peoples.

Let me say at the outset that in the
wine drinking countries of Portugal,
France, Italy and Greece I never saw
drunkenness among the natives. A de-
gree of hilarity at a masked ball, par-
ticularly in carnival time, was not un-
common, but there was nothing like the
"drunk" of England or of the United
States. The only drunkenness I saw
during the two years was in England,
in Constantinople and in Egypt.

Practically everybody, old and
young, drinks light wines in Portugal,
France Italy and Greece. Sobriety is
the rule. No one would think of eat-
ing dinner without wine. Parents give
it to their children, diluted with water,
according to age. The cafes, both in-
door and open air, are filled with quiet,
wine drinking patrons, seated at tables
drinking their light wines and enjoy-
ing the music of the orchestras.

In the Mediterranean ports, where
we coaled ship, the laborers who dis-
charged the coal lighters always
brought wine with them, which they
drank with their midday meals.

In the wine drinking countries
named, wine is a valued and appreci-
ated part of the regular diet. People
there would as soon go without their
salt, or their butter, as without their
wine.

And they are sober, industrious peo-
ple. When I said I never saw drun-
kenness in the wine drinking countries,
I said and meant among the natives.
Some drunkenness I have seen there,
but it was among foreigners, who came
from countries where the drinking of
so-called "hard liquors" was prevalent,
such as Great Britain, the United
States and Russia. Most of the offend-
ers were sailors on shore, from our own
and other foreign ships. I never saw
a drunken French or Italian sailor.

Wine is furnished by their govern-
ments to the soldiers and sailors of
Portugal, France, Italy and Greece. It
is found not only that it protects them
against typhoid fever, dysentery and
other diseases, but actually adds to
their efficiency. Dr. Arnozan, Profes-
sor of the Faculty of Medicine of Bor-
deaux, says that "it has proved that
at the enlistment of soldiers the young
men from the viticultural districts are
better developed, taller, more alert,
more supple, than those from the re-
gions where wine is not cultivated."
All the leading French savants agree
that good wine is very beneficial in the
army.

The Koran forbids the true Moham-
medan to drink alcohol in any form. To
what extent this command is obeyed I
cannot say. When in Mohammedan
countries, such as Turkey and Egypt,
I found wine served at every hotel, res-
taurant and club. At a dinner given to
our American officers by the Sultan of
Turkey in the Palace of the Minister

250 OVERLAND MONTHLY

of Marine at Constantinople, which I man being to visit the wine drinking
attended, every wine customary at a countries of Europe and fail to be im-
big banquet was served to all present, pressed with the prevailing temper-
but I do not remember whether or not ance. Everybody drinks wine, and
the Turkish officers drank any of it. everybody keeps sober.
I think they did, as several toasts were Yet there are misguided persons
drunk. who are seeking to destroy the wine

I never saw any one drunk at such industry of California ; to change from

gay places as Monte Carlo, Nice, or the light wines of our open restaurants,

even during the four days I spent in cafes v hotels and clubs to the ruinous,

Paris. In Paris, I went one night to fiery "hard liquors" of the blind pig.
the Bal Bullier, in the Latin Quarter, As Professor Louis Agassiz said

where the students, artists and other years ago :

gay people gather. It was a jolly af- "I hail with joy — for I am a temper-
fair, with much singing, dancing and ance man and friend of temperance —
bantering, but no drunkenness. Every- I hail with joy the efforts that are be-
thing was orderly and good natured. ing made to raise wine in this country.
The situation was the same at masked "I believe that when you can have
balls I attended in Naples, in Genoa everywhere cheap, pure, unadulterated
and Leghorn. wine, you will no longer have need for

It is impossible for an intelligent hu- either prohibitory or license laws."

THE SANDSTORM

The early morning sun tops the desert's distant hill

With a golden shaft of light;
A gaunt gray lioness stands above tier morning kill,

Savage, grim, from out the night.

Deep footprints in the shifting sands, winds cover,

. As the glit'ring valleys fill ;
And high above the earth three black winged vultures hover,
Circling high, and wide, and still.

A steady blaze of stifling, burning heat beats down

On the desert's whited floor;
The glaring blue casts low three sweeping shadows, brown

On the sands that stretch before.

Far back, along the dimmed horizon's rise, there sweeps

From the south a great gray cloud;
The swish of death is in its wake, and fury in its leaps;

'Tis the great Sahara's shroud.

The jagged winged birds of prey are specks above the day,

And obliterating all,
The sandstorm comes; the gaunt gray lioness slinks away

At the desert's threat'ning call.

The sand clouds hiss, the mad storm roars in sheets of
blinding white;
And the sky above is gray.

A silent, sullen calm where all is still, broods on the night,
As it blackens out the day.

W. W. Wellman.

The Passing of the Pachecos

By Marry E. Burgess

Todos Santos

NESTLED among the Contra
Costa hills, California, is the
little valley of the San Ramon.
It is early spring — a composite
day, half rain, half shine — light and
shadows interchanging. Aboard an
old-time coach-and-tour, a joyous
group of passengers are rolling on to-
ward Concord. Following a wondrous
burst of sun gleam from the vortex of
the troubled skies, how assiduously, it
rains! Surely the sun's valiant forces
shall yet be vanquished. Meanwhile
onward we dash, catching from the ex-
posed front and rear of the rolling ark
rarest glimpses of green vale, moun-
tain side and running stream.

For miles in our wake extend the
avenues of oak and native walnut.
Diablo's twin peaks are lost in vapor-
ous banks of gray. Behold, the swirl-
ing clouds are mobilized to storm the
distant peaks that would obstruct their
courses. Again, the opaque heavens
part, and light in wavering columns
deluges the earth. The almond groves
are radiant in white and amethyst, and
gorgeouly festooned in jeweled rain-
drops. Robin and blue jay are hiding
in the copse.

The stage carrying the mails to Mar-
tinez stops at the quaint old town of
the Dons. When the proud Pachecos
were in their ascendency, it was with
mingled apprehension and disdain that
the new town growing at the "Devil
Mountain's" base was viewed by the
inhabitants.

Concord! — our signal to disembark
— for truly we had voyaged amidst the
waters. Emerging from a veritable
chrysalis of robes and rubber folds,
we enter the neat hostelry bearing the

name of the town, where, at once sur-
rounded by genial friends, as if by
touch of magic wand, we are cosily es-
tablished in our temporary home.

The Old Senora.

Strolling to the border of the town,
and passing through the big ranch-
gate, we wend our way across the fields
to the old Pacheco homestead. Enter-
ing the courtyard, and following the
walk toward the veranda, we see,
crouching among the shrubs and flow-
ers, the form of an aged woman, robed
in black. It is the old Senora, a gen-
tle, fascinating creature — the almost
sole survivor of her time, and the in-
spiration of this sketch.

"Good morning, Senora," we ven-
ture.

"Buenos dias a ustedes, Senores/*
comes the pleasant salutation, in reas-
suring tones.

The old Senora, aged 90 years, sits
on the ground beside a mammoth Pe-
largonium, about which she is hacking
the soil with a small implement. Un-
daunted, she wages her petty warfare
against the weeds within reach, only
casting keen, furtive glances toward
her aggressors.

"Your gracious pardon, Senores! It
is all that the old may do — just potter
around, pass the time, and wait. But
you are welcome, buenos Senores!
You do me honor."

The silence befitting the scene is
broken by a cheery voice bidding us
welcome, and we turn to greet the
present occupant of the old mansion,
and the guardian of the old Senora.
Here upon the verdant plain, within
the cloister of these rude walls, lives
this Dona of the old regime, contented
in her peaceful isolation. There is a

252

OVERLAND MONTHLY

royalty distinct from empires; and it
is to God's unrecorded legion that the
Dona Sylveria Pacheco belongs. A
colossal grapevine fills the spacious
courtyard, forming a canopy of cooling
shade in the midsummer days. There
is a low whitewashed fence, and a pep-
per tree of surpassing symmetry and
grandeur standing guard above a gran-
ite corner post which bears the initials
of Don Salvio Pacheco — the pioneer
standard bearer of the Pacheco name
and fame unto this region of the
coast.

"Grandma lives her own life, and
does just as she chooses," we are in-
formed, "and she must be out of doors
and working about in her own way."
And inquiring about her health, we are
told that the Senora is seldom sick.
The adage, "Whom the gods love,"
etc., seems to have been reversed in
the Senora's case, for here we have
age in evident harmony with divinity,
persisting in projecting her life into an
alien era, maintaining her serenity and
mental vigor, and withal, smiling, and
even defying "the gods."

The old Senora, discovering herself
as being the object of special interest,
quietly puts aside her task, and takes
a seat upon the stationary bench along-
side the old adobe wall. In a few rap-
idly uttered sentences in her own Cas-
tilian, she is inquiring about her visi-
tors — at which we beg to have some
amends made to the dear lady for the
bold venture in trespassing upon her
peaceful domain.

"No j no! No es nada!" the Senora
answers with despairing gestures, in-
dicating that her life's affairs are in-
significant compared with the honor be-
stowed upon her by the arrival of
strangers within her gates. "It is well
you have come. Gracias!"

The simple words of honest intent,
the unwavering tone, the serene com-
posure, with the Senora's keen, dark
eyes, peering as through the corridors
of Time, all seem marvelous. She
seems the embodiment of intelligence,
kindness, cheer. Upon being informed
that her visitors are simply traveling
about, taking interest in everything

Californian, and are pleased beyond
measure to see her for her own sake,
and to find her looking well and happy,
the sibyl makes reply: "Yes, yes. It
is well. You are good. You will pros-
per. But I am only old; and the old
soon pass on to other realms."

The entire southern exposure of the
old adobe forms the Senora's quarters.
Here she is sole occupant of her af-
fairs, without attendants, save the
kindly oversight of relatives — particu-
larly "Carlos." At her frequent and
fond mention of this name, one fancies
a frolicking lad out chasing his butter-
flies and birds. It is evidently the sole
bit of romance in the old Senora's life.
With what surprise are we greeted by
a handsome, stalward gentleman of full
six feet, introduced as Mr. Pacheco ! —
the Senora's hero and pet, and by
whom she is idolized. Displaying a
number of fine specimens of needle-
work, the product of her own aged
hands — not a fault discernible in the
stitching — the Senora glances toward
her adorable Carlos, and murmurs
softly: "These are for my boy!"

AmGng her many and notable char-
acteristics, the Senora Sylveria Pa-
checo is intensely dramatic. She rises
to the occasion as in vivid recollection
she momentarily re-lives the past. Dis-
coursing freely in reminiscence of her
girlhood and the old Mission life at
Santa Clara, a veil is lifted from the
scenes of bygone days, each detail be-
coming animate, significant in the im-
pressive portrayal. Days of heroism,
sacrifice and joy! She dwells with
fondly emphasis upon "los Indios"
(the Indians of the old Missions.)
They were industrious, friendly and
eager to learn ; they performed on mu-
sical instruments, and sang from books
at the service. The books and violins
are preserved at the church in Santa
Clara, the Senora adds.

Arising, she seizes a formidable-
looking staff and draws a line upon
the floor. "Here is the church," she
explains, "and on that side is my prop-
erty. They took it from me, and they
have it, but it is mine!" Thus with
tottering form, determined manner,

THE PASSING OF THE PACHECOS

253

the complaisant Senora is metamor-
phosed to a veritable Meg Memeles,
staff in hand, mapping out her pos-
sessions upon the old adobe floor. Re-
suming her seat, and with her wrinkled
face caressingly inclined upon the
staff, the Senora continues:

"We would ride to Monterey in the
careta, drawn by oxen. The careta
had wooden wheels, and for oiling
them we carried a beef's horn of soft
soap. Scattered over the bottom of
the vehicle, young and old alike, we
would sometimes ride all day. We also
rode horseback in journeying to town
to buy goods. Ah, those were differ-
ent days! All is changed now."

The old Senora sees the humor of it
all. What a mode of rapid transit and
pleasure touring in the sweet pastoral
days! — the stupid oxen trudging their
weary way, munching at the roadside
herbage, the women gossiping, with
babies, the lumbersome car, without
seats or springs, and all in the heat
and dust; halting for repast by the
cooling stream, beneath the wondrous
shade of oaks; fording rivers, mount-
ing and descending the hills. Surely,
Don Quixote had seen in their ap-
proach a royal embassy en route to
a coronation.

Referring to the advent of the
Americans, the Senora remarked:
"Yes, Fremont and his men came; and
when we heard the roar of the cannon
we were greatly frightened. We want-
ed to run and hide. It is well they
came, however, for our officials were
ever warring with one another, or ha-
rassing the people. Our own people
did not always treat us right. They
would ride into the houses, or head
their hcrses in the doorway, would de-
mand whatever they might want, and
treat us with contempt. Oh, it was
well enough they came — los America-
nos. I was young then. It was long
ago, but I remember it all!"

Inquiring whether they were sub-
ject to the common ills in those days
of the simple life, she replies: "No,
Senor! The sickness came as the set-
tlements thickened about us. We were
stronger then; and we used medicinal

herbs which we gathered and pre-
served against such ailments and ac-
cidents. Among them were the Yerba
Santa and Yerba Buena, which, you
know, no doubt; and the Yerba de
Golpe. Some of them were very won-
derful in their effect."

Questioned about the secret of her
own remarkable preservation, the Se-
nora attributed it to her outdoor life,
plain diet, regular habits — and the
plunge bath. She never uses liquors,
but fruits of all kinds she partakes of
freely; and above all does not grieve.
In a word, our heroine is optimistic,
brave, serene!

Inspired by the pervading atmos-
phere of sympathy and candor we
asked : "Do you never get tired of the
world, Senora?"

There was a wistful, trusting glance
toward her inquisator, a smile upon
the dear, aged face, a moment's silence
when, with a resoluteness, awe inspir-
ing, she gestures heavenward, closes
her eyes, and with staff and body
swaying rhythmically, and nodding
her head in solemn assent, her lips
move to the syllables: "Si, si! My
place is there."

One is forcibly impressed with the
plainness, tidiness and comfortable-
ness of the Senora's surroundings —
fresh air abounding, and spotless linen
giving grace to all. A banquet might
be served upon the floor. A halo of
peace rests over the humble abode. An
antique of the Madonna, and a golden
crucifix are the chief adornments — the
gift of a padre of Zacatecas.

Leaving the old adobe through a
broad hall and deep doorway, passing
along a wide veranda, down the gar-
den walk, one enters a tiny grove of
willows where is disclosed an arte-
sian fountain flowing into a reservoir
which the bath house partially con-
ceals. Trailing vines fall to the water's
edge, and gleaming fishes dart athwart
the limpid pool. Here the Senora
takes her morning plunge in ecstasy
of abandon, immune from aught of
profane intrusion.

But little remains of the old glory of
the romantic period, before the gold

254

OVERLAND MONTHLY

conquest; but whilst hospitality sur-
vives, and the Pacheco name is per-
petuated, along with numerous others
of the first nobility, it were but a leap
of happy fancy to reinstate the glori-
ous past, and clothe the prosaic pres-
ent with a semblance of the grandeur
of California's pastoral days.

In the olden time the Pacheco herds
numbered by thousands. Peace and
plenty abounded. During the long af-
ternoons the proud senors and bronze-
faced muchachos loitered on the cool
verandas or in the arbors' shade, jest-
ing, talking love in sequestered nooks,
thrumming the quaint guitar, or telling
tales of war or of La Fiesta.

To this revelry, or dolce far niente
phase of the old aristocracy regime,
the Senora scarcely alludes. Her na-
ture is of the sterner fibre. She is not
striving for effect; she has no patron-
izing tone; no apologies to offer. She
knows full well that those blissful, un-
eventful days were destined to obli-
vion; that the primitive institutions
could not withstand the force of greater
movements ushered in by the conquer-

ing, commercial race. She even char-
acterizes the new era as a dispensa-
tion "of dollars and cents, discord, dis-
ease and strife" — and comments with
the wisdom of irony: "It is well!"

"The women gambled in those
days," the Senora avers. Then ob-
serving the crucifix being regarded
with special interest, thus she hurls
forth a bit of its tragic history: "It
was stolen from me once, but I re-
covered it — gracias, Madre de Dios!"

There is one sombre shadow on the
old Senora's life, the anti-climax of her
heroic career — her later marriage to an
American. In one fell sentence, rife
with sarcasm and contempt, she ex-
plodes the dire secret: "He was bad!
Stole all I had and threw it away;
then I sent him on a journey." The
gesture accompanying the Senora's
word picture of the summary disposal
of her Gringo consort had done credit
to a Medici.

After exchanging felicitations, and
receiving pressing invitations to call
again, we take leave of the hospitable
Senora and her friends.

TAW A LP A IS

O Dusky Tamalpais, against the Western sky,

Wrapped in your purple shadows, while the fog drifts silently

by,
Deep in the heart of the sunset, your beauty my being thrills ;
And I think of other sunsets and of other sun-kissed hills,
And of thousands of eyes that are watching, with a vision as

rapt as mine,
The marvelous glow of color that comes with the sunset time.
And I feel we are kindred spirits and friends for a little while,
Because we have seen together, the wonder of God's smile.

Kate L. Whitten.

■

Cornelius Cole, A California Pioneer

By Rockwell D. Hunt

IN the romantic evolution of Western
American character, the California
argonaut has long since been ac-
corded a unique and secure place.
The poet has vied with the historian
and the essayist in seeking to pay just
tribute to the men of '49.

"Those brave old bricks of forty-nine.
What lives they lived!"

"The bearded, sunbrowned men who

bore
The burden of that frightful year,
Who toiled, but did not gather store,
They shall not be forgotten."

"Full were they
Or great endeavor."

The '49er was a most real person
and individual, and not simply the
name for a composite figure or an im-
personal name. Indeed, it was the
stamp of individuality that made him
what he was. It may not be without
value, therefore, to single out here
and there one from the group of Cali-
fornia argonauts and endeavor to re-
cord the individual activities and per-
sonal traits which, after all, are the
specific elements that contribute to
form the complete picture.

Long since have all but the merest
vanishing remnant of those sinewy
men passed over the great divide. Two-
thirds of a century has passed since
the heroic age of the days of gold.
But yonder in his beautiful Colegrove
home in Los Angeles, surrounded by
children and grandchildren, his es-
teemed and devoted life companion
still at his side, stands Cornelius Cole,
surviving '49er, pioneer prince, Ameri-
can patriot. At the age of ninety-four

years his tread is still firm, his body
erect, his memory unimpaired. There
is a living presence, a great bridge
that spans the stretch of years and
gives vital access to every changing
phase of the development of a great
State.

To have been a member of that
chosen band of California argonauts
and to have lived on through the de-
cades till now is a rare and exceptional
experience: to have added to this the
luster of later deeds in State and na-
tion, and to have had a worthy and
useful career in public and private life,
and still be blessed with length of days
— this is still rarer; it is indeed mem-
orable. It commonly happens, when
the shadows lengthen in the late after-
noon of a pioneer's life, that some one
event or superlative experience stands
out pre-eminent in memory's fond vis-
ion, and that later day deeds receive
their diminishing importance when
measured against this crowning ex-
perience — even as a great mountain
peak rises sheer above its neighbors.
Not so does the life of Cornelius Cole
appear to him in retrospect.

His memorable trip across the great
plains in the vanguard of the hosts
of '49, the arrival at Sutter's fort on
the 24th of July, his varied experi-
ences at the diggings, his career as a
young lawyer in San Francisco during
the days of her "social insanity" — be-
ing twice burned out by the disastrous
conflagrations — his participation in the
organization of the Pacific Railroad,
his extensive travels in two hemi-
spheres, his public life and activities
at the Federal Capital at an epochal
period of human history — these are
factors in the explanation why no sin-
gle event or superlative experience

256

OVERLAND MONTHLY

now wins a commanding importance
in the twilight hour of reverie.

Cornelius Cole was born September
17, 1822, on his father's farm in the
Lake country of western New York.
His parents were of thrifty habit and
devout character, devoted to the cor-
rect rearing of the family of eleven
children. Unlike most California pio-
neers, he had a classical college edu-
cation, begun at Geneva College and
completed at Weslyan University; but
like a great many who pushed their
way to the Pacific and to places of re-
nown, he had a brief experience at
teaching school.

Admitted to the bar in the spring of
1848, Cole spent some time in the of-
fice of Seward, Morgan and Blatchford
at Auburn. Seward subsequently be-
came New York's Governor, a United
States Senator, and Lincoln's great
Secretary of State ; Blatchford became
a justice of the United States Supreme
Court; Morgan went to Congress, and
also served as Secretary of State at
Albany. It cannot be doubted that
the young attorney's political ambi-
tion was kindled and his imagination
aroused while associated with these
great characters.

Of Seward, with whom Cole was
brought into intimate contact in subse-
quent years, an especially high regard
was formed, as indicated by a recent
remark: "He deserved to be, as he
really was. for many years, the most
prominent character of his time, and
the world will not in many years look
upon his like again." (Memoirs, 3-4.)
During the early '50's he corresponded
with Seward, who, as a natural leader
in Washington, evidently looked to
him for much of his information con-
cerning conditions then existing in
California.

Senator Cole has earned the grati-
tude of posterity by writing a volume
of personal memoirs, in which we have
the modest recital of the events in the
career of a pioneer prince and national
figure.

Cole was a typical California pio-
neer of the best class. His mining ex-
perience at Oregon Gulch was not

without profit, as is illustrated by the
fact that the last day's work in the year
1849 (December 11th) yielded gold
valued at $1,849, to be divided be-
tween himself and two partners. On
November 13th he walked a dozen
miles to Coloma to vote for Califor-
nia's first Constitution and for Peter
H. Burnett, California's first State gov-
ernor.

After a brief but costly experience
as a lawyer in San Francisco, he made
his way back to Sacramento, where in
a short time he became engrossed in
legal practice which continued through-
out the decade, and until, as he in-
forms us, "I was driven out by flood,
as I had been from San Francisco by
fire." (Memoirs, 66.) He numbered
among his clients Huntington and
Hopkins, the Stanfords, E. H. Miller,
James Bailey and others with whom he
was later associated in organizing the
Pacific Railroad Company.

Naturally the young lawyer's ac-
quaintances among leading pioneers
were very numerous. Among these he
characterizes Sam Brannan as a thrifty
and very lively man. William T. Cole-
man he knew well, and endorsed heart-
ily as head of the great Vigilance
Committees in San Francisco. Wil-
liam T. Sherman, who was employed
in the bank of Lucas Turner & Com-
pany, told Cole in great detail of the
vascillating and pusillanimous — al-
though well intentioned — attitude of
Governor J. Neely Johnson toward the
Vigilance Committee. He had the
satisfaction, in 1870, of introducing
into the United States Senate a bill for
the relief of General John A. Sutter,
a bill which eventually became a law.

Mr. Cole, for some years a Free Soil
Democrat, identified himself with the
Republican party in California from
its inception. In Sacramento the party
was for a time extremely limited in
numbers. "There were," he tells us,
"C. P. Huntington, Mark Hopkins, Le-
land Stanford, Edwin B. and Charles
Crocker, all personal as well as politi-
cal friends of mine. There were not,
for some time, besides these, as many
as could be counted on one's fingers."

CORNELIUS COLE, A CALIFORNIA PIONEER

257

(See Con. Globe, 2d Sess. 41st Cong.,
1869-70, Pt. V, 3970.)

In the meantime, Cole's political
career had begun in 1854 with his
nomination for City Attorney of Sac-
ramento on the Democratic ticket. His
nomination proved to be distasteful to
the pro-Slavery Democrats, who sup-
ported an indepenednt candidate for
the same office.

With the advent of the Republican
organization in Sacramento in 1855,
Cole consented to the nomination for
Clerk of the Supreme Court, and Stan-
ford consented to run for State Treas-
urer.

In 1856 he served the cause of Re-
publicanism by becoming a member
of the National Republican Committee
for California, as well as of the State
Executive Committee and the County
and City Committees. (Memoirs,
115.) He was elected a delegate to
the national convention that nomi-
nated Fremont for President, though
he was not in actual attendance. (lb,
119.)

Upon the nomination of Fremont for
the presidency in 1856, Mr. Cole be-
came editor and publisher of the Daily
and Weekly Sacramento Times, a lead-
ing Republican newspaper. Associ-
ated with the editor was James Mc-
Clatchy, who afterwards founded the
Sacramento Daily Bee, a paper of well
known Unionist sentiment.

In the course of his practice in Sac-
ramento, Cole won a considerable rep-
utation as a criminal lawyer, to which
was largely due his nomination for
District Attorney of Sacramento
County. During his incumbency of
about two and a half years as District
Attorney he was called upon to prose-
cute many prominent criminal cases.
As prosecuting attorney he frequently
found himself opposed to no less dis-
tinguished criminal lawyers than N.
Green Curtis and Humphrey Griffeth:
here his own experience and his inti-
mate knowledge of the qualifications
of jurors served him well.

So satisfactory was his service in
public office that his nomination for
Congress in 1863 followed quite nat-

urally. Backed by his firm stand and
consistent record on the dominant na-
tional issue, he made a vigorous cam-
paign in company with his colleague,
Thomas B. Shannon, and was reward-
ed with the largest vote of any man on
the ticket. So complete had been the
revulsion of feeling against the slavery
institution, and so honored the name
"Black Republican," that the entire
ticket was elected.

In the meantime, California, by the
election of Leland Stanford on Sep-
tember 4, 1861, to be "War Governor,"
was making political history scarcely
less memorable than was the nation in
the election of Abraham Lincoln to the
Presidency in 1860. Stanford's elec-
tion was an unequivocal announce-
ment to the world that California had
refused to yield to the temptations to
leave the Union: along with the ser-
vices of the "War Governor" in main-
taining California's attitude of loyalty
to the Union cause should be men-
tioned the contributions of such men
as John Bidwell, Thomas Starr King,
Edwin D. Baker, Myron C. Briggs, Jas.
McClatchy and Cornelius Cole.

On his arrival at Washington to take
his seat in the 38th Congress, Mr. Cole
found that war was practically the sole
topic of conversation, and even of
thought. His California colleagues
were Thomas B. Shannon and William
Higby. His career as a Congressman
is not marked with brilliancy or flights
of oratory or sensational achievement:
it is rather characterized by inconspic-
uous but dignified and effective ser-
vice, animated by unswerving devo-
tion to the cause of the Union and the
interests of his local constituency. The
important place to which he was as-
signed in committee work is in part
explained by the fact that he was the
only straight Lincoln Republican from
California, as well as a member of the
National Republican Committee.

Doubtless his work as a member of
the Select Committee on the Pacific
Railroad was the most influential
among his special activities in the
House of Representatives. He recog-
nized the necessity of completing the

258

OVERLAND MONTHLY

railroad project, and was disposed to
give the projectors every reasonable
concession. The chairman of the com-
mittee, Thaddeus Stevens, deferred
largely to him, and his opinion on
various points was freely sought by
other members, who were quite in-
clined to ask: "What does Mr. Cole
think?"

While the Pacific Railroad mat-
ters were pending, C. P. Huntington
spent much time in Washington, and
was a not infrequent visitor at the
home of Mr. Cole, who had himself
been one of the small group of men to
meet early in 1861 in a small room
over the store of Huntington and Hop-
kins in Sacramento to organize the
Central Pacific Railroad Company of
California. (Memoirs, 148.)

Mr. Cole concedes that "a good
share of the responsibility" rests upon
him for the legislation that resulted in
the anomalous conditions of fabulous
private wealth and political influence
of the builders of the Pacific Railroad
(lb., 269), but he charges that the ad-
ministrators of the law are not less
reprehensible, and that the builders,
"trustees of the Government as they
were, have utterly ignored their trus-
teeship. They have repudiated their
agency, and wholly neglected their ob-
ligation to their principal, not having
even recognized a divided ownership
with the public." (lb.) The real ob-
ject of granting government aid to the
Railroad, which nearly everybody
wanted, was, as declared in the char-
ter, "for the purpose of promoting the
general welfare of the country."
(Cong. Globe, 38th Cong., 1st Session,
Pt. IV, 3180. Cole's remark of June
22, 1864, seems to be a faithful re-
flection of his true sentiment: "as a
citizen of the Pacific Coast, I want to
see a road built, and am therefore
against anything that will retard the
accomplishment of that object." lb.,
3181.)

When the public interested dictated
subsequently that he should oppose
the railroads, as in the instance of its
desire for Goat Island, Cole's generous
services to it were apparently forgotten

and his political career finally brought
to an untimely end.

Mr. Cole well knows the meaning of
war. Three of his brothers were in
service during the Rebellion, remain-
ing in the army until the end of the
war. These were Elijah (his oldest
brother, who had accompanied him to
California in 1849), a major and pay-
master whose duties lay in the Pacific
States and territories; David, a cap-
tain, who was eye-witness of the magi-
cal effects of "Sheridan's Ride," and
George W., a general, who organized
several regiments of colored cavalry
and showed much skill in handling
them. A fourth brother, Gilbert, was
United States Consul at Acapulco at
the time of Maximilian's invasion of
Mexico, and he was instrumental in
rendering valuable service to the re-
public against the invaders. Mr. Cole
was in Washington when tidings came
of Lee's final surrender, and he par-
ticipated in the demonstration of gen-
eral rejoicing. With Speaker Colfax
he called on President Lincoln on the
afternoon of April 14, 1865, on the eve
of his departure for California. Touch-
ing this incident he remarks, with feel-
ing : "On leaving his room at the White
House, after a most agreeable conver-
sation about the ending of the war and
about California, in which he was al-
ways interested, I bade the great and
tender-hearted man good-bye, little an-
ticipating the sad ending of that day."
(Memoirs, 229.)

In December, 1865, Cornelius Cole
was elected to succeed James McDou-
gall in the United States Senate. Other
members of the Republican party who
had been named for the office were
Governor Frederic F. Low, Frederick
Billings, John F. Felton and Aaron
Sargent. Cole received 92 votes out
of the total of 119 in the joint con-
vention of the legislature, his personal
friend and political opponent, William
T. Coleman, receiving the entire Dem-
ocratic vote. "It was the easiest elec-
tion for senator that had ever occurred
in California," said Cole. (Memoirs,
232. Bancroft remarks : "This was the
first senatorial election in California

CORNELIUS COLE, A CALIFORNIA PIONEER

259

not governed by cliques for the suc-
cession or parceling out of officers for
years to come." His. of Cal., VII, 322.)

As he had witnessed the emergence
of the Union cause from its desperate
stage into complete triumph in the ca-
pacity of member of the lower house
of the national legislature, he was now
called upon as Senator to participate
in the work of reconstruction, and to
sit in judgment at the impeachment
trial of President Johnson. His col-
leagues as senators-elect included Si-
mon Cameron of Pennsylvania, Roscoe
Conkling of New York, Justin S. Mor-
rill of Vermont, John Sherman of
Ohio, and others. Old members in the
Senate included George F. Edmunds,
William P. Fassenden, Charles Sum-
ner and Richard Yates. His colleague
from California was John Conness.

Senator Cole cannot be said to have
specialized to any great extent in the
national legislature. His interests
were somewhat numerous, as shown in
the Congressional Globe, and included
new post roads and improved postal
service, canal construction for irriga-
tion and the reclamation of unproduc-
tive land, the promotion of forest tree
cultivation on the plains, education, the
protection of fur-bearing seals, the hu-
mane treatment of Indians, and na-
tional finances — especially the pay-
ment of the Public Debt. His position
on Senate committees was of special
advantage to the Pacific Coast — refer-
ring particularly to the Committee on
Post Offices and Post roads and the
Committee on Appropriations of which
latter he had the unusual honor of be-
ing chairman.

Referring to the impeachment of
President Johnson, Senator Cole is of
the opinion that the "provocation was
so great and persisted in with such te-
nacity that the House could see no al-
ternative but to take steps to stop it."
(Memoirs, 278.) Of his own vote on
the final test in judicial capacity as
Senator he say : "I voted with the ma-
jority to sustain the accusations. Al-
though among the more radical of my
party, I so decided with no pleasure,
and have since been glad the trial

turned out as it did." (Memoirs, 277.)
Previous to taking his seat in the
Senate, Mr. Cole had in 1866 visited
Southern California. In the course of
his visit he called upon General Phi-
neas Banning at Wilmington; and on
the representations then made he was
afterwards able to obtain from the
Government an appropriation of $200,-
000 for the improvement of Wilming-
ton harbor, the first for that purpose.
This event is of special significance
when viewed in the light of later de-
velopments — the struggle for a free
harbor at San Pedro and Wilmington
as opposed to Santa Monica, urged by
the Southern Pacific Railroad, the an-
nexation of San Pedro and Wilming-
ton to Los Angeles, and the growing
maritime greatness of Southern Cali-
fornia by virtue of Los Angeles harbor.
One of the momentous achievements
of the American government during the
encumbency of Senator Cole was the
acquisition of Alaska in 1867. This
came about in a somewhat unexpected
manner. As Senator-elect, Cole had
interested himself in the project of a
group of San Franciscans who were
hoping to succeed to the lucrative busi-
ness in furs enjoyed by the Russian-
American Fur Company. He had
written Cassius M. Clay, our Minister
at St. Petersburg, on the subject, and
on going to Washington had called on
Baron Stoeckl, the Russian Minister,
with the result that everything was ap-
parently settled in favor of the San
Francisco company. But while the ex-
piration of the charter of the Russian-
American Company was being awaited
the scheme for the outright purchase
of Alaska was brought forward and
the actual transfer by treaty quickly
followed. Cole therefore does not
claim to have been the originator of
the proposition for the transfer, his
opinion being that the first suggestion
of sale came from St. Petersburg
through Baron Stoeckl. Not long after
Alaska had come under American jur-
isdiction he introduced two important
bills, namely: "A bill to provide a ter-
ritorial government for the Territory
of Alaska," and "A bill to prevent the

260

OVERLAND MONTHLY

extermination of fur bearing animals
in Alaska, and to protect the inhabi-
tants thereof."

The Chinese Question, already a
leading issue in California, was first
discussed in Congress in 1869-70.
While opposed to the Chinaman's vot-
ing, Cole was less inclined to exclude
him from the country — he deemed the
exclusion policy more befitting of
China than the United States. "I did
not then believe, nor do I now," he
tells us in his "Memoirs" (lb., 286. Cf.
remarks in the Senate, Dec. 22, 1869.
Cong. Globe, 2d Sess. 41s|b Cong.,
1869-70, Part I, 301), that a number
of Chinese large enough, or of a class
bad enough, will ever cross the Pacific
to put in peril our political integrity."

As a preliminary to the next Sena-
torial campaign it is necessary to ad-
vert to another matter that proved to
be of prime importance to the career
of Mr. Cole. So unrestrained had the
directors of the Central Pacific Rail-
road become in their craving for gov-
ernment aid that they "conceived a
desire to possess themselves of Goat
Island, strategically situated in the
harbor of San Francisco, as a termi-
nus for traffic purposes of their great
system." This bold project was em-
bodied in a bill, which passed the
House with very slight opposition, be-
ing supported by the California dele-
gation and a powerful lobby. In the
Senate it was warmly advocated by
Mr. Conness of California and the
Senators of Nevada and Oregon, be-
sides several influential Senators from
States east of the Rocky Mountains.
"In the meantime," says Senator Cole,
"the people of San Francisco, who
deemed the movement one much
against their interest, became thor-
oughly aroused upon the subject, and
manifested their opposition, not only
through the public press, but by for-
mal action on the part of the city gov-
ernment, and in various other ways. A
most voluminous report, signed by
thousands of citizens, was forwarded
to Washington, and by me laid before
the Senate with explanations." (Me-
moirs, 266.) The concession was op-

posed by the War Department, which
deemed Goat Island necessary for
military purposes and argued that the
construction by the railroad of a solid
causeway from the mainland would
seriously injure the harbor. Cole vig-
orously opposed the' measure, from a
sense of duty to the public. The bill
was defeated, and Goat Island con-
tinues in the possession of the military
authorities of the government.

But his attitude on the proposed con-
cession to the railroad cost him dearly.
Says he: "My opposition at once
turned the long existing friendship be-
tween the members of the company
and myself into hot displeasure on
their part. They utterly ignored the
many and most valuable services it
had been my good fortune to render
to them while a member of the Select
Committee on the Pacific Railroad of
the House of Representatives, only a
few years before. Though anxious to
favor them, as old friends and neigh-
bors, it was not possible to serve two
masters at the same time, and in this
instance the people of San Francisco
seemed to have the first claim upon
me." (Memoirs, 267.) Meanwhile,
rather than continue in active partici-
pation in its affairs and share in the
profits of its "schemes of financial
legerdemain," he had at considerable
sacrifice disposed of his own shares
in the company to Governor Stanford.

Though popular opinion was doubt-
less decidedly in favor of Senator
Cole's re-election in 1872, the vigor-
ous opposition of the railroad inter-
ests, to which must be added the hos-
tility of the whisky trust because of
his exposure of alleged frauds, and
that of the National Bank influence,
proved to be a fatal handicap. Failing
at length to receive the nomination,
which went to Aaron A. Sargent, he
thus expressed his democratic princi-
ples to a crowd of serenaders: "I
started out in my political career as a
friend of the poor and the laboring
man, and I have never deserted them,
nor will I disregard their interests, or
forget my duty to them while I remain
in public life. I have never been se-

A LEGEND OF THE POND LILY 261

duced from my duty to the people by during the period of Reconstruction,

the rich, nor by monopolies or cor- that Los Angeles should be able to

porations, nor will I during the bal- select him to participate in the cele-

ance of my public life. I will continue bration in honor of the visit of the

to be in the future as in the past, the Liberty Bell on November 15, 1915,

friend of the poor, who need friends and to claim him to-day as honored

most of all in such places as I occupy." and esteemed fellow citizen, active

(lb., 350-51.) member of the Centenarian Society —

m + ^ 2 all this is truly cause for genuine fe-
licitation.

That this ardent American patriot, Cornelius Cole has participated

who was among the first to reach Cali- usefully in many and varied phases of

fornia in the gold rush of '49, who par- life in California the Golden, and in

ticipated in the celebration of Califor- the great Union of States he loves so

nia's admission into the Union in 1850, well. Every passing year had dropped

who witnessed the first coming of the new richness into his fruitful life,

Pony Express into Sacramento, and and to-day his retentive memory and

was one of the organizers of the Paci- alert mind constitute his choicest as-

fic Railroad Company, was influential set. Here, in a beautiful old age that

as a loyal Congressman during the does honor to the best thought of

dark days of the civil strife and dis- Cicero's "De Senectute," is a noble

tinguished as a United States Senator Roman, a princely pioneer.

A LEGEND OF THE FOND LILY

Against a mass of purple clouds, calm, dreamed the slumbering trees,

And fireflies gay torches flung across the dew-pearled leas;

Lonely, an elderberry bush knelt by the dimpling pool,

While lily-pads with jeweled prows sailed o'er the waters cool.

Then, from the shadows densely dark, where soft the old trees slept,

A stripling birch with stealthy tread close to the blue pond crept.

There, mirrored in its crystal depths, he saw a star of night,

With diamonds flashing on her brow, and on her gown of white.

Entranced, the birch-tree stooped and told the pale star of his love,

While like a broken silver ring the moon shone from above.

Then, sudden, dawn shot arrows red, athwart the misty skies,

And with a little sleepy yawn, the starpoints closed their eyes.

But she who on the blue pool shone, forgot her far-off home,

So night condemned the errant star henceforth on earth to roam.

The fairies lifted lily-pads, and taught her how to float —

Thus ever since, this blossom fair, rides in an emerald boat.

A zephyr from the flowers filched their dainty, sweet perfume,

And scattered it, with dewdrops rife, upon the shimmering bloom.

Smiling — a slanting sunbeam danced across the waters cold,

And filled the lily's trembling heart with spikes of burnished gold.

Now, when the summer winds breathe low, and soft the starpoints die,

This blossom lifts her cup of pearl, gold-filled, towards the sky.

The birch still leans across the pool, and keeps his faithful tryst,

Reflected like a silver shaft, where of the star he kissed;

And far outshining all the lights that pierce the dome above,

The sweet pond-lily spreads her leaves, and shines for him — her love.

Agnes Lockhart Hughes.

Jehovah's Saintly Jewels

By C. T. Russell
Pastor New York Temple and Brooklyn and London Tabernacles

"When they that feared the Lord
spake often one to another; and the
Lord hearkened and heard it; and a
book of remembrance was written be-
fore Him for them that feared the Lord
and that thought upon His name. 'And
they shall be Mine/ saith the Lord of
Hosts, in that Day when I make up
My jewels:" — Malachi 3:16, 17.

AVERY important trait of char-
acter in any one is humility,
and especially in the Christian.
If we do not possess humility
and meekness, the Lord cannot use us,
and we cannot make any progress. We
do not know what may be one another's
difficulties; but we know that we all
have imperfections. We should fight
a good fight with ourselves. If we
get ourselves into full line with the
will of the Lord, He will help us by
His providences.

Should our imperfection be especi-
ally along the line of lack of meekness
the Lord will try us in this respect, to
show us our need in this direction. Or,
it may be along the line of a lack of
gentleness. We may be rude, and may
say and do things in an unkind manner.
The Lord may therefore permit us to
have certain trials in order to give us
an opportunity of developing this
quality of character. We may have
tests of love for the brethren, for our
own family, for our neighbors. The
Lord might even hide His face from
us for a time to give us a test of love
for Him.

All such experiences "work to-
gether for good to them that love God,
to the called according to His pur-
pose." These are the ones who are
desirous above everything else of be-
coming copies of God's dear Son. With
these the Lord is now dealing.

The Loyal May Have Confidence.

This matter of our testing and try-
ing as New Creatures begins with our
begetting of the Holy Spirit, and ends
when we die. But one may be sure
he is an overcomer; one may have
confidence, "full assurance of faith."
(Hebrews 10:22.) When we entered
into our covenant with God (Psalm
50:5), we gave Him our time, our tal-
ents, our influence, our strength —
everything that we had. In return, He
gave us the begetting of His Holy
Spirit, His providential care, and His
exceeding great and precious promises
respecting the future. If we are still
seeking to walk in the footsteps of our
Lord Jesus Christ, then all is well
with us. Therefore we need not fear.
If any one breaks the contract, it will
be ourselves. God will surely carry
out His part. — 1 Thessalonians 5 :24.

Thus we may have confidence, in
accordance with the Divinely appoint-
ed conditions. As the Apostle says,
"If our heart condemn us not, then
have we confidence toward God."
(1 John 3:20, 21.) But if our heart
condemn us, then it is not well with
us. If we have not been living faith-
fully to the full extent of our ability,
then our hearts will condemn us; and
what our heart condemns in us God
will also condemn. This means that if
we wish to become members of the
Bride class, we must be more diligent,
more zealous. We must study our
character, and see to it that we develop
the necessary qualities for a position
in the glorified Church.

Ask yourself, "How much have I
cultivated these Heavenly fruits and
graces — the faith, the patience and the
brotherly kindness that go with
Love?" Then say to yourself, "This

JEHOVAH'S SAINTLY JEWELS

263

day I shall keep watch over myself
and note what my hands are doing,
how my time is spent, what my words
are, what my thoughts are." Whoever
has a proper love for our Lord, a pro-
per appreciation of what He has done
for us and of what He will yet do, will
not find this careful scrutiny of
thought, word and deed a hard thing.
It brings before us continually thoughts
of God and of Christ, and of the glo-
rious things which He has in reserva-
tion for those who love Him more than
anything else.

Those who thus study their charac-
ter are the class mentioned in our
text when it says, "They that rever-
enced the Lord spake often one to an-
other." They speak to one another in
Bible studies, in prayer meetings,
every Sunday at worship or in the
home. They wish to have all the helps
the Lord is providing in these last
days. They desire to know all the
various parts of God's Plan. They
have become separated from the
masses of nominal Christians and have
been brought together through the
knowledge of His Word. So now they
converse about the good things that the
Lord has shown them. They have a
fellowship of spirit.

This desire for fellowship with those
of like precious faith is not selfishness
nor an impropriety. This class are es-
pecially anxious for fellowship with
those who have characters similar to
their own, similar faith in the precious
blood of Christ, similar consecration,
those who are passing through similar
experiences at the hands of the great
Polisher of the jewels. Their conver-
sation, therefore, will be respecting
"the things which belong to their
peace" — the things which are upper-
most in their hearts ; for this class are
all seeking first the Kingdom of God
and its righteousness, and in earthly
things are content with whatever the
Lord's providence shall arrange for
them.

God's Book of Remembrance.

When "the Lord hearkened and
heard" this class who spoke often one

to another, He had a book of remem-
brance written for them. It is not that
the Almighty had to write down this
information so as not to forget, but
that this statement gives us the thought
that He does not forget and that He
loves this class. God loves the world
with a broad, sympathetic love; but
He has a special love for His true
Church, those who have consecrated
themselves fully to Him during this
Gospel Age. To such the Master
says, "The Father Himself loveth
you." They are as dear to Him as the
apple of His eye. — John 3:16; 16:27;
Zachariah 2 :8.

This book of remembrance was kept
for those who thought upon His name.
In olden times the name stood for the
character. Now we too often give
names at random. Too many times an
ignoble character bears a noble name.
But in olden times people were very
particular to attach a name that would
fit the person's character. For instance
our Lord was named Jesus because He
was to save His people from their
sins. (Matthew 1:21.) Jesus means
Savior. God's name stands for His
character, glorious in righteousness.

Not very many think highly of the
character of our God. There is a rea-
son for this. For centuries the relig-
ious teachers have described the Di-
vine character in such a way as to
make it very undesirable for any to
think much about Him. To many the
name Jehovah God stands for One who
is to be feared for His mighty power,
for One who will throw him over to the
Devil, rather than for one who is to be
loved because of His great love for all
His creatures.

But with God's dear children this is
not so. They love God and delight to
study about His name, His character,
and to think of His care for them.
They are trying diligently to be like
their Father in Heaven; and He is
showing them His character more and
more. Something of the lengths, the
breadths, the heights and the depths of
His wonderful love has been revealed
to this class ; and they are still longing
to know more about Him.

264

OVERLAND MONTHLY

By and by the world will be made to
know about God's wonderful character
and Plan. The light of the knowledge
of the glory of God will then fill the
whole earth. (Isaiah 11 :9; Habakkuk
2:14.) But the Church of Christ get
this knowledge beforehand. In coming
into the family of God we have entered
the School of Christ, and He is teach-
ing us all these things. They are writ-
ten in the Bible "for our admonition,
upon whom the ends of the ages have
come," in order that by thus knowing
Him we may be prepared for our glo-
rious inheritance with Christ Jesus our
Lord and Head. — 1 Corinthians 10:11;
Colossians 1 :12.

The Lord's Precious Jewels.

God's promise to this class that rev-
erenced him and thought upon His
name is that they shall be His in that
Day when He shall make up His jew-
els. As one who cares for precious
jewels, so God cares for His saints.
The man who handles the jewels sees
}o it first that they are properly cut
and polished; and afterwards he
mounts them. They would not look
well except they were mounted; for
the mounting has much to do with the
beauty of the jewels.

God is now cutting and polishing
these saintly jewels of His. The first
and greatest of these was our Lord Je-
sus Christ. The twelve Apostles were
twelve large stones, fine grained and
beautifully cut. Throughout the Gos-
pel Age jewels of different sizes have
been found and cut. Presently God
will mount all the jewels that remain
unmounted. This mounting is done in
the First Resurrection.

Of His jewels our God will make a
beautiful diadem, set in the gold of
the Divine nature. Is He to wear this
royal diadem? Oh, no! Jehovah
needs no diadem to add to the charms
of His Person. To the jewel class the
Prophet declares : "Thou shalt also be
a crown of glory in the hand of the
Lord, and a royal diadem in the hand
of thy God." (Isaiah 62:3.) The
Church will be in the HAND of our
God, to be exhibited to angels and to

men, as a marvelous piece of work-
manship, which God has wrought.

In preparing these jewels the Lord
has not used force, coercion. Origi-
nally they were some of the poor sons
and daughters of Adam. God did not
compel them to leave their father's
house, but simply led them by His
Spirit and by the exceeding great and
precious promises of His Word. Ulti-
mately they will be diamonds of the
first water — pure, stainless. They are
to be faultless in love before the
Father; and perfect love casts out not
only fear, but also selfishness, ani-
mosity, evil surmisings, evil speaking,
pride and self-love. As they daily
think upon the character of God, His
goodness, His infinity, His Plan, His
love, they come to know Him more
and more intimately, and to realize
His grand perfection more clearly.
Thus they are gradually changed into
His character-likeness — "from glory
to glory." — 2 Corinthians 3:18.

God's Jewels are His Sons.

The Lord presents to us in His
Word great truths under figures of
speech which even the least learned
can comprehend. For instance, in-
stead of telling us that He has knowl-
edge of His faithful ones and will
never forget those who are His, and
who diligently endeavor to know and
to serve Him, He pictures the informa-
tion, telling us in His Word that He
has a "Book of Life" and a "Book of
Remembrance." Through these fig-
ures we get the thought that He would
have us get; namely, that He takes
full knowledge of them that are His.

Then He encourages this class with
the assurance that their love and de-
votion shall one day have its reward;
that a great change is coming in His
general dealings with the world of
mankind; and that then every sigh,
every tear and every sacrifice for right-
eousness' sake and for love of the
Lord, for His Cause and for His
brethren shall be rewarded in a man-
ner that is beyond our present compre-
hension. This class, however, serve
not for selfish reasons, but from devo-

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By GRACE MacFARLAND

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OVERLAND MONTHLY

tion, from fidelity and consequently
from love; hence they shall find that
the light afflictions of the present,
which are only for a moment, are
working out for them a far more ex-
ceeding and eternal weight of glory,
as they look not at the things now seen
but at those now unseen — the eternal
things. — 2 Corinthians 4:17, 18.

Without attempting to detail the
riches of grace in reservation for them
that love God, the Scriptures use two
figures that are quite expressive to the
eye and ear of faith — God's jewels,
God's faithful sons. These two phrases
suggest a full explanation of present
experiences. The proper father will
instruct, correct and discipline his son,
although he may pass by the greater
faults and blemishes of those who are
not his children. As respects jewels,
we all know the necessity for cutting
and polishing them, to the intent that
their real qualities may be developed.
Thus the Church class see themselves
in their Heavenly Father's School of
discipline, in preparation to be His
heirs — joint-heirs with Christ in His
Kingdom. They see the necessity of
the trials and perplexities and the per-
secutions of this present time, that
they may be polished and prepared for
the glorious future. — Romans 8:17;
Galatians 3:29.

The time for making up these jewels
is the close of the Gospel Age. The
faithful followers of our Lord Jesus
from His day until now will all have
part in the First Resurrection. All of
the jewels now living will, when pol-
ished and found worthy, be "changed
in a moment, in the twinkling of an
eye," to be with their Lord — the mo-
ment of their death being the moment
of their change. These have no need
to sleep in death; for the gathering
time of the saints has come. They
will be spared from passing through
the culmination of the great Time of
Trouble already begun.

r Day the Close of the Age.

According to our best knowledge of
the Word of God, we have now come
down to the close of the Gospel Age.

All about us we can see the foretold
signs of our Lord's Second Presence
and the end of the Age. To His
Church our Lord Jesus said, "When ye
see these things begin to come to pass,
then lift up your heads; for your de-
liverance draweth nigh." (Luke 21:28,
31.) We see "these things" coming to
pass in the great war in Europe, in the
mutterings of revolution among the na-
tions, in the world-wide Zionist move-
ment of the Jews, etc. The Church,
the Bride of Christ, is almost complete.
But we do not yet know how long it
will be until we shall have finished our
earthly course. That is for the Lord
to determine.

"Faithful is He that hath called you,
who will also do it." Our eye of faith
has sighted the Prize of glory, honor,
immortality and joint-heirship with
Christ. "God hath given unto us ex-
ceeding great and precious promises,
that by these we might become par-
takers of the Divine nature." (2 Peter
1:4.) And we have been able to re-
ceive these promises. There is noth-
ing that compares with them. The
more we know of the great Divine Plan
of the Ages and of the privileges which
we may have in that Plan, the more
we are enthused, the more we would
glorify the Father and the Son, the
more we rejoice together as brethren
in the Body of Christ.

Those who have comprehended this
Divine Plan for human salvation have
an abundant theme, a never-ending
theme, a theme which above all others
will fill their hearts and their minds,
and which will crowd out all worldly
topics as not worthy of comparison. It
will crowd out all complainings and
murmurings, as wholly improper on the
part of those who have been recipients
of so many Divine favors and who
have "much advantage everyway," in
that they have delivered unto them the
Divine Oracles. Especially is this true
in view of our adoption into the family
of God as sons, "joint-heirs with Jesus
Christ our Lord, if so be that we suffer
with Him, that we may be also glorified
together."

Let us, then, as true sons of God, re-

OVERLAND MONTHLY

member the importance of honesty —
"truth in the inward parts" — when we
come together to study the Divine
Word and to help one another as mem-
bers of the Body of Christ. "Let noth-
ing be done through strife or vain-
glory," but let each esteem the other
greater than himself in saintliness,

seeking to see in each other so far as
possible, the noble, the good, the true;
and let each seek to watch his own
heart and to know his own blemishes.
Thus shall personal humility and
brotherly love keep pace with our
growth in the knowledge of Divine
things.

In the Realm of Bookland

"When a Man's a Man," by Harold

Bell Wright.

This is the seventh "best seller"
from Harold Bell Wright's versatile
pen. With the appearance of his first
book, "The Printer of Udell's," the
novelist was heralded as "coming."
When his delightfully sweet story,
"The Shepherd of the Hills," followed
a few years later it was said that he
had "arrived." But it was something
new in the publishing world for an au-
thor to write, consecutively, three suc-
cessful books, and "The Calling of
Dan Matthews," "true to the four cor-
ners of the earth," came as a genuine
surprise. When best sellers continued
to come from his pen in "The Winning
of Barbara Worth," followed by
"Their Yesterdays," and in turn by
"The Eyes of the World," the question
was asked, what manner of man is this
who writes "best sellers" only?

Harold Bell Wright has been called
"the apostle of the wholesome," and
in his new story, "When a Man's a
Man," a story of manhood, he has no-
bly sustained the characterization. He
has never written a cleaner, better
story, nor one that is more uplifting.
It combines those qualities that make
"The Winning of Barbara Worth" a
big and virile novel with the qualities
that make "The Shepherd of the
Hills" a sweet and simple story.

"When a Man's a Man" is a story
of the real heart of the life of the
unfenced land of ranch and range in
Northern Arizona. The spirit and mo-
tive of the story is best expressed,
perhaps, in the familiar lines of that

plowboy poet so dear to the great
heart of the world, "A man's a man for
a' that." While the pages are crowd-
ed with the thrilling incidents that
belong to the adventurous life de-
picted, one feels, always, beneath the
surface of the stirring scenes the great
primitive and enduring life forces that
the men and women of this story por-
tray, and we are made to feel and un-
derstand that there come to every one
those times when in spite of all, above
all and at any cost, a man must be a
man.

The illustrations and decorations —
about fifty in all — are made by the au-
thor from sketches drawn on the
scenes of the story.

Cloth, 12mo. Price, $1.35. The
Book Supply Co., Chicago, 111., Pub-
lishers.

"More Smiles Than Sighs," by Chas.
Howard Kegley.

This little volume of verse is by a
writer who expresses himself in seri-
ous and humorous verse. He has an
observant eye, and it often catches life
at new angles, as is illustrated in his
opening offering, "Mother of the
Tenement." The author opens with
a description of the many kinds of
street and house noises and clangors
that reach her undisturbed slumber.
And then:
"The night grew old, the noises did

not die;
Amid the clangor of approaching

dawn
An infant breathed a faint, but trou-
bled sigh.

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Whereat the woman rose and softly

crept
Across the room. There, in the gloom,

unseen,
She lingered where her dimpled baby

slept,
To know just what that little sigh

could mean."

His comedy ranges from the "Rah,
Rah College Boys" to "The Kicker."
He has a fellow feeling for human
weaknesses and possesses the art of
depicting their comicalities.

Published by Howard C. Kegley,
Pomona, Cal.

"The Principles of Floriculture," by
Edward A. White.

That a book styling itself a text
book could be of such compelling in-
terest from its opening line to its clos-
ing chapter would be a revelation to
those whose favorite form of reading
is found between the covers of the lat-
est novel.

This book, whose arrangement and
illustration are at once an invitation,
enters immediately into the discussion
of plant raising from a practical stand-
point as well as the growing of flow-
ers merely for pleasure.

The plant growing described by Mr.
White is conducted under glass, and
did more home-lovers realize the un-
limited pleasure derived from even a
small glass enclosure there would be
a small green house attached to many
of the homes springing up in the resi-
dential districts whose architecture
rarely fails of the modern garage.

Nothing of an explanatory nature is
omitted regarding the building of a
glass house, and the question of soil,
and the use of fertilizing elements, al-
ways of so much concern to the ama-
teur flower grower, and upon which so
much of his success depends is thor-
oughly explained, so there need be no
disappointment in the outcome of the
plants. The growing of the brilliant
and very beautiful flowers that fill the
florists' windows is made plain, and it
is a great surprise to find that so many
of the more expensive varieties, with

which most of us have only a show-
window acquaintance, are quite readiy
raised from seed. This is true, also,
of many of the foliage plants such as
palms and ferns, among the latter be-
ing the asparagus variety so highly
prized by those who value baskets of
trailing greenery for deep windows
and for window boxes. The climate
of our city is especially adapted to
ferns of such varied and charming
varieties that a small glass enclosure
can easily be converted into a world
of feathery green, rivaling the trop-
ics. As the book progresses, plant
structure, plant reproduction and plant
diseases are taken up and discussed
with an interest and charm that leaves
the reader in the midst of an imagin-
ary flower garden to which he seem-
ingly belongs through his relationship
to those quiet companions who like
himself are sensitive to love and care
and sunshine. Now that there is such
a desire to interest the young of cities
in home gardens and the cultivation of
vacant lots, "Principles of Floricul-
ture" can be remembered as a book
that will not alone instruct, but in-
spire, and should be upon the table of
all those interested in the welfare of
the community.

Price, $1.75. Published by The
Macmillan Co., New York.

"Leonardo da Vinci, Artist and Man,"

by Osvald Siren.

In writing his detailed and compre-
hensive study, "Leonardo da Vinci:
The Artist and the Man," Osvald Siren
wisely treats the great Florentine as an
artist, virtually disregarding his ac-
tivities in other spheres. For it is as
painter and sculptor that Leonardo's
genius shines brightest after the lapse
of nearly six centuries. But in thus
limiting his field, the author confesses
to a "vivid sense of the limitations thus
imposed upon the great subject," for
"Leonardo's paintings and sculpture
formed, in fact, only a part of his crea-
tive work, a fragment of that great
soul's most universal range of activ-
ity."

Biographically, it is learned that

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Leonardo was the illegitimate son of
a Florentine notary; but notwith-
standing this, was reared in his father's
home. His status here, however, was
virtually that of an outsider, and he
seems to have suffered from the spite-
ful remarks of his half-brothers and
sisters. Authentic information re-
garding Leonardo's youth and early
artistic training is extremely scarce.
Indeed, practically all that was written
of him by his contemporaries was con-
ceived in the after-glow of his great
achievements. He entered the studio
of Andrea del Verrocchio about the
year 1467, remaining there ten years.
Verrocchio proved not only a versatile
workman and able teacher, but he
brought the young artist into intimate
touch with the most eminent younger
painters of the day — Lortenzo di Cre-
di, Francisco Botticini and others, and
the older painters, Botticelli and Peru-
gino, seem to have had a hand in his
instruction.

The two best-known examples of
Leonardo's work are "The Last Sup-
per" and the "Mona Lisa" — the latter
due to notoriety rather than to inherent
greatness. "The Last Supper" is an-
alyzed at considerable length and num-
erous sections of the original drawings
are reproduced. The author points to
this as a remarkable example of the
artist's delight in the study of phy-
siognomy. "He loved to bring together
strongly marked types of widely dif-
fering natures in order to intensify
by contrast the dramatic expressions
of the human face."

Price, $6 net. Published by Yale
University Press.

"Under the Apple Trees." Essays by

John Burroughs.

John Burroughs, most beloved and
most venerable of American writers, is
in his 80th year. The fact that "Un-
der the Apple Trees" is his 20th book
is not a singular instance of produc-
tivity except when one considers the
things Mr. Burroughs has written
about. It does not mean that he has
written a book every four years (an
average achieved only by yielding him

remarkable precocity in infancy), nor
if it did mean that would it signify an
unusual amount of labor measured
solely by the ability to fill white paper
with words. For the things of which
Mr. Burroughs writes are age-old con-
cerns, affairs which have been going on
all around mankind since Adam, but
which the majority of mankind have
not had the patience, curiosity or love
to delve into. That is why we have to
be educated up to the insects that buzz
about our ears or down to the ground
we tread upon by the Fabres and Hugh
Millers and John Burroughses.

Price, $1.25 net. Published by
Houghton, Miflin Co.

"On Reaching Sixteen and Other
Verses," by M. Robbins Lampson.
This is a paper-covered booklet of
verses written by a lad sixteen years
of age and just out of high school. Nat-
urally, the subjects sometimes frown
on the youthful poet, but he possesses
an aspiring spirit and ventures boldly.
He has a distinctive touch of the po-
etic spirit, but how far and how high
he will be able to develop it is a ques-
tion that only results will show. For
a youth of his age he shows more than
usual promise. If he avoids imitation
and develops his ideas naturally along
the trend of his own emotions ex-
pressed in the form which molds them
with the magic of inspired poetry, he
may add another name to California's
roll of writers.

Price, 50 cents net. Published by
M. Robbins Lampson, Geyserville,
Cal.

"Christian Certainties of Belief," by
Julian K. Smyth, author of "Foot-
prints of the Saviour," "Holy
Names," "Religion and Life," "The
Heart of the War," etc.
The author frankly states that he
seeks to set forth the fact of the Christ
life as a living reality, an absolute
certainty of belief. "The man whom
I would gladly reach and help is the
man whose mind has not responded to
that fact of Christ Himself. He is the
man who, confused or repelled by

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some of the dogmas which have been
put forth to explain Christ, has come
to look upon the Lord of the Gospels
as invested with an atmosphere of
mystery and uncertainty. He is the
man who has heard it stated so often
and so confidently that the announce-
ment of two of the Evangelists of the
virgin birth is something which no
scientific mind can accept, and that
the element of the miraculous and the
supernatural in the Gospels is there
because of the exaggerated and unen-
lightened veneration of the first be-
lievers in Jesus, that he has fallen into
the trap of thinking Christ as One of
whom we really know but little, and
looks up the deification of Him by the
church as an expression, simply, of ec-
clesiastical superstition." The Christ
that inspired Swedenborg is depicted
and the Bible viewed from that stand-
point.

Published by The New Church
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"Hay Fever, Its Prevention and Cure."
Next to tuberculosis, hay fever is
one of the most interesting and com-
mon diseases, and has received an
enormous amount of study. While it
is not directly fatal, it is exceedingly
distressing, and is certain, by its an-
nual visitation, to lower the vital re-
sistance and induce other illness in the
body. In this way it becomes a pro-
longed and serious menace to the com-
fort and happiness of the sufferer.
The author has had remarkable and
uniform success with a simple treat-
ment of hay fever for the last twenty
years. He locates it as an external ir-
ritant, possibly containing a micro-or-
ganism, or a toxin, which becomes es-
pecially active in the nasal passages

of the individual predisposed by sys-
temic debility or local abnormality.
The author has compiled, arranged and
annotated the most worthy literature
on the subject, and in addition has con-
tributed to the larger part of the book
his all-important point — the successful
treatment of hay fever. Dr. W. C.
Hollopeter, the author, was for twenty-
five years professor of pediatrics in
the Medico-Chirugical College of
Philadelphia.

Price, $1.25 net. Published by Funk
& Wagnalls Co., New York.

"Lights and Shadows in Confederate
Prisons," by Homer B. Sprague,
Bvt. Colonel 13th Connecticut Vol-
unteers. Sometime Professor in
Cornell, and President of the Uni-
versity of North Dakota.
According to the author this narra-
tive of prison life differs from all
others in that it is careful to put the
best possible construction upon the
treatment of Union prisoners by the
Confederates, and to state and empha-
size kindness and courtesies received
by them. The book's accuracy is in-
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by the author during the whole of his
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able records. He was taken prisoner
at Winchester, and has a deal to say
of that battle and his vivid and excit-
ing experiences there. The book is
full of first hand information on hu-
man beings staked in battle, and the
apprising reader will no doubt use this
book as a stepping stone to realize the
problems of some of the awful sacri-
fices made in the present titanic war.
Price, $1.00 net. Published by G.
P. Putnam's Sons, New York.

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August 1. 2, and 3; to Cincin- Toronto # **•*>

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28; to Chattanooga, Tenn., Sep- other points upon request,

tember 11 and 12. Good on AM Trains

_ , _. .. ,_ , Pullman Standard and Tourist

Going Limit 15 days. Sleeping Cars

Return Limit, Three Months «_*.-*,, „ ,

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from Date of Sale, but not af- *"

ter October 31. 1916. Going a nd° Returning

$110.70 to New York is good between New Orleans and New
York by Southern Pacific's Atlantic S. S. Line, with sailings
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For Train Service and Sleeping Car Berths
ASK SOUTHERN PACIFIC AGENT

St. Joseph's Academy

he most select boarding school in the West
>r boys of 15 years and under. Conducted
y the Christian Brothers. Forty minutes' ride
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v little booklet of exquisitely perfumed
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r all occasions to quickly Improve the
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FOR SALE! $2,100

EASY TERMS

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"Las Uvas" is the finest mountain stream
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For Further Particulars Address,

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xvii

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xlx

he German Savings
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togs Incorporated 1868 Commercial

526 California Street, San Francisco, Cal.
embtr of the Associated Savings Banks of

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le following Branches for Receipt and Payment
deposits only

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THE SUPERIOR— Combination Cleaner with Brush Attachment

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][

]Q[

Wherever you are going, whatever
your plans, whichever way you will spend
your vacation, you must have music — or

you miss half the fun. Impromtu concerts, dances,
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— all the music you want is yours if you take a
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There are Columbia models at $15, $25, $35, and
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dealer's today.

New Columbia Records on sale the 20th of every month

THE OCTOBER

Overland
Monthly

THE END OF THE TRAIL

By H. P. HOLT

* *

THE SIGN OF THE OWL

A WAR STORY By W.LL.AM FREEMAN

• • *

SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA

A Humorous Feature in Prose and Caricature
By RICHARD BRETHARTE

* * *

■»■ ^ »

NATIONAL ADVERTISING

By N. C. KINGSBURY

• * •

AND OTHER ATTRACTIVE FEATURES
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Victrola XVI, $200
Victrola XVI, electric, $250

Mahogany or oak

M c CORMACK

The worlds greatest artists true to life!

The artists you want to hear in your home are the noted singers
and musicians who are the favorites of the music-loving: public; who
by reason of their exceptional brilliance are universally recognized as
the world's greatest artists.

Their performances in your home are all due to the wonderful
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their superb art into the home in all its natural beauty. That is why
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Any Victor dealer will gladly show you the complete line of Victors
and Victrolas— $10 to $400— and play the music you know and like best.

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

Berliner Gramophone Co., Montreal, Canadian Distributors
New Victor Records demonstrated at all dealers on the 28th of each month

Victrola

Important warning. Victor
Records can be safely and satis-
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Needle* or Tungs-tone Stylus
on Victors or Victrolas. Victor
Records cannot be safely played
on machines with jeweled or
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To Insure Victor quality, always
look for the famous trademark,
"His Master's Voice." It is on
every Victrola and every Victor
Record. It is the only way to
identify genuine Victrolas and
Victor Records.

-J

Vol. LXVIII

No. 4

AN ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF THE WEST

■ »»»CC<CCO

CONTENTS FOR OCTOBER 1916

CALIFORNIA'S GOLDEN POPPY. Verse . . JOAQUIN MILLER 265

PHOTOGRAPHS OF EIGHT BEAUTIFUL SCENES 266-273

FRONTISPIECE. "The Lady of the Land," Del Mar, California 274

THE LAND OF YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW BELLE SUMNER ANGIER 275

Illustrated from photographs.

THE SNAKE DANCE AT CHIMOPOVY . . MAY M. LONGEMBAUGH 280

Illustrated from photographs.

AT THE SIGN OF THE GRAY OWL. Story . WILLIAM FREEMAN 289

THE ENDURING. Verse ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH 293

COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE .... WILLIAM DE RYEE 294

Continued Story.

INDIAN SUMMER. Verse ALICE PHILLIPS 305

THE END OF THE TRAIL. Story . . . H. P. HOLT 306

THE TORCH. Verse MARY CAROLYN DA VIES 310

THE LAND OF THE LAWLESS .... CARDINAL GOODWIN 311

Continued Story.

THE FORGOTTEN. Verse .... THOMAS GORDON LUKE 314

SENORA ARELLANES M. C. FREDERICK 315

"HEIMWEH." Verse RUTH E. HENDERSON 316

THE LOST MINE IN THE SANTA LUCIAS. Story CHARLES CLARK 317

TO THE WESTERN SONG SPARROW. Verse . EVERETT EARLE STANARD 321

SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA RICHARD BRET HARTE 322

Illustrated from sketches by the author.

NATIONAL ADVERTISING N.C.KINGSBURY 325

THE CHURCH'S HOPE— THE WORLD'S HOPE C.T.RUSSELL 332

THE STEVENSON HOUSE. Verse .... JOE WHITNAH 336

HIGH PRICES— CAUSES AND REMEDIES . . OBED CALVIN BILLMAN, M. P. L. 337

ONE DAY AT A TIME. Verse AGNES LOCKHART HUGHES 340

DOES DRUNKENNESS FOLLOW PROHIBITION? HARRY DAVID KERR, LD. B. 341

AFTERWARDS? Verse W. E. BRCDERSEN 349

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n , ,f= 1 r= 1 i ir=ii 1

In the Yosemite Country

ii ir= 1P =]i ir==ir

"The Lady of the Land," Del Mar, California. Looking northward from

Stratford Inn.

OVERLAND

Founded 1868

MONTHLY

BRET HARTE

VOL. LXVIII

San Francisco, October, 1916

No. 4

The Land of Yesterday and To-Aorrow

A Newly Discovered Southland

By Belle Sumner Angier

WE have been touring the south-
land by way of a change
from excursions to the for-
ests in the north, and incur-
sions of the desert to the east, with
now and then a week or two across the
Pacific in the fairyland of the western
islands. You see, like most young
Americans, we are constantly seeking
change, only that our restlessness takes
the somewhat mild form of seeking
new playgrounds in God's out of doors.
The "Artist" is happy, for a month
or two in the studio at the little, brown
bungalow, and then one morning he
presents himself before the "Lady of
the Land" and says, laconically: "Let's
go!"

The "Lady of the Land" takes a
look into the family purse, has a con-
fidential talk with "Little Sister" and
"Peter Pan," and packs hef portfolio
and the portable writing machine, and
away they go — somewhere — anywhere
— until the "Artist" finds his "picture
country" and settles down to his can-
vases and his long hours of patient
study of the landscape.

That is how we found ourselves in
San Diego County and the lovely and

picturesque Del Mar country. The
purse had been depleted by the last
long jaunt, and "Little Sister" had ad-
vised a run down the coast to San
Diego, always lovely in the spring-
time, as the most inexpensive short
trip she knew, and so we found our-
selves one twilight time seated on the
broad veranda of the delightful inn at
Del Mar enjoying the soft, salt-laden
sea breeze and a glorious approaching
sunset.

Now the "Lady of the Land" and
"Little Sister" had passed a happy
girlhood in this section of the State
at a period when the country was one
large cattle ranch, and one paid
friendly visits to their relatives in Los
Angeles and San Francisco by pass-
ing several weeks on a carriage drive,
or a week or two (according to the
cargo) on a sailing vessel. The "Lady
of the Land" earned her title during
these early days by affirming with
more or less vehemence that it was
through no fault of her own that her
parents carelessly allowed her to be
born east of the Mississippi, and so
far as she was concerned, it should be
forgotten, and henceforth and forever

The Scold.

more she was to be a Californian, and
it must be admitted that she has earned
the right by an enthusiastic loyalty to
the Golden State for several decades.
"Little Sister" was no less a royal
adherent of the "blue and gold," and
so this was one reason why they
were having a particularly good time
on this recent trip of ours, they being,

as an elderly Englishman said, who
had attached himself to our party, the
only living people who seemed to have
any historical associations with the
beautiful country which, to him, looked
decidedly new and undeveloped !

One night, after a delightful stroll
along the white sands, we were gath-
ered together on the north veranda of

The Fairy Staircase leading to Happy Mine," Del Mar, California.

278

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Stratford Inn, overlooking the sea, and
Red Cliff, and waiting for the sun to
set in its customary glory.

The "Lady of the Land" sat in a
great hickory chair apart from the
group, the pose of her small, plump
figure and the tip of her bird-like head
indicating her retrospective mood.

"Do you remember," she called out
to "Little Sister," "how I used to run
away from you when we were gather-
ing shells on the beach, and travel as
far south as I dared, and then retrace
my steps slowly and with my 'head in
the clouds/ as you used to say, and
for a long time I would not tell you
why I made these strange 'excur-
sions.' "

"Little Sister" smiled and explained
to the rest of us that "The Lady" was
always prone to sentimental dreaming,
and that in the long ago days of child-
hood she had discerned a curious out-
line of the face of the cliff underlying
the ranch house, which closely resem-
bled the Sphinx, which she always
declared was the guardian of the San
Dieguito river, and which could be
seen most plainly from a point on the
beach just about where the bath-house
stands now.

"It was a great comfort to me in
those days," said the "Lady of the
Land." "The Sphinx was clearly out-
lined against the sky, and the lower
part of the figure was most distinct
until the storm of 1893 washed away
a portion of it. We were not altogether
free from fear in those days, and
sometimes at night, when I lay in
my little bed at the ranch house I
would hear strange rumblings and
groans and outcries of the wild animals
and birds, and I would be filled with
fear, and then I would call upon the
spirit or the noble Red Cliff Sphinx,
and the thought seemed always to
quiet my fears. You see, I grew up
with full faith in fairies and giants,
and even the trees and the flowers
had a personality in my mind."

"And do you remember," replied
"Little Sister," "the moonlight walks
upon the cliff, and the row boat on the
Serpentine, and how we used to row

miles about the valley in the winding
silvery lagoons on nights when the
moon was bright, and one could hear
never a sound except the leaping of the
silver perch in the water. I liked
the dark nights, too, when in the trail
of the boat there was the flash of fire
of myriads of infusoria, a phenomena
we did not at all comprehend, and
which filled us with much awe.

"And then Cousin Alice came, and
taught us to listen to the sound of the
fairies weaving their silk in the corn-
fields, and Oh! 'Lady,' do you remem-
ber the cave in the Pine Hills that you
and Alice found and hid away in on
bright summer days to weave story
upon story of 'Alice in Wonderland?'

"And do you recall the day we
found honey welling out from a crev-
ice in the cliff, and when we finally lo-
cated the hive in a cave in the can-
yon, the bees chased us out, and we all
carried away stings as souvenirs!"

"Twenty-five years is a long way
back," said "The Lady of the Land,"
"but I never shall forget the long
rides over the Pine Hills, before the
horn of the automobile was heard in
its dolorous honk over the land. Still,
I must admit I enjoy the drive into
San Diego over the Torrey Pine Hills,
past La Jolla, and it takes us less than
an hour in the machine even when we
drive so as to enjoy the views, and I
can well remember that my father and
I took from daylight to dark in the old
days when we drove our broncho pon-
ies over the old Indian trail. Father
liked to go that way to town, and in-
variably recited Bayard Taylor's
"Paso del Mar" as we drove over the
narrow trail supposed to have been the
scene of the graphic and dramatic tale.
'Little Sister' and I have many a time
picked our way down the face of the
cliff on our horses, and made them
swim with us across the Soledad River
where to-day you will see only a dry
wash."

"Nature changes the face of things,"
said the Artist, "but I think that I have
made as interesting discoveries here
this summer as you girls did long ago.
There is the 'Scold,' for instance, a

"The White Cliffs of Sorrento," Del Mar, California.

freak of Nature in the way of an earth
erosion that I would willingly drive
miles to see, and Owen Wister's cas-
tle is a delightful spot to me. Del Mar
is full of surprises and the climate, the
wonderful wild flowers, and the queer
freaks which old Dame Nature has
prepared for our entertainment, will
keep me happy for some time to come.

"Have you girls walked up to the
picturesque old ruins near the school
house, and have you seen the natural
gargoyle which I photographed in the
canyon ?

"And have you listened to the music
of the wind-harp in the fantastic pine
tree? Mrs. S— — , who has lived in
the Swiss Alps, tells me they are not
more picturesque than the Pine Hills

and the Big Canyon.

"Then the introduced features of the
landscape are invariably 'good and I
find fascinating little nooks every day,
while the 'Fairy Staircase' that leads
up to 'Happy Mine' has filled my heart
with happiness every time I have
climbed it, and when I sit and listen
to the song of the wind in the pine
tree harp I am indeed glad to be here
in this lovely land, which to you girls
is full of yesterdays, but to me means
a glad to-morrow."

"Then," said the Lady of the Land,"
"it is settled that we stay another week
— and to-morrow I shall drive out to
the old burying ground of the Diegu-
ino Indians, and lay another flower at
the shrine of Santa Ysabel."

Moki architecture, village of Chimopovy.

The Snake Dance at Chimopovy

By May t\. Longembaugh

Cushman Indian School

THINK! Think hard, ye world-
trotters, sensation-seekers, art-
ists, ethnologists! Who are
the most interesting living
people, what the weirdest rite per-
formed in the world of to-day ? Surely
your unanimous reply is, the Mokis
and their Snake Dance. Mokis?
Query the stay at homes, in Cambodia,
Zambesi, the South Sea? No, in our
own progressive United States, where
we, departers from all tradition, may
witness, in August, the rite which for

more than a thousand years has been
annually performed, unchanged in the
slightest detail. "As it was in the be-
ginning, is now, and ever shall be."
The very method of establishing the
date, which is twenty-one days after
the sun strikes Corn Rock at such an
angle, is unique, being cried by the
Moki herald at seven o'clock in the
morning throughout the pueblo, and
then computed with never a mistake by
the seven beef ribs, which are part of
the paraphernalia of the chief. These

bones are highly polished by years
of calendar use. The Czar of all the
Russias is not so autocratic as this
Moki chief, and the laws — that is, the
customs — prescribed to an iota, are as
unchangeable as those of the Medes
and Persians. Yet the Mokis are
among the happiest, most contented
people in the world, and their organi-
zation so remarkable that a very bril-
liant woman, Barbara Frere Marreco,
of the Woman's Auxiliay of Oxford
University, has been studying it for
two years. Not long ago she spent a
twelve month with the Mokis, and
submitted her thesis to Oxford, where
it was adjudged the best and upon
the most unusual subject, gaining for
her an appointment as professor in ab-

sentia, with orders to complete the
study of their political economy under
salary for two years. At that time
there was an awakened interest in
many parts of learned Europe in the
Mokis and in Indian affairs generally
in this country. Now, however, it is
war; but the Mokis, as ever uncaring,
themselves never conquered, approach
again their annual ceremonial prayer
for rain, for that is, exactly, what the
Snake Dance is.

I have lived for years with the Mo-
kis, witnessed this dance many times,
only to feel the spell it casts, bind
more strongly. You cannot ride the
Painted Desert for three days and be
yourself. Preconceived ideas, book-
learning, worldliness, to-day, all drop

282

OVERLAND MONTHLY

off like Christian's load with every
league of these three days journey into
Mokiland.

The Painted Desert is the Land of
Enchantment, its exquisite colorings
seeming an optical delusion. The lim-
itless, shimmering horizon and mag-
nificent stillness of this mysterious
country constrain one to speak in
whispers lest he break the great si-
lence. Freedom, illimitable space!
Forgotten, impossible, that beyond
those blue peaks lie crowded cities,
reeking tenements, avarice! So at
last, quite selfless, only an incarnate
interest, you reach Chimopovy, one
of the seven cities of Cibola, perched
on a sand stone rising abruptly six
hundred feet out of the desert like the
blade of a knife.

Twilight — mystery! Suddenly some
one cried: "The Snake Men are com-
ing." All grew silent and respectful
as the bronzed figures approached,
each carrying a sack of squirming rep-
tiles, the bag of his venturesome day's
hunt. The bodies of the snake men
were nude, save for the loin cloth.
Each man carried a hoe, a small sack
of sacred meal and a snake whip,
made by tying two feathers to a short,
slender stick. This hunt is made by
members of the Snake fraternity, and
requires four days; one day the
search being made to the north, one to
the south, one to the east and one to
the west. When a snake is discov-
ered, he is addressed as "Elder Bro-
ther," and a quantity of sacred meal
sprinkled over the body; then by
means of the snake whip, he is folded
into the snake bag. Ninety of these
"Elder Brothers" now reposed in
earthen ollas as honored guests in the
kiva; for it is through them that com-
munication is established with the rain
gods, and only through this medium
may Mokis obtain copious rain for
their parched fields. The snakes col-
lected for these sinister rites are ven-
omous rattlers, blue racers, arrow-
heads and occasionally a bull snake,
but rattlers always predominate. The
profoundest ritualistic importance is
attached to every part of the cere-

mony. In some respects, it is the most
unique sight on this continent to-day,
and attracts tourists, scientists, anthro-
pologists and men of letters from all
parts of the globe.

The great day of the ceremony ap-
proaches, the ninth since the begin-
ning of the celebration; and the snakes
are ready for the secret rites which
will make them ceremonially pure,
previous to their public appearance in
the plaza. At one time an aged rattler
crawled into the crevice of a snake
kiva, leaving only a portion of his
nether body exposed to view. Now,
as it would have been discourteous to
extract him forcibly by the tail, they
were obliged to proceed in the cere-
mony without him, much to their dis-
satisfaction. This incident, to the
superstitious mind of the Moki, was
of grave import, and signified to them
that in some way they had been re-
miss in their devotions. The snake
washing is performed by the priests,
and occurs in the secret recesses of
the underground kiva (council hall or
lodge room) for the snake men are
the highest degree Masons of the
Moki. It is, therefore, only from one
of their own number that any of these
kiva ceremonies can be learned. A
former member of the Snake frater-
nity, now Christianized, states that the
snakes are next taken by the priests
from the ollas, or large water jars
which the reptiles are to replenish,
prayers offered, and the heads and
bodies are dipped into the water which
was previously blessed by the priests,
a prehistoric form of holy water. Af-
ter the bath, they are laid on the
sanded floor of the kiva to dry, and
all conversation is carried on in whis-
pers while the snakes are unconfined.
Immediately after the snake washing,
the priests and members of the snake
clan bathe their heads.

As the sun nears the horizon, the
time for the dramatic climax ap-
proaches, and the spectators hasten to
the center of the plaza, where the
shrine called the kisi is erected. This
is made of cottonwood boughs, placed
in an upright position like a shock of

""**

A Snake Chief removing his leather belt on the kiva.

corn or wheat, doubtless in itself a
spiritual form of the desired harvest.
The spectators mount the ladders to
the roofs of the tiers of houses, and a
hush falls as the aged priest enters the
plaza, carrying a bag of reptiles, which
he deposits at the base of the kisi.
Then twelve Antelope priests appear,
their semi-nude bodies covered with
fanciful figures drawn with white
paint. They march to the center of
the plaza, chanting a weirdly monoto-
nous strain founded upon three notes
of the scale, then to the front of the
kisi, stamping in turn on the board
placed in front of the booth. This
board covers a hole in the earth, dug
in order to open communication with
the underworld; and on which the
participants stamp to inform their an-
cestral spirits that the ceremony is
given as proof of their sincerity and
devotion. The Mokis have the old
Greek idea of the underworld. They
come from it, and after death they re-
turn to it, living there. Then the
snake priests emerge from the kiva
and face the Antelope priests and the
setting sun. The two lines of priests
sway back and forth, chanting a blood
chilling strain in simulation of the

snakes' rattles. Their bodies are deco-
rated with white paint, their chins
blackened, and dark brown leather
kilts and moccasins are worn. Just
below the knees are fastened rattlers
of tortoise shell filled with shot. The
noise of these rattlers emitted as the
priests move about is in imitation of
thunder, and the zigzag markings on
the body symbolic of lightning. The
circuit of the plaza is made four times
for the four seasons, and the bearer of
the sacred medicine asperses to the
cardinal points. Then a loud call is
made by the chief snake priest, and a
member of the fraternity is summoned
from the house top for the perilous
task of delivering the snakes to the
dancers. Instantly the snake line
breaks up into groups of three, com-
posed of carrier, hugger and gatherer.
The music becomes wilder now, and
the first carrier drops on his knees be-
fore the kisi to receive a squirming,
clammy reptile, which is placed be-
tween his teeth, the head being invari-
ably carried to the left. In a moment
the reptile is coiled about his neck, the
head inquisitively crawling over his
naked shoulders. The hugger walks
immediately behind the carrier, with

Characteristic poses of the Snake dancers.

his hand on the left shoulder of the
carrier, and waging his snake whip
directly in front of the snake, which
is carried around the plaza four times ;
then the carrier opens his mouth and
the snake drops to the ground, later to
be picked up by the gatherer, who has-
tens to straighten the coiling reptile
with his snake whip. The dance con-
tinues in this manner, until all the
snakes in the kisi have been conveyed
about the ring in the mouth of the
carrier, dropped to the ground and
picked up by the gatherer. One of
the carriers, ambitious to excel, carried
two snakes in his mouth at one time,
they each being, of course, of small
circumference. One agile, inquisitive
old rattler, when dropped to the ground
proceeded instantly toward a group of
women spectators, which caused a gen-
eral hubbub and demoralization of the
crowd. The gatherer adroitly seized
him by the neck and threw him across
his arm, where he hung limply and re-
signedly. The last time I saw the
dance, two little boys, not more than
six or eight years of age, grandsons
of the old chief, joined proudly in the
dance as hereditary priests, holding in
their little mouths the venomous

snakes, and displaying neither fear nor
disgust. They were regarded with
envy by parents of less distinguished
children, and they must have mastered
all the intricacies of the ceremonial
rites.

One thing has always seemed per-
fectly marvelous to me, and I have
frequently risked my life to understand
it, pressing as close as the celebrants
would allow to the hideous mass of
serpents, though, normally, I have a
horror of so much as a finger long gar-
ter snake. How can the gatherers
manage to retain the active reptiles
upon their arms? The snakes writhe
and twist all about the naked bodies
of the carriers as they dance about
the plaza, but when the gatherers pick
up the snakes from the ground with
a curious, quick motion, they hang one
next another on their outstretched stiff
left arms, forming a hideous fringe of
reptiles, which hang limply and quietly
until they are dropped to the ground
by the gatherers. The Indians knew
me and liked me, but even I was sharp-
ly bidden to draw further from the sa-
cred circle, and when Robert Chand-
ler, who sought the freedom of the
Painted Desert, after the tyranny of

THE SNAKE DANCE AT CHIMOPOVY

285

his songstress, Lini Cavalieri, did not
quickly respond to the order, one of
the snake priests took a huge rattler
for a literal snake whip and struck the
aristocrat straight across the face and
shoulders with the ghastly, cold and
slimy lash. What did Mr. Chandler
say? Why, he could say nothing: he
was in Mokiland.

Each carrier must have held in his
mouth at least seven of the slimy rat-
tlers, and each gatherer now had on
an average of seven hung across his
left arm. A sudden hush: The High
Priests of the Snakes advances to an
open place in the plaza, and draws a
large wheel on the ground with sacred
meal. This is another wonderful thing :
The meal is quickly thrown upon the
unmarked ground, and yet the circle
appears almost mathematically per-
fect. Many scholars have remarked
this. Does this circle represent only
the cycle of a year, or has it Buddha's
significance of the wheel of life? The
Indian will not tell the inferior whites.
Suddenly a passage is opened through
the spectators, and a group of women,
wives and daughters of the snake
priests, advance with bowls of sacred
meal. At a signal from the snake priest
the gatherers throw the snakes within
the circle in a horrible, writhing, hos-
tile heap. The matrons and maids,
easily distinguished by the dressing of
their hair — maids by their black locks
wound over wooden whorls to form a
"squash blossom" at each side, these
all start forward, covering the poison-
ous mass with sacred meal. At that
moment, all the tribe upon the house-
tops rise as one man, and leaning
slightly toward the plaza, spit toward
the wheel. I have asked dozens of
Mokis the significance of this shower
of spittle, and think they were honest
when they asserted that they did not
know, only that at this point, it was
prescribed in the ritual, but it is my
own opinion that it is to express to
the "Elder Brother" the tribal prayer,
tc a man, woman and child, for the
moisture which insures their harvests
in a parched land. In a flash, now, the
snake priests are within the circle,

grasping all their hands can hold of
the tangled, furious snakes which they
carelessly fling across their left arms.
When all are taken from the sacred
circle, the priests divide into four
groups, and rapidly descend the steep
trails to the desert at the four cardinal
directions. Throughout the entire
weird, dramatic ceremony a Yale pro-
fessor stood near me, who was viewing
the celebration for the first time. "Am
I awake or am I dreaming?" exclaimed
he. "I cannot believe that my geo-
graphical location is within the boun-
dary of the United States, nor that we
have passed into the twentieth cen-
tury of the Christian era. It seems to
me that I shall awaken in distant Af-
rica or Egypt."

Many of the more sure footed and
agile sight-seers endeavored to follow
the snake priests down the precipitous
trails to the four corners to witness the
concluding ceremony, and to see if the
snakes have had their poison fangs re-
moved before the ceremony. But it is
all but impossible to reach the valley
in time to see the priests gently de-
posit their dreadful burdens upon the
earth, and then to sink reverently upon
their knees with prayerful benedic-
tions as farewells to their Elder Bro-
thers; for the pueblo people are sure-
footed as mountain goats, fleet and en-
during as deer. A man has been known
to run forty miles in a day to work
under a blazing sun in his small gar-
den, which often lies as much as
twenty miles from his home.

But to return with our priests to the
pueblo to watch the final strange rites.
Large ollas of sacred emetic await
them for internal purification; they
must be emptied of self for the well
being of their people, and food to come
for their little ones. The formula of
this dark liquid is unknown to any
white man. It is brewed by the head
snake woman, and some people believe
it to be an antidote for the venom of
the rattler. At any rate, it is a power-
ful emetic, and never fails to do heroic
work. The priests pass through the
severe retching with patience and dig-
nity, and there is no desire to make

286

OVERLAND MONTHLY

A dancer playing with a snake between
his teeth.

merry on the part of any of the spec-
tators. A procession of women now
arrive at the cistern like mouth of the
kiva, bearing huge platters of piki,
goat's meat, squash and beans to the
exhausted priests. This food is re-
ceived gratefully, and the name of the
donor is called, as each contribution is
carried down the ladder to the kiva.
The religious part of the ceremony is
now at an end, and the evening is spent
in feasting and revelry.

The Mokis have no native intoxi-
cant. Their curious red and blue corn
is ground and baked on stones into piki
— bread as thin as tissue paper, not

mashed for "co'n juice," as the South-
erner terms his whiskey. So the feast-
ing is upon this piki, squash, melons,
onions, which they raise in the shifting
desert sand. The Moki is the first and
finest dry farmer in the world. To di-
gress, how often have I seen him
stand, like a bronze statue, with only
a loin cloth girding him, twisting and
boring with a dry stick a hole perhaps
twelve inches deep, into which he may
drop forty seeds of corn? He has
laid the earth carefully down as he re-
moved it, and now he replaces it in
the same order and tamps it down
firmly as he fills the deep hole, that
the sand storm may not blow it up.
Only a Moki could grow such crops in
such a country, where now there is
food for three years in their bins. No
wonder they laugh to scorn the ignor-
ance for their region — of the Govern-
ment agriculturists who assume to
teach them. Mutton, by the way, is
their staple meat. Neither chicken or
turkey will they eat: they believe it
polluted.

Some of the investigators of the
snake ceremony have not returned;
they are coralling as many as possible
of the snakes which have been dropped
at the foot of the mesa, to see if their
fangs have been removed. That does
not solve the mystery, however. Great
numbers at different times have been
examined. In all instances they have
been found intact. The Indian is ig-
norant of the white man's fiery anti-
dote, and the native brew must be effi-
cacious if any are ever bitten. The
writer has talked with many of the
missionaries, traders and government
employees, some of whom have lived
among them for a score of years, but
none recalled any instance of poison-
ing from the venom of the rattler by
members of the snake fraternity.
Many theories are advanced as to the
seeming immunity of the priests, the
most common conjecture being that it
is largely due to adroit handling of the
snakes by the priests; and the skilful
use of the snake whip, which many
think hypnotizes the reptiles.

The fine sincerity of the participants:

288

OVERLAND MONTHLY

was evidenced in all phases of the
ceremony, taking away all that other-
wise might have been revolting. At all
times were they dignified and reverent.
If any one was bitten, no account was
taken of it, the ceremony preceeded
uninterrupted.

People have frequently asked me if
the Mokis really believed this cere-
mony brings rain ; if there is not trick-
ery in the rites; if in these days when
tourists gather from the known world :
writers, sculptors, painters, anthropolo-
gists, men like the noted psychologist,
Dr. Max Verworn, who came from the
ancient university of Bonn last year,
the snake dance has not degenerated
to a performance or become commer-
cialized like the Oberammergau play,
etc. To them, I repeat first, they do
unquestionably believe in its efficacy.
I had a long talk with one of the Mo-
kis about this only last year. He is
perhaps thirty-five, one of the most
interesting and sane people I ever
knew, progressive to a wonderful de-
gree. He has taken several trips into
the world, and brought back ideas
which he has worked out in a large
and modern business. He said to me :
"Does your God answer with rain when
you pray to Him for it?" "No," I
was obliged to admit, "not if the at-
mospheric conditions forbid. He
works according to law." "Huh!"
grunted the Moki, "did you ever know
the rain to fail after our Snake
Dance?" I was obliged to reply that
I had not. To tell the truth, the dances
are always held shortly before the us-
ual fall rains, the one time in the year
when their parched desert is relieved
with copious rains. "Well," pursued
the Moki, "if your God does not heed
prayers for rain and ours do, then we
shall continue to believe. You believe
that your Jesus is God's son, and can
take the prayers — well, we believe that
the snakes are our Elder Brothers, and
can enter the underworld and take our
prayers to the Rain Gods. You do not
prove your belief — we do."

Again, I have never seen more com-
plete absorption or deeper reverence
than the elders pay to this rite, and if

among the younger people there is a
slight consciousness of being under
the limelight, I have never felt that
there was irreverence or unbelief even
in the young, for modern ideas, like
these, have never entered pueblo life;
even though there is almost perfect
equality betwen the sexes, for which
most States are now striving.

The woman proposes; she owns the
house, the children, which is more than
most of us can say. If her husband
does not treat her well, she has only
to place his saddle outside the door,
and he must go. Beautiful she is
while young, and so picturesque that
artists from all over the world have
painted her charms in her graceful at-
tire — a soft, loose robe of dark wool,
caught up on the left shoulder, leav-
ing the right arm nude. It would be
difficult to design anything more stat-
uesque or sensible; the young beauty
is to be congratulated that the style
never changes in the Moki household,
where the men do all the weaving,
even to the wedding garment of the
bride, which is a labor of love, woven
by the prospective groom.

The Mokis are probably the most
religious people on earth; though not
lazy, nor making religious holidays an
excuse for idleness, they devote one
hundred and three days every year to
religious rites, and many of these are
exacting. They have many other
dances all more or less of a semi-re-
ligious character.

Do you know that these Mokis are
marvelously artistic? The cheapest
of their pottery bears designs unusual,
varied, beautiful. Mr. Wanamaker
sends a man every year to their pue-
blo humbly to study their designs for
reproduction upon the art marts of the
world. No wonder they love beauty
and fashion it, these Mokis, with the
marvelous Painted Desert all about
them, teaching them color, shifting its
sand design at their feet as the ages
pass. No wonder they can spend and
have spent sixteen days annually up-
on the Snake Dance for more than a
thousand years, for in Mokiland lies
enchantment, and Time is not.

At the Sign of the Gray Owl

By William Freeman

EMPHATICALLY a modern bat-
tlefield is neither a beautiful nor
an inspiring sight — when the
battle is over; and private Jean
Puichot realized as much as he stag-
gered out of the trench over which
the attacking masses had swept,
walked a dozen aimless paces, and
collapsed again.

A month before the place had been
a wheat field, brown stubble under
placid September skies. Since then it
had been ploughed afresh. The gath-
ering twilight hid much, but there was
a horrible suggestiveness in every
dark blotch that broke the horizon.

Puichot had been in the trenches for
thirty-six hours, he and a couple of
hundred others, watching the tide of
battle ebb and flow. He had the
vaguest ideas as to what had actually
happened. He knew that he had
loaded and fired his rifle almost as
mechanically as the barking little
Maxims worked which the British
had brought up on his left; that the
enemy had been beaten back again
and again, and had still come on; and
then

There followed a gap in his impres-
sions, and he had come to his senses
to find himself alone, under a darken-
ing sky, with only dead men and
horses for company. He had no con-
ception as to the whereabouts of his
regiment. He did not even know if it
still existed. In the distance the lights
of a village twinkled; they looked
homelike and friendly. He reeled to
his feet again, and began a slouching
trot toward them.

The distance was nearly a mile, and
neither then nor at any time did he
understand how he accomplished the

journey. More than once it seemed to
him that the lights could be no more
than a will-o'-the-wisp of his own
fevered brain ; but presently he passed
through a gate into a street, and felt
cobbles beneath his feet. The lights
suddenly confronted him, swooped up-
ward in an enormous curve that
reached the zenith, and were lost in
black oblivion. In a word, he fainted
for the second time.

He regained his senses on a stiff
horsehair couch. Over him a girl
was bending — a full-lipped, dark-eyed
brunette.

"You are better?" she asked.

Puichot nodded. His mouth still
tingled with the sting of the neat spirit
she had given him.

"That is good. Ma foil but you ter-
rified me mightily when you fell into
my doorway."

With an effort he sat up, and
realized that he was in a small parlor
opening out of the public room of an
inn. "What place is this ma'mselle?"

"The village of Frontillac, m'sieu.
This is 'The Gray Owl,' and I am the
niece of Jules Dutil, to whom it be-
longs. I have done my poor best to
keep the business alive since he went
to the war, but it has been melancholy
and profitless work."

"You are French?" he asked. The
fighting had been near enough to the
frontier to make it uncertain.

"Belgian, m'sieu." She spoke with
sudden passion. "If you or the Eng-
lish had come to our help sooner"

"We did our best," said Puichot me-
chanically. He passed his hand over
his forehead. It was caked with clay
and dried blood. "If there is any place
where one might wash"

290

OVERLAND MONTHLY

She pointed to the door that led to
the scullery. There was a pump there,
with its spout over a big stone sink,
and a basin already filled. The ice-
cold water cleared his brain. When
he went back he found bread, cheese,
and a bottle of wine on the table.

"Eat and drink," said the girl
brusquely. "Then, if you wish, you
may go in search of your regiment."

Puichot, who was starving, sat down
obediently. "What has happened?"
he asked.

The girl dropped into a chair op-
posite. Her vivid beauty smote his
senses like a blow. "What happened?
Your men were outnumbered, over-
whelmed, annihilated. The Uhlans —
brute beasts that they are! — slew and
slew. They lost very many them-
selves. Perhaps for that reason they
killed the wounded where they found
them. I heard it from one of their
men who passed through the village
afterwards. If you should be found
here"

"I will go at once," said Puichot. He
was not thinking of himself, but of the
probable consequences to the girl. He
rose unsteadily to his feet.

Misunderstanding him, she smiled
with contemptuous pity. "You are fit
for nothing but bed, m'sieu. There is
a barn at the back which may serve."
She took up the lamp. "Come!"

He followed her across a paved
yard to an outhouse. She flung back
the door for him to go in, and held
the lamp high. The place was clean
and dry, the straw a scented invitation
to slumber.

"B'n soir, m'sieu!" she said, and
left him to undress by the little light
that filtered through the cobwebbed
window.

He fell asleep almost instantly, to
waken a couple of hours later with a
raging thirst and fever. He stumbled
giddily out into the moonlight. The
door of the scullery was fastened on
the inner side, and he was still
fumbling with the handle when the
window of a room above swung back.

The girl looked down. "Are you
dreaming of the Germans, m'sieu?"

"I am thirsty. I could not sleep."

"Wait!" she commanded.

A bolt shot back, and she appeared,
ghostlike, in a long white wrap, her
hair lying in a thick plait over her
shoulder. "Of all the guests I ever

entertained" she grumbled. Then,

after a glance at his face, "Go back to
your bed, and I will bring the water."

She brought it. He drank gratefully,
slept for a time, and awoke again in
the clutch of semi-delirium to find her
still near. She was there again when
dawn broke; and Puichot, weak, but
with the fever abated, made an effort
to sit up.

"You are better," she said, cutting
short his thanks; "but, Germans or no
Germans, you cannot leave. Even an
unprofitable customer must be catered
for, and I have little else to do."

So throughout that day and the next
he remained. A strained tendon made
walking difficult, but he saw enough
of the village to realize that it was
practically deserted.

On the third morning the girl came
to him soon after daybreak. The rat-
tle of distant rifle-fire had already
aroused him. She carried a bundle of
clothing.

"M'sieu, you will surrender your
uniform, and at once."

"Why?" he demanded.

"Old Lisette, who knits lace, tells
me that the Uhlans have already been
seen. These clothes belonged to my
uncle. You must wear them, and take
his place. You understand ?"

Whether he understood or not made
little difference, for she had gone away
with his uniform before he could re-
ply. Puichot put on the garments she
had left, and followed her into the
parlor.

She turned from her coffee-making
to regard him critically. "Bien!" they
fit well! It is fortunate that you and
my uncle are of much the same figure.
Not," she added impartially, "that you
have my uncle's intelligence."

Puichot flushed dully. "Ma'mselle
has been an angel of mercy, all that
a woman could be. But always there
has been a — a hostility"

AT THE SIGN OF THE OWL

291

"Hostility!" she flashed, with sud-
den passion. "And why? Because we
were told that your army, and the Eng-
lish, were to be the saviours of our
country. My father and brother had a
factory near Mons, m'sieu; and be-
cause they showed hospitality to a
party of the Allies they were tortured
and then shot. Your armies fell back
— back — leaving our land devastated.
Many explanations have been made;
but a woman — a simple woman —
judges from what she sees. Do you
wonder that I have no love for your
people?"

"I think," said Puichot, half to him-
self, "that you have never yet loved
any one, ma'mselle."

"It has never been worth while. My
man would have to be un beau sabre,
very tender, very brave, and a hundred
other things ! When I meet him I will
perhaps give him my heart. Until

then Your coffee grows cold,

m'sieu!"

It was their only approach to any-
thing like intimacy. But the fact did
not prevent Jean Puichot falling very
swiftly and effectively in love with
her. For a day or so longer they
waited, always on the qui vive for the
Uhlans; and then an afternoon came
when the half-witted lacemaker fled
past the door with the news that they
were on their way from the next vil-
lage. Already the distant hoof-beats
could be heard.

"What are your plans?" asked the
girl, as Puichot limped toward the
front-door.

"Upon such occasions as this," said
Puichot seriously, "one's nerves re-
quire a sedative. Pere Bompard, three
doors lower down, sells drugs, I be-
lieve?"

"Inquire for yourself," said Lucille,
and turned her back upon him, her
eyes hot with contempt and anger.

He slipped away, but three minutes
later was back again. "The good Bom-
pard was hiding in his cellar; conse-
quently I was left to compound my
own prescription." His tone changed.
"As for you, ma'mselle, you will oblige
me by retiring to the kitchen, and

there proceeding to make your face
dirty and your hair untidy — in effect,
transforming yourself into the least at-
tractive woman in northern France, if
that be possible."

"This is no time for compliments,
even of the clumsiest," she flashed.
Nevertheless, she went. And, after-
wards her obedience seemed to her
the most remarkable thing of that re-
markable day.

The Uhlans — a lieutenant and half-
a-dozen men — approached. The lieu-
tenant rapped with his sword-hilt
against the door, and then, without
waiting for an answer, flung himself
into the room. Puichot, equipped with
a large white apron, had taken his
place behind the counter, and was pol-
ishing glasses.

"Here," said the German, "give us
wine — the best you have."

"I am sorry, Excellency; but there
is so little left"

"We've heard that tale before. If
you're afraid to fetch the stuff, call
your pig of a wife. I am thirsty."

"We are poor folk. You will pay
us?"

"Of a certainty. The Emperor will
call in one of his Zeppelins with the
money to-morrow! Quick, fool!"

Puichot, fumbling among the bottles
behind him, uncorked and proffered
one. The lieutenant filled a glass,
swallowed a mouthful, and flung the
remaider in his face.

"When will offal of your type under-
stand that when a gentleman calls for
wine he does not desire vinegar?
What have you in your cellars?"

"Very little, Excellency," said Pui-
chot, spluttering.

"Go and fetch it. And we will fol-
low. Those who fly down into cellars
have a trick of disappearing alto-
gether. — Sergeant !"

One of the men came forward.

"See first if this animal has
weapons."

"Up with your hands!" said the
sergeant. He jerked Puichot's hands
upward, and sent a row of glasses to
the floor.

"He is unarmed, Excellency."

292

OVERLAND MONTHLY

"Good! Let him march."

Puichot shuffled off in the direction
of the scullery, where Lucille was
clattering aimlessly among the sauce-
pans.

"Wife!"

She started, and turned towards him
with a crimsoned face.

"These gentlemen desire wine."

"I — I will fetch some at once, mes-
sieurs," she said, and went down the
steps which led to the little white-
washed cellar. The officer turned to
the sergeant again.

"Johan!"

"Herr lieutenant?"

"I am tired of shepherding these
animals. They are slow-witted and
slow-moving, and they may, after all,
be deceiving us. Knock the one left
behind here three times on the head
for every minute which passes before
his scarecrow of a wife returns."

The sergeant, with a grin, dealt
Puichot three blows which sent him
staggering.

"Lucille!" Puichot's voice shook
with pain and fear.

She appeared in the doorway, laden.

"Bring them back to the parlor,"
commanded the lieutenant. He fol-
lowed at the rear of the party, and
watched while the girl uncorked the
first bottle. "This is better. And the
scarecrow is less repulsive than I had
imagined. Her grime hides something
of her beauty." He leered at her over
the wine. "Give me a kiss, scarecrow,
and I will risk the dirt."

"I — I would sooner give you another
bottle of wine, m'sieu."

"Except that of La Somna brand,"
intervened Puichot, in an anxious
whisper.

The lieutenant overheard, and set
down his glass, scowling. "What is
that?"

"Nothing, Excellency; nothing!"

"Nothing? When you have still a
better wine which you have not pro-
duced!"

"There are but six bottles, Excel-
lency. It is of a vintage for the con-
noisseur's palate only."

"That shall be proved. Let the girl

go. No; she shall remain as a hos-
tage. And you" — the lieutenant drew
his sabre — "would be wise to hasten."

Puichot moved away. The eyes of
the girl followed him. There was be-
wilderment, and shame, and contempt
in their depths.

A moment later, and Puichot stum-
bled back into the room again, the bot-
tles in his arms.

"Excellency, these are all I have. ]
would implore you"

"Open them, dolt. And you" — he
indicated the other men with a mag-
niloquent wave of his hand — "may
help yourselves."

Puichot knocked off the neck of a
bottle, received a blow for his clumsi-
ness, and was ordered to bring and fill
fresh glasses. He obeyed. The gir]
watched him secretly, but would nol
meet his eyes.

"Himmel," said the lieutenant
drinking, "but this is rousing stuff !'
He smashed open a second bottle, and
then a third.

"Excellency, I am ruined!" moaned
Puichot.

"Swine such as you are lucky to es-
cape slaughter. We will sing, and the
pair of you shall dance to our singing,
Listen." He bellowed the chorus of a
taproom song. "Sing, wench, sing
or" The lieutenant staggered to-
ward the girl, gripping his sabre.

She gave a choked cry of terror, and
shrank back. Puichot stood motion-
less until the man was a couple of feel
away, watching him with keen, cri-
tical eyes. Then he dealt a sudden,
swinging blow which caught the pro-
truding chin fairly. The lieutenanl
went down with a crash which set the
glasses jangling, and lay still.

The sergeant made a movement tc
rise, but dropped back heavily in his
seat. None of the other men stirred;
their breathing had become heavy,
their eyes dull and fishlike. One by
one they slid forward in ungainly
heaps.

The girl stood as though frozen.

"What — what does it mean?"

"The wine was drugged," said Pui-
chot. "I got the stuff — it's laudanum

THE ENDURING

293

chiefly — from Pere Bompard's."
"Will they— will they die?"
He shook his head. "I am no poi-
soner, ma'mselle. They should come
to their fuddled senses in a few hours.
Before then" — he eyed her with a faint
smile — "one could travel some consid-
erable distance, especially if one had a
vehicle."

She understood. "I will harness the
mare at once, m'sieu. And later, when
I am able, I will try to thank you."

Dusk fell, and found the two of
them plodding along a road that
stretched, an interminable gray ribbon,
between a succession of wind-swept
poplars and over many hills. They
had taken what Puichot conceived to
be the direction of the Allies' lines;
but their chief anxiety was to avoid
any chance patrol of Uhlans. Once
they took refuge in a spinney, hearing
hoof-beats that soon died away; and
later they were compelled to make a

long detour because of a swollen
stream, a sinister freshet in which
the bodies of men and beasts floated
darkly.

Night had enwrapped them when a
sudden "Halted broke the silence.
Puichot climbed down from the cart,
but in a moment returned.

"Be thankful, ma'mselle. It is a
French outpost. They will care for us
both until to-morrow."

"And afterwards our roads will lie
apart."

"Must they?" he asked, in an un-
steady voice.

"We — we have known one another
so short a time, m'sieu."

"A lifetime, an eternity, ma'mselle!
You are Belgian; I am French. Every-
thing in the world may divide us; but
I love you. If I go back to the wars
and fight — I, who am no beau sabre,
but whose very soul is yours — will you
wait for me?"

"Yes," she whispered, and with
brimming eyes lifted her lips to his.

THE ENDURING

Another summer now is gone
With riot gay of wind and leaf,

And comes as silent as the dawn
The hours of autumn brief.

On hills the crimson fires shall wane
To drifting ashes gray and cold,

And all her splendor be in vain —
A tale that has been told.

How good to know alone supreme,
While seasons come and go anon

With fleeting sense of trance and
dream,
That love lives on and on !

Arthur Wallace Peach.

Coyote O' The Rio Grande

A Thrilling Novel of the Texas-Mexican Border
By William De Ryee

Author of "Lois of Lost Lagoon," "Stabbed," "Whirlwind Wally Takes a
Wife," "His Dream Girl," "The Genuine Article," "Pansy," etc., etc.

Continued From Last Month

VI.

THE MAN and the girl whirled
to find themselves looking into
the muzzle of Ben Sidney's
Winchester.

Coyote gasped. It had slipped her
mind that the deputy might have a
saddle-gun.

Sidney chuckled disagreeably.

"Seems to me," he said sneeringly,
"yuh two is gettin' mighty confiden-
tial-like. Better save some o' thet
friendship fer me, Coyote. Only, I
wants a leetle more'n hand-squeezin'
fer mine."

He rose slowly. His carbine, held
waist-high, now pointed at Coyote.

"Drop thet gun." His tone was men-
acing.

"Don't yuh do hit!" Gotch was on
his feet in an instant. "Don't yuh do
hit. He won't shoot yuh, honey. Yuh
hold on to thet carbine."

Sidney laughed. He had an odd
habit of laughing at any and all
times.

"Say," he chuckled, "did yuh ever
hear o' Ben Sidney bluff in'? Now
one more word from yuh, Gotch Lum-
sey, and yer'll be a-spittin' blood."
The deputy spat, as if to emphasize
his words; then, chuckling again, he
addressed the girl. "I only wants
what's comin' to me," he drawled.
"I've allers liked yuh, Coyote. Yuh
never did seem to take much stock in
me, but thet warn't my fault. Seein'

as how yuh won't make up to me, am
as how I've got the upper hand jus
now, I'm gonna oblige yuh to pay m
for them cartridges yuh swiped fron
my Colt. Just one leetle kiss, 'honey
and we'll call hit squar. But, fusl
yuh must drop thet gun. If yuh don'1
I'll shoot hit out o' yer hand. No\
drop hit — quick!"

Coyote had no intention of partinj
with her weapon. She, too, was oi
her feet now, and, instinctively, he
fingers tightened about her baby car
bine. But it was useless.

With a lightning-like spring, aston
ishing in one of his apparent lazy
dilatory nature, Sidney was by he
side, his big left hand gripping th<
barrel of her gun. He laughed mali
ciously as, with a quick jerk, he flunj
the weapon far into the bushes. Stil
covering Gotch with his own carbine
he caught the girl about the waist wit!
his free arm and forced her to him.

Panting, enraged, Coyote fough'
desperately, tiger-like. But the am
about her was like a hoop of steel. Il
drew her to the man, in spite of all
her young strength. Viciously hei
fingers tore at his face, but he only
laughed at her efforts. She screamed
as she felt his stubby-haired lips
pressed against her cheek. Then a
deafening report set her ear-drums vi-
brating. The arm about her suddenly
relaxed, and dazed, she sank to he*
knees. But her stupefaction was only
momentary. Another instant, and she

COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE

295

was again in full possession of her
wits. She saw Gotch stoop down be-
side the motionless form of the deputy
and take the Winchester from his
right hand.

"Yuh didn't kill him?" she gasped.

The cowboy turned at the sound of
her voice. "Naw. He's only dream-
in'."

"Where did yuh shoot him?"

"I didn't shoot. He done the
shootin'. I put him to sleep with my
quirt."

Then she noticed that he held a
quirt in one hand, handle-end down.

"Oh, Gotch!" she exclaimed. "He
tried to kill yuh, didn't he ?"

"He shore did." Gotch grinned.
Then, flinging the quirt in the direc-
tion of his saddle, he rose, swung the
carbine's strap over his shoulder, and
approached the girl. With both hands
he assisted her to her feet. She still
felt a little faint, unstrung. Furtively
she glanced to where Sidney's huge
form lay stretched upon the ground.
She shuddered and asked: "Be yuh
shore he ain't dead?"

"Shore," replied the cowboy. "Yuh
can't kill one o' them kind o' critters
with a crowbar. The only way to an-
ni'late 'em is to git a bomb or a can-
non and blow 'em up." Gotch removed
his Stetson and stuck one finger
through a bullet-hole in the crown.
"Wish I'd wore my ole hat," he
lamented. "Thar's twenty dollars gone
to heck."

Coyote drew closer to the tall
puncher, and, laying one small hand
on his arm, looked anxiously up into
his face.

"I be a-wantin' yuh to take keer o'
yerself, Gotch," she said. Then, sud-
denly, her gaze fell. " 'Cause — 'cause,
if anything'd happen to yuh, what'd
become o' me?"

Awkwardly, he put one arm about
the girl. He was not much of a ladies'
man — this rough, uncultured cowboy;
but he loved none the less, and his
heart was big. Gotch could "blow
up" an evil-doer with never a flutter of
heart or nerves but it had taken all the
courage he could master to put his

arm about this child-woman — this
sweet, wild, beautiful little creature
whom he had loved for so long. Again
and again he tried to say what he
wanted so bad to say, but speech ut-
terly failed him. Her nearness, the
beauty of her eyes, the subtle odor of
her hair, fairly intoxicated him. At
last, in desperation, he blurted out:

"I loves yuh, Coyote."

Without a moment's hesitation the
answer came :

"I loves yuh, Gotch," she whispered.

Gotch sighed heavily.

"I don't see how in thunder yuh can
love an ole red-headed, crooked-eyed
skunk like me," he said presently.

"Aw, I thinks yer're arful good-
lookin', Gotch. Anyway, it ain't yer
looks I be a-lovin', I loves yuh just
'cause I loves yuh. But yuh could git
thet crooked eye fixed if yuh wanted
to. Be yuh a-knowin' thet?"

He glanced at her uneasily.

"Fixed?" he queried; then added,
suspiciously, "I don't want nobody
monkeyin' with my squinters."

"Once," Coyote explained, "a long
time ago, I asks daddy what made yer
eye crooked and he said as how thar's
doctors in the big cities what could
straighten hit in no time."

Gotch shook his head skeptically.

"They might punch the durned
thing out. Then wouldn't I be in a
hell o' a fix?"

"Wall, I ain't a worryin' about yer
eye, nohow." And reaching up with
her two small hands she drew his face
down to hers, "I wants a kiss, Gotch,"
she whispered softly.

The rims of their Stetsons were
touching now.

Gently, reverently, he pressed his
lips to hers. And in that short space
it seemed to the cowboy that he gave
and received all the love in the world.
Now that the first dreaded ordeal was
over, he was loath to desist. He kissed
her again and again, revelling in the
ecstacy of satisfying in a small degree
that love-hunger that had gnawed at
his heart for years.

At length he released her, and said :
"Guess yuh'd better be gittin' home

296

OVERLAND MONTHLY

now, honey. Come. I'll go with yuh
to yuh hoss."

"How about him?" Coyote indi-
cated the still motionless form of the
deputy.

Gotch grunted contemptuously.
"Humph! Don't yuh be a-worrin'
about him. He's liable to dream all
night. I'm a-gonna take him to Lar-
edo with me. And don't yuh be a-
worrin' about me nuther. I'll be a-hit-
tin' the trail f er the Crescent O in two
or three days. Tell Sadie I said to
take good keer o' yuh till I gits back."

Ten minutes later, the tall cow-
puncher watched Coyote and Imp dis-
appear around a bend on Huisache
Trail. Then, whistling "There'll be a
Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,"
he sauntered back toward the camp.

VII.

Three days after the funeral of
Richard Carlton and Dennis McAll in
Laredo, the deceased ranchman's wife,
Eda Carlton, sat on the veranda of the
Capitol, embroidering. John and Kitty
Carlton sat near the window, the for-
mer smoking a cigarette, the latter
reading a novel.

It was an unusually sultry day. The
glaring sun shed its torrid heat down
upon the bald hill. Some hundred
yards from the house, the foreman's
cottage, the corrals and outbuildings
seemed cowering beneath its burning
rays. Out over the valley the heat-
waves danced against a vernal hori-
zon. Far to the left a thin, winding
line of dark-green live oak and elm
trees showed where the Rio Grande
flowed on its way to the Gulf of Mex-
ico. The Crescent O outfit was round-
ing-up over on Magury Hill, and the
ranch seemed desolate and deserted.
A solemn quiet reigned about the
place, save for an occasional clatter
of dishes, pots and pans from the kit-
chen, where Sadie was busy cleaning
up after a late noonday meal.

John Carlton, a tall, handsome, ath-
letic young fellow, threw away his
cigarette, and rose.

"No, mother," he yawned, with a
well assumed pretence of indifference,

"I don't believe I would give her to
Ben Sidney — even if he is in dead
earnest about wanting to marry her.
But, somehow, I doubt his sincerity.
I'm not claiming to be an expert judge
of human nature, but I can't help be-
lieving that there's something hecti-
cally wrong about that fellow. He's
not what he pretends to be. Besides,
a blind man could see that she hates
him." Young Carlton yawned again,
then, smiling behind his hand, he
added : "Why don't you take her along
with you? She wouldn't be in the
way, and could help Sadie out."

"John Carlton!" snapped the widow,
eyeing her son over the gold rims of
her glasses. "Have you gone crazy?
I ^ shall certainly do nothing of the
kind. If you are bound to stay here
with your share of this land, why then
stay; but I have made up my mind
about Coyote. She will be the wife
of a respectable man, an officer of the
law and a property owner. You can
find enough work for Sadie about the
place here. I'm sure we don't want
a pair of ranch-raised long-horns
stumbling over our mahogany, denting
up our silver and breaking our cut
glass — do we, Kitty?"

Thus appealed to, Miss Carlton
glanced up from her novel, and,
smoothing her yellow tresses with a
bediamonded hand, averred: "Well,
I should say not! Cattle fair best on
ranchers."

"And catamarans in drawing-
rooms," retorted her brother. "Con-
found city life!" he added, vehement-
ly. "I've got my fill of it. I'm sick
of back-biting scandal-mongers, smil-
ing hypocrites and match-making
mammas. I'm tired of silly debu-
tantes, dress-suits, false hair and ar-
tificial complexions. I'd rather help
in a round-up out here than go to a
theatre in town. By George ! I'm glad
my share takes in this old ranch house
and this hill. It's the best view in all
Texas. I love this old place. I'm go-
ing to stay out here and work and be
healthy and make some money instead
of spending a lot. I'll have Curtis
come out next week and survey off my

COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE

297

eighty sections; then I'll have it
fenced, take my share of the stock and
start in pronto. Did you say that syn-
dicate man would be here to-morrow?"

"Yes. Rudolph is coming with him
to make the sale and attend to every-
thing for me."

"Good. When will you leave for
Los Angeles?"

"To-morrow night. The Welling-
tons are expecting us at Las Palomas,
their summer home near Santa Cruz,
about the 15th." Mrs. Carlton sighed.
"Too bad Richard had to shuffle off
and spoil by house party."

"Then everything's settled — except
about Coyote." And again the young
man assumed a casual tone and man-
ner. "I want her to stay here with
Sadie. It's nice to have women folks
about a place, and I'll pay them well.
Dennis McAll was father's old friend,
and I'm going to see that Coyote
doesn't want for anything."

"Yes, and the first thing I know,
you'll be marrying her," snorted the
widow. "I wish Richard had left the
whole of this property to me, his be-
loved and loving wife, as he should
have done ; you wouldn't be talking so
big. Why, you're just a sentimental
kid. What do you know about ranch
life, anyway? Now, remember what
I say, John, you'll go broke in a few
years, besides disgracing the family
by marrying that impossible girl. But
if you do, don't come back to me —
just strike out for yourself. You're
nothing but a foolish child with a head
full of day-dreams. Think of her
stock, John, her common blood. She's
of the same stripe as Gotch Lumsey,
the murderer of Dennis McAll. She — "

"I'll not go broke, so you needn't
worry. And I don't believe Gotch
killed Dennis McAll. I've known
Gotch ever since I can remember. He's
rough but he's true blue. I don't care
how much evidence there is against
him, I don't believe he did it. Why,
Allan died when the boy wag ten
years old, and, after that, McAll cared
for him like a father."

Mrs. Carlton's lips curled, but she
deigned no further speech on the mat-

ter. In the ensuing silence, the youth
took out his watch, and, glancing at the
time, exclaimed: "By George! It's
three o'clock!"

He ran into the house and presently
reappeared rigged out in complete
cowboy attire — spurs, boots, chaps,
bandanna, Stetson, cartridge-belt, hol-
ster, and a big, pearl-handled Colt's
revolver.

"Well!" gasped Kitty.

"John Carlton! What in Heaven's
name !"

But as the object of her exaspera-
tion was already half way down to the
corrals, the widow became speechless
for a minute, while she stared after
her son open-mouthed. Then, turning
sharply upon her daughter: "Where
did he get those — those terrible
things?" she demanded.

"In Laredo, I suppose," replied
Kitty, laconically.

Mrs. Carlton adjusted her spectacles
and, shading her eyes with a thin, aris-
tocratic hand, looked down at the cor-
ral. Suddenly she cried out:

"Heavens! Look at that boy!"

Kitty turned in time to see her bro-
ther shoot off down the trail like a
wild Comanche, a gray streak of dust
rising from the corral gate to where
his horse's hoofs pounded the path.

"He'll be killed!" gasped the
widow.

"Of course he won't," yawned Kitty.
"You can't kill a fool."

Ten minutes later, John Carlton, rid-
ing briskly along Rattlesnake Trail,
brought his horse to a sudden halt
and listened. He had thought he
heard some one singing in the mes-
quites off to the left. But all was
silence, save for the sighing of the
wind in the trees, and the distant call
of a whip-poor-will. He spurred his
horse and cantered on. But he hadn't
gone far when he stopped again, cer-
tain that he had heard a human voice.
Removing his big Stetson, he shielded
one ear from the wind, and listened.
This time he was rewarded. Borne to
him on the fitful breeze, came a
dreary cow-boy song. He recognized

298

OVERLAND MONTHLY

the voice. There was something of
sadness in the dismally wailing notes
— something that suggested the far-
flung, mournful howl of a coyote.

"Darlin', I am sad and lonely,
Sad and lonely as I can be;

Place yer hand upon my brow, love,
Have I not been kind to thee ?"

"No wonder McAll named her Coy-
ote," muttered the young rancher. Sur-
mising that the girl was on the same
trail as he, but around a bend he knew
to be near, he spurred his horse into
a loap, and, presently, came upon her.
She was riding Imp Indian-fashion —
bare-back and without a bridle. Also
she was hatless and bare-footed.
Imp was jogging along with lowered
head and closed eyes, evidently lis-
tening to his mistress' song, when Carl-
ton's unexpected appearance startled
both horse and rider. The mustang
shied, all but throwing the girl. But,
as the rancher stopped, then ap-
proached at a slower gait, the cow-
pony recovered from his scare and be-
came quite submissive.

"Hello, Coyote," he said, lifting his
Stetson.

"Howdy, Mister Carlton."

The young man replaced the hat and
bit his lip. He didn't like the idea of
her calling him "Mister Carlton." He
wanted her to call him "Jack." The
very sight of her caused his heart to
flutter oddly. The thought of her be-
ing out here alone with him made his
pulses race. At last he would have
a chance to talk to her without being
spied upon by his eagle-eyed mother.
The girl's strange, wild beauty had
completely captivated him, and the
few words that had passed between
them since his return from the East
had only served to heighten his ad-
miration and make him long the more
for a chance to become better ac-
quainted. Their mutual loss and sor-
row would have drawn them closer to-
gether had it not been for Eda Carl-
ton's ceaseless watchfulness. And
John well knew what a rumpus would
be made if his mother even suspi-
cioned that he was becoming interest-

ed in the girl. So it was with a thank-
ful, though palpitating heart that the
young fellow finally brought his horse
to a standstill so close to Coyote's that
he felt his stirrup touch her bare,
brown foot. Then, suddenly, he real-
ized that he was actually being laughed
at. After calmly eyeing him up and
down, from the crown of his big Stet-
son to the rowels in his silver spurs, a
slow smile spread over Coyote's small
face.

"Yuh be a-lookin' mighty pert," she
said, at last. Then, before he could
frame a reply, she burst into a merry
peal of laughter. It was the reaction
from sorrow — her first expression of
mirth since that fatal night of the
shooting. She threw her head back
and sent forth peal after peal of such
joyous, childish, mirth-provoking
laughter that Carlton, in spite of a
feeling of discomfiture, could not help
but join in her merriment. At length,
however, she subsided, and, with tears
in her eyes, exclaimed: ''Jimminy!
Yuh shore be a brand new cowboy!"

John felt his face burning. He hadn't
been prepared for this onslaught of
ridicule from a little "country girl."
But was it ridicule? He wasn't sure.
He felt queer. For the first time in
his life he couldn't think of anything
to say. Confound it ! What had come
over him? Why couldn't he talk, in-
stead of sitting there grinning — like a
sissy-cat ?

"I — er — you know " he faltered.

"Lemmie see yer gun." Coyote's
big blue eyes were gazing at the pearl
handle of his new Colt.

Obediently, meekly, he drew the re-
volver and handed it to her.

She examined it for a moment in
silence. Then :

"Jimminy! Hit shore be a ramp
purty cutter. Does yer know how hit
works ?"

"I — er — yes, I know how to shoot
it."

She snickered, and handed the gun
back.

"Wall, can yuh rope, throw and tie
a steer in thirty-two seconds?"

"I — I don't know."

COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE

299

"/ can. Gotch did hit in twenty-
nine and a half, and Beany in twenty-
seven. Beany's got a medal what he
won at San Tone lawst fall. He's the
State Champion, Beany is. Twenty-
seven seconds! Thet's beatin' hell,
ain't hit?"

Carlton was fairly petrified. He
saw that she had used the word in all
innocence. He saw, too, that she
hadn't meant to ridicule him. Indeed,
her childish fun-making had been a
sign of good-fellowship rather than
dislike. But after her amazing speech
his embarrassment became greater
than ever.

She appeared for the first time to
notice his uneasiness.

"Aw, Mister Carlton," she said con-
tritely, "I didn't mean to hurt yer feel-
in's. Honest, I was only a-playin'."

It was his turn to laugh now, and
he did so, spontaneously, boyishly.
The idea of her hurting his feelings
seemed to tickle him. But, somehow,
he felt better after what she had said.

Calmly, he took one of her small,
brown hands in his own. Certainly
not in the cities, he mentally told him-
self, could there be found her equal
in beauty — such tiny, Nature-painted
lips, such ink-black hair above such
great blue, wonder-filled eyes.

"We seem to have drifted apart,
Coyote," he said. "Why is it that
eight years have made such a differ-
ence in our friendship? Don't you
remember what good playfellows we
used to be?"

"Thar ain't no dif'rence in our
friendship, Mister Carlton. We'll al-
lers be good friends."

"I wish you wouldn't call me 'Mis-
ter Carlton.' You used to call me
'Jack.' That's one difference the
years have made."

She withdrew her hand, and smiled
up at him a little shyly.

"All right — Jack."

Truth to tell, Coyote was something
of an actress in her own small way.
She was afraid to trust herself to be
serious with this handsome young fel-
low from the "big city." Something
whispered to her to be careful. She

felt that he held some strange kind
of power over her that she must re-
sist. He seemed to draw her to him
like a magnet draws a needle. She
wanted to be near him always. But
something told her that during the
past three days she had thought al-
together too much about his dark,
wavy hair, his fine brown eyes, and
his frank, winning ways. And, too,
the years had wrought a difference.
He was not her play-fellow any more.
He was educated now; knew more
than she could ever hope to learn in
all her life. And that did make a dif-
ference. Still, it didn't keep her from
liking him. But was she just "liking"
him ? She didn't know. At times she
compared him with Gotch — poor
Gotch! Certainly the red-headed
cowboy had never affected her like
this. Did she really love Gotch? She
wondered. Mightn't she be learning
to love Jack? She wondered — and
dreamed. She had never known a
mother's advice and love. Like her
wild namesakes, she had to depend
upon instinct, and she was cunning
and careful. But that great force,
which is love, and which the girl's in-
stinct helped her to vaguely recog-
nize, made itself felt more effectively
than ever before in the next few mo-
ments.

Acting on the spur of an impulse,
Carlton had possessed himself of both
her hands. He was an impetuous
youth. He had never known what it
was to be denied anything he wanted.
And this girl, differing so from the
type of bold, frivolous, society butter-
flies he had known in his Boston set,
held an irresistible attraction for him.
It swept over him all of a sudden;
dominated him. He wanted this wild
little creature — wanted her more than
anything else in the world. It wasn't
as if she had been a total stranger to
him. He knew she had good blood in
her veins. He knew her father,
though rough and uncultured, had been
a man of truth and honor — a God-fear-
ing man. Moreover, he (Carlton) was
rich ; well able to care for her. Would
not the spirit of the old foreman sane-

300

OVERLAND MONTHLY

tion their marriage? He thought so.
It was all plain to him now. They
needed each other; were meant for
each other.

"Coyote," he said, his voice trem-
bling slightly, "what if I should tell
you I loved you, and — and wanted to
marry you?"

CHAPTER VIII.

She did not answer him. Her hands
lay passive in his. Her head slightly
bowed, she kept her gaze on the
ground.

"Coyote," he persisted, "look at
me."

She didn't want to look up. Yet,
something — some strange force im-
pelled her to comply with his wish.
Her long, dark lashes slowly lifted and
revealed her wonderful, blue eyes
looking straight into his. Their ex-
pression reminded him of the half-
wistful, half-frightened look he had
often noticed in the eyes of wild crea-
tures. | £

"Little sweetheart — " his tone was
tender, earnest — "I do love you, and
I do want to marry you."

Involuntarily, Coyote started.
Vaguely, she had recalled something
her father had said at the supper table
— that last night they were together.
She tried to remember his exact
words. For an instant her mind
groped, then, like a flash, they came
back to her: "John's a good boy, and
I hopes he'll marry yuh some day,
honey." Dear, old daddy! How
strange it was that things should turn
out like this. She wondered if he
knew. Well, if daddy

"What is it, Coyote?" Carlton didn't
understand her continued silence.
"What are you thinking of, dear?"

"I be a-thinkin' about what daddy
said the night he was killed." Her ex-
pression grew suddenly sad. "Dear,
good old daddy," she added, and a
tear rolled slowly down her cheek.

The sight of her swimming eyes and
pathetic little face gripped at Carl-
ton's heart-strings.

"What did he say?" he asked gently.

"He said " her voice broke. A

paroxysm of grief shook her small
rrame. She snatched her hands away
from him, and, covering her face,
burst into long, racking, uncontrollable
sobs.

He rose in his stirrups, and, putting
his hands under her arms, lifted her
bodily from her horse. Then, slipping
over his cantle, he placed her side-
wise in his saddle.

His arms were about her now, his
lips kissing away the tears on her
cheeks.

"Never mind, little darling," he
said. "I'll try and take your daddy's
place, and I know I'll love you just as
much as he did. You see, my daddy
went along with yours. They were
life-long friends — went to school to-
gether in their childhood — and I think
they must have wanted to go together
over the last long trail. I loved my
daddy too, and that's why I can sym-
pathize with you in your loss and sor-
row."

His words had a soothing effect up-
on her. Her sobbing ceased ; she
nestled in his arms like a tired little
child.

"Now tell me what it was your
father said, that last night," he
pleaded.

"He said " she began; then her

lips suddenly shut tight.

Carlton was nonplussed for a mo-
ment; the next instant he caught his
breath. Then, smiling, he said,
"Didn't he say that he hoped I'd marry
you some day?"

Unconsciously, he had almost used
McAll's identical words.

Coyote gazed up at him in wide-
eyed astonishment.

"Why them's his words perzactly!"
she exclaimed. "How'd yer know?"

"I just guessed it. But maybe your
daddy whispered to me — who knows?
Anyway, he was right, little girl. He
knew that if I loved you enough to
marry you, I'd always love you and
always take good care of you. And
that's just exactly what I'm going to
do — if you'll let me. Won't you let
me love you, and care for you, always ?
Don't you love me, just a little?"

COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE

301

"I — I don't know.'

"Don't you see how it was meant
for us to love and marry? Your
father wanted it. We both need each
other. My mother and sister are
leaving to-morrow. They don't like
ranch life. But I do. And I want you
for a little love-mate — to go for long
rides with me, over the old trails we
know so well; to help me boss Sadie
at the Capitol; to help me make the
punchers stand around; to live with
me always here — here where our
fathers lived before us — on the old
Crescent O."

Coyote was weakening. A great,
joyful feeling surged through her,
making her forget for the moment.

"Aw, Jack!" she exclaimed. "I
wants to marry yuh arful bad!"

"Then you do love me!" cried Carl-
ton. "I knew it!"

"But— but I went and told Gotch— "
she broke off suddenly; then, with a
deep sigh, "Aw, hell!"

Carlton's laughter rang out clear and
hearty. There was something mirth-
provoking in the droll way she had
used the word. Certainly, he told
himself, there was nothing objection-
able in the word itself; that lay in
the meaning of the user. And from
her lips — because of her innocence —
it was music to his ears.

"What was it you told Gotch?" he
queried presently.

Coyote hung her head.

"Aw, I went and told him thet —
thet " she hesitated.

"Yes," he prompted, "go on."

"Thet I loved him," she finished
lamely.

"Well, that doesn't make any dif-
ference. Gotch is a sensible, good-
hearted fellow, and when he learns
that you really don't love him he will
not try to marry you against your will.
You see, a girl should never marry a
man she doesn't love, because, if she
does, she will never be happy after-
wards. Why, if I thought you cared
for someone else, I wouldn't want to
marry you, because I wouldn't want to
make two people miserable for the
rest of their lives — you and the one

you loved. You would be doing Gotch
a wrong to marry him — not loving him,
because you couldn't be happy, and
that would make him unhappy. So
you see, little sweetheart, you really do
love me, and there is nothing to keep
us from getting married at once, is
there?"

"Will yer fix it up with Gotch?"

"Why, yes, I'll tell him how it is.
But, of course, he'll want to hear it
from your own lips. We'll go to him
together to-night and explain every-
thing; he'll understand. Then day
after to-morrow, we'll drive to Laredo
and get married, what do you say?"

Coyote's heart was acting queerly.
But she didn't care. Now that her
conscience was clear in regard to
Gotch, she gave herself up with a
sweet abandonment to that "strange
power" John Carlton held over her.
Her joy was complete. Never before
in all her life had she been so happy.
She let her love for him show plainly
in her eyes. Hadn't her father sanc-
tioned it before his death? And
hadn't her heart sanctioned it, against
the judgment of her minjd? And now
it was all settled. He was her "man"
— her great big, handsome, educated
"man."

"Aw, Jack!" she exclaimed, "Ain't
we a-gonna be happy?" Then, with-
out waiting for his reply, she flung
her slender arms about his neck and
clung there as if for dear life. "I
loves yuh!" she whispered — "loves
yuh! — loves yuh! — loves yuh!"

Speechless from a bounless joy that
was as new to him as it was deliri-
ous; thrilled by the warm pressure of
her soft little lips, the love-light in her
eyes, the feel of her arms about his
neck, and her heart beating against
his own, Carlton was experiencing
that moment of pure, Heavenly ec-
stacy that comes to every man but once
in a life-time. And though his lips
were silent, his steel-gray eyes spoke
their message of love. For both, it
was a moment in which "the world
stood still." Entwined in each other's
arms, neither spoke for a little while.
The mustangs stood motionless, half-

302

OVERLAND MONTHLY

dozing, the wind sighed in the mes-
quite-branches, and nearby in the
brush a wood-dove sent forth its mate-
call.

But Coyote could not be still for
long at a time. She wriggled out of
his close embrace; eyed him with an
air of proprietorship; pulled his hair
this way and that to study the effect;
then, pinching his cheeks with her
thumbs and index-fingers, she gave
him three French kisses.

"Yuh shore be fine-lookin', Jack. I
loves ev'ry bone in yer head."

Carlton smiled.

"I love every bone in your dear
little body," he said earnestly.

"Wall kiss me good-bye. I've gotta
be a-moseyin' along, 'cause thet old
ma o' yourn'll gimmy heck if I don't
git back purty soon. She wants me to
go to Cactus f er the mail."

"Day after to-morrow we'll be the
supreme monkey-monks of the Cres-
cent O," he told her.

"Then we'll be a-doin' just what we
durn please, won't we?"

"We certainly will," he laughed.

They kissed, and, a moment later,
with the oldest song in the world in
their hearts, were galloping in opposite
directions, one bound for Maguey Hill,
the other for the Capitol. But could
Carlton have known what lay in store
for Coyote at the big ranch-house, he
would have whirled his horse and
raced back at break-neck speed in
order to overtake her ere she reached
her destination.

IX.

About an hour after the parting of
Carlton and Coyote on Rattlesnake
Trail, two men cantered up to Agua
Dulce, a watering place on the ex-
treme eastern boundary of the Cres-
cent O.

"Hello!" cried one. "Look a-yonder,
Chub. Hit goes off on Tuna Trail."
There was a note of triumph in the
speaker's voice. "Now what do yuh
make o' thet?" he asked, meaningly.

"Thar's only one thing to make o'
hit. Tuna Trail goes to the river.
They've taken 'em across. Once a

friend o' mine told me Sidney was
workin' hand in hand with Valtran,
and I didn't believe him. Now I knows
hit. But I ain't the high sheriff o'
Webb county if somebody don't pay
fer this work."

"Wall, I'm ramp glad yer're willin'
to admit at last thet thet thar deputy
o' yourn ain't what he's cracked up to
be."

"Yuh wins, Gotch."

Both men dismounted, and, untying
their ropes from the saddles, allowed
their mustangs to wade out into the
clear, shallow water and drink.

Squatting upon his heels, Gotch pro-
duced a sack of tobacco and a single,
wrinkled cigarette paper. His com-
panion extracted a cigar from a leather
case in his waistcoat-pocket, bit off
the end, and lit it.

Horatio Steel, known as plain
"Chub" to his friends, was a tall,
strapping man with brown hair and
fine, black eyes. He was, as he ex-
pressed it, "the high sheriff o' Webb
county." And this was no exagger-
ation, for more often than otherwise
the sheriff, in matters of crime, was
the last resort and final decision. Peace
on the border depended far more on
sun-tanned horsemen who could shoot
quick and straight than on sprucely-
dressed lawyers who could talk well
and long. In fact, a lawyer in Webb
county was a negligible quantity. The
man who was wont to go to an attorney
with his troubles was looked upon
with a sort of contempt, as something
less than a man. There was only one
law that held good — "the law of the
Colt." And "Chub" Steel represented
this law. Judge, jury and hangman, he
was feared and avoided by a few, re-
spected and loved by many. But
neither power nor popularity had
served to spoil his genial, unaffected
nature. To Steel, a man was a man
whether he wore rags or broadcloth —
and, being a man, was entitled to a
"square deal." Also, no murderer was
too good for a noose. There was no
pliability in the line between right and
wrong; it was straight, in his opinion
— straight as the course of a bullet.

COYOTE O' THE RIO GRANDE

303

Gotch scratched a match on his
chaps, lit a thin cigarette, and blew
out the blaze with a long stream of
smoke.

"I been a-thinkin' " drawled the

cow-puncher; but the other cut him
short.

"Listen! What's thet? Git up,
quick! Too late — we can't hide."

"Whimperin' snakes! Thar's a
bunch o' 'em!'

"Git on your hoss, Gotch. Thar's
somethin' wrong heah."

As the two mounted, a party of
twenty or more horsemen drew rein on
the opposite side of the tank. Ben
Sidney, seated in a long buckboard,
drove into the water and slackened his
lines.

The deputy grinned broadly.

"Hello, Chub," he called. "How's
the city?"

"Hello, Ben." Steel skirted the
tank and came up to the group. "How-
dy, boys."

The cow-punchers, who were mostly
Mexicans, made no response.

"Yuh be a-lookin' mighty pert these
days, Chub," remarked Sidney.

But Steel ignored the boquet. His
gaze was intently studying the
deputy's strange cargo. Two blankets
had been spread out in the bed of the
vehicle, while two more served to
cover up some unknown object. What
struck the sheriff as peculiar was the
fact that, whatever it was under the
blankets, the elongated mound it pro-
duced was about the size — the size of
a small human being.

"What yuh got thar?" he inquired
finally.

"Better not git too close, Chub.
Hit's a Mexican boy what I picked up
on the Bar L trail dyin' o' small-pox.
Like as not he's from thet Martin out-
fit."

"Ain't yuh a-feared o' catchin' hit
yerself?"

"Naw. I never catches no disease."

"Been shippin' cattle in Encinal?"

"Naw."

"Then what yuh doin' with all these
greasers — guardin' the kid?"

Sidney laughed disagreeably.

"I wants to see thet Mexican, Ben."

"I wouldn't, Chub. He's a turrible
sight and hit's dangerous."

Steel had an odd habit of clicking
his teeth when he was angry. The
next instant he saw something that
made his jaws snap together like a
wolf's. It was something he hadn't
noticed before — a little strand of
straight, black hair sticking out be-
yond the edge of the blankets. It was
not long, but it was too long to belong
to a boy.

"Take them blankets off." The
order came in a tone that, because of
its calmness and deliberateness, made
the speaker's attitude unmistakable.

"Now look a-heah "

Steel swore under his breath and
spurred his horse into the water.
"Kilo!"

There came an instantaneous click-
ing of pistol-hammers. The sheriff
whirled his mount.

"All right, fellers," he said. "Put
up yer guns. Yer're ten to two.
Gotch, we'd better go to Laredo fer a
posse. Durned if I knowed I was
honorin' a thievin' rustler and bandit
when I deputized yer, Sidney."

"Don't move, Chub Steel. Tie 'em
up, boys — both of 'em."

"Look out, Ben! Yer're fixin' yer
neck fer a noose. Come on, Gotch!
Go-it, Brownie!"

And amid a cloud of dust and rain
of shot, Gotch and the sheriff left
Agua Dulce. Just as they entered the
brush, the red-headed cow-boy cried
out: "God! I'm hit, Chub!"

A great cloud of dust hung over
Maguey Hill. The lowing of cattle
and the yells of the cowboys told John
Carlton that, after so long a time, he
was again to witness a real round-up.
Eager to renew his early familiarity
with the branding of calves, the shift-
ing of stock, roping and tying, he
urged his horse on afresh. He hadn't
forgotten the many things that had
gone to make up his childhood days on
the Crescent O. He felt at home on
horseback. He felt at ease among

304

OVERLAND MONTHLY

cowboys. And, what was more im-
portant, he had the knack of making
them feel at ease in his presence.

When he swung from his saddle in
front of a group of punchers near the
main corral, it was not in the stiff,
clumsy manner of the novice, but with
the easy, natural grace of the veteran
ranchman. Tossing his bridlereins
over the mustang's head, he left them
dragging on the ground.

Spike Gallager came forward with
a broad grin.

"Durned if hit ain't the boss!" he
ejaculated.

Carlton smiled and grasped the fore-
man's outstretched hand.

"Why, didn't you know me?" he
asked.

"We shore didn't," replied Spike.
"Go on and git to work, yuh idiots!"
And with a wave of his hand, he dis-
persed the gaping crowd. "Yuh rides
like a puncher, Mister Carlton; but
with them new trappin's on, we
couldn't make out just who yuh was."

Carlton laughed.

"Guess I am something of a show,"
he admitted. "Well, you see it's this
way, Spike: Mother and sister are
selling their shares to The Northern
Land Syndicate Company. They are
going to make Boston their head-
quarters. But I'm not stuck on city
life. I want nothing better than to
live out here and run my ranch. I
thought I might as well have an outfit
like you fellows — look the part, you
know — so I bought these things in
Laredo the other day."

"Them's shore the fixin's, all right."
And Spike circled about "the boss,"
eyeing him admiringly.

"Well, if they don't stampede the
cattle, I guess they'll do," said the
young rancher.

Whereupon both laughed good-
humoredly; then Spike led the way to
the main gate. Spike Gallager was a
goon enough sort of fellow. In fact,
his constant care and love for an aged
mother was common talk along that
part of the border. He had a good
heart; but a keen desire to make
money; to "forge ahead," sometimes

caused him to disregard the dictates of
his conscience.

"Now if yuh'll come around heah,
Mister Carlton," said the foreman,
"I'll have them cattle shifted and we'll
count 'em."

"Good. Did you get extra men?"

"Yes sir — twenty-eight, from the
Bar L and Cross S outfits."

"How many does that make in all?"

"Fifty-three."

The two men walked in silence
through the main corral and entered
another, where, amid choking, blind-
ing clouds of dust, a score of punchers
were at work chasing, throwing and
branding yearlings. Carlton paused
to watch Beany slap a red-hot Cres-
cent O branding-iron to the left side of
a little bawling Holstein.

"I've allers wondered, Mister Carl-
ton," said Spike thoughtfully, "how in
thunder yer dad ever stumbled onto
thet combination. Hit's the best brand
in the state o' Texas. Thar's no fakin'
hit — no sir-ree!"

An hour later, Carlton and his fore-
man climbed down from the high fence
from which advantageous position
they had reviewed and counted a con-
tinuous stream of fourteen jammed
pens of live stock.

"Five corrals o' the finest steers I
ever laid eyes on, Mister Carlton,"
said Spike. .

"Hey, thar! Gallager!" Someone
shouted from the main corral.

"What d'yuh want?" yelled the
foreman.

"Sadie's heah — wants the boss —
quick! Somethin's wrong!"

Carlton ran to the gate, opened it
and sped on through a series of cor-
rals; Spike, close at his heels, closed
the big portals after him. In the main
corral they came upon Sadie sur-
rounded by a crowd of excited cow-
punchers. Tears were rolling down
the old woman's cheeks, her trembling
hands clenched and unclenched spas-
modically. She shook a skinny fist
at Carlton as he rushed up.

"Be yuh a man, John Carlton?" she
shrieked.

"I — I hope so," panted the youth.

INDIAN SUMMER

305

"What "

"Then fer the love o' Christ take yer
punchers and go after Coyote this
minute. Thet low down ma o' yourn's
gone and let Ben Sidney take her off.
He driv up in his buckboard, and yer
ma sent me down to the bunk-house to
git me out o' the way. When I gits
back Sidney was gone and Coyote
warn't nowhar to be found. If he
harms a hair o' thet baby's head, I
hopes "

"My God!" Carlton's face had turn-
ed an ashy-pale. For an instant he
stood speechless, horror-stricken; the
next, his eyes flashed savagely.

"Fellows!" he shouted, "I'll give
a hundred-dollar bill to every man
that'll help me fight the Sidney out-
fit!"

There was a general, prolonged
chorus of assent.

"I don't want no money!" yelled
Beany.

"Me nuther!" chimed in a dozen or
more Crescent O boys, among them,
the foreman. Spike had always held
a soft place in his heart for Dennis
McAll's "111* gal."

"Men," cried Carlton, "get on your
horses ! There'll be blood on the moon
to-night!"

As they sprang to their mounts the
cowboys whooped and yelled, while
some one with a musical turn sang out
lustily :

"Oh, hit's butcher-knives and revol-
vers,
Fer we're a fightin' band;
We left them greasers' bones to
bleach
On the banks o' the Rio Grande."

To be Continued.

INDIAN SUAAER

A peaceful calm upon the land

The blessing of the Redman's God;

Above, lie depths of azure blue,
Below, the nodding golden-rod.

I watch the milk-weed's silken down

Afloat upon the hazy air,
The breeze that wafts the fields of grain,

And idly lie, all dreamful there.

Beneath the oak tree's tint of brown,
I sit and dream youth's golden dream;

Near by I hear the blue jay's call,
And ripple of the brooklet's stream.

So sped Life's sunny hours away

Beneath these skies of cloudless blue,

Where, mid the blooms and golden fields,
The Indian Summer breezes woo.

Alice Phillips.

The End of the Trail

By H. P. Molt

ON THE morning of the fourth
day the burning sun had crept
up into the eastern horizon,
dyeing the water the colour of
blood. The boat in which the two men
lay did not move in the leaden sea.
Not a breath of wind stirred the sur-
face. The men had been shivering for
hours in the chilly night air, but even
that was preferable to the coming heat
which they knew was inevitable. Al-
ready the sun's rays were growing
more powerful. Just for the moment
they were positively pleasant after the
long, cold night, but this was only the
period between the two extremes. In
a little while it would be no use trying
to hide under the thwarts. The scorch-
ing heat would come straight down
and there was nothing, positively noth-
ing, under which they could creep for
shelter. The paintwork was already
blistered everywhere, and the planks
above the water-line were becoming
warped. Under such conditions as
those there is only a thin, wavering
line between a man and the great un-
known.

There was a strange contrast be-
tween the two men. The younger one
appeared to have suffered most. He
was what he looked — a creature ac-
customed to comforts; and it is no
comfort to die slowly, in a small open
boat, for the lack of food and water.
Food, as a matter of fact, did not en-
ter largely into his thoughts; it was
the burning gnawing for liquid that
set his brain on fire. Every fibre in
his gross body cried out aloud for
water. His tongue was hard and swol-
len, his . eyes were gradually sinking
into his head, and all the strength had
slowly been sapped from his limbs.

During the early hours of the morning,
while it was cold, he had more than
once lethargically raised his head
above the gun'le and peered out
across the vast Pacific waste, knowing,
however, even as he looked, that they
might drift about for months in those
waters without the remotest chance of
being picked up. As far as his en-
feebled mind could grasp anything,
this was Death, but not in a stage suf-
ficiently advanced. Next to the eternal
craving for water he longed most for
oblivion. Surely his body could not
hold out much longer. He reflected
vaguely that for many years he had
not taken the least care of it. Indul-
gence of any kind that came handy,
and was pleasant, had been his only
thought. He could have screamed
now, if he had any voice left, at the
idea of cooling, fizzy drinks that were
lying unopened in his bungalow. His
drinks, absolutely his own property,
which none but he had a right to touch
while he lived.

He moved a little to evade the glare
that was already coming over the
thwart. Why did this grim, silent man
beside him not drop off into uncon-
sciousness instead of sitting there like
a sphinx, staring into space? Twice
he could have ended the long drawn
out wait for the finish by jumping
overboard if this officious person had
not held him back with his enormous
strength. The younger man resented
it bitterly. With no earthly hope of
living long, anyone, he thought, had a
right to die.

Sometimes his mind flickered off at
a tangent and brought him vivid pic-
tures of other days. They were not
all good to look upon, and he shud-

THE END OF THE TRAIL

307

dered at times in spite of the heat.

The older man was of a very differ-
ent type. Privation, too, had bitten
into his vitality, but he was hard. His
limbs and hands were hard, and each
hour his eyes and mouth seemed to
turn a shade harder. But for the or-
deal of the last few days nobody would
have guessed he was mid-way between
fifty and sixty. True, his hair was for
the most part gray, but there was no
vice in that cold, resolute face. He
was human — intensely human — but
clean living for forty-five years had
left its indelible stamp on him.

He rarely moved, excepting to
glance at his companion now and
again.

They had hardly spoken since the
morning of the previous day. Words
seem trivial to those who can see
death staring them in the face. Since
dawn the elder man had looked at his
fellow sufferer with growing interest.
Several times he was gong to say
something, but checked it until the
sun was at its fiercest. At last he
clambered along the boat, and, sitting
on one of the seats, looked down at
the younger man.

"Feeling hot?" he asked.

"Lord! I'd sell my soul for a pint
of water," was the reply.

"You can have it if you like, Riley,"
said the gray-haired man.

Riley opened his eyes and glared at
his companion. Was he mad, or were
they both mad? As a jest, a remark
like that was ill-timed to the extent
of being inhuman. Then Riley
grinned in a painful fashion. He had
just remembered he could have as
much water as he liked — more than he
liked. They were afloat in it.

"Yes, I know," he said in a low
voice. "Don't sit there staring at me,
Steel. I don't like it. Go away. If
I've got to die, I won't do it with you
staring at me."

But the elder man did not move.

"I mean what I said," John Steel de-
clared. "You can have water if you
like. I don't guarantee that it isn't a
bit warm. There aren't any iced lux-
uries on board at this minute, but you

can have good water if you like."

Riley stared at him again.

"Do you mean " he began.

"As sure as you are hanging with
one foot over the edge of this life, I
mean just what I say," Steel said.

"Then for God's sake, man, give it
to me quickly. I'm dying. But you're
mad, Steel. Go away. I'm too weak
to move."

"I know you are," was the reply.
"That is why I chose this moment.
You are going to your Maker, Riley,
and that's a bigger undertaking than
you have ever tackled. There is no
escape."

"Don't stare at me, Steel, there's a
good fellow. Go and sit over in the
stern again. Dying is rotten anyway,
but you're making it harder."

A mirthless laugh escaped the el-
der man.

"It can be harder than this, Riley.
Think of going out of existence for
the want of water when there is enough
and to spare. That makes you think,
doesn't it, Riley?"

The younger man closed his eyes.
Words seemed to be a waste of effort.
Steel touched his ribs with the toe of
his boot.

"I spoke to you, Riley. Didn't you
hear?"

"If you aren't mad you must be a
fiend incarnate," the younger man
groaned.

"You happen to be wrong in both
guesses," said Steel. "I should like
to tell you a little story if you care to
listen. Then you shall have the water
— perhaps."

Riley passed his dry tongue over
his blistered lips, but he did not speak.

"More than twenty years ago," the
elder man began, "a woman who was
nearer a saint than most, bore a girl
child, and died in bearing it, so that
was all the father had left to remind
him of his wife — just a little scrap of
humanity that looked as though it
would go, too, if somebody wasn't
careful. But it lived. The father saw
to that. He would probably have gone
mad if the nipper had joined its
mother. You see, he'd loved the wo-

308

OVERLAND MONTHLY

man as men don't often love women,
and so long as the nipper remained
he had a bit of his wife. You follow
me, so far, of course, Riley?"

The younger man opened his eyes
and closed them. He was wishing that
Steel's madness would make him jump
over the side, out of the way; but he
could not help listening.

"Well, the child grew up, the same
as any child has a right to do, and
every day it grew more like the wo-
man who had died. It had the same
eyes, the same profile, the same little
mannerisms that wrung the man's
heart even as they bridged the gulf.
Perhaps that part won't interest you
much, Riley, but I'm telling you so that
you can get a proper grip on the whole
thing. As the years went on, they did
not do much to soften the great blow
the man had been dealt, because, al-
though you may not know it, Riley,
there are some people who go on loving
just as fiercely after death has robbed
them. Only I want you to understand
how much the man must have loved
the girl for her mother's sake, quite
apart from anything else. You've been
in love yourself, so you ought to have
some idea. I remember you told me
about some of your amours while I
was staying on your beautiful island
estate, to which we should so much
like to return. Not that they interested
me, particularly, Riley, but I listened.
You see, I was your guest and I had to
be polite.

"This man — the one in the tale I
am telling you — watched over the girl
as she grew up, and did all God let
him do to make her worthy of her
mother. He sometimes used to wonder
what sort of a man would get her. He
wasn't too selfish to let her get married
— though it used to make him feel sick
when he thought of the .parting. You
see, he had been happy himself, and
though there mayn't be any marrying
or giving in marriage in Heaven, he
knew it was the natural thing for hu-
man beings to do on this earth. In
fact, he had but one real ambition in
life, and that was to maKe nis little
girl happy. It was only natural that

he thought, sometimes, there were not
a lot of men fit to mate with her, but
then he was a bit prejudiced. You'll
agree with me, Riley, eh?"

Again the younger man looked up
for an instant. Something impelled
him to indicate to Steel that he was
listening.

"Of course, you and I, who have
knocked about the world, know that
men are not all saints," Steel went on.
"A good, pure girl takes a heap of
chances when she selects a life-long
companion, and if her father isn't a
pretty bad sort he's liable to worry
about it beforehand at times. It so
happened that a decent sort of chap
met this girl I'm telling you about. He
was straight as a razor blade, with a
clean record. He hadn't any money
worth speaking of, but the girl's father
wasn't concerned with that point. The
lad was the sort who'd win through,
and he was on the high road to winning
too. The old man could see Fate roll-
ing for him the very pill he had always
dreaded, but he made up his mind not
to show any signs of his own feelings
lest it should mar her happiness. He
liked the fellow, and could tell what
was coming before the young couple
had sized up the situation properly.
The man had given the father a pretty
broad hint what his intentions were,
and I don't doubt they would soon have
been married but for something that
happened just then. Why, you can't
have fallen asleep, Riley?"

Steel touched his companion's ribs
again with his toe, until Riley opened
his eyes, but a new light had come into
them. The elder man noticed it, but
his face was impassive.

"Well, I was saying," Steel contin-
ued, "something happened. A man
arrived on the scene. I won't call him
a snake in the grass. I don't want to
insult snakes. He was a limb of Hell,
straight from the infernal cesspools,
but he was clever. Oh, yes, he was
clever, and he knew he would never as
much as kiss that girl's pretty face if
he didn't hide his true character. He
was a good looking creature, too, in a
way. The things he did had not had

THE END OF THE TRAIL

309

time to brand his face. The Almighty
gives us all a fair run before He sets
the mark on us, but He never forgets
to do it when we've taken the plunge
properly. I wonder if you've ever no-
ticed that, Riley?"

The younger man moved uneasily,
but gave no other intimation that he
heard.

"Perhaps the father was to blame
to a large extent for not warning the
girl what skunks there are crawling
about the face of the earth," Steel
said. "At any rate the man dazzled
her, a good deal more than any one
suspected. You see, he had culti-
vated the art. I don't know what dev-
ilish wiles he employed, but he caught
that girl up in his evil net, and be-
fore the others knew what was hap-
pening he had persuaded her to bolt
with him."

There was grim silence in the little
boat for a few moments. The sun,
now burning with its most fiery heat,
seemed to be intent in shriveling its
victims up. Steel's eyes were fixed
on nothingness. Only the tight grip
of his hand, which left the knuckles
white in spite of their tan, indicated
the nature of his thoughts.

"I reckon it must have been a prom-
ise of marriage that he offered as a
bait, don't you, Riley?" he asked, with
suppressed fierceness. "At any rate,
she went, and what she suffered even
in going is more than I like to think
about. The thing that saved the man
from being killed by her father very
soon was that he had plenty of money
to move quickly. Nothing would have
saved him if the old man had caught
up to them, and, if you follow me,
Riley, he was looking for them power-
ful hard. The very fact that the girl
never wrote showed that there was
something mighty wrong, and it didn't
take very much guessing what was
wrong.

"A girl of that sort would never have
kept her father in mental anguish wait-
Sng for a letter if she'd been properly
married. You'll agree with me on that
point, won't you, Riley?"

There was mute agony in Riley's

face, but Steel hardly seemed to no-
tice it.

"Now I come to the worst part," the
eider man went on, "and I only know
a portion of it. There are some things
the Almighty mercifully hides from
us. And perhaps that is why the
father never learnt too much. All he
had to go on was a photograph of the
man and one of the girl. Not much
help when you consider he had the
wide world to search in, was it? But
the old man never thought of giv-
ing up. He often got on the wrong
track, and there was always murder
in his soul. He had scoured America
all over in the hope of picking up some
sort of a trail. At last he found a clue
all right. It was in one of the poorest
quarters in Chicago. Ever been in
Dean street, Chicago, Riley?"

Another dig from Steel's boot and a
movement of pain on the part of the
prone man.

"I won't harrow your feelings by de-
scribing it, but it is just off the Chi-
nese quarter. And there, in the middle
of squalor and vice the father found a
Samaritan. What her past had been
doesn't matter. Perhaps she'd had a
daughter of her own. Anyway, she'd
sheltered the girl I'm telling the tale
about when shelter was needed pretty
badly. I won't go into details, but you
will quite understand that when a
poor storm-driven mortal gets to being
wrecked in Dean street, Chicago, she
is in need of a helping hand. And
while the girl was there she saw the
man's photograph in one of the illus-
trated papers. She had a curious streak
of loyalty in her that was likely to
over-ride every other consideration,
and she was as trusting as a babe in
arms. I expect she still thought that
inhuman brute would marry her. She
sent a letter to him. What she said
in it I don't know, but he made an
appointment to see her. How she got
the money to go I don't know, either,
but the poor kid went. She'd told
nearly everything to the Samaritan
woman, and promised to let her know
if things got put straight.

"But she never wrote, Riley, see?"

310

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Riley was feebly trying to shrink
away from the cold, remorseless eyes
of Steel.

"She never wrote," Steel repeated in
a vibrating voice. "Why did she not
write, Riley?"

With only the blue vault above as
a witness the two men looked at one
another, death tapping at the door the
while. A shudder went through the
younger man's frame, but he did not
speak. A film was coming over his
eyes, yet he held them on Steel, fas-
cinated.

"I'm waiting for your answer, Riley.
Remember, you can't go to the other
place with a lie on your lips, and such
a lie, too, Why did that girl not
write?"

"I could not get there to meet her,"
the man replied thickly.

For a full minute Steel looked down
at him without speaking.

"So you left her in the lurch even at
the finish, you dirty hound," he said at
last, a burning desire urging him to
crush Riley under his heel as he would
a reptile. "Man, I've prayed to live
to the end without staining my hands
with murder. I don't reckon it would
be real murder to choke the life out of
you as you lay there, but I'm not going
to do it. I'm going to let Hell claim its
own instead. I have seen men die of
thirst before, and I don't give you many
hours. But before you lose conscious-

ness, I will tell you something. There
has not been a breath of wind since
the motor in this boat stopped. The
current of the sea here goes round and
round. Unless I am very much mis-
taken, we are within a mile or two of
the place where we were when you
struggled to get that engine started
again four days since. You didn't know
much about engines, but I did. See, I
had taken this away from it. Of course
it wouldn't go, but it will when I put
this back. All the time you have been
starving we have been within three or
four hours of your peaceful bungalow.
And, see, there isn't a drop of gasoline
in this spare tin. It is water. I've
cheated you, Riley, to that extent.
Didn't you wonder why I kept going?
So you left her in the lurch even at the
finish, eh? Well, you're going to your
God now, and there will be several
matters for you to explain there."

With steady hands Steel adjusted
the engine, and taking out a pocket
compass, grasped the tiller. Not a
sound broke the stillness for some
hours, save the puffing of the motor,
until Steel steered into a little lagoon.
Shutting off the engine he ran the
craft onto a silvery beach, and turned
to the prone form in the bottom of the
boat. He put his hand on Riley's heart
and then stalked with a set face in the
direction of the bungalow. The na-
tive servants would do the rest.

THE TORCH

Because my torch is, for some face,
A light that leads to God's own place,
I must not let its leaping die.
— Torch, flame high!

Because my torch men follow, true
Must be the path I take to you,
God. If I stumbled, they
Might lose the way.

Mary Carolyn Davies.

The Land of the Lawless

By Cardinal Goodwin
(Continued from last month)

CHAPTER V.

SOME TIME had passed since
Sylvester heard the conversation
between Ned Foster and Miss
Maddin, and circumstances were
bringing his stay in Braggs to a close.
Many disappointments had come to
him during his short stay there, but
these had been spiced with a few tri-
umphs. Not the least among the lat-
ter was the esteem, if not friendship, of
Schute Star. Schute had attended
nearly every meeting, and although the
missionary was unable to induce the
outlaw to accept his ideas regarding
the matter of religion, it seemed that
he had succeeded in convincing him of
his own sincerity. So fully did Schute
believe in the missionary that he and
Mose had quarreled when the latter
wished to drive the minister out of
tcwn. The result was that the Star
Gang had divided into two hostile
camps.

Sylvester heard of the split soon af-
ter it occurred, but it was not until
long afterwards that he learned the
cause. Often he would try to talk
with Schute about it, but the latter,
in his rough, kindly way, always gave
him to understand that he must ask no
questions concerning that quarrel.

"Well, Schute," Sylvester said fin-
ally, "I shall not ask you again to tell
me the cause of your dispute, but be
careful, Mose, is not the fellow to be
trifled with. You know that as well as
I do. I'm afraid there'll be trouble be-

E'eer. you yet."
"Course there'll be trouble," he re-
ied. "I knows Mose, and he knows
e. He's too much of a snake to face
me in the open. He knows that even

he kin take a few lessons from me in
handlin' a gun, an' what's more, we
both knows this section o' country
hain't big enough for us both. I ain't
goin' to leave, an' I don't believe Mose
is making any plans to. But I'm will-
ing to help things on by taking chances
— he ain't. I tries to keep myself
where I kin be found anytime, but you
don't see him nowhere. When we does
meet things'll be settled atween us,
just as quick as powder'll burn."

The day following this conversation
with Schute was Sunday, the last Sun-
day Sylvester was to be in Braggs. It
was extremely hot, and the grass,
which had looked so fresh and green
a few weeks earlier had become
parched and brown. There had been
no rain for several weeks, and even
the leaves on the trees were beginning
to wither and fall. The dust made tra-
vel extremely disagreeable.

It was a deserted, dismal scene up-
on which the young missionary gazed
from Mrs. Maddin's veranda that
morning, but no matter how barren and
desolate a place may appear, circum-
stances may endear it to a man.

His experience taught him that sum-
mer that the best way in the world to
learn to love a thing is to work for it.
Ever since his arrival in Braggs he
had contemplated the joy he would
feel when his work there should end;
but as he looked over the little village
that morning, somehow he could not
help feeling pangs of regret. He had
made some friends whom he hated to
leave, and there was a strong fascina-
tion in the adventurous life of Schute.
He could not help admiring this bold,
daring desperado of the mountains. He
envied him more than he would have

312

OVERLAND MONTHLY

been willing to confess.

There was still another reason why
Sylvester hated to leave Braggs. His
work there, so far as all outward ap-
pearances were concerned, was a com-
plete failure. The conditions which
he had striven to alter were still pres-
ent, and seemingly with a greater
power for evil than they had had at the
beginning of the summer. So far as
he could see, his preaching had done
no good. People were glad to have
the meetings, would attend every ser-
vice, and give good attention, would
even come to him and say that they
would like to accept this religion which
he told them of, but they made no
effort tc possess it.

He was thinking of these things as
he went to the little chuch that morn-
ing. Arriving a few minutes late, he
found a large number of people al-
ready assembled under the trees.

He went immediately into the house
and was followed by the congregation.
The songs were sung, the prayers re-
peated, and the service was about over
when a number of shots fired in rapid
succession just in front of the church,
followed by the hoof beats of a horse,
brought the congregation to their feet,
and caused a wild rush for the door.
Some even leaped out through the open
windows. Seeing that it was useless to
try to stop the stampede, Sylvester re-
signed himself to the inevitable and
let them go. Walking over to a win-
dow he looked out. A large black
horse was running at full speed across
the prairie with a man hanging limply
over his neck. He could see that the
man had been wounded and was main-
taining his position with some diffi-
culty. The two soon disappeared be-
hind a clump of bushes, however, and
the crowd in front of the church dis-
persed — some going to their homes,
others to investigate the shooting. On
his way to his room, Sylvester was
overtaken by one of Shute's men on
horseback, who told him that the out-
law had been shot and wished to see
him.

"Have you secured a doctor?" Syl-
vester inquired. The man answered in

the affirmative, and climbing up be-
hind him the two rode back to where
Schute lay. They found him in a
small log hut which was surrounded
by dense undergrowth, situated sev-
eral yards from the road. A doctor
had already arrived, and was begin-
ning to dress the wound. It was a
mortal one, however, and dressing it
only served to increase the pain. The
ball had entered the back part of the
shoulder and passed through the left
lung near the heart. The outlaw never
spoke, but seemed to recognize Syl-
vester when he came in. He looked at
the minister for several seconds as the
latter picked up one of his hands; then
his eyes closed, his hand clutched Syl-
vester's momentarily, and he lay per-
fectly quiet. The doctor placed his
hand over the prostrate man's heart,
but it had ceased to beat.

VI.

The remainder of the day was spent
in quiet. Sylvester did not attempt to
hold an evening service, but retired
early to bed. Sometime during the
night he was wakened by the creaking
of his door, and raising himself on his
elbow he could see that it was being
slowly pushed open, and that a dark
form was protruding itself through the
entrance. Hastily reaching under the
pillow, he took out his pistol and
cocked it, and the form disappeared.

"Who are you?" Sylvester in-
quired.

"A friend."

"I'm not used to receiving visits
from friends at this time of night, or
of having them come in this manner,
but if you're a friend, come in and
give your name. I shan't hurt you."

The man stepped quickly inside and
closed the door behind him.

"Well, Sylvester, old boy, how goes
it?" It was Ned Foster's voice.

"Why, what in the world are you
doing here?" the minister exclaimed.

"We're going to bag Mose to-night,
and we want you to help us."

"I don't understand."

And seating himself upon the edge
of the bed, Ned continued:

THE LAND OF THE LAWLESS

313

"Of course you don't. You see,
Maud is giving a dance to Mose and
his men at her sister-in-law's in the
mountains to-night. I persuaded her,
somewhat against her will, to do it.
I thought with plenty of 'bust-head'
on the place, the men'd become so
crunk they'd be easily captured. The
only thing I'm afraid of now is that
Mose'll be too foxy to drink much.
The marshal's being here recently, and
the killing of Schute may make 'im
more cautious."

"And you want me to assist you.
Have you any one else?"

"Yes, Joe is going with us. He's
out by the gate now holding the
horses. We have Trickster all ready
for you."

It did not take Sylvester long to
decide. Hastily donning his clothing
and buekling his pistol around him,
he told Ned he was ready, and they
went out. Not a sound could be heard
except the slow, gentle downfall of the
rain and the rumbling of the distant
thunder. The night was extremely
dark — so dark that it would have been
difficult to see at all if it had not been
for the almost constant flashes of light-
ning. They hurried out to where Joe
held the horses.

"Why, ding it all to dingnation, take
it down and hang it up and cock it, if
the parson hain't goin' ter join us a'ter
all. I jest "

"Hist! no more talking; let's get
away from here," Ned interrupted.

Hurriedly swinging into their sad-
dles, they rode as fast as they could
toward the mountains.

"Are all the outlaws at the dance?"
Sylvester asked, riding up close to
Ned.

"No; there 're two missing. We don't
know where they are. One of them is
Henry, too."

"Is Mose there?"

"Yes, and two others."

"If Henry and the other fellow
should show up the odds'll be against
us."

"Yes, unless the liquor helps out. If
we could just get Mose and Henry the
whole band'd break us."

The rain had ceased, and a faint
glow in the east indicated the ap-
proaching dawn, when the little party
arrived at the foot of the mountains
and tied their horses in a clump of
bushes. A light twinkled through the
trees a short distance ahead of them,
and they knew they were not far from
the house which they sought. Getting
down on their hands and knees the
men crept slowly forward. A lizard
rattled the leaves as it scampered out
of their path, and a coyote was bark-
ing out on the prairie. Here and there
over their heads the faint chirp of a
bird indicated that day was about to
begin. As they drew nearer, Sylves-
ter thought he saw a form dodge
around a corner at the back of the
house, but he continued silently to-
ward the uncurtained window through
which the light came. A little later
Joe slipped away from Ned and Syl-
vester, but they were too excited to
notice it at the time.

Reaching the window, the young
men pulled themselves up, one on each
side, and looked in. The sight which
met their eyes was by no means cal-
culated to allay their anxiety. Through
the open door at the back of the room,
Henry Miller was stepping when a
knife flashed in the air and sank deep
into his back. He fell prostrate upon
the floor. Mose sprang forward to
dash out the light, but Miss Maddin
was too quick for him. Seizing it she
placed the large table which stood in
the center of the room between her
and the outlaw. The latter then
raised his pistol and fired, and the
lamp was dashed to pieces in her hand.
A second shot rang out through the
darkness, and was followed by the
screams of women and the oaths of
men as the latter scrambled for the
open door and windows.

Meantime, Ned and Sylvester ran
in opposite directions toward the back
of the house. As the latter turned a
corner, suddenly an Indian jumped out
of a window just in front of him, and
they ran together. The shock knocked
Sylvester's pistol out of his hand, and
for a moment they stood staring at

314

OVERLAND MONTHLY

each other through the gray dawn of
the morning. Seeing that his oppo-
nent was still armed, the minister
quickly seized him and wrenched his
pistol from his hand, and they grap-
pled. Back and forth they struggled,
the Indian trying to release himself,
Sylvester trying to hold him until
some one should come to his assist-
ance. Seeing that he could not get
away, the Indian attempted to reach
one of the pistols, both of which now
lay upon the ground, but he was foiled
in this, too. Then turning his entire
attention to his assailant, the outlaw
grasped his throat with the grip of a
dying man. Struggle as he would the
missionary could not release himself
from that grip. He tried to call for
help, but in vain. He tried to recover
one of the pistols, but could not. Then
he tried by sheer force of will to hold
on to his rapidly waning strength, hop-
ing thus to be able to detain his an-
tagonist until help should arrive. It
was not to be, however. The Indian's
grip would not slacken, and Sylvester
felt as if his throat and lungs were be-
ing consumed by a growing flame in
his chest. He could feel the skin on
his face tighten and burn and his eyes
begin to move from their sockets.
Then the shouts of the men and the

screams of the women became ever
more distant, and he was unconscious.
When he came to, Ned held his
head and Miss Maddin was rubbing
his throat and bathing his brow with
cold water. She gave him something
to drink, and he soon felt strong
enough to get upon his feet. The sun
had risen, and in the trees overhead
numerous birds were singing. A rab-
bit hopped across the road at the back
of the house, and a wild turkey flew
over a little stream and disappeared
amid the undergrowth on the opposite
side. Supported by Ned and Miss
Maddin, Sylvester walked slowly
around the house to where the horses
were tethered. The bodies of Mose
and Henry Miller were hanging across
the minister's saddle, the blood still
dripping from a bullet wound in the
latter's temple. The missionary
looked inquiringly at Joe, who nodded
toward Ned. Not a word was spoken.
Sylvester was placed behind Joe, and
Ned took Miss Maddin in the saddle
in front of him, and they rode out
of the woods to the prairie, the arms
and the legs of two dead men dan-
gling against Trickster's side as they
jogged on.

The End.

THE FORGOTTEN

At eve, from its blue corner in the sky

The sun shines to the mission's golden wall.

'Neath shadowing eaves and tiles, grey swallows call,

Or, darting swiftly out, in angles fly

Above the surf, which growls with their shrill cry,

Sounding its echoes in the grey-stoned hall.

The shadows of the mission darkly fall,

Until a cross spreads on a field where lie

The graves of converts. Now above them swing

With bended heads the stems of yellow grain.

The twilight bell repeats its solemn chime,

And still the monks, in slow procession, sing

Their vespers. But those sleeping fields complain,

Waiting and waiting for the far-off time.

Thomas Gordon Luke.

Senora Arellanes

By /A. C. Frederick

WE DO not realize how rapidly
history is making until some
incident brings the different
occurrences of the past into
focus within the radius of the present,
and the mind perceives, for the first
time, the united whole.

When Spain ruled California — how
long ago it seems! Yet there died in
Santa Barbara recently a woman who
had lived under three successive flags,
not to mention the famous Bear, with-
out having changed her residence. She
once told the writer that she distinctly
remembered when the Spanish flag
floated over the Santa Barbara pre-
sidio, succeeded by the flag of Mexico,
which last gave place to the Stars and
Stripes.

Senora Arellanes, born a Ruiz, was
the grand-daughter of Jose Ruiz, one
of the soldiers whose name is associ-
ated with the founding of the Santa
Barbara Mission. She was born in
1817 in the house of her future father-
in-law. Here she lived and doubtless
would have died had not the ancient
but well preserved structure been
chosen a few years ago as the "Neigh-
borhood House" by the social welfare
enthusiasts of Santa Barbara.

The old house is said to have been
built at the same time as the Mission,
for a "poblador" (settler) named Gui-
terrez, who soon returned to Spain,
and his dwelling became a warehouse
for a time. It was probably the first
residence erected outside the presidio
wall. It was what was known as "box
walls," more durable than adobe, and
built up within boxing, much as we
now build up cement or concrete.

In the early days lumber was hardly
rated as a building material. Long
after the '49ers came, most of the

houses in Santa Barbara were adobe,
with tile roofs, dirt floors, and no win-
dows, fire-places nor chimneys. Rooms
were warmed, if at all, by brasiers af-
ter the manner of the old Romans.
Openings answering the purpose of
windows, when provided at all, were
guarded by picturesque bars. Large
flat tiles replaced earthen floors in
some of the best buildings.

In Senora Arellanes' time the ground
was plowed with a crooked stick drawn
by oxen. Grain was cut by the hand-
ful, with a sickle or knife, and thrown
over the shoulder into a large basket
resting on the back and suspended by
a band across the forehead. Threash-
ing was dene by "treading out." The
Indians winnowed the grain by tossing
it up in a blanket and letting the wind
blow the chaff away.

The village washing place was at
Las Arroyitas, the little arroyos, a
springy spot, now quite dry, adjoining
their homes. Here the people built
bowers that remained permanently,
and planted willows that grew up
about them, and used flat stones for
washboards. And wash days were
gala days for young and old, for they
met together at Las Arroyitas and had
merry times as they dipped the gar-
ments down into the pools or poured
the water over them and slapped them
on the smooth stones and spread them
out to dry.

And sometimes they would all go
up to the hot springs on the mountain
side seven miles away, to do their
washing, taking with them their pots
and kettles, their corn and frijoles and
other paraphernalia, on horseback,
and traveling single file over the nar-
row trail, they went into camp for the
occasion and remained as long as the

316

OVERLAND MONTHLY

food lasted. The hot water bleached
the clothes and was a desirable change
occasionally from the cold process of
Las Arroyitas. There were grizzlies
in the vicinity, and once they even in-
vaded the camp.

The taking of their country by the
American soldiers stood out in bold
prominence in la senora's memory.
She at different times told the writer
how Stockton marched up the streets
with the band playing, and entering
the presidio the Stars and Stripes were
raised on a mast brought from the ship
by horse and wagon and erected in the
presidio plaza for the occasion. The
wife of the Mexican commandante
had previously lowered the Mexican
flag, and the commandante himself

had chopped down the staff when he
found the Americans were coming.
Everybody was frightened and fled for
their lives to the Mission and moun-
tains.

Stockton told them he was not here
for fun, but for business; but he'd not
do them any harm. They could have
their land and their homes and every-
thing just as they had been having
them. He left all the local offices
just as he found them; no change in
officers, or anything; only he gathered
up all the cannon he saw and took
them away. She told over and over
again of Stockton's magnanimous
treatment of the people, seemingly not
yet recovered from her astonishment
and gratitude.

H E I A W E H"

It will not seem, when Thou shalt summon me,
As coming to a foreign shore, to stand
Before a stranger God; but it will be
As turning gladly to the homing land,
When I shall come to Thee.

The childish heart that knew and loved Thee first

Confided quaintly all its child affairs;

With neither doubt nor dread was it accursed,

But guilelessly it bared in honest prayers

Its little best and worst.

The heart that serves Thee now, a child-heart still,
Grown just a little older, scarce more wise,
Lays hold upon Thy patience, seeks Thy will,
Rests in Thy care and lifts its longing eyes
Unto Thy holy hill.

And going hence will be as to the dear

And tender Father-friend whom I have learned

To know afar ; for there shall be no fear

In meeting Him toward whom my heart has turned

So wistfully while here.

Ruth E. Henderson.

The Lost Aine in the Santa Lucias

By Charles Clark

HO has not heard of the fam-
ous Santa Clara Valley, the
beauties and productions of
j which have been embalmed

; in poetry and song since the days when
[ Bayard Taylor proclaimed its attrac-
• tiveness to the world?

But at the time of the conquest of
California by the Americans, and long
prior thereto, a few wealthy Spaniards
and Mexicans owned the arable and
grazing lands of the Santa Clara Val-
ley, over which roamed their thou-
sands of cattle. Their houses were
mostly of adobe and not very preten-
tious, yet under their patriarchal sway
these Californian grandees were mas-
ters of the land, and they were looked
up to and obeyed by the poorer classes
of the Mexicans and the Indians, the
latter being their principal servants
and vaqueros. Some of these Dons
were of Castilian descent; others with
a darker complexion, owed their line-
age to the Moors of Andalusia; and
some few had Aztec blood in their
veins. There is no prouder race in
Spain than the royal Moorish line of
the Abencerrages of Granada, whose
ancestors came over to Spain from
Northern Africa. This blood crossed
with the Castilian produced amongst
others the family of Don Pedro Bo-
nito. To class this race with the Mes-
tizoes — mixed Indian and Mexican —
on account of their darker color, as
many do, is as ridiculous a mistake as
that made by a noted Yankee sculptor,
who gave his Cleopatra a flat nose and
thick lips!

Like the higher order of people the
world over, the Dons in California
possessed all the better qualities, and
some of them, the vices of their race;
but they represented the best that the

land produced in the way of men and
women before the conquest of Califor-
nia by the Americans.

Don Pedro in early life had married
a beautiful girl of the purest Castil-
ian descent. Their four children
seemed to be equally divided in color,
one girl, Maria, and one boy, Ygnacio,
dark as their father in eyes, hair and
complexion; the other two, Carlos and
Ynez, fair as their Castilian mother.

Don Ygnacio was getting to be quite
an old man when I first met him.

Upon one occasion, just after the
gieat earthquake in 1906, when I re-
marked to him that I had but recently
returned from a fishing trip in the
Santa Lucia Mountains, the old gen-
tleman became reminiscent and spoke
of a journey he and his brother, Don
Carlos, had made when they were
young, into the same mountains in
quest of gold.

And on a Sunday afternoon I spent
at his house, when he was lying on a
sick bed — too soon, alas, to die — he
told me the story which is substantially
as follows:

Don Pedro, his father, was one of
the wealthiest rancheros of the days
before the "Gringos" came. He had
large possessions, many servants, and
lived in the style of a Spanish grandee
— that he was. There was an Indian
on his ranch whose name was Juan
Soto, who had been many years on
the place acting as vaquero, andwas
regarded as one of the most reliable
men there. When Don Ygnacio was
but a stripling, Juan, who was then
growing quite old, in a burst of con-
fidence, one day, imparted the secret
of his life to Don Pedro.

"Senor," said he, "you have been
good to me— -when I came to this ran-

318

OVERLAND MONTHLY

cho I was sick and friendless, and you
took me in and had me cared for as if
I was one of your own family. It is
the custom of my people never to
speak to a white man of the place
where gold is found ; they say that the
Good Spirit was angry when the Span-
iards took these lands from the In-
dians, and that the Indians must keep
the gold for themselves. The good
padres told us, when converted to
Christianity, that God would curse us
if we did not tell them (and no one
else) where the gold was. Senor, you
know of the wealth of the padres in
their Missions. It is because of their
knowledge of the placers de oro. I
shall do that for you that no other In-
dian ever did : I shall tell to a Spanish
Don where there is so much gold that
you, Senor, will be of all your people
muchisimo ricos. I do this since you
have been, not only my patron, per
amigo mio. You had me taught as no
other Indian was taught, and to you to
whom I owe everything and my life
as well, I disclose my secret after
keeping the same for thirty years.
Madre de Dios! I swear this is true.
"A short time before I came to this
rancho I was with my tribe of Indians
upon the shores of the great ocean,
along which the holy Santa Lucia
Mountains run. We had been catching
and drying fish and abalones for our
winter supply. Having finished our
work we journeyed Eastward across
the mountains, going to the Salinas
Valley. One day a fine buck pursued
by wolves passed near us. I alone
followed them, and succeeded in kill-
ing the deer with my arrows when he
came to bay with the wolves, and I
frightened them away. I was now
lost, and I wandered for days trying
'to find my way out of the mountains.
I came to a narrow gulch through
which flowed a small stream of water.
I camped that night there, and in the
morning I went down to get some
v/ater, and I saw gold in the sands;
and nuggets of pure gold, some of
those pieces were as large as a man's
fist. I gathered many pounds weight
and wrapped them up in the deer skin,

and I traveled along that stream for a
few miles until it ran into the sea. I
was weary and sick, and do not know
how much time passed. The gold was
very heavy, and I threw it away piece
after piece until I had no more. For
who cares for gold when he is hungry
and sick. I ate roots and berries and
knocked over a rabbit once in a while.

"I took a northerly course along the
ocean, crossed many little streams
flowing west, and after passing over
a river came to an old Mission build-
ing, where the roof had fallen in. I
remember stopping alongside of the
building, and looking south and seeing
che beginning of the hills, and a white
blaze upon the face of the first hill.
I then turned down south, and for
many days, I know not how long, I
walked seeking to find a trail into the
Salinas Valley.

"After awhile I knew nothing, and
when I woke I found myself in an In-
dian Camp ; they were kind to me, and
when I was strong enough to travel, I
went with them for many months, until
from a very bad cold I had caught, I
could go no further; and they left me
in an old brush hut with food enough
to last me several days. Good luck
came to me, and I soon began to walk
again — this time to the north, and just
before I came to your rancho, senor, I
fell and broke my leg. You know the
rest. You have my story; and it is
true and the good God knows it is
nothing but the truth."

The Don smiled down at Juan, and
said:

"Esta buena (it is well) Juan! I be-
lieve you; muchas gracias. I appre-
ciate your confidence. Can you find
that placero de oro?"

"Si, Senor. I know I can find it."

"Very well, Juan. I will let you
guide the young Senores to that spot,
for I am too old to venture on such a
long journey into those mountains,"
said the Don.

Early in the month of May, 1848 —
the last rains of the season being now
ever — great preparations were made at
the Santa Teresa Rancho for this quest
of gold.

THE LOST MINE IN THE SANTA LUCIAS

319

The two young Dons, Juan, Pablo,
an old Indian servant, and three other
Indians made up the party. Don Car-
los and Don Ygnacio, well mounted
on their favorite steeds, gaily capari-
soned, Pablo on a reliable bronco, and
Juan and the other Indians leading
three burros that carried all their out-
fit — Pablo had had considerable ex-
perience in his youth in Northern Mex-
ico, in placer mines as well as quartz,
and he was careful enough to bring
with him his horn and batea (the lat-
ter, a wooden bowl for washing the
golden sands, soon to be replaced by
the American gold pan.) Several
picks and shovels were also packed
upon the burros. The young men, ex-
pecting to stop over in Monterey (then
the seat of government of Alta Cali-
fornia), where they had some cousins,
had carefully packed and wrapped in
oil skin their finest clothes.

Juan could not point out the road to
the Santa Lucia, but said he knew
where the gold was when he got to the
mountains, so Don Pedro directed the
party to proceed by the usual road to
Monterey,* and then south into the
Santa Lucias, where Juan was to be
their guide.

A well filled purse of Mexican pesos
for emergencies was strapped to the
saddle of Don Ygnacio.

Just as the party were about to start
their preceptor, who was the family
priest, Padre Felipe, declared his in-
tention of going with them and visiting
the fathers at the Monterey Mission.
So mounted on his mule he trotted in
the rear of the procession. The good
padre had some grievances that he
kept to himself, and he was now going
to share them with his superior at
Monterey. Two things troubled him;
first, that Don Pedro and the young
Dons were indifferent to their religious
exercises, none of them having been
to confession for a long time; and
they spoke lightly of the Church. Ver-
ily, the world was growing wicked!
The women of the family were very
devout. What, indeed, would become
of the Church were it not for the wo-
men, who the world over implicitly

obeyed their confessors? Secondly,
here was Juan, who had confided his
secret to Don Pedro, instead of to him,
the priest; for did not all the gold in
California, discovered and undiscov-
ered, belong to the Church ? And had
not Juan violated the vow taken by all
Christian Indians to reveal only to
their confessors the places where the
gold was found? However, he would
lay the whole matter before the padres
at Monterey, and try and save the gold
for the Church.

Along down through the Santa Clara
Valley, which was then an unbroken
paradise of shrubs, trees and wild
flowers, the gold seekers wended their
way. Through ancient San Juan — over
the ever remembered steep mountain
grades — crossing the Salinas Valley
and Sand Dunes, and then into Mon-
terey — five days were occupied in trav-
eling to this pueblo. The young Dons
and the padre being hospitably enter-
tained by the rancheros along the
route; and the other members of the
party sleeping in outhouses and barns
or on the ground.

At Monterey the padre at once took
up his quarters at the Mission; and
the Dons were royally feted and
feasted at their cousin's. Balls and
parties were given in their honor, and
when the time came to resume their
journey, it was very hard for them to
tear themselves away from their beau-
tiful friends and go into the Santa
Lucias.

Ah! The lovely senoritas of Mon-
terey! There is not a more charming
personage on earth than the Spanish
senorita. Grace enters into every line
of their supple forms, and from those
lovely, dark, liquid eyes Cupid sends
his wireless messages of love. At
least one of the party, Don Ygnacio,
was ensnared, and in a journey made
later on to Monterey he led the beau-
tiful senorita to the altar.

Our party now journeyed southward
to the Mission founded in 1770 by
Father Junipero Serra. The roof of
the ancient building had fallen in ; and
the old adobe quadrangle was fast go-
ing to decay; and no one lived there

320

OVERLAND MONTHLY

but a few Indians. Through Juan act-
ing as an interpreter, the Dons tried
to find out if these Indios had ever
heard of any gold placers; but true to
their nature they denied all knowledge
of any. It is rare that an Indian will
tell a white man where any valuable
metal can be found. Juan was a re-
markable exception to this rule.

The Santa Lucia Mountains begin
a short distance to the south of the
Carmel River, and extend over a hun-
dred miles along the Pacific Ocean
shore. In places they rise to a height
of nearly six thousand feet; one peak,
the Santa Lucia, is about 5,900 feet.
The larger portion of the range com-
prise barren hills, with occasional can-
yons and gulches, wherein grow red-
woods and many species of trees, one
of them the Santa Lucia fir, found no
other place on earth. Beginning with
Point Gorda on the southern Monterey
coast, these redwoods continue along
the Pacific Ocean northerly (with
breaks here and there) until they cross
a short distance over the Oregon State
line.

It was just at the season when the
wild flowers were at their best — baby-
blue-eyes and some of the earlier
spring flowers had closed their eyes
for the year — but the royal purple
larkspur, the beautiful clarkias, gode-
tias, poppies, collinsias, etc., covered
the hills in the open. Under the trees,
the fairy lanterns, mission bells and
wild iris abounded ; while in the damp
places along the creeks, golden and
crimson monkey flowers, columbine
and purple nemophila were growing.
The tree poppy skirted the high
places.

As the land approached the ocean,
the cliffs were precipitous, and the
marine scenery in places unsurpassed
in grandeur anywhere.

After reaching the Mission of San
Carlos Borromeo (Carmel), our party
stood beside the building, and Juan,
pointing south, said:

"Senors, somewhere to the south,
over that white scar on the mountain
lies the placer."

It was not easy to find the way, for

Juan's recollection was hazed by his
sickness, and the many years since
he saw the placer.

For days and days, crossing numer-
ous little streams, up each one of them
a short distance, precipitous cliffs
barring their way, our weary search-
ers went, until finally one day, as they
turned to go up a little creek, Juan
shouted :

"This is the very canyon through
which ran the stream where I found
the gold."

But to Juan's astonishment there had
been a tremendous landslide there.

"El templor (an earthquake) has
been here," said Juan. "Underneath
this mass of earth and stones the
creek flowed when I was here before."
The water now ran on top of the de-
bris. Search as they did, no nuggets
were found. The slide had covered
the bottom of the canyon many feet.
Up the little stream some distance they
found colors ; and on a little bank Pablo
showed as much as ten or fifteen cents
gold dust every pan, but no nuggets.
An industrious miner might make
three or four dollars a day, but this
was not what they came after; they
wished to get to the nuggets and the
quartz ledge which fed these placers.

Day after day the party searched
the creek looking for gold, and the
sides of the canyon for quartz ledges,
but without success. There were no
indications of the ancient river system
in this country, for gold in the creeks
all came from quartz ledges. It might
be well to state here that the great
placers in the Sierras were on the bot-
toms and banks of the Ancient Rivers.
The modern placers were either washes
from these or from the quartz ledge.

While Juan and Pablo were busy
prospecting, the young Dons were hav-
ing great sport, hunting and fishing.
Deer were abundant, and the brush
was alive with quail. The trout in all
the streams flowing into the ocean,
were the young of the steelhead sal-
mon, and furnished fine sport and
toothsome meals.

In about two weeks' thorough pros-
pecting it was decided that these dis-

TO THE WESTERN SONG SPARROW

321

coveries so far would not justify any
further effort to mine.

The nuggets and the great decom-
posed ledge which had produced them
were deeply buried under the land-
slide; and where the ledge cropped out
again it seemed impossible to find.
Sorrowfully they turned their steps
homeward. The Dons did not blame
Juan, for it was evident that the great
earth movement had covered the plac-
ers, and also the quartz ledges at that
place, and where else to look they did
not know.

I asked Don Ygnacio if his people
ever made any further attempt to find
the gold. He said no: it seemed use-
less, and would only be discovered ac-
cidentally by some hunter.

Several years after I heard Don
Ygnacio's story, I met an Indian, who
was camped with his family in the
sand dunes at Twin Lakes. He was
well educated and spoke good English.
He said he had been looking for a
gold mine in the Santa Lucias, but had
failed, as had all before him. His
grandfather had told him that he had
found a sick Indian in those mountains
who in his delirium spoke of a creek
bottom covered with golden nuggets.
But where, he didn't say.

"Senor, that is the Mystery of the
Santa Lucias. Some day it will be
solved."

Occasional nuggets have been found

in the small streams emptying into the
ocean, one said to be worth $2,000,
from the southern end of Monterey
County. Colors can be seen all along
the headwaters of the San Antonio
River, and in some of the little brooks
flowing into the Pacific Ocean. Numer-
ous quartz locations have been made
in the Los Burros district, but nothing
very rich or permanent. Where is this
great bonanza which has scattered its
nuggets through the streams along the
coast?

Who will solve the mystery? For
the quartz ledge must crop out some-
where !

It is one of those peculiar freaks of
the earth movements to cover those
spots where the gold has been brought
to the surface.

The United States engineers who
surveyed through the Coast Ranges,
held long ago that no permanent ledge
would ever be found, that the forma-
tion was so broken by the upheaval,
and the constantly recurring earth-
quakes, that the ledges approaching
the surface were broken off and disap-
peared a short distance unaeineath.

However, there must be some very
rich quartz ledges somewhere in these
mountains, for once in a while a large
nugget of gold is found in one of the
creeks.

Where is the Mother Lode ?

Quien sabe?

TO THE WESTERN SONG SPARROW

When sunset gates ajar reveal
Eternal deeps of space that gleam,
And slowly over hill and stream
The tender twilight 'gins to steal,
Then on the hushed air sounds the note
Breathed from the dusky sparrow's throat.

And through the daytime busily
This thrifty singer wings and flits,
He never idly mopes and sits,
But plies his cheerful industry:
True type of our great Western land,
Where thrift and joy go hand in hand.

Everett Earle Stanard.

jn/meqica

Florida. A Wonderful Adventure in
Little Old St. Augustine

By Richard Bret Harte

CHAPTER VI.

JACKSONVILLE never appealed to
me. The only attractive spot in
the city to me was the Plaza. Most
of the stores seemed pervaded
with a "tourist catching" atmosphere,
displaying large quantities of minia-
ture alligators, pickaninnies and other
so-called '"souvenirs," frequently found
on the parlor mantel-shelf of a second
class New York boarding house. How-
ever, I was thankful for the warmth
and the sunshine, and spent most of
my time in studying the Florida litera-
ture, which consists principally of il-
lustrated pamphlets containing impres-
sive views of hotels especially en-
larged for the near-sighted ( ?) tour-
ist.

I was frantic to go to St. Augustine.
I had read so much about it, and had
seen so much of it in views, that my
imagination became obsessed with lur-
ing visions of an old, romantic paradise
whither Ponce de Leon had sought per-
petual youth.

And I went to St. Augustine; but
little did I anticipate the delightful ad-

venture that was to take me there, and
the sequence of extraordinary experi-
ences that resulted from that memor-
able trip.

It happened one day, as I was sit-
ting in the lobby of my hotel, that I
fell into conversation with one of the
guests. After exchanging introduce
tions, he remembered having seen
some of my caricatures in the northern
papers, and immediately became in-
terested. He was an actor and singer
of considerable local reputation, hav-
ing traveled in a stock company
through the State, and having interests
in the Jacksonville theatre. On learn-
ing my desire and financial inability
to reach St. Augustine, he enthusias-
tically informed me that he was get-
ting together a small vaudeville com-
pany to be tried out in St. Augustine,
and later to tour the State if the enter-
prise proved successful. Perceiving,
no doubt, that I had already succumbed
to mental visions of a brilliant theat-
rical debut in the very city I longed to
see, he offered me a position in the
company as a quick-sketch artist, with
a share of the proceeds and all ex-

SEEIN' THINGS IN AMERICA

323

penses paid. I accepted the proposi-
tion with wild enthusiasm.

From that moment I felt like a
newly discovered Frohman star. The
glamour of a theatrical career absorbed
by body and soul to such a degree that
I immediately had all my suits pressed
— my face massaged, my nails mani-
cured, and spent so much money on
hair pomades, cosmetics and cold
cream that I was obliged to subsist on
one meal a day for nearly a week.

Then followed days of the most la-
borious rehearsing in the privacy of
my room. I worked in black crayon
and powdered colors on large sheets
of paper pinned to the wall. With the
floor strewn with paper, and the walls
and the bed and the chairs — in fact,
every possible vacant spot covered
with fantastic sketches, my room as-
sumed the appearance of a futurist
landscape. I lived in a kaleidoscope
of powdered colors ; my face and hands
were smeared with all the hues of the
rainbow. I went to bed in green and
woke up in red; I washed in yellow
and shaved in heliotrope, and the room
with its entire contents reposed be-
neath a layer of powdered colors as
thick and as bright as an Oriental rug.
At last the day of days arrived.
With a bulging suit case in my right
hand and my left arm encircling a
gigantic roll of papers (for my act),
I eventually joined the company at
the depot, and we departed for St.
Augustine. The company, by the way,
consisted of three people, including
elf and a child in arms. There

was Mr. M , my actor friend, who

was managing director and "star,"

"Miss" S , an attractive, young

married girl with an infant, and my-
self—billed as "The Famous New

York Cartoonist." Miss S was a

professional toe-dancer and singer,
having met with success in a produc-
tion of Ben Hur in New York.

We reached St. Augustine about
noon, and drove immediately to the
theatre for a rehearsal. The theatre
was quite a fair sized house, and was
showing motion pictures,- with occa-
sional "high class" vaudeville. When

fc.B H

7 felt like a newly-discovered
Frohman star."

I saw the bill posters (which I had de-
signed) standing in the lobby, a thrill
of tremendous importance suffused my
being. After the rehearsal I sat in the
drug store adjoining the theatre lobby
and just gloated over the people as
they stopped before the bill-board,
gazing at my caricatures and passing
various remarks which I naturally in-
terpreted as being in reference to "The
Famous New York Cartoonist."

Finally the hour of the first perform-
ance arrived. The evening suddenly
turned unusually cold and developed
a bitter frost which rather dampened

324

OVERLAND MONTHLY

our prospects of a full house. I spent
over an hour in my dressing room
busily engaged with my make-up and
rehearsing before the mirror in an ar-
dent endeavor to acquire professional
ease, with a bow and a smile that would
bring immediate applause. My "car-
toonist costume" consisted of a new
shirt, carefully rolled at the sleeves,
and displaying a dark tie caught with
a modish abandon by an attractive pin.
My trousers were pressed to such per-
fection that I never sat down during
the whole evening, while I preserved
the brilliant polish of my shoes by
wearing slippers until a few moments
before my act. Beneath the weight of
countless applications of cold cream
my face became almost rigid. Every
time I blew my nose I was obliged to
hurry back to the dressing room and
repair any possible damage with a
fresh layer of powder.

Then the curtain went up, and a two
reel drama began on the screen, ac-
companied by an outburst from the or-
chestral regions. The orchestra con-
sisted of a pretty girl and a piano.
Having lost its tone in the early
eighties, the instrument had recently
become paralyzed in several keys, and
the player was one of those typical
motion picture accompanists, whose
repertoire is chiefly composed of a
continuous farrago of ragtime, lachry-
mose popular airs of the Mother's-sad-
grey-eyes calibre and tragic selections
from the operas.

The picture soon came to an end,
and down came the curtain. In five
minutes the vaudeville was due to
commence; the stage was suddenly
suffused with light, and everything
was excitement. Through a hole in
the curtain I eagerly scanned the au-
dience. On account of the frost there
was a very poor house, but I was sat-
isfied — in fact, rather glad. Almost in
the front row, in the most expensive
seats, sat two elderly ladies engaged in
the most animated conversation. They
would talk excitedly, study the pro-
gram with great concern, and then re-
lapse into a pensive stare at the stage.
For a moment I trembled with the

thought that they might be critics
from the local paper, and attracted by
my name had come to "write me up."

I was in the middle of this horrible
contemplation when Mr. M sud-
denly grabbed me by the arm and in-
formed me that Miss S wanted to

see me at once. I hurried to her dress-
ing room and found her in a dilemma.
The nurse girl had disappeared and

left Miss S alone with her child,

and so I was given the ponderous task
of keeping the child amused while her
mother was doing her act.

Mr. M was the first on the pro-
gram, then Miss S and Mr. M

together, after whom came my act, fol-
lowed by a toe dance by Miss S .

Mr. M opened the vaudeville with

a few songs in which he was later

joined by Miss S in a popular

song with the usual patter between
verses. In the meantime, I was being
initiated into the awful art (or artful
awf illness), of nursing. I had re-
fused to sit on the floor and dis-
turb the perfect crease of my trou-
sers. The child apparently noted this
and decided to make the best of me
at all events ; so she quietly sucked her
fingers for a while, contemplating me
with wide-eyed innocence, and then
deliberately smeared them over my
brilliantly polished shoes. Ye Gods!
... I had had at least seven shoe-
shines that day, and now . . . ! Well,
the language I used was most un-
nurse like, though it greatly amused

the child. Fortunately, Mr. M and

Miss S were encored, and I just

had time to regain a polish.

At last my "turn" came. "It's a poor

house," said Mr. M , as he ushered

me into the wings. "But do your best,"
and then the curtain arose and I
found myself facing the audience.

Hardly had I made my bow when
the two elderly ladies in the front seats
leaned forward and deliberately be-
gan scrutinizing me, one with lorg-
nettes and the other with opera
glasses. For a moment I felt like a
microbe under a microscope, but
quickly regaining my equilibrium,
bowed with all the grace I could sum-

'Then followed days of the most laborious rehearsing.

mon, and with a studied smile at my
persistent critics, began with the us-
ual "Ladies and Gentlemen." My first
"effort" would consist of three carica-
tures depicting the feminine styles of
three centuries. The first, entitled
"1814," featured the picturesque hoop
skirt and bonnet, the second "A 1914
Languid Type," followed by a fore-
cast of styles for "2014," with a
sprightly damsel in masculine attire.
I had hardly made the announcement
when the two elderly ladies started an

enthusiastic applause, which was as
unexpected as it was encouraging.

Now the funny part about the whole
act was the fact that in my ecstatic en-
thusiasm I drew so fast that my
sketches were ambiguous beyond rec-
ognition. In fact, when looking them
over after the show, I could not for the
life of me recognize some of them at
all. The "1814" sketch, most difficult
of the series, was so grotesque a con-
tortion that it looked very much like a
medical color plate of an inflamed lung.

326

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Whether the audience had taken me
for a futurist exponent or an eccentric
prodigy far beyond their understand-
ing I shall never know; but whatever
their impression, the situation was en-
tirely controlled by the two mysterious
ladies, whose zealous response kept the
audience in a continuous applause.

Imagine my consternation when at
the second performance I found my-
self again confronted by those two
ladies, sitting in the same seats, and
still as appreciative as ever. I began
to feel dreadfully concerned about
their identity; an uncanny mystery
surrounded them. Did they really ad-
mire my act, or was it my make-up that
had captured them? . . . Great Scott
— had I become a matinee idol in ten
minutes? Whoever they were, and
whatever their intentions, I owe them
a debt, for the second house was worse
than the first, and again they saved the
situation.

After the second performance was
over and the theatre had closed, we
gathered in a cafe and enjoyed a well-
earned meal. Mr. M warmingly

assured us that the intense cold had
been the cause of a poor house and
that the morrow would surely bring
better results. I begged of Providence
that it would, for my funds were grad-
ually diminishing into very small
change.

Then came a night of horrors. For
hours my face itched from excessive
make-up. I writhed in a thousand
nightmares and megalomanias. I
traveled the Orpheum circuit until all
the bed clothes fell on the floor, and
awoke with a start at noon just as those
two mysterious ladies were about to

embrace me on both cheeks.

And the most remarkable thing
about the whole adventure was that
they did embrace me on both cheeks.
But let me continue the story.

When I got down to breakfast the
next morning the office clerk handed
me a note and said that it had been
left by a lady in black. I gasped. An-
other woman in the case? ... A wo-
man in black ... A widow! Really,
this theatrical cartoonist business was
beginning to get on my nerves with its
mysterious romances. If I could en-
rapture three women in St. Augustine
v/hat fate inconceivable would await
me in New York !

The note was more mysterious than
ever. It was a request, in fact almost
a command, that I call as soon as pos-
sible at a certain house in Charlotte
Street, and bore the signature of a

"Mrs. Florence F ." Then it was

a widow!

Determined to solve the mystery, I
scrambled through breakfast and hur-
ried out in search of Charlotte Street.
I found the house; it was very small
and modest, and surrounded by a
pretty little garden. For a moment I
stood outside to gain my breath and
prepare myself for the next chapter
of this brilliant adventure.

But hardly had I knocked at the
door when I found myself face to
face with the two elderly ladies who
had so enthusiastically welcomed my
theatrical debut. Then, behold, the
great mystery came to an end, and it
turned out that the ladies, God bless
'em, were my own cousins!

(To be continued.)

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National Advertising

By N. C. Kingsbury

Vice-President American Telegraph and Telephone Company

THE growth, the development and
the necessity of national adver-
tising depend primarily upon
the number of things which are
of national importance. In a primitive
state of society it made little differ-
ence to an individual or to a com-
munity what was happening to some
other individual or in another com-
munity; but with the advance of civi-
lization came co-operation between in-
dividuals and communities, and co-
operation developed the necessity for
a more extended knowledge. Civili-
zation to-day might be very well esti-
mated and measured by the degree of
cc-operation, and the number of things
which are of national importance de-
pends entirely upon the degree of co-
operation

There is co-operation between the
producer of manufactured products in
Philadelphia and the consumer of
those products in Kansas, and there is
likewise a similar co-operation between
the producer of farm products in Kan-
sas and the consumer in Philadelphia.
There is co-operation wherever there
is more produced of a commodity by
an individual, by a corporation, or by
a community than can be consumed by
the producer. This over-production
makes distribution necessary, our won-
derful systems of transportation and
of merchandising make it possible, but
in order to effect distribution there
must be a widespread knowledge of
the product, and advertising is the only
method for enlightening the consumer
as to the nature and value of the pro-
auct.

From the above it logically follows
that advertising is a system of educa-

tion, and it is a very important branch
of education. Its importance is meas-
ured by our needs. Until within a
comparatively short time, the real ne-
cessities of the people on this earth
were limited to a very few things. In
so recent a period as medieval times
there were comparatively few com-
modities which people actually need-
ed. The complexity of our modern life
makes education through advertising
an absoltue necessity. We need a tre-
mendous amount of information con-
cerning things which we must have,
because of the requirements of our
present civilization. Our lives touch
so many and so varied interests at so
many points of contact that without
this form of education we cannot have
the knowledge necessary for existence
on the plane on which we now live.
Every day we must have greater know-
ledge in order to keep up with the
times. We may all start in on the
system of education brought to us by
advertising ; none of us may ever hope
to finish the course. It is easy to ma-
triculate, but impossible to graduate.

If we are to consider advertising as
a system of education — and this we
must do in the very nature of the case
— then there is an immense responsi-
bility upon all who are connected with
advertising. He who buys the adver-
tising, as well as he who sells it,
should consider himself as a member
of a great faculty, as a real leader and
instructor of the people. If the text-
books studied in this great university
of advertising are calculated to mis-
lead the students, if promises are
made which cannot be fulfilled, if
courses are offered and pursued which

328

OVERLAND MONTHLY

unfit the student for the practical
things of life, the entire institution will
be brought into discredit and disfavor
and the business of educating through
advertising will decrease rather than
increase.

In a general way, perhaps, we may
consider that the schools and colleges
and universities are educating the
young, and that the education derived
through advertising is directed more
especially to those who are older. This
classification, of course, is far from
exact, but as a broad generalization
it is correct; and when we come to
compare the cost of the two systems
of education, one for our youth and one
for our adults, we may note some
rather striking things. For instance,
magazine advertising in the United
States costs almost exactly as much as
private elementary schools, and all the
public high schools of this great coun-
try do not cost as much by $10,000,-
000 as that classification of advertis-
ing best described as farm and mail
order advertising. The billboard ad-
vertising of the country costs twice as
much as the amount spent in all the
normal schools of the United States.
There is nearly as much spent each
year in the United States on theatre
advertising as is spent on schools for
the feeble-minded — although I draw
no other comparison between the two.
The reform schools of all the United
States cost only about one-third of the
amount spent on electric signs. And
when we come to foot up the entire
bill for educating the youth in the
United States we find, according to the
report of the Commissioner of Educa-
tion for the year ending June 30, 1914,
that it costs $748,736,864. I am not
going to pretend to say how much was
spent during that year in the United
States for educating the grown-ups by
means of advertising, but I think you
v/ill agree with me that it cost quite as
much to teach the old idea how to
shoot as it did to teach the young idea
how to shoot.

Following our analogy a little fur-
ther, there are many courses of study
which our young students do not need

to pursue. Latin and Greek are be-
ing forced out of the curricula of many
important educational institutions, on
the theory that they will not be re-
quired in the life work of the student.
And so in national advertising, there
are many things which are not of
national importance. The grocery
store on the corner in Philadelphia
would waste money in advertising out-
side of its immediate environment. A
railroad running between two points a
hundred miles apart has no need for
national publicity. A telephone com-
pany doing business in one city or in
several cities would be foolish in-
deed to invest in national advertising.
These are, of course, very obvious ex-
amples, but there are many lines of
business where it is more difficult to
determine the extent of interest in a
particular line, and it is with respect
to such things that the mistakes are
made, and the history of national ad-
vertising records many instances
where large sums of money have been
thrown away in attempting to gain na-
tional recognition for something which
had no national importance.

That national advertising requires
large sums of money goes without say-
ing. The publications employed must
have national circulation, and in order
to support such circulation their
charges must seem high. But there
are other elements which must be ob-
served in order to accomplish results
in national advertising.

It takes time to be known all over
a country as large as the United
States; it takes persistence, deter-
mination, tremendous force behind
an advertising campaign, and it also
takes a willingness on the part of the
producer and the advertiser to be
known for just exactly what he is. As
Lincoln well said: "You can't fool all
the people all the time."

I sometimes regret the necessity of
v/hat may seem almost boastful state-
ments in advertising. I do not refer
to statements which are untrue, but to
statements which are true, and which
we national advertisers must continu-
ally put out if our advertising is to be

NATIONAL ADVERTISING

329

a success. There is so much of the
sensational placed before the general
reader that we do not have a fair start ;
we are handicapped, and are forced to
continually extol our virtues as an an-
tidote for the poisonous lies which
any sensationalist can give wide cir-
culation. Shakespeare revealed an
understanding of this very same ten-
dency in human nature when he made
Marc Antony say: "The evil that men
do lives after them."

But even this necessity in advertis-
ing has a great value. It helps to
keep us up to a very high point of ef-
ficiency. Almost every advertisement
which we put out calls forth expres-
sions of criticism. A man out in Mis-
souri or Oregon or some other place
reads that advertisement. He re-
members some experience wherein he
considers our performance has not
lived up to the promise in our ad, and
he writes in and calls attention to
what he considers is our insincerity.
He usually winds up with some such
remark as this : "If you would pay less
attention and less money for advertis-
ing, and more attention to your ser-
vice, it would be better."

We welcome just such letters. We
need to know when our product is fall-
ing below the standard we claim for
it. Unfortunately, we are not manu-
facturing a product which can be in-
spected when it is finished and before
it is placed upon the shelves for sale.
We cannot see it, we cannot measure
it with calipers to know that it comes
up to the specifications, and therefore
we welcome an honest statement from
the man who knows that something is
going wrong.

It has been said a good many times,
but I must repeat here, that the cor-
poration which I have the honor to
represent and which spends large
sums of money each year in national
advertising, does not do so with the
direct object of inducing people to
subscribe for telephone service. Our
President, Mr. Vail, has said to me
over and over again: "You must keep
out of your advertising anything in the
nature of an invitation to purchase

telephone service; get away from the
commercial idea." Well, that is a
pretty hard thing to do, but we have
conscientiously tried to do it.

We advertise in a national way be-
cause we serve a nation-wide public,
and we want that public to know all
about our business. We have intri-
cate problems; we want the people to
understand them. We have lofty pur-
poses, and we are entitled to have
them known. We have high ideals as
to civic service, and you can readily
understand that a corporation doing
business in some 70,000 places in the
United States needs some measure of
sympathy from the public it is trying
to serve, with its tremendous difficul-
ties. We believe in some great fun-
damental principles as applicable to
our business, such as the necessity for
one policy as regards the general use
and protection of every telephone in,
the United States. We believe in one
system, because we cannot conceive
of a nation-wide service being per-
formed by numbers of unrelated com-
panies. We believe in universal ser-
vice, because the ultimate benefits in-
cident to telephone service obviously
cannot be given or received in a re-
stricted territory.

Perhaps the one great test that can
be applied to our national advertising
is to consider whether or not it has
made these problems, purposes, ideals,
difficulties, principles and policies
known throughout the United States.
If it has made them known, and to the
extent it has made them known, our
national advertising has been a suc-
cess, but if we have spent these large
sums of money without that result,
our national advertising has not ac-
complished the purpose we have had
in mind.

Our national advertising campaign
began in June, 1908. We will assume
that the advertising has affected only
the number of Bell telephones as
shown in the annual reports of the
American Telephone and Telegraph
Company. The stations of our con-
necting companies, private line sta-
tions, etc., have been omitted in mak-

330

OVERLAND MONTHLY

ing up these figures.

For the 5 years of 1904 to 1908, in-
clusive, we gained 1,690,078 subscrib-
ers, and this gain was 1.72 telephones
for each 100 of the total population
of the United States. That was before
our advertising campaign began.

Now let us take the period from
1909 to 1913, inclusive, omitting, as
you will note, the years 1914 and 1915
in order to avoid the effect of abnor-
mal conditions due to the European
v/ar. During these five years, while
our advertising campaign was in pro-
gress, we gained 2,199,964 stations
and that gain was 1.95 telephones per
100 of the total population of the
country, so that during the period cov-
ered by our national advertising the
gain in telephones was .23 of a tele-
phone in every hundred of the total
population of the United States greater
than during the period when we were
not advertising. If you will apply this
.23 of one telephone in every 100 to
the total population of this country,
you will notice it represents a large
number of telephones. And this gain
was made in spite of the fact that the
possibilities for new business were
considerably less in the latter period
than in the former period.

Suppose we consider a moment a
comparison between the gains in Bell
telephones during the five-year period
contemporaneous with our national ad-
vertising, and the gain in telephones
in the more important systems in Eu-
rope having government ownership
during the same period. Let us take
the years 1909 to 1913 inclusive. Dur-
ing that five-year period France gained
133,947 telephones, or .34 of a tele-
phone per 100 of the population of the
country. Switzerland in the same per-
iod gained 27,502 telephones, or .61
of a telephone per 100 of the total pop-
ulation of the country. The German
Empire gained 568,781 telephones, or
.75 of a telephone per 100 of total
population of the country, while, as
we have seen, in the United States the
gain in Bell telephones alone was
2,199,964 telephones, or 1.95 tele-
phones per 100 population, the gain in

Bell telephones in the United States
was over two and one-half times the
gain in the German Empire, over three
times the gain in Switzerland, and al-
most six times the gain in France.

Now, you may account for this dif-
ference in any way you choose. It
would probably be impossible for any-
body to assign all the causes both for
the difference in the gain in the two
periods which we have noted, and also
for the differences in the gain between
this country and the countries in Eu-
rope.

I am going to venture to add just
one more line of statistics to those I
have already given you. All of you
have probably been made aware that
we have built a transcontinental tele- -
phone line extending from New York
to San Francisco. It has been adver-
tised in a national way by many dif-
ferent mediums, and this has had a
very remarkable result on our long
distance telephone business. In the
past year the average length of haul
of all the messages carried over the
lines of the American Telephone and
Telegraph Company has increased
nearly twenty-five per cent. Is this
not a truly remarkable result of the
education which the people of the •
United States have received through
advertising the invention and develop- j
ment of the necessary facilities for
long distance telephony? There are
probably few national advertising
campaigns wherein it is as difficult to
trace direct results as in that conducted
by the American Telephone and Tele-
graph Company, but the above facts
speak for themselves.

Not only is it true that every article
offered for the consumption of the hu-
man race must be advertised, but every
great cause in which we are interested
demands that same treatment. The
intricate modern methods of produc-
tion, transportation and communica-
tion and consumption have brought
men closer together in mutual interests
than ever before in the history of the
world, with the result that that which
affects one class of men or one nation
or one locality of the world also af-

NATIONAL ADVERTISING

331

fects every other class of men, every
other nation, every other locality, and
this makes necessary an accurate,
complete knowledge of great causes
and great events, no matter how far
they may seem to be separated from
our immediate environment.

We are in trouble in Mexico. It
is necessary that some policy be
adopted which will protect the people
living along our southern borders in
life and property. What shall that
policy be? It is the duty of our
national Administration to advertise
the reasons for the decision as it is to
make the decision. We are so closely
bound together in this country that
we have the right to know the aims
and purposes of the forces which are
chasing a bandit, and it is necessary
to advertise those aims and purposes
in order to secure our cooperation.

What have the warring nations in
Europe done in the last two years to
convince their own people, the rest
of the world, and God Almighty that
the individual causes for war in each
ration were the only just and righteous
ones? It has been a matter of great
moment to each of these governments
to convince the people of the United
States that each of the several na-
tional causes is the righteous one.

And how have they each tried to do
it?

These governments, as you very well
know, have all advertised. They have
bought newspaper space, they have
inspired magazine articles, and have
sent out news-slips to individuals.
Could there be a more striking exam-
ple of the universal need for advertis-
ing? This certainly is national ad-
vertising, with the accent on the "na-
tional."

One of the objects of national ad-
vertising is the formation of public
opinion. There is no autocratic gov-
ernment to-day. No government on
earth would dare to enter upon war
without feeling sure it could in some
measure justify the act in the court of
public opinion, and that is the reason
for the tremendous investment which
has been made in the advertising pro-
paganda of foreign governments in this
country.

National advertising secured the
Panama-Pacific Exposition for San
Francisco after all other methods of
persuasion had been tried and a rival
city had practically grasped the cov-
eted honor.

National advertising has secured
hundreds of manufacturing plants for
cities which have made known in this
way their advantages as manufactur-
ing centers.

National advertising has improved
methods of doing business in hundreds
of different ways. It has taught many
firms to know more about their own
business in order that it might be
intelligently advertised.

It is high time that the people of the
world came to a realization of the
tremendous scope of the advertising
business of to-day. No longer is ad-
vertising to be considered as a super-
ficial gloss upon business. It rather
has to do with the very fundamental
principles of every business. There
is co-operation in this age — yes — but
in order to share in the benefits of co-
operation, every business man must
cooperate. He must join this great
university. He must adopt your
method for the diffusion of knowledge.
He must embrace your ideal —
TRUTH.

x: W

The Church's Hope — The World's Hope

By Pastor Russell, of Brooklyn and London Tabernacles and

New York Temple

"That by two immutable things (His
Word and His Oath), in which is was
impossible for God to lie, we might
have a strong consolation who have
fled for refuge to lay hold upon the
Hope set before us; which Hope we
have as an anchor of the soul, both
sure and steadfast, and which entereth
into that within the veil." — Hebrews
6.18, 19.

THERE is but one Hope set be-
fore the Church, says the Apos-
tle in our text — the Hope pre-
sented in the Gospel of Christ.
It is very important, then, that as
Christians we understand what Hope
is. Once we had such confused ideas
respecting our Heavenly Father and
His glorious Plan that we could not
understand what constituted our Hope.
Many supposed it was a Hope set be-
fore a few and a threat set before
everybody else — the threat of endless
torment. How we misunderstood "the
God of all Grace and the Father of
Mercies !" Now we can see that there
is a glorious Hope for all who will
come to love righteousness and hate
iniquity, although the world's hope is
not the Christian's hope.

The Hope set before the Church is
the hope of reigning with Christ, as
His joint-heirs, His Bride. (Romans
8:17, 1 John 3:2; 2 Peter 1:4.) It is
the hope of attaining the Divine na-
ture. This hope has been held out in
advance of the blessings which will be
proffered to the world later. The
Church has no part in the hope of the
world. But we have the admonition
of our Lord and of His Apostles that

we "follow peace with all men, and
holiness, without which no man shall
see the Lord." We are enjoined to put
off the works of darkness — anger, mal-
ice, hatred, strife and all other works
of the flesh and of the Devil — and to
put on meekness, gentleness, patience,
brotherly kindness, love — the fruits of
the Spirit of Christ, the Holy Spirit. —
Hebrews 12:14; Galatians 5:19-23.

First Intimation of Church's Hope.

The first intimation that God would
raise up a class who would roll away
the curse from Adam's race was given
to Abraham. God said: "Abraham, I
will call you My friend because of your
faith." He could not call Abraham
His son ; for there could be no sons of
God amongst the fallen race, because
all were condemned to death in Adam.
Not until the death sentence should be
lifted from Adam's posterity could any
of them become sons of God. There-
fore, there were no human sons of God
from Adam's day until our Lord Jesus
came to earth a Man. He was the first
human son of God after Adam. But
since the time when our Lord died a
Sacrifice for human sin, a special class
of humanity have been given the great
privilege of becoming sons of God, as
St. John tells us.— John 1 :12.

But God said to Abraham His
friend: "I have a Plan by which to
bless the world." The Almighty was
the very One who had placed the con-
demnation of death upon the world.
The great Judge had determined that
man was not worthy of everlasting
life. Two thousand years after He

THE CHURCH'S HOPE— THE WORLD'S HOPE

333

had pronounced that curse, the Eter-
nal One declared that it should be
rolled away; for when He promised
that a blessing should come to man-
kind, He implied that the death pen-
alty should be removed.

It required great faith on Abraham's
part to believe God in this matter. But
he felt that in some manner God would
roll away the curse. Put yourself into
Abraham's place, and you will realize
how remarkable this was. He knew
that the death penalty was upon the
race. After God had said that man-
kind should die, it was not easy to see
how He could reverse His own sen-
tence and declare that man should
live! Would He say one thing at one
time, and then two thousand years
later say another? For a time there
must have been great perplexity in
Abraham's mind. But he appreciated
God's promise. — Genesis 12:3; Ro-
mans 4:3.

And now, four thousand years after
Abraham's time, we are proclaiming
that same great Promise; for it has
never yet been fulfilled. God promises
to bless the whole world through Ab-
raham's Seed. That Seed, the Apos-
tle Paul assures us, is Christ and His
Church. (Galatians 3:8, 16, 19.) The
hope of being this Seed is the great
Hope to which St. Paul refers in our
text and its context.

Abraham's Two Seeds.

This Hope is based upon a compre-
hensive Promise; first, that the world
was to be blessed; second, that this
blessing was to come through Abra-
ham's Seed. God showed that there
would be two different seeds of Abra-
ham; for He said, "Thy seed shall be
as the stars of heaven and as the
sands of the seashore" — a Heavenly
and an earthly seed, though the Heav-
enly was to be the Seed of blessing.
—Genesis 22:15-18.

Four hundred and thirty years later,
God said to the children of Israel, in
substance, "You know that I prom-
ised your Father Abraham that
through his Seed I would bless the
world. As his natural seed, are you

ready to have that Promise fulfilled in
you? If I bring you up out of Egypt,
will you appreciate My will and do
it?" And they replied: "We will."
Then the Lord said: "I will give you
My Law. If you cannot keep My
Law you cannot be proper teachers
and blessers of the world. I have
promised to bless all mankind, and I
will do it. As the children of Abra-
ham, Isaac and Jacob, are you ready
to be heirs of that Abrahamic Prom-
ise?"

You remember that Moses read the
Lord's Message of the Law to the
people; and that they heard the bless-
ing that should come upon them if they
would keep the Law, and the condem-
nation that should come upon them if
they failed to do so. Then the people
said, "All these things will we do." —
Exodus 19:1-8.

God designed that the whole world
should come to a knowledge of the fact
that no fallen human being could pos-
sibly keep the letter of the Divine
Law ; for it is the measure of a perfect
man's ability. But He dealt with the
Israelites just as though they could do
it. They had typical sacrifices. For
sixteen hundred years they tried to
keep that Law; yet year after year
they failed to do so, and hence they
failed to be the Seed of Abraham
which was to bless the world. As St.
Paul shows us, "By the deeds of the
Law shall no flesh be justified in God's
sight." (Romans 3:20.) God was
merely teaching them, and through
them all of His intelligent creatures,
that it is impossible for sinners to jus-
tify themselves in His sight. There-
fore, it was impossible for any of
them to bless the world.

Then, in due time, God sent forth
His First-Begotten Son, the Logos,
His great Mouthpiece. To Him the
Father had made the proposition that
if He would become a man, live awhile
on earth amongst sinners, and accom-
plish a great work for mankind, He
should afterwards be received back
to greater glory than He had before
He undertook this mission.

The Son knew that if the Father

334

OVERLAND MONTHLY

had anything to make known in His
Plan, it must be for good. So we
read that "the Logos was made flesh,"
and "for the joy set before Him en-
dured the Cross, despising the shame."
(John 1:14; Hebrews 12:2; Philip-
pians 2:8-11.) Jesus was born a de-
scendant of Abraham, through the Vir-
gin Mary. He kept the Jewish Law
inviolate, and thus proved Himself
worthy to be that Seed who would
bless the world. He died to redeem
the race — "the Just for the unjust."
He rose again, qualified for the great
work of the world's deliverance. To
Him is given all power in Heaven and
in earth.— Matthew 28:18.

The Bible tells us that the salvation
of the world is waiting until our Lord
shall take unto Himself His great
power and reign. God has been hold-
ing this salvation in reserve for over
1800 years, during the selection of the
Church, the Bride of Christ — the work
of the Gospel Age. Before the Church
He has set this great Hope of being
associated with our Lord Jesus, of
constituting with Him this Spiritual
Seed of Abraham, which is to bless all
the families of the earth. For this
reason our Lord is first delivering the
Church class. This hope of being the
Seed of Abraham is "the hope set be-
fore us in the Gospel," of which our
text speaks. "If ye be Christ's, then
are ye Abraham's Seed, and heirs ac-
cording to the Promise."

God has still in reservation the work
of blessing the world, and this great
work of a thousand years. But it is
now almost due to begin. The prom-
ised Spiritual Seed is about completed.
Under them the earthly seed — the
faithful worthies of previous ages,
who will be raised from the dead, and
Natural Israel, who will be restored to
divine favor — will ere long be ready
to cooperate ; and then the world's up-
lift will begin.

Our Anchor Sure and Steadfast.

In the dream which God gave to
Nebuchadnezzar, there was a stone
taken out of the mountains without
hands, and it became a great moun-

tain that filled the whole earth. (Dan-
iel 2:31-45.) This stone represented
Christ's Kingdom. The power which
has taken this spiritual Stone out of
the mountain — the world — is simply
the hope inspired by God's Promise to
Abraham. Some of us have heard the
Call to follow Christ, and have re-
sponded. (Matthew 5:6; 11:28;
16:24.) The Word of Christ has en-
tered into our hearts. Our minds, our
aims, our ambitions — everything — are
being transformed, are being set on
Heavenly things. — Romans 12:1, 2;
Colossians 3:1-3.

How precious is this Hope! It is
indeed "an anchor to the soul, both sure
and steadfast." By this expression
St. Paul suggests the picture of a ship
at anchor during a storm. So in the
storms of life the child of God has a
firm anchorage. This Anchor of Hope
takes hold even upon the things within
the veil.

The basis of our hope is the Word
of God. If we let go of our Hope,
v/e are letting go of everything. The
"hour of temptation" is now upon the
whole world; and a still greater stress
is coming. (Revelation 3:10.) All
the more, therefore, shall we need our
Anchor of Hope, of faith. Through
the Prophet the Lord points out that
He is about to "do His work, His
strange work, and to bring to pass His
act, His strange act." (Isaiah 28:21.)
The world will not be able to under-
stand it. As they see the trouble ex-
tending everywhere — to all govern-
ments and institutions — and realize
that it will terminate in anarchy, they
will say, Where is God? What is
coming to this Great Babylon that we
thought was about to bless the world ?
What is about to happen to us?

The Unsanctified Heart Selfish.

We are now living in the Day when
the light is shining more brightly than
ever before, and when the darkness is
gradually disappearing. We whose
eyes of understanding have been open-
ed to see the hope for mankind, see
that blessings are soon to be showered

THE CHURCH'S HOPE— THE WORLD'S HOPE

335

upon the world during the Messianic
Kingdom.

More and more it is impressed up-
on my mind that the numbers of hu-
manity who love righteousness and
who prefer it to unrighteousness are
very considerable. The major part of
the world would rather do right than
wrong, provided it did not cost sacri-
fice to do right. If the world were in
a healthy, normal condition, it would
not cost sacrifice to do right. It should
be easier to do right than wrong, and
it would be if things were as they
were originally. When God created
cur first parents, it was easier for them
to obey than to disobey; and when
the Divine Kingdom shall introduce
tne New Order, it will become easier
to do right than to do wrong.

As the days go by, we see still
more clearly the glorious hope of the
groaning creation, groaning now in
weakness, sin and bondage to death.
After the Church is delivered, the
groaning creation is also to be deliv-
ered, set free from the bondage of sin
and death into the glorious liberty of
the sons of God. (Romans 8:19-22.)
Mankind will have the same opportu-
nity for life that Adam had at first.
But they will have the advantage of
Adam, in that they have had six thou-
sand years' experience under the de-
gradation of the fall, during which the
world has been learning the exceeding
sinfulness of sin and their need of Di-
vine assistance.

The Present Outlook.

Yet with all the experience of six
thousand years behind us, the world
to-day is plunged into the most terri-
ble war ever known. Each nation im-
agines that God is with it. The spirit
of anger, bitterness and hate is spread-

verywhere, notwithstanding there
are blessings, comforts and conven-
iences to-day such as the world never
even dreamed of before. These bless-

are coming because we are living

le dawn of the New Dispensation.

But the fact is apparent that people are

being injured by the wealth and other

favors of our day. We have an in-

crease of education far above any pre-
vious time. And what is the result?
It is being used to defraud and over-
reach fellow-men. It is being utilized
to destroy men's lives. In another
century, if present conditions were
permitted to continue, it would be
worse.

Light and knowledge entering the
heart that is unsanctified, unconse-
crated to God, merely increase the
power to do evil. Through sharpened
intellectual perceptions the increase of
ability operates along the lines of sel-
fishness. The only ones ready to re-
ceive aright God's favors and to profit
by them are those who have yielded
themselves to God, who have re-
nounced their own wills and have ac-
cepted his will. Upon these the bless-
ings of God have a sanctifying effect.
Increased knowledge adds to their
power for good.

We are glad that we have given our
hearts to God, and that our eyes of
understanding have been opened to
see more and more the lengths,
breadths, heights and depths of God's
Justice, Wisdom, Power and Love.
How refreshing this is to our hearts!
It is good to be so near to the ushering
in of the New Dispensation; for our
Anchor of Hope is grounded firmly in
God. Soon He will deliver Zion —
"when Morning appeareth!"

Trouble Precursor of Coming Glory

Upon the battlefields of Europe
there is now being sacrificed the
flower of the strength of every coun-
try embroiled in war; and the war
spirit is spreading. In every country
engaged in this mighty conflict the
death list is piling up prodigiously.
Homes are being devastated; wealth
is being consumed. Revolution and
anarchy will be sure to follow. Of
this time our Lord Jesus declared,
"Except those days be shortened,
there should no flesh be saved; but
for the Elect's sake they shall be
shortened." (Matthew 24:21, 22.)
Then "the desire of all nations shall
come." Through Messiah's Kingdom

336

OVERLAND MONTHLY

shall be granted the peace, prosperity
and blessing for which the poor world
have so long hoped, and striven in vain
to bring about through their own ef-
forts.

Thank the Lord that He has given
His people to know what is to follow
this dark night of trouble. What a
blessing He has granted in the knowl-
edge that there is a golden lining to
the black clouds now gathering thick
around humanity! Let us not dwell
too much on the coming trouble, how-
ever. Rather let us point men to the
time beyond. Let us tell them that

God has a great blessing in store for
all the families of the earth. Let us
show them how comprehensive is the
Bible Hope. It will be a sad day for
the world when the plowshare of trou-
ble shall go in deep; yet the experi-
ence will prove to be a blessing. When
mankind shall see everything begin-
ning to collapse, then they will begin
to realize that there is no hope except
in God, then they will be willing to
be taught. Then they will say, "Lo,
this is our God! We have waited for
Him, and He will save us! — Isaiah
25 :6-9.

THE STEVENSON HOUSE

The tooth of Time is gnawing ruthlessly
At this decrepit house in Monterey,
Wherein the Master tarried for a day.
As yet the ancient shell stands steadily,
But one more little span of years will see
Its gaunt form fall in ruin and decay,
And crumbling to a little heap of clay
Become a legend and a memory.

The cities built of tears and brick and stone
Will pass like this, new races rise and die,
And still the heart that weeps and is alone
Shall find new brighteness in the murky sky
And face with braver smile life's bleakest morn-
Because a man named Stevenson was born.

Joe Whitnah,

High Prices — Causes and Remedies

By Obcd Calvin Billman, A\. P. L.

PRICES are affected by the rapid-
ity with which money circulates.
They are affected by the use of
supplementary devices, such as
bank checks. They are affected by
competition and the per capita pro-
duction of the soil. They are affected
by the faith, hope and charity in the
realms of speculation and enterprise;
but mastering all these factors of
prices are the actual amount of gold
coin and bullion in sight, and the
amount in annual output of the
mines.

The former financial stringency and
present unsettled conditions occasioned
in this country by the war in Europe
serve to exemplify the above. The
excessive and continued importation of
gold at this time is an exceedingly
grave and growing menace to the or-
derly and safe progress of business in
this country. There is a normal status,
or equilibrium, between countries of
the world, in industry, in gold hold-
ings, and in all relations with each
other. That status is not fixed, and
cannot be changed violently without
reaction. It is being so changed now,

and the prudent man will beware of
the reaction. The United States is ob-
taining more than its share of the
world's gold, as gold is distributed un-
der ordinary conditions, and when the
war is over it will not be able to hold
the excess. It is impossible to use ad-
ditional credit made available by fur-
ther increase in gold reserves without
raising costs and prices in this coun-
try, and the war is not going to last
long enough for us to get far on a
career planned only for war condi-
tions.

It is believed that when the leading
nations of the world are drawn together
in conference for the restoration of
Peace, and for what is believed will
result in universal and permanent
Peace between all nations, considera-
tion will necessarily be given to the
determination and establishment of a
stable International Standard of value
and other appropriate remedies.

The primary causes of the increas-
ing cost of living, the remedies, and
some of the proposed methods of ap-
plying these remedies are here out-
lined :

THE HIGH AND INCREASING COST OF LIVING

CAUSES.

(a) The enormous and
constantly increas 1 n g
production of gold result-
ing In a "gold standard"
of constantly depreciat-
ing purchasing power,
a constant apprecia-
of the price of the
things which the stand-
-ins will buy.

REMEDIES.

An international stand-
ard of value. 1. e., "a sta-
ble monetary yardstick."

Increase of wages.

METHODS.
By all the nations of
the world getting to-
gether and gradually in-
creasing the amount of
gold which the standard
coins REPRESENT;
thereby doing away with
the constant depreciation
of the purchasing power
of these coins, and VICE
VERSA if reverse condi-
tions demand.

Industrial warfare;
i. e., strikes, and labor
legislation, i. e., Old Age
Pensions, Minimum Wage
Laws. Industrial Insur-
ance, Conciliation Boards,
etc.

338

OVERLAND MONTHLY

(a 2) Monetary infla-
tion.

(1) Expanding credits
in use as "token" or
"paper money;" banking
credits in the form of de-
posits subject to check.

(2) Concentration of
population in cities, fa-
cilitating the more rapid
utilization of "Token
Money," check, etc.

(b) The breaking down
of competition.

Monetary reform.

Banking reform.

Trust regulation.

Control of middlemen.

< Increased

availa b 1 e I

acreage.

capita production from

the soil.

I n c reased

production

per acre.

A return to basic
hard money.

Currency reform, guar
anty of deposits, etc.

Dissolution, govern-

ment control, tariff
vision downward on trust
controlled commodities.

Patent law revision.

Abolition of middle- «
men's agreements.

Cooperation.

Reclamation, i. e., irri-
gation and drainage pro- I
jects.

Conservation, i. e.,
Federal and State preser- I
vation of vast territories. 1

Scientific and intensive J
farming, i. e., reclama- i
tion, fertilization and j
conservation of the soil, j
V o c a tional education;
farm financing.

The Increasing Production of Gold.

The primary or master cause of the
high and increasing cost of living
throughout the world is the depreciat-
ing purchase power of money through
the world's enormous and constantly
increasing production of gold. In 1900
the world's production was $254,556,-
000. In 1913, $455,345,423, or almost
double what it was in 1900.

A Dollar Buys Less.

The weight of the gold dollar re-
mains unchanged, but its value or pur-
chasing power does not. It is gener-
ally recognized that as the production
of gold increased the value of gold
must necessarily decrease, but as gold
is the standard of value, its deprecia-
tion is displayed in its decreasing pur-
chasing power, or in other words, in a
constant appreciation of the things
which the standard coins will buy.
During the last fifteen years, although
the gold dollar has remained the same
in size, its purchasing power has fallen

during this period to perhaps two-
thirds of its former purchasing value.
This depreciation in the value of the
respective standards of value, or this
shrinkage in what Professor Fisher
terms the "Monetary Yardstick," has
injured all those who have received a
fixed number of dollars, such as wage
earners, salaried men, savings bank
depositors, and the like.

As a remedy, reference is here made
and indorsement given to Professor
Fisher's plan for an "International
Standard of Value," to be fixed and
regulated by an International Mone-
tary Commission. As a method of
carrying the proposed remedy into ef-
fect, I cannot do better than to quote
the words of Professor Fisher relative
to his plan:

"My own plan virtually amounts to restor--
tag the seigniorage on gold, that seigniorage
to be annually readjusted according to the
statistics or index number of the price level.
This plan would tend to restrain the coinage
of gold through the mints. It would not de-
stroy the gold standard, but merely stabilize
it. Gold bullion would still be the ultimate
concrete basis of every dollar; but instead of

HIGH PRICES— CAUSES AND REMEDIES

339

the bullion being fixed, and varying in pur-
chasing power, it would be fixed in purchas-
ing power and varying in weight. The plan
would not be subjected to the danger of po-
litical manipulation, which has been the weak
point in most proposals for producing a
monetary stability. It would work as auto-
matically as the mint works."

Monetary Inflation.

Closely allied with the first men-
tioned cause of the increasing cost of
living, and in fact a mere species or
result of it, is Monetary Inflation. The
precise extent to which these new sup-
plies of gold, entering for the most
part the bank reserves of the principal
financial centers, and thus becoming
the basis of credit, have affected prices
cannot be definitely determined, as the
influence is an intangible one, but it is
generally conceded to be one of the
universal factors. There can be no
doubt, however, that in place of the
former fear of the scarcity of gold,
such a redundancy has arisen that
swollen bank reserves have stimulated
loans at a low rate, manufacturing
plants have been extended, and the
prices of commodities have advanced
with a rapidity which has lessened the
purchasing power of wages, and has
brought the world under a true "Cross
of Gold." Furthermore, statistics
show that, during the last ten years in
this country, there has been a very
great and unusual increase in the
amount of business transacted by
check. In fact, in large cities, bank
checks perform from 90 to 95 per cent
of the transations and settlements of
business. Furthermore, the concen-
tration of the population in cities has
facilitated the rapid utilization of such
form of "Token Money."

The present financial stringency oc-
casioned in this country by the war in
Europe serves to exemplify the above.
At the beginning of the last week in
July the business world was moving
along as usual. By the end of the
week, the Great War in Europe had
demolished all the vast machinery of
credit and exchange by which modern
business is transacted. The headlong
effort everywhere was to convert
paper into gold and far-off credits into

credits at home. The former period of
financial inflation and seeming pros-
perity was being replaced by a period
of liquidation — a return to basic or
hard money — and gold is the unit of
ultimate redemption.

Two primary remedies have been
proposed in connection with the sub-
ject of Montetary Inflation, to wit: 1.
Monetary Reform, and (2) Banking
Reform. Briefly stated, the first re-
form may be carried out through a re-
turn to basic or hard money, etc., and
the second through Currency Reform,
Guaranty of Deposits, etc.

As the increase in wages has not
kept pace with the constantly depre-
ciating purchasing power of money, or
in other words with the constant ap-
preciation of the price of the things
which the standard coins will buy, it
has been proposed to offset this ap-
preciation in the prices of commodities
through an increase of wages. Two
primary methods of securing the de-
sired increase of wages are recognized,
to wit: (1) Industrial Warfare, or in
other words, Strikes, such as have
typified past policies of Labor Organi-
zations, or (2) Labor Legislation, in
the form of Old Age Pensions, Mini-
mum Wage Laws, Industrial Insur-
ance, Conciliation Boards, etc.

The Breaking Down of Competition.

The second great cause of the in-
creasing cost of living is the Breaking
Down of Competition. Two primary
remedies have been proposed: (1)
Trust Regulation, and (2) Control of
Middlemen. As a means of regulating
the trusts, a number of remedies have
been proposed. One is to dissolve
them and re-establish competition, and
the other is to reorganize them and put
them under government control. A
method which might at least curb the
great growth of trusts would be Tariff
Revision downward on trust controlled
commodities. Still other reformers
propose to revise the Patent Laws.

Another remedy for restoring com-
petition is the Control of Middlemen,
who have in many cases done away

340

OVERLAND MONTHLY

with formerly existing competition.
One method proposed in this connec-
tion is the Supervision of Middlemen's
Associations, while others propose the
Abolition of all Price Agreements. An-
other method is for the people them-
selves to furnish competition with the
middlemen by means of cooperation
among themselves.

The Declining Per Capita Production
From the Soil.

The third great cause of the high
and increasing cost of living is the De-
clining Per Capita Production from the
Soil. The tendency of the times is
for the people to aggregate in large
cities and to devote themselves to
manufacturing, commercial and dis-
tributing occupations, rather than to
agricultural and farming development.
The result is that there are propor-
tionately fewer people raising the ne-
cessities of life. Between 1890 and

1910 the average number of wage earn-
ers in manufacturing pursuits in the
United States increased 55 per cent,
while those engaged in agriculture in-
creased 40 per cent. The remedies
proposed are Increased Available
Acreage — and this may be carried
out through Reclamation and Conser-
vation ; and last, but by no means least
— Increased Production through Scien-
tific and Intensive Farming.

From the foregoing it is clear that
a stable International Standard of
Value must be adopted, together with
such uniform currency and banking
systems as are best calculated to pre-
vent the recurrence of money panics
and financial disturbances. Competi-
tion should be restored through trust
regulation and the control of middle-
men, and the per capita production of
the soil still further encouraged and
extended by reclamation, conserva-
tion, vocational education, farm financ-
ing, and other effective methods.

ONE DAY AT A TIAE

We only live one day at a time —

One fleeting day.

No matter if gold be the sandy shore —

Or shadows loom gray.

The hours that lengthen 'neath sorrow's prick,

Vanish, when joy draws nigh —

And friends that bask in our merry mood

Flee, when we sigh.

The cup that is fullest of pleasure's froth

Is quickest drained,

And time dries eyes that blistered hot,

When teardrops rained.

Yes ! Laughter is measured in one short span,

So fades the sigh,

For, we only live one day at a time :

You, dear, and I.

Agnes Lockhart Hughes.

Does Drunkenness Follow Prohibition?

By Harry David Kerr, LL. B.

Author of "Prison Reform," "If the
"The Farce of Trial by Jury," "Price
ness," etc.

People Could Own What They Use,"
Maintenance — The Salvation of Busi-

WHAT is true temperance? It
is as far removed from pro-
hibition as it is from drun-
kenness.

In the past fifty years, temperance
has increased to a wonderful degree,
not, however, because of the work of
the prohibitionist, but in spite of it.
Man's morals never have been and
never will be changed by legislation.
To pass a law prohibiting the sale
or use of any alcoholic beverage, is
a farce, for no such law will ever be
obeyed, but, instead, is only held up
to ridicule. Whisky, which is half al-
cohol, and strong spirits packed so as
to be inconspicuous, will be smuggled
into the State, into the city or town,
and finally into the home, where it will
do more physical injury in ten days
than beer or light wine could do in
ten years.

Travel through the State of Maine,
Kansas, Arizona, or any of the other
"dry" States. You will see a working-
man lying beside the road drunk to
stupefaction, his pockets empty ex-
cept for the drained whisky flask.
Compare this sight with the working-
man of Germany or France, or any of
the German sections in New York
City: On a Sunday or any other day,
you will see him taking his glass of
beer, or the Frenchman his glass of
wine, temperately, with his family,
wholly unmolested.

You don't reform a man by hanging
him. Nor can you reform the liquor
traffic by passing a law eliminating all
alcoholic beverages. The great thing
that prohibitionists lack is common
sense. They also lack knowledge of

their subject. To accuse the earnest
prohibitionist of being insincere would
be wholly wrong. Of course they are
sincere, but so were the men sincere
who once tried to make people relig-
ious by the thumbscrew and the rack.
Fanatical prohibitionists state that the
world would be infinitely better if the
"curse of drink" were removed. To
this we surely agree, for the "curse of
drink" is intemperance, and we are all
as anxious to do away with that as the
most radical teetotaler.

Just because a man has had a son
turn out a drunkard, does not by any
manner of means indicate his right or
capacity for making laws to regulate
the drink traffic. On the contrary, it
proves that the father did not under-
stand the drink question, or his son
would not have turned out a drunkard.
Statistics prove that three-fourths and
over of sons who are drunkards at
twenty were born of fathers who were
prohibitionists. The boys had to
drink in secret, so they became drunk-
ards as soon as they got the opportu-
nity. If this is true of prohibition
families, it is likewise true of prohibi-
tion States. Any effort to make entire
communities total abstainers against
their will, increases drunkenness and
demoralizes those communities.

In Russia there are two kinds of
drinks: Vodka (which is about the
same in alcoholic strength as whisky),
and beer or wine. From sundown Sat-
urday to sunrise Monday the sale of
Vodka is prohibited; the sale of beer
or wine is not interrupted. No drun-
kenness whatever is ever seen on Sun-
day.

342

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Beer and light wines are the temper-
ate drinks that not only do not harm
physically, but which are a substantial
benefit as a mild stimulant.

Ninety-five per cent of all men drink
some form of stimulant. A law passed
which makes it impossible for them
to get the mild stimulants openly will
only tend to make them get the violent
drinks secretly, and you, who pass
such a law, make them drunkards.

A hundred years ago, our fore-
fathers got periodically drunk. It was
a matter to brag about, even among
the greatest men, the statesmen of
our nation. "Father, Dear Father,
Come Home With Me Now" was the
most popular song of the day. The
farmer went to town with his crop,
and came home in the bottom of the
wagon. Many a time court would be
adjourned so that the judge and the
jury could "take a nip." It was a
common sight to see men dead drunk
in the gutters and alleys of every town.

What a wonderful change in that
hundred years. Drunkenness is tol-
erated nowhere. The man who to-day
becomes dead drunk is not only not ad-
mired, or taken as a matter of course,
but he is made the most disgusting ob-
ject of abject pity.

Has prohibition had anything to do
with this change? Not one scintilla.
Maine, one of the first prohibition
States, suffers more from drunkenness
than any other State in the Union. She
harbors an army of secret drunkards.
In Maine, per capita, there is ten times
more drunkenness than there is in
France or Germany. Maine prohibits
the sale of all alcoholic beverages. In
France there exists temperance, but
nc prohibition. The French govern-
ment publicly denounces the use of
highly alcoholic drinks. It at the same
time encourages and even subsidizes
the sale of light natural wines. In
Maine or Kansas, our most distinguish-
ed "dry" States, there are 12 drunk-
ards to every one in Germany, where
prohibition has never been heard of.
There is more drunkenness and there
are more crimes and disorders due to
drunkenness in any one of our south-

ern "dry" States than in Germany,
France and Italy combined, three
countries which are temperate, and
where beer and light natural wines are
used.

The chief factor which has brought
about this change from drunkenness to
temperance in the last hundred years is
the influx of Germans, French and
Italians who have migrated to this
country and have practiced and hand-
ed down to their children the habit of
indulging in beer and light wines
which are their native beverages.
American families have been strong-
ly influenced by the sane and reason-
able habits of their foreign brothers,
and have imitated them in this re-
spect.

There may come a time when man
will abstain from eating meat, but it
will be a different man. There may
come a time when man will abstain
from the use of wines and mild stimu-
lants, but it will be a different man.
The desire of stimulants is one of
the strongest implanted in the breast
of man. It is written in the earliest
legendary records of the most ancient
races. It has been termed, that which
lends the highest zest to life; the chief
author of social happiness; that which
fortifies the body of man against the
approaches of age, and the visitations
of calamity.

It is irrational to legislate as though
for all time, without knowledge of the
nature or the force of the instincts
against which the legislation is direct-
ed. The drinking of alcoholic beverages
is characteristic of strong and domi-
nant races. Crude virtues can be
transformed and polished, and even
vices may be utilized and may furnish
the basis and need of control and law ;
but where there is no force there can
be no growth and no culture. Every-
where since the beginning of the world
creative spirit and alcoholic spirits
have gone hand in hand. Alcohol and
its kindred have been of great import-
ance in fostering those social charac-
ters upon which our present civiliza-
tion rests. The greatest of obstacles
to social amalgamation, to treaties, to

DOES DRUNKENNESS FOLLOW PROHIBITION?

343

intercourse among tribes, were over-
come by passing the festive bowl. Al-
cohol favored common meeting ground
of thought and feeling and broadened
the whole social horizon. That alco-
hol is physically harmful, does not de-
termine its place in man's evolution.
Much that is in itself harmful or un-
hygienic has been utilized and turned
to advantage. The fatigue products
of the body are to a high degree poi-
sonous, to the tissues, yet their pres-
ence seems necessary for the complete
development of the powers of the or-
ganism; and the harm they have
caused may be more than compensated
by increased activities of important
functions. An abnormal degree of ex-
haustion or poisoning will bring into
action new powers and the resources
ol the organism are marshalled and
organized in a way that could never
be accomplished by moderation.

As to the effect of mild alcoholic
stimulants upon the mind, one has only
to glance at history's pages to dis-
cover that perhaps ninety per cent of
our great builders, statesmen, jurists,
artists, musicians and poets, have been
mild drinkers; and in literature one
may mention Burns, Byron, Coleridge,
De Quincey, Poe, and an indefinite
number of others.

It has come to be an established fact
among those who have given the mat-
ter study, that beer and light wines are
two of the most important foods that
nourish the body. Beer is a powerful
aid in the digestion of starchy foods,
and by a peculiar combination and
proportion of carbohydrates, phos-
phates, alcohol and carbonic acid, is
most valuable. No less an authority
than Dr. Wiley, recognized as the
greatest food expert in the United
States, writes: "Beer is a veritable
food product." The famous Professor
Gaertner says that one quart of beer
is equal in food value to three-tenths
pounds of bread as to the quantity of
carbohydrates and to two ounces of
bread, or nearly one ounce of meat, as
to the quantity of albumen. Dr.
Henry Davy, President of the British
Medical Association, says that a meal

of cheese, bread and beer is infinitely
more scientific than the food most of
the children now get of bread, tea and
jam. The "Hospital" (London), one
of the leading journals of the world,
says in an editorial :

"It is time that the erroneous view
that beer has no nutritive value in it-
self should be exposed and discred-
ited. The results of our commission
show that beer is par excellence the
nutritive alcoholic beverage. When a
man drinks beer he drinks and eats at
the same time, just as when he eats
a bowl of soup. Our commissioners
point out that a man might more
properly be said to eat beer than to eat
certain kinds of soup, or indeed water-
melon. Our commissioners properly
drive home the fact that when a man
drinks beer habitually he is not only
drinking, but eating. This beverage
contains all the elements of a typical
diet with the exception of fat, and in
proportions approximately physiologi-
cal."

It is a significant fact that up to the
beginning of the present war in Eu-
rope, Belgium, which was recognized
as the thriftiest and most provident
country in the world, consumes the
greatest quantity of beer per head;
three times, per head, as much as we
do, and double as much wine.

The great Thomas Jefferson, father
of democracy, wrote in 1813 that "no
nation is drunken where wine is cheap,
and none sober where the dearness of
wine substitutes ardent spirits as the
common beverage."

The man who has a strong consti-
tution and leads a strictly normal life,
not overworked or underfed, may get
along without alcoholic stimulant, but
the overworked, underfed, physically
weak, broken-down, sedentary man,
needs his light beer or his glass of
light wine daily as a stimulant.

Prohibition drives out by law the
bulky, harmless drinks of temperate
people, and compels men who will
drink, to take the concentrated stimu-
lants, which are easily secreted and
of which a very small amount will pro-
duce drunkenness.

344

OVERLAND MONTHLY

Over a dozen of our States have
passed prohibition laws and after
"seeing the light," repealed them. In-
stead of prohibition being a benefit,
they learned that it was a serious
harm. Such laws, they learned, tended
to degrade morals by refusing to rec-
ognize natural laws. They learned
that it fostered illicit traffic, which in-
creased the drink evil. They learned
that the habitual disregard of the pro-
hibition laws tended to create and fos-
ter disrespect of all law, both civil and
criminal. Such law intensifies politi-
cal dissensions, incites to social strife
and abridges the public sense of self-
respecting liberty.

Let us look back and see how the
States have fared that have accepted
prohibition.

It is an established fact that wher-
ever prohibition laws are passed the
results are increased taxation, decline
of prosperity, and general stagnation.
Maine, the oldest prohibition State in
the union, had, when she adopted pro-
hibition in 1860, a population of 21.2
to the square mile. Thirty years later
it was 21.7. What do the prohibition-
ist* think of this wonderful growth in
population? The "dry" States have
ever been conspicuous for loss of pop-
ulation, pa