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PUBLIC  LIBRARY 

DECATUR 
ILLINOIS 

—  87137- 


From  the  collection  of  the 


o  Prejinger 


ibrary 


San  Francisco,  California 
2007 


DEGATOR.  ILL. 


1 


Ind 


ex 

The  Overland  ^Monthly 

and 

Out  West  Magazine 

VOLUME  LXXXV 
January  to  '•December,  Inclusive 

1927 
FRONTISPIECES 

EARTH    SONG  .........................................................................................................................................  ...  260 

FORESTER'S  WIDOW  .....................................................................................................................................................  164 

GEORGE  STERLING,  Portrait  ...........................................................  Johan   Hagemeyer  ..........................  324,  354,  356 

GRIZZLY  GIANT,  THE  ......................................................................  George  Sterling  ..............................................     68 

JAVA   TOWN  .........................................................................................  ,  ...........................................................................  132 

PROMISE  OF  COMING  DAY,  Portrait  ...................................................................................................................      4 

SANCTUARY    ........................................................................................  Joan  Ramsay  ..................................................  196 

SONG  OF  EARTH  .............................................................................................................................................................     36 

TO    CALIFORNIA  ..................................................................................  George  Sterling  ..............................................  100 

TWILIGHT:  TELEGRAPH  HILL  ....................  .  ...............................  Joan  Ramsey  ..................................................  292 

TAHOE    ..............................  .".  ....................................................................  Anne  deLartigue  Kennedy  ..........................  238 

^ARTICLES 

AMERICA'S    SOUL  ................................................................................  Mary    E.    Wat/tins  ........................................     49 

AN  ARTIST  IN  SEARCH  OF  NEW  MEDIUMS  ..........................  Aline  Kistler  .....................................  .  ............     48 

AN  AMERICAN  ATHENS  ..................................................................  ...........................................................................  197 

ARCHITECTURE  IN  LOS  ANGELES  ............................................  Harris  Allen  ..................................................  138 

ART  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO  ..................................................................  Malcolm  Panton,  Jr  .......................................  147 

ART  AND  THE  INSTALLMENT  PLAN  ......................................  Harry    Daniel  ................................................  186 

AS  I  KNEW  HIM  ..................................................................................  Charmian  Kittredge  London  ......................  360 

BLACK  FLOWING  GOLD  ..................................................................  Zoe  A.  Battu  ..................................................  133 

BUSINESS    OR   PLEASURE  ................................................................  Anne  deLartigue  Kennedy  ..........................     47 

BUTTER  FRUIT  ....................................................................................  Lois  Snelling  ..................................................  305 

CALIFORNIA    ALPS  ..............................................................................  Ellsworth  E.  Davis  ........................................  104 

CITY,    THE  .........................................................................................................................................................................  261 

COMMONPLACE   SERMONETTES  ......................  -  ........................  Kirkpatrick  Smith,  Jr  ...................................  282 

COURTING   NATURE  .........................................................................  J.   D.   deShaxer  ..............................................  203 

DESERTED   ISLAND,   A  ......................................................................  Hazel  Carter  Maxon  ....................................  296 

DOCTOR  JORDAN'S  CONFERENCE  ..............................................  R.  L.  Burgess  ..................................................  174 

DONNER  TRAGEDY,  THE  ................................................................  Owen  Ernest  Sonne  .......  :  ..............................  265 

1869-1926    ..................................................................................................  Edward  F.  O'Day  ..........................................  357 

EPITAPH    ................................................................................................  Edgar    Waite  ..................................................  363 

EVERY  SQUARE-TOED  VIRTUE  ....................................................  Harry   Daniel  ................................................  240 

EXPERIMENTS  IN  A  NEW  ART  FIELD  ......................................  Aline  Kistler  ..................................................  154 

EZEKIEL   WILLIAMS  ..........................................................................  Chauncey  Pratt  Williams  ............................  232 

FEAR    ........................................................................................................  Herbert    Selig  ................................................  155 

FEW  MEMORIES,  A  ..............................................................................  Robinson    Jeffers  ............................................  329 

FINN,   THOMAS   F.,   SHERIFF  ...................................................................................................................................  314 

FOREST  PRIMEVAL  TO  TISSUE  PAPER,  THE  ........................  Emma  Matt  Rush  ..........................................  269 

FROM  THE  4th  CENTURY  B.  C  .......................................................  Gertrude  Atherton  ........................................  368 

FUR  SEAL,  THE  ....................................................................................  David  Starr  Jordan  ......................................  205 

GEORGE  STERLING,   THE  MAN  ..................................................  Albert    Bender  ................................................  362 

GEORGE  STERLING  ............................................................................  Vernon    Kellogg  ............................................  368 

GEORGE  STERLING  ...........  .  ................................................................  Will   Irwin  ......................................................  368 

GEORGE  STERLING'S  BOHEMIAN  CREED  ..............................  Gobind   Behari   Lai  ......................................  368 

GEORGE  STERLING  ............................................................................  Charles  K.  Field  ............................................  363 

GEORGE  STERLING,  AS  I  KNEW  HIM  ......................................  Charmian  Kittredge  London  ......................     69 

GEORGE  STERLING  ............................................................................  James  D.  Phelan  ............................................  343 

GEORGE  STERLING,  An  Appreciation  ..........................................  Clark  Ashton  Smith  ......................................     79 

GEORGE  STERLING  AT  PLAY  ......................................................  Austin   Lewis  ..................................................  344 

GLIMPSES  OF  GEORGE  STERLING  ..............................................  George   Douglas  ............................................  333 

GREEKS  WHO  BEAR  GIFTS  ............................................................  Zoe  A.  Battu  ..................................................  264 

GUADEAMUS   IGITUR  ......................................................................  Homer  Henley  ................................................  371 

HANDIWORK  OF  MAN  ......................................................................  B.  Virginia  Lee  ..............................................  293 

HEAVEN    TAPPERS  ..............................................................................  Aline  Kistler  ..................................................     28 

HE  WENT  SINGING  ............................................................................  Inez  Irwin  ......................................................  364 

HOROSCOPE  OF  GEORGE  STERLING  ........................................  Mattie  Lois  Fest  ............................................     27 

HOW  DO  YOU  SPELL'  IT?  ................................................................  Torrey    Conner  ..............................................  150 

INCONSOLABLE,   THE  ........................................................................  Mme.   Carolie   Castelein  ..............................     75 

IN  OTHER  MAGAZINES  ...............................................................................................................................................  122 

JIM    POWER  ............................................................................................  Cleone   S.   Brown  ..........................................  247 


87437 


JUSTICE   B.    Virgnia   lee 74 

KING  OF  BOHEMIA Idwal   Jones 332 

KNOWLEDGE     Dorothy  Bengston 259 

LAST  WORDS Genevieve   Taggard 363 

LIVING   INSEPARABLES James  Rorty 366 

LOS  ANGELES  TO  GEORGE  STERLING Ben    Field 71 

LOS  ANGELES Carey  McWilliams 135 

LOS  ANGELES Edgar  Lloyd  Hampton 229 

MAKE  BEAUTY  A  CAREER Oscar  Lewis 366 

MAKING  LITTLE  ONES  OUT  OF  BIG  ONES B.  W.  If  hillock 143 

MAN  WHO  SHORT-CHANGED  HIMSELF,  THE Charles  Caldwell  Dobie 327 

MAN  WHO  PAINTS  WITH  A  CAMERA,  THE Aline  Kistler 113 

MARTYR James    Hopper 335 

MEMORIES  OF  GEORGE  STERLING Sara  Bard  Field 334 

MORRIS  DAM Cristel   Hastings 113 

MY  FRIEND    GEORGE    STERLING Upton  Sinclair 365 

MY    INSPIRATION Sarkis  Beulan 88 

MURALS  FOR  BOHEMIAN  CLUB Aline  Kistler 209 

M USEUM   DREAM,   A Aline  Kistler 241 

NEVER  TO  BE  FORGOTTEN Clarkson    Crane 363 

NEW  SLANT  ON  AMERICA,  A Tom    White 145 

NOBEL    PRIZES Lelia   Ayers   Mitchel , 110 

NORTHERN   MISSIONS Jean  Cameron  Malott 7 

"O  CARTHAGE  AND  THE  UNRETURNING  SHIPS" Herbert   Heron 369 

OUR   MOUNTAIN Carl  Gross 169 

ONE-WAY  STREET,  THE Kirkpatrick  Smith,  Jr 5,  42 

OWL  AND   THE  GOOSE,   THE Bailey  Kay  Leach 150 

PACIFIC  TOURS Arthur    Bixby 170 

PAINTING  FOR  POSTERITY Aline  Kistler 177 

PERIODICAL  ESSAYS  THEN  AND  NOW iaura  Bell  Everett 279 

POET   IN    OUTLAND H.  Mary  Austin 331 

POETS  OF  THE  OVERLAND,  THE Henry  Meade  Bland 199 

POET  OF  SEAS  AND  STARS Henry  Meade  Bland 345 

POET  OF  THE  PIONEERS,  THE Willard  Maas 299 

POETS  OF  TODAY Henry   Meade   Bland 373 

PONY   EXPRESS,   THE Owen  Ernest  Sonne 235 

PUBLISHERS,  EDITORS,  AUTHORS B.  Virginia  Lee 336 

REQUIEM  FOR  DENVER,  THE Carey  McWMiams 46 

ROOSEVELT  JOHNSON  BECOMES  REMINISCENT Carey    McWilliams 367 

RUG  WEAVING Mrs.  Claude  Hamilton  Mitchell 302 

SAN  FRANCISCO'S  RUSSIAN  ARTIST Aline  Kistler 78 

SAN  FRANCISCO'S  OPERA  SEASON Uffington    I'alentine 273 

STERLING   Henry  Louis  Mencken 363 

STERLING  IN  TYPE 328 

SUPERLATIVE  AND   WESTERN Zoe  A.  Battu 39 

SUCCESS  Esther   Thorsell 171 

THE  GREATER  SEQUOIA  PARK Martha  L.  Baker 15 

THEORIES  AND   FACTS Alexander   E-versen 106 

TWENTY  YEARS  AFTER Louis  L.  DeJean 108 

WHAT  AILS  THE  BAY  REGION  WRITERS Mrs.  Frederick   Colburn 268 

WHAT  IS  YOUR  NAME Gertrude  Matt 175,  216,  249,  280,  312 

WHEN  AT  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS Ada  Hanifin 201 

VALUE  OF  NOISE,  THE Harry   Daniel 29 

WEST'S  BROADCASTER,  THE Cleone  Brown 137 

YELLOW   GOLD   AND   WHITE Dorothy   Ulman 37 

YORESKA  Aline  Kistler 300 

YOUNG  PEOPLE'S  SYMPHONY Cleone  S.  Brown 211 

YOUNG  MEN  IN  LOVE.. Carey  McWilliams 237 


A  MODERN  ENDYMIONNE Madame    Coralie    Castelein 206,  248 

A  WESTERN  STORY  WITH  VARIATIONS William    Denoyer 239 

B.   T.   U Frank    Staples 17 

CHRISOPHRASE    KING,    THE Bailey  Kay  Leach 208 

DAHNU,   THE   DELIVERER Gilbert  Alan  Young 304 

ENCOUNTER    Joan    Ramsay 238 

FREEDOM    Zoe  A.  Battu 101 

FLEURETTE    Jack  Wright 139 

NIG,  THE  OUTSIDE  DOG Emile  Jansen 8 

NO  SUCH  THING  AS  REALISM Phillips  Kloss 40 

NOT   WORTH    HIS   WAGE Ellen   P.  Martin 298 

NOON   SHADOWS Imogene  Sailor 305 

PORTRAIT    IN    SAND W.  T.  Fitch 54 

QUIEN    SABE   Alan    Yantis 44 

RAILROADING  IN  THE  EIGHTIES Frank  Staples 142 

REAL   PEOPLE W.   T.  Fitch 14 

STREET  CALLED  DEAD,  THE Malcolm  Panlon,  Jr 271 

SEEDS,  BY  ONE  OF  THEM Laura   Ambler 271 

TINY    Eric    Taylor 11 

VILLA    Tyler  Adams 31,60,  151,  188 

WHEN  WITCHES  WALKED Mrs.  William  D'Egilbert 165 


ESSAYS. 

IOWA  DESERTA  AND  COCKTAIL  ROUTES R.  L.  Burgess...  14 

PORTRAIT  IN   SAND W.   Fitch 54 

REAL    PEOPLE W.    Filch 14 

THE  SOUL  OF  AMERICA....  ....Mary  E.  Watkins 49 

DEPARTMENTS 

BOOKS  AND  WRITERS Tom  White 20,  52, 

-.84,  116,  148,  180,  212,  244,  276,  308,  340,  376 

CHOOSING   YOUR   INVESTMENTS Trebor    Selig 316,  348,  380 

PAGE  OF  VERSE 18,  50,  82,  114,  146,  178,  210,  242,  274,  306 

RHYMES   AND   REACTIONS 19,   51     39 

THE  PLAY'S  THE  THING Curt  Baer 115,  147,  179,  243 

THE  PLAY'S  THE  THING Gertrude     Wilcox 275,  307,  335,  378 

WHAT'S  WHAT  ON  THE  EDITOR'S  DESK 2,  34,  66,  98,  130,  162,  194,  258,  322,  354 

POETRY 

A  DAY  OF  LIFE Ana  Kalfus  Spero 304 

AMARANTH     Alice  Sterling  Gregory 367 

A   VALEDICTION    Clark  Ashton  Smith 338 

CALIFORNIA    COAST Sara  Litsey  140 

COOL  GREY    CITY   OF  LOVE George  Sterling 330 

COMPUTATION Joseph    Upper HI 

CRY   HARK 372 

CRYSTAL  CLEAR Joy  Golden 219 

DAWN    : Dorothy    Tyrell 11 

DRUNKARD  OF  LIFE Elsa    Gidlow 372 

FOR  GEORGE  STERLING Axton   Clark 339 

FROM  ONE  TO  WHOM  HE  WAS  KIND Miriam    Allen   DeFord 380 

FOR   GOOD    GREEKS Rolf  Humphries 109 

GEORGE   STERLING Joyce   Mayheta 377 

GEORGE   STERLING Witter  Bynner 332 

GEORGE   STERLING I»a   Coolbrith 328 

GEORGE  STERLING  ON  RUSSIAN   HILL Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood 364 

GOOD  FELLOW Idella   Purnell 338 

GOLDEN    GATE Edgar  Lee  Masters 365 

IN    MEMORIAM Elvira    Foore 339 

JOYOUS  GIVER Louise  Lord  Coleman 339 

MATIN    PRINTEMPS Walter  T,  Lee 241 

MESSAGE,    THE Lois  W.  Sperling 219 

POETRY    BY    STERLING 81 

QUESTIONING    True  Durbroiu 219 

RUSSIAN    HILL Sara  Litsey 110 

SARPEDON     Edviin  Markham 325 

SONGS  OF  CIVILIZATION Jesse  Thompson 114 

SOWERS,  THE George  Sterling 330 

STATIONS    L.  Bruffuiere  Wilson 198 

TO  GEORGE  STERLING Herbert   Heron 372 

TO  GEORGE  STERLING Herbert  Selig 82 

TO    GEORGE    STERLING , Lannie  Haynes  Martin 79 

TO  A  GIRL  DANCING George   Sterling 370 

THE  SOUL  OF  A  POET Derrick  Norman  Lehmer 372 

THE  BLACK  VULTURE George  Sterling 330 

THE    YEARS : MHU    Michaelis 7 

VESPER    SONG Philmer  Sample 219 

VOICE  OF  THE  WHEAT George  Sterling 77 

WHO  WALKED  HERE  WITH  BEAUTY Rex  Smith 339 

WINTER    SUN    DOWN Robinson  Jeffers  73,  159,  359 

WEST,  THE  LB-  c-  Jones....  ..  176 

ITVDEX  OF  cAUTHORS 

ADAMS,  BRADLEY  TYLER 31,60,151,188  BURGESS,  R.  L 14,174 

ALLEN,   HARRIS 138  BUELAN,   SARKIS 

ALLEN,   ELEANOR 306  BYNNER,   WITTER 

AMBLER,    LAURA 271  CASTELIEN,    CORALIE 75,206,248 

ATHERTON,    GERTRUDE 368  COLBURN,  MRS.  FREDERICK 268 

AUSTIN,  MARY 331  COLEMAN,  LOUISE  LORD 146,  17 

BAER,   CURT 115,148,179,243  CONNER,    TORREY 150 

BATTU,  ZOE  A »39,  101,  133,  264  COSTANZO,  REBEKAH 146 

BAKER,  MARTHA  L 15  CRANE,    CLARKSON 363 

BENDER,    ALBERT .  362  DANIEL,    HARRY 29,186,240 

BENGSTON,    DOROTHY  259  DAVIS,  ELLSWORTH 

BIXBY,    ARTHUR 170  D'EGILBERT,  MRS.  WILLIAM 165,239 

BLAND,   HENRY   MEADE....  199,  345,  373  DEL  WELCH,  MARIE 

BROWN,   CLEONE 247,137,211  DEJEAN,  LOUIS  L 

BURLINGAME,  RUTH      178  DEFORD,  MIRIAM  ALLEN 


DENOYER,    WILLIAM 335 

DESHAZER,  J.  D 203 

DOBIE,  CHARLES  CALDWELL 327 

DOUGLAS,  GEORGE 333 

DURBROW,  TRUE 279 

EVERETT,  LAURA  BELL 279 

EVERSON,    ALEXANDER 106 

FEST,   HATTIE  LOISE 

FIELD,    BEN 59,  71 

FIELD,  CHARLES  K 363 

FIELD,   SARA   BARD 242,  334 

FITCH,  W.  T 14,  54 

FLANNAGAN,  DOROTHY 306 

GIDLOW,  ELSA 368 

GORDON,   DON 274 

GROSS,  ANTON 210 

GROSS,  CARL  W 169 

GREENWOOD,   MAY 18 

HAGEMEYER,  JOHAN 325 

HAMPTON,  EDGAR  LLOYD 229 

HANIFIN,    ADA 201 

HARRIS,  JOSEPH HI 

HASTINGS,    CRISTEL 113,  377 

HENLEY,    HOMER 371 

HERGESHEIMER,  ALBERT 306 

HERSEY,  ELINOR 18 

HERON,    HERBERT 369 

HOPPER,    WILLIAM 239 

HUMPHRIES,  ROLF 109 

IRWIN,   WILL 368 

IRWIN,   INEZ 364 

JANSEN,    EMIL 8,205 

JEFFERS,  ROBINSON 73,  329,  359 

JORDON,  DAVID  STARR 205 

JONES,   IDWAL 332 

JONES,  L.   B.   C 167,  332 

JONES,  INCENT    210,  332 

KELLOGG,    VERNON 368 

KENNEDY,  ANNE  DELARTIGUE 18,47,228 

KISTLER,  ALINE 28,  48,  78,  113,  154,  177, 

209,  241,  300 

KITT,  JESS  WEBER 242 

KLOSS,  PHILLIPS 40 

LAL,   GOBIND   BEHARI 368 

LEACH,  KAY   BAILEY 150,208 

LEE,   B.   VIRGINIA 74,274,293,336 

LEE,  WALTER  T :...- 241 

LEWIS,  AUSTIN 344 

LEWIS,    OSCAR 320,  366 

LITSEY,  SARA 110,  140 

LONDON,  CHARMIAN  KITTREDGE .,69,  360 

LUHRS,    MARIE 210 

MAAS,  WILLARD 299,  306 

MALOTT,  JEAN   CAMERON 7 

MARKHAM,  EDWIN 325 

MARTIN,  LANNIE  HAYNES 59,  79 

MARTIN,  ELEN  V 298 

MARINONI,   ROSA 59 


MASTERS,   EDGAR   LEE 365 

MAYHEW,    JOYCE 380 

MAXON,  HAZEL  CARTER 296 

McWILLIAMS,    CAREY 46,  135,  237,  367 

MENCKEN,   HENRY   LOUIS 363 

MICHAELIS,   ALINE 7, 18 

MITCHELL,    MRS.    CLAUDE    HAMILTON 

110,   302,    376 

MONTGOMERY,    WHITNEY 146 

MOTT,    GERTRUDE 175,  216,  249,  280,  312 

MULLEN,   JOHN 306 

O'DAY,  EDWARD 357 

O'HARA,    JOY 59 

PANTON,    MALCOLM,   JR 147,207,178,271 

PENTON,    MALCOLM 147 

PERSHING,    GEORGE 178 

PETRI,   LORI 210,  242,  274 

PHELAN,  JAMES  D 343 

RAMSAY,    JOAN 196,  292,  238,  242 

RORTY,    JAMES 366 

RUSH,  EMMA  MATT 269 

SAILOR,    IMOGENE 305 

SAMPLE,   PHILMER 219,  274 

SELIG,    HERBERT 20,  155 

SELIG,    TREBOR 316,  348,  384 

SINCLAIR,    UPTON , 365 

SILVAY,    CHALLISS 146 

SKAVLAN,    MARGARET 210 

SMITH,    KIRKPATRICK 5,  42,  282 

SMITH,  CLARK  ASHTON 79 

SNELLING,   LOIS 305 

SONNE,  ERNEST  OWEN 199,235,205,265 

SPERLING,    LOIS 219 

SPERO,   ANA   KALFUS 146,  304 

STAPLES,    FRANK 17,  142 

STERLING,    GEORGE 68,  77,  81,  100,  331,  373 

STEWART,    IRENE 18,  59,  146,  210 

TAGGARD,    GENEVIEVE 363 

TAYLOR,   ERIC 11 

THOMPSON,   JESSE 114 

THORSELL,   ESTHER 171 

TYRELL,   DOROTHY 11 

ULMAN,    DOROTHY 37 

VALENTINE,    UFFINGTON 273 

WAITE,    EDGAR 363 

WARDEMAN,    AUDREY 18 

WATKINS,   MARY   E 49 

WHITE,    TOM 

..20,  52,  84,  116,  145,  180,  212,  242,  275,  308,  340,  382 

WHITLOCK,    B.    W 143 

WILCOX,    GERTRUDE 275,  307,  335 

WILLIAMS,   CHAUNCEY   PRATT 232 

WILSON,   L.   BRUGUIERE 198,  274 

WINDETTE,    OLIVE 59 

WOOD,  CHARLES  ERSKINE  SCOTT 364 

WRIGHT,    JACK 139 

YANTIS,    ALAN 44 

YOUNG,  ALAN  GILBERT 304 


AUTHORS  OF  POSTRY 


ALLEN,  ELEANOR 306 

BURLINGAME,  RUTH  M 178 

COLEMAN,  LOUISE  LORD 146,  178 

COSTANZO,  REBEKAH  LE  FEVRE 146 

CONNOR,  TORREY 306 

GREENWOOD,   MAY 18 

FIELD,  BEN 59 

FIELD,  SARA  BARD 242 

FLANNAGAN,  DOROTHY  BELLE 306 

GROSS,  ANTON 210 

GORDON,   DON 274 

HERSEY,  ELINOR 18 

HERGESHEIMER,   ALBERT 306 

JONES,   VINCENT 210 

KENNEDY,  ANNE  DELARTIGUE 18 

KITT,  JESSIE  WEBER 242 

LUHRS,  MARIE 210 

MICHAELIS,    ALINE 18 


MARTIN,  LANNIE  HAYNES 59 

MARINONI,  ROSA 59 

MONTGOMERY,    WHITNEY 146 

MULLEN,  JOHN 306 

MAAS,   WILLARD 306 

O'HARA,  JOY 59 

PANTON,   MALCOM 178 

PETRI,   LORI 210,  242,  274 

RAMSAY,   JOAN 242 

STEWART,    IRENE 59,  18,  146,  210 

STERLING,  GEORGE 81 

SILVAY,  CJALISS 146 

SPERO,  ANA  KALFUS 146 

SKAVLAN,    MARGARET. 210 

SAMPLE,   PHILMER 274 

WARDEMAN,  AUDREY 18 

WINDETTE,  OLIVE : 59 

WILSON   L.   BRUGUIERE ...  274 


VOL.  LXXXV 


JANUARY,  1927 


r*.  w 


NUMBER 


MONTHLY 

and    OUT     WEST     MAGAZINE 


Founded  by  BRET  HARTE  IN  1868 


COAST  OF  MONTEREY 


Price  25c  the  copy 


Pathfinders 

An  advertisement  of 
the  American  Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS 
discovered  America, 
thus  adding  a  new 
world  to  the  old.  Alexander 
Graham  Bell  discovered  the 
telephone,  giving  the  nations 
of  the  earth  a  new  means  of 
communication.  Each  ven- 
tured into  the  unknown  and 
blazed  the  way  for  those  who 
came  after  him. 

The  creating  of  a  nation- 
wide telephone  service,  like 
the  developing  of  a  new 
world,  opened  new  fields  for 
the  pathfinder  and  the  pio- 
neer. The  telephone,  as  the 
modern  American  knows  it, 


has  been  made  possi- 
ble by  the  doing  of  a 
multitude  of  things 
in  the  realms  of  research, 
engineering  and  business 
administration. 

Its  continued  advance- 
ment requires  constant  effort 
in  working  upon  a  never- 
ending  succession  of  seem- 
ingly unsolvable  problems. 

Because  it  leads  the  way 
in  finding  new  pathways  for 
telephone  development,  the 
Bell  System  is  able  to  pro- 
vide America  with  a  nation- 
wide service  that  sets  the 
standard  for  the  world. 


January,  1927 


HOTE1L 
MAMK 

IOPKJ 

San  Francisco 


San  Francisco 's  newett  hotel  revives  the  hospitality 
ofT)ays  of  fyld  and  bids  you  "welcome  now! 

ONLY  a.  moment  from  theatres  and  shops,  yet  aloft  in 
the  serene  quiet  of  Nob  Hill.  S^martly  furnished  guesT:- 
rooms,  single  or  en  suite  .  .  .  and  beneath  the  towering 
ftrufture,  a  garage,  reached  by  hotel  elevator.  Cuisine 
by  the  famous  Viftor.  S  Destined  to  take  its  place  among 
the  noted  hotels  of  the  world,  the  Mark  Hopkins  is  an 
unexcelled  Stopping-place  for  travelers. 

OFFICIALLY  OPENED  DECEMBER  4,  1926 
GEO.  D.  SMITH  Tm.  &  Managing  -DirfSor  $  WILL  P.  TAYLOR  'Rendtnt  Mgr. 


January,  1927 


What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  has  al- 
ways been  noted  for  its  fiction 
stories,  and  many  of  the  tales  told  in  its 
earlier  issues  are  still  preserved  in  vol- 
ume form  and  referred  to  as  gems.  The 
everyday  man  and  woman  are  not  look- 
ing for  literary  gems,  but  are  seeking 
to  pass  away  a  few  moments  in  reading 
something  that  will  take  hold  of  the 
mind  entirely,  obliterating  all  other 
thoughts,  momentarily  gripping  the 
heart  and  exciting  the  emotions.  Mr. 
Eric  Taylor  has  given  us  an  interest- 
compelling  narrative  with  an  element  of 
newness  in  "Tiny"  .  .  .  Yes,  how  often 
do  we  do  the  opposite  of  what  we  at 
one  time  felt  our  only  pleasure  in  life! 


ANOTHER  story  of  interest  in  this 
issue  is  that  of  "The  Outside  Dog" 
by  Emile  Jansen.  This  story  is  founded 
on  fact  and  the  Outside  Dog  was  a 
reality.  Emile  Jansen  is  perhaps  one  of 
the  few  companions  of  Jack  London  for 
whom  London  always  preserved  a  deep- 
rooted  affection.  Mrs.  Jack  London  was 
so  taken  with  the  sincerity  of  the  story 
that  she  asked  Mr.  Jansen  for  a  copy 
to  be  placed  among  Jack  London's  books 
and  private  papers.  No  man  with  red 
blood  may  read  this  story  without  feel- 
ing the  thrill  of  the  North  country  be- 
cause the  account  follows  truth  so 
closely. 


ONE-WAY  STREET"  is 
the  first  of  a  series  of  articles  on 
traffic  which  is  being  prepared  for  Over- 
land Monthly  by  Kirkpatrick  Smith,  Jr. 
It  has  been  through  the  co-operation 
of  Chief  of  Police  Daniel  J.  O'Brien  of 
the  San  Francisco  police  department  in 
allowing  Mr.  Smith  to  study  traffic  in 
the  Bay  City  through  the  eyes  of  a 
traffic  officer  in  uniform  that  this  ma- 
terial has  been  collected.  Appreciation 
is  also  extended  to  Captain  Casey,  acting 
head  of  the  traffic  division,  for  placing 
at  Mr.  Smith's  disposal  every  facility 
for  his.  enlightenment  and  information 
on  traffic  problems. 


"I  wish  to  say  that  I  have  met  many 
police  officers  during  my  life,"  said  Mr. 
Smith  when  he  handed  in  this  article, 
"but  I  can  honestly  state  that  I  have 
never  met  police  heads  who  are  more 
interested  in  the  welfare  of  the  com- 
munity they  serve,  and  who  are  more 
gentlemanly  and  loyal  to  their  oath  of 
office  or  more  efficient  in  their  work 
than  Chief  O'Brien  and  Captain  Casey. 

"I  might  add  further  that  the  support 
they  receive  from  the  people  in  this  com- 
munity is  far  from  being  whole  souled ; 
the  people  of  San  Francisco,  to  a  great 
extent,  are  unappreciative  of  the  effi- 
ciency of  these  two  men  and  the  heart- 
breaking tasks  which  are  theirs  to  per- 
form, with  a  force  of  men  which  is 
lacking  in  numbers,  and  often  over- 
worked in  many  cases,  by  virtue  of  its 
loyalty  to  its  superior  officers. 

"Chief  O'Brien  is  one  of  the  most 
popular  police  chiefs  in  the  United 
States." 

The  fact  that  Daniel  J.  O'Brien  is 
president  of  the  Police  Chief's  Associa- 
tion of  the  United  States  speaks  pro- 
foundly as  to  his  efficiency  in  police  af- 
fairs. 


STARTING  with  this  issue,  Overland 
will  select  at  least  two  essays  a 
month.  The  first  two  are  by  R.  L. 
Burgess  and  W.  T.  Fitch.  The  third  is, 
perhaps,  out  of  classification  but  we 
trust  Overland  readers  will  find  some- 
thing lasting  in  its  contents.  While  we 
may  or  may  not  believe  in  astrology  it 
will  be  interesting  to  note  what  Miss 
Fest  has  to  say  in  her  essay. 


TOM  WHITE,  who  has  done  much 
reviewing  of  books  during  1926  for 
Overland,  takes  over  the  department 
with  January,  1927.  Mr.  White  also 
will  answer  and  direct  any  one  to  read- 
ing material  if  addressed  at  Overland 
Monthly.  That  he  can  ably  handle  the 
department  has  been  proven  by  his  faith- 
ful work  during  the  entire  year  1926. 


LITERATURE,  art  and  history  will 
be  represented  by  Phillips  Kloss, 
Alan  Yantis,  Aline  Kistler  and  Frank 
Staples.  Kloss  and  Yantis  give  us 
stories;  Aline  Kistler,  "An  Artist  in 
Search  of  a  New  Medium,"  and  Frank 
Staples,  "Railroading  in  the  Early 
Eighties." 


ON  STANDS  25TH  OF  MONTH 
City  of  Paris,  Emporium,  Crock  of 
Gold,  Clift  Hotel,  Ayers  Circulating 
Library,  Whitcomb,  Paul  Elders,  Foster 
&  Orear,  Phelan  Building,  Golden  Gate 
News,  Goldsmith's,  De Young  Building, 
Flood  Building,  Merchants  Exchange 
Building,  Californian  Hotel,  Standard 
Brand  Cigar  Stores,  R.  W.  Levey,  Rei- 
ger's  Book  Store.  Write  Overland 
Monthly  for  list  of  outside  newstands 
or  concerning  subscriptions. 


WHEN  you  think  of  Overland 
Monthly  think  of  it  as  the  Mirror 
of  the  West,  for  you  will  find  it  exactly 
that,  reflecting  industry,  commerce, 
literature,  art  and  history  of  the  West 
in  each  issue.  Our  February  number 
will  contain  an  article  on  industry,  for 
which  you  will  be  grateful  after  read- 
ing. The  amount  of  dollars  saved  in  one 
year  by  the  advanced  business  methods 
of  the  Sperry  Flour  Company  is  not 
only  amazing  but  of  great  commercial 
value  to  the  West. 

February  Overland  will  also  enlighten 
you  about  San  Francisco.  Do  you  know 
that  the  best  ice-cream  man  in  the 
United  States  is  in  San  Francisco  with 
one  of  the  leading  ice-cream  manufac- 
turers of  the  city?  Do  you  know  that 
also  the  best  chocolate  man  in  the  United 
States  is  here  in  San  Francisco?  Do 
you  know  that  San  Francisco  has  right- 
fully claimed  the  best  furrier  in  the 
United  States  and  that  the  best  pastry 
chef  in  the  United  States  is  in  San 
Francisco?  In  all  probability  you  don't, 
but  you  will  know  after  reading  Feb- 
ruary Overland  Monthly. 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET   HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


JANUARY,  1927 


NUMBER  1 


EDITORIAL   STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 

CONTRIBUTING  EDITORS 

CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN   KENNETH   TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 


MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


JANUARY   CONTRIBUTORS   IN 
BRIEF 

FRANK  STAPLES,  who  gives  us  the 
theatrical  story  of  the  nineteen 
eighties  is  with  the  caste  of  Heaven 
Tappers,  an  Edwin  Carew  production 
which  recently  was  seen  in  San  Fran- 
cisco at  the  Columbia  Theatre.  Mr. 
Staples  is  now  with  the  company  in  Los 
Angeles,  where  they  expect  to  enjoy  a 
large  run  at  the  Columbia  Theatre. 
Some  of  us  will  remember  Staples  in  his 
parts  in  the  Mission  Play  which  is  given 
each  year  in  Los  Angeles. 

MARTHA  L.  BAKER  is  from  Por- 
terville,    California.      Miss    Baker 
has   written   much    for   the   newspapers 
and  is  well  acqainted  with  the  national 
parks  throughout  California. 

HARRY  DANIEL  is  a  member  of  S. 
W.  Straus  &   Company  and  is  an 
authority  on  finance.  We  hope  to  carry 
from  time  to  time  such  articles  as  "The 
Value  of  Noise." 

ELINOR  HERSEY,  who  gives  us 
"Suicide"  in  Bits  of  Verse,  is  the 
wife  of  Harold  Hersey,  who  himself  is 
a  poet  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  popular 
editors  in  the  East.  Perhaps  Hersey's 
"Singing  Rawhide"  was  inspired  by  the 
poetical  genius  of  his  young  wife. 

MATTIE  LOIS  FEST  is  a  member 
of  the  San  Francisco  branch  of 
American  Pen  Women.  Her  time  is  not 
confined  entirely  to  writing.  She  spends 
some  of  the  day  reading  horoscopes,  pro- 
fessionally. 


Contents 


Promise  of  the  Coming  Day-         ..-Illustration  Frontispiece 

ARTICLES 

The  One-Way  Street Kirkpatrick  Smith,  Jr 5 

A  Northern  Mission Jean  Cameron  Malott 7 

The  Greater  Sequoia  Park Martha  L.  Baker 15 

Horoscope  of  George  Sterling Mattie  Lois  Fest 27 

The   Heaven  Tappers Aline  Kistler 28 

The  Value  of  Noise Harry  Daniel 29 

SHORT  STORIES 

Nig — The    Outside    Dog Emile  Jansen 8 

Tiny Eric  Taylor  .   11 

The  B.  T.  U Frank  Staples .   17 


Villa 


SERIALS 
Tyler  Adams 


31 


POETRY 


The    Years Aline  Michaelis  7 

Dawn  Dorothy    Tyrrel 1 1 

DEPARTMENTS 

Bits  of  Verse....  .   18 

Audrey    Wardeman,    May    Greenwood,    Irene    Stewart, 
Aline  Michaelis,  Elinor  Hersey,  Anne  deLartigue  Kennedy 

Rhymes  and  Reactions Tancred 19 

Books  and  Writers Tom  White 20 

ESSAYS 

Real  People W.  T.  Fitch 14 

Iowa  Deserta  and  the 

Cocktail  Routes R.  L.  Burgess 14 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative,  George  H.  Myers,  5  South  Wabash  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

Manuscript   mailed    The   Overland  Monthly   without  a  stamped  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 

Entered   as   Second-Class  matter   at  the   postoffice,   San   Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March  3,   1S97 

(Contents  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


^Promise  of  the  Coming  '•'Day 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


5 


192? 


The  One  Way  Street 


HUMANITY    is   on    a    one-way 
street,  rushing  headlong  into  the 
future.    It  doesn't  want  to  stop, 
it  can't  turn  back,  it  doesn't  want  to  be 
passed  on  the  way,  and  it  doesn't  want 
to   stay  in   line,   it  doesn't   want  to   be 
molested. 

Humanity  is  infested  with  a  conta- 
gious disease,  which  is  nothing  else  but 
a  lust  for  speed.  This  disease  is  spread- 
ing with  alarming  rapidity. 

As  an  excuse  for  taking  the  liberty 
to  tell  humanity  the  truth  about  itself, 
and  for  the  expose  of  the  many  stumb- 
ling blocks  that  are  arrayed  against  the 
efficient  manipulation  of  traffic,  I  want 
to  call  your  attention  to  the  1925  casu- 
alty list,  compiled  from  the  battle  that  is 
now  raging  between  this  "Demon  Speed" 
as  it  stalks  the  land,  and  the  rank  and  file 
of  us  humans,  on  the  highways  of  the 
world,  it  is  a  conflict  that  rages  with 
ever  increasing  fury : 

One  hundred  and  ninety  thousand  good 

people    killed,    450,000    others    injured 

and  $1,000,000  worth  of  property  de- 

.  molished    are    the    figures    for    twelve 

months. 

It  sounds  like  a  world  war.  It  is  a 
world  war,  yet  we  refuse  to  accept  an 
armistice  that  will  carry  to  our  innermost 
consciences  the  proper  significance  to 
force  us  to  stop  and  ponder  over  the 
question :  "Where  will  it  all  end  ?" 

I  want  to  have  a  heart  to  heart  talk 
with  you,  my  friend  the  motorist. 

I  want  you  to  realize  if  you  will,  that 
every  minute  of  the  day  and  night,  an- 
other victim  is  added  to  this  appalling 
list  of  dead  and  injured,  while  you  sat- 
isfy your  lust  for  speed,  and  refuse  to  be 
bothered.  I  want  you  to  realize  that  it  is 
something  to  think  about,  because  the 
next  martyr  to  the  cause  may  be  you  or 
me. 

The  Indian  menace  of  yesterday,  and 
the  dangers  of  John  Barleycorn,  did  not 
in  their  palmiest  days,  present  the  alarm- 
ing dangers  to  our  people  that  you  do  at 
the  wheel  of  your  auto  today  as  j'ou 
ramble  along  the  one  way  street  in  the 
"big  parade"  ignoring  the  bounds  of 
propriety. 


By  KIRKPATRICK  SMITH,  JR. 

Special  Traffic  Officer,  San  Francisco 
Police  Department 

I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  story  of 
the  traffic  situation.  Not  as  one  would 
theorize  it  from  hearsay,  but  the  real  im- 
maculate truth,  through  the  eyes  of  the 
Traffic  Cop,  of  which  I  am  one. 

I  meet  you  on  the  highways  of  the 
world,  everyday  as  you  drive  along.  I 
want  j'ou  to  get  a  glimpse  of  yourself  as 
you  rush  forth,  to  business,  in  quest  of 
pleasure,  or  to  purchase  a  head  of  lettuce 
for  dinner,  or  perhaps  to  fill  some  en- 
gagement for  which  you  are  late. 

I  also  want  to  hold  a  mirror  behind 
your  actions  when  you  park  your  car  in 
forbidden  places,  or  when  you  drive 
recklessly,  or  use  my  domain  as  a  speed- 
way- 

I  hope  you  will  get  a  sickening  thrill 
out  of  the  photograph  of  your  conduct 
while  you  are  trying  to  evade  responsi- 
bility for  your  traffic  violations,  as  I  pre- 
sent it  to  you  in  this  series  of  articles. 

I  want  you  to  understand  how  your 
actions  can  either  make  or  mar  any  traf- 
fic system  in  the  world,  and  I  hope  you 
will  appreciate  the  trouble  and  worry 
you  cause  me  while  I  am  trying  to  keep 
the  "parade"  running  straight  and 
smooth  along  "the  one  way  street." 

When  you  refuse  to  act  the  part  of  a 
"regular  fellow,"  through  the  lack  of 
the  use  of  common  sense  in  piloting  your 
car,  or  when  you  forget  to  convey  the 
spirit  of  tolerance  toward  a  fellow  dri- 
ver's faults  or  the  shortcomings  of  the 
pedestrian,  or  try  to  outsmart  me,  we  all 
suffer. 

If  you  were  a  regular  fellow  in  all 
things  you  wouldn't  need  me.  If  you 
were  a  regular  fellow  in  all  things,  your 
city  and  state  and  nation  would  be  saved 
the  enormous  expense  that  they  are  under 
for  my  salary,  for  automatic  signals  and 
the  thousand  and  one  necessities  that 
must  be  purchased  in  the  handling  of 
traffic  the  world  over. 

And  yes,  there  wouldn't  be  this  most 
staggering  toll  of  mishaps  throughout  the 
country  that  there  are  today — if  you 
were  a  "regular  fellow." 


The  saddest  thing  about  the  traffic 
situation  is  not  the  expense  it  causes  in 
its  present  handling,  nor  is  it  the  $1,000,- 
000  worth  of  property  destroyed  each 
year  in  its  wake,  though  we  must  admit 
these  two  items  are  working  a  gigantic 
hardship  on  all  of  us,  especially  if  we 
are  tax-payers,  and  have  a  limited  in- 
come. 

The  sorrow  and  suffering  and  anguish 
brought  upon  the  homes  of  the  dead,  as 
the  lifeless  bodies  of  the  traffic  victims 
are  carried  in  one  by  one  from  the  con- 
flict, one  every  minute  of  the  day  and 
night  and  the  maimed  and  crippled 
numbers  therefrom  that  are  forced  to 
suffer  worse  than  death  in  many  cases,  is 
the  thing  to  be  considered.  The  results 
that  traffic  statistics  show  just  from  the 
figures  of  1925,  are  responsibilities  few 
sane  minded  people  would  wish  to  carry 
on  their  souls,  it  would  seem. 

Such  a  startling  total  of  human  wreck- 
age should  be  of  enough  importance  to 
those  of  us  who  are  at  this  moment  still 
safe  and  sound,  to  cause  us  to  willingly 
and  dutifully  resolve  to  get  back  to  san- 
ity and  stay  there,  when  we  steer  our 
gasoline  busses  down  the  one  way  street 
of  existence. 

There  are  seventeen  million  automo- 
biles in  use  today  in  the  United  States. 

One  car  for  every  six  people  is  now 
owned  and  operated  in  the  land.  And 
in  the  handling  of  our  "speed  wagons," 
whether  we  like  to  admit  it  or  not,  we 
are  in  the  most  part  worshipping  at  the 
shrine  of  the  Demon  Speed  and  his  re- 
lentless lieutenants,  namely :  Careless- 
ness, Recklessness,  Willful  Negligence, 
Drunkenness,  Selfishness  and,  last  but 
not  least,  "Damn-foolishness."  I  say  this 
in  all  sincerity,  and  I  wish  I  could  make 
it  stronger. 

You  cannot  blame  the  automobile  for 
all  the  traits  of  its  driver.  The  automo- 
mobile  is  a  useful  vehicle  for  plea- 
sure or  business.  If  it  is  handled  prop- 
erly it  will  never  endanger  its  owner, 
nor  the  lives  and  property  of  others. 

By  the  same  token  you  cannot  blame 
fire  for  property  it  unnecessarily  de- 
stroys each  year,  because  fire  is  a  boon  to 
humanity.  You  can  only  blame  the  care- 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


January ,  1927 


lessness  of  the  individuals  who  make  of 
fire  a  hazard  to  life  and  property  at 
times. 

The  very  tools  that  the  criminal  uses 
in  the  practicing  of  his  nefarious  trade 
cannot  be  blamed  for  the  crime  of  the 
land- 
It  isn't  with  any  spirit  of  malice  that 
I  write.  The  truth  is  always  harsh,  but 
we  must  have  the  truth  if  we  are  to 
solve  the  traffic  problems  of  the  country 
in  spirit  and  finality. 

I  speak  not  as  a  bystander,  but  as  the 
traffic  cop  in  all  of  his  multitudinous 
stations.  I  speak  from  seven  years  expe- 
rience in  studying  you  and  your  many 
idiosyncracies,  in  various  cities  and  states 
over  the  country. 

THE  traffic  officer  or  traffic  cop,  as  he 
is  called  in  the  vernacular  by  the 
majority  of  you  who  denounce  him, 
praise  him,  report  him,  hold  him  in  awe, 
hate  him,  and  fear  him,  and  who  always 
brag  about  the  fact  that  you  know  one 
o*  him  when  you  get  into  trouble,  came 
into  existence  for  the  reason  that  you  in 
general  cannot  govern  yourselves,  or  at 
least  you  do  not  seem  to  or  else  you  don't 
want  to,  on  the  highways  of  the  world. 

If  you  were  to  view  yourselves  through 
his  eyes  as  he  goes  about  his  daily  tasks 
of  fighting  against  death,  delay,  injury 
and  humanities  faults,  you  would  often 
wonder  as  he  does,  if  the  whole  blamed 
universe  hadn't  gone  plumb,  stark,  rav- 
ing mad  in  the  clutches  of  The  Demon 
Speed  and  his  aforesaid  lieutenants. 

Remember  the  traffic  cop  is  only  hu- 
man the  same  as  you.  He  has  his  heart- 
aches, his  ups  and  downs,  his  financial 
and  domestic  worries,  even  as  you.  He  is 
forced  to  smile  many  times  and  give  you 
a  hearty  hail,  when  behind  the  scenes 
dark  clouds  hover.  He  is  not  perfect. 
He  gets  grouchy  and  bawls  you  out.  He 
makes  mistakes,  lots  of  them.  Sometimes 
he  is  a  boob,  and  a  bonehead.  He  gets  re- 
ported sometimes  for  conduct  unbecom- 
ing an  officer.  He  sometimes  favors  his 
friends  and  makes  it  hard  for  his  enemies. 
He  is  sometimes  careless,  throughtless, 
reckless  and  negligent,  and  he  too,  is  sus- 
ceptible to  damn  foolishness. 

He  is  picked  by  his  Chief  for  the  job 
in  hand  after  a  test  of  his  virtues.  He 
must  be  patient  and  long  suffering.  He 
must  be  endowed  with  the  spirit  of  fair- 
play.  He  is  picked  as  one  out  of  a  thou- 
sand, yet  often  he  fails  his  Chief  and  is 
eliminated.  He  often  falters  and  wilts 
against  the  incessant  barrage  of  the  ec- 
centricities of  those  with  whom  he  comes 
in  contact. 

I  have  met  thousands  of  traffic  cops, 
and  I  can  justly  say  that  there  are  few 
of  them  who  didn't  want  to  do  the  right 
thing,  or  who  will  not  be  fair  and  square. 

You  who  represent  every  mood  and 


emotion  of  the  human  family,  are  never 
eliminated.  You  remain  in  the  "big 
parade"  always.  Whether  you  lack  all 
of  the  virtues  of  conservative  humanity 
or  are  endowed  with  every  fault  and 
weakness  known  to  man,  or  whether 
you  are  just  a  plain  "damn  fool,"  you 
are  never  out  of  the  parade. 

The  motor  cop  can  be  eliminated  and 
supplanted  by  a  stronger  brother,  but 
you,  never.  There  is  none  to  say  you 
nay.  If  you  have  the  price  or  the  credit 
standing,  you  can  own  and  operate  an 
automobile.  You  may  be  a  careless 
driver,  you  may  be  nervous,  or  timid,  or 
inexperienced,  or  selfish,  or  arrogant,  or 
a  road  hog,  or  a  speed  fiend,  or  a  crip- 
ple; you  may  suffer  from  bad  eyesight 
or  defective  hearing,  or  you  may  be 
totally  unqualified  to  drive  a  car,  yet 
you  are  always  in  line  as  the  parade 
drifts  by.  That  is  your  inherent  right 
as  a  free-born  citizen  of  the  United 
States.  You,  no  matter  who  you  are, 
are  always  present.  The  traffic  cop 
must  meet  you  all  and  put  up  with  your 
peculiarities  and  stay  human  if  he  can. 

He,  in  most  of  your  eyes,  must  be  the 
underdog,  because  his  salary  is  paid  by 
you,  you  reason.  He  has  been  the  re- 
cipient of  numerous  shafts  of  irony  and 
sarcasm,  with  no  weapon  at  hand  to 
defend  himself  with,  save  the  traffic 
laws  which  you  have  seen  fit  to  create. 

He  is  placed  on  the  street  corner  or 
on  a  motorcycle  or  horseback  to  enforce 
these  laws  of  yours,  without  fear  or 
favor. 

A  S  I  go  about  the  routine  of  my  work 
**  trying  to  enforce  the  traffic  rules, 
you  come  to  me  often  to  get  me  to 
disobey  my  orders  and  violate  my  oath. 
You  edge  up  to  me  with  a  "tag"  that 
has  been  left  in  your  car,  and,  as  you 
smile  sweetly  you  give  me  an  "original 
story"  about  how  you  didn't  know  that 
you  were  parked  in  a  forbidden  place. 
You  put  on  a  straight  face  and  tell  me 
that  you  didn't  see  a  certain  fire  plug 
or  "no  parking  sign"  that  your  car 
happened  to  be  leaning  against,  when  I 
came  along  and  left  you  the  tag. 

You  attempt  to  make  me  believe  that 
you  were  only  going  "fifteen"  or 
"twenty"  when  I  pick  you  up  doing 
"fifty"  or  more.  In  fact  you  invariably 
endeavor  to  convince  me  that  you  were 
not  to  blame  when  I  "tag"  you  for  con- 
duct unbecoming  a  motorist. 

Tennyson  or  Shakespeare,  or  was  it 
Bill  Rogers,  stated  sometime  in  the  past 
that  "All  men  are  liars."  I  forget 
which  one  of  these  learned  gentlemen 
said  it,  and  I  also  refuse  to  comment 
on  who  was  right. 

I  often  take  back  your  tag,  even  when 
I  know  that  you  are  an  old  offender, 
because  I  feel  that  you  are  only  human, 
the  same  as  I. 


Many  times  when  I  refuse  to  listen 
to  your  plea  and  take  you  up  before  the 
judge;  when  you  know  you  are  wrong 
and  I  am  right,  you  try  to  pull  wires  to 
get  me  fired,  and  try  to  squirm  out  of 
your  just  deserts. 

But  honestly,  as  man  to  man,  if  I 
refused  to  violate  my  oath  of  office  and 
were  to  request  that  you  "tell  it  to  the 
judge,"  and  if  the  judge  gave  you  a  stiff 
lecture  for  the  first  offense,  a  stiff  fine 
for  the  second  offence,  a  stiff  jail 
stretch  for  the  third  offence,  won't  you 
honestly  admit  that  you  would  mighty 
soon  supplant  sanity  for  carelessness  in 
your  attitude  toward  the  traffic  laws? 

It  is  my  human  weakness  in  letting 
you  down  easy  that  is  one  cause  for 
this  appalling  accident  list  in  the  lines 
of  traffic  every  day.  It  is  the  actions 
of  the  police  judges  in  being  lenient 
with  you  that  is  another  cause  for  all 
of  our  traffic  fatalities.  And  then  it  is 
your  refusal  to  appreciate  such  leniency 
on  our  part  that  makes  you  do  it  all  over 
again. 

Another  menace  to  proper  law  en- 
forcement is  that  "pull"  a  great  many 
of  you  brag  about  and  have  at  your 
command.  As  a  matter  of  fact  that 
"pull"  of  yours  is  a  most  vital  hazard 
to  the  life  and  happiness  of  many  of 
your  fellow  drivers  as  well  as  to  me. 

Your  "pull"  in  many  instances  has 
me  "buffaloed"  and  you  know  it. 

If  the  majority  of  traffic  cops  were 
to  hew  to  the  line,  and  if  the  judges  did 
their  profound  duty  toward  you  in  the 
enforcement  of  law,  many  of  us  cops 
would  lose  our  jobs  and  many  judges 
would  not  be  re-elected  to  their  benches. 
You  may  not  know  it,  but  more  traffic 
cops  have  lost  their  jobs  for  efficiency 
than  ever  were  fired  for  inefficiency. 
Many  of  them  lose  their  jobs  for  trying 
to  make  people  be  sane.  The  casualty 
list  grows  as  you  all  spend  thousands 
of  dollars  for  surveys  and  hold  indigna- 
tion meetings  to  find  the  solution  for 
traffic  problems. 

We  have  our  families  to  feed,  we  have 
our  living  expenses  to  meet  and  we  must 
have  our  jobs,  so  in  order  that  the  wolf 
may  be  kept  at  a  respectable  distance 
we  allow  you  in  many  cases  to  proceed 
on  your  trail  of  death  and  destruction, 
not  daring  to  stop  you,  because  you 
have  a  "pull." 

We  allow  you  to  insult  the  regula- 
tions of  our  country  rather  than  be  de- 
nied a  living,  because  you  have  a  "pull-" 

When  you  get  to  the  point  where  you 
will  be  honest  and  fair  with  yourselves 
then  many  of  the  traffic  hazards  will  be 
eliminated.  When  you  resolve  to  become 
"a  regular  fellow"  in  all  things,  then 
our  traffic  problems  will  solve  them- 
selves. 


January,  1927 


A  Northern  Mission 


NO  STORY,  prospectus  nor 
pamphlet  dealing  with  Cali- 
fornia would  be  complete 
without  reference,  printed  or  pictorial, 
to  some  of  its  many  beautiful  and  his- 
toric missions,  those  milestones  left  by 
the  pioneer  missionaries  in  their  valiant 
march  against  paganism,  ignorance  and 
sloth. 

Scores  of  these  buildings,  where  the 
Jesuit  fathers  taught  and  led  their  dusky 
charges  so  long  ago,  are  still  standing, 
many  of  them  in  a  fair  state  of  preser- 
vation, things  of  beauty  ond  of  interest. 

In  the  north  there  are  few  of  these 
mementoes;  not  because  the  northern 
Indians  were  neglected  by  the  mission- 
aries, nor  that  they  builded  less  well 
on  the  Montana  plains  and  in  the 
northern  Rockies.  But  in  every  place 
the  fathers  built  of  the  materials  at 
hand ;  and  the  soft  woods  of  the  north 
have  not  withstood  the  storms  and  bliz- 
zards of  this  rigorous  climate  as  has  the 
harder  wood  and  the  more  lasting  adobe 
the  mild  California  climate.  Most  of 
them  have  fallen,  have  rotted ;  and  Na- 
ture has  flung  a  mantle  of  new  verdure 
over  the  spot  where  they  once  stood. 

But  one  of  the  most  interesting  of 
these  early  structures  is  still  standing, 
a  fitting  monument  to  the  intrepid 
blackrobe  who  built  it.  That  is  the  old 
Sacred  Heart  Mission,  in  Northern 
Idaho,  built  in  1843  by  Father  De  Smet, 
that  Titanic  figure  among  missionaries 
who  plunged  into  the  unexplored  wilder- 
ness of  the  northern  Rockies  bearing  the 
message  of  the  cross. 

The  site  is  one  of  rare  beauty,  a  com- 
manding knoll  in  the  heart  of  an  emer- 
ald valley,  sheltered  by  the  towering 
Coeur  d'Alene  Mountains,  and  with  the 
Coeur  d'Alene  River  at  its  base. 

Here  in  the  wilderness,  with  the 
simplest  of  tools,  and  with  only  the 


By  JEAN  CAMERON  MALOTT 

unskilled  labor  of  the  Indians,  the  artist- 
priesj  achieved  a  church  of  classic  beauty 
and  dignity  of  architecture,  without  a 
scrap  of  iron  anywhere  in  its  whole 
construction. 

The  walls  formed  a  stockade  of  hewn 
timbers,  two  feet  square  and  twenty  feet 
high,  set  upright  in  the  ground  like  giant 
fenceposts.  Holes  were  burned  in  the 
sides  of  these  and  young  pine  saplings 
sprung  horizontally,  then  thatched  with 
marshgrass  and  plastered  with  clay  to 
form  an  adobe  like  surface.  Many  years 
later  the  siding  shown  in  the  picture 
was  added. 

Inside,  the  Indians  worshipped  before 
an  altar  built  and  decorated  by  their 
own  handicraft.  Some  of  the  carvings 
show  rare  skill  in  design  and  execution. 

THE  beautiful  building  was  aband- 
oned many  years  ago,  when  it  was 
found  expedient  to  move  the  mission  to 
its  present  location  at  De  Smet,  Idaho. 
For  years  it  was  without  a  guardian. 
The  mark  of  the  vandal  is  upon  it, 
though  some  effort  was  made  to  stay 
the  ravages  of  time  and  knavery.  Now 
a  caretaker  lives  in  the  rectory  adjoin- 
ing, and  keeps  some  sort  of  espionage 
upon  all  visitors. 

Above  the  altar  are  two  large  round 
openings,  one  on  either  side.  One  con- 
tains a  painting,  not  badly  done,  depict- 
ing Heaven.  For  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century  the  other  opening  has  pre- 
sented a  gaping  hole,  and  no  one  knew 
what  had  once  filled  it,  nor  why  it  had 
been  removed. 

The  party  of  explorers  unearthed, 
from  beneath  a  heap  of  the  debris  of 
years,  a  crumpled  piece  of  canvas,  en- 
crusted with  grime,  but  intriguing  by 
its  mystery.  Upon  restoration  it  proved 


to  be  the  missing  companion  piece  of 
'Heaven."  The  illustrations  of  Dante's 
"Inferno"  will  give  a  fair  idea  of  its 
subject.  Its  title  is  obvious. 

Here,  and  in  the  buildings  flanking  it 
were  held  some  of  the  most  notable 
gatherings  in  the  history  of  the  north- 
west. 

About  the  time  that  the  north  and 
south  were  battling  for  supremacy  this 
historic  Mullan  Road  was  built,  linking 
the  headwaters  of  the  Missouri  with 
those  of  the  Columbia,  and  so  to  the 
Pacific.  Thousands  came  west  over  that 
road,  which  passed  the  Mission. 

Picture  the  joy  of  that  never  ending 
stream  of  trail  weary  men,  when,  after 
weeks  far  from  human  habitation,  they 
sighted  that  beautiful  and  stately  build- 
ing, with  its  promise  of  gracious  hospi- 
tality. 

Soldiers,  gold  hunters,  frontiersmen, 
adventurers,  statesmen — all  were  wel- 
come, and  shared  in  the  hospitality  of 
the  blackrobes — bounteous  when  there 
was  plenty,  meager  when  crops  were 
short  and  hunting  poor. 

For  years  this  was  the  headquarters 
of  Father  Cataldo,  now  the  oldest,  best 
loved  Jesuit  on  the  Pacific  slope,  known 
among  his  Indians  as  Ka-ou-shin.  Here 
he  acted  as  confidential  advisor  of  gen- 
erals and  pioneers,  of  statesmen  and 
territorial  governors,  who  relied  upon 
him  for  advice  in  the  subjugation  of 
this  last  frontier  of  the  continent. 

There  is  now  a  movement  to  restore 
arid  sustain  this  beautiful  old  church, 
as  those  in  California  are  kept.  Perhaps 
the  restored  painting  that  once  struck 
terror  to  the  hearts  of  backsliding  red- 
skins may  once  again  look  down  upon 
the  scene  of  so  many  memorable  gath- 
erings— upon  the  spot  where  much  of 
the  pioneer  history  of  the  northwest  was 
enacted. 


The  Years 


ALINE  MICHAELIS. 


U>  ELENTLESS  years  march  on.    I  go  no  more 

-•-«.  To  watch  the  moon's  tossed  silver  on  the  sea 

That  once,  through  nights  like  this  by  ocean's  shore 

Touched  silent  chords  to  sudden  ecstasy, 

Till  through  my  soul's  most  secret,  dim  retreat 

I  heard  such  music  as  an  angel  sings ; 

Immortal  anthems  from  far  regions  beat 


And  all  about  I  caught  the  swirl  of  wings! 
No  more  I  linger  under  midnight  skies 
With  spirit  strangely  stirring,  while  the  stars 
Whisper  old  tales  of  vanished  dynasties 
And  half-forgotten,  futile  avatars. 
On  me  the  years  have  worked  their  wanton  will 
Seas  speak  no  longer  and  the  stars  are  still ! 


January,  1927 


Nig— The  Outside  Dog 


ONE  dismal  Sunday  afternoon,  not 
long  ago,  I  sat  turning  the  pages 
of  Jack  London's  "Call  of  the 
Wild."  Somehow,  the  damp,  dreary 
skies  had  brought  with  them  a  feeling 
of  unrest  and  of  discontent,  for  there' 
was  no  break  in  that  solid  gray;  even 
the  hills  were  no  longer  green  but  lay 
damp  and  drab  in  the  cold  Decembei 
mist.  Some  day,  soon,  I  hoped,  it  would 
change,  and  meanwhile  I  had  my  books. 
The  one  in  my  hand  seemed  always 
new,  it  was  always  entertaining,  and  1 
indulged  in  my  favorite  pastime — thai 
of  loitering,  reminiscently,  among  char- 
acters who,  in  times  gone  by,  had  arous- 
ed and  held  my  interest  beyond  the 
confines  of  the  hour. 

On  the  table  before  me  lay  two  new 
books;  they  are  still  there,  unread,  rigid 
and  uninviting  in  the  spotless  binding, 
while  old  volumes — limp  and  finger- 
worn — lie  here  and  there  about  the 
house  much,  I  fear,  to  the  annoyance 
of  my  gentle  wife.  Old  friends  are 
they;  I  love  to  see  them  about  me,  to 
have  them  greet  me  at  every  turn  with 
their  never-failing  charm.  Among  these 
scattered,  treasure  books,  the  story  of 
"Buck"  may  be  found,  and  my  eyes 
linger  in  passing  for  it  brings  to  mind 
a  friend — a  blithesome  youth,  impulsive 
and  winsome,  and  with  his  well-told  tale 
comes  a  wealth  of  memories,  happy 
memories  mostly,  of  years  in  the  open,  of 
men  and  faces,  and  of  beasts  that  suf- 
fered and  died  that  men  might  live. 

"Buck"  and  his  mates  are  my  friends, 
and  today  I  shall  live  with  them,  for- 
getful of  all  else,  even  the  weeping, 
gray  sky  and  the  hills  that  lie  hidden 
in  the  dripping  mist.  Buck,  faithful. 
Buck,  mighty  and  loving;  you,  I  under- 
stand— you  and  your  desires  and  your 
final  longings.  We  world-tramps,  most 
of  us,  have  felt  as  you  did ;  many  of  us, 
for  a  time  at  least,  have  gone  your 
way.  A  turn  of  fate,  perhaps,  a  picture 
in  our  hearts,  or,  maybe,  it  was  the  years 
of  early  training,  kept  us  bound  to  age- 
old  habits  and  traditions,  and,  doubt- 
less, strengthened  and  steadied  us  be- 
yond the  reefs  and  into  the  sea  of  saner 
longings. 

Yes,  I  understand  Buck  and  his 
mates,  even  to  "Pike"  the  malingerer. 
Yet,  as  I  read,  my  thoughts  wander 
from  them,  and  I  see  with  the  mind's 
eye  a  black,  short-haired  hound,  big  and 
powerful,  and  beautiful  in  his  satin  coat. 
This  was  "Nig,"  Nig,  the  outside  dog. 
Not  a  mere  picturesque  creation  of  a 
fertile  brain,  not  a  dream-dog  was  he. 
Oh  No.  A  flesh  and  blood  dumb  beast 
was  Nig,  and  he  was  a  creature  of  joy, 
a  sunbeam  in  a  cold,  forbidding  land. 


By  EMILE  JANSEX 

Always,  when  my  eyes  come  to  his  name 
in  the  "Call  of  the  Wild,"  and  rest 
upon  it,  there  creeps  a  feeling  of  regret 
as  I  see  but  four  lines  devoted  to  this 
beautiful,  lovable  brute;  yet  he  was 
worthy  of  much  more  than  passing  no- 
tice. "Laughing  eyes  and  a  boundless 
good  nature."  Yes,  Nig  was  all  that, 
and  more.  True,  he  was  not  of  the 
heroic  kind,  not  a  great  fighter  neither 
did  he  become  famous  as  a  sled-dog, 
though  he  was  strong,  and  wise  beyond 
his  years.  Rather,  Nig  was  a  home-body, 
a  companion  and  trustful  friend.  Fear 
was  not  in  him,  for  love  had  been  his 
portion  throughout  his  life,  and  he  gave 
love  in  return. 

Jack  and  1  both  found  a  place  in  our 
hearts  for  Nig,  as  did  all  at  the  Stewart 
River  camp;  that  is,  nearly  all,  the  one 
exception  being  a  quartet  of  elderly  men 
in  whose  make-up  it  seemed,  no  provi- 
sion had  been  made  for  love.  "The  Un- 
holy Four,"  someone  had  named  them, 
and  they  were  shunned  by  the  other  men. 
Nig,  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the 
camp,  passed  them  up  as  unworthy  of 
even  transient  notice. 

Twenty  and  odd  years  have  passed  by 
without  effacing  the  picture  of  Nig  from 
my  mind.  During  many  months  he  had 
greeted  us  as  a  friend  would,  and  I  still 
recall  the  playful,  coaxing  ways  that,  in 
spite  of  you,  drew  the  hand  in  a  caress 
to  the  jet-black  head.  I  like  to  remem- 
ber his  joyous  gentleness,  and  the  dark- 
brown  eyes  which  looked  so  trustingly 
into  mine.  Few  dogs  have  the  spirit  of 
Buck ;  still  fewer  possess  the  understand- 
ing, the  gentleness  and  the  unfailing  good 
humor  of  satin-coated,  companionable 
Nig. 

Nig  was  the  only  dog  in  our  camp. 
Prospectors  were  we,  poor,  and  new  in 
the  game,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
Nig's  master,  all  did  their  own  sled-pull- 
ing. Below  our  location,  a  mile  or  so 
away,  stood  another  clump  of  cabins; 
larger  and  better,  but  colder  homes  than 
ours.  Several  dogs  were  there;  inside 
dogs — scrubs  mostly — of  native  breed. 
Two  outstanding  figures  among  these 
dogs  were  a  pair  of  fighting,  marauding 
malamutes  that  devoted  all  their  spare 
time  to  domineering  and  bulldozing 
every  dog  that  came  their  way ;  yet  Nig 
was  immune  from  these  cold-blooded  at- 
tacks. Once  or  twice  he  had  made 
friendly  overtures,  but  these  battle- 
scarred  veterans  of  the  trail  were  mean- 
tempered,  lo\v-bred  beasts  that  bared 
their  fangs  and  laid  back  their  ears  at 
the  mere  approach  of  anything  on  four 
feet.  Life  to  them  had  been  one  un- 


ceasing struggle,  with  ever-changing 
masters  and  ever-changing  mates  eter- 
nally arrayed  against  them;  gruelling 
days  beneath  the  whip,  and  hungry, 
sleepless  nights  had  done  their  worst  to 
these  two  canine  creatures  until  in  the 
end  they  had  become  hardened  rebellious 
outlaws  that  put  trust  in  neither  man 
nor  beast.  Play  had  never  entered  into 
their  order  of  things  and  yet,  as  they 
scoured  our  camp  for  offals,  they  would 
sometimes  stop  and  look  Nig  over  from 
head  to  tail  before  passing  on  with  a 
faint  wave  of  their  bushy  tails;  this  be- 
ing their  nearest  approach  to  anything 
like  friendliness.  Nig  could  not  fathom 
this  surly,  snarling  disposition.  Always 
when  they  were  near,  something  of  won- 
der and  perplexity  crept  into  the  kindly 
brown  eyes,  and  in  time  he  came  to  look 
upon  these  outlaws  as  something  beyond 
his  comprehension  to  be  ignored  alto- 
gether. Their  ways  were  not  his  ways, 
and  he  doubted  the  expediency  of  going 
further  in  the  matter  of  friendship.  The 
two  malamutes  were  the  exception,  for 
all  other  dogs  came  under  the  spell  of  the 
joyous  half  bark,  half  whine  with  which 
Nig  greeted  each  new  arrival. 

THERE  were  many  travelers  on  the 
long  trail  that  skirted  our  island 
camp ;  some  coming  in,  some  going  out, 
and  often  they  rested  for  the  night  in 
our  cabins.  Nearly  every  outfit,  coming 
or  going,  had  two  or  more  dogs ;  seldom 
more  than  six.  But,  whether  few  or 
many,  they  were  always  hungry,  always 
snarling,  and  ready  to  fight  over  every 
scrap  of  food  that  came  their  way.  They 
overlooked  nothing,  not  even  a  greasy 
dishrag.  Bad-tempered  as  were  most  of 
these  dogs,  they  never  picked  a  quarrel 
with  Nig,  but  treated  him  as  a  friend, 
or,  at  worst,  ignored  him  as  did  the  two 
malamutes  from  the  camp  below.  Nearly 
always,  they  grew  friendly  on  the  spot ; 
there  was  that  to  Nig  that,  somehow, 
made  them  forget  their  troubles.  Even 
the  grouchy,  half-starved  scrubs  of  the 
White  River  Indians  stood  at  attention 
as  they  came  face  to  face  with  the  happy, 
emotional  outburst  that  was  character- 
istic of  Nig  in  his  gladdest,  noisiest  mo- 
ments. The  poor  dogs  forgot  for  the 
time  their  grudges  against  a  hard  and 
selfish  world,  just  as  they  forgot  the 
hundreds  of  miles  of  new-broken  trail 
which  lay  behind  them,  and  while  their 
masters  made  camp,  they  surrendered  to 
the  blandishments  of  this  short-haired, 
genial  playmate  and  romped  with  him  in 
the  silvery  moonlight.  Without  doubt 
they  voted  him  a  goodfellow  as  in  the 
morning  he  barked  his  good-bye  from 
the  bank  above  the  trail. 


January,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


Every  morning  Nig  would  make  his 
round  of  the  camp,  scraping  each  cabin- 
door  with  a  big,  sharp-nailed  forepaw, 
meanwhile  giving  emphasis  to  his  greet- 
ing with  a  succession  of  short,  sharp 
harks.  On  getting  no  answer,  he  would 
go  his  way  satisfied ;  but  should  a  door 
be  opened  for  him,  a  sort  of  reckless  joy 
would  take  possession  of  him — an  over- 
powering show  of  happiness  that  boded 
ill  for  any  object  left  carelessly  in  his 
way.  On  such  occasions  he  always  took 
it  for  granted  that  a  piece  of  bacon-rind 
would  be  forthcoming,  and  as  soon  as  all 
social  obligations  had  been  squared,  these 
over  with  he  would  stand  at  smiling  at- 
tention, his  tail  swinging  gently  from 
side  to  side  in  grateful  acknowledgment. 
Poor,  suffering  tail;  unprotected  by  fat 
or  fur,  it  had  gone  the  way  of  all  frost- 
bitten things  in  this  frigid  land,  or 
rather,  it  was  going,  there  being  still  a 
foot  or  so  left.  This  was  the  one  tragedy 
in  Nig's  life;  something  beyond  his  ken, 
to  be  sure,  yet  it  troubled  him  and  often 
he  would  look  wistfully  at  the  vanishing 
joints.  In  the  course  of  time  he  came  to 
look  upon  this  disfigurement  as  a  neces- 
sary evil  which,  with  other  minor  things, 
must  be  endured.  As  the  days  grew 
shorter  and  the  cold  became  more  and 
more  intense,  Nig's  tail  decreased  in 
length.  Joint  by  joint  it  was  being  sac- 
rificed to  the  whim  of  a  destructive  win- 
ter god  till  in  the  end — like  those  of  the 
little  gray-brown  mice  that  visited  our 
table  at  meal-times — it  was  bound  to  be- 
come but  a  mere  reminder  of  "things  as 
they  once  were." 

One  thing  only,  Nig  took  seriously; 
although,  as  the  winter  wore  on,  little 
by  little  he  forgot  the  grave  distaste  with 
which,  in  the  beginning,  he  had  regarded 
a  certain  annoying  and  most  galling  con- 
trivance. It  was  not  altogether  to  be 
wondered  at,  for,  in  his  innocence,  he 
had  looked  upon  this  "invention  of  the 
Devil" 'as  a  new  and  wonderful,  though 
somewhat  puzzling,  plaything.  It  was 
shortly  after  the  freeze-up  that  he  saw 
his  master,  one  Ely  by  name — with  cun- 
ning, capable  hands,  fashion  from  leather 
and  canvas  a  queer  arrangement  of  bands 
and  straps  which  was,  from  time  to  time, 
placed  upon  his  back,  much  to  his  canine 
delight.  Each  time,  as  the  master  had 
measured  or  fitted  an  additional  strap 
or  snap,  Nig  had  smiled  his  gladdest, 
most  joyful  smile,  for  at  each  fitting  Ely 
had  spoken  caressingly  to  him  and  there 
seemed  to  be  mischief  and  fun  in  his 
voice.  This  ordinarily,  Nig  remembered, 
meant  frolic  along  the  trails,  or  the  re- 
trieving of  sticks  flung  far  into  the  soft 
snow. 

The  puzzling  article  was  finished  at 
last,  and,  although  Nig  could  not  realize, 
it  had  taken  the  shape  of  a  well-made 
harness.  Breakfast  over,  the  following 


morning,  Ely  called  his  dog  to  his  side 
and  placed  the  home-made  badge  of  labor 
on  his  back,  and  the  two  stepped  out  into 
the  still,  bright  morning's  cold.  Nig's 
joy  knew  no  bounds  as  he  raced  up  and 
down  the  island  trails,  the  loose  canvas 
traces  flapping  wildly  about  his  sides  and 
legs.  This  was  something  new,  and  great 
fun,  but  where  the  use  of  the  queer  con- 
traption came  in  he,  as  yet,  was  unable 
to  make  out.  He  was  soon  to  know,  for, 


Nig 

as  he  stood  facing  the  cabin,  one  of  the 
canvas  bands  held  playfully  in  his  mouth, 
his  master  took  hold  of  the  business-end 
of  a  steel-shod  sled,  and  slipping  the  loop 
of  the  sledrope  over  his  shoulders  set  out 
for  Jack  London's  cabin.  It  was  here 
the  several  island  trails  joined  and 
slipped  over  the  bank  to  merge  with  the 
long,  hard-packed  track  which  ran  from 
"Forty  Mile"  south  to  salt  water. 

Jack  and  I,  with  many  others,  were  on 
hand  to  see  the  "breaking  in"  of  Nig, 
the  joyous,  but  he  "fooled  us."  Hitched 
to  the  empty  sled,  he  "caught  on"  from 
the  first.  True,  he  did  not  keep  the  trail 
very  well,  for  it  was  a  new  way  of  taking 
a  run  with  the  master  and  it  seemed  so 
foolish  to  drag  something  behind  you, 
when  you  could  run  so  much  faster  with- 
out it ;  nevertheless,  it  was  fun !  Now 
and  again  he  would  stop,  and  turn  and 
bark,  jumping  in  and  out,  as  was  his 


wont,  in  front  of  Ely,  who,  with  smil- 
ing patience,  would  clear  the  tangled 
traces,  speaking  gently  and  reassuringly 
meanwhile. 

Several  trips  they  made,  forth  and 
back  past  our  island  ;  Nig  becoming  more 
and  more  serious  as  he  finally  began  to 
realize  that  although  there  was  no  hard- 
ship attached  to  the  strange  maneuvers, 
it  was  not  altogether  fun  as  an  occa- 
sional hard  note  in  his  master's  voice 
made  him  aware  of ;  a  sharp  note  he  had 
heard  before  and  knew  its  meaning,  and 
the  penalty  for  disobeying  should  he  neg- 
lect its  warning.  This  he  had  no  inten- 
tion of  doing,  for  he  remembered  the 
whip  that  hung  on  the  cabin  logs.  In- 
stead, he  paid  strict  attention,  with  the 
result  that  he  soon  learned  to  keep  the 
trail,  to  "gee"  and  "haw"  and,  at  the 
word  "mush,"  to  tighten  the  traces  and 
go  on.  So  well  did  he  perform  in  this, 
his  first  lesson,  that  on  the  following 
morning  Ely  again  harnessed  him  to  the 
sled,  but  this  time  an  axe  lay  fastened 
to  its  slats  and  they  went  beyond  our 
island  to  another,  where  many  dead  pines 
lay  buried  beneath  the  snow.  Here  Nig 
was  unharnessed  so  he  would  not  freeze, 
while  his  master  made  ready  the  sled- 
load  of  wood.  This  was  Nig's  idea  of  a 
holiday,  and  he  made  the  most  of  his 
opportunity  as  he  scurried  here  and  there 
prospecting  for  excitement ;  something  he 
found  at  last  in  the  shape  of  two  gray 
squirrels  as  they  scampered,  chattering, 
up  the  trunk  of  an  ancient  pine.  This 
was  fun;  better,  even,  than  retrieving 
sticks  from  the  snow.  It  was  great  sport, 
and  he  gave  full-lunged  voice  to  his  joy, 
becoming  almost  hysterical  when  the 
squirrels,  one  after  the  other,  slipped 
halfway  down  the  tree-trunk  to  get  a 
better  view  of  this  interesting,  strangely 
excitable  beast  beneath  them. 

A  sharp  whistle  from  his  master  re- 
minded Nig  that  the  time  was  up,  and 
that  he  was  wanted  again  at  the  sled. 
Casting  another  look  into  the  dark  foli- 
age, he  once  more  put  his  forepaws  on 
the  tree-trunk  and  barked  "farewell"  to 
the  teasing,  chattering  little  animals  in 
the  branches  above.  He  was  loath  to 
leave  these  new-found  friends;  yet  he 
faced  about  most  cheerfully  and  bounded 
toward  the  sled  and  the  man,  who,  in 
his  dog's  heart,  he  loved  above  all  things. 
When  again  he  stood  ready  to  do  his 
share  of  the  work,  the  master  took  the 
black  head  between  his  two  hands,  and 
bending  over  him  spoke  gently  into  his 
ear.  "Now,  Nig,"  he  said,  half  banter- 
ingly  and  half  in  seriousness,  "here  is 
where  you  get  the  shock  of  your  young 
life.  You  will  not  like  this,  I  know; 
just  the  same  you  will  do  your  best. 
You  are  that  kind  of  a  dog."  And  Nig 
did  not  disappoint  him;  although  at  the 
first  pull,  when  he  felt  the  weight  behind 


10 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


January,  1927 


him,  he  stopped  short  and  turned  in  ques- 
tioning surprise  to  look  into  his  master's 
face.  What  he  saw  there  was  not  reas- 
suring; there  was  no  smile  on  the  loved 
face,  no  laughter  in  the  gray  eyes,  but  in- 
stead a  cold,  flinty  glint  had  come  into 
them,  a  light  he  still  remembered  though 
it  dated  from  far  back  in  his  puppyhood 
days,  when,  on  a  single,  memorable  occa- 
sion, he  had  been  wilful  and  stubborn. 
The  cause  of  that  former  steely  look  he 
could  not  recall,  but  the  memory  of  the 
swift  punishment  that  followed  still  lin- 
gered, and  he  swung  back  to  his  former 
position  as  the  command  "mush  on" 
came  sharp  and  snappy  from  man's  lips. 
This  tone,  too,  Nig  knew,  and  he  buckled 
into  the  harness;  the  man  himself  leans 
hard  against  the  sled-rope  that  leads 
across  his  shoulders.  The  sled  moves; 
slowly,  to  be  sure,  and  with  much  labor, 
yet  it  moves  steadily  forward.  After  a 
few  minutes  of  heart-breaking  pulling, 
and  a  great  deal  of  hard  swearing  on 
Ely's  part,  they  master  the  soft,  uneven 
by-way,  and  halt  to  draw  their  breath 
on  the  hard-packed  river  trail. 

Nig — his  lolling  tongue  red  and  drip- 
ping— looks  with  decided  misgivings  at 
the  man  behind  him.  Could  this  be  the 
master?  His  master,  who  was  always 
cheerful,  always  smiling,  whose  voice 
was  always  low,  and  whose  voice  was 
ever  like  music  to  Nig's  ears?  From 
whence  came  these  strange,  rasping  tones 
that  stung  like  a  whip  and  drove  him,  in 
spite  of  himself,  until  his  heart  pounded 
madly  against  his  ribs;  until  his  breath 
came  fast  and  short,  and  the  cold  stabbed 
his  lungs  with  a  thousand  stinging  darts? 
Yes!  There  he  stood;  it  was  he,  in  flesh 
and  blood,  and  Nig's  eyes  grew  soft  and 
sad  with  reproach.  Short-lived,  to  be 
sure,  this  reproach,  for  his  man  bends 
low  and  whispers  in  his  ears,  as  was  his 
wont  when  gentle  praise  or  sympathy 
rose  to  his  lips.  This,  Nig  could  under- 
stand. This  was  life  worth  living-  His 
body  wriggles  with  unrestrained  delight, 
and  he  whines  with  pleasure  as  two  big 
hands  pinch  and  pound  his  sleek  heavy- 
muscled  form.  "I  told  you,"  said  the 
gentle  voice.  "I  warned  you  it  would  be 
hard.  This  is  no  life  for  a  gentleman  like 
you,  old  boy,  though  you  have  the  blood 
and  the  grit  that  goes  with  it.  You  do 
not  like  it;  galling,  isn't  it?  Well,  the 
program  is  made  for  you  and  me. 
Whether  we  like  it  or  not,,  we  shall 
go  through  with  it.  But  something  tells 
me  we  have  made  a  mistake ;  this  land  is 
a  hard  land,  hard  on  men  and  dogs." 

But  Nig  smiles,  even  laughs  loudly 
from  sheer  joy,  and  when  again  he 
throws  his  weight  into  the  traces  it  is  in 
a  much  happier  frame  of  mind.  The  sled 
slips  along  with  little  trouble  for  the 
voice  behind  him  has  lost  its  sting. 

The  next  morning,  Nig  was  romping 


with  two  visiting  dogs,  when  he  heard 
his  master's  whistle.  This  probably 
meant  a  few  crumbs  left  over  from 
breakfast,  so  he  forsook  his  companions 
and  the  beaten  trail  and  scurried  across 
the  loose  snow  in  answer  to  the  call.  In- 
stead of  a  tasty  tidbit,  the  master  held 
out  that  harassing  thing  of  the  day  be- 
fore, and  Nig  liked  it  not  at  all.  Look- 
ing from  the  harness  to  his  playmates 
in  the  snow,  he  decided  to  wheel  and 
join  them,  for  they  were  nice  dogs,  well 
bred  and  good  sports. 

"Not  this  time,  Nig,"  exclaimed  Ely, 
divining  the  mutinous  thoughts  brew- 
ing in  the  black"  head.  "This  means 
business;  more  wood,  old  boy,  while  the 
trail  is  good.  No  mischief  now!"  And 
he  lifted  the  whip  from  its  peg  by  the 
side  of  the  door  frame.  Nig  wagged  his 
tail  and  looked  shame-faced  into  his  mas- 
ter's eyes.  He  knew  the  whip  would  not 
descend  except  for  cause,  so  he  deemed  it 
advisable  to  take  his  place  before  the 
sled,  lest  the  worst  should  happen,  but 
it  was  a  mournful  Nig  that  started  out 
that  morning,  and  as  they  passed  the  two 
visitors  he  did  not  have  the  heart  to  face 
them.  All  the  way  to  the  wood  trail  he 
was  not  himself;  something  was  wrong; 
something  weighed  heavily  on  his  mind; 
he  was  morose  and  preoccupied.  He  even 
forgot  his  lesson  of  the  first  day,  for 
once  he  "geed"  when  he  should  have 
turned  to  the  left. 


'T^HE  new,  soft  trail  leading  to  the 
-I-  woods  had  hardened  much  since  the 
first  trip  of  yesterday.  It  was  still  rough 
under  foot  and  lumpy,  and  Nig  grew 
more  and  more  dejected-looking  the  far- 
ther he  got  from  the  hard  river  trail. 
He  seemed  willing  enough  as  he  plodded 
over  the  provoking  hollows  and  lumps, 
but  his  head  and  tail  hung  low,  and  his 
heart  seemed  filled  with  gloomy  fore- 
bodings. 

In  due  time,  their  destination  was  ar- 
rived at  and  Ely  unhooked  the  snaps 
from  the  little  single-tree  and  Nig  was 
free.  "Go  play  with  your  little  friends, 
the  squirrels,"  he  said,  and  without  fur- 
ther ado  set  about  clearing  the  nearest 
log  of  its  blanket  of  snow.  For  the  next 
half-hour  Ely  was  a  busy  man  ;  logs  had 
to  be  cut  into  convenient  lengths  and 
carried  to  the  sled,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  load  had  been  lashed  that  he  thought 
of  Nig.  The  dog  was  nowhere  in  sight. 
He  whistled  the  three  short  calls.  that 
usually  brought  the  dog  to  his  side  with 
noisy  demonstrations  of  delight.  Again 
and  again  he  whistled,  but  Nig  did  not 
come  —  he  had  deserted  in  the  face  of 
work. 

Twenty  minutes  later  Ely  found  him 
—  as  he  had  half-expected  —  back  at  the 
camp  playing  with  the  two  strange  dogs. 
This  time  Nig  felt  the  whip,  and  a  rope 
was  fastened  to  his  collar  and  he  was  led 


back  to  the  sled  a  disgraced  prisoner. 
There  was  no  pity  in  Ely's  voice  for  the 
balance  of  that,  day;  no  caressing  note; 
no  compliments.  Neither  was  there  a 
bile  to  cheer  him  at  noon  time.  Truly, 
this  was  a  black  day,  and  it  was  a  long, 
arduous  day,  for  it  was  dark  when  the 
last  load  stood  before  the  cabin  door. 

That  evening  Nig  sat  wearily  watch- 
ing Ely  and  his  partner  at  supper;  not 
a  kind  word  had  he  heard  all  day;  not  a 
bite  to  eat  had  passed  his  lips,  and  now 
his  entrails  cried  aloud  with  the  hunger 
that  was  on  them.  But  his  punishment 
was  not  yet  complete,  he  was  sent  to  his 
blankets  supperless. 

It  was  a  very  contrite,  very  stiff-legged 
Nig  that  stood  before  Ely  the  next  morn- 
ing; every  line  in  the  penitent  black  face 
said  plainly:  "I'll  never  do  this  again. 
I'll  be  good.  Speak  to  me  as  you  used 
to  do;  play  with  me  and  forgive  me." 
His  eyes  wandered  mournfully  to  his 
empty  dish;  back  again  they  came  to  his 
master's  face,  their  language  evident  and 
understandable — "Remember  my  stom- 
ach," they  said,  "please  remember,  for, 
after  all,  I  am  only  a  dog  and  hunger  is 
heavy  upon  me." 

Louis,  one  of  Ely's  partners,  looked 
pityingly  at  Nig.  "Poor  brute,"  he  said, 
"he  has  been  punished  enough ;  his 
limbs  are  stiff  from  yesterday's  work. 
Give  him  a  feed,  Ely,  and  let  the  dog 
be  happy."  This  was  better.  Nig  wagged 
his  tail;  his  spirit  rose,  for  though  he 
did  not  understand  the  words,  yet  he 
sensed  a  change;  things  were  to  come 
his  way  very  soon.  Even  now  he  sees 
the  flicker  of  a  smile  on  his  master's 
lips;  the  past  was  dead,  he  felt,  and  the 
future  filled  with  promise.  Once  more 
he  became  glad  and  gave  vent  to  his 
long  pent-up  emotions  with  a  series  of 
boisterous,  violent  performances  that 
fully  demonstrated  the  overwhelming 
happiness  which  had  taken  possession  of 
his  canine  soul.  After  that  came  the 
feast. 

Peace  restored,  this  household  once 
more  resumed  the  glad,  even  tenor  of  its 
way,  and  Nig  was  supremely  happy. 

Six  or  seven  weeks  went  by  before  I 
saw  Nig  again.  On  coming  up  "Ten 
Mile  Creek"  on  "Sixty  Mile,"  my  part- 
ner and  I  saw  smoke  rising  from  one  of 
the  many  deserted  cabins  along  the  rims 
of  this  creek,  which  stand  as  monuments 
to  former,  less  covetous  days.  We  saw 
a  windlass  and  fresh  dirt  on  the  dump 
by  the  side  of  this  cabin.  Prospectors,  of 
course;  but  who,  we  wondered,  could 
they  be,  for  this  ground  carried  little 
pay.  It  was  a  sort  of  stand-by  creek,  an 
anchor  to  windward  if  all  else  failed,  but 
no  one  would  think  of  working  here  in 
the  dead  of  winter. 

We  had  no  time  to  investigate,  as  it 

(Continued  on  Page  25) 


January.  1927 


11 


IT  WAS  in  the  old  Portsmouh  Block 
that  I  met  Dion  O'Day.  The  an- 
cient, rusty  brick  building  is  up  to- 
ward the  Telegraph  Hill  end  of  Mont- 
gomery Street,  where  this  old  mart  of 
San  Francisco's  nobler  days  ceases  to  be 
a  humanity-reeking  chasm  and  becomes 
the  sunning  place  for  indolent  sculptors, 
wrought-iron  workers,  and  Italian  shop- 
keepers. 

The  venerable  building,  forerunner  of 
the  mighty  skyscrapers,  has  been  left 
deserted  by  the  movement  of  finance  and 
commerce  toward  California  and  Mar- 
ket Streets,  and  is  tenanted  by  a  swarm- 
ing, rebellious  colony  of  artists,  writers, 
and  poets. 

It  was  strange,  that  first  meeting  with 
Dion  O'Day.  I  was  hacking  out  an  art- 
icle for  a  Sunday  supplement  on  the 
"Noises  of  the  City."  A  note  of  real- 
ism crept  into  the  article  when  the  walls 
vibrated  and  my  head  thudded  from  a 
spirited  bang,  bang,  bang! 

I  wrote  on  for  a  time,  but  the  banging 
persisted  and  at  last,  feeling  the  price 
of  realism  too  steep,  I  went  out  in  the 
hall  to  investigate  the  clamor. 

I  found  the  hammering  to  come  from 
the  room — or  studio — directly  opposite 
mine.  Its  door  was  open  and  with  the 
communistic  freedom  of  the  Portsmouth 
Block  I  walked  into  the  room.  The  first 
thing  I  noticed  was  a  great  hammer 
dangling  from  a  delicate  wrist.  I  have 
often  thought  since  of  the  incongruity 
of  my  noticing  the  hammer  and  slim 
wrist  before  being  aware  of  Dion  O'Day. 
Because  as  soon  as  I  saw  him  I  forgot 
the  hammer,  forgot  my  mission. 

I  suppose  he  was  about  twenty,  but 
he  looked  much  younger.  He  was  slim, 
delicate,  almost  fragile.  He  wore  a  pair 
of  loose  cord  trousers  and  a  wool  shirt. 
The  shirt  was  wide  open  at  the  top 
and  his  neck  soared  up  from  a  small, 
round  chest.  I  wonder  now  if  his  neck 
could  have  been  as  long  as  I  thought,  or 
if  it  was  merely  the  contrast  from  the 
magnificent  head  the  supple  white  col- 
umn supported. 

One  always  remained  doubtful  of 
Dion  O'Day 's  hair.  At  times  the  fine, 
silky  waves  were  brown.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  that.  But  occasionally  the 
brown  waves  seemed  brushed  with  cop- 
per. He  had  a  sensual  mouth,  and  lips 
that  were  tremulous,  soft  and  warm.  I 
passed  over  hair  and  mouth;  after  all, 
they  could  have  been  anyone's.  But  the 
eyes  were  only  Dion  O'Day's.  They 
held  an  indefinable  pathos,  those  cloudy 
eyes  of  brown.  I  wondered  what  this 
fragile  boy  could  have  seen  that  was  so 


Tiny 

By  ERIC  TAYLOR 


DAWN 

BLUE  sky, 
Tinted  with  rose. 
Flecked  with  gold — 
Once  more, 
The  golden  dawn, 
As  of  old. 

Sun's  glow, 
Over  the  hills, 
Far  away — 
Bird's  call 
In  the  trees, 
Glad  for  day. 

Dawn  of  old 
The  sun  rose, 
Out  of  night. 
Barren  rocks 
Caught  the  glow 
Of  its  light. 

No  life 
On  the  face 
Of  the  world — 
This  chip 
Off  the  sun 
Once  hurled. 

Golden  dawn 
Through  the  ages 
That  have  passed, 
Uncounted 
Nameless  eons 
So  vast 

Long  before 
The  curtain  falls 
On  the  stage, 
Men  shall  find 
For  countless  ages 
Of  the  mind, 

Over  hills, 
Over  plains, 
Over  sea, 
Golden  dreams 
Of  the  dawn: 
Eternity. 

DOROTHY  TYRREL. 


saddening.  They  were  large, — large 
— and  hauntingly,  wistfully  mirrored  all 
the  lost  struggles  of  idealism  in  a  ma- 
terial world. 

Dion  O'Day  guessed  the  object  of  my 
intrusion  at  once.  "I  suppose  I've  been 
disturbing  you?"  he  suggested.  I 
mumbled  some  inane  deprecation  and 


looked  about  the  room.  I  saw  a  rough 
homemade  table,  several  pieces  of  two 
by  four  lumber,  and  a  most  untempting 
bed  fashioned  out  of  the  lumber  and  a 
sheet  of  heavy  canvas.  A  two-burner 
gas  plate  and  a  crude  cupboard  made 
up  the  balance  of  the  furniture.  A  gold 
and  black  futuristic  design  was  painted 
on  the  walls.  A  bequest  from  some  for- 
mer tenant. 

I  had  come  from  my  room  deter- 
mined to  put  a  stop  to  the  hammering 
row;  I  remained  to  spend  the  rest  of 
the  morning  helping  Dion  O'Day  make 
furniture. 

I  saw  him  frequently  after  that  first 
meeting.  In  a  way,  we  became  friends; 
or  at  least  he  was  more  intimate  with 
me  than  with  any  of  our  colorful  neigh- 
bors. I  knew  long  before  he  told  me  of 
his  work  that  he  was  a  poet.  Not  from 
anything  he  said,  but  because  I  felt 
that  he  simply  could  not  be  anything 
other  than  a  poet.  He  was  strangely 
timid,  and  independent  in  a  baffling, 
sensitive  way. 

He  dropped  in  on  me  one  evening 
and  I  knew  at  once  that  he  had  some- 
thing important  in  mind.  He  looked 
nervous,  harassed.  He  sat  far  forward 
on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  his  eyes  apparently 
fascinated  by  my  typewriter.  I  led  off 
with  a  few  commonplace  remarks,  but 
he  either  left  them  unanswered  or 
mumbled  irrational  replies.  Then  he 
began  to  speak  haltingly.  "I  say  ...  I 
wonder  .  .  .  could  you  .  .  .  would  you 
.  .  ."  From  his  diffidence  I  expected 
some  preposterous  request,  but  at  last 
he  finished.  ".  .  .  let  me  type  a  verse  or 
two  on  your  machine?" 

I  carried  a  pretty  thin  purse  those 
days,  and  I  was  so  overwhelmingly  re- 
lieved to  learn  it  was  not  an  attack  on 
my  pocket  he  planned  that  I  was  almost 
ready  to  give  him  my  battered  type- 
writer. "Of  course,"  I  said,  "any  time. 
Why  don't  you  send  all  your  stuff 
typed  ?  Come  in  here  every  evening  and 
run  off  what  you  want  to." 

Considering  the  simple  favor,  his 
gratitude  was  so  extravagant  that  com- 
ing from  any  one  else  I  would  have 
suspected  insincerity.  Gradually  I  came 
to  act  as  a  kind  of  agent  for  him.  I  typed 
most  of  his  verses,  cashed  his  pitiful 
little  checks,  and  gave  him  market  tips 
garnered  from  writers'  trade  journals. 
There  was  something  so  tragic  about 
those  checks.  They  would  come  for  a 
dollar — two  dollars — paying  for  some 
chaste  love  song  wrung  from  his  soul. 
Sometimes  the  checks  were  larger, — five 
dollars.  Or  a  magnificent  tribute  of  ten 
dollars  would  come  from  one  of  the 


12 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY    and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


January,   1927 


weightier  magazines.  Once  he  achieved 
twenty  dollars  for  a  full  page  in  a  maga- 
zine that  is  endowed  with  a  poetry'fund. 
Memorable  day.  The  twenty  went  for 
six  gallons  of  "dago  red"  with  which  the 
Bohemians  of  the  Portsmouth  Block 
drank  to  the  further  success  of  Dion 
O'Day. 

But  small  as  his  returns  were,  they 
supported  him.  He  was  amazingly 
prolific  and  sold  to  magazines  and  news- 
papers all  over  America  and  England. 
Scarcely  a  day  passed  that  he  would  not 
bring  me  some  small  check  to  cash.  I 
suppose  he  was  making  about  fifteen 
dollars  a  week — a  substantial  income  in 
the  Portsmouth  Block. 

I  urged  him  to  try  a  hand  at  prose, 
tempting  him  with  tales  of  the  rates 
paid  by  fiction  magazines.  He  opened 
his  eyes  to  an  amazing  width  and  an- 
swered simply,  "I'm  a  poet." 

But  one  day  I  found  a  change  in  Dion. 
That  baffling  mist  that  always  seemed 
to  be  in  his  eyes  cleared.  The  eyes  were 
brighter;  their  soft,  melancholy  brown 
sparkled  with  golden  flecks.  His  manner 
was  gay;  his  step  lilting;  his  voice  bois- 
terous. He  burst  into  my  room.  Some- 
thing tremendous  had  happened.  An- 
other twenty-dollar  check,  I  thought. 
"Another  acceptance?"  I  asked. 

"To  the  devil  with  editors,  and  ac- 
ceptances. She  spoke  to  me  tonight. 
Coming  up  the  stairs  ...  I  didn't  say 
a  word  .  .  .  but  she  spoke  to  me.  Think 
of  it,  you  sordid  hack,  she  spoke  to  me. 
And,  oh  Terry,  her  voice!  You  have 
heard  the  quiet  rustle  of  leaves  in  an 
autumn  forest?  .  .  .  ." 

"All  right,"  I  said  maliciously,  "she 
has  a  voice  like  dried  leaves;  now  go 
on — who  is  she?" 

"Soulless  beast !"  Dion  rebuked.  "Who 
could  she  be  but  Valerie  Dale?" 

"  'Valerie  Dale,'  "  I  repeated.  "The 
little  artist  kid  who  has  the  studio  down 
the  hall?"  I  saw  the  hurt  come  into 
his  eyes.  "Dion,"  I  said  quickly,  "she's 
a  lovely  girl.  Cultivate  her.  You  should 
know  a  girl  like  Valerie." 

"Do  you  know  her?"  he  asked 
eagerly. 

"Yes,  a  little.  I'll  get  her  to  come  in 
to  dinner  tomorrow  night  and  you  can 
meet  her  more  conventionally.  It  might 
save  time,"  I  suggested. 

He  babbled  his  gratitude  and  raved 
over  her  beauty  in  incoherent  sentences. 
It  was  absurd  to  call  Valerie  Dale 
beautiful,  but  I  didn't  mention  that. 
She  was  a  tiny  little  thing,  wistful  and 
lovable.  Pretty,  I  suppose,  in  her  small 
clear  blond  way.  I  had  to  tell  Dion  all 
that  I  knew  of  her.  And  he  confided 
to  me  that  everything  he  had  written  in 
the  past  month  was  sung  to  Valerie — 
"April  Moon,"  "Whispering  Love," 


"Vision  of  Amour,"  all  were  for  Valerie. 

"And  did  you  send  them  to  her?"  I 
asked. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  said  indignantly. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"If  you  must  know,  because  I  was 
afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

He  looked  at  me  pityingly.  "Afraid 
of  meeting  and  knowing  her.  Afraid 
the  dream  might  end." 

"And  aren't  you  afraid  now?"  I 
asked. 

"Since  I  heard  her  speak,  I'm  not 
afraid.  But  anyway,  I  have  to  know 
her  now.  You  see,  there's  no  choice," 
he  explained  ambiguously. 

"She's  so  tiny!"  How  many  times  I 
have  heard  the  words  come  in  soft  inflec- 
tions from  Dion's  expressive  lips.  He 
would  come  into  my  room  and  pay  hom- 
age to  Valerie  Dale  in  a  passage  of 
romantic  ecstasy  always  to  end  his  flow 
of  rhetoric  with  a  queer,  wistful  smile 
and  the  words,  "She's  so  tiny." 

I  suppose  to  the  frail,  delicate  Dion 
she  brought  a  flattering  sense  of  strength. 
Here  was  a  woman  petite  enough  to 
look  upon  Dion  as  a  strong  protector. 
I  imagine  she  aroused  some  such  feeling 
in  him.  Certainly,  he  became  more 
assertive,  more  self-assured.  And  of 
course  it  was  all  ridiculous.  Valerie  was 
older  than  Dion,  and  from  the  moment 
they  met  she  took  it  upon  herself  to 
mother  him,  to  shield  him. 

Valerie  at  the  time  she  met  Dion  was 
enjoying  her  first  small  successes.  After 
years  at  art  school,  she  was  beginning  to 
sell  a  little  work.  Covers  for  booklets, 
advertising  resorts  and  travel  bureaus, 
and  stuff  of  that  sort.  But  soon  after 
meeting  Dion  she  appeared  to  forget 
her  own  career  and  lived  for  nothing 
but  Dion's  art. 

She  was  responsible  for  his  renting  a 
typewriter,  and  soon  after  that  I  saw 
less  and  less  of  Dion.  From  the  per- 
sistent clatter  of  his  typewriter  I  knew 
he  must  be  writing  prose,  but  he  never 
spoke  of  it. 

Then  came  an  evening  when  they  ran 
into  my  room  hand-in-hand  to  tell  me 
they  were  going  to  be  married. 

"When?"  I  asked. 

"In  six  weeks,"  Dion  said  very  em- 
phatically. 

How  Dion  explained  his  absence  to 
Valerie,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  she 
knew  all  along  what  he  was  doing,  but 
if  she  did  Dion  never  suspected  her 
knowledge.  It  was  seme  time  before 
he  told  me.  Then  it  came  out  suddenly, 
when  he  could  no  longer  contain  his 
tremendous  secret.  He  was  washing 
dishes  at  night.  Why?  Because  he 
wanted  to  surprise  Valerie  with  a  dia- 
mond ring  on  their  wedding  morn. 


It  all  seemed  silly  to  me.  Valerie  did 
not  expect  or  want  anything  like  that. 
A  diamond-ringed  bride  was  almost 
heresy  in  the  Portsmouth  Block.  But 
he  was  going  to  give  her  one,  and  in 
order  to  buy  it  he  was  washing  dishes 
for  six  weeks. 

I  should  have  told  Valerie  and  had 
her  put  a  stop  to  it,  I  suppose.  There 
he  was  writing  all  day,  snatching  a 
few  hours  sleep  Heaven  knows  when, 
and  going  down  to  a  filthy  Greek  res- 
taurant on  Third  Street  to  wash  dishes 
all  night. 

As  the  weeks  went  by  something  of 
the  kitchen  seemed  to  cling  to  him.  His 
hair  was  always  greasy;  his  hands  were 
inflamed  and  marked  with  tiny  nicks 
from  jagged  crockery.  His  trousers  were 
black  down  the  front  with  congealed 
grease.  His  face  was  blotchy,  and  his 
eyes  hollow,  dull,  with  lids  inflamed 
from  lack  of  sleep. 

Fearing  that  he  might  injure  his 
health,  I  was  always  going  to  confide 
in  Valerie  that  she  might  take  him  from 
this  wretched  kitchen.  But  somehow  I 
couldn't  betray  him.  He  placed  tremend- 
ous import  on  the  surprise  he  was  pre- 
paring; it  became  his  whole  purpose  in 
life.  Those  weeks,  I  believe  he  thought 
more  of  the  diamond  ring  than  he  did 
of  Valerie. 

I  wondered  how  on  earth  with  his 
fastidious,  sensitive  nature  he  ever  bore 
the  monotonous  nights  hanging  over  a 
steaming,  fetid  sink.  It  was  easy}  he  lied 
when  I  asked  him  of  it,  he  dreamed  of 
the  ring  and  the  hours  raced  by.  On 
his  way  home  in  the  morning  he  revived 
his  courage  by  wandering  from  jewelry- 
store  to  jewelry  store  feasting  his  eyes 
with  the  rings  exhibited  in  the  show 
wondows. 

At  last  it  was  over  and  Dion  showed 
me  the  rings.  He  must  have  inspired 
my  comment,  because  as  I  held  the 
gleaming  bits  of  platinum  I  heard  my- 
self murmuring  over  and  over  "They're 
so  tiny." 

Dion  looked  up  at  me,  his  eyes  bright 
with  pleasure.  Nothing  I  could  have 
said  would  have  given  him  more  plea- 
sure. He  took  the  rings  from  my  palm, 
holding  up  the  diamond  engagement  ring 
to  the  light.  "Yes,  they  are  tiny.  The 
smallest  size  was  too  large.  They  were 
both  cut  to  order." 

"Has  Valerie  seen  them?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  no,  it's  a  surprise.  She  won't 
see  them  until  morning  .  .  .  until  we're 
married." 

In  the  morning  I  was  startled  by  a 
cry.  Then  Dion  raced  into  my  room. 
"They're  gone  .  .  .  lost!"  he  panted. 

"No!    How?" 

"Down  the  drain  pipe.  I  was  shaving 
...  I  bad  to  look  at  them  again  .  .  .  my 


January,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


13 


hands  wet  .  .  .  they  slipped  out,  and 
went  down  the  drain  pipe." 

I  looked  toward  the  old-fashioned  sink 
in  my  room.  The  outlet  was  a  straight 
pipe  that  led  down  through  the  floor. 
There  was  no  way  of  recovering  the 
rings. 

Dion's  bitter  hopelessness  was  unnerv- 
ing. In  any  one  else  it  would  have 
seemed  babyish.  But  I  felt  the  tragedy 
of  all  those  miserable  nights  in  the  kit- 
chen going  to  waste.  I  told  him  that 
the  rings  made  no  difference;  that  Va- 
lerie would  not  care  a  rap;  that  he 
could  be  married  just  as  if  nothing  had 
happened. 

"She's  so  tiny,"  he  moaned.  "If  only 
they  had  not  been  so  tiny.  But  they 
slipped  right  through  the  drain  guard. 
It's  the  end.  The  dream's  over.  Noth- 
ing, nothing  left,"  he  said  bleakly. 

He  stumbled  from  my  room,  repuls- 
ing me  when  I  tried  to  follow.  "Leave 
me  alone,"  he  begged,  "don't  you  under- 
stand, I  want  to  be  alone!" 

So  I  left  him  and  returned  to  my  in- 
terrupted work,  damning  poets  with 
their  temperament  and  their  sensitiveness. 
From  down  the  hall  I  could  hear  Va- 
lerie singing  as  she  made  her  wedding 
toilet;  from  Dion's  room  I  could  hear 
muffled,  agonizing  sobs.  Then  the  sing- 
ing and  sobbing  stopped.  I  breathed  my 
relief.  She  had  gone  to  him  and  all 
was  right.  I  found  myself  smiling  in  my 
superiority.  What  a  trivial  thing  to 
make  such  a  wretched  fuss  over! 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  a  rap  came 
on  my  door.  Valerie,  nervous  and  ex- 
cited, came  into  the  room.  Have  you 
seen  Dion?  I've  been  waiting  and  wait- 
ing and  waiting.  He  was  to  call  for 
me  at  ten.  I  don't  know  what  to  do ! 
I'm  terribly  upset.  Something  awful 
must  have  happened  to  him." 


So  I  told  Valerie  the  story  of  the 
rings.  I  left  my  door  open  so  we  would 
know  the  instant  Dion  returned.  All 
afternoon  we  waited.  My  room  dark- 
ened and  chilled  as  cool  wisps  of  fog 
drifted  in.  The  siren  on  Alcatraz 
groaned  its  dirgeful  warnings.  We  look- 
ed into  each  other's  eyes  and  read  the 
same  thought — Dion  was  not  coming 
back! 

"He's  gone  away,  Terry,"  Valerie 
said  softly.  "Dear,  dear  Dion;  what 
will  he  do  out  in  the  world?" 

A  few  weeks  later  Valerie  rejoiced 
in  a  big  success.  She  sold  a  cover  to 
one  of  the  big  national  magazines  for 
women.  She  was  going  to  New  York. 
I  helped  with  her  hurried  packing  and 
attended  to  the  reservations.  Next 
morning  I  crossed  to  the  Oakland  Mole 
with  her.  Just  before  she  slipped  through 
the  gate  to  board  the  Overland  I  bent 
low  and  her  lips  brushed  my  cheek  in 
farewell. 

"Good-bye,  Terry.  Perhaps  you'll 
make  Broadway  soon,  and  we  may  all 
meet  in  the  Village."  She  leaned 
closer.  ''Don't  forget,  Terry,  telegraph 
the  very  minute  you  hear  a  word  from 
him."  I  promised  and  she  was  gone.  A 
last  wave  of  her  hand.  "Good-bye, 
Terry,  and  good  luck." 

His  room  was  just  as  he  had  left  it. 
I  often  went  in  there  and  stood  looking 
at  the  rough  table,  the  canvas  bed.  Time 
slipped  by  and  the  company  he  had  rent- 
ed from  reclaimed  the  typewriter.  I 
hated  to  see  it  go.  I  wanted  everything 
as  he  had  left  it. 

Occasionally,  I  saw  a  bit  of  his  verse 
in  a  magazine,  when  I  immediately 
rushed  off  a  letter  to  him  addressed  in 
care  of  the  editor  of  the  magazine.  But 
the  letters  always  found  their  way  back 
to  me,  and  his  poetry  appeared  less  fre- 


quently. I  knew  then  that  he  was  not 
writing.  The  poetry  I  saw  was  doubt- 
less some  that  had  been  bought  long 
before. 

I  had  several  letters  from  Valerie, 
but  in  time  they  stopped.  I  moved  away 
from  the  Portsmouth  Block.  Somehow 
it  disturbed  me ;  I  could  not  work  there. 

I  had  nearly  forgotten  Dion  O'Day 
that  morning  I  stood  at  the  corner  of 
State  and  Van  Buren  in  Chicago.  I  was 
loitering  there  wondering  at  the  noise 
and  rush  of  the  loop  when  I  saw  him 
crossing  toward  me.  He  was  with  a 
woman.  A  huge  woman.  She  looked 
coarse,  blatant,  rough.  I  marvelled  that 
from  such  a  mother  sprang  the  fragile 
genius,  Dion.  He  was  escorting  her 
across  the  street  with  absurd,  extrava- 
gant chivalry.  Her  ham-like  elbow 
rested  on  three  slender  fingers  of  his 
hand.  His  eyes  were  turned  up  to  hers 
solicitously.  Then  he  saw  me.  He  looked 
embarrassed,  but  could  not  avoid  me. 

We  shook  hands  on  the  corner  and 
he  turned  to  that  huge  woman,  "My 
wife." 

I  know  I  made  rather  a  fool  of  my- 
self by  shouting  out  as  I  did,  "Your 
wife!"  But  it  was  so  ridiculous — so 
tragic.  She  glowered  down  at  me  and 
I  heard  Dion  speaking.  "Yes,"  he  ex-" 
plained  hopelessly,  "my  wife."  She's  not 
tiny." 

I  watched  them  moving  away,  Dion 
almost  instantly  lost  to  sight,  but  she 
towering  above  the  throng.  I  stood  there, 
longing  to  run  after,  to  rescue  him,  to 
save  him  for  the  world.  But  my  feet 
seemed  sunk  in  cement.  I  stood  there 
mumbling  crazily,  "Not  tiny — not  tiny." 
An  eddy  of  the  jostling  crowd  picked 
me  up  and  swept  me  away  from  the 
corner. 


m 


14 


January,  1927 


A  WEIRD,  hunch-backed  figure  sit- 
ting on  a  small  sand  dune.  By  his 
side,  a  pair  of  crutches.  A  short 
distance  away,  a  stretcher  constructed  of 
lumber  cast  up  by  the  tide.  Farther  back, 
dwarfed  Cypresses  whipped  into  fan- 
tastic shapes  by  the  wind,  stood  starkly 
forth. 

The  waves  hissed  and  crashed  among 
the  rocks  or  boomed  thunderously  in 
the  rocky  caves.  The  hunchback  sat  im- 
movable, gazing  far  out  where  the 
mists  of  gathering  night  blotted  out  the 
waves  as  they  turned  from  the  gold  of 
the  setting  sun,  to  gray — and  then 
were  gone. 

Darkness.  The  hunchback  crutched 
his  way  to  a  sheltered  nook  in  the  dunes 
and  kindled  a  fire  of  driftwood.  After 
a  frugal  meal,  cooked  over  the  drift- 
wood fire,  he  sat  long  and  gazed  into 
the  fire.  What  did  he  see  in  "the  hol- 
low down  by  the  flare?"  The  Haw- 
thorn hedges  of  Old  England  a-bloom 
in  spring?  Sprightly  folk  who  looked 
at  him — the  hunchback — pityingly?  The 
face  of  a  friend  ? 

The  hunchback's  name  wasn't  Shor- 
ty. It  was  a  long  name — one  of  the 
proud  names  of  Britain.  But  his  de- 
formity had  set  him  apart  from  his 


Real  People 

By  W.  T.  FITCH 

family — not  that  there  was  unkindness 
of  deed  or  word — but  pride — the  Pride 
of  Honor — in  the  heart  of  the  cripple, 
sent  him  forth  that  he  might  not 
cumber. 

And  so  "Shorty,"  with  the  blood  of 
Peers  in  his  veins,  the  manners  and 
speech  of  a  Chesterfield,  the  soul  of  a 
poet  and  with  a  heart  filled  with  kind- 
ness, set  his  face  to  the  west.  Off  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth,  a  voluntary  exile. 

But  memory  keeps  pace  with  us,  ply 
our  crutches  as  we  may!  By  day,  the 
phantoms  of  the  past  are  happily  in- 
visible; but  they  flock  around  us  as  the 
shadows  fall,  and  dance  in  the  flames 
of  the  campfire. 

The  folded  wings  of  sleep,  then  forth 
with  the  dawn.  A  knapsack  containing 
tools  for  sharpening  scissors,  razors, 
soldering  tinware,  is  slung  on  the 
hunched  shoulders,  the  crutches  are 
again  in  place — and  Shorty  is  off  again 
with  face  uplifted  to  the  adventures  of 
the  new  day. 

Strange  faces.  Cold  faces.  Refusal 
Savage  dogs.  Sometimes  a  smile.  An 
understanding  housewife  who  insists 
after  her  scissors  have  been  sharpened, 
that  she  made  too  much  coffee  that 


morning  and  would  be  grateful  if  it 
were  disposed  of  along  with  some  cold 
chicken  that  would  most  surely  spoil 
on  her  hands. 

Not  such  a  bad  world!  Birds.  Chil- 
dren. Happy  families  going  to  town. 
A  fellow  man  whistling  as  he  mends 
the  fence.  A  flivver  with  a  flat  tire.  "I 
have  some  cement  here,  sir.  You  are 
welcome  to  make  use  of  it."  A  hobo 
who  looks  askance  at  the  kit  of  tools. 
"What  kind  of  a  stiff  is  this  hunchback 
anyway?"  The  gables  of  somebody's 
home  through  the  trees. 

Here  and  there,  in  odd  corners  of 
the  earth,  a  friend.  Some  kindly  soul 
who  has  seen  and  understood.  Who  has 
ignored  the  pitiful  body.  A  week,  a 
month  perhaps — and  Shorty  is  off  once 
more.  Never  a  welcome  abused. 

Letters  would  come  at  long  intervals, 
to  these  friends — these  way-stations  of 
a  life  pilgrimage.  Letters  in  a  scholarly 
hand  and  couched  in  crisp,  sparkling 
English,  warming  the  heart  and  bring- 
ing back  the  memory  of  the  wanderer. 
*  #  * 

Where  does  Shorty  camp  tonight? 
Who  has  been  kind  to  him?  Who  has 
understood  ? 


Iowa  Deserta  and  the  Cocktail  Route 


IN  THE  old  days  "before  the  fire"  in 
San  Francisco,  there  flourished,  we 
youngsters  are  assured  by  those  who 
flourished  at  the  same  time,  a  culture  of 
the  cocktail  and  the  courtesan  which  was 
something  incomparably  more  genial, 
spiritually  expansive,  and,  to  use  that 
word  of  the  current  jargon,  civilized, 
than  anything  we  now  have.  In  those 
days,  one  gathers,  men  were  men,  women 
were  great  fun,  and  Iowa,  instead  of 
being  Los  Angeles,  was  Iowa. 

"The  Cocktail  Route"  is  the  spirited 
title  which  H.  L.  Baggerly  gave  to  the 
cultural  aura  of  those  olden  golden  days 
in  his  series  of  articles  recently  published 
in  a  couple  of  Central  California  news- 
papers. As  sporting  editor  of  a  San 
Francisco  newspaper  from  the  days  of 
the  'nineties  until  well  after  the  great 
fire,  Mr.  Baggerly  had  an  opportunity  to 
drink  of  the  celebrated  Pisco  punch,  to 
eat  of  all  the  strange  free  lunches,  to 
observe  Emneror  Norton  paying  for  his 
cocktails  with  imperial  scrip,  to  be  gazed 
at  bv  that  Whistling  Rufus  who  would 
walk  ur>  to  vou  in  front  of  a  clear  store 
and  contemplate  you  earnestly  for  some 


By  R.  L.  BURGESS 

time  whistling  the  while,  and  to  kick  for 
a  mere  quarter  the  person  of  that  Hoofty- 
Goofty,  small  man  with  a  dicer  pulled 
down  over  his  ears,  who  made  his  living 
in  the  passively  strenuous  profession  of 
allowing  himself  to  be  kicked  by  anyone 
for  two-bits. 

Mr.  Baggerly  is  in  accord  with  the 
other  authorities  on  this  subject  in  de- 
creeing that  a  sad  change  passed  over  the 
spirit  of  this  dream  when  the  fire  breath- 
ed upon  San  Francisco  as  the  result  of 
the  misdoings  of  that  forerunner  of  the 
fire  whose  very  name  is  never  mentioned 
in  these  parts  out  of  deference  to  the  sen- 
sitiveness of  the  chamber  of  commerce's 
corporate  soul.  Something  passed  away. 
The  old  buildings  were  down,  the  old 
people  were  dead,  the  old  spirit  was, 
somehow,  moth-eaten.  Soon,  too,  there 
was  Prohibition,  the  Redlight  Abatement 
Law,  and  the  War.  Meanwhile,  of 
course,  Iowa — the  deluge — Los  Angeles! 
Watchman,  what  of  the  night?  Ach, 
dear  Bohemian,  the  enemy  has  reached 
the  Tehachapi !  Watchman,  is  there  any 
hope  of  holding  him  there?  No,  dear 


Bohemian,  we  are  lost — our  powder  is 
too  Dry!  But  let  us  obdurately  sit  on 
the  last  bootlegged  keg  of  beer,  Fresno 
vine  leaves  in  our  hair,  and  drink  to 
the  good  old  days,  to  the  confusion  of 
Iowa  Deserta. 

And  so  it  all  becomes  delightfully 
mellow,  olden  and  golden,  and  a  new 
legend  clambers  tipsily  up  the  sides  of 
the  American  Olympus,  drawing  after  it 
a  float  labeled  CALIFORNIA  whereon 
sit,  tinsel  crowned  and  glaring  at  one 
another,  two  gigantic  damsels.  The  one 
at  the  northern  end  of  the  float  is  clad  in 
flaming  red,  and  is  indubitably  The  Spir- 
it of  San  Francisco,  immortally  Wet, 
eternally  Pagan.  Need  we  mention  the 
southern  damsel,  clad  in  blistering  white, 
The  Spirit  of  Los  Angeles,  forever  Dry, 
everlastingly  Puritan?  Glare  at  one  an- 
other, symbolical  nymphs,  as  the  float 
goes  trundling  up  the  Olympus  of  Amer- 
ican mythology.  Go  to  it,  girls,  Help 
California  make  the  first  page  by  cre- 
ating one  more  myth. 

The  trouble  is,  of  course,  that  this 
myth,  like  any  myth,  tells  so  much  es- 
sential truth  in  concise  form  that  many 
minor  truths  get  badly  crushed. 


January,  1927 


15 


The  Greater  Sequoia  Park 


PASSAGE  by  Congress  of  the 
Greater  Sequoia  Park  bill,  fostered 
by  W.  H.  Barbour,  California's 
progressive  congressman,  has  added  an- 
other large  and  scenic  portion  of  the 
Sierra  Nevada  mountains  to  our  coun- 
try's national  playgrounds  and  given 
California  further  reasons  for  boasting 
of  having  within  its  boundaries  the 
largest  number  of  national  parks  of  any 
one  state  or  territory  belonging  to 
"Uncle  Sam." 

Of  the  four  national  parks  in  Cali- 
fornia, Yosemite,  Sequoia,  Lassen  and 
Grant,  Sequoia  ranks  second  in  size.  By 
the  late  act  of  Congress  its  boundaries 
have  been  enlarged  nearly  three  times 
its  original  size,  or  from  252  square  miles 
to  604  square  miles.  The  new  territory 
taken  into  the  park  is  comprised  in  a  wide 
strip  of  mountainous  country  extend- 
ing eastward  to  the  most  eastern  range 
of  the  Sierras  and  taking  in  Mt.  Whit- 
ney, the  highest  peak  in  the  United 
States,  being  14,502  feet  in  elevation. 
The  picturesque  Kern  River  canyon 
whose  sheer  walls,  rugged  peaks  and 
snow-capped  ranges  has  caused  mountain 
tourists  to  acclaim  this  mountainous  ter- 
ritory the  "Alps  of  America,"  is  also 
in  the  new  park  area,  as  are  numerous 
sparkling  mountain  lakes  fed  by  melting 
snow  from  the  surrounding  peaks. 

Robert  Stanley  Yard  of  Washington, 
D.  C.,  secretary  for  the  National  Parks 
Society,  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to 
Sequoia  Park  in  August,  when  he  had 
opportunity  of  viewing  some  of  the  new 
territory  added  to  Sequoia  Park  said : 
"The  enlargement  of  Sequoia  Park 
raised  this  park  to  the  rank  of  one  of 
the  finest  scenic  national  parks  in  all 
America  and  it  should,  and  undoubt- 
edly will,  be  developed  along  lines  cal- 
culated to  make  the  best  possible  use  of 
the  entire  section  for  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  people,"  adding  that  its  possibil- 
ities were  tremendous.  Mr.  Yard's  ob- 
servations and  other  data  gathered  while 
in  the  park  will  probably  be  presented 
in  a  report  form  to  the  National  Park 
Service,  Department  of  the  Interior,  at 
Washington,  with  which  the  society  is 
not  officially  connected  but  is  in  close 
association  with  at  all  times. 

In  .  enlarging  Sequoia  Park  approxi- 
mately 234,550  acres  of  land  formerly 
included  in  the  Sequoia  National  Forest 
reserve  and  the  Inyo  National  Forest, 
lying  to  the  east  of  the  Sequoia  Forest 
Reserve,  were  added  to  the  park  terri- 
tory. As  about  10,540  acres  of  former 
park  territory  was  excluded  by  the  new 
park  bill  and  thereby  added  to  the  na- 
tional forest  reserve,  the  net  addition 


By  MARTHA  LOUISE  BAKER 

of  forest  acreage  added  to  Sequoia  Park 
is  about  224,010  acres.  The  park  now 
cuts  the  Sequoia  National  Forest  entirely 
in  two,  but  this  fact  deos  not  affect  the 
forestry  service  in  any  material  way  as 
the  main  travel  by  the  superintendent 
and  other  forestry  employees  is  via  the 
highways  and  roads  of  the  San  Joaquin 
Valley." 

THIS   transfer  of  territory  from  the 
forestry  reserve  to  the  national  park 


will  mean  certain  changes  in  the  allot- 
ment of  government  appropriations  to 
the  two  departments:  Namely,  the  de- 
crease of  trail  maintenance  funds  and 
the  like  for  the  forestry  service,  and  the 
addition  of  more  funds  of  this  class  to 
the  Sequoia  Park  budget.  It  is  not  def- 
initely known  yet  what  the  appropria- 
tions for  Sequoia  Park  will  be  for  the 
ensuing  year,  but  a  substantial  increase 
is  expected  in  order  to  care  for  the  addi- 
tional 352  square  miles  added  to  the 
p:irk  this  past  summer.  This  will,  how- 


I'orest  Monarchs 


16 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


January,  1927 


ever,  be  mainly  to  meet  the  cost  of  build- 
ing and  maintaining  trails  and  telephone 
connections  and  for  ranger  personnel, 
according  to  Colonel  John  R.  White, 
superintendent  of  Sequoia  Park  and  also 
of  Grant  Park,  lying  slightly  to  the 
northwest  of  Sequoia  Park  and  compris- 
ing four  square  miles.  No  road  building 
into  the  "back  country"  or  new  territory 
added  to  the  park  is  contemplated  for 
the  next  year  or  so,  according  to  Colonel 
White. 

As  far  as  the  general  public  is  con- 
cerned the  park  enlargement  has  been 
consummated  with  very  little  outward 
"fuss"  or  evidence.  The  most  confusion 
arising  over  the  matter  was  the  verbal 
battles  that  raged  within  the  halls  of 
Congress  as  proponents  and  opponents 
of  the  bill  argued  the  point,  while  out 
here  in  California  there  was  a  continual 
reverberation  of  the  argument  accentu- 
ated by  propaganda,  originating  mainly 
from  commercial  sources.  Because  of  op- 
position, on  the  part  of  irrigationists, 
no  part  of  the  Kings  River  canyon  is 
included  in  the  new  park  area;  nor  is 
the  territory  between  Junction  Peak,  in 
the  northeast  corner  of  the  park,  and 
Bishop  Pass  included.  The  Mineral  King 
district  was  also  excluded  because  of 
the  opposition  of  owners  of  mineral 
claims  and  summer  homes,  sponsors  of 
the  park  enlargement  bill  deeming  it 
better  to  exclude  these  districts  rather 
than  jeopardize  the  passage  of  the  bill. 

The  name  of  the  park  was  also  the 
source  of  considerable  argument.  The 
proposed  title,  "Roosevelt  Sequoia  Na- 
tional Park,"  was  objected  to  by  the 
Senate  and  the  word  Roosevelt  elimin- 
ated. In  Congress  there  was  an  Okla- 
homa congressman,  with  Cherokee  blood 
in  his  veins,  who  proposed  having  the 
word  Sequoia  changed  in  its  spelling  to 
read  "Sequoyah,"  in  honor  of  George 
Gest,  otherwise  Sequoyah,  who  origin- 
ated the  Cherokee  alphabet,  but  this  pro- 
posal failed  to  carry. 


Improvements  in  trails,  phone  lines 
and  such  within  the  new  boundary  of 
the  park  were  carried  on  by  Forest  Su- 
pervisor Frank  P.  Cunningham  up  until 
the  last  moment  before  the  transfer  of 
the  territory  from  the  forest  service  to 
the  park  service  became  effective,  show- 
ing the  close  co-operation  existing  be- 
tween these  two  departments.  These  im- 
provements were  mainly  in  the  Kern 
Canyon  country,  including  a  bridge 
over  the  Big  Arroyo.  Among  the  first 
improvements  which  the  park  service 
will  undertake  in  the  new  territory  will 
be  the  construction  at  Kern  Hot  Springs 
of  bathing  pools  for  men  and  women. 
A  tourist's  horse  pasture  is  to  be  made 
at  Cliff  Creek  Camp.  It  is  also  pro- 
posed to  build  a  trail  from  near  Hamil- 
ton Lake  over  the  Great  Western  Di- 
vide to  Big  Arroyo.  This  trail  was  sug- 
gested by  W.  E.  Colby  of  the  Sierra 
Club,  who  proposes  to  conduct  a  party 
250  hikers  over  this  trail  if  it  is  ready 
by  July,  1927. 

The  building  of  the  proposed  Mt. 
Whitney-trans-Sierra  road  in  which  the 
three  counties  of  Tulare,  Inyo  and  Kern 
are  interested,  and  which  would  extend 
from  Lone  Pine  in  Inyo  county  south- 
west over  the  Sierras,  with  Porterville, 
Tulare  county,  as  its  western  terminus, 
will  give  access  to  the  beautiful  scenery 
and  recreational  facilities  of  this  portion 
of  the  Sierra  Nevada  mountains,  with 
its  numerous  sparkling  and  mirror-like 
lakes  and  fishing  streams.  Eleven  miles 
of  the  proposed  road  will  be  within  the 
new  boundary  of  Sequoia  Park,  and  it 
is  believed  the  park  service  will  build  this 
stretch  of  eleven  miles.  The  famous 
Golden  trout  are  to  be  found  in  the 
system  of  lakes  known  as  Cottonwood 
Lakes,  south  of  Mt.  Whitney,  and  trib- 
utary streams,  one  of  the  two  places  in 
the  world  where  such  trout  are  to  be 
found. 

"C'NLARGEMENT  Of  Sequoia  Park 
-•-^    is  expected  to  be  of  special  benefit 


to  the  wild  life  of  the  Sierras  included 
in  the  park  boundary,  since  hunting  is 
forbidden  within  the  park.  Two  species, 
the"  mountain  sheep  and  the  wolverine, 
which  have  become  very  scarce  in  the 
upper  Sierras  will  now  have  a  chance  to 
propagate.  The  beautiful  and  harmless 
deer  which  have  stalked  the  trails  and 
peaks  of  the  smaller  Sequoia  Park,  fully 
protected  from  hunters,  and  which  have 
become  so  tame  in  many  instances  as  to 
invade  camp  sites  and  even  eat  from 
one's  hands,  will  also  have  a  chance  to 
multiply  in  much  larger  numbers.  While 
hunters  have  regretted  in  a  way  that 
they  are  hitherto  to  be  excluded  from 
extensive  hunting  grounds  they  were  in 
the  habit  of  frequenting,  yet  it  is  argued, 
and  with  reason,  that  the  opportunity 
which  will  be  given  the  deer  to  breed 
more  prolifkally  during  the  future  will 
in  the  long  run  provide  more  game,  as 
they  will  be  bound  to  stray  outside  the 
park  boundaries  from  time  to  time.  "Fair 
play"  on  the  part  of  sportsmen  is  ex- 
pected though  by  Col.  White,  park  su- 
perintendent, who  points  out  that  with 
only  one  ranger  to  patrol  the  new  park 
boundary  during  the  past  deer  season, 
very  few  cases  were  reported  of  hunters 
getting  inside  the  park  lines,  and  these 
violations  were  most  unknowingly  done 
due  to  the  fact  that  the  boundary  was 
not  adequately  marked  as  yet. 

A  report  from  Col.  White's  office 
shows  that  the  past  season's  travel  into 
Sequoia  Park  showed  an  increase  of  91J4 
per  cent  over  that  of  last  season.  Al- 
though the  auto  license  fee  for  park  ad- 
mittance was  reduced  from  $2.50  to  $1 
this  season,  the  revenue  thus  derived 
this  season  amounted  to  $12,650  as  com- 
pared with  a  revenue  of  $10,965  last 
season.  A  total  of  140,000  visitors  had 
checked  into  the  park  this  season  as  com- 
pared with  87,194  last  season.  A  still 
larger  increase  in  attendance  can  be 
looked  forward  to  for  next  season,  with 
the  park  enlarged  to  its  present  size. 


January,  1927 


17 


IT  WAS  back  in  the  days  when  San 
Francisco  was  called,  "The  Paris 
of  America,"  and  theatrically  speak- 
ing it  was  the  "New  York  City,"  of  the 
Pacific  coast.  The  California,  Bush 
Street  and  Baldwin  theatres  played  the 
road  attractions,  while  the  Alcazar, 
Central  and  Grand  constituted  the  stock 
houses.  The  famous  Bella-Union,  Mid- 
way and  a  few  others,  including  the 
basement  free  and  easy  joints,  provided 
the  variety  bill.  Quoting  from  an  art- 
icle in  the  Billboard  of  Dec.  15th,  1923, 
entitled :  "The  Early  Variety  Theatres 
of  San  Francisco,"  by  James  Madison: 
"Until  1880  practically  all  San  Fran- 
cisco variety  theatres  catered  exclusively 
to  male  patronage,  and  the  sale  of  alco- 
holic beverages  formed  no  unimportant 
part  of  the  revenue.  Barmaids  waited 
on  "ground  floor"  auditors,  while  those 
of  more  plethoric  purse,  who  viewed  the 
performance  from  a  private  box,  were 
served  by  "first  part  women,"  so  called 
because  they  sat  in  the  first  part,  which 
was  usually  the  opening  feature  of  the 
performance,  but  throughout  the  re- 
mainder of  the  evening  devoted  their 
energies  entirely  to  catering  to  the  thirsty 
box  patrons  ...  it  also  became  a  custom 
to  have  the  actresses  "work  the  boxes," 
when  not  busy  on  the  stage  .  .  .  The 
performances  were,  as  a  rule,  excellent 
in  quality,  although  at  times  rather 
spicy  in  character." 

Not  any  more  so  than  our  modern 
musical  comedy  and  "Bedroom  Farces" 
of  today. 

Many  of  the  legit  actors  of  the  old 
school  received  their  early  training  in 
these  variety  theatres,  and  quite  a  few 
are  now  in  Hollywood  working  in  the 
movies — sometimes.  Add  to  this  list  of 
performers  for  those  theatres,  those  en- 
gaged for  repertoire  and  stock  com- 
panies for  other  cities  in  the  west,  it  can 
readily  be  seen  San  Francisco  was  some 
theatrical  center. 

On  Pacific  street  was  the  internation- 
ally and  notoriously  known  Barbary 
Coast,  with  its  many  dives  and  dance 
halls;  where  "respectability"  sat  in  the 
balconies  and  gazed  down  on  the  passing 
show  of  the  underworld ;  where  frivolity, 
debauchery  and  criminality  jostled  side 
by  side  until  the  "we  sma"  hours."  A 
few  blocks  away  was  the  mysterious 
Chinatown,  with  its  numerous  gambling 
and  opium  joints  and  secret  underground 
passages  with  its  many  forbidden  attrac- 
tions, catering  to  a  floating  population 
of  several  thousand  sight-seekers  daily. 
It  was  a  city  of  40,000  Mongolians  with- 
in a  city. 


The  B.  T.  U. 

By  FRANK  STAPLES 

Towards  Market  street  in  the  Bon 
Ton  district  were  many  brilliantly  light- 
ed cafes,  including  the  nationally  known 
Poodle  Dog  and  similar  attractions  for 
the  night  life,  so  take  it  all  around  the 
city  was  well  worthy  of  its  title:  "The 
Gay  Paree  of  America." 

It  was  as  this  point  of  the  calendar 
when  Tom  Carson  was  rustling  news 


according  to  their  respective  destinies. 
Many  fortunes  and  stars  were  made 
around  its  tables — only;  if  only;  "what 
might  have  been."  It  was  the  rendez- 
vous of  scandal  mongers — character  de- 
famers,  boosters,  and  unmerciful  knock- 
ers, consequently  Tom  could  always  de- 
pend on  picking  up  a  few  bunches  of 
gloom  or  joy,  as  the  case  might  be.  He 
had  just  sat  down  to  a  vacant  table 


The  years  folloiving  the  San  Francisco  Exposition  in  1858  ixere  the  years 
the  theatre  flourished  in  the  W  est 


for  one  of  the  leading  dailies,  and  spe- 
cialized on  theatrical  stuff  for  the  Sun- 
day edition. 

He  was  a  nifty  chap — good  dresser, 
well  educated,  and  equally  at  home  in 
the  Palace  or  Baldwin  hotels  interview- 
ing famous  dramatic  or  operatic  cele- 
brities as  he  was  in  some  hang-out  South 
of  Market  street  hobnobbing  with  a 
bunch  of  Rep  people;  and  being  short 
a  column  for  the  coming  Sunday  he 
strolled  over  to  The  Club,  in  the  latter 
district,  to  see  what  he  could  pick  up. 
The  Club  was  one  of  those  places  in 
the  bygone  days  where  you  could  get 
a  lunch  with  all  the  delicacies  of  the 
season  and  a  large  glass  of  beer  for  a 
nickel;  of  course  one  was  expected  to 
loosen  up  for  more  liquid  refreshments, 
but  many  a  poor  guy  down  and  out  has 
squeezed  in  during  the  rush  hour,  and 
filled  up  at  the  "feed  counter"  without 
patronizing  the  bar.  There  were  tables 
for  more  elaborate  refreshments,  be- 
sides many  pool  and  billiard  tables,  and 
in  the  rear  was  a  cozy  corner  fully 
equipped  for  reading  and  writing,  all  of 
which  made  it  very  popular  with  actors 
and  managers  who  referred  to  the  place 
as  their  clearing-house  and  booking 
office.  It  was  equally  frequented  by  the 
"upper  ten"  as  well  as  the  "lower  five," 
of  the  game;  their  conversation  varying 


when  Dick  Loomis,  one  of  the  popular 
coast  defenders  (actors  who  never  left 
the  coast)  stepped  up  saying:  "How  are 
you,  Mr.  Carson,  didn't  want  to  pass 
up  the  opportunity  of  telling  you  how 
much  I  enjoyed  your  article  in  last  Sun- 
day's paper."  "Thanks,  old  man,"  re- 
plied Tom,  "have  a  seat  and  something 
to  go  with  it."  Being  of  a  sociable 
nature,  Dick  couldn't  refuse.  As  the 
waiter  was  taking  their  order,  Jack  El- 
son,  another  rising  C.  D.,  entered  the 
scene.  "Hello,  Dick!  when  did  you  blow 
in  town?"  "About  a  week  ago,"  replied 
Dick,  shaking  his  hand ;  "of  course  you 
know  Mr.  Carson?"  "Never  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  Mr.  Carson  before, 
personally,  but  have  certainly  enjoyed 
reading  his  good  stuff,  many  times," 
tactfully  replied  Jack. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  personally,  Mr. 
Elson,  "as  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  from  the  front  on  many  oc- 
casions; have  a  seat  and  meet  the 
waiter — personally,"  graciously  came 
back  Tom.  Like,  Dick,  Jack  was  of  a 
nature  that  couldn't  refuse.  Both  Thes- 
pians took  whisky  straight  with  "chili 
ands  beans"  on  the  side.  Tom  took  beer 
with  no  solids.  The  boys  had  been  on 
tour  with  different  companies  but  of  the 
same  class;  the  kind  that  promises 
(Continued  on  Page  22) 


18 


January,  1927 


Bits  of  Verse 


SUICIDE 

SHE  died  beside  the  water  lilies, 
For  the  love  of  a  "king" 
Her  love  a  fire  burning  deep  into  the  flesh, 
Her  heart  a  bit  of  parchment  (he  had  filled  with  shavings) 
Dead  for  want  of  Love. 

She  died  by  the  water  lilies, 
For  love  of  "him"  who  gazed  at  her 
Not  once  in  all  the  years  she  served  him, 
She  trembled  at  the  thought  of  "him" 
Though  she  knew  him  not. 

A  night  and  stars  making  love  to  the  moon, 

The  heavens  a  bed  of  blue, 

The  flowers  fierce  with  incense   .   .   . 

She  died  beside  the  water  lilies 

For  the  love  of  a  "king" — 

A  white  man  in  a  realm  of  niggers. 

ELINOR  HERSEY. 


THE  POOL  OF  SEN  YO 

WOMEN  are  chattering,  chattering, 
Shrilly  in  Yunnan  tongue. 
Women  are  laughing  like  crystal 
Temple  bells  quickly  rung. 

Under  the  shade  of  magnolias 
Small  slender  bodies  glow  bronze. 
Women  are  bending,  leaning, 
Supple  as  bamboo  wands. 

Into  the  dark  clear  waters 
Women  are  splashing,  dipping, 
Scouring  blue  and  brown  cotton, 
Raising  the  garments,  dripping. 

Women  are  chattering,  chattering, 
Swiftly  in  cadenced  Chinese. 
Small  brown  monkeys  are  listening, 
High  in  the  teak-wood  trees. 

AUDREY  WARDEMAN. 


GOLD  AND  IRON 

SINCE  time  began,  have  bards  extolled 
The  exotic  beauty  of  rare  gold. 

But  few,  if  any,  poets  will  praise 
Iron,  with  color  depths  of  greys. 

If  iron  were  rare  and  gold  were  cheap, 
Which  one  would  greatest  glories  reap? 

AUDREY  WARDEMAN. 


DECISION 

I  SHALL  turn  back  and  face  my- 
self squarely, 
And  knowing  myself,  judge  myself 

fairly; 
I    shall    not    care    what    the    last 

Court's  decree 

If  I  can  but  make  my  own  peace 
with  me. 

IRENE  STEWART. 


THE  KISS 
(Suggested  by  Rodin's  Statue) 

lovers  Time  is  softly  passing  by, 
Wearing  invisible  garments,  and  no  sight 
Of  his  scarred  body,  and  malicious  eye 
Shall  rouse  them  from  their  dream,  to  face  the  light. 
Their  beauty  is  eternal,  for  the  hand 
That  fashioned  them  disdained  to  utilize 
A  perishable  clay.    No  grief  shall  brand 
These  smooth  white  brows,  nor  dim  these  rapturous  eyes. 

Do  glittering  kings  and  queens  with  perfumed  hair, 

And  robes  all  sewn  with  pearls,  throw  back  their  heads, 

And  call  for  some  new  lover,  young  and  fair, 

To  feast  with  them,  and  share  their  royal  beds? 

Do  zealots,  grey  with  fasting  and  long  days 

Of  solitude  and  prayer,  rise  and  implore 

Beauty  and  youth  to  follow  in  their  ways, 

And  be  revered  and  blessed  forevermore? 

They  hear  no  part  of  this ;  their  ears  are  sealed 

Against  insistent  voices  promising 

Glory  or  luxury;  they  will  not  yield 

Their  dream  for  any  futile,  shining  thing. 

There  is  no  word  that  any  voice  may  speak 

To  send  them  from  each  other ;  no  bright  name 

Of  king  or  god  will  rouse  them  up  to  seek 

A  greater  wealth  than  this,  a  greater  fame. 

MAY  GREENWOOD. 


PAVLOWA:  THE  SWAN 

T^HE  silver  music  ebbs,  sound  faints  and  dies  .  .  . 

••  Across  the  stage  the  wondering  silence  waits; 
The  spotlight  dances  as  a  white  swan  flies, 
Flutters  and  falters,  stirs  and  hesitates. 
Borne  up  again  upon  the  music's  flow 
To  float  on  waves  of  beauty  like  a  flood, 
The  white  swan  shimmers,  gliding  to  and  fro, 
The  swan  that  shall  not  see  the  willows  bud  .  .  . 

Now  fainter,  fainter  move  those  matchless  wings, 
And  lower,  lower  sinks  the  drooping  head 
Till,  while  the  music  sighs  and  sobs  and  sings, 
A  quiver  passes  and  the  swan  is  dead. 
Was  that  a  white  soul  slipping  out  life's  gates? 
The  music  ebbs,  the  wondering  silence  waits. 

ALINE  MICHAELIS. 


MY  LAST  WISH 

17ARTH  is  a  Palace,  I  a  bidden  Friend; 
*^   I  must  depart — my  stay  is  at  an  end — 
'Twas  Love  brought  me,  and  so  with  Love  I  go ; 
Feel  only  love  for  me;  I'd  wish  it  so. 

ANNE  DELARTIGUE  KENNEDY. 


January,  1927 


19 


Rhymes  and  Reactions 


I  HAVE  been  reading  in  that  other- 
wise excellent  magazine  The  Amer- 
ican Parade,  Dr.  Danziger's  article  on 
Bierce.  For  some  reason  unknown  to 
me  Danziger  has  changed  his  name  to 
De  Castro,  but  by  any  name  the  paper 
would  be  in  Bierce's  case  offensive.  I 
regret  that  a  journal  so  excellent  in 
material  selected  for  publication  and  so 
carefully  discriminate  as  the  Parade 
should  allow  Ambrose  Bierce  to  be  sub- 
ject to  such  unmitigated  slander. 

In  his  peculiar  whims  and,  as  London 
once  expressed  it,  his  "blackland  idio- 
cies," Bierce  was  alone  and  dominant. 
He  would  make  a  life-long  enemy  of  the 
man  who  crossed  him  victoriously,  a 
life-long  friend  of  the  man  who  scoffed 
him.  In  many  phases  of  existence  he 
was  painfully  young,  desperately  futile 
— but  Bierce  was  never  the  vindictive 
child.  He  would  never  allow,  for  in- 
stance, the  use  of  his  talents  by  William 
Hearst;  however  much  he  needed  money 
for  food  and  lodging.  Nor  would  he, 
by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination,  seek 
employment  with  a  railroad  company 
merely  to  fill  his  treasury  and  thereby 
find  time  to  put  the  "great  novel  of 
life"  between  covers.  Bierce  was  at  all 
times  a  severe  iconoclast,  an  idol  wreck- 
er. It  is  to  his  everlasting  credit  that 
he  was  a  fine  one!  I  may  add  that 
Ambrose  was  least  of  all  interested  in 
politics. 

The  lives  of  great  men  are  continu- 
ally subject  to  the  regretfully  inaccurate 
foibles  of  acquaintances.  In  this  instance 
Bierce,  the  man  of  critical  iron,  suffers 
a  few  drops  of  ineffectual  but  irritating 
nitric  acid.  It  is  of  some  praise  that 
the  Overland  preserves  its  columns  for 
denunciation  of  those  to  whom  the  ap- 
preciative and  critical  instinct  is  em- 
phatically bitter. 

#       *       * 

BRISBANE'S  enormous  platitudes 
continue  to  be  a  source  of  delight 
to  me.  In  a  recent  editorial  he  says: 
"The  first  shall  be  the  last,"  according 
to  the  German  philosopher.  I  faintly 
remember  Arthur  disrupting  this  very 
theory  less  than  a  month  ago  in  the  San 
Francisco  Examiner.  Let  us  hope  that 
Brisbane  remembers  hereafter  his  daily 
sermons  and  that  we  shall  be  permitted 


TANCRED 

a  small  measure  of  peace.  It  is  to  the 
everlasting  discredit  of  Brisbane  that 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  lessons  a 
year  quite  often  drive  from  the  eminent 
man's  memory  his  Good  Word  of  Yes- 
terday. 

*       *       # 

MR.  C.  A.  A.  PARKER  sends  me  his 
first  edition  of  the  Independent  Po- 
etry Anthology.  I  have  read  it  from 
cover  to  cover — a  matter  of  persistent 
love — and  through  the  one  hundred  and 
fifty-five  pages  have  failed  to  discover 
one  poem  of  outstanding  merit.  I  am 
naturally  wondering  why  a  nation  so 


RHYMES  and  Reactions  has 
sufficient  material  to  continue 
for  a  few  months.  Mr.  Sterling 
was  in  the  habit  of  bringing,  into 
our  office,  a  prospectus  for  the 
months  to  come.  We  are  piecing 
together  what  we  have  and  while 
it  is,  in  the  main,  Mr.  Sterling's 
work,  the  assembling  is  being  done 
in  the  Overland  office.  It  seems 
as  though  it  might  be  the  very 
soul  of  Tancred  speaking — Tan- 
cred  in  whom  Sterling  put  so  much 
of  his  very  own  soul.  We  are 
therefore  substituting  Tancred  for 
George  Sterling. — The  Editor. 


blessed  with  natural  merit  and  spon- 
taneous feeling  should  find  it  necessary 
to  resort  to  E.  Ralph  Cheyney  and  C.  A. 
A.  Parker,  the  editor  and  publisher  of 
the  Independent  Poetry  Anthology,  for 

publication  of  its  excellent  poetry. 

#       *       * 

MY  GOOD  friend  E.  Balfour  sends 
me  the  following  for  mental  di- 
gesting : 

The  good  woman  loved  to  be  good, 
because  every  one  admired  her.  She 
really  was  good,  yet  though  they  ad- 
mired her  they  wanted  her  to  become 
bad. 

"How  sad,"  said  a  Tempter,  "you 
have  never  been  awakened!" 

"Awakened?"  replied 'she.  "I  do  not 
know  what  you  mean." 


"You  will  dry  up  and  die!"  said  the 
Tempter. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  she, 
and  still  went  on  tempting. 

*  *       * 

I  OFTEN  wonder  who  it  is  selects  the 
poetry  for  the  Literary  Digest  poetry 
page.  The  most  simple  Babbitt  could 
not  reserve  a  greater  ignorance  of  beau- 
tiful poetry  than  this  imbecile  collector 
for  the  country's  most  elaborately  cir- 
culated weekly.  I  notice  in  a  recent 
issue  a  poem  by  the  negro,  Countee 
Cullen,  that  is  not  only  pap  but  verbi- 
age. Let  us  hope  that  the  gentleman 
who  is  responsible  for  this  error  en- 
larges his  reading.  I,  for  one,  regret 
that  this  national  weekly  permits,  nay, 
encourages  such  asinine  collective  ge- 
nius. The  magazine  from  which  Cul- 
len's  masterpiece  was  culled  is  entitled 

Poetic  Thrills. 

*  *        * 

VOYAGE 

SO  PASS  these  hours  .  .  .  now  the 
moon  is  set, 
Now    heavy   apples    fill    the    orchard 

place ; 
The  schoolboy  with  his  tenderness  and 

fret, 

The  little  sister  with  her  holy  face 
Must  linger  suddenly  where  lanes  are 

wet 

Sensing    stranger     rhythm,     stranger 
grace. 

And   for   this   beauty   with   its   careful 

moving, 
This  startling  mood  of  sufferance  and 

pain 
We  trade  the  heart,  its  passion  and  its 

loving, 
Its  languid  color  and  its  low  refrain. 

So  pass  these  hours  .  .  .  now  the  clock 

is  turned, 
Now  starveling  winds  have  come  to 

winter's  dead  .  .  . 
The    beggar   with    the    pennies   he    has 

earned. 
The  harlot   in  her  swiftly  crumpled 

bed 
Knew  love   and    laughter — so   the   Old 

Ones  said — 

And    dusty   altars   where   their    fires 
burned. 


20 


January,  1927 


OOKS 


k 


CONDUCTED  BY 


'•Writers 


TOM  WHITE 


HILDEGARDE 

THE  prolific  pen  of  Kathleen  Norris 
has  yielded  another  work  of  fiction — 
HILDEGARDE. 

In  the  title  role,  Hilda  is  introduced 
as  a  ten-year-old  child  who  as  nurse- 
maid to  many  brothers  and  sisters  and 
willing  slavey  to  a  futile  and  slatternly 
mother,  battles  with  wretched  poverty 
and  a  dissolute  father.  At  fifteen  a 
young  actor,  Norman  Montgomery, 
drifts  into  her  life;  Hilda  falls  precipi- 
tately in  love  with  him ;  the  moth  singes 
her  wings,  and  shortly  thereafter  her 
lover  joins  a  road  show  and  is  gone. 
Hilda  has  a  somewhat  hectic  time  for 
the  next  year  or  two,  when  she  meets 
an  old  schoolday  acquaintance,  Sidney 
Penfield,  whose  family  represents  the  last 
word  in  social  and  financial  prominence. 
This  affair  ripens  to  an  interesting  point ; 
meanwhile  the  girl  is  adroitly  fed  gener- 
ous doses  of  Family  and  is  duly  im- 
pressed. Then  Sidney's  mother  learns 
of  Hilda's  little  indiscretion  with  Mont- 
gomery, which  effectively  throttles  the 
affair  with  the  disappearance  of  young 
Penfield  who  is  bundled  off  to  Europe. 
A  few  years  later  history  repeats  itself 
when  Hilda  and  Sidney  re-enact  their 
little  drama,  and  this  time  the  Family 
issue  develops  into  something  of  a  sur- 
prising climax. 

The  story  might  just  as  well  have 
been  told  in  from  fifteen  to  twenty  thou- 
sand less  words. 


THE  SPOKESMAN'S  SECRETARY 

UPTON  SINCLAIR  has  just  writ- 
ten (and  published,  as  usual)  a  pep- 
pery sort  of  a  book  called  THE 
SPOKESMAN'S  SECRETARY.  Not 
characteristically  vindictive,  but  certainly 
sprightly. 

Sinclair,  of  course,  always  writes  with 
a  purpose,  and  his  purpose  is  invariably 
the  same.  So  it  is  in  his  latest  volume, 
although  the  method  of  presentation  dif- 
fers widely  from  anything  he  has  done 
heretofore.  It  is  written  very  closely 
after  the  fashion  of  one  of  today's  best 
sellers.  Whether  this  is  intentional  or 
not,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  the  style 


is  strikingly  effective,  considering  the 
point  he  is  trying  to  make. 

Mame  is  a  manicurist  in  the  Elite 
Beauty  Parlor,  Washington,  D.  C.  She 
writes  home  to  "Dear  Mom,"  in  the 
gas  house  district  of  Camden,  New  Jer- 
say,  telling  of  her  meeting  with  the 
Spokesman's  secretary,  and  how  highly 
he  values  her  opinions,  especially  those 
having  to  do  with  international  affairs. 

Her  opinions,  based  largely  on  those 
of  Pop,  the  widely  read  gas-worker,  and 
Hattie  Schoenstein,  a  sister-manicurist, 


BOOKS     REVIEWED 

HILDEGARDE.     By    Kathleen    Mor- 
ris.     Doubleday,    Page   &   Com- 
pany.  $2.00. 

THE  SPOKESMAN'S  SECRE- 
TARY. By  Upton  Sinclair.  Pub- 
lished in  Pasadena.  $1.25. 

LEE.  A  Dramatic  Poem,  by  Edgar 
Lee  Masters.  Macmillan  Com- 
pany. $2.00.  Reviewed  by  Ben 
Field. 

CORDELIA  CHANTRELL.  By 
Meade  Minnegerode.  G.  P.  Put- 
nam's Sons.  $2.50. 

REVELRY.  By  Samuel  Hopkins 
Adams.  Boni  Liveright.  $2.00. 

KEEPERS  OF  THE  SHIELD.  By 
Laura  Bell  Everett.  25c. 

EAST  OF  SIAM.  By  Harry  A. 
Franck.  The  Century  Company. 
$3.00. 


when  given  to  the  secretary  that  he  may 
put  the  proper  words  into  the  mouth  of 
the  Spokesman  "who  lives  in  the  big 
white  house,"  save  the  country  from 
many  an  embarrassing  situation. 

Finally  Mame  loses  her  job  at  the 
Elite.  But  her  country  needs  her  des- 
perately. So  in  order  to  ensure  her  con- 
tinued services  the  Spokesman's  secretary 
secures  her  an  appointment  as  Emergency 
Field  Grammarian  in  the  Bureau  of  In- 
dian Affairs,  Department  of  the  In- 
terior. She  might,  with  equal  ease,  have 
been  appointed  Geographer  or  Geologist, 


it  seems.  But  no,  Grammarian  "sounds 
more  cultured."  So  presumably  the 
country  is  being  saved. 

Sinclair  makes  funny  jibes  at  Wash- 
ington, some  of  them  with  telling  effect, 
but  nowhere  is  there  to  be  found  any  of 
his  old-time  bitter  rancor  which,  though 
often  well  merited,  frequently  defeated 
its  own  purpose. 

Whether  or  not  one  agrees,  in  prin- 
ciple, with  its  author,  there  are  at  least 
no  regrets  that  go  with  the  reading  of 
this  book. 


LEE— A  DRAMATIC  POEM 

T^DGAR  LEE  MASTERS  has  pub- 
••-'  lished  another  book,  Lee-A  Drama- 
tic Poem.  (The  Macmillan  Company, 
New  York,  $2.00). 

In  the  light  of  his  second  Spoon  River 
Anthology,  it  is  unquestionably  a  suc- 
cess. 

Arimanius  and  Ormund,  two  figures, 
or  shades  perhaps,  are  discovered  in  the 
early  morning  of  April  17,  1861,  on  the 
lawn  at  the  foot  of  the  incompleted 
Washington  monument.  They  discourse, 
through  the  four  acts  and  139  pages  of 
the  book,  and  direct  its  happenings.  The 
reader  grows  to  like  them  but  wishes 
they  would  emulate  General  Grant  in 
in  the  simple  style  of  his  Memoirs.  And 
they  philosophize  too  much.  There  are 
very  many  pages  that  had  better  have 
been  confined  to  actual,  dramatic  occur- 
rences and  battles  of  the  Civil  War. 
Then  the  reader  does  not  understand 
why  the  author  thinks  he  must  belittle 
Lincoln,  the  while  he  does  so  ennoble 
Lee.  This  is  the  chief  weakness  of  the 
volume.  General  Lee  does  not  require 
such  manner  of  adulation. 

This  is  rhymed  work,  and  parts  of  it 
are  partly  rhymed.  Is  there  really  any 
use  for  rhj'me  in  our  scheme  of  expres- 
sion, unless  it  is  accompanied  by 
rhythm  and  musical  lines?  We  believe 
there  is  not  and  that  blank  verse  or 
prose  were  better. 

In  the  opening  lines  of  Act  One,  Lee 
wishes  that  he  might  know  the  will  of 
God  as  to  the  value  of  the  great  under- 
taking. He  says  to  his  wife  who  is  urg- 
ing him  not  to  go  forth,  even  as 


January.  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


21 


Caesar's  wife   urged   him   to   remain   at 
home  on  a  certain  day  of  fate: 

"Yet    what    I    see    is    this — the    South 

withdraws 
For  civil  liberty,  not  slavery!" 

And  again: 

"I  have  no  part  in  human  slavery. 
I  hate  it  for  its  slavery  of  us." 

According  to  the  author,  General  Lee 
hardly  believed  in  victory  for  the  South 
for  he  says  again  to  his  wife: 

"If  war  must  be,  and  we  be  over- 
whelmed, 

A  new  nation  may  come  forth, 

Chastened  and  strengthened,  happier 
then, 

And  happier  than  the  one  the  South 
designs." 

They  are  arguing  in  the  fine,  old  hall 
of  Arlington  which  Mrs.  Lee  reminds 
her  husband  came  to  them  from  her 
kinsman,  the  great  Washington. 

Now  a  character,  styled  The  Repub- 
lic, speaks.  It  appeals  to  the  several 
states,  to  the  Northwest  and  to  the  sea, 
the  mountains  and  the  rivers,  and  to 
Lee  himself,  for  help  and  loyalty  and 
for  vengeance.  They  all  reply  in  fitting 
and  powerful  language.  Lee's  words  are : 

"I  have  resolved  and  feel  my  soul  sus- 
tained 
By  the  God  that  you  invoke  .  .  ." 

And  the  reader  remembers  that  this 
has  ever  been  so  and  ever  will  be.  Each 
side  and  each  leader  prays  to  the  same 
God  for  help  and  calls  upon  him  to 
bless  a  holy  war.  Here  is  one  of  the 
tragedies  and  absurdities,  as  well,  of 
conflict. 

We  stand  on  the  battlefield  of  Get- 
tysburg. There  are  conversations  be- 
tweent  Arimanius  and  Ormund,  and 
voices,  and  talk  between  Southern  gen- 
erals. Longstreet  pleads  with  Lee  to 
delay  or  forego  the  advance;  but  Lee 
is  determined  to  strike  at  dawn.  Long- 
street  says: 

•'It  shall  be  so. 

I  shudder  but  obey." 

The  description  of  the  attempt  to 
take  the  ridge  at  Gettysburg  and  to 
split  the  Federal  center  is  thrilling. 
Pickett,  Hood,  McLaws,  Heth,  Bender, 
Hill  were  ordered  to  attack.  Hungry, 
shoeless  Southern  boys  charged  to  dis- 
aster and  death.  Many  an  old  Federal 
and  Southern  soldier  will  read  this  with 
reminiscent  interest;  but  they  are  gone 


now,  most  of  them,  who  survived  that 
day  of  battle. 

Now  Arimanius  and  Ormund  meet  at 
the  door  of  a  mountaineer  in  the  Alleg- 
hanies.  A  ragged  youth,  carrying  a  copy 
of  Thucydides,  comes  to  the  cabin  as 
a  deserter  from  Lee's  army.  He  begs 
for  food  and  tells  the  mountaineer  how 
he  is  hurrying  home  to  his  starving  wife 
and  children.  He  says: 

.  .  .  "none  can  understand  our  army 
Who  does  not  know  our  army  prayed, 

and  all 
Its  leaders  prayed,  our  Jackson  and  our 

Lee." 

He  goes  on : 

"The  world  is  old,  and  all  its  faiths  are 

old. 
The  North  is  Sparta,  and  Athens  is  the 

South. 

******* 

And  those  who  fell  at  Gettysburg  should 

have 

Lee,  but  not  Lincoln  for  their  interces- 
sor." 

i 
And  again : 

"There  were  thousands  of  us, 

Who  closed  the  calculus,  our  Pindars, 

Homers, 

To  fly  against  your  Sparta  .... 
And  follow  Lee." 

A  horseman  arrives,  shouting : 
"Lee  has  surrendered!" 

The  echoes  answer: 
"Surrendered!  Surrendered!" 

Lee's  soliloquy,  as  he  rides  to  Lexing- 
ton, after  his  surrender,  to  become  a  col- 
lege president,  is  a  fine  piece  of  literary 
work;  but  it  shows  the  author's  over- 
partisanship. 

Masters  tells  us  that  Lee  made  treaty 
of  peace  with  Grant;  but  he  fails  to 
record  that  the  defeated  Southern  Gen- 
eral received  back  his  sword  from  a  mag- 
nanimous victor. 


The  second  half  of  the  little  book  is 
a  tale  of  two  of  Tennyson's  heroines, 
Bellicent  and  the  spirited  Lynette,  who 
scorned  Gareth,  when  in  the  guise  of  a 
kitchen  knave  working  his  way  toward 
knighthood,  he  attempted  to  help  her. 


KEEPERS   OF  THE  SHIELD 

KEEPERS  OF  THE  SHIELD  is 
an  attempt  to  interpret  the  spirit 
of  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King  to 
young  people.  It  is  a  teacher's  expres- 
sion to  her  class  of  her  faith  in  them 
and  in  their  integrity  and  ability  to  live 
out  the  best  that  is  in' them.  Beginning 
with  the  distractions  of  today,  it  em- 
phasizes the  ideals  that  the  world  can 
never  afford  to  leave  behind. 


CORDELIA  CHANTRELL 

THERE  is  something  delightfully 
wholesome  in  Cordelia  Chantrell,  a 
novel  written  by  Meade  Minnigerode 
noted  for  his  vivacious  biographies.  This 
story  is  of  the  Civil  War,  a  beautifully 
natural  love  of  a  woman  for  a  man  and 
what  she  did  to  win  him  and  then  what 
Fate  did  to  shatter  her  life.  It  is  a  story 
of  intense  idealism.  If  Cordelia  Chan- 
trell had  reached  the  closet  with  the 
matches  before  her  death,  her  diary  and 
the  Chantrell  papers  would  have  been 
destroyed  and  the  story  of  this  won- 
derful love,  romance  and  colorful  days 
of  intrigue  during  the  Civil  War  would 
never  have  been  known.  Every  step  in 
the  story  is  art.  There  is  a  fascination 
in  the  way  Minnigerode  handles  the  tell- 
ing of  this  story,  so  intensely  real  does 
he  set  it  before  the  readers,  so  natural 
is  Cordelia,  Steeny,  the  Penmarks,  Sally, 
and  Preston  Brainbridge.  This  is  the  sort 
of  a  book  that  is  a  pleasure  to  read  and 
have  to  one's  credit. 


REVELRY 

REVELRY,  by  Samuel  Hopkins 
Adams  and  published  by  Boni  & 
Liveright  is  a  historical  novel  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  It  is  contemporary 
and  one  can  almost  identify  the  char- 
acters in  this  book  with  certain  well- 
known  men  and  women  of  the  capital  of 
the  present  time.  It  is  a  story  American 
politics  and  one  of  promise. 

REVELRY.     By     Samuel     Hopkins 
Adams.    Boni  and  Liveright,  $2.00. 


EAST  OF  SIAM 
ANOTHER  FRANCK  BOOK 

HARRY  FRANCK  is  still  writing 
of  travel.  In  his  latest  East  of 
Siam  he  gives  us  that  same  clear-cut 
vision  of  a  world  we  know  so  little  of. 
If  we  dare  intimate,  Mr.  Franck  grows 
richer  in  each  story.  What  he  has  to 
offer  of  his  adventure  with  the  brown 
gods  of  the  Eastern  empire  is  indescrib- 
able. It  is  a  diamond,  brightly  polished. 

EAST  OF  SIAM.  Harry  A.  Franck. 

Century.    $2.50. 


THE  PRICE  OF  "SKETCHES 
OF  THE  SIXTIES"  is  $5.00  per 
copy,  not  $2.50  as  quoted  in  our 
review  of  December,  1926. 

JOHN  HOWELL'S  BOOK 

STORE 
405  Post  St.  San  Francisco 


22 


"twenty  and  cakes" — twenty  dollars  a 
week  including  traveling  and  hotel  ex- 
penses— but  the  "artist"  was  lucky  to 
get  half  of  the  twenty  on  the  season, 
and  by  the  way  they  dived  into  the 
banquet,  it  was  evident  neither  had 
saved  much  of  his  half.  Tom  took  in 
the  situation  and  held  up  three  fingers 
to  the  waiter,  which  brought  the  same 
number  of  beers  and  plates  of  "chili 
and ;"  after  which  they  were  ready  for 
"coffin  nails" — cigarettes — and  in  good 
trim  to  tell  how  it  all  happened ;  the 
usual  flow  of  conversation  with  the  "per- 
fesh"  while  sitting  around  the  festive 
board  at  the  conclusion  of  their  seasons. 

Dick  started  the  ball  rolling  by  say- 
ing: "We  played  south  as  far  as  San 
Diego  and  packed  them  in  at  every  burg, 
with  the  result  I  got  a  raise  the  third 
week  out;  how  did  your  bunch  make  it?" 

"Great — never  saw  such  business,"  re- 
plied Jack,  and  to  have  a  shade  the  best 
of  it  continued:  "The  leading  man  got 
so  sore  and  nasty  because  I  was  getting 
the  best  notices,  I  handed  in  my  two 
weeks  (resignation)  but  realizing  he 
would  be  up  against  it  if  I  left,  the 
manager  promised  me  a  bonus  of  fifty 
bucks  to  stay  out  the  season."  The  fact 
is  both  were  lying,  and  each  knew  the 
other  was  doing  so,  for  it  was  the  usual 
line  of  dope  they  had  been  handing  each 
other  for  years,  but  actors  live  in  the 
"ideal  and  make  believe"  so  much  of 
their  time,  they  should  be  excused  for 
slightly  prevaricating  when  relating  their 
professional  experiences.  At  this  moment 
a  professional  looking  individual  of  a 
certain  type  of  the  tank  variety  (small 
town  showman)  that  infested  the  busi- 
ness, took  the  center  of  the  stage.  'Par- 
don me  gents,  but  I  presume  I  am  speak- 
ing to  members  of  the  profession  ?"  "You 
called  the  turn  on  two  us,"  replied  Dick. 
"What's  the  penalty?" 

Drawing  up  a  great  chair  without  an 
invitation,  the  stranger  took  off  his  over- 
coat with  seal  skin  collar  and  cuffs, 
displaying  a  fake  diamond  shirt  stud — 
then  hooking  his  cane  on  the  side  of  the 
table,  and  tilting  high  silk  hat  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  he  ordered  the  drinks, 
and  sat  down. 

"My  name  is  James  Hicks,  proprie- 
tor and  manager  of  the  Hicks  Dramatic 
Company,  and  am  short  two  men,"  after 
blowing  the  foam  and  gulping  down  the 
contents  of  his  glass  of  beer  without  any 
intermission,  the  M.  &  P.  lighted  a 
"three  for  five,"  stogie,  then  continued: 
"We  are  booked  to  open  Monday  night 
at  Bugville  for  the  week,  and  if  you 
gents  are  at  liberty,  would  like  to  talk 
business  with  you." 


The  B.  T.  U. 

(Continued  from  Page  17) 

"Your  game  sounds  good,"  replied 
Dick,  "what's  the  limit?" 

"If  twenty  and  all  appeals  to  you  it's 
a  go  with  me,"  said  Hicks. 

"Well,"  chipped  in  Jack,  "I've  just 
closed  a  very  long  and  profitable  season, 
and  had  intended  running  down  to  Santa 
Cruz  for  a  few  weeks  rest,  but  if  Dick 
is  willing,  I  wouldn't  object  to  a  short 
summer  engagement;  what  do  you  say, 
Dick?"  "A  few  weeks  more  work  won't 
hurt  either  of  us,"  said  Dick,  fully 
aware  if  either  of  them  got  an  outing  at 
Santa  Cruz  or  any  other  beach  resort, 
it  would  be  with  some  troupe,  or  at  the 
invitation  of  some  friend. 

"Write  your  names  and  addresses  on 
this  card  and  have  your  trunks  ready 
by  four  o'clock,"  said  Hicks  as  he  rose 
to  go,  fearing  they  might  be  short  on 
their  room  rent,  and  he  would  be  up 
against  it  for  his  opening;  he  took  out 
his  pocketbook  and  laid  a  five  dollar  bill 
before  each  one  with  the  remark:  "This 
may  help  some  until  we  reach  Bug- 
ville," then  left. 

"Hicks — never  heard  of  him;  who  is 
he,"  asked  Jack. 

"Charter  member  and  first  prize  win- 
ner of  the  B.  T.  U.,"  replied  Dick. 

"And  what's  the  B.  T.  U  ?"  inquired 
Tom,  scenting  a  story  as  he  took  out 
his  pad  and  pencil. 

"The  Bull  Throwers'  Union,"  replied 
Dick.  "Their  creed  is: 

"The  end  justifies  the  means,  and  de- 
ception is  the  means  to  obtain  the  end. 
If  stung  by  your  enemies — sting  your 
friends;  and  always  be  strong  for  the 
Golden  Rule — providing  all  the  gold  is 
in  your  favor.  I  don't  know  what  name 
he  was  christened  with,  but  evidently 
Hicks  is  his  latest.  He  belongs  to  that 
species  of  'fly-by-night-tankers'  despised 
by  all  legitimate  actors  and  managers 
who  are  so  unfortunate  to  follow  him, 
as  the  rotten  reputation  he  leaves  behind 
him  makes  it  difficult  for  those  who 
play  the  game  on  the  square  to  get  any 
special  favors  they  might  need  owing  to 
a  streak  of  bad  luck  they  may  have  en- 
countered. His  long  suit  is  to  herd  a 
flock  of  down  and  out  actors  for  the 
road,  then  dead  beat  and  brow  beat  at 
every  turn.  He  takes  great  delight  in 
calling  ten  o'clock  rehearsals  then  drop 
around  to  the  theatre  about  noon  and 
call  it  off,  just  to  show  his  cheap  author- 
ity, and  see  the  bunch  squirm.  He  be- 
longs to  about  forty-eleven  different  fra- 
ternal societies,  and  does  the  brotherly 
love  stunt  by  framing  a  lodge  benefit  on 
a  fifty-fifty  divvy  of  the  net,  but  by 
clever  expense  padding  and  systematic 


January,  1927 


double-crossing,  the  lodge  that  gets  the 
one-tenth  of  one  per  cent  is  in  luck.  He 
once  boasted  of  his  cleverness  of  buying 
a  ranch  from  the  accumulations  of  un- 
paid salaries — sidestepping  obligations, 
and  breaking  promises ;  he — " 

"Not  for  mine,"  said  Jack,  rising 
quickly;  "me  for  the  hotel  and  hold  the 
trunks." 

"Listen  to  the  finish,"  said  Dick, 
grabbing  him  by  the  coat  tail,  and  pull- 
ing him  back  into  his  seat.  "One  of 
Dick  Sheridan's  characters  says : 

"  Alcohol  has  a  tendency  to  bring  out 
the  dormant  qualities  of  the  man — the 
good  or  the  evil,'  and  so  it  is  with  the 
'ups  and  downs  of  life' ;  as  the  drowning 
man  will  grab  to  a  straw  to  save  him- 
self, so  will  the  molly-coddle  double- 
cross  his  best  friend  for  the  same  pur- 
pose,' but  if  true: 

'We  reap  what  we  sow,  and  every 
farthing  has  to  be  paid,'  Hicks  will  some 
day  wake  up  to  the  fact  that  the  prin- 
ciple of  The  B.  T.  U.  has  got  him  in 
bad." 

Jack  ordered  two  beers  and  a  sarsa- 
parilla,  and  placing  the  latter  before 
Dick  said:  "Dick,  the  amount  of  alcohol 
you  have  been  consuming  has  a  tendency 
of  bringing  out  your  religious  nature 
entirely  too  much;  cut  out  the  sermon- 
izing, and  stick  to  Hicks'  biography." 

Dick  grabbed  one  of  the  beers,  blew 
the  foam  on  Jack,  gulped  it  down,  rolled 
a  coffin  nail,  then  continued  as  though 
nothing  had  happened  to  mar  the  con- 
tinuity of  his  five-reel  story. 

"Hicks  made  his  first  appearance  here 
about  three  years  ago,  and  took  out  a 
tribe,  securing  a  fair  date  for  the  open- 
ing week,  and  packed  them  in  at  every 
performance.  Saturday  night  when  the 
show  was  on  he  jumped  the  town  with 
the  week's  receipts,  leaving  all  bills  un- 
paid, and  the  company  stranded.  He 
went  to  Los  Angeles  and  advertised  for 
a  leading  lady  who  would  take  a  half 
interest  in  the  show;  another  one  of  his 
clever  methods  to  get  the  coin.  Some 
amateur  from  a  small  burg  near  town 
fell  for  his  bait  to  the  tune  of  500  ducats. 
She  chose  East  Lynne  for  her  opening 
bill,  which  proved  to  be  her  closing 
one  the  first  night  in  her  home  town  to 
a  $400  house,  and  while  the  first  act 
was  on  Hicks  pulled  his  "clever  stunt" 
and  made  for  San  Pedro,  where  he  se- 
cured passage  on  a  lumber  freighter 
which  sailed  at  midnight  for  Portland 
and  now,  after  working  the  Northwest 
country,  he  returns  here  evidently  be- 
lieving the  California  hams  are  ripe  for 
another  picking." 

"And  yet  you  are  willing  to  go  with 


January,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


23 


him  and  be  sacrificed  just  for  art's  sake," 
said  Jack  with  a  wink  to  Tom. 

"There  is  method  in  my  madness," 
replied  Dick,  Shakespearingly  speaking. 
"I  had  him  spotted  when  he  first  ap- 
proached us,  and  was  on  the  verge  of 
bawling  him  out  before  the  congrega- 
tion, but  as  soon  as  he  mentioned  Bug- 
ville,  I  had  a  hunch.  Bugville  is  my 
home  town,  and  being  a  member  of  the 
Knights  of  Pythias,  will  attend  the  lodge 
meeting  tomorrow  night,  and  arrange 
a  benefit  which  will,  no  doubt,  tickle 
Hicks,  and  it's  a  cinch  yours  truly  will 
see  he  doesn't  get  his  mitts  on  the  re- 
ceipts until  all  expenses,  including  sala- 
ries are  paid."  Then  taking  hold  of  his 
watch  chain,  but  instantly  remembering 
there  was  nothnig  on  the  end  of  it  ex- 
cept a  bunch  of  keys,  he  consulted  the 
clock  over  the  bar. 

"Come,  Jack,  let's  go  and  pack ;  thank 
you  very  much  for  your  hospitality,  Mr. 
Carson — if  Hicks  hasn't  reformed  dur- 
ing his  late  absence  I  can  promise  you 
some  good  stuff  for  your  Sunday  edi- 
tion." Shaking  Tom's  hand,  the  boys 
passed  out,  as  two  reporters  entered ; 
seeing  Tom,  they  called  for  him  to  join 
them ;  Tom  strolled  over  with  the  re- 
mark: 

"I  am  in  the  mood  for  joining  any- 
thing; even  the  B.  T.  U." 

In  a  few  days  he  received  the  follow- 
ing letter: 

"Bugville,   California, 
"June  10th,  1895. 
''My  dear  Carson: 

"The  Hicks  Dramatic  Co.  opened 
here  Monday  night  and  as  we  were  all 
up  in  'Ten  Nights  and  Camille,'  we  did 
those  bills  the  first  two  nights  in  order 
to  give  us  plenty  of  time  to  rehearse 
'Damon  and  Pythias'  for  the  big  event 
Wednesday  night.  I  wanted  to  hold  the 
benefit  off  until  Saturday,  believing  we 
would  have  a  much  larger  house,  but 
Hicks'  itching  palm  could  not  wait  so 
long  so  had  him  trailed  all  day  Wed- 
nesday, and  learned  he  had  purchased  a 
ticket  and  had  his  trunk  checked  for  a 
big  getaway  on  the  midnight  train  for 
San  Francisco.  We  had  an  $800  house, 
and  after  the  show  I  suggested  we  put 
the  money  in  the  safe  at  the  hotel  and 
in  the  morning  settle  all  bills  for  the 
week,  including  salaries.  I  certainly 
started  something,  for  Hicks  let  out  a 
war-whoop  like  a  Comanche  Indian: 
'Say,  young  feller,  I'll  settle  the  affairs 
of  this  company  all  by  myself;  who  in 
hell  do  you  think  you  are,  anyway?' 

'  'In  this  particular  case  I  am  the  spe- 
cial representative  of  the  Bugville  K.  P. 
lodge,  and  it's  up  to  me  to  look  after 
their  interests  and  I  am  thoroughly  con- 
vinced it  will  be  much  more  convenient 
to  do  so  here  in  Bugville  than  San  Fran- 


cisco,' I  replied ;  then  introducing  him 
to  the  town  marshal  continued :  'Hicks, 
throwing  the  bull  is  a  good  deal  like 
throwing  the  boomerang,  it  sometimes 
swats  the  thrower  on  its  return,  and  as 
your  cleverness  has  seemed  to  depreciate 
since  your  last  appearance  in  these  parts, 
I  would  advise  you  to  carry  out  your 
original  plans  of  taking  the  midnight 
train  to  San  Francisco  or  you  will  sleep 
in  the  town's  private  lodgings,  and  in 


was  forging  his  way  where  most  mana- 
gers and  actors  long  to  be  heard  from; 
but  his  son  had  remained  with  him,  play- 
ing parts  and  learning  the  managerial 
end  of  the  game,  so  Dick  felt  safe  in 
leaving  the  company  in  his  hands,  while 
he  and  Ma  left  for  a  year's  rest.  They 
first  stepped  on  California  soil  in  Los 
Angeles  where  they  soon  recuperated, 
but  doing  nothing  got  tiresome,  and  be- 
lieving in  the  old  motto:  "  'Tis  better 


California's  first  theatre 


the  morning  stand  trial  for  willful  in- 
tent to  defraud.'  He  took  the  tip,  and 
left  without  bidding  the  company  good- 
bye, or  leaving  a  forwarding  address  to 
send  him  his  share  of  the  receipts.  The 
company  has  been  reorganized  as  The 
Dick.  Loomis  Dramatic  Co.,  and  is 
booked  for  Pruneville  for  the  coming 
week.  Elson  joins  me  with  our  best. 
"Sincerely  yours, 

"DiCK  LOOMIS." 

"P.  S. — I  forgot  to  mention  my  lead- 
ing lady  is  an  old  flame  of  mine.  The 
wedding  takes  place  on  the  stage  Sat- 
urday night  after  the  show,  with  the 
audience  invited  to  remain  as  special 
guests  which  insures  another  packed 
house.  Hope  to  be  in  Frisco  soon,  and 
rest  assured  you  will  be  invited  to  dine 
with  the  bride  and  groom  at  the  swellest 
cafe  on  dear  old  Broadway.  You  might 
post  this  letter  in  a  conspicuous  place 
at  The  Club,  in  order  to  assist  Hicks 
in  herding  another  flock  to  be  slaught- 
ered.— DICK. 

It  was  many  years  before  Dick  saw 
his  beloved  Frisco  again  for  the  com- 
pany toured  Southern  California,  then 
on  East,  and  within  five  years  Dick,  was 
one  of  the  best  known,  most  successful 
and  best  liked  repertoire  managers  in  the 
business,  and  at  the  end  of  thirty  years 
felt  he  had  earned  a  good  long  rest.  He 
had  never  ventured  on  Broadway,  being 
contented  with  the  success  of  his  rep 
company  from  year  to  year.  His  daugh- 
ter married  a  rising  young  manager  who 


to  wear  out  than  rust  out,"  Dick  in- 
vestigated the  movies,  and  was  soon  cast 
in  a  picture  which,  much  to  his  delight, 
was  going  to  San  Francisco  for  local 
atmosphere.  They  arrived  at  10  a.  m., 
and  as  there  wasn't  to  be  any  "shooting" 
that  day  he  started  out  to  look  up  old 
friends,  and  visit  old  familiar  places. 
Prohibition  had  closed  The  Club  and 
other  hang -outs  of  that  class.  He  scanned 
the  registers  of  all  the  leading  theatrical 
hotels,  but  not  a  familiar  name  in  sight. 
Variety  theatres  were  a  thing  of  the 
past,  and  only  one  stock  house  in  town, 
but  all  strangers  to  him.  With  a  heavy 
heart  he  boarded  a  sight-seeing  car  for 
Golden  Gate  Park,  the  Cliff  House  and 
the  Presidio.  On  he  return  he  strolled 
over  to  Broadway,  believing  he  would 
surely  run  into  some  of  the  old-timers 
at  dinner.  The  largest  cafe  on  the  street 
with  a  seating  capacity  of  300,  had  ex- 
actly six  people  at  the  tables.  The  next 
largest,  just  across  the  street,  was  doing 
the  same  rushing  business. 

A  few  doors  further  along,  his  old 
favorite  place  of  the  long  ago,  where: 
"The  wine  went  'round,  and  the  songs 
were  sung,"  he  went  in  and  sat  down, 
making  thirteen  in  all  which,  from  a 
theatrical  standpoint,  was  the  limit  of 
endurance.  A  young  guy  was  at  the 
piano  pounding  out  a  concoction  of  the 
jazz  order  for  a  chit  of  a  thing  to 
shimmy;  said  shimmy  being  a  sort  of 
evolution  of  the  old-time  hoochy- 
( Continued  on  Page  25) 


The  Frona  Wait  Colburn  Prizes 

Given  by  San  Francisco  Branch,  League  of  American  Pen  Women 

00.00  #30.00  #20.00 

$100.00  in  all  to  be  awarded  the  three  best  stories  concerning  the  cultural  life  of  Northern 
California  from  1870  to  1890.  Further,  the  fourth  story  will  be  given  honorable  mention. 
Stories  must  treat  of  the  founding  of  the  education,  society,  art,  music  and  periodicals  by 
the  sons  and  daughters  who  came  after  the  GOLD  RUSH  DAYS. 


"GAY  NINETIES" 


THE  above  expression  was  freely  used 
to  designate  an  epoch  in  California 
history  which  was  justly  famed  for  its 
gay  social  life.  The  really  constructive 
period  which  made  these  conditions  pos- 
sible began  shortly  after  California  was 
admitted  to  the  union.  During  the  first 
20  years  of  statehood  the  only  com- 
munication with  the  outside  world  was 
by  ship  via  Panama  or  Cape  Horn  or 
else  by  an  ox  team  across  the  plains. 
Both  processes  were  slow  and  difficult. 
The  communities  thrown  upon  their  own 
resources  developed  a  reliance  on  self 
for  their  recreation  and  amusement.  The 
younger  generation,  coming  naturally  at 
that  time,  decided  that  it  was  their  duty 
to  found  society,  and  they  proceeded  to 
do  it  along  classical  lines. 

Riches  had  suddenly  been  accumulated, 
but  it  was  soon  discovered  that  mines 
would  not  make  a  great  commonwealth. 
There  must  be  diversified  pursuits  and 
general  cultural  activities.  The  found- 
ing of  various  educational  and  social  in- 
stitutions; the  changing  from  mining  to 


agriculture;  the  inception  of  fruit  and 
cattle  raising;  the  making  of  wine;  the 
development  of  lumber  interests  from  a 
logging  camp  to  a  flourishing  mountain 
town  ...  all  these  are  included  in  the 
stirring  times  between  the  coming  of  the 
first  transcontinental  railroads,  to  the  re- 
finement of  the  ornate  and  the  complex 
life  of  the  nineties.  It  is  against  this 
background  that  the  prize  stories  of  this 
contest  must  be  written.  There  is  ample 
material  for  a  type  of  fiction  as  distinc- 
tive as  anything  Bret  Harte  or  Jack 
London  ever  wrote.  When  these  stories 
are  written  they  will  be  more  character- 
istic of  the  spirit  of  the  West  than  the 
writings  of  either  of  the  authors  men- 
tioned ;  clean,  wholesome,  virile  and  full 
of  spirit.  There  was  nothing  degenerate 
about  the  sons  of  the  pioneers.  They 
took  themselves  seriously  and  conscien- 
tiously tried  to  live  up  to  their  oppor- 
tunities and  obligations.  Let  us  try  to  do 
them  justice  in  these,  our  later  chronicles 
of  their  aspirations  and  achievements. 
FRONA  WAIT  COLBURN. 


RULES 

No  limit  on  treatment,  which  may  be  adventure,  mystery,  romance,  psycho-analysis,  in  the 
form  of  comedy  or  tragedy.  Competitors  must  be  Californians  by  birth  or  adoption,  and  the 
story  must  be  of  territory  north  of  the  Tehachapi  Pass.  New  writers  are  especially  solicited. 
Manuscripts  must  be  anonymous,  with  the  name  and  address  of  the  writer  in  a  separate, 
sealed  envelope  bearing  the  title  of  the  story.  Length  of  story  to  be  6,000  words,  but  there 
will  be  allowed  a  leeway  of  1,000  words  short  or  exceeding  6,000.  Competition  closes  Feb- 
ruary 1,  1927. 

All  manuscripts  must  be  sent  to  Story  Contest  Editor,  Overland  Monthly,  356  Pacific 
Building,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 

Competition  (Closes  February  i,  1927 

Further  information  may  be  obtained  from  the  Story  Contest  Editor,  Overland  Monthly, 
356  Pacific  Building,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 


January,  1927 


25 


koochy;  said  evolution  consisting  of 
transferring  the  wiggling  from  the 
middle  to  the  upper  part  of  the  body 
with  the  same  dying  expression  of  the 
eyes.  In  the  good  old  pre-war,  and  pre- 
prohi  days,  the  place  supported  a  five- 
piece  orchestra,  and  packed  them  in 
every  evening  with  a  jolly,  happy  crowd, 
eating,  drinking,  smoking,  laughing  and 
chatting.  The  contrast  made  Dick  so 
sick  at  the  "tummy"  it  took  his  appetite. 
He  hurriedly  left  and  dropped  into  a 
combination  musical,  comedy  picture 
theatre,  but  the  show  was  so  confound- 
edly decent  for  the  location  that  used 
to  support  the  old  Bella-Union,  he 
rushed  out  for  fresh  air  to  regain  his 
waning  strength.  With  the  thought 
that,  "surely  there  must  be  some  of  the 
old  life  on  the  Barbary  Coast."  He 
started  in  that  direction,  but  when  he 
turned  on  Pacific  street  he  almost  col- 
lapsed— there  was  just  one  man  in  sight. 
The  shock  staggered  him  as  in  the  old 
days  it  was  almost  impossible  to  get 
through  the  crowds  at  that  hour.  Gaz- 
ing into  what  used  to  be  the  most  fa- 
mous dance  hall  "on  the  coast,"  he  spied 
one  soft  drink  bartender,  and  only  one, 
whereas  it  formerly  took  a  half  dozen 
to  serve  the  multitude  with  the  real 
stuff,  and  this  fellow  was  smoking  a 
cigar  and  reading  the  evening  paper  with 
his  feet  cocked  up  on  the  bar.  A  couple 
of  chickens  were  waltzing  with  the  same 
number  of  gobs  to  the  music  of  a  piano 
and  snare  drum.  Half  a  dozen  other 
damsels — or  dam  fairsells — were  sitting 
around  smoking  and  chatting,  while 
waiting  for  partners;  probably  discus- 


The  B.  T.  U. 

(Continued  from  Page  23) 

sing  Einstein's  theory  of  relativity.  With 
the  abiding  faith  that  somewhere  in 
Frisco  the  "Spirit  of  Bacchus"  still 
reigned,  he  moseyed  on  and  rubbered 
into  every  deserted  dive  and  dance  hall 
on  both  sides  of  the  street  to  his  bitter 
sorrow.  He  wandered  through  the 
alleys  which  used  to  be  thronged  with 
a  mixed  procession  that  jostled  each 
other  like  vultures  over  carrion  of  the 
desert,  but  now  in  darkness  and  grave- 
yard loneliness.  Reaching  Chinatown  he 
counted  half  a  dozen  Chinese  on  the 
streets,  and  a  sight-seeing  car  with  a 
handful  of  tourists  seeking  an  atmosphere 
that  had  vanished  like  a  fog.  The  high 
life  which  formerly  held  forth  from  Pa- 
cific to  California,  and  from  Stockton 
to  Kearny  streets,  was  completely  wiped 
off  the  map.  The  old  opportunities  of 
wrecking  oneself  mentally,  morally  and 
physically  are  denied  the  rising  genera- 
tion. Absolutely  disgusted  with  the  new 
trend  of  affairs,  and  with  a  vow  to  never 
set  foot  on  the  old  sacred  spot  again  he 
turned  to  go  when  he  heard  someone 


was  late  and  we  must  stake  our  claims 
before  dark.  The  next  morning,  on  our 
way  back,  we  knocked  on  the  door  of  the 
one  and  only  cabin  that  showed  a  sign  of 
life.  Even  before  the  door  was  opened, 
we  knew  that  Nig  was  one  of  the  occu- 
pants, for  we  heard  the  glad  half-whine 
of  this  great  black  hound,  and  as  we 
stepped  inside  he  was  the  first  to  wel- 
come us.  Nig  always  did  like  company. 
Ely  was  here,  and  one  of  Jack's  partners. 
For  a  month  they  had  been  prospecting 
the  shallow  ground,  but  with  indifferent 
luck.  Of  course  they  had  had  the  usual 
show  of  color,  but  nothing  more,  and 
had  intended  to  leave  on  the  following 
morning  for  the  camp  at  Stewart  River. 
My  partner  and  I,  on  the  contrary,  were 
bound  for  Dawson,  to  record  our  newly 
staked  claims. 

The  four  of  us  were  old  friends  and 


"Cull,  can't  you  give  a  lift  to  and  old- 
timer  who  is  down  and  out?"  His  first 
inclination  was  to  pass  on  without  heed- 
ing the  request,  as  he  had  liberally  re- 
sponded to  several  appeals  of  a  like 
nature  during  the  evening,  but  there 
was  something  so  familiar  in  the  sound 
of  the  voice  he  stopped  to  investigate. 
Of  all  the  remnants  of  a  wrecked  life 
this  fellow  was  the  limit.  He  had  reached 
the  stage  of  degeneracy  where  alcohol 
had  lost  its  power,  and  nothing  but  a 

Nig-Thc  Outside  Dog 

(Continued  from  Page  10) 

we  sat  chatting  for  the  best  part  of  an 
hour.  Their  work  was  done,  and  we  had 
plenty  of  time  as  it  was  but  fourteen 
or  fifteen  miles  to  "Sixty  Mile"  Post, 
where  we  had  left  our  sled  and  outfit. 
Before  leaving,  I  asked  of  Ely,  "How  is 
Nig  behaving?"  Nig,  whose  black  head 
had  been  resting  on  my  knee,  turned  to- 
ward Ely  as  if  better  to  hear  his  an- 
swer. "Has  he  played  any  more  tricks," 
I  added,  "since  that  day  he  left  you  in 
the  lurch  on  the  new  wood  trail."  "No," 
answered  Ely,  "that  was  his  first  and 
only  offense,  but  he  still  hates  the  old 
sled  and  the  sight  of  a  harness  makes 
his  flesh  creep.  Watch  him  while  I  tell 
him  of  tomorrow,  of  the  crazy,  soft  go- 
ing we  shall  have,  and  a  load  that  would 
give  him  good  ground  for  complaint, 
could  he  speak." 


shot  from  the  needle  could  revive  the 
small  spark  of  mentality  that  still  re- 
mained in  his  thick  skull.  They  gazed 
into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  second,  then 
the  fellow's  head  dropped  as  he  grasped 
the  coin  which  was  put  in  his  hand,  and 
without  any  display  of  gratitude,  quickly 
descended  into  the  basement  of  a  Chi- 
nese opium  joint.  Hicks  was  reaping  the 
just  reward  of  a  true  follower  and  past- 
master  of  the  principles  of  the  B.  T.  U. 
He  was  a  living,  breathing  illustration 
that  the  creed  of  the  B.  T.  U.:  "Can 
not  grow  figs  on  thistles" ;  neither  can  it 
make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear.  It 
was  organized  in  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
and  has  raised  more  hell  on  earth  than 
Lucifer  and  his  gang,  causing  the  down- 
fall of  Rome— fomenting  the  American, 
French  and  Russian  revolutions — insti- 
gating the  world  war  and  its  next  Grand 
Master  Stroke  will  be— WHAT?  Satan 
only  knows,  for  he  is  its  sponsor. 

With  a— "well!  I'll  be  damned—" 
Dick  hit  the  trail  for  Market  street, 
but  got  in  bad  with  a  copper  by  asking : 
"Why  the  funeral  procession  this  time 
of  night?" 

The  stillness  of  everything  was  so 
nauseating  he  hiked  to  his  hotel,  and 
asked  for  the  key  to  his  room  in  order 
to  drown  his  sorrow  in  slumber.  One 
of  his  fellow  members  of  the  company 
who  was  sitting  in  the  lobby  said  to  him : 
"Pretty  early  to  be  retiring,  isn't  it  Dick, 
what's  that  matter — find  Frisco  too  gay 
for  you?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  "I  am  retiring  be- 
cause I  find  Frisco  TOO  DAMN 
DISGUSTINGLY  SOBER." 


"Poor  Nig,"  he  went  on,  speaking 
earnestly  to  the  dog,  "tomorrow,  I  am 
afraid,  will  go  down  in  your  diary  as  a 
black,  atrocious  day;  tomorrow,  in  your 
dog's  heart,  you  will  curse  this  frost- 
bitten land  and  the  gold  that  lured  us 
here.  Yes,  Nig,  and  I  shall  help  you 
swear,  this  at  least  I  can  promise  you. 
Remember  the  time  we  had  getting  here? 
How  we  slaved,  how  we  fouled  every 
root  and  wind-fall  on  the  creek.  Poor 
boy,  I  was  sorry  for  you  that  day,  but 
it  had  to  be  done.  Tomorrow,  Nig,  we 
repeat  this  performance." 

Nig  looked  here  and  there  about  him 
as  his  master  spoke.  He  did  not  like  these 
mournful  tones;  no  good  ever  came  from 
such  sad-sounding,  pitiable  words.  It  was 
a  bad  omen  already,  he  knew  a  flood  of 
wretchedness  was  lying  in  wait  for  him 
(Continued  on  Page  31) 


26 


January,   1927 


Ideal  for 
January  Investors 


May  we  submit  our  January  offerings  of 
first  mortgage  bonds  underwritten  by 
S.  W.  Straus  &  Co.? 

You  may  choose  from  a  list  that  includes 
bonds  secured  by  income  earning  build- 
ings of  every  character  in  major  cities 
throughout  the  country. 

Maturities  and  interest  payment  dates 
may  be  chosen  to  meet  your  individual 
requirements. 

Complete  information  on  our  unusual  list 
of  January  offerings  will  be  sent  promptly 
upon  your  request. 

Ask  for  Booklet  ,4-1730 


S.  W.  STRAUS  &  CO. 


ESTABLISHED  1882 


Incorporated 


INVESTMENT  BONDS 


STRAUS  BUILDING 

79  Post  St.,  San  Francisco 

523  So.  Spring  St.,  Los  Angeles 

STRAUS  BUILDING 
565  Fifth  Ave.  at  46th  St.,  New  York 

STRAUS  BUILDING 
Michigan  Ave.  at  Jackson  Blvd.,  Chicago 

45  YEARS  WITHOUT  LOSS  TO  ANY  INVESTOR 


CALIFORNIAN  HOTEL 


modem,  nodel  Hole!  devoted 
to  sinceie  hospitality  and 
dedicated  to  Cahfoima's  Guesti 


CALirORNIAN  HOTELlNC. 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

C/£?HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


Palms  and  a  patch 
of  green 

HOW  unlike  the  ordinary  hotel  vista  is  the  charm- 
ing sweep  of  Union  Square  glimpsed  from  the 
windows  of  the  Hotel  Plaza. 

Light,  airy  rooms  with  windows  framing  green 
grass  and  swaying  palms  make  the  Plaza  distinctly 
a  hotel  for  discriminating  people. 

The  central  location  of  the  Plaza  assures  you  the 
utmost  convenience  to  theaters,  shops  and  business. 
No  traffic  problems  to  worry  about.  Won't  you  come 
and  see  for  yourself? 

Rates  from  $2.00 

MOTEL  PLAZA 


Post  Street  at  Stockton 


W.  Freeman  Burbank,  Manager 


San  Francisco 


January,  1927 


27 


A  Horoscope  of  George  Sterling 


IT  WAS  written  in  the  heavens  at  the 
time  of  the  November  lunation,  and 
he  who  could  read  the  stellar  script  read 
— that  ere  the  moon  waxed  full  a  great 
soul  would  pass  out.  A  soul — far  famed 
— a  poet,  and  he  should  go  in  mystery, 
either  through  liquid  or  poison  and  in 
secret. 

Neptune,  the  planet  that  rules  poets 
and  poetry,  liquids,  poisons  and  secret 
things  was  high  in  the  mid-heaven  in 
the  tenth  house,  the  house  of  fame,  in 
the  sign  of  the  Sun,  Leo,  which  rules 
the  heart,  making  a  square  to  Saturn, 
the  planet  of  death,  from  the  sign  of 
death,  Scorpio,  from  the  first  house. 

Into  this  first  house,  came  the  Novem- 
ber lunation,  in  opposition  to  the  planet 
Mars,  whose  nature  can  be  summed  up 
in  one  word — force,  and  square  to  Jupi- 
ter in  the  fourth  house,  which  house  rep- 
resents the  end  of  things. 

And,  before  the  Moon  was  full, 
George  Sterling,  poet,  beloved  of  all 
who  knew  him  or  his  work,  passed  to 
his  Maker. 

The  following  quotation  from  Shakes- 
peare seems  to  echo  the  condition  of  the 
year  1926- 

"When  the  planets 

In  evil  mixture,  to  disorder  wander. 

What  plagues!  and  what  portents!  what 


mutiny 


What  raging  of  the  seas!  shaking  of  the 

earth ! 
Commotion  of  the  winds!" 

which  has  been  classed  by  astrologers  as 
one  of  the  worst  in  history — the  cross 
of  1926 — it  is  called  as  Jupiter  has  been 
in  opposition  to  Neptune,  Saturn  in  op- 


By  MATTIE  Lois  FEST 

position  to  Mars  and  each  square  to  each 
other  during  this  year- 
George  Sterling  was  born  in  Long 
Island,  New  York,  December  1,  1869, 
the  time  of  day  not  being  known,  only 
the  reading  of  the  planets  in  signs  can 
be  given. 

When  fate  shuffled  the  cards  for 
George  Sterling,  she  was  not  over  kind 
in  many  ways,  but  she  did  hand  him  the 
card  of  genius,  the  power  to  dream  un- 
heard of  dreams,  dreams  of  the  soul  and 
the  ability  to  give  these  inner  visions 
voice. 

He  was  born  in  the  double  bodied  sign 
of  Sagittarius,  a  mutable,  fiery  sign,  the 
ninth  of  the  Zodiac.  It  gives  a  just  and 
honorable  disposition,  great  activity  of 
mind  and  body  with  a  strange  prophetic 
power,  and  no  doubt  George  Sterling 
had  the  power  to  often  make  true  predic- 
tions quite  unexpectedly.  He  loved  every- 
thing that  was  open  and  free,  was  kind- 
hearted  and  very  sympathetic,  but  at 
times  perhaps  too  impulsive.  He  had  a 
love  of  liberty  and  freedom,  dislike  for  a 
master,  and  would  not  be  driven. 

The  ruling  planet  of  this  sign  is  be- 
nign Jupiter,  the  greater  fortune. 

The  Moon  in  the  sign  Scorpio  is  not 
happily  placed  as  it  signifies  attachments 
or  attractions  and  difficulties  with  the 
opposite  sex  and  inharmony  in  the  mar- 
riage state.  This  was  proven  by  his  mar- 
riage to  Miss  Carrie  Rand  in  1900,  when 
the  Moon  in  his  chart  came  to  a  conjunc- 
tion with  the  planet  Mars  and  Marsly 
progression  had  come  to  a  conjunction 
with  Venus.  In  1915  he  was  divorced 
and  at  that  time  the  Moon  had  come  to 
a  conjunction  with  the  planet  Uranus  in 
opposition  to  Venus. 


Uranus  in  this  chart  is  in  opposition 
to  Venus  and  this  would  bring  unex- 
pected tragedy  in  connection  with  his 
love  affairs.  It  would  cause  him  to  be 
fascinated  or  in  some  way  affected  by  the 
magnetism  of  those  of  the  opposite  sex 
who  would  be  attracted  to  him.  Sudden 
and  unexpected  disappointments  would 
threaten  him,  and  there  would  be  sud- 
den financial  losses.  This  aspect  would 
cause  separation,  divorce  and  many 
estrangements  from  friends  and  loved 
ones. 

Four  of  his  planets  were  in  fire  signs, 
giving  him  an  abundance  of  energy  and 
four  planets  in  cardinal  signs,  and  to 
the  latter  signs  is  due  his  creative  genius 
and  from  the  position  of  the  Sun  in  trine 
aspect  to  Neptune.  This  favors  the  pos- 
sibility of  developing  his  spiritual  fac- 
ulties, for  this  intensified  the  spiritual 
vibrations  in  his  aura,  and  enabled  him 
to  hear  the  harmony  of  the  spheres 
and  Mercury  in  conjunction  with  the 
Sun  gave  him  the  power  to  express  it  in 
magnificent  verse. 

When  fate  handed  the  sweet  cup  of 
genius  to  George  Sterling,  she  also  ap- 
plied the  whip  lash  of  Saturn,  Saturn 
the  ponderous  planet  with  his  eleven 
Moons,  for  she  bound  his  Sun  to  this 
planet  of  oppression,  to  Saturn  the  reaper, 
and  he  it  was  who  said — time — and  life's 
cord  was  cut. 

Although  Saturn  is  binding,  he  has  his 
good  qualities  too,  its  position  in  Sagit- 
tarius gave  him  a  philosophical,  honest 
and  fearless  plain  spoken  personality.  A 
dual  life  of  popularity  and  seclusion. 
It  gave  him  many  friends,  public  friends 
and  supporters.  It  gave  him  ability  to 

(Continued  on  Page  30) 


Elwood  M.  Paynes 


Famous 


PARALTA    STUDIOS 

Finest  Studios  in  the  country  devoted 
exclusively  to  the  making  ot 

DISTINCTIVE    PORTRAITS 


San  Francisco 
466  Geary  St. 


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in  "Movieland" 


Los  Angeles 
551  So.  Broadway 


28 


January,  1927 


A 

California 
Parade 


Youngest  among  literary  quarter- 
lies, THE  AMERICAN  PARADE  is  na- 
tional in  its  scope.  In  its  fourth  issue 
(dated  October)  California  is  notably 
to  the  fore.  Read,  among  other  fea- 
tures : 


AMBROSE  BIERCE  AS  HE 
REALLY  WAS,  an  intimate  ac- 
count of  the  great  critic's  life  and 
death,  by  Adolphe  de  Castro. 

The  MAN  OF  GOD,  a  pungent 
portrait  of  a  modern  Protestant 
uplifter,  by  David  Warren  Ryder 
of  San  Francisco. 


THE  DWELLER  IN  DARK- 
NESS, a  sonnet  by  George  Sterl- 
ing, one  of  the  greatest  of  Amer- 
ican poets. 


The  whole  glittering  pageantry  of 
American  life. 

The  circus  going  by  the  door. 


The 

American 
Parade 

Edited  by  W.  Adolphe  Roberts 

$1.00  a  Copy  $4.00  a  Year 

Address  166  Remsen  Street 

Brooklyn,  New  York 

On  Sale  in  San  Francisco  at  the 
Emporium  and  Paul  Elder's 


"The  Heaven  Tappers"  in  Review 


By  ALINE  KISTLER 


REVERSING  the  customary  East  to 
West  movement  of  plays,  Edwin 
Carewe  proposes  to  take  The  Heaven 
Tappers,"  now  playing  at  the  Columbia 
Theatre,  from  the  West  to  the  East. 
And  he  will  probably  succeed.  For  San 
Francisco  has  received  "The  Heaven 
Tappers"  enthusiastically  and  the  play 
is  already  scheduled  for  Los  Angeles  and 
points  east.  So,  probably,  this  play  of 
George  Scarborough  and  Annette  West- 
bay's  will  soon  see  Broadway. 

The  play  is  not  a  strong  one,  intellec- 
tually. But  it  has  a  great  pull  on  the 
emotions,  if  we  may  be  so  kind  in  desig- 
nating the  primal  superstitions  aroused. 
The  same  quality  that  "gets"  the  crooks 
in  the  play  itself  also  "gets"  the  audience. 
It  is  that  unavoidable  question — "is  there 
a  God  and,  if  so,  how  far  may  the  scof- 


fer dare  to  blaspheme." 

The  "Parson,"  the  arch  crook  who 
calls  religion  "the  world's  greatest  graft" 
and  decides  to  grab  some  of  the  loot  for 
himself,  calls  the  mountaineers  "fools" 
for  their  religious  superstitions  but  in 
the  end  he  finds  his  followers  and  even 
himself  the  same  sort  of  "fools." 

If  "The  Heaven  Tappers"  solved  the 
question  it  raises  it  would  no  doubt  re- 
main in  the  West  where  it  started  and 
merely  play  its  role  of  transient  amuse- 
ment as  hundreds  of  plays  have  before. 
But  it  arouses  a  questioning  that  cannot 
be  answered  finally  so  it  will  undoubt- 
edly go  on  across  the  continent,  gather- 
ing in  its  wake  discussions,  conjectures, 
half  fears  and  even  condemnations  but, 
nevertheless,  gaining  a  momentum  that 
will  demand  the  attention  of  Broadway. 


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29 


The  Value  of  Noise 

HARRY  DANIEL  in  the  Thrift  Magazine 


A  GREAT  many  persons  with  thin, 
sensitive  nerves  are  complaining 
about  the  ever  increasing  volume  of  noise 
we  hear  all  about  us.  It  is  a  fact,  which 
can  not  very  well  be  denied,  that  in  no 
field  of  human  endeavor  has  there  been 
as  much  progress  made  in  the  last  few 
years  as  in  the  realm  of  noise. 

The  building  industry  alone  turns  out 
more  than  $6,000,000,000  worth  of 
nojse  each  year,  and  the  automobile  in- 
dustry is  adding  some  $14,000,000,000 
worth  of  noise  to  our  national  supply, 
including  what  is  necessary  for  upkeep. 
There  are  now  more  than  20,000,000 
automobile  horns  in  the  United  States 


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free  from  adenoids  and  tonsilitis,  which 
means  one  horn  for  every  six  listeners. 

If  we  could  carry  these  statistics  still 
further  it  would  no  doubt  be  found  that 
there  are  today  more  street  cars  with 
flat  wheels,  more  bus  boys  who  have 
learned  how  to  drop  trays  full  of  dishes, 
more  steam  whistles,  more  cafeterias, 
more  football  games,  more  fire  depart- 
ments answering  false  alarms,  and  more 
small  boys,  than  ever  before  in  our  coun- 
try's history.  And,  turning  to  the  realms 
of  art,  we  find  the  saxophone,  the  hurdy- 
gurdy,  the  tenor  drum  and  the  radio 
humorist. 

But  kind  nature  has  always  adjusted 
us  to  environment,  and  the  belief  is 
rapidly  taking  form  in  scientific  circles 
that  the  American  baby  of  the  not  distant 
future  will,  happily  be  born  wearing 
ear-muffs. 

And  still,  in  spite  of  the  screaming 
riveter,  the  barking  taxi  and  the  mid- 
night back-fire  which  always  makes  us 
wonder  who  got  shot  that  time,  is  it  not 
true  that  noise  is  a  necessary  element 
of  current  progress?  Holding  both  hands 
tightly  over  both  ears  we  answer,  "Yes." 
Show  us  a  noisy  town  and  we'll  show 
you  a  town  of  rising  real  estate  values, 
show  us  a  noisy  street  and  we'll  show 
you  a  long  line  of  busy  tradesmen,  show 
us  a  man  who  stands  right  up  on  both 
feet  and  talks  right  out  what  he  thinks 
and  laughs  right  out  what  he  feels,  and 
99.7  times  out  of  100  we'll  show  you  a 
real  rip-snorter  who  is  always  hitting  on 
every  cylinder. 


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OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


January,  1927 


Sterling's  Horoscope 

(Continued  from  Page  27) 

create  his  own  dignity  and  prophetic 
insight  with  regard  to  future  welfare. 
It  gave  him  death  amid  good  surround- 
ings- 

The  conjunction  of  the  Sun  and  Sat- 
urn caused  him  at  times  to  incur  oppo- 
sition, enmity  and  jealousy ;  his  ambitions 
were  frequently  thwarted ;  but,  all  who 
have  mounted  the  ladder  of  fame  have 
found  it  a  ladder  of  swords. 

The  position  of  Mars  in  Capricorn 
gave  him  honor  and  fame  in  his  profes- 
sion and  as  the  only  major  aspect  Mars 
makes  is  to  Mercury  this  fame  is  indi- 


cated to  come  from  writing  and  literary 
pursuits. 

Venus  in  Capricorn  tended  to  uplift 
him  and  place  him  in  positions  of  trust. 
It  gave  him  social  and  business  popular- 
ity friends  of  high  standing  and  gain 
and  advancement  through  them,  but  this 
position  also  was  a  cause  of  disappoint- 
ment in  love,  domestic  unhappiness,  cold- 
ness or  indifference  on  the  part  of  his 
wife. 

The  planet  Jupiter  was  in  Taurus, 
giving  a  love  of  justice,  a  nature  that  is 
affectionate  and  generous,  peaceful  re- 
served and  firm.  There  would  be  two 
conflicting  desires  in  his  heart,  at  times 
he  would  wish  for  long  journeys,  travels 
in  foreign  lands  to  broaden  his  vision. 


DUi 


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then  again  Jupiter  in  Taurus  would  give 
him  love  of  home,  and  no  desire  for  any 
change- 

The  Moon  was  in  trine  aspect  to 
Uranus  and  this  gave  him  great  origin- 
ality and  independence  of  the  mind, 
which  was  quick,  intuitive  and  very  vivid 
in  its  imagination.  This  aspect  tended 
to  awaken  the  imaging  faculties,  and 
lead  his  mind  into  original  lines. 

The  mystic  planet  Uranus  was  in 
Cancer  and  this  indicated  that  he  was 
sensitive  and  attuned  to  the  psychic  vibra- 
tions and  capable  of  cultivating  these 
powers.  This  was  another  indication  of 
the  cause  of  separation  from  his  wife,  as 
Uranus  in  Cancer  when  afflicted  by  Ve- 
nus, would  cause  a  chaotic  condition  in 
his  home-  This  also  would  give  him  a 
tendency  to  nervous  indigestion,  as  Can- 
cer rules  the  stomach,  and  at  times  if 
gas  had  oppressed  him  it  would  crowd  his 
heart,  giving  rise  to  the  thought  that  he 
might  have  been  suffering  from  heart 
disease. 

Of  the  planet  Neptune  very  little  is 
known  at  present,  but  George  Sterling 
was  one  of  the  few  who  was  able  to  re- 
spond to  its  vibrations. 

Neptune  in  Aries  filled  him  with  re- 
ligious enthusiasm,  though  perhaps  not  of 
the  orthodox  kind,  but  gave  him  an  en- 
ergy and  ambition  to  push  forward  to  the 
front  rank  in  the  line  of  thought  that  he 
espoused,  and  it  brought  him  forward  as 
a  public  character,  beloved  by  all  who 
were  fortunate  enough  to  have  him  call 
them — friend. 

Not  knowing  the  hour  when  Mr.  Ster- 
ling was  born  all  the  foregoing  deduc- 
tions were  derived  from  the  planets  in 
the  signs  and  their  aspects.  As  the  houses 
in  which  the  planets  are  placed  form  such 
an  important  feature  of  a  horoscope,  also 
the  signs  on  the  cusps  of  the  houses  af- 
fect the  chart  so  materially,  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  indicate  what  caused  the 
death,  after  the  person  has  passed  beyond. 

There  is  just  one  adverse  aspect  and 
that  is,  the  Moon  by  progression  has 
formed  a  conjunction  with  Saturn,  and 
this  would  for  the  time  being  retard  his 
progress,  limit  his  actions,  and  bring  him 
sorrowful  anl  depressing  experiences-  It 
would  make  him  sensitive  and  rather  in- 
clined to  brood  and  despond,  looking 
upon  the  dark  side  of  things.  It  is  not  a 
good  position  for  health,  and  it  always 
marks  a  critical  stage  in  one's  life.  1 1 
is  the  beginning  of  changes  that  are  to 
come,  and  in  this  life  the  changes  came, 
not  to  be  worked  out  on  this  sphere  but 
on  a  higher  plane. 

The  stars  have  spoken  and  the  angel 
of  mercy  has  taken  the  soul  of  George 
Sterling  into  its  keeping. 


January,  1927 

Nig— Outside  Dog 

(Continued  from  Page  25) 

somewhere,  somehow,  and  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  the  picture  of  a  thoroughly  discour- 
aged dog,  and  walked  over  to  the  side  of 
the  stove  where  he  lay  down  with  his 
head  resting  on  his  two  forepaws  and  his 
eyes  roving  speculatively  from  face  to 
face.  Finally,  as  he  saw  no  encourage- 
ment on  the  features  before  him,  he 
closed  his  eyelids  as  if  in  sleep.  When 
again  he  opened  them,  a  few  minutes 
later,  I  thought  I  saw  a  new  light  in 
them;  a  sort  of  greenish  glint  that  had 
something  of  cunning,  something  of  the 
Old  Nick  in  it.  Somehow,  it  startled  me, 
as  it  did  Ely;  for  he,  too,  saw  it. 

"What  now,"  he  asked.  "Are  you 
planning  mischief?"  "If  we  were  not 
so  far  from  home,  I  would  say  you  were 
bent  on  deserting.  Well,  it  won't  hurt 

I  to  keep  an  eye  on  you;  you  have  plenty 
of  savey  in  that  good-looking  noodle  of 
yours,  old  boy.  Many  men  I  could  name 
would  do  well  in  the  world  had  they 

|  but  half  of  your  understanding.  Too 
bad,  Nig,  that  speech  has  been  denied 

i  such  as  you." 

But  Nig  never  moved  a  muscle.  His 
eyes,  only,  showed  a  gleam  of  intelli- 

j  gence    as    they   closed    with    a    nervous 

;  flutter  of  the  lids;  and  the  short  tail, 
now  and  again,  beat  a  slow,  measured 
tattoo  on  the  bare,  dirt  floor  behind  him. 
About  ten  o'clock  we  again  shouldered 
our  packs,  and  bidding  our  friends  Good- 
bye we  made  a  second  start,  arriving 
shortly  before  dark  at  "Sixty  Mile" 


Villa 


In   the   morning,   as   we   opened   our 
i  cabin    door — it    was    still    lacking    two 
j  hours   of   daylight — a    big,    black    form 
shot  through  the  opening.    Nig  had  de- 
serted once  more. 

This  was  the  last  time  I  saw  Nig. 
We  left  him  in  care  of  the  Post-Factor 
and  went  on  our  way.  That  he  was 
forgiven,  we  had  no  doubt,  but  he  did 
transgress  again,  for  we  heard  later  of 
|  a  successful  endeavor  when  he  deserted 
i  his  master  at  Indian  River,  and  returned 
in  the  night  to  Stewart  River,  rather 
than  pull  an  over-loaded  sled  through 
new  snow-fall.  This  Nig  did  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  and  Ely  took  the  back-trail 
for  thirty-five  miles  before  he  found  him. 
Even  then,  I  know,  he  was  forgiven ;  for 
no  man  born  of  woman  could  harbor 
1  ill-will  for  long  in  the  face  of  those 
gentle,  ever-smiling  eyes. 

Yes,  Jack  London  said  it — "Laughing 
eyes  and  a  boundless  good  nature !"  This 
was  Nig's  birthright.  Love,  too,  was  his, 
and  sympathy;  and  also,  there  was  in 
his  make-up  a  touch  of  the  Devil  that 
made  him  well-nigh  human. 


By  TYLER 

(Continued  from 

SECURE  in  his  power,  Villa  now 
decided  to  take  a  trip  to  the  north. 
After  a  short  stay  in  Chihuahua  he 
went  to  El  Paso,  ivhere  he  met  General 
Scott.  The  American  general  received 
him  kindly  and  assured  the  rough  war- 
rior of  the  friendship  of  the  United 
States,  always  providing  he  should  sta- 
bilize his  power  and  protect  foreign  in- 
terests in  Mexico.  All  of  which  Villa 
readily  promised  should  be  done.  No 
doubt  lingered  in  his  mind  as  to  his  com- 
plete sway  in  Mexico. 

Then  up  from  the  south  cames  news 
that  staggered  him.  "President"  Gutier- 
rez and  his  "cabinet"  had  fled,  carrying 
with  them  all  available  funds  and  the 
majority  of  the  troops  in  the  capital. 
The  Carrancistas  in  the  gulf  states  were 
showing  renewed  activity.  General  An- 
geles," his  trusted  lieutenant,  was  show- 
ing a  lack  of  zeal  that  might  betoken 
treason. 

Over  the  border  and  southward  went 
the  indomitable  Villa  with  twenty  men 
at  his  back.  It  was  the  return  from 
Elba  once  more.  At  Queretaro  they 
stopped.  There  was  a  body  of  troops 
quartered  there.  To  which  faction  they 
pertained  now  the  miniature  Napoleon 
neither  knew  nor  cared.  He  presented 
himself  at  the  quarters  of  these  troops 
with  his  twenty  followers.  There  was 
no  second  Ney  there  in  command  to  wel- 
come him.  In  fact,  their  commanding 
officer  was  not  there  at  all. 

"Fall  into  line,  fully  armed  and 
equipped,  and  prepare  to  follow  me!" 
the  doughty  Pancho  ordered  the  aston- 
ished troops.  The  men  knew  Villa  and 
hesitated  not  to  obey  his  command. 

From  place  to  place  moved  Villa, 
gathering  reinforcements  everywhere.  He 
called  for  a  concentration  at  Aguas  Cali- 
entes  of  all  those  faithful  to  his  inter- 
ests. He  proclaimed  himself  "Chief  of 
the  Revolution"  and  established  a  gov- 
ernment in  Chihuahua  City.  In  a  few 
weeks'  time,  with  a  formidable  army 
once  more  at  his  beck,  Villa's  star  was 
again  in  the  ascendant. 

For  some  time  the  Villistas  continued 
triumphant.  Many  important  places  fell 
into  their  power,  including  the  beautiful 
city  of  Guadalajara.  This  city  received 
the  Villistas  with  open  arms.  They  had 
suffered  much  at  the  hands  of  the  Car- 
rancistas. But  they  soon  found  that  the 
new  masters  were  no  better  than  the  old. 
"Pillage  and  Rapine"  might  well  have 
been  the  motto  of  all  the  revolutionary 
factions. 

Villa,  utterly  untutored  in  military 
science,  gambled  too  much  with  chance. 


ADAMS 
Last  Month) 

Obstinate,  self-willed,  he  would  take  no 
heed  of  the  counsels  of  those  better  in- 
structed. The  cruel  excesses  he  and  his 
men  were  guilty  of  began  to  count 
against  them.  The  Carrancistas  began  to 
gain  ground  in  the  north,  under  the  lead- 
ership of  Obregon. 

With  utter  lack  of  foresight,  Villa 
sent  exhausted  men,  scantily  supplied 
with  ammunition,  against  Obregon  at 
Celaya.  Obregon  defeated  the  Villistas 


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here  twice.   Villa's  star  began  to  decline 
from  this  time. 

Napoleon's  campaign  in  France  in 
1814,  hemmed  in  by  the  allies,  was  a 
marvel  of  daring  and  generalship.  Villa, 
in  a  minor  way,  carried  on  such  a  cam- 
paign in  Mexico  for  two  months.  Dart- 
ing hither  and  thither  with  lightning  ra- 
pidity he  obtained  many  successes  over 
his  ever-increasing  enemies.  His  energy 
and  rapidity  of  movement  was  a  revela- 
tion to  the  slow-going  Mexicans.  But 
again,  like  Napoleon  in  France,  Villa's 
lieutenants  and  men  began  deserting  him. 
The  strenuous  pace,  the  losing  fight,  did 
not  appeal  to  their  fickle  souls.  Besides 
arms,  ammunition,  booty,  were  growing 
scarce.  On  the  other  hand,  Carranza 
was  gaining  strength  daily.  He  had  al- 
ready set  up  his  government  in  the  City 
of  Mexico  and  the  indications  were  that 
the  United  States  would  soon  recognize 
it. 

Some  of  the  Villistas  went  over  to 
Carranza;  some,  who  had  accumulated 
ample  funds,  emigrated.  Hipolito,  Villa's 
brother,  sent  word  to  him  from  El  Paso 
that  he  could  get  no  more  arms  and  am- 
munition across  the  border  for  the  Vil- 
listas. This  was  a  hard  blow. 

Making  a  spectacular  forced  march 
with  his  dwindling  forces  over  rugged 
mountain  ranges  and  across  arid  plains, 
Villa  swooped  down  on  Chihuahua  City. 
Here  he  set  up  his  "government." 

With  only  his  "old  guard" — the  fa- 
mous "Dorados" — remaining  faithful  to 
him,  with  resources  practically  exhaust- 
ed, Villa  was  facing  a  desperate  situa- 
tion. In  these  straits  he  bethought  him 
of  some  of  his  old  comrades  that  had 
grown  rich  in  his  service  and  had  "re- 
tired." Why  should  he  not  appeal  to 
them  now  for  financial  aid  in  this  hour 
of  his  dire  need?  There  was  Tomas  Ur- 
bina,  one  of  his  most  ancient  friends  and 
lieutenants,  who  had  grown  immensely 
rich  serving  under  him.  Villa  had  enter- 
tained a  real  affection  for  Urbina,  who 
was  now  leading  a  life  of  ease  and  lux- 
ury on  an  immense  ranch  near  San  Luis 
Potosi.  Villa  sent  one  of  his  Dorados 
to  Urbina  requesting  financial  aid. 

The  messenger  returned  to  Chihua- 
hua with  this  reply  from  Urbina:  "Tell 
Pancho  to  go  to  the  devil  and  not  to 
bother  me  any  more." 

The  rude  answer,  the  ingratitude  of 
his  old  friend,  aroused  all  the  ferocity 
in  Villa. 

The  enemy  may  soon  drive  me  out  of 
Chihuahua  and  back  to  my  old  life,"  he 
told  his  men,  "but  first  I  shall  teach  this 
traitor  a  lesson." 

With  a  hundred  of  his  men  Villa  went 
by  train  to  San  Luis  Potosi,  the  station 
nearest  to  Urbina's  ranch.  In  box  cars 
at  the  rear  of  the  train  came  their 
horses.  The  men  carried  several  days' 
rations  with  them.  They  would  have  a 


long  journey  on   horseback   before  they 
reached  their  destination. 

This  same  Urbina  had  been  one  of  the 
most  unscrupulous  and  bloodthirsty 
among  the  petty  Mexican  chieftains.  He 
now  lived  on  his  ranch  like  a  feudal 
lord  of  old  with  a  retinue  of  armed  fol- 
lowers and  sentinels  constantly  on  guard. 
So  when  Villa  and  his  men  surrounded 
the  ranch  house  early  one  morning  they 
were  at  once  fired  upon  from  the  win- 
dows. Villa  from  ambush  yelled : 

"It  is  I,  Tomas — your  old  friend, 
Pancho  Villa."  But  this  brought  no  re- 
sponse from  the  house  except  renewed 
firing. 

The  house  was  closely  surrounded 
with  shrubbery.  One  of  Villa's  men, 
more  daring  than  the  rest,  managed  to 
make  his  way  unobserved  to  an  unguard- 
ed lower  window.  Creeping  through 
this  he  threw  wide  open  the  double 
front  doors.  "Ven,  camaradas!"  he 
shouted. 

Villa  and  his  followers  made  a  rush 
and  entered  the  ranch  house.  No  quarter 
was  given  the  defenders.  Whether  they 
surrendered  or  not,  they  were  pitilessly 
shot.  But  Urbina  was  not  to  be  found. 
After  a  fruitless  search  for  him,  Villa  ' 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  his  former 
lieutenant  had  not  been  in  the  house. 
Suddenly  one  of  the  men  standing  by  a 
rear  window  shouted:  "Alia  se  va!" 
(there  he  goes). 

From  some  mysterious  hiding  place  a 
figure  had  emerged  and  was  running  to- 
ward a  thicket  of  arbustos. 
"Shoot  him!"  yelled  Villa. 
A  dozen  shots  rang  out  and  the  fleeing 
figure  staggered  and  fell. 

When  Villa  and  his  men  reached  the 
spot  the  victim  had  succeeded  in  scram- 
bling to  his  feet  and  was  weakly  endeav-  ' 
oring  to  continue  his  flight. 

"Stop!"  cried  Villa,  grasping  the  un- 
happy wretch  and  whirling  him  about 
violently.  Then  he  exclaimed  sarcastic- 
ally, as  he  recognized  the  familiar  face 
of  Urbina:  "So  it  is  you,  my  dear 
Tomas!" 

Urbina,  with  blood  streaming  from  his 
right  shoulder,  stammered  miserably: 
"Yes,  Pancho,  it  is  I,  Tomas — your  old 
comrade,  Tomas." 

"Basta!"  (enough)  Villa  interrupted 
him.  Then  perceiving  the  fainting  condi- 
tion of  his  old  comrade  he  said,  with 
mock  sympathy:  "But  you  are  badly 
wounded,  Tomas.  Let  us  go  to  the  house 
and  I  shall  have  my  men  bandage  your 
wounds." 

Very  carefully,  considerately,  Villa  as- 
sisted his  ancient  friend  to  the  house  and 
seated  him  in  a  chair.  Here  the  men 
afforded  the  best  first-aid  treatment  to 
the  wounded  man  that  lay  within  their 
power.  When  this  was  completed,  Villa 
seated  himself  facing  Urbina. 

(Concluded  Next  Month) 


THE^ALL'YEAR^PALISAD&CITYAT-APTOS-BEACH-ON-MONTEREY-BAY 


You  drive  to  Seactiff  Park  through 
Santa  Crux  or  Waltonville,  turning  off 
the  State  Highway  about  J>£  miles  eatt 
of  Capitota,  where  the  tignt  read  "Sea- 
ciiff  Park,  Aptof  Beach  artd  the  Pali- 
fade  /." 


EACLIFF 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family — but  the 
fact  that  Seacliff  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Reality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  Seacliff  Park  property 


((These  are  sumrmr-like 
days  at  Aplos  Beach — warm,  lazy 
breaker*  with  joamy  creitt  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
tcuttling  off  to  the  thore  in  a  wild 
conjution  oj  effervescent  bub- 
bles, while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward Jor  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

([Pending  the  construction  oj per- 
manent buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

((Drive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  free. 

((Free  transportation,  ij  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  Seaclijj  Park 
Ojjiee  upon  arrival.  ({Ask  Jor 
Registration  Clerk. 


is  wise. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  thefact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetual  charm 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.  SeacliffPark  resi- 
dents know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park  —  Riviera  of  the 
Pacific  now  emerges  in  reality. 


OVNFD  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF   COMPANY.  APTOS,  CALIFORNIA 


ten:  upon  request 


AT  APTOS  .  CALIFORNIA 


Wilshire's  Amazing  Invention 
Attacks  Disease  at  Its  Source 


RESULTS  which  seem  miraculous  are  being 
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I-ON-A-CO.  Wilshire's  invention  is  based 
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system  acts  as  a  catalyzer  or  transfer  agent  uniting 
the  oxygen  we  inhale  with  our  tissue  cells.  Dr. 
Warburg  demonstrated  this  theory  in  his  recent 
lecture  before  the  Rockefeller  Institute.  The 
I-ON-A-CO  magnetizes  the  iron  thus  giving  it 
greater  catalytic  value  which  enables  it  to  deliver 
an  increased  supply  of  oxygen  to  the  system. 

Goitres  have  vanished  almost  immediately !  High 
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diseases  have  yielded  to  I-ON-A-CO'S  power! 

Do  these  results  seem  almost  beyond  belief?  They 
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Come  In  and  Take  a 
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There  will  be  no  charge.  There  will  be  no  obligation.  You  will 
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convincing  you  what  the  I-ON-A-CO  will  do  for  you.  Certainly, 
no  othei*  treatment  or  medicine  has  'ever  made  such  an  offer  as 
this.  You  will  find  few,  if  any  other  treatments  which  allow  you 
to  .prove  their  effectiveness  before  buying.  The  1-£)N-A-CO 
treatment  takes  about  10  minutes  and  is  delightful.  You  can 
come  in  any  time,  or  as  many  times  as  you  wish.  You  have 
nothing  to  lose;  everything  to  gain.  In  view  of  this,  isn't  it  at 
least  worth  10  minutes  of  your  time  to  make  this  simple  test? 
Isn't  renewed  health,  relief  from  pain,  worth  a  few  minutes  in- 
vestigation? 

The  I-ON-A  Company 

Third  Floor,  150  Powell  Street 

San  Francisco 
Phone  Kearny  3610 


Sen d  for  FREE  Book 

If  you  live  out  of  town,  or  cannot  visit  the 
I-ON-A-CO  offices,  send  for  our  interesting 
book  which  fully  explains  the  I-ON-A-CO,  and 
tells  how  it  is  used  right  in  the  home.  The 
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150  Powell  Street, 

San  Francisco. 

Gentlemen: — -Without    obligation    on    my 
part  send  me  your  free  booklet. 


Xame. 
Street. 


City State. 


l_ 


VOL.  LXXXV 


FEBRUARY,  1927 


^iUR DUMBER  2 

M  M    Q 


MONTHLY 

and    OUT     WEST     MAGAZINE 


Founded  by  BRET  HARTE  IN  1868 


MOUNT  SHASTA 


Price  25C  the  copy 


Service  All  the  Way 

An  Advertisement  of 
the  American  Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company 


IT  is  impossible  for  a  rail- 
road train  or  a  ship  to 
call  at  the  doorsteps  of 
its  passengers  when  they  wish 
to  take  a  journey.  To  take  even 
a  trolley  or  bus  ride,  one  must 
go  to  some  definite  point  where 
the  conveyance  stops.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  telephone  goes 
all  the  way  to  meet  the  public's 
convenience. 

Each  telephone  call  may  be 
compared  to  a  taxicab,  whose 
destination  is  controlled  by  the 
subscriber.  The  telephone  com- 
pany extends  its  wires  to  the 
homes  and  offices  of  those  who 
desire  service,  placing  its  tele- 
phones within  immediate  reach. 
The  call  is  made  at  the  time, 
from  the  point,  and  to  the  place 


that    the    subscriber   de- 
sires.   He  speaks  to  the 
person  he  wants — wher- 
ever he  may  be. 

At  the  disposal  of  each  tele- 
phone subscriber  are  the  talk- 
ing channels  of  the  entire  Bell 
System.  He  may  make  a  call 
a  few  or  thousands  of  miles,  and 
he  may  extend  his  voice  to  any 
point,  to  any  person  who  has  a 
telephone. 

This  is  the  essence  of  com- 
munication. Because  of  it,  the 
number  of  telephones  has  in- 
creased in  the  last  five  years 
three  times  as  fast  as  popula- 
tion. Because  of  it,  the  Bell 
System  carries  more  than 
twenty  billion  messages  in  the 
course  of  a  year. 


EXPERIENCE 

LASTING  and  abiding  confidence,  enduring  over  a  long  period  of  years,  must  rest 
upon  a  solid  foundation  of  fact  and  a  proven  record  of  achievement.  Without  such 
a  proven  record,  even  the  most  modest  claim  of  an  investment  house  becomes  only 
empty  promise. 

One  Business — One  Purpose:  For  45  years  this  old-line  institution  has 
confined  itself  exclusively  to  the  underwriting  and  selling  of  high  class 
real  estate  mortgage  investments.  The  business  was  founded  for  this 
one  purpose  and  has  never  deviated  from  it. 

Three  Wars — Four  Panics:  In  45  years,  during  which  time  this  country 
has  been  tried  by  three  wars,  four  financial  panics  and  numerous  agri- 
cultural and  industrial  depressions,  Straus  Investors  and  Borrowers 
alike  have  received  cash  for  every  dollar  due  them. 
The  Straus  Plan:  Such  a  record  has  not  been  built  by  chance;  rather, 
it  is  the  logical  and  orderly  result  of  a  definite  system  of  safeguards, 
worked  out  by  long  experience  in  applying  sound  banking  principles  to 
the  protection  of  invested  funds.  The  Straus  Plan  is  not  fool-proof;  its 
form  has  been  widely  imitated,  but  the  substance  can  be  successfully 
applied  only  by  bankers  of  unquestionable  integrity  and  mature  judg- 
ment gained  by  long  experience. 

Slow,  Natural  Growth:  S.  W.  Straus  &  Co.  has  attained  its  present 
position  in  the  real  estate  bond  business  by  a  slow,  natural  growth  over 
a  period  of  45  years.  It  today  underwrites  many  times  more  real  estate 
bonds  than  those  underwritten  by  any  other  house. 
No  Compromise  with  Safety:  Such  volume  of  business  has  not  been 
created  at  the  expense  of  safety.  It  is  generally  recognized  that  the 
larger  and  more  responsible  realty  brokers  come  first  to  this  House, 
and  that  naturally  Straus  underwritings  represent  the  pick  of  the  field. 
It  is  a  statement  of  fact  that  for  every  loan  application  accepted  by  this 
House,  scores  are  rejected. 

Technical  Experts:  The  Straus  Record  has  been  made  possible,  and  is 
maintained  by  the  largest  technical  staff  known  in  the  real  estate  mort- 
gage field  including,  among  others,  Loan,  Legal,  Architectural,  Engi- 
neering, Survey,  Credit  and  Economics  Departments.  Each  has  its 
specialized  task  in  connection  with  any  underwriting. 
Our  Customers:  The  tangible  evidence  of  the  confidence  which  investors 
have  reposed  in  this  House  is  found  in  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
customers  upon  our  books.  Included  are  hundreds  of  trustees,  banks, 
insurance  companies,  schools,  colleges  and  other  institutions. 

Such  is  the  foundation  of  fact  upon  which  public  confidence  in  S.  W.  Straus  &  Co.  is 
based.  It  is  a  real,  a  genuine  confidence ;  a  confidence  measured  by  the  hundreds  of 
millions  in  first  mortgage  bonds  this  House  has  underwritten ;  a  confidence  tested  by 
wars,  panics  and  depressions,  and  a  confidence  proven  by  the  Straus  Record  of  Forty- 
five  Years  Without  Loss  to  Any  Investor. 

Ask  for  Booklet  B-1730 

S.    W.     STRAUS    &    CO. 

ESTABLISHED  1888  INVESTMENT  BONDS  INCORPORATED 

STRAUS  BUILDING— CHICAGO 

Michigan  Ave.  at  Jackson  Blvd.  Phone  W  abash  4800 

45      YEARS      WITHOUT     LOSS      TO      ANY     INVESTOR 


34 


February,  1927 


What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


WHAT'S  WHAT  ON  THE 

EDITOR'S  DESK 
AMN  Foolishness"  kills  20,000 
people,  injures  450,000  and  de- 
stroys $1,000,000,000  worth  of  property 
yearly,  says  Mr.  Smith  in  his  ONE- 
WAY STREET,  this  month.  The  auto- 
mobile driver  does  not  take  into  con- 
sideration that  the  pedestrian  has  the 
right  of  way,  and  it  is  only  the  Regular 
Fellow  who  uses  common-sense,  whether 
he  sits  behind  the  wheel  or  assumes  the 
role  of  pedestrian.  He  is  always  tolerant 
toward  the  other  fellow's  fault.  Are 
you  a  Regular  Fellow  or  one  of  the 
Damn  Foolishness'  army?  Ask  yourself 
this  after  you  have  read  this  article. 


A  LINE  KISTLER  has  given  us  a 
•^  most  interesting  insight  into  May- 
nard  Dixon's  art,  in  this  issue.  This  is 
a  new  age,  and  Dixon  believes  firmly 
in  creating  a  medium  to  suit  the  age. 
Art  has  been  handed  down  from  the 
stone  age  .  .  .  from  the  other  ages,  why 
not  from  this  age  in  a  practical  medium? 
Art  should  not  be  effaced  and  artists 
should  be  known  by  the  work,  more  than 
by  the  dates  of  their  birth  and  death. 
Miss  Kistler  has  not  given  us  a  bio- 
graphical sketch  as  most  art  critics  do, 
she  has  given  us  something  vital  in  con- 
nection with  Dixon's  work  and  his  future 
work. 


LIGHT  fiction  is  not  easily  written, 
yet  one  would  feel  it  is  the  easiest 
accomplishment  after  reading  Alan  Yan- 
tis'  QUIEN  SABE.  Yantis  has  a  pen 
which  flows  fluently  and  his  style  is 
equal  to  that  of  some  of  our  best  short- 
story  writers.  One  can  feel  the  tenseness 
of  the  poker  game.  One  can  almost  feel 
the  staring  of  the  eyes  of  the  long-horn 
and  certainly  one  can  see  the  Mexican 
with  the  scar  across  the  left  ear.  It  is 
a  story  worth  reading,  as  all  Overland 
stories  are. 


REQUIEM  OF  DENVER  is  the 
first  of  a  series  of  articles  on 
Western  cities  written  by  Carey  Mc- 
Williams.  McWilliams  is  a  young 
author  of  Los  Angeles  who  seems  already 
sad  with  the  weight  of  his  understanding. 
A  little  cynical  in  his  reaction  to  the 
cities  of  which  he  writes,  yet  he  gives  us 
something  intimate,  something  which  is 
the  direct  reflection  of  our  subconscious 
selves.  We  may  agree  or  disagree  but  we 
cannot  thoroughly  disapprove.  The  pages 
of  Overland  will  be  open  to  any  discus- 
sions from  those  who  may  disapprove  of 
what  Mr.  McWilliams  has  to  say.  We 
are  not  taking  one  side  or  the  other  nor 
have  we  acquired  the  bitter  taste  of  the 
mad-fury  of  modern  youth. 


SOMETHING  different  .  .  .  some- 
thing unique  in  its  every  expression 
will  be  the  cover  Overland  Monthly 
will  adopt  with  our  March  issue.  Vir- 
ginia Lemon  Taylor  is  at  work  on  the 
design  now  and  it  promises  to  have  the 
distinction  of  being  the  only  design  of 
its  kind  carried  on  the  cover  of  a  na- 
tional magazine.  Virginia  Taylor  is  an 
artist  of  no  little  merit.  She  was  trained 
in  Bay  district  art  schools  and  has  made 
her  art  serve  her  purpose  to  an  amazing 
extent  in  her  few  brief  years  of  life. 
Watch  for  our  new  cover! 


PATRICIA  loved  him  ...  Guy 
Buckalew,  the  giant-critic  towering 
above  pigmy-artists.  He  damned  to  fro- 
zen purgatory  musicians  of  the  Jazz 
school;  he  battered  the  writer  who  in- 
vented pretty  Melodramas  or  success- 
stories.  They  hated  him  and  loved  him, 
and  after  Patricia  had  tramped  the 
White  Mountains  with  him  and  boated 
on  the  Hudson,  he  disappeared  to  the 
Southwest  and  there  found  Realism  .  .  . 
the  kind  of  realism  he  had  cried  for 
from  the  Pigmy-artists  and  the  sap- 
writing  authors  of  success  magazines, 
and  yet  it  wasn't  realism  to  him  .  .  . 
"No  such  thing,"  he  told  Patricia  when 
the  whip  crashed  across  Lola's  white 
shoulders  and  the  strong  white  teeth  of 
Diego  showed  through  his  tightly 
pressed  lips.  All  in  all  this  is  a  story  you 
will  remember  .  .  .  and  you  will  re- 
member Phillips  Kloss. 


DOROTHY  ULMAN  has  given  us 
the  romance  of  the  founding  of  the 
Sperry  Flour  Company  in  her  unique 
style.  Miss  Ulman  has  a  way  of  mixing 
the  practical  side  with  the  romance  which 
will  thrill  you.  There  is  a  flash  and 
thrust  and  the  advancing  movement  of 
new  industry  and  the  hush  and  the  still- 
ness of  many  watching  the  story  of  this 
new-old  industry,  flitting  through  the 
skies,  the  messengers  of  the  winds,  the 
carrier  pigeons.  We  wonder  what  Austin 
Sperry  dreamed  that  day  he  sailed  into 
San  Francisco  Bay  to  this  new  land  of 
enterprise  ? 


WE  HAVEN'T  any  literati;  we 
haven't  any  artists,  we  haven't  any 
magazines,  any  newspapers  .  .  .  any- 
thing worth  while,  to  hear  some  people 
talk,  but  Zoe  Battu  gives  us  a  concrete 
example  of  what  San  Francisco  has  in 
the  way  of  leaders  of  industries.  She 
has  named  without  fear  of  contradiction, 
men  leading  four  big  industries  of  the 
West  and  each  of  these  men  is  the  best 
in  the  United  States  in  his  special  line. 
"THE  EAST  COMES  WEST,"  says 
Miss  Battu,  and  she  proves  it  beyond  a 
doubt. 


MARCH  Overland  Monthly  will  be 
an  issue  every  lover  of  Western 
culture  will  want  to  have  for  his  very 
own ;  every  poet  and  every  lover  of 
George  Sterling.  The  issue  will  be  de- 
voted entirely  to  George  Sterling's  work 
and  appreciations  of  him  as  a  friend,  as 
a  Bohemian,  as  a  poet  and  as  a  master 
by  such  writers  as  James  Rorty,  Robin- 
son Jeffers,  Charmian  London,  James 
D.  Phelan,  Clark  Ashton  Smith  and 
many  others.  Because  we  have  had  so 
many  requests  for  back  issues  of  Over- 
land Monthly  containing  "Rhymes  and 
Reactions"  and  because  we  know  this 
department  is  of  great  value  to  the  West, 
and  because  it  gave  George  Sterling  his 
last  pleasure  in  saying  whatever  he 
wished  and  of  whomever  he  wished 
through  our  pages,  we  are  collecting  his 
work  over  the  past  year  in  Overland 
and  giving  it  to  the  world  in  a  farewell 
gesture  of  our  appreciation  as  well  as 
the  appreciation  of  his  friends  for  his 
great  friendship,  his  great  spirit,  for  his 
poetry  and  for  his  love  of  culture. 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET   HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


FEBRUARY,  1927 


NUMBER  2 


EDITORIAL  STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 

CONTRIBUTING   EDITORS 

CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN   KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 

MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


FEBRUARY  CONTRIBUTORS  IN 
BRIEF 

ANNE    DE    LARTIGUE    KEN- 
NEDY who  gives  us  "Business  or 
Pleasure"  is  the  chairman  of  the  Poetry 
Section  of  the  League  of  American  Pen 
Women,  San  Francisco  Branch. 


L  ANNIE   HAYNES    MARTIN 
proves  she  is  not  only  a  poet  but  that 
she   is  intimate  with  San  Francisco,  in 
her   "Hyde   Hill."     Mrs.    Martin   was 
one-time  owner  of  the  Out  West  Maga- 


MARY  E.  WATKINS  is  an  author 
of  some  prominence.  The  majority 
of  her  articles  have  been  on  travel. 

BEN  FIELD  is  that  well-known  poet 
from  the  South.    Mr.  Field  is  the 
cog  in  the  wheel  of  literary  endeavors 
in  Los  Angeles. 

OF  THE  contributors  'to  our  poetry 
page,  Olive  Windette  is  an  Eastern 
verse  writer  whose  heart  is  in  the  West. 
She  is  planning  to  bring  out  a  book  of 
her  poetry  in  the  near  future.  Joy 
O'Hara  has  been  representd  in  our  pages 
many  times  before  and  will  not  be  un- 
familiar to  our  readers.  Rosa  Marinoni 
is  appearing  in  many  poetry  journals  in 
the  East;  this  is  her  first  appearance  in 
Overland.  Irene  Stewart  and  Antoi- 
nette Larsen  are  also  frequent  contribu- 
tors and  will  need  no  introduction. 


Song  of  Earth. 


Contents 


Tancred  

Etching  by  William  Brown 


.Frontispiece 


ARTICLES 

Yellow  and  Gold Dorothy  Ulman 37 

Superlative  and  Western Zoe  A.  Battu 39 

The  One-Way  Street Kirkpatrick  Smith,  Jr 42 

A  Requiem  for  Denver Carey  McWilliams 46 

Business  or  Pleasure Anne  deLartigue  Kennedy 47 

An  Artist  in  Search  of 

New  Mediums Aline  Kistler 48 

SHORT  STORIES 

No  Such  Thing  as  Realism Phillips  Kloss 40 

Illustrated  by  Gene  Kloss 
Quien  Sabe Alan  Yantis 44 


Villa 


SERIAL 
Tyler  Adams.. 


60 


ESSAYS 

The  Soul  of  America Mary  E.  Watkins 49 

Portrait  in  Sand W.  T.  Fitch....  54 

DEPARTMENTS 

Bits  of  Verse - 59 

Olive  Windette,  Joy  O'Hara,  Lannie  Haynes  Martin, 
Rosa  Aagnoni  Marinoni,  Irene  Stewart,  Ben  Field, 
Antoinette  Larsen 

Rhymes  and  Reactions Tancred  51 

Books  and  Writers Tom  White 52 

What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk...  34 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative,  George  H.  Myers,  5  South  Wabash  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

Manuscript   mailed    The   Overland  Monthly  without  a  stamped  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 

Entered   as   Second-Class  matter   at  the  postoffice,   San   Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March  3,   1897 

(Contents  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


s 


A  Song  of  Earth 


TANCRED. 


WEET  is  the  earth  and  good  to  sleep  within, 
Whipped  and  disturbed  by  her  ungentle  rains, 
Salved  by  her  suns,  and  soothed  by  the  thin 
And  inoffensive  finger-roots  of  grains. 


In  tones  of  shadow  to  the  Harp  of  night  .  .  . 
Clean  is  the  earth,  however  fresh  and  blue 
And  unintelligent  sky;  fairer  the  light 
Breaking  on  startled  eyes  when  light  is  through! 


Atlas  and  Homer,  Abelard  and  John, 
Important  slaves  and  unimportant  kings, 
The  poets  of  Tyre  and  bards  of  Avalon — 
All  know  the  Greater  Voice  which  only  sings 


Proud  of  her  Caesars  and  of  the  strange  Christ, 
One  with  Sappho,  one  with  ravished  Jeanne, 
Intimate  kin  of  the  great  hand  that  spliced 
Hercules,  Olympia — and  the  earth  again! 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


nd 


OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE        JAN  3  1  1927 


IL.LM 


Yellow  Gold-and  White 


HAVE  you  chanced  to  see,  in  pass- 
ing a  grocery  store  or  a  bake 
shop,  recently,  the  proprietor 
with  another  man,  and  perhaps  one  or 
two  of  his  own  clerks,  come  out  of  the 
shop  and,  while  the  others  crowd  around 
him,  liberate  from  his  hand  a  pigeon? 
The  bird  stretches  its  powerful  wings, 
spreads  its  fan-shaped  tail,  rises,  circles 
once,  and  then,  diminishing  in  the  dis- 
tance under  the  intense  gaze  of  the 
little  knot  of  people  on  the  sidewalk, 
takes  a  straight  course  for  its  home  loft. 

If  you  have  seen  such  a  sight  recently 
you  have  witnessed  the  release  of  some 
of  the  hundreds  of  pigeons  maintained 
by  the  Sperry  Flour  Company  up  and 
down  the  Pacific  Coast  from  Tacoma 
to  San  Diego.  These  little  birds  have 
an  amazing  function.  They  bring  a 
bright  splash  of  romance  into  the  sombre 
business  world.  They  are  mute  testi- 
mony to  the  fact  that  "big  business," 
where  every  modern  device  for  rapid 
transmission  of  messages  is  close  at  hand 
— big  business  has  turned  to  a  mode  of 
communication  as  old  as  Solomon  and 
the  ancient  Greeks — the  horning  pigeon. 

On  the  roofs  of  Sperry  mills  and 
warehouses  in  17  Pacific  Coast  cities  are 
brightly  painted  pigeon  lofts  labeled 
"Sperry  Air  Service."  The  feathered 
inhabitants  of  these  little  dwellings  are 
pedigreed  homing  pigeons.  They  are 
little  air  couriers  of  the  business  world. 
Their  function  is  to  carry  in  rush  or- 
ders from  outlying  points.  Sperry  sales- 
men in  their  neat  white  cars,  and 
especially  country  salesmen,  carry  fas- 
tened to  the  running  board  a  white, 
perforated  box.  Within  the  box  are 
three  or  four  pigeons,  equipped  with 
aluminum  message-capsules  fastened  to 
their  legs.  The  salesman  carries  in  his 
pocket  a  little  pad  of  green  tissue  sheets 
resembling  telegraph  blanks.  They  are 
called  Sperry  pigeongrams. 

When  the  salesman  arrives  at  a 
country  grocery  store  or  bake  shop  and 
finds  the  proprietor  out  of  flour  or 
cereals,  it  takes  but  a  moment  to  pencil 
a  few  words  on  the  little  tissue  pigeon- 
grams, and  dispatch  "King  Wheat 
Hearts"  or  "Princess  Drifted  Snow"  to 


By  DOROTHY  UL-MAN 

the  nearest  Sperry  mill.  There  are,  of 
course,  telephones  and  telegraph  appa- 
ratus in  even  the  smallest  of  towns  these 
days.  But  in  emergencies  these  are  not 
always  available.  And  it  requires  valu- 
able minutes  of  a  salesman's  crowded 
time  to  delay  while  he  puts  through  a 
call.  With  his  trusty  pigeon  on  the  wing, 
he  can  resume  his  journey,  without  loss 
of  time,  confident  that  the  order  will 
be  dispatched  from  the  mill  within  the 
shortest  possible  time.  There  is  still 
another  reason  why  Sperry  salesmen  use 
pigeons ;  for  economy.  Any  salesman  can 
sell  goods  at  a  loss.  If  the  expense  of 
obtaining  an  order  is  greater  than  the 
profits  from  that  order,  the  salesman  is 
operating  at  a  loss  for  the  company.  Dur- 
ing the  course  of  a  salesman's  day,  he 
receives  more  than  one  urgent  rush  or- 
der, particularly  in  remote  places.  These 
individual  orders  are  often  for  small 
amounts.  Several  long  distance  telephone 
calls  aggregate  a  considerable  sum  at 
the  end  of  the  day,  and  play  havoc  with 
the  salesman's  expense  account.  But  the 
trusty  pigeons,  cared  for  by  warehouse- 
men, fed  on  Sperry  pigeon  feed,  and 
averaging  40  to  50  miles  an  hour,  are 
reliable,  swift  and  economical. 

These  pigeons,  unique  and  romantic 
as  they  appear  in  a  staid  business  world, 
furnish  one  more  example  of  western 
enterprise  and  western  initiative.  They 
help  to  make  complete  a  super-service 
built  up  by  a  great  western  organization, 
and  in  their  small  way,  they  help  in 
the  fulfillment  of  the  dream  of  an  old 
California  pioneer  who  no  longer  lives 
to  see  his  dream  come  true. 

WHEN  the  vessel  Pharsalia  furled  her 
sails  and  dropped  anchor  in  San 
Francisco  Bay  on  July  31,  1849,  there 
clambered  over  the  side  among  the  ex- 
cited and  adventure-seeking  young  men 
she  brought  to  California,  one  Austin 
Sperry,  tall,  rugged,  active  and  30  years 
old.  He  came  for  gold,  with  pick  and 
shovel  and  pan,  and  he  hurried  inland 
to  the  gold  fields  to  find  it.  But  three 
years  later  in  Stockton,  California,  he 


dreamed  a  dream  of  another  kind  of 
gold — billowy  oceans  of  it  rippling  in 
the  breeze,  rich,  ripe,  golden  sustenance 
reaching  across  the  length  and  breadth 
of  California's  great  interior  valleys. 
From  that  dream  there  sprang  the 
largest  flour  milling  company  of  the 
West,  which  still  carries  the  name  of 
the  romantic  pioneer  who  fathered  it. 

When  Austin  Sperry  built  the  original 
Sperry  mill  in  Stockton,  in  1852,  he 
dreamed  his  dream  of  a  great  fu- 
ture for  California.  Here,  indeed,  was 
a  man  who  built  on  dreams,  on  dreams 
alone.  For  in  1850  California's  wheat 
crop  amounted  to  a  mere  17,328  bushels. 
Two  years  later,  when  the  first  Sperry 
mill  was  built,  California  harvested 
297,000  bushels  of  wheat,  over  17  times 
the  crop  of  two  years  before.  And  that 
was  the  beginning  of  the  great  wheat 
industry  in  California.  Austin  Sperry's 
dream  began  to  come  true. 

Year  by  year  the  acreage  of  wheat 
extended  across  the  fertile  plains  of  the 
Sacramento  and  San  Joaquin  valleys,  and 
year  by  year  new  and  larger  flour  mills 
were  built  or  bought  out  by  the  company 
which  has  become  the  Sperry  Flour 
Company.  In  1880  California  was  vir- 
tually one  great  wheat  belt.  It  was 
one  of  the  great  wheat  growing  states 
of  America.  In  1880,  1881  and  1882 
the  crop  averaged  50,000,000  bushels. 
San  Francisco  Bay  was  host  to  an 
endless  procession  of  windjammers, 
schooners  and  tramp  steamers  loading 
wheat  for  all  parts  of  the  world.  In 
1882,  the  heyday  of  her  wheat  industry, 
California  shipped  nearly  a  million 
short  tons  of  wheat  to  Europe. 

And  then  California  began  to  grow 
less  wheat,  to  plant  fruit  trees  in  the 
rich  soil,  which  yielded  greater  returns 
from  more  intensive  cultivation.  The 
present  wheat  crop  in  California  has  di- 
minished to  something  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  15,000,000  bushels  a  year— not 
much,  indeed,  considering  her  past 
wheat  surplus.  And  over  half  of  the 
present  reduced  wheat  crop  of  the  state 
is  consumed  by  the  feed  industry.  For 
every  barrel  of  flour  that  flows  down 
the  spouts  and  out  into  the  sacking  de- 


38 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


February,  1927 


partment  of  a  flour  mill,  four  and  a 
half  bushels  of  wheat  have  been  poured 
into  the  hoppers  on  the  top  floor.  Yet, 
even  with  such  a  diminished  wheat  out-- 
put, the  flour  mills  of  California  manage 
to  produce  from  a  million  and  a  half 
to  two  million  barrels  of  flour  a  year. 
Where  does  California  stand  then,  in 
the  flour  milling  industry?  The  pic- 
ture is  more  interesting  than  you  may 
imagine. 


Suppose  you  glance  for  a  moment  at 
a  smooth,  snowy  slice  of  baker's  bread. 
Examine  its  sponginess,  its  silky  texture, 
its  tough,  strong  crust.  Place  beside  it 
a  dainty  piece  of  pastry.  Pry  it  open 
to  see  the  tissue-thin  layers  of  its  flaky 
crust,  its  brittleness,  its  tender  substance. 
You  feel  quite  certain  that  both  of  these 
baked  articles  are  made  of  flour.  Has 
it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  the  flour 
which  must  withstand  the  harsh  slap- 


Sperry  salesman 

writing  a 
rush  order  for  a 

grocer  and 

dispatching  it 

via  "Sperry 

Air  Service" 


ping  and  pounding  of  the  heavy  ma- 
chinery of  the  modern  bread  factory  is 
very  different  in  quality  from,  the  soft, 
powder-fine  material  sifted  through:  the 
finest  of  silk  cloth  which  is  daintily 
and  tenderly  folded  and  folded  again 
into  the  delicate  wisp  of  a  shell,  made 
to  carry  its  small  burden  of  whipped 
cream?  Even  so  must  the  bread  flour 
be  made  from  hard  wheat — wheat  which 
has  withstood  the  rigors  of  a  cold  cli- 
mate, whose  kernels  are  thin  and  strong 
and  hard — and  the  pastry  flour  from. 
soft  wheat,  wheat  planted  in  a  mUder 
winter,  and  raised  under  sunny  skies 
and  gentle  rains.  Its  kernels  are  fat 
and  round,  fairly  bursting  with  soft, 
white  starch.  So  flour  is  not  (as  most 
of  us  take  for  granted  that  it  is)  just 
flour.  There  is  as  much  difference  between 
the  kinds  of  flour  used  in  making  dif- 
ferent varieties  of  baked  goods  as  there 
are  differences  between  kinds  of  paints 
applied  to  different  surfaces.  Each  must 
be  of  a  quality  to  withstand  the  treat- 
ment it  is  to  receive  and  yet  be  capable 
of  producing  the  desired  effect,  finished. 
And,  in  the  case  of  flour,  the  differences 
are  determined  by  the  different  wheats 
from  which  it  is  made. 

Flour  is  used  for  baking  more  than 
for  any  other  purpose.  That  is  not  meant 
to  be  facetious,  for  quantities  of  the  best 
grade  of  white  flour  are  used  by  the 
battery  industry,  for  instance,  in  the 
manufacture  of  dry  cells  for  flash  light 
batteries.  The  steel  industry  uses  various 
grades  of  flour  in  making  molds,  and 
quantities  are  consumed  in  the  manufac- 
ture of  paste  for  such  uses  as  billboards 
and  posters.  Also,  in  the  manufacture 
of  textiles  some  of  the  daintiest  colors 
and  most  modish  finishes  are  imparted 
to  the  goods  by  flour  vehicles.  But  flour 
is  used  for  baking  more  than  for  any 
other  purpose.  And  the  baking  industry 
presents  a  fascinating  field  of  study. 

Baking  has  been  one  of  the  last  of 
the  household  arts  to  be  taken  away  from 
the  home  and  given  to  commercial  enter- 
prises. The  transition  is  even  now  in 
progress.  With  the  rise  of  enormous  bak- 
ing establishments  large  scale  production 
and  standardization  have  seized  hold  of 
bread  making  and  cake  baking.  Machines 
have  undertaken  to  knead  bread,  in  the 
place  or  brawn  and  muscle,  or  to 
"punch"  it,  in  bake-shop  parlance.  Auto- 
matic devices  measure  ingredients,  mold 
the  dough  into  loaves,  and  regulate  oven 
heat ;  and  thermometers  keep  watch  over 
the  dough  as  carefully  and  tenderly  as 
though  it  were  an  incubator  chick. 

And  with  the  machines  have  come 
a  new  group  of  professional  men — 
bakery  engineers.  They  weigh  and  count 
and  measure,  and  analyze.  They  have 
elevated  the  process  of  baking  to  an  exact 
(Continued  on  Page  56) 


February,  1927 


39 


Superlative  and  Western 


FOR  quite  some  time,  certain  gentle- 
man of  critical  minds  and  clever 
pens  have  been  much  given  to  writ- 
ing magazine  articles  to  the  effect  that 
any  Californian  by  birth,  adoption  or 
exposure  to  the  California  environment 
who  ever  accomplished  anything  worthy 
of  mention  won  his  first  recognition  in 
the  East— in  New  York,  of  course.  The 
East  in  its  superior  wisdom  always 
recognizes  merit  that  the  West  and  more 
particularly  San  Francisco,  fails  to  see. 
From  a  perusal  of  many  such  articles, 
it  would  seem  that  our  business  men 
are  unprogressive  fossils,  whose  chief 
talent  lies  in  bargaining  for  superior 
Eastern  or  Eastern  trained  ability  at 
inferior  wages.  Our  workmen  and 
craftsmen  are  second-rate  pretenders, 
who  could  not  survive  the  intense  com- 
petition of  the  East.  The  East  is  our 
financial  nurse  maid,  and  if  she  suddenly 
gathered  up  her  ducats  and  departed 
these  shores,  we  would  be  bankrupt  in 
ideas  and  capital. 

For  the  potential  artistic  genius  within 
our  gates,  it  appears  we  have  only  dumb 
indifference.  We  will  not  publish  his 
books,  purchase  his  paintings  or  applaud 
his  songs.  He  finds  for  his  talents  neither 
sympathy  nor  markets  that  will  yield  him 
attic  rent.  But  when  the  budding  genius 
forsakes  Western  shores  to  gain  high 
favor  and  advance  royalties  in  the  East, 
San  Francisco  and  California  rises  up 
to  do  noisy  and  possessive  celebration. 
Any  so-called  Western  magazines  are 
weak  sister  sheets,  filled  with  the  imma- 
ture blather  of  the  would-be-great. 

Personally,  I  think  it  is  a  great  show 
that  the  critical  gentlemen  of  Eastern 
and  Western  residence  are  staging  for 
the  rest  of  the  nation.  Post  mortems 
and  court  room  proceedings,  if  expertly, 
spicily  and  cleverly  done  are  always  in- 
teresting and  diverting.  They  provide  a 
lot  of  free  amusement  for  people  who 
have  nothing  better  to  do.  A  judicious 
amount  of  acid  always  improves  them 
vastly.  It  is  certainly  no  end  of  fun  to 
watch  these  critical  gentlemen  deftly  take 
apart  California  artists  and  their  work; 
show  us,  that  really  the  wheels  are  rusty 
and  of  inferior  design  and  then  dust  off 
their  hands  with  a  grandly  con- 
temptuous gesture. 

It  is  a  good  little  show.  I  have,  as 
said  before,  no  particular  fault  to  find 
with  it.  In  the  matter  of  Western  artists, 
I  am  quite  willing  to  leave  the  heat  of 
the  battle  to  those  who  can  wage  it  more 
competently  than  I.  But  this  idea  that 
California  and  San  Francisco  business 
trails  along  in  the  dim  dust  raised  by 
other  cities  and  sections  is  another  mat- 
ter. I  take  issue  with  any  critics,  who 


By  ZOE.  A.  BATTU 

maintain  that  our  business  men  are 
dumb-bells,  our  skyscrapers  scarce  and 
of  slow  increase,  our  workers  and  crafts- 
men mere  dead  wood  of  greater  growths. 
I  claim  (absurdly,  if  you  will)  that  these 
critical  gentlemen  do  not  know  their 
San  Francisco  as  I  know  it. 

Besides  knowing  my  own  city  rather 
well,  I  happen  to  have  lived  and  done 
business  in  the  larger  Eastern  and  Mid- 
dle Western  cities — and  to  my  amusing 
and  bitter  memories  in  some  rather  small 
towns.  When  the  East  and  more  particu- 
larly the  Middle  West  point  out,  that 
San  Francisco  is  a  hard  town  in  which  to 
get  a  start  and  do  business,  I  am  right 
there  to  agree  with  them.  It  most  cer- 
tainly is — for  anyone  attempting  a 
ballyhoo  boom,  a  fireworks  display  or 
to  let  loose  an  over  abundance  of  hot 
air. 

This  is  no  town  for  the  soap-box  artist, 
who  would  pass  out  sandwiches,  pea- 
nuts, hot  coffee,  balloons  for  the  kid- 
dies, soda  pop  and  clap  trap,  while  he 
auctions  off  our  ocean  beaches  and  hill 
tops.  This  is  no  place  for  the  sidewalk 
speculator,  who  would  fill  our  parked 
cars  with  cheap  hand  bills,  setting  forth 
get-rich-easy  schemes  for  soft  suckers. 
San  Francisco  business  may  listen  po- 
litely to  the  plans  of  the  bubble  mer- 
chants for  suddenly  providing  us  with 
more  and  bigger  (not  better)  sky- 
scrapers, subdivisions,  railroad  stations, 
steamboat  terminals,  hotels,  subways,  ele- 
vateds, new  Pullman  car  street  names 
or  what  have  you?  She  may  smile 
slightly  at  projects  that  would  turn  the 
town  into  a  glorified  three-ring  circus 
with  side  shows,  barkers,  barbecues,  big- 
ger business,  joy  rides,  oil  gushers  and 
good  times  for  all  and  sundry. 

BUT  San  Francisco  will  have  none  of 
this;  in  booms  she  is  not  interested. 
They  are  too  unsophisticated.  These 
things  and  business  methods  are  of  the 
Middle  West's  Main  Street;  of  the 
Main  Street  mentality  and  conscious- 
ness. The  gentlemen  of  side-show  talents 
and  business  methods  find  sterile  ground 
for  their  operations  in  San  Francisco. 
But  if  a  man  comes  to  the  city  with  a 
genuinely  good  idea,  a  sincere  purpose 
and  a  humble  spirit  and  a  willingness 
to  build  a  proposition,  rather  than  blow 
it  up,  San  Francisco  will  make  a  place 
wherein  he  can  work  out  his  own  salva- 
tion. No  matter  how  small  a  man  starts 
in,  the  city  has  tolerance  for  him,  if  he 
tends  strictly  to  the  business  of  develop- 
ing the  germ  of  a  good  idea.  She  gives 
serious  audience  and  rewards  only  after 


a  worker  demonstrates  that  he  can  play 
the  game  by  the  rules  of  this  territory. 
This  is  one  city  in  the  United  States, 
perhaps  the  only  one,  where  a  man  has 
to  work  for  his  money.  A  business  man 
has  to  be  a  real  business  man  and  not  a 
noisy-mouthed,  shoe-string  speculator  in 
order  to  succeed  permanently  in  San 
Francisco. 

Illustrative  of  this  point,  about  eigh- 
teen months  ago,  a  man  who  at  one 
lucky  scoop  cleaned  up  $150,000  in  De- 
troit real  estate,  looked  about  for  new 
cities  to  conquer.  He  bought  into  a  long- 
established  San  Francisco  firm.  In  talk- 
ing to  me,  on  one  occasion  he  intimated 
that  business  methods  in  this  city  were 
decidedly  antiquated.  In  Detroit  they 
do  thus  and  so.  The  gentleman  was 
high,  mighty  and  supercilious  and  indi- 
cated that  he  would  show  this  one-two- 
three  town  what  a  real  show  looked 
like.  He  was  prodigal  with  his  money 
and  more  so  with  his  boasts.  He  bought 
up  a  bunch  of  billboards  about  town 
and  generally  set  the  stage  in  a  grand 
manner.  As  I  write,  the  entire  assets 
of  this  pioneer  house  are  under  the  auc- 
tioneer's hammer.  Too  bad !  But  it  is 
what  comes  in  San  Francisco  after  lis- 
tening to  the  siren  song  that  money  and 
big  talk  will  accomplish  things  that  the 
city  has  stamped  with  a  work  price  tag 
orJy. 

Another  young  man  came  to  San 
Francisco  from  Los  Angeles,  where  he 
had  been  an  auditor  for  a  moving  pic- 
ture concern.  He  was,  in  his  own  words, 
looking  for  something  worthy  of  his 
talents.  To  all  appearances,  he  was  a 
smart  young  man,  well  supplied  with 
cash.  He  registered  at  a  good  hotel; 
wore  good  clothes ;  combed  his  hair  pro- 
perly; had  nice  taste  in  ties,  and  no 
doubt  knew  golf  and  bridge.  He  was 
offered  several  openings,  at  which  he 
sniffed  delicately.  Too  small.  The  young 
man  was  not  looking  for  chicken  feed 
or  even  ham  and  eggs.  He  was  not 
willing  to  prove  just  how  smart  he  was. 
The  last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  sharing 
(gratuitously)  the  hotel  room  of  a 
friend  of  mine,  pending  the  time  when 
he  could  ship  out  (gratuitously)  to  some 
city  that  would  be  more  readily  im- 
pressed with  tales  of  departed  glory. 

But  let  us  see  who  and  what  we  have 
among  San  Francisco  people,  who  do 
make  good.  Who  can  be  nominated  to 
the  Western  Hall  of  Fame  for  their 
skill  in  the  crafts  of  business  and  in- 
dustry. If  our  claim  to  first-rate  poets, 
novelists,  sculptors  or  painters  is  a  de- 
batable one,  can  we  offer  other  classes 
of  workers  of  unquestioned  leadership 
(Continued  on  Page  55) 


40 


February,  1927 


There  is  No  Such  Thing  as  Realism 


THE  stomach-punching  satire  and 
profound  arrogance  of  Guy  Buck- 
alew  made  him  a  giant-critic 
towering  above  pigmy-artists.  His  large 
laughter  dwarfed  countless  works  into 
oblivion.  Fortunately  his  realm  of 
power  was  limited  to  literature  and 
music,  but  in  this  field  he  was  ferocious, 
heartless,  relentless.  He  condemned  to 
a  frozen  purgatory  any  musician  who 
upheld  jazz.  He  battered  to  mush  any 
writer  who  invented  pretty  melodramas, 
or  success-stories,  or  his- 
torical novels,  or  tales 
that  pretended  to  be  true 
to  reality- 

His  cry  was  for  realism. 
Not  the  artificial  natural- 
ism of  Zola,  nor  the 
accurate  but  too  pure  psy- 
chology of  Henry  James, 
nor  the  cold  crystal 
analyses  of  Galsworthy, 
Shaw,  Strindberg,  Ibsen. 
But  the  unmitigated  can- 
dor of  life.  Guy  Buckalew 
insisted  that  realism  must 
accept  the  ideal  side  of 
life;  that  there  should  be 
a  celestial  aspiration  con- 
current with  earthliness. 
Let  a  character  frankly 
execute  sexual  and  animal 
acts,  but  let  him  also  ex- 
press the  sense  of  beauty 
co-existent  with  the 
former.  Said  Buckalew: 
Man  is  an  incomprehensible  contradic- 
tion ;  art  a  comprehensive  imitation.  As 
to  music,  he  would  have  every  composer 
evolve  an  improvement  on  Wagner. 

His  heavy  hammer  fell  brutally  on 
fragile  anvils.  It  is  said  that  one  author, 
perceiving  his  book  pounded  to  extinction 
in  an  article  by  Buckalew,  despaired  and 
committed  suicide.  Why  the  artists  did 
not  repudiate  and  overthrow  Guy  Buck- 
alew was  a  weakness  due  perhaps  to 
their  complex  of  fear;  the  pigmies  afraid 
of  the  giant.  Furthermore,  underneath 
his  scathing  exterior,  Buckalew  was  a 
likeable  individual;  soft-hearted  enough 
to  be  termed  sentimental.  He  was  ro- 
bust and  convivial.  Then  too,  his  hand- 
someness protected  him  from  the  more 
dangerous  attacks  of  females  whose  ef- 
forts had  been  mocked :  his  hair  was 
black,  wavy,  threaded  with  grey,  his 
body  virile.  A  wistful  sensitive  mouth 
and  splendid  teeth,  which  could  smile, 
won  favor.  On  occasion  his  manner 
charmed,  while  he  modulated  his  blatant 
magazine-egotism  to  a  nicety.  He  pro- 
fessed to  be  and  was  notorious  as  an  ama- 
teur pugilist.  This  brought  him  an  odd 


By  PHILLIPS  KLOSS 

clique  of  friends  and  made  the  Intelli- 
gentsia fear  and  despise  him.  He  was 
cruel,  he  was  kind.  He  would  take  in  a 
dejected  author,  give  him  money,  en- 
courage him,  and  then,  when  that 
author  wrote  something  bad,  Buckalew 
would  proceed  to  undo  the  effects  of  his 
charity  by  means  of  a  criticism  that 
plunged  the  author  into  dismality.  He 
would  befriend  anyone  who  showed  par- 


The  drowsy  adobe  village  of  Dona  Ana,  New  Mexico 


tides  of  beauty  in  his  or  her  nature.  He 
allowed  himself  license  with  all  sorts  of 
women.  Under  a  pseudonym  he  wrote 
poetry-  He  was  engaged  to  Patricia 
Wakefield,  a  blue-eyed,  broad-minded 
woman,  thirty  years  of  age,  not  very 
pretty,  but  of  good  family,  interesting, 
and  talented.  Nothing  was  convention- 
ally tabooed  between  them ;  they  had 
knowledge  of  each  other  body  and  soul. 
She  tramped  the  White  Mountains  with 
him,  boated  on  the  Hudson,  swam,  rode, 
conversed,  criticized.  She  was  clever  at 
substituting  in  the  writing  of  his  articles 
while  he  went  on  lone  game  hunts  into 
Maine  and  Canada.  Patricia  loved  him 
with  all  her  heart,  for  she  knew  that 
Buckalew,  despite  his  raw  demeanor, 
was  fine. 

Such  was  Guy  Buckalew.  For  one 
decade  he  reigned  over  literature  and 
music,  the  Satan  of  his  own  little  hell, 
as  he  dryly  recognized  it.  Then  he  lacer- 
ated a  certain  popular  writer  so  severely 
that  a  libel  suit  was  brought  against 
him.  Not  caring  for  the  red  tape  of 
law,  an  utter  iconoclast,  Guy  Buckalew 
disguised  and  escaped  to  the  Southwest, 


leaving  Patricia  Wakefield  in  the  agony 
of  suspense  .... 

He  found  himself  in  Dona  Ana,  New 
Mexico,  a  drowsy  adobe  village  yawn- 
ing on  the  edge  of  a  dusty  mesa.  A 
brown  village  whose  one-story  houses 
sloped  like  islands  to  the  glistening  sea 
of  sand.  There  was  the  spice  of  red 
pepper  flicked  on  the  keen  atmosphere. 
An  orange-tinted  desert,  speared  with 
cacti  and  mesquite,  feathered  with 
wispy  mauve  sage,  sleeping,  moving, 
murmuring,  stretched 
west  to  the  Rio  Grande, 
north  to  the  Castle  Moun- 
tains, east  to  the  Organ 
Mountains,  south  to  the 
quivering  silver  of  space. 

For  the  sake  of  realism, 
Guy  Buckalew  took  lodg- 
ing at  the  dingiest  hovel 
he  could  find.  It  lay  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
all  alone  in  the  bleak 
glaring  heat,  though  sev- 
eral tamarisks  fanned  a 
sensation  of  coolness  on 
the  hard-packed  shining 
soil.  It  was  a  queer  house, 
long  and  low,  built  of 
tornillo  poles,  horizontal 
for  the  roof  but  nowhere 
near  perpendicular  for  the 
walls,  thatched  with 
adobe.  It  was  not  built 
of  the  usual  adobe  bricks; 
just  twigs  and  mud. 
Under  the  transparent  powder  of  an 
ivory  moon,  it  looked  like  a  flat  ghost. 


A  N  OLD  hag,  Rosa,  ran  the  place. 
*"•  Buckalew  gave  her  forty  dollars  a 
month  for  one  dusky  room.  She  had 
asked  four.  Perhaps  his  generosity  so 
bewildered  her  or  so  aroused  her  cu- 
pidity that  she  forgot  to  cook  him  the 
Mexican  dishes  for  which  he  had  stipu- 
lated, and  he  consequently  dined  at  a 
wretched  cafe.  He  did  not  call  her  to 
task,  for  she  was  an  spiny  old  hag,  and 
her  character  was  sufficient  compensa- 
tion for  him.  He  thought  her  to  be  the 
great-grandmother,  grandmother,  and 
mother  of  the  brood  that  occupied  the 
room  next  to  his — the  only  other  room 
in  the  hovel. 

Into  that  one  room  were  crowded  five 
women :  old  Rosa,  her  two  daughters, 
and  their  two  daughters,  Buckalew 
thought.  There  was  one  man,  Diego,  pre- 
sumably a  brother.  He  was  misshapen, 
pocked,  with  a  moisty  purulent  face, 
and  he  seemed  to  hate  Buckalew  right 
from  the  start.  Also  there  were  three 


February,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


41 


babies,  but  no  fathers  in  immediate  evi- 
dence. Old  Rosa  and  her  brood  were 
hideously  real.  They  ate  sloppy  meals 
of  frijoles  like  a  sow  and  litter  of  pigs; 
they  quarreled  in  piercing  shrieks  and 
violent  gutturals;  they  wore  very  little 
clothing.  Absolutely  unembarrassed, 
they  squatted  in  the  yard  in  full  sight  of 
Buckalew,  their  faeces  and  urine  lying 
exposed  to  the  feeble  sanitation  of  the 
sun.  They  were  all  nondescript  in  ap- 
pearance, except  for  one  woman  of 
twenty,  who  was  beautiful- 

H~er  name  was  Lola.   He  studied  her, 
making  gradual   acquaintance,    and   she 
responded    with     neither     shyness     nor 
boldness,   remaining  a  personality  who, 
if  naive,  was  not  inane-    He  drilled  Eng- 
lish into  her  alert  mind,  and  she  taught 
him   all   the    Spanish   she   knew.    In   a 
month  they  were  fairly  conversant.  She 
often  astonished  him  by  the  felicitous  de- 
bauchery of  her  remarks,  but  she  was 
never  coarse  or  repulsive.    Like  a  gor- 
geous   cactus    flower,    her    wild    petals 
slowly  unfolded  a  lovely  depth,  a  vigor 
of  soul  that  matched  her  strong,  slender 
body.    Her  clothing  consisted  of  a  cheap 
black  silk  waist  and  crimson  skirt,  which 
she   never  changed   except   on    Sunday, 
when  she  wore  white.    Buckalew  often 
watched  her  limber  figure  as  she  swept 
the  earth  about  the  house  until  it  shone 
like  polished  topaz.    The  light  stepping 
of  her  feet,  half  in  dance,  as  she  sang 
while  drawing  water  from  the  old  Span- 
ish well  nearby,  fascinated  him.  Perfect 
little  feet  they  were,  usually  bare,  stock- 
ingless,  rhythmic  with  happiness;  spon- 
taneous little  songs  they  were,  dripping 
from   her   soft   sensual   pretty   lips   like 
the   melody  of   a  stream.     She  was  so 
lithe,  so  quick,  so  poetically  satisfied  with 
her   life.     She   did    not   quarrel    as   the 
others  did ;  she  was  neat ;  she  was  never 
indecent;   her  bright   smile  radiated  an 
esthetic   consciousness.     A   mere   glance 
from  her  wholesome  eyes  seemed  vividly 
to  suppress  the  squalor  of  the  place.  Her 
eyebrows,    a    trifle    too    thick    though 
smooth    and    curved,'  also    favored    her 
wholesomeness. 

Here  is  one,  thought  Buckalew,  who 
has  an  instinct  for  beauty.  Ah,  the  days 
they  had,  walking  over  the  nacreous 
mesa,  along  the  pebble-glimmering  ar- 
royos,  exploring  the  blue  haze  of  can- 
yons whose  rims  were  silver  and  rose-  .  . 
A  hot  noon,  which  made  the  clear  air 
ring  with  silence,  drove  Lola  and  Buck- 
alew to  the  shelter  of  the  tamarisks. 
They  munched  buttered  tortillas  and  ex- 
patiated on  futile  but  pleasurable  topics. 
After  they  had  eaten,  Lola  drew  a  black 
cheroot  from  the  perspiring  humidor  of 
her  bosom,  lit  it,  leaned  back  against 
the  tree  trunk,  and  smoked  deliciously. 
Every  once  in  awhile  she  would  make 
Buckalew  inhale,  then  put  the  cheroot, 


wet  from  his  mouth,  back  between  her 
lips,  breathing  a  quaintly  delirious  sigh. 
One  of  her  queer  habits  was  to  apply 
unexpected  analogies.  "I  am  like  thees 
keeten — I  play  but  I  scrratch!"  she 
would  laugh  adorably,  or,  with  a  piece 
of  rose-quartz  in  her  hand,  picked  up 
from  the  desert,  "Eet  ees  pretty  like  the 
dawn-"  And  now,  smoking,  she  observed, 
half  pouting,  half  smiling  to  Buckalew: 
"You  are  like  thees  smoke — puff!  you 
are  gone !" 

"I  have  no  intention  of  going,"  he  re- 
plied, scrutinizing  her,  analyzing  her. 
He  considered  her  possibilities  for 
growth  and  development.  What  would 
happen  if  he  made  her  his  wife?  would 
she  drag  him  down  to  a  state  of  sensuous 
idleness,  or  would  he  lift  her  aspirations 
to  an  intellectual  level?  She  was  not 
stupid ;  she  could  rise,  he  thought.  What 
would  happen  if  he  took  her  to  New 
York?  would  not  her  startling  comeli- 
ness, her  delicate  profile,  her  poise  create 
for  herself  an  instant  position  in  society? 
that  is,  his  society,  of  the  Bohemian  kind. 
How  would  Patricia  Wakefield  receive 

her?   Ah !    He  deadened  himself  to 

anticipations;  he  watched  Lola.  "I  shall 
always  stay  with  you.  Maybe.  If  you 
let  me." 

"Maybee-ee?  Ai!  Buckalew  mio!" 

"Do  I  understand  that  you  would 
mind  if  I  stayed  always?" 

"No  no  no  no  no  no  no !"  with  a  shake 
of  her  black  hair,  and  a  flaming  anima- 
tion of  her  red-brown  face. 

Imitating  her  half  sobriety,  half  face- 
tiousness,  Buckalew  ventured : 

"Would   your  brother  mind?" 

"My  brothaire,  Senor?" 

"Diego." 

"Diego !  Ai-i-i-i !  Diego !"  She  jumped 
up  angrily,  seized  a  handful  of  tamarisk 
leaves  crushed  them  in  her  dainty  palm, 
dashed  them  on  the  ground,  turned  her 
heel  on  them,  burying  them.  "There  ees 
Diego!"  she  cried,  pointing  to  the  sym- 
bolic grave. 

"Isn't  he  your  brother?" 

For  answer  Lola  threw  back  her  head 
and  laughed,  her  white  teeth  as  dazzling 
as  the  silver  mesa  that  glittered  toward 
the  Organ  Mountains.  Suddenly  she 
caught  hold  of  a  tamarisk  limb,  swung 
herself  forcefully  upon  Buckalew,  bear- 
ing him  to  the  ground,  she  on  top  of  him, 
her  warm  body  writhing  as  if  to  coil 
serpent-like  around  him.  Her  lips  panted 
close  against  his  ear:  "Buckalew  mio!" 
She  was  up,  a  female  coyote  springing 
from  a  trap,  and  fled  into  the  hovel. 

Buckalew     stayed     where     she     had 

knocked  him,  flat  on  his  back,  staring 

into  the  grey-emerald  mesh  of  tamarisk 

branches-    He  heard  a  slow  sludgy  step 

.  he  rose  and  faced  Diego,  who  stood 


smirking.  The  dark  slant  of  his  som- 
brero enhanced  the  sinister  expression 
of  his  stained  eyes. 

"You  better  stop,"  said  Diego,  in 
Spanish.  "It  will  be  wise  for  you  to  stop, 
Senor.  Lola  is  not  for  you.  Remember 
what  I  say.  Lola  is  not  for  you." 

"Your  advice  isn't  very  explicit," 
Buckalew  responded  coolly,  cutting 
Diego  as  best  he  was  able  in  the  unfa- 
miliar Spanish  dialect,  "and  I  feel  I 
should  not  concern  you  at  all,  unless 
it  be  that  most  of  my  forty  a  month 
goes  to  you  instead  of  old  Rosa.  I  must 
be  of  valuable  concern  to  your  thirst,  my 
friend." 

"I  am  not  your  friend,"  Diego  deli- 
berately said,  and  as  deliberately  walked 
away. 

IT  was  the  night  of  a  week  later ;  a  full 
summer  moon  beckoned  Lola  and 
Buckalew  out  on  the  desert.  They 
walked  far,  hand  in  hand,  without  speak- 
ing, absorbing  those  subtleties  of  color 
that  were  almost  a  fragrance,  feeling  the 
webs  of  sound  on  the  night-swept  plains. 
The  warm  wind  drew  voices  from  the 
yucca;  the  sage  pushed  music  from  bush 
to  bush  in  whispering  waves.  Stars  were 
splattered  on  the  sky  like  tears,  weeping 
because  of  the  desert's  beauty,  and  so 
near  that  one  wanted  to  wipe  their  sor- 
row away  with  a  caress  of  the  fingers. 
The  many  species  of  opuntia  flared  their 
blossoms  in  saffrons,  reds,  purples,  over 
which  the  moonlight  washed  a  dim  gold- 
ness. 

Buckalew  wondered  if  Lola  felt  the 
thrill  of  it  all.  He  looked  at  her.  With 
her  impertinent  quickness  she  suddenly 
dropped  his  hand  and  rushed  up  to  a 
tall  Spanish-dagger  plant  whose  wide 
blades  she  clasped,  leaned  back  till  her 
head  nearly  touched  the  sand,  and  then 
broke  into  one  of  her  spontaneous  little 
songs.  Buckalew  kissed  her,  at  first  de- 
lightedly as  if  she  were  an  apt  protegee 
of  his,  then  reverently  as  if  she  were  a 
goddess,  then  passionately,  dizzily, 
wildly.  .  .  . 

For  hours  they  stayed  there,  dreaming 
as  the  desert  dreamt.  Buckalew  medi- 
tated, thoughts  that  flew,  as  he  reclined, 
gazing  on  the  balminess  of  the  moon- 
light, Lola  beside  him,  one  of  her  hands 
locked  in  his,  the  other  sifting  sand.  She 
intermittently  chanted  to  the  sky,  or  was 
silent  with  lazy  rapture.  Finally  he 
said: 

"Lola,  I  owe  you  my  name,  after 
what  has  happened  tonight-  I  have  been 
thinking  .  .  .  you  will  have  to  face  a 
great  deal  that  is  foreign  to  you;  city- 
life  isn't  pleasant.  Do  you  believe  you 
can  stand  it?  Try  to  imagine — can  you 

(Continued  on  Page  59) 


42 


February,   1927 


The  One-way  Street 


T  IEUTENANT  KELLY  of  the  air 

*—*  mail  service,  who  pilots  a  huge  air- 
plane across  a  goodly  portion  of  these 
United  States  every  week,  upon  alight- 
ing from  one  of  his  air  trips  recently  was 
asked  by  an  auto  owner : 

"Is  it  safe  to  ride  in  an  airplane?" 
Kelly  answered :   "Yes,   I'm  safer   in 
an  airplane  than  you  are  in  your  auto, 

the  way  you  fellows  drive  these  days." 

*       *       * 

Mark  Twain  at  one  time  wrote  an 
essay  on  "Man."  Many  of  us  read  it  and 
enjoyed  a  good  laugh.  But,  if  you  were 
to  meet  "Man"  on  the  highways  of  the 
land  as  I  do,  you  might  be  tempted  to 
say  that  Twain  was  about  right. 

"Man,"  writes  Mark  Twain,  "can't 
sleep  out  of  doors  without  freezing  to 
death  or  getting  rheumatism;  he  can't 
keep  his  nose  under  water  over  a  minute 
without  being  drowned.  He's  the 
poorest,  clumsiest  excuse  of  all  the  crea- 
tures that  inhabit  the  earth. 

"He  has  to  be  coddled,  housed,  and 
swathed  and  bandaged  to  be  able  to  live 
at  all.  He  is  a  rickity  sort  of  thing  any 
way  you  take  him — a  regular  British 
Museum  of  Infirmities  and  inferiorities. 

"He  is  always  undergoing  repairs.  A 
machine  as  unreliable  as  he,  would  have 
no  market. 


By  KIRKPATRICK  SMITH,  JR. 

He's  just  a  basketful  of  pestilent  cor- 
ruption, provided  for  the  support  and 
entertainment  of  microbes. 

"If  he  can't  get  renewals  of  his  bric- 
a-brac  in  the  next  world,  what  will  he 
look  like?" 

Mark  must  have  known,  he  was  a 
man  himself. 

There  must  be  some  reason  why  auto- 
mobiles are  killing  approximately  20,000 
people  every  year,  injuring  over  450,000 
more  and  destroying  $1,000,000,000 
worth  of  property  for  good  measure.  You 
know  and  I  know,  if  all  the  automobiles 
of  the  nation  were  to  be  kept  in  their 
garages  for  twenty-four  hours,  there 
would  be  no  auto  accidents  during  that 
period. 

But  I  would  hate  to  think  what 
might  happen,  under  the  present  state  of 
things,  if  every  traffic  cop  was  called  off 
the  job  for  that  length  of  time. 

So  it  must  be  the  drivers  of  cars  who 
are  to  blame  for  the  huge  casualty  list, 
as  it  grows  day  by  day,  and  not  the  auto- 
mobile. The  traffic  cop  with  even  the 
limited  support  he  is  given  by  the  citi- 
zenship at  large,  must  be  of  some  service, 
in  preventing  a  much  larger  number  of 


mishaps  than  actually  occur  each  day 
and  each  year,  even  if  he  is  often  con- 
sidered harsh,  by  certain  selfish  motor- 
ists who  value  their  so-called  "rights" 
or  "liberty,"  above  the  life  and  rights 
of  others. 

I  would  like  to  discuss  with  you  at 
this  time  a  subject  which  seems  to  be 
the  "touchiest"  topic  one  could  bring 
before  the  average  motorist.  Whether 
you  like  to  admit  it  or  not,  the  "pedes- 
trian or  jay-walker"  is  a  very  much 
loathed  individual  in  the  eyes  of  the 
average  auto  driver. 

I  am  reminded  of  a  story.  It  isn't 
original  with  me,  and  it  has  been  told 
before,  but  it  will  illustrate  to  a  certain 
degree,  the  attitude  of  most  people  when 
they  drive  a  car. 

A  small  boy  asked  his  father  to  tell 
him  the  difference  between  a  pedestrian 
and  a  jay-walker. 

"A  pedestrian,"  answered  the  parent, 
"is  a  person  who  walks  when  you  walk. 
While  a  jay-walker  is  a  person  who 
walks  when  you  drive." 

A  FEW  years  ago  a  prominent  judge 
of  the  United  States  handed  down 
a  decision,   declaring  the   pedestrian   to 
have  the  first  right  on  the  highway.    I 
believe  that  such  a  law  is   in  effect  in 


Not  much  use  for  truffle  regulations  in  1856 


February,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


43 


California  at  the  present  time,  at  least 
I  have  been  told  such  is  the  case.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  pedestrian  should 
be  entitled  to  the  first  right  on  the  high- 
way by  virtue  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
here  first. 

If  the  average  motorist  would  think 
the  same  way,  and  govern  himself  ac- 
cordingly, there  would  be  less  pedestri- 
ans killed  and  injured  and  less  smashups 
and  less  skidding  and  hair-breadth 
escapes  on  the  avenues  and  particularly 
at  street  corners.  I  have  been  riding 
with  different  motorists  at  times,  who 
have  deliberately  tried  to  hit  a  pedes- 
trian, because  the  driver  had  the  mali- 
cious idea  the  pedestrian  wasn't  trying 
to  get  out  of  the  way  fast  enough. 

When  we  come  to  think  of  it,  the 
most  important  thing  in  the  world  is 
the  pedestrian's  rights. 

Practically  every  law-suit  or  court 
trial  we've  ever  had  in  the  world,  has 
arisen  over  someone's  rights.  A  vehicle 
made  of  tin  and  wood  and  rubber, 
shouldn't  have  preference  over  a  human 
being's  rights,  because  you  who  are  for- 
tunate enough  to  have  cars,  are  your- 
selves pedestrians,  at  certain  times  of  the 
day,  no  matter  how  much  you  drive  an 
automobile. 

Human  beings  are  selfish  as  a  whole. 
Practically  every  living  person  has  a 
little  selfishness  about  him,  and  he  allows 
it  to  flare  up  at  times.  I  am  including 
myself  in  all  of  the  criticisms  I  make  of 
human  beings,  so  don't  think  that  I'm 
like  the  preacher  who  told  his  congrega- 
tion to,  "Not  do  as  I  do,  but  do  as  I 
say." 

If  every  motorist  would  adopt  as  his 
code:  "The  pedestrian  has  the  first  right 
on  the  highway,"  and  if  he  would  paste 
this  little  inscription  on  his  windshield, 
.  and  heed  it  continuously  and  govern  his 
driving  by  that  slogan,  thousands  of  acci- 
dents would  be  avoided.  The  desire  to 
drive  sanely  must  be  adopted  by  the 
motorist,  if  we  are  to  solve  this  traffic 
problem  before  us. 

I  spoke  of  "Damn-Foolishness"  as 
being  one  of  the  gods  many  autoists  are 
worshipping  today,  and,  and  one  of  the 
lieutenants  of  the  Great  God  Speed,  who 
has  us  in  his  clutches,  whether  we  will 
admit  it  or  not. 

We  might  catalogue  under  this  de- 
partment of  "Damn  Foolishness,"  the 
average  kid  driver  under  the  age  of 
eighteen  years  and  some  older,  who  is 
allowed  to  pilot  a  car  up  and  down  our 
istreets  by  day  and  night,  and  who  have 
no  more  license  to  be  at  the  wheel  of  a 
(car  than  a  cow  has  with  six  legs. 

No  person  under  the  age  of  eighteen 
years  should  be  allowed  to  drive  an 
I  automobile. 


There  are  a  few  youngsters  who  are 
level-headed,  yes,  but  very  few.  And  it 
isn't  going  to  work  any  hardship  on  any 
girl  or  boy  under  that  age  to  be  deprived 
of  the  opportunity  of  piloting  a  car. 
They,  of  course,  will  think  so,  as  most 
youngsters  do,  but  that  is  where  selfish- 
ness comes  in. 

We  shouldn't  give  our  children  the 
things  they  want,  we  should  give  them 
only  the  things  that  are  good  for  them, 
if  we  are  to  treat  them  fairly. 


RESULTS  OF  RECKLESS 
DRIVING  EACH  YEAR 

20,000  people  killed. 
450,000  people  injured. 

$1,000,000,000    worth    of    property 
destroyed. 


One  example  is  of  a  high  school  lad 
driving  along  at  over  fifty  miles  an  hour 
in  the  city  limits  of  a  coast  city.  A  child 
ran  out  into  the  street  and  the  roaring 
auto  struck  down  the  baby  pedestrian 
and  killed  it. 

How  much  better  would  it  be  if  that 
high  school  boy  had  been  home,  sacri- 
ficing his  selfish  desire  to  drive  a  car 
until  he  was  capable  of  handling  it 
sanely,  than  to  go  through  life  with  the 
weight  of  "careless  murder"  on  his  soul. 
It  was  told  by  other  occupants  of  the 
car  that  they  had  begged  him  to  slow 
down,  but  he  only  jeered  at  the  idea  of 
being  safe  and  sane. 

I  saw  another  accident  where  a  seven- 
teen-year-old girl  ran  down  two  women, 
killing  one  and  injuring  another.  The 
girl's  father  was  a  prominent  lawyer. 
He  had  just  finished  prosecuting  a  suit 
in  court  of  the  same  kind,  a  case  of 
a  young  lad  who  had  run  down  two 
girls  while  recklessly  driving  a  big  car 
around  the  streets. 

The  lawyer  made  this  statement  to 
the  jury  during  the  trial  of  the  boy 
whom  he  was  prosecuting.  The  lawyer 
said:  "Any  parents  who  would  allow 
their  children  to  drive  cars  on  the 
streets  of  this  country,  should  be  sent 
to  the  electric  chair."  His  own  daugh- 
ter had  only  sat  at  the  wheel  of  his  big 
car  three  times,  and  she  didn't  have  a 
driver's  license,  and  neither  she  nor  her 
father  were  ever  prosecuted. 

When  this  seventeen-year-old  girl 
struck  these  two  women,  she  lost  her 
head.  She  put  one  foot  on  the  accelera- 
tor instead  of  the  brakes,  and  throwing 
up  her  hands,  screamed.  It  was  too  late 
to  be  sorry  after  the  catastrophe. 


I  could  .name  thousands  of  cases  sim- 
ilar to  this  where  such,  damnfoolishness" 
is  allowed. 

"C^VERY  night  and  yes,  every  day,  in 
-^  hundreds  and  thousands  of  in- 
stances, one  can  see  these  young  sheiks 
and  flappers,  sometimes  four  and  even 
six  jammed  into  a  coupe,  or  as  high  as 
twelve  or  fourteen  crowded  in  a  five 
passenger  car,  racing  down  the  highways. 
In  many  instances  some  girl  is  even  sit- 
ting on  the  driver's  lap  with  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  they  are  tearing 
along  endangering  lives  and  property. 
Nobody  cares.  When  an  officer  stops 
them,  the  parents  invariably  get  hostile 
because  their  "darling  lambs"  are  mo- 
lested in  their  innocent  play. 

You  cannot  blame  many  of  these  kids, 
because  they  haven't  brains  enough  to 
know  better,  and  their  parents  don't  give 
a  tinker's  darn  because  they  too  lack  the 
kind  of  brains  that  stand  for  decent  cit- 
izenship. 

But,  when  an  accident  happens  the 
parents  rush  to  the  police  and  pull  every 
wire  at  their  command  to  keep  their 
"darlings"  names  out  of  the  paper,  or 
out  of  court  records. 

One  night  I  helped  dispose  of  two 
boys  and  two  girls  who  were  out  joy 
riding  in  a  small  car.  We  noticed  this 
auto  racing  madly  around  town  the  early 
part  of  the  evening  with  these  four  high 
school  kids  in  it.  They  were  yelling  at 
the  top  of  their  voices.  We  gave  chase 
but  the  small  car  evaded  us  down  some 
dark  streets. 

About  midnight  or  later  we  found  the 
car  on  its  side  in  the  center  of  a  very 
dark  vacant  lot  with  the  curtains  drawn. 
There  were  the  two  couples  locked  in 
each  others  arms,  two  in  the  front  seat 
and  two  in  the  back  seat,  all  four  bodies 
were  nude.  All  four  occupants  of  the 
car  were  paralyzed  drunk.  We  put  their 
clothes  on  as  best  we  could.  We  took 
the  girls  to  one  hotel  and  the  boys  to 
another  hotel  and  left  them  for  the 
night,  and  then  went  up  to  find  the 
parents.  They  all  lived  in  a  large 
fashionable  apartment  house,  and  we 
waited  until  nearly  morning  for  their 
return. 

These  young  folks  represented  four 
of  the  "leading"  families  in  that  town, 
the  parents  had  been  out  to  a  country 
club  indulging  in  a  little  liquid  refresh- 
ments themselves. 

These  parents  were  highly  indignant 
when  we  reported  the  matter  to  them 
and  they  put  up  one  big  tearful  plea, 
for  us  to  keep  the  matter  a  secret.  They 
said  their  standing  in  the  community 
would  be  ruined  if  the  truth  came  out. 
We  were  human.  We  kept  it  dark.  But 
(Continued  on  Page  61) 


44 


February,  1927 


THE  sinister,  long-drawn-out  poker 
game  had  ended.  Forty-eight 
hours  it  had  run,  with  but  scant 
interruptions  for  drinks.  The  strained, 
anxious  attention  of  the  barroom  hadn't 
slacked.  A  subtle  foreboding  sifted 
through  the  old  Buckhorn,  which 
squatted  like  a  great  brown  toad  on  the 
bank  of  the  Santone  River.  Through  the 
open  doorway  thin  streams  of  kerosene 
light  sliced  into  silver  ribbons  the  soft, 
thick  darkness  of  the  river,  where  gadded 
restless  fireflies.  It  was  of  these  lights 
the  cowboys  thought  as  they  chanted, 
"The  Lights  of  Ol'  Santone." 

This  commonly  boisterous,  frolicsome 
haunt  of  the  lower  Rio  Grande  puncher 
was  strangely  silent.  Waiting.  Men 
grimly  fixed  nervous,  alert  eyes  on  the 
saloon's  unique  collection  of  mounted 
horns,  as  if  they  didn't  know  by  heart 
the  history  of  every  horned  animal  there, 
from  the  border  toad  to  that  magnifi- 
cent steer  with  horns  measuring  eight 
feet  from  tip  to  tip,  which  cluttered  the 
ceiling  and  every  inch  of  available  wall 
space. 

Dutton  Ponder  had  staked  his  last 
dollar — then,  desperate,  had  staked  the 
Bar  X  land  and  cattle — and  lost.  Obvi- 
ously this  was  the  end — the  last  of  the 
increasingly  frequent  poker  sprees  which 
Dut  Ponder  of  the  Bar  X  had  indulged 
in  for  the  past  ten  years,  always  with 
the  feverish  hope  of  ultimate,  destroy- 
ing vengeance  on  his  old  enemy  Swank 
Jeddle,  cow-thief,  renegade,  professional 
trick  gambler. 

Stunned — bewildered  by  an  onslaught 
of  clamoring  thoughts  from  the  unre- 
callable  "Might  have  been" — it  was  Dut 
Ponder's  move — yet  he  sat  motionless. 
Because  of  the  devil  which  had  gripped 
his  soul  and  squeezed  it  dry  of  reason, 
sanity,  human  feeling,  he  had  lost  all; 
first  the  boy;  then  Alice — now  the  Bar 
X — everything.  He,  Dutton  Ponder, 
one  time  largest  private  cattle  dealer 
in  the  state,  sat  in  the  old  Buckhorn  a 
broken,  disgraced  outcast.  Overwhelmed 
with  useless  regrets.  Shamed  even  by 
the  blank  stare  of  the  Buckhorn's  prize 
boast  in  souvenir;  the  steer  with  the 
eight-foot  horn  measurement  once  grazed 
the  Bar  X  range;  belonged  to  the  ill- 
fated  "five  hundred."  It  was  common 
knowledge,  this  smouldering  grudge 
which  the  Bar  X  ranchman  held  against 
the  universally  hated  and  feared  gambler. 
The  saloon  crowd  was  with  Dut  Ponder 
almost  to  a  man;  friends  for  years,  not 
a  man  dared  interfere  because  of  his 
crazy  pride  and  temper.  Dut  was  a  fine 
old  cowman  except  when  he  locked 
horns  with  Jeddle  at  the  poker  table. 


Quien  Sabe 

By  ALAN  YANTIS 

Not  one  of  those  anxious  spectators  but 
would  have  gladly  made  any  personal 
sacrifice  to  spare  Dut  Ponder  that  stony, 
bleak  look  he  wore  at  he  sat  there  facing 
the  man  who  had  ruined  him  and  smiled 
at  his  handiwork. 

IT  HAD  all  come  about  over  five  hun- 
dred longhorn  steers,  high  at  thirty 
dollars  apiece.  Five  hundred  steers — and 
his  natural  bent  toward  cussedness,  al- 
ways there  but  curbed  after  his  meeting 
and  marriage  with  the  soft-voiced,  deeply 
religious  Alice.  Dut  Ponder  didn't  spare 
himself  in  that  swift  backward  look  over 
his  past.  The  fiendish  temper  and  urge 
to  gamble  which  was  born  with  him 
had  been  curbed,  but  not  killed,  until 
that  night  ten  years  ago  when  he  took 
the  lid  off  and  "left  'er  wide  open"  hell 
bent  for  destruction,  because — how  weak 
the  excuse  appeared  at  this  angle,  the 
angle  of  the  last  degree — because  Swank 
Jeddle  had  been  trusted  to  drive  five 
hundred  Bar  X  longhorns  with  the  herds 
he  was  trail  bossing  to  the  Kansas  mar- 
ket and  had  returned  to  report  the  Bar 
X  steers  lost  in  stampede  while  he 
pocketed  the  money  received  from  the 
sale — because  of  this  hurt  to  his  fool 
pride  and  failure  to  judge  his  man,  he 
had  gone  crazy;  had  thrown  away 
everything  dear  to  him  in  the  world. 
What  doddering,  blighting  fools  men 
made  of  themselves  over  the  things  that 
mattered  the  least.  He  hadn't  cared  a 
tinker's  damn  about  the  loss  of  that 
money;  everybody  knew  that.  Dut  Pon- 
der cared  less  than  nothing  for  the  metal 
coin.  But  look  what  he  had  done  to  him- 
self over  an  imagined  outraged  prin- 
ciple. 

Harry  was  barely  seventeen  when  they 
quarreled  that  day  over  his  gambling 
with  Jeddle.  He  had  told  him  to  get 
out  and  stay  out,  and  the  boy  had  taken 
him  at  his  word.  A  mere  baby,  Alice 
had  said  of  their  son;  in  her  bitter  grief 
saying  words  which  stung  him  into 
another  orgie  of  gambling.  Six  months 
later  a  stranger  from  across  the  border 
brought  news  of  the  boy's  reported  mur- 
der by  bandits.  Alice  had  mercifully 
passed  away  with  the  first  shock  of  the 
news.  But  he  had  lived  on — lived  with 
but  one  purpose  in  life,  to  break  beyond 
any  possible  come-back  the  man  who  had 
cost  him  his  loved  ones,  his  peace  of 
mind,  everything.  It  was  the  end,  yet 
he  hadn't  got  his  revenge.  But  it  didn't 
seem  to  matter  any  more.  He  was  tired 
— tired  of  the  whole  rotten  business. 

The  period  in  which  other  poker 
games  and  "here's  hows"  in  the  saloon 


suspended — waiting — while  Dutton 
Ponder  sat  motionless,  gazing  into  the 
crystal  ball  of  the  past,  in  reality  covered 
a  brief  five  minutes.  Then  suddenly  he 
rose  from  the  table,  walked  with  his  old 
dignity  down  the  long  narrow  room  to 
the  bar  and  called  for  a  drink ;  and  in  the 
interval  when  the  bartender's  back  was 
turned,  drew  the  gun  from  his  bosom 
and  blew  his  brains  out. 

The  first  to  get  to  the  fallen  man  was 
the  young  cowboy  who  for  hours  had 
been  lounging,  apparently  indifferent  to 
his  surroundings,  against  a  wooden  pil- 
lar just  back  of  Ponder's  chair  at  the 
poker  table.  The  whole  top  of  the  head 
was  blown  off.  Looking,  the  boy  shud- 
dered ;  grim  lines  settled  about  his 
mouth.  Then  rudely  elbowing  out  of  his 
way  those  who  would  have  assisted,  he  i 
lifted  the  lifeless  form  and  laid  it  gently  | 
on  an  unused  billiard  table  in  a  dim 
corner  of  the  barroom  and  covered  it 
with  a  Navajo  saddle  blanket  hastily 
commandeered  from  the  back  of  a  cow- 
pony  outside. 

Fifteen  minutes  after  the  single  shot 
which  ended  Dutton  Ponder's  life, 
Swank  Jeddle  began  to  assemble  new 
players  to  fill  the  vacancies  of  the 
suicide  and  his  friends.  Jeddle,  out- 
wardly serene,  inwardly  gloating  and  tri-* 
umphant  over  the  ownership  of  the  long- 
coveted  Bar  X,  and  an  odd  looking 
Mexican  had  remained  seated  at  the 
poker  table.  The  cowboy  having  per- 
formed the  only  service  he  could  for  the 
dead  man,  walked  back  to  the  poker 
table  and  straddled  the  unlucky  seat  the 
others  had  left  conspicuously  vacant.  As 
he  did  so,  one  of  the  new  players  greeted 
him: 

"Hello,  Ken  Savvy!  Thought  you'd 
went  back  to  Mexico." 

"  'Lo  Avers !"  Quien  Sabe  greeted  the 
acquaintaince  from  Manzanillo,  Mexico, 
and  answered  the  man's  personal  remark 
with  the  expressive  shrug  which  was 
responsible  for  his  rather  unusual  nick-- 
name. 

Swank  Jeddle  frowned  at  the  intruder. 
Mentioned  that  it  would  cost  anybody 
one  thousand  bucks  to  set  in  the  game. 
Quien  Sabe  pulled  a  roll  of  greenbacks 
from  his  pants  pocket  and  peeled  off 
one  bill  of  sufficient  denomination  to 
cover  a  thousand  dollars  worth  of  the 
tri-colored  chips.  Swank  Jeddle's  loose, 
puffy  features  twitched  at  the  sight  of 
that  fat  roll  of  greenbacks.  His  great 
baggy  hands  shuffled  the  cards  confi- 
dently. 

After  a  couple  of  deals  with  conserva- 
tive betting  all  round,  Jeddle  refusing 
to  rise  to  his  bait,  Quien  Sabe  pushc" 


February,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


45 


back  his  chair,  and  with  an  air  of  con- 
temptuous weariness,  drawled: 

"Thought  I  heard  somebody  say  this 
was  a  poker  game  callin'  fer  real  money. 
.  .  .  My  mistake.  .  .  .  Guess  I'll  be 
astin'  you  gents  to  'scuse  me  from  the 
ol'  woman's  quiltin'  .  .  ." 

"Keep  yore  seat,  young  feller!"  Swank 
Jeddle  invited.  "We  aim  to  please 
here  .  .  .the  sky's  the  limit  ...  go  to 
it!" 

Jeddle  didn't  attempt  to  disguise  the 
scorn  he  felt  for  the  young  "sprout"  who 
thought  he  knew  something  about  poker. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  had  no  intention 
of  allowing  that  "roll"  to  leave  the  table 
in  another's  pocket. 

QUIEN  SABE  kept  his  seat.  In  fact, 
nothing  short  of  an  earthquake 
could  have  pried  him  loose  from  it. 
The  next  deal  saw  the  betting  start 
strong  and  continue  to  soar  upward. 
Eventually,  though,  only  Quien  Sabe 
and  Jeddle  were  left  in  the  game. 

"Raise  yuh!"  Quien  Sabe  snapped  at 
Jeddle's  five  hundred  dollar  bet,  at  the 
same  time  shoving  a  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  reds  and  blues  into  the  pot. 

Jeddle  studied  his  hand  before  he 
covered  and  raised  five  hundred  more. 
Almost  before  the  words  were  out 
of  his  mouth  Quien  Sabe  raised  him  a 
thousand.  Jeddle  flashed  a  code  to  the 
Mexican.  Avers  caught  it.  His  memory 
jumped  back  two  years — a  night  in  Tia 
Juana — poker — Mexican  with  but  one 
eyebrow  answering  just  such  a  signal  by 
going  over  backward  in  a  realistic,  slob- 
bering fit,  kicking  table,  chips  and  cards 
into  hopeless  disorder  on  the  floor,  so 
that  nothing  but  a  new  deal  was  pos- 
sible. Avers,  a  second  quicker  than  the 
Mexican,  flung  a  heavy  arm  carelessly 
across  the  back  of  the  man's  chair  and 
pushed  if  off  its  two-legged  tilt  back- 
ward, yawning  elaborately  to  make  the 
gesture  appear  accidental.  Plainly, 
though,  Jeddle,  alert  and  suspicious  al- 
ways, wasn't  misled ;  saw  in  Avers' 
action  a  deliberate  blocking  of  his 
scheme  to  get  out  of  a  tight  hole  cheap. 
And  true  to  the  bullying  character  of 
the  man,  he  vented  his  spite  in  con- 
temptuous, baleful  looks  directed  at  the 
Mexican,  whose  little  black  eyes  filled 
with  sullen  hate  and  fear. 

Faced  with  the  alternative  of  spending 
another  thousand  to  see  that  young  fool's 
hand  or  throwing  down  his  cards  and 
taking  his  medicine,  Jeddle  was  taking 
a  long  time  to  make  up  his  mind.  Avers 
was  enjoying  himself  to  the  capacity 
of  a  joke-loving,  carefree  nature.  A 
drifter,  he  got  his  fun  out  of  life  by 
horning  in  and  making  it  his  business, 
when  the  other  fellow's  business  was  to 
rob  the  better  man.  Chuckling  at  the 
gambler's  obvious  confusion,  he  won- 


dered why  he  had  bothered  to  interfere 
in  behalf  of  this  Quien  Sabe  chap;  the 
fellow  sure  hadn't  showed  any  inclina- 
tion to  be  friendly  down  there  in  Man- 
zanillo;  answered  all  questions  with  a 
shrug  and  never  spoke  to  him,  or  any 
one  else,  except  when  he  wanted  to 
know  some  fine  point  of  poker,  which 
he  seemed  bent  on  learning  from  the 
ground  up.  Queer  kid,  with  an  ingrow- 
ing grudge,  and  it  looked  as  if  he  had 
stumbled  onto  the  object,  if  not  the 
reason,  of  his  bitter  hatred.  The  boy 
was  after  Jeddle's  scalp,  no  doubt  about 
it.  Well,  he  wasn't  sorry  that  he  had 
tried  to  help  the  boy,  unless  the  old 
gambler  got  his  nerve  back  and  called 


that  he  sure  wouldn't  blame  a  fellow 
for  hunting  the  tall  timber  and  letting 
'em  run  if  a  bunch  of  longhorns  like 
that  stampeded  on  him. 

Quien  Sabe  couldn't  tell  whether 
Avers  had  heard  the  story  of  Jeddle's 
"stampede"  of  the  Bar  X  steers  and 
was  deliberately  trying  to  irritate  the 
man,  or  whether  the  fellow  was  just 
garrulously  inclined.  At  any  rate  Swank 
Jeddle  had  found  the  excuse  he  was 
watching  for  to  get  rid  of  the  man  he 
had  reason  to  believe  "knew  too  much." 
Pushing  back  from  the  table  he  de- 
livered his  ultimatum:  either  this  man 
would  quit  the  game  or  he  himself  would 
do  so.  He  flatly  refused  to  set  in  the 


Spring  after  spring  Dut  Ponder  had  rounded  up  his  steers  and  had  been  pleased 


what  might  turn  out  to  be  the  wrong 
kind  of  a  hand ;  but  he  was  sorry  that 
he  was  going  to  miss  the  fun  there  would 
have  been  in  the  Buckhorn  that  night  if 
he  had  allowed  that  Greaser  to  pull  his 
trick  and  then  had  wised  these  Texas 
cowboys  up  to  what  had  been  done.  Jolly 
little  party  no  doubt,  and  he  thrived  on 
such  parties,  but — Avers  sighed  at  the 
lost  prospect. 

Jeddle  suddenly  decided  that  the  fel- 
low was  probably  sitting  over  there  with 
four  aces,  so  laid  down  his  hand.  Quien 
Sabe,  having  opened,  showed  a  pair  of 
sevens  and  raked  in  a  six  thousand  dollar 
pot. 

Avers  laughed  long  and  loud  at  this 
pieces  of  colossal  bluffing,  partly  at  him- 
self for  refusing  to  stay  on  a  pair  of 
tens. 

"Meet  my  friend,  Mr.  'Who  Knows,' 
gentlemen,"  he  humorously  remarked. 

The  fact  that  none  of  the  players  ap- 
peared to  notice  his  remarks  seemed 
rather  to  encourage  him  than  otherwise, 
for  he  drifted  into  a  monologue  on  the 
Buckhorn's  famous  collection  of  horns, 
observing,  with  regard  to  the  big  steer, 


game  with  a  fellow  who  kept  "shootin" 
off  his  head"  all  the  time. 

Quien  Sabe  felt  that  with  Jeddle  out 
of  the  game  it  would  have  no  further 
interest  for  him ;  at  the  same  time  it 
galled  him  to  have  to  stand  for  Avers 
being  kicked  out  on  such  a  flimsy  ex- 
cuse. But  so  long  as  Avers  seemed  wil- 
ling to  quit,  guessed  he'd  not  raise  any 
row,  particularly  with  a  strong  current 
of  luck  running  his  way. 

"Mucha  'bliged,  Mr.  Jelly,  fer  lettin' 
me  ketch  my  train,"  Avers  said,  rising 
and  bowing  to  Jeddle. 

As  he  was  leaving  his  seat  Avers'  foot 
touched  Quien  Sabe's  under  the  table, 
which  he  took  to  mean  a  warning  against 
Jeddle  and  was  greatly  amused  at  the 
irony  of  anybody  warning  him  against 
that  man. 

With  no  more  preliminary  than  a  sar- 
castic remark  about  an  old  grudge, 
Avers  then  picked  up  the  Mexican,  chair 
and  all,  and  dumped  him  into  the 
street,  strongly  advising  the  Greaser  to 
keep  away  from  the  Buckhorn  for  the 
balance  of  the  evening.  A  smile,  a  wink, 
(Continued  on  Page  58) 


46 


February,  1927 


A  Requiem  for  Denver 


WHAT  is  it  about  cities  that  gives 
them,  sometimes,  all  the  indi- 
vidual flavor  of  a  flesh-and- 
blood  personality?  There  is  a  savori- 
ness  to  some  cities  that  is  at  once  unique 
and  inimitable,  as  unforgettable  as  the 
impression  of  what  Scott  Fitzgerald 
would  call  a  "personage."  Theodore 
Dreiser  has  felt  this  individuality  of 
cities  perhaps  as  acutely  as  any  modern 
writer.  Then  again  there  is  that  delight- 
ful volume,  "Europe  After  8:15"  by 
Mencken-Nathan  and  Wright,  with  its 
rare  chapters  on  London,  Vienna,  Paris, 
Munich  and  Berlin.  Who  could  forget, 
en  passant,  the  one  great  poem  that  Mr. 
Mencken  ever  wrote — "Good  Old  Balti- 
more"— which  ran  in  one  of  the  very 
early  issues  of  The  Smart  Set,  when  he 
was  editor.  After  reading  this  prose- 
poem  one  has  a  very  definite  and  a  very 
vivid  impression  of  Baltimore;  the  same 
sort  of  impression  that  one  retains  of 
a  memorable  character  in  fiction.  Menc- 
ken's article  on  Baltimore  is  not  a  cata- 
logue of  its  wonders,  nor  a  summary 
of  its  history,  but  a  diligent  ferreting  out 
of  its  delightful  secrets  and  unseen 
charms,  of  its  peculiarities.  San  Fran- 
cisco has  often  been  subject  to  this,  shall 
I  say,  psycho-analysis,  as  has  New  Or- 
leans and  Chicago.  Who  could  forget, 
also,  Joseph  Hergesheimer's  colorful  pic- 
ture of  Havana?  But  I  don't  recall  that 
Denver  has  ever  been  attempted.  The 
explanation  of  this  is  perhaps  very  sim- 
ple. The  task  would  have  to  be  done 
by  someone  familiar  with  the  city  over 
a  long  period  of  years,  to  appreciate  its 
moods  and  changes,  and  Denver  has 
never  been  famous  as  a  literary  center. 
So  it  has  dozed  blissfully  on,  unaware 
of  its  own  identity,  and  perhaps  ignorant 
that  it  has  a  personality. 

MY  FIRST  impression  of  Denver: 
I  am  in  that  early  morning  border- 
land between  sleep  and  consciousness. 
It  is  early  spring,  and  it  is  my  first 
visit  to  Denver,  and  I  am  hardly  be- 
yond the  lisping  age.  Through  the  hotel 
windows — the  old  red-plush  Standish 
Hotel — sifts  a  fine  golden-rose  spray  of 
sunlight,  and  on  the  cobblestone  streets 
below  the  clatter  of  carriages  and  cabs 
passes  melodiously  along  and  is  lost  in 
the  generally  awakening  clamor  of  the 
city.  The  air  is.  wine-chilled,  and  there 
is  nothing  as  delightful  as  the  shimmer 
of  the  sun  on  the  bright  green  of  the 
trees  below,  down  the  street  away.  Yes, 
trees  downtown!  From  this  first  flash 
the  picture  evolves,  and  soon  it  becomes 
a  mural  canvas.  Denver  is  seen  at  all 
seasons,  for  years,  first  only  during 


By  CAREY  McWiLLiAMS 

visits,  but  then  ultimately  I  become  a 
resident.  But  of  those  visits — 

There  were  always  the  annual  visits 
at  Christmas  time.  Flurries  of  snow, 
broken  by  days  of  miraculous  clearness, 
tinged  with  a  touch  of  actual  spring, 
a  hint  of  warm  weather,  and  then  snow, 
snow.  Frozen  city  streets ! — the  perfect 
setting  for  windows  of  green  and  red, 
full  of  Christmas  wonders.  Warm,  com- 
fortable hotel  lobbies,  and  happy,  push- 
ing, crowding,  joyous  throngs  every- 
where. And  then  theatres!.  Perhaps 
some  local  stock  company  attempting  to 
do  one  of  Mr.  Faversham's  New  York 
successes  of  the  day,  as  "The  Hawk"; 
or  perchance  the  old  Broadway,  with  its 
strange,  alhambra-esque,  bric-a-brac, 
decorations,  and  its  radiance  of  half- 
veiled  lights,  with  Margaret  Illington, 
or  Maxine  Elliott,  or  some  other  ma- 
jestic tower  of  queenliness  uttering  noble 
sentiments  and  mounting  lines  of  melo- 
drama. Of  course  there  were  a  few 
churches,  even  then,  but  bad  memories 
soon  fade — 

Stock  show  time  followed  hard  on 
the  holidays.  Every  large  city  has  its 
annual  day  of  days,  and  with  with  us 
it  was  always  stock  show  time.  It  was 
the  annual  toast,  or  tribute,  of  a  society 
and  of  a  community  in  which  live  stock 
figured  so  largely  as  the  source  of  its 
prosperity.  People  made  a  living  prin- 
cipally, or  in  some  way  connected  with, 
the  cattle  industry.  Every  one  drove 
horses,  and  riding  was  still,  as  it  always 
will  be  in  some  places,  the  only  sport 
worth  the  abandonment  of  a  yawn.  The 
stadiums  at  night  would  be  jammed. 
Trotting  horses,  fancy  stepping  pacers, 
Shetland  pony  teams,  driving  horses, 
four-wheelers,  bucking  horses,  wild 
horses;  a  whirling,  circling  maze  of  bays, 
sorrels,  blacks,  greys,  pintos,  and  a  vast 
mass  of  nondescripts.  The  famous 
eastern  and  middle-western  stables 
would  always  be  represented.  Lulu  Long 
would  be  there,  in  her  invariably  plum 
colored  habit,  driving  her  own  horses. 
And  then  at  the  close  of  the  evening, 
the  famous  heavy-horse,  six  and  ten 
team,  competition  between  the  coaches 
of  the  various  packing  companies.  Im- 
mense and  shining  coaches,  emblazoned 
with  plate  work  and  decoration,  and 
pulled  by  teams  of  six  or  ten  shining 
greys,  sleek  bays,  or  resplendent  blacks. 
Indeed  a  pageant,  and  one  that  reflected 
a  buoyant  society,  full  of  tremendous 
vigor  and  robustness,  kicking  its  arms 
and  legs  with  joy,  as  Nietzsche  would 
say,  and  wild  with  the  joy  of  life. 

The  hotel  lobbies  at  this  time  of  the 


year  would  be  a  surging  mass  of  inter- 
esting western  life.  Character,  unique, 
unmatched,  and  simply  overwhelming  in 
its  variety  and  vitality,  was  to  be  found 
on  all  sides.  Cattlemen  rich  from  recent 
sales  during  the  show,  in  full  length 
fur  coats,  flashing  diamond  rings,  with 
immense  white  stetsons  (and  damn  the 
man  that  called  them  sombreros!), 
smoking  huge  cigars  and  exuding  brazen 
robustness  and  delightful  vulgarity.  Not 
your  intolerable  salesman  of  today,  not 
your  city  Babbitt,  but  a  veritable  moun- 
tain of  energy  and  fine  spirits.  Those 
hotel  lobbies  were  a  canvas  worthy  an 
artist  of  note — The  Brown  Palace,  The 
Adams,  The  Albany,  The  Shirley-Savoy, 
and  The  Kaiserhoff,  (during  the  war  the 
local  patriots  forced  the  management  to 
change  its  dear  old  name  to  The  Ken- 
mark!),  and  what  barrooms  they  had! 
Liquor  not  as  an  opiate,  but  just  for 
"the  hell  of  it,"  as  they  would  say 
themselves.  Sheepmen,  miners,  gamblers, 
bunco  artists,  soldiers,  a  few  Indians, — 
the  whole  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the 
west. 

And  then  there  was  Market  Street. 
Sin  is  old,  and  every  town  has  its  Mar- 
ket Street,  where  other  than  herbs  are 
hawked  for  sale.  If  you  walked  along 
Curtis  between  14th  and  17th  Streets 
you  were  presumably  a  respectable  citizen 
but  if  you  walked  along  between  the  same 
streets  one  block  or  so  below  you  were 
a  man  of  loose  habits  and  immoral  prac- 
tices, although  no  one  really  cared 
whether  you  were  or  not — then.  Rumor 
has  it  that  along  this  street,  one  of  the 
most  far-famed  of  its  kind  in  the  west, 
there  were  bordellos  as  exclusive  and 
as  well  managed  as  a  city  club.  Only 
money,  real  gold,  could  buy  admittance 
into  some  of  these  inner  sanctums  of 
assignation.  Indeed  so  glorified  a  repu- 
tation did  the  more  successful  managers 
of  these  dens  of  iniquity  have  that  some 
of  them  married  the  more  drunken  and 
wealthier  miners,  under  adopted  names, 
and  set  up  stock  on  Capitol  Hill  as 
of  the  elite,  and  carried  it  off  with  a 
high  hand. 

EVERY  city  of  a  more  or  less  slow 
and  even  growth  has  its  region  of 
the  Olympians,  where  the  "Cabots  speak 
only  to  Lowells,  and  the  Lowells  only 
to  God."  In  Denver  there  were  no 
Cabots  but  there  was  a  world  of  wealth 
and  where  there  is  wealth  there  is  social 
pretense.  Once  your  Gunnison  or  Lead- 
ville,  or  Cripple  Creek,  miner  made  a 
fortune, — and  there  were  countless  for- 
tunes made — he  invariably  moved  to 
Denver  and  bought  a  house  on  Capitol 
(Continued  on  Page  62) 


February,  1927 


47 


Business  or  Pleasure 


IT  WAS  a  typical  San  Francisco  set- 
ting.    Towering    spires,    the    Mark 
Hopkins  Hotel  and  the  quaint  mys- 
terious hills  outlined  in   a  wistful  haze 
suggesting  the  romantic  charm  of  Paris. 
The  Johnson  liner,  Balboa,  bringing 
freight   by  way  of   the   Panama   Canal 
from   Scandinavia,   Antwerp   and   Gua- 
temala swung  slowly  into  port.  On  board 
the    motorship,    traveling    characteristic 
fashion,  was  Charmian  London,  return- 
ing to  California  after  a  year's  sojourn 
in  Europe. 


By  ANNE  DELARTIGUE  KENNEDY 

cinating  ports  to  the  Grecian  Archipel- 
ago, on  a  45-foot  yacht  sailed  by  a 
woman  friend.  Owing  to  the  long- 
drawn-out  repairs  and  changes  to  the  lit- 
tle craft,  as  well  as  villainous  weather  on 
tht  Mediterranean,  which  might  have 
prevented  the  voyage  at  the  time,  even 
if  the  yacht  had  been  ready,  she  gave  up 
the  venture  and  returned  to  Paris  for  a 
second  visit. 

From  thence  she  journeyed  by  land  to 


Charmian  London 

who  has  so 

remarkably  carried 

on  her  husband's 

name  and  his 
honor  and  his  work. 


Mrs.  London  sailed  a  year  ago  from 
New  York  direct  for  London,  where  she 
lived  for  some  weeks  as  an  honor  guest 
at  the  Ladies'  Antheneum  Club,  of 
which  her  friend,  Mrs.  Elliott-Lynn,  the 
noted  aviatrix,  is  secretary.  From  there 
she  went  to  Paris,  where  she  spent 
Christmas  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewis 
Galientiere.  Mr.  Galientiere  is  well 
known  by  readers  of  our  eastern  critical 
magazines,  and  is  incidentally  a  member 
of  the  International  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce. 

This  has  been  a  year  of  disappoint- 
ments for  Mrs.  London  so  far  as  her  defi- 
nite plans  are  concerned.  In  the  first 
place,  she  had  expected  the  adventure  of 
a  cruise  from  Marseilles  by  devious  fas- 


Copenhagen,  where  she  visited  her  hus- 
band's and  her  own  publisher,  Mr.  Jon 
Martin,  and  his  family.  Charmian  Lon- 
don also  made  other  visits  in  various 
parts  of  the  little  kingdom,  of  which  she 
is  very  fond.  Many  experiences  were 
hers,  the  most  unique  being  when  she 
spoke  directly,  through  the  microphone, 
to  more  than  40,000  persons  covering 
literally  the  green  hills  of  Rebild  on  the 
American  Fourth  of  July.  Americans 
born  in  Denmark  bought  this  pictur- 
esque section  and  presented  it  to  the 
Danish  state.  It  is  the  only  ground  out- 
side of  the  United  States  and  dependen- 
cies where  our  Independence  Day  is 
observed. 

She  was   received   with  acclaim,   and 


was  deeply  touched  by  the  warmth  ac- 
corded her  husband's  widow,  also  by 
the  continued  popularity  of  her  own 
work  as  well  as  that  of  Jack  London. 

Sitting  at  an  inconspicuous  table, 
lunch-time  in  the  Hotel  Fairmont  dining 
room,  Mrs.  London  discussed  the  Euro- 
pean people  and  their  attitude  toward 
Jack  London's  and  her  own  work.  Jack 
London  "is  going  strong"  in  England, 
Scandinavia,  Poland,  Germany  and 
especially  in  France.  In  Paris  now  his 
books  are  being  read  aloud  in  the  schools, 
as  examples  of  style.  THE  CALL  OF 
THE  WILD  especially,  and  lately  his 
short  Alaskan  story,  TO  BUILD  A 
FIRE,  has 'been  selected  for  this  pur- 
pose. 

THE  German  people,  who  before  the 
war  took  no  more  than  a  superficial 
interest  in  Jack  London  or  his  work, 
are  now  anxious  to  obtain  his  works 
in  German,  and  his  publishers  in  Ber- 
lin, the  Universitas  Verlag,  are  begin- 
ning to  publish  six  a  year.  Mr.  E. 
Magnus,  a  skilled  translator,  is  deeply 
engrossed  in  the  work.  The  publishers 
are  also  considering  the  translation  of 
Charmian's  biography  of  her  husband. 
This  is  appearing  serially  now  (1926) 
in  Paris  in  REVUE  DE  PARIS,  to 
be  followed  by  book  publication  in  the 
near  future. 

Mrs.  London  had  expected  to  write 
a  lively  chronicle  of  the  yachting  trip 
to  Greece  for  a  New  York  magazine, 
to  be  made  into  a  book  later.  But  among 
her  many  other  disappointments  was 
also  the  falling  through  of  a  motor  trip 
to  Lapland.  This  was  due  to  an  auto- 
mobile accident  to  the  friends  who  had 
conceived  the  trip  for  her.  So,  her  entire 
year  abroad  was  one  of  sight-seeing  and 
play,  rather  than  of  work.  In  fact,  the 
only  work  she  did  was  a  requested 
article  about  Jack  London  for  the  Paris 
L'Intransigeant. 

After  enjoying  seaside  life  in  very 
good  weather,  with  some  of  the  gaieties 
of  Copenhagen  among  friends  old  and 
new,  many  of  whom  have  visited  her 
ranch  in  Sonoma  Valley,  she  traveled 
by  steamer  to  Stockholm,  Sweden,  and 
spent  a  month  among  the  granite  islands 
that  guard  that  beautiful  city  from  the 
Baltic.  In  this  region  she  declares,  she 
did  nothing  more  serious  than  swim, 
row,  attend  the  great  regatta  at  Sand- 
ham,  pick  wild  strawberries,  raspber- 
ries, blueberries  and  the  like.  She  missed 
the  season  of  the  lilies-of-the-valley. 
They  grow  as  profusely  as  the  weeds 
in  the  springtime,  and  this  was  another 
cause  for  regret. 


48 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


February,  1927 


Sometime  in  February,  the  interven- 
ing weeks  spent  in  the  Latin  Quarter  for 
the  most  part,  she  journeyed  to  Aix-en- 
Provence,  near  Marseilles,  where  she 
met  her  yachting  friends.  While  wait- 
ing for  the  yacht  to  be  made  ready,  they 
quite  thoroughly  toured  old  Roman 
Provence,  Cevennes,  and  surrounding 
country,  and  went  again  to  Pau, Biarritz 
and  other  places  in  the  Basses  Pyrenees, 
which  Charmian  had  visited  on  her  last 
trip.  Later,  she  was  joined  at  Aix  by 
Miss  Anne  Swainson  of  the  University 
of  California,  and  the  two  spent  some 
six  weeks  touring  Italy,  as  far  as  Rome, 
and  seeing  something  of  the  French  and 
Italian  Rivieras.  Among  other  friends 
whom  she  encountered,  were  Lincoln 
Steffens  and  Frederick  O'Brien,  and  on 
her  second  visit  to  Paris  she  met  Mrs. 
John  McNear,  with  whom  she  had 
traveled  from  New  York  to  the  Con- 
tinent, and  ex-Senator  James  D.  Phelan. 
At  a  delightful  party  given  by  the  latter 
she  met  Miss  Helen  Wills  for  the  first 
time. 

While  all  this  sounds  like  one  long 
round  of  pleasure,  it  must  not  be  for- 
gotten that  Charmian  London  was  upon 
business  intent,  furthering  the  making 


of  contracts  for  her  husband's  and  her 
own  work.  She  has  an  eye  upon  dra- 
matic possibilities,  also,  and  is  hopeful 
of  big  results  in  this  respect,  especially 
in  Paris. 

The  loading  of  the  motorship  in  Ant- 
werp gave  her  ten  days  in  which  to  visit 
the  neighborhood,  which  includes  some 
of  the  most  interesting  country  covered 
by  the  war.  However,  she  did  not  avail 
herself  of  this  opportunity,  but  devoted 
herself  instead  to  seeing  the  city  itself, 
which,  among  other  rare  features,  pos- 
sesses perhaps  the  finest  art  gallery  in 
Belgium.  The  port  itself  was  fertile 
field  for  beauty  and  interest. 

Except  for  Denmark  and  Sweden, 
Charmian  London  states  that  she  has 
encountered  uninterrupted  foul  weather 
for  the  entire  year,  and  prays  that  Cali- 
fornia may  mete  her  more  sympathetic 
treatment. 

This  is  the  second  time  Charmian  has 
voyaged  to  and  from  Sweden  on  a  huge 
motorship — those  great  gray  Diesel  cargo 
boats  that  ply  all  over  this  rolling  ball 
at  the  present  day.  She  is  in  despair 
to  find  real  sailing  any  more.  In  other 
days  San  Francisco  Bay  was  her  port 


in  which  to  dream  of  far  havens  beyond 
the  Golden  Gate.  Through  that  storied 
portal  she  came  to  fare  on  dreams  real- 
ized. Now  she  says,  this  gorgeous  ex- 
panse of  harbored  waters  salt-tidal  and 
river-fresh  is  a  waste  which  has  ceased 
to  be  setting  for  sails  almost  fabulous, 
for  the  present  generation  fairly  knows 
them  not. 

Now,  once  more  on  Sonoma  Mountain 
among  her  horses,  in  the  midst  of  the 
beauty  that  never  ceases  to  charm  her, 
mindful  of  the  happy  days  shared  with 
Jack  .  .  .  the  days  that  are  set  forth 
in  The  falley  of  the  Moon,  and  which 
are  described  at  length  in  her  biography, 
The  Book  of  Jack  London,  Charmian 
London  will  once  more  take  up  her 
work  toward  the  completion  of  her  hus- 
band's Novel  Eyes  of  Asia  for  book  pub- 
lication, as  well  as  foreign  serial  rights. 
This  book  was  published,  much  con- 
densed, over  a  year  ago  in  Cosmopolitan 
Magazine.  Afterwards,  while  riding 
horseback,  Charmian  met  with  a  painful 
accident,  which  interrupted  the  com- 
pleting of  the  novel.  She  thinks  that 
after  this  novel  is  completed  she  may 
begin  a  long-contemplated  one  of  her 
own. 


An  Artist  in  Search  of  New  Mediums 


MAYNARD  DIXON,  illustrator, 
mural  decorator  and  painter  of 
parts,  seems  to  be  entering  upon 
a  new  phase  of  his  artistic  development. 
Years  with  brush  and  palette,  instead 
of  detaching  him  from  actuality,  have 
brought  him  closer  in  touch  with  things 
as  they  are.  His  experience  has  brought 
him  to  a  belief  in  the  desirability  of 
some  new  medium  for  the  painter,  a 
medium  that  will  be  an  integral  expres- 
sion of  the  life  of  today. 

Dixon  feels  that  paintings,  in  the  ac- 
cepted sense,  are  out  of  keeping  with 
present  day  attitudes.  To  him  it  seems 
that,  in  this  age  of  steel  and  concrete, 
the  painter's  talent  is  somewhat  dissi- 
pated when  used  only  on  transient  can- 
vas that  takes  no  vital  part  in  the  scheme 
of  modern  life. 

Recently  there  has  been  an  increasing 
cry  raised  by  artists  and  patrons  every- 
where that  people  are  losing  interest  in 
art — in  pictures.  More  and  more  homes 
are  being  decorated  without  the  use,  or 
even  a  place  for  framed  pictures. 

This  public  reaction  has  been  decried. 
It  has  been  combatted  by  "buy  a  picture" 
weeks.  It  has  been  the  subject  of  propa- 
ganda and  dealers'  plots.  People  have 
said  the  world  is  "going  to  the  dogs"  be- 
cause fine  paintings  are  being  relegated 
to  public  and  private  galleries. 

Instead  of  wailing  and  gnashing  his 


By  ALINE  KISTLER 

teeth  at  recognition  of  the  trend  of  the 
times,  Maynard  Dixon  analyzed  the 
situation  and  found  it  but  the  natural 
result  of  an  efficient  age  of  steel  con- 
struction and  concrete  building.  And, 
recognizing  the  situation  for  what  it  is, 
he  concluded  that  artists  should  change 
their  attitudes  instead  of  trying  to  turn 
back  the  years.  He  contends  that  artists 
should  become  a  part  of  the  present  day 
scheme  of  things  and,  instead  of  painting 
bits  of  canvas  that  are  detached  from 
modern  living,  they  should  work  in  con- 
crete and  stucco  or  some  other  20th  cen- 
tury medium  and  make  of  their  art  not 
a  superfluous  excrescence  on  the  surface 
of  civilization  but  rather  an  innate  part 
of  today's  life. 

This  recognition  of  values  is  the 
natural  result  of  Dixon's  development 
from  the  nature-loving  plainsman  to  the 
artist  he  is  today. 

From  his  boyhood,  spent  in  the  broad 
unbroken  plains  of  the  San  Joaquin,  he 
imbibed  an  intense  love  of  earth  itself 
that  has  kept  him  closer  in  spirit  to 
reality  and  the  plains  of  living  than  most 
who  have  heard  the  inveiglements  of 
art. 


0 


NE  can  imagine  the  stripling  May- 
nard in   the  level  stretches  of   the 


valley  land,  loving  the  very  monotony 
that  is  the  smooth  earth's  charm  for 
the  plain  born.  He  did  not  ask  for  the 
contrasts  and  excitements  of  mountains. 
His  variants  were  the  low-lying  snake 
of  the  railway,  the  occasional  ranch 
house,  the  tree-fringed  river's  edge,  For 
him  were  not  the  embellishment  of  life 
but  the  bare,  breathing  realities  of  a  puls- 
ing grain  field  or  the  cold  straight  steel 
of  the  locomotive  roadbed. 

He  became  an  illustrator  but  the  en- 
forced limitations  of  editorial  and  sub- 
ject demands  irked  him.  He  exhibited 
and  sold  pictures.  He  painted  murals. 

For  a  time  this  contented  him.  But 
not  for  long. 

The  feeling  that  what  he  was  doing 
was  merely  an  embellishment  on  life 
grew.  He  painted.  People  bought  his 
canvases — but  still  he  felt  that  what  he 
had  created  took  no  integral  part  in 
existence.  The  thing  over  which  he  had 
sweated  and  toiled  had  no  place  which 
belonged  to  it  and  it  alone.  The  picture 
might  be  bought  by  someone  who  would 
put  it  in  a  permanent  setting  or  it  might 
soon  find  the  cobwebs  of  the  garret. 

Mural  decoration  absorbed  Dixon  for 
a  time.  Here  at  least  he  was  working 
on  something  that  had  a  fixed  niche. 
And  in  this  work  he  accomplished  much, 
notably  the  splendid  panels  in  the  Mark 
(Continued  on  Page  63) 


February,  1927 


49 


"America's  Soul" 


HOW  can  the  soul  of  any  land  be 
expressed  in  words  easy  to 
understand,  or  so  described  as 
to  set  it  apart  from  others,  when  the 
cultural  progress  which  mankind  has 
made  the  last  hundred  years  has  created 
interests  common  to  all,  and  given  to 
the  ideals  of  all  progressive  countries 
something  of  the  same  complexion? 

America's  Soul  may  be  expressed  in 
the  theory  of  equality,  by  Mazzini's 
conception :  "The  progress  of  all  through 
all,  under  the  leadership  of  the  best  and 
wisest." 

America's  Soul  is  best  expressed  by 
the  doctrine  that  binds  its  people  in  one 
body,  the  doctrine  of  democracy.  And 
what  engrosses  America's  spiritual  ener- 
gies is  the  search  for  the  wisest  and  best, 
that  she  may  elevate  them  to  posts  of 
leadership  and  command. 

The  militarism  under  which  she  found 
herself  a  little  while  ago — the  yoke  she 
shared  for  the  time  being  with  England 
and  France — has  delayed  the  progress 
but  little,  if  any  at  all.  Her  struggle, 
which  ended  so  triumphantly  the  com- 
mon cause,  was  an  effort  evoked  by  the 
most  altruistic  demand. 

There  is  a  great  difference  between 
the  soul  of  the  mob  and  the  soul  of  the 
people — the  characteristic  of  the  mob  is 
to  decry  attainment,  to  shout,  "Every 
man  down  to  the  level  of  the  average," 
while  the  ideal  of  the  people  is,  "All 
men  up  to  the  height  of  their  fullest 
capacity  for  service  and  achievement." 

The  Soul  of  America  may  be  devel- 
oped most  generally  by  education,  for 
the  greatest  need  is  a  fuller  appreciation 
on  the  part  of  both  teachers  and  pupils, 
for  that  democracy  alone  will  be  tri- 
umphant which  has  both  intelligence  and 
character. 

Back  of  the  ideals  of  democracy,  is 
a  belief  in  the  Tightness  of  the  two  laws 
— the  Law  of  Liberty,  and  the  Law  of 
Equality.  The  two  combined  are  a  driv- 
ing motive,  the  fusion  of  the  conscious 
will,  with  those  universal,  eternal,  un- 
conscious laws  which,  as  Whitman  re- 
marked, "run  through  all  time,  pervade 
history,  prove  immortality,  give  moral 
purpose  to  the  entire  world,  and  the 
last  dignity  to  human  life." 

If  we  give  a  wide  sense  to  the  word 


By  MARY  E.  WATKINS 

"Liberty,"  and  make  it  mean  all  that 
stands  for  self -development,  then  one 
might  say  that  this  ideal  was  fairly  well 
summed  up  in  the  famous  watchword, 
"Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity." 

UNDERSTAND  in  any  degree 
the  modern  outlook  upon  life  in 
America,  it  seems  necessary  to  go  back  to 
the  time  of  the  French  Revolution.  For 
at  that  stirring  epoch  there  flamed  up 
on  the  minds  of  enthusiasts  an  ideal  of 
man's  life  larger  than  had  ever  yet  been 
known,  and  one  that  has  dominated  us 
all  ever  since. 

Goethe,  the  so-called  aristocrat,  gave 
-us  a  true  formula  for  the  democratic 
faith  as  could  well  be  found,  when  he 
wrote  "Only  through  all  men,  can  man- 
kind be  made — only  not  in  one  man,  but 
many."  This  noble  passage  tells  us  that 
all  good  lies  in  Man  and  must  be  de- 
veloped. 

The  basis  of  the  soul  of  democracy 
and  America  is  shown  to  be  the  faith 
in  this  essential  unity,  a  unity  that  is 
being  worked  out,  that  America  is  en- 
deavoring to  realize,  for  it  knows  it  to 
be  capable  of  realization. 

The  point  of  view  of  America  is  that 
the  world  as  it  is  constituted  is  any- 
thing but  ready-made,  rather  that  it  is 
in  the  process  of  making,  and  we  Amer- 
icans are  among  the  makers.  American 
democracy  is  sprung  from  the  conception 
of  equality  of  all  citizens,  and  is  satis- 
fied with  nothing  less  than  the  substan- 
tial participation  of  the  whole  of  the 
people  in  the  management  of  the  state. 

The  educated  Greek  at  the  height  of 
his  country's  development  was  taught  to 
regard  participation  in  the  public  serv- 
ice alike  as  a  duty  and  a  privilege. 

The  well-being  of  the  community  to 
the  educated  American  is  constantly  be- 
fore him  as  an  ideal  of  personal  conduct. 

The  prophet  of  the  most  generous 
political  gospel  ever  preached,  Mazzini, 
was  an  exponent  of  the  international 
soul.  He  lived  on  the  hope  that  if  free- 
dom were  given  to  the  nations  and  duty 
set  before  them,  they  would  prove 
worthy  of  their  double  mission,  and 
peace  would  come  to  pass  between  all 
peoples. 


The  story  of  the  development  of  the 
American  soul  has  been  a  commentary 
on  the  words  of  Keats: 

"The  world  is  not  a  vale  of  tears,  but 
a  vale  of  soul-making."  In  America  it 
is  to  be  observed  in  the  work  of  those  in 
the  van  of  philosophy,  government,  lit- 
erature and  ethics — soul-making,  the 
practice  and  theory,  has  become  more 
and  more  clearly  and  consciously  the  ob- 
ject of  thought  and  endeavor.  It  will 
result  in  the  greater  mind,  capable  of 
seeing  the  links  in  the  overhelming  mass 
of  science,  in  the  mazes  of  human  action 
and  history.  We  need  it  still  more  to 
grasp  and  to  preserve  the  unity  of  our 
social  life.  Most  of  all  for  the  healing 
of  the  world  is  the  greater  soul  needed, 
with  a  world-consciousness,  some  knowl- 
edge, some  sympathy,  some  hope  for  all 
mankind. 

The  worthwhile  novelists  who  have 
arisen  to  distinction  in  our  land  are  rep- 
resentatives of  the  movement  in  this 
direction  —  Anderson,  Dreiser,  Gather 
and  Wharton — are  essentially  psycholog- 
ical; they  enlarge  our  knowledge  of  the 
soul. 

America  builds  the  future  on  this  en- 
largement of  the  soul.  It  is  the  crown- 
ing vision  of  the  modern  world,  filled 
out  and  strengthened  by  the  life  and 
thought  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  years. 
In  the  interval,  since  the  armistice,  we 
have  lived  much  and  learned  much,  both 
of  our  own  nature  and  the  world  in 
which  we  live. 

America's  strongest  belief  is  that,  if 
the  world  is  to  be  proved  acceptable  to 
man's  conscience,  it  will  be  through  the 
effort  of  every  man  himself  struggling 
toward  his  ideal.  This  is  what  America 
is  striving  for.  America's  soul  has  as  its 
goal  the  existence  of  a  real  unity  of  na- 
tions, whose  business  it  will  be  to 
strengthen  themselves  as  a  moral  force, 
to  act  as  trustees  for  the  weaker  people 
and  lead  the  world  to  far  higher  heights 
than  it  has  yet  attained. 

One  may  secure  the  most  adequate 
idea  of  what  is  America's  soul,  by  a 
study  of  its  finest  expression,  as  is  in  the 
writings  and  speeches  of  Lincoln,  Wash- 
ington, Jefferson,  and  the  poetry  of 
Whitman,  the  latter,  who  called  Amer- 
ica not  merely  a  nation,  but  a  "teeming 
nation  of  nations." 


50 


February,  1927 


Bits  of  Verse 


SONG  OF  THE  DESERT 

OVER  the  mesquite  and  the  mesa 
Blows  the  wind  with  ceaseless  moan, 
A  song  of  the  painted  desert 
In  its  hollow  monotone. 

"A  trail  of  blood  and  flame 

Has  crossed  your  burning  sands; 

The  lure  of  your  buried  gold 

Has  mocked  those  empty,  outstretched  hands. 

"Beauty  wild,  and  grave,  and  gay 
Sleeps  within  your  sombre  breast ; 
Only  the  eyes  of  those  who  love 
Can  rouse  her  from  her  rest." 

Soft  half-tones  and  sharp  high-lights, 
Dawn  shimmering  through  an  opal  mist; 
Mountains  veiled  in  mystery, 
Star-filled  heights  the  moon  has  kissed. 

When  twilight's  amethystine  fingers 
Touch  the  drooping  eyes  of  day, 
Where  the  wind  blows — what  it  knows, 
The  desert  will  not  say. 

OLIVE  WINDETTE. 


"A  DEBUTANTE" 

A  PAPER  doll  is  Violet— 
A  pretty  thing  of  gilt  and  lace : 
To  smile  and  pout  and  to  coquette 
They've  trained  her  pretty  paper  face. 

Because  her  shallow  eyes  are  gray, 
Her  hair  a  mass  of  golden  strands, 
Some  Spring  a  trusting  boy  will  lay 
His  young  dreams  in  her  paper  hands. 

Oh  dreams  may  die  and  tears  may  fall, 
But — with  her  smiling,  pretty  grace — 
This  maid  will  know  them  not  at  all, 
For  Life  can't  break  a  heart  of  lace. 

JOY  O'HARA. 


HYDE  HILL,  SAN  FRANCISCO 

A  T  LAST  a  nest,  an  airy,  sheltered  nest ! 
•^*-  A  dream  come  true,  a  home  upon  a  hill ! 
Beneath  me,  fields  where  vagrant,  gypsy  weeds 
Run  playmates  to  the  fancies  that  I  bear; 
Below,  the  city,  caravanserai 
Of  Revelry,  Romance,  Revolt,  Reform; 
Beyond,  the  meadows  of  the  sea,  all  mine! 
Where  browsing  boats  are  pastured.  Alcatraz 
A  tireless,  watchful,  shepherd  standing  guard. 
Above,  a  plot  of  sky  to  call  my  own 
Where  I  can  garden  stars  with  thoughts  of  God ; 
Around  a  vast,  and  spacious  solitude 
Where  I  can  stretch  my  soul  to  its  full  length 
With  dawns  and  winds  and  silences  which  grow 
That  fiber  men  call  immortality . 

LANNIE  HAYNES  MARTIN. 


KEEPSAKES 

IDOLS,  statues,  paintings,  images 
Crutches  for  limbs  that  falter  on  the  brink  of  faith. 
Portraits,  keepsakes,  locks  of  hair,  letters 
Nails  to  crucify  memories  on  the  heart. 

Oceans,  mountains,  prairies,  stars 
Manifestations  more  vivid  than  clay  or  canvas. 
A  glance,  a  song,  a  smile,  a  perfume 
Haunting,  imperishable  realities. 

ROSA  ZAGNONI  MARINONI. 


REFORMATION 

I  SHALL  speak  quietly,  be  sinister 
With  quietness,  and  you  shall  fear  my  smile. 
From  now  your  soul  shall  be  a  pallid  dial 
And  mine  its  pointing  hands.   No  minister 
Of  passion  shall  release  your  struggling  heart. 
You,  fed  too  fat  on  sweets  of  easy  beauty, 
Shall  fast  until  you  break  the  bread  of  duty; 
I,  merciless,  shall  play  the  jailor's  part. 

IRENE  STEWART. 

LINCOLN 

TTE  SERVED  but  Fate,  who  fired  his  murderous  gun 
*-*-    And  stained  America's  triumphant  history  page 
With  Lincoln's  death:  as  with  the  Carpenter's  Son, 
The  mighty  loss  did  sanctify  the  age. 

Within  that  inglorious  play-house  in  Washington 

The  assassin  struck,  as  Pilate  at  a  God, 
And  Lincoln  died,  so  towering  and  divine  a  one 

He'd  freed  a  race  and  cleansed  a  blood-stained  sod. 

BEN  FIELD. 


JUST  A  WIND 

I  WANT  to  be  a  little  wind  today ! 
A  little  wind  to  tease  the  leaves,  and  play 
Light  pranks  in  air, 
To  puff  and  flare, 
Then  suddenly  to  laugh  and  whisk  away. 

I'd  find  a  gracious  rose  and  there  I'd  rest 

And  shake  her  yielding  petals  on  my  breast ; 

I'd  kiss  her  face 

With  airy  grace, 

Then  dance  on  in  ethereal  pleasure's  quest. 

I'd  pipe  around  your  viny  garden  wall 

And  make  your  hollyhock  Priscillas  fall  ; 

They  are  too  prim 

To  suit  my  whim : 

I'd  spoil  the  tidy  dignity  of  all: 

Then  I  would  join  the  mighty  symphonies 
Of  winds  far  up  above  the  tops  of  trees, 
And  you  would  hear, 
And  drop  a  tear 

At  last,  to  hear  such  yearning  harmonies. 
ANTOINETTE  LARSEN. 


February,  1927 


51 


Rhymes  and  Reactions 


I  AM  firmly  convinced  that  the  ques- 
tion of  California's  literary  output 
is  sad  and  dangerous.  Who  on  earth 
started  the  ball  rolling?  Surely  not  a 
sincere  and  futile  soul's  theatre  in  the 
American  Mercury?  Some  time  ago  I 
read  that  well  written  and  slightly  trite 
article,  "California  Literati,"  and  passed 
on  to  more  vital  columns  without 
pause.  The  matter,  to  me  at  least,  pre- 
sented no  further  interest.  I  have  known 
from  childhood  the  folly  of  Creating  (or 
should  I  say  "manufacturing?")  an 
argument  during  an  idle  moment.  There 
are,  however,  two  urgent  truths  in- 
volved which  seem  to  have  flown  wildly 
forth  from  the  intellects  sustaining  in- 
terest : 

The  "East,"  that  part  of  this  immense 
country  one  writer  loosely  catalogues 
"Gotham,"  does  not  scatter  its  talent  on 
discussions  of  whether  or  not  it  has  a 
major  excellence  of  periodical  and  book 
food.  The  writers  of  New  York,  and 
all  other  localities  in  the  eastern  part 
of  America,  concern  themselves  with 
writing  salable  material;  the  best  ma- 
terial, I've  found,  they  are  capable  of 
writing.  It  is  of  no  interest  to  them 
which  section  of  the  country  excels  in 
literature  or  number  of  authors.  They 
are  largely  successful,  by  the  way,  be- 
cause their  business  is  writing  and  they 
attend  to  it. 

The  second  matter,  of  extreme  im- 
portance be  it  understood,  is  that  Eastern 
writers  have  continually  known  the  ex- 
cellence and  beauty  of  California's 
literature.  They  are  undoubtedly  aston- 
ished to  find  a  few  literary  gentlemen 
arguing  among  themselves  over  their 
state's  writers.  Probably,  for  all  I  may 
suspect,  they  are  beginning  to  feel  Cali- 
fornia lacks  literary  merit — if  her  jour- 
nalists persist  in  squabbling  about  it. 
One  never  protests  an  accusation  ill 
placed  and  absurdly  facile.  One  does  not 
argue  with  a  fool,  nor  barter  with  a 
knave.  One  does  not  attempt  to  heat 
boiling  water?  California  has  given  the 
earth  rare  treasures  in  literature.  She 
will  continue  to  flaunt  natural  color  and 
rhythm  before  the  eyes  of  the  earth.  Let 
us  have  done  with  the  matter;  literature 
is  universal,  not  particular.  One  would 
have  better  chance  commanding  the  stars 


TANCRED 

to  fall  than  attempting  to  convince  a 
balanced  intellect  of  California's  literary 
inferiority. 

FEW  if  any  of  our  leading  journals 
have  brought  forward  a  complaint 
against  the  puny  prizes  awarded  poets. 
Our  painters,  sculptors,  architects  and 
musicians  receive  annually  numerous 
prizes  and  scholarships  climbing  from 
$500  to  $7500.  Poets  are  expected  to 
be  grateful  for  prizes  of  $100 — and 
precious  few  of  those!  The  Nation,  that 
national  weekly  of  more  or  less  sound 
literary  value,  gives  an  immense  and 
exacting  list  of  "terms"  concerning  its 
annual  poetry  contest,  and  the  prize  that 
all  this  fuss  is  being  made  about  amounts 
to  only  $100!  I  am  of  the  opinion  it  is 
an  insult  to  a  true  craftsman  in  verse 
to  offer  him  so  little.  There  are  certain 
magazines  which  advertise  "prizes"  to 
be  awarded  to  the  best  of  their  poet- 
contributors;  but  no  such  award  is  pro- 
perly a  prize  unless  every  poem  printed 
has  been  paid  for. 

I  am  not  trying  to  instigate  a  mer- 
cenary argument  with  the  country's 
poetry  magazines.  But  the  labor  involved 
and  the  pleasure  given  through  the  pro- 
duction of  a  beautiful  poem  cannot  com- 
mand too  high  a  return  to  the  poet.  The 
fame  is  fresh  and  dear  to  the  heart;  but 
I  recall  hundreds  of  melancholy  studios 
and  hosts  whose  exquisite  words  have 
delighted  a  nation  and  whose  physical 
sufferings  have  transcended  the  faggots 
and  the  rack. 


A  NOTE  from  Marianne  Moore,  in- 
tellectual guide  of  the  Dial,  informs 
me  that  the  Dial  Publishing  Company 
will  shortly  attempt  to  gather  in  the 
prose  and  poetry  of  younger  and  lesser 
known  scribes  for  publication  in  pamph- 
let form  and  for  nation-wide  circulation. 
The  massive  task  of  selecting  worth- 
while material  for  the  first  series  (fifty 
pamphlets  of  poetry  and  thirty-five  of 
prose)  will  fall  upon  the  shoulders  of 
a  board  of  editors  residing  in  five  states 
and  to  be  announced  in  "literary  maga- 
zines over  the  country."  The  collections, 
"representative  of  the  author's  work  and 


firmly  bound,"  will  be  offered  through 
book  stores  for  25  cents. 

Several  among  our  established  critics 
may  take  occasion  to  point  out  that  these 
pamphlets  are  at  last  priced  according  to 
their  worth. 

Contrary,  however,  I  believe  that  the 
pressure  of  popular  authors  deliberately 
rejects  highly  worthwhile  literature  and 
that  the  Dial,  in  giving  its  prestige  to 
the  younger  literati,  will  favor  this 
country  with  much  excellent  prose  and 
poetry.  The  pamphlets  are  within  reach 
of  students  and  careful  readers ;  they  will 
be  edited  by  men  who  are  neither  exclu- 
sive nor  common ;  the  publications  of  ex- 
ceptional merit  will  be  subsequently  "an- 
thologised"  and  America,let  us  fervently 
pray,  will  assume  a  position  of  complete 
dominance  in  the  literary  world. 

TRAVELLER 

I  WALKED  to  the  Loneliest  City 
And  I  asked  for  food  and  a  bed. 
They  said,  'we  are  finished  with  pity, 
It  profit  us  nought,'  they  said. 

And  I  asked  for  the  Heartbroken  Quar- 
ter, 
And    they    shuddered    and    hurried 

away; 

But  one  of  them  offered  me  water, 
One  of  them  offered  to  stay. 

We  tramped  till  the  stones  were  deserted 
And  the  markets  were  closed  and  still 

On  a  thin  grey  road  that  skirted 
The  Ghostly  and  Terrible  Hill. 

The  slabs  were  diseased   in  the  moon- 
light, 

The  plots  were  wrinkled  and  brown, 
And  he  babbled  the  names  as  a  loon 

might — 
Till  I  struck  him  and  fled  to  town. 

Fled  to  the  stone  and  the  parkways, 

And  a  girl  with  hungry  eyes 
Tortured  my  life  with  dark  days, 

Tortured  my  life  with  sighs. 

And  out  of  the  Loneliest  City 
I  walked  with  my  hand  on   her  head; 
They  followed  my  parting  with  pity, 
'We  love  you  at  last,'  they  said. 

TANCRED. 


52 


February,  1927 


k 


OORS 


CONDUCTED  BY 


Writers 


TOM  WHITE 


MY  OWN  STORY 

THERE  appears  in  the  introduction  to 
Fremont  Older's  book  this  sentence : 
"While  I  call  this  my  own  story,  it  will 
be  the  story  of  many  editors  .  .  ."  Of 
this  there  can  be  very  little  doubt.  It 
would  not  be  inappropriate,  however,  for 
the  reviewer  to  add  that  while  many 
others  may  have  had  and  are  having  simi- 
lar experiences,  seldom  have  these  ex- 
periences been  alloyed  with  so  much 
tolerance,  so  much  sympathy  for  human 
frailties;  in  short,  such  a  heart  full  of 
profound  understanding. 

For  the  most  part,  MY  OWN 
STORY  is  given  over  to  the  bitter  strug- 
gle between  the  forces  of  graft,  corrup- 
tion and  dirty  politics  on  the  one  hand, 
and  those  impelled  by  a  desire  for  a  sem- 
blance of  clean  city  government  on  the 
other,  the  battleground  being  the  city  of 
San  Francisco.  The  struggle  dated  from 
1895  until  some  time  after  the  fire.  The 
names  of  Ruef,  Schmitz,  Calhoun,  Burns, 
Heney,  Rudolph  Spreckels  and  others  ap- 
pear, disappear  and  reappear  in  vivid 
flashes  of  charge  and  counter-charge, 
plotting  and  discovery,  intrigues,  traps, 
the  whirl  and  clatter  of  wheels  within 
wheels,  bribery  and  counter-bribery,  jury- 
fixing,  favor-seeking,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  ugly  business,  ad  nauseam,  that  goes 
with  the  uncovering  of  corrupt  practices 
in  civic  government.  While  all  this  was 
taking  place,  Older,  as  editor  of  the  San 
Francisco  Bulletin,  was  waging  the  fight 
for  clean  politics,  not  from  the  repor- 
torial  standpoint,  but  very  much  as  a  par- 
tisan. In  fact,  he  was  not  only  in  the 
thick  of  it,  but  most  decidedly  in  the 
front  ranks ;  so  much  so  as  to  be  selected 
as  the  target  for  hired  gunmen,  to  say 
nothing  of  his  being  kidnapped,  whisked 
out  of  the  city  in  an  automobile  and 
bundled  aboard  a  train,  from  which  he 
was  to  have  been  taken  to  some  obscure 
station  in  the  mountains  in  the  dead  of 
night  and  hurried  into  the  hills  for  quick 
dispatch.  Fortunately,  the  plans  were 
not  entirely  successful. 

For  years  Mr.  Older's  name  has  been 
synonymous  with  practical,  clear-headed 
prison  reform  work,  or  possibly  prisoner 
reform  work  would  be  the  more  appro- 
priate, the  keynote  of  those  relations  or 
associations  being  an  inexhaustible  spirit 


of  tolerance.   The  utter  humanity  of  the 
man  seems  to  have  no  bounds. 

As  editor  of  the  San  Francisco  Call, 
Mr.  Older  is  still  very  much  of  an  active 
newspaperman.  Not  long  ago  the  re- 
viewer found  him  in  his  office — with  lots 
of  work  to  do,  but  he  nevertheless  found 
time  for  a  little  chat.  "You  must  have 
kept  a  diary,  Mr.  Older,  with  all  that 
mass  of  names  and  dates  in  your  story 
stretching  across  the  years."  "Oh,  hard- 
ly," he  chuckled.  "Had  I  kept  a  diary 
my  book  might  have  been  three  times  as 
long." 


BOOKS  REVIEWED 

MY  OWN  STORY.  By  Fremont 
Older.  Macmillan  Company,  New 
York.  $2.50. 

ADVANCED  EQUITATION.  By 
Baretto  de  Souza.  E.  P.  Dutton 
Company,  New  York.  $7.00. 

CONFESSION.  By  Cosmo  Hamil- 
ton. Doubleday,  Page  and  Com- 
pany. $2.00. 

SPLENDID  SHILLING.  By  Idwal 
Jones.  Doubleday,  Page  and  Com- 
pany. $2.00.  Reviewed  by  Eric 
Taylor. 

IF  GODS  LAUGH.  By  Rosita 
Forbes.  Macauly  Company,  New 
York.  $2.00. 

SHIPS  AND  CARGOES.  By  Joseph 
Leeming.  Doubleday,  Page  and 
Company.  $2.50. 

BOOK   FAIR   REVIEW. 


ADVANCED  EQUITATION 

AND  now  comes  a  ponderous  tome  of 
some  four  hundred  pages  or  more 
devoted  to  horseback-riding — the  author 
pleases  to  call  it  equitation;  in  fact,  he 
takes  his  work  so  seriously  as  to  go  into 
meticulous  detail  to  define  the  word. 
However,  that's  the  logical  starting  point, 
and  from  there  on  he  deals  intimately 
with  such  subjects  as  Leg  Flexions  on 
Foot,  Leg  Flexions  on  Horseback, 
Mounting  and  Dismounting,  Value  of 
Control,  Reasons  for  Learning  in  a  Ring, 
Class  Riding,  Side  Saddle  Riding,  Jump- 
ing and  Side-Stepping. 


While  de  Souza's  book  may  carry  its 
appeal  to  an  extremely  limited  circle,  he 
covers  the  ground  in  exhaustive  fashion. 
The  book  is  generously  illustrated  with 
photographs  and  drawings  which  indi- 
cate styles  of  horsemanship  and  details 
of  accoutrement.  The  author  doesn't 
presume  to  make  a  finished  rider  from 
raw  material  by  simply  reading  his  book, 
but  he  does  maintain  that  the  several 
schools  offer  promising  fields  to  the  more 
advanced  devotees  of  the  bridle-paths. 

CONFESSION 

AMERICANS  have  long  recognized 
Cosmo  Hamilton  as  one  of  the 
cleverest  among  the  younger  British 
writers.  He  occupies  a  niche  distinctly 
his  own.  The  reason  for  this  lies  chiefly 
in  the  fact  that  he  seldom  if  ever  has 
any  wood-chopping  tools  to  grind — a 
fault  only  too  common,  unfortunately, 
in  contemporary  writings  originating  in 
"the  right  little,  tight  little  isle." 

CONFESSION  is  Hamilton's  twen- 
tieth title,  or  thereabout  not  counting 
four  or  five  plays.  In  this  book  Kath- 
leen Monalty  is  a  young  and  wealthy 
American  girl — decidedly  typical;  John 
Vernon  Cheyne  Weycome,  llth  Earl  of 
Risborough,  is  all  his  name  and  title 
imply,  and  typically  so.  Kathleen's 
father  is  fabulously  rich  and  indulgent, 
her  mother  is  frankly  a  climber  and 
therefore  ridiculously  ambitious.  The 
young  Englishman's  family  fortunes  are 
at  a  low  ebb  and  their  estate  very  much 
run  down  at  the  heels.  The  young  couple 
are  plainly  in  love  for  love's  sake. 

With  an  openhanded  dad  and  a 
mother  just  itching  to  be  able  to  refer 
to  her  offspring  as  "my  daughter,  Lady 
Risborough,  you  know" — all  this  on  one 
side  of  the  balance;  and  on  the  other 
title,  culture,  position  and  all  that  goes 
with  it,  the  stage  is  set. 

From  the  very  outset  the  story  moves 
with  a  sprightliness  and  vigor  that  hold 
the  attention  without  any  recourse  to 
forced  draft.  Page  after  page  sparkles 
with  piquant  epigram,  timely  chatter, 
droll  phrases : 

"Hip-flask  marriages  are  the  order 
of  the  day,  with  .  .  .  divorce  after  the 
hang-over.  Curious,  but  it  is  the  second- 


February,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


53 


hand  girl  who  makes  the  first-class  mar- 
riage. 

"Ambi-sextrous. 

"Anything  in  a  skirt  is  a  woman  to 
the  lady-killer. 

"An  elderly  butler's  psychology  is  sel- 
dom at  fault. 

"Nothing  succeeds  like  sex." 

These  little  snatches  bitten  out  of 
the  book  here  and  there  are  just  a  few 
of  the  highlights  although  the  story  it- 
self needs  no  relief.  But  the  story's  the 
thing  and  as  such  Hamilton  has  blended 
with  consummate  skill  the  character- 
istics of  the  impulsive,  genuine,  affec- 
tionate American  wife  with  those  of  the 
painfully  reserved,  sterling-bred,  Tory- 
type  young  Britisher  to  form,  after  many 
disappointments  and  misunderstandings, 
an  ideal  union  in  which  utter  happiness 
is  based  on  a  thorough  grasp  by  each 
of  the  shortcomings  of  the  other;  that 
is,  nationally  recognized  shortcomings, 
traits  always  looked  for  and  often  found. 

CONFESSION  leaves  the  reader 
free  to  achieve  his  own  conception  of 
the  international  state  of  mind,  matri- 
monially speaking,  by  placing  at  his  dis- 
posal just  the  right  tools  for  drawing 
the  picture. 

BY  A  SAN  FRANCISCAN 

IN  "The  Splendid  Shilling,"  by  Idwal 
Jones,   we  have   another  novel  from 
the  pen  of  a  San  Francisco  writer. 

The  novel  opens  in  a  romantic  setting 
on  the  Welsh  coast  and  the  tale  follows 
the  gypsy  trail  of  the  lad,  Guy  Punch- 
eon, in  whose  veins  flows  the  roving 
blood  of  a  Romany  mother,  and  his 
Welsh  father,  who  has  embraced  the  life 
of  a  gypsy.  Strange,  but  vivid  and  con- 
vincing characters  are  met  with  in  the 
wanderings  of  father  and  son  amid  the 
mountains,  glens,  and  lakes  of  Wales. 

The  tale  is  rich  in  colorful  romance 
and  grips  the  reader  from  the  first  para- 
graph. The  romance  is  woven  with  a 
delicate  ease  and  Mr.  Jones  gives  us  a 
novel  that  the  most  jaded  literary  appe- 
tite will  relish. 

During  the  course  of  their  journeys, 
Guy  and  his  father  sojourn  at  a  little 
farm  tucked  away  in  the  Welsh  hills. 
Here  Guy  meets  the  girl  Danzel  and 
falls  in  love.  To  purge  his  soul  of  fancied 
sin,  Guy  takes  to  the  road  alone,  after 
promising  Danzel  he  will  return  to 
marry  her. 

When  Guy  returns  to  the  farm  he 
learns  that  Danzel  has  been  taken  to 
California  by  her  father.  The  scene 
shifts  to  California  and  we  follow  Guy's 
hunt  for  his  love  through  early  San 
Francisco  and  the  mining  camps  of  the 
Sierras. 


While  the  tale  from  here  on  is  in- 
tensely interesting  and  vividly  told,  one 
is  conscious  of  a  loss.  The  quaint  char- 
acters and  the  irresistible  atmospheric 
charm  are  gone. 

The  shilling  from  which  the  novel 
gets  its  title  is  a  coin  looted  from  a 
seventeenth  century  tomb — but  to  tell 
more  of  the  coin  might  give  away  Mr. 
Jones'  story. 

One  is  reluctant  to  turn  the  last  page 
of  this  delightful  book.  But  for  once 
California  does  not  satisfy  and  we  hope 
Mr.  Jones  will  some  day  devote  a  whole 
novel  to  the  Welsh  mountains,  farms 
and  villages  around  which  he  spun  such 
a  charming  romance. 


"IF  THE  GODS  LAUGH" 

IF  YOU  are  tired  of  reading  the  now 
fashionable  cerebral  novel,  containing 
neither  characters,  plots  nor  background, 
the  present  writer  suggests  that  you  try 
Rosita  Forbes  last  book,  "If  the  Gods 
Laugh."  It  is  in  no  sense  of  the  word 
a  distinguished  piece  of  work,  nor  will 
it  be  read  one  year  from  now;  much 
less  in  ten.  You  can't  possibly  learn 
anything  from  it;  you  will  be  neither 
better  nor  worse  for  having  read  it.  On 
the  other  hand  it  will  pleasantly  fill  an 
idle  hour  or  two.  Perhaps  after  all  that 
is  the  best  recommendation  that  a  book 
need  have. 

Be  that  as  it  may  the  book  is  reason- 
ably diverting  and  tells  a  fairly  inter- 
esting story  in  a  direct,  forcible  manner. 
In  spite  of  one's  literary  predilections 
one  finds  oneself  reading  along  chapter 
after  chapter  wondering  what  will  be 
the  outcome  of  Vittoria  Torini's  mar- 
riage with  that  strange,  inscrutable  fig- 
ure, Navarro,  to  whom  pleasure  and 
comfort,  love  and  life  even,  are  of  less 
import  than  the  realization  of  his  ob- 
sessing ambition,  the  gaining  for  his  be- 
loved Italy  an  African  colony  second  to 
none.  With  the  advent  of  Deryk  Car- 
styn,  young,  handsome  ardent  one  no 
longer  wonders  .  .  .  the  outcome  is 
easily  predictable  and  the  interest  shifts 
to  the  inevitable  flaming  outbreak  of 
their  passion.  The  climax  comes  when 
Navarro  after  having  left  his  wife  in 
Carstyn's  care  is  defeated  in  battle  and 
believing  them  to  be  dead  commits  sui- 
cide, not  because  he  loves  Vittoria  but 
for  the  frustration,  the  utter  ruin  of  all 
his  fruitless  efforts  and  fantastic  dreams 
of  subjugating,  of  Italianizing  Tripoli- 
tiana.  A  gorgeous  situation.  One  is 
tempted  to  speculate  just  what  Conrad 
would  have  done  with  it  and  with  the 
grim  old  warrior.  That  of  course  is  be- 
side the  point.  The  story  as  a  story  will 
stand  quite  as  it  is. 


H 


SHIPS  AND  CARGOES 

IOW  many  steamers  are  there  in  the 
world  ? 

Joseph  Leeming  tells  us  there  are 
32,000,  in  his  SHIPS  AND  CAR- 
GOES. Many  other  absorbing  facts 
relating  to  ships  and  trade,  having 
especially  to  do  with  international  com- 
merce, are  detailed  in  breezy,  intimate 
style  in  this  new  book.  There  is  nothing 
less  than  a  liberal  education  to  be  had 
from  reading  this  attractive  volume 
which  carries  not  only  the  flavor  of  the 
spice-laden  air  of  tropic  ports,  but  indi- 
cates as  well  the  author's  intimacy  with 
world  trade  and  the  ways  of  ships. 

There  is  hardly  a  person  in  the 
country,  whether  merchant  or  miner, 
cotton  planter  or  cattleman,  farmer  or 
factory  hand  who  could  not  read  SHIPS 
AND  CARGOES  without  profit.  Even 
the  housewife  would  be  interested  to 
know  how  tea  is  graded  and  how  cocoa 
reaches  her  kitchen  shelf. 

To  the  executives  of  an  import  and 
export  house — and  the  members  of  the 
staff  as  well — this  book  will  be  found 
invaluable. 


THE  BOOK  FAIR 


are  well  under  way  for  San 
Francisco's  Book  Fair. 

Beyond  any  doubt,  this  is  going  to  be 
an  outstanding  event  of  the  year,  speak- 
ing bookwise.  Sponsored  by  the  San 
Francisco  branch,  League  of  American 
Pen  Women  and  assisted  by  other  pen 
women  and  various  women's  clubs,  the 
fair  will  be  held  at  the  Mark  Hopkins 
Hotel  February  27  to  March  6,  inclu- 
sive. With  an  author's  breakfast  sched- 
uled for  the  opening,  each  day  following 
will  have  its  own  keynote,  such  as  drama 
day,  art  day,  music  day,  poetry  day,  juve- 
nile book  day,  etc.  On  each  of  these  oc- 
casions special  prominence  will  be  given 
the  books  on  display  best  adapted  to  that 
day's  program. 

There  will  be  many  old  books,  very 
rare  books,  the  good  old  "yellow-backs," 
and  books  on  science,  architecture  — 
everything  conceivably  worth  while.  In 
addition  to  the  literary  exhibits  there  will 
be  a  rare  collection  of  posters,  illustra- 
tions, plates  and  covers. 

Among  the  exhibitors  will  be  A.  M. 
Robertson,  John  Howell,  Paul  Elder, 
J.  J.  Newbegin,  Children's  Book  Shop, 
State  Library,  Stanford  University,  Book 
Club,  Bohemian  Club,  University  of 
California,  Grabhorn  Press,  Architec- 
tural Library  (M.  S.  Carter)  and  many 
others. 

The  fair  will  be  open  to  the  public, 
free. 


54 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


February,  1927 


HOTE1L 
MAMK 

IOPIG 

San  Francisco 


San  Francisco 's  neweSt  hotel  revives  the  hospitality 
of  "Days  of  fyld  and  bids  you  -welcome  now! 

ONLY  a  moment  from  theatres  and  shops,  yet  aloft  in 
the  serene  quiet  of  Nob  Hill.!?  Smartly  furnished  guest- 
rooms, single  or  en  suite  . .  .  and  beneath  the  towering 
Structure,  a  garage,  reached  by  hotel  elevator.  Cuisine 
by  the  famous  Viftor.  <T  Destined  to  take  its  place  among 
the  noted  hotels  of  the  world,  the  Mark  Hopkins  is  an 
unexcelled  Stopping-place  for  travelers. 

OFFICIALLY  OPENED  DECEMBER  4, 1926 
GEO.D.  SMITH  fm.  &  ManagingTHriSor^  WILL  P.  TAYLOR  "Resident  Mgr. 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

G£?HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


A  PORTRAIT  IN  SAND 
By  W.  T.  FITCH 

BEWARE,  he  bites!    Iconoclast,   Tory,   Radical,   Bol- 
shevik,   Ignoramus,    Idiot,    Apostle    of    all    Damage, 
Satan,  Robber  of  Shrines,  Killer  of  Holy  Joy,  Tom 
Paine  on  a  Souse.  .  .  .  That  is  what  the  Smug-mugs  think 
of  him. 

And  all  because  he,  believing  himself  the  logical  wielder 
of  the  sword  fashioned  for  the  purpose  of  smiting  the 
Cyclops  of  Bunk,  has  entered  the  lists  not  wisely,  but  full 
of  pep.  The  mistake  being  that  it  is  doubtful  whether  or 
no,  the  "Horde"  really  want  to  lose  their  idols  of  mud. 

But  at  least  he  has  thrown  a  scare  into  the  ranks  of  the 
pious  peddlers  of  popular  platitudes,  and  caused  chills  to 
run  up  the  backs  of  the  clergy  and  their  staffs  of  smirking 
vestrymen  who  fill  the  world  with  proclamations  of  a 
sanctity  which  is  not. 

We  envision  the  Mencken  hand  clutching  at  the  black 
rag  with  which  the  clergy  have  covered  the  eternal  lamp 
of  truth,  that  its  light,  "destructive  to  faith,"  shine  not 
forth. 

But  the  Mencken  clutch — strong  though  it  be — is  hardly 
a  match  for  the  oily  digits  of  a  host  of  guardians  of  the 
temple.  Whoso  menaces  the  priest,  had  better  keep  an  eye 
on  the  people.  A  recarnate  Minotaur,  called  Superstition, 
guards  the  Creedal  Maze.  He  has  as  many  lives  as  a  con- 
vention of  cats,  and  the  slaying  of  him  is  going  to  be  some 
chore.  Especially  as  his  votaries  are  as  sure  of  his  greatness 
and  beneficence,  as  they  are  of  the  blessing  of  God  on  the 
next  war. 

A  GAIN  we  see  the  Mencken  hands  grasping  a  staff — the 
•£*•  staff  of  a  lance.  The  Mencken  eyes  are  raised  to  the  point 
of  the  lance  whereon  is  impaled  the  head  of  an  arch  Bigot — 
still  blue  of  nose  and  sardonic  of  expression — who  has  been 
cut  down  in  the  midst  of  his  open-mouthed  followers. 

The  Mencken  steps  are  toward  the  city  gates  where  he 
purposes  that  the  head  shall  leer  at  all  who  pass  and  serve 
as  a  warning  for  many  a  year.  But  this  kind  of  thing  isn't 
done  any  more,  so  he  will  be  arrested  and  the  whole  thing 
will  be  a  flop — but  good  for  a  lot  of  headlines  in  the  papers. 
Mencken  dearly  and  intensely  loves  approval.  So  do  we 
all,  even  to  that  blushing  violet,  Haldeman  Julius.  But 
how  far  would  we  go  if  our  subscribers  let  out  a  yelp  or 
our  advertising  was  yanked  away?  How  far? 

Mr.  Mencken  visited  California.  He  came  by  the 
southern  route  to  the  city  where  selling  lots  is  not  only  a 
science,  but  an  intoxication. 

He  stands  on  the  lowest  step  as  the  car  slows  up  at  the 
depot.  He  has  not  waited  for  the  train  to  step  before  dis- 
carding the  copy  of  the  Christian  Herald  which  he  had  been 
engrossed  in,  and  hurtling  outside. 

There  is  an  intent,  scrutinizing,  analyzing,  disapproving 
frown  on  his  face.  Before  him,  as  the  train  stops,  is  a  crowd 
of  eager  realtors,  ready  to  clasp  his  hand.  (But  any  hand 
will  do,  so  long  as  it  is  attached  to  a  new  arrival  with  the 
price  of  a  lot  sewed  up  in  his  flannel  underwear). 

Cameras  click,  Mr.  Mencken  pauses  just  long  enough  to 
allow  fifteen  feet  of  film  to  go  through,  then  he  darts  into 
the  crowd  and  is  lost. 

NO!    Mr.  Mencken  is  just  a  big  boy  having  a  big  time. 
He  has  his  convictions,  invictions  and  evictions,  but  if 
you  or  I  are  worth  the  dynamite  to  blow  us  up,  he  won't 
bite  us.    He  fights  for  Right  if  it  isn't  too  right,  and  against 
Wrong  unless  it  can  prove  that  it  has  been  slandered. 

He  cannot  "slow"  his  punch,  but  hits  with  all  his  might. 
That  is  the  right  kind  of  stuff.  It  is  a  pity  there  are  not 
more  like  him.  The  world  would  get  its  "needin's  pronto," 
if  there  were. 


February,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 

Superlative  and  Western 


55 


and  proficiency?  We  can!  I  offer  here- 
with four  men.  There  are,  no  doubt,  a 
score  of  others  equally  worthy  of  men- 
tion, but  the  present  time  and  space  are 
limited.  However,  since  the  editor  is 
a  kindly  soul  of  broad  interests,  we  may 
at  some  future  time  present  other  per- 
sonalities in  these  pages. 

/CONSIDER  first,  San  Francisco's 
^-^  master  furrier,  John  Buben,  who 
conducts  a  fur  shop  on  Geary  Street. 
His  calling,  you  will  agree,  is  a  worthy 
one — that  of  enhancing  the  beauty  and 
charm  of  San  Francisco's  beautiful  and 
altogether  charming  women.  Mr.  Buben 
has  been  in  the  fur  business  some  forty- 
four  years.  During  the  last  twenty-five 
years  he  has  won  every  first  prize  offered 
in  the  United  States  for  excellency  of 
design  and  workmanship  in  fur  gar- 
ments. For  many  years  he  was  head 
furrier  in  Revillon  Freres  New  York 
establishment  and  the  H.  Liebes  &  Com- 
pany brought  him  to  San  Francisco  at 
the  highest  salary  ever  paid  at  that  time 
to  a  man  in  his  line  of  work.  Buben  is 
the  acknowledged  artist  and  master 
craftsman  of  the  fur  industry. 

In  these  days  of  shoddy  and  cheap 
standardization,  it  is  something  of  a  joy 
to  find  any  man  with  pride  in  his  own 
handwork  and  pride  enough  in  his  busi- 
ness to  produce  all  his  own  stock.  John 
Buben  is  such  a  man — one  of  the 
few  furriers  in  the  United  States 
who  makes  every  garment  sold  in  his 
own  workrooms.  Machine-made  gar- 
ments from  the  lofts  of  New  York  do 
not  interest  him.  He  would  not  have 
one  in  the  place,  no  matter  what  it  cost 
or  how  good  the  quality.  It  would  be 
quite  useless  to  set  down  his  opinion  of 
the  stuff  turned  out  in  wholesale  lots. 
The  words  would  only  burn  a  hole  in 
the  paper.  That  is  what  Buben  thinks  of 
things  that  come  out  of  New  York ;  are 
the  products  of  her  noisy,  clashing  sys- 
tem of  machines,  super-salesmanship  and 
volume  at  the  sacrifice  of  quality. 

In  the  kitchens  of  Hotel  St.  Francis 
we  have  Charles  Strandberg,  a  man 
who  does  amazing  things  with  sugar. 
Anyone  who  claims  to  be  an  honest-to- 
goodness  San  Franciscan  should  know 
Charlie  or  about  him.  There  are  only 
two  other  men  in  the  United  States  who 
can  do  work  similar  to  his,  but  neither 
of  the  other  two  have  achieved  the  fame 
that  has  come  to  Strandberg.  He  is  an 
approachable  fellow  and  holds  forth  in 
a  cubbyhole  at  the  far  end  of  the  hotel's 
basement.  Like  a  lot  of  good  artists 
and  some  not  so  good,  he  does  his  best 
work  at  night.  If  you  will  thread  a 


(Continued  from  Page  39) 

maze  of  subterranean  ways  some  even- 
ing to  Charlie's  domain,  you  will  most 
likely  find  him  putting  the  finishing 
touches  on  some  choice  bit  of  sculpturing 
ir.  sugar. 

If  you  have  any  eye  at  all  for  sculp- 
ture and  things  artistic,  you  will  see 
that  Charlie's  stuff  is  no  ordinary  riff- 
riff.  It  has  action,  movement,  rhythm, 
good  composition,  balance  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  high-sounding  paraphernalia 
that  good  art  is  supposed  to  have.  Look 
it  over  and  judge  for  yourself.  But 
why  shouldn't  Charlie's  creations  be 
good  ?  You  never  find  him  reading  the 
questionable  drivel  of  modern  realism. 
Not  Charlie!  He  reads  books  about  the 
masterpieces  of  sculpture  and  art.  The 
movies  annoy  him.  His  spare  time  is 
spent  in  art  galleries  and  sketching  in 
the  Berkeley  and  Marin  County  hills. 

Next  we  have  an  ice  cream  man — 
James  Cooksley  of  Haas  Bros.  It  seems, 
that  good  ice  cream  is  not  a  simple  mat- 
ter of  mixing  up  so  much  of  this  and 
that  and  turning  a  crank,  but  a  matter 
of  unscrambling  and  taking  apart  such 
invisible  things  as  cream  contents  and 
butter  fats  and  a  lot  of  Latin  names. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  best  ice  cream 
is  an  affair  of  laboratories,  test  tubes, 
thermometers  and  wise  men  with  white 
smocks,  high  brows,  glasses  and  college 
degrees.  It  appears,  that  Mr.  Cooksley 
has  delved  into  all  the  secrets  of  what 
makes  good  ice  cream  and  why.  He  has 
this  butter  fat  and  cream  content  business 
all  diagnosed,  classified  and  card  indexed 
in  a  manner  unequalled  by  anyone  else 
in  these  United  States.  Consequently, 
he  is  worth  a  king's  ransom  to  Haas 
Bros.,  and  they  would  gladly  pay  that 
to  keep  him  from  straying  from  their 
pay  roll. 

From  an  ice  cream  plant,  we  step 
into  a  candy  factory,  that  of  the  Ernest 
Wilson  Company  on  Fifth  Street.  Here 
we  meet  Julius  Franzen,  who  bosses 
the  job  of  making  "candy  with  a  college 
education,"  and  who  recently  worked 
a  miracle  in  the  art  of  chocolate  coat- 
ing. Franzen  is  freely  acknowledged  to 
be  the  man  who  knows  more  about  what 
can  or  can't  be  done  with  chocolate, 
how  and  why,  than  any  other  man  in 
the  industry.  For  a  good  many  years 
the  entire  candy  making  world  had  been 
working  to  discover  a  way  to  chocolate 
coat  nut  meats,  raisins  and  small  candy 
centers  automatically,  in  bulk  quantities 
and  each  piece  individually.  Nut  meats 
and  raisins  could  be  coated  in  clusters 
and  individually  but  it  had  to  be  done 
by  hand — a  costly  and  tedious  process. 


Finally  Franzen  evolved  a  process 
whereby  he  can  coat  quantities  of  nut 
meats  and  raisins  and  each  piece  indi- 
vidually. More  than  that,  the  process 
is  so  perfected  that  the  amount  of  coat- 
ing can  be  regulated  to  a  hair's  breadth  ; 
the  coating  follows  the  smooth  or 
crinkly  contours  of  the  nut  or  fruit  cen- 
ter; the  small  candies  can  be  polished 
(Continued  on  Page  57) 


A  BUSINESS  DAY  SAVED 


Swift- 
Luxurious 

• — only  63  hours  to  Chicago 
on  San  Francisco 

OVERLAND  LIMITED 

This  transcontinental  aristocrat 
saves  a  business  day.  Convenient 
eveningdeparture  from  SanFran- 
cisco.  Only  two  business  days  over 
thehistoricOverkmdRoMte,Lake 
Tahoe  Line,  to  Chicago. 

A  train  with  the  quiet,  efficient  service 
of  a  fine  town-club  or  hotel.  Equipped 
and  manned  to  serve  the  most  discrim- 
inating. 

$  10  extra  fare  to  Chicago;$8  to  Omaha; 
$5  to  Ogden. 

Also,  the  new  Qold  Coast  Limited  and 
Pacific  Limited,  no  extra  fare.  Pullman 
without  change  to  Salt  Lake  City,  Oma- 
ha, Denver,  Kansas  City,  St.  Louis. 

Please  make  reservations  as  far  in  ad- 
vance as  possible. 

Southern 
Pacific 


F.  S.  McGINNIS, 

P.  T.  M. 
San  Francisco,  Calif. 


February,  1927 


Announcing 

Overtures 


A  MAGAZINE  OF  VERSE 


Edited  by  HENRY  HARRISON 

Associate  Editors 

A.  M.  SULLIVAN  Louis  GINSBERG 

GORDON  LAWRENCE 


1  HE  first  issue  of  OVERTURES 
will  appear  on  February  1,  1927. 
It  will  measure  9  inches  wide  by 
12  inches  long;  will  be  printed  on 
60-lb.  Warren's  old  style  antique 
woven  paper;  will  contain  16 
pages,  2  columns  each;  devoted  to 
the  publication  of  the  best  original 
poetry  submitted  to  the  editors; 
also  to  interviews  with  famous 
poets  and  editors,  to  reviews  of 
new  books  of  verse  and  on  verse, 
and  to  important  articles  on 
poetry. 


Published  Monthly 

Sold  by  Subscription  Only- 
$1.00  a  Year 


Editorial  Office 
76  Elton  Street  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 


Yellow  Gold-and  White 

(Continued  from  Page  38) 


science.  They  have  raised  the  quality  of 
baked  goods  to  the  highest  nutritive  value 
and  at  the  same  time  kept  down  the  cost 
of  production  through  reduction  of 
waste.  And,  most  important  to  us  in  our 
present  discussion,  they  have  delved  into 
the  chemistry  of  flour  and  found  need 
for  different  kinds  of  flour  to  meet  dif- 
ferent sets  of  bake-shop  conditions. 

The  yeast  mixtures  which  go  into 
bread  and  sweet  doughs,  coffee  cakes 
and  buns,  require  a  flour  which  will 
withstand  rough  handling,  "punching" 
and  a  comparatively  long  wait  for  the 
yeast  to  function.  It  must  contain  much 
of  the  tough,  rubbery  substance  called 
gluten.  And  such  a  flour  must  be  made 
of  "hard"  wheats,  which  grow,  as  a 
rule,  in  cold  climates. 

Then  there  are  the  plain  cakes,  raised 
with  baking  powder,  requiring  but  a 
light  mixing;  biscuits,  muffins,  layer 
cakes;  or  again,  the  "fancy  goods": 
angel  food  cake,  sponge  cake,  lady  fin- 
gers, which  are  lightly  whipped  and  de- 
pend solely  upon  the  eggs  they  contain 
to  "raise"  them;  and  yet  again  the  deli- 
cate puff  paste  for  patty  shells,  French 
pastry,  tarts  and  cream  puffs,  which  are 
made  without  leavening,  with  best  flour 
and  shortening,  chilled  and  folded,  de- 
pending upon  the  sudden  heat  and  mois- 
ture of  the  oven  to  raise  them  to  their 
crisp  flakiness.  All  these  lighter  forms 
of  baked  goods  require  a  flour  which 
is  low  in  gluten — a  soft  flour  which  will 
produce  a  smooth,  silky  texture  and  a 
fine  grain.  A  pastry  flour. 

And  the  housewife  who  uses  in  her 
kitchen  a  fine,  every-purpose  flour  re- 
quires one  that  is  most  carefully  blended 
of  all  the  flours.  It  must  be  just 
"strong"  enough  to  fit  the  varied  needs 
of  her  daily  baking.  But  it  must  be 
milled  to  a  feathery  fineness,  and  it  must 
be  white  as  drifted  snow.  Long  ago, 
millers  the  world  over  learned  of  a 
woman's  pride  in  her  smooth,  snowy 
slice  of  home-baked  bread. 

Every  really  modern  flour  mill  has 
its  scientific  laboratory  for  testing  its 
raw  materials  and  its  products.  In  each 
of  the  six  Sperry  laboratories  is  included, 
besides  a  testing  kitchen  for  experi- 
mental work  with  family  flour,  a  minia- 
ture bake  shop  with  real  bakery  equip- 
ment. Here  Sperry  flour  is  subjected 
to  all  the  uses  and  abuses  of  bake  shop 
conditions.  Here  wheat  samples  are 
tested  and  even  ground  into  flour  in  a 
miniature  mill,  and  baked  into  loaves 
before  the  wheat  is  placed  in  the  great 
storage  bins  to  be  drawn  off  later  for 
milling.  Here  in  the  laboratory,  flour  is 
analyzed  as  it  passes  through  the  mil!, 


and  made  to  conform  to  a  rigid  standard 
of  uniformity.  For,  if  flour  is  found 
to  vary  ever  so  little  from  its  formula 
as  regards  color,  or  gluten,  or  ash  con- 
tent, or  protein,  or  acidity,  then  the 
blend  of  wheat  from  which  it  is  made  is 
changed  so  as  to  strengthen  the  missing 
element.  A  different  variety  of  wheat 
is  introduced.  The  chemical  formula  of 
each  brand  of  flour  must  be  maintained, 
and  wheat  varies,  not  only  from  year 
to  year  and  from  country  to  country, 
but  even  from  farm  to  farm.  Different 
kinds  of  wheat  are  blended  by  the  miller 
in  making  flour,  just  as  the  different 
colors  on  the  palette  are  blended  by  the 
artist  to  achieve  his  ideal.  Modern  mill- 
ing has  very  nearly  perfected  the  art  of 
blending  wheat. 

Now  let  us  return  to  California  and 
her  15,000,000  bushel  wheat  crop. 

It  is  obvious  that,  to  blend  various 
wheats  in  order  to  maintain  his  flour 
formulas,  the  miller  must  have  at  his 
command  a  quantity  of  wheat  of  several 
varieties.  The  varied  demands  of  a 
modernized  baking  industry  have  multi- 
plied the  kinds  and  grades  of  flour  he 
is  called  upon  to  furnish,  hence  have 
increased  his  need  for  varied  wheats. 
Now,  it  so  happens  that  practically  all 
the  wheat  exporting  countries  of  the 
world  are  limited,  through  soil  and  cli- 
matic conditions,  to  the  raising  of  one 
general  type  of  wheat.  If  it  happens  to 
be  hard  wheat — and  hard  wheat  more 
frequently  produces  a  dark  flour  than 
otherwise — the  miller  is  compelled  to  im- 
port a  whiter  variety  to  blend  with  it, 
to  give  the  required  whiteness  to  the 
baked  article.  Or  the  wheat  must  be 
exported  to  mills  located  in  another 
wheat  area,  where  it  may  be  advantage- 
ously used  for  blending. 

many  years  the  only  wheat  raised 
in  California  was  soft,  white  wheat. 
But,  through  the  introduction  of  seed  by 
the  Sperry  Flour  Company,  several  hard 
white  wheats  are  now  grown  and  con- 
sumed within  the  state — Bleustem,  Bun- 
yip  and  Baart  among  them.  The  Pacific 
Coast  with  its  great  variety  of  soil  and 
climatic  conditions,  raises  a  greater 
variety  of  wheats  than  any  other  country 
in  the  world! 

Thus  the  Sperry  Flour  Company, 
pioneer  California  concern  that  it  is, 
has  grown  with  the  growth  of  the  entire 
Pacific  Coast.  Its  mills  are  located  at 
points  most  strategic  for  wheat  selection. 
Its  agents  are  scattered  over  the  great 
wheat  belts  of  the  West  and  Northwest. 
From  its  mills  at  Spokane  and  Tacoma 
and  Portland  it  is  able  to  tap  the  richly 


February,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


57 


varied  wheat  supply  of  Washington, 
Oregon  and  Idaho.  From  its  Ogden 
mill  and  subsidiary  agents  throughout 
the  mid-Western  states,  Sperry  secures 
the  pick  of  the  wheat  crop  of  Montana, 
Kansas,  Colorado,  and  Nebraska.  Some 
of  this  wheat  is  milled  at  Ogden,  and 
some  of  it  is  brought  overland  to  the 
company's  more  westerly  mills,  to  be 
blended  with  the  white  wheats  of  Cali- 
fornia and  milled  at  the  great  mill  at 
Vallejo,  or  used  at  the  Los  Angeles 
plant.  Such  an  extensive  western  or- 
ganization with  branches  reaching  into 
the  heart  of  the  most  varied  wheat 
country  of  the  world,  enjoys  a  distinct 
and  unique  advantage  over  other  milling 
concerns.  Drifted  Snow  Flour,  the  well- 
known  family  flour  of  the  West,  is  ex- 
ported to  Alaska,  Honolulu  and  the 
Philippines;  to  China,  Japan  and  South 
America,  and  even  to  the  Atlantic  sea- 
board of  the  United  States  and  to 
Europe  in  increasing  quantities  every 
year.  The  imperial  family  of  Japan  has 
used  no  other  kind  for  years.  Only  re- 
cently, at  the  annual  exhibition  and  mar- 
ket at  Royal  Agricultural  Hall,  London, 
Sperry  flour,  in  competition  with  flours 
from  all  parts  of  the  world,  captured 
the  diamond  jubilee  cup,  four  gold 
medals,  four  silver  medals  and  four 
bronze  medals,  for  its  superior  quality. 
Silent  testimony  to  the  resources  of  the 
Pacific  Coast,  and  to  the  skill  of  the 
far-flung  milling  industry  it  harbors. 


SUPERLATIVE  AND  WESTERN 

(Continued  from  Page  55) 
to  a  smooth  gloss  and  do  not  mar,  scratch 
or  lose  their  shape  in  handling  as  ordi- 
nary hand-dipped  chocolates  are  wont  to 
do. 

When  the  process  was  first  announced, 
the  industry  refused  to  believe  the 
miracle;  scratched  its  head  and  won- 
dered how  it  could  all  be  done.  How- 
ever, once  it  saw  the  results,  the  in- 
dustry, both  in  Europe  and  America 
was  quick  to  realize  that  a  San  Fran- 
cisco man  had  evolved  something  that 
would  revolutionize  the  making  of  all 
kinds  of  chocolate-coated  candies.  Im- 
mediately a  line  formed  to  the  right  of 
the  Wilson  factory,  composed  of  candy 
manufacturers  who  wanted  a  permit  to 
use  the  Wilsonette  process,  as  it  is 
called.  The  process  is  fully  protected 
by  United  States  patent  rights.  In  the 
line  was  one  of  the  oldest,  most  widely 
known  and  famous  New  York  candy 
houses.  The  East  comes  West — to  San 
Francisco,  of  course  for  something  spe- 
cial in  candy. 

T>Y  THIS  time  I  can  see  any  critical 
-L*  gentlemen  among  my  readers  lift- 
ing their  eyebrows.  I  have  written 
mostly  about  things  to  eat  and  the  men 
who  make  them.  How  sordidly  com- 


monplace and  material!  Well,  what  of 
it?  Hasn't  this  city  always  been  noted 
for  the  excellency  of  its  meating  places; 
the  skill  of  its  chefs;  the  discrimination 
of  its  diners?  It  has  and  still  has.  The 
point  I  want  to  get  at  is  this — these 
four  men  are  leaders  in  their  lines.  How 
dp  they  get  that  way  and  why.  Because 
they  mix  brains  with  their  furs,  their 
chocolate  or  sugar.  They  bring  to  their 
respective  works  and  industries  the  minds 
and  attitude  of  the  student;  a  certain 
original  and  creative  ability.  They  have 


background,  scientific  understanding 
and  a  flair  for  research.  They  produce 
things  decidedly  out  of  the  ordinary. 
They  are  all  Californians  by  adoption. 
They  could,  no  doubt,  make  a  living 
any  place  they  chose  to  go.  They  choose 
to  live  and  work  in  San  Francisco — 
a  city  whose  industrial  and  business  life 
and  people  offer  the  best  fields  for  their 
work  and  labors — a  city  that  will  pay 
any  price  to  keep  them  here. 

Who  has  anything  more  to  say  about 
ability  going  unrewarded? 


FREMONT  OLDER'S 

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My  Own  Story 


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from  the  history  of  San  Francisco  and  California. 


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STRANGE  WATERS 


<By  GEORGE  STERLING 

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printing.    Order  your  copy  at  once. 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


San  Francisco,  Calif. 


58 


February,  1927 


a  chuckle  or  two  was  all  the  notice  the 
crowd  took  of  the  stranger's  peculiar 
action  with  the  Mexican.  Jeddle  took 
no  notice  whatever  of  the  incident. 

Two  new  players  immediately  substi- 
tuted Avers  and  the  Mexican,  for  Jeddle 
insisted  on  a  five-handed  game.  Quien 
Sabe  was  given  no  time  for  ponder- 
ing over  the  eccentricities  of  his  ac- 
quaintance. Aces  up  against  Jeddle's 
kings,  he  again  raked  from  under  the 
gambler's  itching  fingers  a  big  pot.  The 
formidable  gambler  whom  rumor  said 
could  win  or  lose  as  he  chose  was  play- 
ing wild ;  calling  the  unbeatable  hand 
and  quitting  on  a  bluff  with  regularity 
exultantly  satisfactory  to  Quien  Sabe 
and  his  silent  backers.  Quien  Sabe  saw 
the  end  as  not  far  off.  The  thought  made 
him  heady. 

Jeddle's  cash  had  run  out  and  he  was 
buying  chips  with  the  least  treasured  of 
his  pet  jewelry,  a  diamond  stickpin. 
With  every  pot  Jeddle  lost,  Quien  Sabe 
grew  more  excited  and  reckless  in  his 
betting.  Something  of  this  was  subtly 
communicated  to  the  room  at  large  and 
there  was  a  suspension  of  all  other  in- 
terests in  the  barroom,  as  the  low-toned 


Quien  Sabe 

(Coutinued  from  Page  45) 

gossip  repeated  with  varied  exaggera- 
tions, the  staggering  winnings  of  the 
smooth-faced  kid  from  the  veteran  gam- 
bler. And  augmenting  the  one-sided 
sympathy,  a  report,  from  an  untraceable 
source,  was  circulated  to  the  effect  that 
this  was  the  prodigal  returned  to  avenge 
the  father,  lying  over  there  with  a  bullet 
through  his  brain. 

As  the  betting  narrowed  to  Jeddle 
and  Quien  Sabe,  men  hung  in  tense, 
silent  groups  on  the  edge  of  the  four- 
foot  limit  that  Jeddle  demanded  for  his 
poker  table.  Hoped  to  God  it  would  end 
before  the  boy's  luck  changed.  Quien 
Sabe,  smilingly  confident,  had  a  fancy  to 
made  Jeddle  shed  that  precious  ruby  ring 
and  the  famous  old  ivory-carved  dueling 
pistol  from  the  New  Orleans  river  days 
on  one  bet.  After  that  he'd  make  the 
despicable  cur  play  him  for  that  piece 
of  paper  with  the  Bar  X  brand  on  it. 

OUIEN  SABE  shoved  out  wobbly 
stacks  of  blue  chips  approximating 
fifteen  thousand  dollars — his  entire  win- 
nings thus  far.  The  gambler's  cold  little 
eyes  gleamed  for  a  second  or  two ;  saw, 
or  thought  he  did,  another  of  those  top- 
heavy  bluffs.  Seeming  to  hesitate, 


though  secretly  gloating,  Jeddle  sud- 
denly covered  and  asked  to  be  shown. 
And  when  Quien  Sabe  showed  three 
queens  and  a  pair  of  aces  against  his 
three  kings  with  aces,  Jeddle  was 
nearly  as  knocked  out  as  Quien  Sabe 
and  his  loyal  supporters.  It  was  too  un- 
comfortably close  when  he  had  nothing 
left — except  that  slip  of  paper.  How- 
ever, he  soon  recovered,  fell  into  his 
stride,  and  had  that  roll  of  Quien  Sabe's 
unwinding  like  a  windlass.  Disap- 
pointed spectators  cursed  under  their 
breath ;  it  wasn't  a  good  sign.  Quien 
Sabe,  dazed  by  the  unexpected  blow  dealt 
him  by  the  traitor  Chance,  sat  with  hag- 
gard face  in  which  the  old  gambler  read 
his  every  move  before  it  was  made.  Try- 
ing to  "play  'em  close"  in  order  to 
recoup  the  heavy  loss  of  that  one  foolish 
bet,  Quien  Sabe  lost  a  bigger  pot  for 
every  little  one  he  took.  But  he  still  had 
money  and  he  was  going  to  win — had  to 
win — to  lose  now  was  unthinkable ;  he'd 
ram  down  the  throat  of  that  scoundrel 
facing  him  an  overdose  of  his  own  medi- 
cine; there  weren't  many  tricks  that 
Manzanillo  and  Avers  hadn't  taught  him. 

(Continued  on  Page  63) 


Palms  and  a  patch 
of  green 

HOW  unlike  the  ordinary  hotel  vista  is  the  charm- 
ing sweep  of  Union   Square  glimpsed  from   the 
windows  of  the  Hotel  Plaza. 

Light,  airy  rooms  with  windows  framing  green 
grass  and  swaying  palms  make  the  Plaza  distinctly 
a  hotel  for  discriminating  people. 

The  central  location  of  the  Plaza  assures  you  the 
utmost  convenience  to  theaters,  shops  and  business. 
No  traffic  problems  to  worry  about.  Won't  you  come 
and  see  for  yourself? 

Rates  from  $2.00 

MOTEL  PLAZA 


CAUFORNIAN  HOTEL 

FRESNO.     CALIFORNIA. 


1  modem,  model  Hotel  devoted 
'to  sinoe»e   hospitality    and 
dedicated  to  California's  Quc-stA 


Post  Street  at  Stockton 


San  Francisco 


W.  Freeman  Burbank,  Manager 


*    *    * 

CALIFORNIAN  HoTiUNc. 


February,  1927 


There  is  No  Such  Thing  as  Realism 


59 


stand  being  separated  from  your  grand- 
mother— and  all ?" 

"Grandmothaire?  I  have  eet  no 
•grandmothaire !  You  mean  old  Rosa?  Ai! 
foolish  man!  blind  man!"  Lola  laughed 
rather  sadly.  Then  almost  bitterly: 
"Come,  Buckalew,  mio,  eet  ees  time  for 
the  puff  to  be  gone!"  She  pulled  him 
to  his  feet;  she  sang,  she  danced  as  they 
walked,  she  was  gay.  Once  she  stooped 
beside  a  mesquite  tree,  and,  perhaps 
emboldened  by  their  previous  carnal  in- 
timacy of  the  night,  she  attended  to  her 
excretory  \vants  in  Buckalew's  presence. 

It  was  the  realism  he  had  preached. 
Such  direct  contact  with  it  shocked  him, 
actually  scared  him. 

But  a  greater  scare  shot  through  him 
as  a  huddled  yucca  abruptly  took  life 
and  became  the  figure  of  a  man  with  a 
gleaming  knife  upraised. 

"Eet  ees  Diego!"  Lola  screamed,  in 
warning.  "He  has  seen  all!  Run,  Senor! 
He  keel  you!" 

Buckalew  started  to  utter  a  satirical 
jibe  about  gleaming  knives,  but  Diego 
was  upon  him.  As  has  been  said,  Buck- 
alew was  an  expert  boxer;  he  easily 
side-stepped  his  assailant,  and  leaped  in 
with  a  blow  that  pounded  Diego  to  the 
ground,  while  the  knife  sliced  the  moon- 
light and  fell  near  Lola.  Diego  got  up, 
and  Buckalew  grappled  him,  lifted  him 
overhead,  and  crashed  him  again  to  the 
ground,  where  he  lay  inert.  Buckalew 
went  toward  him  to  examine  whether 
he  was  badly  hurt,  only  to  be  confronted 
by  the  same  gleaming  knife.  This  time 
it  was  in  Lola's  hand,  a  much  quicker 
and  more  dangerous  opponent  than 
Diego. 

"Lola — I  thought — you — loved  me!" 
Buckalew  gasped. 

"Ai!"  she  equivocated,  and  slid  for- 
ward pythonishly. 

He  saw  that  she  was  frantically  deter- 
mined. He  uttered  his  satirical  jibe  about 
gleaming  knives.  Which  cost  him  a  slash 
in  the  ribs.  Recklessly  he  clamped  his 
arms  about  her,  crushing  the  knife  from 
her  grasp;  and  he  was,  as  in  the  world 
of  literature,  the  master,  the  Satan  of  his 
own  little  hell-  Lola  wept  furiously; 
she  seemed  a  feline  animal  in  her  hyste- 
rical hate. 

"You  are  like  thee  smoke  of  thee 
cigarette  now! — puff!  you  are  gone!" 
she  reiterated,  in  a  wail. 

Her  prediction  appeared  fatal;  cer- 
tainly enough,  Guy  Buckalew  went  back 
to  New  York  ...  He  discovered  the 
libel  suit  still  pending  against  him.  He 
was  sentenced  to  prison  for  one  year,  but, 
through  bribery  of  officials,  got  out  in 


(Continued  from  Page  41) 

six  months,  married  Patricia  Wakefield, 
and  toured  the  world  on  a  two  year's 
honeymoon. 

Arriving  in  San  Francisco  afterwards, 
Patricia  complained  of  the  shortness  of 
the  trip! 

"It  isn't  complete,"  she  protested, 
"until  we  go  to  the  desert.  You  say 
there  is  nothing  like  the  desert,  that  the 
Himalayas  are  tame  compared  to  it.  I 
don't  know  whether  to  believe  you,  dear. 
Don't  you  exaggerate  its  loveliness?  Is 
New  Mexico  really  more  beautiful  than 
the  steppes  of  Asia?" 

"It  is — it  is — !"  he  exclaimed,  his 
fervor  largely  inspired,  however,  by  the 
memory  of  Lola.  And  this  was  a  secret 
incident;  the  one  and  only  knowledge 
that  Patricia  did  not  share  with  him. 

"Then  we  shall  go.  You  buy  an  auto- 
mobile. We'll  motor  there,"  she  decided, 
tightening  her  aristocratic  mouth  unan- 
swerably. Patricia's  desiderations  usu- 
ally were  realized. 

Accordingly  they  drove  to  New  Mex- 
ico, and  Patricia  was  entranced.  They 
agreed  to  stay  and  wallow  in  the  tingling 
atmosphere  for  awhile.  They  rented  an 
apartment  on  the  second  floor  of  a  fa- 
mous old  Spanish  hotel,  built  in  pueblo 
style;  from  their  windows  they  beheld 
the  Organ  Mountains,  the  mesa,  a  patio, 
and  an  exotic  courtyard  next  door  where 
a  square  adobe  hut  emptied  its  clamor 
of  Mexicans  every  morning.  Children 
shouted,  senoritas  sang,  mothers  called 
in  tones  as  shrill  as  those  of  the  pea- 
cocks that  strutted  the  walls  of  the  court- 
yard. 

"Have  you  noticed,"  Patricia  said 
over'  a  cup  of  coffee  to  her  husband  one 
morning,  "this  family  who  live  in  the 
shack  below?" 

"Not  particularly.    Why?" 

"They're  mostly  women-  I  never  see 
a  man  except  at  night.  I  suspect  no 
two  children  have  the  same  father.  Little 
brats!  they  go  out  right  before  you! 
Have  they  no  toilets?  Thye're  hardly 
civilized !" 

"Of  what  does  civilization  consist,  my 
dear  Pat?  sanitary  bowls  and  sewers?" 

"Oh,  you  old  realist!  I  shan't  argue 
with  you  .  .  .  Listen!  hear  that  woman 
scream!  she  sounds  in  pain  .  .  ." 

Buckalew  and  his  wife  went  to  the 
window.  They  perceived  in  the  court- 
yard a  man  with  an  ocotillo  whip  beat- 
ing a  woman  whose  dark  dusty  hair  fell 
over  a  rotted  black  silk  waist,  whose 
crimson  skirt  was  tattered,  with  no  petti- 
coat or  underclothes  to  shield  her  brown 
limbs  from  exposure  and  dirt.  She  amply 
screamed ;  shrewishly. 


Patricia  could  not  understand  their 
angry  Spanish,  but  her  husband  could, 
and  he  quailed,  nauseated. 

"Dare  admit  you  still  love  him!" 
growled  the  voice  of  Diego,  the  threat- 
ening whip  ready  to  fall  viciously. 

"Ai !  ai!"  Lola  cried  meaninglessly 
then  obdurately:  "I  love  him  ever!" 

"Why  did  you  stab  him  that  night 
then?" 

"I  wanted  to  keep  him!  to  nurse  him! 
to  hold  him!  I  love  him  ever!" 

The  whip  whistled  and  struck.  A 
child,  fair-complexioned  as  Patricia  her- 
self, waddled  toward  the  couple,  and 
(Continued  on  Page  64) 


DORCHESTER 
HOTEL 

Northeast  Corner  Sutter 
and  Gough  Streets 

A  REFINED  HOME 

Catering    to     permanent     and 

transient   guests;    both   Amer- 

ican and  European  plan 

Cars  1-2-3  stop  in  front  of  door 

Single    rooms,    with    or    with- 
out bath,  and  suites 

Rates  Very  Reasonable 
Excellent  Cuisine 


W.    W.    Madison,    Proprietor 
Formerly  of  Hotel  Oakland 


Centre 

of 'Hew York's 

Activities 

HOTEL 


CONTINENTAL 


Broadway  and4l*St 

NEW  YORK 
ROOMS 


60 


February,  1927 


A 

California 
Parade 


Youngest  among  literary  quarter- 
lies, THE  AMERICAN  PARADE  is  na- 
tional in  its  scope.  In  its  fourth  issue 
(dated  October)  California  is  notably 
to  the  fore.  Read,  among  other  fea- 
tures : 


AMBROSE  BIERCE  AS  HE 
REALLY  WAS,  an  intimate  ac- 
count of  the  great  critic's  life  and 
death,  by  Adolphe  de  Castro. 

The  MAN  OF  GOD,  a  pungent 
portrait  of  a  modern  Protestant 
uplifter,  by  David  Warren  Ryder 
of  San  Francisco. 


THE  DWELLER  IN  DARK- 
NESS, a  sonnet  by  George  Sterl- 
ing, one  of  the  greatest  of  Amer- 
ican poets. 


The  whole  glittering  pageantry  of 
American  life. 

The  circus  going  by  the  door. 


The 

American 
Parade 

Edited  by  W.  Adolphe  Roberts 

$1.00  a  Copy  $4.00  a  Year 

Address  166  Remsen  Street 

Brooklyn,  New  York 

On  Sale  in  San  Francisco  at  the 
Emporium  and  Paul  Elder's 


Villa 


By  TYLER  ADAMS 
(Continued  from  Last  Month) 
URBINA,"    he    said     bina,  "you  are  not  going  to  kill  me?  You 


^ry-jOMAS 

sternly,  "once  I  thought  you 
•*•  were  my  true  friend.  In  the 
old  days,  together  we  held  up  many 
convoys,  stole  many  horses  and  cattle. 
I  cared  for  you  more  than  for  any  other 
of  my  companions.  When  I  became 
a  revolutionary  chieftain  I  favored 
you  in  every  way.  I  put  you  in  com- 
mand in  the  wealthiest  places,  where 
the  most  booty  was  to  be  had.  You  were 
not  slow  in  profiting  by  these  opportuni- 
ties. You  pillaged  right  and  left  out- 
rageously. When  protests  came  to  me  of 
your  conduct,  I  ignored  them.  "That 
is  my  good  friend  Tomas"  I  would  say 
to  myself;  "let  him  feather  his  nest  to 
his  heart's  content."  You  did.  When 
the  tide  of  fortune  began  to  turn  against 
me,  you  retired  with  an  immense  for- 
tune. When  I  was  sorely  pressed  by 
Obregon  at  Celaya,  I  called  upon  you 
for  aid.  You  ignored  my  call." 

"Mercy,  Pancho,"  whined  Urbina.  "I 
must  have  been  drunk." 

"The  other  day"  went  on  Villa,  with- 
out heeding  the  interruption,  "when  I 
sent  to  you  for  money  in  my  hour  of 
need,  you  sent  my  messenger  back  with 
this  reply:  "Tell  Pancho  to  go  to  the 
devil  and  not  bother  me  any  more." 

"Mercy,  Pancho,  mercy!"  pleaded  the 
wretched  Urbina. 

"When  I  came  here  this  morning  to 
see  you,"  went  on  Villa  inexorably,  "you 
fired  on  me  as  though  I  were  your  bit- 
terest enemy." 

"Forgive  me,  Pancho,"  whimpered  the 
miserable  man.  "Only  remember  what 
good  comrades  we  used  to  be  in  the  old 
days." 

"Now  then,"  said  Villa  grimly,  un- 
heeding the  plea,  "either  show  me  where 
your  treasures  are  concealed  or  you  die 
on  the  spot,"  and  he  rose  to  his  feet 
and  drew  a  pistol  threateningly  from  his 
belt. 

Supported  on  either  side  by  Villa's 
men,  Urbina  led  the  way  to  many  cun- 
ningly devised  hiding  places  about  the 
house.  From  these  a  vast  treasure  in 
gold  and  jewels  was  obtained. 

"Is  this  all?"  demanded  Villa  when 
the  last  cache  had  been  looted. 

"That  is  all,"  answered  the  fainting 
Urbina.  "Now  may  I  go  and  lie  down, 
Pancho?" 

"Poor  Tomas,"  responded  Villa  with 
a  cruel  smile,  "you  are  suffering  terribly, 
ain't  you?  Well,  I  have  a  little  treat- 
ment in  mind  that  will  soon  relieve  you. 
Carry  him  out  in  front,  men,  and  bring 
a  rope." 

"But  Pancho — Pancho,  old  friend, 
comrade,"  stuttered  the  horrified  Ur- 


promised  me  my  life  if  I  would  show 
you  where  my  treasures  were  con- 
cealed—" 

"You  lie!"  interrupted  Villa  harshly. 
"But  even  if  I  had  done  so,  I  should 
not  keep  a  promise  with  a  traitor  such 
as  you.  Take  him  down,  boys." 

The  miserable  man  was  half  carried, 
half  dragged,  down  the  narrow  stairway 
and  out  on  the  front  porch. 

"But,  chief,"  said  one  of  the  Dora- 
dos," addressing  Villa,  "there  is  no  tree 
large  enough  near  here  for  hanging  a 
man." 

Villa  surveyed  the  country  adjacent 
to  the  house  and  saw  that  the  man's 
statement  was  correct.  Then  his  eyes 
fell  on  a  swing  that  hung  at  the  end  of 
the  porch.  Doubtless  it  had  been  there 
ever  since  Urbina  murdered  the  propri- 
etors and  confiscated  the  ranch.  Children, 
ruthlessly  massacred,  had  once  enjoyed 
that  swing.  A  fiendish  smile  dawned  on 
Villa's  coarse  features. 

"We'll  give  dear  Tomas  a  last  swing 
on  his  own  front  porch,"  he  said  with 
grim  humor.  "There  is  a  gallows  already 
provided.  Cut  those  ropes.  One  will  do 
for  binding,  the  other  for  hanging,  my 
dear  Tomas." 

The  porch  had  an  unusually  high  roof. 
One  of  the  men  mounted  his  horse,  rode 
up  to  the  swing  and  cut  the  two  ropes 
a  few  feet  from  the  hooks  in  the  ceiling. 
With  one  of  the  dangling  pieces  he  made 
a  crude  hangman's  noose  while  his  com- 
rades performed  the  task  of  binding  the 
arms  and  legs  of  Urbina.  Between  loss 
of  blood  and  terror  the  unhappy  pris- 
oner had  now  fainted.  It  was  a  creature 
more  dead  than  alive  that  the  Villistas 
passed  up  to  their  mounted  comrade.  The 
latter  adjusted  the  noose  about  the  neck 
of  the  limp  figure,  as  it  lay  with  head 
hanging  downward  over  the  horse's  neck. 
Then  he  dismounted  nimbly  and  gave 
the  animal  a  smart  slap  on  the  back.  The 
horse  bounded  forward  and  Urbina 
dangled  with  toes  almost  touching  the 
floor. 

"Adios,  Tomas,  hasta  la  vista"  (good- 
bye, Tomas,  till  we  meet  again),  said 
Villa  with  cruel  mockery  as  he  gazed  at 
the  gruesome  figure.  "Now,  boys,  make 
a  bonfire  of  this  shack  for  me  and  then 
we'll  leave." 

A  few  minutes  later  Villa  and  his 
band  rode  away,  often  turning  to  gaze 
at  the  holocaust  behind  them.  From 
doors  and  windows  of  the  burning  dwell- 
ing flames  were  already  leaping.  On  the 
front  porch,  licked  by  tongues  of  fire, 
Urbina's  body  now  hung  motionless. 
(Continued  Next  Month) 


February,  1927 


61 


The  One-way  Street 

(Continued  from  Page  43) 


since  that  time  I  have  seen  those  self- 
same young  people  in  quite  a  number  of 
hairbreadth  escapes  from  death  through 
auto  smashes.  Some  day  they  will  parti- 
cipate in  a  dreadful  disaster.  Should  we 
have  forgotten  the  incident  or  should  we 
have  allowed  ourselves  to  be  a  party  to 
such  "damfoolishness"  by  not  making  of 
them  an  example  for  others? 

If  you  ask  me,  there  is  only  one  solu- 
tion to  this  phase  of  the  traffic  situation, 
keep  these  young  folks  away  from  the 
wheels  of  automobiles  and  you  will  elim- 
inate nearly  half  of  the  auto  accidents. 

Will  you  agree  with  me,  when  I  use 
the  word  "damnfoolishness"  in  describ- 
ing such  things  as  the  above? 

There  was  a  horrible  smashup  on  the 
Pacific  Highway,  a  short  while  ago  near 
San  Francisco.  A  driver  of  a  high-pow- 
ered roadster  was  trying  to  outrun  a 
motorcycle  officer.  Tearing  along  at 
over  seventy-five  miles  an  hour  the  man 
at  the  wheel  of  the  roadster  attempted 
to  negotiate  a  curve  and  light  a  cigar  at 
the  same  time.  He  lost  control  of  the 
car  and  we  had  to  pick  him  up  in  pieces. 

The  driver's  daughter  was  with  him 
and  she  suffered  worse  than  death,  she 
is  crippled  and  blinded  for  life.  She,  too, 
was  in  the  habit  of  trying  to  outsmart 
the  highway  cops  before  she  met  with 
this  "willful  accident." 

Her  father  had  taught  her  to  flirt 
with  death.  She  was  about  seventeen 
years  old.  Do  you  call  such  actions 
"damnfoolishness  ?" 

I  can't  think  of  a  more  appropriate 
name  for  it. 

Every  paper  you  pick  up  reads  some- 
tiling  like  this:  "An  automobile  acci- 
dent. Somebody  is  badly  hurt,  or  killed. 
A  run  to  the  hospital.  Doctors.  Nurses. 
Weeks  of  suffering.  A  suit  for  damages. 
A  big  verdict  against  someone." 

Maybe  you  have  driven  your  car  with- 
out accident  for  years.  The  very  next 
mile  might  be  the  place  where  you  will 
meet  one  of  these  reckless  kids,  madly 
dashing  along,  a  maniac  for  speed.  Or 
you  may  meet  a  pedestrian. 

If  you  bump  into  either  of  them,  the 
chances  are  you  may  be  outwitnessed  at 
the  trial  for  personal  damages,  which 
seems  the  rule  nowadays  in  many  cases. 
A  verdict  may  eat  up  your  home  or  your 
savings,  you  can't  tell. 

What's  the  answer? 

Concede  the  pedestrian  the  first  right 
on  the  highway,  and  drive  your  car  at  a 
rate  of  speed  whereby  you  can  stop  in  an 
emergency,  and  do  your  part  right  now 
toward  making  it  unlawful  for  a  minor 


to  drive  a  car,  and  then  support  the  police 
department  in  enforcing  the  law  without 
fear  or  favor. 

Insurance  is  essential  to  you  today, 
who  own  cars,  or  whether  you  are  a 
pedestrian.  But,  even  a  fat  insurance 
policy  will  not  bring  back  the  lives  that 
"damnfoolishness"  recklessly  snuffs  out 
as  we  worship  at  its  shrine  by  ignoring 
the  things  which  could  save  all  this  vast 
property  damage  and  prevent  this  appal- 
ing  list  of  death  and  injury  that  is  hap- 
pening every  minute  of  the  day  and 
night,  in  the  traffic  lines  of  the  country. 

Here  is  the  way  they  read : 

"Man  thrown  out  of  car.  Loss  of  one 
eye." 

-  "Boy  sixteen  run  down  by  taxicab.  In- 
jured for  life." 

"Woman  struck  by  automobile,  seri- 
ously injured." 

"Boy  run  down  by  auto,  one  leg  am- 
putated." 

"Man  struck  down  by  automobile, 
paralyzed." 

"Two  small  children  killed,  one  wo- 
man severely  injured." 

"Auto  hits  trolley  man's  leg  crushed." 

"Car  skidded  on  slippery  pavement, 
one  killed." 

On  and  on  the  list  reads,  hundreds  of 
thousands  just  such  cases.  The  congested 
street,  slippery  pavement,  speedy  high- 
way, narrow  country  lanes  and  roads, 
each  with  its  own  particular  risk  and 
danger.  Who  cares? 

I  dare  say  there  isn't  a  car  owner  in 
the  world,  man  or  woman  but  who  could 
drive  to  market,  to  work,  or  any  mission 
they  might  choose,  safely  and  return  the 
same  way,  without  the  assistance  of  a 
traffic  cop  or  a  traffic  signal,  if  they  will 
but  use  common  sense  at  the  wheel  and 
tolerance  towards  the  other  fellow's 
faults. 

Try  it  yourself  and  see  if  I  am  right. 
Slow  down  be  sane,  let's  put  a  stop  to 
unhappy  auto  driving. 


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A  REQUIEM  FOR  DENVER 

(Continued  from  Page  46) 
Hill.  The  Hill  was  a  slight  acclivity, 
upon  which  the  Capitol  Building  now 
stands,  and  immediately  around  and 
behind  this  building  clustered  the  mag- 
nificoes.  They  built  mansions  of  tower- 
ing ill-taste  and  ostentation,  yelling  piles 
of  newly  gotten  wealth,  great  mammoth 
castles  of  stone,  with  iron  fences,  red 
sandstone  walks,  stone  houses  imitative 
of  every  type  of  building  from  the  Pan- 
theon to  the  Carnegie  library  of  today. 
It  must  be  of  stone,  and  it  must  be 
grand  in  style,  but  aside  from  these 
there  were  no  other  criterions.  Today 
the  tide  of  wealth  and  social  voluptuous- 
ness is  moving  into  the  club  districts, 
and  the  glory  of  Capitol  Hill  is  almost 
a  myth.  Some  of  the  houses  remain, 
however,  silent  monuments  of  that  hap- 
pier and  gayer  time  when  boys  played 
at  being  men,  made  fortunes,  built  co- 
lossal houses  of  stone,  and  then  died, 
having  lived  to  see  their  places  taken 
by  a  race  sucked  dry  of  joy,  an  emas- 
culate, cowardly  throng. 

After  all,  cities  are  known  and  re- 
membered ultimately,  not  by  their  union 
depots,  as  some  will  have  it,  but  by 
their  restaurants.  In  Denver  it  was  the 
Manhattan.  Founded  at  an  early  day 
by  an  estimable  gentleman  bearing  the 
name  of  Pinhorn,  the  restaurant  became 
at  once  the  most  distinguished  eating 
place  of  the  city,  and  one  of  the  most 
far-famed  centers  of  the  joyous  art  in 
America.  There  was  naught  of  pretense 
and  artifice  about  it ;  Pinhorn  knew  that 
food  alone  was  the  desideratum,  and  he 
proceeded  to  remove  all  the  ostentatious 
trappings  and  to  approach  the  problem 
in  its  elemental  stages.  The  result  was 
and  new  and  glorified,  an  utterly  inimi- 
table, steak!  A  steak  served  in  a  mo- 
ment's notice — unadorned,  virgin  in  its 
simplicity,  and  other-worldly  in  its 
glories.  Never  such  a  steak!  And  the 
doors  of  this  famous  eating  place  never 
closed.  Mr.  Pinhorn,  senior,  passed  away 
a  few  months  ago,  and,  if  my  memory 
serves  me  aright,  a  monument  has  been 
erected  to  his  sainted  name  by  the  dis- 
criminating citizenry.  Peace  to  his  ashes 
— a  most  distinguished  artist! 

TODAY  the  hilariousness  of  Denver 
has  vanished.  It  is  just  another  big 
town,  with  a  core  of  loneliness  about  it, 
an  attitude  of  almost  abjectness  at  not 
having  ever  quite  struck  the  right  chord, 
of  ever  having  found  itself.  The  cattle- 
men, the  miners,  and  the  gamblers  have 
gone,  and  with  them  the  old  glory  and 
fine  spirits.  Formerly  a  place  of  joy,  a 
sort  of  continual  rodeo  and  carnival 
place  for  the  west,  it  is  now  in  a  state 
of  beautiful  somnolence.  The  former 
crisp  and  electric  beauty  is  gone,  and  an 
almost  eastern  langorousness  engulfs  it. 


February,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


63 


Everywhere  one  drives  there  are  the 
beautiful  avenues  of  shade  trees,  evenly 
clipped  lawns,  and  neat  white  stucco 
houses;  the  miners'  playground  is  now 
a  respectable  little-Chicago.  Who  would 
attend  a  stock  show  now?  Anyone  sug- 
gesting such  a  heresy  would  be  hooted 
at.  A  middle-class  atmosphere  of,  "we're 
not  rich  but  we  are  wealthy,"  has  settled 
down  upon  the  place,  and  so  it  dozes 

The  old  wild  glory  is  only  to  be 
gained  by  a  furtive  glance  at  that  range 
of  blue-grey  granite  Rockies  running 
along  the  skyline  to  the  west,  with  their 
peaks  of  amethyst  studded  with  dia- 
mond-white snows,  and  pagan  sunsets 
flashing  a  painter's  treasures  in  the  sky. 
Yes,  here  is  a  beauty  and  glory  that  time 
has  not  abated.  Running  along  to  the 
mountains,  today  one  finds  truck  farms 
and  homes  for  consumptives.  In  their 
rocking  chairs,  these  pale  featured  desti- 
tutes of  fate  gaze  hopefully  at  a  fatally 
optimistic  sky.  They  are  everywhere.  No 
wild  glory  about  this,  but  a  sense  of  a 
crippled  and  disease-ridden  spirit.  It  is 
a  symbol :  from  miner  to  invalid. 

Today  tourists  flood  the  land.  Den- 
ver is  a  sort  of  assembling  place,  a  sort 
of  jumping  off  place,  for  the  poor  un- 
fortunates who  still  think  there  is  a 
west  to  see.  Every  summer  they  come 
in  droves  and  infest  the  place.  Here 
they  are — the  easterners  coming  west  to 
gaze  at  Zane  Grey  cowboys  and  Harold 
Bell  Wright's  "Barbara  Worths."  There 
is  no  race  as  despicable  as  the  profes- 
sional tourists.  They  are  guests  and  must 
be  treated  with  favor,  but  what  intoler- 
able bores,  with  their  eternal  picture-tak- 
ing, mountain-hiking,  scenery-seeking  ac- 
tivities. First  the  pioneers,  now  the  tourist 
with  his  auto  trailer,  his  camera,  his 
innumerable  children,  his  vulgar  habits, 
and  his  unmatched  obtuseness. 

No  vigorous  mental  life  has  blossomed 
forth  to  supplant  the  former  physical 
hilariousness  of  the  place.  Of  course, 
there  is  the  University  of  Denver,  a 
rather  unusual  institution  of  higher 
learning,  run  in  the  name  of  Methodists 
and  financed  by  Catholics.  To  be  sure 
this  citadel  of  "glory-to-God-ism"  har- 
bored at  one  time  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele, 
(his  father  was  dean  of  the  school  of 
religion),  and  with  it  was  associated 
Miss  Ruth  Suckow,  but  aside  from  these 
the  university  can  only  boast  a  long  list 
of  commonplace  alumni — educated  bar- 
bers, insurance  brokers,  country  pastors, 
and  cultured  section  hands.  Lillian 
White  Spencer  still  lives  in  Denver, 
writing  poetry  of  a  fine  order,  but  the 
natives  hold  her  in  low  esteem,  and 
place  Arthur  Chapman,  author  of 
"Here's  Where  the  West  Begins"  far 
above  her.  No  magazines  flourish;  no 
centers  of  dramatic  art  hold  forth;  no 
symphonies  crash. 


As  governor  of  the  sovereign  state, 
inhabiting  the  historic  Capitol  Building, 
there  is  the  Hon.  Judge  Morley.  In  the 
last  election  he  swept  aside  all  barriers 
between  the  imperial  post  and  himself 
and  stepped  as  though  ordained  into  the 
purple.  An  imperial  cyclops  of  the  Ku 
Klux  Klan,  he  is  eminently  fitted  for 
such  high  offices.  The  Klan  now  as- 
sembles, not  on  the  distant  prairie,  but 
on  the  state  house  lawn,  and  there  the 
governor  himself  in  all  his  bed-sheet 
glory  addresses  his  brethren!  Shades  of 
old  Denver !  On  the  distant  peak  of 
Lookout  Mountain,  overlooking  the 
plains,  and  in  the  distance  Denver,  is 
the  grave  of  Buffalo  Bill,  Colonel  Cody. 
If  the  dead  ever  haunt  their  earthly 
spheres,  what  sulphuric  thoughts  must 
course  through  the  old  frontiersman's 
mind  as  he  gazes  down  upon  the  neatly 
arranged  lawns,  the  tiny  truck  farms, 
the  red  orchards,  the  factories,  the  bee 
farms,  and  the  activities  of  the  Klan ! 


HOTEL  STEWART 
San  Francisco 

High  Class  Accommodations 

at  Very  Moderate  Rates. 

Chas.    A.    and     Miss    Margaret 

Stewart,  Props. 


AN  ARTIST  IN  SEARCH  OF 

NEW  MEDIUMS 
(Continued  from  Page  48) 
Hopkins  Hotel  ballroom,  recently  opened 
to  the  public. 

But  even  in  this  field  was  not  com- 
plete satisfaction.  Maynard  Dixon 
wanted  his  efforts  to  be  a  more  essential 
contribution  to  present  day  structures. 

Now  he  is  hard  at  work,  experiment- 
ing with  different  mediums,  hoping  to 
find  one  that  is  essentially  a  part  of 
today's  advance,  a  medium  that  will 
enable  the  painter  to  take  his  place  as 
an  essential  artist,  a  part  of  the  spirit 
of  the  present  rather  than  a  picturesque 
hang-over  from  the  needs  and  spirit  of 
the  past. 

Just  what  this  medium  will  be  is  yet 
to  be  found.  Concrete,  stucco,  stone, 
tiling — whatever  it  is,  to  fulfill  Dixon's 
dream,  it  must  form  an  intimate  part  of 
modern  building.  It  must  interpret  this 
age  to  posterity. 


QUIEN  SABE 

(Continued  from  Page  58) 
The  anxious  watchers  saw  without 
being  able  to  do  anything,  the  inevitable 
end  to  which  the  boy's  desperate  determi- 
nation to  force  the  luck  would  bring 
him.  "Lost  his  head,"  one  would 
whisper;  then  he  would  suddenly  make 
a  winning  and  hope  would  again  hang 
suspender  by  a  slender  thread,  only  to  be 
snapped  by  the  next  three  hand-running 
losings.  Quien  Sabe  had  reached  the  stage 
of  a  man  hurled  over  a  cliff,  who 
clutches  wildly  at  every  chance  support 
only  to  find  himself  gathering  momentum 
when  the  unstable  prop  gives  way. 

His  chance  came.  Went.  He  had 
lost.  His  thoughts  clogged  with  a 
thousand  regrets,  stretching  back  to  his 


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Two  Important  Monthlies 
Edited  by  Henry  Harrison 

THE  GREENWICH 
VILLAGE  QUILL 

The   Only  Magazine   Devoted  to 
America's  Latin  Quarter 

Among  the  Monthly  Features 

Village  News  and  Local  Color 

By  Peter  Pater. 

The  Poetry  Parade 

Verse  by  America's  foremost  poets  in- 
cluding Clement  Wood,  Ralph  Chey- 
ney  Lucia  Trent,  Harold  Vinal,  A  M 
Sullivan,  Louis  Ginsberg,  Henry  Mor- 
ton Robinson,  Gordon  Lawrence,  and 
many  others. 

Entrances  and  Exits 
Current    drama    in    review    by    G     de 
Grandcourt. 

The  Editor  Tries  His  Hand 

Mr.  Harrison  writes  of  few  or  many 
things. 

Musical  Notes 

Current  music  in  review  by  the  bril- 
liant young  pianist  and  composer  Is- 
rael Citkowitz. 

The  Book  Department 

Important  new  books  reviewed  by  Cle- 
ment Wood,  Gordon  Lawrence,  Ralph 
Cheyney,  Henry  Harrison,  Thomas  Del 
Vecchio  and  others. 

Chatter  for  Lowbrows 

Inimitable  comments  by  the  art  editor 
Robert  Edwards. 

Sulli-Vanities 

Delightful  observations  by  A.  M  Sul- 
liyan. 

Kaleidoscopia 

By  Seymour  Stern,  recognized  as  the 
most  important  contributor  of  criti- 
cism to  the  cinema. 

Illustrations,  short  stories,  essays,  and 
other  things  literary,  including  the 
only  map  and  guide  to  Greenwich 
Village  being  published. 

25c  a  Copy — $3.00  a  Year 


OVERTURES 

A  Magazine   of   Verge 

The  first  issue  of  Overtures  will  ap- 
pear on  February  1.  It  will  be  devoted 
to  the  publication  of  the  best  original 
poetry,  to  interviews  with  famous  poets 
and  editors,  to  reviews  of  new  books 
of  verse  and  on  verse,  and  to  im- 
portant articles  on  poetry. 

Bold    by    Subscriptions    Only 


Editorial  Offices  of 

THE  GREENWICH  VILLAGE 
QUILL  and  OVERTURES 

76  Elton  St.,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 


64 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


February,  1927 


Introducing  the  class  in  short- 
story  writing  for  Boys  and 
Girls — Free 


Under  the  Auspices  of 


The  Treasure  Chest 

The  Western  Magazine  for 
California   Boys    and   Girls 


1402  de  Young  Bldg. 
Phone  Garfield  4075 


hot-blooded,  imperious  youth.  Quien 
Sabe  sat  staring  at  the  little  piece  of 
table  directly  under  his  unseeing  gaze. 
It  was  the  finish.  The  one  man  he  could 
have  depended  upon  to  help  him  with 
a  stake  had  left  town. 

Breathless  and  taut  the  barroom  waited 
for  the  next  move.  Saw  in  the  boy's 
stricken  face,  which  seemed  to  have  aged 
years  in  the  past  hour,  much  that  they 
had  seen,  night  after  night,  in  that  other 
face — the  face  under  the  Navajo.  The 
likeness  was  now  so  striking  they  won- 
dered that  the  gambler  did  not  see  it; 
and  perhaps  he  did,  for  the  "King  of 
Gamblers"  prided  himself  on  a  poker 


face  as  expressionless  as  the  kalsomined 
walls  of  the  room  in  which  he  sat. 

Jeddle  was  fairly  sure  he  had 
"cleaned"'  the  fellow,  but  was  leaving 
the  next  move  up  to  him.  Quien  Sabe 
drew  in  a  foot;  touched  something — 
that  something  which  he  now  realized 
he  had  been  worrying  with  his  boot  toe 
for  some  time.  Quickly  he  slid  a  hand 
down  and  fumbled — his  mind  flying  off 
to  that  far-away  port  where  a  Chink 
smuggler  pressed  on  Avers  something  he 
was  afraid  to  keep,  and  Avers — Quien 
Sabe  thrilled  to  a  friendship  he  had  not 
before  appreciated. 

The  crowd  saw  the  movement  and 
gasped — was  he  going  for  a  gun — or  hid- 
den resources  in  the  boot  leg?  Jeddle's 
right  hand  nervously  clutched  at  a 
carved  ivory  handle. 

Lonely  spirals  of  smoke  from  for- 
gotten cigarettes  curled  round  soundless 
seconds. 

"Git  in  there,  Jeddle,  with  ever'thing 
yuh  got!"  Quien  Sabe  electrified  the 
house — "money,  jewelry,  that  Bar  X 
will,  an'  don't  fergit  the  fancy  gun — 
it'll  take  'em  all  to  cover  these — this 
is  'tween  me  an'  you — one  deal,  cards 
up  on  the  table!" 

With  which  startling  speech  Quien 
Sabe  brough  a  chamois  skin  bag  from 
under  the  table,  removed  the  safety  pin 
fastening  and  rolled  out  before  Jeddle's 
greedy  eyes  six  magnificent  pure  rubies, 
the  size  of  an  American  dime.  A  fortune ! 
Rubies!  The  gambler's  passion  for  the 
blood-red  stone  forced  him  to  accept 
without  argument  the  terms  offered  for 
a  chance  at  those  beauties. 

"That  boy's  plumb  loco,  scrapheapin' 
a  fortune  like  that,"  huskily  observed  an 
oldtimer  to  the  elbowing  crowd  about 
him,  gradually  infringing  on  the  dead- 
line, with  Jeddle  too  absorbed  to  notice 
them. 

The  cards  began  to  fly  from  under 
the  dealer's  facile  thumb.  To  Quien  Sabe 
fell  the  ten  of  hearts.  To  Jeddle  the 
ace  of  spades.  Next  came  the  king  of 
diamonds  to  the  younger  man.  To  the 
gambler  the  ace  of  hearts.  A  sharp  intake 
of  breath  made  Quien  Sabe  pale;  eyes 
burning  with  an  unnatural  light. 

The  next  round  gave  Quien  Sabe  a 
queen  and  Jeddle  a  king.  Then  fell 
an  ace  to  Quien  Sabe,  and  Jeddle  got  the 
jack  the  straining  witnesses  hoped  would 
fall  to  the  boy.  Would  he  get  that  jack 
after  all?  Not  in  a  million  years!  The 
cards  seemed  to  hang  back  now — there  it 
was — a  jack?  No.  But  the  joker!  by 
God !  and  Jeddle's  last  card  was  another 
king. 

Under  cover  of  the  pandemonium 
which  broke  loose  in  the  barroom  just 
then,  Jeddle  made  a  dive  for  the  ivory- 
carved  gun  on  the  table,  but  Quien  Sabe 
shoved  him  back  in  his  seat  with  the 


muzzle  of  the  gun  that  Dutton  Ponder 
had  used  to  such  effective  purpose  a  lit- 
tle while  ago.  The  son  then  stood  over 
the  ashen-faced  man  and  delivered  him- 
self: 

"Swank  Jeddle,  you're  the  lowdown 
whelp  that  made  me  a  homeless  wan- 
derer ten  years  ago,  an'  you're  gonna 
get  the  brand  uh  medicine  that's  comin' 
to  yore  breed.  Slow  starvation's  the  pro- 
gram fer  you  ...  no  money  .  .  .  an' 
no  gun  .  .  .  an'  me  trailin'  yuh  to  see 
that  nobody  butts  in  on  my  little 
game  till  I  turn  yuh  over  to  the  buzz- 
ards .  .  ." 

A  pistol  shot  whined  through  the  open 
window  just  behind  the  poker  table  and 
cut  short  Quien  Sabe's  speech.  Swank 
Jeddle  crumpled  to  the  floor  with  a  bul- 
let through  the  back  of  his  neck. 

The  face  that  an  alert  bystander  saw 
for  a  few  seconds  at  the  window  had 
something  missing — the  left  eyebrow. 


NO  SUCH  THING  AS  REALISM 

(Continued  from  Page  59) 
Diego  transferred  his  wrath  on  it.  He 
started  to  lash  it.  Lola  interfered,  man- 
aging to  clutch  her  child  to  her  breast 
and  bend  protectingly  over  it-  The  whip 
bit  against  her  shoulders. 

"Buckalew  mio!  Buckalew  mio!"  she 
wailed  to  the  child,  who  bleated  with 
her  in  the  terror  of  sympathy. 

"Mercy!"  Patricia  exclaimed.  "She 
screamed  something  that  sounded  like 
our  name  •  .  .  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  do 
any  good  to  summon  the  constable.  These 
Mexicans  are  used  to  violence,  aren't 
they  .  .  .  Dearest,  why  don't  you  study 
that  family?  every  sordid  little  detail, 
and  write  a  book  of  your  own.  There's 
realism  for  you!" 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  realism!" 
moaned  a  ghastly  Buckalew,  renouncing 
the  very  weapon  with  which  he  had 
flogged  artists,  even  as  Diego  was  flog- 
ging Lola  with  the  ocotillo  whip. 


Prize  Winners  of 

Overland  Short  Story 

Contest 

will  be  announced 
in 

MARCH  ISSUE 

of 
OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Awards  will  be  made  the 
first  week  in  February 


THE^ALL'YEAR'PALISADE^CITYAT-APTOS'BEACH-ON^ONTEREY-BAY 


You  drive  to  Seaelijf  Park  through 
Santa  Crux  or  Waltonville,  turning  off 
the  State  Highway  about  %  mileteatt 
oj  Capitolc  -L 
cliff  Park, 
tadet." 


,  where  the  tignt  read  "Sea- 
Aptot  Beach  artd  the  Palt- 


EACLIFF  PARK- 
c&^fsf^S^r' 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family  —  but  the 
fact  that  Seacliff  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Ideality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  SeaclifF  Park  property 


Jg^" 


^J>  ((These  are  eummer-like 
days  at  Aptos  Beach — warm,  lazy 
breakers  with  Joamy  crests  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
scu  tiling  off  to  the  shore  in  a  wild 
conjusion  oj  effervescent  bub- 
bles, while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward Jor  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

Cf 'ending  the  construction  oj  per- 
manent buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

KJOrive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  free. 

([Free  transportation,  ij  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  Seaclijj  Park 
Ojjice  upon  arrival.  C^Ask  Jor 
Registration  Clerk. 


is  wise. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  the  fact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetualcharm 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.  Seacliff  Park  resi- 
dents know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park — Riviera  of  the 
Pacific  now  emerges  in  reality. 


OVNEL*  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF   COMPANY,  APTO'S,  CALIFORNIA 


sen'  ufwn  reqttet: 


Ck! 


AT  APTOS  .  CALIFORNIA 


GAYLORD  WILSHIRE 
Inventor  of  the  I-ON-A-CO 


"I  know  a  man  ....  who  effects  cures  of  the 
body  often  when  doctors  have  failed  ....  He 
knows  that  each  man  possesses  a  life  force  which 
has  power  to  throw  off  disease.  So  he  does  not  try 
to  get  rid  of  symptoms  which  are  surface  indications 
of  disease  ....  he  tries  to  'rouse  the  life  force" 
--ROBERT  HICHENS  in  "The  Unearthly." 


FOUNDED  BY  BRET  HARIE  IN  186 S 


Vol.  LXXXV 


MARCH,  1927 


No.  3 


PRICE  25  CENTS 

AND  O  UT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


The  Meeting  Place 

An  Advertisement  of 
the  American  Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company 


IT  is  not  so  long  ago  since 
people  met  in  town  hall, 
store  or  at  the  village 
post-office,  to  talk  over 
matters  of  importance  to  the 
community.  Then  came  the  tele- 
phone to  enable  men  to  discuss 
matters  with  one  another  with- 
out leaving  their  homes. 

With  the  growing  use  of  the 
telephone,  new  difficulties  arose 
and  improvements  had  to  be 
sought.  Many  of  the  improve- 
ments concerned  the  physical 
telephone  plant.  Many  of  them 
had  to  do  with  the  means  of 
using  the  apparatus  to  speed  the 
connection  and  enable  people  to 
talk  more  easily. 

This  need  for  improvement  is 
continuous  and,  more  than  ever, 
is  a  problem  today.  Speed  and 


accuracy  in  completing 
seventy  million  calls  daily 
dependsupon  theefficiency 
of  Bell  System  employees 
and  equipment  as  well  as  upon 
the  co-operation  of  persons  call- 
ing and  those  called  and  numer- 
ous private  operators. 

It  is  not  enough  that  the  aver- 
age connection  is  made  in  a  frac- 
tion of  a  minute  or  that  the  num- 
ber of  errors  has  been  reduced  to 
a  very  small  percentage. 

The  American  Telephone  and 
Telegraph  Company  and  its  as- 
sociated Bell  Telephone  Labo- 
ratories have  practically  for  their 
sole  task  the  making  of  the  tele- 
phone more  serviceable  and  more 
satisfactory — as  a  means  of  con- 
versing with  anyone,  anywhere, 
any  time. 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


65 


D.  M.  LINNARD  HOTELS,  Inc. 


THE  FAIRMONT,   San  Francisco 

Elegant  -  Distinctive  -  Refined 

On  Nob  Hill  -  Splendid  View  of  City  and  Bay 

THE  WHITCOMB,  San  Francisco 

Opposite  the  Civic  Center 

Enlarged  -  Excellent  Service  -  Deservedly  Popular 

THE   HUNTINGTON,   Pasadena 

The  World's  Most  Magnificent  Hotel  -  Open  All  the  Year 

Flowers  -  Fruit  -  Sunshine 

Golf  -  Tennis  -  Swimming  -  Motoring  -  Riding 

THE   SAMARKAND,   Santa   Barbara 

Splendid  Persian  Hotel 

Beautiful  -  Restful   -   Charming   -  Cuisine  Excellent  -   Service  Perfect 

EL  ENCANTO,  Santa  Barbara 

Hotel  and  Cottages  -  Marvelous  View  Valley  and  Ocean 
Gardens  -  Flowers  -  Comfort 

TAHOE  TAVERN,  Lake  Tahoe,  California 

"The  Lake  of  the  Sky"  -  Open  Summer  and  Winter 
Boating  -  Fishing  -  Hunting  -  Camping  -  Tramping 
Pleasing  Entertainments  -  Summer  and  Winter  Sports 
Special  Entertainment  for  Children 
Pullman  Sleeping  Cars  Direct  to  Tahoe  Tavern 

HOTEL  WINTHROP,    Tacoma,  Washington 

Two-Million-Dollar  Hotel,  Opened  1925  -  Thirteen  Stories  of  Solid  Comfort 

Convention  and  Tourists'  Headquarters 

Tacoma  is  the  Gatewav  to  the  Rainier  National  Park 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


COVER!  Like  it?  Hope  so  ... 
Virginia  Taylor  has  worked  hard 
and  fast  to  have  it  ready  for  this  issue. 
Stamp  it  upon  your  brain  and  look  each 
month  for  it.  It  may  be  mentioned  .  .  . 
there  is  nothing  like  it  on  the  cover  of 
a  national  magazine.  Virginia  Taylor 
is  young  and  she  has  many  years  for 
development.  We  feel  safe  in  predicting 
this  cover  as  a  forerunner  to  greater 
things  for  Overland  Monthly  and  also 
Virginia  Taylor. 


HAVE  we  anything  which  collec- 
tively has  unity  of  expression,  which 
can  be  identified  with  the  West  as 
Western  Literature,  Western  Literati? 
Have  we  any  written  word  which  can 
be  identified  with  a  period,  with  an 
expression  of  progress?  And  how  are 
we  to  determine  what  is  collective,  what 
is  identified  with  the  West,  with  a 
period  or  an  expression  of  Progress?  Is 
one  Individual  George  West,  or  H.  L. 
Mencken,  or  George  Douglass  or  the 
worthy  editor  of  the  Argonaut  or 
Henry  Joseph  Jackson  or  the  editor  of 
the  Overland  or  Ella  Sterling  Mighels, 
or  Harr  Wagner,  or  Idwal  Jones  or 
Gobind  Lai  or  any  others  as  an  indi- 
vidual to  be  a  criterion  of  Western 
Literature?  Or  is  a  body  of  intelli- 
gencia  to  judge  what  is  befitting  as 
a  standard  on  which  to  base  the  con- 
clusion of  whether  our  men  and  women 
are  of  the  Literati? 

Recently  there  have  been  various 
works  compiled  on  authors,  on  poets,  on 
a  number  of  artists,  etc.,  but  here  again 
we  have  provincial  selfishness  which 
should  not  belong  to  an  artist  serving 
a  purpose  to  establish  a  fact.  One  does 
not  have  to  look  far  to  see  examples 
of  this  selfishness,  this  petty  striking 
one  out  because  of  jealousy,  because  his 
or  her  work  does  not  come  up  to  the 
individual's  point  of  view,  his  idea  of 
right  or  wrong,  of  literary  values,  of 
moral  courage,  etc.  Further,  there  is 
even  a  fight  between  sections  of  Cali- 
fornians  as  to  whether  the  flower  of 
genius  has  a  right  to  bloom.  Los  An- 
geles says  there  is  nothing  worthy  that 
comes  from  San  Francisco,  and  San 
Francisco  says  of  Los  Angeles,  the  cli- 
mate is  too  hot  and  lazy  to  produce  any- 
thing worthy  of  world  letters;  and  so 
everything  is  based  on  personal  ideas, 
prejudices,  jealousies.  We  are  not  pro- 


vincial  in   our   production   but   we   are 
damnably   provincial    in   our   summary. 

We  have  a  Western  Literature  but 
the  task  yet  remains  to  be  fulfilled, 
the  establishing  of  fact  without  jeal- 
ousy, without  personal  standards  or 
prejudices,  that  we  have  a  literature 
which  extends  from  the  northern  bor- 
der of  California  to  the  southern  border 
of  California  which  comprises  classic 
writers,  modernists,  a  literature  which 
has  one  sounding  note  of  unity,  the 
broadness  of  view  that  is  definite  in 
style,  whether  it  be  poetry  or  prose, 
whether  you  or  I  like  an  individual 
poet  or  novelist  has  nothing  to  do  with 
whether  it  is  representative  or  not. 

Just  what  the  Frona  Wait  Colburn 
prize  contest  will  offer  as  representative 
literature  from  the  West  is  yet  to  be 
determined  by  the  readers  of  Overland 
Monthly.  A  few  words  should  be  said 
concerning  this  contest.  When  Mrs. 
Colburn's  term  as  president  of  the  San 
Francisco  Branch  of  the  League  of 
American  Pen  Women  came  to  a  close 
last  year,  the  members  wished  to  ex- 
press their  appreciation  and  gratitude 
for  her  loyal  work  and  the  success  she 
had  in  the  reorganization  of  the  branch. 
What  could  they  give  her  that  she 
would  appreciate,  something  personal, 
something  she  would  always  keep  .  .  . 
something,  something,  something  ?What? 
And  they  asked  her  what  she  wanted. 

"How  much  do  you  plan  to  spend?" 
was  her  answer,  and  when  she  was  told 
$100  she  promptly  said,  "Then  let  us 
offer  the  money  for  a  prize  story."  The 
contest  is  now  closed  and  the  judges 
have  made  their  choice.  The  winners 
are  getting  not  only  money,  but  they 
are  receiving  a  personal  appreciation  of 
the  members  of  the  San  Francisco 
Branch  of  American  Pen  Women  for 
Mrs.  Colburn's  faithful  work  as  their 
president. 

What  will  Mrs.  Colburn  receive? 
Ah,  the  satisfaction  perhaps  of  seeing 
one  or  two  or  three  of  these  stories 
which  were  made  possible  through  her 
unselfishness  toward  the  young  writer 
of  today,  reprinted  in  O'Brien's  best 
short  stories  of  1927.  The  stories  win- 
ning the  prizes  are: 

FREEDOM,  first  prize,  by  Zoe  A. 
Battu. 

WATERFRONT  PEOPLE,  sec- 
ond prize,  by  Donald  O'Donald. 

TENNESSEE'S  LUCK  WHEN 
WITCHES  WALKED,  third 
prize,  by  Mrs.  William  d'Egilbert. 


THE  HEIR  TO  THE  HOUSE, 

honorable  mention,  by  Laura  Bell 
Everett. 


THE  American  people  seem  slow  to 
realize  the  tragedy  which  they  are 
bringing  upon  themselves.  They  seem 
slow  to  realize  that  by  destroying  their 
forests  they  are  destroying  the  nation's 
most  vitally  important  economic  asset. 
The  criminal  destruction  of  our  national 
forests  should  be  a  cause  for  alarm  else- 
where than  with  foresters  and  those  who 
have  a  sentimental  feeling  for  trees. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1924, 
which  was  the  most  destructive  to  the 
forests  in  our  history,  we  had  but  137,- 
000,000  acres  of  virgin  forest  land  left. 
That  year  we  had  93,446  forest  fires 
which  "burned  over  29,000,000  acres— 
and  we  cut  8,500,000  acres  more.  Dur- 
ing the  same  period  the  total  planting  in 
the  United  States  was  36,420  acres  to 
replace  the  37,500,000  acres  destroyed. 

The  wealth  and  power  of  a  country 
come  chiefly  from  the  soil.  The  pro- 
ductiveness of  the  soil  and  its  continued 
fertility  depend  indirectly  upon  trees  by 
reason  of  the  fact  that  the  relation  of 
the  forest  growth  to  the  water  supply 
is  a  close  one.  A  well  covered  forest 
floor  will  absorb  88  per  cent  of  the 
rainfall,  taking  27  months  for  its  proper 
distribution.  When  this  covering  is  de- 
stroyed, either  by  fire  or  cutting,  92  per 
cent  of  the  rainfall  runs  off,  taking  with 
it  the  substance  of  the  soil  which  it  has 
taken  centuries  to  create. 

Forests  are  the  natural  moisture  res- 
ervoirs. Now  that  we  have  destroyed 
five-sixths  of  these  reservoirs,  the  88  per 
cent  rainfall  which  we  are  annually  los- 
ing is  running  wild  in  disastrous  floods 
all  over  the  country. 

It  is  the  forests  that  have  made  pos- 
sible our  present  mode  of  living  and 
methods  of  travel  and  communication. 
That  reforestation  is  one  of  the  most 
vital  issues  before  the  people  today  is 
evident.  "America,"  says  Mr.  George  H. 
Barnes,  President  of  the  Reforestation 
Association,  "cannot  continue  to  exist  as 
the  virile,  progressive  nation  that  she 
is  today  unless  we  conserve  what  we 
have  and  start  immediately  to  build  up 
what  we  have  so  wantonly  destroyed. 
We  cannot  continue  our  policy  of  pro- 
fligacy and  waste  any  longer — America 
must  reforest,  or  America  must  drink 
the  bitter  dregs  of  national  decline  and 
impotency." 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET  HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


MARCH,  1927 


NUMBER  3 


EDITORIAL  STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 

CONTRIBUTING  EDITORS 

CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN   KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 

MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


EXPRESSIONS  OF  SYMPATHY 

(Postmarked  Nov.  18,   1926) 

SINCE  writing  this,  I  have  heard  of 
George  Sterling's  tragedy.  How 
you  must  feel.  You  were  his  personal 
friend ;  he  was  to  you  as  George  Ed- 
wards, the  musician,  was  to  me.  Ster- 
ling's prediction  in  his  matchless  "Coup 
de  Grace!"  .  .  .  Why  do  men  who 
love  beauty  have  to  suffer  so? 

PHILLIPS  KLOSS,  Oakland. 

MR.  SPERO  and  I  are  stricken  by 
death  of  George  Sterling.  When 
I  was  sunk  in  sorrow  and  prostration 
he  sent  me  words  which  helped  me  to 
get  up  and  walk.  If  the  Powers  over- 
there  are  as  tender  to  him  as  the  hearts 
in  my  home  no  harm  can  halt  him.  I 
know  that  you  sorrow  with  us.  Yours 
as  always, 

ANNA  KALEUS  SPERO,  Berkeley. 

STERLING    is    dear    to    the    young 
writer.    His  help  and  generosity  and 
kindness  have  saved  many  from  the  very 
death    he    so    amazingly    suffered.    He 
leaves  a  nation  in  tears. 

S.  BERT  COOKSLEY,  Long  Beach. 

I  HAVE  just  this  moment  read  the 
account  of  Mr.  Sterling's  passing 
and  I  am  terribly  shocked.  Although 
I  had  not  the  honor  to  know  him,  yet  I 
felt  a  kinship  with  the  man  and  artist 
even  in  the  exchange  of  letters  which 
we  knew.  Sincerely, 

CHALISS  SILVAY,  Ocean  Park. 

(Continued  on  Page  86) 


Contents 


"The   Grizzly   Giant" George    Sterling Frontispiece 

Decoration  by  Sarkis  Beulan 
Courtesy  of  Sunset  Magazine 

ARTICLES 

George  Sterling  as  I  Knew  Him....Charmian  Kittredge  London 69 

Los  Angeles  to  George  Sterling Ben  Field  71 

Justice    B.  Virginia  Lee 74 

San  Francisco's  Russian  Artist Aline  Kistler  78 

George  Sterling,  an  Appreciation. ...Clark  Ashton  Smith 79 

My  Inspiration  Sarkis    Beulan 88 


POETRY 

Winter  Sun  Down Robinson  Jeffers 

The  Voice  of  the  Wheat George  Sterling  .. 

To  George  Sterling  from  Lannie  Haynes  Martin.... 
To  George  Sterling Herbert  Selig 


73 
77 
79 
83 


DEPARTMENTS 
Rhymes  and  Reactions 89,  95,  96 


The  Inconsolable  ..  ....Coralie  Castelein 


75 


POETRY  BY  GEORGE  STERLING 


Wings;  Peace;  Safe;  Beauty  and  Truth;  To  Margaret  Anglin; 

Late   Tidings   81 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative,  George  H.  Myers,  5  South  Wabash  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

Manuscript   mailed    The   Overland  Monthly   without  a  stamped  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 

Entered   as   Second-Class  matter   at  the  postoffice,   San   Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March  3,   1897 

(Content!  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


"The  Grizzly  Giant" 

(Mariposa  Grove) 
By  GEORGE  STERLING 

Decoration  by  Sarkis  Beulan 

Long,  long  ago,  in  unremembered  years, 
Before  a  stone  was  cut  for  Babylon, 
You  lifted  singing  branches  to  the  sun : 

Now  Babylon  is  gone,  and  all  her  spears. 

Tyre  was,  and  still  your  elder  column  rears 
Where  the  great  winds  of  the  sierra  run — 
Standing  as  many  nations  are  undone 

And  Time  forgets  the  glories  and  the  tears. 

Soundless,  the  Shadow  crept  upon  the  throne, 
As  yours  upon  the  centuries  in  flight, 
Dial  of  empires  and  their  eventide! 
And  long  before  the  mummy's  wheat  was  grown 
Arcturus  has  gone  over  in  the  night, 

Hidden  by  rains  that  fell  ere  Priam  died. 

(Courtesy  of  Sunset  Magazine  'with  appreciation 
of    George   Sterling) 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ana 


OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


George  Sterling— As  I  Knew  Him 


«     A     LDEBARAN  and  Mars.— Ask 

A     Greek." 

£.  \  I  find  the  penciled  note,  laid 
weeks  ago  on  the  writing  table  in  Jack 
London's  workroom.  It  is  one  of  many 
jottings  made  aboard  the  big  gray  cargo- 
boat  from  Stockholm.  As  times  before 
on  starhung  nights  of  wonder  under 
tropic  skies  there  had  come  to  mind 
George  Sterling's  first  published  book 
of  poems,  "The  Testimony  of  the  Suns." 
We  liked  to  refer  astronomical  questions 
to  him. 

"—Ask  Greek."  Jack's  "Greek." 
Once,  after  Jack's  death,  I  said  to 
George,  "May  I,  now,  call  you  Greek?" 
And  George :  "I  wish  you  would, 
Charm!"  What  was  it  I  would  now 
ask  Greek?  Shall  I  ever  remember? 
Numberless  are  the  involuntary  ques- 
tions I  have  desired  to  put  to  Jack,  the 
Greek's  "Wolf."  They,  only,  those 
friends,  know  the  answers. 

So  short  a  time  ago  I  sent  George  an 
old  Carmel  magazine,  on  its  first  page 
a  poem  by  himself,  "The  Sea  Gar- 
dens of  Carmel."  The  remainder  of  its 
contents  was  variously  signed  by  other- 
day  neighbors  of  his  and  Carrie's,  since 
grown  famous,  who  pattered  to  their 
brown  door  through  the  redolent  pine 
forest  that  murmured  to  the  Carmel  surf. 
For  the  first  time  since  my  late  year  in 
Europe,  George  and  I  met,  when  he 
dropped  in  after  the  P.  E.  N.  Club  din- 
ner at  the  Red  Room  of  the  Bohemian 
Club.  He  looked  everything  fit — younger 
and  stronger,  more  keenly  sentient  than 
a  year  ago.  It  was  a  good  old-fashioned 
gossip  we  had,  all  else  forgot — though 
I  did  catch,  from  Gertrude  Atherton, 
enthroned  on  a  davenport  near  by,  an 
appreciate  white-and-gold  gleam  for  our 
enthusiasm.  George's  voice  was  one  of 
boyish  awe  in  raving  over  his  niece, 
Cecily  Cunha,  having  won  to  champion- 
ship among  girl  swimmers  of  the  Pacific 
Coast. 

He  had  called  at  the  Ranch,  he  told 
me,  shortly  after  my  arrival  from  the 
long  voyage.  I  had  been  away  horseback 
on  the  mountain.  "But  come  again,  as 
soon  as  the  quail  season  opens,  and  bring 


By  CHARMIAN  KITTREDGE  LONDON 

whoever  you  want,"  I  begged.  He 
lighted  with  warm  pleasure  at  that  and 
what  I  next  suggested :  "As  soon  as  I 
am  settled  a  bit,  we'll  get  Carlt  and 
Lora  up  and  have  as  near  a  real  old 
party  as  is  possible  now  .  .  ."  He  met 
my  eyes,  for  the  same  thought  was  with 
us — the  season  of  anniversary.  Jack  Lon- 
don died  ten  years  ago.  Too,  it  was  the 
very  eve  of  our  wedding  date. 

"Aldebaran  and  Mars. — Ask  Greek." 
He  was  here.  He  is  not  here.  He  is 
away  somewhere,  and  we  have  not  his 
address.  I  can  never  know  what  memo- 
ries were  called  by  the  verse  and  story 
in  that  Carmel  magazine.  Our  gossip- 
ing was  only  begun  ...  So  much  left 
to  say.  Nor  talk  with  him  about  Alde- 
baran and  Mars  and  other  deep  and 
dazzling  things. 

A  letter  from  Cloudesley  Johns  in  the 
East  is  on  my  desk.  I  had  written  him 
when  George  Sterling  went  out.  "I  was 
shocked,"  Cloudesley  says,  "and  op- 
pressed by  a  sense  of  loneliness.  Il- 
logical ;  but  genuine.  I  had  not  seen 
George  for  years,  and  talked  with  him 
at  the  Lamb's  Club,  over  the  'phone 
from  the  Press  Club,  and  was  to  have 
met  him  in  a  day  or  two,  when  Carrie's 
death  impelled  him  to  return  to  Cali- 
fornia. That  was  my  last  word  with  him. 
But  Jack  and  he  and  I  together  were 
in  the  midst  and  part  of  much  colorful 
life  years  ago." 

"Why  illogical?"  I  return  (well 
knowing  that  Cloudesley  will  come  back 
with  "Logic  is  logic").  "It  seems  to  me 
the  most  logical  thing  in  the  world  to 
be  lonely  when  the  old  guard,  the  Pied- 
mont-Carmel  'crowd'  salutes  life  and 
passes,  one  by  one,  out  of  our  sight.  I 
feel  logically  lonely!" 

Very  close  were  these  three;  closest, 
literally  and  figuratively,  aboard  Jack's 
little  sloop  Spray  up  the  northern  bays, 
and  rivers  Sacramento  and  San  Joaquin 
with  their  connecting  cuts  and  sloughs. 
Good  days,  those,  all  three  young  men 
so  different  yet  fadelessly  congenial, 
working  forenoon, — George  and  Jack 


with  tongues  and  nostrils  reminiscent  of 
Cloudesley's  talented  cuisine  prepared  on 
a  battered  and  rusty  "Primus"  in  the 
restricted  cabin.  They  sailed  afternoons; 
they  fished;  they  hunted,  ducks  and 
geese ;  in  the  evening  it  was  cards,  mostly 
pedro,  the  Spray  riding  at  anchor  or  tied 
to  reedy  banks  in  scenes  strange  and 
foreign  as  anywhere  to  be  found.  I  know 
it  all.  In  another  small  yacht  during 
my  own  fortunate  days  to  follow,  one 
of  these  three  comrades  revisited  with 
me  those  places  of  their  comings  and 
goings.  Yes,  Cloudesley,  we  are  lonely 
for  lost  companionship  by  land  and  sea. 
"The  fleeting  systems  lapse  like  foam," 
wrote  the  Poet.  Now  he,  the  Poet,  has 
lapsed  like  his  starry  foam. 

Memories  jostle.  At  this  moment  I 
think  of  that  other  death.  Long  before 
it,  Jack  had  said:  "If  I  should  die  first, 
Mate — my  ashes  on  the  little  hill  of  old 
graves  on  the  Ranch.  I  don't  want  many 
there.  You  might  ask  George  to  come." 
George,  sadder  than  grief,  sad  beyond 
despair,  walked  alone  and  laid  his  sprig 
of  rueful  cypress  and  laurel  upon  the 
unthinkable  grave.  Followed  a  holy 
hour,  in  the  room  where  his  friend  had 
died.  We  spoke  low.  I  recall  George 
said  with  a  question  rising  in  this  throat : 
"They  think,  in  the  city,  that  you  may 
not  see  this  through,  Charmian."  To 
him  I  replied :  "There  is  too  much  to 
do,  George.  You  wouldn't  expect  me  to 
be  a  quitter?  Even  now,  I  feel  strong 
to  go  on." 

We  were  standing  beside  my  case  of 
Jack's  first  editions,  each  with  its  in- 
scription-— my  most  priceless  possession. 
George  broke  a  silence : 

"I've  wanted  to  tell  you  something. 
It  was,  oh,  maybe  two  or  three  years 
ago,  Jack  said  to  me  that  if  anything 
should  happen  to  you,  he  would  not  go 
on." 

It  seemed  most  natural  to  hear  that. 
"Look!"  I  took  down  "The  Abysmal 
Brute"  and  read  what  Jack  had  written 
in  the  flyleaf.  The  date  was  in  May, 
1913,  in  what  I  have  called  his  bad 
year.  And  what  Jack  had  set  down 


70 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  192/ 


shadowed  forth  that  which  George  was 
now  telling  me.  Then  I  said:  "It  is 
different  with  me,  Greek.  So  many 
things  broken — to  mend.  Jack  would 
count  on  me.  .  .  .  Being  so  made,  as 
Jack  would  say,  working  I  shall  come 
to  be  ...  not  unhappy." 

"Dear  Chumalums,"  I  heard  George 
say  as  he  turned  away.  He  understood. 
One  cannot  forget  such  moments,  when 
one  felt  his  abiding  tenderness.  Long 
afterward,  I  tried  him  out  concerning 
his  own  outlook: 

"I  think  you  and  I  shall  see  it  through, 
Greek?" 

"I  think  we  shall,"  he 
mused.  "At  any  rate," 
brightly,  "I  shall  never 
give  up  while  there  is  sex 
in  the  world!" 

His  last  verse,  found  in 
the  death  chamber,  seems 
to  have  been  upon  the 
theme  of  Woman.  He 
adored  Woman  at  her 
best.  Be  she  treacherous 
to  him  or  friend  of  him, 
never  could  she  retrieve 
her  place.  Making  little 
noise  about  it,  back  to  the 
wall  with  the  injured  he 
would  fight.  I  know. 

WHEN  air  breathes 
of  death  so  lately 
mourned,  it  is  good  to 
turn  to  life  and  inhale 
red-blood  memories.  I 
write  of  vivid  days  and 
nights  when  George,  and 
Carrie,  his  wife,  together 
made  their  home  in  Pied- 
mont. There  are,  still 
about,  only  a  few  of  us 
who  were  familiar  in  that 
colorful  household  which 
Carrie  kept  so  sweet  for  her  man.  But 
he  was  not  her  man ;  he  was  no  one's 
man — not  even  his  own  man.  He  was 
forever  searching  into  himself  to  be  sure, 
but  also  "lonely  for  some  one  I  shall 
never  know."  Most  of  those  who  in 
press  and  periodical  have  timely  and  ad- 
miringly recalled  acquaintance  with 
George  Sterling,  know  of  a  later  period 
than  that  which  springs  out  of  my  heart 
to  my  pen.  To  them,  his  wife  is  a  mere 
incident,  a  person  of  hearsay — a  pale 
wraith  of  whom  they  have  been  reminded 
when  scanning  the  career  of  r he  man ; 
a  woman  who,  sadly  enough,  took  her 
own  life  "after  long  grief  and  pain." 

To  friends  of  longer  standing  the  two 
cannot  be  dissociated.  I  think  it  was 
shortly  after  their  marriage  that  they 
went  to  Hawaii.  It  was  a  disappoint- 
ing experience.  George  was  from  some 
cause  thoroughly  discontented.  When 
told  where  they  had  made  headquarters, 


I  naturally  asked  their  impressions  of 
the  neighborhood  which  I  well  know — 
of  this  and  that  thrilling  gorge  or  strand 
or  crater,  things  of  tremendous  beauty 
and  easily  accessible.  "We  never  went 
there,"  answered  Carrie.  The  reason 
given  was  that  George  was  not  inter- 
ested. More  than  once  I  have  heard 
him  insist  that  travel  books  were  suffi- 
cient. One  needed  no  travel  experi- 
ence. 

My  earliest  meetings  with  the  tall  and 
handsome  pair,  George  and  his  wife, 
were  in  their  Piedmont  circle.  Jack, 
already  a  friend  of  my  family,  was  about 


George  Sterling,  taken  on  the  London  Ranch  by  Charmian  London 


twenty-seven,  George  older.  They  were 
in  and  out  of  each  other's  houses  on 
the  hill,  and  sometimes  came  to  mine  in 
Berkeley.  The  voiceless  relationship  of 
the  two  boys,  still  in  its  infancy,  went 
on  to  the  end  of  life — basically  an  un- 
questioning friendship.  Neither  was  too 
prosperous  at  the  time.  Voiceless  their 
friendship?  Take  the  following,  related 
to  me  years  afterward  by  Jack.  It  is 
a  small  matter  in  actuality,  but  marked 
the  beginning  of  an  eloquent  spiritual 
comprehension  they  did  not  pause  to 
analyze  at  the  moment.  Never  a  word 
was  uttered  on  a  night  when  the  Poet, 
walking  part-way  home  with  the  young 
story-teller  to  his  bungalow  on  the  euca- 
lyptus steep,  slipped  something  into  the 
other's  pocket.  Never  a  word  was  ut- 
tered when,  upon  a  like  occasion  some 
months  thence,  an  equivalent  something 
was  slipped  back  into  the  Poet's.  Jack, 
"being  so  made,"  was  the  first  to  analyze. 


George  seldom  analyzed  anything,  ap- 
parently, except  when  challenged.  No 
matter  what  the  subject  or  whether  he 
had  ever  before  considered  it,  with  cor- 
rugated brows  between  narrowed,  intro- 
verted eyes,  he  pondered  briefly.  He 
would  then,  under  modest  demeanor, 
come  out  with  rounded  and  satisfying 
exposition.  "Now  that  is  genius!"  Jack 
marveled  with  shining  eyes.  "I  have  it 
not;  I  must  plod!"  And  so,  the  "plod- 
der," evidently  deep  in  melancholy  at 
the  time,  addressed  George  in  this  wise: 
"...  This  I  know,  that  in  these 
later  days  you  have  frequently  given  me 
cause  for  honest  envy. 
And  you  have  made  me 
speculate  a  great  deal. 
^  You  know  that  I  do  not 

know  you — no  more  than 
you  know  me.  We  have 
really  never  touched  the 
intimately  personal  note 
in  all  the  time  of  our 
friendship.  I  suppose  we 
never  shall. 

"And  so  I  speculate 
and  speculate,  trying  to 
make  you  out,  trying  to 
lay  hands  on  the  inner 
side  of  you — what  you  are 
to  yourself  in  short. 
Sometimes,  I  conclude  that 
you  have  a  cunning  and 
deep  philosophy  of  life, 
for  yourself  alone,  worked 
out  on  a  basis  of  disap- 
pointment and  disillusion. 
Sometimes  I  say,  I  am 
firmly  convinced  of  this, 
and  then  it  all  goes  glim- 
mering, and  I  think  that 
you  don't  want  to  think, 
or  that  you  have  thought 
no  more  than  partly,  if  at 
all,  and  are  living  your  life  out  blindly 
and  naturally. 

"So  I  do  not  know  you,  George,  and 
for  that  matter  I  do  not  know  how  I 
came  to  write  this." 

A  year  later  when  George  presented 
his  first  book,  in  the  fly-leaf  he  wrote: 
"To  our  genius,  Jack  London  :   Here's 
my  book,  my  heart  you  have  already." 

George  Sterling's  advancing  reputation 
brought  men  and  women  from  afar  to 
his  house.  But  it  was  Caroline  Rand 
Sterling,  "Carrie"  and  "Caddie"  to  her 
intimates,  who  equally,  with  her  superior 
faculty  for  home-making,  drew  them  to 
come  again  or  to  remember  always  the 
abounding  harmony  of  that  informal  cot- 
tage. And  she  was  beautiful,  moving 
through  those  years  with  a  subtle  grace 
tinged  with  childlike  sunny  humor  spon- 
taneous as  her  mischievous  smile.  Some 
sculptor  should  have  modeled  her,  body 
(Continued  on  Page  76) 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 

Los  Angeles  to  George  Sterling 


71 


GEORGE  STERLING  was  born 
in  Sag  Harbor,  N.  Y.,  in  1869. 
He  lived  there  with  his  parents 
during  boyhood  and  young  manhood. 

His  first  act  of  independence,  on 
reaching  his  majority,  was  to  come  to 
California. 

Had  he  remained  in  Sag  Harbor  he 
would  have  immortalized  that  little- 
known  place;  but  the  gods  that  he  wor- 
shiped gave  him  instead  an  empire  for 
his  dominion. 

And  so  a  New  York  state  boy  grew 
to  maturity  and  become  the  leading  poet 
of  the  West.  His  empire  was  then  en- 
larged until  it  included  the  modern 
world. 

Leaders  in  poetic  thought  and  in  the 
art  and  business  and  political  life  of  Los 
Angeles  and  Southern  California  have 
come  forward  with  tributes  of  the  mind 
and  heart,  offered  to  the  memory  of 
this  beloved  leader  who  has  left  us. 

L.  E.  Behymer,  impressario,  president 
of  the  Gamut  Club  exclaimed :  "George 
Sterling,  the  poet,  the  artist,  the  man, 
was  my  friend  for  fifteen  years!"  And 
then  he  went  on  to  say:  "The  world 
can  ill  afford  to  lose  a  good  man,  even 
less  to  lose  a  man  of  genius,  inspiration, 
intellect  and  achievement.  George  Ster- 
ling knew  the  meaning  of  friendship — 
the  golden  thread  woven  into  the  con- 
sciousness of  mankind,  the  cloth  of  gold 
covering  our  shortcomings,  the  incense 
burned  on  the  shrine  of  good  will,  con- 
sideration, devotion  and  esteem.  He 
knew  the  meaning  of  mutual  regard  and 
trust,  of  deep,  quiet  and  enduring  af- 
fection. Thus  he  promoted  among  his 
friends  new  strength,  courage,  hope  and 
love,  forgetting  what  he  gave  to  each 
and  remembering  only  that  which  he 
received. 

"He  was  one  of  nature's  noblemen. 
He  appealed  to  those  in  every  walk  of 
life.  His  genius,  his  love  for  the  trees 
and  flowers,  the  beauties  of  nature, 
placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  Amer- 
ican poets. 

"George  Sterling  never  intentionally 
spoke  a  word  or  wrote  a  line  that  would 
injure  a  fellow  man.  To  him  the  groves 
were  God's  first  temples  and  until  his 
death  he  worshiped  at  their  shrine.  The 
Bohemian  grove  was  his  ideal — his  best 
work  was  done  within  the  leafy  precincts 
of  this  great  cathedral,  and  whether  it 
was  the  Grove  Play  or  poetic  tributes 
to  the  giants  of  the  forests,  the  ripples 
of  the  streams,  or  allusions  to  his  fellow 
Bohemians,  those  lines  were  full  of 
beauty,  and  love  and  reverence  for  the 
handiwork  of  the  Creator. 

"George  Sterling  loved  life,  humanity, 


By  BEN  FIELD 

vision.  He  gave  to  a  reading  world 
original  thought.  He  attempted  to 
leave  tragedy  aside.  He  wished  cheer- 
fulness, hope  and  comfort  to  be  found 
in  his  verse.  He  left  to  the  world  a 
heritage  of  intrinsic  beauty  and  those 
who  knew  him  well  benefited  by  the 
association.  He  will  be  enshrined  within 
the  hearts  of  the  people  of  California 
and  America  as  one  of  her  greatest — 
together  with  Bret  Harte,  Markham, 
Ina  Coolbrith  and  Joaquin  Miller. 

"Nothing  could  be  more  beautiful  than 
his  tributes  to  the  magnificence  of  the 
Exposition.  To  him  Mt.  Tamalpias,  the 
Muir  Woods,  Yosemite  and  the  wonders 
.of  the  Sierras  were  an  open  book.  Cali- 
fornia should  erect  a  monument  to  the 
perpetuation  of  his  name.  His  grace- 
ful messages  should  be  enshrined  within 
the  text  books  of  the  public  schools  and 
speak  to  the  world  from  the  shelves  of 
every  library  in  the  homes  and  institu- 
tions of  learning  of  the  West." 

Neeta  Marquis,  chairman  of  writers, 
spoke  for  MacDowell  Club  of  Allied 
Arts,  Mrs.  Ralph  Laughlin,  president: 

"California  has  many  youthful  voices, 
but  not  another  so  mellowly  matured,  so 
sure,  so  wisely  beautiful  as  the  one  just 
silenced  in  the  death  of  George  Ster- 
ling. Overlying  the  quality  of  univer- 
sality in  Sterling's  work,  which  makes 
him  a  true  poet  independent  of  time  and 
place,  a  lovely  sense  of  individualized 
locality  often  identifies  him  unmistakably 
with  California,  a  realm  the  more  dear 
to  all  her  children  by  reason  of  her 
variableness  and  many  shadows  of  turn- 
ing. The  tender  appreciation  of  his  un- 
derstanding, the  vivid  accuracy  of  his 
pictorial  presentations,  the  strong  music 
of  his  rhythm  and  cadence,  all  combine 
to  complete  interpretations  as  satisfying 
as  they  are  unforgetable.  Through  his 
work  we  breathe  the  tonic  winds  of  the 
vast  Pacific,  from  'shore-sands  warm 
and  white'  to 
'The  singing  waves  of  the  sea,  clean 

beyond  all  clean, 

Beautiful,  swift,  alive,  undulant,  apple- 
green.' 

"The  beauty  of  color  and  of  spirit 
haunts  us  from  both  shore  and  sea  in 
'willows  yellowing  toward  winter,'  'sea- 
gulls swarming  purple  and  white  at  the 
river-mouth,'  the  'dusk  of  sapphire  deep- 
ening within  the  bay.'  We  feel  the  ex- 
quisite softness  of  late  sun  when 

'Daylight,  lingering  golden,  touches  the 
tallest  tree, 


Ere    the   rain,    like   silver   harp-strings, 
comes  slanting  in  from  sea.' 

Can  one  ever  again  listen  to  the  sing- 
ing quietness  of  California  rain  without 
seeing  those  slanting,  silver  harp-strings 
upon  which  the  fingers  of  autumn 
waken  our  sun-wearied  world  to  hymns 
of  winter  harmony? 

"A  blender  of  the  arts,  indeed,  was 
George  Sterling,  bringing  to  his  poems 
the  color  precious  to  the  painter,  the 
sculptor's  clean  perfection  of  line,  the 
rich  melody  of  the  musician,  and  the 
sharp,  strong  human  note  of  the  drama- 
tist, in  addition  to  the  trained  delicacy 
of  the  selector  of  words.  Peace  be  with 
him  now,  where,  in  his  own  phrasing: 

'The  supreme  and  ancient  silence  flings 
Its  pall  between  the  dreamer  and  the 


I  went  into  the  Bank  of  America  to 
see  its  president,  Orra  Eugene  Mon- 
nette,  genealogical  compilator,  author, 
poet,  and  president  of  the  Los  Angeles 
Public  Library. 

"I  feel,"  he  said,  "that  it  takes  courage 
to  live.  Undoubtedly  it  takes  more 
courage  to  die.  Theodore  Roosevelt  said, 
in  calling  life  'The  Great  Adventure,' 
that  only  those  are  worthy  to  live  who 
are  willing  to  die — to  make  of  life  the 
great  sacrifice. 

"He  who  thinks  deeply,  acts  seriously 
and  expresses  raptures  of  agony,  love 
and  passion,  really  lives  and  courage- 
ously dies.  Of  all  these  things  was 
George  Sterling  made. 

"He  was  a  lover  of  San  Francisco 
and  a  spokesman  for  its  people.  In  city, 
in  mart  and  in  serving  place  he  found 
the  imagery  of  his  poetic  fancy.  Know- 
ing life  and  his  fellow  men,  he  reflect- 
ed a  rare  personality.  Intensity  of 
emotion  and  depth  of  feeling  charac- 
terized his  every  utterance. 


U¥N  HIS  death  the  loss  to  San  Fran- 
1.  cisco  is  great.  It  becomes  a  loss  to 
the  state  and  to  the  nation,  for  his  fame 
was  nationwide.  The  greatest  loss,  how- 
ever, is  not  the  death  of  a  poet;  but 
the  departure  of  a  friend,  whose  magic 
touch,  personal  service  and  tender  affec- 
tion evidenced  a  sensitive,  noble  soul. 
As  he  wrote : 

'Oh   lay   her  gently   where   the   lark   is 

nesting 

And  winged  things  are  glad ! 
Tears  end,  and  now  begins  the  time  of 

resting 
For  her  heart  was  sad.' 


72 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


"This  is  prophetical  of  his  death,  but 
in  the  reflected  strain  of  passing  action, 
which  brings  quiet  peace. 

"His  sadness,  as  though  a  mood,  dis- 
closes the  man,  the  artist,  the  creator, 
the  distinguished  one,  for  out  of  the 
depths  of  misery  comes  melody  ever  pro- 
found. None  are  mad  who  see  life 
clearly,  whether  whimsically,  fortui- 
tously, passionately,  intensely,  or  ... 

"George  Sterling,  the  friend  to  all 
men,  is  dead.  In  Los  Angeles,  where 
we  knew  his  beauty  of  expression,  depth 
and  power  and  learned  to  love  and  honor 
him,  his  virtues  are  extolled  and  his 
memory  revered." 

Having  been  connected  with  the 
Verse  Writers'  Club  of  Southern  Cali- 
fornia since  its  foundation  more  than 
a  decade  ago,  I  asked  Snow  Longley, 
the  president  of  the  club,  for  her 
thoughts  of  our  great  Poet.  She  res- 
ponded with  this: 

"George  Sterling!  The  name  evokes 
a  flood  of  memories,  admiration  of  his 
art  mingled  with  local  pride  in  our  Cali- 
fornia poet,  the  whole  crowned  with  a 
certain  awe  in  his  Roman  death. 

"Those  of  us  who  follow  the  course 
of  contemporary  poetry  are  struck  with 
its  fluid  quality.  It  is  here  today  and 
there  tomorrow.  The  imagists  perfect 
their  form,  only  to  turn  to  established 
patterns  lest  they  be  suspected  of  the 
'laziness'  of  free  verse.  Valuable  as  this 
freedom  of  choice  is  in  the  competition 
of  poetic  forms,  there  is  something  tonic 
in  the  stability  of  a  poet  like  Sterling. 
He  clung  to  traditional  patterns  with 
the  same  ardor  with  which  he  clung 
to  the  city  of  his  choice,  resisting  the 
material  benefits  of  a  New  York  resi- 
dence, and  finding  his  fullest  expres- 
sion in  the  old,  the  familiar.  And  now 
the  world  has  made  a  wide  path  to  hi* 
door! 

"The  'passion  for  perfection'  seems 
to  have  been  the  heart's  core  of  Ster- 
ling's work.  We  get  this  unappeased 
longing  for  beauty,  for  fuller  expres- 
sion, for  peace,  in  mujh  of  his  writing. 
It  is  as  though  his  ideal  transcended 
his  attainment  as  far  as  his  attainment 
outran  the  rank  and  file  of  modern 
verse  writing. 

"The  attitude  of  Los  Angeles  is  best 
expressed  in  our  poetic  spokesman,  'The 
Lyric  West,'  where  a  paragraph  of 
genuine  regret  and  a  poem  to  'G.  S.' 
were  printed  just  after  his  death.  Mr. 
Sterling  helped  to  link  the  north  and 
south  in  matters  artistic  by  serving  on 
the  advisory  board  of  this  magazine. 

"By  an  interesting  coincidence  'The 
Literary  Digest'  chanced  to  quote  a  son- 
net by  Sterling  the  same  week  the  papers 
carried  the  announcement  of  his  death. 


I  quote  the  poem  as  a  fitting  prelude  to 
his  entrance  into  the  unknown. 

'THE  DWELLER  IN  DARKNESS 
The  cryptic  brain,  hid  in  its  house  of 

bone, 

Has  windows  opening  on  dusk  or  day, 
Whence  the  five  senses  peer,  then  turn 

to  say 

What  the  mysterious  beyond  has  shown ; 

And  whether  eagle  fly  and  beetle  crawl, 

Or  the  grey  thrush  sit  fluting  in  her 

tree, 
Or  sea-winds  bear  the  saltness  of  the 

sea 

To  tasting  lips,  they  tell  the  Master  all. 
But   the   pent   heart   shall    never   see 

the  day, 
From  womb  to  dust,    from  birth  to 

death's  dismay, 
Whatever  joy  or  pain  the  world   may 

send 

It  finds  no  respite  in  that  living  grave, 
But  housed  in  darkness  like  a  blinded 

slave, 
Toils  in  unending  midnight  till  the  end.' 

"George  Sterling  has  found  the  light 
beyond  the  grave.  May  it  gleam  for  him 
more  brightly  than  the  white  light  of 
earthly  fame." 

The  spiritual  in  George  Sterling  has 
appealed  strongly  to  Mrs.  Marshall 
Stookey  Anderson,  president  and  founder 
of  the  Cadman  Creative  Club,  and  past 
president  of  the  Matinee  Musical  Club. 

She  said:  "Throughout  the  world 
there  is  a  bond  of  sympathy  between 
lovers  of  good  verse — in  whatever 
tongue  they  speak. 

"George  Sterling  may  well  be  called 
the  poet  laureate  of  the  West.  He  was 
a  gentleman  of  polish  and  was  loved 
by  all  who  knew  him.  His  thought  was 
deep,  tender  and  true.  He  endeared 
himself  to  struggling  artists  because  of 
his  heart  sympathy  and  ready  help.  The 
uplifting  motive  of  his  verse  inspired 
men  to  nobler  deeds  and  ideals.  He  is 
regarded  as  a  poet  of  lofty,  yet  serene 
thought.  His  love  of  humanity  was  un- 
bounded and  it  is  impossible  to  read  his 
poetry  without  being  impelled  to  love 
all  mankind. 

"I  am  especially  fond  of  the  short 
poem  of  his  entitled  'The  Day.'  It 
speaks  truly  the  innermost  thoughts  of 
Mr.  Sterling: 

'The  vision  of  that  day 

When  human  strength  shall  serve  the 

common  good 

And  man,  forever  loyal  to  the  race, 
Find,  far  beyond  our  seasons  of  dismay, 
One  hope,   one  home,  one  song,  one 

brotherhood'." 

From  his  home  in  Wisconsin,  Lew 
Sarett  sends  me  the  following  and  it  is 


of  particular  interest  in  the  light  of 
the  present-day  "competition  of  poetic 
forms": 

"He  was  a  glorious  poet!  He  de- 
served a  large  measure  of  recognition ; 
but  he  was  going  counter  to  the  present 
fashion  of  literature — its  coldness,  its 
hardness,  its  realism,  its  cynicism,  its 
iconoclasm,  its  damned  pettiness — and  so 
am  I  bucking  it.  And  I  shall  buck  it 
until  the  end  of  the  chapter;  but  there 
will  come  a  day — yea!  and  you  and  I 
shall  see  it!" 

Los  Angeles  has  loved  George  Ster- 
ling for  many  years,  loved  him  as  a  man 
and  as  a  poetic  genius.  He  was  an  artist 
who  could  paint  naturally  glorious 
scenes  with  a  master  hand — even  as  he 
painted  Carmel  Bay  in  "An  Altar  of 
the  West"  and  Cypress  Point  in  "Re- 
morse" and  the  Mission  Carmel  at 
Monterey  in  his  "At  the  Grave  of 
Serra." 

These  are  poems  that  exalt  and  en- 
noble, as  the  Elegy  of  Thanatopsis.  The 
poem  "At  the  Grave  of  Serra"  is  one 
of  his  greatest  and  Californians  love  him 
for  it.  Gloomy,  without  spiritual  hope 
apparently,  yet  it  impels  the  reader  to 
depths  of  thought  and  concentration  that 
reveal  spiritual  certainty. 

But  if  anyone  were  disposed  to  doubt 
the  Poet's  immeasurable  faith  in  God, 
let  him  read  the  "Three  Sonnets  by  the 
Night  Sea."  They  are  strong,  glorious 
conceptions.  I  quote  the  last  lines  of 
the  third: 

"And   were   all   alien   worlds  and   suns 

laid  bare 

Till  Mystery  their  secret  should  declare, 

The  finite  soon  its  utmost  would  impart, 

And  sun  nor  world  at  last  have  power 

to  thrill 

Man's  wayward  and  insatiable  heart, 
Which  God  and  all  His  truth  alone 
can  fill." 

And  how  better  can  we  admire  his 
craft  than  in  the  perfection  of  his  son- 
nets? 

In  apposition  to  the  experience  of 
George  Sterling,  it  is  interesting  to  recall 
here  that  a  son  of  the  West,  who  spent 
his  boyhood  days  and  shaped  his  career 
in  California,  later  become  a  resident  of 
New  York  City  and  is  looked  upon  as 
America's  poetic  leader.  Edwin  Mark- 
ham  was  one  of  George  Sterling's  closest 
friends  and,  with  the  late  Ambrose 
Bierce,  completed  a  trinity  that  well 
nigh  included  the  fountain  head  of  Art. 
Markham  was  engaged  in  writing  an 
article  on  the  life  of  his  friend  when 
news  of  the  sudden  death  was  brought 
to  him.  He  exclaimed :  "The  star  falls 
out  of  the  West!" 

Sterling  was  a  Christian-Pagan,  full 
(Continued  on  Page  93) 


March,  1927  OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE  73 


Winter  Sundown 

(In  Memory  of  George  Sterling) 
ROBINSON  JEFFERS 

SORROWS  have  come  before  and  have  stood  mute 
With  blind  implacable  masks,  the  eyes  cannot  endure 
them, 

They  draw  sidelong  and  stand 
At  the  shoulder;  they  never  depart. 

It  is  not  good  to  pretend  vision  or  enlightenment, 
Charm  grief  Asleep  with  falsehoods;  no  further  is  known 
But  that  the  beautiful  friend 
We  loved  grew  weary  of  the  suns. 

He  said  there  was  a  friend  among  friends;  he  has  found  him; 
We  too  shall  go  sometime  and  touch  what  gift 
Hides  in  the  careful  hand 
Under  the  dark  cloak. 

Gifts  are  light  darts  flung  at  a  friend's  desire, 

This  last  one  takes  the  target.    I  have  thought  for  myself 

That  peace  is  a  good  harbor. 

Shall  I  not  think  so  for  him? 

The  sweetest  voice  of  the  iron  years  has  desired 
Silence,  the  prince  of  friendship  has  desired  peace. 
He  that  gave,  and  not  asked 
But  for  a  friend's  sake,  has  taken 

One  gift  for  himself;  he  gives  a  greater  and  goes  out 
Remembered  utterly  generous,  constraining  sorrow 
Like  winter  sundown,  splendid 
Memory  to  ennoble  our  nights. 

The  gray  mothers  of  rain  sail  and  glide  over, 

The  rain  has  fallen,  the  deep-wombed  earth  is  renewed; 

Under  the  greening  of  the  hills 

Gulls  flock  in  the  black  furrows. 

And  how  shall  one  believe  he  will  not  return 
To  be  our  guest  in  the  house,  not  wander  with  me 
Again  by  the  Carmel  river, 
Nor  on  the  reef  at  Soberanes? 


74 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


Justice 


HAS    George    Sterling    been   sub- 
jected to  that  thing  he  dreaded, 
misrepresentation  ?  Often  he  said 
of  others  gone  before  him,  "It  is  not  the 
first  time  a  man  of  genius  has  been  made 
ridiculous  to  gratify  the  commercial-mad 
newspapers   of    the    world."     There    is 
much  the  world  will  never  know  behind 


By  B.  VIRGINIA  LEE 

the  curtain  of  that  life;  much  that  will 
never  be  told  which  happened  behind  the 
door  of  his  room  at  the  Bohemian  Club 
the  day  of  the  tragedy. 

Regardless  of  newspaper  headlines, 
regardless  of  police  records;  regardless  of 
all  circumstantial  evidence  there  is 
among  those  of  his  near  friends  a  con- 
viction that  George  Sterling  did  not  take 
his  own  life.  There  is  indignation  that 
the  headlines  of  the  papers  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, his  San  Francisco  would  have  al- 
lowed his  name  to  be  spotted  with  the 
mud  of  modernism  .  .  .  sensationalism. 
There  is  a  loyalty  which  condemns  the 
report  even  though  it  were  the  truth 
and  founded  upon  fundamental  facts. 

Would  it  not  have  been  more  sane  to 
have  recorded  it  as  it  was  in  its  beauty 
.  .  .  for  after  all  his  life  was  like  a  tune- 
swept  fiddle  string,  that  hears  the  Mas- 
ter Melody — and  snaps,  his  golden  voice 
fading  off  into  a  twilight  which  greatly 
resembles  the  coming  dawn. 

George  Sterling  is  not  dead,  he  will 
live  forever.  Like  a  certain  flower,  like 
a  certain  wine,  like  a  certain  book  he 
grew  rich  and  interesting  with  the  pass- 
ing of  time.  His  name  will  go  down  as 
one  of  the  great  men  of  literature  .  .  . 
men  who  live  ever  in  the  annals  of  the 
day  and  the  pages  of  history. 

We  who  have  leaned  to  him  for  song, 
when  song  was  needed;  we  who  have 
turned  to  him  for  that  tribute  which 
ever  bore  the  true  grace  of  the  West, 
that  fineness  of  poetic  production  which 
was  ours  through  him:  that  production 
which  did  not  become  tinted  with  the 
ultra-modernist's  twisted  expression,  the 
impressionists  unbeautiful  Jargon  will  al- 
ways hear  that  voice  which  sang  so  high 
and  sweet,  always  above  the  army  of 
poets  which  drove  madly  into  the  tur- 
moil of  modernism — and  oblivion.  When 
weary  of  confused  voices,  we  may  return 
to  his  clear  note  of  sincerity,  and  we 
will  sense  the  rhythm  of  his  poetry  as 
one  senses  the  peace  and  quiet  of  the 
summit  of  a  mountain  after  a  clouded 
valley. 

His  song,  was  of  the  West  and  he 
sang  as  no  one  else  has  sung.  He  loved 
the  haunts  of  San  Francisco  old  and 
new;  he  talked  of  the  studios,  restaur- 
ants and  the  people  who  were  of  them 
with  a  boyish  enthusiasm.  He  had 


friends  spread  over  the  world,  poets, 
painters,  captains  of  finance,  beggars, 
actors,  students  and  never  was  he  too 
busy  with  his  own  affairs  not  to  giv 
them  a  moment  of  his  own  for  their 
troubles. 

The  morning  of  the  tragedy  he  called 
the  Overland  office  and  asked  to  see 
proof  of  articles  which  he  had  been  in- 
strumental in  obtaining  for  the  Decem- 
ber issue;  namely  an  article  on  Los 
Angeles  written  by  Carey  McWilliams; 
an  article  on  Clark  Ashton  Smith  by 
D.  A.  Wandrei  whom  Sterling  asked  as 
one  of  his  last  directions  on  Overland 
copy  to  be  mentioned  as  Donald  A. 
Wanderei.  He  further  gave  the  address 
in  Minnesota  to  send  the  extra  copies 
to  the  author.  George,  fulfilling  a  mis- 
sion. He  asked  of  his  own  page  and  of 
the  poetry  and  was  promised  a  proof 
that  afternoon.  The  papers  announced 
later  in  the  day  his  death. 

Friday,  Nov.  12,  he  called  on  the  tele- 
phone to  remind  the  office  of  his  request 
for  two  pages  in  January  issue  of  the 
Overland,  for  which  he  was  preparing 
an  article  on  Ambrose  Bierce,  as  an 
answer  to  an  article  appearing  in  the 
last  issue  of  the  American  Parade.  Mr. 
Sterling  was  highly  indignant  at  what 
he  said  was  misrepresentation.  He  men- 
tioned DeCastro's  reference  to  Mr. 
Bierce's  desire  for  a  certain  railroad  com- 
mission which  he  did  not  receive  and 
which  embittered  him  to  certain  offi- 
cials and  marked  a  definite  change  in  his 
life,  as  absolutely  untrue.  He  mentioned 
that  the  account  of  his  death  was  untrue 
and  added,  "If  it  is  the  last  thing  I  do, 
I'm  going  to  deny  that  article  and  I'll 
see  that  you  don't  get  into  a  libel  suit 
over  it.  It  is  vicious." 

On  Thursday  he  said  he  had  the  art- 
icle completed  and  would  bring  it  in  the 
first  of  the  week.  We  mention  this  be- 
cause whether  or  not  it  gets  into  Over- 
land hands,  it  was  George  Sterling's 
last  wish,  to  deny  the  article  in  its  en- 
tirety which  appeared  in  the  American 
Parade.  We  feel  by  this  mention  we  are 
but  in  a  small  way  fulfilling  his  wish. 
If  the  article  is  found  .  .  .  regardless  of 
complications,  Overland  will  be  glad  to 
publish  it  as  a  last  tribute  to  a  man  of 
genius,  a  man  one  cannot  forget,  a  man 
who  loved  life  so  much  that  he  found  it 
impossible  to  dwell  in  solitude  and  si- 
lence, but  to  the  last  lived  for  the  service 
he  could  do  others. 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


75 


OF  YORE  he  was  King! 
His  magisterial  voice  covering 
all  amplitudes  in  the  great  primi- 
tive Silence  kindled  probable  life  in  the 
cells.   The   awakening   of    the   sense   of 
hearing  provoked  the  curiosity  of  the  eyes 
that  wanted  to  see  ...  the  avidity  of 
the  bodies  that  wanted  to  feel. 

Thus  his  potent  voice  proclaimed  the 
awakening  and  the  birth  of  the  world! 

But,  when  one  distributed  the  Forms, 
the  Appearances,  and  from  out  the 
primordial  embryo  came  the  invisible 
Universe,  proudly  conscious  of  this  voice, 
which  had  from  the  remotest  time 
charmed  the  great  solitudes,  he  wavered 
a  long  time. 

None  seemed  sufficiently  perfect  to 
embody  the  beauty  of  his  voice. 

Taking  advantage  of  his  hesitation  all 
his  rivals  hastened  to  engross  themselves, 
he  with  the  admirable  Earth,  he  with 
the  broad  surfaces  of  the  waters,  he 
with  the  immortal  fires  of  the  night, 
over  which  they  installed  themselves  as 
Masters. 

Suddenly  he  discovered  the  perfect 
Beauty. 

A  human  mind  in  a  human  body  en- 
dowed with  active  Life,  heart  and  har- 
mony, with  the  capacity  to  express  itself ! 

But  the  fatal  destiny  had  forced  that 
sublime  being  to  flee  before  himself  at 
the  precise  moment  he  was  ready  to 
seize  it! 

He  followed  in  frantic  pursuit,  call- 
ing, beseeching,  crying  after  it,  but  soon, 
desperate  and  discouraged,  he  felt  the 
uselessness  of  effort.  It  was  too  late 
.  .  .  too  late  .  .  .  Forever  launched  in 
the  infinite  circle,  they  could  nevermore 
rejoin  each  other. 

Then  his  rage  and  despair  were  turned 
against  all  of  his  companions  whose  har- 
mony and  tranquility  of  their  new  be- 
ings were  wounding  his  heart. 

Pierced  through  and  through  by  the 
brilliant  fires  of  the  skies,  animated  by 
the  swelling  forces  of  the  generative  and 
voluptuous  waters,  enveloped  by  the 
sensual  desires  of  the  earth,  he  roared 
with  jealousy  and  sorrow  and  ran  away, 
bewildered,  to  escape  from  the  sight  of 
their  beauty,  as  well  as  to  drown  the 
painful  consciousness  of  his  Non-Being. 

But  by  the  fatal  law  of  the  circle 
which  is  at  the  basis  of  the  universe,  he 
was  imprisoned  between  all  those  gigan- 
tic forces  which  seemed  to  follow  him 
everywhere.  When,  grief-stricken  and  fa- 
tigued, he  stopped  in  his  course,  a  bitter 
irony  showed  him  that  he  was  back  at 


The  Inconsolable 


MDME.  CORALIE  CASTELEIN 

the  very  place  from  which  he  had  de- 
parted and  the  beloved  Form  as  impos- 
sible as  ever  to  reach. 

Immeasurable  were  his  supplications 
and  torment,  eternally  young,  eternally 
strong,  fecund  with  eternal  love,  stray- 
ing through  life  without  ever  uniting 
himself  with  or  communicating  with 
anything;  sensing  within  himself  all  the 
joys  without  the  power  to  express  them, 
all  the  sorrows  without  the  power  to 
appease  them.  Predestined  to  remain 
unknown,  he  who  is  feared,  a  calamity 
which  kills. 

_  His  alternating  rage  and  grief  have 
built  within  himself  a  strange,  versatile 
and  changeable  character  which  provokes 
astonishment,  stupor,  fright  and  conster- 
nation everywhere.  This  humble  majesty 
destitute  of  limbs,  incapable  of  tangible 
acts  can  transform  itself  into  an  en- 
chantress sweet  as  the  wooing  of  desire 
...  or  suddenly  merge  itself  into  a  Re- 
venger with  a  hundred  thousand  arms. 

But  an  immense  voice — his  Voice — is 
still  his,  and  of  all  things,  it  is  the  Mar- 
vel and  the  Mystery. 

With  the  mothers  it  rocks  the  little 
ones  when  they  are  tired,  singing,  "La 
Berceuse"  while  they  fall  asleep. 

With  them  also  it  wails  for  the  dead 
child,  and  its  lamentations  growing 
louder  and  louder  probes  anew  their 
wounds,  causing  their  smarting  eyes  to 
overflow  with  beneficent  tears  for  the 
deserted  cradle. 

Like  the  sweetest  breath  it  soothes 
the  lover's  ears  and  when  they  speak 
their  tender  words,  their  seductive 
graces  are  the  enchanting  caresses  of  the 
voice.  When  they  are  silent  it  speaks 
the  subtle  language  of  the  lambent  air, 
the  ecstatic  language  of  the  flowers, 
themselves  love-burdened. 

When  the  Poet  communes  in  the 
woods  or  meditates  beside  the  great  ocean 
the  poignant  voice  interpenetrates  his 
sensitive  consciousness,  breathing  in  his 
ears  the  living  words,  the  immortal 
sounds. 

With  the  unfortunate  it  moans,  and 
slowly  makes  the  happy  ones  remember 
that  their  brothers  are  suffering.  Weep- 
ing in  unison  with  those  who  weep  its 
long-drawn  sobs  wring  the  hardest 
hearts;  torturing  the  consciences  of  the 
wicked  it  awakens  the  healthful  remorse; 
compassionate,  submissive,  it  shares  the 
misery  of  the  sick  and  the  cruel  throes 
of  the  dying. 


JOYOUS  and  gay  it  is  the  Messenger 
of  Love  carrying  from  eon  to  atom, 
from  cell  to  cell,  from  dust  to  plant, 
from  plant  to  animal,  from  human  mind 
to  human  mind  the  mysterious  fecund 
message. 

In  his  invisible  veils  all  is  united  and 
blended.  Sometimes  the  great  Sun  gen- 
erous and  pitiable  enlightens  his  actions 
with  a  protecting  ray  ...  Then  and 
only  then,  the  immense  action  of  this 
invisible  force  becomes  tangible  to  human 
eyes.  He  can  be  seen  gathering  all  in  an 
infinite  play,  in  a  marvelous  and  super- 
active  frolic  of  Love. 

Amorous  and  drunk  he  possesses  all 
the  powers  of  persuasion,  the  sweet  deli- 
cacy of  touch.  With  tender  grace  and 
gentleness  he  kisses  the  flowers  and  the 
faces,  coyly  plays  with  the  hair,  accuses 
Beauty's  form  folded  in  the  mystery  of 
the  cloth,  and,  with  a  thousand  follies 
and  gestures  and  fitful  bursts  of  un- 
restrained laughter  he  penetrates  every- 
where and  everything  like  a  Conqueror! 
But  still  his  seductive  dream  is  vain. 
All  submit  to  him  because  they  can  not 
do  otherwise  .  .  .  This  invisible  body 
without  apparent  form  does  not  obtain 
the  love  he  seeks,  and  his  wrath  rises 
to  a  wicked,  sneering,  damnable  fury  at 
his  inability  to  be  seen,  to  be  loved  .  .  . 
in  a  word,  to  be. 

Then  he  slaps  the  visages  of  those  who 
but  a  moment  before  he  was  kissing,  he 
whips  the  bodies  that  but  a  moment 
before  he  was  enveloping  with  charm, 
he  lashes  the  bodies  he  was  wanting  to 
possess. 

O  Mortal  wounds!  His  offenses  pass 
unnoticed!  Nothing  suffers!  Every- 
where he  is  treated  with  silent  contempt : 
"He  is  non-existent." 

Then  he  dreams  of  being  able  to  clothe 
himself  in  any  figure  or  form ;  the  least, 
the  most  miserable,  the  most  abject  is 
the  object  of  his  envy.  With  this  aim  he 
springs  up  through  the  infinite  spaces, 
stirring  up  thousands  and  thousands  of 
small  bodies,  a  moment  he  intermingles 
with  them  in  the  hope  of  attracting  at- 
tention .  .  .  uttermost  despair,  all  eyes 
are  closed  in  frightened  fear  of  this 
blinding  tornado. 

In  the  face  of  his  furious  behavior 
all  the  universe  recoils  to  let  the  blind 
unchained  force  that  spares  neither 
thing  nor  being,  pass.  Aghast  with  fear, 
the  skies  cover  themselves  with  black 
veils,  while  the  Giant  amuses  himself 
by  hurling  one  over  the  other  .  .  .  gloat- 
ing over  the  masses  that  flee  before  his 
"non-being." 

(Continued  on  Page  92) 


76 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


George  Sterling — As  I  Knew  Him 


and  face.  The  subtlety  of  her  beauty 
was  enhanced  by  a  trick  of  smiling  with 
her  brown  eyes  and  that  fascinating, 
mystic  mouth.  It  was  small,  with  deep- 
cornered  lips  parting  over  the  teeth  with 
an  elfin,  tantalizing  sweetness  of  expres- 
sion. 

"Oh,  Georgie,  look — she  is  so  pretty," 
once  I  nudged  him  at  a  lull  in  cards. 
But  he  was  already  looking  at  her. 

"She's  a  very  fascinating  young  per- 
son, Chumalums  de  Chums," 
he  whispered  in  return,  and 
his  eyes  searched  mine  dimly 
for  a  moment,  as  if  to  ex- 
change an  elusive  something 
that  could  not  be  worded. 
Those  silent  instants  curi- 
ously stand  out  the  clearest 
in  retrospect. 

It  was  shortly  after  this, 
I  think,  that  he  wrote 
"To  My  Wife": 

"Not  beauty  of  the  marble 

set 

To  art's  intensest  line, 
Nor  depth  of  light  and  color 

met, 
Tho'  all  indeed  are  thine — 

Not  these  thy  loveliness  im- 
part 
For,    wrought    by    wiser 

Hands, 
The  charm  that  makes  thee 

all  thou  art 
Beyond  transition  stands. 

And  surer  fealty  to  thee, 

O  fairest !  I  confess, 
For  that  beyond  all  fair  I  see 

The  grace  of  tenderness. 

Past  Art's  endeavor  to  por- 
tray 

Or  poet's  word  to  reach; 
For  all  that  Beauty  seems  to 

say 
Is  told  in  feeble  speech." 

Caroline  seemed  an  ideal  helpmeet  for 
a  genius.  She  could  engage  with  him 
merrily,  or  solace  an  inexplicable  mood. 
Work  hard  Carrie  did,  as  a  woman  must 
who  plays  her  part  in  such  wholehearted 
hospitality  out  of  a  modest  income.  But 
no  trace  of  fatigue  or  untidiness  ever 
bothered  a  lucky  guest. 

Sometimes  precariously  rickety  bridges 
had  to  be  crossed.  Luckily,  if  not  a 
fairy  godmother  there  was  a  fairy  sister 
who  came  to  the  rescue  when  matters 
became  acute,  as  happens  in  the  house- 
holds of  poets!  The  sister  was  always 


(Continued  from  Page  70) 

at  their  backs,  though  few  knew  this. 
No  benefactress  ever  more  successfully 
hid  her  light  under  a  bushel  than  Mrs. 
Frank  C.  Havens.  I  hope  she  will  for- 
give me  for  removing  the  "bushel."  It 
was  mainly  through  her  interest  and  gen- 
erosity that  George  and  Carrie  were  able 
to  capture  their  paradisal  dream  at  Car- 
mel-by-the-Sea.  They  had  long  yearned 
to  build  there.  And  one  of  George's 
most  ardent  ambitions  was  to  raise  pota- 


Carrie  Sterling 

toes  in  a  lush  meadow  overlooked  by 
their  redwood-pillared  portico.  But  that 
is  another  story. 

Carrie  was  quick  in  the  tongue  and 
could  on  occasion  throw  unnecessary 
decorum  to  the  winds  and  romp  with 
the  best  of  the  tomboy  rout.  I  linger 
through  old  albums  that  picture  the 
fancy-dress  and  dress  that  is  not  fancy 
but  pure  characterization  by  a  clever 
company  of  souls  on  the  lark!  Carrie 
was  often  the  Queen  of  fun  among 
them  all.  Yes,  she  and  her  husband 
contributed  equally  in  their  different 
ways  to  a  congenial  menage  that  held 
together  the  mob. 


And  some  who  were  blind  to  other 
than  Marthan  attainments  on  Caddie's 
part  had  their  eyes  opened  when  she 
tackled  the  concise  statement  of  some 
scientific  or  philosophical  subject  which 
she  had  studied. 

Some  of  us,  painfully  observant  in  the 
time  of  separation  that  was  to  come, 
could  not  but  hold  that  the  two  should 
have  remained  together.  They  were, 
most  things  considered,  in  the  long  run 
each  other's  best  fortune. 
When  tidings  of  Carrie's 
shocking  if  poetic  suicide  in 
Piedmont  came  to  George, 
who  was  more  or  less  revel- 
ing in  Greenwich  Village, 
he  returned  swiftly  to  Cali- 
fornia, never  to  leave.  Not 
more  beautifully  than  Carrie 
did  The  Lady  of  Shalott  lay 
herself  to  sleep  and  wake  no 
more.  And  George  Sterling 
never  ceased  to  regret.  He 
had  learned  that  in  some 
strong  and  enduring  kin- 
ships passion  is  the  passing 
part.  I  defy  those  few  who 
knew  George  and  Carrie 
and  all  that  was,  to  read 
with  steady  eyes  and  lips 
"Spring  in  Carmel,"  from 
"Sails  and  Mirage."  It  was 
written  upon  his  first  re- 
tracing after  her  death  of 
the  path  to  the  Carmel  cot- 
tage in  the  pine  forest.  In  it 
I  find: 

"So  like  a  ghost  your  frag- 
rance lies 

On  the  path  that  once  led 
home." 

George,  who,  it  may  be, 
was  not  made  to  encompass 
a  grand  passion  for  one 
woman,  could  divine  and  ex- 
press love  as  few  men  or 
women,  knowing  love,  can  do. 

To  any,  not  so  close  to  them,  who 
think  George's  wife  of  many  years  acted 
hastily  or  unwisely  in  leaving  her  hus- 
band, let  me  say  that  she  behaved  most 
wisely  and  patiently  preceding  the  di- 
vorce that  came  about.  The  first  stern 
crisis  took  place  in  our  house.  In  that 
and  ones  to  follow,  Carrie  Sterling 
showed  a  poise  and  grandeur  of  spirit 
that  could  not  be  surpassed. 

For  a  year  or  two  before  her  end  she 

became  warped  from  ultimate  bitterness 

that  led   toward  estrangement  of  some 

of  her  most  tried  friends — as  if  deliber- 

(Continued  on  Page  80) 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


77 


The  Voice  of  the  Wheat 


GEORGE  STERLING 


WINDS  came  from  far  away.    'Twas  April  weather, 
When  basking  Earth  forgets  awhile  her  age. 
Across  the  blue,  snow  clouds  went  by  together 
On  their  brief  pilgrimage. 

Unbroken,  to  the  sky-line  of  the  West, 

Ran  the  young  wheat  in  billows  vast  and  dumb. 

In  that  vast  solitude  Earth  bared  her  breast 
For  children  yet  to  come. 

Sunlight  lay  drowsily  on  field  and  tree. 

Perhaps  I  dreamt;  but  ere  the  dream  was  fled, 
Out  of  the  wheat  a  Whisper  came  to  me — 

A  secret  voice  that  said : 

"I  am  the  faithful  spirit  of  the  wheat. 

Men  come  and  go,  but  I  abide  the  same.  - 
From  age  to  age  my  fosterlings  repeat 

The  music  of  my  name. 

"Man  knew  me  not  in  Time's  forgotten  days; 

Lowly  as  he  I  waited  then  my  hour, 
Standing  for  years  beside  his  primal  ways, 

Unnoted  as  the  flower. 

"I  am  the  voice  that  drew  him  from  the  beast, 

The  cave,  the  forest  or  the  jungle's  mud. 
I  first  induced  him  from  the  gory  feast 

Whose  price  was  paid  in  blood. 

"Become  his  food  in  feasts  no  longer  red, 

I  made  him  wander:  when  he  forsook 
The  noisome  midden,  it  was  I  who  led, 

And  mine  the  path  he  took. 

"I  sent  him  forth  a  nomad  without  goal. 

Mounted  and  armed  he  ventured,  as  I  set 
A  hunger  for  horizons  in  his  soul 

That  burns  unsated  yet. 

"I  am  the  voice  that  called  the  nomad  in, 

When  baffled  eyes  had  found  the  western  foam — 

A  deeper  voice,  commanding  that  he  win 
The  permanence  of  home. 

"Inseparable  from  a  needy  race, 

I  wait  the  bidding  of  the  hollow  plow. 
My  reapers  take  the  sunlight  on  the  face, 

The  sweat  upon  the  brow. 

"My  hosts,  innumerable  and  serene, 

Have  set  their  armies  'round  his  safe  abode, 

That  all  his  foes  may  see  the  girdling  green 
Of  camps  without  a  road. 

"I  am  his  surety  of  the  years  to  be: 

He  shall  not  hunger  long  except  I  fail, 
Nor  shall  I  fail  him  if  he  trust  in  me 

Whose  living  blades  avail. 


"He  and  his  hearth  accept  me  as  of  old, 

A  part  forever  of  the  human  need. 
He  is  the  suckling  that  my  arms  enfold, 

My  child  whom  I  must  feed. 

"So  closely  to  his  law  of  life  I  stand, 

Serving  the  strength  for  which  his  heart  has  cared, 
From  furrow  to  the  moulding  of  the  hand, 

Until  the  loaf  is  shared. 

"I  am  a  bond  'twixt  man  and  gentler  things, 
And  he  who  sows  shall  reap  the  years  of  peace, 

Out  of  my  loneliness  receiving  wings, 
Till  war  and  sorrow  cease. 

"I  am  his  earthly  sacrament,  his  bread 

That  he  shall  break  forever  with  his  kind. 

Mine  is  the  table  where  all  men  have  fed, 
The  food  all  men  shall  find. 

"I  am  the  pledge  that,  at  the  heart  of  Earth, 
•  Good  is  established,  tho  you  doubt  as  yet. 
Who  listens  not  with  ears  shall  catch  my  mirth, 
Tho  grief  awhile  forget. 

"For  them  who  sow  beneath  the  mournful  rain, 
There  waits  the  harvest  of  my  proven  gold. 

For  them  who  weep  abides  another  grain 
That  is  not  bought  nor  sold." 

The  wind  sank,  and  the  Whisper  died  away  .  .  . 

I  listened  yet,  not  sure  that  I  had  dreamed, 
League-wide,  below  the  azure  of  the  day, 

The  billowing  verdure  gleamed, 

Great-blossomed,  bountiful,  of  promise  sure 
That  man  be  nurtured  till  his  House  be  one; 

A  changeless  pledge  his  House  shall  long  endure 
Beneath  the  mighty  sun; 

When  not  by  slaughter  and  the  blood  of  brutes 
Shall  he  grow  godlike  in  his  flesh  and  mind, 

But  by  that  food  whose  cleanliness  transmutes 
The  sight  that  now  is  blind. 

I  pondered,  and  my  soul  beheld  afar 

The  holy  acres  given  to  the  wheat 
Between  the  morning  and  the  evening  star, 

That  all  mankind  may  eat; 

The  innumerable  sowings  of  the  South, 
The  innumerable  reapings  of  the  North, 

The  harvests  brayed  for  man's  re-hungered  mouth, 
That  the  new  life  go  forth — 

In  Minnesota  and  vast  Argentine, 

In  Canada  and  the  Manchurian  plain, 

And  where  the  wide  Dakotas  wait  to  glean 
And  the  immense  Ukraine, 


In  California,  mistress  of  the  sun, 

And  India  in  her  eternal  place, 
Achieving  all,  when  the  huge  toil  is  done, 

Salvation  for  the  race. 

From  Overland  Monthly,  April,  1926 


78 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 

San  Francisco's  Russian  Artist 


March,  1927 


By  ALINE  KISTLER 

IN   A   house   of   old    San    Francisco,    perched   as   on   stilts  has  won.    He  would  rather  talk  about  Van  Dyke  or  Sargent 
against  a  hillside  that  slopes  sharply  to  San  Francisco's  than  tell   of  the  prizes  won  at   Petrograd  or  the   nattering 
capricious  bay,  lives  Gleb   Ilyin,  an  artist  who  came  to  commissions  given  him  both  in  Russia  and  Japan  before  corn- 
California  from  Russia  via  Tokyo.    And,  coming  by  way  of  ing  to  America. 
Japan    and    not    through 


the  accepted  channels  of 
Europe,  that  is,  without 
the  stamp  of  "Paris"  on 
his  reputation,  Gleb  Ilyin 
has  adopted  San  Fran- 
cisco as  his  home  without 
it  having  adopted  him. 

There  was  a  measure  of 
welcome  for  this  dis- 
tinguished artist.  It  is 
true  that  the  Bohemian 
Club  opened  its  doors  to 
him.  It  is  true  that  art 
galleries  gave  their  walls 
for  his  exhibitions.  But 
San  Francisco  at  large  is 
as  little  aware  now  as  it 
was  three  years  ago  that 
this  painter  of  unusual 
ability  is  in  its  midst. 
Even  the  majority  of  the 
avowed  "followers  of  the 
arts"  dismiss  the  name  of 
Ilyin  with  a  hazy  assump- 
tion that  he  is  "just 
another  of  those  Rus- 
sians" and  the  mental 
comment  that  he  "doesn't 
even  lay  claim  to  a  title" 
or  "anyhow  no  one  has 
heard  of  him" — meaning 
that  he  has  not  been 
stamped  and  sealed  as 
"art"  by  the  press  agents 
of  Paris. 

Gleb  Ilyin  needs  no 
title.  He  needs  no  official 
seal  or  favor.  His  work 
and  his  personality  suffice. 

That  is,  they  suffice  for 
those  who  know  his  work 
or  those  who  have  come 
in  contact  with  the  artist 
himself.  But  to  San  Fran- 
cisco at  large,  the  teasures 
of  the  house  on  the  hill 
are  still  unknown. 

So  let  us  climb  those 
steep  front  steps  and  walk 
through  the  old-fashioned 
door  into  the  home  and 
workshop  of  Gleb  Ilyin. 

The    artist    greets    us. 

He  is  large  and  well  built,  with  a  sturdy  frame  upon  which 
rests  a  head  that  seems  larger  than  it  is  because  of  the  lux- 
uriant brown  hair.  His  features  are  strong  but  they  bear  the 
stamp  of  the  dreamer.  His  voice  is  gentle  and  there  is  that 
in  his  eyes  which  helps  explain  why  it  is  from  press  clippings, 
rather  than  from  him,  that  one  learns  of  the  distinctions  he 


Portrait  of  Mrs.  John  Oscar  Gantner  by  Gleb  Ilyin 


Beside  him  is  his  wife. 
She  is  a  pure  Russian  type, 
a  singularly  beautiful 
woman.  Her  beauty  has 
an  elusive  quality  that 
justifies  the  different  treat- 
ments of  it  that  her  hus- 
band has  made  in  various 
of  the  paintings  hanging 
on  the  walls  of  their  home. 

T)UT,  interesting  as  the 
-L*  artist  is,  and  lovely 
as  is  his  wife,  it  is  the  pic- 
tures themselves  that  de- 
mand attention.  They  are 
varied  in  subject,  treat- 
ment and  medium  for 
Ilyin  turns  facilly  from 
oil  to  pastel  or  char- 
coal. Here  and  there  are 
sketches  made  preliminary 
to  portraits  or  other  fin- 
ished paintings,  but  even 
the  sketches  have  a  sort  of 
finished  beauty  that  re- 
veals Ilyin's  mastery  of 
technique. 

Everywhere  on  the 
closely  hung  walls  there  is 
beauty.  It  is  a  sophisti- 
cated, mastered  beauty, 
the  conscious  result  of 
matured  art.  Each  picture 
is  a  complete  expression; 
it  is  as  though  each  were 
the  mellowed  product  of 
meditation.  Not  always 
calm  meditation,  however, 
for  there  is  fire  and  sparkle 
and  color:  but  it  is  never 
undisciplined,  never  un- 
restrained haphazardry. 

No,  this  work — from 
the  monumental  canvas  of 
the  Volga  boatman  to  the 
keenly  analytical  portraits 
of  Japanese,  from  the 
gaiety  of  elobarate  compo- 
sitions in  the  French  style 
to  the  breathing  warmth 
of  the  simple  nude — re- 
reals  the  consistent  train- 
ing which  the  talent  of 
Ilyin  has  undergone.  In  each  painting  is  reflected  the  years 
of  study  at  the  Middle  Art  School  and  the  Imperial  Academy 
at  Petrograd ;  each  is  evidence  of  the  hours  and  days  spent 
in  the  Imperial  Galleries  before  the  immortal  works  of  Rem- 
brandt, Hals,  Leynbach,  Van  Dyke  and  others  of  the  world's 
(Continued  on  Page  96) 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


79 


To  George  Sterling 

From  LANNIE  HAYNES  MARTIN 


SEA-WORSHIPPER,  idolater  of  stars! 
What  galaxy  of  suns  enchants  thee  now? 
What  cosmic  oceans  roll  eternal  surge 
To  send  ethereal  zephyrs  to  thy  brow? 
Thy  deathless  song  in  ceaseless  echoes  here 
Will  chant  its  magic  cadence  to  the  skies, 
And  Beauty's  image,  conjured  by  thy  words, 
From  ancient  worlds,  forever  new  will  rise. 
And  Life  itself  will  wear  a  dignity 
For  that  sublime  simplicity  of  thine — 


That  gentle,  pagan  grandeur  which  revived 

The  soul  of  man  to  know  itself  divine. 

The  world  will  bring  its  laurels  and  its  palms 

To  crown  thy  name  through  all  the  changing  years — 

While  we  who  knew  and  loved  thee  only  bring 

Our  breaking  hearts — our  foolish  futile  tears — 

While  we  in  friendship's  anguish  of  regret, 

At  all  the  friendly  words  we  left  unsaid, 

Stretch  out  our  vain-imploring,  empty  hands — 

Hands  dumb  as  dust,  more  helpless  than  the  dead. 


mot- 


George  Sterling— An  Appreciation 


AMONG  the  various  literary 
fervors  and  enthusiasms  of  my 
my  early  youth,  there  are  two 
that  have  not  faded  as  such  things  most 
often  fade,  but  still  retain  in  these  latter 
years  a  modicum  of  their  "fringing 
flames  of  marvel."  Unique,  and  never 
to  be  forgotten,  was  the  thrill  with 
which,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  I  dis- 
covered for  myself  the  poems  of  Poe  in 
a  grammar-school  library;  and,  despite 
the  objurgations  of  the  librarian,  who  con- 
sidered Poe  "unwholesome,"  carried  the 
priceless  volume  home  to  revel  for  en- 
chanted days  in  its  undreamt-of  melo- 
dies. Here,  indeed,  was  "balm  in 
Gilead,"  here  was  a  "kind  nepenthe." 
Likewise  memorable,  and  touched  with 
more  than  the  glamour  of  childhood 
dreams,  was  my  first  reading,  two  years 
later,  of  "A  Wine  of  Wizardry,"  in 
the  pages  of  the  old  Cosmopolitan.  The 
poem,  with  its  necromantic  music,  and 
splendors  as  of  sunset  on  jewels  and 
cathedral  windows,  was  veritably  all 
that  its  title  implied ;  and — to  pile  mar- 
vel upon  enchantment — there  was  the 
knowledge  that  it  had  been  written  in 
my  own  time,  by  someone  who  lived 
little  more  than  a  hundred  miles  away. 
In  the  ruck  of  magazine  verse  it  was 
a  fire-opal  of  the  Titans  in  a  potato- 
bin  ;  and,  after  finding  it,  I  ransacked 
all  available  contemporary  periodicals, 
for  verse  by  George  Sterling,  to  be  re- 
warded, not  too  frequently,  with  some 
marmoreal  sonnet  or  "molten  golden" 
lyric.  I  am  sure  that  I  more  than 
agreed,  at  the  time,  with  the  dictum  of 
Ambrose  Bierce,  who  placed  "A  Wine 
of  Wizardry"  with  the  best  work  of 
Keats,  Poe  and  Coleridge;  and  I  still 
hold,  in  the  teeth  of  our  new  Didactic 
School,  the  protagonists  of  the  "human" 
and  the  "vital,"  that  Bierce's  judgment 
will  be  the  ultimate  one  regarding  this 
poem,  as  well  as  Sterling's  work  in  gen- 


CLARK  ASHTON  SMITH 

eral.  Bierce,  whose  own  fine  qualities 
as  a  poet  are  mentioned  with  singular 
infrequency,  was  an  almost  infallible 
critic. 

Several  years  later — when  I  was 
eighteen,  to  be  precise — a  few  of  my 
own  verses  were  submitted  to  Sterling 
for  criticism,  through  the  offices  of  a 
mutual  friend ;  and  his  favorable  verdict 
led  to  a  correspondence,  and,  later,  an 
invitation  to  visit  him  in  Carmel,  where 
I  spent  a  most  idle  and  most  happy 
month.  I  like  to  remember  him,  pound- 
ing abalones  on  a  boulder  in  the  back 
yard,  or  mixing  pineapple  punch  (for 
which  I  was  allowed  to  purvey  the  mint 
from  a  nearby  meadow),  or  paying  a 
round  of  matutinal  visits  among  assorted 
friends.  When  I  think  of  him  as  he 
was  then,  Charles  Warren  Stoddard's 
fine  poem  comes  to  mind.  I  take  pleasure 
in  quoting  the  lines: 

To  GEORGE  STERLING 

"The  Angel  Israfel,  whose  heart- 
strings are  a  lute,  and  who  has  the 
sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures." 

Spirit  of  fire  and  dew, 
Embodied  anew. 

Vital  and  virile  thy  blood — 

Thy  body  a  flagon  of  wine 

Almost  divine : 

Thou  art  a  faun  o'  the  wood, 
A  sprite  o'  the  flood, 
Not  of  the  world  understood. 

Voice  that  is  heard  from  afar, 

Voice  of  the  soul  of  a  star. 

From  thy  cloud  in  the  azure  above 

'Tis  thy  song  that  awakeneth  love — 

Love  that  invites  and  awe  that  retards — 

Blessed  art  thou  among  bards! 


My  astral  is  there  where  thou  art, 
Soul  of  my  soul,  heart  of  my  heart ! 

Thou  in  whose  sight  I  am  mute, 

In  whose  song  I  rejoice ; 

And  even  as  echo  fain  would  I  voice 
With  timbrel  and  tabor  and  flute, 
With  viol  and  lute, 
Something  of  worth  in  thy  praise — 
Delight  of  my  days — 
But  may  not  for  lack  of  thy  skill — 
For  the  deed  take  the  will: 

Unworthy,  ill  done,  incomplete, 
This  scroll  at  thy  feet." 

Always  to  me,  as  to  others,  he  was 
a  very  gentle  and  faithful  friend,  and 
the  kindest  of  mentors.  Perhaps  we  did 
not  always  agree  in  matters  of  literary 
taste ;  but  it  is  good  to  remember  that 
our  occasional  arguments  or  differences 
of  opinion  were  never  in  the  least  acri- 
monious. Indeed,  how  could  they  have 
been  ? — one  might  quarrel  with  others, 
but  never  with  him :  which,  perhaps,  is 
not  the  poorest  tribute  that  I  can  pay 
to  George  Sterling.  .  .  .  But  words  are 
doubly  inadequate,  when  one  tries  to 
speak  of  such  a  friend ;  and  the  best 
must  abide  in  silence. 

Turning  today  the  pages  of  his  many 
volumes,  I,  like  others  who  knew  him, 
find  it  difficult  to  read  them  in  a  mood 
of  dispassionate  or  abstract  criticism. 
But  I  am  not  sure  that  poetry  should 
ever  be  read  or  criticized  in  a  perfectly 
dispassionate  mood.  A  poem  is  not  a 
philosophic  or  scientific  thesis,  or  a  prob- 
lem in  Euclid,  and  the  essential  "magic" 
is  more  than  likely  to  elude  one  who 
approaches  it,  as  too  many  do,  in  a 
spirit  of  cold-blooded  logic.  After  all, 
poetry  is  properly  understood  only  by 
those  who  love  it. 

Sterling,  I  remember,  considered  "The 
Testimony  of  Suns"  his  greatest  poem. 


80 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


Bierce  said  of  it,  that,  "written  in 
French  and  published  in  Paris,  it  would 
have  stirred  the  very  stones  of  the 
street."  In  this  poem,  there  are  lines 
that  evoke  the  silence  of  infinitude, 
verses  in  which  one  hears  the  crash  of 
gliding  planets,  verses  that  are  clarion- 
calls  in  the  immemorial  war  of  suns 
and  systems,  and  others  that  are  like 
the  cadences  of  some  sidereal  requiem, 
chanted  by  the  seraphim  over  a  world 
that  is  "stone  and  night."  One  may 
quote  from  any  page: 

"How  dread  thy  reign,  O  Silence,  there! 
A  little,  and  the  deeps  are  dumb — 
Lo,  thine  eternal  feet  are  come 

Where  trod  the  thunders  of  Altair!" 

Crave  ye  a  truce,  O  suns  supreme? 
What  Order  shall  ye  deign  to  hark, 
Enormous  shuttles  of  the  dark, 

That  weave  the  Everlasting  Dream?" 

In  the  same  volume  with  "The  Testi- 
mony of  the  Suns"  is  a  blank  verse  poem, 
"Music,"  in  which  the  muse  Terpsichore 
was  hymned  as  never  before  or  since : 

"Her  voice  we  have  a  little,  but  her  face 
Is  not  of  our  imagining  nor  time." 

Also,  there  is  the  gorgeous  lyric  "To 
Imagination,"  and  many  chryselephan- 
tine sonnets,  among  which  "Reincarna- 
tion," "War,"  and  "The  Haunting" 
are  perhaps  the  most  perfect. 

A  S  I  have  already  hinted,  I  feel  a 
-^*-  peculiar  partiality  for  "A  Wine  of 
Wizardry,"  the  most  colorful,  exotic, 
and,  in  places,  macabre,  of  Sterling's 
poems.  (This,  however,  is  not  tanta- 
mount to  saying  that  I  consider  it  neces- 
sarily his  most  important  achievement.) 
Few  things  in  literature  are  more  ser- 
viceable as  a  test  for  determining 
whether  people  feel  the  verbal  magic  of 
poetry — or  whether  they  merely  compre- 
hend and  admire  the  thought,  or  philo- 
sophic content.  It  is  not  a  poem  for 
the  literal-minded,  for  those  lovers  of 
the  essential  prose  of  existence  who  edit 
and  read  our  "Saturday  Reviews"  and 
"Literary  Digests."  In  one  of  the  very 
last  letters  that  he  wrote  me,  Sterling 
said  that  no  one  took  the  poem  seriously 
any  more,  "excepting  cranks  and  mental 
hermits."  It  is  not  "vital"  poetry, 
he  said,  as  the  word  "vital"  is  used  by 
our  self-elected  high-brows  (which  pro- 
bably, means,  that  it  is  lacking  in  "sex- 
kick,"  or  throws  no  light  on  the  labor 
problem  and  the  increase  of  moronism). 
I  was  unable  to  agree  with  him.  Per- 
sonally, I  find  it  impossible  to  take  the 
"vital"  school  with  any  degree  of  serious- 
ness, and  see  it  only  as  a  phase  of  ma- 


terialism and  didacticism.  The  propon- 
ents of  the  utile  and  the  informative 
should  stick  to  prose — which,  to  be 
frank,  is  all  that  they  achieve,  as  a  rule. 
Before  leaving  "A  Wine  of  Wizardry," 
I  wish,  for  my  own  pleasure,  to  quote 
a  favorite  passage: 

"Within,  lurk  orbs  that  graven  monsters 

clasp  ; 
Red-embered    rubies    smoulder    in    the 

gloom, 
Betrayed  by  lamps  that  nurse  a  sullen 

flame, 
And  livid  roots  writhe  in  the  marble's 

grasp, 
As  moaning  airs  invoke  the  conquered 

rust 

Of  lordly  helms  made  equal  in  the  dust. 
Without,  where  baleful  cypresses  make 

rich 
The     bleeding     sun's      phantasmagoric 

gules, 

Are  fungus-tapers  of  the  twilight  witch, 
Seen  by  the  bat  above  unfathomed  pools, 
And  tiger-lilies  known  to  silent  ghouli. 
Whose  king  hath  digged  a  sombre  car- 

canet 
And  necklaces  with  fevered  opals  set." 

No,  "A  Wine  of  Wizardry"  is  not 
"vital  verse."  Thank  God  for  that,  as 
Benjamin  de  Casseres  would  say. 

Notable,  also,  in  Sterling's  second  vol- 
ume, is  the  lovely  "Tasso  to  Leonora" 
and  "A  Dream  of  Fear."  His  third 
volume,  "A  House  of  Orchids,"  is  com- 
pact of  poetry;  and,  if  I  were  to  name 
my  favorites,  it  would  be  equivalent  to 
quoting  almost  the  entire  index.  How- 
ever, the  dramatic  poem,  "Lilith,"  is,  I 
believe,  the  production  by  which  he  will 
be  most  widely  known.  One  must  go 
back  to  Swinburne  and  Shelley  to  find 
its  equal  as  a  lyric  drama.  The  tragedy 
and  poetry  of  life  are  in  this  strange 
allegory,  and  the  hero,  Tancred,  is  the 
mystic  analogue  of  all  men.  Here,  in 
the  conception  of  Lilith,  the  eternal  and 
ineluctable  Temptress,  Sterling  verges 
upon  that  incommensurable  poet, 
Charles  Baudelaire.  In  scene  after  scene, 
one  hears  the  fugue  of  good  and  evil, 
of  pleasure  and  pain,  set  to  chords  that 
are  almost  Wagnerian.  Upon  the  sor- 
did reality  of  our  fate  there  falls,  time 
after  time,  a  light  that  seems  to  pass 
through  lucent  and  iridescent  gems ;  and 
vibrant  echoes  and  reverberant  voices 
cry  in  smitten  music  from  the  profound 
of  environing  mystery. 

One  might  go  on,  to  praise  and  quote 
indefinitely;  but,  in  a  sense,  all  that  I 
can  write  or  could  write  seems  futile, 
now  that  Sterling  is  "one  with  that  mul- 
titude to  whom  the  eternal  Night  hath 
said,  I  am."  Anyway,  his  was  not,  as 
Flecker's, 


"The  song  of  a  man  who  was  dead 
Ere  any  had  heard  of  his  song." 

From  the  beginning,  he  had  the  ap- 
preciation and  worship  of  poetry  lovers, 
if  not  of  the  crowd  or  of  the  critical 
moguls  and  pontiffs. 

Of  his  death — a  great  bereavement 
to  me,  as  to  other  friends — I  feel  that 
there  is  really  little  that  need  be  said. 
I  know  that  he  must  have  had  motives 
that  he  felt  to  be  ample  and  sufficient, 
and  this  is  enough  for  me.  I  am  totally 
incapable  of  understanding  the  smug 
criticism  that  I  have  read  or  heard  on 
occasion.  To  me,  the  popular  attitude 
concerning  suicide  is  merely  one  more 
proof  of  the  degeneracy  and  pusillani- 
mity of  the  modern  world :  in  a  more  en- 
lightened age,  felo-de-se  will  be  honored 
again,  as  it  was  among  the  ancients. 

In  one  of  Bierce's  books  is  a  trenchant 
article  entitled,  "The  Right  to  Take 
One's  Self  Off."  Here  is  the  final  para- 
graph : 

"Why  do  we  honor  the  valiant  sol- 
dier, sailor,  fireman?  For  obedience  to 
duty?  Not  at  all;  that  alone — without 
the  peril — seldom  elicits  remark,  never 
evokes  enthusiasm.  It  is  because  he  faced 
without  flinching  the  risk  of  that  su- 
preme disaster — or  what  we  feel  to  be 
such — death.  But  look  you:  the  soldier 
braves  the  danger  of  death;  the  suicide 
braves  death  itself!  The  leader  of  the 
forlorn  hope  may  not  be  struck.  The 
sailor  who  voluntarily  goes  down  with 
his  ship  may  be  picked  up  or  cast  ashore. 
It  is  not  certain  that  the  wall  will  top- 
ple until  the  fireman  shall  have  des- 
cended with  his  precious  burden.  But 
the  suicide — his  is  the  foeman  that  never 
missed  a  mark,  his  the  sea  that  gives 
nothing  back;  the  wall  that  he  mounts 
bears  no  man's  weight.  And  his,  at  the 
end  of  it  all,  is  the  dishonored  grave 
where  the  wild  ass  of  public  opinion 

,  -  .  .,~J« 
"Stamps  o'er  his  head 
But  cannot  break  his  sleep." 


AS  I  KNEW  HIM 
(Continued  from  Page  76) 
ately   to   tear   from    her   all   association 
with  the  old  life.    That  bitterness  only 
waned   in   her  self-inflicted   death.    She 
was  not  herself. 

So  now  there  is  a  gladness  in  laying 
my  wreath  upon  her  memory,  just  as 
there  is  in  calling  attention  to  the  tribute 
the  essentially  desolate  poet  rendered  her 
in  verse  and  speech.  The  pages  of  "Sails 
and  Mirage"  are  drenched  with  its  per- 
fume. In  my  gift  copy  he  wrote: 

"For  Charmian,  with  love,  this  book 
of  memories  and  regrets." 

But   oh,   let   me  now  call   upon   pic- 
tures of  those  living  holidays  of   hard- 
Continued  on  Page  83) 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 

Poetry  by  Sterling 

from  Rhymes  and  Reactions 


81 


WINGS 

IMPATIENT  of  the  tardy  axe  and  oar, 
Life  clothes  her  tender  flesh  in  toiling  steel, 
And  like  a  broken  mist  the  years  reveal 
The  unascended  heights  that  wait  before. 
Matter  that  was  the  king  is  king  no  more, 
And  we,  released  from  that  despotic  heel, 
Can  up  against  the  sun  on  slanting  keel, 
As  men  that  crawled  like  ants  like  falcons  soar. 

How  great  those  altitudes  they  do  not  know 
Who  see  far  upward  their  eternal  snow, 

And  dream  to  join  the  eagles  of  their  dome. 
O  valiant  hearts,  O  you  that  take  such  wings 
Above  the  humble  heritage  of  things 
Remember  that  the  earth  at  last  is  home ! 

(From  Overland  Monthly,  July,  1924) 


BEAUTY  AND  TRUTH 

"DETWEEN  the  shadowy  land  and  voiceless  sea, 

They  met  by  twilight  on  the  sterils  coast. 
Said  Beauty:    "I  am  of  eternity. 

Bow  down  to  me!"     Said  Truth:    "You  are  but  ghost." 

And  Beauty  like  a  silver  mist  too  flight, 

And  hear  far  off  the  sorrow  of  Truth's  laughter. 

Going  she  wept,  with  tears  of  bitter  light, 

And  on  her  path  great  pearls  were  found  long  after. 

"See  now!"  cried  Truth.    "Her  feet  have  left  no  trace!" 

And  at  a  pool  abandoned  by  the  tide 
Knelt  down  to  see  the  beauty  of  his  face, 

To  find  stars  mirrored  there — and  naught  beside 

(From  Overland  Monthly,  November,  1925) 


PEACE 

(Sonnet) 

"USAGE!    Peace!"  we  cry,  and  find  awhile  in  sleep 
A  sense  of  its  compassion,  till  the  day 

Gives  other  dreams,  as  facile  to  betray, 
And  broken  are  the  dreams  we  could  not  keep. 
There  lie  the  shallows  where  we  sought  the  deep, — 

The  rest-house  where  no  mortal  shall  delay, — 

The  tiger-haunted  garden  by  the  way, 
Where  soon  or  late  each  reveller  must  weep. 

The  dim  foundations  on  the  spirit's  house 
Ahe  based  on  darkness,  and  in  darkness  end 

The  ghostly  turrets,  giving  on  no  star. 
There  is  no  peace  until  the  troubled  brows 
Go  down  in  dust,  and  those  twain  midnights  blend 
To  that  old  Shadow  where  no  shadows  are. 

(From  Overland  Monthly,  February,  1926) 


SAFE 

NOT  evermore,  O  universe  of  pain, 
Shalt  thou  give  agony  to  my  dear  dead ! 
For  they  shall  sleep  no  more  uncomforted, 
Nor  wake  again  to  hear  the  midnight  rain. 
No  longer  shall  they  sow  a  bitter  grain 
Nor  labor  for  a  visionary  bread : 
The  tears  are  dried,  the  hungry  mouths  are  fed, 
They  find  the  peace  for  which  they  sought  in  vain. 

They  are  removed  from  folly  and  from  care, 
From  love  that  died,  from  anguish  and  despair. 
Pain's  vultures  shall  go  over  in  their  flight, 

Nor  see  them  where  they  lie,  nor  break  their  sleep 
Who  have  found  refuge  in  the  unsounded  Deep 
And  are  made  safe  in  its  eternal  night. 

(From  Overland  Monthly,  May,  1926) 


TO  MARGARET  ANGLIN 

'1 1HE  tears  of  old  defeats  are  in  your  eyes, 

The  trumpets  of  old  victories  in  your  voice  ; 

In  you  the  Grecian  yesterdays  rejoice 
And  Rome  sends  up  her  eagles  in  the  skies. 
An  echo  of  forgotten  battle-cries, 

Caught  up  by  you,  is  vibrant  in  the  heart, 

And  in  the  magic  sessions  of  your  art 
Again  the  world  is  dipped  in  royal  dyes. 

Sister  in  soul  to  hero  and  to  king, 

Your  mind  has  traversed  that  enormous  night 

To  which  the  broken  swords  and  crowns  were  cast, 
And  ancient  dooms  of  which  the  poets  sing 
Resound  in  you,  revealing  to  our  sight 
The  terror  and  the  beauty  of  the  Past. 

(From  Overland  Monthly,  June,  1926) 


LATE  TIDINGS 

told  me,  on  the  day  my  mother  died, 
A       How  she  would  look,  each  Sunday,  down  the  street, 

Eager  to  be  the  first  of  all  to  greet 
Her  customary  son,  and  how  she  sighed 
When  I  came  not.   They  said  she  had  such  pride 
In  my  poor  songs.    She,  proud  of  me !    Defeat 
Has  subtle  ways  of  wounding.    Bittersweet 
Are  memories  that  will  not  be  denied. 

Now  I  would  go  so  very  many  miles 
To  see  but  one  of  those  rewarding  smiles, 

And  give  that  pleasure  to  her  loving  heart. 
To  think  she  cared  so  much!   To  stand  once  more 
A  supplicant  at  her  familiar  door! 

But  now  we  are  so  many  miles  apart ! 

(From  Overland  Monthly,  December,  1925) 


82 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


To  George  Sterling 


THE  POET 


GEORGE  STERLING,  valiant  Son  of  Song, 
Thy  singing  shall  survive  thee  long. 

No  gentler  poet  ever  trod 
Bohemia's  pathway  up  to  God. 

The  Earth  deplores  thy  early  fate, 
But  Heaven's  dome  illuminate. 

Companion  of  the  stars  above, 
Thou  taught  us  here  to  Beauty  love, 

The  subtle  essence  of  thy  Art 
Preserves  thee  in  our  world  apart. 

Ecstatic  we  shall  greet  thee  when 
We  weary  of  the  ways  of  men. 

J.  D.  P. 

November  18,  1926. 


ON  READING  GEORGE  STERLING'S 
ODE  TO  SHELLEY* 

HPHANKS  to  you,  Bard,  your  song  is  such  as  he, 
•*•   The  West  Wind,  might  have  poured  in  rhythmic  surge, 
Peace  to  his  ashes  by  the  Tiber  verge. 
Time  shall  remember  that  by  this  far  sea 
You  sang  and  built  a  monument  to  be 
His  westmost  cenotaph,  no  weary  dirge, 
But  fervent  ode,  whose  ecstacy  shall  purge 
The  mind  of  all  that  is  not  poesy. 

Sing  yet  again — sing  through  the  war's  abyss; 
Sing  through  the  jungle  of  material  days 
And  through  the  dark  morass  of  vicious  woe; 
Show  us  the  beauty  that  we  hold,  yet  miss, 
The  starshine  lambent  on  penumbral  ways, — 
In  vibrant  measures  sweeter  than  we  know. 

LAURA  BELL  EVERETT. 


•Scribner's,  July,   1922. 


STERLING 

Winds  of  the  Worlds 
Came  from  the  place  of  light 
And  breathed  upon  the  Clay 
So  that  the  Clay  lived  ...  a  Star 
Ra  smiled. 

Souls  looked  upward 
To  the  star 

And  were  healed  of  unrest, 
Uplifted  toward  light. 

Then  the  star  was  gone 
And  they  mourned  it; 
But  its  radiance  was  still 
In  their  hearts  .  .  . 
Inspiration  eternal. 

W.  T.  FITCH. 


TO  GEORGE  STERLING 

IN  YOUTH  he  loved  the  sweep  of  all  the  winds 
That  called  and  urged  swift  tumult  in  the  skies, 
He  dreamed  of  them  from  strange  lands  derelict 
Of  regions  far  of  sheer  bounds  undefined 
Of  some  far  misty  plain,  gray,  needful  vast, 
Where  all  life's  longings  might  be  stayed  or  swelled 
As  is  the  sea. 

And  then  he  learned  to  listen  o'er  the  winds 

For  some  strange  current  borne  from  kindly  vasts; 

Within  his  heart  was  answer  for  some  call 

That  naught  on  earth  or  sea  or  in  man's  heart 

Was  sought  of  him ;  but  on  the  breath 

Of  some  far  wind  to  him  would  come  the  call 

To  which  he  could  respond. 

Through  years  he  listened,  till  the  guile  of  Time 
Laid  with  light  craft  the  snow  above  his  brow 
And  placed  its  weights  upon  his  pulse  and  breath, 
Seeming  its  wish  to  silence  all  his  songs. 
But  still  the  songs,  though  wearily  there  came 
Doubt  in  his  brain  with  thoughts  of  ceasing  hours, 
And  heavy  darkness. 

But  one  spent  eve  it  came,  to  him — alone, 
That  swift  wind,  courier  from  far  unlearned  coasts, 
Swelled  deep  with  storm  of  sweet  eternal  youth, 
Vibrant  with  venture.   Well  he  knew  its  call. 
Then  from  his  flesh  with  his  own  will  he  tore 
That  which  was  like  the  wind,  unseen,  eternal,  light 
And  with  the  wind  to  homing  vasts  was  gone. 
MARGARET  S.  COBB. 

GEORGE  STERLING 

OH  STILL  and  silent  sky,  awake — 
To  voice  the  song  he  found  in  thee! 
And  thou-unceasing  storm-tossed  sea, 
Abide  awhile,  for  memory's  sake! 
Awake  oh  wind,  and  lend  thy  voice 
To  the  sea  and  sky,  remembering 
He  knew  thy  way.   And  sing — oh  sing — 
He  loved  thy  songs — oh  wind,  rejoice! 

When  twilight  falls  from  the  deepening  sky 
And  the  sea-fog  hides  its  mystery, 

When  the  sea-gulls  out  of  the  fog  shall  fly, 
And  the  rain  slants  in  from  the  sea — 

Like  the  sound  of  a  harp  or  a  viol's  sigh 
We  shall  hear  his  voice  eternally! 

DOROTHY  TYRREL. 

GEORGE  STERLING 

I  NEVER  found  the  happy  chance  to  meet  you ; 
Now  you're  gone. 
I  know  you  well ;  in  a  thousand  lines  I  greet  you, 

Lines  you've  won 

In  this  youths'  fight.   Let  fleeting  youth  defeat  you? 
You  laughed  youth  down ! 

Singer  of  Francisco's  fog-draped  hillsides 

You  loved  best, 
To  whom  you  sang,  your  mystic  mem'ry  still  rides 

At  its  crest  ; 
And  going,  friendly  singer,  where  you  will,  bides 

The  boon  you've  quest. 

ROBERT  COUCHMAN. 


March, 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


83 


working  artists,  say  picnicking  in  the  old 
Dingee  mansion  grounds  in  the  hills 
back  of  what  was  then  a  much  smaller 
Piedmont  than  at  present.  Who  was  not 
there,  at  one  time  or  another,  or  in  Jack's 
and  George's  homes?  They  are  scat- 
tered to  the  four  quarters  of  the  com- 
pass. Many  are  dead,  many  I  still  meet 
or  hear  from — like  Cloudesley  Johns  in 
New  York,  or  George  Herman  Schef- 
fauer  in  Berlin.  There  was  George's 
flock  of  pretty  sisters ;  the  members  of 
the  Partington  family — all  distinguished, 
Gertrude,  artist;  Blanche,  writer;  Phyl- 
lis, later  to  be  known  as  Frances  Peralta 
of  the  Metropolitan  Opera;  Richard, 
noted  portrait  painter.  And  their  beau- 
tiful sister,  Kate,  who  with  her  husband, 
Fred  Peterson,  both  dead  too  young, 
were  close  to  the  Sterlings'  hearts.  There 
were  Jimmie  Hopper,  Harry  Lafler, 
Carlton  Bierce — nephew  of  Ambrose — 
and  Lora,  his  wife,  cherished  friends  to 
George's  last  hour;  Rob  Royce,  Porter 
Garnett,  Nora  May  French,  exquisite 
poet;  Lem  Parton,  Johannes  Reimers, 
Henry  Albright,  Austin  Lewis  and 
Xavier  Martinez  were  others  of  the  fel- 
lowship. And  Father  Harvey,  whose 
friendship  was  a  benediction.  I 
must  not  fail  to  mention  the  Singer  of 
the  Sierras,  Joaquin  Miller,  striding 
bearded  and  booted  into  the  scene,  out 
of  a  romantic  age,  at  request  reciting 
his  poems  that  were  as  the  voice  of  Na- 
ture to  set  us  a-d  reaming  of  ungraspable 
lovelinesses.  And  publishers  a-many  were 
entertained  at  never-to-be-for  gotten 
gatherings.  Wild,  clean  fun  was  there, 
lusty  sport  and  play,  and  exploits  in  eat- 
ing. They  flew  kites,  wrestled,  boxed, 
.and  fenced — Jack,  and  Jim  Whitaker. 
May  I  refer  to  my  Book  of  Jack  London 
for  a  brief  picture  of  Jack's  Wednesdays 
that  weekly  he  saved  for  his  friends. 

"Indoors,  in  the  large  room  that  was 
the  apple  of  his  eye,  games  were  played 
of  intellectual  as  well  as  hilarious 
'rough-house'  varieties.  All  joined,  boys 
and  girls,  men  and  women  and  children; 
.and  no  one  could  surpass  the  joyous 
roar  of  Jack's  fresh  boyish  lungs,  nor 
out-invent  him  in  bedevilment  and  sport- 
ing feats.  .  .  .  Romping,  they  were  all 
one  to  him.  .  .  .  They  had  to  'take 
their  medicine,'  he  vowed,  and  they  knew 
he  despised  a  coward.  .  .  .  Those  after- 
noons and  evenings  will  never  fade  to 
the  ones  privileged  to  share  in  them, 
filled  as  they  were  with  merriest  and 
noisiest  of  jollity  and  sport,  card  games 
— whist,  poker,  pedro,  'black  jack,'  'red 
dog,'  and  rapid-fire  of  wits.  And  there 
"was  no  lack  of  music — piano,  and  sing- 


As  I  Knew  Him 

(Continued  from  Page  80) 

ing,  ringing  voices — and  poetry.  Arthur 
Symons,  Le  Gallienne,  Swinburne,  the 
Rosettis,  Fitzgerald,  Bierce,  Henley; 
these  and  many  another  were  read  aloud 
around  the  long  oaken  table,  or  lolling 
about  the  roomy  veranda.  .  .  .  Now  it 
would  be  George  Sterling's  hushed  reci- 
tation or  Jack's  vibrant  tone,  or  Anna 
Strunsky's  mellow,  golden  throat — 
the  rest  hanging  tremulous  on  the  music 
of  speech  from  these  receptive  ones  who 
could  not  wait  to  make  known  their 
beloved  of  the  poets.  Blessing  it  was  to 
sit  under  the  involuntary  young  teachers 
of  good  and  gracious  ways  of  the  spirit." 


FOR  GEORGE  STERLING 

NO  WORD  across  the  evening 
sky, 
Onlv  the  dark  wind,  grumbling 

still, 

And  a  last  gull  flying  high 
And  the  stars  beyond  the  hill. 

No  hand  to  touch  in  the  brave  way, 
No  fair  words  in  an  old  tongue — 

Only  the  shadows  stumbling  into 

day, 
And  the  last  line  sung  .  .  . 

HERBERT  SELIG. 


T>  IGHT  here  I  am  reminded  of  hav- 
-'-*•  ing  lately  heard  that  Sterling  cared 
little  for  music.  It  would  seem  that  no 
one,  having  read  the  exaltation  of  his 
"Music"  in  "The  Testimony  of  the 
Suns"  could  make  such  a  statement. 
However,  a  chance  stranger  may  have 
based  opinion  upon  observation  of  one 
of  George's  abstractions.  His  profundi- 
ties were  not  for  mere  acquaintances. 
I  can  vouch  that  in  other  years  at  least 
he  did  not  like  to  be  confined  in  a 
theatre  for  either  music  or  drama.  But 
I  well  remember  that  in  his  own  house 
or  ours  he  listened  or  did  not  listen  to 
the  piano  while  he  played  cards  with 
Carlt  Bierce  and  Jack  and  the  others. 
He  often  asked  me  to  play,  especially 
Chopin.  Now  I  think  of  it,  after  the 
big  Steinway  came  to  the  Ranch,  he 
would  sit  peacefully  and  happily  with 
Jack  while  I  played  what  I  could  of 
their  desire;  and  he  had  kind  and  gra- 
cious things  to  say.  Just  so  he  seemed 
to  enjoy  music  in  earlier  days  at 


Piedmont.  I  noticed  some  time  ago  that 
Redfern  Mason  praised  "Music."  And 
Jack  London  considered  it  as  high 
poetic  expression  on  the  subject  as  any 
he  knew.  Did  not  George  Sterling  care 
for  music?  Read,  if  only  the  first  move- 
ment: 

"Her  face  we  have  a  little,  but  her  voice 
Is  not  of  our  imagining  nor  time, 
And  her  deep  soul  is  one,  perchance,  with 

life, 

Immortal,  cosmic.    Heritage  of  her 
Is  half  the  human  birthright.    She  hath 

part 

With  Love  and  Death  in  the  one  mys- 
tery 

Of  being,  lifted  on  eternal  wings 
From  world  to  world.    Her  home  is  in 

our  hearts. 
She  is  that  moon  for  which  the  sea  of 

tears 

Is  ever  a-tremble,  and  she  seemeth  ghost 
Of  all  past  beauty,  haunting  yet  the  dusk 
Of  unforgotten  days;  for  of  the  lost, 
The  changeless,  irrecoverable  years, 
Regret  will  waken  in  her  gladdest  voice, 
And  linger,  as  the  sorrow  of  a  dream 
Hath  shadow  for  a  little  in  the  morn." 

Suddenly — was  he  listening  to  music 
unheard  save  by  him? — there  is  pictured 
behind  my  eyes  the  slender,  vigorous,  wild 
grace  of  him  limned  with  his  telescope 
against  a  night-blue  sky  over  the  Pied- 
mont hills.  Or  his  lithe  silhouette  poised 
on  a  Lobos  headland,  harkening,  who 
shall  say  not  ?  to  other  music  of  the  uni- 
verse. What,  compared  with  this  cosmic 
intercourse,  were  mere  violin  and  piano 
or  human  voice?  Yet,  one  may  want  to 
believe  that  in  the  strivings  through 
these  man-made  instruments  of  beauty 
he  likewise  found  communion  with  dream 
wisdoms,  deathless  and  true. 

The  Old  Crowd !  Their  voices  linger 
yet,  those  gay,  thoughtful  ones.  George 
was  seldom  noisy,  but  inimitably  witty. 
His  quiet,  often  benevolent  tones,  some- 
times with  a  laughing  vibration  at  his 
own  humorous  ideas,  evoked  howls  of 
mirth.  Yet  the  tone  could  be  as  sharply 
to  the  point  as  words  when  characteriz- 
ing some  one  he  did  not  like— though 
he  was  ordinarily  tolerant.  One  even- 
ing in  the  Carmel  home  a  chosen  group 
was  gathered  around  the  wide  hearth. 
I  remember  that  in  our  midst  sat  a  wo- 
man whose  unbound  gold-brown  hair  fell 
to  the  floor  where  it  lay  in  pools  and 
seemed  to  burn  ruddily  in  the  flame  light. 
It  was  Mary  Austin.  George  had  come 
(Continued  on  Page  87) 


84 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


k 


OORS 


CONDUCTED  BY      m 


Cto)nters 


TOM  WHITE 


NINTH  AVENUE 
work  of  Maxwell  Bodenheim 
continues  to  attract  attention.  Run- 
ning a  close  parallel  to  his  BLACK- 
GUARD (1923),  his  newest  book, 
NINTH  AVENUE,  is  equally  arrest- 
ing. Bodenheim  handles  particularly 
well  one  phase  of  modern  city  life — 
brought  about  by  present-day  social  con- 
ditions— in  a  truly  artistic  fashion.  There 
are  those  who  will  loudly  protest  "Why 
parade  sex  ?"  without  stopping  to  con- 
sider the  style  of  presentation,  wherein 
they  make  a  grievous  mistake.  If  you 
tie  down  the  safety  valve  the  boiler  will 
certainly  blow  up — which  calls  for  the 
more  or  less  timely  remark  that  it's  a 
pity  there  aren't  a  few  more  Boden- 
heims  to  act  as  relief  media  in  this  hec- 
tic age. 

Blanche  Palmer  lives  in  New  York — 
on  Ninth  Avenue,  to  be  exact,  whence 
comes  the  title.  Her  family  lives  up 
to  everything  naturally  expected  of  the 
great  majority  of  those  of  the  Hell's 
Kitchen  district;  and  while  she  doesn't 
at  first  recognize  the  struggle  going  on 
within  her,  Blanche  gradually  discovers 
that  she  is  radically  different  from  the 
other  members  of  the  family.  Away 
underneath  her  physical  allurements  she 
finds  she  has  a  soul,  but  cannot  because 
of  environment  develop  it  single-handed. 
The  girl  looks  in  vain  until  she  meets 
Eric  Starling  at  a  bizarre  studio  party. 
Of  course,  she  falls  desperately  in  love. 

Mr.  Bodenheim  has  written  a  robust 
story.  The  familiarity  with  which  he 
handles  his  subject  together  with  his 
characteristic  ease  and  delightful  fluency 
combine  to  make  a  highly  readable  book. 


TAR 

SHERWOOD  ANDERSON  has 
done  a  remarkable  piece  of  work  in 
his  "Tar."  He  mirrors  the  child's  con- 
sciousness of  life  about  him,  his  reactions 
his  very  journeys  in  imagination  in  a  way 
that  breathes  life  into  the  very  body  of 
Tar  Moorehead.  Mr.  Anderson,  in  his 
foreword,  makes  allowance  for  this  story. 
He  tells  us  that  he  started  to  write  a 
story  of  his  own  childhood  and  instead 
made  it  Tar  Moorehead's  life  which  was 
very  similar  to  his  own. 


The  story  is  handled  in  the  clever  An- 
derson manner.  Ever  is  the  reader  con- 
scious that  Tar  is,  at  the  time  of  the 
writing,  a  grown  man,  a  writer  of 
stories ;  whose  stories  were  but  the  result 
of  his  childhood,  his  imagination.  Ander- 
son takes  you  one  moment  back  into  the 
life  of  Tar's  father  and  Tar's  father's 
father,  the  civil  war.  Before  you  are  con- 
scious of  the  change  you  are  here  and 
there,  twenty-five  years  back,  fifty  years 
back,  then  the  present  and  again  back. 
Always  is  the  story  carried  with  the  ease 
of  the  master  craftsman,  although  it  is 
not  dramatic. 


BOOKS   REVIEWED 

NINTH  AVENUE.  By  Maxwell 
Bodenheim.  Boni  &  Liveright. 
New  York.  $2.00. 

TAR.  Sherwood  Anderson.  Boni 
&  Liveright.  $3.00. 

THE  LIFE  OF  JOSEPH  RUCKER 
LAMAR.  By  Clarinda  Pendleton 
Lamar.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 
$3.00. 

HER  SON'S  WIFE.  By  Dorothy 
Canfield.  Harcourt,  Brace  &  Co. 
$2.00. 

I  HAVE  THIS  TO  SAY.  The  Story 
of  My  Flurried  Years.  By  Violet 
Hunt.  Boni  &  Liveright.  $3.50. 

SEX  EXPRESSION  IN  LITERA- 
TURE. By  V.  F.  Calverton.  Boni 
&  Liveright.  $2.50. 


Tar's  childhood  was  made  to  suit  him- 
self mainly.  All  writers  are  that  way 
when  young  and  so  little  are  they  under- 
stood. Mary  Morehead  might  have 
understood  ...  at  times  we  feel  she 
has  a  second  sense  born  of  bearing  chil- 
dren .  .  .  that  their  thoughts  and  ac- 
tions were  a  part  of  her. 

The  story  is  too  big,  too  strong,  to 
tell  in  detail.  It  is  a  childhood,  not 
unlike  any  of  today,  not  unlike  your 
very  own,  but  so  filled  with  understand- 
ing; so  the  mirror  of  the  child's  con- 
sciousness, the  motivation  for  his  very 
life,  that  every  mother  raising  children 
should  have  a  copy  of  this  book  and 
read  it  religiously. 


THE  LIFE  OF  JOSEPH  RUCKER 
LAMAR 

IN  1889  someone  wrote  Judge  Lamar 
asking  for  the  leading  events  of  his 
life  as  the  basis  of  a  biographical 
sketch.  With  characteristic  brevity, 
prompted  largely  by  the  innate  modesty 
of  the  man,  he  replied  in  a  three-para- 
graph letter,  one  of  which  runs  like  this: 
"I  was  born  October  14,  1857;  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  in  1878,  and  began 
practicing  law  in  1880;  was  elected  to 
the  legislature  in  1886;  re-elected  in 
1888 — and  with  this  ends  my  list  of 
important  facts." 

"The  Life  of  Joseph  Rucker  Lamar" 
is  a  great  deal  more  than  a  mere  bio- 
graphy. The  author  has  brought  out 
the  memories  of  this  splendid  character 
with  a  very  human  touch,  such  as  the 
family's  delightful  old  Southern  back- 
giound  stretching  into  the  past  for  more 
than  two  hundred  and  fifty  years;  then 
there  are  sprightly  references  to  Joseph 
Lamar's  school  days  at  Bethany  College. 

The  average  reader,  somewhat  wary 
of  biographical  matter,  will  be  at  first 
drawn  to  the  book  by  its  vividness  of 
style,  and  will  remain  to  read  it,  held 
by  the  high  character  and  purity  of  pur- 
pose as  exemplified  in  the  life  of  Judge 
Lamar. 

The  Judge  loved  his  home.  It  meant 
a  very  great  deal  to  him.  Very  often 
he  was  obliged  to  work  at  night,  but 
it  would  be  in  the  library  at  home — not 
at  the  office.  When  working  up  a  case, 
he  frequently  argued  it  before  his  wife, 
as  though  she  were  the  jury.  He  used 
to  tell  his  friends  that  if  he  could  con- 
vince Mrs.  Lamar  he  had  no  fear  of 
any  jury. 

"It  was  a  favorite  theory  with  him 
that  a  lawyer  must,  necessarily,  be  one 
of  the  best  informed  and  most  widely 
educated  of  men,  since  his  practice  car- 
ries him  into  almost  every  field  of  human 
activity."  Therefore,  no  matter  what 
principles  were  involved  in  a  case  which 
was  coming  to  trial,  whether  they  had 
to  do  with  electricity,  chemistry,  com- 
merce, banking  or  agriculture,  he  was 
deeply  concerned  in  mastering  the  most 
intricate  details  of  whatever  phase  of 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


85 


the  subject  with  which  he  was  obliged 
to  deal  in  court. 

He  served  one  term  in  the  Georgia 
legislature.  During  this  time  he  intro- 
duced and  sponsored  many  bills  which, 
when  passed,  made  for  far  greater  clar- 
ity, expedition  and  economy  in  the  ad- 
ministration of  justice.  He  also  served 
his  state  as  a  member  of  the  Coding 
Committee  which  established  the  Geor- 
gia code  of  1895,  which  was  later  fol- 
lowed by  his  splendid  service  as  a 
member  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
Georgia. 

In  1910  Joseph  Lamar  was  appointed 
associate  justice  of  the  U.  S.  Supreme 
Court  by  President  Taft,  which  office 
he  held  until  his  passing,  in  January, 
1916.  Relative  to  his  service  on  the 
bench,  his  biographer  has  this  to  say: 

"Judge  Lamar's  opinions  were  char- 
acterized by  their  clearness,  the  sim- 
plicity of  their  language,  and  by  the 
absence  of  technical  words  and  phrases. 
There  was  never  any  doubt  as  to  what 
he  meant  to  say,  and  in  many  cases  an 
intelligent  child  could  follow  his  rea- 
soning as  readily  as  a  member  of  the 
profession." 

The  meat  of  the  book  will  be  found 
in  Chapters  X  and  XI  titled,  "The 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States" 
and  "Judge  Lamar's  Opinions."  The 
former  will  undoubtedly  be  read  by  the 
laymen  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  will 
the  latter  by  the  members  of  the  legal 
profession. 

It's  really  surprising  how  much  hu- 
manity there  is  about  the  law,  particu- 
larly as  evidenced  in  the  life  of  Judge 
Joseph  Rucker  Lamar. 

HER  SON'S  WIFE 
T^HERE'S  no  denying  that  Dorothy 
••-  Canfield's  books  ring  true  to  human 
nature.  If  we  haven't  actually  lived 
them,  the  majority  of  us  can  put  our 
ringer  on  someone  who  has.  Particu- 
larly well  written  is  her  latest  book, 
HER  SON'S  WIFE,  which  carries  with 
it  all  the  homely  situations  created  by 
the  existence  of  two  women  in  the  same 
household.  The  situation  does  not  work 
out  satisfactorily.  While  the  blame  does 
not  all  attach  to  the  son,  Ralph  Bas- 
comb,  neither  does  nor  should  any  of 
it  fall  on  the  kindly,  well-meaning 
shoulders  of  his  mother  who,  when  the 
grandchild  is  born  gives  it  all  the  care 
and  attention  which  should,  properly, 
be  bestowed  by  its  mother.  As  the  older 
woman  finds  matters  becoming  intoler- 
able, she  withdraws.  Then  Lottie, 
the  daughter-in-law,  finds  all  household 
duties  as  well  as  the  rearing  of  the  young 
daughter  devolving  upon  her.  These 
she  assumes  very  lightly,  to  the  detri- 
ment chiefly  of  her  child. 


Drawn  by  the  abiding  love  for  the 
little  girl,  Mrs.  Bascomb  returns  to  the 
household.  Lottie  chooses  to  become  a 
self-imposed  invalid,  whereupon  Mrs. 
Bascomb  finds  in  this  situation  an  op- 
portunity to  exert  the  proper  influence 
over  the  child.  Her  influence  over  her 
son,  whose  conduct  with  Lottie  has  been 
anything  but  elevating,  is  also  unmistak- 
ably felt. 

This  is  such  a  complete  reversal  of 
the  popular  idea  concerning  mothers-in- 
law  as  to  be  worthy  of  more  than  pass- 
ing mention.  Reducing  such  a  triangle 
to  everyday  proportions  is  something  of 
a  literary  feat,  but  Dorothy  Canfield 
handles  it  with  remarkable  facility. 

I  HAVE  THIS  TO  SAY 
/~\UT  of  England  comes  another  book. 
^— '  This  time  it  is  a  curious  combina- 
tion of  introspection  and  biography. 
Subtitled  "The  Story  of  My  Flurried 
Years,"  it  might  better  have  been  called 
"Chumming  with  Britain's  Famed  Liter- 
ati" ;  also  the  book  might  very  well  have 
been  considerably  shortened.  This  would 
have  added  quite  materially  to  its  ef- 
fectiveness, even  in  the  face  of  the  fact 
that  I  HAVE  THIS  TO  SAY  is  pri- 
marily directed  to  Violet  Hunt's  own 
following. 

The  book  is  given  over  in  large  part 
to  personalities  and  doings  of  the  com- 
paratively early  days  of  prominent  con- 
temporary English  writers,  and  much  is 
written  about  the  heroic  struggle  of  The 
English  Review,  to  which  Conrad  gave 
so  much  of  himself. 

To  the  casual  reader  this  book's  chief 
interest  centers  about  such  writers  as 
not  alone  Conrad,  but  Lawrence,  Ben- 
nett, Maugham,  Hudson,  Wells,  and 
others.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  one  has 
to  do  such  a  lot  of  wading  about  to 
locate  these  intimate  glimpses,  ffl 

"TiONALD    OGDEN    STEWART 

l-*  has  broken  out  afresh.  The  epi- 
demic this  time  is  in  Paris — with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Haddock,  of  course,  and  their 
ten-year-old  daughter,  Mildred.  Stew- 
art's humor  is  sprightly,  with  no  visible 
sign  of  a  let-down;  but  it's  hollow  be- 
cause of  a  certain  morbid  unnatural- 
ness.  Why  does  he  persist  in  having  the 
young  girl  use  foul  language?  This 
happens  in  MR.  AND  MRS.  HAD- 
DOCK IN  PARIS,  FRANCE,  just  as 
it  did  in  MR.  AND  MRS.  HAD- 
DOCK ABROAD.  No  amount  of 
sophistication  on  the  reader's  part  will 
condone  the  use  of  the  words  Stewart 
puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  child.  It 
makes  her  seem  pitiful  rather  than  pre- 
cocious; certainly  far  from  funny.  Any 
schoolboy  knows  that  humor  that's 
strained  or  labored  is  poor  stuff. 


SEX  EXPRESSIONS  IN 

LITERATURE 

TTERE  is  a  book  to  think  about.  Every 
*•  one  is  concerned  at  the  present 
with  the  trend  of  modern  literature. 
Why  is  sex  so  outwardly  expressed;  is 
there  nothing  else  to  write  of;  has  the 
generation  gone  mad  on  perversion? 
What  about  the  Puritan  age;  what 
about  the  age  before  .  .  .  and  so  on 
and  no  results.  Calverton  has  given  us 
a  most  interesting  history  of  literature 
.  .  .  history,  we  should  say  of  the  sex 
expression  in  literature.  Do  you  know 
that  this  expression  follows  closely  the 
history  of  the  time?  Do  you  know  that 
when  the  money  class  is  in  power  sexual 
expression  is  the  greatest?  Calverton 
traces  every  emotion  in  literature  to  its 
social  origin  and  down  to  the  present- 
day  novel.  It  is  a  book  everyone  of  us 
interested  in  literature  should  read. 

A  FIRST  edition  of  John  Bunyon's 
BOOK  FOR  BOYS  AND  GIRLS 
picked  up  at  a  book  stall  a  few  years 
ago  for  half  a  crown,  was  sold  recently 
in  London  for  $10,500.  Honestly  now, 
how  many  current  first  editions  will 
command  fancy  prices  a  century  or  two 
hence  ? 

MEADE  MINNIGERODE'S  latest 
novel     CORDELIA     CHAN- 
TRELL  is  being  dramatized  and  will 
be  produced  as  a  play  in  New  York  by 
Charles  Hopkins. 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  PAN 

IT'S  a  girl,  sir!  And  for  seven  years 
Perry  Lane  had  longed  for  a  son! 
For  seven  years,  out  of  the  deeps  of  his 
strong  potential  fatherhood,  his  little 
"Tad"  had  gradually  taken  form,  hav- 
ing all  and  being  all  that  Perry's  own 
romantic  and  artistic  temperament  had 
never  been  able  to  manage  out  of  his 
allotment  to  a  small  Mid-Western  town, 
the  companionship  of  a  practical,  un- 
imaginative wife  and  the  occupation  of 
insurance  agent. 

Poor  Terry!  The  blow  was  a  hard 
one.  However,  the  "she-Tad,"  as  he 
sometimes  called  her,  was  soon  all  if  not 
more  than  any  mere  son  could  have 
been.  The  story  hinges  on  a  companion- 
ship, rare  and  delightfully  unconven- 
tional, between  father  and  daughter;  a 
companionship  that  enables  Tad  to 
work  through  a  complex  situation 
brought  about  by  her  own  impossible 
and  incomparable  marriage.  In  every 
page  of  A  DAUGHTER  OF  PAN 
the  reader  can't  help  but  be  captivated 
by  Cornelia  Stratton  Parker's  inimitable 
depiction  of  some  very  human  humans. 
Read  A  DAUGHTER  OF  PAN. 
Then  read  it  again — aloud  to  the  family. 


86 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


San  Francisco 


San  Francisco 's  neweft  hotel  revives  the  hospitality 
of"T)ays  of  fyld  and  bids  you  'welcome  now! 

ONLY  a  moment  from  theatres  and  shops,  yet  aloft  in 
the  serene  quiet  of  Nob  Hill.  S^martly  furnished  guest- 
rooms, single  or  en  suite  .  . .  and  beneath  the  towering 
structure,  a  garage,  reached  by  hotel  elevator.  Cuisine 
by  the  famous  Viffor.  S  Destined  to  take  its  place  among 
the  noted  hotels  of  the  world,  the  Mark  Hopkins  is  an 
unexcelled  stopping-place  for  travelers. 

OFFICIALLY  OPENED  DECEMBER  4, 1926 
GEO.  D.  SMITH  Tres.  &  Managing  THredor  $  WILL  P.  TAYLOR  "Resilient  Mgr. 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

C/£?HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


Expressions  of  Sympathy 

(Potmarked  Nov.  18,  1926) 
(Continued  from  Page  67) 

T  WAS  deeply  interested  to  read  in  yesterday's  Times  of 
•^  George  Sterling's  death.  I  had  had  occasion  to  review 
"Lilith"  for  the  November  New  Masses  and  had  realized 
from  passages  in  recent  letters  that  all  was  not  well  with 
the  man  whom  I  had  grown  to  value  greatly  as  a  poet  and 
as  a  friend.  He  was  the  kind  of  person  who  never  asked  for 
help.  He  was  also  the  kind  of  person  who  could  have  com- 
manded any  time,  by  right  of  his  own  perfect  generosity  of 
spirit,  all  that  I  or  anybody  who  has  ever  known  him  could 
do  or  try  to  do  for  him. 

I  do  not  know  what  people  are  saying  about  George's 
choosing  to  leave  life  in  the  way  that  he  did.  As  for  me,  I 
cannot  help  feeling  that  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  and 
that  he  died  no  less  gallantly  than  he  lived.  In  everything 
that  really  mattered,  George  was  one  of  life's  aristocrats — 
a  giver  and  an  artist  who  surely  had  earned  the  right  to 
complete  the  pattern  of  his  life  as  seemed  best  to  him. 

Some  people  conquer  life  after  a  fashion  by  being  hard 
and  efficient  and  cautious  and  self-serving.  George  conquered 
life  by  being  to  the  end  an  invincible,  believing  child,  full  of 
passion  and  kindness  and  pity.  And  he  did  conquer  because 
there  are  hundreds  of  people  like  myself  who  loved  and 
trusted  the  fine,  indestructible  essence  of  him  which  nothing 
in  his  hard  experience  of  life  was  able  to  alter  or  diminish. 

I  read  that  he  was  ill.  I  suppose  that  in  all  honor  and 
simplicity  he  decided  that  it  was  time  to  dismiss  the  body 
which  could  no  longer  serve  him.  Well,  the  earth  will  receive 
him.  The  universe  of  stars  where  his  mind  loved  best  to 
dwell  will  take  back  a  part  of  its  own  clean  and  joyous  burn- 
ing— a  creature  always  utterly  fearless  and  now  utterly  free. 
Sincerely, 

JAMES  RORTY,  Westport. 

...  I  had  sent  to  George  Sterling  (whom  I  deeply 
mourn  in  the  passing  of  a  great  poet  and  a  good  friend)  and 
he  had  written  me  two  weeks  or  so  ago  that  he  intended  to 
use  the  sonnets  soon  in  the  Overland.  Sincerely, 

GRACE  WALLACE,  Carmel. 


TTQW  pathetic  was  the  ending  of  that  beautiful  life.   You 
will  miss  him  in  his  work. 

MRS.  C.  H.  MITCHELL. 


/^EORGE   STERLING'S  death   is  a  great  loss  to  the 
'*'    world  of  literature. 

DOROTHY  TYRELL. 


OORRY  that  our  dear  master  has  left.    He  wrote  me  a 
w-'    few  weeks  ago  that  he  would  publish  some  of  my  work. 

M.  A.  SIEBERT,  Los  Angeles. 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


87 


stepping  lightly  full-tilt  into  the  long 
red -wooded  room.  His  air  was  one  of 
preoccupation  and  he  seemed  about  to 
say  something  weighty.  Abruptly  his  in- 
tention shifted,  and  he  bethought  him- 
self— a  habit  of  George's — of  an  inner 
pocketful  of  notes  and  clippings  on  every 
conceivable  theme  from  an  epitaph  to 
the  recipe  for  a  new  cocktail.  We  were 
regaled  with  the  collection.  Silence  fell 
at  last.  Then  irascibly,  out  came  the 
thing  he  had  been  suppressing: 

"He  reminds  me  of  an  obstetric  stork/" 

The  person  intended  leaped  like  a 
monstrous  cartoon  into  our  minds  as  one, 
and  the  welkin  rang  to  the  clamor. 
George  sat  and  basked  pleasedly  in  our 
perception. 

But  practically  the  only  times  when 
I  heard  irascible  speech  from  him  were 
when  he  was  at  cards.  Win  or  lose,  it 
was  the  same.  Losing,  he  plumbed  des- 
pair from  which  no  light  glimmered  to 
his  scowling  brow  and  jaundiced  eye.  At 
such  moments  he  was  led  into  strange 
sentiments.  Perhaps,  listening  to  loud  de- 
risive hoots  that  greeted  the  spectacle  he 
was,  a  gleam  of  humor  might  pierce 
through  in  spite  of  him ;  to  be  as  quickly 
smothered  in  gloom. 

Winning,  all  he  could  see  in  a  friend- 
less universe  was  the  bad  luck  sure  to 
overtake  one  in  turn  !  It  apparently  never 
had  occurred  to  any  of  his  faithful  satel- 
lites and  opponents  to  call  him  to  task  for 
these  outbursts.  They  threatened  to 
become  chronic.  I  noticed  that  Jack  paid 
no  attention  to  them.  So  my  surprise 
was  great  when  one  night  in  our  Oak- 
land house  before  we  sailed  on  the  de- 
layed Snark,  Jack  announced  to  me,  after 
the  latest  of  a  series  of  poker  evenings : 
"I  am  not  going  to  play  any  more  with 
George." 

"No?" 

"No.  Because  I  am  afraid  of  getting 
into  the  same  way — having  my  temper 
spoiled,  if  I  listen  to  him  any  longer." 
And  what  is  more,  Jack  told  his  "ever 


As  I  Knew  Him 

(Continued  from  Page  83) 

blessed  Greek"  precisely  the  same.  The 
Crowd  prophesied  some  sort  of  unpleas- 
antness to  follow.  Not  at  all.  George, 
possibly,  was  so  shaken  to  receive  a  sud- 
den check  from  any  of  them,  least  of  all 
Jack,  that  he  saw  the  justice  of  the  re- 
buke. However  that  may  be,  the  games 
were  resumed.  And  never  did  he,  at  any 
rate  when  playing  with  his  friend 
Wolf,  backslide  into  anything  resembling 
his  former  vapors. 

Certain  of  his  harmless  idiocyncrasies 
were  as  tonic  in  a  torpid  society.  Now 
George  Sterling  was  on  one  side  of  him 
the  most  unconventional  of  mortals,  free, 
intolerant  of  niggling  forms.  The  world 
at  large  is  prone  lightly  to  consider  as 
an  idiosyncrasy  any  departure  from  estab- 
lished custom.  But  George's  was  the 
other  way  around.  From  committing 
deliriously  outrageous  pranks  to  the  de- 
lighted horror  of  his  circle,  he  balked 
consistently  at  being  seen  carrying  any 
kind  of  parcel,  no  matter  how  neat  and 
decorous.  But,  and  I  can  still  hear 
Jack's  irrepressible  giggle,  "Look,  oh, 
look!"  here  would  come  Georgie  up  the 
street  carrying  a  huge  demijohn  of 
whatsoever  nectar,  his  whole  aspect  one 
of  absorbing  and  prideful  responsibility! 

Or,  regard  the  instance  of  his  dis- 
tinguished bartender.  Preceding  dinner 
and  card-party  at  our  Oakland  home, 
I  answered  the  telephone : 

"Oh,  that  you,  Chumalums?  Say," 
with  secretive  intensity,  "I've  got  Dave 
to  promise  to  come  tonight — tell  Jack." 

"Dave?  Dave  Who,  Georgie?  Will 
Jack  know?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  with  mild  impatience. 
"He's  the  bar-keep  at  So-and-So's.  He's 
hard  to  get  and  I  was  lucky.  And  he's 
an  awfully  nice  fellow,  Chums.  He'll 
make  the  Tom-and- Jerrys  while  we 
Play." 

He  did,  and  good  ones  they  were,  I 
am  told.  George  was  boyishly  happy  over 
his  contribution  to  the  festivities,  and 
far  more  at  ease  than  was  the  Contri- 


Special  Method  for 
Beginners  and  Children 


Ballet 
Pantomime 


JOY 

GOLDEN 

Dance 
Studio 


Music  ART  INSTITUTE 
'Phone  Fillmore  870 


1990  California  St. 
San  Francisco 


bution  himself — a  very  astute  and  cour- 
teous person,  let  me  add. 

Generosity  personified  was  the  Greek. 
He  would  give  when  he  could.  When 
he  could  not,  he  would  borrow  from 
those  who  had.  In  some  instances,  per- 
haps the  lender  believed  George  to  be 
the  beneficiary.  "Well,  you  see,"  he 
would  presently  confess,  "So-and-So, 
poor  wretch,  was  abominably  hard  up — 
(Continued  on  Page  90) 

A  BUSINESS  DAY  SAVED 


Swift- 
Luxurious 

—only  63  hours  to  Chicago 
on  San  Francisco 

OVERLAND  LIMITED 

This  transcontinental  aristocrat 
saves  a  business  day.  Convenient 
eveningdeparture  from  San  Fran- 
cisco. Only  two  business  days  over 
thehistoricOver!andRoMte,Lake 
Tahoe  Line,  to  Chicago. 

A  train  with  the  quiet,  efficient  service 
of  a  fine  town-club  or  hotel.  Equipped 
and  manned  to  serve  the  most  discrim- 
inating. 

$  lOextra  fare  to  Chicago;$8  to  Omaha; 
$5  to  Ogden. 

Also,  the  new  Qold  Coast  Limited  and 
Pacific  Limited,  no  extra  fare.  Pullman 
without  change  to  Salt  Lake  City,  Oma- 
ha, Denver,  Kansas  City,  St.  Louis. 

Please  make  reservations  as  far  in  ad- 
vance as  possible. 

Southern 
Pacific 


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My  Inspiration 

By  SARKIS  BEULAN 


iimiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiimiiimimnmillimmiiiniiHmllliHmimiliiiiilliml 


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of 
Merit 


THE  first  "vision  in  words"  came 
to  me  during  the  infancy  of  my 
career.    As  though   I  were  yet  a 
child  listening  to  the  strains  of  melody 
for  the  first  time,  or  observing  the  beauty 
of  life  beyond  my  cradle,  poetry  crept 
into  my  art.    It  was  the  beginning  of 
my  real  understanding  and  appreciation 
of  word  painting. 

During  the  course  of  my  development, 
I  had  hopes  to  reach  beyond  story  illus- 
trating and  general  commercial  "copy." 
But  to  be  exact,  I  had  no  ambition  to 
ever  illustrate  verses  about  The  Appeal- 
ing Apache  or  Dolly  Dimples  and  her 
Bedlum  Beau  and  other  cheap  sugges- 
tive trash!  I  could  not  conceive  how 
art  could  ever  drape  an  impossible  com- 
plex and  present  a  commendable  picture. 

Late  in  1924,  I  received  a  commis- 
sion from  Sunset  to  illustrate  a  poem 
entitled  "The  Grizzly  Giant"  by 
George  Sterling.  Much  to  my  satisfac- 
tion, I  had  the  opportunity  to  illustrate 
a  poem  which  lended  itself  for  appre- 
ciation, and  that  from  an  artist  far  be- 
yond my  expectation. 

Each  word  of  Sterling's  poems  was  a 
picked  jewel.  Each  sentence  seemed  to 
unfold  portals  of  vision.  There  was 
enough  said  and  just  enough  unsaid  and 
left  to  one's  imagination  to  impel  one 
to  want  more  of  it.  The  poems  of  Ster- 
ling which  were  submitted  to  me  were 
so  rich  and  contained  such  grandeur 
that  it  would  not  have  been  difficult  to 
illustrate  with  more  than  one  composi- 
tion. Upon  meditating  over  his  verses 
I  often  felt  as  though  I  were  in  mid- 
ocean,  with  freedom  to  sail  to  many  a 
magnificent  port.  To  illustrate  them  was 
joy  and  a  source  of  inspiration  beyond 
compare. 

His  poem  entitled  "An  Old  Road," 
to  me,  is  one  of  the  daintiest  of  his 
works.  Each  sentence  presents  a  picture 
in  itself,  as  though  the  soul  of  the  poet 
were  a  faun  who  lingered  among  the 
choral  woods  where  the  dryads  dance, 
forgetting  tomorrow,  the  present  care, 
the  past  regret.  I  was  delighted  beyond 
measure  to  illustrate  this  one. 

The   last  of   Sterling's   poems  which 


I  illustrated  was  entitled  "The  Way  to 
the  West,"  written  at  the  time  of  the 
California  Diamond  Jubilee  and  pub- 
lished in  the  Sunset.  This  is  one  of  those 
poems  which  bind  the  generations  of 
men  together,  which  make  us  feel  ac- 
quainted with  one  another.  One  which 
perpetuates  universal  brotherhood  of 
mankind.  It  has  more  pathos,  more  felt 
emotion,  than  has  the  whole  life-work 
of  many  a  more  famous  poet.  Surely 
Sterling  was  a  man  ahead  of  his  time. 
Quoting  the  last  paragraph  you  will 
understand  why  I  love  and  have  been 
inspired  by  his  verses: 

"From  the  march  that  ended 
On   thy   coasts,   O   California! 
Shall  the  new  Journey  begin? 
The  going-forth  of  Peace  unto  the  na- 
tions ? 

Search  thy  heart,  O  Beautiful! 
Purge  it  of  all  but  love, 
That  the  soul  of  man  again  fare  west- 
ward, 

Girdling  a  world  with  a  new  message, 
That  they  who  call  themselves  brothers, 
Act  not  in  hate  but  in  brotherhood, 
And  love  be  more  than  a  name." 

His  service  to  all  the  world  of  art  is 
enduring,  for  in  uniting  and  crystaliz- 
ing  the  floating  elements  of  culture,  in 
rendering  them  reasonable,  he  made  a 
contribution  of  permanent  and  ever- 
increasing  beauty. 

One  feels  that  it  would  be  a  pleasure 
to  meet  this  admirable  man  behind  the 
pen.  I  had  no  knowledge  of  his  like- 
ness. A  few  months  ago,  while  in  con- 
ference with  the  editor  of  the  Overland 
Monthly,  a  gentleman  walked  into  the 
office.  My  first  glance  at  his  profile 
impressed  me.  Surely  he  could  not  have 
been  Dante !  A  flash  of  character  analy- 
sis convinced  me  that  he  was  unmistak- 
ably a  man  of  literary  power.  Upon 
being  introduced  I  was  fully  assured 
that  I  was  right  in  my  first  impression. 
He  had  an  eye  of  that  quick  and  bril- 
liant water  that  penetrates  and  darts 
through  a  person  it  looks  on.  I  would 
love  to  pen  his  portrait.  He  was  George 
Sterling. 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


89 


Rhymes  and  Reactions 

TTERE,  my  little  ones,  is  a  lesson  in   astronomy  by  the 
eminent  scientist,  Arthur  Brisbane.    Arthur  assures  us 
that  our  "universe"  is  "more  than  a  quintrillion   (sic)  miles 
wide,  with  a  billion  great  suns  whirling  in  it." 

Aside  from  a  perhaps  inadequate  admiration  for  Arthur's 
new  term  in  numeration,  one  is  forced  to  even  deeper 
respect  for  his  statistics  of  the  number  of  suns  in  our  imme- 
diate "galaxy."  True,  astronomers  have  computed  their 
number  as  three  billion,  not  one.  But  what  are  two  billion 
suns  more  or  less,  among  friends? 
*  *  # 

HAVE  often  wondered  at  the  extremely  small  repre- 
•"•  sentation  of  the  Chinese  among  the  motion-picture  folk, 
and  not  till  now  have  I  hit  on  a  possible  solution  of  the 
problem.  The  Chinese  are  the  most  self-respecting  of  people. 

-*       *       * 

/CAUGHT  in  the  giant  grip  of  relativity  we  dream  of 
our  Utopias  and  fight  bravely  and  sometimes  unselfishly 
(if  the  word  has  any  real  meaning)  for  our  desired  reforms, 
never  realizing  that  it  is  not  the  environment  that  counts, 
but  the  environed  sensitivity.  For  let  us  attain  one  or  many 
of  our  ideals:  at  once  life,  the  sensitized  nucleus,  adapts 
itself  to  the  change  and  becomes  correspondingly  susceptible 
to  unpleasant  impressions  till  then  of  less  moment.  At  once 
we  will  have  new  ideals,  new  pains  from  which  to  recoil 
and  seek  defense.  I  can  foresee  the  time  when  the  acci- 
dental death  of  an  aviator  will  shock  a  world,  as  once  it 
was  shocked  by  the  lethal  toll  of  the  great  war. 

By  a  system  of  projected  psychology,  we  look  back  at 
centuries  in  the  past  and  imagine  their  population  as  an 
unhappy  folk,  because  they  had  not  what  we  are  pleased 
to  term  our  "advantages"  (things  that  we  take  as  a  matter 
of  course  and  of  which  we  are  aware  only  for  their  tempo- 
rary loss).  But  in  fact,  those  peoples  were  adapted  to  their 
own  environment,  and  were  as  happy  or  unhappy  in  their 
way  as  we  in  ours.  The  sum  total  of  human  happiness 
seems  fixed.  It  alters  only  in  details  actually  irrelevant. 
A  single  instance,  trifling  as  it  may  be,  will  shed  light  on 
the  whole  vast  subject.  Let  us  imagine  a  suburb  whose 
street-car  service  has  a  "headway"  of  a  car  every  fifteen 
minutes.  By  the  efforts  of  a  committee  of  zealous  inhabi- 
tants, the  company  is  coaxed  or  bullied  into  giving  a  ten- 
minute  service.  The  community  immediately  adapts  itself 
to  the  new  schedule  and  soon  feels  as  badly  hurt  over  wait- 
ing nine  minutes  for  a  car  as  formerly  it  was  irritated  by 
fourteen  minutes  of  delay.  And  persons  moving  thereafter 
to  that  suburb  (the  new  generation,  mind  you)  are  not  even 
conscious  of  the  past  reform,  but  rage  as  impatiently  over 
the  wretched  ten-minute  service  as  the  "old  timers"  did 
over  the  fifteen.  "And  so  ad  infinitum." 

Let  us  not  take  our  troubles  too  much  to  heart,  for  an 
organism  capable  of  only  pleasing  sensations  is  impossible. 
The  past  is  not  to  be  pitied,  the  future  is  not  to  be  envied. 
"Every  age  comes  bringing  its  own  light." 


Palms  and  a  patch 
of  green 

HOW  unlike  the  ordinary  hotel  vista  is  the  charm- 
ing sweep  of  Union   Square  glimpsed  from   the 
windows  of  the  Hotel  Plaza. 

Light,  airy  rooms  with  windows  framing  green 
grass  and  swaying  palms  make  the  Plaza  distinctly 
a  hotel  for  discriminating  people. 

The  central  location  of  the  Plaza  assures  you  the 
utmost  convenience  to  theaters,  shops  and  business. 
No  traffic  problems  to  worry  about.  Won't  you  come 
and  see  for  yourself? 

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A  CHILD'S  GARDEN 


Children  need  food  for  the  spirit  as 
well  as  food  for  the  body. 

A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  aims  to  give  this  spirit- 
ual food  in  sweet,  wholesome  stories  of  real  life, 
in  fanciful  fairy  tales  in  nature  stories,  and  in 
poems  of  every  kind. 

DO  IT  NOW— MAKE  SOME  CHILD  HAPPY 
by    a    subscription    to    A    CHILD'S    GARDEN. 

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hasn't  sold  anything  lately,  and  that  big 
family  you  know.  ...  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  mind."  And  how  could  one 
quibble  at  such  charitable  guile  based 
upon  surety  of  his  pure  judgment  as  to 
merits.  Guile  in  George  should  be  trans- 
valued into  its  opposite.  His  maddest 
eccentricities  seem  proof  of  an  utter  lack 
of  guile. 

George,  living,  was  more  fortunate 
than  some  Olympians  in  being  gladly 
recognized  by  many  of  his  contempo- 
raries. George,  dead,  has  called  out  repe- 
titions of  the  encomiums  given  voice  in 
his  hearing.  Jack  London  said  that  he 
and  Martinez  were  the  only  true  Bo- 
hemians that  he  had  ever  known.  The 
term  carried  its  own  wide  significance. 

There  were  George's  hasheesh  picnics 
—two  only,  I  think.  He  had  acquired 
a  small  quantity  of  the  hempen  drug. 
I  fail  to  recall  who  of  the  fellows  in- 
dulged in  a  curious  sandwich  George 
had  indicated  as  a  befitting  dose.  But 
when  I  heard  that  my  fiance  upon  a  cer- 
tain holiday  was  to  make  the  experi- 
ment at  the  Sterlings',  I  pounded  over 
horseback  post-haste  from  Berkeley.  I 
was  behind  time  to  advise  concerning  the 
generous  buttering  of  dream-paste  Jack 
had  applied  to  a  small  slice  of  bread. 
When  I  entered,  Carrie  warned  me, 
nervously,  "Jack's  in  there  on  the  couch 
— he  insisted  on  taking  too  much !" 

"Don't  be  worried,  Charm,"  George 
called  to  me.  "It  can't  hurt  any  one.  The 
only  danger  from  hasheesh  is  getting  to 
like  it  too  well — like  lots  of  other  pleas- 
ant habits." 

One  look  at  the  excessively  uncom- 
fortable Jack  banished  my  fears.  The 
Greek  was  pacing  the  house  in  voluble 
disgust : 

"I  told  him  to  spread  only  a  thin 
layer  of  the  stuff  and  he  would  have  a 


As  I  Knew  Him 

(Continued  from  Page  87) 

lovely  time.  And  look  at  him — stop  that 
piano!"  to  one  of  the  girls.  "Can't  you 
see  it's  torturing  the  poor  devil?" 

Because  of  the  blatant  overdose,  all 
sensation  in  its  victim  was  being  magni- 
fied to  nightmare  proportions,  and  his 
nerves  were  on  the  rack.  A  reasonable 
amount  would  have  made  music  and 
conversation  become  attenuated  in  some 
heavenly  fashion. 

When  the  thrall  some  hours  after  be- 
gan to  wear  off,  Jack  was  afflicted  with 
a  plague  of  laughter.  Everything  struck 
him  as  comical,  and  his  giggles  and  gales 
were  infectious.  George  was  hugely  en- 
tertained by  this  phase,  which  lasted  over 
another  day,  and  spent  much  time  peer- 
ing at  the  patient  with  an  expression  of 
wonderment  and  low  exclamations  that 
were  as  funny  as  Jack's  pointless  ex- 
plosions. 

Once  Sterling  was  of  a  group  in  San 
Francisco  who  undertook  a  progressive 
dinner.  From  restaurant  to  restaurant 
they  fared,  eating  and  drinking  heartily 
at  each.  I  have  heard  the  Greek  marvel 
with  bated  breath  at  recollection  of  the 
number  of  large  steaks  he  tucked  away, 
and  the  quantity  of  red  wine  and  other 
liquids.  He  was  a  prince  of  extremists. 
When  he  drank,  he  drank,  anything  and 
everything,  without  regard  to  the  com- 
bination. When  he  went  on  the  water- 
wagon,  he  did  it  thoroughly,  perhaps 
a  year  or  more  at  a  time,  and  was  very 
proud  of  himself  and  the  ease  of  his  ex- 
periment. When  he  "fell  off,"  he  fell 
off  with  forethought  and  cheerful  de- 
liberation. 

But  distate  for  suffering  or  low  con- 
dition kept  him  fit  generally.  He  was 
interested  in  the  latest  physical  exer- 
cises. One,  which  furnished  us  all  with 
endless  joy,  was  "massaging  under  ten- 
sion." At  any  odd  moment,  while  his 
companions  talked,  or  danced,  or  made 


e^^^miiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiimmiiiiitiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiNiiiiiimiiiiim 

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mini Minn inn iiiimiiiiiiim I minin mm  imiimiiimiiimiimimm 


music,  he  might  be  seen  advancing  a 
rigid  muscle  of  arm  or  leg  or  torso,  and 
steadily,  relentlessly,  with  set  face  and 
fixed  eyes  glassy  and  unseeing,  manipu- 
lating it  as  if  his  life  depended  upon 
the  operation.  If  the  area  under  treat- 
ment happened  to  be  on  his  side,  or  on 
solar  plexus,  the  effect  was  startling  and 
ludicrous.  No  funning  about  it  dis- 
turbed him  in  the  least.  He  might  frown 
fiercely,  but  it  would  be  at  the  exigency 
of  his  prepossession. 

Pictures!  I  see  George  Sterling  swim- 
ming, in  the  old  Piedmont  tank ;  at  Car- 
mel ;  at  Glen  Ellen.  He  swam  exclusively 
a  breast-stroke,  and  it  was  very  beau- 
tiful with  speed  and  power,  his  raised 
Greco-Roman  face  sensuous  with  the 
pleasure  of  free  movement  in  the  water 
that  rippled  along  his  sleek  and  fleeing 
sides.  Who  was  it  put  George  and  his 
friends  in  debt  by  likening  his  visage  to 
"a  Greek  coin  run  over  by  a  Roman 
chariot?"  Our  Greek  repeated  this  with 
hushed  breath  and  a  wonderment  in  his 
softly  explosive  "God!"  at  the  clever- 
ness of  the  saying. 

I  see  him  with  his  square,  spare  In- 
dian shoulders  and  stealthy  tread,  glid- 
ing noisless  into  the  woods,  at  Carmel, 
or  at  our  Ranch,  gun  in  hand.  He 
gloried  much  more  in  prowess  of  out- 
maneuvering  wild  creatures  in  their  own 
habitat  than  in  the  killing. 

Or  on  horseback.  He  loathed  horses 
because  he  had  no  understanding  of  them 
except  that  their  brains  are  small.  Un- 
like many  who,  non-comprehending, 
mistreat  animals,  George  was  gentleness 
itself.  His  "hands"  were  good,  and  he 
sat  in  the  saddle  at  ease,  with  lean  and 
elegant  concave  diaphragm.  As  for  dogs, 
he  was  their  warm  friend  and  for  them 
his  pen  has  moved  in  sympathy  and  af- 
fection. For  years  their  Skye  terrier, 
Skeet,  ruled  Carrie  and  George  like  a 
royal,  tyrannical  child  aware  of  power 
to  command  loving  service.  When  Skeet 
disappeared,  never  to  return,  the  man's 
grief  was  no  less  lasting  than  Carrie's. 

I  vision  Jack  returning  here  with 
George,  Harry  Leon  Wilson  and  Jim 
Whitaker  from  the  Bohemian  Club 
Grove  jinks.  The  Greek  would  be  ami- 
ably morose  with  desire  for  repose.  Later 
he  would  emerge  refreshed  and  restless 
for  action  of  some  sort,  perhaps  pedro  or 
red  dog  or  whatnot.  And  "Oh,  Chuma- 
lums!  oh,  the  Wolf,  the  shaggy,  shaggy 
Wolf,  the  fierce  predacious  Wolf!"  he 
chanted,  pacing  the  floor  in  anticipa- 
tion. I  see  him  pointing  a  long,  stern 
finger  in  my  unoffending  direction,  with 
a  chuckle  in  the  lightly  ferocious  voice, 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


91 


"You — you  are  the  Wolverine!" 

"A  loathsome  beast,  Georgie,"  I  was 
fain  to  protest. 

"You're  right,  de  Chums.  You're  then 
the  Wolfess!"  He  looked  me  over 
whimsically,  and  ".  .  .  oh,  the  Wolf's 
Wolfess  .  .  .  de  Chums,  de  Chums,  de 
Chums!"  he  caroled  his  debonair  and 
•careless  way  out  of  sight  among  the  trees 
that  troop  up-mountain,  homing  with 
penciled  manuscript  of  a  new  thing  of 
intangible  magic  in  his  pocket.  An  early 
draft  of  "Sails,"  one  of  my  best  loved 
of  his  jewels,  he  gave  me.  He  had 
worked  on  it  sitting  by  our  lake  among 
the  redwoods  and  madronos.  Always, 
I  remember,  and  before  as  well  as  after 
Jack  and  I  were  associated  in  his  world, 
George  was  so  considerate  of  me,  ap- 
preciative, kindly. 

I  see  him,  I  hear  him,  out  of  contem- 
plative silence  at  a  long  table,  joining 
in  discussion  with  his  own  or  Jack's 
mixed  company  of  guests — say  Ed  Mor- 
rell,  Professor  Edgar  Larkin,  Emma 
Goldman,  Finn  Frolich,  Ashton  Ste- 
vens, Peter  B.  Kyne,  Bob  Fitzsimmons, 
Kathleen  O'Brennan,  George  Horace 
Lorimer,  Frederick  Bechdolt,  Michael 
Williams,  Ernest  Untermann,  Sinclair 
Lewis,  Dr.  Arnold  Genthe,  Charles 
Rollo  Peters,  Frederick  Irons  Bamford, 
Henry  Meade  Bland.  .  .  .  One  or  most 
might  storm,  but  George  never.  His 
modulated  notes  fell  as  if  into  a  still- 
ness involuntarily  created  for  him  by 
noisier  ones. 

IT  WAS  working  together  in  a  mutual 
interest  that  drew  George  and  myself 
into  that  good  comradeship.  Jack  had 
written  "The  End"  to  his  manuscript 
of  "The  Sea  Wolf"  before  he  sailed  as 
newspaper  correspondent  to  the  Japanese- 
Russian  war.  And  he  left  the  proof- 
reading, both  for  magazine-serial  and 
book-publication,  jointly  to  our  mercy. 
We  got  on  capitally  together  in  this 
trust.  It  cannot  be  said  which  of  us 
was  the  more  pleased  with  Jack's  ex- 
pressed praise  of  our  collaboration  in 
this  work. 

George's  fine  loyalty  was  put  to  a 
fine  test  in  the  case  of  two  of  his  dearest 
men  friends,  Ambrose  Bierce  and  Jack 
London.  He  sat  between  the  horns  of 
a  dilemma  because  Bierce's  attitude 
toward  the  younger  writer  was  one  of 
firm  disapproval  from  every  angle.  They 
were  as  far  apart  as  the  poles  in  their 
philosophies,  Ambrose  and  Jack.  Be- 
cause Jack  had  known  phases  of  life 
which  were  untenable  to  the  satirist's 
conventional  niceties,  the  elder  man 
seemed  to  deem  the  other  as  one  not 
entitled  to  consideration  in  the  brother- 
hood of  polite  society.  Indeed,  after  he 
had  read  "The  Road,"  Mr.  Bierce  was 
emphatic  as  to  what  summary  fate  should 


overtake  George's  youthful  novelist.  But 
Jack,  far  from  taking  up  the  gloves, 
hastened  to  write  Sterling: 

"For  heaven's  sake,  don't  you  quarrel 
with  Ambrose  about  me.  He's  too 
splendid  a  man  to  be  diminished  because 
he  has  lacked  access  to  a  later  genera- 
tion of  science.  He  crystallized  before 
you  and  I  were  born,  and  it  is  too  mag- 
nificent a  crystallization  to  quarrel 
with." 

Bless  us  all,  and  the  three  of  them. 
They  have  died,  one  in  his  own  home 
bed  with  disease  neglected ;  one  in  a  far, 
unfriendly  land,  by  assassination  or  his 
own  hand ;  one  by  his  own  will,  it 
would  seem  to  escape  agony  of  the  flesh. 
In  later  years  the  opportunities  for 
meeting  with  George  Sterling  became 
fewer  and  fewer,  though  the  feeling 
among  us  never  varied. 

Jack  and  I  were  seldom  home  more 
than  three  or  four  months  at  a  time. 
When  we  were,  our  house  was  crowded 
with  people,  and  old  cronies,  what  was 
left  of  them,  infrequently  got  together 
to  "hit  things  up"  as  of  yore.  If  we 
were  not  on  the  other  side  of  nowhere, 
we  would  be  looked  for  in  Hawaii,  or 
New  York,  or,  for  several  winters, 
threading  the  fabulous  waterways  of 
California  in  the  little  yawl  Roomer 
that  succeeded  the  Spray,  which  had  been 
transportation  for  many  a  Crowd  picnic 
on  the  Bay.  Aboard,  we  worked  and 
played  as  we  always  best  loved,  on  the 
liquid  part  of  the  reeling  earth's  surface. 

Very  often  we  spoke  of  George  and 
followed  his  successes  with  joy  and  pride. 
Of  course  we  corresponded.  Exclusive 
of  his  letters  and  autographed  books, 
one  set  for  each,  I  have  a  boxful  of 
typewritten  poems  that  he  sent  to  one 
or  the  other  of  us,  some  published,  some 
not.  And  all  signed  by  his  pen  or  pencil. 
"The  ever-blessed  Greek,"  Jack  would 
murmur.  And  among  the  few  nick- 
names he  answered,  he  best  liked  the 
Greek's  "Wolf."  Once,  not  long  before 
his  own  death,  Jack  suddenly  enlightened 
me:  "I  wish,"  he  remarked  wistfully, 
"that  you  had  more  often  called  me 
'Wolf.'  You  did,  at  one  time,  when  I 
called  you  my  Wild  Mate." 

"But  it  was  George's  especial  one  for 
you — I  did  not  want  to  usurp — that's 
why  I  did  not  go  on  with  it." 

He  smiled  appreciation  of  that,  but 
repeated :  "Still,  I  wish  you  had." 

Pictures — pictures  a-many.  But  I 
must  come  to  the  last  .  .  . 

I  lift  "The  Caged  Eagle."  I  mean  to 
find  "In  Autumn,"  am  stayed  by  the 
handwriting  that  first  I  come  upon.  Its 
author  gave  the  book  to  me  in  October 
of  1916,  just  preceding  Jack's  death. 
The  inscription  is  a  poem  and  has  never 
been  book-published.  I  take  space  to 


quote  it  as  an  impression  of  the  essence 
of  what  the  Wolf's  friend  saw  and 
sensed  here  on  our  mountainside: 

"High  on  Sonoma  Mountain 

The  poison-oak  is  red ; 
Along  the  colored  vineyards 

The  quail's  shy  brood  is  led ; 
Past  the  delivered  orchards 

And  round  the  hawk's  green  hold, 
The  spendthrift  maples  squander 

The  year's  unhoarded  gold  ; 
Low  o'er  this  land  of  Beauty 

Robed  in  her  royal  stains 
The  swallows  dip,  forecasting 

November  and  the  rains. 
By  all  that  makes  you  charming, 

By  all  that  makes  you  dear, 
Sweet  lady  of  the  manor, 

Long  be  your  loving  here!" 

When  again  I  touch  the  pages,  they 
fall  open  at  "To  Twilight,"  another 
beloved  of  mine: 

"Linger,  we  pray, 

Shy  mother  of   the  white   and   earliest 

star, 

For  in  thy  keeping  are 
The  Dreams  that  suffer  not  the  light 

of  day—" 

And  pinned  to  the  margin,  O  holy, 
are  the  Poet's  original  dim  notes  that 
he  gave  me.  I  can  hardly  bear  to  read; 
nor  to  turn  on  to  "In  Autumn,"  when 
memory  tracks  backward  down  the  ten 
years'  trail  to  Jack  lying  beside  the 
Tyrian-dyed  reef-waters  off  Waikiki. 
The  mail  had  just  come  from  the  main- 
land. I  am  about  to  take  to  the  breakers, 
but  Jack  is  indolent  in  the  heat — often, 
these  days,  he  is  too  indolent  to  exer- 
cise, and  doctor  friends  have  warned 
him. 

"Stay  one  moment,  Mate — let's  see 
what's  here." 

Nothing  loth,  I  sink  into  another 
hammock  under  the  ancient  hau  tree. 
He  idly  rustles  the  leaves  of  "The 
Caged  Eagle,"  just  from  George.  He 
dips  in  here  and  there  and  reads  aloud 
a  line,  a  phrase,  a  stanza.  Comes  a 
longer  pause  between.  Silently  he  reads 
two  pages,  then  raises  great  eyes  to  mine 
in  a  look  I  know  presages  the  sharing 
of  something  special.  "Listen,  this  is 
'In  Autumn.'  There  are  viols  in  his 
voice.  He  hesitates  slightly  throughout 
and  I  know  he  is  profoundly  moved  by 
the  sheer  intangible  gift  of  the  son- 
neteer: 

"Mine  eyes  fill,  and  I  know  not  why  at 

all. 
Lies  there  a  country  not  of  time  and 

space 

Some  fair  and  irrecoverable  place 
(Continued  on  Page  94) 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


The 

American 
Parade 


Edited  by 

W.  ADOLPHE  ROBERTS 


Short  Stories  by : 

Gamaliel  Bradford 
Ethel  Watts  Mumford 
Jacques  Le  Clercq, 
Nunnally  Johnson 
Eleanor  Ramos, 
George  O'Neil, 
Louise  Townsend  Nicholl, 
Isa  Glenn 
Solita  Solano 
S.  Bert  Cooksley 


Special  Articles  by : 

Poultney  Bigelow 
Louise  Rice 

Thomas  Grant  Springer 
Carty  Ranck 
William  Salisbury, 
Adolphe  de  Castro 
David  Warren  Ryder 


Poems  by : 

George  Sterling 

Richard  Le  Galienne 

Helene  Mullins 

David  Morton 

Blanche  Shoemaker  Wagstaff 


$1  per  Copy       $4  for  the  Set 

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The  Inconsolable 

(Continued  from  Page  75) 


Like  a  furious  fool  he  wrenches  the 
trees,  beheads  the  flowers  and  tears  off 
the  fruit.  With  a  roar  of  fury  he  at- 
tacks the  human  beings,  crushing  them 
into  the  soil,  shattering  their  shelters. 
With  his  giant  breath  he  raises  the 
breast  of  the  sea  .  .  .  which,  against 
its  will,  swallows  up  those  who  love 
it,  while  their  rebellion  and  plaint  of 
lament  are  drowned  in  the  roar  of  the 
voice  of  this  great  Revolutionnist. 

In  this  hour  of  deep  hatred  and  im- 
petuously, he  heeds  only  his  revengeful 
instinct ;  with  his  work  of  devastation 
accomplished,  he  gloats,  he  sings,  he 
laughs  like  some  devil  with  death  in 
his  soul,  while  all  about  him  is  spread 
the  havoc  he  has  caused. 

Still  he  remains  inconsolable,  and  his 
regrets  are  augmented  by  the  wrongs 
that  his  folly  has  urged  him  to  commit, 
and  his  plaint  recommences  sweet,  slow, 
sane  and  monotonous,  night  and  day 
imploring  to  be  forgiven. 

Plaint!  Imploring  pity  for  the  cruel 
fate  to  which  he  has  been  condemned. 

He,  endowed  with  the  marvelous,  cap- 
tivating voice  and  sovereign  will  minus 
the  enchantress  Form,  which  would  have 
rendered  him  tangible,  desirable.  He! 
the  super-genius  of  all,  the  one  who 
knows  everything  from  the  infinitesimal 
form  to  the  most  complicated  organism. 

He!  the  only  one  who  knows  the  re- 
mote parts  of  the  universe  where  lie 
the  still  living  ashes  which  his  powerful 
breath  unearths  in  order  to  fecundate 
the  minds  of  the  searchers. 

He !  who  knows  the  tempest  of  fire 
that  has  melted  the  ^ocks  and  buried 
the  summits  that  now  lie  on  the  bed  of 
the  sea! 

He !  the  vibrating  link  between  the 
light  and  the  darkness! 

He !  who  knows  the  secret  of  life  and 
death,  bringing  the  first  breath  to  the  one 
and  withdrawing  the  last  out  of  the 
leaves  back  to  the  astral  plane ! 


He !  almost  equal  to  God  and  like 
Him:  Invisible  and  all  powerful! 

He!  the  supreme  errant  running  all 
around  the  circle  of  the  Cosmos  without 
ever  being  able  to  rest  on  the  sweet 
breast  of  a  Mother.  Troublous,  appar- 
ently without  aim,  devoured  with  the 
desire  to  love,  to  be  loved,  to  fecund 
life,  to  preserve  it  from  death ! 

And  his  great-poor-divine-accursed 
heart  is  the  receptacle  of  all  the  con- 
tradictions of  his  own  being.  Bitter, 
sweet,  powerful  and  weak,  knowing  all 
and  nothing,  loving  as  no  human  could 
ever  love,  hating  as  one  damned,  feeling 
at  the  same  moment  the  glorious  ecstacy 
of  his  power  to  project  life  in  happiness 
culminated  by  the  terrible  shame  of  his 
incapacity!  .  .  .  The  great  tumult  has 
subsided,  the  Giant  remains  so  calm  that 


DORCHESTER 
HOTEL 

Northeast  Corner  Sutter 
and  Gough  Streets 

A  REFINED  HOME 

Catering     to     permanent     and 

transient   guests  ;    both   Amer- 

ican and  European  plan 

Cars  1-2-3  stop  in  front  of  door 

Single    rooms,    with    or    with- 
out bath,  and  suites 

Rates  Very  Reasonable 
Excellent  Cuisine 


W.    W.    Madison,    Proprietor 

Formerly  of  Hotel  Oakland 


STRANGE  WATERS 


<By  GEORGE  STERLING 

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the  whole  world  stifles  under  the  sub- 
duing of  his  generative  breath  .  .  .  but 
for  an  instant  only,  again  he  must  run, 
and  run,  and  run  till  the  end  of  all 
.  .  .  and  forever — 

Behold  the  Eternal  Dreamer  who  re- 
members the  lost  Kingdom ! 

The  eternal  lover  forever  deprived  of 
the  incarnated  Beauty! 

Errant  Soul ! 

Errant  Heart! 

Murmur  of  Love ! 

Swooning  Embrace ! 

Roar  of  Desire ! 

Torture  of  Mind! 

Cry  of  Pain ! 

Voice  of  Tears! 

Sob  of  Hope! 

Sob  of  Despair  .  .  .  Inconsolable 
Wind! 

(Arranged  in  English  by  Anne  deLar- 
tigue  Kennedy.) 


LOS  ANGELES  TO  GEORGE 
STERLING 

(Continued  from  Page  72) 
of  love  and  loyalty,  eager  to  help  and 
inspire  every  one  who  struggled  to  suc- 
ceed in  creative  work.  What  is  it  that 
cements  the  people  of  the  nation,  that 
binds  them  in  to  a  solidarity?  It  can 
be  nothing  but  the  love  and  idealiza- 
tion of  beauty,  and  herein  was  George 
Sterling  statesman,  priest  and  creator  at 
the  shrine  of  America's  greatness. 

He  could  teach  the  essence  and  wis- 
dom of  poetry  in  a  poem.  This  is  a  dif- 
ficult thing  to  do.  And  he  could  realize 
the  greatness  in  the  simplicity  of  child- 
hood. Witness : 

"For  poetry,  one  mus'n't  fear  a  blunder, 
But  laugh  at   facts  and  let  the  soul 

run  wild, 
Roaming  the  land  of  dream  and  truth 

and  wonder 
Where  meet  the  sage  and  child." 

He  taught  that  youth  exists  eternally. 
Like  beauty,  he  believed  youfh  to  be 
an  entity  and  he  manifested  this  con- 
tinuity of  youth,  even  though  he  grew 
heavy  with  weariness  sometimes. 

"The  thunder  that  hath  set,  since  Time 

began, 
Its  sorrow  in  the  lonely  heart  of  man." 

George  Sterling's  book,  "The  House 
of  Orchids,"  was  first  published  fifteen 
years  ago.  It  was  dedicated  to  his  wife. 
A  close  analysis  of  the  dates  of  the 
writing  of  his  many  poems,  comprising 
over  ten  volumes,  would  reveal  much 
in  the  life  growth  of  this  remarkable 
man.  The  last  poem  in  this  volume  was 
penned  some  thousands  of  years  ago.  You 


can  find  it  also  in  the  Book  of  Job.  It 
is  the  forty-third  chapter.  I  quote  the 
following  lines : 

"Thou  shalt  know  Me  for  the  Lord. 

Who  setteth  Capella  and  Achernar  to 
be  gods  for  a  term,  and  a  guide 
upon  the  deep  to  strange  peoples; 

Who  maketh  Altair  and  Rigel  the  cap- 
tains of  His  host; 

Who  leaneth  his  spear  upon  Sirius  ere 
the  trumpets  call  ; 

Who  holdeth  Vega  His  armor-bearer 
and  hangeth  His  buckler  upon 
Aldebaran." 

He  went  out,  like  his  own  young 
Prince  Duandon,  in  search  of  love  and 
the  mystery  under  the  sea  of  death.  And 
if  it  shall  be  true  of  him  also,  in  after 
years,  that  "no  arm  uplifted  shone," 
yet  may  we  not  hope  his  kindly  heart, 
eager  enthusiasm  and  superlative  genius 
shall  speak  through  the  lines  of  some 
singer  who  will  hold  the  world  in 
thrall? 

Lack  of  space  forbids  comment  on  his 
"A  Wine  of  Wizardry,"  "Lillith"  and 
other  beautiful  and  profound  works. 

One  of  the  memorable  occasions  on 
which  I  was  with  George  Sterling  was 
at  a  studio  evening  in  Hollywood,  given 
in  his  honor.  Here,  as  in  all  California, 
he  was  beloved.  Not  a  few  of  us  read 
or  spoke  or  sang;  but  it  was  his  words 
we  hung  upon.  I  shall  never  forget  his 
friendly  arm  across  my  shoulder  at  the 
end  of  the  evening. 

He  was  hoisted  upon  a  wabbly  table 
where  all  could  see  him.  That  was  what 
we  came  for — to  see  George  Sterling, 
to  hear  him ! 

After  no  little  persuasion  he  was  pre- 
vailed upon  to  read  his  Abalone  poem. 
Typical,  yes  typical  of  such  a  night.  You 
will  recall  it — a  bit  of  a  slam  on  the 
Creator  of  the  Universe. 

But  I  think  that  Christ  and  George 
Sterling  have  met  ere  this,  on  the  other 
side,  and  they  have  smiled  over  many 
things,  and  the  Abalone  poem. 


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combines  with  ideal  comfort  and 
surroundings  to  make  a  stay 
enjoyable. 

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AS  I  KNEW  HIM 

(Continued  from  Page  87) 

I    roamed    ere    birth    and    cannot    now 

recall  ? — 
A  land  where  petals  fall 

On  paths  that  I  shall  nevermore  re- 
trace? 

Something  is  lacking  from  the  wistful 

bow'rs, 

And  I  have  lost  that  which  I  never 

had. 
The   sea  cries,   and   the  heavens  and 

sea  are  sad, 
And  Love  goes  desolate,  yet  is  not  ours. 

Brown  Earth  alone  is  glad. 
Robing  her  breast  with  fallen  leaves  and 

flow'rs. 

High  memories  stir;  the  spirit's  feet  are 

slow, 
In  nameless  fields  where  tears  alone 

are  fruit. 

And  voices  of  the  wind  alone  trans- 
mute 
The  music  that  I  lost  so  long  ago." 

Jack  cannot  go  on  for  a  little,  then 
at  length  he  finishes  steadily: 

"I  stand  irresolute, 
Lonely  for  some  one  I  shall  never  know." 

But  his  lips  are  trembling,  as  are  my 
own,  and  the  sea-gray  eyes  purple  with 
sea-reflections,  glistening  with  inner 
tears.  So  shaken  is  he  with  Beauty,  and 
reverence  and  love  for  the  soul  that  wove 
its  strands. 

"Mate,"  at  last  he  said  cryptically, 
"one  could  forgive  George  anything'" 

They  twain  have  sailed  into  the  twi- 
light, but  have  left  their  beauty  for  us. 
Holding  it  in  our  thankful  hands,  even 
in  the  silence  we  are  comforted.  Once 
more,  "Sails": 

"(Captain!  captain!    What  of  the  seas 
of  death?) 


But  I  hear  a  naiad  sing. 
And  softer  now  on  my  vision  the  vans 

of  silk 
Glimmer  on    eastern  shallops,   by  dusk 

adrift 
On  waters  of  legend ;  and  webs  as  white 

as  milk 
Are  wafting  a  murdered  queen  to  her 

island  tomb, 

Where  the  cypress  columns  lift. 
And  ghostly  now  oh  the  gloom 
The     shrouded     spars    of     the     Flying 

Dutchman  go 

To  harbors  that  none  shall  know; 
Foamless  the  ripples  of  her  passing  die 
Across  the  dark,  and  then  from  the  dark, 
a  cry!" 


March,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


95 


RHYMES  AND   REACTIONS 

A  STRONG  race,  a  strong  and  ter- 
rible race!  notorious  for  one  justice 
for  the  rich,  another  for  the  poor,  sat- 
urated with  a  million  weird  supersti- 
tions, bigoted  from  dandruff  to  toe- 
nails,  intolerant  to  the  point  of  deadly 
menace,  lawless  until  old  age,  bilious 
with  hatred  of  new  ideas  and  the  men- 
tal function  generally,  idiotic  with  wor- 
ship of  mere  physical  prowess,  idolizers 
of  the  mattoids  of  the  movies,  scornful 
of  all  it  cannot  comprehend,  pleasure- 
mad  and  crazed  for  comfort,  sex-be- 
sotted to  an  unimaginable  and  unprint- 
able degree,  maggotty  with  graft,  driven 
like  so  many  sheep  by  the  vast  and  com- 
placent powers  that  hold  them  in  un- 
realized bondage,  Vacuum-worshippers 
and  adorers  of  each  jitney  messiah  that 
appears — and  crucifiers  of  those  that 
have  any  claim  to  respect,  haters  of 
beauty,  even  subconsciously,  swift  to  en- 
throne the  false  god  and  as  swift  to 
cut  him  down,  with  all  possible  cruelty, 
blinded,  fearful,  mentally  deliquescent, 
hypocritical  above  all  other  tribes  of  his- 
tory— I  refer,  of  course,  to  that  deplor- 
able people,  the  head-hunters  and  can- 
nibals of  the  Solomon  Islands.  We  can- 
not too  sadly  lament  the  conditions  in 
which  it  has  pleased  the  Divine  Power 
to  place  them,  even  as  we  look  forward 
to  the  happy  time  when  we  shall  have 
brought  them  the  blessings  of  American 
civilization. 

*  #     * 

Advice   is   free   only   when    worth- 
less. *     *     * 

Good  taste  exists  in  inverse  ratio  to 

morals. 

*  #     # 

We  know  of  truth  only  her  name. 

*  #     * 

Women   love   the   rebel   in   man   and 
hate  it  in  women. 

*  *     * 

Happiness   needs   neither   explanation 
nor  apology^ 

*  *     * 

Virginity:  a  liability  considered  by  its 
possessor  as  an  asset. 

*  *     # 

The  wind  cannot  put  out  a  star. 

*  *     * 

Notoriety:    the    black    sheep    of    the 

Fame  family. 

*  #     * 

We    are    often    misunderstood,     but 

would  feel  worse  if  understood. 

*  *     * 

Strength  and  sin  are  half-brothers. 

*  *     * 

Transparency  is  the  dignified  element 

in  most  motives. 

*  '••'• 

Love  is  a  sea  that  never  gives  up  its 
dead. 


I  NEVER  weary  of  reading  the  imbe- 
cilities of  that  prince  of  platitudes, 
Arthur  Brisbane.  His  latest  contribu- 
tion to  the  canons  of  moronism  is  to 
quote  approvingly  this  stupefying  asser- 
tion of  Charles  Fourier,  whom  he  nat- 
urally calls  "a  naturally  great  philoso- 
pher." He  quotes: 

"Attractions  are  proportionate  to  des- 
tinies. Nature  does  not  deceive  her  chil- 
dren or  create  in  them  false  hopes." 
(Imagine  such  an  appalling  statement — 
of  Nature,  in  her  almost  infinite  per- 
fidy!) "The  fact  that  human  beings  all 
desire  immortality,  and  believe  in  it, 
proves  that  immortality  is  our  destiny." 
Conceive  of  even  a  bush-league  "philoso- 
pher" making  such  claim!  Conceive  of 
even  a  school-boy  believing  and  quoting 
it.  By  that  process  of  ratiocination,  per- 
fect happiness  is  possible  to  all  mankind, 
since  all  mankind  desire,  seek  and  believe 
in  it !  O  shades  of  Spinoza,  Schopen- 
hauer and  Kant! 

Another  of  Pundit  Brisbane's  asser- 
tions is  that  the  mothers  of  great  men  are 
greater  than  they,  since  they  produced 
them.  By  that  acute  reasoning,  the 
mother  of  Shakespeare  was  greater  than 
he;  and  to  go  a  step  farther,  an  acorn 
was  greater  than  the  oak  to  which  it 
gave  start!  No — there  is  really  no  need 
to  seek  your  humor  in  "Life"  or 
"Judge";  go  to  the  Brisbane,  ye  sorrow- 
ful, and  be  merry. 

There  has  lately  come  to  my  mind  (if 
so  desired  the  word  may  be  used  with 
quotations)  the  recipe  by  which  any  as- 
piring young  poet  may  become  an  ultra- 
modern in  his  versifying  as  his  ambition 
may  require  —  may  even  attain  to  the 
"Dial"  school.  The  thing  is  simple 
enough ;  take  any  thought  of  no  impor- 
tance, preferably  one  concerning  one's 
own  phases  of  nauseation,  and  state  it  as 
awkwardly  and  obscurely  as  possible. 

Voila !  Cummings  and  Eliot ! 


HOTEL  STEWART 
San  Francisco 

High  Class  Accommodations 

at  Very  Moderate  Rates. 

Chas.    A.    and    Miss     Margaret 

Stewart,  Props. 


A  Key  Route  train  having  been 
brought  to  a  standstill  by  the  Ministra- 
tions of  a  Band  of  Robbers,  the  Leader 
of  the  Gang,  entering  a  car,  began  a  sys- 
tematic course  of  spoliation  of  the  In- 
mates. But  after  depriving  a  Certain 
Gent  of  a  sizable  roll,  he  was  addressed 
by  a  gentleman  in  his  immediate  vicinity. 

"Sir,"  this  one  said,  "are  you  aware 
that  you  have  just  robbed  the  president 
of  the  road?" 

"Indeed!"  cried  the  robber;  and  ap- 
proaching the  robbed,  he  returned  to  him 
a  handful  of  the  kale. 

"But  why,"  said  the  Gent,  "why  have 
you  returned  me  this  money?" 

"Ah!"  said  the  robber,  smiling  be- 
nignantly  beneath  his  mask,  and  bowing 
most  humbly;  "that  is  our  regular  dis- 
count to  the  profession." 


$1,500  ANNUALLY 

FROM  A   5-ACBE   BANANA   ORCHARD 

Bananas  bear  a  full  crop  the  second  year 
55.00  monthly  will  plant  five  acres,  which 
should  pay  $1,500  profit  annually.  Reliab'e 
companies  will  cultivate  and  market  your 
bananas  for  one-third.  Bananas  ripen  every 
day  and  you  get  your  check  every  90  days. 
For  particulars,  address  Jantha  Plantation 
Co.,  Empire  Bldg.,  Block  300,  Pittsburgh,  Pa. 


Rapidly  Becoming  a  Best 
Seller  Among  Books  of  Verse 

DAWN  STARS 

By  LUCIA  TRENT 

Everywhere  Lucia   Trent  is  being 

hailrd  as  one  of  America's  finest 

poets 

The  New  York  Evening  Post:  "First, 
and  important :  every  poem  says  some- 
thing— writes  clearly  because  he  thinks 
clearly." 

The  Richmond  News-Leader:  "Finer 
qualities — reflects  the  best  of  the 
modern  spirit  and  retains  the  virtues 
of  brevity  ;  fine  and  promising  volume." 

Spokane  Daily  Chronicle:  "Filled  with 
unusual  phrases  bound  to  remain  in 
one's  memory." 

The  Syracuse  Post-Standard:  "Gifted 
in  writing  lyric  poetry — full  of  mean- 
ing, full  of  emotion — no  ordinary  per- 
son could  write  it  because  it  touches 
the  heart-strings  in  unusual  ways." 


Another  Notable  First  Book 


TOUCH  AND  GO 

By  RALPH  CHEYNEY 

Introduction  by  Joseph  T.  Shipley 
Illustrations  by  Herbert  E.  Pouts 

Ralph  Cheyney's  poetry  has  the  en- 
dorsement of  Edwin  Markham,  Louis 
Untermyer,  Carl  Sandburg,  Robert 
Frost,  Robert  Haven  Schauffler,  and 
numerous  other  distinguished  poets 
and  critics.  Need  more  be  said? 


DAWN  STARS  and  TOUCH 
AND   GO,  $1.50  each 

96  pages  ;  bound  in  cloth  ;  80-lb.  War- 
ren's old-style  antique  wove  paper ; 
jackets  in  colors  by  Herbert  E.  Fouts. 


HENRY    HARRISON,    Publisher 

76  Elton  Street  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 


96 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT    WEST   MAGAZINE 


March,  1927 


Introducing  the  class  in  short- 
story  writing  for  Boys  and 
Girls — Free 


Under  the  Auspices  of 


The  Treasure  Chest 

The  Western  Magazine  for 
California   Boys    and   Girls 


1402  de  Young  Bldg. 
Phone  Garfield  4075 


SAN  FRANCISCO'S  RUSSIAN 

ARTIST 

(Continued  from  Page  78) 
great  artists;  each  speaks  of  the  artistic 
fire  that  has  been  molded  and  disciplined 
by  background,  association  and  training. 

Knowing  the  background  of  training, 
and  the  influence  exerted  by  admiration 
and  intimate  knowledge  of  the  greatest 
paintings,  it  is  easy  to  understand  the 
versatility  of  Ilyin.  For  underlying  his 
versatility  there  is  a  homogeneous  stan- 
dard of  artistic  beauty  rarely  found 
among  present  day  artists. 

His  mastery  of  technique  and  his  ad- 
herence to  pure  art  standards  are  espe- 


cially valuable  in  his  portrait  work  for 
Ilyin  is  able  to  catch  the  individual  spirit 
without  intruding  consideration  of  the 
medium  or  style  used. 

Ilyin  is  best  known  in  San  Francisco 
for  his  portraits.  Prominent  among  his 
commissions  are  the  portraits  of  Mrs. 
John  Oscar  Gantner,  exhibited  last 
spring  at  the  Bohemian  Club;  of  Major 
Joseph  P.  McQuaide,  presented  by  the 
Elks  Club  to  the  California  Palace  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor;  of  Enid  Brandt, 
the  late  young  musician ;  of  Paul  Ver- 
dier;  of  Dr.  Cooper  and  of  Miss  Carol 
Cofer.  He  has  recently  painted  the  por- 
trait of  "Big  Boy,"  the  well-known  dog 


belonging  to  Mr.  Robert  Willson.  He 
is  now  at  work  on  a  colorful  composi- 
tion in  preparation  for  his  next  exhibit. 

So,  day  by  day,  the  old  house  in  Green 
street  sees  the  continued  work  of  this 
splendid  artist.  And  each  day  the  hur- 
ried steps  of  San  Francisco's  crowds 
scurry  back  and  forth  throughout  her 
streets  knowing  little  or  nothing  of  the 
beauty  that  is  being  created,  the  works 
of  art  that  are  being  done  by  this  Rus- 
sian-born San  Franciscan  who  works 
with  a  modicum  of  appreciation  because 
he  entered  the  city  without  first  getting 
the  sanction  and  indorsement  of  acknowl- 
edged art  centers. 


Rhymes  and  Reactions 


TANCRED 


THE  Simon  and  Schuster  publish- 
ing house  present  their  first  six 
pamphlets  of  American  poetry. 
Sandburg,  Elinor  Wylie,  Walt  Whit- 
man, Emerson,  H.  D.  and  Nathalia 
Crane  are  the  first  poets  to  be  printed. 
Calling  their  offering  "The  Pamphlet 
Poets,"  they  put  forth  the  recognized 
grain  of  this  country's  poetry,  leaving 
the  chaff — there  is  no  little  amount — to 
the  poet's  publisher.  The  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Company,  let  it  be  said,  present 
a  similar  series  of  English  poetry  under 
the  title,  "The  Augustan  Books  of 
Modern  Poetry." 

Naturally,  the  pamphlets  are  excel- 
lently printed,  widely  distributed,  and 
carefully  edited.  The  publishers  expect 
to  appeal,  they  state  in  a  brief  announce- 
ment, to  the  "audience  interminable"  of 
which  Whitman  spoke.  A  short  biog- 
raphy, an  enduring  collection  of  the 
poet's  work,  an  index  of  his  important 
publications  and  where  they  can  be 
found,  comprises  the  25-cent  pamphlet. 
Let  us  say  in  conclusion  to  this  skeleton 
announcement  that  no  greater  value 
exists  in  the  book  world  today. 

Of  the  first  half  dozen  published, 
there  is  little  destructive  criticism  al- 
lowed. Whether  or  not  the  taste  admits 
poets  in  the  particular  or  in  the  universal, 
does  not  matter  here.  It  is  to  be  re- 
membered the  lover  of  poetry  may 
receive  twenty  of  these  booklets  for  the 
price  ordinarily  asked  for  one  volume. 
Further,  the  meat  and  solidity  gathered 
for  printing  is  of  an  exceptional  stan- 
dard, eliminating,  I  note  with  pleasure, 
a  great  deal  of  the  "modernistic  jargon" 
so  prevalent  a  scant  five  years  ago.  These 
poems,  one  feels,  will  sustain  an  admira- 
tion concerning  the  centuries  and  not 
the  years.  Sandburg's  "Sunsets,"  and 
"Chicago,"  and  "River  Moons,"  as  well 


as  thirty  other  exquisite  savages  of  this 
great  American  are  wrapped  in  his 
pamphlet.  "Escape,"  "Madman's  Song" 
and  that  wonder  poem,  "The  Puritan's 
Ballade,"  are  among  the  Wyle  collec- 
tion. Nathalia  Crane,  the  astounding 
child  of  Brooklyn,  is  well  represented 
with  "The  Hangman's  Boy,"  "The 
Blind  Girl,"  "Lava  Lane,"  and  that 
clairvoyant  meal,  "Mid-day  at  Trinity." 
No  finer  example  of  Whitman's  long- 
legged  poetry  could  be  printed  than 
"Come  Up  From  the  Fields,  Father," 
"The  Last  Invocation"  and  the  pamph- 
let editor's  selection  from  "Salut  au 
Monde."  H.  D.,  the  poet  whose  work 
so  delighted  the  late  Amy  Lowell,  gives 
the  intellectual  scientist  of  poetry  rare 
food  with  "Pursuit,"  "Orchard"  and 
"Heat."  Her  poetry  is  less  important, 
however,  than  the  other  five.  Emerson 
hardly  needs  a  word.  The  poems  selected 
are  the  finest  of  this  poet's  too  small 
output. 

It  is  possible  to  purchase  these  pamph- 
lets in  any  book  store  selling  general 
literature.  More  than  that,  it  is  possible 
to  purchase  them.  The  greatest  lament, 
in  recent  years,  has  been  the  enormous 
price  asked  for  those  sliver-thin  poetry 
books  issued  by  New  York  publishers. 
Let  this  country  support  a  publishing 
house  with  enough  intelligence,  fore- 
sight and  feeling  to  preserve  in  this 
series,  which  will  be  enlarged  each  year, 
the  finest  of  American  literature. 

Major  credit  is  given  Hughes  Mearns, 
general  editor  of  the  series,  and  Louis 
Untermeyer,  international  anthologist, 
for  valuable  intelligence  in  selecting  the 
poetry. 

Early  pamphlets  are  announced  bear- 
ing the  work  of  Edna  St.  Vincent  Mil- 
lay,  Longfellow,  Witter  Bynner,  Poe 
and  Emily  Dickinson. 


You  drive  to  Seacliff  Park  through 
Santa  Cruz  or  Wattonville,  turning  off 
the  Slate  Highway  about  31A  milet  east 
oj  CapHola,  where  the  sign*  read  "Sea- 
cliff  Park,  Apia*  Beach  arfd  the  Pali- 
fade f." 


EACLIFFJPARK-  ^ 

ity^tjl^alifif^ 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family — but  the 
fact  that  Seacliff  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Reality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  Seacliff  Park  property 
is  wise. 


((These  are  summer-like 
days  at  Aptos  Beach — warmf  lazy 
breakers  with  foamy  crests  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
scuttling  off  to  the  shore  in  a  wild 
confusion  oj  effervescent  bub- 
bles, while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward for  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

GPendtng  the  construction  of  per" 
manent  buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

KDrive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  free. 

([free  transportation,  if  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  Seacliff  Park 
Office  upon  arrival.  GAsk  for 
Registration  Clerk. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  the  fact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetual  charm 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.  Seacliff  Park  resi- 
dents know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park — Riviera  of  the 
Pacific  now  emerges  in  reality. 


OWNFU  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF  COMPANY.  APTO'S,  CALIFORNIA 


stn'  upon  request 


AT  APTOS  .  CALIFORNIA 


GAYLORD  WILSHIRE 
Inventor  of  the  I-ON-A-CO 

rS  an  economist  with  an  international  reputation, 
Gaylord  Wilshire  has  long  been  identified  with 
the  political  advancement  of  men  and  nations— and 
now,  as  inventor  of  the  I-ON-A-CO,  he  is  one  of  the 
world's  outstanding  figures  in  the  work  of  bettering 
the  physical  health  of  humanity.  Gaylord  Wilshire 
will  leave  an  impress  upon  the  history  of  his  time. 


Wilshiresl-ON-A-co 


•TC* 


FOUNDED  BY  BRET  HARIE  IN  186 


Vol.  LXXXV 


APRIL,  1927 


No.  4 


PRICE  25  CENTS 

AND  O  UT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


The  Radiophone's  Meaning 

An  Advertisement  of 
the  American  Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company 


AN  ADVENTURE  in  com- 
munication was  made 
last  January  when  trans- 
atlantic radio  telephone  ser- 
vice was  established  between 
New  York  and  London.  There 
had  been  previous  tests  and 
demonstrations.  Nevertheless, 
the  fact  that  at  certain  hours 
daily  this  service  was  made 
available  to  anyone  in  these 
cities  from  his  own  telephone, 
created  such  public  interest 
that  for  several  days  the  de- 
mands for  overseas  connec- 
tions exceeded  the  capacity 
of  the  service. 

It  was  then  demonstrated 
that  there  was  a  real  use  for 
telephone  communication  be- 
tween the  world's  two  greatest 
cities.  It  was  further  demon- 


strated  that  the  Ameri- 
can Telephone  and  Tele- 
graph Company,  with 
the  co-operation  of  the  British 
Post  Office,  was  able  to  give 
excellent  transmission  of  speech 
under  ordinary  atmospheric 
conditions. 

In  accord  with  announce- 
ments made  at  that  time, 
there  will  be  a  continued  effort 
to  improve  the  service,  extend 
it  to  greater  areas  and  insure 
a  greater  degree  of  privacy. 

It  is  true  that  static  will  at 
times  cause  breaks  in  the  ether 
circuit,  but  a  long  step  for- 
ward has  been  made  towards 
international  telephone  com- 
munication and  more  intimate 
relationshipbetweentheUnited 
States  and  Great  Britain. 


April,.  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


97 


Ground  Floor  Investment 
In  a  Going  Concern 


facts 

about  the  Half 

Moon  Bay 

Oil  Fields 

California's  Mother  Lode  oil 
fields. 

Fields  3-5  miles  wide,  25  miles  in 
length,  running  along  the  coast 
from  Seal  Rock  Point  to  La 
Honda. 

Gasoline  content  62-75%. 

Oil  worth  $4  a  barrel,  as  against 
$1.50  to  $2  a  barrel  in  other 
California  fields. 

Shell  Company  has  acquired  ex- 
tensive leases.  Put  in  most  ex- 
pensive and  modern  drilling 
equipment  in  the  entire  United 
States. 


In  offering  you  the  opportunity  to  invest  in  the  Skyline  Oil  &  Refining 
Corporation,  operating  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Half  Moon  Bay  fields, 
we  do  not  ask  you  to  put  your  money  into  a  speculative  venture  that 
may  do  business  at  some  indefinite  future  date. 

Skyline  Oil  &  Refining  Corporation  is  doing  business  and  making 
money  right  NOW.  For  the  past  18  months  it  has  operated  three 
wells  and  a  refinery.  It  has  been  selling  its  gas  and  oil  products  in 
and  about  Half  Moon  Bay  as  fast  as  it  can  pump  the  stuff  out  of  the 
ground  and  refine  it.  The  company's  books  show  a  substantial  profit 
above  the  cost  of  equipment,  drilling,  refining,  sales  and  general 
expenses. 

A  LIMITED  ISSUE  OF  SECURITIES 

For  the  purposes  of  further  expansion  and  the  drilling  of  additional 
wells,  the  corporation  has  placed  a  limited  issue  of  securities  on  the 
market.  Remember,  in  investing  in  these  securities,  you  come  into 
a  company  that  has  proved  by  sound,  conservative  methods  that  its 
lands  are  rich  in  oil.  You  come  into  a  company,  headed  by  veteran, 
experienced  oil  men,  who  have  laid  a  solid  ground  work  to  do  a  bigger 
business — to  yield  you  a  genuine  and  substantial  profit  on  every  dollar 
invested. 


Of  course,  you  want  to  look  into  this  proposition  for  yourself.  We  are  glad  to  have  you  do  that.  Get 
in  touch  with  us.  A  member  of  the  company  will  take  you  over  this  whole  Half  Moon  Bay  field — show 
you  what  the  big,  nationally-known  companies  are  doing  here  —  show  you  the  Skyline  wells  and 
refinery.  You  will  sell  yourself  on  the  proposition  and  it  will  be  the  most  financially  profitable  day's 
work  you  ever  did. 


-DETACH  AND  MAIL  COUPON- 


IAM  interested  in  looking  over  the  Skyline  Oil  and  Refinery  Corporation's  proposition.    You  may 
get  in  touch  with  me,  as  follows: 


Name  .... 
Address. 
City 


State. 


Skyline  Oil  &  Refinery  Corporation 


1174  Phelan  Building 


San  Francisco,  Calif. 


Telephone:  Garfield  2866 


98 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


THE  thirteenth  annual  state  exhibit 
of  California's  native  flowers  and 
shrubs  will  be  an  impressive  event  this 
year  and  will  be  open  to  the  general 
public  in  the  beautiful  lanai  and  lobby 
of  Hotel  Vendome,  San  Jose,  on  April 
19  and  20.  The  exhibition  of  native 
flowers  will  be  displayed  for  educational 
purposes  under  the  auspices  of  the  Wild 
Flower  Conservation  League,  and  will 
be  directed  by  Mrs.  Bertha  M.  Rice, 
Saratoga,  Calif.,  and  Mrs.  Roxana  Fer- 
ris of  the  botany  department  of  Stanford 
University. 

The  state  exhibit  of  wild  flowers  has 
been  an  impressive  annual  event  in  Cali- 
fornia since  the  year  of  the  Panama- 
Pacific  International  Exposition  in  1915. 
It  was  then  directed  by  Bertha  M.  Rice 
of  Saratoga  in  the  interest  of  the  con- 
servation movement.  World-wide  atten- 
tion was  attracted  at  the  time  to  the 
beauty  and  infinite  variety  of  California 
native  plant  life  and  its  great  value  as 
a  scenic  asset  to  the  common  wealth. 
National  Wildflower  Protection  Day  is 
an  outgrowth  of  this  display  now  cele- 
brated annually  on  the  24th  day  of  April 
in  the  public  schools  throughout  Amer- 
ica and  Canada. 


VARIOUS  letters  have  come  to  our 
desk  requesting  the  address  of  Dr. 
Nichol's  sanitorium,  the  story  of  which 
was  run  in  our  September,  1926,  issue 
of  Overland.  For  those  inquiring,  the 
address  is  Savannah,  Mo. 


FOR  MAY  WE  WILL  HAVE: 

DO  NOT  miss  May  Overland.  Order 
your  copy  now.  There  will  be  an 
article  by  Buford  Danville  Whitlock 
giving  an  instructive  criticism  of  prison 
discipline  in  our  state  prisons. 

Carey  McWilliams  and  Harris  Allen, 
A.  I.  A.,  have  different  opinions  of  Los 
Angeles  and  we  are  printing  the  two  in 
the  same  issue.  Mr.  McWilliams  is  a 
res'dent  of  Los  Angeles,  and  Mr.  Allen 
lives  in  San  Francisco.  The  opposition 
of  Mr.  Allen  to  Mr.  McWilliams  is  not 
only  amusing,  it  is  deep  and  of  absorb- 
ing interest. 

The  article  we  recently  ran  on  Den- 
ver, written  by  Mr.  McWilliams,  has 
gained  the  promise  of  David  Raffelock, 
editor  of  the  Denver  Echo,  to  give  us  a 
true  (as  he  puts  it)  impression  of  Den- 


ver for  a  forthcoming  issue  of  Overland. 
"Denver,"  says  Mr.  Rafflelock,  "is 
nothing  like  the  Denver  seen  through 
Mr.  McWilliams'  eyes."  So  Los  An- 
geles as  presented  by  Mr.  McWilliams 
may  be  "nothing  like  the  Los  Angeles 
seen  through  other  eyes."  Let  us  have 
an  answer  from  Los  Angeles  for  our 
June  issue.  We  will  hold  open  the  space. 
Among  other  articles  will  be  a  story 
of  the  Southern  Pacific  woven  around 
that  interesting  figure,  F.  S.  McGinnis, 
and  there  will  be  a  story  on  the  oil  dis- 
trict at  Half  Moon  Bay.  This  district, 
by  the  way,  promises  as  much  excitement 
in  the  near  future  as  the  recent  gold 
mine  discovery  at  Weepah,  Nev.  Do 
you  want  to  miss  the  issue? 


HL.  MENCKEN  refers  to  South- 
•  ern  California  in  a  recent  airing 
of  his  views  of  the  movement  for  dis- 
union between  our  North  and  South. 
That  the  "civilized  and  charming" 
northern  section  of  the  State  should  wish 
to  draw  away  from  the  "yokel  rule"  of 
the  southern  half  is,  Mr.  Mencken  be- 
lieves, not  only  natural  but  urgently 
necessary  if  any  culture  is  to  be  pre- 
served on  our  west  coast.  He  speaks  of 
San  Francisco  as  one  of  the  most  charm- 
ing agd  romantic  of  American  towns. 
Los  Angeles,  on  the  contrary,  is  an  over- 
grown village  farmed  by  a  hoard  of 
peasants  from  the  Middle  West,  swarm- 
ing with  tin-pot  evangelists  who  are 
heard  with  interest  and  gravity.  "It  is  a 
place  where  osteopaths,  chiropractors, 
faith  healers,  and  such  other  depressing 
quacks  are  gigantically  prosperous." 
Newcomers  "herd  in  flimsy  stucco 
houses  slapped  together  in  a  few  weeks. 
The  opening  of  a  new  movie  house  is  a 
communal  event  of  the  first  calibre,  with 
bands  playing,  sky-rockets  set  off,  and 
the  streets  decorated  for  blocks  around." 

The  Los  Angeles  Times  gloats  over 
the  fact  that  "the  North  can  obtain  little 
except  with  our  generosity."  Mr.  Menc- 
ken believes  that  such  rejoicings  are  in 
excessively  poor  taste  since  "the  North 
wants  and  demands  simply  the  chance 
and  right  to  remain  civilized.  "No  won- 
der," he  says,  "the  San  Franciscans  con- 
clude that  the  only  way  out  is  to  split 
California." 

He  speaks  of  a  tendency  toward  divi- 
sion in  other  states,  Maryland  and 
Texas  in  particular,  and  explains  that 
"the  same  conflict  between  civilized 


habits  of  living  and  the  immemorial 
prejudices  and  envies  of  the  peasant  is 
responsible,  at  bottom,  for  the  movement 
to  divide  California  and  for  that  to  di- 
vide Maryland."  It  is  the  urge  for 
release  from  the  rule  of  an  ignorant  and 
hostile  yokel  population  that  harasses 
the  civilized  part  with  preposterous  laws. 

In  a  century  or  two,  Mr.  Mencken 
believes,  Los  Angeles  may  become  a 
splendid  town,  but  now  it  "remains  only 
a  gaudy  village  without  color  or  charm." 

So  much  for  Mr.  Mencken's  opinion. 
There  are  some  who  may  think  as  he 
does  and  yet  others  who  think  differ- 
ently. The  North  has  ben  proven  to  be 
the  possessor  of  a  "love  cult,"  and  it  is 
even  argued  that  when  a  city  becomes 
large  enough  no  one  can  stamp  out  these 
sects  which  are  composed  of  misfits,  peo- 
ple who  just  don't  belong. 

Those  who  feel  as  Mr.  Mencken  feels 
about  Los  Angeles  will  be  surprised  to 
learn  that  F.  S.  McGinnis,  who  is  pas- 
senger traffic  manager  of  the  Southern 
Pacific,  with  offices  here  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, was  born  in  Los  Angeles  and 
gained  his  early  training  there.  Likewise 
will  the  news  astound  that  Robinson 
Jeffers,  whom  the  North  loves  with  deep 
appreciation,  comes  from  Los  Angeles 
and  was  graduated  from  one  of  the 
Southern  California  schools. 

So  much  for  that.  Do  not  miss  May 
Overland.  It  will  have  two  articles  on 
Los  Angeles,  two  different  viewpoints, 
but  they  will  be  interesting. 


ON   THE    FOLLOWING    NEWS- 
STANDS—ORDER YOUR 
COPY  NOW 

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Capwell's,  Oakland 

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L.  Daniels,  Fillmore  St.,  San  Francisco 

Crystal  Palace  Market 

Paul  Elders 

Golden  Gate  News  Agency 

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OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 
OVERLAND   MONTHLY   ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET   HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


APRIL,  1927 


NUMBER  4 


EDITORIAL  STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 
CONTRIBUTING  EDITORS 
CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN   KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 

MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 

APRIL  CONTRIBUTORS 
IN  BRIEF 

ELLSWORTH  E.  DAVIS  is  a 
young  author  of  Los  Angeles  who 
knows  his  California.  He  has  written 
much  for  travel  journals  and  newspapers 
but  this  is  his  first  venture  into  the 
columns  of  a  monthly  magazine. 

ZOE  A.  BATTU,  who  won  the  first 
prize  of  the  late  short  story  contest, 
is  the  associate  editor  of  the  Pacific 
Coast  Architect,  but  her  duties  are  not 
confined  to  this  one  magazine.  She  as- 
sists in  editing  the  Western  Furrier  and 
various  other  trade  magazines  in  the 
West.  Miss  Battu  will  give  us  an  article 
on  the  Half-Moon  oil  district  for  our 
May  issue. 

A  LEXANDER  EVENSEN  is  an  ex- 
-tV  plorer  and  on  his  various  expeditions 
he  has  gathered  much  of  the  information 
contained  in  his  article,  "Theories  and 
Facts." 

LOUIS  L.  DfiJEAN  is  known  mostly 
for  his  poetry  during  the  war.    He 
is    perhaps    most    familiar    to    Western 
readers  as  the  "Aviator  Poet." 

CURT  BAER  is  a  California  Uni- 
versity student  with  great  ambitions 
and  with  the  ability  to  back  them  up. 
He  is  an  artist  as  well  as  a  critic.  He 
will  carry  this  department  for  us  six 
months,  then  he  will  go  to  Europe. 

JESSE  THOMPSON  gives  us  some- 
thing   in    "Songs    of    Civilization," 
and  why  not?    Newspaper  men  and  ad- 
vertising men  are  supposed  to  know  the 
song  of  civilization  if  anyone  does. 


Contents 


To  California George  Sterling 


.Frontispiece 


ARTICLES 

California  Alps  Ellsworth  E.  Davis 104 

Theories  and  Facts Alexander  Evensen 106 

Twenty  Years  After Louis  L.  Dejean 108 

Nobel  Prizes Lelia  Ayers  Mitchel 110 

The  Man  Who  Paints 

With  a  Camera .".Aline  Kistler 113 

In  Other  Magazines 


Freedom 


SHORT  STORIES 
.Zoe  A.   Battu. 


.101 


POETRY 

For  Good  Greeks Rolf  Humphries  ..  ..-109 

Computation Joseph  Upper   .. 

Russian   Hill Sara  Litsey  .. 

Songs  of  Civilization Jesse   Thompson 114 


DEPARTMENTS 

The  Play's  the  Thing Curt  Baer... 

Books  and  Writers Tom  White 


.115 
.116 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 
356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative,  George  H.  Myers,  S  South  Wabash  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPT 

Manuscript   mailed    The   Overland  Monthly  without  a  stamped  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 

Entered   as  Second-Class  matter   at  the   postoffice,   San   Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March  3,  1897 

(Contents  of  thii  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


100 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


To  California 


'Seventy-one  political  prisoners  are  held  in  this  State." 

— S.  F.  CALL. 


f\  STRONG,  what  mockery  is  in  your  might ! 

O  beautiful,  what  blasphemy  is  here 

Of  all  man  holds  desirable  and  dear! 
What  retrogression  to  the  mental  night ! 
Because,  earth-bound,  they  kept  a  star  in  sight, 

Must  these  be  subject  to  the  cynic  sneer? 

Are  such  your  foes,  and  is  it  these  you  fear, 
Who  would  but  lead  your  footsteps  to  the  light? 

Freedom  they  sought  for  men,  and  now  the  chain 

Is  on  the  limbs  that  strove  for  it  in  vain. 

Forge  you  such 'fetters,  O  colossal  smith! 

When  they,  that  asked  the  bread  of  brotherhood, 
Stand  where  the  martyrs  have  forever  stood? — 

San  Quentin's  walls  the  stones  you  feed  them  with! 

— GEORGE  STERLING. 


TTf<      ^     *  "  •«  V 

APR  4     iQ97 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


an  a 


OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


HE  LOOKED  down  a  gray  road, 
sensed  the  wild  hedges  and  low 
sky  of  a  free  world.  To  his  ears 
came  the  purling  sounds  of  earth,  small 
things  moving  over  it  busily,  people 
ploughing,  meadowlarks  whistling 
through  their  green  shallows.  He  turned 
slowly,  watching  a  mechanical  guard 
disappear  in  the  yard's  concrete  fortress, 
shrugged  his  lean  shoulders  and  started 
off  with  short,  unusual  steps.  When  he 
had  gone  thirty  feet  a  shrill  whistle 
sliced  over  the  high  wall.  His  face 
twitched  and  though  he  didn't  look  back 
his  brain  instantly  witnessed  the  change 
of  guards.  Like  flies  on  a  pie  crust  he 
could  see  the  men  in  dark  blue  take  up 
their  stations.  Another  brief  whistle  and 
silence  closed  in.  The  noises  of  earth  re- 
turned. A  sparrow  darted  from  the  edge 
of  a  tall  tree,  a  beetle  labored  over  the 
immense  face  of  a  buttercup,  the  sun 
struck  his  cheek. 

The  trial  and  conviction  of  Ralph 
Peabody,  in  the  spring  of  1883,  stamped 
his  memory  on  the  minds  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Bohemian  Club  of  which  he 
was  a  member,  even  if  the  remarkable 
personal  characteristics  of  the  man  failed. 
He  was  singularly  unlike  the  generality 
of  men,  with  rare  conversational  gifts, 
superb  physique  and  unaffected  disregard 
for  conventionalities.  He  was  the  cen- 
tripetal force  that  drew  the  others  into 
the  maelstrom  of  mysticism,  embracing 
the  entire  range  of  occult  phenomena, 
psychological,  cosmical,  physical  and 
spiritual,  from  Egyptian  mysteries  down 
to  the  latest  marvel  in  modern  spirit- 
ualism. 

With  this  as  a  background  he  became 
the  untrammeled  champion  of  man  and 
never  was  there  one  too  in  need  but 
that  he  found  a  ready  friend  in  Doctor 
Peabody.  But  when  the  accusation  was 
made  Doctor  Peabody  was  silent.  There 
was  one  feature  story  which  an  enter- 
prising young  managing  editor  of  an 
evening  paper  seized  upon.  That  was  all 
except  that  old  Nelson  stopped  coming 
to  the  club  and  his  daughter  Margaret 
was  all  but  forgotten,  or  perhaps  it  was 
the  regard  the  members  gave  him  as  they 


Freedom 


By  Zoe  A.  Battu 

First  Prize  Story  of  Frona  Wait 
Colburn  Prize  Contest 

gave  the  memory  of  Ralph  Peabody's 
father.  If  Doctor  Peabody  had  made 
the  least  effort  to  free  himself  .  .  .  but 
they  all  knew  in  the  beginning  he  would 
make  no  attempt  of  defense.  The  Pea- 
bodys  were  that  way. 

They  came  to  California  in  '49  in 
search  of  fortune.  Into  a  wilderness 
they  came  and  builded  for  themselves  a 
dwelling  place  but  Amos  Peabody, 
though  he  was  not  an  exception  in  migra- 
tion to  the  mines,  came  back  to  San 
Francisco  from  where  he  had  embarked 
two  years  before,  and  there  were  others 
like  Amos  Peabody  who  came  back  and 
constituted  the  business  community  of 
the  day. 

They  had  come  from  Vermont,  Ken- 
tucky, Tennessee  and  Maine,  come  with 
a  capacity  to  carry  the  ills  and  disap- 
pointments of  life,  without  abatement 
of  zeal  or  loss  of  courage,  to  a  success- 
ful end  .  .  .  the  end,  giving  to  their 
offspring  the  advantages  they  themselves 
had  missed  and  for  which  they  longed. 
Amos  Peabody  had  studied  medicine  in 
Vermont  but  the  toils  of  the  West  had 
left  little  time  for  this  pursuit.  It  was 
his  son  Ralph  who  was  to  carry  down 
the  dream  and  desire  of  the  pioneer  Pea- 
body,  the  forty-niner.  This  was  his 
dream  and  at  the  age  of  thirty  Ralph 
Peabody,  then  the  only  survivor  of  the 
sturdy  Peabody  stock,  bid  well  to  live 
the  blossom  of  his  father's  dream. 

When  the  test  came,  Doctor  Peabody 
argued  only  with  himself.  He  was 
easily  convinced  that  had  his  father  been 
living,  he  would  have  gone  as  silently 
to  the  prison  across  the  bay  .  .  .  and  he 
"TVTE  KNOW  that  hard  feeling 

**  exists,  but  we  also  know  you  will 
come  to  realize  the  penalty  you've  suf- 
fered was  just  and  that  if  you  had  not 
had  no  doubt  that  Amos  Peabody  would 
have  patted  him  on  the  back  and  re- 
minded him,  "Peabodys  are  men." 


deserved  it  you  would  not  have  received 
it.  This  five  dollars  will  be  the  first  help 
on  your  road  back." 

He  fingered  the  bill,  crumpled,  in  his 
pocket.  "Help  on  the  road  back  .  .  . 
Reinstatement  .  .  .  Hell." 

They  wanted  their  puppets  to  con- 
tinue parading.  They  wanted 

The  sun,  oh,  that  sun !  It  beat  into 
his  brain.  Bitterness,  the  years  of  work, 
the  scourge  of  loneliness  all  died.  Here 
were  green  stems,  and  breathing  grass, 
trees  humping  their  round  hills.  He  filled 
his  nostrils,  a  little  bewilderedly.  His 
lungs  ached  with  the  burden  and  he  for- 
got for  a  moment  the  tin  plates,  the 
desolate  nights  and  the  loud  play  of  men, 
their  rasping  poverty,  their  brassy  bluff 
and  their  rat-like  grief. 

A  woman  in  green  and  gray,  skirt 
and  blouse,  moving  with  the  rhythm  of 
a  little  wave  of  water,  middle-aged  and 
bedworn  .  .  .  she  passed  him  quickly, 
without  looking  up  ...  and  far  apart. 
It  hurt. 

After  a  few  steps  he  turned,  looking 
over  his  shoulder.  The  woman  was  star- 
ing at  him.  He  felt  like  asking  her  who 
in  the  hell  she  was  looking  at.  If  they 
didn't  want  the  sight  of  men  who'd 
grubbed  hard  bread  and  sow  belly,  why 
didn't  they  move?  What  made  'em  turn 
around  and  stare?  They'd  nothing  in 
common  with  men  who'd  served  ten 
years  behind  steel.  He  knew.  He  knew. 
Their  heritage  was  a  green  and  gray 
dress,  fuzzy  babies  and  men  going  to 
labor,  men  coming  to  dinner  .  .  . 

He  slumped  off  down  the  road,  think- 
ing of  that  woman  and  he  thought  of 
stone  walls  and  close-packed  march 
under  gun  through  corridors  of  sticky 
shadow  of  the  pile  and  burlap  joint. 
That  march  was  without  interference ! 

"T'hell  with  women!"  They  could 
stick  to  their  kids  and  let  men  alone, 
men  who  wanted  the  freedom  of  the 
country  green. 

Again  the  bill  in  his  pocket!  It  didn't 
mean  much.  It  wouldn't  get  him  away 
from  the  guard's  feet  tramping  the  walls 
nor  from  the  greasy  mess-slab  and  the 
whispering  that  started  from  slits  of 


102 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


flesh  nor  from  the  ungodly  sounds  creep- 
ing down  corridors  of  stone  in  the  dead 
of  night.  He'd  go  on  serving  just  the 
same.  He  laughed  hoarsely. 

"This  five  dollars  will  be  the  first 
help  on  the  road  back."  That's  what 
the  fellow  said;  a  red  bull  with  bristles 
down  his  neck.  On  the  road  back! 
They'd  thrown  a  hide  stripped  of  its 
meat  on  some  blasted  road ! 

He  brought  the  bill 
from  his  pocket  and 
tore  it  to  bits.  The 
sack-cloth  suit  would 
go  the  same  way. 
He'd  steam  every 
stink  of  sheep  -  dip 
and  iodine  out  of  his 
filthy  body  when  a 
bath  came  along. 
He'd  soak  for  eight 
weeks  in  a  tub — and 
by  God  it'd  take  it! 


warden.  A  philanthropist,  went  the 
whisper.  Money  to  throw  out  in  hand- 
fuls.  Sneers  for  philanthropy! 

"We'll  need  rain  if  this  spell  keeps 
up,"  Philanthropy  smiled. 

"I'd  like  to  feel  the  rain  on  my  face." 

"You  would!"  Philanthropy  laughed. 
"And  they  don't  let  you  feel  the  rain 
on  your  face  over  the  hill  ' 

"No." 


H 


E  GOT  into  Sal- 
mer,  a  main 
street  scattered  with 
tobacco  signs  and 
dusty  kids.  One  of 
the  signs  stopped 
him: 

"Got  any  artillery 
on  you?" 

"What  d'  you 
mean?" 

"Don't  get  so 
damned  inno  cent. 
You  bums  get  a 
shooter  outa  the  air's 
soon  as  they  let  you 
go."  He  pawed 
trouser  and  coat  pock- 
ets. "Just  got  loose 
an'  planning  your 
next?" 

"I'm  not  planning 
anything." 

"Well,  get!  We 
don't  have  'em  here  if 
we  can  help  it." 

Small  town  cops. 
He  remembered  soak- 
ing one  of  them  with 
a  bad  tomato.  Good 
enough ;  he'd  soak  an 
army  of  them,  maybe, 
give  him  enough  rot- 
ten tomatoes! 

On  down  the  road,  twirling  to  a  stop. 

"Ride?" 

"Thanks." 

The  driver  was  silent.  A  grey  whis- 
kered man,  deep  grooves  in  his  forehead, 
long-fingered  hands,  half  idle  in  the 
loose  lines  of  the  grey  horse  that  drew 
the  black  buggy. 

Ralph  Peabody  recalled  the  face  walk- 
ing through  the  prison  yard  with  the 


This  was  not  the  rebellion  of  concrete,  the  brazen  revolt  of  stone 

Past  fields  shot  with  stubble,  past 
grain  and  thin  trees  they  drove.  In  the 
long  sky  a  ghostly  moon  slept  in  her  torn 
skirts.  A  melancholy  world  ...  he 
would  like  to  feel  grass  against  his  face, 
would  like  to  smell  it  closely;  get  out 
and  fall  down  on  clover!  He  stirred 
restlessly. 

"Can  I  get  out  now?"  He  caught 
himself  on  the  "Sir." 


"Sure.  Want  to  walk  awhile?"  Phi- 
lanthrophy,  again,  smiled. 

"I  didn't  get  much  of  it  up  there," 
he  nodded,  trying  to  return  the  smile. 
His  lips  were  cast-locked ;  pressed  blood- 
less. 

A  nervous  jerk  of  the  reins,  a  short 
tempered  toss  of  the  mare's  head  and  a 
cloud  of  blue  dust  that  stung  his  throat. 
He  watched  it  to  the  bend  then  scrambled 
to  the  bank.  For  a 
short  while  he  forgot 
grass  and  small 
flowers.  He  compared 
himself  to  the  horse, 
a  poorly  driven  one 
.  .  .  to  refuse  and 
landslides  and  fallen 
brush  which  had 
tangled  him.  More 
care  now!  It  took 
ten  years  to  learn  to 
drive  a  horse  well! 

Beans,  regulations, 
soaked  bread.  Ten 
years  he  had  learned 
something  of  driving 
but  not  horse  driv- 
ing! Ten  years,  la- 
bor, orders,  hatred 
.  .  .  ten  years,  mock- 
ery, filth,  bluff.  Ten 
years ;  ignorance,  in- 
sanity .  .  .  hunger. 
Ten  years !  Ten! 
Ten !  Ten !  It  shocked 
him,  choked  his  brain, 
reeled  him,  split  his 
mouth  and  he  shouted 
ten  wildly  to  the  des- 
perate hillside,  half 
crazed  and  threw 
himself  down  atrem- 
ble. 

Gradually  the  warm 
clover  crept  to  his 
nostrils.  Delicate.  In- 
tense. Shadows 
reached  over  him.  He 
slept. 

Midnight. 

The  conf  using 
crickets  startled  him. 
He  thought  he  heard 
a  cell  door  clank. 
Night  awed  him.  In 
a  field  across  the  high- 
way a  horse  stood  like 
a  worn  scarf  against  the  sky. 

He  thought  suddenly  of  Blackie  for 
he  was  back  in  his  iron  jar  with 
Blackie.  Then:  "Free!"  His  voice 
pierced  the  darkness. 

Cold  winds  shoved  through  his  thin 
coat.  He  shivered,  remembering  the 
three  blankets — back  there.  They'd  come 
in  handy.  He  was  a  fool,  tearing  up 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


103 


that  bill.  No  he  wasn't.  Blood  money, 
it  was! 

His  cell  mate  again ! 

Blackie  might  have  been  right.  "The 
earth  a  master,  and  a  hard  one,  sucking 
your  strength,  playing  you  regularly. 
Men  drained  small  shallows  from  it 
and  were  finally  pushed  in  them." 

That  was  what  Blackie  was  getting 
at  in  the  dark  cell,  speaking  to  him  in 
that  peculiar  •whisper,  telling  him  the 
futility  of  freedom. 

He  shivered  again.  His  arm  was 
tired.  The  earth  released  him  swiftly. 
He  huddled  down  in  his  jacket  .  .  . 
his  steps,  sinking  noiselessly  in  the  grass, 
amazed  him.  This  was  not  the  rebellion  of 
concrete,  the  brazen  revolt  of  stone.  He 
took  several  steps.  Strange  that  silence ! 
He  wanted  to  get  down  and  threaten 
it,  to  shout  down  in  it,  "Buck  up  ... 
Resist.  Don't  be  so  damn  sickly.  I've 
been  made  tough  with  beating.  I've  been 
ordered  to  work  and  ordered  to  rest ! 
Been  whipped  until  my  skin  is  steel  and 
my  brain  a  hot  coal.  I  have  no  pity." 
All  this  went  on  in  his  brain,  while  the 
earth  slipped  with  a  caress  beneath  his 
feet,  giving  up  each  shoe  with  subjection. 

".  .  .  no  longer  torn  shanks  and 
bleeding  chest.  Nor  can  they  break  you 
with  superstition.  They've  stopped  try- 
ing to  smash  you  with  vast  silences.  The 
lords  advance  their  oppression,  keeping 
one  leap  ahead  of  man's  thickly  filling 
brain,  using  the  strength  of  submission, 
permitting  you  to  beat  against  walls  that 
quiver  to  the  breath,  that  look  as  thick 
as  the  towers  of  Babylon  and  are  but 
shadows!  Fight  them  with  their  own 
•weapons  as  fire  is  beaten  with  fire  and 
water  beaten  with  water.  Use  cun- 
ning; be  submissive;  there's  freedom!" 
Blackie's  words  worming  through  the 
night. 

He  reached  the  highroad,  dropping 
from  the  back  to  hard  surface.  Good, 
this  hard  foundation,  after  that  soft 
earth!  Something  to  battle  his  square- 
toed  boots.  His  eyes  smarted.  By  God 
he  was  free.  No  one  to  "Sir."  Let  'em 
try  to  fight  him  .  .  .  he'd  show  them 
what  it  was  to  buck  iron! 

He  took  short  steps,  bringing  his  feet 
down  viciously.  Inside  the  big  shoes  his 
feet  ached  and  stung. 

Then  slowly,  a  little  painfully,  on 
down  the  road  he  went. 

HE  CAME  to  a  halt  at  Fourth  and 
Howard  streets,  San  Francisco.  Yes, 
this  quarter  had  moved  from  the  water- 
front. Ten  years  makes  a  difference. 
From  the  ferry,  straight  up  Howard, 
dodging  through  traffic  with  bewildered 
eyes  .  .  .  marveling,  walked  Ralph 
Peabody. 

Up  from  a  bed  beneath  a  tree,  hungry 
and  dirty,  he  felt  like  a  damned  soul 


lost  in  an  empty  hell.  His  feet  burned 
in  their  thick  socks.  He  was  thirsty,  too, 
and  aching.  His  legs  were  white  hot 
needles  .  .  .  The  thick  soup  and  lumps 
of  bread  at  prison  he  could  understand, 
could  taste  it,  feel  it  warm  his  belly. 
The  dirty  blankets,  the  eighteen-inch 
bed,  he  could  understand.  But  freedom 
.  .  .  that  was  hard.  He  had  the  right 
now  to  go  anywhere.  He  could  move  at 
liberty.  But  his  stomach  groaned  and  his 
legs  were  white  fire. 

"Compliance.  Remember  you  split 
them  with  their  own  weapon,  twist  them 
with  their  own  power." 

Ah,  rot,  that  dope,  Blackie! 

What  had  he  resisted,  so  far?  The 
crummiest  bed,  the  dirtiest  swill  would 
be  comfort  now.  Blackie  was  a  fool. 
They  were  all  fools.  His  dark  eyes  bril- 
liant with  fever  ...  he  turned  in  to  a 
lunch  counter. 

Mould!  What  a  dump!  Any  plate 
here  with  coffee — 10  cents.  He  picked 
doughnuts  moving  away  from  the  long 
counter.  Thick  cups,  whiskers,  a  peculiar 
body  stink  .  .  .  the  waiter  pawed  over 
a  basket  of  sliced  lunch  bread. 

"Fig  juice."  The  wreck  at  his  side 
remarked. 

He  tasted  the  coffee.   It  was  bitter. 

"Slops"  the  man  added. 

When  he  dipped  his  doughnut  in  the 
cup  it  was  easier  to  swallow ;  not  as 
good  as  the  fistful  of  tea-soaked  bread 
he'd  eaten  for  ten  years.  Fed  you  free 
there,  and  it  was  better  food !  He 
drained  his  cup  slowly. 

A  fat  lout  with  blue  eyes  and  thick 
lips  listened  to  him. 

"Why  in  hell  'd'ja  eat?" 

He  didn't  answer. 

"You  get  outa  here  .  .  .  and  don't 
try  tha'  stuff  on  me,  see?.  I  gotcha 
checked,  see  stiff?" 

For  three  red  pennies  he'd  smash  the 
lights  out  of  that  louse.  A  red  flush 
crept  over  his  cheek.  He  got  away 
quickly.  Just  three  pennies  .  .  . 

He  turned  in  at  a  pool  room.  Stale 
alcohol,  plug  tobacco. 

"Listen,  brother,  cum  spare  an  old 
man  a  nickel  fer  coffee?"  The  bleared 
eyes  didn't  look  up.  Stale  liquor  struck 
his  nostrils  and  he  turned  partly  from 
the  breath. 

"Broke,  myself,  dad." 

"Jus"  a  nickel,  brother.  A  little 
nickel." 

"I'm  broke  myself,  dad.  I  haven't 
got  it."  He  moved  off.  The  broken  lips 
followed  him  with  curses.  At  the  far 
end  of  the  room  he  sat  down.  The  old 
man's  filth  lived  in  his  ears.  That  was 
resistance!  No,  it  was  something  else. 
It  was  resistance  after  failure.  Submis- 
sion. When  he  failed  with  pleading  he 
used  the  other.  A  pretty  mess !  He  tried 
to  free  his  mind  of  Blackie.  There  was 


shouting  across  from  him;  three  fellows 
with  battered  cues  and  pasty  faces.  The 
big  one  bawled  out: 

"A  two  ball,  you.  Lissen."  He  pointed 
down  the  table,  spit  between  his  feet 
and  took  a  grip  on  his  pardner's  coat. 
"Lissen.  I  played  the  eight  over  at  th' 
end  pocket  an'  kissed  the  two  in  here 
at  th'  side.  What  th'  hell — I'm  winning 
anyway,  ain't  I  ?" 

"Aw  freeze  up.  I  seen  it.  Y'  pushed 
th'  two  ball  in  with  y'r  sleeve  when 
y'made  th'  eight." 

The  third  player  said  nothing.  He 
rested  against  the  lower  end  of  the  table. 
Ever  so  often  he  would  squint  along 
his  cue  and  spit  from  tight  lips. 

The  man  on  the  bench  was  thinking 
of  a  long  room  atop  the  prison  where 
thirty  tables  were  arranged  for  credit 
prisoners.  He'd  played  at  those  tables. 
The  man  who  didn't  want  to  play  at 
them  wasn't  human.  They  were  human 
in  prison  .  .  .  that  is,  the  inmates.  But 
here  were  two  men,  free  men,  with 
money  to  play,  money  to  eat  and  sleep 
and  buy  tobacco,  fighting.  By  God !  He 
leaned  over  to  rest  his  eyes.  They  had 
full  bellies,  his  brain  went  on,  money 
to  filter  away  on  easy  life  and  clothes! 
Why  didn't  they  go  to  the  hills  to  live 
if  they  couldn't  get  along?  Once,  the 
thought  startled  him,  he  had  a  home  in 
the  hills.  There  was  a  sister  with  wild 
hair  and  long  legs  that  took  her  flying 
up  the  steps  three  at  a  time  .  .  .  the 
brown  cloth  rug  in  front  of  the  fire 
.  ...  his  father  .  .  . 

"Dad,  what's  the  most  fours'll  go  into 
seventy-six?" 

"Get  on  and  find  out  yourself,  son. 
What's  the  good  of  learning  if  some- 
one's goin'  to  give  you  answers?" 

Down  the  road  pumpkins  would  be 
covered  with  fine  frost ;  sluice  boxes  cold 
with  dampness;  autumn  would  be  tear- 
ing the  leaves  down  .  .  .  there  was  a 
schoolhouse  somewhere,  a  big  room,  lit- 
tered with  flags  and  desks  .  .  .  what  was 
that  poem?  "the  jacknife's  carved  initial, 
the  blackberry  vines  a-creeping"  .  .  . 
he  was  in  torn  jeans.  "Ralph,  you  will 
recite  'The  Old  Schoolhouse'."  ' 

It  was  revolt  then,  standing  before 
grinning  faces.  .  .  .  Thirty-five  years 
.  .  .  and  that  was  in  his  head ! 

"Gotta  match,  brother?" 

"I'm  outa  matches  and  smoking.  Outa 
everything."  He  looked  up  into  a  pale 
face. 

"Here's  a  pill.  I'll  see  if  I  c'n  rake 
a  stick  up." 

He  felt  warm  suddenly.  Sympathy 
.  .  .  the  man  returned.  His  body  was 
slim,  looked  like  a  boy's. 

"Here's  a  light,  Jack.  How  long  you 
been  out?" 

"What  d'  you  mean?" 

(Continued  on  Page  120) 


104 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


WHEN  Congress  last  July  paused 
in  a  hectic  last-minute  jam  and 
passed  a  bill  enlarging  Sequoia 
National  Park  to  nearly  three  times  its 
old  size,  nature  lovers  everywhere  con- 
gratulated themselves. 

Yet,  amid  all  gladness,  there  lingers 
dissatisfaction  in  some  quarters  over  the 
size  of  the  new  addition  and  the  wealth 
of  scenery  excluded  from  the  readjusted 
boundaries.  Yosemite  Valley,  a  scenic 
wonder,  is  but  eight  square  miles  out  of 
twelve  hundred  in  the  park,  still  Yosem- 
ite National  Park  is  twice  as  large  as  its 
sister  park  to  the  south.  This  in  the  face 
of  grander  and  more  variable  scenery 
found  in  the  southern  Sierras,  made  pos- 
sible by  the  higher  altitudes  there! 
Mighty  Kings  River  Canyon,  regarded 
by  many  as  a  rival  to  the  Yosemite  itself, 
is  still  located  in  a  mere  national  forest, 
kept  from  its  rightful  protection  by 
water-power,  lumbering  and  grazing 
interests.  Tehipite  Valley  known  for  its 
almost  perfect  grand  dome  stands  in 
danger  of  being  irrevocably  mutilated  by 
flooding  for  water-power;  incomparable 
ranges  like  {he  Videttes  and  Kearsarge 
Pinnacles  with  a  host  of  unnamed  lakes 
are  still  reserved  for  the  view  of  hardy 
campers;  glaciers  such  as  the  great  Pali- 
sade Glacier  are  still  totally  hidden  from 
public  view.  The  Sierra  Nevada  forms 
one  of  the  last  few  frontiers  in  our 
country  where  primeval  greatness  exists 
undiminished  by  the  insect  activities  of 
man,  where  the  elements  of  a  perfect 
happiness  may  be  found  by  the  dis- 
traught; a  freedom  having  the  freshness 
of  mountain  lakes  and  clearness  of  atmos- 
phere flowing  over  pass  and  pinnacle. 

If  mountain  enthusiasts  have  their 
way,  Congress  must  pass  another  bill 
adding  to  the  enlarged  Sequoia  Park  a 
large  triangle  of  land,  thirty  miles  long 
by  twenty  miles  wide,  the  tip  resting 
west  of  Big  Pine  in  the  Owens  Valley 
and  the  base  on  the  north  boundary  of 
the  present  national  reservation.  Then 
Sequoia  will  vie  with  Yosemite  in  size 
and  surpass  her  and  other  parks  in  way 
of  Alpine  scenery. 

The  topography  of  the  region  will 
become  clear  to  the  reader  after  a  de- 
scription of  the  Sierra  Nevada  range 
and  its  position  in  California,  a  position 
unique  among  its  kind  in  the  country. 
Beginning  at  the  northern  extreme  of 
the  state  with  the  volcanic  and  artistic 
cone  of  Mount  Shasta  (14,162  feet), 
the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains  run  in  a 
southeasterly  direction  for  six  hundred 
miles,  the  only  deep  break  in  the  range 
occurring  between  the  northern  peak 


California  Alps 

By  Ellsworth  E.  Davis 

and  Lake  Tahoe,  the  elbow  of  Cali- 
fornia. North  of  the  Sierra  range  are 
the  Cascade  Mountains  of  Oregon  and 
Washington ;  hardly  a  break  between 
the  two  ranges  is  noticeable.  And,  in 
fact,  five  national  parks,  in  order: 
Crater  Lake  in  the  Cascades,  Lassen, 
Yosemite,  General  Grant,  and  Sequoia, 
in  the  Sierras,  are  situated  almost  in  a 
straight  line  a  thousand  miles  long! 

With  the  exception  of  Mount  Shasta, 
the  Sierras  in  the  north  are  almost  all 
low  in  elevation — medium  height  for- 
ested peaks,  rolling  uplands  surrounding 
a  few  lakes.  In  Yosemite  only,  do  the 
altitudes  really  begin,  in  Mount  Lyell 
(13,090).  From  there  on  south  the 
Sierras  soar  to  amazing  heights  and 
spectacular  scenery  till  they  culminate 
in  the  highest  peak  in  our  country, 
Mount  Whitney  (14,501)  by  the  way, 
exactly  one-half  the  altitude  of  Mount 
Everest  (29,002),  monarch  of  the  geo- 
graphic world,  in  the  Himalayas.  The 
proposed  second  addition  to  Sequoia 
National  Park  would,  therefore,  cover 
the  cream  of  the  Sierran  country  north 
of  Mount  Whitney,  a  region  where  alps 
are  thickly  clustered  together  support- 
ing delicate  outlines  of  snow  and  stand- 
ing guard  over  countless  aquamarine 
lakes  and  diamond  creeks,  home  of  gamy 
trout.  Further  south,  the  Sierras  de- 
cline quickly  until  lost  in  the  rolling 
expanses  of  the  Mojave  desert,  although 
a  small  arm  reaches  west  to  the  Tehach- 
api,  thus  cutting  the  Golden  State 
neatly  into  two  parts,  Northern  and 
Southern  California. 

NORTH  of  this  dividing  line  and 
east  of  the  coast  ranges  is  the  Great 
Basin  of  the  San  Joaquin  and  Sacra- 
mento, world-famed  for  its  fertility  and 
home  of  a  navigable  river  that  turns 
many  mills,  irrigates  hundreds  of  square 
miles  of  grain,  fruit  and  vine.  Into 
this  depression  drains  most  of  the  water 
of  the  Sierras  by  way  of  some  eight  or 
ten  father  rivers  that  have  carved  for 
themselves  deep  canons  out  of  the  high 
mountains,  such  as  the  Kern,  Kings, 
San  Joaquin,  Merced  and  Tuolumne, 
the  last  two  in  Yosemite  National  Park. 
The  large  volume  of  water  in  those 
rivers  is  due  to  the  very  gradual  slope 
of  the  Sierras  to  the  west,  forming  a 
large  watershed  belt  from  fifty  to  sev- 
enty miles  wide  from  the  foothills  to 
the  crest  of  the  range.  A  belt  hundreds 
of  miles  long  plowed  across  here  and 
there  by  deep  chasms,  but  level  and 
rolling  for  the  most  part,  inhabited  by 


almost  every  desirable  live  thing  from  the 
tall  gravely  -conscious  Sequoia  to  the 
wind-worn  scrubby  pine,  chipmunks 
and  less  tame  creatures;  a  region  where 
shiny  domes,  polished  creek-beds  and 
flowered  meadows  vie  for  attention! 

In  contrast  to  this  western  declivity 
is  the  eastern  descent  of  the  Sierras,  an 
abrupt  slope  of  nine  and  ten  thousand 
feet  from  snow-peaks  to  the  sands  of 
Owens  Valley  and  Mono  Lake,  them- 
selves several  thousand  feet  above  sea 
level.  Here  the  Sierras  are  at  their 
best;  their  inner  character  is  shown  by 
great  bare  surfaces  of  granite  veined 
and  cracked  into  beautiful  lacework, 
streaked  here  and  there  by  brown,  am- 
ber and  crimson  hues.  For  hundreds  of 
miles  the  motorist  in  Owens  Valley  sees 
little  except  a  great  wall  of  soft  gray 
and  white  towering  above  him  to  the 
west,  tops  broken  like  the  teeth  of  a  saw 
and  adorned  with  snow-patches — a 
never-to-be-forgotten  scene !  But  that  is 
not  all.  To  the  east  are  the  restful 
rolling  outlines  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains, a  no  mean  rival  to  the  ragged 
Sierras  as  regards  elevation.  While 
Whitney  rears  its  crown  fourteen  thou- 
sand five  hundred  and  one  feet  into  the 
air  as  king  of  our  peaks,  White  Moun- 
tains Peak  across  Owens  Valley  one 
hundred  miles  north  commands  her 
range  from  an  elevation  of  fourteen 
thousand  two  hundred  and  forty-two 
feet!  That  is  Owens  Valley,  probably 
the  deepest  depression  of  its  kind  in  our 
country,  and  by  far  the  most  scenic 
approach  into  the  high  altitudes  of  the 
Sierra. 

The  Sierra  Nevada  range,  especially 
its  southern  half,  is  the  most  formid- 
able obstacle  to  travel  and  communica- 
tion in  the  entire  West,  the  Colorado 
Rockies  notwithstanding.  Here  lies  a 
reason  for  the  flow  of  population  to 
Southern  California  from  the  East,  at 
the  expense  of  the  older  northern  dis- 
tricts. Railroads  and  highways  running 
to  the  Pacific  Coast — even  airplane 
routes — are  baffled  by  the  soaring  passes, 
compelled  to  swerve  to  the  north  as  far 
as  Lake  Tahoe  and  to  the  south  around 
Mojave — an  intervening  distance  of 
about  five  hundred  miles!  The  one  or 
two  trans-Sierran  roads  north  of  Mount 
Lyell  in  Yosemite  are  closed  or  im- 
passable nine  months  of  the  year.  Per- 
haps the  better  known  of  these  roads  is 
the  scenic  Tioga  road  across  Yosemite 
National  Park,  crossing  Tioga  Pass  at 
a  rough  elevation  of  ten  thousand  feet. 
After  winding  through  thick  primeval 
forests,  ascending  under  the  shadow  of 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


105 


domes,  then  descending  around  lawn- 
banked  lakes  at  the  foot  of  majestic 
peaks — down  colorful  Levining  Canon 
to  its  foot,  Mono  Lake,  the  traveler  has 
without  effort  or  toil  seen  one  of  the 
greatest  sights  of  his  life. 

For  about  three  hundred  miles  be- 
tween Yosemite  and  Mojave  in  South- 
ern California,  there  is  no  trans-moun- 
tain road  at  all.  The  reason  is  clear. 
For  over  two  hundred  miles  the  range 
has  no  pass  less  than  ten  thousand  feet, 
roughly,  and  for  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  miles  not  one  less  than 
twelve  thousand  feet  high!  And  many 
a  state  in  the  Union  would  be  proud  if 
it  had  just  one  peak  twelve  thousand 
feet  in  altitude. 

Imagine  a  solid  granite  mass  four 
hundred  miles  long  and  from  two  to 
three  miles  high  running  south  say, 
from  Lake  Erie  between  New  York  and 
Chicago,  necessitating  railroad  tunnels 
twenty  or  thirty  miles  long.  And  you 
will  get  an  idea  of  the  barrier  to  com- 
munication and  travel  present  in  the 
High  Sierras,  which,  with  the  Cascades, 
form  America's  backbone  stretching  al- 
most from  border  to  border;  a  tail  is 
not  lacking  either — Lower  California! 
Although  it  is  not  more  than  two  hun- 
dred miles  by  air  from  Bishop  in  East- 
ern California  to  the  state  capital,  the 
Inyo  County  lawyer  must  detour  five 
or  six  hundred  miles  to  reach  Sacra- 
mento and  San  Francisco.  Already, 
there  is  a  proposal  to  force  a  new  road 
through  the  Sierras  from  Lone  Pine  in 
Inyo  County  to  the  San  Joaquin  Valley, 
probably  in  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Whit- 
ney and  Sequoia  National  Park.  A 
tremendous  undertaking!  If  such 
visions  do  materialize.  And  then  such 
a  road  can  be  kept  only  a  few  weeks 


each  year — which  makes  the  expediency 
of  the  project  a  doubtful  one. 

Nearly  sixty  peaks  in  the  United 
States  are  over  fourteen  thousand  feet; 
there  are  hundreds  within  fifty  and  five 
hundred  feet  below  that  level,  the 
Sierra  Nevada  and  the  Colorado 
Rockies  holding  the  bulk  of  such  peaks. 
To  all  practical  purposes,  the  high 
ranges  in  this  country  are  of  identical 
altitudes;  some  Vulcan  of  prehistoric 
days  must  have  swung  a  diamond  axe 
and  for  a  clear  vision,  safety,  lopped  off 
eighteen  and  twenty  thousand  foot 
spearheads.  Anyhow,  the  tops  of  Whit- 
ney, Shasta,  and  Rainier,  and  many  Col- 
orado Rocky  peaks  are  capable  of  sup- 
porting apexes  several  thousand  feet 
higher.  What  a  pity  that  a  few  of 
those  did  not  survive  to  our  day! 
Shasta's  roof  was  blown  off  not  so  many 
centuries  ago,  while  our  ever-present 
ice  and  water  were  responsible  for  depos- 
ing other  monarchies  several  degrees. 

A  ND  yet,  when  an  American  feels 
-£*-  like  seeing  mountain  scenery  and 
inhaling  the  exhilarating  air  of  high 
altitudes,  off  he  goes  to  Switzerland, 
oblivious  of  our  own  natural  wonders 
and  national  parks  that  find  an  equal 
in  no  other  part  of  the  world.  Even 
Mount  McKinley  in  Alaska — our  ter- 
ritory— is  a  mile  higher  than  the  cele- 
brated Mount  Blanc.  And  only  one 
party  has  conquered  it,  the  .same  with 
Mount  Logan  in  Canada,  nearly  as 
high.  Even  the  Himalayas  find  a  rival 
in  the  South  American  Andes;  in  the 
latter  range  are  sixteen  peaks  over 
twenty  thousand  feet,  four  miles  above 
sea  level;  including  Mount  Aconcagua 
(23,080,  according  to  last  survey)  and 
Mount  Tupungato  (23,000)!  The 


Andes,  being  an  extension  of  the  Sierras 
and  Rockies  themselves,  shows  how  high 
our  Whitney  and  her  fellows  may  have 
been  millions  of  years  before  glaciers 
started  their  work.  Remnants  of  those 
powerful  ice  sheets  can  still  be  seen 
hanging  on  shelves  and  hidden  cirques 
of  the  highest  peaks,  slowly  completing 
their  sculpture  of  ages.  No  two  are 
exactly  alike;  their  story  is  written  in 
the  staircases  or  series  of  cups  left  be- 
hind, in  fields  of  dazzling-white  pol- 
ished rock  that  cannot  be  told  from 
water,  and  in  great  cavities  chiseled  out 
of  granite,  such  as  the  Yosemite  Valley. 
The  largest  of  those  Sierra  glaciers  is 
the  Palisade  Glacier,  king  of  its  kind 
in  the  United  States,  with  an  area  of 
two  miles  by  one  mile  and  seven  hun- 
dred feet  deep.  This  sheet  is  within 
the  tip  of  the  second  proposed  addition 
to  Sequoia  National  Park. 

Switzerland  has  her  Matterhorn 
(14,780)  and  Mount  Blanc  (15,781), 
the  latter  over  a  thousand  feet  above 
Whitney.  But  the  Swiss  peaks  over 
thirteen  and  fourteen  thousand  can  be 
counted  on  the  fingers,  perhaps  the  toes, 
too,  while  in  the  California  Alps  many 
have  no  names  because  of  their  large 
number  and  ability  to  resist  the  hard! 
est  climbers.  The  total  bulk  of  the 
European  Alps  would  appear  insignifi- 
cant beside  our  own  Rockies  and  Sierras. 
In  the  Rockies  alone  there  are  forty-four 
peaks  over  fourteen  thousand  feet,  three 
of  them  among  the  first  six  in  our 
nation.  California  takes  first  rank  with 
Mount  Whitney  (14,501),  Colorado 
comes  second  with  Mount  Elbert 
(14,420),  Washington  is  third  with 
Mount  Rainier  (14,408).  Then  Col- 
orado follows  with  Mount  Massive 
(Continued  on  Page  112) 


One  of  Nature's 

beauties — is 
there  anything  to 

equal  this  in 
a  far  country? 


106 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


Thories  and  Facts 


THE  temperature  of  the  earth's 
atmosphere  is  regulated  by  two  op- 
posing forces  and  thus  kept  at  the 
temperature  at  which  life  can  exist. 
These  forces  are:  The  heat-producing 
forces  of  the  sun,  which  are  carried  to 
the  earth  by  the  light-rays;  and  the  self- 
cooling  forces  of  the  earth,  which  are 
forever  reducing  the  heat  brought  by 
the  rays  of  the  sun.  These  two  forces, 
working  against  each  other,  control  the 
temperature  and  prevent  it  from  attain- 
ing too  great  extremes. 

It  has  long  been  believed  that  the 
surplus  heat  of  the  earth  rose  into  the 
air  and  escaped  into  space.  This  idea  is 
somewhat  the  same  as  the  old  belief  that 
the  earth  was  flat.  Space  cannot  be  any- 
thing other  than  a  perfect  vacuum — 
absolutely  nothing — and  therefore  can- 
not have  any  temperature,  meaning 
neither  cold  nor  warm;  nor  could  it  re- 
ceive any  heat  from  the  earth.  The  heat 
which  the  earth  receives  from  the  sun 
and  which  is  absorbed  by  the  air  is  re- 
duced, owing  to  the  power  of  the  air 
to  lower  its  temperature.  Without  this 
power  the  atmosphere  would  retain  all 
the  heat  received,  and  would  become 
heated  to  such  an  extent  that  no  life 
could  exist  on  the  earth. 

It  is  very  doubtful  if  what  is  known 
as  ether,  which  is  supposed  to  fill  the 
space  between  the  heavenly  bodies,  is 
really  a  substance,  as  it  has  none  of  the 
characteristics  of  any  substance  known. 
It  offers  no  resistance  to  any  objects 
passing  through  it,  nor  is  it  affected  by 
gravity.  It  is  incompressible,  structure- 
less, motionless,  and  does  not  resist  the 
rays  of  light  in  the  least.  It  therefore 
does  not  appear  possible  that  space  could 
absorb  the  heat  of  any  substance.  If  space 
(a  perfect  vacuum)  could  absorb  heat, 
it  would  retain  it,  which  would  result 
in  the  entire  universe  being  gradually 
heated  from  all  the  heat-producing 
bodies.  It  is,  therefore,  plain  that  all 
the  planets  on  which  life  exists,  have  a 
system  of  cooling,  or  they  would  retain 
all  the  heat  absorbed  from  the  rays  of 
the  sun,  in  addition  to  the  heat  produced 
on  them,  with  the  result  that  there 
would  be  no  planets  with  a  temperature 
at  which  life  could  exist. 

Experiments  have  shown  that  half  of 
the  earth's  atmosphere  lies  below  17,600 
feet  above  sea-level,  showing  a  barometer 
reading  of  15  at  that  height.  At  an 
altitude  of  29,000  feet  above  sea-level, 
the  barometer  shows  an  air  pressure  of 
9/4 — proving  that  less  than  one-third  of 
the  atmosphere  lies  above  that  height, 
according  to  the  balloon  ascension  of 


By  Alexander  Evensen 

Glaisher  and  Coxwell  made  September 
5,  1862.  From  these  figures  it  does  not 
appear  that  the  atmosphere  can  possibly 
extend  to  a  greater  height  than  from 
seventeen  to  twenty-five  miles  (roughly 
estimated) — the  height  at  which  meteors 
usually  explode. 

There  is  a  theory  that  the  centrifugal 
force  caused  by  the  rotation  of  the  earth 
affects  gravity,  making  it  possible  for  air 
to  exist  at  a  height  of  over  one  hundred 
miles  above  the  earth's  surface,  without 
the  pressure  of  such  an  amount  of  air 
being  felt.  The  centrifugal  force  is  not 
the  same  over  the  whole  earth,  being 
greatest  at  the  equator,  and  lessening 
the  greater  the  distance  from  the  equator, 
and  no  centrifugal  force  whatever  exists 
at  the  poles.  Meteors  explode  when  com- 
ing in  contact  with  the  air  at  practically 
the  same  height  over  the  entire  earth, 
therefore  it  would  not  seem  that  the 
centrifugal  force  has  much  influence  on 
the  atmosphere,  although  there  is  un- 
doubtedly a  slight  difference  between  the 
height  of  the  atmosphere  at  the  equator 
and  at  the  poles,  due  to  the  centrifugal 
force  caused  by  the  earth  revolving. 

Experiments  have  been  made  to  ascer 
tain  the  earth's  gravity,  giving  the  earth's 
gravity  at  the  equator  as  32.0875,  and 
at  the  poles  as  32.2577,  the  difference 
undoubtedly  being  due  to  the  centrifugal 
force,  although  it  is  sometimes  believed 
that  this  difference  is  caused  by  the 
diameter  of  the  earth  measuring  27  miles 
more  at  the  equator  than  at  the  poles, 
and  gravity  being  greater  nearest  the 
earth's  center.  Gravity  lessens  only 
about  1-1 60-43  7th  part  for  each  1000 
feet  of  altitude,  which  shows  that  the 
gravity  of  the  earth  extends  to  a  great 
distance,  although  at  a  greater  altitude 
gravity  undoubtedly  diminishes  more  per 
1000  feet  than  it  does  nearer  the  earth. 

Air  and  water  are  two  substances  that 
do  not  produce  heat  by  friction.  The 
greatest  air  friction  has  never  been 
known  to  produce  the  slightest  trace  of 
heat.  No  storms  or  cyclones  produce 
heat,  nor  do  fast  running  machines.  The 
blades  of  an  aeroplane  propeller  traveling 
at  their  greatest  speed  show  no  sign  of 
getting  warm  from  air  friction.  If  it 
were  possible  that  meteors  could  become 
heated  (to  the  extent  of  the  white  heat 
which  they  show  when  first  visible)  by 
friction  with  the  rarified  and  cold  air 
at  a  high  altitude,  and  in  the  short  time 
it  takes  for  a  meteor  to  reach  the  earth's 
surface,  then  friction  with  denser  air 
would  certainly  produce  heat.  Meteors 


break  from  sudden  cooling  when  coming 
in  contact  with  cold  air  at  high  altitudes. 
Rapid  cooling  of  such  substances  of 
which  meteors  are  composed,  causes  them 
to  break  in  many  pieces,  as  a  very  hot 
rock  breaks  when  dropped  into  water. 
Even  at  the  great  speed  at  which 
meteors  travel,  they  could  not  travel  far 
through  the  atmosphere  before  being  ar- 
rested in  their  speed  from  the  resistance 
of  the  air,  which  increases  greatly,  the 
greater  the  speed  of  the  object. 

AT  A  speed  of  25  miles  per  hour  near 
the  earth's  surface,  air  resistance  is 
3.075  pounds  per  square  foot.  At  50 
miles,  12.3  per  square  foot;  at  100  miles 
per  hour  49.2  per  square  foot,  and  in- 
creasing in  the  same  proportion,  being 
multiplied  about  four  times  each  time 
the  speed  is  doubled.  At  a  speed  of  ten 
miles  per  second — the  speed  at  which 
meteors  are  supposed  to  travel — the  re- 
sistance in  dense  air  near  the  sea-level, 
would  be  about  five  million  pounds  per 
square  foot.  Where  the  air  is  rarified 
to  a  one-hundredth  part  of  that  at  sea 
level,  air  resistance  still  would  be  more 
than  500  pounds  per  square  foot.  Meteors 
weighing  approximately  from  200  to  600 
pounds  per  cubic  foot  have,  therefore, 
not  sufficient  weight  per  meteor  to  retain 
a  great  speed  when  striking  the  atmo- 
sphere. Therefore,  when  a  meteor 
is  seen  to  travel  at  a  great  speed,  that 
meteor  is  above  the  earth's  atmosphere. 
Air  resistance  or  air  friction  would  un- 
doubtedly decrease  with  lesser  density  of 
the  air.  At  different  speeds  of  aeroplanes, 
such  as  aeroplanes  traveling  at  a  speed  of 
200  miles  per  hour,  there  would  be  an 
air  resistance  of  196.8  pounds  per  square 
foot  when  near  sea-level. 

At  an  altitude  where  the  density  of  the 
air  is  one-half,  it  would  have  the  same 
air  resistance  as  if  going  100  miles  per 
hour — about  49  pounds  per  square  foot, 
and  so  on — the  more  rarified  the  air,  the 
less  air  friction,  making  the  air  resistance 
about  12J4  pounds  per  square  foot  where 
air  resistance  (due  to  less  density)  is  only 
a  quarter  of  what  it  would  be  near  sea 
level.  It  takes  1.64  horsepower  per 
square  foot  to  maintain  a  speed  of  50 
miles  per  hour,  when  air  resistance  is 
12.3  per  square  foot.  At  100  miles  per 
hour,  with  air  resistance  of  49.2  per 
square  foot,  13.2  horsepower  is  required, 
making  it  eight  times  more  power  re- 
quired to  double  the  speed  when  the  den- 
sity of  the  air  is  the  same.  It  is,  there- 
fore, not  possible  that  a  meteor  could  be- 
come heated  from  friction  with  the  air, 
even  if  friction  with  air  could  produce 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


107 


heat,  because  the  only  power  of  the 
meteor  to  maintain  its  speed  consists  in 
its  own  weight. 

Air  and  water  are  self-  cooling  and 
are  the  earth's  two  greatest  heat  reducers. 
Each  substance  appears  to  possess  a  tem- 
perature of  its  own  which  it  seeks  to  gain 
when  above  or  below  it.  Water  will  ex- 
pand when  at  a  higher  or  lower  tempera- 
ture than  that  of  39°  above  zero  (Fahren- 
heit), and  is  always  seeking  to  gain  that 
temperature.  This  is  noticeable  in  the 
depths  of  the  sea  and  in  deep  lakes  where 
the  temperature  of  the  water  is  always 
close  to  the  temperature  at  which  it  is  the 
most  contracted. 

WHEN  water  freezes  it  stores  cold, 
therefore  ice  forms  slowly  and  melts 
slowly.  Snow  absorbs  much  of  the  cold 
from  the  air,  keeping  it  from  reaching 
too  low  a  temperature  in  winter,  in  the 
colder  regions  of  the  earth.  When  salt 
and  ice  are  mixed,  salt  compels  the  ice 
to  turn  to  liquid,  and  thus  releases  the 
cold  which  is  stored  in  the  ice,  resulting 
in  a  much  lower  temperature  than  that 
of  the  ice  or  water  separately,  the  salt 
making  it  possible  for  water  to  have  a 
temperature  of  much  below  freezing 
point  and  remain  liquid,  as  water  alone 
cannot  hold  the  amount  of  cold  in  a 
liquid  state  that  it  can  when  solid,  ex- 
cept under  a  great  pressure. 

The  earth  is  composed  mostly  of  sub- 
stances which  seek  low  temperatures  and 
would  cool  off  to  a  very  low  degree  if 
not  influenced  by  the  rays  of  the  sun. 


The  sun  is  composed  of  substances  which 
seek  a  high  temperature  and  will,  there- 
fore, retain  its  heat.  The  pressure  of 
the  sun-rays  offsets  the  gravity  of  the 
sun  and  thus  prevents  the  approach  of 
meteors  or  other  objects  which  might 
diminish  the  sun's  heat,  by  the  addition 
of  matter  which  might  tend  to  have  a 
cooling  effect.  There  is  no  certain  evi- 
dence that  the  sun  is  cooling,  as  the 
climate  of  the  earth  has  undoubtedly 
been  influenced  at  all  times  by  the  sun, 
and  there  have  been  no  great  changes 
of  the  earth's  temperature  in  general, 
with  the  exception  of  long  periods  of 
warm  and  cold  recurring  like  summers 
and  winters — of  which  there  have  been 
many,  known  as  glacier  periods. 

The  question  has  sometimes  been 
raised  as  to  whether  the  heat  of  the  sun 
is  lessening  or  increasing,  and  the  ma- 
jority of  opinions  seem  to  agree  that  it 
-is  decreasing,  in  which  case  it  is  gen- 
erally understood  that  the  climate  of  the 
earth  will  be  materially  affected,  and 
will  become  gradually  colder,  until  in 
the  course  of  time  life  would  become 
extinct.  This  would  not  necessarily  be 
so.  We  assume  that  the  earth  maintains 
its  present  position  in  the  solar  system 
and  its  distance  from  the  sun  by  the 
working  of  two  opposite  forces — the 
gravity  of  the  sun  which  draws  the  earth 
towards  it,  and  the  repelling  pressure  of 
the  sun's  light-rays  which  keep  the  earth 
from  approaching  too  closely  to  the  sun. 
If,  for  any  reason,  the  sun's  heat  should 
diminish,  the  force  of  the  light-rays  from 


the  sun  would  also  lessen  their  power 
to  repel  the  earth,  and  thus  the  earth 
would  be  drawn  closer  to  the  sun  in  like 
proportion  to  the  lessening  of  the  power 
of  the  light-rays,  and  therefore  a  tem- 
perature and  climate  much  like  that 
which  we  have  at  present  would  be  main- 
tained. 

On  the  other  hand,  should  the  heat 
of  the  sun  increase,  this  need  not  greatly 
affect  the  climate  of  the  earth.  The  earth 
would  always  maintain  its  position  at  the 
distance  from  the  sun  where  it  would 
receive  the  amount  of  light  and  heat 
needed  to  sustain  a  climate  suitable  to 
the  kind  of  life  the  earth  can  produce 
and  support. 

The  same  law  of  the  opposing  force 
of  gravity  and  the  repelling  force  of  the 
pressure  of  the  light-rays  from  the  sun, 
must  apply  to  all  the  planets  causing 
them  to  retain  their  position  at  the 
distance  from  the  sun  where  gravity  and 
the  repelling  force  are  equalized,  their 
distances  depending  upon  their  size  and 
the  substance  of  which  each  planet  is 
composed. 

In  places  in  the  interior  of  the  earth 
where  there  are  substances  either  like 
those  of  which  the  sun  is  composed,  and 
which  seek  to  retain  a  high  temperature, 
or  substances  which  will  burn  without 
air,  or  which  will  become  heated  by  con- 
tact with  water,  heat  has  been  produced, 
and  in  certain  places  where  heat  pro- 
duction has  been  very  great  volcanoes 
have  resulted. 

(Continued  on  Page  112) 


Such  crevices  as 
this  have 

been  formed  by 
temperature 
of  the  earth 


108 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


Twenty  Years  After 


FROM  Los  Angeles  on  a  pleasant 
autumn  evening  I  drive  south  on 
a  zigzag  course  through  fields  of 
corn  and  cabbages,  of  tomatoes  and  pep- 
pers ;  through  thriving  communities  and 
towns:  Huntington  Park,  Downey,  Nor- 
walk,  Anaheim.  I  am  at  once  eager 
and  fearful,  for  my  destination  is 
Orange,  my  childhood  home,  and  I  am 
returning  after  an  absence  of  twenty 
years. 

I  naturally  expect  to  find  a  great 
change  in  my  small  town.  My  reason 
pessimistically  cautions  me  that  all  the 
old  landmarks,  all  the  familiar  faces,  will 
be  gone.  But  deep  down  in  me  I  long 
for  things  to  be  the  same  as  they  were 
when  I  was  a  kid.  ' 

It  is  nearly  dark  when  I  roll  up  West 
Chapman  Street,  across  the  railroad 
tracks  and  around  the  fresh  cool  plaza — 
the  same  old  plaza  except  that  there  are 
more  flowers  and  shrubbery  and  the 
lawns  are  better  cared  for,  and  the 
wooden  railing  where  once  stood  Dob- 
bin and  surrey,  is  gone.  It  is  too  late 
for  the  four-mile  drive  to  Villa  Park, 
for  the  roads  may  be  strange  now,  and 
perhaps  the  residents  still  go  to  bed  at 
nine  o'clock. 

A  hotel?  Oh,  yes!  A  new,  modern 
hotel — one  block  to  the  north.  A  big, 
airy,  clean  room  overlooking  tiny  white 
cottages  and  flower  gardens.  Presently 
to  bed,  to  lie  awake  for  hours  listening 
to  the  unaccustomed  silence  which  is 
accentuated  by  the  rhythmic  chant  of  the 
cricket  chorus.  Childhood  memories. 
Frogs  singing  love  songs  in  the  irriga- 
tion ditch  beyond  the  hedge.  Coyotes 
baying  at  the  stars.  Roistering  roosters, 
impatient  for  the  dawn.  A  steel  guitar 
sobbing  from  a  nearby  veranda,  sug- 
gestive of  drowsy,  jasmine-scented  air, 
of  hula  dancers,  beach  boys  and  mur- 
muring waves  on  Waikiki. 

Morning  comes,  one  of  those  cooly 
caressing  mornings  with  which  South- 
ern California  is  so  prodigal.  Back  to 
the  plaza  for  an  appetizing  breakfast. 
Then  into  the  old  coupe  and  up  East 
Chapman  Street  with  heartstrings  keyed 
tight  with  anticipation. 

ABROAD  paved  highway  now,  in 
place  of  the  oiled  road  which  once 
seemed  so  narrow  and  long  under  the 
sluggish  wheels  of  buggy  or  bicycle.  1 
cross  a  concrete  bridge  and  suddenly 
find  myself  in  El  Modena.  I  should 
have  turned  north,  but  the  distance 
seems  so  much  shorter  than  it  used  to. 
Oh,  well,  now  that  I'm  here  I'll  call  at 
the  Perkins  ranch  and  cross  the  creek 
there.  Perhaps  Wyllys  Perkins,  one- 


/>'//  Louis  Dc.lt  an 

time  boon  companion  in  schoolboy  plan 
and  prank,  will  still  be  around.  Sure 
enough,  he  is.  At  least  his  orange  grove, 
his  little  bungalow  home,  his  pretty 
young  wife  and  two  boys  are  here. 
Wyllys  will  be  back  at  noon.  He  is  a 
State  Horticultural  expert  and  is  out 
inspecting  other  groves. 

Next  to  cut  across  the  old  Santiago 
creek  bed,  once  so  rich  in  possibilities 
for  boy  adventures  with  its  swimming 
holes,  its  chilacayote  vines  and  its  kildee 
eggs  in  the  sand.  It  is  dry  now,  but  the 
rocky  road  which  my  bare  feet  once 
knew  so  well  looks  unfamiliar  and  un- 
promising for  rubber  tires,  so  I  turn 
back  toward  Orange  and  follow  the 
boulevard  around  by  the  railway  station, 
vaguely  remembered  as  Wanda,  but  now 
fittingly  rechristened  Villa  Park.  And 
here  I  see  great  packing  houses,  with  the 
legend  "Sun-kissed"  across  sides  and 
ends.  Then  up  the  Santiago  highway, 
through  rich  green  groves  of  orange  and 
lemon  trees,  to  the  old  home  ranch.  It 
is  in  strange  hands  now,  but  it  looks 
much  the  same.  The  trees  along  the  road 
are  less  rambling  and  the  barb-wire  fenre 
and  cypress  hedge  are  gone,  but  the  old 
house  looks  strangely  familiar.  And 
just  across  the  road  the  same  old  neigh- 
bors help  to  bring  back  youthful  illu- 
sions. 

The  Bathgates  are  the  old-timers  of 
Villa  Park  now.  Forty  years — or  is  it 
fifty? — since  they  came  out  from  Eng- 
land to  this  wild  new  country.  The 
children  are  all  gone:  Sim  and  Will 
farming  at  San  Juan  Capistrano  in  the 
southern  end  of  the  county ;  Kate,  now 
Mrs.  Guy  Williams,  with  a  big  family 
of  her  own,  also  at  Capistrano;  May,  a 
psychological  expert  at  the  University 
of  California ;  Florence  studying  at  Ox- 
ford, in  the  old  country,  and  Kenneth 
at  the  State  University.  All  alone  now, 
and  many  of  the  old  neighbors  have 
passed  along.  But  they  are  attached  to 
the  old  home,  and  Villa  Park  is  a  pretty 
good  place  to  live.  No,  they  aren't  plan- 
ning a  trip  back  to  the  land  of  their 
birth. 

Much  reminiscing  of  those  earlier 
years,  and  I  am  thrilled  to  learn  that 
several  of  my  old  playmates  are  still  in 
the  neighborhood.  So  ,back  to  have 
lunch  with  the  Perkins  family.  The 
same  Wyllys,  perhaps  a  bit  more  sober 
and  conscious  of  his  responsibilities. 

Remember  the  time,  Wyllys,  when 
we  played  hooky  and  went  hunting  bird 
eggs?  And  the  big  owl  that  chased  us, 


and  how  the  sparrowhawk  egg  broke  in 
your  mouth  when  you  were  coming 
down  the  dead  sycamore  tree?  And  the 
morning  we  were  called  into  the  cloak 
room  and  old  man  Chapman  shook  me 
until  he  was  too  tired  to  chastise  you? 
Anyhow  we  were  the  first  kids  that  had 
been  licked  for  many  years  at  Villa 
Park  School.  And  remember  how  you 
and  Joe  Kosino  used  to  fight  all  the 
time?  So  Joe  is  still  around.  And  he 
has  been  all  over  the  country  in  vaude- 
ville. Some  musician — Joe!  And  old 
man  Chapman  is  now  selling  real  estate 
at  El  Modena.  Well,  well — what  do 
you  know!  Pretty  good  teacher,  Chap- 
man, even  though  we  did  make  life 
miserable  for  him. 

And  now  to  visit  the  Albert  Lee's 
another  pioneer  family,  and  to  locate 
son  George  on  another  ranch.  Strange 
how  little  these  boys  have  changed  in 
twenty  years.  And  stranger,  how  little 
change  they  find  in  us.  George  rather 
apologetically  tells  how  he  came  back 
from  France  after  the  war,  married  and 
settled  down  to  the  staid  life  of  a  citrus 
rancher.  And  in  defense,  explains  that 
the  successful  farmer  of  today  is  not  the 
traditional  "hick"  of  yesteryear.  Farm- 
ing now  requires  scientific  method  and 
much  study  of  soils,  fertilizers  and  pests. 

How  this  section  of  Villa  Park  has 
changed!  Where  once  stretched  grain 
fields  and  vineyards,  are  now  almost 
continuous  orchards  of  citrus  trees,  wtih 
a  few  avocados  here  and  there.  And 
the  old  Bixby  ranch,  with  the  big  red 
house  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  is  now  .1 
country  club,  with  greens  and  fairways 
adorning  the  slopes  once  covered  with 
cactus,  sagebrush  and  a  scrably  olive  or- 
chard. 

And  what  has  become  of  the  Thomp- 
son boys,  who  had  lived  at  the  old  Bixby 
Ranch,  now  the  Fairway  Country  Club- 
house. Somerville,  I'm  told,  is  studying 
and  teaching  at  the  University  of  Hawaii 
in  Honolulu;  and  Conger,  the  Beau 
Brummel,  who  had  worn  a  necktie  and 
shoes  and,  at  the  mature  age  of  seven- 
teen, had  married  the  belle  of  Villa 
Park  School,  is  handling  a  fleet  of  trac- 
tors and  running  a  garage  out  toward 
Olive.  "Yes,"  says  George,  "you  must 
look  up  Conger.  He  has  three  children 
now,  the  oldest  fourteen — a  girl." 

Next  to  the  Collins  ranch  to  see 
Frank,  remembered  as  a  big-eyed,  tousle- 
haired  boy  of  ten,  but  now  a  leading 
citizen,  owner  of  many  fine  acres  and 
head  of  the  school  board,  just  as  his 
father  was  in  the  old  days.  Frank  pro- 
duces an  ancient  photograph  of  the  Villa 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


109 


Park  student  body  of  1904,  and  there  is 
much  joyful  reminiscing  and  specula- 
tion on  various  ones.  How  different 
those  vaguely  familiar  faces  look  now! 
The  boy  leaders  who  once  seemed  such 
manly  daredevils,  the  pretty  girls  whom 
I  affected  to  scorn  and  whom  I  secretly 
worshipped — they  are  now,  to  my  de- 
risive gaze,  just  a  motley  array  of  coun- 
try kids. 

With  Frank  and  his  two  oldest  to 
escort  me,  I  go  to  inspect  the  reinforced 
concrete  school  building  which  stands 
on  the  site  of  the  little  dirty-white 
schoolhouse  of  fond  recollection.  There 
are  many  changes  in  the  grounds,  too. 
A  smooth  gravelled  field  where  we  used 
to  lose  our  baseball  in  the  grass  and 
squirrel  holes.  The  old  windmill  is 
gone.  The  pepper  trees  are  trimmed 
and  a  neat,  citified  lawn  spreads  beneath. 
Only  the  old  bell  that  used  to  toll  out 
its  summons  to  reluctant  country  boys 
and  girls  with  the  tapper  which  always 
disappeared  on  Hallowe'en,  remains  of 
the  old  school. 

Good-bye,  Frank,  and  school-yard 
ghosts,  and  back  to  the  north  side  cf 
Villa  Park,  where  resides  the  Conger 
Thompsons.  Much  amusement  here,  as 
first  Conger  and  then  his  adorable  wife 
fail  to  identify  their  one-time  playmate. 
A  happy  family  this,  and  a  cordial  at- 
mosphere, and  I  am  easily  persuaded  to 
remain  for  dinner.  And  when,  later  in 
the  evening,  the  George  Lees  drop  in, 
the  renewal  of  long  neglected  intimacies 
exceeds  my  fondest  anticipations. 

'T'HERE  is  one  more  colleague  of  my 
A  childhood  days  whom  I  must  see  to- 
night. Chauncey  Squires,  the  Peck's 
bad  boy  of  our  neighborhood,  has  a  fam- 
ily now  and  his  mother's  big  ranch  to 
care  for.  But  he  works  from  choice 
long  hours  on  the  rock-crusher,  which  is 
taking  from  the  barren  bed  of  the  Santi- 
ago the  accumulated  gravel  of  decades 
for  use  in  paving  the  numerous  boule- 
vards which  spread  over  this  paradise 
valley  like  a  mesh. 

Chauncey  is  at  home  and  in  bed,  but 
he  gets  up  to  view  the  ignominious  de- 
parture of  his  old  comrade,  sitting  at 
the  wheel  of  a  decrepit  coupe  with  a 
broken  rear  axle,  a  tow-car  hauling  it 
backward  down  the  highway,  and  the 
disgusted  owner  looking  regretfully  out 
upon  the  peaceful  village  receding  in 
the  moonlight  as  the  ridiculous  caravan 
rattles  toward  Orange. 

Another  night  at  the  homey  hotel, 
a  forenoon's  wait  for  repairs,  and  then 
south  through  prosperous  Santa  Ana, 
the  county's  metropolis,  and  twenty 
miles  on  the  San  Diego  State  Highway 
to  San  Juan  Capistrano,  famed  for  its 
ancient  mission  and  more  recently  for 
the  marvelous  productivity  of  its  soil. 


There  are  two  reasons  for  the  trip 
to  Capistrano — to  renew  acquaintance 
with  the  Bathgate  boys,  Villa  Park  prod- 
ucts who  have  been  "dry  farming"  at 
Laguna  for  several  years  and  are  now 
prospering  at  San  Juan  and  to  visit 
the  Williams  ranches,  according  to  loyal 
Villa  Parkers — for  the  Williams  broth- 
ers also  came  out  of  Villa  Park — the 
finest  ranches  in  the  county.  "Six  times 
the  average  yield"  is  the  proud  record 
of  Guy  Williams'  orange  groves  this 
year.  And  Judge  R.  Y.  Williams  has 
for  years  been  transforming  the  bean 
fields  and  waste  stretches  of  this  fertile 


FOR  GOOD  GREEKS 

MIDAS,  desperate  for  drink, 
Gulping  lava,  winced  and  frowned, 
Dumb  in  torment,  being  told 
-Of  a  cataract  of  gold 
Pouring  richly  to  the  ground. 

Midas,  with  his  stupid  brain, 
Only  thought  of  coins  that  clink, 
Hard,  round,  yellow  disks  that  bound, 
Skip  and  wheel  across  the  ground. 

Pity  him,  who  has  not  lain 
In  the  rain  with  Danae, 
Known  the  golden  rush  that  falls 
In  a  room  with  wooden  walls, 
Loveliest  of  miracles! 

Golden   waterfalls  refresh 
That  dry  earth,  our  arid  flesh: 
It  is  beautiful  to  see 
How  a  human  body  glows 
As  the  colored  shower  goes 
Deeper,  deeper,  seeping  in 
Underneath  the  thirsty  skin. 

Orange  blood  and  liquid  sun 
Mingle  in  the  veins  and  run, 
Run,  run,  run.     .  .  .  Rejoice  with  me, 
I  have  been  with  Danae! 

— Rolf  Humphries. 


little  valley  into  a  veritable  paradise  of 
citrus  and  walnut  orchards. 

The  Bathgates  have  changed  even  less 
than  other  companions  of  our  youth. 
Just  now  they  are  shipping  fat  green 
tomatoes  to  Eastern  markets.  Yes,  they 
are  doing  pretty  well  here.  Better  than 
dry  farming,  where  dry  winters  meant 
no  crops.  But  even  with  these  rich 
bottom  lands  they  have  their  trials  at 
times.  For  instance  the  cloudburst  last 
winter  which  flooded  their  walnut 
groves. 

Guy  Williams  is  Villa  Park's  most 
illustrious  son,  in  that  community  opin- 
ion, although  his  brothers,  R.  Y.  and 
W.  B.,  the  bankers,  are  close  behind. 
Guy  is  now  one  of  the  county's  most 
prosperous  farmers,  with  beautiful  or- 


chards, consistently  abundant  crops,  a 
fine  home  and  a  large,  healthy  family. 
Some  say  Guy  has  been  lucky.  He  says 
so  himself.  But  those  who  know  of  his 
modest  beginning,  of  the  twenty-five 
years  of  long  days  in  two-handed  strug- 
gle with  the  soil,  his  cool,  careful  judg- 
ment in  buying  lands  and  choosing 
crops,  are  of  the  opinion  that  he  has 
earned  his  success.  Disabled  for  the 
past  few  weeks  with  a  broken  hand,  this 
labor-loving  son  of  the  soil  is  worrying 
himself  into  a  frenzy  because  he  can't 
do  two  men's  work.  His  civic  duties, 
however,  are  apparently  benefitting,  for 
he  and  Mrs.  Guy,  remembered  as  Kate 
Bathgate,  teacher  of  the  Villa  Park 
lower  school,  are  off  attending  to  the 
official  business  of  Capistrano's  school 
board. 

A  hundred  yards  south  of  Guy  Wil- 
liams' house  is  the  home  of  Judge  R.  Y. 
Williams,  recently  retired  after  a  long 
and  honorable  service  in  the  District  At- 
torney's office  and  on  the  Superior 
Bench  of  Orange  County.  "R.  Y."  was 
a  rancher  before  he  was  a  lawyer.  And 
now  he  has  given  up  the  law  to  look 
after  his  extensive  farming  interests.  In 
late  years,  it  is  said,  he  has  several  times 
declined  appointments  to  higher  courts, 
but  though  he  occasionally  visits  his 
ranches  in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  and 
his  oil  wells  at  Long  Beach  and  in 
Texas,  he  has  elected  to  stay  in  the 
county  which  has  so  well  rewarded  him 
for  the  many  years  of  service  and  toil. 

The  Judge  is  a  philosopher  and, 
though  he  has  ofttimes  proved  his  faith 
and  vision  by  investments,  he  is  ultra- 
conservative  in  talking  of  his  county's 
resources. 

"Yes,  we  have  some  mighty  rich  land 
down  here,"  he  admits,  "but  there  is 
going  to  a  big  water  problem  before 
long.  The  consumption  is  increasing 
tremendously  and  the  supply  is  standing 
still.  Then  crops  are  always  uncertain. 
Walnuts  have  been  considered  a  sure 
thing,  but  this  year  the  crop  was  a  fail- 
ure. Overproduction  is  rapidly  taking 
the  big  profits  out  of  the  orange  indus- 
try. Scale  and  other  pests  are  getting 
worse  every  year  in  spite  of  better  sprays 
and  fumigation.  And  the  labor  problem, 
what  with  the  barring  of  Mexican  im- 
migrants, is  approaching  a  crisis.  The 
farming  industry,  in  my  opinion,  is  far 
behind  the  other  industries.  Of  course 
California  is  better  off  than  the  rest  of 
the  country,  but  even  down  here  the 
farmer  has  to  work  hard  for  what  he 
gets." 

Despite  Judge  Williams'  depressing 
picture  of  the  farmer's  tribulations,  I 
somehow  can't  feel  very  sorry  for  these 
Orange  County  farmers.  Wtihout  prob- 
lems ranching  might  become  monoton- 
( Continued  on  Page  124) 


110 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


The  Nobel  Prizes 


THE  refusal  of  George  Bernard 
Shaw  to  accept  the  Nobel  liter- 
ary prize  of  1925,  has  brought  to 
the  world  a  renewed  interest  in  the 
prizes  themselves  and  has  substantiated 
the  already  established  fact  of  their  in- 
ternational value. 

Alfred  Bernard  Nobel,  through 
whose  high  ideals  and  generosity  the 
fund  was  established,  was  born  in 
Stockholm,  Sweden,  in  1833.  At  the 
age  of  seventeen  he  came  to  the  United 
States  and  studied  mechanical  engineer- 
ing under  the  supervision  of  John  Erics- 
son. After  four  years  he  returned  and 
studied  and  experimented  with  his  father 
on  an  island  in  the  Neva  River,  Russia. 
They  became  interested  in  the  construc- 
tion of  submarine  mines  and  torpedoes, 
and  in  the  manufacture  of  explosives. 

In  1862,  they  produced  nitro-glycer- 
ine.  In  1866,  after  a  ship  with  all  on 
board  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion  of 
nitro-glycerine  in  the  cargo  and  the 
father  had  been  paralyzed  and  a  younger 
brother  killed  by  an  explosion  while  ex- 
perimenting, Nobel  invented  dynamite. 

Nobel  continued  his  study  and  experi- 
menting and  created  hundreds  of  in- 
ventions, among  which  were  smokeless 
powder  and  artificial  gutta  percha.  He 
established  many  factories  and  obtained 
many  patents  from  which  he  accumu- 
lated a  large  fortune. 

Upon  his  death,  in  1896,  at  the  age 
of  sixty-three,  he  bequeathed  a  fortune 
of  nine  million  dollars  for  the  founda- 
tion of  a  fund,  the  annual  interest  of 
which  was  to  be  awarded  in  prizes. 
These  were  to  be  distributed  to  those 
who  had  contributed  to  the  greatest 
good  to  humanity  in  five  designated 
fields  of  endeavor. 

One  prize  was  to  go  to  the  person 
who  had  made  the  most  important  in- 
vention or  discovery  in  physics. 

One  to  the  person  making  the  most 
important  discovery  in  medicine  or 
physiology. 

One  to  the  person  making  the  most 
important  discovery  or  invention  in 
chemistry. 

One  to  the  person  who  had  provided 
the  most  excellent  work  in  literature  of 
an  idealistic  tendency. 

And  one  to  the  person  who  had 
worked  most  or  best  for  the  peace  of 
nations  or  the  reduction  of  standing 
armies. 

The  prizes  are  awarded  each  year 
by  the  Swedish  Academy  as  stipulated 
in  the  bequest,  and  are  given  on  the 
date  of  the  death  of  Nobel,  December 
the  tenth. 

The  Board  of  Directors  of  the  Nobel 


By  Lelia  Ayers  Mitchell 

Foundation  consists  exclusively  of 
Swedes  who  must  reside  in  Stockholm. 

The  selections  in  physics  and  chemis- 
try are  made  by  the  Swedish  Academy 
of  Science.  In  medicine,  by  the  Caro- 
line Institute  in  Stockholm.  The  peace, 
by  a  committee  of  five  selected  by  the 
Norwegian  Storthing.  In  literature,  by 
the  Swedish  Academy  in  Stockholm. 

Four  members  of  the  board  are 
elected  for  two  years  by  deputies  of  the 
four  institutions  named,  and  a  fifth  mem- 
ber is  chosen  by  the  government. 


RUSSIAN  HILL 

QTREET  lamps  lean  against  the  night 
^  Wanly,  with  a  certain  fright 
At   their  pale  futility; 
And  the  seething  swirls  of  fog 
Creep  like  nausea  from  a  bog 
Up  the  hill  and  from  the  sea. 

In  from  sea  and  up  the  hill 
Where  the  streets  are  steep  and  still 
And  the  soundless  shadows  lie 
In  their  old,  accustomed  places, 
Like  thoughts  lie  across  old  faces, 
Faces  that  are  soon  to  die. 

Foghorns  moaning  off  the  shore ; 
Lovers  in  a  darkened  door, 
Youngly,  wildly  unaware 
Of  the  fog  that  dimly  wraps  them, 
Of  the  city's  web  that  traps  them; 
Only  they  and  night  are  there. 

SARAH  LITSEY. 


A  committee  of  specialists  has  been 
created  to  confer  with  the  eighteen  men 
of  the  Academy  who  make  the  final  de- 
cision. These  need  not  be  Swedish  sub- 
jects. 

There  is  a  great  distinction  in  being 
chosen  for  any  of  the  prizes,  since  the 
list  is  made  up  of  people  from  all  over 
the  world.  The  person  selected  is 
placed  in  eminence  for  it  gives  him  a 
recognized  superiority  in  the  group 
which  he  represents. 

The  first  Nobel  prize  in  physics  was 
awarded  to  the  great  German  physicist 
Wilhelm  Roentgen,  who  discovered 
X-rays  in  1895.  In  1909  two  noted  in- 
ventors of  wireless  telegraphy,  Marconi 
and  Braun,  shared  the  money  award  in 
physics. 

Albert  A.  Michelson  was  given  the 
1907  prize  for  his  work  on  the  length 
of  light  rays. 

Dr.    Albert     Einstein     received     the 


award  for  physics  in  1921.  He  was 
born  at  Ulm  in  1879  of  Jewish  parents. 
He  acted  as  assistant  professor  of  phys- 
ics at  the  Zurich  University,  and  in 
1911  was  given  the  chair  of  physics  at 
Prague.  In  1914  Einstein  was  given 
a  special  position  at  the  University  of 
Berlin.  Einstein  propounded  a  theory 
coordinating  time  and  space  which  is 
known  as  the  Einstein  theory.  It  is  the 
measurement  of  the  rate  of  celestial 
travelers,  not  only  length,  breadth  and 
thickness,  but  time,  with  the  added 
features  of  a  deflection  of  star  rays  by 
sun  force  and  the  reduction  of  gravity 
from  a  force  to  a  quality  in  the  fourth 
dimensioned  space. 

Prof.  Niels  Bohs  whose  theory  of 
researches  into  the  structure  of  the  atom 
earned  him  the  physics  prize  for  1922, 
was  born  in  Copenhagen  in  1885.  He 
solved  the  problem  of  the  relations  of 
the  inner  structure  of  matter  to  the 
planetary  electrons. 

The  prizes  for  physics  in  1924  was 
awarded  to  Karl  Siegbalm,  professor 
of  physics  at  the  University  of  Upsala, 
Sweden.  It  is  the  first  occasion  on 
which  a  person  under  forty  years  of  age 
has  had  a  prize  conferred  upon  him.  He 
received  it  on  his  extensive  work  in 
X-ray  spectroscopy. 

Three  women  have  received  Nobel 
prizes:  Baroness  von  Suttner,  founder 
and  president  of  the  Austrian  Society  of 
Peace  Lovers;  Selma  Lagerlof  of  Swed- 
en, known  chiefly  for  her  short  stories 
and  fairy  tales,  and  Madame  Curie  who 
enjoys  the  unique  distinction  of  having 
awards  in  two  sections,  physics  and 
chemistry.  Both  prizes  were  for  the 
development  of  radium  and  polonium. 

In  1923  the  prize  in  medicine  was 
won  by  two  Canadians,  Dr.  F.  G.  Bant- 
ing and  J.  R.  McLeod,  for  their  dis- 
covery of  insulin,  the  new  remedy  for 
diabetes. 

Several  peace  prizes  have  come  to  the 
United  States.  The  first  was  to  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt  in  1906,  in  recognition  of 
his  part  in  ending  the  Russo-Japanese 
war.  The  second  to  Elihu  Root  in  1912, 
for  his  effort  toward  international  arbi- 
tration and  his  work  in  connection  with 
the  Pan-American  Union.  The  third 
went  to  Woodrow  Wilson  in  1918,  for 
his  efforts  toward  international  peace. 

The  fourth  for  1925  has  been  given 
to  Vice-President  Dawes  and  Foreign 
Minister  Chamberlain  of  Great  Britain. 
Dr.  Nansen,  addressing  the  Nobel  in- 
stitute, said  that  the  first  light  shed  on 
the  darkness  of  post-war  Europe  was 
the  adoption  of  the  Dawes  plan  which 
permitted  Germany  to  rehabilitate  her 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


111 


finances  and  commence  paying  repara- 
tions. 

In  1926  peace  prizes  were  awarded  to 
Aristide  Briand,  French  minister  of 
foreign  affairs,  and  to  Dr.  Gustav 
Stresemann,  Germany's  foreign  minister. 

Other  Americans  who  have  received 
prizes  are  R.  A.  Millikan  of  Pasadena, 
physics  in  1923,  for  isolating  and  meas- 
uring the  electron.  Alex  Carrel  who 
obtained  the  prize  in  medicine  in  1912 
for  his  work  in  the  suture  of  blood  ves- 
sels and  transplantation  of  organs. 

Awards  of  the  peace  and  medical 
prizes  have  been  withheld  on  five  occa- 
sions, the  amount  of  the  prize  money 
being  added  to  the  foundation  capital. 

THE  literary  prize  is  perhaps  the  most 
difficult  to  award.  With  few  excep- 
tions it  has  been  given  on  the  merits  of 
a  whole  literary  career  rather  than  on 
any  single  year  of  achievement.  Among 
the  persons  selected  there  has  been  but 
one  woman,  Selma  Lagerlof,  who  re- 
ceived it  seventeen  years  ago.  Some  of 
her  novels  are  "The  Story  of  Gota 
Barling,"  "Miracles  of  Antichrist,"  and 
"The  Wonderful  Adventures  of  Nils." 
In  1914  the  prize  was  given  to  a 
Polish  novelist,  Ladislas  Reymont, 
chiefly  on  his  novel,  "The  Peasants."  It 
is  the  first  time  that  the  award  has  been 
bestowed  upon  an  author  comparatively 
unknown  to  the  world  at  large.  Genius 
and  merit  and  an  appreciation  of  ability 
were  recognized.  He  is  the  second  Pole 
to  receive  it.  The  other  was  Henry 
Sienkiewicz  whose  best  known  work  is 
"Quo  Vadis." 


Other  well-known  writers  who  have 
been  chosen  are  Tagore  of  India,  B. 
Bjornson  of  Norway,  Rudyard  Kipling 
of  England,  Maurice  Maeterlinck  of 
Belgium,  Anatole  France  and  Remain 
Roland  of  France,  and  W.  B.  Yeats  of 
Ireland. 

In  1913  the  literary  event  of  the  year 
was  the  awarding  of  the  prize  to  Rabin- 
dranath  Tagore,  the  great  Hindu  poet 
and  philosopher.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  the  prize  had  gone  to  any  but  a 
white  man.  The  recognition  of  the  abil- 
ity of  Tagore  rested  almost  entirely  on 
one  small  book,  "Getanjali,"  or  "Song 
Offerings,"  which  were  translated  into 
English  by  the  author  himself.  The 
words  all  breathe  of  love  and  peace. 
They  have  been  arranged  to  music  and 
are  sung  throughout  Bengal.  Some  are 
set  to  the  music  of  the  boatman  while 
others  form  the  ritual  of  the  Bhrama 
church.  The  Hindu  poet  has  endeavored 
to  convey  the  ancient  spirit  of  India  as 
revealed  in  the  sacred  books.  After 
"Gatanjali"  there  appeared  several 
other  volumes:  "The  Gardener,"  "The 
Crescent  Moon,"  and  "Sadhana,"  or 
the  "Realization  of  Life."  The  last  em- 
bodies his  religious  belief.  His  songs 
teach  that  joy  is  everywhere. 

The  last  to  be  awarded  the  literary 
prize  was  Bernard  Shaw  of  London. 
He  refused  to  accept  it  as  he  believed 
that  money  awards  were  injurious  to 
literature.  Shaw  at  once  thanked  the 
Swedish  committee  which  had  chosen 
him  as  a  prize  winner  and  made  the 
suggestion  that  the  money  should  be 
applied  to  encourage  intercourse  be- 
tween Sweden  and  the  British  Isles. 


This  was  not  possible  as  the  commit- 
tee has  no  power  to  apply  the  money  in 
that  way.  Mr.  Shaw  has  consented  to 
hold  the  money  until  the  proposed  fund 
can  be  organized  otherwise  than  through 
the  Nobel  Trust  Fund. 

About  the  same  thing  happened  when 
President  Roosevelt,  in  1906,  received 
the  prize  for  his  services  in  behalf  of 
world  peace.  He  diverted  the  fund 
from  personal  use  to  a  foundation  for 
the  promotion  of  industrial  peace. 

The  (literary  prize  was  offered  to 
Tolstoy  in  1910,  but  he  refused  to  ac- 
cept it  as  he  persistently  denied  to  him- 
self all  honors  and  emoluments. 

It  is  encumbent  upon  the  prize-win- 
ner, whenever,  feasible,  to  give  a  lecture 
on  the  subject  treated  in  the  work  to 
which  the  prize  had  been  awarded.  The 
lecture  to  be  given  at  Stockholm  or,  in 
case  of  the  peace  prize,  at  Christiania. 

Anatole  France  and  William  Butler 
Yeats  received  the  prize  in  person  from 
the  King  of  Sweden.  The  official  ad- 
dress of  Yeats  was  "The  Irish  Theater." 

Dr.  Millikan,  head  of  the  California 
Institute  of  Technology  of  Pasadena, 
delivered  the  prize  address  for  physics 
in  Stockholm,  May  23,  1924. 

All  prizes  for  1925  were  withheld 
and  some  of  them  given  in  1926. 

The  literary  award  has  been  a  con- 
fusion of  views  owing  to  the  terms  of 
the  awarding.  The  only  specific  or  ex- 
planatory statement  is  that  it  shall  go 
"to  the  person  who  shall  have  produced 
in  the  field  of  literature  the  most  dis- 
tinguished work  of  an  idealistic  tend- 
ency." 


COMPUTATION 

1JECAUSE  my  hours  were  dark  with  loneliness 
•'-*        Your  pity  shone  upon  them  like  a  star, 

And  I  mistook  it  for  such  things  as  are 
Unknown  except  to  madmen,  who  will  dress 
Their  dreams  in  memories  that  but  few  could  guess 
Were  once  no  more  than  hopes  that 
Like  children,  when  a  door  is  left  ajar, 
Who  play  too  near  a  magic  wilderness. 

But  now  I  know  that  dreams  have  warped  my  brain, 
And  that  the  pleasant  things  I  lived  so  long 
Among,  were  little  wisps  of  idiot  song 

Evoked  to  dull  the  blinding,  bitter  pain 

Of  such  swift  knowledge  as  your  scornful  eyes 
Have  writ  in  lightning  on  the  quivering  skies. 

JOSEPH  UPPER. 


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April,  1927 


(14,404)  and  Mount  Harvard  (14,- 
399),  while  California  comes  sixth  in 
Mount  Williamson  (14,384).  Only  a 
few  years  ago,  Mount  Whitney  was 
credited  with  fifteen  thousand  feet. 
What  will  be  the  next  and  more  ac- 
curate geological  survey  bring?  Al- 
ready Colorado  and  Washington  are 
disputing  the  right  of  California  to 
altitude  championship. 

At  any  rate,  a  local  company  is  going 
ahead  building  a  tramway  to  the  top  of 
Mount  Whitney  and  a  concrete  hotel  on 
the  summit  with  forty  rooms,  to  be  fin- 
ished in  two  or  three  years  at  a  cost  of 
three  to  four  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
The  concrete  is  necessary  so  that  the 
hotel  will  not  be  blown  off  Whitney 
by  the  powerful  trade  winds  forever 
raging  across,  or  crushed  under  tons  of 
snow.  By  the  way,  the  highest  hotel  in 
Switzerland  is  only  eleven  thousand 
something. 

I   HAD   the   privilege   of   visiting   this 
region    last   August    on    an    outing 
with   members   of   the    Sierra   Club   of 
California    and    the    Appalachian    Club 


The  earth's  outer  crust  shows  signs 
of  becoming  warmer  for  a  depth  of  some 
distance,  but  below  a  certain  depth  the 
rock  undoubtedly  becomes  cooler,  as  is 
shown  in  one  deep  mine  in  Montana  in 
which  the  rock  becomes  warmer  until 
a  certain  depth  is  reached,  and  at  a 
greater  depth  becomes  cooler.  The  depths 
at  which  rocks  of  the  earth's  crust  be- 
come cooler  undoubtedly  varies  from  a 
mile  below  the  surface  to  many  miles, 
and  at  the  present  time  only  one  deep 
mine  has  penetrated  the  warm  strata 
of  rock.  There  are  many  places  where 
greater  depths  have  been  reached  in 
mines  without  getting  to  the  turning 
point  of  the  rocks'  temperature.  The 
heat  of  the  rocks,  as  well  as  the  turning 
point  at  which  they  begin  to  cool,  un- 
doubtedly varies  greatly  in  different 
parts  of  the  earth. 

The  only  places  where  man  has  had 
reason  to  penetrate  the  earth's  outer 
crust  is  where  there  are  mineral  deposits 
or  oil.  Most  mineral  deposits  are  caused 
by  heat  in  the  earth's  crust,  the  heat 
making  the  rock  swell,  thus  breaking 
the  outer  crust  above  the  part  \vhere 
the  heat  is  produced,  and  forming  crev- 
ices which  fill  with  quartz.  Such  veins 
are  called  "gash  veins"  and  do  not  pene- 
trate to  any  great  depth.  When  the  rock 


California  Alps 

(Continued  from  Page  105) 

of  Boston.  The  entire  contingent  in- 
cluded about  eighty  people  and  fifty 
pack  animals;  the  trip  lasted  three  weeks 
and  covered  a  long  distance.  All  this 
time  we  were  completely  isolated  from 
civilization,  too  occupied  in  our  heavenly 
surroundings,  however,  to  notice  the 
fact.  Time  flew ;  we  were  always  on 
the  tramp — a  blackened  tin  can,  a  few 
dried  apricots,  hard-tack  and  Swedish 
bread — famous  for  its  rigidity — sufficed 
for  an  individual  lunch  high  on  some 
crest  or  by  a  lake.  Or,  if  we  were  in 
camp,  we  were  impatiently  waiting  in 
line  for  our  supper,  sound  asleep  on  a 
choice  slab  of  rock  or  dutifully  soaking 
our  long-postponed  laundry  in  the  rapids, 
using  the  convenient  bank  for  a  scrub- 
bing board.  No  democracy  went  with 
smoother  precision  than  ours ;  no  com- 
munity moved  its  elaborate  settlement 
as  silently  and  swiftly. 

Crossing  Piute  Pass  (11,409),  we 
entered  Humphrey's  Basin,  followed 
Piute  Creek  to  its  junction  with  the 
South  Fork  of  the  San  Joaquin.  A  day 
or  two  in  camp  here,  a  few  days  there, 
and  soon  we  left  the  headwaters  of  the 

Theories  and  Facts 

(Continued  from  Page  107) 

again  begins  to  cool,  and  therefore  con- 
tract, deep  fissures  open  and  fill  with 
quartz  or  quartz  with  metal,  and  are 
known  as  fissure  veins.  In  veins  of  this 
nature  the  deep  mineral  mines  are 
worked.  In  these  mines  heat  is  usually 
encountered  with  depth,  in  a  more  or 
less  degree,  depending  upon  the  length 
of  time  that  has  elapsed  since  the  rock 
began  to  cool. 

Where  oil  is  found  the  earth  has  been 
heated  slightly,  but  not  as  greatly  as 
where  mineral  deposits  are  found.  The 
heating  of  the  rock  where  there  are  oil 
wells  is  due  to  spontaneous  combustion 
of  the  matter  which  makes  the  oil.  In 
places  where  a  great  deal  of  heat  has 
been  produced  under  the  surface  of  the 
earth,  molten  rock  has  flowed  out 
through  crevices,  or  from  volcanoes  and 
covered  gravel  beds,  and  later,  in  the 
course  of  millions  of  years,  rivers  have 
cut  through  the  igneous  rock  covering 
these  gravel  beds,  and  again  exposed  the 
gravel  underneath,  proving  that  neither 
the  earth's  surface  temperature  nor  its 
atmosphere  has  greatly  changed  during 
the  lapse  of  many  million  years. 

PART  II 

The  earth  has  never  been  tropical  at 
the  poles  although  the  climate  was  once 


mighty  San  Joaquin,  crossing  Muir 
Pass  (12,059).  Muir  Pass  looked  as 
though  it  had  been  the  scene  of  some 
terrific  catastrophe  in  ages  past,  a  war 
of  gods  in  the  clouds,  whose  thunder- 
bolts must  have  created  those  inspiring 
lakes  to  either  side  of  the  pass.  Two 
of  those  pools,  Helen  Lake  and  Wanda 
Lake,  are  named  after  daughters  of 
John  Muir,  author  on  the  Sierras  and 
first  president  of  the  club.  In  the  placid 
blue  waters  of  Wanda  Lake  is  re- 
flected a  glacier  on  the  flank  of  Mount 
Goddard  (13,555),  climbed  by  some 
eleven  members  of  our  party  in  a  side 
trip.  Incidentally,  those  people  did  not 
reach  our  base  camp  till  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning  and  went  to  their  sleeping 
bags  supperless. 

Before  crossing  Bishop  Pass,  as  high 
as  Muir  Pass  and  its  rival  in  beauty, 
to  South  Lake  on  our  return  to  Owens 
Valley,  we  spent  two  nights  at  Dusey 
Lake,  11,500  feet,  with  hardly  enough 
wood  to  keep  the  camp  fire  going.  Here 
we  were  surrounded  by  peaks  at  their 
best. 

(Continued  on  Page  126) 


only  slightly  warmer  over  the  earth's 
entire  surface  than  it  is  at  the  present 
time ;  and  trees  grew  farther  north  than 
they  do  now.  Since  that  time  there  has 
been  a  cold  period,  with  ice  and  snow 
covering  the  greater  part  of  the  earth. 
Such  periods  of  warm  and  cold  undoubt- 
edly occur  as  regularly  as  summer  and 
winter,  night  and  day.  Such  periods 
cannot  be  caused  by  the  changing  of 
the  poles,  as  it  does  not  appear  reason- 
able that  the  poles  can  change,  owing 
to  the  great  centrifugal  force  of  the 
earth.  It  would  require  a  great  shifting 
of  weight  to  change  the  center  of  the 
earth's  centrifugal  gravity,  although 
there  is  no  doubt  a  slight  wobbling  of 
the  earth's  axis — which  always  returns 
to  its  center  or  centrifugal  gravity — 
that  can  be  measured  in  feet,  and  there- 
fore could  not  influence  the  earth's 
climate. 

The  shifting  of  the  earth's  poles  to 
any  great  extent  would  mean  the  chang- 
ing of  the  earth's  entire  surface,  as  the 
difference  in  the  diameters  of  the  earth 
at  the  equator  and  the  poles  would 
change  with  the  shifting  of  the  poles. 
There  are  evidences  of  several  glacier 
periods  and  of  warm  periods  in  the  time 
between  the  ice  ages,  in  most  of  the 
(Continued  on  Page  119) 


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113 


The  Man  Who  Paints  with  a  Camera 


NO,  he  is  not  a  painter  turned 
photographer ;  nor  is  he  a  photo- 
grapher imitating  painters. 
Johan  Hagemeyer,  Californian  ne  Hol- 
land Dutch,  is  an  artist  with  the. 
outlook  of  a  painter  who,  instead  of 
using  watercolors,  oils  or  pastels,  has 
chosen  the  camera  as  his  medium. 

Entering  his  San  Francisco  studio, 
welcomed  by  the  glass  sign  that  speaks 
in  the  well  modulated  tones  of  good 
lettering,  one  is  introduced  to  Mr. 
Hagemeyer  before  he  enters  the  room. 
The  simplicity  and  stark  elimination 
of  all  but  a  few  well-selected  essen- 
tials presage  the  personality  of  this 
slender,  blue-eyed  idealist.  On  one  wall 
there  are  three  photographic  prints, 
examples  of  Hagemeyer's  camera  work. 
One  is  the  picture  of  an  automobile 
wheel,  a  gloriously  simple  epitome  of 
dynamic  motion.  Another  shows  the 
angular  pattern  of  smoke  stacks  and 
telephone  poles  with  their  mesh  of 
humming  wires.  The  third  reflects  yet 
another  phase  of  the  spirit  of  present 
day  industrialism.  Widely  different  as 
to  pattern  and  treatment,  these  three 
examples  yet  voice  a  single  message  of 
art.  It  is  as  though  they  were  each 
saying:  "We  are  of  today — of  the 
throb  and  whirr  of  modern  living. 
We  are  the  art  of  the  present." 

The  artist  enters.  He  is  lean  and 
tawny  and  somewhat  gray  at  the 
temples.  His  loose-weave  suit  is  as  un- 
obtrusive as  the  dun-gray  walls  behind 
his  prints. 

It  is  his  voice  that  arrests  one's  atten- 
tion— his  voice  and  his  blue  eyes.  And 
as  he  talks  one  feels  the  sinuous  strength 
of  an  idea  that  has  woven  its  lithe  way 
throughout  his  life,  bringing  yearnings 
and  unrest  until  adequate  expression 
was  found  in  camera  work. 

It  was  in  Amsterdam,  when,  as  a 
young  man  following  the  dictates  of  his 
parents,  Johan  Hagemeyer  tried  to 
apply  himself  to  business,  that  the  vague 
yearnings  first  made  themselves  felt. 
He  sought  to  still  them  by  seeking  ar- 
tistic companionship  but,  as  the  lid  of 
business  settled  down,  threatening  to 
smother  the  formulating  idea,  there 
came  a  great  unrest.  This  youthful 
restlessness  developed  into  physical  ill- 
ness that  forced  Hagemeyer  to  forsake 
his  parents'  plans. 

Young  Hagemeyer  studied  horti- 
culture with  the  idea  of  going  to  Cali- 
fornia to  establish  a  "fruit  garden," 
dreaming  of  a  place  where  he  might 
make  an  art  of  growing  fine  fruit. 
When,  at  last,  he  arrived  in  California 


By  Aline  Kistler 

and  found  work  in  the  Santa  Clara 
valley  it  was  only  to  be  confronted  with 
disappointment.  He  found  that  fruit 
raising  in  California  is  a  business,  not 
an  art.  He  felt  that  the  fruit  was  being 
"manufactured"  rather  than  grown, 


there  alone  would   he  find   the  end   of 
his  quest. 

So  he  left  the  South  to  return  to 
California  and,  coming  by  way  of  New 
York,  he  became  acquainted  with  Stieg- 
litz  and  his  associates,  whose  work  in 
photography  was  then  receiving  notice 
from  artists.  Fortunate  stop-over,  in- 


Spirit  of  present-day  industrialism 


what  with  the  wholesale  plowing  and 
harrowing  and  the  ruthless  pruning  of 
expediency  rather  than  artistry. 

Again  he  was  seized  with  unrest,  this 
time  trying  the  southland  and  study  of 
tropical  pomology  as  antidote.  But  his 
spirit  was  not  satisfied.  There  was  ever 
the  pressure  of  something  urgently  well- 
ing up  from  within. 

And  ever  there  was  the  call  back  to 
California.  He  had  the  feeling  that 


deed.  For  that  experience  pointed  out 
the  work  that  was  to  bring  to  fruition 
that  smoldering  something  that  had  sub- 
tley  dominated  his  life. 

Something  of  the  essentially  modern 
spirit  of  the  new  photography,  some- 
thing of  the  possibilities  of  this  mechan- 
ical medium,  as  a  means  of  expressing 
the  innate  art  of  this  mechanical  age, 
fired  Hagemeyer's  imagination  and 
determined  him  to  devote  his  life  to  the 
(Continued  on  Page  122) 


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April,  1927 


Songs  of  Civilization 


ffor 


mercury 

but  my  dogs  is  tired 


loan 


a  messengerboy  i  know  told  me 
when  we  met  in  the  street  car 

carfare    .    .    sure  i  get  carfare 
i  spend  a  dollar  a  day  carfare 
but  theres 

lots  of  places  a  car  don't  go 
and  you  gotta  hike 

why  today  i  been  up  to  the  printers 
seventeen  time  s'helpme 

it  is  a  strange  thought 

but  one  of  the  many  feet  of  big  business 
is  in  the  shoes  of  dogtired 

messenger 
boys 


at  the  great  banks 

in  the  city 
signs  are  hung 

.    .    war  veterans  loans  negotiated    .    . 

long  queues  of  men 

laborers    .    .    office  men    .    .    whites    .    .    wops 
shorn  and  unshorn 

stand  on  the  sidewalks  in  the  wind 
joshing 

waiting  for  money 

men  who  not  so  long  since 

looked  into  the  glint  of  bayonets 
heard  shrapnel  howl  in  the  night 
waited  for  zerohour 

that  the  world  might  be  made  safe 

for 
the 
banks 
of  the  land 


bath 

a  young  girl  with  song  in  her  heart 
came  to  adolescence 
and  the  song  died 

she  looked  on  her  straight  white  nudity 
but  did  not  glory  as  usual 

for  today  her  thoughts  were  horrid 

i  can  wash  the  dust  of  the  streets 

and  the  soot  of  the  air 

and  the  dust  of  inanimate  things  from  me 

but  i  can  never 

wash  away  the  mark  of  rnens  eyes  on  my  body 

from  me 


silence 

four  streets  hurl  their  clatter 

together  here 

the  city  here  rips  out  its  howling  heart 
only  to  cast  it  resounding 
back  upon  itself 

metallic    .    .    deafening 

but  here  a  girl  meets  a  boy 
and  takes  her  soul 
and  puts  it  in  her  eyes 
and  looks  at  him 

and  there  comes  a  silence 
like  the  silence  of  space 
before  time  was  born 


auction 

snatched  from  a  frenzied  eighthour  day 
in  the  financial  maw 
a  moment  when 

tiredlooking  men  attend 

an  art  auction 

gentlemen  what  am  i  bid 
for  this  masterpiece 
ten  dollars 

why  gentlemen  this  fine  painting 
is  worth  a  hundred 

this  merchandise  must  fetch 
fifty  cents  on  the  dollar 

don't  you  see  artists  toiling 
their  hearts  away 
making  mediocrities 
to  be  knocked  down 

in  a  passing  auction  room    .    .    . 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


115 


"MARY,   MARY,  QUITE 
CONTRARY" 

ALL  in  all,  the  Players'  Guild  pro- 
duction of  Ervine's  comedy  of  the 
present  day  was  an  enjoyable  perform- 
ance. And  yet,  as  a  Guild  production  it 
was  rather  a  disappointment  after  the 
much  better  previous  ones.  It  lacked 
from  the  start  a  most  essential  element, 
though  at  times  it  appeared  momentarily 
— atmosphere — and  because  of  its  ab- 
sence the  performance  was  stagey  and 
not  an  illusion.  It  was  not  the  fault  of 
any  one  person,  nor  of  the  director,  nor 
of  several  working  to  a  common  end. 
In  the  first  place  (to  quote  Mary  in 
Act  IV),  "You  know,  Mr.  Beeby 
doesn't  like  the  scenery  around  here  as 
well.  .  ."  Well,  neither  did  we.  It 
was  a  most  distressing  and  disturbing 
set,  the  lighting  harsh  and  inconsistent 
against  a  bilious-looking  sky.  The  second 
setting  was  much  better;  its  harmony  of 
color  and  proportion  contributed  to  the 
delicious  mood  and  enhanced  the  play- 
ing; the  other  distracted  unmercifully. 

As  a  light  comedy  it  is  a  fair  piece  of 
written  thought,  brightened  only  with 
sparkling  dialogue;  in  fact,  in  places  it 
became  frankly  boring.  The  characters 
were  such  stupid  people ;  a  useless  recur- 
rent play  on  a  silly  theme  that  at  times 
offered  the  most  amusing  situations,  and 
at  times  wanted  to  make  us  throw  things 
or  tell  the  characters  to  use  their  heads. 
It  must  have  been  difficult  for  the 
players  to  form  an  attitude  toward  a 
portrayal.  The  facilities  of  the  Guild 
are  far  too  inadequate  from  what  is  no 
doubt  their  ambition,  but  they  can  be 
overlooked  and  overstepped. 

Perhaps  because  of  her  briskly  written 
lines,  Miss  Mimms  (how  vital  she  is!) 
was  excellent,  yet  certainly  Miss  Bethers 
is  to  be  congratulated  on  a  most  pithy 
and  brilliant  reading.  Her  enunciation 
was  certainly  refreshing.  Ann  O'Day 
gave  a  merry,  sparkling  reading  that  was 
varying,  at  times  it  made  one  think  of  an 
eighteen-year-old  body  with  a  forty-year- 
old  mind ;  a  delicious  and  captivating 
blonde,  she  made  an  excellent  foil  for 


The  Play's 
the  Thin 


BY 

CURT  BAER 


the  dark  beauty  of  Virginia  Phillips  as 
Sheila.  The  latter,  with  Canon  Con- 
sidine  (Templeton  Crocker)  was  the 
most  consistently  good  in  the  point  of 
acting  simplicity  and  delivery.  Sheila's 
quiet  aloofness  was  in  very  good  contrast 
to  the  almost  noisy  playing  of  the  others. 
And  simplicity  means  so  much.  She  did 
more  by  doing  less  than  the  others  com- 
bined. Geoffry  read  as  well  as  he  could 
in  a  stupid  part,  and  at  that  was  only 
adequate;  he  lacked  conviction.  Hobbs 
was  responsible  for  much  of  the  laugh- 
ter. Sydney  Schlesinger  tackled  him 
boldly  and  noisily ;  he  at  least  knew  what 
he  was  about.  M.  E.  Harlan  as  Sir 
Henry  was  consistent  and  true.  The  rest 
of  the  cast  handled  their  parts  well  and 
easily. 

The  Guild's  next  production,  under 
the  guidance  of  Reginald  Travers,  will 
be  Gilbert  Emery's  "Tarnish."  This 
drama  will  have  a  five-day  run  com- 
mencing April  19.  The  featured  players 
will  be  Virginia  Phillips,  Richenda  Stev- 
ick  and  Cameron  Prud-homme. 

"AT  MRS.  BEAM'S" 

THE  Berkeley  Playhouse  recently  gave 
a  most  enjoyable  production  of  C. 
K.  Munro's  satire  on  modern  London 
boarding-house  life,  "At  Mrs.  Beam's." 
Though  by  no  means  a  dramatic  compo- 
sition of  the  first  water,  nor  built  on 
any  strong  and  vigorous  plot  (it  was 
exceedingly  meager  at  times),  the  per- 
formance, most  ably  directed  by  Everett 
Glass,  was  excellent.  Refreshingly  sim- 
ple, its  continuous  verve  was  most  capably 
handled  by  most  of  the  eleven  players. 
It  is  a  comedy  which,  under  a  less  skill- 
ful director,  would  have  fallen  into 
horse-play;  here  the  sparkling  humor  was 
correctly  savored  with  clean-cut  perform- 
ances. Those  who  have  ever  lived  for  a 
long  time  in  a  boarding  house  could  see 
in  the  gossip  the  semi-mysterious  scandal- 
monging  (so  reminiscent  at  times  of  the 
Sheridan  and  Goldsmith  plays),  the 
realization  of  many  a  natural  but  sup- 
pressed desire. 

The  atmosphere  was  excellent  through- 


out, the  setting  very  simple  and  quiet, 
and  most  satisfactory.  From  the  very 
first  Julia  McGil'lycuddy  struck  a  char- 
acter reading  that  dominated  the  cast 
with  its  comic  brilliance;  her  Miss  Shoe 
knew  everything,  most  positively  and 
volubly.  She  was  as  perfect  as  can  be 
expected.  With  Frederick  Blanchard  as 
her  "husband,"  Beatrix  Perry  formed  the 
other  side  of  the  triangle  of  interest. 
She  did  her  Laura  superbly  at  times, 
only  occasionally  fell  out  of  character; 
but  her  keen  sense  of  values  and  her 
riotous  battle  with  Blanchard  made  up 
for  any  minor  faults.  Her  denounce- 
ment of  Miss  Shoe,  as  well  as  the  latter's 
reaction,  was  one  of  the  finest  breathless 
moments  of  the  play.  Also,  her  caressing 
of  the  love-sick  youth  was  a  delicious 
touch.  Blanchard's  ease  and  handling  of 
a  part  not  too  well  written,  the  stimulus 
to  the  action  of  the  play,  was  the  source 
of  most  of  the  laughter.  He  played  Der- 
mott  gently  and  firmly,  and  in  the  last 
act  brought  the  comedy  a  perfect  finish 
with  his  premeditated  sword-play  to  ter- 
rify the  guileless  and  curious  women. 

Harvey  Taylor  as  the  love-stricken 
youth  gave  an  amazingly  good  interpre- 
tation of  the  part ;  the  befuddled  distrac- 
tion and  heart-breaking  voice  he  used 
kept  the  house  in  chuckles.  It  was  a 
thorough  and  well-understood  piece  of 
acting.  Winnie  Cameron's  old,  quaky 
woman  was  an  intelligent  study  wdl 
done.  Vera  Cussans  was  not  so  sure  of 
herself,  and  unconvincing  most  of  the 
time.  G.  H.  Buttridge  as  the  tedious 
and  boring  Mr.  Durrows  was  most  satis- 
fying. Mrs.  Beam  herself,  played  by 
Edith  Drake,  was  a  nice  piece  of  reading. 
The  others  were  adequately  done. 

There  were  no  stage  waits.  "This 
has  been  a  very  corroborative  evening," 
in  that  we  can  almost  always  depend  on 
a  Playhouse  production,  especially  a 
modern  comedy. 

What  promises  to  be  another  suc- 
cess is  the  Playhouse'  next  bill,  Sean 
O'Casey's  "Juno  and  the  Paycock,"  a 
drama  of  the  recent  Irish  troubles;  viol- 
Continued  on  Page  118) 


116 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


k 


OOK.S 


CONDUCTED  BY 


cWriters 


TOM  WHITE 


THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  AMER- 
ICAN SHIPS 

THE  man  or  boy  who  loves  the  navy 
— rich  in  traditions,  the  country's 
good  right  arm,  always  ready  and  in 
the  pink  of  condition —  will  love  this 
book.  Characteristic  of  the  volume  is 
the  chapter  on  battle  practice,  from 
which  the  following  paragraph  is 
taken : 

"It  is  quiet  in  the  interior  of  the  big 
turret,  with  its  whirling,  smashing, 
clanking  fury,  its  snakelike  hiss  of  com- 
pressed air  that  blows  unburned  par- 
ticles of  powder  out  through  the  muzzle 
before  the  breech  is  swung  open,  but 
quiet  only  when  compared  with  the 
racket  on  deck.  And  it  would,  if  you 
could  enter  it  through  the  trapdoor  at 
its  bottom,  fasten  the  lure  of  the  game 
on  you  so  that  you  would  never  forget 
it." 

To  the  inlander  whose  ideas  on  naval 
affairs  have  been  gained  largely 
through  accounts  of  the  squabbles  in 
Congress  between  the  "big  navy"  men 
and  the  "little  navy"  men,  THE  NEW 
BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  SHIPS 
will  impart  some  sound,  practical  ideas 
on  the  subject,  besides  giving  him  good 
reason  to  be  very  grateful  for  the  se- 
curity afforded  by  that  branch  of  the 
armed  forces. 

Not  only  is  this  work  highly  valuable 
for  reference  purposes,  but  an  entire 
evening  may  very  well  be  taken  up  with 
the  illustrations.  Thirteen  color  plates, 
to  which  the  subject  so  admirably  lends 
itself,  and  several  hundred  photographs 
combine  most  effectively  to  tell  the  story 
of  the  navy  from  its  infancy  down  to 
the  present.  The  different  types  of  ves- 
sels— surface,  undersea  and  air — to- 
gether with  their  characteristics  and 
duties,  are  carefully  gone  into;  the  sec- 
rets of  the  big  guns,  torpedo  defense 
batteries,  "air  guns,"  depth  bombs, 
mines,  torpedoes  and  other  weapons  are 
explained;  uniforms,  stripes,  "crows," 
signal  flags  and  ensigns  are  all  made 
plain ;  in  fact,  every  conceivable  ques- 
tion that  a  landsman  could  ask  is  an- 
swered in  this  splendid  volume. 


This  is  distinctly  an  age  of  high  pres- 
sure. Thoughts  of  respect,  veneration, 
reverence  or  homage  seem  a  million 
miles  removed  from  the  daily  grind ; 
but  the  thorough-going  Yankee  will 
breathe  a  fervent  "amen"  when  he 
comes  to  the  chapter  on  naval  cere- 
monies and  finds  this  paragraph : 

"No  naval  ship  passing  the  Tomb  of 


THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  AMERICAN 
SHIPS.  By  Capt.  O.  P.  Jackson, 
U.  S.  N.,  and  Col.  F.  E.  Evans. 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  &  Co.  $5.00. 

HER  MOTHER'S  DAUGHTER.  By 
Dalbro  Bartley.  George  Doran. 
$2.00. 

THE  LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF 
MARTHA  HEPPLETHWAITE. 
By  Frank  Sullivan.  Boni  &  Liver- 
ight.  $2.00. 

CHERRY  SQUARE.  By  Grace  S. 
Richmond.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
$2.00. 

FRATERNITY  ROW.  By  Lynn  and 
Lois  Montross.  George  Doran. 
$2.00. 

AMY  LOWELL.  By  Clement  Wood. 
Harold  Vinal,  562  Fifth  Ave.,  New 
York. 

GREENWICH  VILLAGE  BLUES. 
By  Clement  Wood.  Henry  Har- 
rison, New  York. 

POPPIES  AND  MANDRAGORA. 
By  Edgar  Saltus.  Harold  Vinal, 
562  Fifth  Ave.,  New  York 


Washington  at  Mt.  Vernon  on  the  Po- 
tomac between  sunrise  and  sunset  fails 
in  its  tribute  to  his  memory.  As  the 
ship  draws  near,  it  parades  its  guard 
and  band  on  the  quarterdeck,  the  ship's 
bell  is  tolled  and  its  colors  half-masted. 
Opposite  the  tomb  taps  are  sounded, 
the  marines  present  arms,  and  officers 
and  crew,  stiff  at  attention,  salute  in 
respect  to  the  memory  of  our  first 
Commander-in-Chief." 


HER  MOTHER'S  DAUGHTER 

"TlALBRO  BARTLEY  is  from  our 
•*-'  San  Francisco,  or  rather  was  a  por- 
tion of  her  time  spent  here.  Perhaps 
there  was  time  enough  to  cultivate  the 
germ  of  genius.  At  least  her  last  story 
of  romance  has  not  only  great  appeal  but 
depicts  the  social  life  of  the  American 
city  and  town  with  a  fine  candor.  Her 
women  and  men  are  both  vital  and 
human.  The  mother  comes  forth  from  a 
life  of  repression  in  Switzerland  to 
America  where  she  climbed  to  a  position 
of  wealth  and  power;  the  daughter  on 
whom  was  lavished  every  care,  whose 
every  whim  was  indulged,  is  not  only 
charming  but  human  as  is  Tag,  the  es- 
sentially masculine,  often  foolish  but 
always  lovable  man  in  the  story.  It  is 
a  book  one  will  enjoy  by  the  fireside. 


LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  MARTHA 
HEPPLETHWAITE 

JUST  what  it  is  all  about?  This  is 
the  question  you  will  ask  when  you 
see  the  cover  of  the  book.  By  the  time 
you  have  finished  the  introduction  which, 
to  all  purposes  and  intentions,  is  to  give 
you  an  equilibrium  for  the  rest  of  the 
book,  you  have  either  decided  the  book 
is  not  worth  your  valuable  time,  or  you 
have  suddenly  declared  to  yourself  and 
your  friends  that  you  have  found  a  rare 
piece  of  work  ...  a  new  discovery  in 
the  world  of  American  literature. 


CHERRY  SQUARE 

HERE'E  a  new  book  by  the  author 
of  "Red  Pepper  Burns,"  "Rufus," 
"Foursquare,"  whose  books  are  cher- 
ished in  over  two  million  American 
homes.  It  is  a  heart-stirring  story  of 
enchantment,  the  glowing  romance  of  a 
quiet  little  Eastern  town,  peopled  with 
men  and  women  you  can't  forget.  There 
is  Joe  Jenny,  Gordon  Mackay,  Sally 
Chase,  Doctor  Fiske,  and  Norah — all 
real  people,  people  who  live  in  your 
neighborhood,  people  you  see  every  day. 
You  will  like  "Cherry  Square." 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


117 


FRATERNITY  ROW 

LIKE  the  heroes  of  most  sagas  Andy 
is  not  only  a  person,  he  is  a  symbol. 
He  embodies  the  insouciance — the  spirit 
of  young  absurdity,  which  the  university 
is  so  capably  dispelling  from  its  campus. 
The  shadow  of  mournfulness  which 
sometimes  lightly  touches  Andy's  brow 
rests  there  because  he  is  a  vanishing 
jester  of  eclectic  standardization.  The 
deans,  the  parents,  the  legislators,  the 
good  doctors  do  not  like  Andy;  and 
Andy's  youthful  contemporaries  often 
deplore  him  as  a  distressing  mutant.  He 
loves  gaiety  and  rhythm  and  color  and 
nonsense,  and  these  elements  are  even 
more  dangerous  than  intelligence  to  those 
huge  business  firms  customarily  called 
universities. 

It  is  a  sophisticated  tale  of  a  modern 
college. 


AMY  LOWELL 

T>ERHAPS  it  is  early  to  definitely 
-t  mark  Amy  Lowell's  place  in  Amer- 
ican letters.  The  remarkable  vitality 
of  her  poetry,  the  unusual  calmness  of 
her  prose  and  the  strange  industry  of 
her  life  will,  it  is  certain,  be  carefully 
preserved.  Richly  and  brazenly  do 
present  day  poets  pattern  after  her. 
Clean  models  she  fashioned,  and  for 
a  good  many  years  to  come  they  will  be 
dressed  by  this  country's  poets.  And 
because  of  this,  because  she  insti- 
gated so  vibrant  a  freshness  in  our  liter- 
ature, she  is  to  become  the  central  figure 
of  an  enormous  design  of  words.  Critics 
have  sprung  up  from  every  point  to 
examine  her  contributions,  to  weigh 
them  and  to  niche  them,  with  a  domi- 
nant voice  and  a  delicious  command  of 
ripe  words,  is  Clement  Wood. 

He  is  the  first  tried  poet  to  complete 
a  majestic  analysis  of  Amy  Lowell  and 
her  work.  He  is,  I  dare  to  believe,  the 
last.  No  other  book  in  recent  years, 
from  a  critical  angle  has  so  completely 
captured  the  subtle  intelligence  of  a 
character  and  pressed  it  between  covers. 
With  lizard-quick  strokes  he  sweeps  the 
sentiment  from  beauty.  With  rapid  ease 
he  cuts  into  the  origin,  the  seed  of  her 
work.  Simple,  fair,  clean  and  sincere 
does  this  poet  present  a  picture  of  gen- 
ius. With  exquisite  taste  he  brings  the 
echoes  of  her  music  to  the  ears.  Never 
loud,  never  too  distant.  The  concealed 
quality  and  the  poignant  errors  of  her 
poems  are  treated  with  that  gentle  cul- 
ture only  the  eternal  student  may  com- 
mand. Through  Mr.  Wood  I  have  a 
remarkable  poet  and  a  charming  lady, 
a  memory  too  stridently  beautiful  to 
fade. 


JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 

MR.  NEIHARDT  is  a  splendid  epic 
poet.  His  verse  sustains  a  vivid 
and  savage  vitality,  rich  with  sympathy, 
sober  with  intelligence.  Not  until  the 
advent  of  his  collected  poems  was  it 
possible  to  grasp  the  strength  and  fire 
of  his  work.  The  important  poems  will 
always  be  those  rugged  and  subtly  pol- 
ished songs  of  the  early  frontiers,  of 
the  Indian  and  the  settler,  the  cowman 
and  the  homesteader. 

Perhaps  Neihardt's  solitary  position 
in  moment  American  literature  has 
something  to  do  with  the  fierce  indi- 
vidualism of  his  poetry.  I  know  of  no 
other  poet  of  corresponding  strength 
and  ability.  In  a  curiously  sheltered 
and  perfumed  theatre  of  modern  poetry 
his  work  stands  out  strong  and  alone; 
magic  with  originality,  powerful  with 
strident  metaphors. 

Letting  a  book  stand  alone  is  sub- 
merging it  in  praise.  I  do  not  want  to 
say  this  book  is  better  than  many  other 
books  of  selected  American  poetry. 
Rather,  that  it  is  the  only  book  of  its 
kind.  Mr.  Neihardt  concerns  himself 
with  a  land  and  a  people  he  knows 
thoroughly.  With  exhausting  search, 
with  great  study  he  has  mastered  ex- 
pression. Nothing  more  is  needed ;  his 
poetry  performs  a  valuable  service  in 
proving  the  scope  and  power  of  lyrical 
American  literature. 


A  THORN  FOR  MR.  WOOD 

IT  IS  a  tragedy  to  discover  Mr.  Wood 
attempting  the  brazen  and  obvious. 
In  GREENWICH  VILLAGE 
BLUES  he  is  giving  us  old  stuff.  He 
is  trying  to  show  us  his  expert  manipu- 
lation of  rhyme  scheme  and  ballad 
metre.  "A  Song  of  the  Village"  and 
"A  Song  of  Jazz"  tend  to  impress  us 
with  the  "savage  modern  note"  and  the 
"vibrant  modern  slant."  They  are 
gloriously  strained,  blatantly  poor.  The 
sex  twist  and  pseudo-subtle  probing  into 
the  deliciously  vulgar  assume  pathetic 
positions  in  this  book.  Mr.  Herbert  E. 
Fouts,  with  a  glorious  jacket  illustra- 
tion discovers  and  recovers  and  covers 
the  book. 


EDGAR  SALTUS 

IT  IS  curious  and  interesting  to  read 
Edgar  Saltus  poetry.  The  epigram- 
matic perfection  and  fastidious  work- 
manship so  dominant  in  "Imperial  Pur- 
ple" and  the  first  of  his  novels  returns 
with  all  the  ancient  wittery  and  cun- 
ning in  these  poems.  It  is  a  remark- 
able book,  POPPIES  AND  MAN- 
DRAGORA,  thoroughly  aristocratic 


and  finely  capable  of  holding  a  high 
chair  on  the  too  slender  shelves  of  the 
Saltus  library.  Mr.  Vinal,  with  all  his 
painstaking  genius,  has  printed  and 
bound  the  book  with  a  culture  and  taste 
that  transcends  mechanical  and  develops, 
through  the  pages  to  the  cover,  a  com- 
plete and  beautiful  poem  itself. 

Mr.  Loveman  printing  a  foreword, 
to  the  book,  has  gone  so  carefully  into 
the  value  of  poems,  further  words  seem 
delightfully  futile.  Saltus  is  a  remain- 
ing and  definite  figure  in  our  literature, 
as  Mr.  Loveman  suggests,  and  it  is 
certain  his  poetry  is  valuable  and  well 
written  if  only  for  this  reason.  I  would 
advise,  and  strongly,  young  writers  of 
verse  to  study  the  profound  simplicity 
and  order  of  these  poems.  As  in  his 
prose,  Saltus  has  given  the  poetry  an 
individual  style,  a  colorful  and  discreet 
originality.  I  do  not  believe  these  poems 
are  exceptional  and  masterly  works  of 
art;  but  I  know  them  to  be  seasoned 
with  sound  philosophy  and  completed 
with  a  cleanliness  of  finish  that  makes 
for  splendid  literature.  Except  in  a 
few  instances  where  he  has  allowed  the 
sophistication  of  loneliness  to  interfere 
with  the  passing  show,  they  are  ex- 
amples of  grace  and  beauty. 

Marie  Saltus  shares  the  volume  with 
twenty-three  poems  valuable  only  to  the 
student  of  psychology,  to  the  secret  in- 
telligence searching  the  strange  and 
often  weird  reflection  of  genius. 


LITERARY  activity  should  be  ac- 
claimed more  heartily  as  a  thera- 
peutic measure.  To  be  sure,  music  hath 
its  charms  and  matrimony  its  good 
points,  but  writing  as  a  means  of  mak- 
ing life  bearable  and  interesting  to  de- 
ranged and  dissatisfied  men  and  women 
is  not  to  be  despised." — Point  of  View, 
in  the  January  Bookman.  An  obvious 
comment  might  impart  a  certain  fillip 
to  this  suggestion,  but  for  fear  of  dis- 
couraging some  of  the  present-day  ero- 
tics who  may  eventually  get  their  heads 
out  of  the  mud,  due  restraint  will  be 
exercised. 


AFTER  a  short  stay  in  New  York, 
Konrad  Bercovici  has  returned  to 
Europe  where  he  will  stay  the  winter 
in  Paris.  He  spent  the  summer  in  his 
native  Roumania  renewing  contact  with 
the  Balkan  gypsies,  who  have  now  be- 
come prosperous  landholders.  New 
York,  he  says,  with  her  vivid  patches 
of  the  old  world  tucked  away  in  the 
narrow  streets  of  the  teeming  East  Side, 
is  a  more  fertile  field  for  romance  and 
strange  adventure  than  the  most  fasci- 
nating cities  of  the  East. 


118 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


HOTEL 
MAMK 
IOP3G 

San  Francisco 


San  Francisco 's  newest  hotel  revives  the  hospitality 
ofT)ays  of  fyld  and  bids  you  welcome  now! 

ONLY  a  moment  from  theatres  and  shops,  yet  aloft  in 
the  serene  quiet  of  Nob  Hill.  S  Smartly  furnished  guest- 
rooms,  single  or  en  suite  .  .  .  and  beneath  the  towering 
Structure,  a  garage,  reached  by  hotel  elevator.  Cuisine 
by  the  famous  Vittor.  ffDeftined  to  take  its  place  among 
the  noted  hotels  of  the  world,  the  Mark  Hopkins  is  an 
unexcelled  Stopping-place  for  travelers. 

OFFICIALLY  OPENED  DECEMBER  4,  1926 
GEO.  D.  SMITH  Tres.  &  Managing T>ire3or  $  WILL  P.  TAYLOR  T^isidint  Mgr. 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

C/£?HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


THE  PLAY'S  THE  THING 
(Continued  from  Page  115) 

ence  and  murder  fears,  and  the  inimitable  humor  of  the 
race.  It  is  the  greatest  of  all  modern  Irish  plays,  a  powerful 
tragic-drama;  its  success  in  England  was  brilliant. 

"IF  I  WAS  RICH" 

THE  Henry  Duffy  production  of  W.  A.  McGuire's 
comedy  of  middle-class  New  York  life  was  written  to 
entertain  and  amuse.  And  it  got  very  little  further  than  that. 
Only  the  smooth  technique  and  the  thorough  playing  by  a 
large  cast  saved  the  thin  play  from  completely  falling  through 
the  boards.  Its  semi-intricate  plot  suggested  a  sublimated 
Horatio  Alger  story,  and  the  only  thing  unlike  that  was  the 
rapid-fire  dialogue  and  incessant  wise-cracking  that  persisted 
and  became  annoying.  The  latter  was  strongly  reminiscent 
of  "Love  'Em  and  Leave  "Em."  Well,  it  was  adequate. 
After  leaving  the  theatre  one  had  something,  and  yet  there 
was  nothing  to  think  of,  or  even  about. 

What  there  was  of  the  play  was  well  staged  and  deftly 
played.  Not  all  of  it  was  true  to  life.  It  was  funny  and 
moved  rapidly,  though  it  did  not  satisfy  as  well  as  a  truer 
picture  would  have.  The  actors  did  with  it  as  much  as  was 
possible.  Just  the  same,  a  less  obvious,  less  "planted"  and 
less  commercial  play — no  doubt  at  the  expense  of  the  box 
office — would  in  the  end  satisfy  more  people  who  are  tiring 
of  the  similarity  of  Broadway  shows.  San  Francisco  needs 
better  plays,  even  at  the  expense  of  the  actors.  The  public 
will  go  to  a  good  play;  it  dislikes  amateur  productions  because 
they  generally  lack  the  facilities  of  the  commercial  show- 
house,  not  because  of  the  results  achieved,  which,  though 
intermittent,  are  generally  fine. 

Phil  Tead  was  most  amusing  as  the  poor  young  husband. 
He  has  a  good  voice  and  handles  a  character  concisely  and 
without  affectation.  Olive  Cooper,  with  some  of  the  best 
lines  to  brace  her,  gave  perhaps  the  most  intelligent  reading. 
She  draws  well  and  always  manages  to  make  every  word 
understood  no  matter  what  the  situation  is,  and  her  quiet 
and  restrained  playing  has  placed  her  as  a  most  capable  and 
enjoyable  character  actress.  She  is  always  good. 

As  the  erring  and  silly  little  wife,  Gay  Seabrook  was 
delightful,  but  her  character  was  so  pitifully  dumb  that  it 
was  ridiculous  even  for  the  traditional  stenographer.  A  most 
charming  little  person,  and  wistful,  she  managed  to  hold 
part  of  her  audience  sympathetic  to  the  end.  Frank  Darien 
was  good  in  the  most  absurd  role  of  the  play.  Here  were 
all  the  mean  bosses,  holders  of  moragages,  widowers  (child- 
less and  hating  children)  and  only  the  Lord  knows  what! 
rolled  into  one.  He  even  had  an  umbrella  and  would  not 
remove  his  hat.  And  he  had  an  airedale  who  was  his  only 
friend.  H.  H.  Gibson  as  the  radio  announcer  was  good  at 
times,  but  spoiled  everything  by  being  too  noisy,  and  laughing 
absurdly  and  frightfully.  He  ought  to  know  better.  De 
Stefani  as  the  lieutenant  was  convincing  in  spite  of  his 
staginess.  Florence  Roberts  is  far  too  good  to  waste  on 
worthless  parts.  The  remainder  of  the  cast  was  sufficiently 
good  to  keep  up  the  sagging  play.  Less  noise  would  have  been 
a  well-liked  ingredient. 

It  is  with  pleasure  that  we  look  forward  to  a  good  play. 
On  March  20,  Isobel  Withers  opens  in  the  Alcazar  in  the 
Colton-Randolph  drama,  "Rain."  During  the  past  six  months 
this  has  been  on  a  Western  tour  it  received  the  highest 
praises,  and  Miss  Wither's  playing  of  the  famous  Sadie 
Thompson  is  something  to  look  forward  to. 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


119 


Theories  and  Facts 

(Continued  from  Page  112) 


northern  countries,  most  marked  in  the 
countries  which  have  been  above  the  sea 
for  a  long  time. 

In  many  places  in  Alaska  there  are 
glacier  moraines  which  have  resulted 
from  two  different  glacier  periods,  one 
from  the  last  period  from  which  the 
earth  is  just  changing,  and  moraines 
from  glacier  periods  which  must  have 
existed  in  earlier  glacier  times. 

In  Alaska  and  Siberia  the  ground  is 
frozen  to  a  great  depth  in  places ;  it  has 
remained  in  that  state,  and  did  not  thaw 
out  in  the  warm  periods  between  the 
cold,  proving  that  there  were  always  cold 
winters  in  those  countries.  This  frozen 
ground  has  streaks  of  ice  in  it,  which 
shows  that  it  froze  while  being  deposited 
by  decaying  vegetation,  and  also  by 
gravel  being  carried  there  by  streams 
from  the  surrounding  hills.  In  this 
frozen  ground  there  are  also  evidences 
of  the  vegetation  from  several  different 
glacier  periods,  as  well  as  bones  of  dif- 
ferent species  of  animals  which  existed 
during  the  different  glacier  periods.  As 
many  as  five  periods  of  cold  and  warm 
can  be  traced  in  Siberia  and  Alaska.  The 
remains  of  trees  found  in  the  ground 
prove  that  the  vegetation  of  the  northern 
countries  does  not  change  much,  if  any, 
from  one  glacier  period  to  another,  al- 
though for  each  period  it  gets  slightly 
warmer  before  it  changes  to  cold.  This 
is  undoubtedly  due  to  more  land  appear- 
ing above  the  sea,  thus  supplying  more 
surface  for  the  sun's  rays  to  heat. 

THE  time  of  each  glacier  period  can- 
not be  determined  at  present.  It 
cannot  be  as  long  as  supposed,  because 
in  all  places  where  there  are  glaciers,  it 
is  noticed  that  these  glaciers  are  getting 
smaller,  and  reports  from  aged  people 
living  near  a  glacier  prove  that  the  gla- 
cier has  decreased  during  their  lifetime. 
In  the  one  or  two  exceptions  to  this  rule, 
the  increase  in  the  size  of  the  glacier  is 
due  to  there  being  greater  precipitation 
in  that  part  than  formerly.  When  gla- 
ciers no  longer  decrease  in  size  the  earth 
will  have  reached  its  midsummer  in  the 
glacier  period.  When  the  size  of  the 
glaciers  increase  the  long  period  of  cold 
will  be  returning.  The  time  of  a  full 
period  of  warm  and  cold  will  be  ap- 
proximately two  hundred  thousand 
years,  roughly  estimated.  From  the  earth's 
changes  of  climate  during  the  last  five 
thousand  years,  we  can  figure  that  the 
present  mean  temperature  for  the  year 
in  France,  averages  about  the  same  as 
that  of  Egypt  five  thousand  years  ago. 
It  undoubtedly  will  be  many  thous- 
and years  before  the  earth  reaches  the 


height  of  its  summer  in  this  glacier 
period,  because  it  is  to  be  expected  that 
these  seasons  recur  as  regularly  as  night 
and  day,  summer  and  winter,  and  may 
not  vary  a  second  of  time  in  the  one, 
two,  or  three  hundred  thousand  years 
which  are  necessary  to  complete  a  season. 

On  the  Island  of  Spitzbergen  there 
are  found  the  remains  of  trees  such  as 
willows,  spruce,  and  birch,  which  grew 
on  that  island  during  the  warmest  years 
before  the  last  glacier  .period.  It  is 
therefore  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
earth  will  again  be  warm  enough  for 
the  same  kind  of  vegetation  to  grow  on 
Spitzbergen  before  the  return  of  the  cold 
period.  There  probably  have  been  some 
changes  in  the  course  of  the  currents 
•in  the  oceans,  as  remains  of  plants  found 
in  Greenland  prove  that  the  climate  of 
Greenland  was  once  very  mild.  All  land 
has  risen  out  of  the  ocean,  and  no  doubt 
there  was  a  time  when  the  entire  sur- 
face of  the  earth  was  under  water.  The 
rising  of  the  land  is  due  to  the  swelling 
of  certain  parts,  and  this  swelling  is 
due  to  production  of  heat  in  the  rock 
under  the  surface;  also  to  new  solid 
matter  being  continually  added  to  the 
earth  by  meteors  and  fine  meteor  dust. 
How  much  solid  matter  the  earth 
gathers  in  a  given  time  it  is  impossible 
to  estimate,  as  much  of  it  reaches  the 
earth  in  the  form  of  fine  dust  and  is  not 
noticeable. 

There  was  never  a  carboniferous  age, 
as  is  now  being  taught,  during  which 
time  coal  veins  were  supposed  to  be 
formed  from  the  great  growth  of  vegeta- 
tion on  the  earth's  surface.  Coal  veins 
are  formed  entirely  under  water,  and 
from  plant  life  which  grows  under  water. 
Logs  from  trees  that  grew  on  land  are 
sometimes  found  in  coal  veins.  These 
trees  had  grown  along  the  banks  of  a 
river  which  had  undermined  its  banks, 
carrying  floating  trees  into  lakes  or  seas 
where  they  became  waterlogged  and 
sank.  When  a  log  happened  to  sink 
(Continued  on  Page  125) 


acation-time 
Fares 

. — for  low-cost  travel  to  Pacific  Coast 
cities  and  world-famous  resorts 

Effective  on  and  after  April  29,  reduced 
roundtrip  fares  assure  another  great  travel 
season  this  summer.  Your  favorite  vacation 
playground  is  easily  available  to  you  at  low 
travel  cost. 

Tickets  with  16-day  limit  on  sale  daily. 
Season  tickets  with  3  months  limit  slightly 
higher,  also  sold  daily. 

Note  these  examples:  16-day  fares  from 
San  Francisco  to  Del  Monte  and  back — 
$6.00;  to  Lake  Tahoe  and  back,  $13.25, 
Los  Angelesand  back,  $25.00(limit  21  days). 
Similar  fares  between  other  Pacific  Coast 
points  from  San  Diego  to  Vancouver,  B.  C. 

Now  plan  your  vacation  trips.  See  the 
whole  Pacific  Coast  this  summer.  Take  ad- 
vantage of  Southern  Pacific's  great  network 
of  connecting  lines  and  famous  trains  serv- 
ing the  entire 'Pacific  Coast. 

Southern 
Pacific 


F.  S.  McGINNIS 

Pan.  Traffic  Manager 

San  Francisco 


Special  Method  for 
Beginners  and  Children 


Ballet 
Pantomime 


JOY 

GOLDEN 

Dance 
Studio 


Music  ART  INSTITUTE 
'Phone  Fillmore  870 


1990  California  St. 
San  Francisco 


120 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


Freed 


om 


"Mean  the  Big  House,  the  Rabbit 
Ranch,  the  Bull  Pen,  the  Ice-Box,  the 
Country  Inn  across  the  Bay." 

"Oh,  three  days." 

"Well,  brother,  you  sure  hit  the 
wrong  town.  Running  away  with  itself 
on  missions  and  soul  healing  business. 
Things  here  ain't  going  atall,  atall." 

He  was  silent,  grateful  for  the  tobacco. 
Hours  passed.  He  was  still  there  watch- 
ing and  listening.  Time  didn't  matter. 
Plenty  of  time.  His  brain,  that  wouldn't 
rest,  disputed,  questioned,  demanded. 
With  a  twitch  he  remembered  the  pains 
in  his  legs. 

HE  WAS  sleeping  with  eleven  others 
in  a  vacant  warehouse  off  the  old 
Third  and  Townsend  freight  tracks. 
Squat  and  withered,  that  house,  and 
melancholy  with  poverty.  A  long  walk 
from  Howard  street  and  his  shoes  were 
showing  the  wear  from  his  daily  pil- 
grimages and  his  suit  .  .  .  that  damned 
cotton  suit,  and  his  body  was  bile-reeking 
with  bitterness. 

Now  the  mission.  Anything  once.  A 
board  read :  Enter  ye  into  the  fold, 
Jesus  will  give  ye  rest.  And  just  below: 
Soup  and  coffee  for  the  hungry.  No, 
these  places  were  not  here  ten  years  be- 
fore. Funny  San  Francisco  .  .  .  women 
stationed  giving  out  food  for  .  .  . 

A  hair-lipped  woman  was  sorting 
books,  piling  them  on  a  battered  table. 
He  blinked  and  stumbled.  The  air 
smelled  like  the  inside  of  a  jug  that  had 
been  corked  for  years. 

Come  Unto  Me  All  Ye  Who  Are 
Heavy  Laden  and  I  Will  Give  Ye  Rest. 
The  Lord  Is  My  Shepherd  I  Shall  Not 
Want.  Vengeance  Is  Mine,  Sayeth  the 
Lord.  And  between  two  plaster  Christs, 
//  you  are  hungry  brother  we  will  feed 
you.  Food  for  the  Body  and  Food  for 
the  Soul.  It  rasped  his  flesh.  The  joint 


(Continued  from  Page  103) 

was  like  a  tomb;  he  was  about  to  leave 
when  the  woman  spoke : 

"Can  I  help  you,  brother?"  A  weary 
voice,  colorless.  He  made  his  way  to 
the  table. 

"I  saw  your  sign.  I'm  hungry."  He 
was  irritated. 

"Alright,  brother.  What's  your 
name?"  She  drew  up  a  thick  book. 

'Does  that  matter?" 

"Form.  Matter  of  record."  She 
looked  up  and  he  noticed  fuzz  covering 
her  jaws.  "The  Lord's  record,"  she  fin- 
ished with  a  cold  smile. 

"Ralph  Peabody." 

"Address." 

"Nowhere,  at  present."  His  brain 
damned  the  woman  viciously. 

"Relatives?" 

"None." 

"Last  position  ?" 

"Physician." 

She  looked  up. 

"A  specialist?" 

"Bone  surgery  and  tendon  work." 
He  thought  he  would  like  to  ...  ah, 
well,  let  it  go. 

She  closed  her  book,  gazing  with 
clasped  hands,  into  the  gloom. 

"Brother,"  she  began,  "you've  suf- 
fered. You  have  had  the  honor  of  hold- 
ing a  great  position  in  this  world.  Aid 
to  the  sick  and  infirm,  assistance  to  the 
hurt  and  the  suffering.  You  have  un- 
doubtedly given  in  to  weakness."  Her 
eyes  closed,  "but  it  is  not  too  late.  The 
good  Lord  is  merciful.  The  way  of  the 
transgressor  is  hard — but  his  suffering  is 
just  and  his  redemption  never  withheld. 
You  have  come  asking  food " 

"I  would  like  food,"  said  Ralph.  His 
lips  were  a  little  white  at  their  edges. 
For  ten  years  they'd  come  of  a  Sunday 
to  the  gray  walls  of  a  prison,  set  up 
their  portable  organ,  droning  their 
hymns,  shouting  religion  down  their 
starved  bellies!" 


mniiiiiimillllimiiiiiiimim n IIIIIIIMIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII imniiiiiiiiiimimmiinimmiiiimiimmim 


GRANADA     HOTEL 

American   and   European   Flan 

Try  any  CHECKER  or  YELLOW  TAXI  to 
Hotel  at  our  expense 

SUTTER  and   HYDE    STS.,   San   Francisco 
James  H.  Hoyde,  Manager 


GRANADA  HOTEL 

SAN  FRANCISCO 


mimimiimiimiiii iimim lumiiiimiiiiiimmimiiiiniimiiiiiimiiiimiiimmmi nil iiiiiiiiiiiiniimimllliiliimliimiiliiimiiiimmilimiliiiiimiii 


"Give  me  something  to  eat.  I  didn't 
come  to  hear  you  preach." 

"You  have  forgotten  that  the  greater 
hunger  is  here."  She  tapped  her  thin 
breasts,  "and  that  only  the  food  of  faith 
and  trust  in  God  will  feed  you  there. 
Let  your  heart  go  out  to  Jesus  and  he 
will  make  you  .  .  ." 

"You're  a  joke,"  he  said  quietly.  "You 
and  your  tribe.  I  served  ten  years  for 
disputing  a  law  you've  probably  broken 
twenty  times  ...  a  law  to  help  a 
frantic  girl."  He  turned  about  and 
started  for  the  door.  He  hoped  she'd  re- 
member that  one  feature  story  of  ten 
years,  before.  He  hoped  the  word  "Abor- 
tion* had  been  stamped  on  her  brain  .  .  . 

"Praise  the  Lord,  brother,"  she 
bawled  after  him. 

He  stumbled  up  into  the  street.  Pray 
for  soup!  Dirty  bums.  Snooping  through 
a  man's  life!  By  God  he'd  done  more 
good  in  one  operation  than  they'd  ever 
do!  He'd  starve  before  he'd  pray  for 
soup.  He'd  starve.  His  brain  went  on, 
blindly. 

He  remembered  a  hymn  they'd  sung 
in  church  at  his  baptism.  "Praise  God 
from  whom  all  blessings  flow,  praise 

Father,  Son  and "  He  could  hear 

his  father,  and  his  mother  with  her  frail 
voice,  repeating  the  words  in  a  whisper. 

Soup  was  a  blessing.  "Praise  God 
from  whom  all  blessings  flow."  Maybe 
that  was  what  she  wanted  to  get  him 
to  get?  His  brain  was  hungry.  Red 
spots  blinked  in  his  eyes.  Ah  well,  let 
it  go.  He'd  bawl  out  prayers  for  soup 
anyway.  It  was  past.  And  it  wasn't 
freedom,  that  having  to  pray  for  food! 
He  stopped.  Even  a  belief  in  God 
wasn't  freedom!  He  was  a  cork  tossing 
about  in  a  dish  of  water;  that  wasn't 
freedom. 

Better  to  be  pinned  in  the  neck  of  a 
bottle.  If  he  were  placed  and  set  he'd 
know  his  position — and  that  was  some- 
thing. He'd  know  he  couldn't  move  one 
way  or  the  other  .  .  . 

He  came  to  a  sign.  Dishwasher 
wanted.  A  gas  plate,  covered  with 
grease  and  onions,  stared  at  him.  He 
could  see  the  Greek  wiping  a  long  coun- 
ter. As  he  push  open  the  door,  he  saw 
a  melancholy  face  bending  over  a  tub  of 
potatoes  in  the  rear. 

"You  ever  wash  dish?" 

"Yes,"  he  lied.  He  hadn't  the  nerve 
to  beg  food  before  he'd  cleaned  some 
dishes.  The  old  man  looked  up  with 
faint  interest  and  settled  back  to  his 
potatoes. 

There  was  a  thin  partition  ending  the 
sink;  a  deep  galvanized  pot  that  smelled 
of  stale  food  and  dirty  dish  rags;  a  per- 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


121 


forated  can  filled  with  yellow  soap  hung 
from  the  brass  tap. 

"Helluva  dump,"  said  the  potato 
peeler.  He  wore  a  brown  shirt  and  blue 
jeans.  His  hands  were  knotted  and  red. 

"I'm  hungry,"  Ralph  answered.  "I 
don't  give  a  damn  how  dirty  it  is." 

The  water  was  luke-warm  and 
wouldn't  worm  through  the  soap  to  the 
holes.  The  dishes  were  thick  and  greasy. 
Particles  of  food  lodged  into  the  grease. 
He  plunged  his  hands  in  the  warm 
water  ...  it  tingled  over  his  white 
arms  ...  his  eyes  closed  ...  a  white 
room  with  aproned  men  moving  about. 
A  high  table  coming  in  on  rubber  wheels. 
The  nurse  fitting  yellow  gloves  over  his 
powdered  fingers .  The  whine  of  the 
anaesthetic  ...  a  nurse  cutting  pads  of 
absorbent.  A  brief  coughing.  "All  right, 
doctor."  A  little  red  line,  suddenly 
across  the  white  spine.  "Oh  .  .  .  just 
strap  that  tight."  Then  a  curved  needle. 
"Are  you  going  to  use  clips,  doctor?" 
The  long  table  being  wheeled  out. 
Orange  juice  in  the  dressing  room  off 
the  surgery.  "Quite  a  delicate  piece  of 
work,  Peabody."  "Couldn't  tell  'em 
where  I  came  from  that  surgery  had 
reached  this  perfection."  He  started  .  .  . 

The  water  was  running  over.  He 
reached  for  the  sponge. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jack?" 

He  didn't  answer.  The  bitter  taste  in 
his  mouth  returned. 

"Freedom,"  he  said,  finally.  "What 
the  hell  is  it?  What  does  it  mean?" 

"I  just  said  what's  the  matter." 

"Let  it  go,"  he  returned,  wearily.  "I 
guess  I'm  crazy." 

He  worked  five  hours,  receiving  his 
fill  of  cheap  food  and  a  dollar.  His 
hands  were  cut  and  swollen.  The  little 
man  with  the  sad  eyes  had  gone. 

"I'm  not  coming  back." 

The  Greek  smiled. 

HE  WENT  into  the  street;  it  was 
evening.  The  food  made  him  sick. 
Slowly  feeling  the  dollar  in  his  pocket 
he  walked  up  to  Third  and  Market 
streets.  Gas  lights  blinked  at  him, 
seemed  to  be  edging  in,  pressing  him 
into  the  cement.  Street  awnings  mocked 
him.  The  world  was  forcing  him  in, 
squeezing  him  against  stone  surfaces. 
A  huge  sign  on  a  newspaper  house  oppo- 
site him  screamed  "Today"  in  huge  let- 
ters. He  stopped  to  gaze  at  it.  What 
in  hell  did  "today"  mean?  Why  not 
yesterday  .  .  .  tomorrow?  They  were 
all  alike;  so  much  starvation,  so  much 
filth,  so  much  grubbing.  He  would  like 
to  tear  down  that  sign;  get  hold  of  one 
end  of  it,  give  a  pull,  and  send  it  smash- 
ing into  the  street.  He  could  hear  the 
frightened  cries  following  it.  Oh,  it 

would  be  good  to  rip  that  sign 

A  hand  on  his  arm.    Blackie's  voice. 


"C'mon,  Ralph.  Get  outa  here  quick." 

They  crept  into  a  dark  entrance. 
Ralph,  trembling,  amazed,  excited  and 
disturbed,  thrown  instantly  out  of  his 
crawling  gait. 

A  smothered  face  spread  its  tight  lips. 
"Listen;  I  gotta  make  Mexico  and  I 
need  cash.  What've  you  got?" 

"A  dollar,  listen  I  ...  I  can  go  to 
my  old  friends  .  .  .  for  you." 

"Never  mind;  where  d'  you  flop?" 

"No  place "  then  he  remembered 

the  warehouse.  "Wait.  There's  a  dump 
in  the  freight  yard  we  been  sleeping  in; 
a  warehouse,  number  28,  been  sleeping 
there  a  week." 

"All  right,  see  me  there  tonight.  And 
say,"  he  touched  Ralph's  hand,  "they 
want  me  for  the  rope." 

Blackie  was  gone. 

Peabody  hurried  off  down  Third 
street. 

"It  isn't  a  matter  of  walls  and  bars. 
If  you're  in  or  out  of  prison  makes  no 
difference.  Out  on  a  desert  you're 
limited.  You're  shouts  won't  do.  It's 
compliance.  You're  not  in  jail  here.  The 
earth's  your  prison  according  to  your 
mind,  your  attitude  toward  life."  On 
down  Third  street  to  the  warehouse, 
thinking,  remembering  Blackie's 
speeches  went  Ralph  Peabody  . 


down  to  the  warehouse  to  tryst  with  a 
man  who'd  drawn  blood  in  the  name  of 
freedom  that  didn't  exist. 

Blackie  was  hunched  up  in  the  shad- 
ows, nervous,  suspicious.  They  got  into 
the  loft. 

"It's  safe  here?" 

"I  think  so,"  Ralph  answered. 
"There's  nobody  here  until  late.  Stiffs 
are  the  only  ones  come  here  .  .  .  it's 
rotten." 

In  short  sentences,  half  whispered, 
Blackie  told  him: 

"Dutch  gave  me  the  low  down  right 
after  you  left.  The  last  guard  changed 
at  midnight  in  B  corridor,  about  twenty 
feet  from  our  cage." 

He  felt  a  warmth  when  Blackie  said 
"our  cage." 

"Everybody  knew  it  but  the  guards. 
Everybody!  We  made  it  out  about 
twenty  to  twelve  and  waited  at  the  end 
of  the  third  story  bridge.  They  switched 
at  Lander's  cell  and  the  new  guard 
started  down  toward  B  corridor  where 
Dutch  was  waitin'  flat  on  the  bridge. 
Dutch  got  'im;  got  the  keys  and  opened 
the  switch  operating  six.  They  put  a 
stiff  named  Peters  in  with  me  and  the 
stiff  wouldn't  come  along.  Beat  that? 
The  rest  was  easy.  I  trippped  on  the 
(Continued  on  Page  124) 


YOU  CAN'T  WIN 

A  New  Book  by 
JACK  BLACK 


Harry  Leon  Wilson  says: 

"I  read  the  story 
in  two  absorbed 
sittings  and 
found  myself  at 
the  end  want- 
i  n  g  more." 


"I  have  read  a 
lot  of  novels 
lately,  but  have 
not  found  one 
that  held  me 
as  this  did." 


More,  fascinating  than  fiction;  more  vital  than  history. 
More  than  a  great  story;  it's  a  liberal  education. 


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THE  MAN  WHO  PAINTS  WITH 

A  CAMERA 
(Continued  from  Page  81) 

art  of  the  camera.  At  last  the  force 
that  had  been  directing  his  progress 
from  one  activity  to  the  next  was  to  find 
its  outlet  and  means  of  expression. 

Hagemeyer  returned  to  California 
and  started  his  experiments  and  work 
with  the  camera.  He  had  played  with 
the  camera  and  taking  of  pictures  for 
years,  using  it  as  a  hobby,  so  he  already 
had  a  foundation  of  technic  on  which 
to  build  the  structure  of  his  art.  Now, 


casting  aside  much  of  the  findings  of 
professional  photographers,  he  started 
out  to  learn  what  his  camera  could  and 
could  not  do.  He  wanted  first  to  know 
the  limitations  of  his  medium  then  to 
develop  the  possibilities,  keeping  within 
photographic  confines. 

He  did  not  imitate  other  photo- 
graphers. He  did  not  imitate  artists 
in  other  fields — etchers,  painters,  water- 
colorists.  He  sought  for  the  innate 
spirit  of  the  lens  and  plate.  He  made 
the  camera  his  servant,  a  medium 
through  which  he  could  crystallize  his 
interpretations  of  present  day  living. 

It  was  a  glorious  adventure,  this 
probing  of  the  soul  of  today,  this  un- 
charted voyage  into  the  dark  waters  of 
contemporary  life.  And,  with  an  artist's 
insight,  Hagemeyer  recreated,  from 
what  he  found,  symbols  and  sayings  in 
pictorial  form. 

Vitally  interested  in  everything  that  is 
going  on,  keenly  eager  to  put  into  tang- 
ible form  the  beauty  he  found  in  the 
clang  and  hum  of  machinery,  the  stark 
simplicity  of  industrial  essentials,  the 
startling  loveliness  of  twentieth  century 
expedients,  Hagemeyer  selected1  frag- 
ments and  held  them  up  that  all  might 
see. 

It  is  not  that  he  sees  no  beauty  in  the 
accepted  groupings  of  willows  and 
stream.  It  is  not  that  he  does  not  know 
the  romantic  perfume  of  old  castles  or 
vine  laden  gateways.  These  delight 
him  too.  But  they  also  have  delighted 
generation  upon  generation  of  people. 
These  have  been  lifted  out  of  the  in- 
difference of  the  commonplace  into  the 
realm  of  labeled  beauty  time  and  again 
by  artists  throughout  the  centuries. 

But  where  is  another  who  feels  the 
tug  of  the  beauty  manifest  in  spangling 
poles  and  smokestacks?  Where  are 
those  to  translate  the  appeal  of  ma- 
chinery? Who  else  will  open  unseeing 
eyes  to  the  essential  loveliness  of  the  life 
that  whirrs  past,  still  fogged  by  the 
guise  of  the  ordinary? 

So  Johan  Hagemeyer  photographs 
the  lyric  of  a  gasoline  station  with  its 
curved  driveway  and  suave  neatness. 
He  pictures  the  triumph  of  mounting 
flues.  He  points  out  the  dignity  of  oil 
tanks  and  square-sided  factories. 

And  all  this  he  does  by  the  selectivity 
of  his  camera  lens.  He  resorts  to  none 
of  the  tricks  of  photography.  He  scorns 
to  borrow  the  etcher's  technic  for  his 
negative  or  the  watercolorist's  for  his 
print.  His  prints  are  photographs,  not 
would-be  etchings  or  aquatints  or  imi- 
tation paintings.  He  has  found  an 
artistic  unit  of  beauty  and  reproduced 
it  for  your  joy.  He  has  learned  to  un- 
derstand the  throb  of  this  modern  age 


and  translate  it  into  terms  of  undeniable 
loveliness  of  form  and  rhythm. 

The  same  daring  spirit  is  exhibited 
in  his  portrait  work.  He  has  discarded 
the  false  standards  of  mere  prettiness  for 
the  feeling  of  innate  beauty  he  is  able 
to  wrest  from  each  personality. 

Having  a  portrait  made  by  Hage- 
meyer is  not  just  "having  your  picture 
taken."  It  is  not  a  matter  of  sitting 
before  the  camera,  feeling  selfconscious 
and  aware  of  the  mole  on  one's  left 
cheek.  It  is  like  having  a  portrait 
painted  —  and,  indeed,  Hagemeyer 
really  paints  with  his  camera — know- 
ing that  the  artist  is  making  not  merely 
a  superficial  likeness  but  a  picture  that 
diffuses  also  the  breath  of  one's  person- 
ality. 

Mr.  Hagemeyer  is,  of  course,  not 
alone  in  the  field  of  camera  art.  Many 
in  Europe  and  elsewhere  are  striving 
with  similar  vision.  But  he  is  undoubt- 
edly one  of  the  outstanding  pioneers  in 
this  new  field  of  expression,  a  vital  part 
of  the  movement,  labeled  "modern," 
which  is  to  interpret  today's  beauty  to 
present  and  future  generations. 


IN  OTHER  MAGAZINES 

COL.  E.  HOFER,  editor  of  the  Lariat, 
has  discovered  a  great  poem  and  a 
great  poet  and  a  great  philosopher,  ac- 
cording to  the  February  issue  of  The 
Lariat.  "Here  is  a  new  Eve,"  says  the 
Colonel  in  his  editorial  preceding  the 
poem,  EVE,  "of  pure  essential  womanli- 
ness. Much  of  art  and  literature  and 
poetry  has  been  tainted  by  representing 
her  as  a  finite  and  imperfect  creature, 
bringing  into  the  world  a  failing,  limp- 
ing, ailing  and  imperfect  race,  founded 
on  a  lie  that  she  was  instructed  in  sin 
by  a  serpent,  that  she  taught  the  man 
of  Adamic  clay  defilement  and  did  be- 
guile him  in  the  ways  of  the  Devil,  and 
went  weeping  out  of  Paradise  ashamed 
and  humiliated  for  having  caused  the 
fall  of  the  Adamic  race."  All  this 
Marie  Montabe  up-roots  and  scatters 
to  the  four  winds.  The  new  Eve  is  not 
a  creation  of  forever  rending  credal 
theology,  but  of  life,  love,  truth  and 
beauty.  With  permission  of  the  Lariat 
Overland  reprints  the  poem  as  it  ap- 
peared in  the  February  issue  of  the 
Lariat. 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


123 


EVE 

MARIE  MONTABE,  Powell,  Wyoming 

When  thou  call'dst  to  me,  Belov'd,  in  the  Beginning, 

Thy  voice  re-echoed  through  all  boundless  space; 

While   the   budding   rose,    that   drooped   byt   yesterday   in 

langour, 

Raised  petal  tips  to  greet  the  kiss  of  morn  ; 
And  nestling  birds  awoke  with  joy  transfigured. 
Singing  myriad  melodies  of  sweetest  song, 
As  I  arose  and  opened  eager  lips  to  answer, 
Came  out  from  bonds  of  endless  waste 
Breathing  of  life — ah,  dids't  thou  know,  Beloved, 
Thy  call  of  love  alone  had  brought  me  forth? 

Thou  clasp'dst  my   hand,  and   I,   in  wonder 
Followed  thee  down  an  aisle  of  towering  trees, 
Through  jungle  gloom   where  silver  winds  played  on  the 

water 
And  crooned  to  ripples  blowing  light  and  free. 

From  paling  star-dawn  to  the  sunset's  glow-we  wandered, 

To  where  strange  shadows  chased  the  lights  away; 

Upon  the  still  lagoon  I  saw  thee  mirrored — 

Myself — yet  not  myself — still,  part  of  me; 

Made  of  the  same  flesh,  brought  forth  from  the  void, 

Two  separate  beings  even  now 

And  as  the  water  and  the  wave  are  one,  Beloved, 

Just  so  I  longed  that  thou  and  I  become. 

Desire,  lashed  into  waves  of  passion, 

Surged  high  above  me,  'round  about, 

Then  I  looked  far  into  the  stream,  and  there — 

Thy  image  fanned  the  flame  then  but  alight. 

I  craved  thy  arms,  like  lily  roots  to  bind  me; 

To  press  against  me  thy  lithe  limbs  and  thy  breast  ; 

Thy  hands,  like  noontide's  scorching  heat, 

To  light  and  linger  on  my  quivering  flesh. 

Desire  within  grew  frantic,  and  I  left  thee, 

Afraid,  yet  filled  with  strange  delight, 

For  in  thy  fevered  eyes  I  saw,  Beloved, 

A  delirious,  more  fierce  and  craving  fire. 

Through   thick-leavd   branches,   swaying    in   sweet    langour 

To  where  green  rushes,  bright  with  red  shoots,  grew, 

I  fled,  and  there  a  low  voice  softly  whispered 

To  me,  as  I  in  breathless  silence  stood ; 

Yea — I  listened  as  it  spake  in  luring  accents, 

"Stay,  stay  thy  flight — 'twill  do  thee  naught  but  ill; 

This  urge  of  mine  is  but  love's  first  awaking, 

As  water,  fire  and  air  are  Nature's  mood; 

'Tis  pulsing  life,  this  intense  longing; 

Come,  quench  thy  thirst,  creating  life  anew — 

Know  all,  and  ever   through  thy  knowledge 

Bequeath  life  to  all  those  who  would." 

I  begged  thee,  Love,  to  build  a  boat  of  wild  swamp  mallows, 

And  in  the  stillness  of  the  jeweled  night 

To  float  with  me  upon  the  silvery  waters 

As  One — 'til  in  thy  arms  I   should  expire. 

*     *     # 

Thou  earnest  to  me,  Beloved,  amid  thy  dying  sunlight; 
Thou  kiss'dest  my  lips,  caressing  breasts  and  hair ; 
Then  took  me  to  thyself  with  soft  words  whispered — 
Ah,  Love,  thy  words  were  flame,  thy  kisses  fire, 

From  dusk   'till  dawn,    when  white-tipped   arrows 
Of  the  day  shot  through  the  paling  sky, 

(Continued  on  Page  128) 


Palms  and  a  patch 
of  green 

HOW  unlike  the  ordinary  hotel  vista  is  the  charm- 
ing sweep  of  Union  Square  glimpsed  from  the 
windows  of  the  Hotel  Plaza. 

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Freed 


yard  stairs.  Snider,  old  'Neversleep,' 
come  running  down  from  the  kitchen 
shouting,  'Who's  there?"  I  lay  low  and 
got  him  with  a  turn  file."  There  was 
a  faint  sound  of  victory  in  his  voice  as 
he  finished. 

"How'd  you  know  you  killed  him?" 

"How'd  I  know?  My  God,  his  eyes 
\vent  back  like  window  shades  and  half 
his  head  went  in.  It  was  me  or  him; 
you  know  old  Snyder." 

The  listener  twitched. 

"You've  got  it  on  your  hands  for 
nothing,  Blackie.  What'd  you  lay  him 
stiff  for?" 

"Aw,  can  that.  It  had  to  be  done.  I 
gotta  get  out  .  .  .  quick." 

Silence.  Blackie  thinking  of  his  break. 
Ralph  bewildered,  trying  to  find  some 
excuse  for  him.  He  stirred  uneasily. 

"I  thought  you  didn't  think  yourself 
a  prisoner?" 

"That's  off,  Ralph.  It  doesn't  work. 
My  idea  went  so  far  and  stopped.  I 
want  freedom  of  body  .  .  .  and  by  God 
.  .  .  I've  got  it." 

"I've  just  about  come  to  the  realiza- 
tion that  what  you  preached  to  me  there 
was  right  .  .  .  I've  just  about  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  Freedom  is  not  a 
matter  of  walls  or  space,  it's  how  you 
look  life  in  the  face.  Blackie,  I  decided 
to  go  back  .  .  .  tomorrow,  and  see  the 
warden.  Why,  Blackie  ...  it  would 


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Hall  of  Justice,  a  gay  little  spot  In 
an  otherwise  dingy  but  historical 
alley. 

Bohemia  Ever  Ignores 
the  Obvious 

THE  PHILOSOPHERS 

659  Merchant  St.          Davenport  391 
CLOSED  MONDAYS 


reeaom 

(Continued  from  Page  121) 

have  been  freedom  if  we'd  had  little 
patches  of  earth  to  dig  in  and  see  things 
grow  ...  if  we'd  had  a  pasture  with 
some  health  cows  in  it,  some  white 
chickens  .  .  .  that's  what  they  need  over 
there  ..." 

They  hunched  up  against  a  wall,  in 
the  gathered  shadows  of  the  loft,  and 
Ralph's  brain  formulated  freedom  for 
the  prisoner  behind  the  wall.  A  strange 
kind  of  freedom  and  Blackie  listened 
and  doubted.  • 

From  below  came  creaks,  the  sudden 
plant  of  a  floor  board.  Ralph  felt 
nervous  and  started  to  his  feet. 

"Easy  there!    I  want  both  of  you." 

They  leaped  up,  bathed  in  light,  a  gun 
pointed  on  them.  Heavy  shoulders 
slipped  into  the  loft. 

"Put  'em  up,  you." 

Blackie  raised  his  arms,  saying  noth- 
ing. 

They  were  locked  together  and  taken 
to  the  street.  Blackie  spoke  to  the  detec- 
tive: 

"What's  the  idea,  Vag?" 

"Listen,  Blackie,  you're  goin'  to  hit 
the  rope  quick.  Snyder  was  put  under 
this  morning." 

Ralph  blanched. 


was  the  place  he  had  slept; 
acacia  trees  and  meadow  land.  A 
horse,  an  old  one,  still  held  his  patch  of 
clover.  He  recalled  the  cricket  chirp,  the 
slow  hours  beneath  the  tree.  And  sud- 
denly he  remembered  aching  feet,  fiery 
needles  in  his  legs  .  .  . 

They  were  back.  Sheep-dip  and  iodine  ; 
down  the  corridors  familiar  whispering  ; 
his  blankets  were  warm  against  his  body. 
Yes,  he'd  go  to  the  warden  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  could  be  profitable  this  plan  of 
his  for  farming  within  the  prison  walls 
.  .  .  yes,  in  the  morning  .  .  . 

He  turned  under  the  warm  blankets. 
He  was  very  quickly  asleep. 


TWENTY  YEARS  AFTER 

(Continued  from  Page  109) 
ous.  And  overcoming  obstacles  is  said 
to  be  splendid  in  developing  character. 
There  must  be  a  sunnier  side.  Else  why 
so  many  of  the  old  Villa  Park  boys  still 
with  the  land  ?  Because  they  know  noth- 
ing else?  Oh,  no!  for  most  of  them  have 
wandered  afar,  only  to  return  to  im- 
prove the  old  homesteads  or  to  break 
new  soil  for  the  cultivation  of  the  treas- 
ure-bearing if  temperamental  fruit  tree. 
And  they  are  happy,  these  industrious 
young  farmers — happy  in  their  healthy 
families,  their  modern  schools,  their  cozy 
homes,  their  books,  their  radios  and  cars 
and  fine  roads;  and,  above  all,  happy  in 
the  knowledge  that  they  are  not  drifters, 
not  wasters — but  producers! 


The  California 

Spring  Blossom  and  Wild 

Flower  Association 

The  fifth  annual  Flower  Show 
will  be  held  April  20th  and 
21st,  1927,  in  the  Native  Sons' 
Hall,  414  Mason  Street,  San 
Francisco. 

Cultivated  flowers  are  request- 
ed from  individuals  and  clubs. 
There  will  be  special  prizes, 
silver  vases  for  the  following: 

Bulbous  Blooms,  Irises,  Pan- 

sies,  Sweet  Peas,  Roses,  Lady 

Washingtons  and  Lilacs 


STRANGE  WATERS 


'By  GEORGE  STERLING 

Only  150  copies  printed  at  a  private 
printing.    Order  your  copy  at  once. 


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San  Francisco,  Calif. 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


125 


Theories  and  Facts 

(Continued  from  Page  119) 


where  there  was  much  marine  vegeta- 
tion, which  later  went  to  form  the  coal 
vein,  the  log  turned  to  coal  along  with 
the  other  vegetation.  The  forming  of 
land  plants  into  coal  veins  is  impossible, 
owing  to  the  action  of  the  air  which 
changes  the  carbon  in  a  dead  plant  into 
gas,  leaving  nothing  which  contains  car- 
bon, and  which  could  burn.  When  a 
forest  has  been  buried  by  a  landslide 
the  trees  have  petrified. 

In  each  successive  period  of  warm 
and  cold,  new  species  of  life  have  ap- 
pared  on  the  land  of  the  earth's  surface. 
These  could  not  survive  the  long  cold 
period  of  the  ice  age.  Even  if  the  cold 
was  not  severe  enough  to  freeze  over  the 
whole  surface  of  the  earth,  there  would 
not  be  enough  precipitation  for  plant 
and  animal  life  to  exist.  As  the  earth 
gets  colder  evaporation  becomes  less, 
therefore  precipitation  must  become  less 
also.  The  evaporation  in  winter  is  very 
small  compared  to  summer,  and  during 
an  ice  age  would  be  very  much  less  than 
at  the  present  time,  and  precipitation 
would  be  less  in  comparison  to  evapora- 
tion. 

With  the  coming  of  warmth  after  the 
ice  age,  new  life  appeared,  each  species 
beginning  in  a  tiny  state  as  the  present 
microbe,  each  one  being  a  species  of  its 
own  kind,  and  not  related  to  any  other 
species. 

There  has  not  been  sufficient  time 
since  the  last  ice  age  for  such  evolution 
as  that  explained  by  Darwin,  which 
would  have  taken  millions  of  years,  and 
the  cold  periods  would  have  wiped  all 
those  species  out  before  they  could  have 
attained  to  any  great  evolution.  In  trac- 
ing each  species  which  it  is  possible  to 
trace,  we  find  that  they  have  evolved 
slightly,  but  we  also  note  that  they  have 
increased  enormously  in  size.  The  horse, 
for  instance,  has  increased  in  size  twenty 
times,  owing  to  man's  influence  in  breed- 
ing horses.  Other  animals  have  increased 
accordingly,  and  none  has  decreased  in 
size.  It  is  claimed  that  the  whale,  which 
is  now  the  largest  of  all  living  mammals, 
can  be  traced  back  by  its  remains  to 
the  size  of  a  squirrel,  and  still  be  identi- 
fied as  the  same  species.  It  would,  there- 
fore, appear  probable  that  all  species 
were  created,  or  began,  as  a  microbe, 
each  species  being  entirely  different  from 
every  other  species,  and  non-related. 

Man  is  related  only  to  mankind,  and 
the  only  evolution  of  man  is  seen  in  the 
changing  of  the  different  races  in  ap- 
pearance and  color,  from  different  cli- 
matic and  living  conditions.  Monkeys 
have  evolved  more  than  man — all  the 
different  species  of  monkeys  being  un- 


doubtedly related  to  each  other,  but  not 
to  mankind. 

The  cat  family  has  evolved  into  many 
species,  differing  mostly  in  size,  such  as 
the  housecat,  wildcat,  tigers  and  lions, 
all  belonging  to  the  same  family  and 
evolving  from  the  same  beginning,  the 
domestic  cat  remaining  small,  owing  to 
its  being  domesticated  and,  therefore, 
partly  relieved  from  the  struggle  for 
existence  which  results  in  the  survival 
of  the  fittest;  it  therefore  did  not  in- 
crease in  size ;  nor  was  it  bred  for  its  size 
and  appearance  as  much  as  dogs  were, 
consequently  it  has  remained  about  the 
same  size  for  centuries.  The  dog  is  a 
species  of  animal  which  evolves  and 
adapts  itself  rapidly  to  changed  condi- 
tions. All  species  of  dogs  had  their  be- 
ginning from  the  same  species  of  animal, 
including  the  wolf,  coyote,  fox,  and  even 
the  seal.  Most  species  of  animals  have 
evolved  more  than  the  human. 

The  very  large  bones  of  animals 
found,  are  from  animals  that  existed 
before  each  ice  age.  These  undoubtedly 
had  the  same  origin  as  the  species  of  the 
present  time,  but  were  exterminated  by 
the  ice  age.  Of  the  species  now  living 
there  appears  to  be  one  that  has  sur- 
vived the  last  ice  age,  and  this  is  the 
whale  which  lived  in  the  water  of  the 
ocean;  this  species  could  not  attain  to 
such  an  immense  size  from  evolution 
since  the  ice  age.  If  the  whale  is  a 
survivor  from  the  warm  period  before 
the  ice  age  and  lived  at  the  same  time 
as  the  mastodon,  it  proves  that  the 
oceans  of  the  earth  did  not  entirely 
freeze  over  during  the  ice  age,  nor  did 
the  atmosphere  change  much  except  in 
its  temperature. 

It  would  appear  that  the  human  race 
has  lived  on  earth  only  since  the  last 
ice  age.  If  there  was  a  species  like  the 
human  race  it  did  not  attain  to  the  state 
of  civilization  reached  by  our  present 
generation.  Remains  have  been  found, 
(Continued  on  Page  128) 


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California  Alps 

(Continued  from  Page  112) 


Introducing  the  class  in  short- 
story  writing  for  Boys  and 
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Under  the  Auspices  of 


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THE  air  was  keen  and  bracing,  and 
the  numerous  iodine-hued  lakes 
never  appeared  so  colorful.  The  dark 
brown  and  castellated  Palisade  range 
surmounted  by  lofty  North  Palisade 
(14,254)  loomed  morose  and  thought- 
ful only  a  short  distance  away,  and  I 
cast  longing  eyes  in  that  direction. 
Taking  advantage  of  this  proximity, 
four  members  of  the  Appalachian  Club 
slipped  away  under  cover  of  dawn  and 
after  nine  hours'  toil  and  scaling  of 
dizzy  precipices,  succeeded  in  reaching 
the  tip  of  North  Palisade — as  proved 
through  powerful  field  glasses  trained 
on  the  peak — probably  the  hardest  climb 
of  the  high  peaks  of  the  Sierras,  accom- 
plished only  by  a  few. 

On  learning  of  their  departure,  I  felt 
disappointed  at  not  going  along,  but 
resolved  to  mend  matters.  My  objective 
was  the  good-natured  spike  of  Mount 
Winchell  (13, 750)*  in  the  same  range, 
but  when  after  six  hours'  toil  I  reached 
the  top  of  a  spearhead,  my  map  and 
compass  told  me  that  I  had  climbed 
Agassiz  Needle  (13,882)!  Once  or 
twice  I  had  been  about  to  give  up  the 
climb;  once  when  I  encountered  a  nar- 
row tunnelway  running  vertically  be- 
hind scrambled  boulders — apparently 
the  only  way  on  and  yet  too  small  and 
hazardous;  twice  after  steep  faces  with- 
out crack  or  crevice  mocked  my  efforts 
at  continuing.  And  when  I  later  pon- 
dered why  it  was  called  a  needle,  the 
peak  that  I  had  climbed,  I  thought  of 
the  apertures  passageway.  "And  it  shall 
be  easier  for  a  camel  to  pass  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a  rich  man 
to  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  For 
once,  the  scriptural  quotation  appeared 
plausible.  The  thread  to  the  needle  is 
not  lacking,  either,  for  melting  snows 
rush  down  through  the  eye,  if  eye  it 
can  be  called. 

On  the  other  side  from  the  top  of 
Agassiz  Needle  I  saw  the  Palisade  Gla- 
cier; the  lack  of  sufficient  snowfall  dur- 
ing recent  years  was  only  too  evident. 
With  long  thin  arms  clinging  tenaciously 
to  deep  crevices  above,  the  sheet  re- 
minded me  of  some  ghost-like  Druid 
biding  his  time,  limbs  drawn  up  under 
a  semi-transparent  white  gown.  Unless 
climatical  conditions  become  more  favor- 
able, our  descendants  will  not  know 
what  a  glacier  is  like. 

The  view  of  the  entire  country  from 
that  peak  was  awe-inspiring — hundreds 
of  miles  of  mountain  topography  chopped 
up  like  the  waves  of  an  angry  sea  with 
no  arrangement.  To  the  east  I  made 
out  the  great  void  of  Owens  Valley, 


to  the  north  and  northwest  stood  Hum- 
phreys, Tom,  Darwin,  Morgan,  a  few 
of  those  pinnacles  approaching  fourteen 
thousand  feet ;  to  the  west  were  God- 
dard  and  the  puzzling  outlines  of 
Devils  Crags;  to  the  south  I  saw  the 
rims  of  Kings  River  Canon  and  the 
unmistakable  profiles  of  Williamson  and 
Whitney.  And  the  lakes!  A  score  at 
the  base  of  the  Palisades  range  on  both 
sides  of  Bishop  Pass,  two  score  visible 
in  the  distance,  some  small,  some  two 
miles  across — depressions  in  the  rocky 
fields  filled  with  emerald  green  liquified 
snow.  Pools  that  were  always  crystal 
clear,  notwithstanding  the  deep  blue  or 
purple  color. 

'T'O  first  sight  from  an  aeroplane  the 
•*•  Sierras  present  nothing  except  the 
wildest  confusion  in  topography.  Peaks 
seemingly  violate  the  law  of  physics  by 
standing  on  end,  and  lakes  serenely  oc- 
cupy the  most  impossible  of  level  high 
places.  But  the  deep  canons  of  the 
father  rivers  remind  us,  they  furnish 
the  key  to  Nature's  enigma.  No  mat- 
ter where  creek  and  lake  may  be,  they 
will  be  found  sooner  or  later  to  empty 
into  one  of  the  great  streams  of  the 
Sierra  Nevada:  the  Kern,  Kings,  San 
Joaquin,  Merced,  and  Tuolumne.  Of 
these,  the  Merced  is  best  known,  for  is 
not  its  grand  canon  our  own  incom- 
parable Yosemite  Valley?  Yosemite, 
the  lovable!  WHO  has  seen  it  and  has 
not  been  entranced  by  the  flashing  wat- 
erfalls or  the  marVelously  steep  and 
sculptured  walls — that  at  times  seem  to 
melt  into  the  sky!  Then  there  is  the 
Grand  Canyon  of  the  Tuolumne  made 
accessible  by  trail  only  last  summer,  and 
the  "wheel-like  whirls"  invented  by  John 
Muir  for  the  Waterwheel  Falls. 

Yosemite  and  its  charms  have  been 
described  so  satisfactorily  by  John  Muir; 
it  would  be  futile  to  try  to  imitate  his 
masterful  sketch  of  the  Ydsemite  high 
Sierra  and  canons.  Yet  there  are  other 
grand  canons  and  valleys  in  the  Sierras 
which  deserve  much  more  than  passing 
mention.  Of  those  Kings  River  Canon 
runs  Yosemite  Valley  a  close  second  in 
all-round  interest.  Both  are  true  U- 
shaped  valleys  in  contrast  to  the  other 
V-shaped  canons  of  the  Sierra  Nevada. 
Both  have  a  collection  of  sculptured 
monumental  cliffs,  although  a  compari- 
son in  single  rock  forms  must,  of  course, 
result  in  favor  of  Yosemite,  most  re- 
markable chasm  in  this  respect  in  the 
entire  world.  Yosemite  too,  has  a  mo- 
nopoly of  scenic  waterfalls,  although 
Kings  has  some  magnificent  cascades. 
What  Kings  Canon  lacks,  however,  is 


April,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


127 


made  up  by  the  galaxy  of  peaks  and 
crests  surrounding  the  gorge,  many  of 
which  tower  four  and  five  thousand 
feet  above  the  brinks  in  contrast  to  the 
billowly  uplands  around  the  Yosemite. 
Kings  Canon  is  not  dwarfed  by  its  set- 
ting as  Yosemite,  but  takes  on  a  deeper 
and  spectacular  effect.  Until  the  canon 
is  made  accessible  to  automobiles — a  re- 
mote possibility  on  account  of  the  tre- 
mendously rugged  country  —  Kings 
River  will  probably  never  get  the  glory 
and  fame  that  it  richly  deserves.  Al- 
though its  sister  canon  to  the  south, 
Kern  Canon,  has  been  given  the  protec- 
tion of  Sequoia  National  Park,  Kings 
River  Canon  is  still  hopefully  visioned 
by  power  and  irrigation  interests  as  a 
vast  reservoir  of  water — and  silver  dol- 
lars! 

Nevertheless,  we  can  be  glad  that 
the  longest  deep  gorge  of  the  Sierra, 
Kern  Canon,  ending  in  the  high  Mount 
Whitney  plateau,  has  been  granted  im- 
munity at  last.  You  and  I  will  see  it 
some  day  in  all  its  virgin  ruggedness 
and  beauty — without  too  much  trouble. 
And  there  are  many,  many  other  creeks 
and  canons  of  formidable  size  and  depth, 
which,  if  they  were  not  so  numerous, 
would  evoke  admiration  and  the  most 
gifted  description.  None  are  exact'.y 
alike;  standard  terms  must  be  resorted 
to.  Along  the  creek  bed,  where  the 
winds  are  not  so  biting,  are  the  forests 
and  deep  ever-green,  or  perhaps  a  few 
straggling  junipers  and  Jeffrey  pines — if 
the  altitude  exceeds  ten  and  eleven  thou- 
sand feet.  Above,  the  V-shaped  walls, 
vast  jumbles  of  granite  cubes  and 
geometric  fragments,  stand  three  and 
even  five  thousand  feet,  their  spearhead 
points  chiseling  the  deep  blue  sky  above, 
their  sides  occasionally  covered  by  flora. 
And  in  that  flora  at  a  certain  altitude 
there  are  always  gooseberries  to  delight 
the  palate ;  is  there  anything  better  than 
gooseberry  pie  and  golden  trout  for  sup- 
per? In  morning,  the  color  of  those 
snow-spangled  ridges  may  be  clear  white, 
as  afternoon  drags  on  soft  lace-like 
brown  veins  are  exposed,  and  at  sunset 
the  peaks  startle  or  intoxicate  with  a 
rose-pink  tint.  Or  there  is  the  forbid- 
ding brown  of  the  Palisades  and  the  iron 
crimson  of  Humphreys. 

In  our  trip  through  the  mountains 
last  summer  we  travelled  over  a  part 
of  the  John  Muir  Trail,  constructed 
along  Californiaa's  skyline  in  tribute  to 
the  great  naturalist.  For  years  the  work 
has  gradually  progressed,  until  now 
there  is  a  complete  trail  all  the  way 
from  Mount  Whitney  to  Yosemite  Na- 
tional Park,  a  distance  of  three  hundred 
miles  and  several  weeks'  journey  by 
pack  animal.  The  highest  pass  crossed 
by  the  trail,  Junction  Pass,  is  over  thir- 
teen thousand  feet,  the  last  link  of  the 


memorial  to  be  completed.  California 
spent  over  fifty  thousand  dollars  for 
this  foot  highway,  exclusive  of  federal 
assistance  through  national  park  and  for- 
est services.  It  is  intended  to  shorten 
the  distance  on  this  trail  from  time  to 
time  as  money  is  available  for  that  pu  •• 
pose.  Each  summer  sees  several  good- 
sized  parties  making  the  journey  from 
end  to  end. 

Another  trail  is  now  under  construc- 
tion the  entire  distance,  but  at  a  higher 
altitude  than  the  present  memorial. 
Thus,  when  finished — after  many  years 
perhaps,  the  John  Muir  Trail  will  con- 
sist of  two  independent  paths  from 
Yosemite  to  Sequoia,  one  low  and  one 
high,  and  it  will  be  possible  to  make  the 
entire  trip  without  retracing  one's  steps. 

The  streams  and  lakes  in  the  locality 
covered  last  summer  were  surprisingly 
full,  although  the  last  winter  had  been  a 
"very  mild  one,  with  relatively  little 
snowfall.  Yosemite  Falls  in  Yosemite 
Valley,  where  I  spent  two  months  of 
last  summer,  were  entirely  dry  by  the 
time  I  left,  an  unusual  occurence.  And 
the  hot  San  Joaquin  basin  was  the  hot- 
ter for  the  dearth  of  water.  Petty  war- 
fare resulted  in  at  least  one  irrigation 
district  over  the  division  of  the  life- 
giving  Kings  River,  then  at  a  very  low 
level.  But  the  High  Sierras  are  a 
marked  contrast  to  the  aridity  so  uni- 
versal in  the  Southwest;  they  keep  their 
reservoirs  full,  giving  water  to  the  foot- 
hills and  lowlands  only  when  there  is 
water  to  spare.  Thunderstorms  and 
cloudbursts  are  not  unusual  in  the  Si- 
erra Nevada,  although  taboo  elsewhere. 

Thanks  to  the  waters  lavished  on  a 
great  thirsty  basin  by  the  Sierras,  San 
Joaquin  and  Sacramento  valleys  have 
become  one  of  the  most  productive  and 
populous  centers  in  the  nation.  Their 
metropolii :  Sacramento  and  Fresno  are 
each  nearing  the  hundred  thousand 
mark  in  population,  although  in  1880, 
Fresno  was  little  more  than  a  ranch. 


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place.  It  is  just  the  thing  for  summer 
when  coats  are  off  and  a  clean,  cool 
and  neatly  fitting  shirt  waist  effect  is 
most  desirable.  Holds  with  a  bull-dog 
grip  which  can't  harm  the  sheerest 
silk.  For  dancers,  golfers  and  neat 
dressers.  Start  right.  Order  today. 

Gold  PI.    4   on  card  $1.00 
The  Sta-on  Co.,  Dept.  K.,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


128 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


April,  1927 


IN  OTHER  MAGAZINES 
(Continued  from  Page  123) 

We  knew  that  ecstacy  of  sweet  communion — 
Our  lovely  dream  a  living,  vital  truth. 

We  could  not  force  the  night  to  linger, 

Nor  could  we  stay  the  dawning  glow; 

Too  soon  the  sun  climbed  high  heavens, 

And  we  lay  faint,  our  bodies  spent  with  transient  joy. 

I  looked  at  thee,  and  saw  thee  naked, 

And  thou  at  me — I  felt  no  shame — 

For  had  we  not  been  one  for  ensuing  ages? 

One  in  the  spirit,  one  in  flesh, 

Still  one — though  twain? 

Within  my  soul  I  felt  a  new  life  quicken, 

Then    through    the    dim,    dishevelled    grass    there    came    a 

murmur 

Of  voices  springing  from  a  race  of  men. 
And  then,  Beloved  of  mine,  I  took  thy  hand 
And,   looking   far  into   the  wasteland, 
I  heard  the  love-call  of  a  mating  bird, 
The  coo  of   doves,  clear  in  their  wooing. 

The  beauty  we  had  found  throughout  the  hours, 
The  love  our  union  gave  unto  the  world, 
Should  last  through  eons,  and  each  generation 
Would  live  through  that  great  heritage  of  ours. 


THEORIES  AND  FACTS 

(Continued  from  Page  125) 

of  species  which  existed  before  the  ice 
age,  which  were  much  like  those  of  the 
present  day  man.  If  these  were  human 
remains,  the  race  did  not  use  many 
tools,  nor  accomplish  anything  to  the 
extent  that  man  accomplishes  today. 
Tools  and  other  implements  would  be 
more  apt  to  be  found  than  the  remains 
of  the  humans  themselves,  and  would 
remain  longer  in  a  state  of  preservation. 
The  human  race  has  been  the  same 
throughout.  Their  bodies  have  devel- 
oped and  adapted  themselves  to  changes, 
but  the  brain  of  the  human  has  been 
nearly  the  same  from  the  beginning. 
Whenever  the  human  race  has  had  the 
opportunity  to  accomplish  great  things, 
they  have  always  done  so.  The  work 
which  has  been  done  by  the  people  who 
lived  in  the  past,  is  equal  to  that  which 
would  be  done  by  the  present  generation 
if  conditions  now  were  the  same  as  then. 
The  rapid  advance  of  the  race  since 
printing  came  into  use  (enabling  every 
advance  to  be  recorded,  inventions  pre- 
served, and  general  knowledge  to  be 
placed  before  the  public)  proves  that 
the  ability  of  the  human  race  always  has 
been  great,  although  the  opportunities 
were  lacking. 


******•*•*•***••*• 


•*r ******************************** * 


******************************* 


gaining  a  nation's  attention  *  *  * 

THE  ECHO 

THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAIN  MAGAZINE 

Edited  by  DAVID  RAFFELOCK 

T^HE  first    and  only  magazine   expressing   and  interpreting  the   art,   thought,   and   history   of   the 
*•    vast  Rocky  Mountain  West. 


Brilliant  Stories — The  O.  Henry  and  O'Brien  antholo- 
gies honored  ten  out  of  thirteen  ECHO  stories  in  1926. 
Sophisticated  Comment — The  PPestern  Scene,  intelligent 
and  amusing  satire;  The  Romance  of  the  West,  witty 
paragraphs  contrasting  the  old  with  the  new  West ;  Inter- 
esting Westerners,  THE  ECHO  constructs  its  own  Western 


"hall  of  fame";  The  Delicatessen  Shop,  a  searchlight  on 

the  thought  of  the  West. 

THE  ECHO  prints  and  illustrates  the  only  intelligent  and 

complete  record  of  the  work  of  Western  artists. 

Its  poetry  is  of  recognized  merit.  THE  ECHO  serves  as  the 

only  established  poetry  journal  in  this  vast  region. 


THE  ECHO'S  viewpoint  is  untrammeled  and  courageous.  It  prints  what  it  thinks  is  sincere  and  beautiful.  As  a  pioneer 
in  the  publishing  of  a  Rocky  Mountain  sophisticated  and  intelligent  magazine,  it  is  upholding  the  best  traditions  of  those 
early  pioneers  of  the  physical  realm.  No  longer  merely  an  experiment.  THE  ECHO  is  commanding  the  attention  of 
thoughtful  and  discerning  persons  everywhere. 


INTRODUCTORY  OFFER:      March,  April,  and   May  issues,   containing  the  three-part   historical    novel, 
Pike's  Peakers,"  for  50  cents. 


'Here  Come   the 


20  Cents  a  Copy 
1840  California  Street 


THE  ECHO 


$2.00  a  Year 
Denver,  Colorado 


THE^ALL'YEAR'PALISADE^CITYtAT-APTOS-BEACH-ON-MONTEREY-BAY' 


l"ou   </nV«   <o   Seaclijf  Park  through 
Santa  Cruz  or  \Vationvitle,  turning  off 


ana  ruz  or  aionve,  urning  off 
the  State  Highway  about  J1A  milet  eait 
oj  Capitola,  where  the  tignt  read  "Sea- 
cli£  Park,  Apia*  Beach  and  the  Pali- 
fadet." 


EACLIFF  PARK- 

/fTTT^    y*7)    /•/  ^TT 

ttfy^N&ay* 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family  —  but  the 
fact  that  Seacliff  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Reality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  Seacliff  Park  property 


^7S 

SThese  are  summer-like  (J_y 
days  at  Aptos  Beach— warm,  lazy 
breakers  with  Joamy  crests  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
scuttling  off  to  the  shore  in  a  wild 
conjusion  oj  effervescent  bub- 
bles, while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward Jor  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

CPendlng  the  construction  oj  per- 
manent buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

SDrive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  jree. 

(ffree  transportation,  ij  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  Seaclijj  Park 
Ojjice  upon  arrival.  <S^Ask  Jor 
Registration  Clerk. 


s  wise. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  thefact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetual  charm 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.  Seacliff  Park  resi- 
dents know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park — Riviera  of  the 
Pacific  now  emerges  in  reality. 


OWNEL.  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF  COMPANY.  APTOS,  CALIFORNIA 


ten'  upon  request 


ON.  MONTEREY  BAIT 

AT  APT  OS.  CALIFORNIA. 


GAYLORD  WILSHIRE 
Inventor  of  the  I-ON-A-CO 

/^AYLORD  WILSHIRE  is  the  founder  of  the  famous 
^-*  Wilshire  District  in  Los  Angeles,  beautiful  Wilshire 
Boulevard  was  named  after  him.  He  is  considered  one  of 
the  foremost  authorities  on  economics  in  America  today. 

His  circle  of  acquaintances  includes  such  names  as  William  Morris, 
Ambassador  Bryce,  H.  G.  Wells,  Havelock  Ellis,  and  Bernard  Shaisu. 
His  latest  achievement  is  the  invention  of  the  I-ON-A-CO,  based  upon 
the  recent  discovery  of  Professor  Otto  Warburg,  the  noted  German  biolo- 
gist. His  invention  seems  destined  to  revolutionize  medical  science. 


Wilshiresl-ON-A-co 


I 


•liiillii 


FOUNDED  BY  BRET  HARIE  IN  186 S 


Vol.  LXXXV 


MAY,  1927 


No.  5 


PRICE  25  CENTS 

AND  O  UT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


Communication  for  a  Growing  Nation 

An  Advertisement  of 
the  American  Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company 


THE  first  telephone  call 
was  made  from  one  room 
to  another  in  the  same 
building.  The  first  advance  in 
telephony  made  possible  conver- 
sations from  one  point  to  another 
in  the  same  town  or  community. 
The  dream  of  the  founders  of  the 
Bell  Telephone  System,  however, 
was  that  through  it,  all  the  sepa- 
rate communities  might  some 
day  be  interconnected  to  form  a 
nation-wide  community. 

Such  a  community  for  speech 
by  telephone  has  now  become  a 
reality  and  the  year-by-year 
growth  in  the  number  of  long 
distance  telephone  calls  shows 
how  rapidly  it  is  developing. 
This  super-neighborhood,  ex- 
tending from  town  to  town  and 


state  to  state,  has  grown 
as  the  means  of  communi- 
cation have  been  provided 
to  serve  its  business  and  social 
needs. 

This  growth  is  strikingly  shown 
by  the  extension  of  long  distance 
telephone  facilities.  In  1925,  for 
additions  to  the  long  distance  tele- 
phone lines,  there  was  expended 
thirty-seven  million  dollars.  In 
1926  sixty-one  million  dollars. 
During  1927  and  the  three  follow- 
ing years,  extensions  are  planned 
on  a  still  greater  scale,  including 
each  year  about  two  thousand 
miles  of  long  distance  cable. 
These  millions  will  be  expended 
on  long  distance  telephone  lines  to 
meet  the  nation's  growth  and  their 
use  will  help  to  further  rrowth. 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


129 


Ground  Floor  Investment 
In  a  Going  Concern 


facts 

about  the  Half 

Moon  Bay 

Oil  Fields 

California's   Mother    Lode   oil 

fields. 
Fields  3-5  miles  wide,  25  miles  in 

length,  running  along  the  coast 

from    Seal   Rock   Point   to   La 

Honda. 

Gasoline  content  62-75%. 
Oil  worth  $4  a  barrel,  as  against 

$1.50  to  $2   a  barrel  in   other 

California  fields. 

Shell  Company  has  acquired  ex- 
tensive leases.  Put  in  most  ex- 
pensive and  modern  drilling 
equipment  in  the  entire  United 
States. 


In  offering  you  the  opportunity  to  invest  in  the  Skyline  Oil  &  Refining 
Corporation,  operating  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Half  Moon  Bay  fields, 
we  do  not  ask  you  to  put  your  money  into  a  speculative  venture  that 
may  do  business  at  some  indefinite  future  date. 

Skyline  Oil  &  Refining  Corporation  is  doing  business  and  making 
money  right  NOW.  For  the  past  18  months  it  has  operated  three 
wells  and  a  refinery.  It  has  been  selling  its  gas  and  oil  products  in 
and  about  Half  Moon  Bay  as  fast  as  it  can  pump  the  stuff  out  of  the 
ground  and  refine  it.  The  company's  books  show  a  substantial  profit 
above  the  cost  of  equipment,  drilling,  refining,  sales  and  general 
expenses. 

A  LIMITED  ISSUE  OF   SECURITIES 

For  the  purposes  of  further  expansion  and  the  drilling  of  additional 
wells,  the  corporation  has  placed  a  limited  issue  of  securities  on  the 
market.  Remember,  in  investing  in  these  securities,  you  come  into 
a  company  that  has  proved  by  sound,  conservative  methods  that  its 
lands  are  rich  in  oil.  You  come  into  a  company,  headed  by  veteran, 
experienced  oil  men,  who  have  laid  a  solid  ground  work  to  do  a  bigger 
business — to  yield  you  a  genuine  and  substantial  profit  on  every  dollar 
invested. 


Of  course,  you  want  to  look  into  this  proposition  for  yourself.  We  are  glad  to  have  you  do  that.  Get 
in  touch  with  us.  A  member  of  the  company  will  take  you  over  this  whole  Half  Moon  Bay  field — show 
you  what  the  big,  nationally-known  companies  are  doing  here  —  show  you  the  Skyline  wells  and 
refinery.  You  will  sell  yourself  on  the  proposition  and  it  will  be  the  most  financially  profitable  day's 
work  you  ever  did. 


-DETACH  AND  MAIL  COUPON- 


¥ 


AM  interested  in  looking  over  the  Skyline  Oil  and  Refinery  Corporation's  proposition.    You  may 
get  in  touch  with  me,  as  follows : 


Name  .... 
Address. 
City.... 


State. 


Skyline  Oil  &  Refinery  Corporation 


1174  Phelan  Building 


•San  Francisco,  Calif. 


Telephone :  Sutter  8849 


130 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


May,  1927 


What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


IT  IS  interesting  to  wonder  on  the 
curiosity  of  humans.  Death,  for  in- 
stance, arouses  the  most  intense 
curiosity.  If  a  man  completes  a  great 
task,  he  will  be  given  due  credit.  Monu- 
ments have  even  been  erected  to  the 
still  living.  He  will  understand  eventu- 
ally, it  is  proven,  the  plaudits  of  the 
mass.  But  not  until  he  dies  will  his 
great  surge  of  popularity  be  evident. 
There  is  something  in  the  passing  of  an 
active  mechanism  through  the  Portal 
that  grips  the  most  silent  one  and  stirs 
him  to  speech.  Revolve  down  to  OVER- 
LAND'S  recent  Sterling  issue.  The  mails 
are  still  warm  with  letters,  orders,  com- 
ments and  revelations  brought  about 
solely  by  Sterling's  demise.  To  be  sure, 
we  were  properly  awed  by  his  popularity 
before  he  left  us;  but  not  until  the 
actual  exit  did  we  realize  the  tremen- 
dous solemnity  a  literary  figure  assumes 
once  he  is  dead.  From  Kansas,  Ohio, 
Rhode  Island;  from  Paris  and  Berlin, 
London  and  Honolulu  come  requests  for 
a  copy  of  the  Sterling  issue  and  invaria- 
bly a  note  explaining  the  writer  as  one 
who  "always  admired  his  work,  but  sel- 
dom had  the  opportunity  to  read  it." 
Naturally,  we  wonder  why  the  race 
waits  until  Autumn  strips  the  field  be- 
fore going  over  it  with  a  desire  to  know 
all  things  grown  there. 

It  is  regrettable,  also,  to  say  we  have 
no  more  copies  of  the  special  issue;  that 
they  are  thoroughly  exhausted.  But  we 
sincerely  refer  you  to  Lilith  and  Testi- 
mony of  the  Suns  and  Wine  of  Wiz- 
ardry— three  exquisite  introductions  to  a 
character  now  one  with  the  centuries. 


MR.  BAER,  our  dramatic  critic,  la- 
ments the  fact  that  we  have  had  a 
most  miserable  stage  and  screen  season. 
A  handful  of  New  York  comedies,  a 
scattered  few  semi-important  tragedies 
display  San  Francisco's  allotment  of 
amusement  for  the  later  1926,  the  early 
1927.  Little  of  importance  is  scheduled 
for  the  remainder  of  the  year.  Surpris- 
ing, isn't  it,  that  a  city  known  through- 
out America  for  its  appreciation  and 
creation  of  the  Arts  should  suffer  so  for 
lack  of  imported  and  domestic  stage  and 
screen  production.  That  in  a  city  des- 
tined to  appreciate  "The  Last  Laugh," 
"Peter  the  Great,"  "Back-stairs,"  "The 
Hour,"  "Madame"  and  "Porter"  as 
severely  important  German  and  French 
pictures,  should  struggle  along  with  as- 
sininities  as  vulgar  and  driveling  as  "Up 


in  Mabel's  Room,"  "Mr.Wu,"  '"Love's 
Greatest  Mistake,"  "The  Beloved 
Rogue"  and  that  superb  seven  thousand 
feet  of  pap, "The  Understanding  Heart." 
Strange  that  a  public  educated  to  the 
delicate  finess  of  San  Francisco's  seven 
hundred  thousand  should  necessitate 
hide-bound  contracts  between  New  York 
producers  and  local  playhouses  before  a 
production  of  the  lightest  importance  is 
delivered  to  our  door.  That  Alfred 
Hertz,  greatest  of  Wagnerian  conduc- 
tors in  America,  should  humble  himself 
with  microphones  and  peanut-decorated 
radio  studios  to  make  enough  money  to 
keep  San  Francisco's  Symphony  Orches- 
tra intact? 


APROPOS  of  an  earlier  comment  on 
George  Sterling,  we  are  happy  to 
announce  the  arrival  of  many  letters 
complimenting  his  sonnet  "To  Califor- 
nia" in  last  month's  magazine.  The 
power  instigated  through  its  body  has 
been  felt  with  more  than  idle  wonder, 
and  when  Sterling's  splendid  sextette  is 
finished  more  than  a  few  will  have  felt 
its  driving  expose.  Possibly  among  those 
who  read  this  page  of  gossip  and  an- 
nouncement there  is  one  who  desires 
space  for  an  article,  an  essay,  a  story 
dealing  with  the  subject  Sterling  used 
in  his  poem.  We  will  be  honored  to  re- 
ceive contributions  bravely  written  on 
this  item,  and  will  print  them  if  they 
are  of  sufficient  strength  and  of  complete 
detail.  There  must  be  a  nitric  pen 
anxious  to  expose  and  suggest  a  remedy 
for  the  damnable  penning  up  of  political 
prisoners  in  this  nation  of  free  speech 
and  congressional  fillibustering! 


SOME  little  talk  is  being  made  on 
whether  or  not  the  culture  of  the 
northern  part  of  California  should  com- 
pliment the  culture  of  the  southern  part 
of  the  state.  Mr.  Allen  and  Mr.  Mc- 
Williams  argue  the  point  out  in  this 
issue.  But  if  confusion  exists  after  read- 
ing the  articles,  why  wouldn't  it  be  a 
splendid  idea  to  have  a  public  debate  in 
some  rather  large  hall?  A  sincere  speci- 
men of  San  Francisco  culture  could  be 
platformed  with  a  like  genius  from  Los 
Angeles.  Who  will  begin  the  ball  roll- 
ing? Let  someone  start  it  and  turn  the 
proceeds  over,  say,  to  erecting  the  statue 
of  a  Mexican  peon  half  way  betwen  the 
two  cities. 


/COMMENT  on  Miss  Battu's  prize 
\~A  story  Fredom,  printed  in  last  month's 
OVERLAND,  has  been  generous.  It  is  with 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure  we  anounce 
other  stories  by  Miss  Battu  from  time 
to  time.  We  still  cling  to  that  ancient 
editorial  desire  to  introduce,  at  least 
once,  a  writer  of  extraordinary  promise. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  sentimentality  always 
vying  for  first  place  behind  the  editor's 
mask,  or  perhaps  it's  the  desire  to  show 
the  world  at  large  that  we  can  pick 
luscious  plums  in  a  literary  garden  la- 
mentably overgrown  in  quinces.  At  any 
rate,  we  confess  the  exploitation  of 
genius  rewards  the  editor  with  a  vastly 
greater  basket  of  delight  than,  let  us 
say,  the  steady  presentation  of  clever 
prose. 


AMONG   the   dominant    features   of 
next  month's  magazine  we  are  list- 
ing: 

WHEN  WITCHES  WALKED,  by  Mrs. 
William  d'Egilbert,  a  story  of  northern 
California  in  the  nineties.  This  story, 
it  will  be  remembered,  took  the  third 
prize  in  the  Frona  Wait  Colburn  Short 
Story  Contest  conducted  through  our 
pages. 

There  will  be  an  article  on  the  "Wal- 
nut Industry  of  the  Northwest"  and  the 
success  with  which  Fred  Groner  met  in 
his  chosen  field.  The  article  is  illus- 
trated and  is  by  Esther  Thorsell,  a  well- 
known  feature  writer. 

There  will  be  a  travel  story,  one 
which  will  make  you  want  to  travel  the 
road  and  see  the  same  sights  and  feel  the 
same  emotions.  There  are  stories  of 
travel  and  stories  of  travel.  This  is  a 
story  of  travel.  Do  not  miss  it. 

And  to  remind  you  we  once  were 
"young,"  OVERLAND  is  running  a  story 
on  the  "Pony  Express"  which  is  a  little 
different  in  viewpoint  than  other  stories 
we  have  read.  It  is  written  by  Ernest 
Sonne. 

"Our  Mountain"  is  an  article  which 
will  be  of  particular  interest  to  the 
Northwest.  Mt.  Tacoma?  Mt.  Rain- 
ier? Which? 

And  there  will  be  essays,  poetry  and 
various  other  things  of  interest.  Do  not 
miss  June  OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET  HARTE   IN   1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


MAY,  1927 


NUMBER  5 


EDITORIAL  STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 
CONTRIBUTING  EDITORS 
CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN  KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 

MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 

MAY  CONTRIBUTORS 
IN  BRIEF 

CAREY  McWILLIAMS,  if  he  sur- 
vives his  article  in  OVERLAND  this 
month,  may  be  reached  in  Los  Angeles. 
He  is  an  author  of  some  little  note  and 
has  contributed  to  OVERLAND  before. 

HARRIS   ALLEN,   who   gives   us   a 
different  view  of  Los  Angeles,  is  a 
resident    of    San    Francisco    and    is    the 
editor  of  The  Pacific  Architect. 

BUFORD     DANVILLE     WHIT- 
LOCK  has  the  right  to  claim  as  his 
field  newspaper  features.    Mr.  Whitlock 
is  a  resident  of  San  Francisco. 

MALCOLM  PANTON,  who  gives 
us  ART  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO,  is  not  a 
westerner.  He  has  contributed  to  vari- 
ous art  journals  throughout  the  states 
and  is  at  present  making  a  survey  of 
San  Francisco's  art  tendencies. 

JACK  WRIGHT,  who  gives  us  the 
short  story,   FLEURETTE,   we   know 
little  of  excepting  that  he  is  essentially  a 
newspaper  man. 

OUR  essays  are  contributed  by  Kay 
Bailey  Leach,  who  resides  in  San 
Francisco,  and  Torrey  Conner,  who 
lives  in  Berkeley.  Torrey,  by  the  way, 
writes  she  has  just  finished  her  latest 
novel  .  .  .  some  worker,  Torrey. 

ANNA  KALFUS  SPERO,  Challiss 
Silvay  and   Irene   Stewart   are  all 
old  contributors  of  ours.    They  need  no 
introduction. 

(Continued  on  Page  156) 


Contents 


Java  Town Tancred 


.Frontispiece 


ARTICLES 

Black  Flowing  Gold Zoe  A.  Battu 133 

Los  Angeles Carey  McWilliams 135 

The  West's  Broadcaster Cleone   Brown 137 

Architecture  in  Los  Angeles Harris  Allen 138 

A  New  Slant  on  America Tom  White 145 

Art  in  San  Francisco Malcom  Panton,  Jr 147 

Experiments  in  a  New  Art  Field Aline  Kistler 154 

Making  Big  Ones 

Out  of  Little  Ones B.  W.  Whitlock 143 

SHORT  STORIES 

Fleurette Jack  Wright 139 

Railroading  in  the  Eighties Frank   Staples 142 


Villa 


SERIALS 

...Bradley  Tvler  Adams 151 


California  Coast. 


POETRY 

Sarah    Litsev. 


ESSAYS 

The  Owl  and  the  Goose Bailey  Kay  Leach. 

How  Do  You  Spell  It? Torrey  O'Conner. 

Fear  Herbert  Selig 


.140 

.150 
.150 
.155 


DEPARTMENTS 

Page   of  Verse 146 

Challiss  Silvay,  Anna  Kalfus  Spero,  Whitney  Montgomery,  Irene 
Stewart,    Louise    Lord    Coleman,    Rebekah    LeFevre    Costanzo 

Books  and  Writers Tom  White 148 

Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative,  George  H.  Myers,  5  South  Wabash  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

Manuscript   mailed    The   Overland  Monthly  without  a  stamped  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 

Entered   as   Second-Class  matter   at  the  postoffice,   San   Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March  3,   1897 

(Contents  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


132 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


May,  1927 


Java  Town 


TANCRED 

HE  BROODS  on  his  thumbs,  and  his  eyes  are  deep, 
And  no  one  knows  that  he's  sound  asleep, 
Sound  asleep  in  the  garden  there 
With  the  blue  of  the  day  on  the  white  of  his  hair 
And  a  sprinkle  of  shade  on  his  tight  green  coat 
And  a  locket  of  gold  at  the  foot  of  his  throat. 

No  one  knows  he  is  sailing  down 
With  a  cargo  of  gin  to  Java  Town, 
With  a  hundred  slaves  in  the  stern  maybe 
And  a  slant-eyed  crew  for  company — 
And  fifty  pieces  of  German  gold 
For  a  wife  the  trader  at  Brussels  sold! 

No  one  knows,  as  the  wind  walks  by 
And  the  poplars  bend  with  a  restless  sigh 
And  the  prim  blue  beetles  start  to  crawl 
To  their  tiny  homes  in  the  garden  wall — 
No  one  knows,  when  the  cool  winds  blow, 
That  he  anchors  his  ship  in  the  fire  glow! 


• 


MAV    O 


OVERLAND  MONTTTLT 


ana 


OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


Black  Flowing  Gold 


IN  THIS  day  of  a  super-mechanized 
and  standardized  civilization,  we  are 
wont  to  lament  that  pioneering,  ad- 
venturing, exploring  and  similar  delight- 
fully uncertain  pursuits  are  no  more. 
We  read  of  the  early  days  of  Califor- 
nia— of  the  gold  rushes,  the  crossing  of 
the  plains  in  covered  wagons,  the  noisy, 
blustering,  joyous,  reckless,  intoxicated 
place  that  was  early  San  Francisco.  Ah 
then,  we  remark,  life  was  worth  living. 
It  had  flavor — pungent  and  racy.  It  was 
lavish  and  mad.  Even  the  most  prosaic 
business  enterprises  were  somehow  sur- 
rounded with  the  halo  of  a  pleasant  ad- 
venture that  yielded  quick  and  unex- 
pected wealth.  Nothing  was  prosaic. 
How  could  it  be  when  gold — the  glitter- 
ing dust  of  the  stuff  saturated  the  very 
air — crept  into  men's  blood  and  set  up 
a  driving,  restless  fever? 

Those  days,  it  is  quite  true,  are  no 
more.  Nor  will  there  ever  be  anything 
entirely  like  them  again.  We  can  see 
them  only  through  a  golden  haze  of 
word  pictures  that  the  writers  of  that 
day  have  left  us — a  heritage  as  valuable 
perhaps  as  all  the  gold  that  has  or  ever 
will  be  taken  from  the  streams  and 
mountains  of  the  West. 

But  as  surely  as  the  day  of  the  whole- 
sale Western  gold  rush  is  over,  the  day 
of  the  oil  rush  is  here.  The  old  gold 
lust  is  still  with  us.  Oil  is  black,  smelly, 
greasy,  slippery  stuff,  but  it  is  gold — 
black  flowing  gold  from  the  bowels  of 
the  earth,  and  wherever  it  flows  to  that 
spot  do  men  rush  madly.  The  lust  for 
oil  is  virile  and  driving.  It  moves  men 
to  as  seemingly  irrational  actions  as  the 
pursuit  of  gold  ever  led  the  prospectors 
of  '49.  It  moves  men  to  stake  their 
every  secure  and  certain  possession  upon 
speculations  of  unknown  results.  This 
new  game  of  chance  and  profit  has  its 
romance  of  prospecting  and  adventur- 
ing; of  losing  fortunes  and  winning 
them  as  fascinating  as  that  of  the  pio- 
neer gold  rushes.  In  the  new,  promising 
but  untried  oil  field,  the  fever  of  adven- 
ture, excitement  and  speculation  rides 
as  high  and  swiftly  as  in  the  days  when 
the  West  was  in  the  first  grip  of  the 
gold  rush. 


By  Zoe  A.  Battu 

If  you  do  not  believe  it,  you  have  but 
to  go  down  to  Half  Moon  Bay,  thirty- 
five  miles  south  of  San  Francisco,  where 
the  business  of  developing  an  oil  field 
is  under  full  sway.  By  way  of  further 
history  and  romance,  we  find  that  the 
Half  Moon  Bay  territory  is  the  Mother 
Lode  oil  district  of  California.  The 
first  wells  ever  sunk  in  the  West — the 
first  oil  ever  pumped  in  California  came 
from  in  and  about  Half  Moon  Bay. 
The  first  operations  of  this  nature  were 
in  1880.  Thirty-five  years  ago  Lucky 
Baldwin  of  Baldwin  and  Palace  Hotel 
fame  regularly  ran  ships  between  Half 
Moon  Bay  and  San  Francisco,  in  which 
he  transported  oil  from  these  early  fields 
to  San  Francisco.  It  was  used  to  heat 
his  hotel,  and  Baldwin  also  developed 
quite  an  extensive  business  in  the  sale 
and  distribution  of  fuel  oil,  kerosene  and 
distillate  throughout  northern  Califor- 
nia. About  the  time  efficient  oil  burning 
engines  were  perfected  and  came  into 
general  use,  the  Taft,  Bakersfie'd  and 
other  southern  fields  came  in  heavily. 
In  the  excitement  of  this  greater  boom, 
the  Half  Moon  Bay  field  was  forsaken; 
its  wells  abandoned ;  its  possibilities  for- 
gotten. 

But  now  the  tide  of  interest  and 
activity  swings  again  to  the  Half  Moon 
Bay  fields — to  the  old  Mother  Lode  Oil 
district.  Several  conservatively  man- 
aged, small  companies  have  been  drill- 
ing wells,  pumping  oil,  refining  and  sell- 
ing it  in  and  about  Half  Moon  Bay 
for  the  past  eighteen  months.  Within 
the  last  thirty  days  the  Shell  Oil  Com- 
pany has  acquired  on  second  leases  valu- 
able holdings  of  the  Midstate  Oil  Com- 
pany, one  of  these  smaller  concerns,  and 
has  put  in  extensive  drilling  equipment. 
It  is  said  that  this  concern  has  installed 
electrical  drilling  equipment  of  the  most 
expensive  and  advanced  type  to  be  found 
in  any  oil  field  in  the  United  States. 

With  the  beginning  of  operations  by 
the  Shell  Company,  the  Half  Moon 
Bay  boom  became  an  established  fact.  It 
is  now  under  way  in  earnest.  Derricks 
and  drilling  outfits  are  springing  up 


everywhere  on  the  hillsides.  A  strange 
tension  and  sense  of  chaotic  activity  per- 
vades the  quiet  countryside,  where  for 
these  many  years  farmers  have  grazed 
their  cattle  and  sheep,  tended  their  arti- 
choke and  vegetable  patches.  The  labor- 
ing clank,  creak  and  grind  of  the  pumps 
and  derricks  shatters  the  still  hush  of 
the  hills  and  valleys.  The  men  in  charge 
of  the  several  drilling  operations  work 
tensely,  feverishly.  Their  faces,  hands, 
clothing  are  streaky  with  oil. 

In  one  spot  a  well  is  down  2400 
feet — down  to  shale  rock,  beneath  which 
the  heavy  oil  streams  flow.  At  any  mo- 
ment the  drill  may  break  through  the 
shale  and  a  gusher  of  the  black-gold 
stuff  may  come  rushing  in.  A  gusher 
comes  in  with  a  roar  and  terrific  force. 
The  stream  must  be  caught  on  the  very 
instant  it  starts  to  rise.  If  it  gets  away 
and  out  of  control,  it  will  shoot  and 
spurt  out  over  the  top  of  the  derrick 
and  the  oil  stream  will  finally  choke 
itself  up  with  its  own  mad  flow  and 
struggle  for  release.  When  a  well  chokes 
itself  up,  its  value  as  a  gusher  is  gone 
and  the  oil  must  be  gotten  out  by  the 
slower  process  of  pumping. 

As  the  drilling  bits  are  changed  and 
the  testings  brought  up,  the  test  mud  is 
streaked  with  oil.  As  it  flows  through 
a  sluice  and  out  to  a  water  hole,  bubbles 
half  the  size  of  a  small  rubber  ball  come 
to  the  surface.  Hold  a  lighted  match  to 
the  bubbles  and  they  flare  up  and  burn 
for  the  flash  of  a  second.  They  are  gas 
bubbles  and  an  almost  certain  indica- 
tion that  oil  in  considerable  quantities 
is  close  at  hand. 

Well  owners,  stock  salesmen,  lease 
holders,  speculators  and  curious  specta- 
tors gather  about.  They  speculate  ex- 
travagantly. They  deal  offhand  in  stu- 
pendous sums;  pile  money  dreams  on 
money  dreams;  fortunes  on  fortunes. 
Everybody  talks  at  once. 

As  an  outside  spectator,  you  look 
upon  these  scenes  and  excitement  in 
some  amazement  and  decide  to  do  some 
prospecting  on  your  own  account.  You 
poke  around  in  creek  bottoms.  Sure 
enough,  there  is  oil  intermingled  with 
the  oozv  mud  and  sand.  In  some  in- 


134 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


May,  1927 


stances  the  sand  burns;  in  other  cases 
the  holes  you  have  made  fill  up  with  oil 
before  your  eyes.  Your  shoes  get  mud- 
dy; your  hands,  and  perhaps  your  best 
clothes,  get  dirty.  But  what  of  that? 
You  have  the  oil  fever.  You  can't 
escape  it  when  the  air  smells  oily  and 
the  black  stuff  oozes  out  of  the  ground. 
You  share  the  enthusiasm  and  anxiety 
of  the  drillers  and  generally  experience 
all  the  excitement  and  visions  of  sudden 
wealth  that  urged  and  fired  the  men  and 
women  in  California's  bygone  days  of 
the  gold  rushes. 

These  surface  seepages  are  visible  indi- 
cations of  the  underlying  abundant  and 
rich  oil  stratas.  In  addition,  the  reports 
of  government  geologists,  oil  authorities 
and  a  close  analysis  of  the  history  of  the 
Half  Moon  Bay  field  indicate  that  the 
surface  signs  are  in  no  way  misleading, 
as  has  so  often  proved  the  case  in  other 
supposed  oil  fields.  In  fact,  every  factor 
that  enters  into  the 
development  of  such 
a  field  points  to  the 
fact  that  Half  Moon 
Bay  is  destined  to  be 
perhaps  the  most 
profitable  and  prolific 
oil  field  in  the  West. 

The  geologists  lo- 
cate the  field  as  run- 
ning from  Seal  Rock 
Point  on  the  north  to 
La  Honda  on  the 
south,  a  length  of 
twenty  -  five  miles. 
The  width  of  the  belt 
varies  from  three  to 
five  miles.  The  ex- 
istence of  the  field  is 
the  result  of  the 
mountains  being 
thrust  up  from  the 
ocean  bed.  This  is 
easily  perceived,  for 
in  the  shale  rock 
brought  up  from 
depths  around  2000 
feet  there  are  embedded  clam  shells  and 
impressions  of  the  forms  of  other  fish 
life  and  vegetable  growths  are  clearly 
visible.  A  peculiar  fact  about  the  Half 
Moon  Bay  oil  belt  is  the  manner  in  which 
it  is  walled  in  on  three  sides.  A  solid 
granite  ridge,  running  several  thousand 
feet  into  the  earth,  backs  the  field 
throughout  its  length  and  runs  into  the 
sea  on  its  two  ends.  Thus  the  entire 
district  is  in  reality  a  cup  that  the 
processes  of  nature  have  created  and 
filled  with  oil. 

Chemical  analysis  of  the  oil  show  it 
to  be  a  decomposition  of  vegetable  and 
marine  growths  and  its  gasoline  content 
runs  from  62  to  75  per  cent.  This  is 
the  highest  gasoline  content  of  any  oil 
found  in  California  to  date,  and  the 


fluid  is  estimated  to  be  worth  $4  a  bar- 
rel, as  against  $1.50  to  $2  a  barrel  in 
other  California  fields. 

As  already  noted,  oil  wells  were 
drilled  and  operated  in  Half  Moon 
Bay  as  early  as  1880  and  the  Baldwin 
operations  assumed  some  pretentions. 
Many  of  the  derricks  of  these  old  wells 
are  still  standing  and  the  wells  seep  oil 
in  considerable  quantity,  considering 
how  long  they  have  been  neglected.  All 
of  these  older  wells  and  a  number  that 
have  been  sunk  from  time  to  time  in 
later  years  are  what  is  known  as  surface 
wells.  They  vary  in  depth  from  900  to 
1200  feet  and  a  good  flowing  surface 
well  will  bring  in  from  10  to  15  barrels 
a  day. 

Besides  the  surface  wells  there  are 
the  medium  depth  wells,  which  run 
from  2000  to  4000  feet  and  yield 
around  50  barrels  a  day.  In  1924  C.  C. 
Julian,  who  had  a  spectacular  success 


A  typical  oil  scene  in  the  early  days 

in  the  Los  Angeles  fields,  began  drilling 
in  Half  Moon  Bay.  Among  the  wells 
he  put  down  was  a  medium  depth  bore, 
which  came  in  as  a  gusher.  But  the 
drilling  had  been  improperly  done  and 
the  operators  lost  control  of  the  oil 
stream.  For  ten  hours  it  shot  over  the 
top  of  the  derrick  and  finally  choked 
itself  up  completely.  Julian  became  in- 
volved in  income  tax  disputes  with  the 
government  and  was  forced  to  cease 
operations  in  Half  Moon  Bay.  How- 
ever, his  experience  with  the  medium 
depth  gusher  seems  to  prove  that  the 
possibilities  for  bringing  in  this  type  of 
well  are  many  and  profitable. 

With  oil  at  $4  a  barrel,  the  yield 
from  the  old  or  new  surface  or  medium 
depth  wells  is  by  no  means  to  be 


despised.  These  two  types  of  wells  in 
the  Half  Moon  Bay  fields  are  commer- 
cially profitable  and  it  is  a  proven  fact 
that  they  exist  and  can  be  brought  in 
with  reasonable  certainty.  They  are 
factors  that  can  be  relied  upon  and  the 
income  from  several  good  shallow  wells 
and  one  or  two  of  medium  depth  would 
enable  a  concern  just  starting  out  to 
pay  all  operating  expenses  and  provide 
a  surplus  with  which  to  speculate  and 
experiment  with  deep  wells. 

For  the  question  still  unsolved  about 
the  Half  Moon  Bay  oil  belt  is  that  of 
the  deep  well.  At  the  depth  of  5000  to 
7000  feet  lie  the  mother  lode  pools  and 
streams — the  sources  of  the  oil  stratas 
found  in  shallow  and  medium  depth 
wells.  No  one  has  ever  sunk  a  deep 
well  in  the  district,  and  if  such  a  stream 
could  be  tapped  the  wells  would  prob- 
ably flow  from  500  to  5000  barrels  a 
day.  The  theory  is  that  with  so  much 
oil  above,  there  must 
be  more  below,  and 
the  firms  operating  in 
Half  Moon  Bay  all 
have  deep  wells  as 
their  ultimate  objec- 
tive. 

With  its  high  pow- 
ered, modern  drilling 
equipment,   the   Shell 
Company   will    prob- 
ably   put    down    the 
first  deep  well  of  the 
district.  They  are 
working  on  one  at  the 
present  time.    As  the 
drilling  bits  grind 
their  way,   foot  by 
foot,  through  rock  and 
soil,  the  tide  of  excite- 
ment, speculation  and 
prophecy  rises.    Vari- 
ous things  are  ru- 
mored. The  owners 
and  men  working  on 
adjacent    leases   anxi- 
ously sift  every  scrap 
of  rumor,  report  and  half  report.  Opera- 
tions are  kept  secret  on  the  Shell  ground. 
No    one    really    knows    what    is    being 
brought  in  or  what  it  may  signify  in  his 
future  success  and  failure,  profit  or  loss. 
These  neighboring  lease  holders  and 
drillers  have  oil  right  now.    Several  of 
them  are  operating  both  wells  and   re- 
fineries.   They  are  selling  their  products 
as  fast  as  they  can  get  them  out  of  the 
ground  and   run  them   through  the  re- 
finery. 

But  then  —  they  only  have  surface 
holes — half  way  down  wells.  They  have 
sure  things — sure  and  safe.  No  question 
about  the  damned  wells  not  being  sure 
things.  The  trouble  is,  they  aren't  the 
big,  deep  fellows.  They're  the  wells  for 
(Continued  on  Page  156) 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


135 


THAT  the  atmosphere  of  a  city  may 
be  embodied  in  some  mythical 
personality,  or  that  it  may  have  cul- 
tural attributes  analogous  to  human  char- 
acteristics, attributes  that  are  unique,  dis- 
tinctive and  the  product  of  no  one  knows 
just  what  forces,  is  a  theory  that  finds 
support  in  the  habit  of  newspaper  car- 
toonists to  use  some  type  or  figure  as 
a  symbol  of  the  city's  personality.  Gen- 
erally newspaper  cartoonists  are  as  de- 
void of  cultural  insight  as  a  Klansman 
is  of  tolerance,  but  occasionally  their 
very  naivete  leads  them  to  the  substance 
of  things.  Los  Angeles  newspaper  car- 
toonists have  from  time  immemorial  pic- 
tured the  "city  of  angels"  as  a  wanton 
harlot.  Invariably  they  draw  a  charming 
damsel  with  jet  black  hair,  ruby  lips, 
lasciviously  symmetrical  limbs,  as  "Miss 
Los  Angeles,"  The  look  in  the  eyes  of 
this  urban  beauty  is  far  from  pastoral 
or  angelic:  it  is  always  downright  licen- 
tious. The  good  people  of  the  metropolis 
would  sit  up  in  characteristic  righteous 
horror  if  they  thought  "Miss  Los  An- 
geles" was  actually  meant  to  represent 
a  harlot ;  the  likeness  never  occurs  to 
them  but  it  is  none  the  less  apparent. 
And  in  a  certain  restricted  sense  Los 
Angeles  is  a  harlot  city — gaudy,  flam- 
boyant, richly  scented,  sensuous,  noisy, 
jazzy.  More  and  more  the  place  takes 
on  the  aspects  of  a  gigantic  three-ring 
circus.  The  erection  of  new  "movie" 
palaces  is  carried  on  at  a  great  pace. 
Nothing  could  be  more  typical  of  the 
harlot  than  these  theaters,  mammoth 
houses  of  gaudy  cheapness  and  demo- 
cratic prettiness  with  their  spangles  of 
light,  immense  and  brummagem  pseudo- 
tapestries,  anachronistic  statuary  and  ec- 
centric design.  Such  brothels  of  ill  taste 
are  just  the  places  to  display  trashy 
amusement  for  the  delectation  of  the 
yokelry  of  America.  One  is  reminded  of 
Thomas  Beer's  classic  characterization, 
"theatrical  ulcerations,"  when  contem- 
plating these  theaters. 

Alongside  this  popular  hilarity  stalks 
the  grim  figure  of  the  prude  and  the 
puritan.  Why  is  it  that  licentiousness 
and  religious  fanaticism  can  become  so 
coalesced  ?  The  truth  is  that  they  are 
one  and  the  same  thing;  each  the  prod- 
uct of  illiterate  and  uncultured  minds. 
Los  Angeles  is  above  all  democratic 
which  accounts  for  the  presence  of  ex- 
tremes in  everything-  Harlotry  •was 
sanctioned,  licensed  and  regulated  in 
America  at  a  time  when  the  Puritan 


Los  Angeles 


By  Carey  McWilliams 

and  Comstockery  were  rampant  and  no 
one  seemed  to  discern  the  remarkable 
similarity  between  the  two  diseases. 

Thus  Los  Angeles  can  present  Will 
Morrissey's  Revue,  as  common,  trashy 
and  meretricious  a  performance  as  could 
be  imagined,  and  at  the  same  time  show 
the  Pilgrimage  Play  and  have  each  well 
supported  and  popular.  It  could,  as  it 
did,  at  the  same  time,  arrest  the  cast  of 
"Desire  Under  the  Elms"  and  attempt  to 
suppress  the  play.  When  this  affair  was 
mentioned  to  Eugene  O'Neill  his  only 
remark  was:  "Los  Angeles? — That's 
the  place  where  movies  are  made 
isn't  it?"  Such  incongruous  tastes  are 
not  hard  to  explain  when  one  keeps  in 
mind  that  democracy  means  a  fluid  so- 
ciety in  which  all  elements  have  an  al- 
most equal  chance  to  float  to  the  surface 
but  that  generally  the  murk  and  mire 
will  find  its  way  there  first.  And  Los 
Angeles  is  mob-mad,  unimaginably  dem- 
ocratic— hopelessly  vulgar. 

A  typical  Los  Angeles  spectacle:  the 
funeral  of  Barbara  La  Marr,  a  typical 
Miss  Los  Angeles.  The  fact  itself  would 
be  unworthy  of  notice  were  it  not  for 
the  circumstances  attendant  upon  her 
funeral.  For  hours  and  days  the  mob 
thronged  around  her  bier,  struggling  for 
a  chance  to  gaze  into  this  most  unfortun- 
ate woman's  lifeless  face  and  to  specu- 
late lewdly  as  to  the  cause  or  causes  of 
her  death.  The  mob  attended,  drawn 
like  maggots  by  the  thought  of  this  pos- 
thumous scandal.  Cheek  by  jowl  with 
this  we  have  the  spectacle  of  thousands 
doing  genuflections  before  Aimee  Mc- 
Pherson  and  drinking  in  with  all  the 
gullibility  of  cat-fish  the  vapid  and  fatu- 
ous silliness  that  are  so  peculiarly  her 
own,  and  Los  Angeles.  The  Free  Tract 
Society  distributes  200,000  fanatical  re- 
ligious tracts  from  the  clouds  by  means 
of  aeroplanes  on  the  same  day  that  two 
gunmen  are  killed  by  their  colleagues 
in  a  shooting  feast  in  the  lobby  of  the 
St.  Regis  Hotel.  A  mad  world — a  dem- 
ocratic brothel ! 

Is  it  to  be  remarked  that  such  a  rural 
culture  masquerading  under  the  guise  of 
urbanity  produces  the  bizarre  and  out- 
landish f reakishness  that  passes  for  art  ? 
Los  Angeles,  a  city  of  some  millions,  can- 
not support  a  first  rate  urban  magazine. 
Its  favorite  authors  are  Ted  Cook,  Ar- 
thur Brisbane  and  the  effeminately  mind- 
ed Harry  Carr.  Out  in  Hollywood  one 


finds  windows  full  of  French  novels, 
the  poetry  of  Guillarme  Appolinaire,  vol- 
umes on  daddism  and  what  not,  but 
such  a  distinguished  California  poet  as 
George  Sterling  one  finds  unrepresented. 
The  spirit  of  uplift,  the  will  to  be  a  city, 
runs  through  all  the  bizarre  and  transi- 
tory publications  of  Los  Angeles.  To 
quote  from  "The  West  Wind" — a  typi- 
cal specimen  of  Los  Angeles  culture: 
"now  is  the  time  to  build  for  the  City- 
to-be  in  this  magnificent  southwest  of 
ours,"  or  again,  "the  people  of  Los  An- 
geles have  in  their  veins  the  blood  of  the 
finest  created  nations  of  Europe."  Such 
balderdash  suggests  Perley  Poore  Shee- 
han's  naive  and  now  happily  forgotten 
volume  on  "Hollywood  as  a  Center  of 
World  Culture,'  for  which  I  have  al- 
ways thought  an  appropriate  subtitle 
would  be  "Or  Babbitt  in  the  Field  of 
Art."  Other  Los  Angeles  publications 
of  a  week  or  so  are  "Fantasia,"  which 
is  dedicated,  and  correctly,  to  "the  por- 
trayal of  the  weird  arts,"  and  the  fa- 
mous "Tomorrow"  which  contains  such 
juicy  articles  as  "Organized  Selfishness 
of  Todays  Marriage  Form  Keeps  Race 
in  Spiritual  Bondage  of  Passivity." 
Where,  one  may  ask,  could  such  foolery 
masquerade  as  culture  s*ve  in  Los  An- 
geles, where  it  is  hailed  as  great  art  and 
goes  unchallenged. 

Los  Angeles  frowns  on  serious  creat- 
ive art.  James  Joyce  has  said  that  "Ire- 
land is  an  old  sow  that  eats  her  far- 
row." Likewise  does  Los  Angeles  con- 
sume the  occasional  flashes  of  intelli- 
gence and  creative  ability  that  force 
themselves  to  the  surface.  The  spirit  of 
a  place  is  usually  well-mirrored  in  its 
schools.  The  University  of  Southern 
California  is  Los  Angeles  in  miniature. 
Its  administration  has  suppressed  and 
maligned  every  attempt  made  by  the  stu- 
dents to  have  their  own  magazines  and 
to  write  and  paint  and  draw  as  their 
own  natures  prompted  them  to  do.  It 
still  -forces  them  to  attend  compulsory 
religious  chapel,  which  should  be  a 
downright  insult  to  university  men  and 
women  but  it  goes  unchallenged  in  Los 
Angeles. 

But  of  what  would  the  creative  ar- 
tist in  Los  Angeles  write?  One  immedi- 
ately thinks  of  the  movies  but  surely  art 
cannot  dally  with  such  childish  themes. 
Out  of  such  shallowness  what  could  be 
evoked  ?  Better  far  some  native  farmer  of 
the  middle  west,  some  rough-hewn  prod- 
uct of  peasantry,  than  these  pomaded 


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Mar.  1927 


puppets  of  Joe  Schenck,  with  their  div- 
orce foibles,  their  hillside  "arty"  homes, 
their  prattle  about  "egos"  and  their  un- 
fortunate habit  of  shooting  each  other. 
Recently  a  Hollywood  "movie"  maga- 
zine ran  a  feature  article  on  "What  Is 
Love"  and  asked  some  of  the  leading 
stars — successors  of  Duse  and  Clara 
Morris! — for  their  opinions.  Agnes 
Ayres  replied  that  "Woman  should  love 
for  her  character's  sake.  I  personally 
have  always  had  the  family  circle  in- 
stinct. When  I  had  one  room  with  a 
bath  I  turned  it  into  a  home."  Pola 
Negri  vowed  that  "Love  is  a  little  song 
in  the  morning."  Betty  Compton,  in  a 
very  poetic  mood,  suggested  that  "Love 
is  a  plaintive  melody  from  Napoli  drift- 
ing through  barred  windows  to  a  pillow 
damp  with  tears."  Colleen  Moore  thinks 
that  "Love  consists  of  the  three  h's — 
hubby,  home  and  happiness."  Write 
novels  about  such  people?  It  would  be 
a  nauseating  task. 

After  the  movies  in  the  scale  of  local 
importance,  come  the  commercial  Mar- 
cos, the  nouveau  riche.  These  Marcos 
join  clubs,  sport  Shrine  pins,  cut  ridicu- 
lous figures  on  horseback,  patronize  the 
arts  (i.  e.  have  Howard  Chandler 
Christy  paint  their  portrait  and  subsi- 
dize Sam  Clover's  "Saturday  Night!"), 
pour  forth  their  insufferable  bilge  at 
banquets  and  have  the  papers  print 
it  without  so  much  as  a  snicker.  Am- 
brose Bierce  could  write  a  divinely  jew- 
eled epitaph  for  such  magnificos,  but 


who  could  weave  a  novel  out  of  their 
putty  souls? 

The  immigrants  from  the  east  and 
middlewest  offer  more  artistic  possibil- 
ities, for  in  the  last  analysis  Los  Angeles 
is  a  sort  of  higher  heaven  of  middlewest 
plutocracy.  Once  your  middlewestern 
banker  or  farmer  has  made  his  "pile," 
he  invariably  longs  for  distant  social 
fields  to  conquer,  and  moved  by  the  urge 
of  a  gigantic  inferiority  complex  he  mi- 
grates to  Los  Angeles.  Seeking  to  es- 
cape the  barrenness  of  their  own  intel- 
lectual incompetence,  they  throng  to  Los 
Angeles  and  join  beach  clubs,  attend  the 
movies  religiously,  sport  golf  knickers 
and  take  chiropractic  treatments  for  di- 
version. Then  there  is  another  class  of 
citizenry,  "the  old  family"  legend.  Lo- 
cal poets  dash  off  innumerable  lyrics 
about  the  "dons"  of  old  California,  the 
padres  and  the  tinkling  guitars,  but  some- 
how the  thing  rings  very  emptily  these 
days,  despite  the  efforts  of  the  Chamber 
of  Commerce  to  create  a  cultural  tradi- 
tion and  sell  it. 

But  even  a  harlot  has  her  points.  If 
you  are  young  enough  or  so  hopelessly 
enamoured  of  sin  as  to  be  deemed  a 
cynic,  then  the  glittering  spectacle  of 
rampant  vulgarity  may  not  only  amuse 
but  fascinate.  There  is  something  about 
the  surging  life  of  Los  Angeles,  its  very 
crowds,  that  is  impressive.  Its  plain  of 
lights  at  night— jewels  on  the  breast  of 
the  harlot — and  its  jauntily  designed 
houses  and  terraced  foothills,  go  far  to- 
wards supplying  the  lack  of  culture. 


The  very  showiness  of  the  place  attracts, 
like  an  enormous  scarlet  beetle  or  the 
huge  amethyst  ring  of  a  bishop.  One 
may  despise  the  teeming  vulgarity  of  the 
place,  its  lack  of  intelligent  and  aristo- 
cratic opinion,  its  hostility  to  ideas,  and 
yet  be  warmed  and  lulled  to  sleep  by 
the  indolent  languor  of  its  noondays,  its 
dawn  by  the  sea,  and  the  lush,  warm 

radiance  of  its  nights. 

*     *     * 

"The  Charm  of  a  City,"  says  Mr. 
Edgar  Saltus,  writing  of  Manhattan, 
which  he  likens  to  a  Cinderella,  "con- 
sists of  its  residences  and  haunts." 
There  is  substance  to  this.  Mr.  Menc- 
ken carefully  stressed  both  these  ele- 
ments in  his  analysis  of  Baltimore's 
charm,  and  J.  Frederick  Essary  in  a 
forgotten  article  on  Washington,  says 
that  its  failure  to  charm  is  the  result 
of  the  fact  that  it  is  a  homeless  city.  A 
harlot  needs  no  home.  In  Los  Angeles 
there  are  houses,  to  be  sure,  but  few 
homes.  The  houses  represent  the  thou- 
sand and  one  expressions  of  democratic 
whimsy,  great  manorial  bricks,  flimsy 
stucco  roosts  as  instable  as  the  shifting 
scenes  in  a  movie  studio,  decadent  old 
houses  with  Mansard  roofs  on  Bunker 
Hill  Street,  and  a  multitude  of  duplexes 
— the  abomination  of  our  generation — 
and  whole  blocks  of  flats.  From  this 
assortment  no  definite  impression  can 
be  obtained ;  confusion  is  the  rule  and 
order  the  exception.  The  prevalent  taste 
is  tawdry  and  showy,  and  the  ruling  de- 
sire is  fickleness. 


Residence  of  Mrs.  John  Byers,  representative  of  Southern  California  architecture.    Designed  by  John  Byers. 

(Courtesy  Pacific  Coast  Architect) 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


137 


The  West's  Broadcaster 


THE  executive  who  directs  his  com- 
pact organization  from  the  airy  top 
floor  of  his  business  structure  has 
a  task,  but  the  executive  whose  office  is 
the   rolling  plains  of  Texas,  the  snowy 
peaks  of  the  Sierra,  or  the  vineclad  val- 
leys of  California  has  a  job,  indeed. 

To  F.  S.  McGinnis,  passenger  traffic 
manager  of  Southern  Pacific  Company, 
falls  the  honor  of  being  one  of  the  most- 
traveled  business  men  in  the  West. 

As  director  of  the  passenger  traffic 
department  of  one  of  the  largest  rail- 
roads in  the  world,  the  comparative  ease 
of  a  comfortable  office  is  little 
known  to  McGinnis.  Rather 
many  of  his  business  decisions 
are  arrived  at  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  whirring  wheels  and 
his  letterhead  might  bear  the 
dateline  of  almost  any  Western 
state,  for  McGinnis  is  an  un- 
usual executive. 

"I  think  I  should  have  some 
personal  information  about  that 
matter  before  I  decide  on  it," 
he  will  say,  and  that  is  why 
his  secretary  always  has  an 
extra  collar  handy,  for  the  "per- 
sonal information"  might  be  in 
El  Paso,  Texas,  or  Portland, 
Oregon,  or  Ogden,  Utah. 

In  a  company  as  intricate  and 
extensive  as  a  railroad,  personal 
contact  is  usually  out  of  the 
question  but  here  is  an  execu- 
tive who  has  retained  an  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  the  far-flung 
organization.  That  knowledge 
dates  back  to  the  day  in  the 
first  year  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury when  he  began  his  railroad 
career  as  an  humble  office  boy. 

In  September,  1900,  McGinnis  en- 
tered the  employ  of  Southern  Pacific 
Company  at  the  Los  Angeles  freight  sta- 
tion. After  a  fruitful  apprenticeship  in 
the  varied  duties  of  that  office,  he  began 
the  rise  that  has  taken  him  through  the 
gamut  of  railroad  experience — from  of- 
fice boy  to  high  executive. 

He  was  successively  Pullman  ticket 
clerk,  ticket  clerk,  cashier  in  the  city 
ticket  office  at  Los  Angeles,  city  pas- 
senger agent  and  commercial  agent  at 
Pasadena.  He  was  made  district  passen- 
ger agent  at  Los  Angeles  and  in  1915, 
was  promoted  to  the  position  of  general 
passenger  agent.  He  was  promoted  to 
be  assistant  passenger  traffic  manager 
with  headquarters  in  Los  Angeles  in 
1923  and  two  years  later,  July  1,  1925, 


By  Cleone  Brown 

was  made  passenger  traffic  manager  for 
Southern  Pacific  Company,  the  position 
he  now  holds. 

McGinnis'  entire  service  has  been 
with  Southern  Pacific  Company.  And 
not  only  that  but  he  is  a  native  son,  born 
at  Los  Angeles,  a  product  of  the  West 
at  the  business  helm  of  an  organization 
whose  genesis  coincides  with  the  indus- 
trial birth  of  the  West.  Southern  Pa- 
cific pioneered  the  West.  It  has  been 
largely  responsible  for  Western  develop- 


F.  S.  McGinnis 

ment,  for  Southern  Pacific  Company  had 
its  origin  in  the  Central  Pacific  Railroad 
Company  which  met  the  Union  Pacific 
at  Promontory  Point,  Utah,  in  1869, 
forming  the  first  transcontinental  rail- 
road line. 

As  a  native  son  and  in  the  thick  of 
progress  made  by  the  Pacific  Coast  since 
1900  there  is  probably  no  railroad  offi- 
cer in  the  West  more  aptly  fitted  for  his 
position  than  is  McGinnis. 

All  roads  lead  to  the  West  is  Mc- 
Ginnis' belief  and  he  devotes  all  his  men- 
tal and  physical  energies  toward  the 
development  of  that  theory.  Bringing 
visitors  to  the  Pacific  Coast  is  one  of  the 
primary  objects  of  his  large  department 
for  he  believes  that  if  travelers  once  see 
the  vast  West,  they  will  come  again  and 


again  if  they  do  not  become  permanent 
residents. 

As  the  executive  head  of  the  passen- 
ger traffic  department  McGinnis  exer- 
cises jurisdiction  over  his  organization 
in  seven  Western  and  Southwestern 
states:  Utah,  Nevada,  Oregon,  Cali- 
fornia, Arizona,  New  Mexico  and 
Texas.  When  he  is  in  his  office  at  the 
Southern  Pacific  building  in  San  Fran- 
cisco his  sweeping  vision  takes  in  nearly 
9000  miles  of  railroad  line  and  900 
agencies. 

Some  of  the  duties  of  the  passenger 
traffic  department  will  give  an 
indication  of  the  problems  that 
confront  this  Californian.  It 
solicits  passenger  business,  origi- 
nates and  publishes  tariffs  gov- 
erning passenger  fares,  suggests 
schedules  for  passenger  train 
service,  handles  ticket  claims 
and  exchange  of  tickets,  sells 
tickets,  has  supervision  of  the 
dining  car  system  and  directs  a 
huge  advertising  program. 

Southern     Pacific     Company 
operates    124   dining   cars,    em- 
ploys 100  stewards,  400  cooks, 
and    more    than    600    waiters. 
Almost    six    million    meals    are 
served   every  year  in  the  com- 
pany's dining  cars.  The  ultimate 
responsibility  of  seeing  that  the 
highest    possible    standards    are 
maintained  in  the  dining  car  de- 
partment rests  with  McGinnii, 
who  with   Allan   Pollok,   man- 
ager of  the  dining  car  depart 
ment,  recognizes  the  importance 
of  a  high-class  cuisine  in  the  com- 
fort and  enjoyment  of  travelers. 
A   million-dollar   annual   ap- 
propriation for  advertising  the  railroad 
is  dispensed  by  McGinnis  and  the  name 
of  Southern  Pacific  Company  is  carried 
in    mediums    throughout    the    civilized 
world. 

A  large  portion  of  Southern  Pacific's 
advertising  funds  is  of  great  value  to 
the  Pacific  Coast  in  the  same  way  that 
Californians,  Inc.,  and  the  Ail-Year 
Club  of  Southern  California  advertis- 
ing is  of  value  to  California,  for  the 
Southern  Pacific  directs  much  advertis- 
ing effort  not  only  to  its  own  service, 
but  to  the  broadcasting  of  Western  at- 
tractions and  advantages  to  the  world 
at  large. 

McGinnis'   rise   in  the  Southern    Pa- 
cific is  probably  due  as  much  to  his  quali- 
(Continued  on  Page  157) 


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May,  1927 


Residence  of  Mrs.  John  Byers  of  Southern  California.    Designed  by  John  Byers. 
(Courtesy  Pacific  Coast  Architect) 

Architecture  in  Los  Angeles 


FOR  some  six  years  the  writer  has 
been  visiting  Los  Angeles  once  or 
twice  a  year   for  the    purpose   of 
collecting  architectural  material  for  pub- 
lication.   His  first  trip  resulted  in  a  state 
of    amazed     bewilderment;     succeeding 
visits  have  never  completely  effaced  that 
first    impression    of    incredible,    kaleido- 
scopic building  activity. 

The  City  of  the  Angels  is  still  in  the 
making.  It  acquires  perhaps  100,000 
new  citizens  yearly,  and  it  does  some- 
thing radical  to  them,  however  strong 
the  spirit  of  nativity  strives  with  its 
Societies  and  Reunions.  A  psychologist 
might  explain  it  as  the  breaking  or 
loosening  of  inhibitions;  certainly  there 
is  a  contagion  which  seizes  them  and, 
paradoxically  enough,  makes  each  one 
wish  something  new  and  different.  And 
the  result  has  been — and  continues  to  be, 
although  there  are  signs  of  steadying  in- 
fluences—  a  riot  of  imagination  and  ex- 
periment, of  exuberant  color  and  fan- 
tastic form,  with  much  that  is  painful  or 
ludicrous  to  the  trained  eye,  and  yet 
surprisingly  much  that  is  charming  and 
picturesque. 

This  condition,  it  should  be  stated, 
applies  to  the  informal,  unconventional 
type  of  work  as  distinguished  from  the 
large  business  and  public  buildings. 
Until  very  recently,  due  to  the  city 
building  height  ordinance,  the  down- 
town districts  presented  a  series  of  con- 
servative facades  with  little  to  distin- 


By  Harris  Allen,  A.  I.  A. 

Editor  "Pacific  Coast  Architect" 

guish  them  from  each  other  in  treatment, 
height  or  interest.  A  few  new  buildings 
have  been  erected  of  decided  architectur- 
al merit;  but  the  main  business  district  is 
in  sharp  contrast  to  the  surrounding  ter- 
ritory, which  is  perpetually  spreading 
out  in  new  tracts  of  residences  and  busi- 
ness. 

The  lack  of  a  definite  city  plan  is 
obvious  and  unfortunate.  This,  of  course, 
applies  equally  well  to  other  large  and 
growing  cities ;  and  it  is  probably  less 
unfortunate  in  its  effect  upon  appear- 
ance here  than  elsewhere.  Nevertheless, 
one  constantly  runs  across  groups  of 
large  residences  and  tiny  bungalows 
mixed  up  in  most  intimate  proximity; 
and  traffic  problems  are  intense.  Some 
of  the  newest  "subdivisions,"  notably  in 
the  hill  districts,  are  laid  out  with  grades 
and  boulevards  and  restrictions  and  bid 
fair  to  be  models  of  their  kind. 

The  latitude  in  architectural  de- 
sign —  due,  no  doubt,  as  previously  sug- 
gested, to  the  sudden  intoxication  pro- 
duced in  these  hordes  of  newcomers  by 
the  luxuriance  of  climate  and  vegeta- 
tion —  is  manifest  in  every  conceivable 
variation  of  style  and  ornament.  Archi- 
tects have  been  given  much  freer  scope 
than  usual ;  and  a  remarkable  number  of 
able  men  are  at  work,  giving  their  talent 


free  play  in  the  effort  to  produce  orig- 
inal and  beautiful  compositions.  Resi- 
dences, club  houses,  shops,  theaters, 
schools — sprung  to  life  that  are  vigor- 
ous, characterful,  often  playful,  entirely 
delightful.  These,  in  turn,  have  been 
used  as  models,  and  thousands  of  more 
or  less  slightly  varied  copies  are  scat- 
tered broadcast.  Reprehensible  as  this 
may  seem  to  the  originator,  it  is  of  real 
benefit  to  the  community.  Contrast  the 
usual  dull,  commonplace  city  vista  with 
these  miles  of  gay,  colorful  edifices, 
many  of  which  will  not  bear  close  in- 
spection by  an  architectural  critic,  but 
whose  ensemble  is  undeniably  attractive. 

The  prevailing  style  is  quite  naturally 
Spanish,  or  rather,  based  upon  Spanish 
motives.  Realtors  like  to  lump  all  these 
variations,  which  bring  in  Italian  and 
French  and  African  touches,  under  the 
comprehensive  term  "Mediterranean." 
Be  that  as  you  like  it,  there  is  evident  a 
sincere  and  laudable  effort  to  produce  a 
really  "Californian"  style,  and  if  not  to 
conservatism,  certainly  to  straight-for- 
wardness and  the  restraint  of  flambuoy- 
ancy. 

Summing  up  one's  architectural  im- 
pressions of  Los  Angeles,  then,  it  may  be 
regarded  as  in  a  stage  of  transition  com- 
parable to  the  early  period  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance,  and  with  the  prospect  of 
high  architectural  achievement,  depen- 
dent in  the  long  future  upon  a  real  and 
comprehensive  city  plan. 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


139 


Fleurette 


THE  SLOW  succession  of  sunlight 
and  shadow  was  vaguely  soothing 
to  Fleurette.  The  task  of  guid- 
ing the  old  canal  boat  down  the  nar- 
row waterway  was  not  one  to  require 
much  concentration  and  the  girl's  mind 
was  free  to  travel  where  it  would.  It 
ranged  far  and  wide,  beyond  the  quiet 
French  landscape  which  lay  spread  be- 
yond the  lines  of  elms  bordering  the 
canal. 

Wonderful  dreams  were  Fleurette's, 
as  the  ancient  boat  made  its  progress 
toward  the  city  of  Toul — dreams  of 
Paris  and  the  marvelous  subways,  of 
which  she  had  heard ;  of  beautiful  shop 
windows  with  gorgeous  gowns  and 
throngs  of  young  and  brilliantly  dressed 
women. 

Occasionally  a  patch  of  mottled  sun- 
light would  slide  aboard,  over  the  snub 
nose  of  the  boat,  and  sweep  along  the 
deck  until,  for  a  moment,  it  enveloped 
Fleurette,  bringing  out  little  unexpected 
glints  in  her  dark  hair  and  glorifying 
her  rough  dress  until  it  seemed,  almost, 
that  she  herself  was  ready  to  take  her 
place  among  the  Parisiennes. 

Up  ahead  Fleurette's  small  brother, 
who  was  by  way  of  being  more  of  a  real- 
ist, proudly  shouldered  the  responsibility 
of  keeping  in  motion  the  aged  horse 
which,  in  turn,  kept  the  slime  covered 
rope  taut  and  the  boat  moving.  No 
dreams  for  Francois.  With  his  stick  he 
cut  at  the  rank  mustard  stalks  which 
grew  along  the  tow  path. 

"Voila,  M'Sieu,"  he  would  shout,  you 
are  dead !  and  with  overwhelming  ardor 
he  would  swing  upon  and  decapitate 
the  yellow  tufts  from  their  slender  stems. 

Light  and  shadow  succeeded  each 
other  along  the  length  of  the  boat  and 
Fleurette  pictured  a  scene  at  a  magni- 
ficent reception.  A  young  girl,  her  hail 
powdered  until  it  shed  whiteness  and 
sweetness  with  every  birdlike  twist  of 
her  head,  sat  in  a  circle  of  distinguished 
courtiers — mostly  gentlemen.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  gown  of  shimmering  bro- 
cade, of  the  period  of  Louis  XVI,  and 
was  about  to  receive,  upon  the  hand,  a 
kiss  from  the  lips  of  a  handsome  gentle- 
man who  looked  uncommonly  like  the 
king  of  France  .... 

"Toot!  Toot!  To-o-oot!"  The  bat- 
tered brass  horn  which  hung  beside  the 
stairs  leading  to  the  interior  of  the  canal 
boat  was  sounded  vigorously,  shattering 
Fleurette's  vision.  Madame  Ronneau, 
ample,  black  dressed  and  wearing  a 
white  cap,  had  sensed  the  approach  of  a 


By  Jack  Wright 

lock  and  had  come  up  to  assist  her  chil- 
dren in  negotiating  it  safely. 

"To-o-ot!  Toot!"  she  puffed  vigor- 
ously, exclaiming  between  blasts,  "That 
M.  Bodan!  Where  is  he??  Mon  Dieu, 
was  there  ever  a  man  like  that!" 

Francois  had  halted  the  motion  of  his 
horse,  and  the  green  tow  rope  sank  out 
of  sight  in  the  canal.  Slowly  the  boat 
came  to  a  stop  within  the  lock. 

"One  moment,  Madame.  One  mo- 
ment!" 

Bodan,  the  lock  tender,  a  queer,  limp- 
ing figure,  hobbled  from  the  small, 
square  stone  house  which  served  as  his 
quarters.  He  came  toward  the  boat  as 
fast  as  he  could  come.  An  Austrian  bul- 
let, which  had  shattered  his  knee-cap, 
slowed  his  progress  but  did  not  dim  his 
spirit. 

"See  who  is  here,"  he  cried,  proudly, 
as  he  came  alongside  the  boat.  "My 
son!"  With  a  sweeping  gesture  he  des- 
ignated a  youth  of  about  24,  who  fol- 
lowed him.  "This  is  my  son,  Pierre, 
just  returned  from  Algiers.  You  call 
to  mind  Pierre,  who  was  small  when 
you  last  saw  him." 

Pierre  and  Madame  exchanged  vol- 
uble salutations  and,  as  the  lock  doors 
were  shut  and  the  water  swirled  into 
the  enclosure,  the  trio  conversed  excit- 
edly. 

"Algiers?  Did  you  say  Algiers?  Why 
I — "and  an  eddying  flood  of  animated 
French  kept  pace  with  the  surging  water 
in  the  lock. 

Fleurette,  from  the  post  at  the  rudder, 
was  a  little  cut  off  from  the  others.  She 
listened  eagerly,  wistfully.  The  young 
Frenchman  was  thin  and  rather  distin- 
guished looking.  She  had  known  him 
when  they  were  little.  It  must  be  won- 
derful to  have  been  in  Algiers — so  dif- 
ferent from  the  canal. 

If  only  he  would  notice  her. 

The  conversation  continued  for  min- 
utes. She  was  desperate.  Wasn't  he 
ever  going  to  pay  any  atten —  -  a  loud 
splash  sounded  above  the  gurgling  water 
of  the  lock.  The  talkers  looked  around 
in  amazement.  Fleurette  floundered  in 
the  water. 

The  trio  on  the  towpath  responded 
characteristically.  Madame  wrung  her 
hands  agitatedly.  "Nom  de  nom  de  nom 
de  Dieu,"  she  cried.  "Fleurette  has  fallen 
into  the  canal." 

The  elder  Bodan  limped  along  the 
lock  excitedly,  flinging  his  arms  about. 


Bodan  the  younger  without  ceremony 
leaped  into  the  water  and  threw  an  arm 
about  the  shoulders  of  the  girl.  "Steady, 
Mademoiselle.  One  minute,"  he  cau- 
tioned. "I  will  save  you." 

Fleurette,  who  had  never  spent  a  night 
away  from  the  canal  and  to  whom  its 
waters  were  a  native  element,  gave  him 
a  look  that  was  mysterious,  feminine. 

"How  foolish,"  she  said,  "to  have  fal- 
len into  the  canal." 

She  permitted  him  to  guide  her  to  the 
small  iron  ladder  at  the  edge  of  the  lock 
and  to  assist  her  to  the  towpath. 

Madame  and  Bodan  received  the  pair 
with  open  arms.  Madame  bestowed  two 
resounding  kisses  upon  the  cheeks  of 
Pierre,  torrenting  thanks  upon  him. 
Pierre  sheepishly  looked  at  the  ground, 
then  at  the  girl  whose  wet  clothes  were 
pressed  close  about  her  rounded  body. 

Fleurette's  one  emotion  was  now  con- 
fusion. When  she  saw  that  Pierre  was 
looking  at  her  she  blushed  like  a  scarlet 
rose  and,  with  a  muttered  thanks,  hur- 
ried aboard  the  boat,  and  below. 

II 

THE  shadows  were  falling  completely 
across  the  boat  when  Fleurette 
emerged.  Leaning  upon  the  long  arm 
of  the  rudder  she  guided,  lazily,  the 
course  of  the  blunt  craft  and  thought 
of  her  recent  adventure  and  the  coming 
pleasures  of  an  evening  in  Toul. 

Not  often  did  the  canal  boat  tie  up 
near  a  city  of  such  size.  At  times  a 
village  with  half  a  dozen  shop  windows 
to  be  looked  at  would  be  within  walk- 
ing distance  but  as  often  as  not  night 
would  find  them  moored  at  the  center 
of  a  long  stretch  of  canal,  with  nothing 
but  fields  for  many  kilometers  in  every 
direction. 

The  final  kilometer  slipped  beneath 
the  placid  keel  and  they  passed  under  a 
bridge  to  where  the  canal  widened  to 
a  small  lake.  Already  the  sides  of  the 
tiny  body  were  lined  with  boats  but 
Fleurette,  by  dint  of  much  shouting  to 
her  brother  and  much  manipulation  of 
the  rudder,  managed  to  wedge  her  craft 
between  the  two  others  and  the  ropes 
were  tied  ashore  for  the  night. 

Smoke  had  begun  to  rise  from  the 
chimney  of  the  boat  and  the  odor  of 
soup  floated  through  the  white-curtained 
window  of  the  diminutive  kitchen. 
Francois  had  secured  his  horse  to  a  tree 
about  which  remained  a  few  vestiges  of 
grass  and  was  making  a  very  sketchy 


140 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


May.  1927 


toilet  in  a  bucket  of  water  drawn  from 
the  canal. 

"Let  us  hurry,  Francois,"  begged  his 
sister.  "There  are  so  many  things  to  see 
that  we  are  bound  to  miss  some  unless 
we  make  haste." 

The  boy  needed  no  coaxing.  Despite 
the  exhortations  of  their  mother  he  and 
Fleurette  finished  their  soup,  gray  bread, 
cheese  and  diluted  wine  in  a  space  of 
time  too  short  to  be  healthful  and  quick- 
ly their  sabots  were  clacking  across  the 
bridge  and  through  the  ancient  gates  into 
the  city  of  Toul. 

The  lights  of  the  shop  windows  were 
just  coming  on  and  the  narrow  side- 
walks were  crowded.  Motorcars  with 
glaring  headlamps  clattered  through  the 
streets  and  the  throng,  the  bustle  and  the 
array  of  wonderful  things  heaped  in  the 
store  windows  made  it  all  seem  like  a 
fairyland  to  the  little  French  girl. 

The  evening  was  all  their  own,  ex- 
cept for  one  errand — to  get  the  mail. 
An  onlooker  possessing  a  knowledge  of 
the  psychology  of  canal  boat  girls  would 
have  found  suspicious  the  willingness 
with  which  Fleurette  left  the  glitter  of 
the  main  thoroughfare  and  plunged  into 
a  dark  side  street  which  contained  the 
poste. 

The  postal  attendant  was  an  old  duf- 
fer who,  despite  his  years,  retained  an 
eye  for  a  pretty  face.  "Was  Mademoi- 
selle expecting  a  letter?"  he  asked  a 
shade  banteringly.  "But,  my  child,  who 
in  all  France  would  write  to  one  so 
young?" 

A  brilliant  flooding  of  color  into  the 
cheeks  of  the  girl  rewarded  his  sally. 
"Possibly  not  in  France,"  she  replied, 
"but  in  America." 

"Ah,  the  A.  E.  F.?" 

Not  answering,  Fleurette  seized  the 
small  packet  of  papers  and  other  second 
class  mail  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

Back  to  the  main  street  went  she  and 
Francois,  anxious  lest  the  inconsiderate 
time  limit  set  by  their  mother  should 
have  elapsed  before  they  had  seen  their 
fill.  Up  and  down  the  sidewalk  they 
moved,  the  wonderful  sidewalk  which 
was  in  places  wide  enough  for  three  per- 
sons abreast  and  which  in  others  nar- 
rowed to  scarcely  the  width  of  one. 

At  each  window  display  they  stopped, 
darting  across  the  street  when  brighter 
lights  seemed  to  promise  greater  grand- 
eur. Windows  of  shiny  jewelry  held 
Fleurette  longest  while  Francois  was  at- 
tracted by  the  "Notion"  stores  with  their 
pocket  knives  and  trinkets  made  of  gren- 
ades and  other  war  material. 

The  gathering  darkness  had  the  effect 
of  making  lighted  windows  seem  more 
showy  and  the  passing  women  and  men 
more  distinguished.  It  was  all  so  mag- 
nificent— so  different  from  life  aboard 
the  canal  boat. 


They  would  have  been  content  to 
wander  through  the  streets  for  many 
hours  but  a  clock  in  a  jeweler's  window 
warned  that  the  hour  set  by  Mere  had 
passed. 

Distant  lights  from  other  boats  skim- 
med long  reflections  to  them  across  the 
canal  as  they  made  their  way  aboard  the 
boat  and  below  to  their  narrow  bunks. 

Ill 

BACK  and  forth,  back  and  forth 
along  the  100  kilometer  stretch  of 
canal  plied  the  boat,  picking  up  a  cargo 
of  huge  wine  vats  at  one  terminus  and 
taking  on  a  load  of  grain  or  something 
else  at  the  other-  Spring  advanced  and 
the  elms  along  the  waterway  came  out  in 
deep  green,  vigorous  leaf,  the  grass  along 
the  edge  of  the  water  began  to  show  yel- 


CALIFORNIA  COAST 

TALL  winds  and  a  wet  beach 
And  the  sea  crying; 
Grey  sky  and  the  far  reach 
Of  a  gull  flying; 

The  hard,  jagged  line  that  the  cliff  traces 
High; 
I  am  less  lonely  here  than  in  crowded 

places. 
Why? 

SARAH  LITSEY. 


low,  in  places,  and  Francois,  when  he 
moored  his  horse  for  the  night,  had  to  go 
farther  and  farther  afield  to  find  a  tree 
about  which  lingered  a  few  blades  of 
vegetation. 

Water  insects  darted  about  the  mirror- 
like  smoothness  of  the  quiet  stretches 
and  the  afternoon  warmth,  lasting  well 
toward  evening,  presaged  the  early  com- 
ing of  summer  heat. 

Long,  long  lazy  days.  Except  for  the 
ever  recurrent  locks  to  be  passed  there 
was  little  to  break  the  quiet,  uneventful 
hours  at  the  rudder.  Had  Fleurette  been 
an  older  woman  or  a  man  the  placidity 
of  the  days  might  have  crept  into  her 
spirit  and  made  her  serenely  content  but 
being  a  young  girl,  and  a  French  one, 
she  could  not  be  deprived  of  her  dreams, 
hopes  and  wonderings. 

All  of  one  day  an  unusual  color  re- 
mained in  her  cheeks.  In  the  early  morn- 
ing they  had  passed  Toul.  Standing  by 
the  canal,  silhouetted  against  the  sky  of 
dawn,  stood  a  young  Frenchman,  clad 
in  dark  corduroys,  a  tattered  army  coat 
of  horizon  blue  and  the  picturesque  cap 
of  the  French  "blue  devils."  He  was 
looking  toward  the  sunrise  and  did  not 
turn  as  the  canal  boat  dragged  slowly 
past.  The  girl  was  tempted  to  call  but 


was  silent.  It  was  the  son  of  Bodan, 
the  lock  tender. 

Another  day,  two  weeks  later,  their 
return  trip  carried  them  through  Toul 
again.  Fleurette's  paint  brush  had 
wrought  a  miracle  in  the  old  boat.  With 
two  body  colors  and  three  bright  shades 
for  trimming  she  had  made  the  sides  and 
deck  house  gay.  The  smell  of  paint  was 
everywhere  but  one  forgot  that  when 
one's  neighbors  shouted  comments  upon 
one's  improved  appearance. 

It  was  good  that  the  boat  looked  well, 
for  it  was  Corpus  Christi  Sunday  and 
Toul  had  put  on  its  finest  appearance. 
The  streets  were  decorated  with  green 
branches  from  trees  and  tiny  shrines 
were  set  up  here  and  there,  specially  for 
the  occasion. 

Fleurette  was  light-hearted  as  she  and 
her  mother  and  Francois  went  to  mass 
in  the  great  gray  cathedral.  The  music 
of  the  mass  was  tremendous.  It  made 
Fleurette's  dark  eyes  glow  like  stars. 
High  above  her,  against  the  window  be- 
neath which  Jeanne  d'Arc,  as  a  simple 
country  maid  of  Dom-re-my,  had  long 
ago  been  confirmed,  stood  the  singers 
and  now  and  again,  fleetingly,  Fleurette 
caught  a  glimpse  of  one  whose  passionate 
tenor  soared  above  the  rest. 

Again  it  was  Pierre  .... 

When  the  mass  was  over  it  happened 
that  the  three  Ronneaus  were  delayed  in 
leaving  the  church  and  emerged  from 
the  main  entrance  just  as  the  singers 
were  coming  from  a  side  door.  Pierre 
Bodan  joined  them,  shaking  hands  with 
all  three  with  French  demonstrativeness 
and  enthusiasm.  They  walked  along  the 
canal  toward  the  boat.  The  sunlight, 
warm  upon  the  fields,  was  tempered  by 
the  elms  and  the  smell  of  the  water  gave 
an  effect  of  balmy  coolness.  Pierre  was 
wonderfully  jovial  and  kindly.  He 
laughed  and  chattered ;  yet,  as  Fleurette 
noted,  he  seemed  as  interested  in  the 
ample  Madame  as  in  her  pretty  daughter. 

As  they  reached  the  boat  Francois 
hastened  to  harness  the  horse  while  Ma- 
dame bustled  below  to  prepare  the  noon 
meal.  Her  French  thriftiness  would  not 
permit  them  to  waste  even  Sunday  after- 
noon, when  money  was  so  scarce  and 
they  had  been  to  mass  and  were  there- 
fore free  to  keep  moving. 

Fleurette  and  Pierre  were  left  alone. 
For  a  moment  they  talked  of  common- 
places, then  with  a  jaunty  au  revoir  and 
a  touch  of  his  cap,  Pierre  turned  and 
swung  off  down  the  canal  toward  Toul. 
His  hands  were  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets 
and  he  was  whistling,  in  time  with  steps 
which  were  almost  swaggering,  a  once 
popular  song  of  marching  poilus,  "La 
Madelon." 

If  only  he  had  shown  her  the  least 
bit  of  special  attention,  but  ah  well,  she 
tossed  her  head,  Fleurette  Ronneau  did 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


141 


not  need  to  run  after  a  Frenchman. 
Someday  perhaps  there  would  come  a 
letter — from  America. 

IV 

DAY  succeeded  day.  Summer  was  far 
advanced  and  little  Francois  had  a 
truly  difficult  time  supplying  feed  for 
his  horse.  Four  times  the  boat  passed 
Toul  but  not  once  did  Fleurette  catch 
a  glimpse  of  Pierre  and  not  once  did  she 
receive  reward  for  her  trips  to  the  post- 
ale. 

Her  mother  spent  whole  days  upon 
the  deck  now,  making  incredibly  fine 
stitches  with  her  needle  or  telling  Fleur- 
ette what  a  magnificent  man  her  (Fleur- 
ette's)  father  had  been  and  the  thousand 
curses  which  should  come  upon  the 
Boche  for  killing  him. 

For  the  most  part  the  girl  paid  little 
attention.  She  guided  the  boat  with  long 
sweeps  of  her  rudder  and  performed  her 
part  when  locks  were  to  be  manipulated. 
For  the  rest  she  was  silent  or  gayly  talk- 
ative but  in  each  condition,  seemed  to 
wait  for  something — something  ill  de- 
fined, even  to  herself. 

One  afternoon  they  tied  up  a  couple 
of  hours  early,  three  kilometers  from 
Toul.  There  was  washing  to  be  done, 
and  Madame  insisted  that  this  was  as 
good  a  time  as  any  to  do  it.  Francois  was 
dispatched  to  Toul  for  some  small  pro- 
visions and  Madame  and  Fleurette  made 
their  way  to  a  spot  where  a  gently  slop- 
ing stone  made  a  splendid  wash  board 
at  the  edge  of  the  canal. 

No  sooner  were  they  at  work,  their 
sleeves  rolled  high  above  their  elbows, 
than  Bodan,  his  face  red  and  perspiring 
and  his  limp  more  pronounced  than  ever, 
came  hobbling  along  the  canal.  His 
little  start  of  surprise  at  seeing  the  two 
women  was  a  little  too  natural  to  be 
genuine  but  Madame  did  not  notice. 
"Bon  soir,  Madame;  bon  soir  Made- 
moiselle," said  the  gallant  Bodan,  bow- 
ing very  low.  "I  trust  you  are  well  this 
afternoon." 

"Bon  jour,  M'sieu',"  responded  Ma- 
dame. "What  brings  you  here?" 

"A  little  errand  at  the  next  lock.  You 
will  pardon  me;  I  am  in  a  hurry."  As 
he  stood  betwen  the  two  women  he 
looked  intently  at  Fleurette.  As  he 
passed  her  he  dropped,  on  the  side  oppo- 
site from  her  mother,  an  envelope. 
Scarcely  pausing  in  her  rubbing  Fleur- 
ette swept  it  into  her  bosom.  Bodan 
footed  it  up  the  canal,  whistling  non- 
chalantly. 

Fleurette  had  caught  her  name  on 
the  envelope,  but  that  was  all.  It  was 
nearly  an  hour  before  she  could  find  an 
excuse  to  slip  away  from  her  mother  for 
even  a  moment.  Concealed  behind  a  bar- 
rier of  low  bushes  she  tore  open  the  thin 
envelope.  Her  fingers  shook;  the  mis- 


sive might  be  from  the  old  lock-tender 
himself,  but  the  beating  of  her  heart 
voiced  the  hope  that  it  was  from  someone 
handsomer  and  younger. 

With  eyes  shining  with  the  light  of 
excitement  she  read: 

"Ma  cherie  Fleurette: 

"It  is  so  long  that  I  have  not  seen  you 
that  I  long  for  a  glimpse  of  your  face. 
Will  you  meet  me,  at  a  little  after  dawn 
tomorrow,  on  the  canal  above  mv  father's 
lock? 

Pierre" 

It  was  from  Pierre.  One  of  her 
dreams  was  to  be  fulfilled:  she  was  to 
talk  with  him  under  romantic  circum- 
stances. Would  she  be  there?  No  need 
to  ask  .... 

Half  an  hour  later  Francois  returned 
from  Toul.  With  him  he  brought  a 
breeze  of  fresh  town  gossip — two  men 
had  been  killed  in  a  fight  over  a  girl; 
they  were  going  to  build  a  new  bridge; 
this  and  that — finally,  oh  yes,  here  was 
a  letter  for  Fleurette! 

Fortunately,  Madame  was  not  on  the 
deck.  Fleurette,  after  a  glance,  thrust 
the  letter  into  her  sleeve.  Francois,  too 
ravenous  for  supper  to  worry  over  so 
small  a  thing  as  a  letter,  drew  a  pail  of 
water  from  the  canal,  gave  himself  a 
sketchy  toilet,  and  hurried  below. 

Fleurette  stood  close  to  the  stern  of 
the  boat,  where  the  paint  was  worn  off 
in  a  semi-circular  path  from  her  days  at 
the  rudder.  Slowly  she  drew  out  the 
letter.  It  was  almost  incredible  that,  to 
her  who  had  received  scarcely  a  letter  in 
her  whole  life,  should  come  two  in  the 
same  day.  She  looked  at  the  envelope. 
With  a  thrill  which  made  her  knees 
tremble  she  recognized  the  green  stamps 
of  the  United  States  of  America. 

She  could  scarcely  contain  her  excite- 
ment as  she  tore  it  open.  A  bit  of  pale 
blue  paper  fluttered  to  the  deck  and  she 
held  in  her  hand  the  epistle.  Using  the 
"Franco-Americanese"  invented  for  and 
by  the  A.  E.  F.  it  said : 

"Fleurette,  dearest:  I  am  sorry  that 
I  could  not  write  sooner.  I  have  wanted 
to  every  minute,  since  my  company  sailed 
from  Brest.  At  last  it  is  all  arranged. 
I  have  a  position  in  my  father's  firm  at  a 
salary  that  would  make  your  eyes  stick 
out.  The  shops  are  full  of  beautiful 
clothes  just  waiting  for  my  bride  to  buy. 
I  have  even  found  an  apartment  and  an 
automobile.  I  enclose  funds  for  passage. 
Please  hurry. 

Bob" 

As  she  grasped  the  meaning  of  the  let- 
ter the  color  gradually  mounted  to  her 
face  until  it  matched  the  last  faint  glow 
of  the  sunset  then  tingling  the  sky.  She 
fingered  the  blue  slip  of  paper  which 
represented  more  francs  than  she  had 
ever  seen  in  her  life.  Before  her  rose  the 
vision  of  good-looking  Bob  in  olive  drab 


and  overseas  cap  as  he  smiled  goodbye 
to  her. 

Then  before  her  mind's  eyes,  like  a 
cinema,  the  picture  of  Bob  faded  out 
and  that  of  the  young  Frenchman, 
Pierre,  in  black  corduroys,  army  coat 
and  cap  of  the  "blue  devils,"  gazing  at 
the  sunrise,  took  its  place.  What  did 
Pierre  mean  by  writing  and  seeking  a 

tryst?     Was    he    serious,    or   just ? 

But  perhaps  he  meant  something  be- 
sides romance — and  with  that  thought 
Bob  "faded  in"  again.  With  him  await- 
ed luxury,  wonderful  gowns,  a  palatial 
home.  All  Americans  were  rich,  and 
Bob  was  richer  than  them  all. 

Besides,  he  cared  for  her.  She  looked 
about  her — at  the  handle  of  the  rudder 
which  her  hands  had  worn  smooth — at 
her  hands  which  the  rudder  had  made 
rough.  She  looked  at  the  tiny  windows 
of  the  deck  house  beneath  which  was 
her  hard  bunk.  She  looked  down  at  her 
clothes,  where  patches  competed  with 
jagged  rents  to  blot  out  the  original 
fabric.  Marriage  to  Bob  meant  an  end 
of  all  this  at  once,  while  Pierre — mar- 
riage was  not  easy  in  France;  it  might 
take  him  years  to  prepare  for  her. 
She  decided  .... 

She  prepared  to  go  below  to  supper. 
She  could  hear  the  noisy  talk  of  Fran- 
cois, telling  of  the  new  bridge  and  the 
double  murder.  She  would  miss  Fran- 
cois, perhaps,  for  a  litle  while,  but  when 
she  had  luxury  and  a  husband  the  few 
pleasant  things  of  canal  boat  life  would 
be  forgotten  as  easily  as  the  many  un- 
pleasant ones. 

She  would  not  tell  her  mother.  She 
would  leave  a  note,  which  her  mother 
would  find  when  she  came  to  call  her 
in  the  morning.  Then,  when  she  reached 
America  she  would  send  her  mother 
a  new  shawl  and  Francois  some  new 
trousers  and  would  look  out  for  their 
welfare  all  the  rest  of  her  life. 

And  from  Toul  she  would  send  a  tel- 
egram to  the  younger  sister  of  her  mother 
who  had  lost  her  husband  in  the  war 
and  would  be  glad  to  do  Fleurette's 
work  and  occupy  her  place. 

With  a  start  she  came  out  of  her  rev- 
erie and  hurried  below,  putting  her  cold 
fingers  to  her  face  to  cool  it  .... 


IT  DID  not  do  to  burn  the  candle  long 
and  presently  the  boat  was  silent. 
Fleurette  could  hear  the  deep  breathing 
of  her  mother  and  Francois  as  she  made 
her  few  belongings  into  a  bundle  and 
pinned  the  note  she  had  previously  writ- 
ten to  her  pillow. 

The    stars    were    shining    when    she 
reached   the   outer  air.    With  so  many 
thoughts  surging  in  her  head   she  wel- 
comed the  coolness  of  the  night  and  the 
(Continued  on  Page  153) 


142 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


May,  1927 


Railroading  in  the  Eighties 


THOMAS  EDISON  started  his 
business  career  as  a  news  agent 
on  passenger  trains  when  quite  a 
youngster.  William  Brady,  the  theat- 
rical magnate,  sold  "de  peanut  and  de 
banan"  on  the  Southern  Pacific  Rail- 
road between  San  Francisco  and  Los 
Angeles.  Success  came  to  these  two,  but 
there  are  those  who  served  in  their  youth 
on  the  "Road"  and  are  still  waiting 
for  that  Goddess  to  smile  upon  them. 
Every  man  cannot  be  an  Edison  or  even 
a  William  Brady,  even  though  he  start 
his  career  in  the  railroad  business,  but 
the  man  who  started  his  career  in  the 
eighties  on  the  railroad  has  a  fund  of 
material  which  is  of  the  greatest  value 
to  the  generation  of  today.  His  account 
would  give  the  fundamental  foundation 
of  today's  interstate  commerce  and  travel 
although  it,  in  all  probabilities,  would 
follow  in  the  personal  vein : 

My  first  experience,  he  would  start 
in  to  tell,  in  the  railroad  business  was 
in  the  spring  of  1886  on  the  Hannibal 
and  St.  Joe,  running  between  Kansas 
City  and  Quincy,  111.,  in  the  capacity 
of  news-agent,  then  called  peanut  boy. 
During  that  summer  the  elevated  road 
was  built  from  the  Kansas  City  bottoms 
to  Wyandotte,  now  known  as  Kansas 
City. 

In  the  fall  I  secured  a  position  as 
conductor  on  this  road,  and  the  next  fall 
went  to  the  Atchison,  Topeka  and  Santa 
Fe  as  ticket  collector. 

The  Santa  Fe  had  introduced  a  new 
system  by  taking  the  collection  of  trans- 
portation on  passenger  trains  from  the 
conductor  and  placing  it  in  the  hands  of 
a  special  collector.  When  the  conductor 
gave  the  engineer  the  high  sign  to  pull 
out  for  the  next  town,  his  duties  were 
over  until  the  train  reached  the  next 
town.  If  some  railroad  man  approached 
him,  displaying  a  switch  key,  or  some 
other  credential  to  prove  he  was  a  bona- 
fide  "car  hand"  and  was  entitled  to  a 
boost  over  his  division,  as  was  customary 
in  those  days,  he  was  referred  to  the 
collector,  the  "Pooh  Bah"  of  the  trans- 
portation department.  In  fact  the  con- 
ductor didn't  have  the  authority  to  carry 
his  mother-in-law's  photographs  on  the 
train  without  permission  of  the  collector. 
Most  of  the  collectors  were  taken  from 
the  clerical  department  of  the  company 
as  the  unsophisticated  article  not  tainted 
with  "old  car  hand"  methods  were  con- 
sidered much  more  preferable.  Conduc- 
tors worked  their  way  through  the 
freight  train  route  from  "box  to  var- 


By  Frank  Staples 

nished  cars,"  so  naturally  they  resented 
the  idea  of  surrendering  so  much  pres- 
tige and  authority  to  such  mere  upstarts. 

At  first  the  collectors  received  no 
recognition  or  assistance  from  the  train 
crews,  but  after  the  system  had  been  in 
vogue  for  a  year,  and  it  looked  as 
though  it  were  there  to  stay,  the  train 
crews  decided  that  discretion  was  the 
better  part  of  valor,  and  they  bowed  to 
the  inevitable.  The  result  was  that 
peace  and  harmony  prevailed  when  I 
made  my  appearance  on  the  scene. 

The  company  did  not  want  its  men 
to  become  too  well  acquainted  with  the 
traveling  public,  or  become  too  familiar 
with  the  trainmen.  The  men  were  there- 
fore shifted  about  quite  frequently,  with 
the  result  that  one  man  ran  on  every 
division  of  the  main  line,  and  on  a  few 
of  the  branches.  In  '87,  La  Junta 
wasn't  much  more  than  a  railroad  divi- 
sion and  "cow  town."  One  would  not 
expect  a  place  of  this  description  to 
possess  much  social  life,  but  let  the  word 
be  passed  around  that  there  would  be  a 
dance  on  a  certain  night  and  the  turn- 
out would  be  surprising.  Cowboys  and 
their  girls  would  blow  in  from  off  the 
Kansas  prairie  for  miles  around ;  train 
crews  and  their  sweethearts  would  run 
down  from  Pueblo,  and  I  say,  "there 
would  be  a  hot  time  in  that  old  town 
that  night." 

Prohibition  and  reform  leagues  were 
not  much  in  evidence  in  that  part  of 
the  country  in  those  days,  so  between 
dances  one  could  "buck  the  tiger"  or 
"belly  up  to  the  bar"  as  the  saying  was, 
to  his  heart's  content. 

WHILE  running  into  La  Junta,  I 
had  a  layoff  of  twelve  hours,  and 
often  spent  the  day  with  Fred  Funston, 
who  ran  in  the  same  capacity  between 
La  Junta  and  Albuquerque,  N.  M., 
the  same  Funston  who  later  became 
the  famous  Major  General  Frederick 
Funston  of  the  U.  S.  A.  He  was  the 
son  of  a  Kansas  Congressman  and, 
owing  to  his  delightful  combination  of 
extreme  good  nature,  ready  wit  and 
ability  to  tell  comic  stories,  and  a  per- 
fect willingness  to  fight  at  the  drop  of 
the  hat,  if  the  occasion  demanded,  he 
was  dubbed  Funny,  Fighting  Funston. 
His  record  for  handling  tough  charac- 
ters, and  they  were  tough  and  numerous 
on  the  Albuquerque  division,  showed  he 
then  possessed  the  proper  qualifications 


which  afterwards  made  him  the  fearless 
fighter  he  proved  himself  to  be.  It  wasn't 
for  the  love  of  a  fight,  but  for  the  love 
of  the  principle  without  any  consider- 
ation of  the  consequences,  which 
prompted  him  always  to  be  ready  to 
throw  his  hat  in  the  ring  at  a  moment's 
notice.  One  day  I  saw  him  intensely 
interested  in  a  book,  so  asked  what  he 
was  reading.  He  replied,  "I  went  to 
a  dance  in  Albuquerque  the  other  night 
and  danced  with  the  most  beautiful 
senorita  I  ever  saw ;  she  could  not  speak 
English,  nor  I  Spanish,  so  I  am  training 
for  another  bout  with  her,"  then  con- 
tinued to  master  the  language  of  the 
"hot-ta-moll."  I  don't  know  if  he  ever 
met  the  senorita  again  or  not,  but  if  he 
mastered  the  beautiful  Spanish  language 
it  served  him  well  while  fighting  the 
revolutionists  of  Cuba,  and  later  in  the 
Philippine  Islands  for  Uncle  Sam. 

IF  YOU  want  an  interesting  and  in- 
structive account  of  those  two  wars, 
read,  "Memoirs  of  Two  Wars,"  by 
Major  General  Frederick  Funston.  The 
collector  system  proved  a  financial  suc- 
cess but  for  some  reason  was  discontinued 
at  the  end  of  its  second  year.  A  few 
months  later  I  was  standing  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  union  depot  at  Denver, 
when  I  heard  my  name  called,  and  look- 
ing around,  saw  about  a  hundred  feet 
away  something  that  resembled  a  human 
being;  as  the  voice  sounded  some- 
what familiar  I  went  to  investigate, 
and  to  my  surprise  found  the  semblance 
of  a  human  being  to  be  Funston.  He 
had  on  an  old,  dilapidated  Santa  Fe 
uniform,  badly  worn  hat  and  shirt  which 
perfectly  matched  the  clothes,  and  a 
week's  growth  of  beard.  He  looked 
like  a  hobo  who  had  spent  the  night 
riding  the  rods;  but  his  make-up  was  in 
perfect  accord  with  the  party  he  was 
with,  who  were  on  their  way  to  the 
mountains  on  a  hunting  trip.  That  was 
the  last  time  I  ever  saw  Funny,  Fight- 
ing Funston  and  am  mighty  glad  to 
have  known  him  before  he  became 
famous,  as  it  gave  me  an  opportunity 
to  appreciate  him  for  just  what  he  was 
without  the  trimmings. 

In  the  early  eighties  Dodge  City, 
Kansas,  had  the  reputation  of  being  the 
toughest  and  wildest  town  in  the 
country,  and  while  in  the  latter  part 
of  that  decade  it  had  settled  down  to 
a  very  peaceful  and  quiet  village,  there 
were  a  few  types  of  the  old  school  who 
(Continued  on  Page  156) 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


143 


Making  Little  Ones  Out  of  Big  Ones 


TWENTY-EIGHT  miles  from 
Sacramento,  and  along  the  banks 
of  the  winding  American  River 
on  whose  headwaters  the  precious  metal 
was  first  discovered,  there  looms  a  mass 
of  gray  buildings,  behind  a  vista  of  high 
derricks,  and  below  these  a  promiscu- 
ously scattered  pile  of  granite  boulders. 
This  is  Represa,  or  Folsom  Prison. 

Above  and  behind  the  formidable 
buildings  are  terraced  gardens,  beds  of 
flowers  and  shrubbery  cared  for  as  the 
estate  of  a  millionaire.  Beyond  and  in 
the  distance  is  a  forest  towering  above 
the  thirty-foot  walls  of  the  prison.  From 
that  point  a  view  of  the  Sierra  foothills 
is  afforded.  Only  one  feature  mars  the 
landscape — the  prison. 

To  anyone  who  is  making  a  study  of 
crime,  Represa  means  much,  because 
within  its  towering  walls  are  confined 
seventeen  hundred  men  who  have  previ- 
ously been  convicted  of  one  or  more 
crimes. 

In  prison  vernacular,  the  repeater  is 
called  a  "loser,"  and  the  majority  of 
the  inmates  have  from  two  to  eight 
prison  sentences  to  their  credit,  or  rather, 
discredit.  Burglars,  robbers,  forgers, 
murderers;  every  sort  of  criminal  will 
be  found  represented  among  the  pris- 
oners here.  Many  of  the  transgressors 
will  never  again  live  outside  of  prison 
walls.  And  for  most  of  them  the  rock 
pile  will  be  the  boundary  of  their  activi- 
ties for  the  rest  of  their  lives.  When 
they  become  too  old  to  work  they  will 
be  committed  to  the  old  men's  ward  of 
the  prison  hospital,  where  they  will  end 
their  days. 

Many  of  the  old-timers,  broken  pl^si- 
cally  and  mentally  by  long  periods  of 
penal  servitude,  wish  death, — for  a 
"parole  by  the  coffin  route,"  but  the  in- 
stinct for  life  is  so  strong  that  they 
seldom  attempt  self-destruction. 

The  big  problem  of  a  penitentiary  is 
to  keep  the  prisoners  suitably  employed. 
Idleness  brings  discontent  and  graver 
ills,  for  in  few  places  can  there  be  found 
as  much  plotting  and  politics  as  in  a 
penitentiary.  The  successful  governing 
of  such  an  institution  may  in  a  great 
measure  depend  upon  the  kind  of  em- 
ployment given  the  prisoners. 

In  the  vernacular  of  the  inside,  the 
labor  of  the  rock  quarries  is  called 
"making  little  ones  out  of  big  ones." 
There  is  enough  virgin  granite  at  Re- 
presa to  last  a  hundred  years,  and  work 
enough  to  supply  the  convicts  under  the 


By  Buford  Danville  Whitlock 

present  system  for  three  or  four  gen- 
erations. 

There  are,  of  course,  occupations  at 
which  the  more  skilled  workman  is  rep- 
resented, but  there  are  few  skilled  work- 
men. Those  who  have  had  no  previous 
experience  in  a  specialized  industry  are 
thrown  on  the  rock-pile.  Old  men,  who 
are  still  active,  together  with  cripples 
whose  deformities  are  slight,  are  en- 
trusted with  the  care  and  upkeep  of  the 
gardens  within  the  walls.  Almost  every 
variety  of  rose  and  numerous  other 
flowers,  vegetables,  trees,  are  to  be  found 
in  these  spacious  gardens  which  are  situ- 
ated on  a  sloping  hill.  On  top  of  the 
hill  is  a  sinister  looking  machine  gun 
tower. 

Outside  the  walls,  about  one  and  a 
half  miles  away,  are  the  prison  dairy, 
orchard,  poultry  farm  and  hog  farm. 
Only  "trusties"  are  fortunate  enough  to 
be  employed  on  one  of  these  outside  jobs 
where  there  are  no  guards.  The  privi- 
lege of  working  outside  the  walls  on  one 
of  these  ranches  is  much  coveted.  Many 
aspire  to  this  work,  but  few,  very  few, 
are  assigned  it.  Each  man  is  on  his  honor 
here ;  he  comes  and  goes  without  a  guard, 
has  better  food  than  other  prisoners,  and 
above  all,  he  has  the  realization  that  he 
is  being  trusted.  Few,  if  any,  have 
broken  their  word  of  honor  after  being 
assigned  to  such  work. 

The  clanging  of  steel  drills  against 
rock  and  the  whirr  of  the  air  drills  are 
the  predominant  sounds.  From  the  black- 
smith's shed  comes  the  ring  of  the  anvils, 
sharpening  tools  for  the  men,  and  from 
the  powerhouse  the  hum  of  dynamos, 
generating  electricity  for  the  prison. 
Over  all  are  miniature  houses,  perched 
like  nests  on  the  walls  and  buildings, 
each  containing  a  silent  and  alert  trained 
sharpshooter,  whose  duty  is  to  see  that 
no  prisoner  leaves  his  post  of  work  to 
attempt  a  break  for  liberty.  Such  des- 
perate attempts  have  been  made,  and 
perhaps  will  always  be  made  as  long  as 
there  is  a  man  within  the  walls,  for  the 
sight  of  the  free  side  of  the  river  often 
becomes  too  much  for  the  long-termer 
at  work  on  the  rock-pile. 

Casual  observation  of  the  main  indus- 
try may  strike  one  with  the  seeming 
waste  of  labor.  Here  is  a  field  for  an 
efficiency  expert ;  cooped  in  the  pit  of  a 
rock  quarry  is  an  entire  population  chip- 
ping away  at  granite  boulders,  in  a  de- 


sultory way,  with  no  task  to  complete; 
day  after  day  the  same  monotony — rocks. 
Through  their  long  servitude  these  men 
work  on  rocks,  think  in  terms  of  rocks, 
until  their  very  thoughts  and  outlook 
become  as  stony  hard  as  the  objects  of 
their  hammers  and  drills.  But,  a  change 
of  employment  ?  No,  these  men  are  con- 
sidered a  total  loss  by  the  state  in  so  far 
as  rehabilitation  is  concerned,  for  they 
are  recidivisists. 

Daily,  and  in  increasing  numbers,  men 
arrive  at  Represa  from  the  many  towns 
of  California.  These  newcomers  are  re- 
peaters in  crime.  Occasionally,  as  an 
ironical  break  in  the  monotony  of  the 
prison-gray  dress,  there  comes  a  parole 
violator  garbed  in  the  despicable  suit  of 
black  and  white  stripes.  This  fellow  is 
a  marked  man,  and  at  a  distance  he  looks 
not  unlike  the  very  bars  of  the  cell 
which  keeps  him  in.  The  striper,  as  the 
parole  violator  is  called,  is  an  eye-sore, 
even  to  his  fellow  prisoners.  His  dress 
is  the  symbol  of  broken  honor,  of  a 
chance  once  had  and  forever  lost.  He 
has,  however,  a  chance  for  redemption, 
after  his  first  year,  provided  he  has  a 
good  conduct  record  during  that  time; 
he  is  taken  out  of  stripes  and  given  the 
clothes  of  his  fellows.  This  change  is 
an  event  eagerly  looked  forward  to  and 
often  serves  as  an  incentive  for  good  be- 
havior. 

In  prison  the  habitual  is  an  open  book 
to  the  officials.  His  plans  are  on  record 
almost  as  soon  as  they  are  made.  What- 
ever the  nature  of  his  scheming,  when  it 
comes  to  the  denouement  it  is  found 
that,  all  along,  the  officials  have  expected 
his  next  move  because  of  their  long  ex- 
perience with  his  type.  He  is  a  trouble- 
maker, an  agitator,  and  if  pressed — a 
killer.  Not  from  bravery  would  this 
man  deliberately  risk  his  life,  but  in  a 
corner,  he  is  ready  to  kill.  Prisoners 
have  coined  a  word  which  describes  this 
type  excellently.  It  is  ribber,  meaning 
the  fellow  who  is  constantly  after  some- 
one else  to  pull  his  chestnuts  out  of  the 
fire  for  him,  not  having  the  courage  to 
do  so  himself.  He  is  always  on  the  alert 
to  start  something,  but  seldom  does  he 
pay  the  penalty  himself.  It  is  usually 
the  scapegoat  who  suffers  as  a  result  of 
the  ribber's  plans. 

There  is  in  contrast  the  prisoner  who 
has  fallen  for  a  second  or  third  time.  He 
is  of  the  studious  nature.  Or  if  not 
studious,  then  the  day-laborer  convicted 
of  some  petty  crime  which  would  have 


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May,  1927 


been  termed  a  misdemeanor  had  it  been 
his  first  conviction.  This  type  is  not 
dangerous.  When  he  arrives  at  Folsom 
and  is  assigned  work,  he  does  it  with  a 
humble  submissiveness.  This  type  of 
man  is  given  a  heavy  sentence,  not  be- 
cause of  the  enormity  of  his  crime,  but 
because  he  should  have  learned  some- 
thing from  his  first  experience  in  prison. 
However,  there  is  little  to  prevent  a 
man  becoming  a  repeater  in  crime.  More 
especially  is  this  true  in  the  case  of  the 
discharged  man. 

/CONSIDER  the  plight  of  the  pris- 
\*J  oner  just  released.  At  the  prison 
gates  he  is  given  a  shoddy  suit  of  clothes, 
a  pair  of  ill-fitting  shoes,  and  five  dollars. 
He  has  lost  contact  with  the  labor  mar- 
ket. He  is  street-shy,  self-conscious  and 
bewildered.  His  own  record  serves  as  a 
great  handicap,  and  this  is  especially 
true  if  his  is  a  vocation  which  demands 
credentials,  recommendations,  previous 
histories.  Even  the  canniest  of  us  would 
find  it  difficult  to  exist  long,  find  work 
and  respin  our  webs  with  only  five 
dollars,  and  it  is  easy,  therefore,  to 
understand  how  the  temptation  over- 
comes the  released  man  after  his  money 
and  hope  are  gone..  The  paroled  man,i 
on  the  other  hand,  when  he  is  released^ 
has  suitable  employment  to  go  to.  His 
transportation  is  furnished  and  he  is 
going  to  a  job  where  his  employer  knows 
he  has  been  in  prison.  He  is  not  forced 
to  hide  his  record,  but  is  given  an  equal 
chance  with  the  rest.  Furthermore,  he 
is  assured,  through  the  state-aid  system, 
enough  money  to  start  him  off  right  for 
his  board  and  lodging  and  he  does  not 
have  to  resort  to  nefarious  ways  to  gain 
a  livelihood. 

The  paroled  man  must  also  report 
once  a  month  to  the  sheriff  of  the  county 
to  which  he  was  paroled.  This  restric- 
tion in  itself  makes  him  keep  his  right 
foot  forward.  Having  started  off  right, 
he  soon  realizes  that  it  is  far  better  to 
be  able  to  look  a  policeman  in  the  eye 
than  to  be  forever  dodging  him. 

Each  annual  report  in  the  State  of 
California  shows  more  and  more  success 
of  the  parole  law.  From  the  last  report 


it  appears  there  were  only  about  five 
per  cent  of  the  paroled  men  returned  on 
a  new  charge,  and  five  per  cent  more 
who  were  returned  for  violating  their 
ticket  of  leave.  From  a  financial  stand- 
point the  parole  law  is  also  proving  a 
success,  since  the  paroled  man  not  only 
makes  his  own  way,  but  saves  money 
while  on  parole,  and  is  ultimately 
brought  back  to  his  former  place  in  the 
ranks  of  society. 

Mr.  Edward  H.  Whyte,  the  parole 
officer  of  California,  and  the  convict's 
friend,  says,  "The  man  who  wants  to 
keep  his  parole  can  keep  it."  It  is  a  by- 
word of  the  prison  that  no  man  has  ever 
been  sent  back  who  has  kept  his  faith 
with  Mr.  Whyte.  Through  his  many 
years  of  experience  with  the  paroled  con- 
vict he  has  come  to  understand  the  ways 
of  the  man  individually  better  than  any 
other  authority,  and  the  paroled  convict 
coming  under  the  jurisdiction  of  the 
bureau  of  which  Mr.  Whyte  is  head  is 
given  co-operation  and  assistance.  One 
does  well  that  which  is  easy,  and  it  is 
Mr.  Whyte's  job  to  make  it  easier  for 
the  paroled  man  to  go  straight. 

In  touching  on  the  education  of  the 
man  who  is  received  at  prison,  it  is  per- 
haps not  brought  out  strongly  enough 
that  the  average  mental  age  of  those 
incarcerated  is  far  below  outside  stand- 
ards, taking  as  a  basis  for  this  computa- 
tion the  seventeen  hundred  inmates  of 
Represa.  The  mental  age  here  would 
not  run  above  ten  years.  It  is  astonish- 
ing how  many  men  there  are  in  prison 
who  can  neither  read  nor  write  the 
English  language. 

When  facts  concerning  the  illiteracy 
of  the  inmates  was  brought  to  the  atten- 
tion of  Warden  J.  J.  Smith  of  Folsom 
Prison,  he  immediately  issued  an  order 
converting  part  of  the  library  and  recrea- 
tion hall  into  a  schoolroom  for  week- 
day use,  and  made  school  attendance 
compulsory  upon  all  those  who  were 
illiterate.  Now  they  are  forced  to  at- 
tend the  school  until  they  have  gained  a 
fair  use  of  English. 

Not  long  ago  the  noted  criminologist, 
August  Vollmer  of  Berkeley,  Cal., 
wrote  an  article  in  which  he  stated, 


"The  modern  criminal  of  today  is  a 
highly  educated  person,  and  the  modern 
police  officer  must  have  a  college  educa- 
tion to  cope  with  him."  The  report  of 
any  penal  institution  in  the  country  will 
show  that  the  intelligent  man  is  seldom 
the  law  offender.  The  well  trained  man 
the  world  over  knows  that  his  trade  or 
profession  will  pay  better  in  the  long 
run  than  any  life  of  crime,  however 
lucrative. 

Almost  every  day  there  are  received 
at  prison  gates  all  over  the  country  men 
who  have  tasted  freedom  but  a  short 
time,  some  of  them  for  weeks  only.  The 
criminal's  second  offense  is  almost  al- 
ways more  serious  than  his  first. 

In  almost  every  prison  in  the  United 
States  today  a  convict,  whether  he  be  a 
first-timer  or  a  repeater,  is  given  a 
chance  to  better  himself  if  he  will.  Re- 
presa, in  former  days,  was  reputed  to  be 
one  of  the  hardest  prisons  in  the  country. 
When  the  rule  of  straight-jacket  and 
thumb  racks  were  in  force  the  main  idea 
was  to  keep  a  man  inside  the  walls  and 
not  give  him  a  chance  to  come  back.  All 
this  has  been  changed.  Warden  Smith, 
of  Represa,  is  not  a  believer  of  coddling; 
he  is  a  strict  disciplinarian,  and  yet  his 
discipline  is  tempered  with  a  sense  of 
justice  which  assures  everyone  under 
him  a  square  deal.  In  prison  he  has 
been  dubbed  "Square  Deal  Smith."  The 
rules  made  by  Warden  Smith  are  of  a 
modern  type,  and  have  been  proved  suc- 
cessful. 

A  recidivist  prison  is  usually  thought 
of  as  a  place  where  only  hardened  and 
worthless,  as  well  as  dangerous,  crim- 
inals are  sent.  Yet,  strange  though  it 
may  seem,  the  recidivist  is  the  man  who 
keeps,  on  an  average,  a  cleaner  record 
for  his  incarceration  than  does  the  first- 
termer.  There  can  be  found  men  who 
have  completed  twenty  years  of  servi- 
tude without  a  blemish  on  their  records. 
One  such  as  these  latter  was  paroled 
some  time  ago.  After  six  months  he  was 
returned  as  a  parole  violator  at  his  own 
request.  His  first  words  upon  being 
dressed  in  were,  "Thank  God,  I  am 
back  again.  The  'outside'  is  no  place  for 
an  old  man." 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


145 


A  New  Slant  on  Early  America 


THE  night  was  typical  of  a  New 
England  winter.  Out  of  the 
whirl  and  sting  of  fine  snow  par- 
ticles and  the  howling  blast  sweeping 
down  from  the  Canadian  border,  the 
gaunt  figure  of  Eliphalet  Frazer  loomed 
in  the  glow  streaming  through  the 
frost-etched  window  panes.  On  to  the 
tiny  porch  he  stamped,  beating  the  snow 
needles  off  his  shrouding  cape  with  huge 
bemittened  hands. 

The  heavy  oaken  door  blotted  out 
the  night  with  a  bang.  Without  stop- 
ping to  remove  his  cloak,  Eliphalet 
strode  to  the  big  walnut  desk.  His  flap- 
ping hat  brim  dripped  melting  snow; 
but  that  didn't  matter.  Not  only  was 
the  man  absent-minded  at  times,  but 
just  now  he  was  deeply  engrossed  with 
••he  matter  of  that  shipment  of  molasses 
from  Jamaica.  The  brig  Nancy  had  just 
arrived. 

His  quill  scratched  industriously  to 
the  bottom  of  the  closely  written  sheet, 
then  stopped.  The  ink  was  carefully 
powdered,  the  sheet  folded,  sealed  and 
addressed.  Eliphalet  moved  the  flicker- 
ing candle  aside  and  reached  for  his 
well  thumbed  business  bible,  the  title 
page  which  bore  the  legend  "Maffa- 
chufetts  Regifter  and  United  States 
Calendar  for  the  Year  of  Our  Lord 
1812." 

Now  Eliphalet  wasn't  stingy,  but 
profit  was  profit  and  why  should  he 
use  two  sheets  when  he  could  say  all 
that  was  necessary  on  one?  Especially 
when  two  pages  required  double  post- 
age, and  New  York  so  far  away.  Turn- 
ing to  the  page  headed  "Rates  for  Let- 
ter Postage,"  he  read: 

"Every  letter  composed  of  a  fingle 
fheet  of  paper,  conveyed  not  above  40 
miles,  8  cents ;  between  40  and  90  miles, 
10  cents;  between  90  and  150  miles, 
\2l/t  cents;  from  150  to  300  miles,  17 
cents;  300  to  500  miles,  20  cents;  over 
500  miles,  25  cents. 

"Every  letter  compofed  of  two  pieces 
of  paper,  double  thofe  rates;  three 

piece  of  paper,  triple  thofe  rates;  four 

j» 
pieces 

He  nodded  sagaciously,  and  for  the 
moment  reflected  on  the  cardinal  virtue 
of  brevity — especially  in  matters  of 
business. 

Much  water  has  flowed  under  New 
England  bridges  since  the  stirring  days 
of  1812.  Even  the  postal  rates  have 


By  Tom  White 

undergone  something  of  a  change  in  the 
intervening  hundred  and  fifteen  years. 
But  a  glance  at  some  of  the  old  Massa- 
chusetts registers,  to  be  found  in  the 
San  Francisco  Public  Library,  will  span 
eleven,  twelve  or  thirteen  decades  and 
place  the  reader  in  the  late  eighteenth 
or  early  nineteenth  centuries  of  Amer- 
ican history  far  more  effectively  than 
any  one  of  scores  of  histories  on  the 
subject.  For  these  little  old  books  exude 
lots  of  the  atmosphere  of  their  day.  Mes- 
sengers of  a  long-dead  age,  an  age  preg- 
nant with  danger  at  every  turn  for  this 
voung  and  hopeful  republic,  these  little 
brown  volumes  tell  wonderful  tales  in 
their  clear,  open-face  type,  with  here 
and  there  an  "f"  for  an  '"s." 

Just  how  did  these  sturdy  little  card- 
board-bound volumes  reach  the  shores 
of  the  Pacific.  Were  they  carefully  de- 
posited along  with  the  family  bible  in 
the  bottom  of  a  stout  open  box,  to 
lurch  their  way  across  the  prairies  in 
a  cracking,  lumbering,  canvas-covered 
wagon?  Or  were  they  stowed  in  an 
iron-bound  sea  chest  in  the  'tween  decks 
of  a  clipper  ship,  to  roll  their  way  down 
the  Atlantic,  around  the  Horn  and  up 
the  western  shores? 

Of  a  verity,  books — old  books — have 
two  stories  to  tell.  One  you  may  read, 
but  the  other  isn't  as  easy.  The  printed 
page  tells  one  story;  but  the  story  of 
the  books  themselves — the  real  story, 
oftentimes — is  simply  not  to  be  had. 

The  old  registers,  however,  are  in  a 
class  by  themselves.  They  have  three 
stories  to  tell.  The  Eliphalet  Frazers, 
the  Ebenezer  Kirks,  the  Josiah  Porters, 
of  the  New  England  of  long  ago  have 
made  free  use  of  the  little  volumes  to 
set  down  all  sorts  of  data.  Some  of  it 
is  worth  while,  some  inconsequential, 
but  every  one  of  the  finely  penned  lines 
on  fly  leaves,  blank  pages,  even  along 
the  narrow  margins,  whether  momen- 
tous or  not,  carries  a  story,  each  in 
itself. 

These  entries  range  in  importance 
from  the  sale  of  cordwood  and  the  re- 
sult of  the  sampling  of  rare  vintages 
of  Madeira  wines,  up  to  the  announce- 
ment of  the  declaration  of  war  against 
Great  Britain,  opposing  her  seizure  of 
American  seamen  and  ships  on  the  high 
seas. 


Some  indication  of  the  importance  at- 
tached to  the  events  leading  up  to  the 
war  of  1812  is  gained  from  the  copious 
entries  relating  to  the  arrivals  and  de- 
partures (and  captures)  of  American 
shipping.  Whole  pages  are  given  over 
to  incoming  and  outgoing  East  India- 
men,  as  trade  at  that  time  with  the  East 
Indies,  China  and  the  ports  of  India 
formed  the  very  backbone  of  commerce. 

In  those  perilous  days  a  shipowner 
was  never  sure  of  his  vessel  until  she 
dropped  anchor,  every  American  craft 
being  considered  fair  prey  for  a  British 
frigate  or  sloop-of-war.  Here  is  one 
example : 

"Sept.  1809— Ship  Rebecca,  Capt. 
McNeil,  of  Baltimore.  Proceeding  from 
Batavia  to  Japan,  captured  by  the 
British." 

And  here  is  another  entry,  done  in 
the  same  fine  hand.  This  ship,  how- 
ever, was  a  trifle  more  fortunate: 

"1st  February,  1809.  Ship  Ann, 
Capt.  Russell.  From  Madras,  107  days 
(return  passage).  Sailed  1807.  Went 
to  Mocha ;  detained  6  months  by  Arabs ; 
then  captured  by  English  and  carr'd  to 
Madras  and  released." 

Such  details  as  embargo  failed  to 
deter  the  hardy  Yankee  skipper  if  he 
really  wanted  to  make  sail.  Under  date 
of  January  11,  1809,  this  entry  is 
found : 

"7  ships,  2  brigs,  sailed  for  New 
York  in  violation  of  embargo." 

Even  when  the  daring  New  England 
navigators  succeeded  in  making  an  un- 
interrupted voyage  to  the  far  eastern 
tea  ports  and  return,  their  ventures 
were  not  always  sources  of  immediate 
profit,  as  witness  the  following: 

"March  2,  1809.  Sale  of  Capt.  Har- 
rison's cargo.  Only  300  chests  sold  out 
of  1200  advertised." 

The  printed  page  of  one  of  these 
books  carries  a  merry  little  jingle  whose 
authorship  seems  to  be  claimed  by  a 
Mr.  Aldrick,  entitled  "Five  Rasfons 
for  Drinking" : 

"Good  Wine;  a  Friend;  or  being  Dry; 
Of,  left  we  fhould  be  by  and  by; 
Or,  left  we  fhould  be  by  and  by; 
Or,  any  other  Reafon  why." 


146 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


May,  1927 


Poetry  Page 


LUCID  INTERVAL 

THINK  not  that  I  have  sought  to  overcome 
Desires  which  sing  within  my  eager  blood 
Nor  that  I  breed  rebuke  when  swirling  flood 
Of  pulses  make  of  flesh  elysium; 
Nor  then  expect  that  I  shall  subjugate 
The  native  and  essential  appetite 
Which,  satisfied  by  body's  fused  delight, 
Is  vital  part  of  nature's  large  estate. 
Think  not,  again,  that  I  shall  ever  bring 
About  the  death  of  lust  through  stupid  will 
Nor  that  I  shall  the  field  of  spirit  till 
Except  when  flesh  is  but  forgotten  thing. 
Thus  do  I  now  man's  hidden  truth  reveal: 
Mock  spirit  does  the  vicious  lust  conceal. 

CHALLISS  SILVAY. 


A  DAY  OF  LIFE 

WHEN  we  review  the  day 
At  Moon-dawning 
May  its  duties, 
Done,  appear  as  adorning 
Dear  blooms  down  a  stalk  of  hollyhock, 
Or  as  beauties 

Found  in  the  steps  of  the  Sun  if  its  path 
Be  retraced  to  morning. 

ANNA  KALFUS  SPERO. 


GENIUS 

HE  HAD  a  body  so  frail  and  thin 
That  it  barely  could  hold  the  great  soul  in, 
And  we  feared  some  day  as  he  walked  about 
That  his  body  would  crack  and  the  soul  fall  out. 
But  the  eyes  God  had  given  him,  glory  be! 
They  could  see  the  things  that  we  could  not  see, 
And  his  ears  could  hear  what  few  ears  can ; 
The  Wood  Nymph's  song  and  the  pipes  o'  Pan. 
And  he  wove  the  things  that  he  saw  and  heard 
Into  those  clear,  sweet  songs  that  stirred 
The  rough  souls  under  our  vests  until 
Our  lips  would  smile  or  our  eyes  would  fill. 
But  our  fears  came  true;  one  day  we  found 
His  crumpled  body  upon  the  ground, 
On  a  grassy  slope  where  he  loved  to  go 
Of  a  Summer  day  when  the  sun  was  low. 
But  of  the  soul  there  was  never  a  trace, 
Though  we  sought  for  it  in  every  place ; 
But  we  looked  at  each  other,  I  don't  know  \vh\, 
When  out  of  the  grass  came  a  cricket's  cry 
And  a  soft  little  wind  went  whimpering  by. 

WHITNEY  MONTGOMERY. 


A  CRUEL  CHERRY  PIE  SONG 

OH,  WHO  will  bring  me  elephant's  eyes — 
I  who  am  cruel  and  very  wise? 
What  if  I  seem  to  be  making  pies — 
This  gingham  apron  is  just  a  disguise. 
Notice  the  pattern  has  butterfly  sleeves ; 
Notice  the  print  has  running  fig-leaves 
Of  a  daring  green  and  a  tropical  size! 
I  have  in  mind  a  jet-black  throne 
Where  I  sit  a  queen  and  rule  my  own — 
A  hundred  slaves  in  front  of  me  prone, 
With  ear-rings  of  jade  and  nose-rings  of  bone. 
They  bring  me  gifts  from  the  jungle  ways 
To  stay  my  wrath  on  gloomy  days. 
They  bring  sweet  fruit  with  a  golden  stone, 
Feathers  and  flowers  and  elephants'  eyes 
To  their  queen  who  is  cruel  and  very  wise. 

IRENE  STEWART. 


THOMAS  HOOD  IN  MAY  FAIR 

PRAY  sweet  one  do  not  plea 
My  faithlessness  to  you. 
To  seek  me  fresh  delights 
Of  these  impassioned  nights 
Is  wine  to  me. 
In  sleep's  forgetfulness 
Couch  thee,  past  mistresses. 
No  qualms  do  me  assail, 
Nor  do  thy  tears  avail 
To  make  joy  less. 

....    My  prayer?  The  same  as  yore. 
"Oh  lady  ope  your  door." 
And  so  the  maid  be  fair, 
I  do  not  care 

Though  she  be  one  on  whom 
I  have  not  called  before. 

LOUISE  LORD  COI.EMAN. 


ABDICATION 

LONG  years  ago, 
Believing  all  the  world  was  mine, 
I  foolishly  resigned  my  right  to  reign 
Within  a  heart's  domain. 
I  knew  not  then 
That  all  Earth's  other  realms 
Were  ruled  by  other  men. 
I  cast  away 

The  only  kingdom  I  possessed ; 
In  youth — upon  an  idle  day. 

REBEKAH  LEFEVRE  COSTANZO. 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


147 


Art  in  San 
Francisco 


BY 


MALCOM  PANTON,  JR. 


AN   FRANCISCO  is  the  Newsilly  to  talk  of  technique  as  a  thing-in- 


Athens  of  the  Western  World  !" 
— "San  Francisco  is  artistic- 
ally sterile;  it  can  only  imitate  the 
East !"  This  spit  against  four  winds  by 
would-be  criterions  of  art.  They  vali- 
antly ride  hobby-horses  to  do  battle  with 
windmills.  Shades  of  the  infamous 
Don!  The  charge  of  the  Ink  Brigade! 
"Have  at  'em  men,  with  a  fountain 
pen!" 

And  when  the  dust  dies  down,  at  the 
battle  end,  things  will  be  just  where 
they  always  were.  Perhaps  then  the 
brave  soldiers  on  both  sides  will  see  the 
matter  as  it  really  stands,  i.  e.,  San 
Francisco  has  just  about  the  average 
number  and  quality  of  artists  as 
might  be  expected  for  the  size  of  the 
population. 

Not  only  are  the  numbers  of  artists 
practicing  in  San  Francisco  in  about  the 
average  proportion  to  the  population, 
but  the  quality  of  their  work  is  also  in 
average  proportion.  Certainly  there  are 
poor  works  of  art,  mediocre  and  good 
in  San  Francisco,  and  here,  also,  is  en- 
trenched the  eternal  battle  of  the  art 
world,  raging  with  even  more  fury  than 
in  other  cities:  Modernism  versus 
Academism.  Modernism  with  rebel 
youth  waving  the  banners  of  Cezanne, 
Picasso  and  the  hosts  of  Post-Impres- 
sionists ;  Academicians  intrenching  their 
bald  pates  behind  the  walls  of  accepted 
"good  taste,"  and  sound  "technique." 

Battle  upon  battle,  until  the  whole 
mess  ceases  to  be  funny  and  becomes  a 
bit  tiresome.  If  a  painter  wants  to  paint 
planes  of  color,  since  he  sees  things  in 
planes;  if  he  can  achieve  an  effect  by 
disregarding  the  laws  of  perspective 
that  he  could  not  achieve  by  adhering 
to  them;  or  if  he  wants  to  paint  a  fat 
woman  instead  of  one  of  America's 
Glorified  Girls,  and  so  paints  her  fat; 
or  if  he  wants  to  do  anything  else  under 
the  sun  he  pleases — let  him.  What 
difference  does  it  make  what  he  does, 
as  long  as  he  succeeds  in  getting  across 
the  emotion,  the  feeling  he  experienced 
at  the  time  of  creation  ?  It  is  somewhat 


itself :  technique  is  any  means  an  artist 
takes  to  reach  an  end,  and  if  the  end  is 
perfectly  achieved,  it  follows  perforce 
that  technique  is  perfect.  As  Brancusi 
has  said,  "It  is  the  accomplished  thing 
that  counts." 

Obviously,  there  is  but  one  sane  thing 
to  do:  take  the  individual  artist  by 
himself,  find  out  what  he  has  tried  to 
express,  and  how  well  he  has  expressed  it. 
For,  after  all,  when  we  separate  crafts- 
manship from  artistry,  what  do  we  find 
but  the  expression  of  an  individual's 
reaction  to  life?  And  here  in  San  Fran- 
cisco we  can  take  the  artist  of  the  West. 

One  of  the  most  outstanding  examples 
of  an  artist  ignoring  the  accepted 
academical  "technique"  and  developing 
a  method  of  his  own  to  reach  a  more 
complete  artistic  realization,  is  the  work 
of  Valere  de  Mari,  recently  exhibited 
at  the  California  School  of  Fine  Arts. 
That  de  Mari  has  found  his  method  of 
expression,  after  passing  through  diverse 
stages  of  development,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  when  one  stands  before  the  ac- 
complished work.  And  it  is  wholly 
complimentary  to  the  School  that  it  has 
not  only  realized  the  merit  of  de  Mari 
but  that  it  has  had  the  courage  to  pre- 
sent his  pictures  to  the  public.  And  it 
must  be  admitted  that  it  is  no  small 
act  of  courage  for  a  school  to  ignore  the 
verdict  of  so  eminent  a  dictator  as  the 
esteemed  president  of  the  Bohemian 
Club. 

The  present  exhibition  was  largely  of 
water  colors,  with  a  few  line  drawing-; 
and  pastels  sandwiched  between  and 
towered  over  by  two  enormous  canvases, 
neither  of  which  came  up  to  the  quality 
manifested  in  the  smaller  pieces.  The 
show  as  an  entirety  portrayed  very  well 
the  diverse  influences  of  post-impres- 
sionism that  de  Mari  has  obviously  come 
in  contact  with,  and  yet,  while  he  has 
played  with  Futurism,  Cubism  and  the 
like,  he  has  not  lost  that  precious  some- 
thing, call  it  personality  or  originality 
or  anything  you  please,  which  instantly 
proclaims  the  magnitude  of  an  artist.  In 


other  words,  de  Mari  has  come  through 
the  fire  of  the  "isms,"  not  a  copyist  of 
the  methods  of  their  artists  as  so  many 
have  done,  but  a  greater  de  Mari.  His 
dip  into  Futurism  was  the  most  disaster- 
ous  part  of  the  show.  The  cubistic  pic- 
tures were  somewhat  more  successful; 
one,  representing  two  figures,  was  es- 
pecially satisfying. 

However,  the  strength  of  de  Mari  is 
not  in  abstraction,  but  in  the  lyrical 
poetry  of  line  and  color  applied  to  con- 
crete subject.  Like  Matisse,  when  he 
attempts  the  purely  abstract  he  loses  the 
very  poetry  he  was  trying  to  find.  In 
"The  Dance"  he  uses  his  line  to  portray 
the  voluptuous  swaying  of  a  Harem 
beauty,  delicately  and  without  the  least 
suggestion  of  coarseness.  The  delicate 
colors  scintillate  and  move  with  the  line. 
Again  in  the  "Start  for  the  Hunt"  we 
have  negro  hunters  holding  back  great 
hounds  straining  to  be  loosened,  while 
in  the  background  a  mahout  is  about  to 
set  off  on  an  elephant. 

In  his  portraits,  de  Mari  again  ex- 
presses this  same  lyric  quality.  There 
is  none  of  the  heavy  "finished"  plaster- 
ing of  paint  over  canvas,  with  every  de- 
tail painfully  added ;  there  is  no  sem- 
blance of  photographic  representation 
with  its  accompanying  ghastly  deadness. 
De  Mari,  again  like  Matisse,  eliminates 
everything  but  the  absolutely  essential, 
and  with  a  few  lines  and  patches  of 
deftly  placed  color,  brings  out  the  per- 
sonality he  is  portraying.  And  this,  to 
capture  the  essence  of  a  personality,  is 
after  all  the  final  test  of  portraiture. 
His  simplicity  is  the  greater  simplicity 
which  only  comes  to  be  paradoxical  out 
of  complexity  and  sound  knowledge  of 
both  painting  and  people.  It  is,  in 
truth,  the  simplicity  of  the  masters. 

So  De  Mari.  He  comes  perilously  close 
to  being  a  great  painter.  But  as  yet  he 
has  not  reached  that  stage  where,  even 
with  the  greatest  amount  of  enthusiasm, 
one  might  class  him  with  the  Modern 
Masters.  He  is  still  too  much  concerned 
with  painting  as  a  craft  and  too  little 
with  painting  as  the  expression  of  life. 


148 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


May,  1927 


ooks 


CONDUCTED  BY 


'Writers 


TOM  WHITE 


A  VICTORIAN  AMERICAN: 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONG- 
FELLOW 

A  QUESTION  will  present  itself  to 
one  interested  in  the  beginnings  of 
American  literature,  when  first  con- 
fronted with  this  book,  and  the  question 
will  probably  be,  "Why  write  a  life  of 
Longfellow?"  As  the  reviewer  sees  it, 
the  aim  of  this  work  is  to  make  it  less 
of  a  biography,  strictly  speaking,  than  a 
discussion.  In  other  words,  the  author 
might  virtually  say,  "This  is  the  way  I 
regard  my  subject,"  rather  than,  "This 
is  the  man." 

Mr.  Gorman  has  unquestionably  made 
a  very  sincere  and  very  earnest  effort  to 
place  the  bard  of  Craigie  House  in  the 
right  sort  of  perspective,  and  it  would 
seem  that  he  has  been  eminently  success- 
ful. He  has  been  most  painstaking  and 
impartial  in  the  selection  of  sources  and 
makes  an  able  presentation  of  the  result ; 
and  for  this  he  cannot  be  given  too  much 
credit.  From  page  to  page,  chapter  to 
chapter,  the  reader  gathers,  first,  the 
early  influences  at  work  in  the  mind  of 
the  boy;  then  comes  his  trip  to  Europe, 
which  proved  such  a  tremendously  po- 
tent factor  in  the  development  of  the 
poet.  His  professorship  at  Bowdoin,  his 
marriage,  appointment  as  Smith  Profes- 
sor at  Harvard,  all  of  which  were  inter- 
mingled with  some  of  his  best  literary 
efforts,  are  drawn  with  just  enough  de- 
tail to  make  clear  that  curious  combina- 
tion of  forces  which  produced  the  figure 
of  the  man  whom  we  have  so  long 
known  through  his  verse. 

And  this  is  not  exactly  an  easy  thing 
to  do,  this  business  of  piercing  through 
the  sharp  criticism  of  his  able  contem- 
porary, Poe,  and  Margaret  Fuller,  an- 
other and  equally  keen  critic. 

Not  only  is  the  book  highly  valuable 
from  the  standpoint  of  its  subject  mat- 
ter, but  it  will  be  found  to  contain  many 
fascinating  side-lights  on  other  persons 
and  affairs  of  the  American  Victorian 
period  as  related  to  the  field  of  letters. 


DODD,  MEAD  &  CO.,  publishers  of 
the  works  of  William  J.  Locke, 
announce  a  new  book  of  long  short 
stories  entitled  STORIES  NEAR  AND  FAR. 
Locke's  previous  volume  of  short  stories 
was  entitled  FARAWAY  STORIES,  and  the 
present  volume  includes  several  of  his 
long  short  stories  written  during  the 
interim. 


LOTUS  OF  THE  DUSK.  Bv  Dorothy 
Graham.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co., 
New  York.  $2.00.  Reviewed  by 
Edna  R.  Haas. 

A  FREE  SOUL.  By  Adela  Ropers 
St.  Johns.  Cosmopolitan  Book  Cor- 
poration, New  York.  $2.00.  Re- 
viewed by  Edna  R.  Haas. 

GOODBYE,  STRANGER.  By  Stella 
Benson.  Macmillan,  1926.  $2.25. 
Reviewed  by  Raymond  Fisher. 

MAN.  By  Horatio  V.  Card.  Published 
bv  Golden  Rule  Magazine,  Chicago. 
$3.50. 

CONGAI.  By  Harry  Hervey.  Cosmo- 
politan Book  Corporation.  $2.00. 

A  GRIFFIN  IN  CHINA.  By  Gene- 
vieve  Wimsatt.  Funk  &  Wagnalls 
Co.  $3.00. 

MORE  PORTS,  MORE  HAPPY 
PLACES.  By  Cornelia  Stratton 
Parker.  Boni  &  Liveright.  $3.50. 

A  VICTORIAN  AMERICAN:  HENRY 
WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 
By  Herbert  S.  Gorman.  George  H. 
Doran  Co.  $5.00. 

ACROSS  ARCTIC  AMERICA.  By 
Knud  Rasmussen.  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons.  $5.00. 

COFFEE  AND  CONSPIRACY.  By 
Thomas  Grant  Springer.  Harold 
Vinal,  562  Fifth  Ave.,  New  York. 

EZRA  POUND'S  PERSONAE.  Pub- 
lished by  Boni  &  Liveright  Co.,  New 
York  City. 

ENOUGH  ROPE.  By  Dorothy  Parker. 
Boni  &  Liveright,  New  York  City. 

MESQUITE  SMOKE.  By  D.  Maitland 
Bushby.  Dorrance  &  Co.,  Phila- 
delphia. 

PORTS  OF  CALL.  By  Lena  Whit- 
aker  Blakeney.  Harold  Vinal.  $1.50. 


MR.  SPRINGER  AND  THE 
EQUATOR 

IT  IS  a  matter  of  regret  that  Tom 
Springer  is  no  longer  a  light  in  San 
Francisco's  literary  group.  However 
well  represented  he  remains,  there  is 
always  taut  hunger  in  the  memory — 
another  gone.  Someone  should  do  an 
essay  on  the  peculiar  mood  that  gives 
San  Francisco  writers  the  wanderlust. 
In  a  brief  ten  years,  no  less  than  eigh- 
teen splendid  writers  have  upstaked 
their  caravan  and  departed.  Among 
them  the  man  who  has  given  us  another 
mealy  novel,  Thomas  Grant  Springer. 
His  COFFEE  AND  CONSPIRACY  might 
hold  a  wealth  of  personal  experience. 
Excellent  spinner  of  tales,  there  is  always 
sprinkled  through  the  book  a  wide-eyed 
and  joyous  impression  that  one  is  sharing 
a  very  personal  and  hazardous  adven- 
ture. He  selects  almost  always  the  moon- 
starved  frontiers  of  our  earth  for  his 
material.  That  alone  will  serve  to  gar- 
nish his  tales.  In  many  books,  alas,  it 
does  serve  alone.  Not  so  with  COFFEE 
AND  CONSPIRACY.  Here  is,  first  of  all, 
color  and  motive  and  intelligent  direc- 
tion. (You  see,  I've  avoided  using  that 
most  ragged  of  all  ragged  words,  plot.) 
Here  are  the  curious  symbols  and  in- 
trigues and  conspiracies  of  Latin  America. 
Mr.  Springer  doesn't  believe  in  consult- 
ing a  map  and  a  geography  when  pre- 
pared to  do  a  story  on  another  man's 
country.  Consequently,  a  goodly  portion 
of  the  heart  gets  into  the  story  and  that  is 
what  gave  London,  O.  Henry,  Conrad 
and  Kipling  the  leather-bound  shelf  of 
Universal  Attention.  And  that  is  what 
will  give  San  Francisco's  vagabond, 
Thomas  Grant  Springer,  the  company 
of  these  charming  men  if  he  writes  a 
few  more  novels  as  rich  and  refreshing 
as  COFFEE  AND  CONSPIRACY. 


ENOUGH  ROPE 

DOROTHY  PARKER  does  not  con- 
cern herself  with  Pollyanna  bubbles 
of    philosophy.     She    is    ripe    with    wit 
and    most    remarkable     in    her    satire. 
ENOUGH    ROPE,   her   latest   volume   of 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


149 


verve  and  speed  and  gentle  punish- 
ment, convinces  me  she  is  the  finest 
present-day  writer  of  light  verse. 

That  poignant  bitterness,  of  disap- 
pointment, that  terrible  hunger  of  frus- 
tration, that  delicious  agony  of  mockery 

all  of  this  is  meat  to  Miss  Parker. 

She  tumbles  about  the  pages  with  what 
I  am  urged  to  say  are  wise-cracks  and 
snappy  language.  There  is  laughter  in 
these  poems,  but  it  is  a  laughter  lightly 
tinted  with  wisdom  and  experience. 
These  poems,  for  the  initiated,  are  not 
gay  packages  of  sparkling  and  baby-pink 
philosophy.  They  are  warm  examples 
of  that  tremendously  interesting  per- 
sonality which  goes  through  the  gall  and 
stone  and  emerges  with  a  wise  laugh 
and  a  they'11-not-get-me-that-way-again 
look  in  the  eye. 

I  advise  desponding  mortals  to  read 
a  few  of  these  poems.  I  urge  their  read- 
ing, for  the  peculiar  knowledge  of  life's 
exquisite  foibles  and  beauty's  amazing 
frauds  is  closely  keeping  step  with  Miss 
Parker. 


ney  will  continue  spelling  beauty  in 
charming  poetry  for  those  of  us  less 
fortunate  in  our  opportunities  to  roam 
the  world. 


MESQUITE  SMOKE 

MR.  BUSHBY,  of  Flagstaff,  Ari- 
zona, informs  the  reader  of  this 
little  book  that  he  "has  tried  to  repro- 
duce something  of  the  spirit  of  the 
Southwest."  They  call  Mr.  Bushby  in 
the  Southwest  their  "Desert  Poet."  All 
the  arid  and  sun-bleached  empire  of 
the  desert  lives  in  his  poetry.  It  is 
barren  of  beauty  and  amusingly  senti- 
mental. I  should  advise  Mr.  Bushby 
to  Study  expression. 


PORTS  OF  CALL 

TO  those  who  have  admired  Lena 
Whittaker  Blakeney's  poems  in  vari- 
ous periodicals,  news  of  their  publica- 
tion in  one  volume  will  be  truly  wel- 
comed. The  half  a  hundred  or  more 
verses  contained  in  this  collection  are 
as  varied  as  the  title  would  indicate 
— PORTS  OF  CALL  —  taking  for  their 
subjects  experiences  and  word  pictures 
from  all  parts  of  the  world.  One  is 
transported  from  a  sunset  in  Arizona  to 
a  "Morning  on  the  Mediterranean," 
from  the  "Blue  Ridge"  to  a  "Night  in 
London,"  showing  always  a  skill  and 
delicacy  in  depicting  scenes  of  varying 
description.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
choose  one  of  the  collection  for  particu- 
lar mention  because  each  poem  has  its 
own  special  charm  and  depends  upon 
the  reader's  mood  to  proclaim  its  par- 
ticular appeal. 

So  long  as  beauty  calls  me 
How  can  I  ever  rest? 

The  first  two  lines  in  the  book  give 
one  encouragement  to  hope  Miss  Blake- 


GOODBYE,  STRANGER 

WHETHER  they  call  us  fools  or 
merely  barbarians,  we  are  always 
glad  to  buy  and  to  read  what  the  Eng- 
lish authors  say  about  us.  They  may 
even  call  us  kind,  with  the  mental  res- 
ervation that  kind  means  nauseating,  as 
does  Stella  Benson  in  her  book,  GOOD- 
BYE, STRANGER;  and  we  shall  still  read. 
Particularly  when  the  writing  is  well 
streaked  with  brilliancy.  When  a  trop- 
ical setting  has  been  created  vibrating 
with  weird  life  and  beauty  and  music. 
When  there  has  been  sprinkled  here  and 
there  enough  of  the  obscene  to  prove 
modernity. 

GOODBYE,  STRANGER,  is  the  story  of 
the  American  wife  of  an  English  mis- 
sionary to  China  who  reclaims,  in  the 
place  of  a  fairy  lover,  a  husband  who  is 
a  manly,  practical,  good-hearted  fool. 

It  will  appeal  to  some  as  excessively 
smart ;  to  others  it  will  seem  grotesque 
and  rather  foolish.  A  brawny  young 
Englishman  who  consumes  pies  in  half- 
a-dozen  lots  is  the  fairy.  He  falls  short 
of  wings  in  the  end,  however,  thanks  to 
his  wife,  Daley,  who  lures  him  back  to 
the  wholesome  commonplace  by  continu- 
ous winding  of  the  American  grama- 
phone. 

Daley  deserves  something  better  than 
the  intensest  scorn  she  is  accredited  by 
the  author.  It  would  be  a  severe  test  for 
any  daughter-in-law  to  live  in  cheerful- 
ness with  Mother  Cotton,  a  sort  of  eld 
ogre,  with  a  lot  of  dyspeptic  wisdom.  It 
is  this  mother-in-law  who  voices  the 
spirit  of  the  book  when  she  says : 

"America's  treacled  the  world  over 
with  ki-hindness,  Daley's  kind.  Democ- 
racy's always  dreadfully  kind.  Ki-hind- 
ness is  a  symptom  of  vulgarity.  Can't 
you  feel  the  breath  of  death  in  your 
Fresh  Air  Funds,  in  your  classes  in 
Egyptomology  for  the  children  of  the 
half-witted?  Would  you  rather  have  all 
that  American  ki-hindness  than  the 
glory  of  the  unequal  world — than  wit — 
than  loneliness — than  strangeness — than 
the  music  of  the  fairies?  .  .  .  The 
world  now  stinks  like  a  rotten  fruit 
—  stinks  with  American  ki-hindness. 
Blighted — blighted — blighted  with  imi- 
tations —  with  substitute  intelligence, 
substitute  ethics,  substitute  art.  The 
true-born  bodies  of  the  young  are  nour- 
ished on  substitute  foods.  Their  habits 
and  desires  are  taught  them  by  Amer- 
ican magazine  advertisements." 

Again  she  says,  "Holy  ground  be- 
comes camping  ground  in  America.  If 


Stella  Benson 

people  pa-hark  Fords  on  holy  ground 
and  prattle  about  God's  Great  Out  of 
Doors — naturally  God  leaves  the  place 
at  once." 

There  are  a  lot  of  things  left  to  won- 
der about  in  this  story.  From  whence 
comes  Mother  Cotton's  fierce  discern- 
ment? How  can  one  accept  the  delicate 
satire  and  pure  philosophy  of  Lena  as 
products  of  a  Richmond  movie  palace? 
Are  there  really  such  people  left  on 
earth  as  the  missionary  Lornes?  At  any 
rate  the  book,  GOODBYE,  STRANGER, 
does  cause  one  to  wonder  about  a  lot  of 
things. 


EZRA  POUND'S  PERSONAE 

POSSIBLY  few  in  this  country  will 
find  the  collected  poems  of  Pound, 
intellectual  and  broad  as  they  are,  of 
unusual  interest.  His  poetry  assumes  the 
terrible  burden  of  rich  egotism  and  dom- 
inant self-pride.  I  very  much  doubt 
the  ancient  Greek,  French  and  Italian 
forms  of  expression.  It  is  a  curious 
thing,  because  of  this,  that  his  poetry — - 
the  selections  admitted  to  his  PER- 
SONAE —  should  smack  so  pungently  of 
the  modern  school.  With  few  excep- 
tions he  contradicts  with  his  poetry  the 
arguments  of  his  prose.  But  then,  it  is 
that  Ezra  Pound,  if  this  be  the  cream 
of  his  labor,  is  a  poet.  The  statement 
is  not  given  in  confused  prejudice. 

Mr.  Pound  has  for  a  good  many  sea- 
sons taken  savage  delight  in  stippling 
the  modernistic  poetry  school  with  ex- 
tremely effective  shots  of  nitric  acid. 
He  has  afforded  this  writer  much  plea- 
sure and  no  little  envy  in  the  classical 
and  epigrammatic  trivia  hurled  at  poets 
who  found  the  twisted  distortion  of 

(Continued  on  Page  157) 


150 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


May,  1927 


The  Owl  and  the  Goose 


A  PERSIAN  seer  of  old  declared 
that  "in  every  human  is  an  owl, 
a  goose,  a  parrot,  a  lion  and  a 
hyena.    The  ascendency  of  either  one  or 
more  of  these  creatures  explains  the  dif- 
ference in  human  character." 

From  ancient  times  the  owl  has  stood 
as  an  undisputed  symbol  of  wisdom. 
What  the  other  birds  and  animals  of 
the  Persian  formula  indicate  may  be 
left  to  individual  interpretation.  Still; 
they  offer  suggestions  in  way  of  plausi- 
ble explanations.  But  to  my  mind  the 
Persian  should  not  have  forgotten  the 
hog.  His  failure  to  mention  the  dodo 
may  be  excusable,  since  in  his  day  the 
existence  of  this  brainless  creature  was 
not  known  to  Asiatics  or  Europeans. 
However,  he  may  have  made  apt  allusion 
to  the  camel — beast  of  burden  and  one 
of  the  most  stupid  of  four-footed  crea- 
tures. 

But  in  spite  of  the  owl's  repute  for 
wisdom  there  is  little  evidence  to  justify 


By  Bailey  Kay  Leach 

it.  Truth  is,  the  owl  as  a  symbol  of 
wisdom  is  a  burlesque  on  brains.  For 
while  the  owl  has  for  ages  been  regarded 
as  the  wisest  of  birds,  it  is  in  fact  one  of 
the  least  intelligent  of  feathered  crea- 
tures. But  who  has  not  heard  of  the 
goose  as  the  most  stupid  of  living  things? 
That  opinion  is  probably  as  old  or  older 
than  the  dictum  that  the  owl's  is  the 
acme  of  terrestrial  wisdom.  There  is  as 
much  truth  in  one  of  these  claims  as  in 
the  other.  In  each  instance  the  reverse 
is  the  truth,  so  far  as  fowls  are  con- 
cerned. 

The  owl  because  of  its  large,  luminous 
eyes  and  its  stately  bearing,  gives  the  im- 
pression that  it  sees  and  knows  every- 
thing worthwhile.  Furthermore,  the  owl 
is  a  bird  of  mystery — a  creature  of  the 
night,  winging  its  flight  into  the  great 
nocturnal  realm  of  darkness  and  silence. 

But  the  goose — ambling,  awkward, 
slow-moving — honking  its  raucus  chal- 


lenge at  every  object  and  craning  its 
snakelike  neck  at  every  shadow,  and  its 
small  beady  eyes  peering  suspiciously  now 
this  way,  now  that — is  looked  upon  as 
the  symbol  of  stupidity.  This  symbolism 
has  been  acclaimed  world  wide  by  poets, 
essayists  and  historians  for  untold  ages. 
Yet  the  goose — wild  or  domestic — is  one 
of  the  shrewdest  and  most  intelligent  of 
birds.  The  wisdom  of  the  goose  puts  the 
vaunted  wisdom  of  the  owl  to  shame.  In 
many  instances  it  ought  to  bring  a  blush 
to  the  cheeks  of  humans. 

The  goose  of  the  wild*— whose  grega- 
riousness  induces  him  to  close  affiliation 
with  his  fellows — joins  a  flock  of  his  own 
kind,  follows  or  becomes  a  leader  and  in 
any  event  takes  every  precaution  to  pro- 
tect himself  and  those  of  his  flock.  Every 
flock  of  wild  geese  has  its  sentinels,  who 
stand  guard  against  the  approach  of  en- 
emies. The  goose  is  a  bird  of  the  open 
day —  a  creature  of  human  utility.  But 
the  owl — he  is  only  a  prowling,  stupid 
maurauder  of  the  night. 


xffli: 


How  Do  You  Spell  It? 


THERE    are    two    ways    to    spell 
LUCK.  The  other  is:  P-LUCK: 
According  to  the  subject  of  this 
sketch,   a  man   should  be   "bigger  than 
anything  that  happened  to  him."    In  his 
lexicon,  LUCK  is  something  to  go  after 
with     a    club.      There    you     have     it! 
P-LUCK. 

Meet  Charles  F.  Lummis,  American- 
ist, explorer;  author  of  "The  Awaken- 
ing of  a  Nation,"  "The  Spanish  Pio- 
neers of  America,"  "The  Land  of  Poco 
Tiempo" — to  mention  a  few  of  his  liter- 
ary achievements;  archaeologist,  ethnolo- 
gist, anthropologist,  philanthropist — to 
list  some  sidelines  of  this  "many  lived  and 
myriad-minded"  man.  He  founded  the 
Southwest  Society,  a  branch  of  the 
Archaeological  Institute  of  America;  the 
Southwest  Museum;  the  Landmarks 
Club,  which  has  preserved  four  of  the 
old  missions,  and  other  landmarks,  to 
California;  the  Sequoya  League,  which 
functions  in  behalf  of  the  Indians  of  the 
Southwest.  He  is  winner  of  Harvard 
and  other  degrees  "  in  recognition  of  dis- 
tinguished service  to  science" ;  the  Grand 
Cross  of  Isabella  was  bestowed  on  him 


By  Torrey  O'Conner 

by  Alfonso  XIII  of  Spain  for  his  work 
in  early  American  history. 

Having  met  Dr.  Lummis,  learn  how 
he  lived  up  to  his  theory:  "A  man 
should  be  bigger  than  anything  that  hap- 
pens to  him." 

At  the  age  of  16  he  showed  unmis- 
takable highbrowish  tendencies.  Already 
he  had  crashed  the  gates  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly.  His  book,  "Birch  Bark 
Poems,"  had  the  record  sale — for  poetry 
—of  14,000  copies.  While  in  Harvard 
he  formed  a  merger  with  himself ;  and  as 
Charles,  the  tutor  in  Greek  and  Latin, 
he  figured  as  Charles,  the  financial 
backer  of  Charles,  the  student. 

Fate  twisted  his  life  askew.  T.  B. 
clapped  a  grisly  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
But  every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  was 
fighting  blood.  Here  was  something  to 
BEAT.  Right  about  face ! 

By  sheer,  dogged  persistence,  holding 
himself  rigidly  under  discipline,  he  won 
out.  At  twenty  he  was  "featherweight" 
boxer,  wrestler,  runner,  canoeist  and 
mountain  climber  of  note.  He  took  a 


one-thousand  mile  joy-ride  on  a  bike. 
The  notion  seized  him  to  cross  the  con- 
tinent on  his  own  power — a  hike  of  three 
thousand,  five  hundred-odd  miles,  round- 
about, from  Cincinnati  to  Los  Angeles, 
recounted  in  "A  Tramp  Across  the  Con- 
tinent." 

An  editorial  position  on  the  leading 
paper  was  waiting  for  him  in  Los  An- 
geles. Young  Lummis  and  the  owner, 
fighters,  both,  inaugurated  a  campaign 
to  "turn  the  rascals  out"  of  office  and 
politics.  Editor  Lummis,  from  whose 
belt  hung  many  a  gory  scalp,  counted 
that  day  lost  when  his  life  was  not 
placed  in  jeopardy.  Fighting,  studying, 
writing  for  three  years,  allowing  himself 
but  one  hour  of  the  twenty-four  for 
sleep,  paralysis  halted  him. 

Here,  again,  was  something  to  BEAT. 
He  who  had  joined  the  Tribe  of  the 
Wandering  Foot,  whose  face  was  set  to- 
ward high,  distant  goals,  must  adjust 
himself  to  new  conditions.  Back  to  na- 
ture for  the  healing  of  the  useless  left 
arm,  the  leg — back  to  the  friends  he  had 
made  among  the  Mexicans  and  the  In- 
dians in  his  overland  journey.  Three 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


151 


years  and  seven  months  of  incessant 
struggle;  speechless,  a  part  of  the  time; 
crawling  on  his  stomach  until  he  was 
able  to  drag  himself  upright  with  a 
crutch — a  grim  battle!  Two  further 
shocks,  during  that  period,  left  him  with 
lost  ground  to  regain ;  but  not  knowing 
that  he  was  licked,  he  won.  P-LUCK. 
Bronco-busting  became  a  part  of  his 
"regimen." 

Restored,  whole,  the  man  took  up  his 
life-work  where  he  had  dropped  it.  That 
great  monument — the  Southwest  Mu- 
seum— to  his  public-spirited  policy,  which 
gave  the  best  of  himself,  his  work,  to  his 
adopted  state,  California,  speaks  for  it- 
self. Any  worthy  Lost  Cause  found  in 
him  a  fiery  champion. 

His  explorations  of  the  great  South- 
west, of  Peru,  Bolivia,  Guatemala,  Mex- 
ico, are  known  through  his  books.  Be- 
cause of  a  jungle  fever,  contracted  in 
Guatemala,  he  became  blind.  P-LUCK 
frj  the  fore!  Did  his  activities  cease?  No! 
They  merely  slowed  down.  As  the  effects 
of  the  fever  left  his  system,  his  sight  was 
in  a  measure  restored. 

Today,  seeing  dimly  after  that  long 
period  of  walking  in  darkness,  he  is  get- 
ting into  his  fighting  togs.  As  the  di- 
rector of  the  Los  Angeles  branch  of  the 
Science  League  of  America,  he  is  raising 
his  war-cry  against  Fundamentalism. 
From  his  point  of  view,  the  world  is  nut 
Hat  like  a  pie. 


Villa 


By  Bradley  Tyler  Adams 

(Continued  from  February  Overland) 

THE  news  of  the  advance  of  Mer- 
cado's  men  soon  reached  Villa.  He 
decided  not  to  wait  for  the  enemy 
in  Juarez.  He  would  meet  them  half 
way  and  give  battle  in  the  open  field. 

What  followed  was  something  Villa 
ever  delighted  to  dwell  upon  and  he  con- 
sidered it  his  greatest  victory. 

With  a  force  scarcely  numbering  half 
that  of  their  opponents,  the  savage  Vil- 
listas  fell  upon  the  federals  like  a  whirl- 
wind. The  results  was  a  complete  defeat 
for  the  latter,  with  the  loss  of  many  men 
and  a  considerable  quantity  of  supplies 
and  munitions. 

Villa,  from  a  slight  eminence  in  the 
undulating  plain,  viewed  the  retreat  of 
the  enemy  and  the  hot  pursuit  of  his  vic- 
torious men.  He  was  using  a  pair  of 
captured  field  glasses  for  the  observa- 
tion. Astride  a  magnificent  charger  and 
surrounded  by  some  of  his  lieutenants, 
he  looked  quite  the  part  of  the  com- 
mander-in-chief.  A  hundred  yards  to  his 
left  the  railway  line  wound  its  devious 
way  southward.  After  surveying  the  bat- 


tle scene  for  some  time  with  a  grim 
smile  playing  on  his  savage  face,  the 
chieftain  suddenly  turned  to  his  com- 
panions and  exclaimed : 

"I  can  just  see  in  the  distance  a  trail 
of  smoke  that  steadily  comes  this  way. 
Unless  I  am  badly  mistaken  it  will  be  a 
train  from  Chihuahua  carrying  rein- 
forcements for  the  enemy.  What  think 
you,  boys?" 

The  field  glasses  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  among  his  "staff,"  and  each  one 
took  his  turn  at  looking  through  them. 
They  all  agreed  that  Villa's  conclusion 
was  in  all  probability  correct. 

The  chief  sat  in  deep  thought  for  sev- 
eral minutes,  then  he  inquired  of  his 
comrades : 

"Didn't  we  bring  a  supply  of  dyna- 
mite along  with  us  from  Juarez?" 

Feraz,  his  closest  friend  and  chief 
lieutenant,  answered  with  alacrity: 

"Yes,  chief;  some  of  the  pack  mules 
at  the  rear  carry  a  large  supply  of  it." 

Villa  pondered  again  a  while  and 
then  exclaimed  ruefully: 

"If  we  only  had  an  engine!" 

His  roving  glance  fell  upon  a  section 
house  that  stood  beside  the  railway.  Close 
to  the  section  house,  on  a  concrete  bed, 
stood  a  large,  old-fashioned  handcar. 
Villa  called  his  comrades'  attention  to  it.. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  he  inquired  of 
them,  "that  thing  could  carry  enough 
dynamite  to  wreck  a  train?" 

"Enough,  I  think,  to  wreck  a  dozen 
trains,"  answered  Feraz. 

"Then  ride  back  to  the  pack  train  at 
full  speed,"  Villa  ordered  him.  "Have 
all  the  dynamite  brought  to  that  station 
house.  Tell  the  'skinners'  (mule  drivers) 
I  want  four  men  at  once  for  a  danger- 
ous mission.  Tell  them  I  will  give  each 
one  of  them  five  hundred  dollars  when 
the  mission  is  fulfilled  and  they  return — 
if  they  should  return,"  he  added,  "which 
is  very  unlikely." 

These  orders  were  rapidly  obeyed.  In 
a  short  time  the  dynamite  was  at  the 
station  house  and  four  stalwart  "skin- 
ners" stood  ready  to  risk  their  lives  for 
"quinientos  pesos"  ($500). 

The  old  handcar  was  run  out  and 
set  on  the  rails,  then  it  was  heaped  with 
sacks  of  dynamite,  leaving  just  standing 
room  for  the  four  men  to  propel  the 
machine,  Villa  himself  superintended 
operations.  When  all  was  ready  he  ad- 
dressed the  four  daring  drivers. 

"Boys,  make  that  old  machine  go  as 
fast  as  you  can,"  he  told  them.  "When 
you  are  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the 
train  that  is  coming,  jump  off  the  cat 
and  lie  flat  on  the  ground  till  after  the 
collision.  Adelante!" 

From  their  previous  observation  point 
Villa  and  his  aides  watched  the  mad 
flight  of  the  handcar.  Up  and  down  un- 
dulations and  around  the  many  curves 


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in  the  serpentine  track  it  sped,  often  be- 
ing hidden  from  view  by  obscuring  hills. 

Off  to  the  southward  the  smoke  trail 
of  the  train  drew  slowly,  steadily  north- 
ward. 

The  watchers  waited.  Now  all  was 
hidden  from  their  view  by  a  distant 
ridge — all  but  the  trail  of  smoke  that 
lifted  slowly,  lazily,  heavenward. 

Of  a  sudden  a  vast  tongue  of  flame 
shot  skyward  filled  with  debris,  followed 
by  a  pall  of  smoke,  from  behind  the 
ridge.  Then  came  a  terrific  detonation 
that  shook  the  earth  on  which  they 
stood. 


152 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


May,  1927 


"Evidently  my  present  has  been  de- 
livered," said  Villa  with  a  grim  smile 
to  his  companions. 

It  had,  indeed.  The  wrecked  train, 
as  he  supposed,  had  carried  reinforce- 
ments for  the  enemy.  How  many  sur- 
vived the  catastrophe  it  is  impossible  to 
say,  but  thus  was  a  spectacular  finish  put 
to  a  victorious  day  for  Villa. 

The  daring  "skinners"  that  had  driven 
the  handcar  miraculously  escaped  and  re- 
turned to  claim  their  reward. 

This  victory  opened  the  way  for  Villa 
to  Chihuahua,  the  capital  of  the  state 
of  the  same  name.  When  General  Mer- 
cado,  in  command  at  that  place,  heard 
of  Villa's  triumph  he  was  panic-stricken 
and  immediately  evacuated  the  city.  In- 
stead of  going  southward,  as  he  should 
have  done,  where  he  would  have  been 
safe,  he  marched  northward  toward  the 
frontier  and  occupied  a  little  town  called 
Ojinaga. 

Disquieting  news  arrived  to  Villa  in 
Chihuahua.  The  government  proposed 
to  send  reinforcements  to  General  Mer- 
cado  at  Ojinaga  and  commission  him  to 
undertake  the  recapture  of  Juarez,  which 
Villa  had  left  weakly  garrisoned.  At 
once  he  summoned  two  of  his  lieuten- 
ants, Ortega  and  Natera. 

When  Villa  heard  of  this  he  exclaimed, 
contemptuously,  "Tonto!"  (fool).  He 
stood  in  the  doorway  of  Chihuahua's 
butcher  shop,  but  the  meat  store  pro- 
prietor failed  to  recognize  him.  Surelj 
there  could  be  no  connection  between  this 
dominant,  bearded  commander,  and  the 
humble  Pancho  Villa  he  had  bought  out 
a  few  years  before. 

"I  shall  allow  you  four  thousand 
men,"  he  told  them,  "to  take  Ojinaga 
and  settle  with  General  Mercado.  Also 
I  shall  allow  you  just  four  days'  time 
to  accomplish  that  task." 

Ten  days  passed  by  and  still  his  lieu- 
tenants had  not  accomplished  their  mis- 
sion. Then  Villa  went  to  Ojinaga  him- 
self. 


Ortega  and  Natera  protested  that 
they  had  done  their  utmost,  but  so  far 
had  been  unable  to  dislodge  Mercado. 
Villa  answered  their  excuses  with  the 
disdainful  assertion,  "I  shall  take  the 
place  this  very  night." 

He  did  so  and  with  such  results  that 
Mercado  and  his  men  were  forced  to 
take  refuge  on  the  American  side  of  the 
river,  eventually  delivering  themselves 
up  to  the  American  authorities. 

Villa  was  now  practically  the  master 
of  northern  Mexico.  Venustiano  Car- 
ranza,  the  nominal  head  of  the  revolt 
against  Victoriano  Huerta,  had  accom- 
plished little  in  the  south. 

In  Chihuahua  Villa  received  letters 
from  Carranza,  who  was  growing  de- 
cidedly jealous  of  his  power.  Carranza 
intimated,  in  more  or  less  honeyed 
words,  that  as  he  was  the  real  head  of 
the  revolt  he  should  be  consulted  in  all 
military  affairs.  Villa  told  his  secretary, 
contemptuously,  "Tell  the  old  fool  any- 
thing you  see  fit,  but  impress  upon  his 
mind  that  Pancho  Villa  never  had,  nor 
never  will  have,  any  master.  I  shall 
carry  on  my  operations  as  best  suits  me." 

Impatient  ever  of  all  restraint,  Villa 
would  brook  no  interference  whatever 
with  his  plans  from  any  quarter. 

As  "Commander  of  the  Division  of 
the  North,"  Villa  did  not  long  remain 
idle  in  Chihuahua.  Word  came  that  the 
city  of  Torreon  had  been  recaptured  by 
the  federals.  Carranza  had  tried  to  re- 
take it,  but  had  failed.  Now  was  his 
opportunity,  thought  Villa,  to  show  Car- 
ranza and  others  who  was  the  real  mas- 
ter in  Mexico. 

He  left  Chihuahua  with  a  force  of 
twenty  thousand  men.  When  he  arrived 
at  Torreon  he  had  an  army  of  forty 
thousand.  All  the  petty  chiefs,  bandits 
and  horse  thieves  in  the  state  of  Chihua- 
hua had  joined  forces  with  him.  Word 
had  gone  out  among  them  that  when 
Torreon  was  taken  it  would  be  sacked 
and  pillaged. 


C/ftiXhmmmiiimimiiiiiJiiiimiiiiiiiiiiimiiiimiiii iinini MlliilllMliliiliimillllllllllilliimmillliiiiiiiniiiliiiiiiillllllliiiillMiiiliiiiiilililiiiil minium 


GRANADA    HOTEL 


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iii  .....  iiiiMlllllinilllllllluliniiillllliulllllulllllMllllilllMlullllllllHIlllHMllliiiillilllMluilllllllllMlllllllliniilnliniMlllllliMlllMlllllinilllllinili 


ilf*  •* 


Arrived  before  Torreon,  Villa  found 
it  strongly  intrenched  and  fortified.  For 
ten  days  General  Velasco,  the  federal 
commander,  resisted  all  the  desperate 
and  incessant  Villista  attacks.  At  the 
end  of  that  time,  with  ammunition  ex- 
hausted, he  so  quietly  and  successfully 
evacuated  the  city  that  the  withdrawal 
was  not  apparent  to  the  Villistas  till 
many  hours  afterward. 

The  long  delayed  pursuit  enabled  the 
federals  to  burn  the  bridges  behind 
them  and  make  their  escape  to  Saltillo, 
capital  of  the  state  of  Coahuila.  During 
this  time  they  received  reinforcements 
of  three  thousand  men  from  Huerta. 
This  small  force  carried  the  magnificent 
array  of  twenty  "generals!"  These  gen- 
erals often  commanded  "divisions"  that 
totaled  fifty  men. 

The  Villistas  achieved  another  vic- 
tory at  Saltillo,  less  hardly  contested 
than  that  of  Tprreon.  These  triumphs 
sealed  the  fate  of  the  Huerta  govern- 
ment. 

Villa,  resting  on  his  laurels  in  Tor- 
reon, decided  to  seek  a  break  with  Car- 
ranza. He  had  never  had  any  use  for 
the  "viejo"  (old  man)  anyhow. 

The  occasion  soon  presented  itself. 
Carranza,  going  over  Villa's  head, 
ordered  Natera  to  take  Zacatecas, 
which  he  attempted  to  do  and  failed. 
Then  Carranza  ordered  Villa  to  send  a 
force  of  men  and  two  batteries  of  artil- 
lery to  the  aid  of  Natera.  This  Villa 
flatly  refused  to  do,  but  uniting  Natera's 
forces  with  his  own  he  attacked  and 
captured  the  place.  This  was  the  last 
stronghold  of  the  Huerta  government  in 
northern  Mexico.  Here  Villa  captured 
a  hundred  cannon  and  a  great  amount 
of  other  booty. 

After  this,  "General"  Villa  estab- 
lished his  headquarters  again  in  Chihua- 
hua. He  now  had  an  army  of  fifty 
thousand  men  at  his  command.  Here 
he  awaited  developments.  As  yet  there 
had  been  no  open  rupture  between  him 
and  Carranza.  Huerta  still  maintained 
his  feeble  government  in  the  capital  of 
the  republic. 

At  this  juncture  General  Obregon, 
one  of  Carranza's  ablest  lieutenants, 
marched  down  from  the  northwest  upon 
the  City  of  Mexico.  The  dissolute 
Huerta  immediately  fled  and  Carranza 
became  the  de  facto  chief  magistrate  of 
the  troubled  country. 

Villa,  from  Chihuahua,  openly  defied 
the  Carranza  regime.  General  Obregon 
was  sent  up  to  try  and  effect  a  recon- 
ciliation with  the  rebellious  Pancho,  but 
to  no  avail.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Obre- 
gon was  lucky  to  escape  with  his  life 
and  return  again  in  safety  to  his  chief. 

(Continued  Next  Month) 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


15.? 


Fleurette 

(Continued  from  Page  141) 


long  walk  to  Toul.  The  noise  of  her 
shoes  on  the  hard  beaten  towpath  did 
not  alarm  the  crickets  which  kept  up 
their  serenade  from  fields  and  the  canal. 

Fleurette  walked  rapidly.  She  was 
in  a  daze  of  splendid,  happy  anticipa- 
tions. She  saw  herself  an  elegant  lady  of 
leisure,  passing  her  afternoons  and  even- 
ings, not  on  a  canal  boat  but  at  the 
theater  and  the  opera.  So  alluring  were 
her  thoughts  that,  for  a  moment,  regrets 
at  leaving  Francois  and  her  mother  were 
forgotten. 

Scarcely  a  kilometer  remained  to  be 
traveled.  Just  ahead  was  the  last  lock, 
the  lock  of  M.  Bodan.  Somehow  the 
sight  of  the  lock-tender's  cottage  imper- 
ceptibly changed  the  angle  of  her 
thoughts. 

There  was  a  light  in  one  of  the  upper 
ivindows.  A  tiny  balcony  of  iron  stood 
out  in  front  of  the  window  and  cast  a 
shadow  of  bars  across  the  square  of  yel- 
low light.  As  she  drew  closer  she  could 
see  that  someone  was  seated  upon  the 
little  balcony,  his  back  to  the  canal. 
Vaguely  recognizing,  she  walked  as 
softly  as  she  could.  As  she  passed  be- 
low the  window  she  could  clearly  make 
out  the  curve  of  head  and  shoulders, 
black  against  the  window.  It  was  Pierre, 
gazing  at  the  stars. 

She  caught  herself  as  she  started  to 
call  him  and  hurried  on.  Thoughts  of 
the  splendors  which  awaited  her  in 
America  returned  to  her  mind.  The 
lights  of  Toul  shone  full  before  her.  A 
hundred  yards  more  along  the  canal,  a 
sharp  turn  to  the  left,  and  she  would  be 
at  the  railroad  station  taking  the  train 
for  fairyland. 

And  yet,  somehow,  the  prospect 
seemed  a  little  different,  now.  Thoughts 
of  her  mother  and  Francois  and  their 
pleasant  times  crept  back  into  her  mind- 
Somehow,  her  steps  dragged  terribly. 
Try  as  she  might  to  b  -ing  her  thoughts 
back  to  Bob  and  his  ricl.°s,  the  wrinkled 
faces  of  her  canal  neighbors,  to  whom 
she  would  never  again  shout  a  jest,  per- 
sisted in  coming  before  her  imagination. 

She  stopped.  Ahead  the  canal  broad- 
ened into  the  tiny  lake.  About  its  cir- 
cumference were  moored  twenty  boats 
and  lights  on  some  of  them  rippled  and 
broke  toward  her.  She  felt  a  lump  rise 
in  her  throat  but  started  on.  A  group  of 
soldiers  on  their  way  back  to  the  barracks 
passed  under  the  lights  of  the  bridge. 
Their  arms  were  linked  about  one  an- 
other in  gay  camaraderie  and  one  of  them 
was  singing.  He  had  a  young  and  extra- 
ordinarily beautiful  voice  and  carelessly 


as  boy  soldiers  marching  into  battle  he 
was  singing,  "La  Madelon." 

Fleurette's  throat  tightened  still  more 
and  salt  seemed  to  irritate  the  back  of 
her  eyeballs.  She  stood  as  still  as  though 
carved  from  marble.  Ahead  bulked  the 
vast  grayness  of  the  railroad  station. 
She  made  no  move  toward  it  but,  slowly, 
reached  into  her  bosom  and  drew  out 
three  bits  of  paper,  one  of  them  of  light 
blue  and  another  bearing  a  green  patch 
at  one  corner. 

Deliberately  she  tore  them  across  and 
across,  repeating  the  action  until  they 
were  reduced  into  small  bits.  These  she 
flung  far  out  over  the  surface  of  the 
canal.  They  disappeared  .... 

The  house  of  Bodan,  the  lock  tender, 
was  dark  as  she  passed  it.  Particularly 
black  seemed  the  window  on  the  second 


floor  surrounded  by  a  little  balcony  of 
iron.  The  sight  of  that  window  sent  a 
warm  feeling  creeping  around  her  heart. 
A  contented  smile  settled  over  her  face 
as  she  went  on — toward  the  canal  boat 
and  home.  One  by  one  she  passed  the 
shadowy  landmarks  she  knew  so  well. 
They  seemed  to  greet  her  and  welcome 
her,  like  old,  tried  friends.  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  come  home,  to  remember — to- 


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Experiments  in  a  New  Field  of  Decoration 


By  Aline  Kistler 


EXPERIENCED 
SECRETARY 

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Unusually  good  reader  of 
shorthand  notes.  Familiar 
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A  FAD  in  women's  dress  has  pointed 
the  way  to  a  new  field  in  the  art 
of  decoration,  the  realm  of  the 
painted  fabric.   At  least,  that  is  the  sup- 
position of  Louis  R.  Samish,  San  Fran- 
ciscan commercial  artist,  who  is  experi- 
menting with  silks  and  other  fabrics  to 
find  out  the  possibilities  and  limitations 
of  this  new  medium. 

New  medium?  Yes,  it  may  be  termed 
so,  for  until  a  comparatively  short  time 
ago  there  was  no  way  to  brush  dye  color 
directly  on  a  fabric  without  danger  of 
spreading.  Oil  pigments  were  sometimes 
used  for  decoration,  but,  when  handled 
with  a  brush,  the  consistency  had  to  be 
such  that  the  effect  was  that  of  paint. 
The  texture  of  the  fabric  was  for  the 
most  part  lost. 

The  devices  used  for  coloring  mate- 
rials have  been  the  stencil,  block-print, 
batik  and  tie-and-dye.  These  are  all 
processes  by  which  one  localizes  color  on 
fabric,  but  each  of  them  has  distinct 
limitations  which  painting  with  dye 
color  would  eliminate. 

The  stencil  limits  the  pigment  by 
means  of  set  outlines  cut  from  heavy 
waxed  paper.  The  color  is  brushed  on 
the  material  in  the  cut-out  pattern. 
Lovely  effects  are  obtained  in  this  way, 
but  one  is  limited  to  flat  tones  and  rigid 
outlines.  Furthermore,  the  pigment  used 
must  be  sufficiently  viscus  not  to  leave 
the  confines  of  the  stencil  so  an  opaque 
film  of  color  is  the  result,  rather  than  a 
coloring  of  the  material  itself. 

In  the  past,  the  block  print  has  been 
the  most  satisfactory  way  of  coloring 
fabrics.  The  color  is  transferred  in 
exact  design  by  the  use  of  a  succession 
of  blocks  and,  because  it  is  limited  by 
the  surface  that  comes  in  contact  with 
the  material,  dyes  or  other  pigments  can 
be  used.  Lovely  effects  are  obtained  in 
this  way.  The  chief  drawback  to  this 
method  is  that  it  is  more  suited  to 
commercial  production  than  individual 
work ;  in  fact,  most  of  our  factory  col- 
ored fabrics  are  prints.  There  are,  of 
course,  hand  blocked  prints  that  may 
be  obtained,  but  the  cost  of  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  design  and  the  complexity  of 
the  process  of  printing  make  it  unfeasi- 
ble for  individual  decoration  except  in  a 
limited  way. 

In  batik,  the  dye  is  applied  to  the 
entire  fabric  except  where  a  resistant, 
such  as  wax,  has  been  put.  Thus,  the 
colors  go  oh,  one  over  the  other,  the 
design  being  painted  out  in  wax  after 
each  dipping.  The  process  is  tedious  and 
laborious  and  the  result,  while  very 


beautiful,     has     distinct     characteristics 
that  limit  its  uses  as  decoration. 

A  modification  of  batik  is  the  process 
of  outlining  the  design  in  wax,  then 
painting  in  the  design.  In  this  case,  one 
is  really  using  a  wax  stencil.  Its  advan- 
tage over  the  ordinary  stencil  lies  in  the 
fact  that  dyes  may  be  used  instead  of 
more  or  less  opaque  colors. 

Tie-and-dye  need  hardly  be  mentioned 
for,  although  it  is  a  method  of  coloring 
material,  the  design  is  largely  hap- 
hazard, since  the  only  resistant  to  the 
dye  is  the  tightness  of  the  folds,  either 
made  by  knots  or  tied  with  string. 

A  short  while  ago,  a  German  chemist 
discovered  a  way  to  keep  dye  color  from 
spreading  along  the  warp  and  woof  of 
woven  material.  Immediately,  artists 
everywhere  began  to  experiment  with 
this  new  medium.  First,  they  applied 
it  to  the  decoration  of  women's  dress. 
The  result  proved  so  satisfactory  that 
soon  the  demand  for  painted  fabrics  be- 
came so  great  that,  today,  one  can  hard- 
ly find  a  single  wardrobe  without  some 
bit  of  painted  material,  be  it  even  so 
small  as  a  splash  of  color  on  a  gay  tie. 

Mr.  Samish  is  native  to  San  Francisco 
and  it  is  here  that  he  has  worked  his 
way  to  recognition  in  his  lines  of  com- 
mercial art.  Beginning  his  career  with 
newspaper  work,  he  was  soon  drawn  by 
the  fascination  of  ceramics  to  devote  his 
energies  to  the  decoration  of  china.  His 
concentration  in  this  field  brought  recog- 
nition when  his  exhibit  at  the  Panama 
Pacific  International  Exposition  in  1915 
won  first  prize. 

When  the  United  States  entered  the 
war,  Mr.  Samish  turned  his  attention 
to  the  making  of  cartoons  to  help  win 
the  war.  He  was  soon  recognized  by  the 
government,  which  employed  him  to 
make  a  series  of  official  cartoons.  These 
were  published  in  the  newspapers 
throughout  the  country. 

Now,  although  Mr.  Samish  is  pro- 
ducing delightfully  individual  decora- 
tions on  silk  for  women's  dress,  he  is  not 
satisfied  that  he  has  sounded  the  possi- 
bilities of  his  new  medium.  Whenever 
he  finds  time  from  the  painting  of  gor- 
geous shawls,  lounging  robes  and  other 
feminine  apparel,  he  experiments  with 
the  designing  of  fabrics  for  household 
decoration. 

For  this,  Mr.  Samish  believes,  is  the 
realm  which  will  soon  be  dominated  by 
hand  painted  fabrics.  He  feels  that  it 
will  be  the  means  by  which  interior  dec- 
oration will  be  raised  to  an  even  higher 
art  than  it  is  today. 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


155 


He  dreams  of  the  time  when  the 
artist  decorating  a  distinctive  home  will 
order  hand  painted  draperies  designed 
for  each  particular  room.  Today  we 
have  tapestries  and  embroideries  cater- 
ing to  individuality,  but  their  scope  is 
much  smaller  than  that  possible  to  the 
painted  fabric,  and,  as  time  goes  on,  it 
is  entirely  possible  that  their  place  will 
be  taken  largely  by  this  new  art  product. 


If  this  prediction  is  true,  there  will 
be  a  great  advance  in  the  expression  of 
individuality  in  the  home,  for  the  owner 
will  no  longer  have  to  search  through 
stock  patterns  to  find  fabrics  that  ap- 
proach her  idea  of  what  she  wants.  She 
can  then  go  to  an  artist  who  will  trans- 
late her  idea  into  line  and  color  that 
exactly  suit  the  use  and  purpose  of  the 
fabric. 


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Books 
of 

Merit 


Fear 


By  Herbert  Selig 


IT'S  eight-thirty  by  the  clock  on  this 
night  of  January  the  thirty-first. 
The  wind  howls.  The  rain  pours.  The 
streets  are  drenched.  The  gutters  flushed. 
The  air  is  chilled.  A  beastly  night. 
Though  Saturday  night,  no  inducement 
could  make  me  brave  the  storm.  Twenty 
million  dollars'  worth  of  rain  for  the 
state.  The  farmers — the  merchants  re- 
joice. Better  times  ahead. 

Ahead  is  good.  What  care  I  for  the 
ahead,  when  tonight  is  Saturday  night. 
A  big  night  for  youth.  Oh,  but  to  be 
able  to  join  the  maddening  throng. 
First  to  the  theater,  then  a  night  club, 
then  a  little  fireside  and  stagger  home. 
But  nay.  For  me  'twould  be  only  folly, 
since  my  health  I  would  peril.  A  con- 
valescent's place  is  at  home.  And  I  am. 

Away  up  stairs  at  the  farthermost  cor- 
ner of  the  garret,  I  sit  at  my  desk  and 
write.  The  light  of  the  dingy  oil  lamp 
flickers.  The  logs  in  the  hearth  crackle. 
The  rain  beats  against  my  window.  The 
curtains  strangely  flicker,  as  if  by  some 
inherent  force.  The  wind  jealously  forces 
its  way  through  an  aperture  in  the 
ledge,  into  my  cozy  chamber.  I  lay  my 
pen  upon  the  table  and  walk  toward  the 
window.  I  am  startled.  I  stop.  What 
weird  sounds!  The  curt-.in  moves. 

My  imagination  runs  vild.  Paralyzed 
with  fear,  I  numbly  advance  to  the  win- 
dow. The  curtain  still  moves.  I  know 
that  nobody  is  around,  but  I  am  nerv- 
ous. To  reassure  myself,  I  quickly  pull 
the  curtains  to  one  side.  It  is  black 
dark  without.  No  one  is  there.  It's  my 
imagination,  I  know.  Am  I  sure? 

Good  God,  what  was  that?  A  flash 
of  light  is  coming  through  the  window 
straight  at  me.  I  am  in  for  it  now. 
Someone  glares  in  at  me.  What  can  I 
do?  I'd  scream  murder  if  I  could,  but 
I'm  frightened  stiff.  Holy  Virgin!  God 
save  me!  If  I  run,  where  shall  I  run  to? 
If  I  scream,  who  will  hear  me?  The 
nearest  neighbor  is  miles  away.  I'll  be 
brave  and  face  my  doom  like  a  man.  I'll 


see  who  it  is.  Getting  up  false  courage, 
I  knock  books  off  the  shelf  before  I 
raise  the  window.  I'm  worse  frightened 
now. 

With  a  bang  I  throw  the  window  up. 
I  feel  as  though  I  were  being  lashed  in 
the  face,  but  I  know  it's  the  rain  and 
sleet.  From  the  yard  below,  my  dog 
barks.  Sh — I  hear  something.  The  wind 
is  howling.  Sticking  my  head  out  of  the 
window,  I  possess  the  fear  of  a  person 
at  the  guillotine  awaiting  a  death  blow. 
I  see  no  ladder  up  the  side  of  my  house. 
I  hear  no  one  jump  from  the  ledge.  I 
must  be  batty. 

Pulling  my  head  in,  I  slam  the  win- 
dow shut.  The  joke's  on  me  and  I'm 
glad  of  it.  Walking  a  few  steps  away 
from  the  window,  calculating  the  stu- 
pidity of  the  situation,  I  turn  facing  the 
window  and  laugh.  Beyond  the  window 
is  blackness.  The  wind  is  blowing  a 
gale.  The  rain  is  beating  down.  Sup- 
pose I  were  out  in  such  weather.  I'm 
better  off  in. 

Lord,  now  what!  Maybe  I  didn't 
look  good.  They're  out  there  now  for 
sure.  I  forgot  to  look  if  anyone  was 
hanging  on  the  pipes,  just  below  the 
window.  There  must  be.  God,  help 
me,  I  need  it.  They  are  flashing  the  light 
in  on  me  again,  this  very  second.  What 
shall  I  do?  What  can  I  do?  I'll  drop 
dead  if  I  see  anybody  through  the  win- 
dow now.  There  they  are  again.  If  I 
only  had  a  gun.  I'll  make  believe  I  have 
one. 

Shoving  my  hand  down  in  my  coat 
pocket  and  holding  the  pocket  out,  I 
start  for  the  window.  He  is  there.  The 
closer  I  get  to  the  window,  the  nearer 
he  seems  to  me.  Suppose  my  bluff  don't 
work.  Keeping  one  hand  in  my  pocket 
as  though  holding  a  revolver,  I  demand 
that  he  throw  his  arms  up.  Showing 
him  what  I  mean,  I  throw  my  free  arm 
up  for  example.  Jeering  me,  he  follows 
me  with  the  same  arm.  Maybe  he's 
playing  with  me.  He  might  know  I'm 


oA  Child's 
(jarden 


Children  need  food 

for  the  spirit  as  well  as  food 

for  the  body. 

A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  aims  to  give 
this  spiritual  food  in  sweet,  wholesome 
stories  of  real  life,  in  fanciful  fairy  tales, 
in  nature  stories,  and  in  poems  of  every 
kind. 

DO  IT  NOW  —  MAKE  SOME 
CHILD  HAPPY  by  a  subscription  to 
A  CHILD'S  GARDEN. 

A  Sample  Copy  for  35c 
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A  Child's  Garden 
Press 


Or'and,  Calif. 


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May.  1<>21 


bluffing.  I'll  keep  it  up,  though.  "Don't 
be  funny,  throw  them  both  up  and  be 
quick  about  it."  He  imitates  me.  Damn 
him!  I'll  scare  him  now,  so  rushing  to 
the  window,  I  find  him  to  be  only  my 
reflection.  "I  am  the  man." 


MAY  CONTRIBUTORS 

(Continued  from  Page  131) 

LOUISE  LORD  COLEMAN  has 
also  published  in  our  columns,  but 
outside  of  that  she  has  published  very  lit- 
tle and  written  very  little.  Miss  Coleman 
has  great  possibilities  of  becoming  a 
well  known  author  if  she  keeps  up  her 
work.  Do  not  procrastinate,  Louise. 

REBEKAH   COSTANZO  is  not  a 
western  poet.    She  lives  in  Pennsyl- 
vania and  this  is  her  first  contribution 
to  OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 

WHITNEY  MONTGOMERY  is 
called  by  some  of  his  admirers  the 
Burns  of  Texas.  Mr.  Montgomery  says 
it  is  not  because  of  his  poetry  but  be- 
cause he,  like  Burns,  is  a  farmer  as  well 
as  a  bard.  At  any  rate,  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery is  a  poet.  His  Genius  in  this 
issue  is  genius. 

HERBERT  SELIG  and  Cleone 
Brown  are  comparatively  new 
writers.  Mr.  Selig  has  contributed  to 
Overland  before,  but  we  run  work  by 
Cleone  Brown  for  the  first  time  in  this 
issue. 


HOTEL  STEWART 
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A  La  Carte  Service 

If  you  are  looking  for  an  intimate 
little  place  just  around  the  corner 
where  you  can  dawdle  over  your 
last  cup  of  coffee,  you  will  find  it 
here  nestling  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Hall  of  Justice,  a  gay  little  spot  in 
an  otherwise  dingy  but  historical 
alley. 

Bohemia  Ever  Ignores 
the  Obvious 

THE  PHILOSOPHERS 

659  Merchant  St.          Davenport  391 
CLOSED  MONDAYS 


Railroading  in  the  Eighties 

(Continued  from  Page  142) 


still  survived.  One  was  a  very  unique 
character  who  frequently  boarded  my 
train  at  Dodge  City,  and  with  whom  I 
became  quite  chummy.  He  was  at  least 
six  feet,  wore  a  Prince  Albert,  white 
collar,  long  black  tie  and  broad  brimmed 
hat,  the  distinguished  make-up  of  the 
professional  man  of  that  period.  T<i 
satisfy  a  curiosity  as  to  whether  he  was 
a  doctor,  lawyer,  actor,  gambler  or 
preacher,  I  played  for  an  opening  and 
asked  him  his  business.  "Gambler,"  he 
replied.  His  specialty  was  anything  from 
the  toss  of  a  coin  to  a  spit  at  a  crack,  just 
so  it  was  an  even  break  and  a  square 
deal. 

During  the  pioneer  days  of  the  West 
"an  even  break  and  a  square  deal"  was 
the  law  of  the  land.  Men  who  depended 
on  marked  cards  and  loaded  dice  for 
their  winnings  and  posed  as  gamblers 
worked  under  the  wrong  sub-title;  they 
were  called  and  treated  as  thieves.  The 
only  advantage  the  old-time  gambler 
wanted  was  "an  even  break  and  a  square 
deal." 


AS  CIVILIZATION  advanced  west- 
^*-  ward  and  courts  of  justice  were 
introduced,  the  "even  break  and  square 
deal"  law  was  slightly  twisted  in  favor 
of  the  cleverly  and  deceptively  inclined. 
As  gambling  was  wide  open  in  almost 
every  state  west  of  the  Mississippi  river 
at  that  time,  it  isn't  amiss  to  close  with 
one  more  incident  pertaining  to  that 
obsolete  profession.  Kansas  permitted 
gambling  but  prohibited  the  sale  of 
liquor.  Missouri  prohibited  gambling 
but  was  very  wet. 

At  the  time  I  was  quite  a  youngster, 
but  well  acquainted  with  the  proprietor 
of  one  of  the  business  establishments  on 
the  Kansas  side.  One  day  he  saw  me 
trying  to  enrich  my  exchequer  by  shift- 
ing some  chips  on  a  faro  layout.  He 


smiled  and  passed  on,  but  the  next  time 
we  met  he  said:  "Young  man,  when  did 
you  commence  playing  faro?"  It  was 
my  first  offense.  "Then  take  the  advice 
of  an  old-timer  in  the  game,  and  let  it 
be  your  last,  or  you  will  never  get  any 
place  in  the  business  world.  Business 
men  won't  trust  their  money  in  the 
hands  of  those  who  gamble ;  if  you  want 
to  gamble  come  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fence." 

He  might  as  well  have  talked  into  a 
telephone  with  no  one  at  the  other  end 
of  the  line ;  I  had  to  learn  my  lessons 
under  the  tutorship  of  Professor  Experi- 
ence. Two  years  later  I  met  him  on  the 
streets  of  Denver,  and  after  being  told 
I  was  out  of  employment  he  handed  me 
his  address,  saying,  "In  about  a  week 
drop  around ;  if  I  find  a  good  location 
will  open  a  house  here,  and  can  give 
you  a  job."  Fortunately  for  me  I  found 
other  employment.  Gambling  is  bad 
business  from  either  "side  of  the  fence." 
That  was  forty  years  ago,  and  having 
been  connected  with  the  theatrical  busi- 
ness a  great  deal  of  this  time  I  find  it 
quite  a  gamble,  but  there  is  a  heap  more 
consolation  to  it — even  when  you  lose. 


BLACK  FLOWING  GOLD 

(Continued  from  Page  134) 

a  man  to  go  after.  Now,  if  that  Shell 
outfit  comes  in  big! 

If  she  comes  in  big!  What  the  hell 
are  mere,  sure  shot  surface  wells  along- 
side of  the  gushers  that  come  in  big 
from  6000  or  more  feet  below  the 
ground's  surface.  The  difference  be- 
tween a  piker's  pennies  and  a  man's 
millions. 

And  there  you  have  it — the  whole 
picture  of  the  old  gold  rushes — the  new 
oil  rushes — the  old  gold  lust  that  is 
alwavs  with  us. 


STRANGE  WATERS 


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THE  WEST'S  BROADCASTER 
(Continued  from  Page  137) 

ties  of  character  and  personality  as  to 
his  unceasing  efforts  in  solving  traffic 
problems  and  in  his  knowledge  of  traffic 
facts.  Because  of  these  elements  he  has 
attracted  to  himself  a  large  host  of 
friends  in  addition  to  his  railroad  asso- 
ciates and  assistants  who  give  him  every 
loyalty.  In  fact  the  best  indication  of 
the  calibre  of  the  man  is  the  regard  in 
which  he  is  held  by  his  subordinates. 

Those  who  are  under  McGinnis' 
direction  appreciate  his  good  humor,  his 
democracy  and  his  fairness,  and  are 
stimulated  by  his  directness  and  inspired 
leadership.  One  of  his  associates  has 
said  of  him  that  one  of  his  characteristics 
is  that  "he  keeps  his  feet  on  the  ground" 
— or  in  other  words  that  he  is  calm  in 
emergencies  and  never  allows  himself  to 
be  stampeded  into  a  misdirected  effort. 

The  explanation  of  McGinnis'  many 
friends  outside  the  railroad  organization 
lies  not  only  in  his  ability,  good  sense 
and  co-operative  spirit  but  also  in  his 
geniality  and  genuine  friendliness. 

As  to  the  more  intimate  glimpses  of 
the  man,  it  may  be  said  that  his  chief 
interest,  outside  his  work,  lies  in  his 
home.  Mrs.  McGinnis  and  their  four 
sons  and  a  daughter  mean  more  to  him 
than  anything  else  and  while  McGinnis 
is  a  member  of  a  number  of  clubs  and 
a  golfer  of  better  than  average  ability, 
his  own  fireside  holds  chief  attraction 
for  him. 

In  his  work,  McGinnis  makes  head- 
way through  his  fresh  viewpoint,  his 
ability  to  reduce  large  operations  to 
small  perspective,  and  his  thorough  and 
logical  way  of  attacking  difficulties. 

There  is  no  traffic  problem,  though  it 
seem  ever  so  difficult,  but  McGinnis 
minimizes  its  apparent  knottiness  by  sub- 
jecting it  to  a  quiet,  persistent  and  pene- 
trating study, — and  that  trait  is  the  key 
to  the  young  Westerner  who  brings  in 
the  passenger  business  for-  a  Western 
railroad  whose  romantic  nistory  is  the 
story  of  the  West. 


the  cold  analysis  of  the  student — a 
famine  for  the  sensistive  lover  of  simple 
beauty.  Trees,  the  grass,  water  and 
love  will  be  found,  but  with  Greek 
titles  and  chemical  descriptions. 


ACROSS  ARCTIC  AMERICA 

FOF  two  years  and  a  half  the  Fifth 
Thule  Expedition,  headed  by  Knud 
Rasmussen,  trekked  across  the  roof  of 
the  western  world,  and  covered  twenty 
thousand  miles  on  dog-sleds  from  east- 
ern Canada  to  East  Cape,  Siberia. 

Strictly  speaking,  the  object  of  the 
expedition  was  the  collection  of  ethno- 
logical data;  but  the  more  technical  and 
highly  scientific  findings  developed  over 
the  weary  miles  have  been  embodied  in 
separate  reports  and  monographs,  leav- 
ing the  author  free  to  write  a  fascinat- 
ing tale  of  far  northern  life  which  car- 
ries a  broad,  general  appeal  to  those 
living  on  the  "outside." 

Mr.  Rasmussen  is  a  Dane.  He  was 
born  in  Greenland,  and  speaks  the  Eski- 
mo language  with  native  fluency,  which 
enabled  him  to  get  much  closer  to  the 
natives  and  gain  far  more  of  their  con- 
fidence than  by  having  to  work  through 
an  interpreter. 

Scurrying  dog-teams,  shuffling,  parka- 
clad  figures,  ill-lighted  and  foul-smelling 
shelters  of  ice  and  snow,  frail  kayaks 
gliding  through  treacherous  ice-floes, 
bleak,  snow-manteled  mountain  ranges 
giving  back  the  weird  glimmer  from  a 
pitiful  northern  noonday — this  is  the 
picture  of  the  grim  North  the  author 
knows  so  well.  But  of  the  other  pic- 
ture— the  folk-lore  of  the  Eskimos, 
their  legends  handed  down  through 
ages  only  by  word  of  mouth,  the  story 
of  their  amulets,  and  the  profound  wis- 
dom of  their  angakoqs — wizards — 
whose  perception  and  philosophy  carry 
weighty  conviction,  this,  too,  the  author 
well  knows,  but  is  something  of  a  star- 
tling revelation  to  the  dwellers  in  the 
South. 

Serious  reflection  on  present  day  men- 
tal development  is  generally  concluded 


BOOKS  AND  WRITERS 

(Continued  from  Page  149) 

vers  libre  a  medium  of  constant  delight. 
He  has  upheld  and  continually  advised 
Ezra  Pound  who  does  this;  the  wise 
reader  will  have  learned  to  expect  such 
fidelity. 

For  the  intellectual  scientist  of  poetry 
there  is  much  to  delight  and  intrigue 
in  this  book.  Metres  difficult  and  arch- 
aeic,  themes  weighty  with  universal 
moss  and  somnolent  with  ancient  neglect. 
All  the  exhausting  book  learning  gath- 
ered by  this  remarkable  memorist  is  set 
in  rhyme.  As  I  say,  it  is  a  feast  for 


oAlexandria  'Pages 


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Their  watchword  is  smiling  cour- 
tesy.— This  is  but  one  of  the 
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thoughtful  and  kindly  service 
combines  with  ideal  comfort  and 
surroundings  to  make  a  stay 
enjoyable. 

MATES 

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Also  a  number  of  large  and  beautiful  rooms 
and  suites,  some  in  period  furnishings  with 
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LARGE  AND  WELL 
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in  a  self-congratulatory  mood.  It  is, 
therefore,  curious  when  we  learn,  with 
something  of  a  jar,  that  many  of  the 
basic  principles  of  our  culture  have  long 
been  patent  to  the  humble  Eskimo.  In 
this  connection  Mr.  Rasmussen's  book 
points  out  indirectly  a  certain  well  de- 
veloped parallelism  of  thought — a  cer- 
tain mysticism,  if  you  like — held  in 
common  by  the  angakoqs  of  the  Arctic 
and  the  yogis  of  the  Far  East.  That  the 
Eskimos  have  legitimately  fallen  heir  to 
such  keen  philosophy  is  clearly  indicated 
by  one  of  Mr.  Rasmussen's  statements: 
"The  Eskimos  and  North  American 
Indians  were  once  the  same  people.  It 
was  their  common  forebears  that  came 
from  Asia.  The  Eskimos  are  only  a  sec- 
tion of  this  stock  which  split  off  and 
migrated  eastward  across  the  northern 
hemisphere." 


A  GREAT  deal  has  been  printed  of 
late  on  the  subject  of  psychology,  a 
number  of  these  works  outrivaling  the 
so-called  best  sellers  in  popularity.  This 
marks  the  awakening  of  a  new-born  im- 
pulse which,  for  the  want  of  a  better 
word,  might  be  called  introspection. 

And  now  comes  an  attractively  bound 
volume,  gold  stamped,  MAN,  by  Hora- 
tio V.  Gard.  The  book  contains  a  well- 
rounded  exposition  of  the  new  psychol- 
ogy presented  in  a  simple,  direct  style, 
which  is  remarkably  free  from  asper- 
sions aimed  at  differing  schools  of 
thought,  which  frequently  characterize 
books  of  this  sort.  The  sincerity  of  the 
author  is  apparent  throughout,  which  in 
itself  lends  a  purposeful  note  and  a  cer- 
tain definite  integrity. 

The  inspirational  value  of  MAN  is, 
indeed,  a  high  one,  which  indicates  that 
while  Mr.  Gard  is  admittedly  not  a  pro- 
fessional writer,  he  has,  nevertheless, 
searched  deeply  after  the  truth. 


CONGAI 

THIS  is  the  story  of  Thi-Linh,  but 
the  essentials  of  the  book  are 
drenched  in  the  overpowering  romance 
of  the  tropical  East.  Mr.  Hervey  has 
selected  the  river-country  of  that  little 
known  land  of  Indo-China,  about  which 
he  is  eminently  fitted  to  write,  as  the 
background  for  this  book,  which  is  an- 
other way  of  saying  that  the  story  car- 
ries a  decided  appeal  from  the  very  out- 
set with  the  freshness  and  novelty  of 
scene. 

Thi-Linh,  marked  from  early  girl- 
hood for  her  savage  beauty,  fits  into  the 
picture  perfectly;  and  strangely  enough, 
when  thrust  into  the  colonial  life  of  her 
French  father,  her  ability  to  meet  every 
situation  in  her  new  surroundings  is 


equally  apparent.  The  fresh  beauty 
dominating  the  young  native  woman, 
silhouetted  against  the  background  of 
French  colonial  society,  constitutes  a 
striking  comparison  of  the  civilizations 
of  the  East  and  West. 


A  GRIFFIN  IN  CHINA 

THE  word  griffin,  it  seems,  is  the 
Chinese  equivalent  of  newcomer  or 
tenderfoot.  The  title  of  this  book,  then, 
is  well  chosen.  Miss  Wimsatt  has  spent 
a  number  of  years  in  Cathay,  however, 
learning  the  language  and  collecting 
material  for  her  volume. 

As  a  subject,  China  is  admittedly  a 
deep  one.  The  author  acknowledges 
this  and  is  to*  be  commended  for  not 
attempting  to  probe  too  deeply  into  the 
history,  religion  and  philosophy  of  the 
Flowery  Kingdom  within  the  limits  of 
sixty  thousand  words  or  so.  Instead,  she 
skims  over  the  crust,  touching  the  high 
spots  of  the  theater,  drama,  art,  fables 
and  even  gastronomy.  The  chapters  on 
Chinese  funerals,  fortune-telling  and  the 
romance  of  the  Tientsin  rug  are  answers 
to  popular  questions.  There  are  numer- 
ous photographs. 


LOTUS  OF  THE  DUSK 

LIANE,  the  daughter  of  a  Manchu- 
rian  noble  and  a  beautiful  Russian 
woman !  Larry  Dean,  the  adventurous- 
blooded  son  of  generations  of  roman- 
tically inclined  though  sternly  inhibited 
sea-faring  New  Englanders!  Love!  .  .  . 
Peking,  the  Forbidden  City!  Chinese 
Student  Agitation !  .  .  .  and  we  have 
Dorothy  Graham's  romance  of  China, 
LOTUS  OF  THE  DUSK. 

Much  of  the  mysticism  and  supersti- 
tion of  the  Orient  is  here.  Lovely,  glam- 
orous Chinese  legends  are  retold.  The 
pride  of  the  Manchurian  is  aptly  por- 
trayed. At  times  the  story  is  like  a  deli- 
cately painted  picture,  or  perhaps  it  may 
better  be  likened  unto  one  of  the  em- 
broidered robes  that  its  characters  wear 
in  which  each  small  design  is  a  vital 
symbol. 

With  all  the  possibilities  of  a  truly 
great  dramatic  novel,  the  author  has 
either  deliberately  or  unwittingly  al- 
lowed her  story  to  become  merely  a  tale 
of  prettiness.  It  is  so  obviously  a  wom- 
an's book  written  for  feminine  readers. 
One  is  always  interested  in  knowing 
exactly  the  reaction  of  the  people  in  a 
book  to  the  given  circumstances.  Dor- 
othy Graham  has  failed  to  satisfy  the 
desire.  However,  LOTUS  OF  THE  DUSK 
is  well  worth  reading  if  one  has  been 
hankering  for  a  change  to  a  romantic 
environment.  For  whole  pages  so  good 
is  the  descriptive  work  that  you  can 


May,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


159 


fairly  breathe  the  fragrance  of  sandal- 
wood.  Not  a  great  literary  composition 
by  any  means,  LOTUS  OF  THE  DUSK  is, 
nevertheless,  positive  to  supply  an  eve- 
ning's entertainment. 

A  FREE  SOUL 

ADELA  ROGERS  ST.  JOHNS  has 
a  charming  manner  of  placing  the 
salient  facts  of  her  story  before  her 
readers.  It  is  a  direct  method.  Beauti- 
fully simple.  In  short,  emphatic  phrases 
she  presents  a  picture  that  reveals  not 
only  the  physical  but  likewise  the  mental 
attributes  of  her  book-people.  With  this 
background  well  in  mind,  the  story  un- 
folds itself  in  a  logical  sequence  of  de- 
tails. 

In  A  FREE  SOUL  she  has  a  wealth  of 
dramatic  material  effectively  used.  It  is 
the  story  of  Jan  Ashe,  whose  father 
raised  her  to  believe  that  a  woman  can 
do  anything  provided  she  "always  plays 
straight  with  herself."  Three  compelling 
figures  dominate  the  story.  They  are 
the  kind  of  characters  one  loves  to  find 
in  books,  because  they  -have  despaired 
of  ever  meeting  them  in  real  life.  Dyna- 
mic, powerful  humans  that  live  vivid, 
dramatic  lives. 

Being  the  "best-seller"  type  of  story, 
one  recognizes  this  as  valuable  material 
for  movie  production.  Scenarioized,  it 
should  net  Mrs.  St.  John  many  neat 
thousands.  If  you  do  not  read  the  book, 
try  to  see  its  picturization.  It  points  a 
good,  but  not  too  objectionable,  moral. 
Send  your  fast-living  daughters  and 
sons  to  see  it.  Give  them  the  ticket 
money  if  necessary.  Besides  visualizing 
to  them  a  most  rare  and  beautiful  love 
of  a  girl  for  her  father,  it  will  tend  to 
make  them  pull  in  the  reins  a  bit  in  their 
own  mad  dash  for  "freedom." 


T>ONI  &  LIVERIGHT'S  spring  list 
-L*  looks  good.  They  will  bring  out 
THE  DARK  FREIGHT  by  Vera 
Hutchinson,  whose  brother  wrote  IF 
WINTER  COMES;  THE  MAD 
PROFESSOR,  by  Herman  Suderman, 
author  of  THE  SONG  OF  SONGS; 
A  NEW  TESTAMENT,  by  Sher- 
wood Anderson  (how  many  iron  pianos 
has  that  man  worn  out  in  the  past  two 
years?)  ;  Gertrude  Atherton's  THE 
IMMORTAL  MARRIAGE;  KIT 
O'BRIEN,  from  Edgar  Lee  Masters, 
and  a  number  of  others. 


T^HE  outstanding  spring  novels  to  be 
*•  published  by  The  Century  Company 
include,  besides  Percy  Marks'  LORD 
OF  HIMSELF  which  came  out  in 
January,  BROTHER  SAUL  by  Donn 
Byrne  (to  be  published  April  15) ; 
BLACK  BUTTERFLIES  by  Eliza- 
beth Jordan  (published  March  18; , 


The  Clean-Up 

IN  this  column  each  month  will  be 
listed  books  which  have  come  in  and 
are  not  in  the  monthly  review.  This  is 
to  enable  our  readers  to  keep  up  with 
the  publications  of  the  book  companies 
as  the  copies  come  to  our  desk. 

ECHO  ANSWERS.  By  Elswythe 
Thane.  Stokes.  $2.00. 

THIS  novel  has  not  yet  appeared   in 
any  periodical  which  in  itself  is  un- 
usual.  It  is  a  story  of  "what  might  have 
been"  built  on  a  background  of  adven- 
turous love  and  gallant  friendship. 

DEW  AND  MILDEW.  By  Percival 
Christopher  Wren.  Stokes.  $2.00. 

YES,  of  course  we  remember  Major 
Wren  and  his  story,  Beau  Geste, 
and  remembering  will  read  this  last, 
which  by  the  way  is  a  bit  of  former 
writing.  It  is  a  story  of  army  life  in 
India  but  much  of  its  popularity  will 
be  based  on  the  former  success  of  Major 
Wren's  novels. 

CORSON  OF  THE  JC.  Clarence  E. 
Mulford.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
$2.00. 

THIS  is  another  tale  of  the  old  West, 
put  out  in  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
fashion.  Bob  Carson  grew  up  in  the 
saddle,  knew  men,  could  meet  situations 
as  they  came,  but  he  was  baffled  when 
it  came  to  finding  the  murderer  of  his 
father.  .  .  .  What  he  did,  how  he  did 
it,  the  characters  he  meets  and  knows 
are  of  the  old  West  .  .  .  and  there  is 
a  bit  of  love  in  each  of  us  for  the  old 
West. 

WAITING.  By  Maude  Farman  Kemp- 
ster.  Harold  Vinal.  $2.00. 

IN    glancing    over   this   book   we   find 
nothing  unusual  in  it  except  the  dar- 
ing of  the  writer  to  master  the  tools  of 
a  story  teller. 

A  CHECQUER  BOARD.  By  Robert 
Clay.  Lippincott.  $2,000. 

THIS   is   a  story  of   Pirates   and   the 
romance  of  the  early  sea.     It  is  de- 
lightful in  its  unfoldment. 

HULA.      By    Armine    von    Tempski. 

Stokes.   $2.00. 

HPHIS  is  a  story  of  Hawaii,  the  author 
-•-    is  a  San  Franciscan. 

THE  MANCHU  CLOUD.  James 
W.  Bennett.  Duffield.  $2.00. 

THE  DELECTABLE  MOUNT- 
AINS. Struthers  Burt.  Scribners. 
$2.00. 


Poets  Who  Contribute 
to 

THE  GREENWICH 
VILLAGE  QUILL 

Lucia  Trent 

Ralph  Cheyney 

Harold  Vlnal 

Robin  Christopher 

Ernest  Hartsock 

Gordon  T^awrence 

Thomas  Del  Vecchio 

Charles  A.  Wagner 

Challiss  Silvay 

Ellen  M.  Carroll 

Sonia  Ruthele  Novak 

Stanton  A.  Coblentz 

S.  Bert  Cooksley 

Mary  Carolyn  Davies 

E.  Leslie  Spaulding 

Clement  Wood 

Howard  McKinley  Corning 

Louis  Ginsberg 

A.  M.  Sullivan 

Henry  Morton  Robinson 

Emanuel  Elsenberg 

•Tacques    Le    Clercq 

Ronald    Walker    Barr 

Molly  Anderson  Haley 

Irene  Stewart 

Mary  Atwater  Taylor 

THE  GREENWICH 
VILLAGE  QUILL 

Edited  by  Henry  Harrison 

A  Distinguished  Literary  and  Art 
Magazine 

featuring   the    emotional    drawings    of 
Charles  Cullen 

25  cents  a  copy — $3  a  year 
76  Elton  Street      Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 


GOODBYE 
TIGHT    BELTS 


Men  here's  a  new  patent 
device  for  holding  the 
flaps  of  a  shirt  together 
in  front ;  besides  holding 
your  shirt  and  trousers  correctly  In 
place.  It  is  just  the  thing  for  summer 
when  coats  are  off  and  a  clean,  cool 
and  neatly  fitting  shirt  waist  effect  is 
most  desirable.  Holds  with  a  bull-dog 
grip  which  can't  harm  the  sheerest 
silk.  For  dancers,  golfers  and  neat 
dressers.  Start  right.  Order  today. 

Gold  PI.    4   on  card  $1.00 
The  Sta-on  Co.,  Dept.  K.,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


160 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


May,  1927 


HOTEL 

MAMK 

HOPKINS 

San  Francuco 


San  Francisco 's  neweSt  hotel  revives  the  hospitality 
of  "Days  of  fyld  and  bids  you  -welcome  now! 

ONLY  a  moment  from  theatres  and  shops,  yet  aloft  in 
the  serene  quiet  of  NobHill.<rSrnartlyfurnishedguesT:- 
rooms,  single  or  en  suite  . .  .  and  beneath  the  towering 
Structure,  a  garage,  reached  by  hotel  elevator.  Cuisine 
by  the  famous  Viflor.  S  Destined  to  take  its  place  among 
the  noted  hotels  of  the  world,  the  Mark  Hopkins  is  an 
unexcelled  Stopping-place  for  travelers. 

GEO.  D.  SMITH  fns.  &  Managiag^Direffor  §  WILL  P.  TAYLOR  "Resititnt  Mgr. 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

C/£?HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


STATEMENT  OF  THE  OWNERSHIP,  MAN- 
AGEMENT,   CIRCULATION,   ETC.,    RE- 
QUIRED   BY    THE    ACT    OF    CON- 
GRESS   OF    AUG.    24,    1912 

Of   Overland   Monthly   and   Out   West   Maga- 
zine,   Consolidated,    published    monthly    at 
San    Francisco,    Calif.,    for    April    1,    1927. 
State  of  California,  County  of  San  Francisco, 
ss. 

Before  me,  a  Notary  Public  in  and  for 
the  state  and  county  aforesaid,  personally 
appeared  Mabel  Boggess-Moffltt,  who,  hav- 
ing been  duly  sworn  according  to  law,  de- 
poses and  says  that  she  is  the  secretary- 
treasurer  of  the  Overland  Monthly  and  Out 
West  Magazine  Consolidated,  and  that  the 
following:  is,  to  the  best  of  her  knowledge 
and  belief,  a  true  statement  of  the  owner- 
ship, management  (and  if  a  daily  paper,  the 
circulation),  etc.,  of  the  aforesaid  publica- 
tion for  the  date  shown  in  the  above  cap- 
tion, required  by  the  Act  of  August  24, 
1912,  embodied  In  section  411,  Postal  Laws 
and  Regulations,  printed  on  the  reverse  of 
this  form,  to  wit: 

1.  That  the  names  and   addresses  of  the 
publisher,  editor,  managing  editor,  and  busi- 
ness managers  are: 

Publisher,  Overland  Monthly  and  Out  West 
Magazine,  Consolidated,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Editor,  B.  Virginia  Lee,  San  Francisco, 
Cal. 

Managing  editor,  none. 

Business  manager,  Mabel  Boggess-Moffitt, 
San  Francisco,  Cal. 

2.  That    the   owner   is:     (if   owned   by   a 
corporation,    its   name   and   address   must   be 
stated  and   also   immediately  thereunder  the 
names  and  addresses  of  stockholders  owning 
or    holding    one    per    cent    or    more    of    total 
amount  of  stock.    If  not  owned  by  a  corpor- 
ation,  the  names  and  addresses  of  the  indi- 
vidual  owners  must  be   given.    If  owned   by 
a    firm,    company,    or    other    unincorporated 
concern.    Its   name   and   address,    as   well    as 
those    of   each   individual    member,    must    be 
given). 

Overland  Monthly  and  Out  West  Maga- 
zine, Consolidated,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

James  F.  Chamberlain,  Pasadena,  Cal. 

Mabel   Moffltt,   San  Francisco,   Cal. 

Virginia  Lee,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 

Arthur  H.  Chamberlain,  San  Francisco, 
Cal. 

3.  That  the  known   bondholders,   mortga- 
gees,   and    other    security   holders   owning   or 
holding   1   per  cent  or  more  of  total   amount 
of  bonds,  mortgages,  or  other  securities  are: 
(If  there  are  none,   so  state).     None. 

4.  That   the  two  paragraphs   next  above, 
giving  the   names  of  the   owners,   stockhold- 
ers,   and    security    holders,    if    any,    contain 
not  only  the  list  of  stockholders  and  security 
holders   as   they   appear   upon    the    books   of 
the    company   but   also,    in    cases   where    the 
stockholder  or  security  holder  appears  upon 
the  books  of  the   company  as  trustee  or   in 
any    other    fiduciary    relation,    the    name    of 
the    person    or    corporation    for    whom    such 
trustee    is    acting,    is    given ;    also    that    the 
said  two  paragraphs  contain  statements  em- 
bracing affiant's  full  knowledge  and  belief  as 
to    the    circumstances    and    conditions    under 
which  stockholders  and  security  holders  who 
do   not   appear  upon    the    books   of  the    com- 
pany  as  trustees,    hold    stock   and   securities 
in  a  capacity  other  than  that  of  a  bona  fide 
owner ;    and    this    affiant    has    no    reason    to 
believe    that    any    other    person,    association, 
or    corporation    has    any    interest    direct    or 
indirect    in    the   said    stock,    bonds,    or   other 
securities  than  as   so  stated  by  him. 

5.  That  the  average  number  of  copies  of 
each    issue    of    this   publication    sold    or    dis- 
tributed,   through   the   mails  or  otherwise,   to 
paid   subscribers  during  the   six  months  pre- 
ceding the  date   shown  above  is    (this  infor- 
mation   is    required    from    daily    publications 
only). 

MABEL   BOGGESS-MOFFITT, 

Business   Manager. 

Sworn  to  and  subscribed  before  me  this" 
25th  day  of  March,  1927. 

GEORGE  W.   LEE, 

Court  Commissioner  of  the  City  and  County 
of  San  Francisco,  State  of  California 
(Life). 


You  drive  to  Seaclijff^  Park  through 
Santa  Crux  or  Wattonvtlte,  turning  off 
the  State  Highway  about  ll/i  milet  east 
oj  Capitola,  where  the  tignt  read  "Sea- 
dig  Park,  Aptot  Beach  and  the  Pali- 
tattet." 


EACLIFF_PARK- 

ofj^ealUif^ 

)/  V_^>          «-/ 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family — but  the 
fact  that  Seacliff  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Reality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  Seacliff  Park  property 
is  wise. 


QThese  are  summer-like 
days  at  Aptos  Beach — warm,  lazy 
breakers  with  joamy  crests  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
tcu  tiling  ojf  to  the  shore  in  a  wild 
conjusion  oj  effervescent  bub" 
hies,  while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward Jor  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

Of  ending  the  construction  oj  per- 
manent buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

KDrive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  free. 

((Free  transportation,  ij  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  Seaclijj  Park 
OJjiee  upon  arrival.  G^Ask  Jor 
Registration  Clerk. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  thefact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetual  char  m 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.  Seacliff  Park  resi- 
dents know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park  —  Riviera  of  the 
Pacific  now  emerges  in  reality. 


VNEIJ  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF   COMPANY,  APTO'S,  CALIFORNIA 


sen-  upon  request 


AT  APT  OS,  CALIFORNIA. 


GAYLORD  WILSHIRE 
Inventor  of  the  I-ON-A-CO 

/^AYLORD IVILSHIRE  is  the  founder  of  the  famous 
^-*  Wilshire  District  in  Los  Angeles,  beautiful  Wilshire 
Boulevard  was  named  after  him.  He  is  considered  one  of 
the  foremost  authorities  on  economics  in  America  today. 

His  circle  of  acquaintances  includes  such  names  as  William  Morris, 
Ambassador  Bryce,  H.  G.  Wells,  Havelock  Ellis,  and  Bernard  Sharw. 
His  latest  achievement  is  the  invention  of  the  I-ON-A-CO,  based  upon 
the  recent  discovery  of  Professor  Otto  Warburg,  the  noted  German  biolo- 
gist. His  invention  seems  destined  to  revolutionize  medical  science. 


Wilshiresl~ON~A~co 


I 


JUN2    1927 


QMMfi 

FOUNDED  BY  BRET  HARIE  IN  186  S 


Vol.  LXXXV 


JUNE,  1927 


No.  6 


PRICE  25  CENTS 

AND  O  UT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


VltVQINIA  L 


Communication  for  a  Growinp-  Nation 


Advertisement  of 
the  American  Telephone  and  ^Telegraph  Company 


THE  first  telephone  call 
was  made  from  one  room 
to  another  in  the  same 
building.  The  first  advance  in 
telephony  made  possible  conver- 
sations from  one  point  to  another 
in  the  same  town  or  community. 
The  dream  of  the  founders  of  the 
Bell  Telephone  System,  however, 
was  that  through  it,  all  the  sepa- 
rate communities  might  some 
day  be  interconnected  to  form  a 
nation-wide  community. 

Such  a  community  for  speech 
by  telephone  has  now  become  a 
reality  and  the  year-by-year 
growth  in  the  number  of  long 
distance  telephone  calls  shows 
how  rapidly  it  is  developing. 
This  super-neighborhood,  ex- 
tending from  town  to  town  and 


state  to  state,  has  grown 
as  the  means  of  communi- 
cation have  been  provided 
to  serve  its  business  and  social 
needs. 

This  growth  is  strikingly  shown 
by  the  extension  of  long  distance 
telephone  facilities.  In  1925,  for 
additions  to  the  long  distance  tele- 
phone lines,  there  was  expended 
thirty-seven  million  dollars.  In 
1926  sixty-one  million  dollars. 
During  1927  and  the  three  follow- 
ing years,  extensions  are  planned 
on  a  still  greater  scale,  including 
each  year  about  two  thousand 
miles  of  long  distance  cable. 
These  millions  will  be  expended 
on  long  distance  telephone  lines  to 
meet  the  nation's  growth  and  their 
use  will  help  to  further  growth. 


June,  1927  OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE  161 


D.M.LINNARD  HOTELS,  Inc. 


THE  FAIRMONT,  San  Francisco 

Elegant  -  Distinctive  -  Refined 

On  Nob  Hill  -  Splendid  View  of  City  and  Bay 

THE  WHITCOMB,  San  Francisco 

Opposite  the  Civic  Center 

Enlarged  -  Excellent  Service  -  Deservedly  Popular 

THE  HUNTINGTON,  Pasadena 

The  World's  Most  Magnificent  Hotel  -  Open  All  the  Year 

Flowers  -  Fruit  -  Sunshine 

Golf  -  Tennis  -  Swimming  -  Motoring  -  Riding 

THE  SAMARKAND,  Santa  Barbara 

Splendid  Persian  Hotel 

Beautiful  -  Restful  -  Charming  -  Cuisine  Excellent  -  Service  Perfect 

EL  ENCANTO,  Santa  Barbara 

Hotel  and  Cottages  -  Marvelous  View  Valley  and  Ocean 
Gardens  -  Flowers  -  Comfort 

TAHOE  TAVERN,  Lake  Tahoe,  California 

"The  Lake  of  the  Sky"  -  Open  Summer  and  Winter 
Boating  -  Fishing  -  Hunting  -  Camping  -  Tramping 
Pleasing  Entertainments  -  Summer  and  Winter  Sports 
Special  Entertainment  for  Children 
Pullman  Sleeping  Cars  Direct  to  Tahoe  Tavern 

HOTEL  WINTHROP,  Tacoma,  Washington 

Two-Million-Dollar  Hotel,  Opened  1925  -  Thirteen  Stories  of  Solid  Comfort 

Convention  and  Tourists'  Headquarters 

Tacoma  is  the  Gateway  to  the  Rainier  National  Park 


162 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


IT'S  difficult  to  recall  a  prize  being 
given  in  this  country  recently  for 
published  work.  Many  skillful  young 
literati  have  captured  golden  plums  for 
prose  and  leaden  quinces  for  poetry  in 
its  embryonic  state,  let  us  say,  but  not 
one — so  far  as  we  recall — has  won  any- 
thing for  what  he  or  she  has  published 
over  what  he  or  she  was  paid  for  it 
originally  (if  paid). 

So  we  call  your  attention  to  the  Poetry 
Contest,  arranged  by  Overland  directly 
in  the  heels  of  its  most  recent  Fiction 
Contest.  We  beg  of  you  to  notice  some- 
thing tacked  in  the  rules,  or  whatever 
they  call  the  clauses  of  a  poetry  contest, 
that  we  believe  exceptionally  cunning. 
For  one  thing,  the  prizes  generously 
made  possible  through  Senator  Phelan 
will  prove  once  and  for  all  just  how 
much  California  contributes  to  the  maga- 
zine world  at  large — as  well  as  the 
worth  of  that  contribution.  The  sonnet 
and  lyric  winning  first  prize  in  the  sec- 
ond group  will  be  selected  from  material 
already  published.  It  doesn't  particu- 
larly matter  where  it  was  published,  of 
course,  but  it  will  have  had  to  be  pub- 
lished. And  when  all  the  shouting  is 
over,  Overland  will  have  a  more  or  less 
complete  idea  of  just  what  California 
has  done  for  the  modern  poetry  nation. 
Overland  will  be  able  to  advise  a  wait- 
ing public  whether  or  not  Colonel 
Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood  was  correct 
in  his  recent  assertion,  after  an  all- 
country  travel,  that  poetry  is  a  drug  on 
the  market. 

We've  known  for  a  good  many  years, 
let  it  be  said,  that  verse  was  a  damnable 
drug  on  the  market.  That  the  everlast- 
ing reams  of  poetic  jargon  and  rhymed 
assininity  cluttering  up  an  editor's  office 
was  more  than  a  drug  on  the  market. 
But  we  strenuously  doubt  poetry  is  a 
drug.  If  it  is,  the  fault  lies  with  the 
editor's  inability  to  discriminate  between 
the  Eddie  Guest  pap  and  Edna  Millay's 
"King's  Henchman." 

The  Poetry  Contest  will  be  open  to 
California  poets  exclusively.  But  we  sus- 
pect that  admirable  gang  of  New  York 
Muse-Wooers  who  stampeded  through 
Sterling's  "Continent's  End"  will  be 
entering  their  volumes,  magazines,  etc. 
If  they  read  this  gossip,  let  them  be 
advised  to  permit  those  living  in  Cali- 
fornia at  present  to  contribute.  True, 
California  has  at  one  time  or  another 
fostered  and  fed  the  nation's  greatest 
poets;  but  some  of  these  haughty  fellows 


have  gone  thither.  They  are  no  longer 
present.  And,  in  that  they  have  trans- 
ferred affections — let  them  transfer  in- 
come as  well.  In  the  exquisitely  simple 
English  of  the  poor,  dear  doughboys,  this 
contest  is  for  California  Poets. 

Overland  has  been,  as  usual  (forgive 
us  that  sophism),  fortunate  in  soliciting 
the  energy  and  intelligence  of  critics 
whose  weight  is  prominent  nationally. 
Dr.  Henry  Meade  Bland,  Raymond 
Barry  and  Dr.  Lionel  Stevenson  will 
officiate.  Where  could  three  finer  schol- 
ars be  grouped  together?  And  all  in 
all,  where  but  in  California  could  there 
be  discovered  and  set  to  action  a  contest 
as  liberal  ?  We  expect  many  published 
and  unpublished  poems.  It  will  be  neces- 
sary, certainly,  to  enclose  return  postage 
and  covering  for  all  manuscript  the 
author  wishes  returned  in  case  of  rejec- 
tion. And  it  will  be  well  to  remember 
we  do  not  care  whether  a  poet  has  pub- 
lished or  not.  His  or  her  work  will  be 
welcomed  and  given  the  respect  worth- 
while poetry  deserves. 

And  for  those  editors  scattered 
throughout  the  country  who  conduct,  at 
the  expense  of  limitless  love  and  little 
money,  poetry  journals,  there  will  be  rep- 
resentation if  that  editor  cares  to  deliver 
this  office  a  list  of  the  California  poetry 
he  or  she  has  published  in  the  past  twelve 
months.  We  are  inclined  to  believe  that 
California  has  furnished  forty  per  cent 
of  the  country's  poetry  during  1926-27. 
This  contest  will  prove  it — or  at  least 
prove  the  Western  product,  being  poetry, 
cannot  be  a  drug  on  any  market.  See 
rules,  page  187. 


ITEMS  of  interest  to  be  considered  in 
our  columns  next  month  include : 

The  Fur  Seal,  an  article  by  David 
Starr  Jordan,  will  be  of  unusual  interest. 
Dr.  Jordan  leaves  nothing  undiscussed 
after  he  is  through  with  his  subject.  We 
are  convinced. 

Courting  Nature  is  something  of  great 
value,  written  for  Overland  Monthly  by 
Dr.  J.  D.  DeShazer.  Dr.  DeShazer 
knows  of  what  he  writes.  He  has  just 
returned  from  an  extensive  trip  into  the 
northern  part  of  Alaska.  Chauncey 
Pratt  Williams  again  gives  us  one  of 
his  biographies,  this  time  being  of  that 
pioneer  Ezekiel  Williams.  Dr.  Henry 
Meade  Bland  is  irresistible  in  his  sum- 
mary of  Poets  of  the  Past.  Then  there 


is  an  article  titled  An  American  Athens. 
a  story  of  New  Orleans  and  the  trip 
from  San  Francisco,  made  recently  over 
the  Southern  Pacific  Railroad  by  the 
editor  of  Overland.  Aline  Kistler  dis- 
cusses Douglass  Fraser's  murals  which 
have  so  recently  been  hung  in-  the  lobby 
of  the  Bohemian  Club.  We  will  also 
have  another  impressionistic  article  by 
Madame  Castelein  arranged  into  Eng- 
lish by  Anne  DeLartigue  Kennedy. 
There  will  of  course  be  our  short  stories, 
of  Overland's  standard,  and  there  will 
be  excellent  poetry  and  art  articles. 
Order  your  copy  now  or  send  in  your 
subscription  at  once  for  the  next  twelve 
issues. 


WITH  red-hot  editorials  thundering 
down  the  columns  of  the  press, 
with  Harry  Carr's  ray  descending  upon 
us,  we  are  reminded  of  San  Francisco's 
lamentable  selfishness  .  .  .  and  in  length 
the  unforgivable  sin  of  allowing  Carey 
McWilliams  space  in  the  oldest  maga- 
zine of  the  West  for  his  article  on  Los 
Angeles.  With  apology  to  Mr.  Carr  we 
quote  a  bit  from  his  splendid  column, 
"San  Francisco  is  a  He-town.  Los  An- 
geles is  a  girl.  But,"  concludes  Mr. 
Carr,  "that  this  girl  is  a  harlot  would 
seem  to  be  an  indication  of  the  type  of 
feminine  playmate  they  are  most  accus- 
tomed to."  It's  fine  bit  of  writing,  too 
good  for  a  newspaper,  and  we  hope 
Edgar  Lloyd  Hampton  will  season  his 
article  with  the  same  sort  of  spice  ..  .  . 
ah,  it  will  be  worthy  of  quotation  over 
the  entire  country  if  he  is  all  of  the 
writer  Rupert  Murray  of  the  Los  An- 
geles Chamber  of  Commerce  says  he  is. 
Both  San  Francisco  and  Los  Angeles 
may  look  forward  for  this  article  with 
the  keenest  of  interest.  Watch  for  the 
publication  date  of  Edgar  Lloyd  Hamp- 
ton's answer  to  Carey  McWilliams  in 
defense  of  Los  Angeles. 


/~\VERLAND  will  have  a  page  of 
^-*  Finance  starting  with  our  July  is- 
sue. We  have  been  most  fortunate  in 
securing  the  services  of  Mrs.  C.  E. 
Bengston  of  the  Geo.  H.  Burr,  Conrad 
&  Broom,  Investment  Bankers  of  San 
Francisco,  to  edit  this  department.  Mrs. 
Bengston  will  answer  questions  on  vari- 
ous stocks  and  bonds  sent  to  her,  care 
of  Overland  Monthly  Magazine. 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET   HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


JUNE,  1927 


NUMBER  6 


EDITORIAL   STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 
CONTRIBUTING   EDITORS 
CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN   KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 

MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


JUNE  CONTRIBUTORS 
IN  BRIEF 

DONALD  GRAY  is  a  new  asset  to 
Overland.  Where  this  young  poet 
comes  from  we  do  not  know.  To  our 
response  for  material  concerning  him- 
self he  is  silent.  His  work  will  speak  for 
itself. 

CARL  W.  GROSS  is  a  writer  of  some 
little  note.    He  has  been  connected 
with  various  magazines  throughout  the 
West  in  connection  with  special  features. 

OUR  poets  are  all  promising.  We  need 
say   no  more.   We   have  given   the 
best    representative    argument    possible, 
work  created  by  them. 

RUTH  BURLINGAME  is  a  resi- 
dent of  San  Francisco.  While  her 
poetry  shows  rare  promise  she  has  not 
done  much  of  it  and  consequently  is  lit- 
tle known.  We  predict  a  future  for  Miss 
Burlingame  with  her  poetry.  George 
Pershing  is  a  chap'  of  twenty-one  years 
who  happens  to  be  serving  his  country 
at  the  present  time.  He  is  stationed 
somewhere  in  the  islands.  Malcom  Pan- 
ton  was  introduced  to  our  readers  last 
month  with  his  article  on  San  Francisco 
art.  He  is  a  writer  of  variety  using  both 
prose  and  poetry  as  his  medium.  We  will 
have  more  of  his  work. 

MRS.  WILLIAM  D'EGILBERT  is 
the  winner  of  the  third  prize  story 
of  the  late  Overland  short-story  contest. 
While  this  is  the  first  published  of  Mrs. 
D'Egilbert's  short  stories,  she  is  deter- 
mined to  keep  up  her  reputation  gained 
by  this  story.  She  is  a  member  of  the 
League  of  American  Pen  Women. 


Contents 


Forester's  Widow  Donald  Gray 


.Frontispiece 


ARTICLES 

Our  Mountain  Carl  W.  Gross 169 

Pacific  Tours Arthur    Bixby 170 

Success  ..       Esther  E.  Thorsell 171 

Dr.  Jordan's  Conference R.  L.  Burgess 174 

What  Is  Your  Name? Gertrude  Mott  175 

Painting  for  Posterity Aline  Kistler  177 

Art  and  the  Installment  Plan Harry  Daniels 186 

STORIES 

When  Witches  Walked Mrs.  William  D'Egi.bert 165 

Villa   (Continued)   Bradley  Tyler  Adams 188 


The  West 


POETRY 
L.  B.  Cullen  Jones. 


.167 


DEPARTMENTS 


.178 


Poetry   Page   

Malcom  Panton,  Ruth  M.  Burlingame,  George  Pershing, 
Louise  Lord  Coleman 

The  Play  Is  the  Thing Curt  Baer  179 

Books  and  Writers Conducted  by  Tom  White 180 

Certain  Other  Books....  ...Tancred  ..  ...182 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative,  George  H.  Myers,  5  South  Waba>h  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

Manuscript    mailed    The    Overland  Monthly   withmit   a   sta/ii/i'd  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 

Entered    as   Second-Class   matter    at   the   postoffice.    San    Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March   3,    1897 

(Contents  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


164 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


Forester's  Widow 

By  DONALD  GRAY 

T  SHALL  not  watch  you  breaking  through  the  thick 
*•     Brush,  swinging  your  great  cane  and  taking 
Brief  care  where  the  fish-spined  ferns  pick 
Their  grave  homes.    Never  again,  waking 
The  sensuous  ants,  shall  I  watch  you  going 
With  long  steps  over  the  trail,  with  a 
Quick  stride  and  sure  grace,  blowing 
Small  clouds  from  your  pipe. 

The  smell  of  hay, 

The  barking  of  a  dog  and  the  whistle  of 
Someone  far  off  sickens  me,  grips  my  heart 
With  savage  fingers — and  the  love 
For  a  memory  tears  my  brain  apart! 


OVERLAND  MONTHS 

"*^T,tO    L 


ana 


OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


RART 

JUN2    1927 

DFCATUR,     ILL. 


When  Witches  Walked 


THE  first  whirr  of  winter  snow 
was  falling  in  the  Cumberland 
Mountains.  Old  Esther  peeked 
out  of  the  cabin  door,  but  quickly  drew 
back  the  kinky  grizzled  head,  dodging 
a  cold  blast  which  blew  past,  scattering 
the  lighter  ashes  of  the  smouldering  fire, 
sending  them  scurrying  across  the 
rough-hewn  floor.  She  poked  the  fire 
and  threw  on  another  back  log,  knowing 
her  "white  chile"  would  soon  be  com- 
ing in,  cold  and  hungry,  with  her  own 
black  Mose  trailing  in  behind  him. 

The  iron  pot  stood  close  to  the  coals. 
The  water  was  boiling.  All  was  in 
readiness  for  a  hot  drink.  The  howling 
of  the  hounds  in  the  kennel  made 
Esther's  heart  flutter;  she  hoped  the 
old  master  was  asleep  and  would  not 
look  out  to  discern  the  commotion. 

"Terrible  enough  for  ole  Mars'  to 
miss  Mars'  Tenny  from  prayers,  leave 
alone  knowin'  he's  out  a  gamblin'  all 
night  with  dat  worthless  fellah.  Ah'll 
lick  dat  ar  Mose  till  Ah  rattle  his  teef 
outen  his  head  when  Ah  gits  mah  han's 
on  him.  He  should  a  knowed  better'n 
dat,  an'  coaxed  Mars'  Tenny  home.  He 
knows  ole  Mars'  caint  have  his  boys  a 
doin'  wrong,  when  he  preaches  to  other 
folks  how  to  keep  dey  souls  white." 

Esther's  master,  the  Rev.  David  Ben- 
nett, was  a  Presbyterian  minister,  of 
Scotch-Irish  descent.  His  two  sons, 
Tennessee  and  Godfrey,  had  not  in- 
herited the  godly  qualities  of  their 
father.  Dancing,  gambling  and  heedless 
carousing,  indulged  in  by  all  young 
southerners  of  their  clique,  interested 
them  more  than  gospel  lessons.  This 
Saturday  night,  the  last  in  October, 
found  two  missing  from  the  Bennett 
flock  when  the  evening  prayers  were 
read,  even  though  they  had  waited  long 
for  the  miscreants. 

"Mis  "Liz'beth,"  the  mother,  watched 
anxiously,  but  she  had  long  since  learned 
to  suffer  in  silence. 

The  latch  clicked.  Scuffling  feet  kick- 
ing off  the  snow,  dogs  jumping  against 
the  door,  announced  the  coming  of  the 
prodigal.  The  door  opened  cautiously 
and  Tenessee  wriggled  in  through  the 
crack,  his  long,  slender  body  slinking 


By  Mrs.  William  De'Elgibert 

Third  Prize  Story  of  Frona  Wait 
Colburn  Prize  Contest 

through  the  darkness.  Snow  glistened  in 
his  black  hair.  A  furtive  glance  of  in- 
quiry came  from  the  hazel  gray  eyes. 
The  youthful,  laughing  mouth,  shad- 
owed by  the  attempt  of  a  mustache, 
broadened  when  he  beheld  the  bewil- 
dered look  on  Esther's  face,  in  the  flick- 
ering of  the  firelight. 

"Lordy!  Mars'  Tenny!  War'  yo' 
clothes?  No  wondah  yo'  wait  till  dis 
hour  ob  de  night  to  come  home  a  stalk- 
ing through  de  snow,  bare  foot  in  nuffin' 
but  yo'  undah  wear!  Lordy  Mighty, 
yo'  shure  disgrace  us  all  dis  time!  Ter- 
rible enuff!" 

Tenn  hung  his  head.  He  realized 
what  a  blow  he  had  dealt  convention- 
ality. He  had  played  in  luck;  then  it 
came  to  a  "show  down."  From  trinkets 
and  money,  it  came  to  clothes,  hat  and 
shoes.  His  friend,  Nick  Carter,  had 
won  them  all.  Godfrey  had  gone  home 
ahead  to  take  the  edge  off  the  father's 
wrath  and  get  Tenn's  Sunday  clothes 
out  for  the  Sabbath  morning  meeting. 
He  found  they  had  been  taken  and  hid- 
den by  Rev.  Bennett,  who  knew  that  to 
go  to  church  in  every-day  attire  would 
be  a  great  humiliation  to  Tenn. 

Godfrey  soon  came  to  break  the  news. 
Tenn  realized  that  there  was  only  one 
punishment  his  father  could  deal  out  to 
meet  this  offense,  and  that  was  to  be 
whipped  with  the  negroes  by  the  over- 
seer. His  blood  seemed  to  freeze  and 
he  shuddered.  How  often  he  had  seen 
the  mute  despair  of  those  black  faces, 
and  how  helpless  he  had  been.  Esther 
stroked  his  shining  black  hair  and 
crooned  as  she  had  done  in  his  babyhood 
days. 

"Honey  lam',  don'  you  know  bettern 
bet  all  yo'  got  on  dis  night?  Don'  yo' 
know  dey  is  black  cats  and  hants  every 
whar?  Don'  yo'  'member  dis  is  Haller' 
een  night  and  de  witches  is  all  out  a 
banting  yo',  'cause  ole  Mars'  done  pray 
fo'  yo'  to  be  good  an  yo'  go  out  an  gam- 
ble? Ah  tells  yo',  honey,  dey  ain't  no 


luck  on  dis  night  when  dem  witches 
walk!" 

"You're  right,  Esther.  God  knows 
what  father  will  do!"  The  boy  closed 
his  eyes  and  turned  away  from  the  sym- 
pathizing gaze  of  the  black  mother  who 
understood  him  better  than  the  white 
parents  who  were  responsible  for  his 
being.  Esther  went  over  and  punched 
up  the  straw  mattress.  She  turned  down 
the  covers  and  crept  noiselessly  behind 
the  boy,  reverently  placing  the  toil- 
twisted  hand  upon  his  broad  shoulders. 
She  led  him  tenderly  to  the  only  bed 
the  cabin  afforded. 

"Go  to  sleep,  honey.  Sompens'  goin' 
to  happen.  Ah  caint  have  mah  white 
chile  beat  by  Higgins.  No,  suh.  He 
might  lick  Mose,  but  he  jes'  caint  beat 
my  white  chile.  No,  suh." 

The  tired  body  and  sleep  starved 
brain  of  the  culprit  soon  lapsed  into  ob- 
livion. Disturbed  dreams  came  to  in- 
crease his  restlessness.  The  cabin  door 
clicked,  awakening  him,  and  he  sprang 
from  his  bed  to  meet  Higgins. 

"Get  your  back  all  ready  for  a  good 
tannin"  in  the  mornin',  Master  Ten- 
nessee. Your  father  has  everything  ar- 
ranged," he  sneered  as  he  measured  the 
boy's  height. 

"Tomorrow  is  Sunday  and  my  father 
never  whips  the  slaves  on  the  Sabbath. 
Why  would  he  start  on  a  white  per- 
son?" Tenn  answered  back. 

"Oh,  this  is  different.  This  is  a  public 
whippin'  to  show  these  young  bloods 
they  caint  go  again'  the  preacher's  teach- 
in',  and  you  are  the  'example,'  "  said 
Higgins  with  a  snarl.  'Your  father's  a- 
waitin'  for  yuh,  so  move  along.  Better 
say  your  prayers,  young  man." 

Tennessee  resigned  himself  to  the  fate 
that  was  in  store  for  him.  His  prayers 
were  neglected.  It  would  not  always 
be  Hallowe'en  and  maybe  next  week  he 
could  win  back  all  he  had  lost.  Firmly, 
with  head  erect,  Tenn  marched  in  front 
of  Higgins  to  his  father's  study.  The 
Reverend  Bennett  sat  with  his  open 
Bible  before  him.  Scanning  the  tall 
figure  in  the  linsey  underclothes,  he  said : 

"So  this  is  your  manner  of  dressing 
on  the  Sabbath  day !  Do  you  know  you 


166 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


are  polluting  the  air  of  your  father's 
household?  Have  you  forgotten  the 
Fifth  Commandment?  Go!  Get  out  of 
my  sight.  Go  to  your  room  and  pray. 
I  will  settle  with  you  later.  We  have 
two  runaways,  and  with  you  and  Mose 
we  will  make  a  showing.  We  will 
chastise  you.  We  will  mortify  you  be- 
fore your  Maker.  I  may  have  to  break 
your  body,  but  I  will  save  your  soul. 
You  cannot  live  to  lower  our  family 
pride,  you  worthless  creature.  God's 
curse  is  upon  you.  You,  whom  I  named 
for  the  commonwealth  of  Tennessee,  dis- 
gracing your  state  and  family.  Go !  Get 
out  of  my  sight!" 

Tenn  stood  still  and  white.  The  hazel 
gray  eyes  grew  steely  as  he  looked 
straight  into  David  Bennett's  eyes  and 
said :  "You  may  think  that  whipping 
me  will  save  my  soul.  But,  let  me  warn 
you,  you  are  sending  me  straight  to 
hell."  The  Rev.  Bennett  gasped  and 
thumbed  his  Bible,  while  Tenn  strode 
up  the  broad  staircase  to  his  room. 

When  the  household  was  at  worship, 
Nick  Carter  came  over  with  the  suit, 
trinkets  and  money  and  offered  them 
to  Esther  to  save  his  pal  any  family 
trouble.  With  Esther's  help,  Tenn  es- 
caped and  sped  on  Godfrey's  bay  mare 
toward  the  Missouri  River.  Tennessee 
rode  toward  the  sun.  Across  the  Mason 
and  Dixon  line,  he  left  his  beautiful 
mother  who  painted  cherubs  on  canvas, 
but  knew  not  the  heart  throbs  of  her 
earthly  children.  It  was  good-bye  to  the 
old  plantation  homestead  in  the  foothills 
of  Tennessee.  He  was  headed  toward 
California,  where  gold  was  still  being 
found  and  gamblers  were  numerous.  He 
would  soon  be  far  away  from  the  Bible 
lessons  of  David  Bennett. 

THE  bells  of  the  mission  Sonoma 
rang  softly,  calling  both  Catholic 
and  Protestant  to  note  the  hour.  Ten- 
nessee sat  in  the  adobe  rooming  house 
across  the  way  and  polished  his  new 
high-heeled  boots,  making  ready  for  the 
dance  next  week.  The  tallow  candle 
revealed  the  beruffled  white  shirt  front 
with  its  pointed  collar  lying  on  the  bed 
beside  the  long  skirted  coat  with  velvet 
cuffs  and  trimmings.  Others  in  the  town 
were  preparing  for  the  event  to  be  held 
at  the  Vallejo  Mansion  a  few  nights 
hence.  Three  girls  were  telling  fortunes 
to  the  superstitious  and  to  those  who 
wish  to  believe. 

"Eat  two  raw  eggs  with  a  teaspoonful 
of  salt.  Walk  upstairs  backwards.  Go 
to  bed  without  drinking  water  and  with- 
out speaking.  Whoever  gives  you  a  glass 
of  water  in  your  dreams  will  be  the  one 
you  will  marry,"  prescribed  Ellen,  the 
oldest  of  the  trio. 

"I'll  do  it  and  tell  you  all  about  it  in 
the  morning,"  Bess  MacDonald  laughed 


back,  shaking  a  head  of  brown  curls  and 
flaunting  her  hoopskirts.  "They  have 
declared  war  back  home  and  I  must  get 
married  before  they  draw  on  California 
for  volunteers.  Ellen,  you  and  Tess  are 
older  than  I,  so  you  had  better  be  put- 
ting in  your  bid,  too." 

These  girls  were  all  pupils  of  the 
Way  School  in  Benicia.  Bess  MacDon- 
ald was  an  orphan,  visiting  the  Trow- 
bridge  girls  over  Hallowe'en  vacation. 
Hence  the  practice  of  witchery.  When 
Hiram  MacDonald  left  Missouri  with 
his  baby  girl,  he  appointed  Judge  Trow- 
bridge  her  guardian.  Her  large  estate 
was  properly  handled  by  the  judge,  who 
loved  Bess  as  a  daughter. 

Next  morning  Judge  Trowbridge  was 
greatly  annoyed  while  reading  the  latest 
newspaper  by  the  chattering  of  the  three 
girls,  telling  of  their  dreams  of  the  night 
before.  He  asked  each  one  what  her 
ideal  was  and  nodded  his  head  as  each 
daughter  told,  her  life  partner  must  be 
a  "lawyer,  just  like  dad." 

"Well,  Bess,  what  was  your  knight 
errant  like?"  The  head  of  brown  curls 
hung  low  and  a  flush  crept  over  her 
sweet  girlish  face. 

"He  was  tall  and  handsome,  but  not 
very  aristocratic.  He  was  building  some- 
thing"— Bess  stammered. 

Ellen  and  Tess  laughed  in  derision. 
"Bess,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  would 
marry  a  workman  ?  You,  with  all  your 
money?" 

Bess  rose  excitedly  and  ran  upstairs 
for  her  riding  habit  to  take  her  morn- 
ing jaunt.  The  judge  upbraided  his 
daughters  for  speaking  slightingly  of 
Bess'  dream  knight.  All  three  were  soon 
galloping  down  the  road  toward  the  old 
mission. 

More  than  a  mile  from  town  they 
paused  to  let  the  horses  drink  at  a  trough 
under  a  live  oak  tree.  Idling  while  the 
horses  rested,  they  noticed  a  new  dwell- 
ing, with  all  parts  planed  and  labeled, 
being  put  together. 

"Let  us  go  in  and  inspect  the  new 
house,"  coaxed  Bess.  "This  lumber  has 
been  sent  around  Cape  Horn  to  be  made 
into  a  house  after  the  old  Southern  style. 
Won't  it  be  lovely  to  have  a  house  made 
of  wood  in  contrast  to  these  adobe  things 
we  have  around  here?" 

A  well,  with  a  bright  tin  bucket, 
stood  a  few  yards  from  the  house.  The 
thirst  from  last  night's  adventure  burned 
Bess'  throat.  She  hurried  to  dip  the  cup 
which  hung  upright  on  the  side,  when 
a  tall  young  man  with  a  carpenter's 
apron  stepped  forth  and  rilled  the  tin 
dipper  with  water  and  handed  it  to  her. 

As  Bess  noted  his  delicate  smooth 
hands  and  looked  up  into  the  hazel  eyes, 
she  recognized  the  man  of  her  dream. 
She  hardly  touched  her  lips  to  the  cup, 
but  gasped  a  "Thank  you,"  and  ran 


out  to  her  horse.  Side  saddles  with  short 
stirrups  were  unmountable  without  a 
raised  platform,  or  a  lift,  so  the  hand- 
some young  carpenter  stepped  meekly 
forward,  took  her  foot  in  the  palm  of 
his  hand  and  gently  raised  her  to  her 
seat.  Ellen  and  Tess  witnessed  this 
from  the  cactus  hedge  which  separated 
the  house  from  the  road. 

The  young  man  asked  the  Trow- 
bridge girls  if  he  could  assist  them  to 
mount,  and  just  as  he  had  them  com- 
fortably in  their  saddles,  a  voice  called 
out: 

"Hey  there,  Tenn,  quit  your  lady 
killing  and  get  to  work  here!"  Nick 
Carter,  his  head  on  one  side,  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat  at  the  same  angle,  came 
ambling  out  on  the  stoop  in  a  typical 
gambler's  dress  of  the  time.  All  three 
girls  reined  up  their  steeds  and  started 
rapidly  toward  town. 

A  safe  distance  from  the  new  house, 
and  in  front  of  the  mission  plaza,  the 
sisters  together  asked:  "Who  is  he? 
How  did  he  come  to  help  you  on  your 
horse?" 

"I  don't  know  who  he  is,  but  I  have 
seen  him  before,"  answered  Bess.  But 
she  did  not  explain  that  she  had  seen 
him  only  in  a  feverish  Hallowe'en 
dream,  when  she  was  thirsting  for 
water. 

At  dinner  the  girls  recounted  their 
experience,  and  the  judge  said  the  owner 
of  the  place  was  a  gambler  from  the 
south,  who  was  building  a  resort  after 
the  style  of  his  old  homestead,  and  that 
the  young  man  must  be  an  extra  hand 
hired  to  put  on  the  finishing  touches. 

"Finishing  touches"  was  right.  Tenn 
had  tried  his  luck  in  California  and 
Nick  had  skinned  him  each  time,  as 
naked  as  he  did  in  Tennessee.  Friends 
they  had  always  been,  but  as  to  cards, 
friendship  ceased  and  it  was  a  battle  of 
wits,  with  the  high  cards  always  in 
Nick's  hand. 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  want  your  pay 
so's  to  go  to  the  dance  tonight,  old 
pard?"  bantered  Nick  as  Tenn  stood 
looking  after  the  three  girlish  figures  on 
horseback.  "Know  you  got  cleaned  up 
last  night.  You  make  a  feller  laff, 
sayin'  that  witches  take  your  luck  away, 
jes'  "coz  it's  Hollere'en.  The  good  luck 
Goddess  was  with  me  last  night,  and 
every  night,  for  that  matter.  You  let 
old  Esther  fill  you  up  with  that  nigger 
stuff  back  home  and  after  five  years  a 
knockin'  'round  Californy,  yuh  still 
b'lieve  in  witches.  Who  was  the  piece  of 
calico  you  was  sparkin'  up  to?" 

"I   don't  know  who  the  young  lady 
was.    Did  you  see  how  pretty  she  was,    j 
and  how  much  better  she  rode  than  the 
other  two?"    Tenn  flushed  after  his  ad- 
miring remark. 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


167 


"Aw,  let  up  yer  romancfn'.  Yuh  git 
to  preachin"  jes'  like  that  ole  man  a 
yourn.  That  gal  is  one  of  them  F.  F. 
V's  o'  Californy.  She's  old  Jedge  T row- 
bridge's  gal.  She  won't  never  look  at  a 
poo'  broke  down  gambler  that  has  to 
carpenter  to  git  enuff  to  eat."  Nick 
laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  it  all. 

"Mebbe  she  would  teach  me  some  of 
the  education  my  father  tried  to  beat 
into  my  fool  head.  Mebbe  I  could  learn 
more  than  being  a  pasteboard  shuffler 
and  a  nail  driver  for  you.  I  might  get 
to  be  a  real  sheriff,  instead  of  doing  an 
occasional  man  hunt  for  Sam  Brockman. 
Besides,  you  don't  have  to  pay  me  for 
the  little  work  I  have  done  for  you, 
Nick.  Sam  Brockman  will  see  that  I 
guard  the  folks  at  the  dance  and  I'll  get 
expenses  out  of  it  and  get  to  see  the 
young  lady  again."  With  that  he  slipped 
off  the  apron,  with  its  hammer,  rule  and 
nails,  hung  it  on  the  arm  of  a  cactus, 
and  slowly  followed  the  riders  into 
Sonoma. 

When  Tenn  reached  the  adobe  room- 
ing house,  he  stopped  to  read  the  latest 
newspaper,  then  took  it  to  his  room,  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  old  maid,  who 
had  never  seen  him  pick  up  a  piece  of 
printed  matter  since  he  came  there. 
Upon  reaching  his  room,  he  snatched 
the  bootjack  and  pulled  on  the  much 
polished  new  boots,  musing  the  while: 

"You're  pretty  snug,  bootsy.  I'll  have 
to  limber  you  up,  because  we're  going 
to  a  dance  tonight.  Remember,  we're 
going  to  dance  with  the  prettiest  girl 
there,  and  if  the  judge  does  look  me 
over,  we  will  be  in  legal  capacity." 

SILK  dresses  swished,  bracelets  jingled 
and  fans  and  white  teeth  flashed, 
while  dancing  feet  responded  to  the  fid- 
dle and  guitar  of  the  Spanish  musicians 
at  the  Vallejo  hacienda.  The  lights 
from  the  windows  shone  for  many  miles 
on  flat  tide  lands  around.  Tennessee 
•  watched  for  the  carriage  of  Judge 
Trowbridge.  One  of  his  duties  was  to 
guard  the  official  family.  He  scanned 
each  slight  figure,  under  its  lace  man- 
tilla, but  none  resembled  the  girl  he 
had  seen  at  the  well  in  the  morning. 

The  opening  quadrille  started  with 
marked  time  and  clicking  heels.  Whirl- 
ing in  the  arms  of  a  Spanish  grandee, 
speaking  his  language  softly,  and  smil- 
ing her  delight,  was  Bess.  Tenn  strode 
back  and  forth  on  the  veranda,  smoking 
and  pondering.  Who  was  she?  Could 
she  speak  English,  aside  from  saying 
"thank  you"?  That  was  all  he  could 
say  in  Spanish.  He  waited  for  an  intro- 
duction. She  vanished  like  a  phantom 
when  he  tried  to  find  her. 

A  commotion  outside  drew  Tenn's 
attention.  Two  peon  servants  were 
struggling,  and  a  knife  whizzed  through 


the  air.  It  missed  Tenn's  shoulder,  but 
pinned  the  flounces  of  Bess'  much  be- 
ruffied  dress  to  the  carved  wooden  pillar 
leading  up  to  the  balcony.  He  sprang 
forward  to  extricate  her,  grasping  this 
opportunity.  She  bowed  acknowledg- 
ment, and  was  recovering  from  her  sur- 
prise when  the  judge  came  up. 

"I  am  acting  for  Sheriff  Brockman," 
Tenn  faltered,  as  he  pulled  the  knife 
blade  out  of  the  wood. 

"If  you  are  acting  for  the  sheriff,  why 
don't  you  arrest  those  two  greasers  fight- 
ing out  there  instead  of  playing  maid 
to  my  ward?"  blurted  the  judge. 

This  was  quietly  done,  then  Tenn  re- 
turned to  meet  the  girl  and  claim  a 
dance. 

They  danced.  Neither  spoke,  for  each 
was  afraid  the  other  would  hear  the 
heart  beats  if  they  spoke. 

As  the  judge's  carriage  drove  back 
over  the  hills  to  Sonoma,  a  lone  horse- 


THE  WEST 

I  AM  the  root  of  sagebrush  old — 
The  spirit  that  the  frontiers  mold ; 
I  am  the  trail  where  first  there  trod 
Adventurers — the  earth  to  rob; 
I  am  the  desert  alkali — 
Those  blistered  plains  these  dead  passed 

by; 

I  am  the  pine  o'er  tepee  tent, 
The  buttonsage  and  cedar  bent. 

I  am  the  "west"  as  yet  unborn — 
That  mystery  of  yester  morn ; 
I  am  that  spirit  chained  today 
To  sordid  wealth  and  man's  decay. 

— L.  B.  CULLEN  JONES. 


man  rode  a  few  yards  behind.  Leaving 
his  mount  under  the  huge  cypress  trees, 
he  waited  until  the  lights  in  the  upstairs 
window  had  gone  out.  Under  the  stars, 
Tennessee  made  a  resolution,  and  Bess 
MacDonald  was  the  matrix  of  his 
thought. 

At  ten  the  next  morning  Bess  rode 
out  alone.  Ellen  and  Tess  had  not  re- 
covered from  the  late  hour  of  the  dance. 
At  the  plaza  was  the  cavalier  of  the 
night  before,  who  quickly  swung  into 
the  saddle  and  galloped  along  behind 
the  blue  velvet  figure.  He  was  soon 
pacing  alongside  of  the  rider. 

They  spoke,  and  then  rode  on  miles 
and  miles.  When  Bess  came  home,  her 
usually  pale  cheeks  were  flushed,  and 
she  said  little.  Next  morning  a  tall 
visitor  strode  into  Judge  Trowbridge's 
office  and  asked  for  the  hand  of  his 
ward.  The  impertinence  of  it  staggered 
the  judge,  but  he  managed  to  ask,  "Who 
are  you  to  ask  for  this  young  woman's 
hand  in  marriage?  Have  you  means  to 


support    her?     What   is    your   business, 
sir?" 

"I  am  acting  as  under  sheriff  for  Sam 
Brockman,"  answered  Tennessee.  1 
haven't  any  money,  and  very  little  edu- 
cation. I'm  a  southerner,  your  honor, 
and  we  Bennetts  don't  take  a  back  seat 
for  anybody,  as  far  as  our  family  is  con- 
cerned. I  know  a  thoroughbred  when  I 
see  one  ,and  that  is  why  I  want  to  marry 
Bess  MacDonald." 

Judge  Trowbridge  teetered  in  his 
swivel  chair.  "Like  all  southerners,  you 
are  proud  of  your  family.  You  are 
honest  enough  to  say  you  have  no  money. 
I  am  responsible  for  my  ward's  welfare, 
and  I  must  tell  you,  I  cannot  let  her 
marry  you.  God  knows,  she  might  do 
worse.  She  is  young  and  so  are  you. 
The  case  is  decided  against  you.  Good 
day,  sir." 

Tenn  picked  up  his  hat  and  twirled 
it  between  his  fingers.  He  knew  there 
was  no  argument  for  him.  As  he  walked 
out  of  the  office,  he  turned  half  face  to- 
ward the  judge  and  said,  "Yes,  your 
honor,  God  knows,  she  might  do  worse." 

That  night  the  old  maid  at  the  room- 
ing house  was  awakened  to  act  as  wit- 
ness to  an  eloping  pair.  Although  it  was 
nearly  midnight,  she  undid  her  curl 
papers  and  combed  out  her  bangs,  and 
put  on  her  Sunday  best.  Romance 
thrilled  this  spinster,  who  lived  wholly 
in  the  past.  Nick  Carter  came  to  act  as 
best  man,  much  to  the  disgust  of  Bess, 
who  remembered  his  uncouth  remarks 
on  the  morning  she  had  first  seen  him 
The  dislike  was  returned.  Nick  silently 
bade  farewell  to  his  partner  from  Ten- 
nessee when  the  preacher  had  finished 
the  ceremony. 

When  the  bride  and  groom  mustered 
up  courage  to  face  the  Trowbridge  fam- 
ily and  pick  up  Bess'  belongings,  no  one 
was  home  except  old  Melee,  the  squaw 
who  did  the  housework.  A  note  from 
the  judge  telling  her  of  the  breach  of 
contract  as  her  guardian  was  pinned  to 
the  bureau  scarf.  He  directed  her  to 
call  at  the  postoffice  for  all  her  legal 
papers  and  to  secure  the  services  of  an- 
other lawyer  hereafter.  Bess  left  the 
house  in  blinding  tears.  This  was  her 
first  rebuff.  Friends,  money  and  charm 
of  manner  had  always  paved  her  way, 
but  today  she  looked  upon  a  new  world. 

The  winter  passed  in  making  a  new 
home.  Scarcely  had  they  settled  before 
Melee  came  to  live  with  them.  Tenn's 
cabinet-making  ability  came  in  well,  and 
Bess  made  "hit  and  miss"  rugs  and  all 
the  fancy  work  that  was  used  at  that 
time  to  adorn  the  home.  Home  making 
was  a  joy  to  both  of  them.  Tenn  learned 
to  read  whole  books,  and  to  read  them 
aloud.  Sam  Brockman  kept  him  busy 
with  law  and  order.  His  step  always 
quickened  when  he  passed  the  saloon 


168 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


where  his  friend  Nick  Carter  held  forth. 
Often  when  he  sat  inside  on  cold  Win- 
ter nights  waiting  for  some  word  or 
sight  of  a  criminal,  his  ringers  itched  to 
take  a  hand  and  try  his  luck.  But  he 
had  promised  Bess  not  to  play. 

SPRING  came  and  the  rounding  up 
of  cattle  on  Bess'  estate  took  all  the 
husband's  time.  Vacqueros  came  for  the 
rodeo,  riding  in  from  the  surrounding 
country  with  their  silver-mounted  sad- 
dles and  bridles,  and  heavily  studded 
martingales,  braided  lariats  and  quirts. 
Tenn  was  an  admirable  host.  He  held 
his  own  with  the  native  ropesmen. 
Nothing  was  too  good  for  the  Spaniards 
and  they  all  adored  him.  Bess,  speaking 
their  own  language,  cemented  the  bond 
of  friendship.  Chagrin  often  spread  over 
Tenn's  countenance  when  she  would 
laugh  and  joke  to  them  in  their  native 
tongue,  which  he  could  not  understand. 
Jealousy  often  crowded  out  his  better 
sensibilities. 

In  the  Fall  the  cattle  were  sold.  So 
much  money  heaped  up  in  twenty  dollar 
gold  pieces  bewildered  Tennessee.  Nick 
Carter  was  in  the  saloon  when  the  deal 
was  made. 

"Quite  a  lot  of  money  for  my  parson 
friend  to  have  all  at  one  time,"  ex- 
claimed Nick,  as  he  surveyed  the  pile. 
"Suppose  the  boss  will  give  you  a  little 
for  a  good  time,  won't  she?" 

"Of  course,  she  will,  you  prying  idiot. 
What's  come  over  you,  calling  me  a 
parson?"  laughed  Tenn. 

"You've  got  so  dog  gone  good  since 
you  been  hooked  up  double  that  I 
thought  mebbe  you  had  turned  preacher, 
and  would  scatter  all  that  money  to  the 
heathen,"  winked  Nick  as  he  affection- 
ately put  his  hand  on  Tenn's  shoulder. 

"I  think  I  owe  you  something  from 
the  old  days,  Nick.  How  much  was  it? 
Come,  let's  settle  up." 

"Say,  old  timer,  I  tell  yuh,  let's  draw 
fer  it.  It's  something  like  a -hundred. 
Let's  have  a  little  fun  out  of  it." 

"All  right,  Nick.  Here  goes.  Your 
first  pull."  Tenn  was  his  old  self  again. 
A  game  of  chance  was  like  new  wine 
to  him. 

Nick  drew  the  first  card,  then  Tenn. 
A  burst  of  laughter.  "You  lose,  Nick! 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I've  won 
over  you,"  grinned  Tenn  as  he  picked 
up  the  money.  Letting  the  five  twenties 
slip  jingling  through  his  fingers,  he 
tossed  them  back  to  Nick.  "There,  old 
man,  they  are  yours  anyway,  whether  I 
won  or  not.  We're  square  now.  Must 
go  now.  So  long,"  starting  for  the  door. 

"What,  you  ain't  a  leavin'  jes'  when 
yuh  win?  Give  me  a  chance.  Come, 
take  a  hand  and  we'll  have  some  fun 
out  of  it.  It's  early  and  'mama'  won't 
want  yuh  fer  hours  yet,"  coaxed  Nick. 


Four  or  five  of  the  old  gang  were  there 
to  encourage  the  bout.  Tenn  thought 
a  little  sociable  game  wouldn't  take  long 
and  it  would  be  fun  to  get  back  at  Nick 
on  his  lucky  day. 

Bess,  who  had  been  spending  the  day 
with  friends  up  the  valley,  galloped  to- 
ward her  home,  happy  in  the  knowledge 
that  the  cattle  money  would  be  in  the 
bank  and  their  long  contemplated  trip 
to  San  Francisco  would  soon  be  realized. 
What  beautiful  things  she  would  buy 
for  her  home,  and  for  the  expected  ad- 
dition to  the  family,  which  would  come 
about  holiday  season. 

The  Autumn  night  was  closing  in, 
and  Bess  welcomed  the  lights  of  the 
town  as  the  quick  hoof  beats  drew 
nearer  her  home.  She  was  disappointed 
not  to  find  Tenn  waiting  at  the  hitch- 
ing post  to  lift  her  off  her  horse.  Slip- 
ping down,  unaided,  and  rushing  into 
the  house,  she  found  Melee  squatting 
before  the  fireplace,  kindling  the  evening 
fire.  "Where  is  Mr.  Bennett?"  she 
asked,  breathlessly. 

"No  see  him  all  day,"  drawled  Melee. 

"Get  supper  and  everything  ready, 
Melee,  as  he  will  soon  be  here.  Per- 
haps he  had  to  go  to  Petaluma  to  make 
the  money  transfer,"  excused  Bess. 

"Uugh!"  grunted  the  squaw  as  her 
fat  body  rolled  toward  the  kitchen. 

Supper  remained  uneaten.  The  fire 
burned  low,  and  the  fresh  tallow  can- 
dles sputtered  as  they  melted  down  to 
the  stick.  Bess  went  for  the  hundredth 
time  to  the  door  at  the  approach  of  an 
imaginary  pedestrian.  It  was  midnight. 
"Foul  play,"  whispered  the  walls,  furni- 
ture and  hangings..  Everybody  knew 
they  had  sold  their  cattle  that  day.  At 
last  she  ran  to  Melee's  cabin,  crying, 
"Come,  Melee,  get  up.  I  am  sure  the 
senor  has  been  hurt.  Come  with  me;  we 
must  find  him." 

"Ugh!"  grunted  Melee,  "him  no 
hurt.  Him  having  big  time  Nick  Car- 
ter's place.  Captain  Jack  say  big  game; 
heap  lots  money." 

Bess  stood  like  a  frozen  woman.  Her 
husband  gambling  in  a  public  saloon, 
with  Nick  Carter,  of  all  people. 

Still  attired  in  her  riding  habit,  for- 
getting her  hat,  she  dashed  out  of  the 
house,  walking  rapidly  toward  Nick 
Carter's  saloon.  Men  stared  after  her 
as  she  hurried  up  the  unpaved  street. 
No  decent  woman  would  be  out  unes- 
corted at  this  hour  of  the  night;  why 
did  she  walk  so  fast?  Was  she  a — ? 

Big  candles  with  huge  reflectors  threw 
a  bright  light  on  the  long  bar  that  shone 
with  many  glasses.  The  large  mirror 
behind  it  was  gaily  ornamented.  As  Bess 
approached  the  swinging  doors,  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  many  pairs  of  boots, 
one  of  each  resting  on  a  brass  railing. 
Sawdust  on  the  wooden  floor  deadened 


the  sound  of  clinking  heels  as  she  sped 
through  the  shutter  doors  like  a  swift 
flying  arrow. 

The  strength  of  a  mad  woman  pos- 
sessed her  when  she  saw  Tennessee  at 
the  table  with  three  others.  His  back 
was  turned  toward  her.  Five,  ten  and 
twenty  dollar  gold  pieces  were  stacked 
high  beside  each  player. 

The  feet  that  were  perched  upon  the 
brass  rail  became  glued  to  the  spot.  The 
bartender  stood  transfixed  with  a  bottle 
in  one  hand  and  a  glass  in  the  other. 
The  "hangers  on"  and  patrons  were 
numb  with  surprise.  All  were  paralyzed 
to  see  a  woman  in  the  place. 

Bess  shot  past  them  and  reached  the 
table  where  Tenn  sat.  Eyes  burning, 
she  picked  up  her  voluminous  skirt, 
gathered  it  at  the  hem  with  her  left 
hand,  forming  a  huge  pocket,  and,  going 
to  each  player  at  Tenn's  table,  she 
whisked  the  stakes  of  each  into  her  im- 
provised pouch,  turned,  and,  passed  out 
through  the  doors,  which  were  still 
swinging  from  her  sudden  entrance  a 
few  seconds  before.  The  players  looked 
at  Tennessee  as  they  recognized  his 
wife's  retreating  figure. 

"Well,  old  pard,"  laughed  Nick, 
"we're  cleaned  out.  All  by  a  little 
woman  no  bigger'n  a  grasshopper,  and 
not  a  shot  fired!" 

"It  was  your  money,  Tenn,  so  guess 
it's  all  right,"  said  another. 

"No,  boys,  you're  wrong,"  said  Tenn, 
rising  slowly,  "it  never  was  my  money. 
The  rightful  owner  has  it  now.  Good 
night." 

Every  man  pushed  back  his  chair, 
stretched,  and  yawning,  said,  "So  long," 
and  Nick  Carter's  saloon  was  soon  de- 
serted and  dark. 

Tenn  hurried  after  the  slight  form, 
which  was  faltering  under  the  weight 
of  gold  she  carried.  Fearing  some  ruffian 
might  accost  her,  he  followed,  softly 
calling  her  name.  He  saw  her  stagger. 
Catching  her  as  she  was  about  to  fall 
from  exhaustion,  picking  her  up,  money 
and  all,  he  carried  her  into  the  parlor 
of  their  home  and  deposited  her  upon 
the  center  table. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do,  Bess?" 
he  cried,  as  he  looked  into  her  burning 
eyes. 

"I  intend  to  take  what  I  have  left  and 
go  to  the  mountains,  take  up  land  and 
make  a  home  for  my  baby.  Dr.  Leaven- 
worth  says  I  must  leave  the  valley.  If 
you  can  leave .  Nick  Carter  and  his 
friends,  you  may  come,  too;  but  if  you 
ever  break  your  promise  again  it  will 
kill  me,"  she  gasped. 

"So  help  me  God,  Bess,  if  you'll  let 
me  go  with  you,  I'll  never  touch  another 
card." 

(Continued  on  Page  185) 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


169 


Our  Mountain 


ERECT  YOU   STOOD!      The   Red    Man's 
Nourishing   Breast! 

FOR  CENTURIES  after  Mother 
Earth  raised  you  from  her  depths  to 
heights  above  the  skies,  you  stood 
erect!  And  your  glistening  dome  was 
ever  an  object  of  inspiration  and  beauty. 
From  your  throne  base  and  Elysian  field 
you  have  seen  seedlings  grow  to  immense 
pillars  of  wood,  whose  branches  have 
housed  billions  of  birds'  nests  and  rocked 
to  sleep  innumerable 
baby  birds.  You  have 
seen  those  pillars  made 
into  stools,  into  houses, 
into  ships  and  used  to 
heat  the  bodies  of  the 
pioneers  who  blazed 
trails  to  your  foothills. 
You  have  seen  the  In- 
dian come  and  go.  For 
years  you  were  his  god. 
You  saw  the  Indian 
greet  you  every  morning 
and  salute  you  every 
night.  You  were  his 
"Mother  of  Waters" 
and  because  you  supplied 
the  Indian  with  these 
waters  that  gave  life  to 
all  things  near,  he  called 
you  "Tachoma,"  which 
to  him  meant  "Nourish- 
ing Breast." 

You  saw  the  pioneer 
Indian  and  Caucasian 
blaze  the  trail  on  foot. 
You  saw  the  horrors  of 
Indian  wars,  as  well  as 
the  horrors  of  other 
wars.  You  have  looked 
over  the  Pacific  Ocean 
and  the  heads  of  your  other  proud  sis- 
ters for  centuries  and  have  heard  the 
rumblings  of  this  ocean  farther  back 
than  man  can  imagine.  You  heard  the 
first  shout  of  joy  when  our  first  conti- 
nental railroad  was  greeted  by  your  sub- 
jects and  when  some  Pacific  Coast, 
Trans-Pacific,  Asiatic  and  European 
vessels  made  their  termini  on  Puget 
Sound! 

ERECT   YOU    STAND!     Your   Glistening 
Dome  Still  Rises  Above  the  Clouds! 

WHILE  once  you  saw  only  the  In- 
dian, you   now  see  man   of  every 
race,  religion  and  sect  join  all  nature  in 
paying  tribute  to   you,  because  you  in- 
spire all  with  true  beauty  and  speak  but 


By  Carl  W.  Gross 

one  religion — the  one  of  help,  love  and 
justice — to  all.  You  now  see  cities  where 
once  but  a  few  wigwams  stood.  You  now 
see  man  come  to  you  in  railroads,  motor- 
cars and  airships,  while  once  he  came 
only  by  foot.  You  see  ships  from  every 
section  of  the  world,  bring  all  kinds  of 
merchandise  and  products  to  harbors  that 
not  ong  ago  knew  no  more  excitement 
than  the  diving  of  a  fish.  You  hear  the 


ERECT 
ERECT 
ERECT 


YOU  STOOD!  -  - 
YOU  STAND!  -  - 
YOU  WILL  STAND! 


-  14,408  Feet  Above 

-  14,408  Feet  Above 

-  14,408  Feet  Above 


cry  of  joy  from  those  who  come  to  visit 
you  when  they  step  into  God's  given 
garden,  of  which  you  are  the  king. 

You  still  see  the  snow  that  slides 
down  your  banks  run  into  rivers,  wild 
and  gentle,  large  and  small ;  into  water- 
falls and  streams  that  keep  God's  garden 
green  and  that  nourish  the  fields  of  man 
so  that  he  may  grow  grains,  vegetables, 
fruits  and  berries,  and  raise  cattle.  You 
see  also  these  falls  and  streams,  you 
bring  into  being,  supply  man  with  water 
that  is  the  envy  of  the  world.  You  see 
these  waters  light  homes  and  turn  the 
wheels  of  giant  industries.  In  the  sum- 
mer, these  waters  you  have  fathered,  and 
the  colossal  trees  you  have  helped  to 
grow,  send  to  the  Puget  Sound  country 


cooling  breezes,  while  in  the  winter  your 
majestic  self  protects  many  from  cold 
winds  and  thunderstorms.  In  the  day- 
time you  play  with  man  in  God's  gar- 
den and  in  the  night  you  stand  as  a  sen- 
tinel, guarding  him  from  wrong!  Since 
you  and  the  garden,  of  which  you  are 
monarch,  are  a  glorification  to  man,  man 
calls  that  garden  "Paradise  Valley." 

ERECT   YOU    WILL    STAND!     A    Monu- 
ment to  the  Wonderful  Works  of  Nature. 

FOR  MANY  hundred 
thousands  of  years  to 
come  you  will  be  an  in- 
spiration to  man  and 
your  glistening  dome 
will  ever  rise  majestic- 
ally above  the  clouds. 
Man  and  nature  will 
continue  to  bow  to  you, 
and  the  Sun  will  as  ever, 
after  traveling  over  the 
entire  world,  nestle 
close  to  you  when  the 
time  comes  for  her  to 
set. 

You  will  in  the  future 
see  manufactured  thous- 
ands of  new  inventions 
for  the  benefit  of  man, 
due  to  the  electricity 
your  waters  generate. 
You  will  see  arise  the 
world's  strongest  race. 
One  that  will  place  hu- 
manity above  all  else.  A 
race  that  will  build  bet- 
ter cities.  Cities  in  which 
all  may  live  in  comfort, 
in  health  and  in  which 
the  populace  may  better 
develop  itself  and  not  be  huddled  to- 
gether like  Egyptian  mummies.  This 
race  will  do  away  with  murderous  wars. 
It  \vill  appreciate  health,  science,  art, 
all  religions  and  will  know  how  to  and 
will  use  wealth  for  the  benefit  of  all. 
You  will  see  everything  improve.  All 
this  will  partly  be  so  because  your  noble- 
ness inspires  all  to  act  better  and  your 
presence  helps  maintain  a  climate  in 
which  it  is  easier  to  carry  on  high  ideals. 
Some  may  call  you  Mt.  Tacoma. 
Others  Mt.  Rainier.  But  whatever  you 
are  called,  those  who  know  you,  know 
you  are  Our  Mountain,  the  mountain 
for  us  all.  For  in  all  our  joys  you 
smile  with  us  and  in  our  sorrows  you 
console  us! 


Sea  Level 
Sea  Level 
Sea  Level 


170 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY    and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


Pacific  Tours 


STUDENT  tours  on  the  Pacific  as 
well  as  the  Atlantic! 
For  the  first  time  in  the  history 
of  Pacific  passenger  travel,  an  organized 
campaign,  sponsored  by  the  Matson- 
Oceanic  Lines  of  San  Francisco,  is  now 
well  under  way,  having  for  its  object 
the  promotion  of  educational  tours  for 
students  and  teachers  of  the  mainland 
United  States  to  the  Hawaiian  Islands, 
Uncle  Sam's  mid-Pacific  outpost  2091 
miles  southwest  of  San  Francisco. 

Towne  Nylander,  the  man  who  or- 
ganized the  first  student  tours  to  Europe 
for  the  United  States  Lines,  and  who 
is  now  on  leave  of  absence  from  the 
faculty  of  Princeton  University  where 
he  is  a  lecturer  on  finance,  is  now  visit- 
ing the  leading  schools,  colleges  and  uni- 
versities of  the  mainland  United  States 
and  is  appointing  student  agents  to  sell 
the  tours.  Mr.  Nylander  is  visiting  al- 
most every  state  in  the  union  and  is 
pointing  out  the  advantages  of  a  vaca- 
tion in  the  Hawaiian  Islands,  Territory 
of  Hawaii,  U.  S.  A. 

This  campaign  to  sell  student  tours 
on  the  Pacific  to  Honolulu,  Kilauea  Vol- 
cano and  Hawaii  National  Park  is  being 
backed  by  The  Hon.  Wallace  R.  Far- 
rington,  governor  of  Hawaii ;  The  Hon. 
Charles  N.  Arnold,  mayor  of  Honolulu; 
David  L.  Crawford,  president  of  the 
University  of  Hawaii;  George  T.  Armi- 
tage,  executive  secretary  of  the  Hawaii 
Tourist  Bureau;  E.  B.  Clark,  secretary 
of  the  Honolulu  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce, and  other  civic  and  educational 
organizations  of  Honolulu. 

In  addition  to  the  scenic  attractions 
of  Hawaii,  students  and  teachers  sailing 
on  these  tours  this  summer  will  have 
the  opportunity  of  attending,  if  they  de- 
sire, the  summer  session  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Hawaii,  situated  in  beautiful 


By  Arthur  Bixby 

Manoa,  The  Valley  of  Rainbows,  Hono- 
lulu's most  aristocratic  residential  sec- 
tion. The  university  affords  to  those  en- 
rolling for  the  summer  session,  July  5 
to  August  2,  an  exceptional  opportunity 
to  study  the  marine  life,  geology,  and 
racial  characteristics  of  Hawaii,  whose 
many  races  have  given  to  the  islands 
the  sobriquet  "Melting  Pot  of  the  Pa- 
cific." 

Student  tours  on  the  Atlantic  provide 
for  third-class  accommodations  but  ow- 
ing to  the  different  standards  of  travel 
to  Hawaii  the  Matson-Oceanic  Ha- 
waiian Educational  Tours  give  every 
passenger  first  -  class  accommodations, 
meals  and  entertainment.  In  Honolulu 
the  students  and  teachers  may  stay  either 
at  the  leading  tourist  hotels  of  Waikiki 
Beach,  or  in  student  dormitories  on  the 
University  of  Hawaii  campus  in  beau- 
tiful Manoa  Valley.  By  paying  a 
slightly  higher  rate  it  will  be  possible  for 
the  tourists  to  stay  at  the  splendid  new 
$3,500,000  Royal  Hawaiian  Hotel  at 
Waikiki  Beach.  This  palatial  new  resort, 
a  coral  pink  castle  in  a  cocoanut  grove, 
has  400  rooms,  all  with  private  bath  and 
has  its  own  eighteen-hole  golf  course, 
designed  by  the  late  Seth  J.  Raynor,  one 
of  America's  foremost  golf  architects, 
and  embodying  the  best  features  of  lead- 
ing courses  in  America  and  Europe. 

From  an  educational  standpoint  these 
summer  tours  to  Hawaii  are  important. 
The  University  of  Hawaii  summer 
school  faculty  will  include  Dr.  W.  W. 
Kemp,  dean  of  the  School  of  Education, 
University  of  California;  Dr.  William 
A.  Smith  of  the  University  of  California, 
southern  branch,  Los  Angeles;  Prof.  S. 
D.  Porteus,  author  of  "Temperament 
and  Race,"  "The  Porteous  Maze  Test," 


who  is  an  authority  on  racial  psychology 
and  mental  testing;  Dr.  K.  C.  Leebrick, 
director  of  the  Riverside  (California) 
Institute  of  International  Relations; 
Towne  Nylander,  formerly  of  the  De- 
partment of  Economics,  Princeton  Uni- 
versity; Madame  Anna  von  Balzer 
Dahl,  former  head  of  the  Vienna  School 
of  Costume  and  Design,  San  Francisco, 
and  others. 

An  ocean  voyage  of  two  hundred  miles 
from  Honolulu  to  Hilo,  Kilauea  Vol- 
cano, and  Hawaii  National  Park  is  in- 
cluded in  the  tours.  The  volcano  region 
is  of  tremendous  interest  to  all  students 
of  geology  and  volcanology  as  it  shows 
how  the  Hawaiian  Islands  were  built 
up  from  beneath  the  sea  by  volcanic 
forces  thousands  of  years  ago.  Kilauea 
is  the  only  active  volcano  on  the  islands 
and  is  reached  by  a  motor  drive  of  thirty 
miles  through  sugar  plantations  and  tree 
fern  forests  to  the  Volcano  House,  over- 
looking the  crater  three  miles  away.  The 
trail  over  the  lava  fields  leading  to  the 
firepit  is  one  of  the  weirdest  in  the 
world,  also  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in 
the  variety  of  scenery  viewed  in  an 
hour's  walk. 

Summer  is  the  time  of  times  to  visit 
the  Hawaiian  Islands.  There  is  rarely 
a  day  warmer  than  80  degrees,  owing 
to  the  northeast  trade  winds.  Flowering 
trees  cover  the  streets  with  pink  and 
gold.  Delicious  sub-tropic  fruits  ripen — 
pineapples,  papayas,  mangoes,  guavas, 
bananas.  Hawaii  is  still  a  place  of  senti- 
ment, of  emotion,  of  the  poetry  of  magic 
nights;  islands  where  life  is  restful  and 
people  say  aloha  instead  of  good-bye. 
Students  and  teachers  visiting  the  Rain- 
bow Isles  of  the  Pacific  this  summer  will 
return  with  a  hundred  happy  memories 
and  a  new  fund  of  knowledge  and 
strength. 


June,  1921 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


171 


Success 


Walnut  tree  70  years  old 

IT  WAS  over  seventy  years  ago  that 
a  youth  of  twenty  back  in  Germany 
was  dreaming  his  dreams  of  adven- 
ture, travel,  achievement,  and,  most  of 
all,  a  great  and  wonderful  freedom.  At 
last,  bearing  the  heartaches  of  severed 
home  ties,  he  sailed  for  America.  But, 
reaching  'New  York,  he  was  still  unsat- 
isfied. 

He  sailed  again,  southward,  to  the 
isthmus,  across  it  by  land,  then  north- 
ward. He  reached  the  gold  fields  of 
California  and  stopped.  But  not  yet  had 
he  found  his  ideal.  On  to  the  north  he 
went  till  he  reached  the  still  waters  of 
Puget  Sound,  and  there  his  seafaring 
ended. 

Amid  the  deep  stillness  of  the  primeval 
forest  he  dropped  down  the  little  Cow- 
litz  river,  now  teeming  with  the  life  of 
an  enormous  lumbering  industry,  and 
thus  he  reached  the  castled  banks  of  the 
Columbia.  Crossing  this  wondrous 
stream,  he  made  his  way  to  the  settle- 
ment of  Portland,  and  his  travels  were 
over. 

Back  home  he  had  learned  the  baker's 
trade.  He  worked  at  this  and  saved 
his  money  until  he  was  able  to  realize 
one  of  his  cherished  objects  of  his 
dreams — to  own  land.  Sixteen  miles 
from  Portland,  where  the  rolling  prairie 
met  forests  of  gigantic  fir  and  cedar,  he 
obtained  land  from  the  government. 

AN  EARLY  ACHIEVEMENT 
In  a  little  clapboard  schoolhouse  built 
in  the  clearing  of  the  forest,  a  small  boy 


By  Esther  E.  Thorsell 

started  his  career.  He  sat  on  a  split  fir 
log.  His  feet  swung  and  dangled,  and 
his  legs  grew,  oh,  so  tired !  for  they  were 
too  short  to  reach  the  floor.  And  his 
slate  wobbled  about  on  his  lap  as  he 
laboriously  copied  his  name  which  the 
teacher  had  written  on  the  blackboard. 

At  last  it  was  done  —  "Ferdinand 
Groner."  He  viewed  it  with  satisfac- 
tion. He  would  write  it  again,  but — 
the  slate  was  small,  and  the  name  so 
long!  It  had  taken  two  whole  lines  for 
"Ferdinand"  and  one  for  "Groner." 
There  was  no  room.  He  frowned — why 
waste  so  much  space  on  a  name !  He 
could  write  it  at  least  twice  if  it  were 
shorter! 

That  evening  there  was  more  labori- 
ous writing,  and  consultation  with  the 
parents,  with  the  result  that  the  next 
day  "Ferd  Groner"  was  written  across 
the  little  slate  three  times  with  ample 
room  for  another. 

The  handicap  of  the  abbreviated  legs 
was  also  overcome  in  due  time,  for,  like 
the  giant  firs  about  him,  he  grew  to 
great  physical  proportions. 

So  that  it  was  a  man  of  some  such 
size  and  appearance  as  Abraham  Lin- 
coln, and  expressing  similar  force  of 
character,  that  I  saw,  standing  beside  his 
wife,  the  day  I  interviewed  Ferd 
Groner,  pioneer  walnut  grower  of  the 
Northwest. 

We  were  in  the  cheerful  sun  parlor 
of  their  country  home,  the  homestead 
left  by  the  father.  Built  almost  fifty 
years  ago  from  virgin  firs  and  cedars, 
the  house  still  stands,  a  splendid  land- 
mark overlooking  a  picturesque  pano- 
rama of  wooded  hills  and  rolling  fields. 
It  is  located  near  the  village  of  Scholls, 
the  Scholls  Ferry  of  pioneer  days. 

A  SMASHER  OF  PRECEDENTS 
Before  Mr.  Groner  arrived,  on  the 
day  of  my  interview,  Mrs.  Groner  hu- 
morously told  a  story  of  her  husband's 
youth  which  graphically  illustrates  the 
character  of  the  man  as  shown  by  his 
later  life: 

"My  husband  was  twenty-five,  and 
six  feet  two  inches  tall,  when  he  decided 
to  attend  college.  A  few  days  after  he 
arrived  at  the  State  University,  a  strip- 
ling of  eighteen  called  and  officiously 
reminded  him  that  he  had  not  performed 
certain  duties  demanded  by  the  upper- 
class  students — referring  to  the  hazing 


in  vogue  then,  and  that  he  would  be 
required  to  fall  into  line  with  the  rest. 

"But  the  'giant'  didn't  obey,  so  a  few 
days  later  a  body  of  seventeen  students 
called  and  gave  him  their  ultimatum : 
he  would  obey  orders  and  observe  prece- 
dents or  they  would  put  him  into  the 
river  to  soak  until  some  of  the  stiffness 
was  taken  out  of  him. 

"Ferd  told  them  where  they  could  go 
with  their  orders  and  precedents,"  she 
went  on,  laughingly,  "although  he 
rather  expected  to  be  put  into  the  river. 
But  time  went  on  and  nothing  hap- 
pened. At  last,  five  months  later,  one 
of  the  boys,  in  talking  with  him,  said : 

"  'Groner,  you  remember  that  iron 
weight  down  by  the  railroad  station  used 
to  hitch  horses  to?'  Yes,  he  remembered; 
it  weighed  sixty-two  and  a  half  pounds. 
'Well,'  said  the  boy,  'the  day  you  came 
to  town  some  of  us  saw  you  pick  it  up 
with  one  hand  and  hold  it  out,  this  way 
(arm's  length),  so  when  we  were  talk- 
ing about  you,  I  reminded  them  of  it 
and  told  them  if  they  had  any  sense  to 
let  you  alone;  that  you  weren't  merely 
a  giant  but  a  regular  Samson.'  And 
they  took  his  advice,"  finished  Mrs. 
Groner,  lightly. 

Ferd  Groner  belongs  to  the  class  that 
seems  born  to  smash  precedents  and 
walk  over  time-honored  conventions. 
Such  a  character  is  always  more  or  less 
disconcerting,  and  such  a  man  will  have 
battles  to  fight. 

ENGLISH  WALNUTS  IN  NORTHWEST 

"People  not  acquainted  with  the 
Northwest  are  surprised  when  told  that 
English  walnuts  grow  so  far  north; 
Portland  is  farther  north  than  Minne- 
apolis or  Quebec,"  I  ventured. 

Mr.  Groner  nodded.  "And  the  wal- 
nut district  extends  as  far  north  as 
Tacoma,  which  is  about  the  same  lati- 
tude as  Montreal,"  he  said.  "I  doubt 
if  anywhere  in  the  world  walnuts  do 
better  than  in  certain  parts  of  the  Pacific 
Northwest.  The  foothill  country  be- 
tween the  Cascade  and  coast  mountains, 
from  the  southern  end  of  Puget  Sound 
to  the  southern  counties  of  Oregon,  is 
ideally  adapted  to  their  growth." 

"And  the  industry  is  comparatively  in 
its  infancy,"  said  Groner;  "but  there 
are  at  present  about  10,000  acres  of 
walnut  orchards.  And  every  year  brings 
a  greater  demand  for  the  right  kind  of 
trees  than  can  be  supplied.  The  Fran- 
quette,  a  French  variety,  is  best  adapted 


172 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


to  the  Northwest.  It  contains  a  higher 
percentage  of  fat  and  a  somewhat  lower 
percentage  of  sugar  than  the  varieties 
usually  grown  in  California." 

"Since  it  is  generally  conceded  that 
Mr.  Groner  has  'done  more  to  advance 
this  industry  in  the  Northwest  than  any 
other  man,  I  asked  him  what  he  con- 
sidered his  greatest  service  in  that  direc- 
tion. 

"My  work  in  the  interest  of  grafted 
trees,"  was  his  reply.  "Twenty-five  years 
ago  grafted  trees  were  almost  as  scarce 
as  the  proverbial  hen's  teeth.  You  see, 
ordinary  methods  of  grafting  did  not 
succeed  with  the  walnut,  and  no  one 
either  in  America  or  any  other  country 
had  been  able  to  graft  with  any  cer- 
tainty of  success.  It  seemed  largely 
chance  whether  the  graft  grew  or  not, 
with  the  chance  usually  against  it,  so 
that  practically  all  trees  grown  in  a 
commercial  way  were  seedlings. 

"That  was  the  situation  when  I  began 
to  study  it  twenty-two  years  ago.  After 
trying  every  variety  I  could  find  in  this 
country  and  finding  none  of  them  satis- 
factory, I  imported  eight  hundred  seed- 
lings from  France.  But  in  the  course  of 
a  year  I  saw  that  they  were  no  better. 
They  were  extremely  irregular  in  their 
habits ;  some  began  leafing  out  in  March, 
some  not  till  July.  They  were  equally 
irregular  in  bearing  and  ripening.  More 
and  more  the  conviction  was  forced  upon 
me  that  we  could  never  get  the  results 
we  ought  to  have  from  seedlings." 

"No  one  grows  seedling  fruit  trees," 
I  commented ;  "everyone  recognizes  the 
superiority  of  a  grafted  tree.  Is  the  dif- 
ference just  as  great  in  the  case  of  wal- 
nuts?" 

"Just  as  great.  A  seedling  is  a  seed- 
ling; you  never  can  tell  what  it's  going 
to  be  till  it  commences  to  bear.  The 
tree  may  be  like  the  seed  planted  or  it 
may  be  entirely  different.  It  may  bear 
abundantly  or  very  poorly.  The  result 
is  irregularity,  uncertainty,  inferior  qual- 
ity. Besides,  in  this  climate  the  trees 
leafing  out  too  early  were  endangered 
by  spring  frosts.  All  this  involved  losses 
that  would  be  eliminated  by  grafting. 
"I  was  sure  that  on  the  same  acreage 
we  could  realize  twice  as  much  from 
grafted  trees  as  from  seedlings,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  superiority  of  the  nuts." 
My  mind  reverted  to  the  small  boy 
with  dangling  feet,  who  was  sure  he 
could  write  his  name  at  least  twice  if 
it  weren't  so  long.  "Another  instance 
of  the  boy  being  father  of  the  man,"  I 
thought. 

"And  so,  with  characteristic  pig- 
headedness,"  Mr.  Groner  went  on  jocu- 
larly, "I  refused  to  abide  by  the  gen- 
eral decision  that  walnuts  couldn't  be 
grafted." 


REVOLUTIONIZING  AN  INDUSTRY 

"The  year  of  the  San  Francisco 
earthquake  I  went  to  California  to  study 
varieties  of  walnuts  and  possibilities  of 
grafting.  After  six  weeks  I  came  back 
feeling  that  my  search  had  been  repaid. 
George  C.  Payne,  then  employed  in  the 
Burbank  nurseries,  had  done  much  ex- 
perimenting in  that  line  and  was  ap- 
parently finding  something  worth  while. 

"After  investigation  I  had  faith  in 
his  ability  and  believed  that  with  his 
assistance  I  could  put  walnut  grafting 
on  a  practical  basis.  I  induced  him  to 
come  to  Oregon  the  next  Spring.  My 
first  concern  was  to  grow  scion-wood 
for  grafting.  For  this  purpose  we  top- 
grafted  black  walnut  trees  from  seven 
to  eighteen  years  old,  and  in  three  days 
we  had  top-worked  seventy-five  trees." 

"For  weal  or  for  woe!"  interpolated 
Mrs.  Groner.  "When  people  heard  that 
Mr.  Groner  had  brought  a  man  from 
California  to  work  on  walnuts,  and 
learned  what  it  was  costing  him,  they 
called  him  crazy,  foolhardy,  and  all 
sorts  of  nice  names.  One  good  old  man 
who  had  been  a  friend  of  Father 
Groner's  told  me  confidentially  that  Ferd 
had  best  be  taken  in  hand  and  his  mind 
examined  before  he  should  run  through 
with  all  we  had.  I  think  he  honestly 
had  visions  of  us  dying  at  the  poor- 
house,  my  husband  deranged  over  wal- 
nuts!" 


"Nutty,  in  other  words?"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"Nutty  seemed  to  be  the  general 
opinion." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  continued  Mr. 
Groner,  "experience  has  been  a  dear 
teacher  to  me,  as  to  others.  One  lesson 
cost  me  at  least  twenty  thousand  dollars 
in  extra  labor  and  loss  of  crops ;  and  I 
think  it  took  about  five  years  from  my 
natural  span  of  life,  as  well  as  from  my 
wife's.  But  it  seemed  to  be  the  only 
way  to  learn. 

"As  the  services  of  an  expert  like  Mr. 
Payne,  together  with  his  traveling  ex- 
penses, came  high,  it  naturally  seemed 
foolhardy  to  those  who  did  not  have  the 
same  confidence  in  the  outcome  that  I 
had.  But  I've  often  said  since  that  he 
was  the  cheapest  man  I  ever  employed, 
for  the  venture  proved  a  success;  the 
practicability  of  walnut  grafting  was 
established. 

"So  far  as  I  know,  George  C.  Payne 
was  the  first  man  in  the  world  to  undo 
this  troublesome  little  knot  Nature  had 
tied." 

"It  would  seem  that  you  had  a  part 
in  it,  too,"  I  said. 

"My  part  was  that  of  propagating 
and  disseminating  the  knowledge  and 
skill  of  another,"  summed  up  Mr. 
Groner. 

It  was  twenty  years  ago  that  this  ex- 
perimentation took  place.  Today  a 


Ferd  Groner  and  his  three-year-old  -walnut  grove 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


173 


stranger  driving  over  the  foothill  coun- 
try of  the  Willamette  valley  in  the 
Spring  of  the  year  is  struck  by  the  sight 
of  field  after  field  of  what  appears  to 
be  miniature  white  tents.  Upon  inquir- 
ing he  learns  that  the  fields  are  walnut 
nurseries,  and  the  "tents"  being  in- 
verted paper  bags  which  protect  the 
newly  grafted  trees. 

"I  suppose  all  these  fields  represent 
your  nursery,  Mr.  Groner?"  I  inquired. 
"They  represent  a  number  of  nur- 
series besides  mine,"  he  answered. 
"Many  of  the  farmers  and  fruit  growers 
have  taken  up  walnuts  either  exclusively 
or  as  a  side  line.  This  year  a  man  over 
here,"  mentioning  a  Scandinavian  name, 
"started  with  five  thousand  trees  which 
he  grafted,  with  his  wife  as  his  only 
helper." 

"And  so  people  are  now  profiting  by 
your  'foolhardiness.'  It  is  evident  that 
you  haven't  monopolized  the  industry." 
Mrs.  Groner  beat  him  to  a  reply: 
"Recently  a  man  said  to  me,  'Mrs. 
Groner,  long  before  I  knew  your  hus- 
band, I  had  a  great  desire  to  meet  him.' 
I  asked  why,  and  he  said,  'Well,  it  was 
this  way:  Groner  had  the  only  nursery 
of  grafted  walnut  trees  in  the  North- 
west, and  grafting  was  an  unknown  art 
to  the  rest  of  us.  So  when  I  used  to  see 
him  at  conventions,  doing  his  best  to 
show  us  exactly  how  it  was  done,  I 
thought  to  myself,  'There's  a  big  man, 
and  one  whom  I  should  like  to  know.'  " 
As  she  finished  speaking,  her  husband 
observed  with  a  dismissing  wave  of  the 
hand,  "Whatever  I  know  that  can  bene- 
fit another,  he's  welcome  to." 

THE  BOXING  BOUT 

This  man  seems  to  have  gone  through 
life  without  learning  how  to  give  up. 
According  to  the  following  incident,  he 
knew  no  more  about  it  in  youth  than  in 
later  life : 

"Because  of  my  size,  I  suppose,  a 
champion  boxer  of  some  little  note 
challenged  me  to  try  my  strength  on 
him.  I  never  had  engaged  in  that  sort 
of  thing  before,  but  still  I  boxed — and 
was  knocked  out.  After  that  I  couldn't 
rest  till  I  came  back  at  the  fellow.  I 
did  come  back  and  made  good.  But  I 
had  to  pay  the  price,  and  in  advance,  I 
trained  systematically  for  eight  months. 
It  was  my  last  and  only  experience  in 
boxing." 

"Staying  or  not  staying  beaten — after 
all,  isn't  that  the  difference  between 
success  or  failure  all  through  life?"  I 
observed. 

"It  depends  on  what  one  is  beaten 
at — whether  the  victory  is  worth  the 
price.  But  sometimes  these  youthful 
combats,  worth  nothing  in  themselves, 
develop  moral  stamina  for  the  real  bat- 
tles of  life.  That  would  have  to  be  the 


justification    for   my   boxing   bout,"    he 
concluded  reminiscently. 

Ferd  Groner's  strenuous  fight  to  es- 
tablish the  grafted  walnut  tree  in  the 
Northwest  is  known  wherever  he  is 
known.  When  I  asked  him  what  forces 
were  on  his  side  in  the  struggle,  he  said: 
"But  my  greatest  asset  was  my  wife. 
She  was,  and  is,  as  great  an  enthusiast 
as  I  am,  and  when  it  comes  to  con- 
vincing folks,  she  can  outtalk  me  any 
day." 

As  he  mentioned  various  obstacles 
which  he  had  met  in  his  efforts  to  estab- 
lish the  industry  on  a  new  basis,  I  re- 
marked : 

"It  was  the  world-old  story  of  op- 
position to  change  in  the  established 
order.  You  proposed  a  change  and 
established  business  challenged  you  to 
put  it  across — it  sems  to  have  been  your 
boyhood  combats  over  again,  the  school 
hazing,  the  boxing." 

"Yes,  although  it  took  years,  where 
in  boyhood  it  had  taken  weeks  or 
months." 

"But  you  consider  it  was  worth  the 
price?  You  achieved  your  aim?" 

"Yes."  (To  both  questions.)  "Prac- 
tically all  trees  planted  in  a  large  way 
now  are  grafted  stock." 

CAUSALITY  BUMP  AND  CONSERVATION' 

Questioning  Mr.  Groner  as  to 
whether  he  owed  his  achievements  to 
any  one  factor  more  than  to  others,  I 
complacently  settled  the  answer  in  my 
own  mind, — persistence,  or  hard  work, 
or  vision,  perhaps  courage — so  it  was 
with  the  sense  of  receiving  a  jolt  that  I 
heard  him  say,  decisively,  "Yes.  To  a 
prominent  causality  bump." 

Almost  in  the  same  breath  Mrs. 
Groner  said:  "His  mother  —  well,  it 
amounts  to  the  same  thing;  it  was  from 
her  he  inherited  his  causality  bump,  as 
well  as  his  force  of  character.  Basical- 
ly," she  went  on,  "Ferd  Groner  is  more 
engrossed  in  conservation  than  any  other 
thing.  It's  his  life  theme ;  conservation 
of  land,  power,  life,  labor — everything. 
That  is  why  a  few  years  ago  he  spent 
days  and  nights  without  end  working 
on  machines  to  improve  the  methods  of 
handling  walnuts, — washing,  drying  and 
grading."  (I  learned  that  he  had  in- 
vented and  put  into  practical  use  im- 
proved machinery  for  this  purpose.) 

"A  number  of  years  ago  he  became  in- 
terested in  saving  the  und  rained  land  in 
this  vicinity  which  resulted  in  the  tile 
works,"  pointing  to  the  factory  which 
was  operating  near,  now  under  other 
ownership. 

"In  our  long  drives"  (the  Groners 
travel  much,  both  at  home  and  abroad) 
"Mr.  Groner  never  fails  to  'entertain' 
me  by  pointing  out  how  waste  might 
be  eliminated.  In  a  single  day  he  some- 
times re-establishes  on  a  more  econom- 


ical basis  everything  we  see,  from  the 
farmers'  chicken  coops  to  the  city's 
manufacturing  plants. 

"His  abhorrence  of  tobacco" -— she 
talked  on  vivaciously — "I  can  trace  that 
to  his  zeal  for  conservation ;  tobacco  dis- 
sipates human  power,  so  he  hates  it  in 
all  its  forms." 

"But  what  part  does  the  causality 
bump  play  in  conservation?"  I  queried. 

"Locating  the  cause  of  the  waste," 
from  Mr.  Groner. 

"And  what  do  you  most  often  find  to 
be  the  cause?" 

"People  are  too  prone  to  follow  in 
the  beaten  paths.  They  find  it  too  much 
trouble  to  think  out  a  better  way." 

"Can  you  suggest  a  remedy?" 

"Well,  I  have  an  idea  that  I  believe 
would  help.  It's  wrapped  up  with  the 
most  valuable  lesson  I  ever  learned  in 
school.  The  teacher  asked  me  for  a 
certain  rule  in  mathematics.  When  I 
gave  it  he  curtly  demanded,  'Why?' 
'Why — it's  the  rule,'  I  told  him.  'But 
why  is  it  the  rule?'  he  insisted,  severely. 
I  found  out  the  reason,  and  ever  since 
I  have  done  a  good  deal  of  probing  into 
the  why  of  things." 

This  led  to  why  he  abandoned  other 
agricultural  pursuits  in  which  he  was 
already  established  to  take  up  that  of 
walnuts. 

"It  had  been  demonstrated,"  he  ex- 
plained, "that  the  moist  climate  of  the 
Pacific  Northwest,  with  its  freedom 
from  extremes  of  heat  and  cold,  was 
ideally  adapted  to  the  English  walnut ; 
this  fact  opened  up  great  possibilities. 
But  the  direct  cause  of  my  making  the 
change  was  the  problem  of  labor.  It  was 
becoming  more  and  more  difficult  to  get 
competent  help  for  general  farming. 
Walnut  growing,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
not  so  vitally  dependent  upon  labor,  ex- 
cept at  the  harvest  season,  and  even  then 
(Continued  on  Page  184) 


174 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


Dr.  Jordan's  Conference 


DAVID  STARR  JORDAN,  chan- 
cellor emeritus  of  Stanford  Uni- 
versity, sits  down  once  a  week  in 
his  living  room  and  talks  for  an  hour 
to  all  who  choose  to  come.  This  is  offi- 
cially called  Dr.  Jordan's  Conference. 
His  nominal  subject  is  announced  in  the 
university  bulletin,  and  characteristic 
titles  are  "Science  and  Sciosophy"  and 
"Why  Freedom  Matters,"  but  the  real 
subject  is  always  David  Starr  Jordan. 
For  as  he  sits  there  in  the  old  willow 
armchair,  massive,  ruminant,  discursive, 
gazing  out  over  the  wide  spaces  he  has 
traversed  in  his  seventy  odd  years,  he 
sees  himself  as  part  of  the  history  of 
liberal  thought,  and  does  not  hesitate  to 
proclaim  himself,  as  in  his  autobiog- 
raphy, a  Minor  Prophet  of  Democracy. 

"Aristotle  and  Lincoln  and  I,"  he 
said  one  evening,  "think  that  .  .  ." 

The  phrase  is  characteristic,  not  only 
of  the  man's  good-humored  bantering 
treatment  of  his  own  pretensions,  but  of 
his  large,  easy-going  consciousness  of 
what  sort  of  world  this  is,  and  of  what 
sort  of  thing  in  it  has  been  done  by  him. 

During  the  Dayton  trial  he  said: 
"Science  stops  where  the  facts  stop,  or 
thereabouts."  The  addition  of  that 
trifling  phrase,  "or  thereabouts,"  marks 
the  difference  between  the  dogmatic 
scientist  and  David  Starr  Jordan.  Noth- 
ing is  absolute  or  narrow  with  him ; 
there  must  be  always  a  loophole  for  good 
humor,  and  relativity,  and  even  for  luck. 

Setting  out  across  the  Pacific  recently 
to  lead  in  the  building  up  of  the  Pan- 
Pacific  Research  Institute  which  is  to 
investigate  problems  of  the  immense 
shoreline  washed  by  the  greatest  of 
oceans,  he  announced  that  his  purpose 
was  to  "go  over,  sit  on  the  veranda,  and 
talk." 


By  R.  L.  Burgess 

His  famous  peace  plan,  for  which  he 
recently  received  an  award  of  $25,000, 
is  in  essence  a  casual  suggestion  that 
people  of  all  races  sit  on  verandas  and 
talk,  better  to  understand  each  other. 
He  himself  has  done  this  all  his  life, 
and  his  talk  to  his  conference  jostles  and 
glitters  with  the  figures  of  the  world's 
great  men  he  knows  and  has  known. 

"I  have  met  everyone  in  the  world," 
he  likes  to  say,  "except  a  few  kings  and 
such  trash." 

He  is  very  personal  in  his  thinking, 
very  first-hand,  preferring  to  get  the 
fact  from  the  man,  not  from  the  man's 
book. 

"I  have  never  been  to  Russia,"  he  told 
the  assemblage  in  his  living  room  one 
evening,  implying  that  therefore  he  could 
not  speak  with  assurance. 

This  personalism,  this  first— handed- 
ness,  is  deeply  his  character.  Agassiz 
taught  him  in  his  youth  that  it  was  best 
not  to  waste  too  much  time  reading 
what  other  men  had  written  about  a 
fish.  Best  "go  ask  the  fish."  He  likes 
to  tell,  too,  how  Agassiz  put  live  grass- 
hoppers in  the  hands  of  prim  school- 
marms  while  he  lectured  on  biology. 
Jordan  is  always  putting  live  grasshop- 
pers in  the  hands  of  those  who  attend 
his  conference,  and  watching  with  de- 
light, back  of  that  huge  impassive  mask 
of  his,  their  shocked  writhings. 

His  style  of  speech  is  discursive,  but 
just  as  you  think  he  is  slipping  into  ram- 
bling garrulity  he  is  back  on  the  main 
track  once  more.  It  is  like  watching  a 
slack  rope  performer. 

He  rarely  prepares  any  address. 

"I  used  to  dig  up  material  and  write 
out  lectures  when  I  was  president  of  the 


University  of  Indiana  in  my  younger 
days,"  he  says,  "but  one  day  it  occurred 
to  me  that  nobody  wanted  to  learn  from 
me  things  I  didn't  know  myself,  so  after 
that  I  just  told  'em  what  I  knew." 

Freedom,  democracy,  peace,  are  words 
constantly  on  his  lips.  He  has  been 
called  the  Apostle  of  the  Obvious,  and 
cheerfully  accepts  the  title. 

"I  tried  to  tell  you  in  a  talk  some 
time  ago  about  why  freedom  matters," 
he  will  say.  "Bear  it  in  mind.  Remem- 
ber that  freedom  and  democracy  and 
peace  are  important,  and  that  nothing 
else,  compared  with  them,  matters." 

At  such  moments  there  creeps  into  his 
talk  a  tone  of  fatherly  admonition.  It 
is  almost  "baby  talk,"  as  one  woman  put 
it  admiringly.  The  veteran  teacher,  ig- 
noring the  adults  already  locked  in  their 
fold,  is  out  on  the  hills  after  some  stray 
lamb  of  a  student,  still  young  enough  to 
be  impressed  by  the  teacher's  tone. 

"The  winds  of  freedom  blow,"  is  the 
motto  he  chose  for  Stanford  Univer- 
sity a  third  of  a  century  ago.  Said  first 
by  Ulrich  Von  Hutton  in  the  days  of 
the  Reformation,  Jordan  has  made  it  his 
own,  for  freedom  matters  immensely  to 
him. 

He  does  not  grow  passionate  in  speak- 
ing for  freedom.  But  he  has  aroused 
passion  at  times  in  his  hearers.  Roose- 
velt, angered  by  his  habit  of  speaking 
up  for  unpopular  peoples,  called  him  "an 
international  Mrs.  Gummidge." 

Jordan  tells  his  conference:  "In 
Baltimore  I  ran  into  some  of  the  young 
hot-bloods  when  I  spoke  there  for  peace 
just  before  the  last  war.  They  went 
about  singing,  'We'll  hang  Dave  Jordan 
on  a  sour  apple  tree.'  But  they  didn't.  I 
never  did  want  to  be  hanged  on  a  sour 
apple  tree." 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


175 


What's  Your  Name? 


THE  interested  or  curious  enquirer 
will  find  much  amusement  and 
enjoyment  in  the  harmony  fre- 
quently found  betwen  the  surname  and 
the  calling  or  characteristics  of  the  one 
who  bears  it;  a  notable  example  is 
"Maude  Makejoy,"  a  dancing  girl  who 
lived  during  the  reign  of  Edward  I. 
Then  more  recently  we  find  Mrs. 
"Lone,"  a  widow;  Mrs.  "Cinnamon," 
who  kept  a  grocery;  "Broadwater 
Bros,"  fishermen  of  Philadelphia;  Mr. 
"Sadler"  of  Australia,  a  harness  maker 
and  Mr.  "Gash,"  a  butcher  of  Dunville. 
These  few  examples  help  to  prove  the 
old  proverb  which  says  "You  have  not 
your  name  for  nothing." 

Were  all  names  as  easily  defined  as 
these,  the  work  of  the  interested  stu- 
dent would  be  simple;  it  is  the  corrup- 
tions of  many  surnames  which  are  so 
puzzling  and  baffling  in  placing  their 
origin  and  derivation.  Who  would  ever 
think  that  "Hepplewhite"  once  was 
"Applethwaite"  ('thwaite,'  forest  land 
cleared  and  converted  to  tillage)  ;  or 
that  the  dignified  and  suffering  "Job" 
should  be  at  last  converted  into 
"Chubb,"  a  fish;  and  "Pasley"  be 
chopped  up  as  "Parsley?" 

There  are  many,  many  such  in- 
stances. These  corruptions  are  simple 
to  understand  for  the  orthography  of 
the  early  Middle  Ages,  when  surnames 
first  made  their  appearance,  was  very 
uncertain.  It  was  indeed  of  infinite  va- 
riety when  applied  to  the  spelling  of 
family  names,  "Mainwaring"  alone  be- 
ing spelled  in  one  hundred  and  one  dif- 
ferent ways,  and  "Shakespeare"  in 
thirty  to  forty  some  centuries  later. 

Another  cause  of  corruption  was 
the  entering  of  the  names  in  the  ancient 
registers  and  deeds  in  Latin  and  Eng- 
lish indiscriminately;  thus  "Smith" 
would  be  "Faber"  or  Faber  Smith." 
These  corruptions  brought  more  and 
more  confusion  as  also  more  and  more 
names  into  use. 

When  William  the  Conqueror  felt 
himself  seated  firmly  upon  the  English 
throne  he  ordered,  in  1086,  a  register 
or  survey  of  the  lands  of  England.  This 
register  was  called  The  Doomsday 
Book  and  gave  a  census-like  descrip- 
tion of  the  realm,  with  the  names  of 
the  proprietors,  the  nature,  extent, 
value  and  liabilities  of  their  properties. 
The  name  "Doomsday"  implied  the  day 
of  judgment,  in  its  reference  to  lands. 


By  Gertrude  Mott 

Then  in  1131  Henry  I  created  the 
Pipe  Rolls  (probably  so  called  because 
of  the  tubular  roll),  the  great,  annual 
rolls,  containing  the  statements  of  the 
accounts  of  the  King's  revenue  and  the 
expenses  of  the  public  treasury.  The  last 
roll  was  made  in  1833.  We  still  have 
the  expression  "to  call  the  roll." 

About  1275,  in  the  reign  of  Edward 
I,  the  Hundred  Rolls  came  to  be;  they 
were  records  made  by  commissioners  to 
inquire  into  abuses  and  frauds  by  which 
the  royal  revenues  were  impaired,  and 
containing  minute  statements  as  to  de- 
mesne lands,  wardships,  hundreds  (Mid- 
dle English  and  Anglo-Saxon  "hund- 
red," a  territorial  division),  wapentakes 
(this  name  had  its  origin  in  a  custom  of 
touching  lances  or  spears,  when  the  hun- 
dreder  or  chief  entered  office;  hence  a 
territorial  division  corresponding  to  the 
"hundred"  and  "ward"  in  many  English 
counties),  tolls,  exportations  of  wool, 
etc. 

These  rolls  show  conclusively  how 
haphazard  a  proceeding  was  the  spelling 
of  a  name  in  those  early  days  when  an 
educated  man,  that  is  one  who  could 
read  and  also  wield  a  pen,  was  indeed 
a  rarity.  So  a  man  with  clerical  ability 
was  soon  put  to  work.  Can  you  not  see 
him  perched  upon  his  stool  before  a  tall 
desk,  his  doublet  thrown  open  at  the 
neck  for  greater  freedom  at  the  arduous 
task,  his  hose-clad  limbs  twined  tightly 
about  the  rungs  of  the  stool,  his  bobbed 
head  (how  history  does  repeat  itself!) 
bent  studiously  over  the  laborious  task 
of  making  the  written  name  correspond 
to  the  more  or  less  puzzling  and  differ- 
ing pronunciation  of  the  rustic  and  the 
townsman,  to  whom  spelling  was  an  en- 
tirely mysterious  and  incomprehensible 
rite. 

With  wrinkled  brow  and  goose  quill 
dipped  desperately  in  the  great  ink  horn, 
he  would  then  enter  the  name  accord- 
ing to  sound;  some  other  "clerk"  or 
"dark"  (from  the  Latin  "clericus";  in 
those  days,  with  but  few  exceptions  it 
was  the  man  of  priestly  education  who 
could  read  and  write)  in  copying  it 
would  mayhap  vary  it  a  bit.  And  so  it 
came  to  be  that  the  man  originally  dub- 
bed "red"  because  of  the  color  of  his 
hair  or  the  very  sunburnt  hue  of  his 
skin,  passed  down  through  the  ensuing 
years  as  "Reed,"  "Read,"  "Reade," 
"Rede"  or  "Reid." 


The  later  English  is  often  the  mere 
translation  of  the  earlier  Celtic  appella- 
tion. The  Norman  invasion  was  not  a 
conquest  of  our  language  but  it  was  of 
our  nomenclature.  The  language  preced- 
ing the  Conquest  is  still  a  basis  of  the 
one  in  common  use  today. 

Of  the  40,000  surnames  in  England, 
the  one  most  frequently  found  in  the 
registers  is  "Smith,"  with  "Jones"  run- 
ning a  close  second,  while  "Williams" 
comes  third. 

ONE  is  much  impressed  by  the  fre- 
quency of  surnames  indicative  of 
personal  characteristics  and  qualities  that 
conjure  up  before  the  imaginative  eye 
a  picture  of  the  man  who  bore  it,  clad 
in  the  picturesque  garb  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  cheerfully  engaged  in  the  laborious 
tasks,  which  in  our  highly  mechanical 
and  labor-lightening  age,  seem  well-nigh 
impossible  of  execution.  So  that  if  we 
find  a  Simon  "Pout,"  how  can  we  blame 
him,  and  how  we  appreciate  Matthew 
"Kindly"  as  an  offset.  Then  we  go  on 
with  the  tale-telling  list,  the  names  ex- 
tant this  day;  "Wealthy"  (Anglo-Saxon, 
'wela,  wealth);  "Fatherly";  "Late" 
(Anglo-Saxon  '1  a  e  t,"  slow,  slack, 
weary) ;  the  poor  chap  dubbed  "Loon" 
was  stupid,  a  dolt  or  a  worthless  lout. 
Surely  it  doesn't  always  pay  to  advertise. 

James  "M  o  o  d,"  "Moodie"  or 
"Moody"  also  flourished  (moody  meant 
gallant,  courageous)  as  did  M  r . 
"Greedy,"  Mr.  "Rant,"  Mr.  "Reason" 
some  think  a  corruption  of  Reeve's  son), 
Mr.  "Anguish"  or  Angwishe"  and  Mr. 
"Silly"  (whence  "Seeley"). 

"Cross,"  "Crosse,"  "Crouch,"  or 
"Cruce"  may  be  drawn  from  a  trait  of 
disposition,  but  more  certainly  from  the 
Latin  'crux'  a  cross.  The  word  was  ap- 
plied in  general,  to  such  crosses  as  stood 
at  the  intersection  of  two  roads,  dedi- 
cated to  some  saint  and  serving  as  a 
guide  post. 

Further  we  find  Peter  "Open"  whose 
candor  is  thus  made  evident.  Ann 
"Sweet"  surely  had  many  swains  at  her 
feet  if  publicly  spoken  of  so  superla- 
tively. "Sweeting"  and  "Sweetlove"  also 
belong  in  this  class. 

Catherine  "Comfort"  must  have  been 
a  joy  in  any  man's  house,  if  the  name  is 
an  indication  of  character,  for  in  old 
French  the  word  stood  for  'strengthen- 
ing aid ;'  but  some  claim  it  as  a  corrup- 
tion of  the  local  surname  "Comerford." 


176 


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June,  1927 


whose  original  bearer  must  have  lived 
near  the  ford  of  Comer.  A  "Ford"  in 
those  days  was  a  very  popular  place  near 
which  to  dwell,  for  the  scarcity  of 
bridges  made  a  "Ford"  much  frequented, 
rich  with  opportunities  for  a  visit  with 
passing  friends.  How  strange  that  a 
"Ford"  should  once  again  be  a  means  of 
transportation  from  one  point  to  another, 
perfect  safety,  however,  a  more  negli- 
gible quantity  now  than  then. 

"Dupe"  (old  French,  'duppe,'  a  foolish 
bird  easily  caught)  and  "Drought" 
(dryness)  stand  side  by  side.  Strangely 
enough  Tommas  "Carnal"  (Latin  'car- 
nalis'  flesh,)  and  Alfred  "Vile"  keep 
each  other  company.  "Carnell"  may  be 
named  for  a  bird,  a  kind  of  lark,  and 
"Vile"  may  also  be  a  corruption  of  the 
French  'La  Ville,'  the  city. 

"Evil"  or  "Evill"  may  come  from  the 
Norman  "Eyville,"  "Yville"  or  "Ey- 
vile"  or  even  may  be  a  corruption  of  the 
"D'Evil"  or  "Devil,"  "Deville." 

Timothy  "Grief"  or  "Greef"  is  from 
"Grieve,"  "Greaves,"  "Greeves,"  the 
manager  of  a  farm  or  superintendent  of 
any  work,  a  "Reeve." 

"Fear"  (Anglo-Saxon  'faer,'  danger) 
signifying  apprehension  of  evil,  the  ugli- 
est of  all  human  emotions,  could  be, 
however,  constructed  more  nobly  from 
the  Gaelic  meaning  'a  man,  a  hero.' 
"Anger"  and  "Churlish"  also  go  in 
company.  "Anger"  originates  from  the 
Middle  English  'angre'  affliction,  and 
Anglo-Saxon  'ange'  originally  meant  to 
squeeze,  to  choke.  We  must  all  be  rela- 
tives, for  which  one  of  us  could  cast  the 
first  stone.  "Angers,"  "Angier,"  "An- 
gre" are  etomologically  allied,  though 
actually  place  names.  "Churlish"  origi- 
nates from  Anglo-Saxon  'ceorlisc'  having 
the  position  of  a  churl.  In  early  England 
a  man  without  rank,  one  who  was  boor- 
ish, rough. 

"Base"  from  the  French  'bas,'  low 
of  stature;  "Le  Bas"  is  a  well-known 
French  surname.  In  English  law  it 
means  'servile,'  as  was  characteristic  of 
the  villeins  (peasant  freemen)  who  held 
their  land  at  the  will  of  the  lord  and 
not  upon  fixed  services.  "Bayes,"  "Bays" 
are  allied. 

And  in  all  verity,  here  we  find  an 
Ann  "Daft."  Let  us  be  merciful  and 
state  what  friend  Webster  gives  as  defi- 
nition: mild,  meek,  humble,  foolish,  idi- 
otic. It  is  but  for  our  own  choosing! 

Richard  "Folly"  and  Emma  "Fickle" 
occupy  adjacent  lines,  queerly  enough. 
Some  authorities  group  "Folly,"  "Fol- 
ey,"  "Fol"  as  from  the  Norman  French 
"foillie,"  a  temporary  or  fragile  build- 
ing, and  then  again  we  have  the  Middle 
English  and  the  French  "folie"  the  state 
of  being  foolish.  "Fickle"  not  fixed  or 
firm,  unstable.  The  lady  has  a  long  gene- 
alogy, n'  est-ce-pas? 


And  here  we  have  Timothy  "Fret- 
well."  Did  he  do  so  well  what  so  many 
of  us  foolishly  do  that  he  burdened  a 
long  line  of  kin  with  so  telling  a  name, 
or  is  it  derived  from  "Freteval"  in 
France,  or  from  the  Norman  surname  de 
Frecheville,  or  yet  again  from  Fritwell, 
a  parish  in  Oxfordshire? 

And  now  come  Esther  "Frail"'  and 
Jonathan  "Curse."  Frail  from  the  Old 
French  "frele,"  fragile,  as  also  a  basket 
of  rushes.  But  alack  and  alas!  over  poor 
Jonathan  we  cannot  cast  a  mantle  of 
charity  for  to  curse  means  purely  and 
simply  and  inexcusably  "to  execrate." 

Next  upon  the  scene  there  come  Dan- 
iel "Boast"  and  Mary  "Bore."  "Boast" 
may  be  a  corruption  of  some  local  name 
like  "Bowhurst."  Of  one  "Boast"  is 
told  this  tale.  One  winter's  morning, 
while  dressing,  he  wrote  with  his  fin- 
ger upon  the  frosted  pane  "Boast  not 
thyself  of  tomorrow,  for  thou  knowest 
not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth." 
Prophetic  words,  in  one  short  hour  he 
was  crushed  by  a  falling  building  and 
returned  to  that  chamber  —  dead ! 
Mary's  progenitor  may  have  been  expert 
with  the  bore,  an  instrument  for  making 
circular  perforations,  or  else  he  wearied, 
by  prolixity,  his  fellowman. 

And  so  they  go  on,  these  quality 
names,  "Dolt,"  "Drudge,"  "Dread," 
"Guile,"  "Grim"  and  "Grime"  (Anglo- 
Saxon,  stern)  bring  with  them  "Grimes" 
f"d  "Grimer,"  also  derived  from 
"Grym,"  an  ancient  Scandinavian  per- 
sonal name,  whence  "Grimwood," 
'Gnmshaw,"  Grimsdale,"  "Grimwade." 
"Grimmett"  is  a  diminutive  of  "Grim." 

Jacob  "Idle"  and  Judith  "Jealous" 
are  next,  self-explanatory,  for  they  are 
with  us  yet,  as  are  "Meddle"  and 
"Mar,"  although  the  latter  is  known  to 
us  as  a  proud  Scotch  family  name. 

"Heartless"  and  "Flitter"  go  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  as  also  "Pert"  and  "Proud." 
"Pert"  a  commune  of  Bayeaux,  Nor- 
mandy, and  also  Anglo-Saxon  "beorht" 
bright.  "Proud"  speaks  for  himself  with 
head  ever  erect. 

Then  follow  "Pry,"  "Quaint,"  "Sly," 
"Scamp,"  "Strange,"  "Shirk,"  "Shal- 
low," "Vain,"  "Vague,"  "Wild,"  "Law- 
less," "Curt,"  "Pride,"  "Mourn," 
"Care,"  "Denial,"  "Badman,"  "Good- 
man," all  still  abiding  in  our  directories. 

Sad  to  relate  there  was  a  "Knocker" 
then  as  now,  although  the  dictionary 
states  that  a  "knocker"  is  one  who  taps 
at  a  door,  but  now  behold !  it  also  says 
that  he  is  "a  person  strikingly  handsome, 
beautiful  or  fine,  a  stunner,  one  who 
wins  admiration."  There  is  justice! 

WHEN  our  progenitors  began  look- 
ing about  them  for  a  surname  so 
as  to  follow  the  new  fashion  developed 
bv  the  Norman  adventurers  who  came 


to  England  under  the  banners  of  Wil- 
liam the  Conqueror,  they  were  some- 
times hard  pressed  for  an  idea,  so  the 
objects  about  them  frequently  offered  a 
solution.  That  is  how  many  surnames 
were  drawn  from  the  mineral  and  vege- 
table kingdoms. 

Surnames  had  existed  in  Normandy 
prior  to  the  great  William's  residence 
in  England,  so  it  quickly  followed  that 
the  Britons  seized  upon  the  new  and 
distinguishing  custom  with  avidity. 

The  odd  feature  of  the  list  of  mineral 
names  is  that  many  of  them  despite  their 
appearance  and  sound,  are  really  derived 
from  localities  and  also  some  from  bap- 
tismal names,  yet  they  are  classed  as 
mineral  names. 

To  begin  with  the  rarest  "Gem."  This 
has  the  earmarks  of  the  mineral  king- 
dom but  is  in  reality  a  pet  form  of  James, 
as  were  also  Jem  and  Jim.  There  are 
also  "Gems"  and  "Gemsons"  son  of 
James). 

"Jewel"  and  "Jewell"  are  also  decep- 
tive for  they  are  either  corruptions  of 
the  French  "Jules"  or  the  English 
"Joel."  "Jewelson"  is  son  of  Joel. 
Could  it  have  been  said  of  the  earliest 
bearer  of  this  name,  feminine  of  course, 
"I  would  be  the  jewel  that  trembles  in 
her  ear"  as  Tennyson  so  deftly  pays  suit 
to  another  maiden's  winning  charm. 

"Stone^  (from  the  Dutch  "Steen"  and 
German  "Stein"  (  from  residence  beside 
some  remarkable  roadstone  or  rock. 

"Gold,"  "Gould,"  "Goold,"  "Silver," 
"Lead,"  "Copper,"  "Cowper,"  and 
"Couper,"  "Iron  and  "Irons,"  "Steel," 
"Steele,"  "Stell,"  and  "Stelle." 

"Brass"  or  "Bras"  may  be  from  a 
place  in  Belgium. 

The  precious  stones  include  "Diam- 
ond" which  may  hail  from  the  French 
"Du  Mont,"  but  more  probably  from 
the  Dutch  and  German  "Diamant."  Al- 
lied are  "Dymond,  "Dimond,  "Dimant," 
"Diament,"  and  "Dimon." 

"Pearl"  and  "Ruby"  also  have  rep- 
resentation. "Agate"  is  deceptive  for  it 
is  from  "at  the  gate"  or  from  "the  son 
of  Agnes."  "Alabaster"  and  Allblaster" 
from  Old  English  "Ablastere,"  a  cross- 
bowman.  "Marble"  and  "Glass"  and 
"Coal"  and  "Coke"  (may  be  a  corrup- 
tion of  "Cook")  speak  for  themselves 
as  do  "Chalk"  and  "Clay"  (residence 
near  a  clayey  spot);  "Shale;"  "Slag," 
"Slagg"  or  "Slack"  (a  place  where  the 
road  becomes  less  steep,  slackens,  eases 
off)  and  "Slate,"  a  mineral,  or  also  from 
"slate,"  slovenly  and  dirty.  These  all 
keep  close  company  in  the  register. 

"Flint"  (from  an  Anglo-Saxon  deity 
whose  idol  was  of  flint  stone)  and  "Em- 
ery" or  "Emory"  (some  say  from  the 
name  Almericus,  others  from  "emeril" 
a  stone  for  grinding  and  polishing),  we 
can  meet  any  day.  "Salt,"  '"Salts;" 


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177 


"Brick"  (possibly  Anglo-Saxon  'brieg," 
a  bridge)  and  "Carbon"  still  endure. 

The  trees,  shrubs,  plants,  flowers, 
fruits  and  vegetables  gave  manifold  sug- 
gestions for  surnames,  to  wit:  "Tree," 
"Crabtree,"  "Appletree,"  "Plumtree," 
"Rowntree,"  "Figtree  ;"  "A  s  p  e  n," 
"Ash,"  "Alder"  and  "Alderson"  (son 
of  Alder),  "Almond"  (may  be  corrup- 
tion of  "Allman")  ;  "Birch,"  "Burch" 
and  "Beech"  and  "Beach"  evidence  that 
the  bearer  lived  near  a  tree  of  that  name. 

"Cherry,"  "Chestnut,"  "Hawthorn," 
"Hawthorne;"  "Elder"  (Anglo-Saxon 
"eald"  elder  as  distinct  from  the 
younger),  and  "Holly,"  "Holley"  make 
an  attractive  group,  as  also  "Lemon," 


"Orange"  and  "Berry."  Then  there  is 
"Pollard"  (nickname  for  one  who  has 
his  hair  cropped  short;  "poll,"  the  head, 
hence  a  pollard  tree,  one  lopped  on  the 
top). 

"Pine,"  "Bush,"  "Shrub,"  "Plant" 
and  "Willows."  "Root,"  Twig," 
"Leaf,"  "Bark,"  "Rind"  and  "Peel," 
"Branch"  and  "Bough"  should  be  from 
the  same  family  tree. 

"Hay,"  "Haye,"  "Hayes"  (at  the 
haw  or  hedge),  "Straw,"  "Clover," 
"Balm,"  "Rush"  (possibly  from 
"Russ"),  "Cotton,"  "Malt,"  "Bran," 
"Brann,"  "Chaff"  or  "Chaffe"  (French 
nickname  "le  chauve"  the  bald). 

"Beet"   (nickname  for  Beatrice,  espe- 


cially in  Yorkshire),  "Madder"  or 
"Mader;"  "Broom;"  "Gorse;" 
"Heath,"  Heather;"  "Fern;"  "Cress;" 
"Thorn;"  "Thorne;"  "Vine;"  "Wood- 
bine;" "Sage;"  "Yarrow"  and  "Mil- 
lett"  (perhaps  little  son  of  Millicent). 

"Rue"  (French  "de  la  Rue) ;  "Moss;" 
"Weed,"  "Weeds;"  "Flower;"  "Gar- 
land;" "Bloom"  and  "Pollen."  And 
then  we  have  a  nosegay  of  "Rose,"  "Tu- 
lip," "Violet,"  "Primrose,"  "Lavender" 
(also  from  French  "laver,"  to  \vash), 
"Marigold,"  "Pink"  and  "Poppy." 

Kind  Mother  Nature  has  many  more 
perpetuations  of  her  creations,  these  just 
cited,  however,  are  the  most  commonly 
heard. 


Painting  for  Posterity 


IN  A   QUEER   nook  of  old   Com- 
mercial  street,    between    San   Fran- 
cisco's   business    and    Oriental    dis- 
tricts, there  lives  an  old  man  who  paints 
for  posterity. 

Not  that  other  painters  do  not  have 
future  generations  in  mind  when  apply- 
ing pigments  in  rhythms  designed  to 
endure.  Not  that  artists  in  general  do 
not  hope  for  lasting  appreciation.  No, 
for  other  artists  have  hopes  similar  to 
those  of  this  white  bearded  painter 
whom  we  find  behind  the  red  lacquered 
door  marked  "The  Stuart  Galleries." 
But  other  artists  do  not  take  the  pre- 
cautions against  time's  affects  that  Mr. 
Stuart  claims  to  have  mastered. 

It  has  not  been  proved  and,  of  course, 
cannot  be  for  centuries,  but  Mr.  Stuart 
expects  that  the  paintings  he  has  made 
to  endure  will  not  have  changed  the 
least  particle  in  six  thousand  years  and, 
he  says,  there  is  no  reason  why  they 
should  not  be  in  good,  condition  in 
17,000  A.  D.  or  even  later. 

Mr.  Stuart's  claims  are  based  on  a 
secret  process  which  he  has  perfected 
after  long  years  of  work.  This  process 
enables  him  to  paint  on  aluminum,  prac- 
tically incorporating  the  pigments  with 
the  surface  of  the  metal  itself. 

The  story  of  the  process  is  a  pictur- 
esque one,  beginning  with  boyish  ex- 
perimentation, continuing  through  stu- 
dent exigencies  and  culminating  in  what 
appears  to  be  permanent  painting. 

J.  B.  Stuart  was  born  with  not  even 
a  pewter  spoon  in  his  mouth.  His  parents 
brought  him  from  Maine  to  California 
in  the  rigorous  decade  before  the  Civil 


By  Aline  Kistler 

War  when  he  was  too  young  to  record 
impressions  other  than  those  of  the  pio- 
neering days  that  followed. 

Although  claiming  the  Gilbert  Stuart 
of  Washington's  portrait  fame  as  a  fore- 
bearer,  the  Stuarts  had  no  regard  for  art 
and  severely  scolded  their  son's  first  ef- 
forts at  drawing  and  painting.  In  fact, 
so  harsh  was  the  censure  that  the  boy 
resorted  to  secretive  makeshifts  for  all 
his  first  sketches. 

Having  no  paints  or  brushes,  he 
hoarded  the  "empty"  cans  left  by  the 
fishermen  after  painting  their  boats  on 
the  banks  of  the  Sacramento  river,  near 
which  the  Stuarts  lived.  He  fastened 
hair,  clipped  from  the  tails  of  the  ranch 
cats,  to  duck  or  goose  quills  for  his 
brushes.  This  last  device  betrayed  him 
for  his  mother  became  curious  about  the 
epidemic  of  tail  bobbing  that  seemed  to 
have  descended  upon  her  lovely  pus- 
sies. So  even  these  crude  artist  materials 
were  taken  away  from  the  boy  but  not 
until  he  had  painted  his  first  picture,  a 
sketch  of  Grant's  island. 

These  inventions,  forced  by  necessity, 
laid  the  foundation  for  later  experimen- 
tation so  it  is  not  surprising  that,  when, 
having  at  last  made  his  way  to  art 
school,  he  found  himself  working  his 
way  by  restoring  and  retouching  pic- 
tures, young  Stuart's  attention  should  be 
turned  to  new  methods  of  painting. 

Finding  that  canvases  which  came 
into  his  hands  for  restoration,  scarcely 
forty  years  after  having  been  painted, 
were  already  rotting  and  ready  to  fall 
to  pieces,  Mr.  Stuart  concluded  that 


cloth  was  far  too  perishable  a  material 
on  which  to  record  one's  art.  In  restor- 
ing old  pictures,  he  often  cemented  the 
disintegrating  canvas  to  three  ply  wood. 
The  result  was  so  good  that  the  young 
artist  began  painting  directly  on  the 
wood  itself.  To  this  day,  much  of  his 
work  is  done  on  wood. 

However  wood  in  time  deteriorates 
and  goes  into  decay. 

So  Stuart  experimented  with  metals 
— brass,  copper,  tin  and  zinc — but  each 
corroded  to  some  extent,  raising  the  pig- 
ment in  spots.  In  1896,  he  got  hold  of 
some  aluminum.  Here,  at  last,  was  a 
surface  that  seemed  resistant  to  time's 
corrosion.  But  the  surface  would  not 
take  paint.  Experiments  led  to  a  way 
of  preparing  the  metal  to  receive  the 
pigment  and,  little  by  little,  there  came 
the  discovery  of  the  process  by  which 
Mr.  Stuart  claims  to  have  made  im- 
perishable paintings. 

The  process  is  a  long  and  tedious 
one,  involving  work  over  a  period  of 
from  twelve  to  twenty  years  from  the 
time  the  picture  is  started  to  the  time 
it  is  ready  for  exhibition. 

Naturally  these  paintings  are  consid- 
ered very  valuable.  Mr.  Stuart  claims 
to  have  received  as  high  as  $12,000  for 
a  comparatively  small  piece  of  work, 
twelve  by  sixteen  inches. 

These  paintings  on  metal  form  only 
a  small  proportion  of  the  multitude  of 
pictures  to  be  found  on  the  walls  of 
the  Stuart  Galleries,  for  their  maker  is 
both  prolific  and  versatile,  but  they  hold 
on  their  smug  surfaces  the  secret  with 
which  one  artist  hopes  to  defy  time. 


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June,  1927 


Poetry  Page 


THE  SEEKER 


I  HAVE  traveled  the  way  of  the  Seeker, 
The  searcher  who  gives  up  his  all; 
I  have  learned  from  the  strong  men,  and  meeker, 
The  savants  who  teach  of  the  Fall. 


"Epicurus,"  I  said,  "be  my  warden. 

Together  we'll  pass  Today. 
Come,  let  us  go  to  the  Garden 

Of  Wisdom  and — -La  Voluptue." 

MALCOM  PANTON,  JR. 


I  have  gone  to  the  Christ  and  cried,  "Master, 
The  secref  of  life  I  would  know." 

But  suave  priests  juggled  names  for  an  answer, 
Loosed  mouth  ings,  and  then  bade  me  go. 

And  I  tortuously  climbed  to  the  High  Place, 
The  peak  of  the  Superman's  form ; 

But  I  found  there  a  thing  in  a  false-face, 
Pale  vision  of  Hope  yet  unborn. 

And  down  to  the  dank  sucking  marsh-land 
Where  viper  and  vampire  held  sway, 

Where  Benevolence  lured  in  the  quicksand, 
Inertia  in  mire  of  decay. 

Then  I  ran  to  the  land  of  the  Old  Ones, 
The  Gods  of  the  First  and  the  Last, 

And  there  I  saw  peace  among  Jove's  Sons, 
Found  joy  in  the  ways  of  the  past — 

This  I  found  in  the  land  of  the  dark  Baal, 

And  life  in  the  mysteries  of  Pan. 
But  Today  quickly  mocked  at  my  glad  call, 

Sneered  "Nay"  to  my  puny  "I  can." 

Then  I  futilly  cursing  Today,  said, 

"You're  a  cancer  that's  eating  out  souls. 

Men  no  longer  do  work  for  their  life-bread, 
But  fight  over  dead  gold  like  ghouls." 

And  I  wearily  crawled  to  the  roadside, 

And  seating  myself  on  a  stone, 
Heaped  contempt  on  humanity's  wild  tide; 

Crazed  king  on  a  mad,  insane  throne. 

Then  black  Death  sweetly  offered  attraction; 

Despairing,  I  reached  for  her  hand, 
But  a  stranger  who'd  lived  stopped  my  action, 

Spoke  softly,  "I  well  understand. 

"Once  I  said  that  in  life  there's  no  meaning, 
And  philosophers  dubbed  me  a  fool 

Till  I  proved  that  my  words  were  seeming, 
And  set  up  a  Garden  School. 

"There  I  taught  men  the  virtues  of  pleasure, 

Simplicity,  work,  and  not  gain. 
And  some  held  my  words  as  a  treasure, 

Yea,  some  learned  to  vanquish  pain." 

Eternal  and  wise  as  he  stood  there, 

A  stranger  no  longer,  but  he 
Whom  the  indolent  gods  in  Olympus  did  dare 

Envy  the  right  to  be. 


CONSCIENCE 

THE  unyielding  moonbeam  strayed  to  my  room. 
Who  gave  it  such  dismaying  certainty? 
No  cloud  dared  cross  the  sky 
To  put  on  this  ray's  path  one  quavery  shadow. 
Why  should  it  choose  to  fling  a  long,  cool  flash 
Upon  my  floor?    Inscrutable  and  eerie  light! 
Vain  senses  angered  me.    In  hate  I  stamped 
And  snatched  at  golden  flecks  of  dust. 
But  my  leather  boot  was  caught  and  bound  around 
With  cold,  white  bands  of  light. 
Sobs  of  mean  vexation  broke 
And  in  that  tempest's  wake — I  slept. 

RUTH  M.  BURLINGAME. 


MOUNTEBANKS 

FROM  pew  to  pew  along  a  crowded  row 
A  jeweled,  silk  and  satin,  foppish  show 
In  stark  confession  there  before  His  eyes 
But  deaf  to  all  humanity  that  cries. 
His  love  they  fail  to  see,  for  what  He  came 
Is  lost.    The  teachings  of  a  brotherhood 
Are  trampled  down,  by  Mammon  into  shame, 
While  on  the  chancel  steps  they  feign  the  good. 
A  starving  child,  a  woman  on  the  street, 
The  helpless  man  with  labor-wounded  feet 
Have  not  a  part  in  words  framed  by  the  voice 
That  speaks  to  them,  for  it  is  money's  choice. 
And  there  within  the  temple  as  of  yore 
A  christ  shall  come  and  hurl  them  through  the  door. 

GEORGE  PERSHING. 


THOMAS  HOOD  IN  MAY  FAIR 

PRAY  sweet  one  do  not  plea 
My  faithlessness  to  thee 
To  seek  me  fresh  delights 
Of  these  impassioned  nights 
Is  wine  to  me. 
In  sleep's  forgetfulness 
Couch  thee,  past  mistresses. 
No  qualms  do  me  assail, 
Nor  do  thy  tears  avail 
To  make  joy  less. 

.  .  .  My  prayer?   The  same  as  yore. 
"Oh  lady  ope" thy  door." 
And  so  the  maid  be  fair, 
I  do  not  care 

Though  she  be  one  on  whom 
I  have  not  called  before. 

LOUISE  LORD  COLEMAN. 

(Editor's  apology  for  error  In  last  month's 
issue  of  Overland.) 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


179 


The  Play's 
the  Thing 


CURT  BAER 


THE  current  run  of  plays  on  San 
Francisco    stages   has    been    either 
pure  or  adulterated  comedy.  The 
tendency  has  been  toward  dowdiness  and 
a  mediocrity  of   production   as   well   as 
selection.  There  has  been  little   if  any- 
thing startling.  The  redeeming  features 
have  been  in  the  Berkeley  plays,  both  at 
the  University  and  at  the  Playhouse. 

During  the  past  few  weeks  two  serious 
plays  were  given.  Lula  Vollmer's  "Sun- 
Up,"  which  in  spite  of  its  grotesquely 
clumsy  showing  had  good  intentions, 
and  "An  American  Tragedy."  The  lat- 
ter was  splendidly  staged,  indifferently 
and  jerkily  acted,  and  for  the  most  part 
very  badly  written.  "Sun-Up,"  which 
should  have  been  the  most  notable  piece 
was  merely  an  excellent  starring  vehicle 
for  Lucille  LaVerne  who  submerged 
herself  in  a  sea  of  Belascoish  properties, 
twittering  birds  and  frightful  acting  on 
the  part  of  her  supporting  cast. 

The  "American  Tragedy"  was  an  un- 
convincing nibbling  series  of  sketches  giv- 
ing the  impression  of  having  a  tremen- 
dously dramatic  undercurrent  that  pop- 
ped out  in  a  few  startling  scenes.  The 
playing  in  its  second  part  improved  with 
the  script;  there  was  some  fine,  sincere 
work. 

"Sun-Up"  had  stolidity  and  atmos- 
phere, with  foreshadowings  so  evident 
that  it  became  tedious,  especially  when 
a  set  of  gyrating  dummies  mouthed  in- 
spired words  before  us  to  the  tune  of 
prehistoric  hokum  for  several  hours.  The 
real  old  English-American  with  its  swing 
and  drawl  was  blubbered  away,  though 
in  her  feeling  and  projection  of  the  stark, 
fierce  widow  Cagle,  LaVerne  played  her 
melodiously.  Hers  was  a  fine  characteri- 
zation. 

AT  THE  Alcazar,  "The  Patsy"  con- 
tinues to  amuse  them.  This  rather 
piffling  play  overcrowded  with  wise 
cracks  and  gymnastics  has  some  good 
work  by  Dale  Winter,  Alice  Buchanan 
and  Henry  Duffy.  "Laff  That  Off"  at 
the  President  is  the  usual  thing  done  in 


the  usual  manner,  popular  and  smacking 
of  vaudeville;  there  are  the  stock  tones, 
intonations  and  detonations.  In  "The 
Patsy,"  Florence  Roberts,  after  doing  a 
fine  piece  in  "Rain,"  has  taken  a  big 
drop,  screeching  about  the  set  as  the  ab- 
surd mother.  The  best  work  in  the  Presi- 
dent play  is  done  by  Olive  Cooper.  She 
ought  to  get  a  star  part,  instead  of  play- 
ing second  to  people  who  do  not  even 
know  how  to  walk  about  the  stage. 
Leneta  Lane  is  charming  as  the  leading 
lady,  Kenneth  Daigneau  has  overcome 
his  seeming  awkwardness  and  does  a 
sympathetic  role  well,  and  Earl  Lee  in- 
terprets a  series  of  clown  acts.  And  so, 
it  is  to  laugh. 

IN  BERKELEY,  the  Playhouse 
romped  through  a  strikingly  beautiful 
pictorial  edition  of  Shakespeare's  "Henry 
IV,"  part  II,  and  emoted  through  Sean 
O'Casey's  "Juno  and  the  Paycock," 
which  had  a  most  interesting  life.  This, 
in  spite  of  being  galloping  comedy,  at 
first  was  slow,  and  only  in  the  terrific 
tragedy  of  the  last  acts  did  the  players 
really  find  themselves. 

Frederick  Blanchard  gave  a  remark- 
ably consistent  Paycock,  though  upon 
analysis  his  too  obvious  technique  falls 
apart.  He  depends  too  much  on  visual 
rather  than  mental  projection  of  char- 
acter; he  needs  direction  bringing  out 
new  phases,  not  repetitions  of  old  ges- 
tures and  the  same  tones.  Robert  Scott 
was  fine  as  his  son.  His  enunciation  was 
the  best  of  the  entire  cast,  which  on  the 
whole  was  so  difficult  to  understand  that 
only  the  pantomime,  to  which  we  resigned 
ourselves,  saved  the  piece.  The  same  was 
quite  true  of  "Henry  IV."  In  this,  save 
in  a  very  few  scenes,  Shakespearean  at- 
mosphere was  far  and  away.  As  the 
bulky  Falstaff,  Fred  Blanchard  again 
needed  more  ponderous  direction  to  flat- 
ten out  a  lot  of  uselessly  silly  details. 

"CWERETT  GLASS'  two  scenes  were 
•'—'  quiet  and  noble,  against  which  the 
ephemeral  slapstick  of  Falstaff  became  as 
a  bobbing,  sputtering  puppet  rather  than 


a  jovial  old  reprobate.  Even  with  the 
gorgeous  coloring  and  lighting  by  Alice 
Brainerd  and  Lloyd  Stanford,  the  play 
was  unsuccessful  save  in  a  few  places. 

AT  THE  Greek  Theatre,  the  Uni- 
versity of  California  presented  Euri- 
pedes'  "The  Trojan  Woman,"  directed 
by  Professor  C.  D.  Von  Neumeyer.  It 
was  one  of  the  outstanding  dramas  of 
the  whole  region.  It  is  the  beauty  of 
sincerity  which  often  lifts  such  a  student 
play  higher  than  the  deftest  of  profes- 
sional ability.  Well  costumed  and  set 
with  Doric  columns  and  a  ruddy  g'.ow, 
the  tragic  theme  fascinated  an  audience 
almost  frozen  to  their  seats. 

ANOTHER  pictorial  setting  of  a 
thoroughly  good  comedy  was  the 
rather  unconvincing  enaction  of  "The 
Firebrand."  Even  with  a  cast  of  well- 
known  stars,  it  was  not  too  well  received. 
The  romantic  comedy,  the  beguiling  and 
scintillating  Duchess  was  fairly  delicious, 
and  Wm.  Farnum's  old  Duke  was  quite 
good.  Of  course,  Ian  Keith,  who  is 
more  of  a  pictorial  poseur  than  an  actor, 
splashed  about  in  his  rakish  Cellini  role. 

The  deplorable  element  in  most  of  the 
San  Francisco  plays  is  their  terrific 
tempo  and  pitch,  incessantly  bombastic 
and  save  when  downright  boring,  react 
on  the  audience  with  the  pertinacity  of 
a  bristle  brush.  They  are  all  so  obviously 
intent  on  putting  over  the  last  drop  of 
stuff;  more  often  they  tax  instead  of 
relieve  a  fatigued  playgoer.  And  most 
of  the  actors  should  take  several  years' 
work  in  plastique  and  eurythmics. 

There  is  more  to  come.  The  two  out- 
standing events  will  be  the  all-star  pro- 
ductions of  "Trelawny  of  the  Wells" 
with  The  Drew;  and  at  the  Curran, 
Florence  Reed  in  "The  Shanghai  Ges- 
ture." At  the  Wilkes  "Is  Zat  So?"  opens 
concurrently,  while  at  the  two  Duffy 
houses  the  programs  remain  unchanged 
for  some  time.  And  none  other  than  the 
theatrical  Methuselah  has  descended 
upon  the  jinxed  Capitol  Theatre^,  "Abie's 
Irish  Rose." 


180 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


k. 


OORS 


CONDUCTED  BY 


'-Writers 


TOM  WHITE 


SPANISH  ALTA  CALIFORNIA 

AN  INTIMATE  and  thorough-going 
history  of  California,  dating  from 
the  coming  of  Cabrillo  in  1542  down 
to  1822  when  it  ceased  to  be  a  depen- 
dency of  Spain,  titled  "Spanish  Alta 
California,"  will  find  a  ready  place  in 
many  libraries  of  the  Golden  State. 

As  is  well  known,  the  history  of  Cali- 
fornia is  so  closely  bound  up  with  what 
was  known  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century  as  the  Provincias  Internas,  com- 
prising the  northern  states  of  Mexico, 
Texas,  New  Mexico  and  both  Baja  and 
Alta  California,  that  a  history  of  one 
is  virtually  a  record  of  all.  The  import- 
ance of  this  inter-relation  has  not  been 
overlooked,  with  the  result  that  Miss 
Denis,  at  once  an  accomplished  linguist 
and  able  historian,  has  produced  after 
years  of  research  and  much  painstaking 
effort,  an  interestingly  written  and 
highly  valuable  reference  work  on  the 
Spanish  occupation  along  the  Pacific 
Slope,  more  particularly  in  Alta  Cali- 
fornia, as  indicated  in  the  title. 

The  word  history  as  applied  to  this 
book  would  be,  in  the  commonly  ac- 
cepted sense  of  the  word,  something  of 
a  misnomer.  It  is  far  from  being  dry 
and  statistical,  the  author  having  set 
down,  the  long  chain  of  events  in  an  en- 
gaging, readable  style  which  is  designed 
to  hold  the  interest  of  the  general  reader, 
and  at  the  same  time  meet  the  most 
exacting  demands  of  one  seeking  facts. 

The  book  contains  a  most  complete 
index  which  makes  it  invaluable  for 
reference  purposes. 


THE  PLUTOCRAT 

UTlflDLANDER!   So  utterly  provin- 

iTl  cial!" 

That's  what  Laurence  Ogle  called 
the  man,  then  drew  into  his  shell  of 
sophistication.  The  young  New  York 
playwright  was  so  steeped  in  his  super- 
saturated solution  of  ill-tolerant  bigotry 
that  humorously  enough,  he  failed  ut- 
terly to  see  that  he  himself  was  the  very 
embodiment  of  provincialism. 

The  unconscious  object  of  Ogle's  dis- 
gust, Ea'rl  Tinker,  regarded  the  youth, 


when  he  thought  of  him  at  all,  as  wholly 
innocuous,  even  though  that  word  might 
have  been  an  orphan  in  the  vocabulary 
of  the  prosperous  manufacturer  from  the 
Middle  West  where  "we've  got  a  great 
town,  I'll  tell  you!" 

The  Midlander's  daughter,  Olivia, 
something  of  a  provocative  contradiction 
temperamentally  speaking,  seems  to  the 
playwright  as  equally  impossible  as  her 
father,  although  in  a  different  way.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  Mme.  Momero — regal, 
fascinating,  charming — seems  to  be  the 
only  person  aboard  the  Mediterranean- 
bound  steamer  in  whom  Ogle  allows 
himself  to  become  interested ;  but  at  that 
she  piques  him  by  not  only  tolerating 


PALMERSTON.  By  Philip  Guedalla. 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  $5.00. 

THE    DARK    FIRE.     By    Elinor    Mor- 

daunt.     The      Century      Company. 

$2.00.    Reviewed  by  Raymond  Fisher. 

THE  PLUTOCRAT.  By  Booth  Tark- 
ington.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
$2.00. 

TREES  AND  SHRUBS  OF  THE 
ROCKY  MOUNTAIN  REGION.  By 
Burton  O.  Longyear.  G.  P.  Put- 
nam's Sons.  $3.50. 

PHEASANT  JUNGLES.  By  William 
Beebe.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  $3.00. 


the  Tinker  person,  but  by  actually  seem- 
ing to  enjoy  his  company. 

Reaching  the  other  side,  the  Tinker 
menage,  Mme.  Momero,  and  Laurence 
Ogle  are  being  constantly  thrown  to- 
gether in  their  travels,  although  for  the 
most  part  the  young  playwright  anxi- 
ously seeks  the  company  of  the  charming 
widow.  Just  about  here  we  have  an 
engaging  setting,  with  Tinker  benevo- 
lently monopolizing  the  bulk  of  the  pic- 
ture; Mrs.  Tinker  very  much  in  evidence 
and  visibly  bristling  at  the  slightest  hint 
of  her  husband's  interest  in  the  French- 
woman; Olivia,  distant,  cold,  unbend- 
ing; Mme.  Momero,  the  natural  magnet 
for  all  eyes,  wherever  she  might  be ;  and 


Ogle,   just   trying   to   be   his  unnatural 
best. 

The  significant  pages  following  this 
setting  show  Tarkington  at  his  best. 
One's  sense  of  value,  proportion  and 
expectation  are  treated  to  a  real  thrill. 
The  shifts  and  moves,  done  with  such 
artistry,  such  consummate  skill,  provoke 
nothing  less  than  a  surge  of  admiration 
for  a  man  who  can  write  a  book  like 
"The  Plutocrat." 


BARRY  BENEFIELD,  author  of 
SHORT  TURNS  and  THE  CHICKEN 
WAGON  FAMILY,  celebrated  February  1 
a  year's  absence  from  his  editorial  desk. 
Far  in  the  wild  lands  of  the  upper  Hud- 
son he  is  putting  in  the  last  commas  on 
a  new  novel  which  Century  Company 
will  publish  in  August.  If  this  yarn  is 
going  to  be  anything  like  his  CHICKEN 
WAGON  story,  then  it  will  be  impossi- 
ble to  say  too  much  in  its  favor,  even 
this  far  in  advance. 


PALMERSTON 

MR.  GUEDALLA  says  of  his  subject 
that  "The  life  of  Palmerston  was 
the  life  of  England  ...  in  the  last  six- 
teen years  of  the  Eighteenth  and  the  first 
sixty-five  of  the  Nineteenth  centuries," 
which  is  literally  true.  As  a  contem- 
porary of  Cobden,  Peel,  Disraeli  and 
Gladstone,  and  one  whose  entire  life 
was  given  to  the  service  of  the  empire 
in  high  places,  Palmerston's  career  af- 
fords a  brilliant  study  of  British  home 
and  foreign  policies. 

Although  singularly  adapted  to  work 
of  this  particular  sort,  it  is  quite  possible 
Mr.  Guedalla  could  select  any  type  of 
material  and  handle  it  as  effectively. 
The  art  of  inference,  the  tying  up  of 
an  idea  in  a  delicate  wrapping  of  nicely 
chosen  words,  the  exact  shading  of  a 
background  which  leaves  the  reader  to 
detail  the  object  after  his  own  fashion — 
all  this  reveals  nothing  if  not  a  con- 
summate brilliance.  In  a  word,  Guedalla 
is  a  prince  of  polished  prose;  this  was 
clearly  indicated  with  the  printing  of 
THE  SECOND  EMPIRE,  and  now  with 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


181 


the  appearance  of  PALMERSTON  it  seems 
to  be  pretty  well  established. 

The  student  of  British  political  his- 
tory will  find  in  this  book  an  absorbing 
method  of  fact-presentation,  and  the  one 
who  delights  in  finished  English  will 
discover  therein  just  how  effectively  rare 
beauty  and  nourishing  substance  may  be 
combined. 


THE  DARK  FIRE 

ELINOR  MORDAUNT,  that  un- 
daunted pilgrim  who  has  made  her- 
self at  home  in  some  of  the  world's 
strangest  and  most  fearful  corners,  re- 
turns to  her  English  fireside  and  writes 
THE  DARK  FIRE,  a  novel  vividly  col- 
ored by  her  adventures.  It  is  the  story 
of  Seton  Lane,  young  Australian  blood, 
superlative  product  of  sophistication, 
who,  although  beloved  of  a  woman  deli- 
cately bred,  is  held  spiritual  captive  by 
a  black  sorceress  in  a  wild  Dutch  prov- 
ince. The  black  woman's  spell  is  so 
potent  that  long  after  she  has  lost  youth 
and  beauty,  Seton  Lane  returns  for  the 
greater  part  of  each  year  to  live  under 
her  thatched  roof.  There  are  sugges- 
tions of  witchcraft,  of  uncanny  use  of 
poisons,  and  of  surprising  knowledge  of 
the  principles  of  human  psychology,  by 
the  native  people. 

Eventually  Seton  renounces  his  life  as 
a  civilized  unit  altogether.  He  has  be- 
come the  victim  of  his  "dark  fire,"  that 
mysterious  passion  that  lies  smouldering 
ready  to  break  out  in  unexpected  ways. 
He  is  rescued  from  utter  degradation  by 
the  lovely  lady  and  there  is  the  usual 
felicitous  ending. 

The  tropical  furnishings  are  what  one 
might  .expect,  also;  pearls,  fruits  like 
jewels,  dark  rivers  and  crocodiles,  man- 
eating  sharks  made  captive  by  naked  ten- 
year-old  black  boys,  a  rajah  of  the  wilds 
seated  on  a  plush  sofa  upheld  by  two 
legs  and  a  kerosene  can  and  wearing  on 
his  filthy  bald  pate  a  hat  of  solid  gold. 

What  is  not  usual,  however,  to  the 
story  of  this  type  is  that  the  author  has 
created  her  black  people  alive  and  real, 
while  the  white  characters,  with  one  ex- 
ception, are  puppets.  The  exception  is  a 
tiresome,  maidenly  bachelor  who  should 
have  been  squashed  before  the  story  be- 
gan. 

The  style  in  which  the  book  is  written 
is  so  painfully  antiquated  and  apologetic 
that  those  of  the  very  faithful  who  are 
there  at  the  end  to  watch  poor  old  Seton 
embark  for  safe  and  civilized  England 
will  be  convinced  that  Mrs.  Mordaunt 
should  not  venture  again  into  the  land 
of  fiction.  Why,  indeed,  should  she 
when  there  is  at  her  command  so  rich  a 
storehouse  of  fact? 


TREES  AND   SHRUBS   OF  THE 
ROCKY  MOUNTAIN  REGION 

THIS  subject  has  long  held  a  fasci- 
nation for  the  nature  lover,  and  it  is 
therefore  most  timely  that  a  suitable 
field-book  should  be  printed  giving  the 
high  lights  and  many  of  the  details  of 
the  flora  of  our  huge  Western  Empire. 
Burton  O.  Longyear,  associate  professor 
of  forestry,  Colorado  State  Agricultural 
College,  has  done  just  this  in  a  very 
thorough  and  practical  manner.  His 
book  is  profusely  illustrated  with 
sketches  and  color  plates,  giving  the 
characteristics  of  each  tree  or  shrub 
a  very  complete  index  which  gives  ready 
reference  to  every  subject. 

The  book  is  so  written  as  to  make  it 
equally  invaluable  from  either  a  tech- 
nical or  non-technical  standpoint.  It  is 
put  up  in  a  handy  vest-pocket  style  and 
will  take  up  little  or  no  room  in  the 
haversack  or  camp-kit. 


PHEASANT  JUNGLES 

OCCUPYING  a  niche  singularly  his 
own,  William  Beebe  has  written 
another  book  about  wild  life  in  wild 
and  out-of-the-way  places,  "Pheasant 
Jungles."  Mr.  Beebe  possesses  the  rare 
and  happy  faculty  of  writing  absorbing 
tales  of  bird,  fish  and  animal  life  in  a 
way  that  attracts  and  holds  readers  who 
are  not  ordinarily  interested  in  such  sub- 
jects, of  which  his  "Arcturus  Adven- 
ture," published  last  year,  is  a  splendid 
example. 

In  his  "Pheasant  Jungles"  he  takes 
one  right  along  with  him  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  Burmese  and  Malaysian 
jungles,  as  he  crawls  noiselessly  up  to 
the  feeding  ground  of  the  wary  birds, 
often  hacking  his  way  through  a  tangle 
of  dense  underbrush.  And  it  isn't  merely 
hard  work  and  cramped  muscles  as  a 
result  of  crouching  for  hours  waiting 
for  a  glimpse  of  the  gorgeous  winged 
creatures;  he  repeatedly  ventures  out 
alone  into  the  depths  of  back-countries 
infested  with  king  cobras,  wild  water 
buffalo  and  black  leopards.  While  stalk- 
ing in  the  mountains  of  India,  Beebe 
had  many  narrow  escapes  at  the  hands 
of  the  Hillmen  who  tried  to  annihilate 
him  by  rolling  boulders  down  the  moun- 
tainside and  shooting  poisoned  arrows 
from  across  the  gorge,  which  fortunately 
lacked  just  enough  force  to  penetrate 
the  flimsy  walls  of  his  tent. 

Pheasants,  martens,  flying  squirrels, 
monkeys — all  kinds  of  bird  and  animal 
life  are  as  an  open  book  to  Beebe,  and 
he  translates  their  cries  and,  actions  into 
words  that  one  can  understand. 

What  lifts  this  and  his  previous  books 


out  and  away  from  others  of  their  kind 
is  the  humanity  of  the  man — his  sense 
of  beauty,  fragments  of  dry  wit  here 
and  there,  experiences  with  the  natives, 
how  he  engages  his  servants,  porters, 
muleteers,  canoe-paddlers,  and  how  and 
why  he  let  them  go,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
boatmen  he  hired  on  a  dark  night  and 
whom  he  promptly  discharged  the  next 
morning  when  he  recognized  them  as 
lepers. 

With  the  consummate  skill  of  the  racon- 
teur, he  saves  the  most  colorful,  the  most 
thrilling  tale  to  the  last — how  he  was 
asked  to  the  reception  given  in  his  honor 
by  a  tribe  of  Dyak  head-hunters  of 
Borneo !  As  he  sat  in  the  place  of  honor, 
grisly  war-prizes  suspended  from  the 
rafters  —  trophies  from  which  these 
tribesmen  derive  their  name  and  reputa- 
tion— swung  eerily  to  and  fro.  How- 
ever, Mr.  Beebe  is  most  sincere  in  his 
assurance  as  to  the  hospitality  and 
friendliness  accorded  him  at  the  hands 
of  the  Dyaks. 

The  book  is  attractively  bound,  the 
type  large  and  easy  to  read,  there  are 
numerous  action  pictures  taken  from 
very  excellent  photographs,  and  the  vol- 
ume includes  a  comprehensive  index. 


ODDS  AND  ENDS 

OF  ALL  the  things  which  man  can  do 
or  make  here  below,  by  far  the  most 
momentous,  wonderful  and  worthy  are 
the  things  we  call  books. — Carlyle. 


THE  United  States  is  not  the  only 
nation  suffering  from  an  avalanche 
of  unclean  books,  as  shown  by  the  con- 
dition in  Germany  that  resulted  in  the 
Reichstag  passing  a  law  referred  to  as 
"The  Literary  Trash  and  Mud  Bills." 
The  ostensible  object  of  this  piece  of 
legislation  is  to  protect  the  younger  gen- 
eration from  the  flood  of  vile  books  that 
has  inundated  the  book  stores.  It  is 
hoped,  however,  that  when  the  new 
censorship  begins  to  be  felt,  it  may  en- 
courage the  writers  of  clean  literature 
to  put  forward  some  efforts  again. — 
Los  Angeles  Times. 


B' 


>LASCO  IBANEZ  announces  that 
he  plans  to  leave  his  splendid  estate 
at  Mentone  as  a  retreat  for  promising 
but  impoverished  writers,  where  they 
may  compose  their  souls  in  quiet  and 
woo  the  muse  without  interruption." 
Interruption?  Interruption  from  what? 
Surely  the  aspiring  young  Gallic  litera- 
teurs  are  not  obliged  to  force  their  muse 
into  direct  competition  with  the  radio 
and  phonograph ! 


182 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


Certain  Other  Books 

Tancred 


THE  IMMORTAL  MARRIAGE 

GERTRUDE  ATHERTON'S  vital- 
ity and  her  extraordinary  thorough- 
ness continue  to  startle  a  literary  nation. 
With  the  profound  research  and  the 
tedious  labor  undoubtedly  involved  in 
"The  Immortal  Marriage,"  the  story 
reads  as  freshly  and  as  clearly  as  a  very 
exquisite  lyric.  And  there  are  passages, 
let  it  be  described,  where  the  fluency  and 
simplicity  of  writing  suggest  the  finest 
of  poetry.  Something  that  splendidly 
jolts  the  reader  into  an  appreciation, 
into  a  reception  the  cold  analysis  of 
magazine  review  will  not  annoint. 

"The  Immortal  Marriage"  does  not 
pretend  to  disturb  the  student,  but  it 
will.  It  does  not  assume  the  academic 
shelf,  but  there  it  will  rest.  It  is  a 
novel  of  extreme  beauty  and  moving 
passion ;  yet  the  undercurrent  of  phi- 
losophic logic  driving  through  the  pages 
will  make  it  a  volume  not  of  the  years 
but  of  the  decades.  We  have  no  desire 
to  elevate  a  Californian's  book  because 
we  are  intensely  Californian.  We  would 
rather  omit  the  review  than  have  that 
consideration.  But  we  would  advise  the 
reading  and  the  understanding  of  "The 
Immortal  Marriage"  if  it  were  written 
by  Joshua  Pimples  of  Eugene,  Oregon. 
It  is  a  novel  plainly  designed  to  dissi- 
pate much  of  the  neurosy  prevalent  in 
modern  love,  and  it  is  also  one  written 
with  unconcealed  beauty  and  direct 
warmth. 


WHEN   IS  ALWAYS 

HERE  is  another  novel,  filled  with 
sentimental  syrup,  four  hundred  and 
twenty-five  pages  long,  packed  with  re- 
iteration and  school-house  philosophy, 
designed  to  meet  the  fiction  require- 
ments of  gentle  old  ladies  taking  a  pre- 
burial  vacation,  written  by  a  man  whose 
patience  equals  that  of  a  truck  horse, 
protected  from  translation  in  all  for- 
eign languages  including  the  Scandina- 
vian, and  an  excellent  example  of  pop- 
ular newspaper  and  magazine  serial 
pap. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  YOUTH 

PUBLIC  demand  for  literary  repeti- 
tion is  a  tragic  and  an  ignorant  pas- 
sion. Let  a  hard  working  member  of 
the  Broken  Hearted  Brigade  do  a  fine 
novel,  let  that  book  be  printed  and  dis- 
tributed— and  witness  the  clamor  of  the 
masses  for  another  gem  of  like  bril- 
liancy. It  does  not  fail.  Nor  does  it 
fail,  usually,  to  bring  forth  a  novel  ut- 
terlv  rotten. 


HIGH  WINDS 

ARTHUR  TRAIN  must  be  given  a 
parcel  of  praise  for  his  late  Scrib- 
ner  book,  "High  Winds."  To  be  sure, 
something  is  expected  from  the  author 
of  "His  Children's  Children"  and  "The 
Goldfish."  Something  more  subtle,  in- 
deed, might  be  expected  in  "High 
Winds,"  but  at  all  odds  or  expecta- 
tions Train  has  written  a  good  novel. 
A  relieving  novel  after  the  sentimental 
pap  and  idiotic  doggerel  of  the  early 
mid-year  fiction  flooding  the  stalls. 

Ursula  Weybridge,  the  confused 
thirty-odd-year-old  maiden  and  her  af- 
fair with  Peter  McKay,  and  Enid  Kent, 
wived  to  a  popular  social  athlete ;  these 
are  characters  rapidly  and  skillfully 
drawn.  There  is  a  definite  pleasure  ex- 
perienced in  meeting  them;  there  re- 
mains, after  the  book  is  closed,  a  perme- 
ating satisfaction  for  having  met  them. 

Arthur  Train,  as  usual,  deals  with 
the  satirical  and  psychological  motives 


in  life,  with  the  impulses  governing 
lives  and  the  errors  which  may  com- 
pletely change  the  course  of  a  life  in  a 
short  moment.  "High  Winds"  is  thor- 
oughly interesting  fiction ;  not  too  ob- 
scure nor  too  facile.  Possibly  the  bal- 
ance and  logic  shown  in  character  de- 
velopment has  a  great  deal  to  do  with 
our  liking  the  book. 


LIONS  IN  THE  WAY 

SCATTERED  through  Hughes 
Mearns'  book  are  passages  of  ex- 
quisite philosophy.  Described  by  Simon 
and  Schuster,  the  publishers,  as  a  novel 
of  "unconventional  but  truthful  modern 
life,"  it  assumes  a  basic  philosophy  not 
of  one  age  but  of  all  ages.  Stella  Hagan's 
fight  is  the  fight  clever  women  have 
known  since  time  began.  Her  reactions 
to  a  world  made  for  men,  as  she  puts 
it,  are  skillfully  pictured  and  funda- 
mentally exact.  If  anything,  the  pub- 
lishers have  modestly  underestimated 
Mearns'  book. 

Blair  Drayton,  the  director  of  plays; 
Walt  Moore,  Stella's  husband;  Oliver 
Waggener,  "patron"  of  the  arts;  "Petti- 
coat Maggie,"  Stella's  mother — all  of 
these  are  sound  characters,  living  and 
acting  richly  normal  parts,  helping 
LIONS  IN  THE  WAY  toward  a  definite 
high  water  mark  in  modern  fiction. 

"One  of  the  world's  punishments," 
says  Mearns,  "is  to  move  daily  with 
persons  who  do  not  see  what  you  see 
and  do  not  hear  what  you  hear  .  .  . 
with  passion  alone  the  world  might  get 
along;  it  would  breed,  to  be  sure,  but 
it  would  hunt  in  pack  or  alone  and 
would  be  a  world  of  claw  and  fang, 


GARDEN  OF  FLAMES.  By  E.  S.  Ste- 
vens. Stokes  &  Co.  $2.00. 

THE  IMMORTAL  MARRIAGE.  By 
Gertrude  Atherton.  Boni  &  Liver- 
ight.  $2.50. 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  YOUTH.  By 
Jacob  Wasserman.  Boni  &  Liver- 
ight.  $2.00. 

HIGH  WINDS.  By  Arthur  Train. 
Scribner's.  $2.00. 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


183 


animal  purely  .  .  .  the  mother  under- 
stood, eventually,  this  high-spirited 
daughter  of  hers  and  tried  to  make  it 
easier  going ;  a  young  person,  she  re- 
flected, with  more  sense  of  disgust  for 
the  necessary  things  of  this  world  than 
she — thank  Gawd  ! — had  ever  been 
bothered  with.  The  young  nowadays 
don't  know  when  they've  got  it  good." 
Paragraphs  and  sentences  taken  at  ran- 
dom from  the  book,  these,  but  enough 
to  describe  a  few  crumbs  from  the  two 
pound  loaf  Hughes  Mearns  tosses  you. 


sophisticated  reader  must  believe  this 
book  a  glorious  and  iresistible  hoax  put 
over  in  elaborate  style  by  the  Boni  and 
Liveright  publishing  house  and  Theo- 
dore Dreiser. 


POORHOUSE  SWEENY 

WITH  characteristic  nicety  Theo- 
dore Dreiser  writes  an  introduc- 
tion to  this  book.  Mr.  Dreiser  points 
out  the  book's  grammatical  errors,  pol- 
ishes it  off  here  and  there  with  a  well 
rounded  sentence,  and  almost  succeeds 
in  turning  the  reader  away.  The  same 
lamentable  thing  was  done  to  George 
Sterling's  "Lilith"  by  the  author  of  the 
One  Hundred  and  Fifth  Thousand  Dol- 
lar catalogue,  "An  American  Tragedy." 
But  once  we  are  through  the  intro- 
duction, the  remarkable  vitality  of  this 
unusual  scroll  astounds  us.  This  man, 
Sweeny,  who  evidently  knows  what  it 
is  to  be  a  ward  of  the  county,  gives  us 
error,  tragedy,  comedy  and  frustration 
with  such  rapid — and  unconscious — 
strokes  we  are  unable  to  center  a  definite 
emotion.  The  mind,  whirling  over  his 
crude  sentences  it  was  written  under  the 
eye  of  perfidious  old  men  whom  the 
author  calls  Nuts,  Bugs,  Pimps  and 
Idiots.  He  was  always  in  danger  of 
having  the  MSS.  filched  by  the  matron 
— a  cat  if  there  was  ever  one — and  de- 
stroyed, often  staggers  with  the  shame 
of  it  all.  We  are  alternately  moved 
with  chagrin,  pity,  anger  and  humor. 
Sweeny  doesn't  pretend  to  know  the 
delicate  construction  of  an  up-to-date 
record ;  but  in  our  opinion  this  very 
failing  makes  POORHOUSE  SWEENY  a 
book  of  the  year.  And  at  times,  as  the 
fervor  of  anger  passes  over  him,  Ed 
Sweeny  rises  to  astoundingly  graphic 
heights.  So  crudely  clever,  in  fact,  and 
so  excellently  stabbing  at  the  core,  the 


LIONS  IN  THE  WAY.  By  Hughes 
Mearns.  Simon  Schuster.  $2.50. 

POORHOUSE  SWEENY.  By  Theo- 
dore Drieser.  Boni  &  Liveright. 
$2.50. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  WILLIAM 
BUTLER  YEATS.  Macmillan.  $3. 

THE  WHITE  ROOSTER.    By  George 

Often. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF 
WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

"  A  UTOBIOGRAPHIES,  REVE- 
A.RIES  Over  Childhood  and  The 
Trembling  of  the  Veil"  is  the  somewhat 
lengthy  title  to  this  sixth  and  last  vol- 
ume to  the  Yeats  shelf.  The  first  of 
his  autobiographies,  "A  Reverie  Over 
Childhood  and  Youth,"  published  in 
1914,  carried  the  same  preface,  much  of 
the  text,  and  was  completely  read  and 
reviewed  at  that  time. 


Many  of  the  delicate,  softly  written 
pictures  recorded  in  "The  Trembling  of 
the  Veil"  acquire  the  half-lights  of  fic- 
tion, and  we  often  wonder  whether  or 
not  Mr.  Yeats  does  not  sometimes  give 
Irish  fancy  to  his  pen  and  mark  down 
beautiful  but  untrue  memories.  Excu- 
sable, of  course,  and  perhaps  lending  the 
work  a  greater  beauty,  but  nonetheless 
leading  one  to  wonder  why  he  must 
call  the  book  an  autobiography. 

Not  alone  of  himself,  these  charm- 
ing paragraphs,  but  of  his  father,  J.  B. 
Yeats;  York  Powell,  Oscar  Wilde, 
Lionel  Johnson  and  Aubrey  Beardsley 
— a  gallery  of  portraits  and  personal 
miscellany  well  worth  the  time  and  sym- 
pathy of  the  selective  in  literature.  The 
poetry,  which  at  times  reaches  a  leger- 
demain trickery,  of  William  Yeats  lives 


in  his  lines,  and  while  the  autobiogra- 
phies do  not  necessarily  remain  a  ce- 
mented document  of  vivid  importance  to 
the  age,  they  are  finely  chiseled  ex- 
amples of  a  life  and  people  many  re- 
member, daintily  misted  at  times  with 
the  dull  polish  of  excellent  fiction. 


THE  WHITE  ROOSTER 

GEORGE  O'NEIL  cannot  avoid  a 
weakness  for  the  molasses  of  senti- 
ment. Invariably  there  is  the  sick  neu- 
rosy  of  melodrama  shot  through  one  of 
his  otherwise  excellent  poems.  For  the 
newspapers,  the  women's  clubs  and  the 
Rotarian  hall  his  poems  are  admirable; 
but  for  the  lover  of  simplicity  in  poetry 
they  are  errors  and  at  times  tragedies. 
"Notes  for  an  Epic,"  for  example:  We 
have  the  fierce  savagery  of  lines  deliber- 
ately schemed  to  twist  the  sympathy,  to 
urge  forgotten  music  into  a  symphony 
of  sound,  and  to  tear  one  apart  with 
the  abandoned  excellence  of  a  small 
town  character  whose  life  is  fierce  and 
calm  alternately.  Through  the  forty 
stanzas  leading  on  to  the  epilogue, 
O'Neil  uses  every  trick  known  to  liter- 
ature; his  character  is  as  skillfully 
glued  to  the  page  as  we  are  glued  to 
life.  Then — that  devastating  epilogue. 
"There  is  no  more  to  tell  of  one,"  sighs 
Pollyanna  O'Neil,  "whose  father's 
father  saw  Napoleon,  except  that  in  the 
end — one  day — he  died.  His  mother 
mourned  him  and  his  father  sighed.  And 
when  they  covered  him  a  little  bird 
stood  in  the  violets  and  spoke  a  word 
(ha!)  And  a  raindrop  fell  into  a  but- 
tercup, (ha!)  and  smoke  from  many 
chimneys  twisted  up." 


BAGHDAD! 

IN  THE  "Garden  of  Flames"  we  have 
a  worn-out  plot,  technical  perfec- 
tion, silly  little  morals  and  endless  min- 
utes of  philosophic  notes  on  marriage. 
The  book  has  three  hundred  and  forty 
pages,  also.  It  is  early  summer  fiction, 
designed  to  massage  the  average  intel- 
lect between  railroad  carriage  flirtations. 


Crock  of  Gold 

Circulating  Library 

119  Maiden  Lane 
*••  ».*  *.» 

Just  the  place  you've  been  looking 
for — something  different. 

Come  in  and  get  acquainted! 


184 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


Great 

Circle  Tour' 
East 


-around  the  United  States  for  but  little  more 
than  direct  route  fare  to  Neu>  York  and  back 

Two  oceans,  three  nations,  famous 
cities,  your  favorite  vacation  play- 
grounds—combine them  all  in  this 
greatest  summer  travel  bargain.  On 
your  way  east  see  fascinating  South- 
land from  Los  Angeles  to  New 
Orleans. 

By  train  or  ship  to  New  York  City 
from  New  Orleans — meals  and  berth 
included  in  your  fare.  Return  via 
any  northern  line  to  the  Pacific 
Northwest. 

Stopover  in  this  "charmed  vaca- 
tion-land." Choice  of  routes,  new 
trains  over  Shasta  route  to  Califor- 
nia and  home. 

Summer  excursion  roundtrip  tick- 
ets now  effective.  Stopover  where 
you  please,  stay  as  long  as  you  wish. 
You  have  until  Oct.  31  to  complete 
your  trip.  Rest,  recreation.education. 
^Askfor  one  of  the  new  illustrated  brochures. 

Southern 
Pacific 

F.  S.  McGINNIS,  Pass.  Traffic Mgr. 
San  Francisco 


SUCCESS 

(Continued  from  Page  173) 
the  work  is  of  such  a  nature  that  the 
need  is  not  difficult  to  meet. 

"Moreover,  I  foresaw  in  the  gradu- 
ally lessening  meat  consumption  of  the 
world  a  big  future  for  all  kinds  of  nuts. 
It  is  an  interesting  fact,  by  the  way, 
that  the  consumption  of  Engl.sh  wal- 
nuts is  increasing  faster  year  by  year 
than  is  that  of  any  other  staple  farm 
product  raised  in  the  United  States. 

"But  the  first  few  years  I  went 
slowly.  I  was  not  free  from  trepidation 
on  the  point  of  overproduction,  and  I 
had  no  desire  to  stake  everything  on 
walnuts,  only  to  find  by  the  time  my 
trees  reached  a  high  state  of  productive- 
ness that  their  market  value  was  gone. 
But  after  studying  the  situation  at  first 
hand,  with  reference  to  climate  and  soil, 
traveling  through  nearly  every  state  in 
the  Union,  1  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
there  need  be  no  uneasiness  on  this  score, 
for  with  the  exception  of  California  and 
the  Pacific  Northwest,  I  found  no  part 
of  the  United  States  in  every  way 
adapted  to  their  growth. 

"At  the  present  time,  seventeen  years 
after  this  investigation,  I  am  of  the  same 
opinion;  for  besides  the  districts  men- 
tioned, the  only  place  in  the  entire 
Western  Hemisphere  producing  the 
English  walnut  in  any  appreciable  quan- 
tities is  South  America,  on  the  coast  of 
Chile." 


SMILE ! 

Don't  join  the  dissatisfied 

army.    Let  the 
OVERLAND    TRAVEL 

BUREAU 

plan  that  vacation  for  you. 
SMILE ! 


GRANADA     HOTEL 

American   and   European   Flan 

Try  any  CHECKER  or  YELLOW  TAXI  to 
Hotel  at  our  expense 

SUTTER   and    HYDE    STS.,    San   Francisco 
J.  L.  MURPHY,  Manager 


GRANADA 

SAN  FRANCISCO 


iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii miiimimi ill iiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiliiiuiiiiiiiimiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiimimiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiimiiiiiiimiimiiiiiiniii immiminiimiil 


Ha<ve 

You 
Considered**  * 

WHAT  SCHOOL  YOUR 

BOY  WILL  ATTEND 

THIS  FALL? 

Of  course,  you  want  him  to 
have  the  best. 

The 

West  Coast 
Military 
Academy 

PALO  ALTO 

— a  school  for  junior  boys,  is  es- 
pecially equipped  to  handle  the 
educational,  physical,  and  moral 
needs  of  your  boy.  Sound  instruc- 
tion is  emphasized  and  individual 
attention  is  given  to  each  lad's  re- 
quirements. A  brotherly  atmos- 
phere prevails  in  the  school,  and 
through  the  field  of  athletics, 
sports  and  recreation  the  boys  are 
trained  in  manliness.  Let  us  talk 
with  you  about  your  boy. 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


185 


When  Witches  Walked 

(Continued  from  Page  165) 


Tennessee  looked  about  the  room. 
Tomorrow  they  would  leave  it  forever, 
this  home  they  had  made  together.  As 
his  eyes  fondly  scanned  every  article  of 
furniture  and  adornment,  he  staggered 
and  the  hair  seemed  to  raise  on  his  head. 
A  calendar  hung  directly  opposite  him. 
It  was  the  last  night  in  October,  and 
the  witches  walked. 

Next  morning  they  packed,  hired 
extra  wagons  and  drivers,  and  started 
for  the  coast  range  on  the  border  of 
Sonoma  and  Mendocino  counties. 

Christmas  found  them  in  a  log  cabin, 
with  a  huge  fireplace  and  many  book 
shelves,  with  bright  red  bindings  of 
Scott  and  Dickens'  novels  throwing 
warmth  into  the  rude  dun-colored  room. 
Tenn  had  learned  to  know  and  love 
these  characters.  They  were  his  friends 
from  the  outside  world.  When  the  stork 
came,  bringing  the  first  son,  Tenn  was 
as  tender  a  nurse  as  ever  cared  for  a 
young  mother.  He  and  Melee  were  doc- 
tor, midwife  and  nurse. 

Spring  found  a  young  orchard  planted. 
The  mines  having  "petered  out,"  the 
immigrants  were  seeking  land  and  home- 
steads. Neighbors  settled  in  quarter- 
section  tracts  all  around  them.  Bess  was 
to  them  a  shining  light  of  wisdom.  They 
all  came  to  her  to  borrow  books  and  to 
be  "learnt"  to  read  and  make  pot  hooks, 
which  was  "writin'  "  to  them;  she  found 
solace  in  teaching  them;  it  seemed  to 
take  off  the  keen  edge  of  the  back  woods. 
Records  show  that  she  established  the 
first  foundation  for  a  public  school  in 
that  region.  Her  husband  was  an  ad- 
vanced pupil. 

The  time  came  to  buy  the  Winter 
provisions  and  the  stork  was  again  about 
to  make  a  visit.  Tenn  waited,  but  the 
rainy  season  had  started  and  he  knew 
he  must  go  at  once  and  get  back  as  soon 
as  possible. 

Armed  with  a  list  of  gigantic  propor- 
tions, with  everything  from  a  coffee 
grinder  to  the  necessary  downy  things 
for  the  expected  baby,  Tennessee  drove 
down  the  hill  toward  Healdsburg.  With 
backward  looks  he  murmured  softly  to 
himself,  "Poor  little  Bess!  How  brave 
she  is.  What  a  splendid  mother  and 
good  wife,  and  how  she  has  worked  to 
teach  all  these  lunkheads  around  here." 
He  looked  back  as  he  urged  the  roans 
down  the  grade  and  counted  his  bless- 
ings. 

The  roans  slid  down  the  Van  Allen 
hill,  and  Sue  threw  a  shoe,  which  de- 
layed the  going.  As  night  drew  near 
the  lights  of  Healdsburg  loomed  before 
him.  A  familiar  sign  painted  on  the 


front  of  a  new  building,  brightly  lighted, 
arrested  Tenn's  attention.  It  read 
"Nick's  Place."  As  the  roans  and  spring 
wagon  rattled  through  the  rough  street, 
a  voice  bellowed  from  the  stoop. 

"Hey,  there!"  A  chair  tilted  against 
the  wall  came  down  on  all  four  legs 
with  a  bang.  "Hold  on,  old-timer,  have 
yuh  done  fergot  your  ole  pardner?"  joy- 
fully cried  Nick  as  he  grasped  Sue's 
bridle  and  stopped  the  team.  The  two 
men  met  in  a  friendly  embrace ;  years 
had  not  broken  the  tie  of  childhood  days, 
for  they  were  just  two  boys,  grown  tall. 
"You  ole  rascal!"  gurgled  Nick,  "jes" 
in  time  for  the  big  openin'  tonight. 
Ever'thing  free  and  easy,  jes'  to  show 
these  fellers  we  know  how  to  do  things 
up  brown  over  in  Sonoma.  You  ole 
married  codger,  how  many  kids  yuh 
got?  Huh!" 

"Oh,  only  five,"  bashfully  replied 
Tenn,  "all  fine  and  look  just  like  me, 
and  not  a  pasteboard  shuffler  among 
them."  Both  men  laughed. 

What  luxury  it  was  to  have  a  real 
haircut  by  a  barber.  Bess'  round  cut, 
patterned  after  the  contour  of  an  Indian 
basket,  was  good  enough  to  keep  him 
from  looking  like  a  Quaker  in  the 
mountains,  but  how  he  had  longed  for 
civilization. 

Tenn  proceeded  to  look  up  a  suitable 
present  for  Bess.  In  Mose  Blum's  shop 
window  he  espied  a  beautiful  book  and 
asked  to  see  it.  Mose  proudly  blew  the 
dust  off  it  and  told  the  history. 

"It  was  part  of  a  set.  A  fella  bought 
one  and  this  is  the  other;  he  run  out  of 
money.  His  gal  quit  him  and  he  bought 
the  other.  It's  something  about  'win- 
ning' and  'losing.'  A  fine  thing  to  put 
on  the  center  table.  Of  course,  nobody 
ever  reads  them;  they  are  just  to  look 
pretty." 

"Wrap  it  up.  I'll  take  it,  and  you 
bet  it  will  be  read  at  my  house,  from 
cover  to  cover."  Proudly  putting  it 
under  his  arm,  Tenn  started  down  the 
street. 

Nick  was  waiting  for  him.  "Come 
on,  Parson !  Come  and  dedicate  my  new 
palace.  No  use  runnin'  away,  you're 
my  guest  tonight.  We're  goin'  back  to 
the  Cumberland  mountains  tonight. 
Corn  pone,  pot  licker,  fried  chicken  and 
all  the  fixin's.  Got  a  nigger  gal  to  cook 
a  genuine  southern  dinner,  and  jes'  you 
and  me  to  eat  it."  As  Tenn  made  ex- 
cuses to  get  to  the  hotel,  Nick  urged, 
"You  gotta  forget  you're  married  fer 
tonight.  I  knowed  yuh  a  long  time  be- 
fore she  did."  Tenn  followed  him  in 
(Continued  on  Page  190) 


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Chas.    A.    and     Miss    Margaret 

Stewart,  Props. 


LUNCH     50c 

DINNER  75c 

SUNDAY  NIGHT  $1.00 

A  La  Carte  Service 

If  you  are  looking  for  an  intimate 
little  place  just  around  the  corner 
where  you  can  dawdle  over  your 
last  cup  of  coffee,  you  will  find  it 
here  nestling  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Hall  of  Justice,  a  gay  little  spot  in 
an  otherwise  dingy  but  historical 
alley. 

Bohemia  Ever  Ignores 
the  Obvious 

THE  PHILOSOPHERS 

659  Merchant  St.          Davenport  391 
CLOSED  MONDAYS 


186 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


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Art  and  the  Installment  Plan 


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Books 

of 

Merit 


Bu  Harry  Daniels 


WE  HAVE  been  reading  some  inter- 
esting material  recently  on  various 
new  and  scientific  methods  by  which 
almost  any  man,  through  the  installment 
plan,  can  now  build  up  for  himself  and 
family  a  very  comfortable  little  nest  egg 
of  unpaid  accounts. 

In  order  to  explain  clearly  how  these 
new  ideas  in  family  finance  are  worked 
out,  we  will  take  as  an  illustration  a  man 
earning  $2,500  a  year.  By  keeping  his 
eyes  open  and  watching  the  corners,  he 
can  now  arrange  his  affairs  that  out  of 
his  annual  income  of  $2,500  he  will  not 
have  to  give  up  more  than  $3000  or 
$3,500. 

Let  us  say,  before  going  any  further, 
that  we  are  not  writing  these  lines  with 
any  idea  of  finding  fault  with  the  install- 
ment plan  of  getting  into  trouble  with 
bill  collectors.  It  has  brought  slide  trom- 
bones, electric  scalp  machines,  trick  rock- 
ing-chairs and  hot  and  cold  stepladders 
into  many  a  home  that  otherwise  would 
be  stark  and  desolate. 

We  have  no  intention,  in  fact,  of  look- 
ing into  this  question  from  an  economic 
standpoint  at  all.  If  it  is  true,  as 
charged,  that  between  85  and  90  per  cent 
of  the  static  now  consumed  by  the 
people  of  the  United  States  has  a  chat- 
tel mortgage  on  it,  that  is  something  we 
haven't  room  to  worry  about  in  this 
article. 

What  we  wish  to  call  to  the  reader's 
attention  is  the  tremendous  influence 
which  the  dollar-down  or  try-and-col- 
lect-it  system  of  acquiring  household 
machinery  is  going  to  exert  on  the  liter- 
ature, the  romance,  and  the  poetry  of 
the  future.  We  have  been  inclined,  per- 
haps, to  look  at  these  matters  entirely 
too  much  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
economist  only,  who,  generally  speaking, 
is  about  as  warm  and  emotional  as  an 
iceman's  apron.  Romance  is  just  an- 
other word  for  truth,  and  the  romantic 
writer  of  tomorrow  cannot  be  blind  to 
this  great  new  element  in  American  fam- 
ily life. 

Just  to  illustrate,  let  us  imagine  a 
short  story  of  love,  devotion  and  sweet 
domesticity,  and  see  how  the  monthly 
payment  motif  fits  right  into  it  like  a 
well-made  upper  plate.  Note  how  naive- 
ly it  insinuates  itself  into  real  literature 
as  illustrated  in  the  following: 


"Winfield  had  come  home  a  little 
later  that  day  than  was  his  wont.  As 
he  entered  the  vestibule  his  eye  fell, 
momentarily,  on  the  great  Egyptian  vase, 
standing  silent  and  beautiful,  a  tribute 
at  once  to  his  generous  impulses  and 
$42.80  in  monthly  installments.  Three 
more  steps  and  he  had  flung  himself, 
not  without  certain  feelings  of  self-abase- 
ment, across  the  26  payment  with  inter- 
est at  7  per  cent  couch. 

'Heigh-ho,  little  woman,'  exclaimed 
Winfield,  rising  hurriedly  to  greet  his 
wife  who  had  just  shut  off  the  electric 
piano  player  on  which  a  payment  of 
$28.50  had  only  that  day  fallen  due 
with  a  loud  report. 

'What  has  my  big  big  mans  gone 
into  debt  for  today?'  inquired  the  little 
woman,  with  a  coquettish  pout. 

"Winfield  plainly  was  concealing 
something.  He  kicked  a  $14  sofa  pillow 
into  an  adjoining  room.  It  was  one  of 
those  tense  moments  that  come  at  times 
into  many  lives. 

"How  could  he  tell  her — she  who  had 
been  his  little  pal  since  that  day  years 
before  when  they  had  stood  hand  in 
hand  together  and  had  signed  their  first 
deferred  payment  contract.  In  all  these 
years  since  then  this  was  the  first  day 
he  had  ever  failed  to — 

:<  'Opidella,'  he  said,  hanging  his  head. 

"  'O,  I  see  it  all — now,'  she  screamed, 
hotly,  scornfully.  'You  have  fallen  off 
the  dotted  line.  Not  once  during  this 
whole  day  have  you  put  your  name  down 
for  something  we  don't  need.  Don't 
you  dare  stand  there  on  that  $186  rug 
in  twelve  equal  installments  and  deny  it, 
either.  Yes,  I  can  see  plainly  enough — 
now — that  your  love  has  grown  cold  as 
the  result  of  falling  temperature.' 

"Outside  the  wind  was  howling  like 
a  baffled  creditor.  They  felt  it  shake  the 
early-Colonial  period  mortgage  of 
$3,875.94  under  which  they  resided. 

"Meanwhile,  miles  away,  Harold 
Heartburn,  bonvivant,  club-man  and 
raconteur,  sat  in  his  sumptuous  but  lone- 
ly home,  playing  a  tenor  drum.  On  every 
side  were  beautiful  tapestries,  rich  works 
of  art,  and  mellow  antiques,  all  com- 
pletely paid  for.  Somehow,  as  he  played 
a  soft,  sentimental  old  air  on  his  drum 
he  thought  of  Opidella. 

"  'If  ever  his  love  for  me  grows  cold, 


June,  1927                            OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE  187 

Harold,    I'll    notify    you    by    Postal    or      the  first  person  who  sends  me  a  correct  bound   to  be  a  great  help  to  art.    Look 

Western    Union.'    Yes,  those  had   been      answer  we  will  give  $1,000,000  in  gold,  how  many  ukelele  players  there  are  to 

a  free  trip  around  the  world,  the  Wool-  the  square   inch   in   this  country   today. 

I  he  outer  bell  rang  and  in  less  than               ,    ,     .,,.         ,,-n                ,  ,      ,        ,  ,,7            ,     ,             , 

an  hour,  Perkins  his  Chinese  man,  had      worth  bulldmg'  16°  acres  °,f  land  and  a  We   don  l   know   how   many  there   are' 

answered  the  ring                                             new  ^ea<^  Penci'-    New,  let's  go)."  either,  but  look  at  them  anyway.    This 

"  'Wire  for  Mister  Heartburn    sir  '          Persons  who   pay   their   bills   on   the  shows  it's  an   ill   wind    that   blows   no- 
he  heard  the  boy  mutter.                                 indefinitely  deferred  payment  plan,  may  body's  hat  in  the  mud. — Harry  Daniel 
"(What   did   the   telegram   say?    To      be  wrong  economically  but  the  system  is  in   Thrift  Magazine, 


Former  United  States  Senator 

James  D.  Phelan  Overland  -Poetry  Contest 

Something  Different! 

FOR  California  poets  who  have  published  during  1926-1927  to  deter- 
mine just  what  part  California  contributes  to  the  literature  of  the 
world  through  her  medium  of  poetry.   There  will  be  a  group  for  poets 
with  unpublished  work  and  the  contest  is  open  to  all  poets  residing  in 
California.   A  poet  may  submit  work  to  either  or  both  groups  if  he  is  so 
qualified,  but  the  limit  of  entries  will  be  twelve  to  the  first  group   and 
twelve  to  the  second  group  by  any  one  poet   (twenty-four  entries  in  all). 
After  the  prizes  are  awarded,  there  will  be  a  specially-compiled  list  of 
names  of  poets  and  poems  of  California  worthy  of  contemplation. 

FIRST  GROUP 

FOR  poets  residing  in  California  with  unpublished  work.  If  you  have  a  sonnet  or 
a  lyric,  send  it  in  at  once  to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  Unpub- 
lished work  must  be  submitted  anonymously.  A  sealed  envelope,  bearing  on  the  outside 
the  names  of  the  poems  submitted,  with  the  name  of  the  author  of  these  poems  and 
return  postage  sealed  within,  should  accompanv  each  group  of  entries  by  a  contestant. 
Manuscripts  must  be  in  our  hands  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best   Sonnet  $15.00 Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00 Second  Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be  honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

SECOND  GROUP 

IF  YOU  have  published  during  1926-1927  a  sonnet  or  lyric,  send  it  in  immediately 
to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  You  may  win  one  of  the  prizes. 
Published  work  must  bear  the  name  of  the  publication  and  date  of  publication,  also 
name  of  author.    Entries  must  be  in  Overland  Office  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best   Sonnet  $15.00 Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00 Second   Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be  honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

All  Manuscripts  to  be  Sent  to 
OVERLAND  MONTHLY,  356  Pacific  Building,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 


188 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


Vill, 


jOOR  Tomas,"  remarked  Villa 
"after  a  glance  backward.  "He 
should  have  known  Pancho  Villa 
better  than  to  trifle  with  him." 

After  this  exploit  Villa  resumed  his 
old  life  of  banditry.  With  about  two 
hundred  of  his  still  faithful  Dorados, 
mercilessly  he  sacked  and  pillaged  small 
towns.  If  a  town  failed  to  render  suffi- 
cient booty  to  please  him,  it  was  piti- 
lessly burned.  If  he  chanced  upon  any- 
one against  whom  he  had  a  grudge,  that 
luckless  person  was  killed  instantly. 
With  fiendish  delight  he  wrecked  the 
Carranza  trains.  He  even  had  the  auda- 
city to  attack  Chihuahua  City  again  with 
a  small  force  and  succeeded  in  making 
himself  master  of  it  for  one  day. 

In  these  days  of  his  downfall  from 
the  pinnacle  of  power  in  Mexico  to  the 
life  of  a  skulking  outlaw  again,  Villa's 
vengeful  thoughts  turned  toward  the 
United  States.  Once  that  country  had 
favored  him,  or  at  least  he  thought  so. 
"President  Wilson  is  my  good  friend," 
he  had  often  boasted  in  the  days  of  his 
ascendancy.  Now  Carranza  was  the  fa- 
vored one.  The  Carrancistas  were  tri- 
umphant everywhere.  The  fallen  chief- 
tain hated  the  United  States  with  all  the 
ferocity  of  his  savage  nature.  Well,  if 
the  gringos  wouldn't  help  him  any  more 
he  would  go  over  the  border  and  help 
himself.  He  would  have  vengeance  on 
them.  He  moved  up  toward  the  border 
with  his  band.  They  stopped  near  Pre- 
sidio, Chihuahua,  opposite,  Columbus, 
New  Mexico. 

Before  daybreak  the  morning  of  Feb- 
ruary 11,  1915,  Villa  and  his  rough 
riders  crossed  the  border  and  fell  upon 
Columbus.  Colonel  Slocum  was  on  duty 
there  with  a. small  garrison  of  American 
soldiers.  The  soldiers  were  all  asleep 
when  Villa  and  his  men  fell  upon  their 
barracks  like  a  whirlwind.  There  was 
no  chance  for  any  resistance.  Half  of 
the  soldiers  were  killed  or  wounded  be- 
fore they  were  fairly  awake;  the  other 
half  managed  to  escape  in  the  darkness. 
The  horses  of  the  soldiers  were  stolen. 
The  postoffice  and  several  other  build- 
ings were  looted.  Then  Villa  and  his  men 
recrossed  the  border  and  in  a  few  hours 
time  were  safely  in  hiding  in  the  moun- 
tains. 

This  feat  of  the  daring  bandit  aroused 
great  indignation  throughout  the  United 
States.  President  Wilson  promptly  dis- 
patched General  Pershing  with  a  puni- 
tive column  to  take  Villa  "dead  or  alive." 

All    remember   how   futile   this  essav 


By  Bradley  Tyler  Adams 

(Continued  from  Last  Month) 

was.  From  his  mountain  fastnesses  Villa 
viewed  the  American  attempt  to  take 
him  with  supreme  contempt.  Hadn't 
President  Diaz,  with  much  better  facili- 
ties, tried  that  same  trick  many  times  in 
vain  in  the  past?  Villa  only  laughed  at 
the  fool  "yanquis"  and  bided  his  time. 

After  the  withdrawal  of  the  punitive 
column  to  American  soil,  Villa  set  about 
the  organization  of  a  new  army  with  his 
wonted  energy.  He  still  cherished  the 
hope  of  regaining  his  lost  prestige.  For 
a  while  fortune  seemed  to  smile  upon 
him  again.  His  former  chief  lieut- 
enant, Angeles,  returned  from  the 
United  States  with  the  flattering,  but 
false,  information  that  the  American 
government  would  again  look  with  favor 
on  the  Villistas  if  they  could  make  an 
effective  stand  against  the  now  trium- 
phant Carranza. 

With  a  scanty  force  Villa  again  at- 
tacked Chihuahua  City,  but  after  a 
hard  fight  was  repulsed  by  the  superior 
numbers  of  General  Murguia.  (This 
same  Murguia  a  few  years  later  endeav- 
ored to  start  a  revolt  against  the  Obre- 
gon  government,  was  captured  and  sum- 
marily shot.)  Far  from  being  disheart- 
ened by  this  reverse,  the  indomitable 
Pancho  once  more  directed  his  attention 
to  Ciudad  Juarez  where  he  had  achieved 
his  first  great  military  success. 

On  a  June  day  in  1919  he  fell  upon 
the  unprepared  garrison  of  Juarez  with 
all  his  old  verve  and  celerity  of  action. 
He  obtained  an  easy  victory  once  more 
and  the  Carranza  commander,  Gon- 
zales,  took  refuge  on  the  American  side 
of  the  river. 

This  audacious  deed  of  Villa  was 
taken  by  the  United  States  as  a  direct 
affront.  If  the  daring  bandit  thought  the 
Americans  had  already  forgotten  the  Col- 
umbus raid,  he  was  badly  mistaken.  In  a 
jiffy  several  regiments  of  American 
troops  were  thrown  across  the  Rio 
Grande  with  orders  to  disperse  the  Vil- 
listas and  capture  their  leader  if  possible. 
The  first  part  of  this  commission  was 
quickly  consummated,  but  the  elusive 
Villa  made  good  his  escape. 

After  this  wild  and  fruitless  exploit 
even  the  sanguine  Pancho  despaired  of 
regaining  his  lost  power.  His  only  re- 
liance now  was  his  "Old  Guard,"  his 
ever  faithful  "Dorados"  (nuggets).  The 
remainder  of  his  followers  split  into 
small  bands  that  worked  on  their  own 
account. 

The  cruelty  and  outrages  of  these  Vil- 
lista  bands  finally  aroused  to  action  the 


people  of  the  state  of  Chihuahua.  Vigil- 
ance societies  were  organized  on  all  sides. 
Every  precaution  was  taken  to  protect 
the  small  towns  from  these  raiders.  From 
staunch  supporters  once,  the  people  be- 
came the  bitter  enemies  of  the  Villistas. 

Villa's  most  able  lieutenant,  General 
Angeles,  was  captured  in  a  raid  on  a 
small  town.  He  was  immediately  placed 
before  a  firing  squad  and  "pasado  por 
las  armas." 

For  months  Villa  and  his  Dorados 
created  a  reign  of  terror  throughout 
northern  Mexico.  Expedition  after 
expedition  was  sent  against  him,  but  all 
to  no  avail.  The  alert,  crafty  Pancho 
easily  outwitted  and  out-maneuvered  the 
slow  Carranza  commanders.  When  they 
thought  they  were  close  upon  his  trail, 
some  sleepy  pueblo  forty  miles  distant 
would  see  a  rapidly  approaching  dust 
cloud  and  soon  would  hear  the  dread  cry 
of  "Viva,  Villa!"  Sometimes  his  temerity 
would  extend  so  far  as  to  make  unex- 
pected onslaughts  on  the  slow-moving 
federal  columns,  like  a  band  of  fleet 
Apaches  attacking  a  heavy  wagon  train 
in  the  old  days. 

To  give  affairs  a  semblance  of  legal- 
ity, a  convention  was  called  at  Aguas 
Calientes.  Here  assembled  a  hundred  or 
more  "generals"  to  map  out  a  course  of 
procedure.  After  much  heated  debate 
and  flourishing  of  pistols,  a  certain 
Eulalio  Gutierrez  was  decided  upon  as 
provisional  president  of  the  country. 
This  man  was  chiefly  noted  for  having 
wrecked  more  trains  than  anybody  else. 
They  dictated  the  retirement  of  Car- 
ranza from  the  chief  command  of  the 
"constitutional  army." 

Neither  Villa  nor  Carranza  had  the 
remotest  intention  of  abiding  by  the  de- 
crees of  this  absurd  "convention."  Car- 
ranza installed  himself  in  Vera  Cruz, 
where  he  was  joined  by  Obregon.  Villa 
with  his  army  marched  upon  the  City 
of  Mexico,  to  become  the  real  master  of 
the  country  for  a  while.  "President" 
Gutierrez  being  a  mere  figure-head. 

Like  a  triumphant  Roman  consul  of 
old,  Villa  rode  through  the  streets  of 
the  capital,  hailed  with  "vivas"  on  all 
sides.  He  was  now  at  the  apotheosis  of 
his  glory.  The  rude,  uncouth  peon,  the 
erstwhile  horse  thief  and  bandit,  was 
become  a  virtual  king  in  Mexico.  Car- 
ranza, languishing  in  Vera  Cruz  with 
a  weak  following,  could  no  longer 
menace  him.  His  lieutenant,  Angeles, 
in  the  north  was  holding  things  well  in 
hand.  Besides  all  this,  he  believed  that 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


189 


he  counted  with  the  sympathy  of  the 
American  government.  "Eighty  per 
cent  of  the  Mexican  people  are  with 
Villa,"  President  Wilson  had  been  told. 
Now  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  victory  as 
best  suited  his  fierce  soul! 

In  the  first  place,  the  capital  must 
furnish  him  with  a  beautiful  woman  for 
a  wife.  It  mattered  nothing  to  him 
that  he  already  had  half  a  dozen  wives 
scattered  over  the  country.  Vayal 
Wasn't  that  the  prerogative  of  the  con- 
queror? 

In  the  hotel  where  Villa  and  his  staff 
lodged  a  pretty  French  girl  acted  as 
cashier.  She  was  very  pleasing  to  the 
eyes  of  the  swarthy  warrior.  All  of  his 
women  so  far  had  been  pretty  much  of 
his  own  class.  This  one  was  so  different 
— so  fair,  dimpled,  pretty.  He  must 
have  her.  How  she  would  adorn  that 
splendid  new  automobile  of  his! 

Villa  lost  no  time  in  presenting  him- 
self before  the  pretty  cashier,  who  had 
been  full  of  fear  ever  since  these  rough 
men  occupied  the  hotel. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  Villa  told 
her,  his  ugly  face  attempting  to  frame 
a  smile. 

The  frightened  girl  would  have  run 
had  she  dared,  but  answered  in  a 
trembling  voice,  "what  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  you  to  marry  me,"  answered 
Villa. 

"O  God!"  gasped  the  scared  girl,  and 
made  as  if  to  escape  from  the  cashier's 
cage. 

The  bestial  Villa  flourished  a  pistol 
and  the  poor  girl  stopped,  paralyzed 
with  fear. 

Pandemonium  now  reigned  in  the 
hotel.  The  manager  and  attaches  hast- 
ened to  the  scene  and  endeavored  to 
placate  Villa,  but  this  only  rendered 
him  more  furious.  At  the  door  of  the 
hotel,  as  usual,  lounged  a  group  of  his 
"Dorados."  He  called  to  them  and 
ordered : 

"Carry  this  girl  to  my  room,  lock  her 
in  and  two  of  you  stand  guard  at  the 
door."  Then  he  turned  to  his  private 
secretary  and  commanded  him: 

"Go  and  bring  back  with  you  a  justice 
of  the  peace  that  I  may  be  married  to 
this  girl  at  once." 

No  one  dared  protest.  To  have  done 
so  would  have  meant  sudden  death. 
Seated  in  a  cushioned  chair  and  sur- 
rounded by  his  "Dorados,"  Villa 
awaited  the  arrival  of  the  justice  of  the 
peace. 

This  official  soon  arrived  and  in  a 
great  state  of  perturbation.  The  secre- 
tary had  advised  him  of  the  criminal 
ceremony  he  was  expected  to  perform 
and  who  the  fearsome  person  was  that 
commanded  his  services. 

"I  wish  you  to  marry  me  at  once," 


said  Villa  to  the  justice.  "I  have  the 
girl  locked  up  and  waiting." 

The  justice  protested  feebly,  "but  this 
is  contrary  to  law,  general." 

"Diablo!"  shouted  Villa.  "Either 
you'll  do  what  I  command  or  be  shot 
like  a  dog."  The  justice  made  no  more 
protests. 

They  went  to  Villa's  room.  To  all 
appearances  the  pretty  cashier  was  dead, 
but  she  was  only  in  a  deathlike  faint. 
She  had  first  fainted  when  the  rough 
Villistas  carried  her  to  the  room.  There 
were  no  women  at  hand  to  afford  minis- 
tration. 

"We  shall  have  to  wait  a  while,"  said 
Villa,  after  surveying  the  girl's  pallid 
face  a  moment.  "If  she  doesn't  come  to 
her  senses  pretty  soon  I'll  send  for  a 
doctor."  They  went  down  to  wait. 

Meantime  an  employe  of  the  hotel  had 
gone  to  solicit  the  intervention  of  the 
French  Minister,  who  took  immediate 
steps  to  save  his  countrywoman.  Accom- 
panied by  several  functionaries  and  men 
who  had  some  influence  over  Villa,  he 
went  to  the  hotel.  After  a  strenuous 
time  with  the  boorish  warrior  they  suc- 
ceeded in  dissuading  him  from  his  pur- 
pose. 

Villa  immediately  moved  his  quarters 
to  another  hotel,  swearing  vengeance  on 
everybody  in  general. 

Finally  came  to  pass  a  fresh  revolution 
in  distracted  Mexico.  This  revolt  bud- 
ded in  the  state  of  Sonora  and  was 
headed  by  Plutarco  Elias  Calles,  Alvaro 
Obregon  and  Adolfo  de  la  Huerta,  the 
two  first  named  holding  the  rank  of 
"general" — a  much  abused  title  in  Mex- 
ico. 

This  revolt  overthrew  the  Carranza 
government  and  the  fleeing  Carranza 
was  treacherously  slain  at  Tlaxcalanton- 
go.  De  la  Huerta  became  the  provisional 
head  of  the  new  government. 

Villa  had  a  powerful  friend  at  court 
in  a  certain  engineer  named  Elias  Tor- 
res. This  man,  in  the  name  of  Villa, 
made  overtures  to  the  new  administra- 
tion for  the  capitulation  of  the  trouble- 
(Continued  on  Page  191) 


o/tlexandria  Vages 


are 


f 


guick  On  The  Trigger! 


Their  watchword  is  smiling  cour- 
tesy.— This  is  but  one  of  the 
features  of  this  great  hotel  where 
thoughtful  and  kindly  service 
combines  with  ideal  comfort  and 
surroundings  to  make  a  stay 
enjoyable. 

RATES 

ftr  'Day,  single,  European  flan 

120  rooms  with  running  water 

*2.50  to  £4.00 

220  rooms  with  bath  •  3.50  to  5.00 
160  room*  witK  bath  -  6.00  to  8.00 

'Double,  $4.00  up 

Also  a  number  oflarge  and  beautiful  room* 
and  suites,  some  in  period  furnishings  with 
grand  piano,  fire  place  and  bath,  f  10.00  Hp. 


LARGE  AND  WELL 
EQUIPPED  SAMPLE  ROOMS 

The  center  for  Theatres,  Banks,  and  Shops 
Vteaie  turtle  for  ^Booklet 


QOLF  CWB~\ 
\         available  to  all  guests  / 

HAROLD  E.  LATHROP 


HOTEL/ 


ALEXANDRIA 

Los  Angeles 


The  Fireman's  Fund  leads  all  in- 
surance companies  in  premium 
income— fire,  marine  and  auto- 
mobile—in Pacific  Coast  States 


190 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


WHEN  WITCHES  WALKED 

(Continued  from  Page  185) 
to  stop  the  argument.  After  a  hearty 
dinner,  Nick  affectionately  pushed  his 
guest  into  the  main  room,  where  faro 
dealing,  black  jack  and  poker  games 
were  going  full  tilt.  Drinks  were  free 
and  every  man  in  town  had  brought  his 
thirst  to  be  slaked.  It  was  a  jolly  cele- 
bration. 

"Take  a  hand,  stranger,"  laughed 
Nick  as  he  drew  his  chair  up  to  the 
table  and  laid  his  half-smoked  cigar  on 
the  tin  sheet  at  his  right,  tacked  there 
purposely  for  that  service.  "Let's  see  if 
ten  years  has  made  yuh  any  better 
player." 

Tennessee  stood  looking  at  the  open 
fire.  That  Autumn  fifteen  years  ago 
passed  in  panoramic  retrospection  in  the 
blaze.  The  sardonic  face  of  David  Ben- 
nett seemed  to  mock  him  from  behind 
the  back  log.  He  could  hear  again 
Esther's  warning,  and  Bess'  great  burn- 
ing eyes  seemed  to  look  through  him. 
His  palms  itched  to  run  through  the 
chips.  The  shuffling  and  snap  of  the 
dealer's  cards  fascinated  him.  He  stood 
with  eyes  gazing  into  the  fire,  but  ears 
listening  to  the  music  of  the  red  and 
black  cards  slipping  and  snapping 
through  experienced  fingers.  God,  how 
he  wanted  to  play! 

"Come  on,  ole  pardner!  Waitin'  fer 
yuh,"  called  Nick,  spreading  his  cards 
into  a  fan. 

"Reckon  I  won't  play  tonight,  boys. 
It's  been  so  long,"  hesitated  Tenn,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  blaze,  afraid  to  look 
anyone  in  the  face. 

Nick  brought  his  tilted  chair  down 
with  a  loud  bump.  Stamping  both  feet 
and  guffawing  uproarious.y,  "My  God! 
Did  you  fellers  ever  notice  that  the  big- 
ger a  man  is,  the  littler  the  woman  it 
takes  to  boss  'im?  Look  at  that  big 
"stan"  up  and  fall  down"  six  foot  tall, 
'fraid  to  play  a  friendly  game.  'Fraid 
of  mama!  Hell,  what  kind  of  a  man  are 
yuh?  A  mollie  coddle,  huh?"  gurgled 
Nick,  winking  at  his  associates. 

"Damn  it,  Nick,  you  know  you're 
lying  when  you  say  that.  I  haven't 
played  since  I  went  to  the  mountains. 
It's  been  so  long  I  didn't  want  to  bother 
you  boys.  You  play  and  I'll  look  on," 
Tenn  apologetically  remarked. 

"No  suh!  you  play  or  NO  GAME. 
I'm  the  boss  here.  It's  my  openin'  and 
you're  going  to  play  and  help  house 
warm.  Hear  me?"  shouted  Nick,  get- 
ting angry. 

Against  his  better  judgment  and  with 
a  guilty  conscience,  Tenn  picked  up  the 
hand  dealt  him,  and  the  game  was  on. 
His  one  ten  dollar  piece  grew  to  im- 
mense proportions.  Day  dawned  and 
night  drew  on,  and  Tennessee  still 


played.  Sue  and  Nell,  the  two  roans, 
had  a  holiday  eating  oats  in  the  livery 
stable.  Wagon  and  horses  waited,  but 
the  game  went  on. 

The  third  night  his  stack  began  to 
dwindle.  Tenn  was  losing  and  the 
stakes  ran  high.  He  gave  Nick  his  note 
for  more  money;  it  was  lost.  Then  he 
drew  and  drew,  thinking  each  hand 
would  redeem  the  last,  until  the  last 
money  transfer  covered  the  value  of  the 
ranch — their  ranch,  the  one  Bess  had 
bought  and  struggled  for.  He  had  raised 
Nick  twice,  and  it  had  come  to  a  show- 
down. Nick  held  the  high  hand.  Tenn 
rose  from  the  table,  weary  and  heart 
sick,  and  as  he  turned  to  leave  the  place, 
Melee's  machaticha  burst  through  the 
doors.  Running  up  to  Tenn  and  falling 
on  his  knees,  crying  out,  "Come,  senor, 
back  queek,  Senora,  she  dying." 

Tenn  dropped  the  I.  O.  U's  and  ran 
his  fingers  through  his  hair.  "So  help 
me  God,  I  forgot  about  Bess  and  the 
baby."  Turning  to  the  Indian,  he  said, 
"I'll  ride  your  horse  over  the  trail. 
You  drive  the  roans  and  wagon."  Rush- 
ing to  the  table  and  grabbing  the  book 
he  had  bought,  he  dashed  through  the 
doors  and  swung  into  the  saddle  of  the 
waiting  horse.  Nick  ran  out  and  caught 
the  rein  as  he  was  about  to  go.  Tenn 
raised  his  quirt  threateningly  and  said, 
"Nick  Carter,  you  have  taken  every- 
thing away  from  me  that  I  hold  dear. 
First  you  separated  me  from  my  family, 
then  my  home ;  now  you  have  my  ranch. 
If  you  ever  speak  to  me  again,  I'll  kill 
you."  Kicking  the  horse  in  the  flanks, 
Tenn  turned  the  corner.  A  saw-tooth 
pumpkin  head  grinned  at  him  in  his 
misery.  The  flickering  candle  winked 
and  blinked  in  mockery.  As  he  lashed 
the  tired  beast,  he  turned  his  head  away 
from  the  sight.  "I  might  have  known, 
Esther — it's  the  night  the  'black  hants' 
are  out." 

On  through  the  night  he  rode,  hoping 
to  beat  the  grim  messenger.  At  last  he 
reached  home,  where  Melee  sat  crouched 
by  the  hearth  and  a  neighbor's  wife 
stood  sniveling  in  the  corner. 

Stepping  softly  to  the  bedside,  Tenn 
saw  the  emaciated  figure  of  Bess,  with 
a  little  red  wriggling  form,  with  its  pug 
nose  nestled  in  her  breast.  A  faint 
whisper,  "I  knew  you  would  come," 
came  from  her  wan  lips,  ,and  Tenn  fell 
sobbing  at  her  bedside. 

"I  brought  you  a  pretty  new  book, 
Bess,  and  some  nice  things  for  the  baby. 
Look,  here's  the  book."  He  tearfully 
opened  it  and  placed  it  in  the  tiny  weak, 
toil  worn  hands.  A  flicker  of  light 
brightened  the  tired  eyes,  a  slight  smile 
crept  over  the  pale  face  as  she  read  the 
title,  "Paradise  Regained."  Reaching 
out  to  pat  the  bowed  head,  the  book 


slid  to   the   floor.    A  moment  later  the 
soul  of  Bess  took  its  flight. 

Tenn  laid  her  out  with  tender  care. 
He  fashioned  the  coffin  with  his  own 
hands,  lined  it  in  white,  and  dressed  her 
in  the  white  satin  dress,  with  its  many 
lace  flounces,  she  wore  that  first  night  at 
the  hacienda.  The  roans  and  spring 
wagon,  with  Melee  mothering  the  new 
born  child  and  attending  to  the  others, 
moved  slowly  out  of  the  mountains,  past 
Healdsburg,  Tenn  avoiding  Nick's  place 
as  far  as  possible.  The  provision  wagon 
served  as  hearse  and  mourners'  carriage. 
In  Santa  Rosa  all  the  correct  things 
were  bought,  and  Bess  was  buried  in  the 
cemetery.  Tennessee,  with  Melee  and 
the  six  orphans,  stood  in  the  Winter 
chill,  a  sad  and  repentant  man. 

The  girls  were  educated  as  Bess 
would  have  had  them.  The  girls  were 
known  as  the  "Sonoma  beauties,"  and 
every  torch  light  procession  was  headed 
by  these  girls,  riding  their  high  stepping 
black  horses,  with  the  ever  faithful  rebel 
colors,  the  bandana  draped  around  their 
high  silk  hats.  Tennessee  never  forgot 
his  southern  blood.  The  stars  and  stripes 
waved  over  the  courthouse,  but  the  Con- 
federate flag  always  hung  in  his  office, 
over  the  picture  of  Robert  E.  Lee.  The 
colonists  from  the  south  loved  and  hon- 
ored this  man,  who  soon  became  a  power 
and  an  upright  official,  hard  on  law- 
breakers, but  tender  with  young  men 
and  those  penitent. 

All  the  citizens  respected  this  sad 
young  widower  with  his  young  family. 
In  time  he  was  named  for  sheriff  and 
elected,  year  after  year. 

One  night  the  rain  drove  Tenn  and 
his  deputies  into  the  biggest  place  in 
town.  He  was  known  to  all  the  towns- 
men for  his  large,  robust  figure  and  rud- 
dy complexion.  Two  young  men  asked 
the  dignified,  white-haired  sheriff  to 
take  a  hand  until  the  man  who  was  to 
play  with  them  came  in.  Tenn  smiled 
his  refusal. 

The  youths,  thinking  he  was  figuring 
on  a  bid,  waited  patiently.  The  absent 
player  walked  in,  and  seeing  Tenn 
seated  at  the  table,  Nick  Carter  grabbed 
him  by  the  shoulder  and  shook  him 
roughly.  "Tenn,  you  ain't  a  playin', 
are  yuh?"  He  shook  him,  but  no  re- 
sponse came.  Tennessee  was  calm  in 
death. 

As  Nick  felt  his  heart,  the  doors  flew 
open  and  three  young  boys  with  sheets 
wrapped  around  them,  jumped  in  out  of 
the  storm.  They  wore  masks  and  stuck 
their  tongues  out  at  Nick  as  he  gazed  at 
them  in  surprise.  He  realized  it  was 
Hallowe'en. 

"Tenn  dead!  And  it's  the  night!  I'll 
be  damned  !  Can  you  beat  that  ?" 


June,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


191 


Villa 


(Continued  from  Page  189) 


some  Pancho.  The  latter,  tired  of  his 
strenuous  life  and  now  that  his  bitter 
enemy,  Carranza  was  dead,  was  quite 
willing  to  make  terms  with  the  new  au- 
thorities, always  providing  that  they  were 
sufficiently  advantageous.  Tired  of  the 
long  years  of  incessant  strife  and  turmoil, 
the  new  government,  which  Obregon 
was  soon  to  head,  wished  to  begin  its 
functions  with  an  era  of  peace  in  the 
troubled  land. 

At  Sabinas  Hidalgo  Villa  met  the  gov- 
ernment's emissary,  General  Martinez, 
and  the  terms  of  the  capitulation  were 
arranged. 

For  his  submission  Villa  received  a 
fortune  in  cash,  (the  hacienda  of  Canu- 
tillo  an  estate  worth  a  quarter  of  a  mil- 
lion dollars)  and  the  privilege  of  main- 
taining an  armed  escort  of  his  Dorados 
for  his  personal  security. 

Thus  the  scourge  of  the  wealthy  far- 
mers himself  became  one  of  them,  though 
with  him  the  life  was  more  like  unto  that 
of  an  ancient  feudal  lord.  The  Dorados 
laid  down  their  rifles  to  till  the  soil,  but 
always  with  their  weapons  near  at  hand 
for  emergencies.  Neither  they  nor  their 
leader  were  unaware  that  they  had  cre- 
ated many  bitter  enemies  in  their  wild 
career. 

The  impious  Villa,  who  had  sacked 
many  churches  in  his  time,  even  attended 
church  with  his  wife  and  four  children. 
The  new  life  seemed  to  appeal  to  him 
strongly.  In  his  fine  limousine  with  his 
secretary,  Trillo,  at  his  side,  driving  to 
and  from  Parral,  one  saw  little  sem- 
blance of  the  daring  rough  rider  of  old. 
The  cultivation  of  his  vast  ranch,  the 
breeding  of  stock,  seemed  to  engross  all 
his  attention.  Occasionally,  with  a  few 
trusty  followers,  he  would  ride  away  to 
the  mountains.  After  a  few  days  they 
would  return  and  tarnished  gold  would 
be  much  in  evidence  among  the  peones 
on  the  estate.  This  has  led  to  the  well- 
founded  belief  that  Villa  had  much  bur- 
ied treasure  in  the  mountains — a  great 
part  of  it,  probably,  still  there. 

Transpired  three  tranquil  uneventful 
years.  The  wealthy  landholder,  Fran- 
cisco Villa,  perhaps  fancied  many  such 
happy  years  lay  before  him.  But  the 
blood  of  a  host  of  slaughtered  victims 
cried  aloud  for  vengeance.  Many  there 
were  who  wished  the  death  of  Villa,  but 
apparently  none  of  them  had  sufficient 
courage  to  make  an  attempt  against  his 
life,  such  fear  had  he  inspired  in  their 
souls. 

There  was  an  avenger,  however,  plot- 
ting Villa's  destruction,  and  one  with 
sufficient  courage  and  initiative  to  carry 


his  project  into  execution.  This  avenger 
was  Jesus  Salas  Barraza,  a  deputy  to  the 
Mexican  congress  from  the  state  of  Du- 
rango.  Barraza,  like  many  others,  had 
suffered  the  loss  of  his  fortune  at  the 
hands  of  Villa.  Also  he  had  many  auric- 
ular accounts  of  the  cruelties  of  the 
bandit  chief.  Doubtless  he  little  ex- 
pected that  he  should  be  sent  to  the  peni- 
tentiary (as  he  was)  for  killing  Villa, 
"the  monster,"  as  he  called  him.  Rather 
he  believed  that  his  deed  would  be  ac- 
claimed and  that  he  would  be  rewarded 
for  it. 

To  consummate  his  object  Barraza 
rented  an  empty  house  on  the  outskirts  of 
Parral.  This  house  fronted  on  a  street 
Villa  was  accustomed  to  pass  through 
on  his  visits  to  that  city,  which  were  not 
infrequent.  He  had  purchased  a  large 
hotel  in  the  town  and  had  other  business 
interests  there.  In  addition  to  all  this,  he 
had  a  "lady  friend"  residing  in  Parral 
upon  whom  he  often  called. 

After  many  disappointments  and  a 
long  wait  for  Barraza  and  his  half-dozen 
companions,  the  god  of  vengeance  led  the 
unsuspecting  victim  to  the  slaughter. 
Villa  had  been  in  Parral  several  days, 
hindered  from  departing  sooner  by  a 
break  in  his  automobile. 

The  morning  of  the  19th  of  June, 
1923,  Barraza 's  lookout  brought  word 
that  Villa  was  approaching  in  his  car. 
The  conspirators  armed  with  repeating 
rifles  and  automatic  pistols,  rushed  out 
to  the  sidewalk  and  opened  fire  on  the 
automobile  as  it  drew  near.  Villa  him- 
self, dressed  in  a  khaki  suit,  was  driving 
with  his  private  secretary,  Miguel  Trillo, 
at  his  side.  In  the  rear  seats  were  several 
of  the  Dorados. 

At  the  first  volley,  Villa,  mortally 
struck,  let  go  of  the  wheel  and  threw  his 
hands  to  his  face.  Over  a  hundred  shots 
were  fired  at  the  car  by  the  conspirators. 
Trillo  fell  with  his  body  dangling  half 
out  of  the  machine.  The  unguided  car 
dashed  into  a  tree  by  the  sidewalk.  Of 
the  Dorados  in  the  rear  seats,  but  one 
showed  signs  of  life.  This  fellow,  Ramon 
Contreras,  with  his  pistol  returned  the 
fire  of  the  attackers  and  killed  one  of 
them.  Then  he  leaped  from  the  car  and 
ran.  Struck  by  four  bullets  as  he  ran, 
he  still  managed  to  make  his  escape  and 
still  survives. 

The  vengeful  Barraza  went  up  to  the 
wrecked  limousine.  A  bleeding  mass, 
riddled  with  bullets,  lay  the  crumpled 
form  of  Villa.  But  to  make  assurance 
doubly  sure  the  implacable  avenger  put 
four  more  bullets  through  the  head  of 
"the  monster." 

Thus  passed   Pancho  Villa. 


Just  a 
Moment! 

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manuscript  you  think  should 
find  a  market,  write  for  par- 
ticulars. 


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flaps  of  a  shirt  together 
in  front ;  besides  holding 
your  shirt  and  trousers  correctly  in 
place.  It  is  just  the  thing  for  summer 
when  coats  are  off  and  a  clean,  cool 
and  neatly  fitting  shirt  waist  effect  is 
most  desirable.  Holds  with  a  bull-dog 
grip  which  can't  harm  the  sheerest 
silk.  For  dancers,  golfers  and  neat 
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HOTEL 


San  Francisco 


For  a  Year  or  a 


The  rest  and  quiet  of  a  cared-for  home. 
The  "life"  and  service  of  a  large  hotel. 
Permanent  apartments  or  rooms  for  visiting 
guests. 


A  Great  New  Hotel — Generous  with  Hospitality 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

C/^HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


HELLO,    WORLD/ 

We  are  the  Boys'  and  Girls'  Magazine 

Grown>-ups  not  allowed! 

The  TREASURE  CHEST 


Stories  and  poems  and  drawings  and  things  that 
every  boy  and  girl  likes.    Done  by  boys  and  girls 
and  grown-ups. 


THE  TREASURE  CHEST  MAGAZINE 

$2.50  Per  Year 
1402  de  Young  Building  San  Francisco,  California 


THE'ALL'YEAR^PALISADE^CITYAT-APTOS'BEACH-ON-MONTEREY-BAY 


You  drive  to  Seactijf_  Park  through 
Santa  Crux  or  Waltonvllle,  turning  off 
the  State  Highway  about  %  mf/ftf  eatt 
oj  Capitola,  where  the  tignt  read  "Sea- 
cliff  Park,  dptot  Beach  artd  the  Pali- 


IP?  ••**' 

<j!|.!*  t    <<  •"'-.•• 

'I1?.'1  »£• 


EACLIFF  PARK- 

ofWealitifr 

>/        \L,      J 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family — but  the 
fact  that  Seacliff  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Reality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  Seacliff  Park  property 


((These  are  summer-like 
days  atAplos  Beach — warm,  lazy 
breakers  with  Joamy  crests  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
scuttling  off  to  the  shore  in  a  wild 
conjusion  oj  effervescent  bub- 
bles, while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward for  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

(^Pending  the  construction  oj  per- 
manent buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

Gflrive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  free. 

Kfree  transportation,  ij  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  Seaclijj  Park 
Ojjice  upon  arrival.  ({Ask  /or 
Registration  Clerk. 


is  wise. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  the  fact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetual  charm 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.  Seacliff  Park  resi- 
dents know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park — Riviera  of  the 
Pacific  ndw  emerges  in  reality. 


OWNED  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF  COMPANY,  APTO'S,  CALIFORNIA 


Oescr  t 
ten'  itf 


ve  fotdet 
request 


Q^ 


AT  APTOS  .  CALIFORNIA. 


GAYLORD  WILSHIRE 
Inventor  of  the  I-ON-A-CO 

f^AYLORD  mLSHIRE  is  the  founder  of  the  famous 
^-*  Wilshire  District  in  Los  Angeles.  ^BeautifulWilshire 
Boulevard  was  named  after  him.  He  is  considered  one  of 
the  foremost  authorities  on  economics  in  America  today. 

His  circle  of  acquaintances  includes  such  names  as  William  Morris, 
Ambassador  Bryce,  H.  G.  Wells,  Havelock  Ellis,  and  Bernard  Sha-w. 
His  latest  achievement  is  the  invention  of  the  I-ON-A-CO,  based  upon 
the  recent  discovery  of  Professor  Otto  Warburg,  the  noted  German  biolo- 
gist. His  invention  seems  destined  to  revolutionize  medical  science. 


WilshiresI-ON-A-co 


FOUNDED  BY  BKEf  HARIE  IN  186  S 


Vol.  LXXXV 


JULY,  1927 


No.  7 


PRICE  25  CENTS 

AND  O  UT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


VIP-OINIA  L     TAVLO 


Communication  for  a  Growing  Nation 

An  Advertisement  of 
the  American  Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company 


THE  first  telephone  call 
was  made  from  one  room 
to  another  in  the  same 
building.  The  first  advance  in 
telephony  made  possible  conver- 
sations from  one  point  to  another 
in  the  same  town  or  community. 
The  dream  of  the  founders  of  the 
Bell  Telephone  System,  however, 
was  that  through  it,  all  the  sepa- 
rate communities  might  some 
day  be  interconnected  to  form  a 
nation-wide  community. 

Such  a  community  for  speech 
by  telephone  has  now  become  a 
reality  and  the  year-by-year 
growth  in  the  number  of  long 
distance  telephone  calls  shows 
how  rapidly  it  is  developing. 
This  super-neighborhood,  ex- 
tending from  town  to  town  and 


state  to  state,  has  grown 
as  the  means  of  communi- 
cation have  been  provided 
to  serve  its  business  and  social 
needs. 

This  growth  is  strikingly  shown 
by  the  extension  of  long  distance 
telephone  facilities.  In  1925,  for 
additions  to  the  long  distance  tele- 
phone lines,  there  was  expended 
thirty-seven  million  dollars.  In 
1926  sixty-one  million  dollars. 
During  1927  and  the  three  follow- 
ing years,  extensions  are  planned 
on  a  still  greater  scale,  including 
each  year  about  two  thousand 
miles  of  long  distance  cable. 
These  millions  will  be  expended 
on  long  distance  telephone  lines  to 
meet  thenation's  growth  and  their 
use  will  help  to  further  growth. 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


193 


B.  F.  SCHLESINGER  &  SON'S  Inc. 

Cumulative  7%  Preferred  Stock  at  Market  to  Yield  About  7.5 '/f . 
Class  "A"  Common  at  Market  to  Yield  About  6.3%. 

The    excellent    economies    effected    through    the    "Four-Store    Buying 
Power"  of 

CITY  OF  PARIS,  San  Francisco,  California 
B.  F.  SCHLESINGER  &  SONS,  INC..  Oakland,  California 
OLDS,  WORTHMAN  &  KING,  Portland,  Oregon 
RHODES  BROS.,  Tacoma,  Washington 

are  reflected  directly  in  the  earnings.   The  ability  of  the  management  is 
well  known. 

Earnings   and    management    are    primary    considerations    in    selecting 
securities. 

Further  information  on  request. 

GEO.  H.  BURR,  CONRAD  &  BROOM 


SEATTLE 

797  Second  Avenue 


Incorporated 

SAN   FRANCISCO 

Kohl  Building 


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California   Bank   Building 


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Grown'Ups  not  allowed! 

The  TREASURE  CHEST 


Stories  and  poems  and   drawings  and  things  that 
every  boy  and  girl  likes.    Done  by  boys  and  girls 
and  grown-ups. 


THE  TREASURE  CHEST  MAGAZINE 
$2.50  Per  Year 


1402  de  Young  Building 


San  Francisco,  California 


194 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


OUR  March  issue,  devoted  to  George 
Sterling,  still  causes  the  circulation 
department  over-work.  Demands  for 
copies  of  the  book,  letters  containing  a 
world  of  miscellaneous  history  of  in- 
timate and  otherwise  Sterlingana,  post- 
cards asking  if  copies  may  be  borrowed 
and  telephone  calls  requesting  a  copy 
regardless  of  price  continue  to  pour  in 
by  each  mail.  And  of  all  this  persis- 
tency we  have  taken  full  measure.  Long 
hours  of  planning,  with  careful  and  ex- 
haustive search,  has  given  us  the  deci- 
sion to  produce  another  Sterling  number. 
Mainly  through  the  labors  and  kind- 
ness of  Mr.  Albert  Bender,  long  and  in- 
timately a  friend  of  George  Sterling, 
are  we  able  to  announce  the  November, 
1927,  issue  a  second  Sterling  Memorium 
Number.  Mr.  Bender's  friendship  with 
international  and  national  high-lights  in 
the  art  and  literary  world  allows 
Overland  the  privilege  of  securing  the 
finest  pictorial  and  literary  talent  pos- 
sible for  the  Sterling  book.  An  article 
by  Mary  Austin  is  already  procured. 
Witter  Bynner,  Senator  James  Phelan 
and  Edwin  Markham  have  agreed  to 
work  on  special  Sterling  copy.  Colonel 
Erskine  Scott  Wood  and  Sarah  Bard 
Field  will  also  be  represented.  And 
lastly,  Mr.  Bender  will  personally  de- 
velop an  appreciation  of  George  Ster- 
ling and  allow  Overland  its  presenta- 
tion. From  the  table  of  Contents  to  the 
last  page  of  literary  matter  there  will 
be  the  finest  craftsmen  in  America 
writing. 

We  feel  that  no  magazine  in  this 
country  can  include  the  authors  we  have 
secured  for  our  November  issue ;  and  we 
ask,  therefore,  that  you  place  your  order 
at  once  through  Overland  or  your  news- 
dealer for  this  special.  You  remember 
the  shortage  Overland  experienced  on 
the  rush  for  Sterlingana  last  March. 
To  thwart  that  condition  we  suggest 
that  you  order  several  copies  in  advance 
of  publication  should  you  care  to  send 
Overland  through  personal  mails,  ad- 
vising you  that  newsstand  convenience 
for  extra  numbers  will  be  extremely 
hazardous  a  brief  time  after  publica- 
tion. We  will  be  pardoned  a  note 
something  akin  to  ego;  surely  when  we 
announce  that  it  should  be  remembered 
no  author  will  be  printed  who  has  not 
achieved  national  recognition;  in  keep- 
ing with  the  reputation  and  labors  of 
one  of  this  country's  three  great  poets 
of  the  past  three  decades.  And  for  the 
privilege  of  offering  this  announcement, 


full    appreciation    and    gratitude    is    di- 
rected to  Albert   Bender  of  San  Fran- 


cisco. 


THE  Senator  Phelan-O  v  e  r  1  a  n  d 
Monthly  Poetry  Contest  develops 
into  actual  labor!  Mails  are  expending 
every  day  with  manuscripts.  We  hadn't 
believed  it  possible  for  California  to  con- 
tribute through  print  so  much  literary 
matter.  And  in  the  nation's  most  ex- 
cellent magazines!  Harper's,  Common- 
weal, The  Saturday  Review  of  Litera- 
ture, Dial,  New  Masses,  Century  and 
Nation  are  a  few  of  the  printed  poems 
delivered  us  to  date.  Innumerable  of 
the  country's  little  verse  magazines  are 
on  our  desk — quite  a  goodly  number  we 
didn't  know  existed.  Systemization  and 
recording  will  commence  July  fifteenth, 
and  until  that  date  very  little  can  be 
said  of  the  respective  quality  and  worth 
of  the  poetry  submitted  to  the  contest. 
But  we  have  already  decided,  reading 
bits  here  and  there,  that  nothing  short 
of  amazing  statistics  will  be  offered  by 
Overland  to  the  literary  world  when  a 
report  on  the  amount  and  solidity  of 
California  Poetry  production  is  printed. 
And  we  desire  to  request,  because  deliv- 
ery has  been  not  so  great  in  this  matter, 
that  you  remember  unpublished  work  is 
drawing  the  same  attention  as  the 
printed  work.  As  well  as  discovering 
which  poet  has  submitted  and  printed 
the  finest  poem,  in  our  estimation,  from 
California — there  is  also  to  be  discov- 
ered the  finest  unpublished  poem  and, 
we  hope,  the  finest  unpublished  poet. 
We  don't  recall  having  said  it  before, 
but  we  want  to  go  in  print  on  it : 
greatness  is  not  always  in  printer's  ink. 
We  believe  many  unpublished  poets  in 
this  State  as  well  as  the  others,  have 
matter  on  hand  equal  to  the  highest 
being  printed.  To  get  at  the  root  of 
this  condition  and  to  account  for  it  is 
mainly  the  service  of  the  contest  ar- 
ranged through  Senator  Phelan.  Many 
of  you  already  know  the  national  au- 
thors Overland  has  given  to  literature — 
and  of  the  great  time  and  courage  Sen- 
ator Phelan  devotes  to  the  new  literary 
age. 


AUGUST   will    be    an    exceptionally 
fine  month  for  Overland.     In  hand 
with  the  best  of  fiction  and  poetry  writ- 


ten in  the  Western  World,  there's  an 
impressionistic  sketch  designed  for  us 
by  Carey  McWilliams.  You  will  recall 
the  excellence  of  Mr.  McWilliam's  con- 
tributions in  preceeding  issues  of  Over- 
land. Of  decisive  importance,  and  in 
line  with  the  character  portraits  ap- 
pearing each  month,  will  be  a  grace- 
fully chiseled  type-picture  of  James 
Powers,  San  Francisco's  Post  Master. 
Few,  we  suspect,  realize  the  tremendous 
labor  involved  in  handling  several  mil- 
lion packages  and  letters  shooting  out 
from  San  Francisco,  America's  great 
Cosmopolitan  centre,  to  every  corner  of 
the  earth.  In  this  article  a  little  of  the 
executive  ability  and  humanness  of  Mr. 
Powers  will  be  drawn.  One  or  two 
other  features  of  extraordinary  impor- 
tance for  August  will  be: 


SAN  FRANCISCO,  OR  YOUNG 
MEN  IN  LOVE,  one  of  the  main 
outstanding  features  of  August,  by 
Carey  McWilliams.  Also  we  are  glad 
to  announce  the  article  on  Los  Angeles 
by  Edgar  Lloyd  Hampton  for  the  same 
issue.  Rupert  Murray  sends  us  word 
that  it  will  be  in  our  hands  for  the 
August  issue.  In  this  same  issue  are  two 
historical  stories,  one  "The  Pony  Ex- 
press" by  Ernest  Owen  Sonne,  and 
another  by  Chauncey  Pratt  Williams, 
"Ezekiel  Williams."  And  lest  you  for- 
get what  authors  Albert  Bender  has 
secured  for  our  November  issue,  we  list 
below  from  his  latest  report:  Mary 
Austin,  Sara  Bard  Field,  Charles  Ers- 
kine Scott  Wood,  James  D.  Phelan, 
Witter  Bynner,  Edwin  Markham, 
Oscar  Lewis,  Austin  Crane,  Albert  Ben- 
der, Robbinson  Jeffers,  Ina  Coolbrith 
and  others  of  note.  Order  your  No- 
vember copies  now  and  be  sure  of  re- 
ceiving this  issue. 


JULY  Overland  can  be  bought  on  the 
Emporium  News  Stand,  City  of 
Paris,  Paul  Elder's,  Crock  of  Gold, 
Goldsmith's,  Foster  O'Rear,  Phelan 
Building,  Flood  Building,  Avers  Circu- 
lating Library,  Golden  Gate  News 
Agency,  Fitzgerald  News  Stand,  the 
25th  of  June.  Call  the  Overland  office 
for  out-of-town  news  stands. 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET   HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


JULY,  1927 


NUMBER  7 


EDITORIAL   STAFF 

B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 

CONTRIBUTING   EDITORS 

CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN  KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 


MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


JULY  CONTRIBUTORS 
IN  BRIEF 

OVERLAND  is  indebted  to  Ansel  E. 
Adams  for  the  photograph  which 
accompanies  Joan  Ramsay's  poem  for 
this  month's  frontispiece.  Mr.  Adams 
is  a  San  Franciscan  of  unusual  ability 
in  several  professions.  Already  he  is  a 
musician  of  acknowledged  ability  and  a 
great  social  favorite.  During  the  past 
ten  years  he  has  made  a  study  of  the 
Sierras,  photographing  them  on  numer- 
ous summer  excursions.  He  is  prepar- 
ing an  art  portfolio  to  be  issued  the 
latter  part  of  September  through  Jean 
Chambers  Moore  of  San  Francisco.  This 
collection  is  of  superior  prints,  distinc- 
tive in  subject  selection,  of  the  most  im- 
portant views  of  the  remote  depths  of 
the  High  Sierras  which  each  Californian 
loves  so  well. 


Sanctuary  .. 


Contents 


Joan  Ramsay  .. 

Photograph  by  Ansel  Adams 


.Frontispiece 


ARTICLES 

An  American  Athens Donald  Gray 197 

The  Poets  of  the  Overland Henry  Meade  Bland 199 

When  at  the  Knees  of  the  Gods...:..Ada  Hanifin 201 

Courting  Nature  J.  D.   DeShazer 203 

The  Fur  Seal David  Starr  Jordan 205 

Murals Aline  Kistler  209 

Young  People's  Symphony Cleone  Brown  211 

STORIES 

A  Modern  Endymionne Madame  Coralie  Castelein 206 

Illustrated  by  Whittmore  Tarrant 
The  Chrisophase  King Bailey  Kay  Leach 208 


SERIALS 
What  Is  Your  Name?....  ....Gertrude  Mott 


.216 


POETRY 

Stations    L.  Bruguiere  Wilson 198 

Crystal  Clear Joy  Golden  219 

The  Message  Louise  W.  Sperling 219 

Vesper  Song Philmer  A.  Sample 219 

Questioning  True  Durbrow  219 


DEPARTMENTS 


.210 


Poetry  Page  

Irene  Stewart,  Marie  Luhrs,  Vincent  Jones,  Margaret 

Skavlan,  Anton  Gross,  Lori  Petri. 

Books  and  Writers Conducted  by  Tom  White 212 

Certain  Other  Books Conducted  by  Tancred 215 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative,  George  H.  Myers,  5  South  Wabash  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

Manuscript   mailed    The   Overland  Monthly   without  a  stamped  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 

Entered   as   Second-Class   matter   at  the   postoffice,   San   Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March  3,   1897 

(Content!  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


196 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


June,  1927 


Sanctuary 


By  JOAN  RAMSAY 

IJOLD  breath,  here  is  enchanted  ground, 

For  loneliness  is  all  around, 
And  nothing  notes  the  days  slip  by 
Save  lonely  hawks  and  lonely  sky. 
Like  sundial  markers,  black  and  slim, 
The  pines  point  from  the  valley's  rim 
And  etch  the  minutes  as  they  pass 
In  sharp-cut  shadows  on  the  grass. 
Stand,  passer-by,  and  awestruck  see 
The  Cup  that  holds  eternity. 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ana 


OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


.  5  ]q 


An  American  Athens 


THERE    is    something    remarkable 
about  a  state  nicknamed  the  Peli- 
can   and   a   people   nicknamed   the 
Creoles.    But  more  than  all  else  there  is 
something  fine   to  be  written   on   New 
Orleans   of   Louisiana.    The  marvelous 
old  station  patiently  shoulders  the  sign : 
"America's  Most  Interesting  City" — but 
there  is  some  other  word.    Not  so  defi- 
nitely interesting,  let's  say,  as  human. 

We  are  back  in  San  Francisco,  a  little 
glad  and  a  little  sorry.  It  is  hard  to  for- 
get the  rapid  clicking  over  rails  squat  in 
beds  completely  bordered  by  a  natural 
beauty.  The  quiet  hours  of  comfort  and 
service  in  an  observation  car  designed 
for  the  ultimate  in  comfort.  The  cour- 
tesy of  the  Southland — seeming  to  be 
bred  in  the  bone  of  the  porters  whose 
grins  and  whose  assistance  became  as 
much  a  part  of  the  trip  as,  let  us  say, 
the  panorama  of  green  stuff  and  blossom 
perfume. 

It  is  a  garden,  really, 'that  green  and 
brown  stretch  of  earth  along  that  part 
of  the  Southern  Pacific's  "Sunset  Route" 
that  lies  between  Los  Angeles  and  New 
Orleans.  And  if  you  can  picture  your- 
self being  borne  through  this  garden 
place  in  the  Grecian  comfort  and  the 
calming  security  of  servants  whose  main 
duty  is  to  pave  your  journey  with  the 
acme  of  service — then  you  will  have  an 
idea  of  the  journey  over  the  Southern 
Pacific  road.  We  don't  like  the  term 
"bewitching,"  but  here  we  must  use  it. 
There  is  no  other  word  properly  schemed 
to  describe  that  two  thousand  miles  of 
languid  somnolence  and  clean-cut  travel. 
No  other  expression  to  use  when  the 
morning  breakfast  is  taken  in  a  diner 
whose  windows  are  exquisite  panels  of 


Oil  fields  seen  over  the  Sunset  Route 


By  Donald  Gray 

America's  color  and  strength  and  beauty. 
And  it  is  the  only  word,  now  at  the 
coming  of  summer  when  the  New  Or- 
leans road  is  a  mass  of  green  stuff  and 
flowers,  to  use  when  all  speech  is  drop- 
ped and  the  eye  fills  with  a  virgin  nature 
and  a  cloud-washed  heaven. 

In  the  tart  dawn  before  the  sun  climbs 
up  into  the  blue,  it  is  worth  a  lifetime 
of  city  labor  and  crowded  exertion  to 
spend  a  few  hours  in  that  quietly  speed- 
ing observation  car  and  watch  the  reced- 
ing hills,  the  purple  distances,  the  rapidly 
passing  glimpse  of  little  hamlets  sprawled 
over  a  brief  valley,  the  lazy  curl  of  fog 
from  an  awakening  earth  meeting  the 
slim  threads  of  chimney  smoke  from  lit- 
tle houses  hidden  in  the  hand  of  the  soil. 
To  speed  furiously  on,  smoothly  and 
easily,  with  the  adventure  of  Land  s 
End 'always  dominant  and  the  knowledge 
of  safety  a  solid  and  comfortable  impres- 
sion. .  . 
Through  the  South  Pass  and  the  Wind 
River  mountains,  over  the  earth  whereon 
a  few  years  ago  the  antelope  and  buffalo 
and  Indian  held  a  savage  court  and  were 
kings  in  the  grand  manner!  It  is  hard 
to  believe  that  once  the  stage  coach 
wormed  through  this  pass,  victim  of 
feuds  and  Indian  warfare,  pitiably  in- 
effective beneath  the  arm  of  a  savage 
and  the  arm  of  a  relentless  nature.  Hard, 
especially  in  this  1927  comfort  and 
beauty  and  ease  to  remember  stones  of 
the  traveling  coach  and  the  weeks  spent 
therein.  That  in  a  few  years  we  have 
gone  from  the  cowhide  board  of  a  bump- 
ing wagon  and  the  difficult  confusion  of 
insecure  travel  to  the  plush  cushions  of 
an  evenly-tempered  coach  and  the  noise- 
less speed  of  an  iron  monster  tireless  and 
invincible.  That  in  a  breath  of  the  cen- 
turies we  have  completed  the  smooth 
Southern  Pacific  road-beds  and  instigated 
the  charming  courtesy  of  convenience 
and  delight  in  travel  which  is  a  thorough 
description  of  the  gleaming  coaches  and 
intensely  modern  equipment  of  our  train. 
From  the  observation  car  to  the  first 
coach  behind  the  engine  there  is  always 
the  knowledge  of  services  being  per- 
formed for  our  comfort,  of  means  and 
cares  being  taken  for  the  protection  of 


Santa  Barbara  Mission 

our  hide-clothed  possessions,  of  silent  ef- 
ficiency and  immaculate  understanding. 
What  a  tremendous  change  from  the 
stage  coach !  What  an  immense  trans- 
formation in  the  few  short  years  separ- 
ating 1870  from  1927! 

AND  there  is  the  test  of  all  this 
pleasure;  in  the  very  end,  when  the 
white-toothed  porter  commences  clean- 
ing our  baggage  and  brushing  our  boots, 
when  the  excited  travelers  suppress  their 
hastily  exclaimed  "New  Orleans!"  and 
the  long-bodied  servant  of  glass  and  steel 
and  wood  is  at  last  standing  unlabored 
and  at  lazy  ease  in  the  dark  bigness  of 
the  depot.  There  is  the  surprised  knowl- 
edge that  the  journey  is  so  suddenly  over, 
that  we  are  unwearied  and  fresh,  that  in 
.that  exquisite  trip  we  have  never  noticed 
the  flying  hours,  keeping  their  unceas- 
ing time  with  the  huge  steel  wheels.  That 
is  the  test  of  travel,  of  all  transportation 
to  all  the  corners  of  the  world. 

We  had  sliced  Arizona,  dipped  into 
New  Mexico,  looked  into  the  Mexican 
hills  from  El  Paso,  come  through  Texas, 
crossed  the  Mississippi  and  were  in  the 
depot  at  New  Orleans. 

It  is  a  strange  thing,  this  modern 
travel.  A  glorious  series  of  compact  pic- 
tures and  impressions.  A  show  where 
everything  is  provided,  food,  bed,  maga- 
zines, sweets,  all  the  conveniences  of 
life.  Where  you  are  the  central  figure, 
the  meat  of  the  shell  so  to  speak,  for 
whom  the  entire  theatre  has  been  pro- 
vided and  in  whom  it  concentrates  its 
choicest  delights.  The  hours  must  not 
lag — and  they  do  not.  Each  minute  is  a 
moment  of  pleasure,  every  day  a  space  of 
delight.  From  the  rush  and  last  part- 


198 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


The  great  desert  which  figures  in  great  tales  of  the  West  and  serves  as  subject  for  artists  of  the  world 


ing  of  Los  Angeles  to  the  rush  and  greet- 
ing of  New  Orleans  it  is  a  dream  of 
color  and  comfort  and  peace  between 
two  awakenings! 

It  is  lamentable  that  all  one  sees,  all 
one  feels,  all  one  does  in  the  strange 
corners  away  from  home  cannot  be  in- 
delibly impressed  in  the  brain.  Every 
moment  of  the  trip,  every  scene  and  sen- 
tence of  it  graven  in  perfection.  But  it 
cannot,  and  there  is  little  that  can  be 
accurately  written ;  a  series  of  impres- 
sions, mostly  which  of  themselves  are  a 
complete  and  intriguing  journey.  The 
average  passenger  sees  so  many  "niggers" 
scooting  after  bags  and  trunks,  a  hoard 
of  kids  whistling  for  pennies,  severely- 
laced  and  white-garbed  officers  strutting 
about  sleepy  streets  beneath  a  benevolent 
sun,  rustic  buildings  accepting  sun  after 
sun  through  dreadful  and  exquisite 
decades.  But  the  writer,  again,  sees  dif- 
ferently. He  doesn't  seem  capable  of 
grasping  the  ordinary  and  the  physical 
squares  of  a  city.  The  officers,  the  kids, 
the  buildings  and  shops  he  has  seen  be- 
fore and  his  brain  rejects  them  instantly. 
Here  is  what  hq  gets:  Somewhere  off  a 
smudge  of  smoke  against  a  grey  sky  curl- 
ing out  over  some  laborer's  hut ;  a  wide- 
eyed  kid  about  to  cry  over  in  one  corner 
of  the  depot;  two  little  darkies  hiding 
behind  their  fat  mammy  when  a  benevo- 


lent Middle  Westerner  offers  them  a 
nickel  with  a  holy  pucker  in  his  plump 
red  cheeks ;  a  faded  pony  tied  to  the  gen- 
eral grocery's  hitching  post  at  Del  Rio, 
Texas,  his  left  hind  leg  describing  a  per- 
fect 45-degree  angle:  Scene  after  scene 
quite  intimate  and  quite  unimportant 
registers  itself  in  his  brain — but  the 
usual  panorama  of  pictures  eludes  him. 
And  he  doesn't  necessarily  want  it.  The 
writer  can  picture  town  after  town,  city 
upon  city,  nation  after  nation.  He  can 
handle  them  all  in  a  light  confusion  of 
fog,  mighty  columns  rearing  up  from 
the  green  of  a  valley  to  the  blue  of  the 
sky,  immaculate  streets,  color,  music, 
children  and  sound — the  whole  shooting 
match,  as  a  whole,  he  can  gather,  But 
when  it's  put  together,  it  fails  in  its  per- 
fection unless  there  is  the  smudge  of 
smoke  over  a  laborer's  hut,  the  kid  cry- 
ing in  the  depot  ...  all  that  which  is 
spice  to  the  meat,  food  for  the  fastidious. 
But  in  this  Louisiana  there  is  just  that 
perfect  detail  of  life ;  that  exquisite  color- 
ing for  the  writer  and  his  paper,  the 
tourist  and  his  kodak,  the  student  and 
his  note  book.  In  New  Orleans,  little 
touches  of  harmony  and  unhurried  exist- 
ence which  are  delights  to  the  heart  and 
which  grow  to  be  necessities  for  the  eye. 
The  rambling  French  Quarter  with  its 
tumbled  buildings,  its  artist  studios,  its 


sleepy  decay.  The  exquisitely  named 
streets,  the  roadways  of  wood  blocks 
worn  smooth  and  glistening  by  the  bare 
feet  of  the  "niggers."  The  little  curio 
shops  and  the  gaily  colored  French  res- 
taurants. The  little  dinkey  street  cars 
and  the  cobbled  roads  leading  to  the 
docks  where  Southern  Pacific  boats,  im- 
maculate in  their  polished  brass  and 
white  paint  form  a  marvelous  contrast 
to  the  brown  skin  and  tattered  clothing 
of  the  "niggers"  loading  them.  All  of  it 
an  impression  and  a  symphony  of  per- 
fume, color,  warmth  and  sound.  All  of 
it  that  indescribable  something  which  is 
the  unalterable  truth  of  the  depot  legend, 
"America's  Most  Interesting  City." 

And  we  come  here  to  cover  a  flood  for 
the  hungry  columns  of  the  press — and 
are  astounded  with  impression  after  im- 
pression of  sheer  beauty.  We  travel  over 
the  garden  road  of  the  Southern  Pacific's 
"Sunset  Route"  to  write  of  suffering 
and  courage  and  deprivation — and  are 
stopped  short  at  the  very  beginning  by 
the  beauty  and  peace  of  this  Louisiana 
Athens.  And,  after  all,  why  not  an  im- 
pressionistic article?  For  in  a  few  weeks 
the  flood  will  be  past  history,  forgotten 
in  the  resume  of  events,  while  the  delight 
of  this  trip  will  remain  forever  young, 
shall  live  as  does  New  Orleans  in  the 
halls  of  a  memory  reserved  for  the  beau- 
tiful and  the  at  peace. 


The  little  sunburned  California  stations, 

Broivn  and  honey-yellow, 

Squat  l-ike  strange  savage  gods 

Along  the  dark  tracks  .  .  . 

And  from  the  mountains  down  to  the  sea, 

Through  the  orchards  in  the  long  valleys, 


And  southward  down  the  coast 
Winding  and  tivisting  go  the  tracks, 
With   the   little  fat   stations  strung   on 

them 

Like  amber  beads  on  an  iron  chain 
Flung  on  the  ground  in  coils  and  spirals. 
L.  BRUGUIERE  WILSON. 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


199 


The  Poets  of  the  Overland 


WHEN  the  editor  of  the  Overland 
asked  me  to  review  for  her  maga- 
zine the  various  accounts  of  the 
poets  I  had  written  for  the  Overland  of 
other  days,  my  mind  jumped  far  back  to 
the   Sixties,    to   the   incomparable   three 
with  whom  the  letters  of  the  West  be- 
gin.  Matchless  trio!  The  esthetic  Harte; 
the  lovely   Ina,  "divinely  tall  and  most 
divinely  fair";  the  romantic  Stoddard ! 

Of  the  greatest  of  this  three,  there  is 
comparatively  little  known  that  can  be 
called  exact  biography.  The  two  lives, 
one  by  Merwin,  the  other  by  Pember- 
ton,  are  unsatisfactory.  The  truth  is, 
Bret  Harte's  way,  particularly  his  life 
in  California,  was  half  concealed  in  the 
mystery  he  purposely  surrounded  him- 
self with.  There  is,  for  example,  no 
thorough-going  evidence  his  essay,  "How 
I  Went  to  the  Mines,"  was  not  written 
with  an  eye  to  romance  rather  than  an 
accurate  account  of  himself. 

As  I  write  these  words,  I  can  truth- 
fully assert  Harte's  first,  and  perhaps 
only,  public  school  taught  was  the  Indian 
Spring  School.  I  have  evidence  enough 
at  my  hand  to  reasonably  prove  this. 
This  school  furnished  the  spectacular 
atmosphere  for  the  stories,  "M'liss"  and 
"Cressey." 

We  know  also  he  came  to  San  Jose, 
putting  up  at  the  Ouserais  House,  to 
see  how  his  first  book  of  poems,  "The 
Lost  Galleon  and  Others,"  (now  a  rare 
volume)  was  coming  on  in  sales.  Walten- 
fel's  Book  Store  acted  as  his  agent.  He 
afterwards  registered  at  the  Ouserais, 
accompanied  by  Anton  Roman,  when  the 
two,  in  1868,  were  planning  the  Over- 
land. These  plans  were  afterward  con- 
tinued in  Santa  Cruz  in  a  small  house 
still  pointed  out  by  Santa  Cruzans.  That 
most  exquisite  bit  of  Bret  Harte  poetry, 
"Dickens  in  Camp,"  is  the  poet's  most 
romantic  picture  of  himself  in  the  Sierra 
mining  camp. 

The  Indian  Spring  School  House  is 
yet  standing.  I  remember  it  when  I 
was  a  kid  attending  school  there  in  1872, 
thirteen  years  after  Harte  instructed 
in  it  the  originals  of  "Cressey"  and 
"M'liss." 

Very  recently  I  have  written  a  full- 
page  account  of  California's  only  laur- 
eate, Ina  Coolbrith.  In  this  I  have  told 
in  detail  of  the  striking  place  Miss 
Coolbrith,  when  but  a  girl  of  less  than 
eighteen,  filled  in  making  the  first  era 
of  Pacific  Coast  letters.  With  her  rare 
quality  of  lyric  song  she  put  a  triumph- 
ant touch  in  the  poetry  of  her  time.  Who 


By  Henry  Meade  Bland 

does  not  know  "In  Blossom  Time"  and 
"A  Perfect  Day?" 

With  the  return  of  Charles  Warren 
Stoddard  to  San  Francisco  in  1906,  I 
met  the  third  of  the  incomparables  and 
wrote  for  the  Overland,  in  April  and  in 
December,  1906,  and  in  the  University 
Chronicle  in  1909.  I  also  told  about  him 
for  the  Overland  in  January,  1909, 
under  the  title  "Literary  Monterey," 
this  with  many  illustrations. 

I  can  say  without  any  reserve  or  over- 
drawing I  had  a  heart-to-heart  acquaint- 
ance with  this  notable  man  of  American 
letters,  and  I  consistently  followed  in  his 
footsteps  at  San  Jose,  in  Saratoga,  and  a 
number  of  times  in  Monterey.  The  habit 
of  moving  from  place  to  place  was 
strong  upon  him.  To  see  his  experiences 
in  the  retrospect  was  his  motive.  And  so 
he  seemed  driven  about  from  nook  to 
nook  by  the  storm  of  life.  I  believe, 
however,  he  was  contented,  more  than 
elsewhere,  in  Monterey.  There  in  his 
Casa  Verda  not  far  from  the  Custom 
House,  within  hearing  of  the  perpetual 
music  of  the  sea,  and,  with  the  far- 
stretching  grandeur  of  the  Pacific  always 
before  him,  it  was  to  him  home. 

It  was  at  Monterey  he  told  me  of  his 
associations  with  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son, of  his  first  meeting  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, on  Telegraph  Hill,  with  R.  L.  S., 
an  account  which  so  perturbed  a  re- 
viewer of  my  "Stevenson's  California," 
filling  five  new  pages  in  a  report  of  the 
California  Historical  Society.  Sus- 
tained, however,  by  one  other  competent 
authority,  and  by  Stoddard  himself,  I 
must  stick  to  my  side  of  the  pernickety 
argument. 

However,  it  is  Stoddard  as  a  poet  I 
am  at  this  moment  most  interested  in. 
A  poet  he  aspired  to  be  in  the  first  Over- 
land days,  and  the  touch  of  poesy  he 
put  into  the  exquisite  prose-impressions 
he  created.  A  lyrist  he  was  to  the  end 
of  his  life. 

He  once  told  me,  a  theme  having 
surged  imaginatively  in  his  mind,  his 
first  aim  was  to  get  a  strong  line  to 
begin  with.  He  cited  the  first  verse  of 
his  "The  Coral  Tree": 

"Cast  on  the  waters  by  a  careless  hand." 

A  line  which  starts  off  well  by  varying 
the  accent  in  the  first  foot.  It  is  a  clear 
thought  with  a  not-too-conspicuous  alli- 
teration. 


"The  problem  then,"  he  said,  "was 
to  match  this  line  with  one  a  little  more 
appealing" : 

"Day    after    day   the    winds    persuaded 
"me." 

"This  line,"  he  pursued,  "was  a  modi- 
fication of  a  sentence  he  had  found  in 
a  love-tale  in  which  the  lady  was  giving 
an  account  of  how  she  was  won:  "Day 
after  day,"  she  said : 

"Day  after  day  he  persuaded  me." 

By  shifting  the  symbol  and  adding  a 
syllable  he  had  made  a  touch  of  imagi- 
nation and  a  piece  of  perfect  rhythm. 
The  stanza  now  steadily  intensifies  to 
the  last  line: 

"Fed   by  the  constant  sun  and   the  in- 
constant dew." 

This  accretion  of  power  continues  to 
the  last  line  in  which  the  lone  tree,  the 
only  tree  on  the  lonely  coral  island,  in 
its  ultimate  personification  is  made  to 
say: 

"Till    all   my   senses    stiffen   and   grow 

numb 
Beckoning  the  tardy  ships,  the  ships  that 

never  come." 

Knowing  the  loneliness  of  the  life 
Stoddard  led,  always  hungering  for 
some  distant  sphere,  two  things  are  evi- 
dent on  reading  this  poem:  it  is  in 
epitome  his  sad,  earnest  spirit;  only  a 
lonesome  Stoddard  could  have  written 
it. 

Stoddard  once  told  me  he  was  whip- 
ped into  literary  line  by  the  keen  criti- 
cism of  his  associate,  Bret  Harte.  But 
Stoddard  knew  his  own  weaknesses  and 
responded  to  the  drubbing  in  all  matters 
but  spelling.  "Dear  Seaceless  Wan- 
derer," he  begins  a  letter.  He  grew  in 
his  art  always  toward  the  end,  perfec- 
tion. 

If  I  should  try  to  qualitize  the  note 
in  Stoddard's  poetry  I  would  call  it  the 
spirit  of  yearning.  To  illustrate: 

"I  sit  in  silence  by  the  watery  gates 

A'questioning  the  fates. 

I  ask,  what  manner  of  strange  ships  are 

these 

Slipping  a  down  the  seas, 
Slipping  a  down  the  shouting  seas? 
What  sail 
Is  yonder  gray  and  pale?" 


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OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


Again : 

"White  caravans  of  clouds  go  by 
Across  the  desert  of  blue  sky; 
And  hurley  \vinds  are  following 
The  airy  pilgrims  as  they  fly 
Over  the  grassy  hills  of  spring. 
What  mecca  are  they  traveling  to, 
What  princess  journeying  to  \voo 
In  the  rich  orient?" 

And  another: 

"Oh,  love  me  not  that  I  may  long  for 

thee; 

Or,  loving  me,  show  not  thy  love  ahvay, 
For  love  that  yearns  shall  weave  a  song 

for  thee."" 

Stoddard  was  dutifully  attentive  to 
the  niceties  of  rhyme.  He  disliked 
rough  or  hissing  sounds  and  once  wrote 
some  lines  leaving  out  the  "s"  sounds 
altogether.  He  always  worked  patiently 
till  he  achieved  the  melodious  finish  as 
in  the  refrain  of  the  "Bells  of  San 
Gabriel" : 

"And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Rang  Gabriel,  sang  Gabriel, 
In  the  town  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  'the  Archangel'." 

His  poetry  is  singularly  of  the  humor 
of  his  prose,  which  is  a  humor  that  many 
times  is  produced  by  making  fun  of 
himself.  So  he  says  satirically  after  he 
has  been  tempted : 

"If  there  is  something  you  want  to 
do  and  know  you  shouldn't,  do  it 
quickly  and  repent  afterward."  (Quoted 
from  memory  as  are  all  extracts  in  this 
article.— H.  M.  B.) 

MY  KEENEST  memory  of  Stoddard 
is  Montereyan.  The  Blands  were 
housed  in  their  bungalow  on  McAbee 
Beach,  a  little  inlet  of  sand  and  tide 
splashing  up  to  their  very  door.  Here 
Stoddard  came  an  afternoon  walking, 
leaning  heavily  on  his  gold-headed  cane. 
Annie  Embee  (Mrs.  H.  M.  B.)  pre- 
pared a  rosy  luncheon  by  the  window 
looking  out  on  the  summery  Stevenson- 
Fishhook  bay;  with  the  break  of  the 
surf  on  the  sand  sounding  lightly  like 
wind  blowing  through  the  leaves  of  pop- 
lar trees.  We  talked  many  things;  auto- 
graph hunting — he  was  a  veteran  at  the 
work  and  had  many  scrap-books  full, 
"A.  Tennyson"  for  one. 

We  walked  in  fancy  "The  Tranquil 
Island  of  Delight;"  followed  Stevenson 
among  Monterey  pines,  and  listened  to 
the  far-off  softened  summer  boom  of 
breakers  on  the  point.  Stoddard  told 
some  more  about  Bret  Harte  and  Ina — 
told  of  Bret  Harte's  "den"  in  the  upper 
windowed  summery  story  of  a  house ; 
where?  He  could  not  now  locate  it,  in 


Oakland,  in  San  Francisco.  Then  he 
wrote  verses  in  my  autograph  album ; 
and  then  we  talked  over  our  plan  to 
storm  in  a  body  the  next  day  George 
Sterling's  castle  on  El  Camino  Real  at 
Carmel. 

George  came  over  early  in  the  morn- 
ing to  escort  us  over  the  hills.  We  were 
ready  "betimes,"  and  packed  comfort- 
ably in  the  surrey  with  a  niche  for  our 
noble  host.  George  talked  a  few  mo- 
ments about  the  grade,  and  then  said 
he  thought  he'd  run  ahead  so  as  to  be 
ready  to  meet  us  when  we  got  there.  In 
vain  our  remonstrance!  He  was  gone 
in  an  instant,  taking  long,  long  strides 
like  a  racer.  In  truth  he  must  have  run 
a  veritable  Marathon  ahead  of  us,  with 
his  muscles  steel,  and  his  spirit  tireless; 
for,  though  this  big  grey  trotted  furi- 
ously up  grade  and  down,  narry  a  sight 
did  we  catch  of  the  swift,  long  legs ;  but 
true  to  his  word,  he  committed  out  to 
meet  us,  and  led  us  down  the  dim  Real 
to  his  bungalow. 


Ina  Coolbrith  in  the  days  of  her  great 
successes 

The  old  Sterling  home  at  Carmel  did 
not  overlook  the  sea,  rather  it  gazed 
down  over  Carmel  pastures  full  of  cat- 
tle and  horses,  with  the  little  treed  out- 
line of  the  river.  A  shady  front  porch 
made  us  comfortable.  The  pines  were  all 
round  about  this  quiet  Jerusalem  of  a 
place.  The  main  part  of  the  temple  was 
twenty  feet  square  and  full  of  books. 
The  altar,  a  Cinderella  fireplace,  and 
the  inner  sanctuary  a  well-lardered  but 
by  no  means  Volsteadian  kitchenette. 
After  a  while  Stoddard  was  not  very 
talkative,  but  snoozed  comfortably  in  a 
great  arm-chair. 

But  George  and  I  talked  of  a  num- 
ber of  things;  yet  inasmuch  as  we  had 
a  common  rallying  point  in  the  deep 
friendship  and  admiration  both  of  us 


had  for  Jack  and  Charmian  London. 
Our  conversation  never  lagged.  George 
and  I  were  first  brought  together  on  one 
of  Jack's  famous  Wednesday  night 
levees  at  his  home  on  Telegraph  Avenue, 
Oakland,  now  number  2628. 

I  listened  chiefly  on  this  momentous 
night.  I  boast  I  am  a  good  listener.  I 
heard  Sterling  comment  satirically,  when 
offered  cream  and  sugar  for  his  coffee, 
about  adulterating  the  divine  drug  with 
flesh  and  a  mineral;  but  in  the  main 
Jack  was  the  talky  autocrat  while  every- 
body respectfully  listened.  Throwing 
light  on  his  constant  search  for  dramatic 
material  for  stories,  he  said  that  very 
day  he  had  been  across  the  water  to  San 
Francisco,  and  had  not  seen  one  accident 
or  one  fight. 

In  his  study  Jack,  after  guests  had 
gone,  pulled  from  the  desk  a  long  manu- 
script and  read  aloud  the  yet-not-in- 
print  "A  Wine  of  Wizardry."  I  was 
deeply  impressed  by  the  music  of  the 
long  English  heroic  sweep  of  line,  and 
by  the  far  flight  of  the  imagination,  as 
well  as  the  multitudinous  wording.  Of 
the  characteristics  of  Sterling's  poetry 
I  have  written  for  the  Overland  under 
the  title  of  "A  Poet  of  Seas  and  Stars." 
This  article  is  in  the  December  num- 
ber, 1915.  As  I  re-read  it  I  seem  to  feel 
my  judgments  are  correct.  I  felt  then 
as  I  do  now  that  "Duanlon"  and  "Tasso 
to  Leonora"  are  the  great  poems  of 
George  Sterling.  The  lyrics  I  love  are: 
"To  One  Asking  Lighter  Songs"  and 
"Lines  to  Constance  Crawley." 

But  now,  back  to  Carmel !  After 
much  London  opinion  and  admiration, 
remembering  a  beautiful  visit  at  Glen 
Ellen  at  which  Sterling  and  I  were 
guests,  and  recalling  the  happy  graces  of 
Jack  and  Charmian,  I  wrote  "Love," 
beginning: 

"Young   as   the   swift    heart-beat    of    a 

fiery  bay, 
Old  as  the  pain  that  fell  on  sorrowing 

Troy!" 

Ending  with  : 

"Strong   as    the   sprites   that    wing   the 

boundless  deep: 
Still  as  the  night,  calm  as  eternal  sleep." 

This  is  one  of  the  "Sierran  Pan" 
poems,  page  48. 

We  closed  this  Carmel  day  with  pic- 
ture taking.  I  still  have  the  films  I  took, 
one  of  Stoddard  (please  look  in  "Ste- 
venson's California"),  and  I  still  have 
the  snap  I  took  of  George,  and  I  prize 
it  because  in  the  dim  background  is 
Annie  Embee  and  a  little  girl  who  even 
then  tinkered  with  verse  and  whose 
"To  the  Merced  River"  is  one  of  the 
things  I  cherish. 

(Continued  on  Page  218) 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


201 


When  at  the  Knees  of  the  Gods 


Thomas  F.  Boyle, 

treasurer 
and  city  auditor 


THIS  is  an  unusual  story.  It  might 
have  happened  in  Utopia.  But 
it  didn't.  It  happened  out  West. 
In  colorful,  cosmopolitan,  romantic, 
generous-hearted  San  Francisco. 

It  is  about  a  dream.  A  supposedly 
"impracticable",  "utterly  ridiculous", 
"impossible"  dream.  And  how  it  came 
true.  How  a  people,  a  city  government, 
and  the  local  press  helped  to  make  it 
come  true. 

It  is  about  a  movement  of  the  people, 
by  the  people,  and  for  the  people.  And 
how,  beautiful  and  unselfish  in  its  con- 
ception, it  has  evolved  a  message  of  co- 
operation, idealism  and  altruism  that 
should  be  broadcasted  into  every  corner 
of  the  globe. 

It  is  also  about  a  few  important  peo- 
ple :  a  clubman,  a  union  man,  a  busi- 
ness man,  a  clubwoman,  a  city  father, 
and  a  dreamer  and  writer,  who,  when 
the  Dream  Ship  was  launched  on  its 
uncertain,  course,  stood  unswervingly  at 
the  helm,  and  guided  it  into  the  Port  of 
Popular  Fancy. 

Ten  years  ago,  possibly  fifteen,  the 
dreamer  began  to  dream  his  dream.  But 
the  time  was  not  ripe  for  its  fruition — 
that,  he  knew,  nor  for  the  confiding  of 
it  to  kindred  souls.  So  time  went  on, 
and  in  the  intervening  years,  the  city 
by  the  Golden  Gate  unfolded  her  aes- 
thetic wings,  awakened  musically  and 
claimed  her  traditional  birthright.  To- 


John  Rothschild, 

first 
vice-president 


By  Ada  Hani  fin 

day,  San  Francisco  is  universally  recog- 
nized as  one  of  the  world's  leading  cen- 
ters of  music. 

Among  the  local  organizatinos  that 
have  contributed  steadily  to  the  city's 
musical  growth,  one,  especially,  is  funda- 
mentally responsible  for  her  present 
status  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  The 
San  Francisco  Symphony  Orchestra. 
This  excellent  orchestral  body  of  ninety 
musicians,  was  but  an  infant  in  the 
life  of  the  city  some  fifteen  years  ago, 
with  a  clientele,  relatively  small,  almost 
wholly  representative  of  the  musical 
elect.  Today,  how  different !  Under 
the  baton  of  genial  Alfred  Hertz, 
genius,  musician  and  artist,  who,  for 
the  past  thirteen  years  has  guided  its 


Joseph  Thompson,  president 
Summer  Symphony  Association 

artistic  destiny,  the  San  Francisco  Sym- 
phony Orchestra,  now  a  significant  mu- 
sical entity,  with  a  following  that  has 
grown  with  the  years,  has  become 
known  in  every  section  of  the  country 
and  in  Europe,  where  music  is  essen- 
tially a  part  of  the  life  of  the  people. 

But  until  last  year,  only  two  percent 
of  the  people  of  San  Francisco  heard 
the  symphony  orchestra.  A  startling 
fact,  but  none  the  less  statistically  true. 
It  didn't  seem  possible  that  a  populace 
that  was  virtually  being  steeped  in  mu- 
sic, nightly  attending  legitimate  recitals 
and  actually  packing  the  Exposition  Au- 
ditorium to  the  roof  (which  means  an 
audience  10,000  strong)  during  the 
opera  season  and  when  McCormack, 
or  Hayes,  or  Schipa  or  Kreisler  was  in 
town,  could  admit  of  such  an  over- 
whelming majority  being  symphonically 
"deaf,"  or  uninterested  or  uninitiated. 
Which? 


Mrs.  Leonard 

Wood,  chairman 

Subscription 

Committee 


One  thing  was  certain:  ninety-eight 
per  cent  of  the  people  were  symphon- 
ically  starved.  And  one  of  the  best  or- 
chestras in  the  world  playing  yearly  to 
enthusiastic  and  appreciative  audiences 
during  its  regular  season  of  twenty-five 
weeks  and  sixty-five  performances.  A 
paradox?  Apparently. 

Until     .     .     . 

One  fine  day  —  it  was  in  the  early 
spring,  just  a  year  ago — the  business 
man  and  the  union  man  met  the  idealist 
at  luncheon.  The  business  man,  who 
some  twenty  years  ago,  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  a  movement  that  was 
epoch-making  in  the  musical  history  of 
San  Francisco;  the  idealist,  publisher 
and  editor  of  the  oldest  musical  journal 
in  the  West,  who  was  to  see  his  dream 
become  a  reality ;  and  the  union  man,  an 
official  representative  of  an  organization 
of  thirty-five  hundred  members,  who 
was  to  play  a  vitally  important  part  in 
the  unfolding  of  it. 

The  writer  had  invited  them.  He 
would  give  them  his  confidence.  He 
wanted  their  advice.  Were  the  people 
ready  to  accept  a  new  idea?  Support  a 
new  venture?  Believe  in  his  dream? 
(A  dream  conceived  in  many  a  brain, 
but  his  by  right  of  clinging  to  it,  cher- 
ishing it,  nourishing  it).  He  wanted  to 
know. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  they  parted,  the 


Mrs.  Lillian 
Birmingham, 

second 
vice-president 


202 


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July,  1927 


Bruno 
If  alter 


three  pioneers.  Determined.  Hope- 
ful. Courageous.  They  would  test  the 
pulse  of  the  people.  More  than  that. 
They  would  have  faith  in  the  people. 
Believe  in  the  people. 

THE  second  meeting  was  in  the  na- 
ture of  a  public  luncheon.  Mrs. 
J.  J.  Carter,  then  president  of  the  Hol- 
lywood Bowl  Association,  was  the  guest 
of  honor  and  principal  speaker,  and  told 
of  how  she  had  succeeded  in  establish- 
nig  the  now  famous  series  of  "Sym- 
phonies Under  the  Stars".  And  that 
same  unquenchable  enthusiasm  that  had 
ignited  her  followers  to  blaze  a  new 
trail  in  the  southern  city,  inspired  the 
San  Francisco  apostles  of  Summer  Sym- 
phony to  embark  on  a  virgin  sea  and 
conquer! — despite  seemingly  formidable 
obstacles. 

Then  a  series  of  luncheons  followed. 
Committees  were  organized,  chairman 
appointed,  /officers  named.  And  the 
San  Francisco  Summer  Symphony  As- 
sociation come  into  being! 

And  a  group  to  b;  reckoned  with 
— the  officers  of  the  Association,  who 
put  their  shoulders  to  the  wheel  and 
gave  wholeheartedly  of  themselves  in 
the  launching  of  the  summer  season  of 
symphony.  And  the  same  altruistic, 
public-spirited  music-lovers  are  at  the 
helm  this  year. 

Joseph  Thompson,  head  of  one  of  the 
leading  manufacturing  concerns  of  the 
city,  and  last  year,  the  popular  president 
of  San  Francisco's  famed  Bohemian 
Club,  is  president.  Mr.  Thompson  has 
won  for  himself  no  small  reputation  as 
a  brilliant  extemporaneous  speaker  and 
toastmaster.  And  he  used  this  singular 
gift,  which  he  so  delightfully  punctuates 
with  wit  and  wisdom,  to  plead  the  cause 
of  Summer  Symphony.  Generously,  he 
gave  of  whatever  spare  time  was  his, 
when  called  upon  to  speak  before  tenta- 
tive symphony  audiences. 

John  Rothschild,  devotee  of  the  arts, 
and  one  of  San  Francisco's  most  eminent 
business  men,  is  first  vice-president.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  this  profound  mu- 
sic-lover gave  heart  and  soul  to  the 
cause.  It  is  he  who  is  responsible  for 
the  bringing  of  symphony  into  the 
hearts  of  San  Franciscans  as  a  per- 
manent thing.  It  was  many  years  ago, 
in  1908,  that  Mr.  Rothschild,  as  an  ac- 


Emil 

Oker/ioffer 


live  member  of  a  club  organized  short- 
ly after  the  earthquake  and  fire,  for  the 
upbuilding  and  betterment  of  the  city, 
suggested  a  symphony  orchestra  for  San 
Francisco.  And  it  was  he,  and  R. 
Tobin,  now  ambassador  to  Holland, 
and  T.  B.  Berry,  first  president  of  the 
Musical  Association  of  San  Francisco, 
who,  with  the  assistance  of  others,  set 
out  to  organize  it.  Two  years  later, 
1910,  the  San  Francisco  Symphony  Or- 
chestra gave  its  first  concert  under  the 
leadership  of  its  first  conductor,  Henry 
Hadley. 

Mrs.  Lillian  Birmingham,  second 
vice-president,  is  treasurer  of  the  Past 
Presidents'  Assembly,  and  also  a  mem- 
ber of  the  board  of  directors  of  the  Na- 
tional Federation  of  Music  Clubs,  and 
was  last  year  president  of  the  State  Fed- 
eration of  Music  Clubs.  Mrs.  Birming- 
ham has  taken  an  intensively  active  part 
in  the  musical  life  of  the  city,  and  has 
the  reputation  of  stamping  with  success 
any  undertaking  to  which  she  brings  her 
indomitable  enthusiasm. 

Albert  Greenbaum,  secretary,  is  sec- 
retary of  the  Musicians'  Union.  As  a 
representative  of  that  organization,  and 
at  heart  with  its  members,  he  worked 
unceasingly  to  effect  the  additional  sea- 
son of  symphony  which  would  make  pos- 
sible the  protracted  engagement  of  the 
orchestra,  as  the  Musical  Association, 
which  fosters  the  winter  symphony,  can 
only  offer  its  personnel  a  six  months' 
contract.  It  was  his  timely  presentation 
of  a  plan  whereby  the  members  of  the 
orchestra  were  to  play,  at  a  nominal 
remuneration,  a  stated  number  of  con- 
certs at  the  Auditorium,  to  which  the 
public  would  be  asked  to  subscribe  at  a 
nominal  cost,  that  made  the  enterprise 
seem  feasible  in  the  first  place. 

Thomas  F.  Boyle,  treasurer,  and  one 
of  San  Francisco's  most  beloved  city  fa- 
thers, played  his  part  and  played  it 
nobly.  For  twenty-seven  years,  he  was 
associated  with  the  daily  press  and  for 
the  past  eighteen  years  has  served  in 
the  capacity  of  city  auditor.  It  was  be- 
cause of  his  plea  in  behalf  of  the  sym- 
phony, that  the  Board  of  Supervisors 
set  aside  ten  thousand  dollars  from  the 
City  Welfare  Fund  for  the  aid  of  these 
concerts.  (Without  the  patronage  of  the 
municipality,  and  the  support  of  the 
press,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  summer  sym- 


Ossip 
Gabriloviitsc/i 


phony  would  have  materialized  last 
year).  This  act  on  the  part  of  the  city 
fathers,  who  are  ever  ready  to  promote 
the  public  appreciation  of  music,  added 
a  stimulus  to  the  drive,  zest  to  the  cam- 
paign, and  instilled  faith  and  courage  in 
the  hearts  of  those  who,  of  their  own 
volition,  had  ventured  forth  to  face 
seemingly  unsurmountable  difficulties 
with  no  hope  of  reward  other  than  that 
of  victory. 

And  last  but  not  least  of  these,  Al- 
fred Metzger,  dreamer,  idealist,  and 
publisher  of  the  Pacific  Coast  Musical 
Review,  who  is  chairman  of  the  Music 
Committee.  As  the  guiding  spirit,  he 
worked,  untiringly,  day  and  night,  to- 
ward the  fulfillment  of  his  dream. 

A.  W.  Widenham,  manager,  and  for 
the  past  eleven  years,  the  able  secretary- 
manager  of  the  Musical  Association, 
placed  the  library  and  personnel  of  the 
offices  of  the  association  at  the  dis- 
posal of  the  Summer  Symphony  Associa- 
tion. 

There  was  a  Publicity  Committee 
made  up  of  the  music  critics  of  the  daily 
press,  who  availed  themselves  of  every 
opportunity  to  spread  the  gospel  of  sum- 
mer symphony. 

And  there  was  a  Subscription  Com- 
mittee, headed  by  Mrs.  Birmingham,  as 
chairman,  who  could  be  depended  upon 
to  do  something  akin  to  that  accom- 
plished by  Mrs.  Carter  in  the  south. 

But  "The  best  schemes  o'  mice  and 
men  gang  aft  a-gley"  when  Fate  deems 
otherwise.  Shortly  after  the  opening  of 
the  subscription  drive,  Mrs.  Birming- 
ham met  with  a  serious  accident  that  con- 
fined her  to  the  hospital  for  weeks. 

Then  it  was  that  a  new  leader  arose 
among  them,  destined  to  carry  on  the 
excellent  work  started  by  Mrs.  Birming- 
ham, and  to  lead  her  followers  on  to 
victory!  Mrs.  Leonard  Wood.  A  well- 
known  society  woman  and  patron  of  the 
arts. 

Now,  the  level-headed  men  at  the 
head  of  the  movement,  wise  in  the  ways 
of  the  world,  who  had  decided  that  the 
financial  support  of  the  summer  series 
should  come  solely  from  the  sale  of 
tickets,  did  not  feel  justified  in  engaging 
conductors  and  orchestra  or  renting  the 
Auditorium,  until  a  certain  number  of 

(Continued  on  Page  220) 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


203 


J.  Frank  Duryea  and  one  of  the 

prize  skins 

WHO  among  the  lovers  of  nature 
has  not  longed  to  visit  a  country 
where    the   whistle   of   a    loco- 
motive, the  honk  of  the  automobile  horn, 
and  jazz  music  are  unknown?    Where 
the   hand   of   man   with   his  civilization 
has   not    desecrated    the   landscape,    and 
where  nature  reigns  as  supremely  as  she 
did   on    the   whole   American   continent 
before  the  white  man  arrived? 

Having  looked  in  vain  for  such  a 
place  over  most  of  the  western  states 
and  southern  Canada,  my  outing  part- 
ners, Dr.  J.  Deason,  and  J.  Frank  Dur- 
yea, the  automobile  man,  and  I  turned 
our  attention  toward  Alaska  and  the 
Yukon  country.  Our  main  object,  as 
usual,  was  the  study  of  nature  in  all  her 
manifestations,  and  the  great  joy  which 
comes  to  those  who  put  forth  time  and 
effort  in  that  direction.  In  order  that  we 
might  have  a  definite  purpose,  some 
excuse  other  than  our  own  pleasure,  in 
making  such  a  pilgrimage,  Dr.  Deason 
procured  a  commission  from  the  Field 
Museum  of  Chicago  for  us  to  collect  a 
representative  family  of  caribou  for  a 
habitat  group.  This  commission  would 
give  us  official  status  as  naturalists 
(whether  we  deserved  it  or  not)  and 
and  would  assure  us  of  manv  favors  from 


Courting  Nature 

By  J.  D.  DeShazer 

government  officials  which  we  could  not 
expect  as  private  individuals. 

Six  months  before  we  expected  to 
start  we  contracted  with  a  professional 
guide,  Mr.  Chas.  Baxter  of  White 
Horse,  Y.  T.,  to  furnish  us  with  horses, 
camp  equipment,  guides,  cook  and  food, 
and  to  have  everything  in  readiness 
about  August  1,  1926,  for  a  two  months' 
packing  trip  into  the  St.  Elias  moun- 
tains along  the  border  of  Alaska  and  the 
Yukon  Territory. 

We  chose  Seattle  as  our  common 
meeting  place,  and  made  reservations  on 
the  steamship  Dorothy  Alexander  to 
Skagway.  On  July  30,  1926,  at  10 
o'clock,  with  the  ship's  orchestra  play- 
ing "Valencia,"  and  everybody  throw- 
ing serpentines,  we  pulled  away  from 
the  Pacific  Steamship  Company's  wharf 
at  Seattle. 

It  was  a  gay  assemblage  of  tourists 
from  all  parts  of  the  country  who  were 
getting  themselves  located  aboard  ship 
when  she  passed  West  Point  and  turned 
her  nose  toward  the  North  Pole.  The 
thousand-mile  water  trip  from  Seattle  to 
Skagway  is  always  a  continual  round  of 
pleasure,  whether  you  are  a  good  sailor 
or  not.  For  practically  the  whole  dist- 
ance the  ship  glides  along  through  the 
famous  inside  passage  over  water  as 
smooth  as  a  lake,  and  you  eat  your  three 
squares  a  day  with  no  fear  of  unpleasant 
consequences. 

The  natural  wonders  and  beauty  of 
scenery  up  the  inside  passage,  the  pleasant 
associations  with  fellow  passengers,  and 
the  comfort  afforded  by  the  ship  and  her 
crew,  all  tempt  one  to  write  a  volume 
on  that  part  of  the  trip  alone.  Here 
nature  with  her  volcanoes  and  glaciers, 
rivers  and  waterfalls,  has  fashioned  and 
is  still  fashioning  a  type  of  wild,  beau- 
tiful scenery  not  to  be  surpassed  any- 
where. 

After  four  delightful  days  and  nights 
aboard  the  Dorothy  Alexander,  we  dis- 
embarked as  Skagway,  Alaska,  and  hus- 
tled our  duffle  and  luggage  aboard  the 
little  narrow-gauge  train  on  the  White 
Pass  &  Yukon  Railroad.  Leaving  Skag- 
way behind  us,  we  started  the  ascent  of 
the  mountain  at  once.  There  was  no 
other  place  to  go.  And  such  mountains ! 
I  can  best  describe  them  by  saying  that 
they  are  ideal  mountains — the  kind  of 
mountains  you  have  seen  painted  by 
artists  who  have  never  seen  mountains. 
Sharp  spires  projecting  themselves  up- 


ward thousands  of  feet  through  the 
clouds,  great  fields  of  ice  filling  every 
canyon, 

Waterfalls  to  the  right  of  you, 
Waterfalls  to  the  left  of  you, 
Waterfalls  in  front  of  you, 

Volley  and  thunder. 
The  little  train,  with  two  engines  in 
front  and,  part  of  the  time,  one  behind, 
labors  along,  giving  you  ample  time  to 
enjoy  this  wild,  magnificent  scenery.  The 
railroad  follows  closely  the  line  of  the 
old  White  Pass  trail  over  which  thous- 
ands of  gold  seekers  stampeded  in  their 
rush  to  the  Klondike.  At  the  summit  of 
White  Pass  there  are  two  flag  poles,  one 
flying  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  the 
other  the  Union  Jack. 

Here  we  delivered  ourselves  to  the 
tender  care  of  the  famous  Northwestern 
Mounted  Police.  Not  only  do  these  men 
know  how  to  "get  their  man,"  as  they 
are  made  to  do  in  the  movies,  they  also 
know  how  to  treat  tourists,  hunters,  and 
naturalists. 

AT  WHITE  HORSE  RAPIDS  on 
the  headwaters  of  the  Yukon  River, 
we  were  met  by  the  genial  smile  of 
Charley  Baxter,  who  was  to  be  our  guide 
and  host  for  the  next  two  months.  A 
delightful  drive  of  120  miles  across 
country  in  a  Ford  truck  next  day 
brought  us  to  the  camp  on  Bear  Creek 
where  Baxter  had  collected  thirty  horses, 
saddles  and  pack  saddles,  tents,  food  and 
other  supplies.  It  was  here  also  that  we 
met  Charley  Hoddinott,  who  was  to  be 
our  cook;  Jake  and  John,  two  Siwash 
Indian  guides,  and  packers,  and  Rodney 
Brant,  horse  wrangler. 

Next  day  "everybody  and  the  cook" 
were  busy  getting  supplies  and  equip- 
ment ready  for  packing.  Getting  sad- 
dles, pack  saddles  and  loads  ready  for 
thirty  horses  is  a  job  that  can  be  appre- 
ciated only  by  those  who  have  had  the 
experience. 

Next  morning  everybody  was  up  with 
the  sun,  which  at  this  latitude  was  about 
three  o'clock.  At  ten  o'clock  we  were  all 
in  the  saddle,  and  our  caravan  ready  to 
start  on  the  nine-day  packing  trip  which 
was  to  take  us  to  our  permanent  camp 
on  the  headwaters  of  the  White  River. 
That  afternoon,  as  I  was  riding  at  the 
head  of  the  pack  train,  my  horse  sud- 
denly stopped,  threw  his  head  up  and  his 
ears  forward.  I  looked  and  there  stood 
a  large  grizzly  bear  only  a  'few  yards 
ahead  of  us !  He  took  his  time  in  look- 
ing us  over,  and  then  disappeared  into  a 


204 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


A  scene  in  Northern  Alaska 


canyon  leading  up  from  the  trail.  This 
was  the  first  grizzly  bear  any  of  us  had 
ever  seen  in  the  wilds. 

A  few  hours  later,  when  it  was  nearly 
time  to  camp,  Rodney  saw  another  griz- 
zly on  the  opposite  side  of  the  creek. 
Baxter  told  the  boys  to  go  ahead  and 
make  camp  while  he,  with  my  partners, 
Duryea  and  Deason,  and  myself  would 
try  to  get  a  picture  of  Mr.  Bruin.  Rid- 
ing up  near  where  we  had  seen  him  last, 
we  dismounted  and  tied  our  horses.  Dea- 
son took  his  movie  camera  and  I  took  my 
rifle,  for  defense  only.  As  we  crept 
silently  through  the  low  bushes,  our  eyes 
and  the  camera  focused  some  fifty  yards 
ahead,  Mr.  Bruin  got  up  about  twenty 
yards  in  front  of  us,  stood  on  his  hind 
feet  and  looked  us  over.  Deason  released 
the  trigger  of  the  camera  and  ran  off 
several  feet  of  film  before  the  bear  ran 
away,  but  as  the  lens  was  focused  for 
one  hundred  feet,  the  results  were  in 
doubt. 

No  day  thereafter  was  without  its 
thrills  as  our  long  pack  train  felt  its  way 
along  the  brink  of  some  deep  canyon,  or 
over  the  surface  of  a  glacier,  or  along  the 
border  of  a  beautiful  lake.  Fording  the 
Donjek  River  should  be  classed  as  a 
super-thrill.  The  Donjek  is  one  of  those 
typical  glacial  streams  which  arise  full 
grown  from  underneath  those  fields  of 
ice  known  as  glaciers.  The  day  we  ar- 
rived at  the  river  it  had  been  quite  warm 
for  arctic  latitudes,  and  a  lake  had 
broken  through  somewhere  in  the  glacier, 
causing  the  river  to  flood  much  of  the 
lower  country.  Great  chunks  of  ice  ten 
feet  or  more  in  diameter,  could  be  seen 
rolling  down  the  channels  of  the  river. 
To  cross  next  day  as  we  had  intended, 
was  out  of  the  question. 

When  we  had  been  on  the  trail  for  a 
week,  we  felt  a  day  of  rest  would  not 


be  unwelcome.  Besides,  we  needed  fresh 
meat.  So  next  day  the  Indians,  Jake  and 
John,  went  up  on  a  mountain  near  camp 
and  collected  a  big,  fat  ram  sheep.  The 
"three  musketeers,"  Duryea,  Deason  and 
the  writer,  caught  a  mess  of  grayling 
and  picked  a  nice  lot  of  wild  currants. 

Early  next  morning  Baxter  looked  the 
river  over  and  decided  we  could  cross  it. 
As  we  approached  the  river  we  saw 
great  winrows  of  ice  which  had  been 
left  on  the  banks  and  islands  by  the  re- 
ceding water.  The  water  was  still  satur- 
ated with  glacial  mud  and  ice.  For  all 
we  could  see,  it  might  be  six  inches  or  six 
feet  deep.  We  were  assured,  however, 
that  Jake,  who  took  the  lead,  was  an 
expert  pilot;  so  we  trusted  to  Jake  and 
the  Lord  to  save  us.  Many  times  the 
black  water  rolled  up  threateningly  on 
the  sides  of  our  horses,  and  one  or  two 
venturesome  horses  got  into  swimming 
water,  but  when  we  finally  landed  on  the 
opposite  shore  we  had  only  two  or  three 
wet  packs,  and  Duryea's  boots  full  of 
water.  Deason  announced  that  there 
were  twenty-eight  channels  in  all,  spread 
out  over  a  distance  of  a  mile  or  more. 

Two  days  later  we  "mushed"  our 
horses  over  the  high  divide  beyond  Wol- 
verine Creek  and  dropped  down  to  the 
St.  Clair  River  where  we  made  per- 
manent camp  in  the  heart  of  the  Alaska- 
Yukon  big  game  country.  This  was  the 
happy  hunting  ground  of  which  we  had 
been  dreaming  so  long.  And  for  once 
the  realization  proved  to  be  evoi  better 
than  the  dream.  From  the  standpoint  of 
either  the  hunter,  or  the  naturalist,  or 
the  artist,  our  camp  was  just  right. 

For  the  hunter  there  were  caribou, 
moose,  mountain  sheep,  goats,  wolves, 
coyotes,  wolverine,  grizzly  bear,  and 
many  kinds  of  birds,  according  to  season. 
For  the  naturalist  there  was  all  the 


above,  plus  trees,  shrubs,  wild  flowers, 
berries,  grasses,  tundra,  mountains,  gla- 
ciers, rivers  and  lakes.  For  the  artist 
there  was  all  the  above,  with  what  the 
artist  can  make  of  such  things,  plus  the 
northern  lights  by  night  and  those  gorg- 
eous "sun  dogs"  by  day. 

Never  a  day  passed  without  new  dis- 
coveries, thrilling  experiences,  and  much 
discussion  of  the  same  by  the  camp  fire 
at  night.  During  our  two  months  with 
Baxter  and  his  splendid  outfit  we  rode 
more  than  a  thousand  miles  on  horse- 
back through  the  valleys  and  canyons, 
and  over  the  passes  of  the  highest  moun- 
tain range  of  North  America,  the  Mt. 
St.  Elias  Range.  We  saw  specimens  of 
practically  all  the  wild  animals ;  col- 
lected a  representative  group  of  'six  cari- 
bou for  the  Field  Museum  of  Chicago; 
collected  for  ourselves  three  fine  griz- 
zlies, a  large  black  timber  wolf,  two 
coyotes,  three  mountain  sheep,  three 
mountain  goats,  and  two  caribou. 

We  found  time  to  identify  most  of 
the  birds,  trees,  shrubs,  wild  flowers  and 
berries;  made  extensive  observations  of 
the  geology  of  the  country,  especially  of 
the  glaciers,  which  to  us  were  among 
the  most  interesting  objects  seen  on  our 
trip.  We  exposed  four  thousand  feet  of 
standard  moving  picture  film  and  ob- 
tained over'  one  hundred  prints  with  the 
still  camera.  Among  these  pictures  are 
many  of  moose,  caribou,  sheep,  goats 
and  a  few  birds. 

(Continued  on  Page  223) 


J.  D.  DeShaxer  and  one  of  his  many  findf 


July.  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


205 


The  Fur  Seal 


THE  group  of  Pinnipedia,  or 
"seals,"  are  aquatic  Carnivora, 
constituting  two  separate  orders, 
Gressigrada  and  Phocoidea,  not  closely 
related  to  each  other,  agreeing  mainly 
in  adaptation  to  life  in  the  sea. 

The  eared  seals  (fur-seals,  sea-lions, 
walrus),  are  Plantigrade,  flat-footed 
like  the  bears  with  which  they  have  much 
in  common  and  from  ancestors  of  which 
they  are  descended.  This  group,  called 
Gressigrada,  has  external  ears  and  long 
shambling  flippers  in  which  the  claws 
are  rudimentary  and  not  near  to  the  tip 
of  the  flipper,  and  are  wanting  altogether 
on  the  anterior  limbs.  The  hind  feet  can 
be  turned  forward  as  in  the  bears  which 
are  also  plantigrade,  walking  like  men 
on  the  flat  of  the  foot,  and  the  animals 
can  travel  with  some  speed  on  land 
although  awkwardly  and  with  much 
puffing.  The  Gressigrada  are  supposed 
to  have  originated  in  the  Antarctic, 
where  numerous  species  of  sea-lion 
(Otaria)  and  of  a  genus  of  fur  seals 
(Arctocephalus)  are  still  found,  the  lat- 
ter almost  exterminated  by  reckless 
hunting.  No  sea-lions  nor  fur-seals  are 
found  in  the  Middle  Atlantic. 

The  most  valuable  and  interesting  of 
the  Gressigrada  are  the  three  species 
found  in  the  north  Pacific,  forming  the 
genus  Callorhinus.  There  are  the  Amer- 
ican herd,  (Callorhinus  alascanus)  on 
the  Pribilof  Islands,  St.  Paul  and  St. 
George;  the  Russian  herd  (Callorhinus 
ursinus)  on  the  Commander  Islands, 
Bering  and  Medui;  and  the  Japanese 
herd  (Callorhinus  curilensis)  now  found 
only  on  Robben  Island,  off  Sakhalin. 

The  American  herd  is  now  more  than 
twice  as  large  as  the  other  two  together 
and  the  fur  is  more  valuable  than  that 
of  the  others.  The  skins  of  the  young 
males  are  valued  at  about  $50  each,  and 
the  possible  catch  ranges  upward  from 
60,000  yearly  on  the  Pribilofs,  with  the 
prospective  increase  of  the  now  recover- 
ing herd.  The  habits  of  the  Alaskan  fur- 
seal  are  very  interesting,  and  may  be 
briefly  summed  up  as  •follows:  They 
never  come  to  land  except  on  their 
breeding  grounds,  rocky  districts  or 
"rookeries"  on  certain  chosen  islands.  In 
May  the  old  males  arrive,  first  station- 
ing themselves  at  intervals  of  a  rod  or 
two.  along  the  beach.  The  females  come 
in  June  or  early  July,  gathering  about 
the  males  to  form  harems  of  one  to  one 
hundred,  the  average  about  fifty.  The 
males  fight  viciously  for  position,  but 
seldom  go  more  than  a  rod  of  two  from 
the  chosen  spot,  unless  left  without  fami- 


ly David  Starr  Jordan 

lies,  in  which  case  they  try  to  break  into 
the  rookeries.  The  males  remain  on 
guard  without  eating  until  August,  by 
which  time  most  of  the  fight  is  out  of 
them.  The  male  is  locally  known  as  the 
bull,  sikatch  or  beachmaster.  The  fe- 
males, which  bleat  like  sheep  are  "cows," 
or  "Matka"  (mother),  and  the  young 
are  "Kotik"  (kittens)  or  pups. 

The  young  are  born  soon  after  the 
females  arrives — one  each  season.  After 
they  are  a  month  or  so  old,  the  mother 
leaves  them  for  a  time  to  feed  in  the 
sea.  These  bleat  continuously,  like 
Iambs,  while  the  old  males  have  a  hoarse, 
lion-like  roar. 

In  September,  when  the  first  snow 
flies,  the  animals  all  go  South.  The  pups 
are  weaned  and  these  seldom  go  to  the 
southward  of  Vancouver  Island.  The  old 
males  remain  about  the  Gulf  of  Alaska ; 
the  females  go  as  far  as  the  Santa  Bar- 
bara Islands,  keeping  far  off  shore  in 
about  one  hundred  fathoms.  The  Rus- 
sian herd  moves  off  the  east  coast  of 
Japan ;  the  Japanese  herd  along  the 
west  coast. 

The  skins  of  commerce  are  taken 
from  the  young  males,  preferably  those 
of  three  years  of  age.  These  young  ani- 
mals separate  themselves  from  the  rest 
of  the  herd  and  may  be  driven  like 
sheep.  Selection  of  those  chosen  for  kill- 
ing can  be  made  without  difficulty.  The 
females  have  fur  similar  to  that  of  the 
young,  but  the  old  males  develop  coarse 
whitish  bristles  and  their  skins  are  use- 
less as  fur.  The  adult  male  is  nearly 
black,  the  females  brown,  the  young 
pups  black,  becoming  silver  gray  in  the 
fall. 

Seal  skins  are  first  salted,  then  tanned 
and  dressed  by  pulling  out  the  long 
hairs,  leaving  the  close,  soft  under  fur, 
which  is  then  dyed  black. 

When  Alaska  became  part  of  the 
United  States  the  Pribilof  herd  num- 
bered more  than  2,000,000.  The  intro- 
duction of  Pelagic  Sealing,  by  which 
they  were  hunted  at  sea  on  their  north- 
ward migrations  and  also  when  leaving 
the  islands  to  feed,  reduced  them  to  less 
than  oje-tenth  of  that  number.  With 
each  female  killed  an  unborn  pup  was 
destroyed  and  another  pup  starved  to 
death  on  the  rookeries.  In  land-sealing, 
since  1834,  only  young  males  are  killed, 
the  sexes  being  equal,  and  the  species 
being  highly  polygamous,  the  reduction 
in  numbers  of  males  prevents  the  large 
losses  due  to  fighting.  The  males,  from 


five  to  seven  or  more  years  of  age,  un- 
able to  enter  the  rookeries,  are  known 
as  bachelors  (holosteaki).  The  males 
are  some  five  times  as  large  as  the  fe- 
males, weighing  about  400  pounds,  the 
female  about  75.  The  herd  reached  its 
lowest  point  in  1911,  at  which  time 
Pelagic  Sealing  came  to  an  end  by  a 
treaty  between  the  United  States,  Can- 
ada, Russia  and  Japan,  prohibiting  the 
lawless  and  wasteful  practice,  until  1926, 
with  an  option  for  permanent  continu- 
ance, Japan  and  Canada  receiving  a  per- 
centage on  the  value  of  the  catch.  By 
this  arrangement  the  fur  seal  herds  are 
recognized  as  the  joint  property  of  the 
nations  off  whose  coast  they  feed. 

The  flesh  of  the  fur  seal  is  red  and 
dry,  fairly  well-flavored,  and  forms  a 
large  part  of  the  sustenance  of  the 
Aleuts  stationed  on  the  various  islands. 

The  fur  seal  feeds  mainly  on  fishes 
and  squids.  The  fishes  taken  are  mostly 
surface  forms  of  the  open  sea,  without 
economic  value.  The  food  of  the  sea- 
lions  is  similar  but  they  often  attack 
salmon,  for  which  reason  the  fishermen 
have  a  grudge  against  them.  Their  sce- 
nic interest  along  rocky  shores,  how- 
ever, outbalances  their  economic  cost. 

Unlike  the  fur  seal,  the  sea-lions,  espe- 
cially the  brown  sea-lion  (Zalophus), 
are  very  intelligent,  can  be  readily 
tamed  and  trained  to  perform  tricks. 

Closely  related  to  the  sea-lions  is  the 
walrus  (Odobcfiius  obesus),  a  huge  and 
clumsy  beast  weighing  nearly  a  ton, 
found  in  Arctic  regions.  It  has  been 
almost  exterminated  for  the  sake  of  its 
long  canines  or  tusks  similar  to  ivory. 
The  flesh  is  valued  by  the  natives  and 
the  skin  used  for  many  purposes  as  well 
as  the  oil  and  "blubber." 

The  true  seals  (Phocoidea)  (hair 
seals,  harbor  seals,  harp  seals,  etc.)  are 
distantly  related  to  the  otters  and  not  to 
the  bears  or  the  sea-lions.  These  ani- 
mals have  short  legs,  not  developed  as 
flippers,  walking  on  their  toes  like  a 
dog,  but  being  unable  to  turn  the  hind 
limbs  forward.  They  can  only  crawl 
on  land.  Their  fur  is  short  and  coarse 
and  of  no  value,  but  the  skins  are  used 
as  leather.  They  are  found  along  shore 
in  most  seas.  In  the  north  Atlantic  they 
are  "ice-riding,"  the  young  being  born 
on  ice-floes.  From  Newfoundland  north- 
ward the  harp  seal  (Phoca  grcenlandica) 
is  an  object  of  eager  pursuit,  the  annual 
value  of  the  catch  reaching  half  a  mil- 
lion dollars.  The  most  familiar  of  the 
true  seals  is  the  harbor  seal  (Phoca  vitu- 
lina). 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


A  Modern  Endvmionne 


CECIL  DE  MILLE'S  imaginative 
concept  of  Beauty  evolved  the 
fad  for  women  to  carry  long  ec- 
centric looking  dolls,  which  they  adorned 
with  the  same  passion  as  they  depicted 
in  their  own  dressing.  Sometimes  they 
would  carry  one  which  they  had  taken 
the  pains  to  dress  as  their  own  contrast, 
but  they  usually  loved  themselves  so 
well  that  the  dolls  were  as  much  their 
own  perfect  reflections  as  the  image  in 
their  mirror. 

This  was  a  fanciful  pleasure,  it  in- 
volved no  risk,  as  the  submissive  dolls 
could  never  rebel  against  the  taste  of 
their  mistresses,  even  if  they  could  other- 
wise feel. 

I  looked  at  these  dolls  and  I  felt  a 
great  emptiness  in  my  soul.  ...  In 
spite  of  all  my  modernism,  I  could  not 
persuade  myself  to  adopt  this  fad  of 
carrying  a  doll  as  an  answer  to  my  life 
and  heart's  needs.  I  dreamed  of  finding 
a  doll  that  would  be  different  .  .  .  per- 
haps a  male  doll.  I  did  not  want  to  take 
the  time  and  trouble  to  dress  another, 
either  like  or  in  contrast  to  myself 
These  dolls  ...  I  am  sorry  to  say  .  .  . 
did  not  appeal  to  me. 

In  fact,  a  strange  state  of  mind  had 
dominated  me  of  late;  nothing  seemed 
to  hold  my  attention  any  more.  How- 
ever, I  felt  the  crying  need  to  interest 
myself  in  something  .  .  .  anything  .  .  . 
that  would  thus  provide  the  occasion  for 
my  interesting  myself  in  myself.  In 
short,  in  order  that  I  might  feel  myself 
living,  I  felt  obliged  to  evoke  a  new 
life,  since  nothing  seemed  disposed  to 
bring  it  to  me. 

All  this  was  rather  latent  in  me.  I 
did  not  explain  these  things  even  to 
myself  as  I  explain  them  now,  for  the 
very  good  reason  that  I  was  then  under 
their  crucifying  spell. 


/ 
By  Madame  Coralie  Castelein 

Arranged  in  English   by 
Anne  de  Lartigue  Kennedy 

Add  to  the  psychology  of  this  state  of 
mind  the  fact  that  I  was  beautiful, 
young  and  very  full  of  life,  and  you  will 
probably  recognize  the  first  symptoms 
of  a  dawning  passion,  the  first  symptoms 
of  love. 

In  among  the  fad-dolls  I  saw  a  man 
come. 

He  was  handsome,  with  the  beauty 
of  a  virile  male ;  a  beauty  which,  to  the 
vulgar-minded,  who  appreciate  only  the 
fashion-plate  visage,  might  seem  rather 
commonplace;  but,  with  his  strongly-cut 
features,  his  large  wide-open  eyes  and 
finely  chiseled  mouth,  I  repeat  that  he 
was  handsome.  Tall,  large  of  stature, 
with  well  developed  muscles,  he  gave 
the  further  impression  that  he  was  a  man 
of  the  thoroughly  masculine  type. 

But  all  this  was  cold  and  mechanical, 
like  a  fad-doll  controlled  by  a  wire,  .  .  . 
stiff  and  automatic  as  a  wooden-man. 

Not  a  single  movement  brought  into 
play  the  splendid  proportions  of  his 
body,  the  strong  frame  bent  itself  as  if 
broken  at  the  joints,  responding  mechan- 
ically like  an  automaton  to  some  con- 
trolling force ;  there  was  no  grace,  no 
premeditated  action  nor  coordination  of 
muscles  with  curves,  no  attractive  en- 
semble. 

I  looked  at  him.  He  should  be  my 
doll,  the  reflection  of  myself,  that  self 
so  dear  to  me  ...  as  it  is  to  every  human 
being,  in  spite  of  all  claims  to  the  con- 
trary. 

What  a  wonderful  thing  he  should  be 
in  my  empty  life!  How  thrilling  to 
awaken  in  him  all  that  he  lacked,  to 
transform  this  wooden  being  into  a  man 
of  living  life,  to  make  him  the  perfect 
beauty  that  I  myself  dreamed  of  being. 
To  accomplish  this,  it  would  be  suffi- 


cient to  rouse  him  to  the  consciousness 
of  his  beauty. 

Do  not  censure  me  for  this.  No  at- 
tainment is  possible  without  confidence 
in  one's  self,  and  to  inspire  confidence 
one  must  have  an  estimate  of  his  own 
values;  if  subsequently  pride  and  vanity 
rear  their  heads  it  cannot  be  helped, 
this  is  destiny.  It  is  not  wrong  to  be 
self-confident,  it  is  one  of  the  most  nec- 
essary attributes  of  life,  but,  as  the  old 
axiom  goes,  "be  self-confident  .  .  .  but 
not  over  self-confident." 

Having  been  the  one  to  awaken  my 
Wooden-Man,  I  at  least  had  the  per- 
sonal satisfaction  of  witnessing  the  birth 
of  this  consciousness.  Vanity  came  long 
afterward. 

To  bring  about  this  awakening  I 
made  him  aware  that  he  was  handsome. 
As  every  human  being  does  under  sim- 
ilar conditions,  he  protested,  but  as  I 
repeated  it  again  and  again,  and  as,  after 
all,  he  liked  nothing  better  than  to  be 
convinced,  he  soon  began  to  believe  me. 
But  to  assure  him  that  he  was  hand- 
some was  not  sufficient  to  make  him  re- 
ceptive to  the  divine  Harmony,  so  I 
therefore  undertook  to  explain  to  him 
"why"  he  was  handsome. 

In  proportion  to  my  powers  of  per- 
suasion I  saw  the  inanimate  expression- 
less features  of  his  visage  relax,  the 
hands  placed  themselves  more  gracefully 
upon  the  arms  of  the  chair  in  which  he 
sat,  the  stiff  arms  lost  their  tenseness 
and  the  elbows  assumed  a  softer  curve. 
Standing  now,  he  leaned  against  the 
mantel-shelf  and  displayed  a  robust  chest 
after  the  fashion  of  a  Roosevelt.  As  he 
balanced  his  body  on  one  leg,  with  the 
other  crossed  gracefully  in  front  of  it, 
the  point  of  the  toe  resting  on  the 
ground,  I  realized  that  already  the  char- 
acteristics of  the  pretty  man  were  gone ; 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


207 


a  Valentino.  I  acquainted  him  with  the 
transformation ;  he  was  pleased  and  so 
was  I. 

NOW  that  he  knew  that  at  all  hours 
of  the  day  some  one  was  scrutiniz- 
ing his  form  and  pose,  he  studied  him- 
self, and  the  certainty  he  felt  of  the 
sincerity  of  my  praise  imparted  a  natural 
grace  and  harmony  to  all  his  gestures, 
which  otherwise  would  perhaps  have 
been  but  inanimate  postures  utterly  de- 
void of  beauty.  Of  my  Wooden-Man, 
at  the  end  of  six  months,  nothing  re- 
mained, but  instead  there  was  a  being 
...  a  perfect  embodiment  of  euthyth- 
mic  grace  .  .  .  with  such  subtle  harmony 
of  form  and  gesture  that  —  like  the 
antique  sculptor — I  fell  to  adoring  the 
god  I  had  thus  created. 

Like  greedy  creatures  endowed  with 
a  million  senses,  my  eyes  devoured  his 
every  movement;  in  my  sight  he  was  at 
once  all  beings  ...  all  heroes,  all  mortals 
and  all  gods. 

Then  Nature's  forms  paraded  before 
my  eyes;  now  he  was  the  oak  or  a  grace- 
ful willow  ...  a  wild  fruit  or  a  savory 
domestic  one  ...  a  brilliant  fish  or  an 
undulating  serpent  ...  a  fierce  lion  or  a 
mettlesome  horse.  I  was  entranced  with 
my  Wooden-Man. 

What  a  metamorphosis.  I  had  but  to 
speak  to  him  of  a  thing  ...  of  an  an- 
imal ...  a  being  that  I  admired,  when 
at  once,  as  if  at  the  measured  command 
of  some  mysterious  force,  he  became  that 
very  thing. 

I  became  intoxicated. 

I  danced  around  him  in  the  wild  de- 
lirium of  joy  that  the  sculptor  feels 
when  he  realizes  that  his  breath  has 
animated  the  stone,  and  that  suddenly 
animated,  that  stone  will  render  him  life 
for  life!  Oh,  that  first  ecstacy  to  the 
eyes  that  are  subjugated  by  the  conquest 
of  Beauty. 

•       •       • 

But  alas !  one  cannot  stop  once  he  is 
swept  along  by  the  torrent  of  the  senses. 
My  fate  was  suddenly  involved  in  my 
work,  and  a  colossal  anguish  fell  upon 
me.  I  could  not  evade  it.  With  what 
subtlety  it  had  enmeshed  me !  Like 
death,  which  gives  no  warning,  the  most 
gigantic  event  of  my  life  had  slowly 
infused  itself  into  me,  until  one  fine  day 
I  felt  that  my  force,  my  own,  had  de- 
serted me!  I  had  transmitted  it  all  to 
that  man,  he  had  literally  become  me. 
My  heart  had  gradually  taken  leave  of 
me ;  I  had  imprisoned  it  in  the  Wooden- 
Man.  In  the  void  which  it  left  in  me, 
all  the  birds  of  the  sky  were  singing; 
my  empty  breasts  were  filled  with  an 
unknown  fullness.  Infinite  hopes  sweet 
as  the  light  of  heaven  were  swelling  my 
throat,  and  the  buds,  which  had  just 


opened  to  the  sun  of  a  new  spring,  toss- 
ing, still  held  by  their  stiff  branches, 
were  more  modest  in  their  frolics  with 
the  caressing  winds  than  my  gestures  of 
joy  around  my  Wooden-Man. 

I  recognized  Love.  It  was  he  who 
had  come  to  impose  his  law  upon  me ; 
and  I,  who  had  always  fled  from  him  in 
fear,  now,  strangely  enough,  felt  no 
dread. 

Why  had  I  always  dreaded  love? 
Simply  from  the  horrible  fear  of  its  end- 
ing; the  dread  of  loving  some  one  who 
might  not  love  me  ...  of  being  the  one 
who  loves  last!  If  we  could  know  be- 
forehand the  agonies  of  true  love  it  may 
be  that  no  one  would  ever  love.  To  the 
conscious  one  it  is  the  greatest  act  of 
courage  to  "let  go"  at  the  call  of  Love ! 

But  Nature  hides  her  plans  from  mor- 
tals ;  she  covers  her  pathways  with  pink 
clouds,  concealing  the  cruel  sharpness 
of  the  horizon's  outline;  beneath  a 
bower  of  roses  she  obscures  the  place 
where  she  awaits  the  births  .  .  .  hiding 
the  darkness  of  death. 

Thus  was  my  heart  gilded  with  hope 
free  from  doubt,  dazzled  with  the  sun- 
light of  buoyant  life. 

Ah !  .  .  .  Destiny  had  planned  things 
well ;  it  had  deceived  me  as  to  the  meas- 
ure of  my  own  acts  and  desires  concern- 
ing my  Wooden-Man.  It  had  allowed 
me  to  think  that  all  I  had  brought  to 
life  in  this  wooden  body  was  not  vital 
to  the  best  in  my  own  life. 

I  had  drawn  as  from  an  inexhaustible 
source,  and  today  I  faced  the  fact  that 
I  had  infused  the  very  fountain  of  my 
being  into  a  heart  of  wood,  draining 
myself  of  my  life's  very  essence. 

But  I  assure  you  I  did  not  at  this 
time  see  any  need  to  fear;  was  not  the 
Wooden-Man  mine?  Had  I  not  made 
him,  recreated  him  entirely? 

...  I  had  made  him  ...  he  was  mine. 
This  time  Love  had  measured  things 
royally  and  I  suffered  the  ecstacy  of  his 
torture  with  such  an  immense  joy  that 
the  more  my  heart  emptied  itself  .the 
fuller  it  became  of  mysterious  joys, 
sweet  hopes  and  unabating  frenzy. 
*  *  * 

THEN  .  .  .  O  Mortals  ...  can  you 
understand?  .  .  .  my  awakened  heart 
wanted  to  arouse  his  heart. 

I  would  veil  myself  before  the  most 
prodigious  mystery  of  living  life  coming 
out  of  the  unknown  where  so  many  live 
without  knowing ;  that  portentous  mys- 
tery which  Love  alone  renders  assimilat- 
able  to  our  humble  matter! 

O,  Woman,  have  you  ever  thought  of 
that  wonder  of  wonders :  the  awakening 
to  Love  the  heart  of  a  Man?  Apart 
from  Love  a  man  is  non-existent ;  he  be- 
lieves that  he  lives  but  he  does  not  live. 


And  to  you,  woman,  has  been  given  the 
power  to  charm  his  untaught  eyes  and  to 
open  to  him  the  sense  of  all  things,  to 
enliven  his  capacity,  his  forces,  his  virile 
beauty.  Before  he  has  known  love  he  is 
a  mere  shadow,  a  brilliant  ray  of  the 
sun,  but  when  Love  penetrates  him  he 
becomes  the  sun  itself,  enveloping  your 
lives  with  his  warm  embrace. 

And  there  was  I,  eager  to  breathe  my 
love  into  him  that  I  might  kindle  his 
love. 

Before  this  problem  I  stood  bewil- 
dered. How  should  I  be  able  to  generate 
love  in  him?  All  the  birds  that  were 
chanting  in  my  heart  suddenly  became 
silent  when  I  summoned  them  to  reveal 
the  way  ...  I  swam  in  a  sea  of  confused 
perplexities,  and  yet  with  the  passing  of 
each  new  day  I  came  more  and  more  to 
admire  my  Wooden-Man. 

Then,  gradually,  from  my  continual 
admiration  of  him,  he  began  to  take 
note  of  me,  to  consider  me,  and  all  of  a 
sudden,  without  seeming  cause  or  provo- 
cation, I  saw  his  eyes  flash  with  the  first 
astonishment  of  Love;  that  wonderment 
perpetual ! 

Now,  when  I  reminded  him  that  he 
was  handsome  he  assured  me  that  I  was 
beautiful,  when  I  was  in  ecstacy  over 
his  virile  form  he  was  entranced  with 
mine.  As  if  weighted  down  by  the 
beauty  of  Nature  revealing  herself 
through  our  human  bodies,  we  remained 
silent  for  hours  at  a  time;  mute  with  a 
sacred  immensity  of  almost  religious  re- 
spect for  the  Mystery  that  we  felt  living 
in  our  breasts.  We  realized  the  totality 
of  the  most  overwhelming  process  ever 
born  to  human  beings  by  the  great  God 
Love. 

Intoxicated,  we  floated  with  the  gods 
among  the  savory  delights  where  all  is 
sweet,  pure  and  limpid  as  crystal.  Our 
senses,  our  forces,  our  intelligences  were 
multiplied  a  hundredfold  .  .  .  and  mys- 
tery of  mysteries,  our  thirsts,  our  appe- 
tites, however  immoderate,  were  by  some 
strange  phenomenon  appeased  by  a  sim- 
ple Kiss. 

A  kiss.  Can  you  conceive  of  it  ? 
Within  my  Wooden-Man  I  had  induced 
a  life  capable  of  giving  me  a  kiss  which 
seemed  to  deliver  our  lives  from  all 
bondage  and  make  us  one  with  the  life 
of  the  universe!  With  eyes  wide  with 
astonishment  I  beheld  outside  and  inside 
myself  the  prodigious  phenomenon  and 
reveled  in  the  consciousness  of  it. 

O  Life!  incomparable  Theme,  how 
immense  is  the  Beauty  that  for  one  sec- 
ond we  are  permitted  to  touch! 

Its  allness  awaits  us  mortals  .  .  .  our 
translation  .  .  .  our  verification  of  Life, 
not  by  the  theories  which  it  evades  or 

(Continued  on  Page  221) 


208 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


The  Chrisoprase  King 


LEN     MARTON'S    shabby    little 
wife  sat  on  a  box  in  the  Marton 
home.  The  Marton  children  hov- 
ered near  in  abject  sympathy.  But  Arthur 
Walker  Marton,  youngest  of  the  tribe, 
paid  little  heed  to  the  woes  of  the  other 
members  of  the  family.     He  sat  on  the 
barren,   unswept   floor   from  which   the 
carpet  had  but  recently  been  torn  by  mer- 
cenary hands   and   admiringly  surveyed 
his    infantile    features    in    a    section    of 
broken   mirror.    The   inspection   pleased 
him.    His  baby  face,  now  rendered  gro- 
tesque by  several  smears  of  sooty  dirt, 
was  to  him  an  object  of  amusing  interest. 
He   chuckled    and   laughed   delightedly. 
What  did  it  matter  if  all  the  Marton 
cows   were   gone?    Why   fret   over   the 
loss  of  a  bunch  of  smelly  swine?    Why 
shed  tears  if  all  the  rooms  in  the  house 
were  bare  and  bleak?  A  section  of  look- 
ing glass  that   reveals   one's  own   mar- 
velous  features,  eyes,  mouth,   nose  and 
cheeks,  is  beyond  question  the  most  de- 
lightful thing  in  the  world.  Wherefore 
Arthur  Walker  Marton  couldn't  for  the 
baby  life  of  him  see  why  the  rest  of  his 
family  were  glum,  scowling'  or  tearful, 
at  any  rate  while  this  wonderful   piece 
of  peek-a-boo  glass  was  available. 

Meanwhile,  Lenard  Marton,  father 
of  all  the  little  Marions  mentioned, 
couldn't  bear  to  face  his  tearful  wife. 
The  thought  that  the  rooms  were  bar- 
ren and  cheerless  stung  him  to  the  mar- 
row. His  heart  seethed  in  bitterness,  a 
bitterness  that  was  all  the  more  intense 
because  of  the  apparent  hopelessness  of 
the  situation. 

He  had  farmed  the  ranch  for  two  con- 
secutive seasons.  The  first  year  he  had 
come  out  at  the  end  of  the  season  four 
hundred  dollars  in  debt.  The  second  year 
had  shown  a  slight  improvement  over  the 
first,  since  his  indebtedness  for  the  season 
barely  totaled  three  hundred  and  ninety 
dollars.  He  had  satisfied  the  merchant 
in  Pottersville  where  he  traded  by  giv- 
ing chattel  mortgage  on  four  horses,  his 
household  furniture,  piano  and  washing 
machine.  This  legal  instrument  had  been 
executed  at  the  termination  of  his  first 
year  on  the  Harkens  place.  Immediately 
thereafter  he  had  gone  to  Philip  Muf- 
ford,  president  of  the  First  National 
Bank  of  Pottersville,  from  whom  he  had 
effected  a  loan  of  three  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  to  be  used  as  a  ways  and 
means  fund  for  conducting  the  ranch  for 
the  ensuing  year.  The  loan  was  secured 
by  a  mortgage  which  specifically  covered 
four  cows,  five  calves,  fourteen  hogs. 


By  Bailey  Kay  Leach 

most  of  his  farming  implements  and  for 
good  measure  all  his  right,  title  and  in- 
terest in  the  past,  present  and  future. 

WHEREFORE,  Len  Marton  on  the 
afternoon  of  that  certain  third  day 
of  November,  found  himself  furniture- 
less,  cowless,  hogless — and  hungry.  And 
all  he  has  to  show  for  the  past  two  years 
industry"  and  the  household  furnishings 
and  the  farm  accoutrements  which  were 
the  accumulations  of  half  a  decade,  was 
a  family  of  five — -three  of  these  minors 
and  one  of  them  an  infant. 

It  seemed  a  curse  to  be  alive.   He  well 
knew   that  his  failure  on   the   Harkens 
place  had  not  been  due  to  his  inefficiency 
as  a  farmer.    This  failure  had  not  been 
attributable  to  his  lack  of  industry,  to 
inadequate  seeding  of  the  ground  or  to 
improper  cultivation.     The   reason   was 
deeper  than  all  these  things.    He  could 
not  be  held  accountable  if  the  rainfall 
had  been  inadequate  to  produce  enough 
of  a  crop  to  maintain  a  healthy  family 
of  grasshoppers.    It  cost  a  great  deal  of 
money  to  live  these  days.    It  even  cost 
too  much  to  die.    Both  he  and  his  wife 
had     been     economical  —  stintingly    so. 
Many    times    in    fact    his    cheeJcs    had 
burned   with    shame   when    he    realized 
that  he  must  deny  his  wife  and  family 
certain    comforts    that    were    theirs    by 
right.    Now,  however,  he  had  been  ruth- 
lessly stripped    bare  of  everything   save 
his  suffering   family    and   a   maddening 
sense  of  failure.    He  felt  that  after  all 
he  could  not  blame  Banker  Mufford  for 
taking  away  all  his  cows,  calves,    hogs 
and  farming  implements. 

While  Len  Marton  was  still  ruminat- 
ing on  his  misfortunes  Walter  Hum- 
phrey hopped  lightly,  from  his  new 
Cerrac  roadster  directly  in  front  of  the 
house  in  which  Len  Marton  lived.  At 
the  time  Len  had  taken  a  two-year  lease 
on  the  Harkens  place  he  had  done  so 
only  because  he  had  failed  to  find  a 
more  suitable  one  that  was  within  his 
financial  reach.  As  it  was,  the  Harkens 
place  took  his  pile. 

As  to  the  ranch  itself,  nearly  one-half 
of  the  place  was  level  and  the  soil  was 
as  good  as  any  in  the  county.  The  other 
half  was  composed  of  a  precipitous  hill 
that  was  so  rocky  a  lizard  couldn't  make 
an  honorable  living  on  it.  But  at  that 
Len  would  not  have  fared  so  poorly  had 
it  not  been  that  two  successive  years  of 
drought  had  shriveled  his  crops  to  tinder. 


Len    Marton    had    reflected   upon   all 
these  things  long  before  he  saw  Walter 
Humphrey's  smart  little  roadster  stop  in 
front  of  his  house.   He  had  felt  lonely,  as 
is  sometimes  the  way  with  one  when  the 
sense  of   failure  is  present.    There  had 
been  no  smile  in  his  wife's  eyes  of  late. 
This    was    in    painful    contrast    to    her 
laughing   eyes   and   merry   prattle   until 
adversity  had  set  its  blighting  teeth  deep 
into  their  lives.    In  those  early  years  of 
her  wedded  life  Irma  Marton  had    re- 
garded lightly  any  stroke  of  misfortune 
that  impeded  her  pleasures.    Then,  she 
was  gay  of  heart,  tempering  every  inci- 
dent with   the   philosophy  of  optimism. 
Now,  she  went  about  her  daily  tasks  in 
a  sort  of  half  dazed  and  more  or  less 
mechanical  fashion.    Indeed,  there  was  a 
hopelessness  in  her  face  and  bearing  these 
days  —  a    dragging    listlessness    in    her 
movements.    There   was   kindred    hope- 
lessness in  his  own  mind,  though  he  tried 
hard   not  to  show   it — especially   before 
his  wife  and   children.     It  was   in   this 
mental  state  that  he  had  wandered   up 
the  side  of  the  big  hill  among  the  rocks 
and  crags,  partly  to  commune  with  na- 
ture —  rocky    and     rough    though    she 
seemed — but    for   the    most   part   to    be 
alone  with  his  own  troubled  thoughts. 

He  seated  himself  on  a  stone  beside  a 
jutting  ledge  of  rock  that  saw-toothed 
out  of  the  crest  of  the  hill  and  edged  on 
obliquely  for  half  the  distance  down  the 
slope,  where  it  suddenly  disappeared  as 
if  hiding  its  head  in  the  ground  in  fear  of 
a  nearer  approach  to  the  valley  below. 
A,  ground  squirrel  had  made  an  exca- 
vation beside  the  rock  on  which  Len  was 
seated  and  had  thrown  out  a  quantity  of 
small  stones  amongst  a  mass  of  soil. 
Nearly  hidden  in  the  dirt  at  his  feet  he 
observed  a  greenish  stone  not  larger  than 
a  quarter  of  a  dollar.  He  picked  it  up 
and  examined  it.  He  had  never  seen  any- 
thing like  it  before  outside  of  a  jeweler's 
store.  Somewhere,  hidden  in  the  deep 
recesses  of  his  makeup  there  lurked  an 
elemental  appreciation  of  the  beautiful. 
It  was  in  response  to  this  appreciation 
that  he  now  inspected  the  little  green 
stone.  Then  in  sheer  admiration  he  pock- 
eted it.  He  looked  about  for  other  speci- 
mens and  was  presently  rewarded  by  a 
much  larger  and  more  perfect  one.  This 
he  also  put  into  his  pocket.  But  in  the 
resumption  of  his  gloomy  retrospections 
he  soon  forgot  them.  Then  hearing  the 
distant  buzz  of  an  automobile  cutout  he 

(Continued  on  Page  222) 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


209 


New  Murals  for  the  Bohemian  Club 


A  A  studied  ges- 
ture, expres- 
sive of  what  is 
idealistical  yet  typi- 
cally Californian,  the 
murals  Douglass  Fra- 
ser recently  completed 
for  the  Bohemian 
Club  take  their  place 
among  the  club's 
suave  fixtures. 

Ranging  on  the 
north  wall  of  the  Bo- 
hemian Club  lobby, 
they  give  a  warmth 
and  glow  that  adds 
materially  t  o  t  h  e 
charm  of  the  room. 
The  sun-baked  Cali- 
fornia hills  and  the 
lazy  sky  reflect  one  of 
California's  most 
beneficent  moods.  It  is  the  mood  to 
which  a  Californian  reacts  as  a  Russian 
to  his  caviar.  Not  the  effulgent  beauty 
that  attracts  the  Eastern  tourist.  Nor 
the  balmy  landscape  the  stranger  pictures 
for  California.  It  is  rather  the  sere 
beauty  with  that  unexpected  softness 
that  insinuates  itself  into  the  heart  of 
those  who  are  bred  on  California  soil. 

Mr.  Fraser  has  really  painted  a  med- 
ley of  the  state  into  his  background  but, 
in  doing  so,  he  has  so  unified  his  idioms 
that  the  result  is  a  single  exultant  theme. 

The  pictures  themselves  are  decidedly 
pleasing  and  their  color  modulations  are 
indeed  well  done.  Not  only  are  his  lines 
of  supreme  beauty,  but  are  also  executed 
with  an  unrivaled  technical  skill.  He 
suggests  his  subject  with  the  depth  and 
perception  of  a  mas- 
ter, yet  no  attempt 
was  made  at  any  espe- 
cially original  or  lit- 
erary theme  since  the 
two  panels  on  the  east 
wall  of  the  club  are 
of  much  larger  pro- 
portion than  those  of 
Mr.  Erasers.  This 
perhaps  accounts  for 
the  selection  of  what 
may  seem  such  an  old, 
old  story,  an  idea 
which  smacks  of 
jaded  or  lazy  imagi- 
nation, but  when  one 
knows  Mr.  Fraser 
and  his  power  of  ex- 
pressing those  simple 
and  solid  fundamen- 


By  Aline  Kistler 


Bringing  of  the  talents  to  the  service  of  beauty. 


Douglass  Fraser  at  v;ork. 


tals  of  the  rhythm  of 
life,  one  knows  why 
he  chose  a  theme  so 
simple  and  so  appro- 
priate for  his  decora- 
tion. These  murals 
give  forth  one  entire 
impression.  One  be- 
comes ignorantly 
humble  in  utter  be- 
wilderment before  his 
creations  .  .  .  su- 
perbly reverent.  He 
does  something  more 
than  create  beauty  in 
these  murals,  he  gives 
them  the  embellish- 
ment of  a  religion. 
Every  minute  of  ex- 
amination gives  new 
cause  for  astonish- 
ment. No  hurried 
lines;  careful  craftsmanship;  it  is  the 
secret  of  his  depth. 

In  this  story  of  the  bringing  of  talents 
to  the  service  of  beauty,  Mr.  Fraser  has 
done  something  exceptionally  inspira- 
tional in  the -symbolic  meanings  of  his 
figures.  The  nude  figure  which  is  the 
spirit  of  beauty,  is  a  non-committal  nude 
figure,  neither  maid  nor  matron,  male  or 
female,  but  nevertheless  beauty,  the 
greater  conception  of  beauty  in  today's 
thought,  that  beauty  which  can  not  be 
confined  to  mere  sex  distinction.  How 
far  Mr.  Fraser  has  gone  in  his  under- 
current of  thought  is  further  sensed  in 
the  figures  of  the  men  as  symbols  of  the 
various  arts,  as  they  march  across  the 
canvas  in  simple  pageantry,  sculpture, 
painting,  architecture,  prose,  drama  and 
poetry,  each  with  his 
stool,  pallette  or 
model,  or  else  typi- 
fied as  drama  is  in  the 
garb  of  the  high 
priest  in  the  1926 
Grove  Play  or,  as 
poetry,  in  the  pose 
and  dress  character- 
istic of  the  late 
George  Sterling. 

Mr.  Fraser  has 
given  more  thought 
of  warmth  and  color 
and  of  pattern  than 
of  subject  matter, 
which  as  a  w  h  o  1  e 
creates  the  impression 
to  which  one  may  re- 
act without  reserve  of 
(Cont'd,  Page  223) 


210 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


Poetry  Page 


TO  A  LADY  WHO  IS  NOT  LISTENING 

YOUR  hands  are  marvelous  pets, 
Sleek  and  contented. 
They  have  been  fed  creams 
With  French  names. 
Your  claws  have  been  cut 
Innocently  oval 
And  ten  pale  moons 
Coaxed  to  rise 
In  ten  polished  shell  skies. 
Your  pink-pad  finger-ends 
Manage  all  things 
By  pressing  electric  buttons 
Or  grazing  a  man's  lips. 
Your  hands  know  well 
How  to  rest  like  lilies 
Against  a  black  velvet  bodice 
Or  besides  one  cheek — 
Pretending  to  support 
Your  meditation. 
They  have  a  soft  way 
Of  closing  firmly 
On  languid  pearls 
And  racy  diamonds. 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  hands 

— IRENE  STEWART. 

OYSTERS 

OYSTERS  are  soft  sluggards  who  lie  abed: 
Their  inertia  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
Than  a  great  contemplative  laziness 
And  they  act  scarcely  more  alive  than  dead. 
Their  temperament  is  tuned  to  grey  weathers; 
They  are  not  like  creatures  born  of  the  ocean: 
They  have   neither   iridescence  nor  motion 
And    they    do  not    grow    sleek    pelts    nor    drop    feathers. 
Thrust  a  grain  of  sand  in  an  oyster  shell 
And  the  lump  will  create  a  pearl  of  price ; 
Inarticulate  and  chilly  as  ice 
The  oyster  throws  beauty  about  his  hell.     . 
O  Persian  lambs  and  caraculs  that  curl, 

0  cardinal  bird  and  tanager  and  pheasant — 
When  the  world  under  your  skin  feels  unpleasant, 
Can  you  cover  your  tumor  with  a  pearl? 

— MARIE  LUHRS. 

BEAUTY 

A     VARIED  thing  thou  art — a  Jacob's  coat 
-'-*-     But  seldom  worn.     Turned  inside  out  at  times, 
Impawned    to    Dame    Convention — stained    with    crimes, 
A  garment  o'er  which  many  quarrel  or  gloat, 
Not  donned   for  warmth  but  show — let  •wearer  dote 
With  bumptious  strut  that  continently  primes 
The  wells  of  mirth.     Full  forty  roaring  climes, 
And  softer  ones,  thy  shining  hues  have  smote. 

1  wore  thee  once  and  never  since  have  slept. 
They  call  me  gravid  now  •with  pulsing  love 
For  thy  warm  tones.     It  is  enough  to  last 
Until  my  mooted  judgment  tryst  is  kept. 
Through  tempests  here  below  and  realms  above, 
I'll  burn  with  thee  and  ever  hold  thee  fast. 

— VINCENT  JONES. 


I 


I  SHALL  GROW  WINGS 

SHALL  grow  wings.     And  you  will   find  me  gone. — 
When  morning  shimmers  on  the  mountain  height, 
I,  poised,  shall  secretly  have  taken  flight 
And  disappeared  forever  in  the  dawn. 
I,  who  would  soar  with  every  bird  that  sings, 
Too  long  have  lived  with  sorrow  and  with  you 
Who  willed  it  so.     But  vanishing  as  dew 
Tomorrow  I  shall  go.     I  shall  have  wings. 

— MARGARET  SKAVLAN. 

WINGS  OF  FANCY 

ON   FANCY'S  wings   I    tarry- 
In  rose-blown  fields  afar, 
I  chase  and  court  my  fairy 

And  gather  her  nectar. 
I  roam  the  Summer  mountains 

Where  silver  shallows  glide, 
In  Winter  I  pluck  blossoms 

Before  the  fireside. 
No  boundaries  can  forbid  me, 

No    thought    my    way    compel, 
For  they  are  earthly  children 

And  I  an  Asphodel! 
I  greet  the  Prince  of  Romance, 

I  walk  the  gypsy's  way, 
I  jest  with  kings  at  banquets, 

And  build  the  songs  of  May. 
I  ride  through  sleeping  ages, 

My  steed  a  dinosaur; 
I    lend    fresh   strength   to   Homer 

And  race  Pan  down  the  moor. 
I  drink  delight  on  Venus, 

I  dance  on  Saturn's  wings — 
I  make  trips  into  heaven 

Upon  my  fancy's  wings ! 

— ANTON  GROSS. 

MIDSMUMMER  NIGHT  DREAMING 

NOW    life    lies    pressed    beneath    the    thumb    of    sleep, 
And   this  wide  night   is  held   in   soundless  sway 
By  august  powers  and  presences  that  keep 
A  cold  aloofness  through  the1  strident  day. 
Unbearable  becomes  the  wonted  weight 
Of  every  fetter  linking  me  to  earth, 
As  futilely  I  strive  to  rise  and  mate 
With  moods  of  mystic  and  immortal  worth. 
The  moon's  great  golden  globe  distils  a  vast 
Serenity  my  soul  has  never  known ; 
The  lofty  glitter  of  the  stars  holds  fast 
Those  fires  of  utter  truth  my  mind  would  own; 
The  windless  air  is  gentle  as  the  love 
My  heart  has  tried  to  weave  around  the  world. 
Through  all  this  quiet  night,  about,  above, 
The  flags  of  holy  beauty  are  unfurled. 
Alas!     Enmeshed  in  mire  so  hopelessly, 
I  may  not  dream  of  winning  stainless  towers, 
Nor  ever  think  to  catch  eternity 
Within  a  fragile  net  of  fleeting  hours. 

— LORI  PETRI. 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


211 


Young  People's  Symphony  Concerts 


IN  THE  fall  of  1 926  Alice  Metcalf, 
assisted  by  Mrs.  Leon  Guggenheim 
of  San  Francisco,  resumed  the  Young 
People's  Symphony  Concerts  after  a 
lapse  of  three  years.  Before  this  time 
the  concerts  had  been  given  on  a  large 
scale  in  the  Civic  Auditorium  and  it 
was  realized  that  to  make  a  success  of 
the  undertaking  the  concerts  would  need 
to  be  given  in  a  more  intimate  manner. 
With  this  in  mind,  Alice  Metcalf,  with 
a  new  plan  formed,  secured  Wheeler 
Beckett  as  director  of  the  symphony.  A 
series  of  five  concerts  were  given  on  Fri- 
day afternoons,  January  28,  February  1 1 
and  25  and  March  11  and  18  during 
1927.  These  concerts  were  such  an  out- 
standing success  that  a  clamor  at  once 
arose  for  their  continuance. 

This  success  was  in  no  little  way  due 
directly  to  the  choice  of  Wheeler 
Beckett,  the  choice  of  the  program,  and 
the  choice  of  theater. 

Wheeler  Beckett  is  a  specialist  in 
musical  work  among  children ;  former 
choirmaster  and  organist  of  Grace  Ca- 
thedral, San  Francisco,  where  he  or- 
ganized and  brought  to  perfection  a 
choir  of  boys  and  men ;  present  director 
of  the  Children's  Choral  Club  of  Berke- 
ley, one  of  the  most  unique  organizations 
of  its  kind  in  the  country.  Mr.  Beckett 
understands  the  musical  viewpoint  of 
children. 

Back  of  it  all  he  believes  that  chil- 
dren are  already  individuals.  Education 
is  not  to  prepare  one  for  life.  It  is  life. 
Going  to  a  symphony  concert  such  as 
the  Young  People's  Series  has  to  offer, 
is  not  to  prepare  one's  self  for  enjoy- 
ment and  understanding  of  symphonic 
music,  but  to  enjoy  it  and  understand  it 
then  and  there ;  to  receive  an  experience 
both  emotional  and  intellectual,  that 
leaves  its  mark  on  character. 

In  the  public  school  systems  of  many 
states  music  ranks  fourth  as  the  most 
necessary  study.  After  the  three  "Rs" 
comes  music.  As  a  developer  of  the  finer 
emotional  nature,  which  so  largely  con- 
trols human  activity,  music  exerts  a  pow- 
erful influence.  The  nobler  emotions  of 
patriotism,  love  of  humanity  and  of  na- 
ture, find  their  highest  expression  in 
song.  Abstract  music,  existing  for  its 
own  beauty  alone,  stimulates  and  ex- 
pands the  subjective  life,  and  affords 
some  of  the  choicest  experiences  of  life. 
But,  a  lasting  love  and  appreciation  of 
this  form  of  abstract  music,  such  as  finds 
its  noblest  expression  in  the  orchestral 
compositions  of  the  great  masters,  can- 


By  Cleone  Brown 

not  safely  be  entrusted  to  an  emotional 
response  only. 

All  such  music  reveals  an  intellectual 
treatment  by  the  composer.  His  emo- 
tional expression  becomes  ordered  and 
controlled  by  his  intellect  in  judging  a 
composition,  new  or  old,  one  must  have 
not  only  an  emotional  nature,  which  has 
been  developed  by  contact  with  the  best 
in  abstract  music,  but  also  the  best  in- 
tellectual grasp  of  the  general  methods 
of  organizing  this  material,  which  are 
afforded  by  the  great  composers.  The 
choice  of  instruments  in  carrying  an  im- 
portant bit  of  melody,  for  example, 
would  affect  a  change  in  the  emotional 
response  of  the  listener.  It  is  important, 
therefore,  that  the  sound  of  every  instru- 
ment in  the  orchestra  be  instantly  recog- 
nized. It  is  equally  important  that  the 
principal  themes  of  a  symphony  are  rec- 
ognized as  such,  and  that  their  recur- 
rence be  noted.  Without  this  recognition, 
two  of  the  greatest  lessons  music  of  this 
type  has  to  offer,  balance  and  proportion 
are  lost  to  the  listener.  A  sense  of  bal- 
ance and  proportion  once  acquired, 
through  the  study  of  music,  makes  itself 
felt  in  many  of  life's  activities,  bringing 
poise  and  happiness  in  its  wake. 

Eleven  orchestral  instruments,  the 
flute,  oboe,  clarinet,  bassoon,  English 
horn,  French  horn,  trumpet,  trombone, 
bass  trombone,  tuba  and  harp  were  pre- 
sented and  explained,  two  or  three  at 
each  concert.  The  program  was  so  con- 
structed as  to  feature  the  particular  in- 
struments which  were  the  subjects  of 
study.  As  a  result  the  subjective,  or  emo- 
tional quality  of  the  instrument  in  the 
body  of  orchestral  sound,  followed  its 
objective  presentation. 

CARRYING  out  his  conviction  that 
the  young  people,  even  those  not 
quite  in  their  teens,  are  individuals  with 
predisposed  tastes,  the  director  selected 
programs  embodying  many  different  types 
of  music  from  so-called  heavy  or  tragic 
music  to  lighter  dance  forms.  On  each 
program  the  best  sets  of  answers,  and 
revealed  the  taste  of  the  young  people 
in  this  respect. 

An  examination  of  the  papers  re- 
turned by  the  children  for  the  first  four 
concerts  of  the  Young  People's  Symphony 
series  reveals  some  interesting  sidelights 
on  the  preference  for  music  which  was 
expressed  by  the  youthful  audience. 

The  question,  "Which  number  did 
you  enjoy  the  most?"  was  written  on  the 


last  page  of  each  program.  The  follow- 
ing are  the  results  of  tabulating  the  an- 
swers. 

Coriolanus  Overture  (Beethoven)      9% 
First  Movement  Unfinished  Sym- 
phony   (Schubert)    55% 

Prelude,    Third   Act    of   "Lohen- 
grin" (Wagner)  35% 

The  fact  that  9  per  cent  of  the  chil- 
dren preferred  the  Coriolanus  to  the 
Schubert  or  the  third  act  of  "Lohengrin" 
is  most  noteworthy. 

THE  SECOND  CONCERT: 

Air  for  Strings   (Bach) 7% 

Scherzo,  Midsummer  Night's 

Dream   (Mendelssohn)   9% 

Symphony  III,  "Eroica,"  First 

Movement    (Beethoven)   24% 

Carmen  Suite    (Bizet) 60% 

The  striking  fact  here  is  that  24  per 
cent  preferred  the  Beethoven  Symphony 
to  the  Carmen  music.  Is  it  an  indica- 
tion, perhaps,  that  a  deeper  musical  un- 
derstanding is  already  firmly  implanted 
in  our  American  youth? 

THE  THIRD  CONCERT: 
Funeral    March    "Eroica"     (Bee- 
thoven)      12% 

Waltz  of  Flowers  (Tschaikowsky)   30% 

In  the  Village  (Ivanoff) "...   15% 

Prelude  to  Meistersingers   (Wag- 
ner)    20% 

The  reasons  for  the  12  per  cent 
liking  the  Funeral  March  are  interest- 
ing. These  children  liked  it  because  it 
was  "sad  and  minor."  On  the  other  hand, 
30  per  cent  liked  the  Waltz  of  the  Flow- 
ers because  it  was  "gay."  The  child  pub- 
lic is  apparently  as  diversified  in  its 
tastes  as  the  adult  public. 

THE  FOURTH  CONCERT: 

Minuet  in  G  (Beethoven) 16% 

Scherzo  "Eroica"  (Beethoven)....  4% 
Chopin  numbers  on  Chopin's  piano  26% 
Last  Movement  Scheherazada 

(Rimsky-Korsakow)    51% 

Volga  Boatman's  Song 3% 

Beethoven's  Minuet  in  G  polled  16 
per  cent  of  the  votes  as  the  "best  num- 
ber" because  "it  was  familiar."  The 
Chopin  votes  were  cast  by  the  piano 
students,  who  found  an  especial  interest 
in  the  romantic  element. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  Chopin  piano 
the  voting  for  Scheherazada  would  evi- 
dently have  been  even  higher. 

MOST  of  the  programs  returned  came 
from  the  children  of  the  audience, 
the  "older"  young  people  not  caring  ap- 
parently to  compete  for  the  prizes,   al- 
( Continued  on  Page  223) 


212 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINg 


July,  1927 


k 


OOK.S 


CONDUCTED  BY 


Writers 


TOM  WHITE 


MORE  PORTS,  MORE  HAPPY 
PLACES 

ANYONE  who  has  read  PORTS  AND 
HAPPY  PLACES  will  hail  with  de- 
light Mrs.  Parker's  further  adventures 
in  Europe,  entitled  MORE  PORTS,  MORE 
HAPPY  PLACES. 

Living  abroad  for  five  years  in  a  per- 
fectly conventional  manner  would  make 
interesting  reading  from  Mrs.  Parker's 
viewpoint — if  Mrs.  Parker  could  live 
abroad  in  a  perfectly  conventional  man- 
ner. However,  taking  these  years,  plus 
three  delightful  children  and  an  ability 
to  get  the  most  out  of  every  situation, 
and  you  have  a  series  of  adventures  that 
outweigh  those  of  the  famed  Swiss 
Family  Robinson. 

This  account  of  European  wander- 
ings from  country  to  country  is  a  very 
personal  account.  Where  else  would 
you  find  a  chapter  headed  "Vienna 
Again;  Music,  Music,  Music;  Long 
Pants?"  Do  not  get  the  idea  that  it  is 
all  in  a  facetious  tone,  nor  that  it  re- 
sembles that  silly  book  of  another  family 
abroad;  but  there  are  many  amusing 
slants  on  old-world  things  afforded 
through  the  eyes  of  ttvo  adolescent  boys 
and  a  maid  of  eight,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  author's  own  highly  developed  sense 
of  humor. 

Mrs.  Parker  is  very  frank.  She  says 
some  very  plain  things  about  the  Louvre, 
for  instance,  which  she  admits  put  her 
in  a  class  of  heretics;  but  the  fact  is,  no 


doubt,  the  same  things  have  occurred  to 
us,  but  she  was  brave  enough  to  utter 
them.  Balancing  her  views  of  the 
Louvre,  however,  is  her  unending  de- 
light in  the  galleries  of  Budapest.  So  on 
the  whole,  Mrs.  Parker  classes  herself 
with  that  unfortunate  majority  who 
have  what  Clive  Bell  calls  "impure  ap- 
preciation." 

Then,   bicycling  through   Normandy. 
What  more  nearlv  ideal  wav  to  see  the 


THE  STORY  OF  A  WONDER  MAN 
(Being  the  Autobiography  of  Ring 
Lardner).  Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 
1927. 

MORE  PORTS  AND  HAPPY 
PLACES.  By  Mrs.  Parker. 

AS  IT  WAS.  Harper  &  Bros.  $2.50. 
Reviewed  by  Joan  Ramsay. 

FLOWER   PHANTOMS. 

STORY  OF  A  WONDER  MAN.  By 
Ring  Lardner.  $2.00.  Reviewed  by 
Gobind  Behari  Lai. 

BROTHER  SAUL.  By  Donn  Byrne. 
Century.  $2.50.  Reviewed  by  Joan 
Ramsay. 


Books    cleaned    up    next    month    are: 

THE  WHISPERING  GALLETY. 

SUMMER    STROM. 

BLONDES    PREFER    GENTLEMEN. 

ADVENTURES  IN   EDITING. 

SEVEN  P.  M.  and  other  poems. 

BACK  OF   BEYOND. 

MARCHING  ON. 

THE  SOUTH   AFRICANS. 

BERBERS  AND  BLACKS. 

— and  others. 


country  and  know  its  people  than  riding 
along  a  French  tow-path,  arriving  at  lit- 
tle villages  and  being  graciously  received 
at  tiny  inns  where  there  was  hospitality, 
not  so  much  for  the  tourist  as  for  the 
guest  ? 

When  the  children  attended  school, 
plans  for  which  had  been  carefully  laid, 
Mrs.  Parker  attended  the  sessions  of 
the  League  of  Nations  at  Geneva.  The 
International  Labor  Conference  saw  her 
back  in  Geneva  writing  it  up  for  the 
Survey.  Mrs.  Parker  believes  in  a  fair 
balance  of  work  and  play,  and  besides 


the  book  under  review  she  finished  a 
novel,  and  no  one  knows  how  many 
articles.  Probably,  however,  she  consid- 
ers climbing  the  Matterhorn  her  great- 
est achievement,  and  after  reading  her 
account  of  this  exploit  no  one  will  dis- 
pute her.  Altogether,  her  adventures  are 
tremendously  interesting,  and  it  is  doubt- 
ful if  many  contemporary  travel  books 
give  so  much  as  this,  and  Mrs.  Parker's 
previous  one  on  the  same  subject. 


AS  IT  WAS 

THOSE  who  have  forgotten,  or  who 
have  never  known  the  wonder  and 
the  high  beauty  that  can  be  in  the  phy- 
sical love  between  a  man  and  a  woman 
will  be  all  too  apt,  in  their  envy,  to 
cry  shame  on  this  woman  who  has  had 
the  wisdom  to  know,  the  heart  to  re- 
member, and  the  courage  to  set  down, 
proudly  and  reverently,  that  which  to 
all  but  a  very  few  is  as  a  locked  room 
or  a  forgotten  dream.  One's  first  im- 
pulse on  reading  this  dignified  and  sim- 
ply-told tale  of  the  love  and  the  life 
together  of  a  man  and  woman — the  man 
a  poet,  the  woman  his  understanding 
companion — is  to  shield  a  delicate  and 
lovely  thing  from  a  coarse  and  uncom- 
prehending world.  Its  value  lies  mainly 
in  its  being  the  intimate  portrait  of  a 
man  and  a  poet — although  simply  writ- 
ten, with  sincerity  and  dignity,  it  is  not 
good  writing ;  there  are  many  hackneyed 
phrases.  Words  like  "cloudlets"  and  the 
"fluttering"  of  the  child  felt  by  the 
mother-to-be  can  never  be  anything  but 
cliches.  Nevertheless  it  is  a  moving  and 
beautiful  story.  The  idyll  of  the  Wilt- 
shire cottage  is  well-told,  and  is  per- 
haps the  most  real  part  of  the  book. 
The  portraits  of  the  two  old  country- 
people  are  charmingly  and  tenderly 
drawn,  with  humor  and  sympathy.  One 
gets  a  breath  of  another  time,  •when  life 
was  simpler,  and  those  who  lived  it 
simpler,  and  less  self-conscious  than 
nowadays. 

But  one  wonders  why  this  book  was 
published  at  all,  to  provoke  inevitably 
disapproval  on  the  one  hand  and  un- 
healthv  and  excited  interest  on  the  other. 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


213 


Surely  it  is  the  sort  of  chronicle  to  be 
given  only  to  the  understanding  circle 
of  the  poet's  friends.  After  all,  if  the 
public  disapproves,  or  if  it  demands  only 
satisfaction  for  its  appetite  for  the  sen- 
sational and  the  "suppressed,"  why 
throw  it  pearls  when  there  is  already  an 
overabundance  of  the  husks  which  sat- 
isfy it  ?  The  sensitive  reader  writhes  to 
picture  the  snickers  with  which  certain 
passages  will  be  read  by  those  enlight- 
ened intelligence  whose  only  reason 
for  reading  it  is  that  it  has  been  sup- 
pressed. And  one  questions  a  bit  just 
what  the  shy  and  wondering  soul  of 
Edward  Thomas  feels  if  it  can  see  his 
intimate  experiences  being  thus  laid  bare 
to  the  vapid  gaze  of  the  tea-room  flap- 
pers, or  the  tender  mercies  and  prurient 
noses  of  some  village  "purity  league." 
Privately  printed,  for  the  delight  of  a 
sensitive  and  appreciative  group,  most 
heartily  yes — but  never  published  to  lie 
on  the  back-room  shelves  of  the  circu- 
lating library,  cheek  by  jowl  with  the 
latest  erotica.  JOAN  RAMSAY. 


FLOWER  PHANTOMS 

THIS  is  a  delicately  wrought  fantasy 
by  the  author  of  LANDSCAPE  WITH 
FIGURES.  It  is  a  short  tale  replete  with 
fine  and  beautiful  touches — gossamer 
thin — that  keep  one's  senses  tuned  to  a 
high  pitch  of  expectancy. 

The  girl  Judith  works  with  flowers 
in  Kew  Gardens.  She  more  than  works 
with  them,  she  projects  her  whole  soul 
into  their  very  life  and  existence,  mak- 
ing herself  at  one  with  their  moods  and 
fancies. 

Judith  is  engaged  to  marry  Roland 
who  tries  to  understand  the  girl,  but 
she  completely  and  innocently  baffles 
him.  Her  flora  complex  takes  such 
complete  possession  of  her  that  the 
reader  often  feels  that  Judith's  lover  is 
quite  justified  in  asking  himself  whether 
or  not  the  girl  is  mortal  substance. 

This  is  truly  a  fantastic  little  story, 
made  up  largely  of  langorous  dream 
stuff.  If  it  does  nothing  else,  FLOWER 
PHANTOMS  discloses  a  rare  genius  in  the 
delineation  of  fine-spun  beauty. 


STORY    OF    A    WONDER    MAN 

Being  the  Autobiagraphy  of 

Ring  Lardner 

LITTLE  RING,  au  naturel,  was 
bathed  in  pure  alcohol."  It  was  a 
red  letter  day  in  the  world  when  this 
hero  was  born.  "The  first  week  in 
March,  1885,  was  a  gala  week  through- 
out the  civilized  world,  the  United 
States  in  general  and  the  latter's  great 
middle  west  in  particular.  In  this  week 
there  was  an  unfounded  rumor  of  a 
royal  betrothal  between  Queen  Victoria 
and  King  Gillette;  .  .  .  the  Lardners 


of  Niles,  Mich.,  announced  the  birth 
of  a  fourteen-pound  man  child."  And 
this  man  child,  the  he-man  Ring  Lard- 
ner, au  naturel,  was  bathed  in  pure  al- 
cohol, an  augury  of  the  marvelous  fel- 
low's future  tastes.  Lay  especial  stress," 
please,  upon  "au  naturel'  and  "bath  in 
alcohol." 

If  the  nativity  was  soaked  with  licker, 
the  beginning  of  the  "immortality,"  the 
mortals  call  "death,"  was  soaked  in  cold 
water.  Mr.  Lardner  says  that  he  met 
his  death  in  the  last  chapter  by  an  acci- 
dental drowning.  It  was  caused  by  the 
upsetting  of  the  rowboat  in  which  he 
had  gone  out  in  the  bay  to  fish  for  hake. 
The  hake  was  caught  on  Lardner's  bait, 
then  the  little  beast  hit  the  author  in  the 
stomach,  with  the  fishy  tale  (beg  par- 
don, tail),  and  Ring  was  dead.  That  he 
survived  in  the  psychic  sense  to  write 
this  little  book  merely  proves  that  there 
is  life  beyond  death. 

In  the  penultimate  chapter,  Ring 
Lardner  says,  "In  the  concluding  chap- 
ter (entitled  a  Post  Mortem  Message) 
I  will  tell  of  my  declining  years  in 
Great  Neck  and  the  accident  that  re- 
sulted in  my  death."  Physically  dead, 
or  stewed  stiff,  or  what  not,  cerebrally 
Ring  is  imperishable.  Who  is  there,  can 
write  like  this? 

Returning  from  the  playhouse  after  a 
gallery  session  of  three  awful  hours,  as 
Dreiser's  "The  American  Tragedy" 
reeled  on,  Mr.  Lardner's  book  proved 
so  helpful  to  us  in  regaining  sanity  and 
laughter.  At  3  a.  m.,  at  last,  when 
Ring  was  dead  from  stomach  hake,  as  he 
puts  it,  with  pulsating  thyroids,  we  were 
lulled  into  comic,  instead  of  tragic, 
dream  patterns. 

Lardner  takes  the  everyday  people. 
He  talks  about  them  in  the  raciest  cur- 
rent idiom,  and  figures  them  in  symbolic 
speaking,  gesturing  and  acting.  Is  it  real 
or  fantastic?  Both,  as  is  life,  except  in 
books.  A  unique  craftsmanship,  this. 
Mark  Twain  came  to  be  hailed-  as  a 
maker  of  literature.  And  Ring  Lardner 
belongs  in  the  same  category.  Careless 
in  appearance,  the  separate  stories,  woven 
together  to  make  the  whole  life  story  of 
an  unimportant  American,  are  most  cun- 
ningly wrought.  In  each  chapter,  there's 
an  unforgetable  character,  done  with  the 
fewest  strokes.  The  strokes  are  of  pocos- 
ity,  fat  but  not  fatuous. 

"Lardner  knows  more  about  the  man- 
agement of  a  short  story  than  all  of  its 
professors,"  sums  up  Mencken,  and  the 
verdict  is  sustained  by  'The  Story  of  a 
Wonder  Man.'  " — Gubind  Behari  Ltd. 


Saul"  is  disappointing.  Perhaps  also  be- 
cause his  peculiar  chanting  prose  is  bet- 
ter suited  to  a  short  story.  Although  in 
itself  most  musical  and  pleasing,  in  a 
full-length  novel  it  becomes  slightly  mo- 
notonous. Somehow  the  figure  of  Saint 
Paul  is  the  last  in  the  world  that  one 
would  have  expected  Donn  Byrne  to 
write  about.  He  makes  of  him  a  stern 
unsympathetic  man,  and  one  feels  that 
this  is  rather  from  a  lack  of  understand- 
ing on  the  writer's  own  part  than  from 
any  hardness  inherent  in  Paul  himself. 
Even  after  the  vision  on  the  Damascus 
road  there  is  no  apparent  softening  of 
attitude.  Surely  the  man  who  wrote  that 
charity  was  of  all  things  the  greatest  had 
in  him  more  of  warmth  and  humanity 
than  Mr.  Byrne  gives  him  credit  for. 

The  story  takes  Paul  through  his 
boyhood,  his  young  manhood  in  the 
service  of  the  Temple,  his  marriage 
(where  one  is  given  to  understand  that 
his  wife  died  because  she  despaired  of 
ever  being  happy  with  him,  and  doesn't 
in  the  least  blame  her)  through  the  tre- 
mendous happening  on  the  road  to  Da- 
mascus, and  the  strange  change  that 
thereafter  took  place  in  him.  It  tells  of 
his  preaching  Christ,  first  to  the  Jews, 
and  then  when  they  would  have  none  of 
him,  distrusting  his  sudden  change  of 
creed,  to  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  It 
tells  of  his  persecution  by  Jews  and  Ro- 
mans alike,  of  his  old  age,  and  of  his 
death  in  a  Roman  prison.  But  somehow 
it  is  never  able  to  touch  one.  The  de- 
scriptions of  the  cities  and  the  life  and 
the  festivals  of  the  ancient  world  are 
vivid  and  full  of  color  and  beauty,  and 
the  other  characters  are  well-drawn  and 
alive.  But  there  is  a  coldness  in  the 
character  of  Paul  that  is  never  quite 
melted,  and  one  leaves  the  story  of  his 
life  with  the  feeling  that  Mr.  Byrne 
could  have  done  better  by  his  great  sub- 
ject. 


THE  origin  of  the  book  in  its  present 
form  as  a  rectangle  can  be  traced  to 
a  copy  of  Virgil  still  in  existence  in  the 
Vatican  library.  It  is  of  Roman  handi- 
craft and  is  the  earliest  example  of  this 
form  known,  dating  back  to  the  age  of 
Constant  inc. — Bookbinding  Magazine. 


BROTHER  SAUL 

DONN    BYRNE    has    never    again 
quite   reached    the   peak   of   perfec- 
tion that  he  touched  in  "Messer  Marco 
Polo"  and  perhaps  that  is  why  "Brother 


Crock  of  Gold 

Circulating  Library 

119  Maiden  Lane 


Just  the  place  you've  been  looking 
for  —  something  different. 

Come  in  and  get  acquainted! 


/14 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


Certain  Other  Books 

Tancred 


TWO  POETS 

HAROLD  VINAL  of  New  York  is 
doing  mighty  labor  in  the  modern 
American  poetry  field.  Not  alone  in 
introducing  rich  selections  of  the  works 
of  young  poets,  but  in  giving  them  books 
of  rare  beauty  and  permanency.  Two 
late  offerings  are  Miss  Dickenson  and 
Miss  Ravenel.  They  are  both  rapidly 
approaching  importance;  definite  in 
their  art  and  sure  in  their  work. 


THE  ARROW  OF  LIGHTNING, 

Beatrice  Ravenel's  book,  does  not  sound 
off  with  blaring  trumpets.  There  is 
something  of  the  quiet  sophistication  of 
beauty,  a  little  of  that  exquisite  color 
work  given  only  to  the  sheltered  stu- 
dent, and  many  examples  of  lasting 
worth  scattered  through  this  slim  vol- 
ume. Miss  Ravenel  suggests  rather  than 
presents  her  pictures,  her  subtle  parcels 
of  wisdom.  She  uses  a  brush  of  fragile 
colors  and  achieves  remarkable  blends. 
The  elusive  charm  of  half  lights,  the 
fair  music  of  shadows  and  inanimate 
life  strings  through  these  poems  grace- 
fully and  with  immaculate  order.  Her 
lyrics  are  too  often  confused  with  pro- 
found philosophy;  but  there  is  a  simple 
beauty  in  all  of  them  and  a  movement 
always  suggestive  of  quiet  values,  re- 
served intelligence.  It  is  a  proud  book, 
well  written  and  well  bound. 


Kate  L.  Dickenson's  FLESH  AND 
SPIRIT  is  not  so  well  written,  nor 
so  carefully  concerned  with  subtly- 
seasoned  poetry.  A  strained  attempt  to 
lengthen  her  poems  and  a  newness  not 
entirely  alien  to  beginners  does  not  help 
her  book.  She  does  not  seem  sure  of 
her  power,  nor  does  she  use  that  ex- 
quisite reserve  every  poet  must  under- 
stand to  reach  the  deeper  values.  I 
think  Miss  Dickenson  has  written  poems 
far  superior  to  many  being  published 
today,  but  that  she  has  not  reached  by 
any  means  her  ultimate  perfection. 


THE    PAINTED  CITY 

WHY   Miss  Wilson  calls  Washing- 
ton a  painted  city  is  something  of 
a    mystery    itself.      In    the    hearts    of 
George   Washington's   countrymen,    tin- 
city   named    after   him    resembles    more 
the  drab,  marble-grey  mausoleum  of  irri- 
tating errors   and,    lately,   savagely   un- 
just  laws.    However,   Mary  Wilson  in 
these   nine    fiction   sketches   of   the   city 
does  very  well.    Her  puppets  dangle  on 
the  ends  of  their  threads  over  wartime, 
and   afterwar,  Washington.    Something 
of  the  spirit  of  futility  and  bigness  the 
author  manages  to  inscribe  in  the  gov- 
ernment tombs.    In  "Cherry  Blossoms," 
Miss  Wilson  manages  to  make  you  feel 
at   times   that   here    is    a   little   modern 
classic.    Delicacy,  understanding,  broad- 
ness— these    are    Miss    Wilson's    tools. 
She  uses  them  well.    We  lament,  how- 
ever, the  dominance  of   feminine   inter- 
est  throughout   the   book.    Her  charac- 
ters are  mostly  girls;  and  while  we  ad- 
mit   they     are    charming     studies    well 
handled,  we  wish   at  times  the  sudden 
nitric    of    Miss    Wilson's    satire    would 
spray     over     the     masculine     war-time 
Washington  element. 

Reviewed  by  TANCRED. 


IN  "TOUCH  AND  GO"  Mr.  Chey- 
ney  demonstrates  with  superb  neat- 
ness the  fact  that  nitric  acid  and  plum 
syrup  are  brothers  under  the  skin.  Never 
savage,  never  crude,  never  at  a  loss  or 
a  standstill,  his  poems  complete  their 
turns  with  precision  and  grace.  If  it  is 
possible  to  round  a  perfect  quatrain,  to 
carve  an  exact  lyric,  to  design  with  not 
too  many  or  too  few  words  a  saga,  then 
Ralph  Cheyney  has  done  it.  Satire  is  a 
dangerous  chemical.  Especially  for  a 
poet.  One  tremble,  one  quiver — and  the 
poem  is  lost.  But  Cheyney  delights  in 
shewing  his  control.  At  times  it  seems 
as  though  the  stuff  he  works  with  will 
run  away  with  him.  But  always,  with- 
out an  exception,  the  poem  ends — and 
we  can  fancy  Mr.  Cheyney  dancing 
away,  grining  like  an  imp,  leaving  his 
audience  open-mouthed  and  speechless. 
This  man  is  perhaps  the  only  satirical 


poet  in  the  country.  His  poems  are  not 
bitter — far  from  it!  He  loves  life — but 
wise.  They  are  pieces  of  glistening  gran- 
ite, immune  to  critical  liquid.  And  they 
have  a  wisdom  that  is  quick  and  alive, 
a  little  impertinent  and  a  little  cruel. 
"Touch  and  Go"  is  a  remarkable  book 
for  this  reason.  Mr.  Cheyney  has  evi- 
dently witnessed  a  lot  of  red  hot  hell. 
He  has  also,  evidently,  witnessed  a  lot 
of  wing-cool  heaven.  Drain  the  essence 
of  the  two,  mix  with  the  ice  of  pure 
water  intellect,  and  you  have  Mr.  Chey- 
nev's  formula. 


THE  KINGDOM  OF  HAPPINESS 

WHILE  by  its  very  nature  it  is  not 
intended  that  this  book  should 
abound  in  nimble  metaphore  nor  yet  in 
striking  simile,  nevertheless  it  lacks  a 
certain  spiritual  quality  or  uplifting  in- 
fluence that  might  have  been  anticipated 
as  coming  from  one  so  eminently  quali- 
fied to  discuss  and  impart  the  truth  of 
being  as  beheld  in  the  eyes  of  the  Orient. 
Books  devoted  to  spiritual  development, 
even,  such  as  the  one  under  review, 
should  have  an  air  of  spontaneity  about 
them ;  but  in  Krishnamurti's  book  this 
element  is  lacking. 

Underlying  the  twelve  chapters  of  the 
little  volume  there  is,  however,  a  very 
splendid  and  very  beautiful  idealism ; 
but  it  is  necessary  for  the  reader  to  con- 
tinually bear  this  in  mind  rather  than 
having  the  thought  tied  up  inseparably 
with  the  word.  Whatever  the  book  may 
lack  in  initial  inspirational  value,  it  is 
undeniably  true  that  there  is  a  tremend- 
ous thought  behind  it. 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

IT  IS  a  matter  of  regret  that  late  years 
should  product  so  few  worthwhile 
boys'  books.  Possibly  the  excellence  of 
this  "Kit  O'Brien"  "Mr.  Masters  has 
given  us  makes  the  need  a  bit  dominant ; 
at  any  rate  we  can't  remember  a  de- 
cently sized  list  of  adolescent  fiction 
antedating  1900.  Two  on  the  list  of 
worth-while  books  are  "Mitch  Miller" 
and  "Kit  O'Brien."  In  both  these  tales 
Mr.  Masters  uses  his  beloved  Peters- 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY    and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


215 


burg;  and  even  says,  frankly  enough, 
that  he  "loves  that  town  of  boyhood,  its 
people  and  its  ways,  too  deeply  to  dis- 
praise them,  or  say  anything  but  good 
of  them."  All  the  gentle  somnolence  of 
a  small  mid-western  town,  the  rural 
characters,  the  easiness  of  existence,  the 
splendid  sense  of  unhurried  development, 
stays  with  "Kit  O'Brien"  and  brings  us 
back  again  into  a  land  we  must  all  re- 
member whether  we  hail  from  North, 
South,  East  or  West.  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter; there  will  be  recognition  enough 
in  the  book.  So  not  only  for  boys,  a  lit- 
tle grown,  but  boys  fully  grown  and  at 
the  head  of  a  family  we  recommend  this 
book.  If  you  remember  the  simplicity 
and  power  of  the  "Spoon  River  Anthol- 
ogy" paragraphs,  the  excellent  color  and 
warmth  of  "Mirage"  and  the  philosoph- 
ical depth  of  "The  Nuptial  Flight"- 
then  something  of  the  three-in-one  ten- 
derness and  magic  of  "Kit  O'Brien"  may 
be  imagined. — TANCRED. 


the  Lamentation  for  the  Dead,  the  final 
scene  between  Polo  and  Kukachin  in  the 
harbor  of  Hormuz,  Persia,  Kublai's  last 
words  to  his  daughter  as  she  leaves  for 
Persia  and  the  boat  songs  of  her  crew 
would  be  set  down  here.  O'Neill  has 
exquisitely  damned  maudlin  history  and 
discovered  a  savage  thirteenth  century 
Babbitt. — TANCRED. 


AN  O'NEILL  CLASSIC 

MR.  O'NEILL  does  more  to  convince 
the  American  people  that  great 
literature  is  great  poetry  than  any'  other 
living  writer.  His  most  recent  play, 
published  before  production,  is  astonish- 
ingly beautiful.  Subtle,  satiric,  exactly 
locked,  "Marco  Millions"  is  the  O'Neill 
perfect.  No  amount  of  idle  praise  will 
meet  the  work.  Suffice  to  inscribe  the 
book  with  acclaim  from  cover  to  cover, 
from  prologue  to  epilogue,  and  advise 
every  student  of  life  to  read  it.  The  ex- 
tremely beautiful  philosophy  Chu-Yin 
speaks  to  Kublai,  the  Great  Kaan,  Son 
of  Heaven,  Lord  of  Earth,  Ruler  over 
Life  and  Death — himself  a  man  of  ten- 
derness and  compassion — is  meat  for  the 
mass,  rain  where  the  morbid  partch  of 
modern  habit  and  sans  souci  reigns.  And 
Kukachin,  the  Kaan's  exquisite  daughter, 
who  loves  Marco  Polo,  thirteenth  cen- 
tury Babbitt  and  efficiency  expert,  is  a 
flower  of  poetry  pure  as  crystal,  philo- 
sophic as  nature  and  gentle  in  her  destiny 
as  the  ancient  priests  of  her  father's 
Empire.  Polo,  the  Venetian  merchant, 
"Marco  Millions"  as  his  neighbors  call 
him,  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hypocrite,  showman 
par  excellence,  bewildering  the  tightly 
wrapped  philosophy  of  the  East  child 
of  Western  Babbitry  and  writer  of 
poetry  stuffed  with  metrical  figures  and 
monetary  climaxes — Marco  Polo  him- 
self, the  most  astounding  expose  of  a 
character  submerged  beneath  a  blanket 
of  sentimental  molasses,  O'Neill's  latest 
and  most  clever  intellectual  thrust. 

It  is  one  of  the  unfortunate  lamenta- 
tions of  a  reviewer  that  his  space  will 
not  permit  reprinting  of  paragraphs, 
lines  or  stanzas  from  noteworthy  books. 
If  it  were  possible,  the  speeches  of  Marco 
Polo,  the  Mongol  Chronicler's  chant  of 


THE  DEADFALL 

HERE  is  another  masterpiece  of  mod- 
ern magazine  fiction  by  the  author 
of  "Seward's  Folly"  and  "Shepherds  of 
the  Wild."  The  publishers  tell  us:  "A 
novel  of  the  lonely  places.  Of  a 
love  for  the  Little  People  (their  capi- 
tols)  of  the  Wild  pitted  against  men's 
blood  lust  and  greed.  ...  Of  the 
hideous  four  who  follow  the  Silent  One, 
and  the  vengeance  that  is  a  boomerang. 
.  .  .  Spellbinding  in  its  tingling  epi- 
sodes. .  .  .  You  will  learn  the  lure  and 
lore  of  the  wilderness  and  of  elemental 
conflict  between  man  and  man."  Whew! 
After  that,  one  is  supposed  to  run  forth 
screaming  and  buy  the  book,  or  do  the 
simpler  and  more  intelligent  thing  of 
passing  quite  away.  We  suspect  Mr. 
Marshall,  Mr.  Edison  Marshall  (for 
he  is  indeed  the  author)  will  undoubt- 
edly sell  this  corker  to  the  Picture  Peo- 
ple and  then  its  being  written  will  have 
been  excused. — TANCRED. 


THE  ARROW  OF  LIGHTNING.  By 
Beatrice  Ravenel.  Harold  Vinal, 
New  York  City. 

FLESH  AND  SPIRIT.  By  Kate  L. 
Dickenson.  Harold  Vinal,  New 
York  City. 

TOUCH  AND  GO.  By  Ralph  Chey- 
ney.  Published  by  Henry  Harrison, 
New  York. 

THE  KINGDOM  OF  HAPPINESS. 
By  Jeddu  Krishnamurti.  Boni  & 
Liveright.  $1.75. 

KIT  O'BRIEN.  By  Edgar  Lee  Mas- 
ters. Boni  &  Liveright.  $2.50. 

MARCO  MILLIONS.  By  Eugene 
O'Neill.  Boni  &  Liveright.  $2.50. 

THE  DEADFALL.  By  Edison  Mar- 
shall. Cosmopolitan  Book  Corp. 
$2.00.  (Wait  and  see  it  for  four  bits 
at  your  neighborhood  theatre.) 

DAWN  STARS.  By  Lucia  Trent. 
Published  by  Henry  Harrison. 

YOUNG  MEN  IN  LOVE.  By  Michael 
Arlen.  Doran.  $2.50. 

MARCO  MILLIONS.  By  Eugene 
O'Neill.  Boni  &  Liveright.  $2.50. 


LOVE  AND  MICHAEL  ARLEN 

POSSIBLY  the  Picture  People,  who 
very  nearly  spelled  e-x-i-t  for  Mich- 
ael Arlen,  gave  this  sophisticated  Irish- 
man's intellect  a  boomerang  twist  for 
the  good.  For  a  time  we  were  lament- 
ing the  cheap  cleverness  and  two-dimen- 
sional pap  Arlen  considered  the  Average 


American's  Intellect.  But  with  his  late 
release  (why  is  it  so  difficult  to  break 
from  the  Hollywood  jargon  when  writ- 
ing Arlen  copy?)  the  gentleman  proves 
he  is  rich  with  hidden  nitric  and  exceed- 
ingly well  versed  in  philosophic  burnish. 
"Young  Men  in  Love"  will  do  much  to 
bring  him  back  to  the  firm  pleasure  of 
a  cultured  and  a  discriminate  people. 
The  story,  which  matters  very  little  in 
plot  and  less  in  mechanics,  tells  itself 
simply  and  beautifully.  Characters, 
three  of  them,  the  Financier,  the  Jour- 
nalist and  the  Politician,  are  drawn  with 
the  old  Arlen  cunning;  their  speeches 
are  delightfully  droll,  sternly  savage  and 
evenly  logical  alternately.  The  |  lovers 
— and  we  were  properly  jolted  with  the 
fierceness  of  their  passion  and  the  trag- 
edy of  their  sensuous  confusions,  are 
perhaps  a  little  better  done  than  the 
average  lovers.  And  when  the  terrific 
crash  of  that  separation,  powerful  in  its 
silence  and  terrible  in  its  unrelenting 
depths,  comes  to  the  last  of  the  book  there 
is  nothing  to  say  except  that  friend  Arlen 
has  worked  bravely  and  has  conquered 
easily.  We  were  grudgingly  stippled  with 
admiration,  let  it  be  admitted,  for  that 
quick,  dogmatic  summing-up-and-boiling- 
down  always  to  be  found  in  the  last 
paragraph  of  each  chapter.  It  is  a  much 
finer  book  than  "The  Green  Hat." — 
TANCRED. 


IT  SEEMS  facile  and  dull,  after  the 
brilliant  notices  given  Miss  Trent's 
"Dawn  Stars"  by  eastern  critics,  to  at- 
tempt a  fresh  review  of  the  book.  Her 
technic  has  been  explored  and  proven 
by  brighter  pens.  The  manner  in  which 
she  subtly  and  with  wide-eyes  instigates 
wonder  and  philosophy  in  the  most  un- 
assuming line  (though  it  is  a  clever  ob- 
servation), has  also  been  caught.  And 
the  vivid  search  she.  has  given  the  least 
inoffensive  mood  (the  last  and  most  im- 
portant criticism  of  Miss  Trent's 
poetry,  has  likewise  been' drawn  through 
the  presses  of  countless  weighty  journals. 

Miss  Trent  assumes  a  position  of  im- 
portance on  the  poetic  stage,  and  right- 
fully. If  here  and  there  a  lyric  does  not 
complete  itself  definitely,  it  is  to  be 
understood  that  few — perhaps  one  in  a 
decade — volumes  of  poetry  excuse  their 
publication  from  the  first  to  the  last 
page.  Tastes  vary  greatly  and  poetic 
subjects,  unless  handled  subjectively,  are 
arranged  by  the  year  and  not  the  mood. 
Miss  Trent  has  skillfully  adhered  to  this 
principle. 

Henry  Harrison,  of  New  York,  pub- 
lishes the  book.  Herbert  E.  Fouts,  who 
is  doing  startling  and  beautiful  work, 
contributes  a  jacket  illustration.  It  is  a 
worthwhile  contribution  to  American 
Letters,  and  I  know  of  no  poet  of  cor- 
responding years  and  ability. 


216 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT    WEST   MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


Now 

through  to 

Tahoe 


— convenient  PuJfman  service 
every  evening  via  Over 
Route,  Lake  Tahoe  Line 


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maximum  amount  of  time  at  the  lake. 
Every  vacation  sport  is  there — Golf, 
tennis,  horse-back  riding,  hikes,  swim- 
ming, fishing,  dancing.  Steamer  trips 
around  the  lake,  only  $2.40. 

You  leave  San  Francisco  (Ferry)  at  7 
p.  m.,  Sacramento  at  10:55  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing at  the  shore  of  the  lake  in  time  for 
breakfast  next  morning.  Returning, 
leave  Tahoe  Station  9:30  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing San  Francisco  7:50  a.  m. 

Day  service,  offering  an  interesting 
scenic  trip  up  the  Sierra,  leaves  San 
Francisco  at  7:40a.  m.,  Sacramento 
10:45  a.  m  ,  arriving  at  the  lake  for 
dinner,  (5:30  p.m.) 

Reduced  roundtrip  fares  are  effective 
throughout  the  summer.  For  example, 
only  $13-15  roundtrip  from  San 
Francisco,  good  for  16  days. 

Ask  for  illustrated  booklet  about  Tahoe 
Lake  region;  also  booklet  "Low  Fares  for 
Summer  Trips". 

Southern 
Pacific 


F.  S.  McGINNIS, 

Passenger  Traffic  Mgr. 

San  Francisco 


What  Is  Your  Name? 

By  Gertrude  Mott 

(Continued  from  Last  Month) 


ONCE  upon  a  time,  a  few  years 
ago,  say  about  449  B.  C.,  there 
were  two  gentlemen,  yclept  Mr. 
Hengist  and  Mr.  Horsa,  dwelling  upon 
the  shore  of  the  Baltic  Sea.  They  were 
tall,  handsome,  strong-armed,  strong- 
willed  gentlemen,  these  two,  with  an 
itching  palm.  However,  not  an  itch 
for  lucre,  let  us  be  honest  in  saying,  but 
with  an  itch  for  expansion,  for  adven- 
ture, for  new  places  and  faces,  for  some- 
thing to  conquer. 

Now,  they  had  heard  more  than  once 
from  wandering  vikings,  very  stirring 
tales  of  a  tight  little  water-begirt  isle, 
named  Britain,  not  so  many  leagues 
away.  So  one  bright,  sunny  day  said 
Hengist  to  Horsa,  "Away  with  me, 
brave  chieftain,  it  irks  me  here;  this 
island  of  Britain  is  calling."  Says  Horsa, 
the  doughty,  "Ay,  Ay!" 

So  they  stood  not  upon  the  order  of 
going,  but  packed  their  suitcases  at  once, 
gathered  up  their  wives,  their  spears, 
their  kettles,  pots  and  pans  and  other  im- 
pedimenta, called  lustily  for  their  sol- 
diers many  and  brave,  quickly  fared 
forth  in  their  great  rowboats  and  lo  and 
behold!  just  one,  two,  three,  there 
landed  on  the  shores  of  Britain  these 
Angles  and  Jutes  and  Saxons. 

Just  as  it  happens,  they  were  such 
energetic,  determined  men  folk  that  in 
time,  shorter  than  the  telling,  Hengist 
and  Horsa  and  their  gallant  sons  were 
the  rulers  of  this  tight  little,  fine  little 
isle. 

They  had  brought  with  them,  besides 
their  wives  and  other  impedimenta  as 
above  mentioned,  a  new  language,  new 
customs  and  a  new  faith.  In  their  re- 
ligion the  word  "God"  (Anglo-Saxon 
later  corrupted  to  "good")  was  the  most 
significant,  and  we  find  it  used  as  a  pre- 
fix in  many  names  which  soon  became 
English.  Among  them  are  "Godwin," 


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"Goodwin,"  "Goodrich,"  "Godfrey," 
"Goodman"  or  "Godman,"  "Godley"  or 
"Godly,"  "Goddard"  or  "Godart,"  and 
so  on  at  great  length. 

The  verse  at  the  head  of  the  chapter 
is  but  another  instance  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  influence  in  place  names. 

There  are  many  other  examples  of 
names  derived  from  those  of  the  Saxon 
gods,  mainly,  however,  baptismal  names. 
These  in  time  shifted  to  surnames;  in 
fact  the  largest  class  of  English  surnames 
are  founded  upon  baptismal  names. 

To  the  Roman  belongs  the  earliest 
system  of  nomenclature,  perhaps  more 
precise  and  careful  than  any  which  fol- 
lowed, but  not  by  any  means  as  romantic 
as  the  English.  In  the  eleventh  and 
twelfth  centuries  nomenclature  began 
to  assume  a  more  solid,  lasting  basis 
throughout  the  more  civilized  European 
peoples,  but  the  English  stirs  the  imagi- 
nation with  its  variety  and  romance. 

Among  other  names  that  can  be 
classed  of  religious  origin  are  "Pastor," 
"Paradise,"  "Soil"  (Latin  for  sun), 
"Moon,"  "Mhoon,"  "Star"  and  "Starr." 
These  last  may  be  classed  as  religious 
surnames,  for  they  were  objects  of 
Anglo-Saxon  worship. 

Then  there  are  the  "Heavens,"  the 
"Hells,"  "Devilles"  and  "Devils," 
"Edens;"  we  still  have  Mr.  "Odin" 
(from  the  god  "woden,"  Anglo-Saxon 
supreme  deity)  ;  Mr.  "Backus,"  "Bac- 
chus" (the  Greek  god  of  wine),  and 
Mr.  "Mars"  (Greek  god  of  war).  Mr. 
"Soul,"  "Soule,"  is  still  among  us,  as 
likewise  Mr.  "Spirit"  and  Mr.  "Ghost." 

"Church"  has  also  come  to  an  ex- 
tended use  as  a  prefix  in  such  names  as 
"Churchgate,"  "Churchill,"  "Church- 
man," "Churchward"  (present  day 
"warden"),  "Churchyard"  and  so  on. 

"Abbey,"  "Abbee,"  "Abbe"  and  "Ab- 
bott," 'Abbot,"  "Abbotson,"  "Abbitt," 
"Abbett"  (itt  and  ett  diminutives,  hence 
little  Abb). 

"Chapel,"  "Chappell,"  "Chappie," 
"Chapell"  was  very  frequent  (from  old 
French  "chapelle"). 

"Parsonage"  and  "Vicarage,"  "Vick- 
erage,"  "Vickeridge"  occur  together. 

As  we  enter  the  "Church"  we  find 
the  "Chantry"  or  "Chantrey"  (a  side 
chapel  or  altar),  and  the  "Chanter"  or 
singer  with  its  diminutive,  the  little 
singer  "Cantrell,"  "Cantrill." 

Then  we  find  the  "Font"  (Latin 
"fons,"  a  spring)  in  the  "Sanctuary." 
For  a  momentary  rest  we  seat  ourselves 
in  the  "Pew"  (possibly  a  misspelling  of 
the  Welsh  "Pugh,"  a  corruption  of  ap- 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


217 


Hugh,  son  of  Hugh)  and  quietly  listen 
to  the  "Divine,"  "Devine"  "Service" 
(maybe  from  St.  Servais),  while  we 
"Worship"  (from  your  Worthship, 
your  Honor),  and  "Pray"  (French 
"pre,"  a  meadow),  and  repeat  the 
"Creed"  and  sing  the.  "Anthem." 
Through  one's  mind  pass  the  images  of 
those  who  have  frequented  this  "Holy" 
place;  the  "Minister",  "Minster",  the 
"Cardinal",  the  "Pope"  (sobriquet  also 
for  one  of  ascetic,  austere  and  ecclesi- 
astical appearance),  the  "Prior",  "Pry- 
or";  the  "Monk",  "Monke",  "Munk" 
with  his  "Cowl"  or  "Hood";  the 
"Priest",  "Prest";  the  "Saint";  the 
"Bishop";  the  "Dean";  the  "Deacon"; 
the  "Elder";  the  "Beadle";  the  "Sex- 
ton"; the  "Nun"  and  the  "Verger". 

As  we  gaze  about  us  we  see  the 
"Bible",  the  "Crucifix"  and  the  "Cro- 
zier",  "Crosier"  within  the  altar  rail, 
where  the  "Gospel"  and  "Sermon"  have 
so  often  been  read  by  the  "Preacher". 

As  we  once  more  enter  the  "Church- 
yard" we  see  about  us  the  "Tombs"  and 
"Graves"  of  those  who  have  gone  be- 
fore. 

As  we  pass  down  the  "Lane"  and  the 
village  "Street"  we  look  about  us  and 
see  the  "House",  the  "Cottage",  the 
"Lodge",  the  "Grange",  the  "Barns", 
the  "Shedds"  or  "Sheds"  and  the 
"Mill". 

In  the  distance  our  eye  meets  the 
"Towers"  of  the  "Castle"  with  a 
"Flagg"  upon  the  "Pinnacle"  and  be- 
yond, another  "Temple"  of  worship 
with  its  "Steeple". 

As  we  cross  the  "Bridge"  we  find 
the  "Garrison"  and  the  "Barrack"  and 
the  "Fort";  and  through  the  "Arch" 
we  spy  the  great  "Buttress"  of  the 
"Castle." 

As  we  enter  the  "Court"  we  hear 
the  splash  of  a  "Fountain"  and  have  our 
first  glimpse  of  the  great  "Hall".  In 
the  "Castle"  are  many  "Chambers"  and 
also  a  great  "Garret",  "Garrett",  "Gar- 
ratt"  under  the  "Roof"  with  "Win- 
dows" looking  out  upon  the  "Eaves", 
and  far  below  upon  the  "Wall"  around 
the  "Castle"  with  its  "Mott"  or  "Mote" 
or  "Moat"  all  about  it. 

Once  more  we  reach  the  "Village" 
or  rather  "Town"  and  its  many 
"Booths"  (huts)  and  "Kennels,"  The 
"Deacon"  bids  us  spend  the  night,  and 
as  he  draws  the  "Doorbar"  we  feel. safe 
and  happy,  warmly  ensconced  before  the 
"Stove"  in  the  cosy  "Room"  which 
opens  off  the  "Kitchen"  on  one  side  and 
the  "Parlour",  "Parlor"  on  the  other. 

After  a  gracious  rest  we  bid  "Fare- 
well", "Farwell"  to  the  "Goodfellow" 
who  has  so  kindly  befriended  us,  and 
hasten  on  our  way. 

T^HE   medieval    period    was   the    hey- 
day of   the  craftsman,  artisan  and 
skilled  workman,  for  as  yet  there  were 


no  iron  and  steel  monsters  to  do,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  work  that  often- 
times required  months  of  patient  applica- 
tion. The  guilds  and  crafts  throughout 
Europe  bore  testimony  to  the  intense 
pride  each  man  took  in  the  perfect  ac- 
complishment of  his  specific  art  or  work, 
and  the  necessity  for  each  man  keeping 
up  to  the  mark. 

Time  was  not  a  standard  of  judg- 
ment, it  was  beauty  and  perfection. 
Gradually,  almost  imperceptibly,  these 
standards  were  changed  by  the  coming 
of  highly  efficient  mechanical  devices; 
it  had  been  an  artisan's  love  for  his  han- 
diwork that  made  what  he  gave  to  the 
world  so  perfect ;  the  law  of  compensa- 
tion robbed  him  of  individual  creative 
possibilities,  but  gave  him  instead  more 
money,  more  time  and  greater  output. 
Was  this  early  modernism  indeed  a  com- 
pensation ? 

The  implements  and  other  articles 
used  by  men  of  the  trades  and  crafts 
gave  many  suggestions  for  surnames, 
when  surnames  become  the  fashionable 
thing;  in  many  instances,  though  ap- 
parently an  implement  name,  they  are 
derived  from  other  sources. 
"Tool",  "Toole"  easily  takes  its  place. 
"Tub"  or  "Tubbs"  also  (possibly  son 
of  Theobald).  "Hammer"  and  "Mai- 
lett",  "Malet"  ("Hammer"  was  a  very 
popular  name  from  early  Anglo-Saxon 
days,  as  the  great  god  Thor  wielded  a 
monstrous  hammer  or  mallet.)  "Mal- 
lett"  may  also  be  derived  from  'mall' 
the  ponderous  iron  mace,  in  the  use  of 
which  the  Norsemen  were  such  dreaded 
adepts.  The  'ett'  made  it  'little  Mall'. 

"Mattock"  or  "Mattox"  come  from 
the  early  Welsh  personal  name  'madoc', 
which  also  gave  "Maddox",  "Mad- 
dock",  "Maddick"  and  "Maddux". 
"Hook"  or  "Hooke"  also  denoted  a 
sudden  bend  in  a  lane  or  valley.  Then 
we  have  "Crook"  or  "Crooks'";  "Lev- 
er"; "Hinge"  (may  be  derived  from 
'ing'  a  low  lying  meadow  near  a  river.) 
"Bellows";  "Rule";  "Shears";  "Parcel" 
or  "Parcells"  (a  probable  corruption  of 
the  French  'Par  Ciel!',  by  Heaven!,  an 
oath  habitually  employed  by  the  first 
bearer  of  the  name  and  so  becoming  his 
sobriquet.  The  same  is  true  of  "Par- 
dee",  'Par  Dieu!'  by  God!  a  common 
medieval  oath. 

"Pack";  "Case";  "Hoop";  "Axe"; 
"Cleaver";  "Clamp";  "Winch"; 
"Bolt";  "Bold";  "Bolde"  ('bol',  a  small 
farm  in  Danish)  ;  "Pitcher". 

And  here  we  have  registered  evidence 
of  the  "Pot",  "Potts"  calling  the  "Ket- 
tle" black.  Then  we  go  on  to  "Glass"; 
"Bottle";  "Sheet"  and  "Sheets";  "Cur- 
tain"; "Couch";  "Brush";  "Razor"; 
we  find  "Lock",  "Locke"  and  "Key", 
"Keys",  "Keyes"  stand  in  close  em- 
brace. 


Sewni  Louis*  Lewdest  Hoiel 

LINDELL  DOULE.VAGD  Af  SPRJNO  AVENUE 


. . .  because  even  those 
who  find  it  no  nou<  tvj 
in  registering  in  woi  id- 
famous  hotels  experi- 
ence a  new  note  of  com- 
fort, convenience  and 
atmosphere  in  St  Louis 
favored  fine  hotel-THE 
COROTIADO1 

RATES 
From   $2.50 


HOTEL  STEWART 
San  Francisco 

High  Class  Accommodations 

at  Very  Moderate  Rates. 

Chas.    A.    and     Miss    Margaret 

Stewart,  Props. 


LUNCH    50c 

DINNER  75e 

SUNDAY  NIGHT  $1.00 

A  La  Carte  Service 

If  you  are  looking  for  an  intimate 
little  place  just  around  the  corner 
where  you  can  dawdle  over  your 
last  cup  of  coffee,  you  will  find  it 
here  nestling  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Hall  of  Justice,  a  gay  little  spot  in 
an  otherwise  dingy  but  historical 
alley. 

Bohemia  Ever  Ignores 
the  Obvious 

THE  PHILOSOPHERS 

659  Merchant  St.          Davenport  391 
CLOSED  MONDAYS 


218 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


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Overland  Poets 

(Continued  from  Page  200) 


5    PRACTICAL,    EDUCATORS 

Real   Estate 

Educator   ....200  pp.  do.  $2.00 
Vest  Pocket 

Bookkeeper.. 160  pp.  clo.     1.00 
Vest  Pocket 

"Cushing"....128  pp.  clo.     1.00 
Art  Public 

Speaking 100  pp.  clo.     1.00 

Vest  Pocket 

Lawyer 360  pp.  clo.     1.50 

SPECIAL,    OFFER 
to   Overland   Monthly   readers: 
any  two  at  20  per  cent  discount,  all  five 
for    $5.00    postpaid,    C.    O.    D.    or    on    ap- 
proval.    Descriptive    catalog  FREE.     Sat- 
isfaction guaranteed. 
Thog.   X.   Carey  &   Co.,  114  90th  St.,  N.   Y. 


In  1907  Edwin  Markham  had  entered 
again  and  again  by  the  letter  route  into 
my  life.  I  had  seen  him  only  once,  in 
1896.  Now  I  was  bent  on  writing 
literary  impressions  after  the  plan  of 
Stoddard.  So  when  "Virgilia,"  and 
"The  Homing  Heart"  (now  entitled 
"The  Crowning  Hour")  appeared  in 
an  Eastern  magazine,  and  as  I  had  an 
important  manuscript  of  Lincoln,  a 
ready  theme  was  in  hand. 

I  had  (I  thought  I  had)  an  important 
Markham  manuscript.  It  had  come  to 
me  with  some  miscellaneous  papers.  It 
was  a  hastily  sketched  copy  of  "Lincoln," 
many  of  the  lines  incomplete.  I  believed 
I  had  a  first  hastily-written  copy.  I 
therefore  took  it  as  my  "lead"  and 
pointed  out  it  illustrated  the  fiery 
rapidity  with  which  the  mind  of  Mark- 
ham  worked.  There  it  was  sketched 
roughly  to  the  very  last  line.  It  threw, 
I  thought,  a  great  light  on  Markham's 
power.  It  was  a  hit ;  an  interesting  dis- 
covery. 

But  the  more  important  part  of  my 
comment  referred  to  "Virgilia"  and  its 
companion  poem.  Here  was  a  poem  of 
soul,  the  human  soul  from  its  earliest 
tracings,  before  the  world  was ;  from  its 
secret  star.  Capped  with  the  "Crown- 
ing Hour;"  a  dip  into  the  future;  where 
all  the  troublous  sorrows  of  earth  dwel- 
lers are  to  be  healed. 

Here  was  the  type-man  sorrowing  be- 
cause of  lost  love;  but  finding  repent- 
ence  in  earth-service;  forgetting  his  own 
grief  in  the  burdens  of  others.  It  was 
a  new  treatment  of  Evelyn  Hope,  of 
"Locksley  Hall,"  of  "Maud,"  of  a 
"Dove  of  St.  Mark,"  a  glorified  "Anna- 
bel Lee."  I  did  not  say  all  these  things 
in  my  impression.  I  have  since  thought 
much  about  them,  hence  .  .  . 

But  I  have  written  Overland  lore 
about  Edwin  Markham  again  in  1915. 
In  this  piece  there  is  much  biography 
and  some  criticism.  And  then  a  full  page 
in  the  Oakland  Tribune.  Both  the 
lovers  of  me  and  of  the  Hoe-Poet  will 
want  to  look  through  these  accounts, 
when  they  consider  the  great  poet's  re- 
cent ovation  of  seventeen  April  days  in 
Central  California,  for  over  forty  thous- 
and in  that  short  period  listened  to  his 
masterly  readings  and  the  presentation  of 
his  poetic  dreams  and  optimistic  views 
of  the  race's  future. 

I  therefore  now  must  content  myself 
with  telling  my  readers  that  this  busy 
poet,  this  lyric  master  of  the  social 
dream,  this  wandering  prophet  of  hope 
for  the  human  soul,  has  written  as  much 
if  not  more  poetry  in  the  last  decade  than 
in  the  first  decades  of  his  career.  A  multi- 
tude of  short  lyrics  have  come  from  his 


fancy ;  and  these  along  with  longer  poems 
of  enduring  significance :  "An  Ode  of 
Peace,"  "An  Ode  on  the  Hundredth  An- 
niversary of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monu- 
ment," and  extended  prize-winning  poem 
on  Edgar  Allen  Poe ;  "The  Ballad  of 
the  Gallows-Bird, "  and  "The  Songs  of 
the  Divine  Woman,"  as  well  as  "The 
Lincoln  Lyrics."  Altogether  this  a  noble 
and  notable  work  for  many  years  be- 
tween 1860  and  1875;  noble  when  we 
know  it  is  interspersed  with  a  stupendous 
English-American  Anthology  of  seven- 
teen volumes.  Glory  be  unto  you,  Ed- 
win Markham ! 

But  my  postscript  must  come.  A  re- 
crudescence of  interest  in  the  poetic  life 
of  Joaquin  Miller.  In  the  Craftsman, 
the  Call,  the  Oakland  Tribune  and  the 
Overland,  I  have  recited  the  main  fea- 
tures of  the  life  of  a  stirring  Miller. 
Those  who  think  he  has  no  place  in 
English  literature  have  forgotten  to 
reckon  with  the  young  Americans  who 
know  by  heart  his  lyrical  stanzas,  "Co- 
lumbus," "The  Fortunate  Isles,"  the 
"Stanza  on  Byron  and  Burns,"  "Kit 
Carson's  Ride,"  his  "Dove  of  St.  Mark," 
"For  Those  Who  Fail."  This  is  supple- 
mented by  his  long  list  of  prose:  "Life 
Among  the  Modocs,"  an  Indian  ro- 
mance of  power  and  unexcelled  beauty, 
"The  Building  of  the  City  Beautiful," 
and  "The  Danites."  I  have  forty  books 
in  my  Miller  collection. 

The  four  hundredth  anniversary  of 
the  discovery  of  America  celebrated  in 
1892  in  Chicago  has  now  no  living 
poem  in  its  honor  save  Joaquin  Miller's 
"Columbus."  Nor  shall  we  forget  the 
dashing  and  virile  story,  "The  Ari- 
zonan,"  all  England  gloried  in  in  the 
seventies! 

The  young  and  budding  Joaquin  had 
no  show  in  California  when  he  came  to 
San  Francisco  in  1870.  Bret  Harte  ne- 
glected him;  Miss  Coolbrith  showered 
him  with  faint  praise  and  a  touch  of  ridi- 
cule, and  Charlie  Stoddard  smiled. 

London  discovered  him. 

I  am  writing  this  envoi  to  the  things 
I  have  said  to  tell  everybody  I  do  not 
pretend  this  a  complete  roll-call  of  Cali- 
fornia poets.  I  have  touched  upon  not 
quite  all  I  have  written  about  in  the 
Overland,  The  California  Poet  of  the 
Desert  waste  places  I  have  remembered 
but  I  must  not  treat  of  her  in  an  evi- 
dently hasty  review.  All  this  is  said  that 
my  particular  people  of  the  Edwin 
Markham  Chapter  of  the  London  Po- 
etry Society  as  well  as  a  thousand  other 
aspirants  to  verse  writing  may  have  a 
glimpse  of  how  the  great  poets  write 
and  think. 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


219 


THE  MESSAGE— 

COME  the  storm — 
Oh,  mightiest  of  the  mightiest! 
Monarch  of  all  the  elements  before  whom 
All  must  bow  and  subject  themselves ; 
Into  thy  awful  presence  come  we 
In  fear  and  trembling, 
We  hate  thee. 

But  ah,  Lovely  Lady  of  the  Rainbow 
It  is  to  thee  we  give  our  love,  our  homage,  our  all 
When  we  behold  thee  like  a  message  of  hope  from  God 
Our  hearts  are  filled  with  rejoicing  and  we  live  again  in  the 
aspiration  of  happier  things  to  come. 

LOUISE  W.  SPERLING 


CRYSTAL  CLEAR 

(To  a  Cynic) 

IF  IT  could  be  your  soul  were  clean, 
And  you  have  lived  a  life  supreme 
And  should  our  God  in  Heaven  say; 
That  you  might  sit  with  him  a  day 
So  you  could  see  with  knowing  eye 
All  things  of  Life  as  they  passed  by ; 
And  as  you  watched  a  woman  came, 
Your  wife  she'd  been,  yes,  'twas  the  same. 
If  now,  at  last,  twixt  God  and  you 
She  stood  and  His  Own  Light  shone  through 
So  crystal  clear  her  soul  you  saw 
Would  you  be  filled  with  love  and  awe? 
No!    YOUR  black  soul  before  your  eye 
Would  come, — and  you  would  pass  her  by. 

JOY  GOLDEN. 


VESPER  SONG 

A  NOTHER  Leaf  from  off  the  Tree  of  Time 
-^*-      Has  fallen,  and  lies  prone 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  earthen  Past — 
There  sent  to  rot  with  other  Leaves,  late  fall'n, 
Dissolve,  anon,  with  mingled  heat  of  Joys 
And  rain  of  solvent  Tears, 

And  make  more  rich  the  Soil   (we  can  but  hope) 
To  birth  the  budding  of  a  better  Day 
When  Time  shall  leaf  again. 
'Tis  night,  the  mystic  gap  'twixt  Was  and  Will, 
When  Things-That-Were,  as  ghosts,  walk  bold  about, 
And  hold  convention  with  the  shades  unborn 
Of  coming  Things-To-Be. 
And  so  the  Future,  foretaught  by  the  Past, 
Predestined  is  to  grant  the  Past's  behest, 
And  bring  forth  fruitage — Joys  distilled  in  Tears — 
Life's  Sweet  with  Bitter  tinct. 
And  yet,  mayhap,  the  fertilizing  Leaf 
May  add  some  largesse  to  the  pleasing  Sweet, 
And  so,  escheat  the  Bitter.     If  so  be, 
Then  Life  is  well  and  Time  is  justified. 

— PHILMER  A.  SAMPLE. 

*       #       * 

QUESTIONING 

LIFE,  is  it  a  hoop 
Through  which  we  leap, 
Fate,  the  ringmaster, 
Cracking  the  whip? 

TRUE  DURBROW 


San  Francisco 


For  a  Year  or  a 


The  rest  and  quiet  of  a  cared-for  home. 
The  "life"  and  service  of  a  large  hotel. 
Permanent  apartments.  or  rooms  for  visiting 

guests. 


A  Great  Neiv  Hotel — Generous  with  Hospitality 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


220 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


Poets  Who  Contribute 
to 

THE  GREENWICH 
VILLAGE  QUILL 

Lucia  Trent 

Ralph   Cheyney 

Harold  Vinal 

Robin  Christopher 

Ernest  Hartsock 

Gordon  Lawrence 

Thomas  De!  Vecchio 

Charles  A.  Wagner 

Challiss  Silvay 

Ellen  M.  Carroll 

Sonia  Ruthele  Novak 

Stanton  A.  Coblentz 

S.  Bert  Cooksley 

Mary  Carolyn  Davies 

E.  Leslie  Spaulding 

Clement  Wood 

Howard  McKinley  Corning 

Louis  Ginsberg 

A.  M.  Sullivan 

Henry  Morton  Robinson 

Emanuel  Eisenberg 

Jacques    Le    Clercq 

Ronald    Walker    Barr 

Molly  Anderson  Haley 

Irene  Stewart 

Mary  Atwater  Taylor 

THE  GREENWICH 
VILLAGE  QUILL 

Edited  by  Henry  Harrison 

A  Distinguished  Literary  and  Art 
Magazine 

featuring   the    emotional    drawings    of 
Charles  Cullen 

25  cents  a  copy — $3  a  year 
76  Elton  Street     Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 


When  at  the  Knees  of  the  Gods 


(Continued  from  Page  202) 


SMILE ! 

Don't  join  the  dissatisfied 

army.    Let  the 

OVERLAND  TRAVEL 

BUREAU 

plan  that  vacation  for  you. 

SMILE  ! 


tickets,  set  aside  for  the  purpose,  were 
disposed  of. 

There  was  the  grant  of  $10,000  from 
the  city.  $10,000  had  already  been 
promised  from  subscribers.  $15,000 
was  yet  to  be  raised  from  the  people. 
And  within  a  limited  period! 

And  so  the  new  leader  with  inborn 
faith  and  courage,  and  with  a  cohort  of 
enthusiastic  workers,  approached  an  in- 
credulous public  for  the  purchase  of  sea- 
son books,  without  any  definite  data 
other  than  the  price  of  the  tickets  they 
had  set  out  to  sell. 

The  San  Francisco  Symphony  Or- 
chestra was  to  give  a  series  of  summer 
concerts  under  the  leadership  of  well- 
known  conductors  at  the  subscriber's  fee 
of  50  cents  a  concert— (that,  they  fer- 
vently hoped,  and  prayed  and  believed). 
And  the  concerts  were  to  take  place 
sometime  in  June,  July  and  August. 
No,  they  were  not  quite  positive  about 
the  number  of  concerts  or  the  dates. 
And  the  conductors?  Who  were  they 
to  be?  Well,  they  were  not  quite  pos- 
itive about  them,  either.  Probably, 
Gabrilowitsch,  and  Sokoloff,  and  Alfred 
Hertz,  and  ...  a  few  more  "prob- 
ablies"  were  added  to  the  category. 

In  the  meantime,  Mrs.  Birmingham, 
with  the  fortitude  one  might  expect  of 
her,  was  calling  up  her  friends  from  her 
sickbed,  selling  tickets  over  a  phone,  that 
of  necessity,  the  nurse  held  for  her. 

And  the  San  Francisco  daily  news- 
papers had  been  running,  gratis,  San 
Francisco  Summer  Symphony  subscrip- 
tion coupons,  about  the  size  (regular) 
of  an  envelope,  several  times  a  week! 

And  so  with  the  faith  that  can  move 
mountains,  that  little  band  of  apostles, 
converted  an  unbelieving  public  to  a 
movement  that  was  an  educational  cam- 
paign in  the  best  sense  of  the  word.  A 
movement  to  bring  to  the  people,  the 
best  music  procurable  at  the  lowest  pos- 
sible cost. 

And  they  raised  from  individual  sub- 
scribers, the  $15,000!  A  fact  that 
should  be  recorded  among  modern  mir- 
acles. 

And  the  concerts  were  given.  Six  of 
them.  And  Ossip  Gabrilowitsch  con- 
ducted, and  Nicolai  Sokoloff,  and  Al- 
fred Hertz,  and  Gaetano  Merola,  and 
Alfred  Hurtgen  and  Giulio  Minetti. 

And  50,000  people  attended.  Most 
of  them  novitiates  before  the  shrine  of 
genius !  They  were  music-hungry,  those 
people.  Not  symphonically  "deaf",  or 
indifferent  as  was  once  supposed.  Mu- 
sic was  latent  within  them,  waiting  to 
be  awakened.  Workers  throughout  the 


day,  the  greater  percentage  of  them,  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  them 
to  have  attended  the  winter  symphony 
which,  with  the  exception  of  the  won- 
derful civic  "pops",  gives  its  concerts  in 
the  day  time,  and  in  a  local  theatre 
where  the  capacity  of  the  house  is  lim- 
ited. 

And,  so  it  happened,  that  an  idealist's 
dream   came   true,   with   the   help   of  a 

people,  a  city  government,   and   a  local 

I 


SUMMER  SYMPHONY  has  now 
become  a  permanent  institution.  The 
people  want  it.  That  is  enough.  The 
signal  achievement  of  last  year  yielded 
a  surplus  of  nearly  $5,000  at  the  end  of 
the  season. 

There  was  nothing  tentative  about 
the  plans  this  year.  The  orchestra  was 
engaged,  the  dates  agreed  upon  and  the 
conductors  under  contract  before  the 
comprehensive  plans  of  the  season  were 
announced. 

The  city  fathers  have  again  registered 
their  approval  with  a  second  annual 
grant  of  $10,000 — thanks  to  the  initia- 
tive of  Thomas  F.  Boyle,  and  the  Board 
of  Supervisors — and  have  pledged  their 
continued  support  throughout  the  years. 

The  daily  press  has  more  than  re- 
peated its  good  work  of  last  year.  Its 
generosity  has  been  two-fold. 

Mrs.  Leonard  Wood,  heading  the 
Subscription  Committee  as  chairman, 
and  Mrs.  Lillian  Birmingham  as  vice- 
chairman,  with  a  few  faithful  followers, 
have  set  forth  to  win  the  unanimous  sup- 
port of  a  music-loving  public.  And  if 
past  records  count  for  anything,  these 
indefatigable  workers  will  raise  the  spe- 
cified "thousands"  within  a  definite 
period. 

This  season  will  assume  larger  pro- 
portions. An  extra  concert  has  been 
added  to  the  ten  originally  planned,  to 
be  given  on  consecutive  Tuesday  even- 
ings at  the  Civic  Auditorium,  during 
June,  July  and  August.  The  San  Fran- 
cisco Summer  Symphony  Association  is 
offering  a  musical  treat  unparalleled  in 
the  history  of  San  Francisco,  in  bring- 
ing to  the  people  this  summer,  at  the 
subscriber's  fee  of  50  cents  a  concert,  a 
series  of  eleven  concerts  by  the  entire 
personnel  of  the  San  Francisco  Sym- 
phony Orchestra  under  the  leadership 
of  such  distinguished  conductors  as 
Bruno  Walter,  Ossip  Gabrilowitsch, 
Emil  Oberhoffer,  Vladimir  Shavitch, 
Willem  van  Hoogstraten,  Alfred  Hertz, 
Mishel  Piastre  and  Dr.  Hans  Leschke. 


July,  1927  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 

A  Modern  Endymionne 

(Continued  from  Page  206) 


221 


disproves,  but  the  knowing  and  becom- 
ing one  with  it  on  the  instant ;  the  react- 
ing to  the  living  pulse  before  it  has  time 
to  distort  its  form  or  visage.  Without 
wavering  or  hesitating;  here  it  is  the 
eternal  vibrant  theme  .  .  .  embrace  and 
know  it,  embody  and  hold  it  ...  for  in 
an  instant  it  will  have  vanished ! 

And  thus  was  I,  like  a  poet,  having 
received  the  subtle  power  to  sense  the 
expectant  desire  of  the  roses  in  their 
warm  garden,  and  to  share  their  ecstacy 
at  the  settling  of  the  amorous  pollen  on 
their  blushing  petals!  .  .  .  aspiring  .  .  . 
expiring  ...  I  beheld  the  breath  of  the 
two  antithetic  projects  interwoven  one 
with  the  other  by  the  passionate  wind 
.  .  .  saw  them  balanced  a  moment  in  the 
space  pregnant  with  the  agitated  per- 
fume of  the  infatuated  flower  while  the 
amorous  pollen  described  the  undula- 
tions of  the  perfume  through  the  air  ... 
as  on  a  prey  .  .  .  falling  upon  the  heart 
of  the  flower! 

Thus,  loving  my  lover,  I  experienced 
a  dual  frenzy;  his  and  my  own. 
#       *       * 

AMIDST  such  happiness  how  could 
sadness  possibly  overtake  me  ? 

And  yet,  in  our  ecstacies,  strangely 
enough,  nothing  could  enable  me  to  find 
my  Wooden-Man  again.  Something  had 
escaped  my  effort  at  total  beauty  for 
him.  Some  part  of  himself  .  .  .  never 
mine  .  .  .  never  possible  to  be  mine, 
something  of  his  own  essence  revealed 
itself  as  imperfect.  I  had  not  observed 
it  during  my  work  .  .  .  now  I  suffered 
at  not  being  able  to  find  a  remedy  for  it. 
I  had  embellished  the  form,  aroused  the 
heart,  but  I  had  forgotten  the  mind  .  .  . 
now  I  dared  not  undo  anything;  he 
loved  himself  in  me;  he  would  never 
forgive  me  for  not  finding  him  entirely 
flawless. 

To  have  molded  the  flesh  .  .  .  awak- 
ened the  heart,  was  an  enormous  danger ; 
that  imperfection  lay  within  my  work 
of  creation  .  .  .  "the  heel  of  Achilles." 
If  I  could  not  repair  it,  the  whole  struc- 
ture could  be  condemned.  In  conse- 
quence I  began  to  fear  lest  I  lose  him ; 
the  torture  of  dread  slowly  consumed 
me,  for  should  he  leave  me  now  he 
would  carry  away  my  own  life. 

This  cowardly  fear  prevented  me 
from  shattering  the  amorous  ties  that 
held  us  by  acquainting  him  with  what 
was  evidently  incomplete  in  him;  frantic 
dread  of  disturbing  the  delightful  mo- 
ments they  afforded  us  made  me  blind 
myself  to  things  as  they  were.  Besides, 
his  pride,  now  at  its  height,  would  make 


him  turn  against  me  at  the  least  sugges- 
tion of  anything  imperfect  in  him. 

Secretly  I  looked  on  him  in  despair; 
he  did  not  suspect  it,  and  yet,  with  each 
embrace  I  suffered  increasing  distress 
...  as  though  we  had  reached  the  end. 
What  would  be  the  climax  of  our 
love?  ...  I  knew  that  through  this  fail- 
ure of  mine  his  love  would  not  prove 
eternal  ...  I  knew  that  I  should  be  the 
last  to  love.  .  .  . 

Could  I  not  change  this  being?  Could 
I  not  build  in  him  a  mind  so  strong  and 
high  that  he  would  forget  all  the  world 
but  me? 

.  .  .  Ah,  Gods,  forgive  ...  I  know 
that  here  I  encroach  upon  your  sacred 
domain,  but  I  wanted  to  keep  the  love 
that  you  yourselves  had  imparted  to  me. 
I  could  not  allow  him  to  go  forth  into 
the  world  without  the  protection  of  a 
great  knowledge !  With  that  faultless 
form,  with  his  possibilities  of  love  en- 
hanced by  my  pure  love,  he  would  be- 
come the  prey  of  all  the  vampires,  of  all 
women's  wiles.  I  trembled.  Had  I, 
myself,  built  the  very  instrument  of  my 
sorrows  ? 

At  this  hour  he  did  not  as  yet  dream 
of  it.  Other  women  did  not  interest 
him;  he  was  entirely  absorbed  in  me;  I 
alone  was  suffering  at  not  finding  be- 
tween us  the  communion  of  mind  as 
strong  as  that  of  heart  and  body.  The 
tenderest  words,  the  most  beautiful 
image  suited  to  an  appropriate  gesture 
had  no  value  for  him.  He  was  deaf  to 
everything  that  was  not  of  himself  .  .  . 
he  did  not  comprehend  .  .  .  and  I  wanted 
him  to  comprehend.  ...  It  seemed  to 
me  that  this  was  the  only  way  for  him 
to  fathom  my  fathomless  love  .  .  .  and 
that  then  all  else  would  appear  pale  and 
lifeless  before  it. 

Oh !  to  render  him  conscious  of  the 
immortal  Love! 


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surroundings  to  make  a  stay 
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RATES 

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222 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


July,  1927 


Have 

You 
Considered*  * 

WHAT  SCHOOL  YOUR 

BOY  WILL  ATTEND 

THIS  FALL? 

Of  course,  you  want  him  to 
have  the  best. 

The 

West  Coast 
Military 
Academy 

PALO  ALTO 

— a  school  for  junior  boys,  is  es- 
pecially equipped  to  handle  the 
educational,  physical,  and  moral 
needs  of  your  boy.  Sound  instruc- 
tion is  emphasized  and  individual 
attention  is  given  to  each  lad's  re- 
quirements. A  brotherly  atmos- 
phere prevails  in  the  school,  and 
through  the  field  of  athletics, 
sports  and  recreation  the  boys  are 
trained  in  manliness.  Let  us  talk 
with  you  about  your  boy. 


I  undertook  to  open  his  mind. 

What  artifice  I  was  forced  to  employ 
to  reach  his  mind !  Duplicities,  not  false 
in  themselves,  but  which  were  necessary 
to  gain  entrance  to  that  closed  temple. 
Let  it  be  understood  that  the  brain  does 
not  receive  knowledge  through  hammer- 
strokes,  but  through  ideas  projected  from 
the  source  of  power  upon  tranquil,  un- 
disturbed waves,  in  which  they  can  take 
up  their  abode  and  germinate. 

This  would  have  been  an  impossibil- 
ity for  me  had  I  not  had  Love  to  aid 
me. 

Except  for  those  endowed  with  the 
gift  of  intuition  sufficiently  powerful  to 
clothe  them  in  their  proper  atmosphere, 
mere  words  and  suggestions  are  mean- 
ingless and  flat.  It  was  not  possible  for 
me  to  communicate  to  him  this  flaming 
desire  of  my  mind  without  coming  into 
contact  with  the  chill  irony  of  his  eyes 
or  the  arrogance  of  his  smile,  but,  having 
Love  with  me,  I  inflated  the  rebellious 
spirit  of  my  Wooden-Man  with  Art  and 
Beauty. 

All  that  had  appeared  abstract  and 
vague  now  became  simple  to  him  as  his 
very  life;  and  I,  like  a  poet  at  the  height 
of  his  ecstacy,  receiving  the  harmonious 
return  of  an  echo,  suddenly  received 
back  from  him  the  very  words  I  had 
taught  him.  My  enchanted  ears  over- 
flowed with  sounds  like  the  immortal 
symphonies  .  .  .  the  sweet  songs  of  all 
the  poets,  past,  present  and  future. 

We  were  now  as  much  one  in  mind 
as  we  were  in  hearts  and  bodies;  hearts 
led  beyond  the  limits  of  physical  exist- 
ence, and  minds  in  turn  transcended  the 
realms  of  hearts  .  .  .  we  realized  our 
Eternity. 

(Continued  Next  Month) 


THE  CHRISOPHRASE  KING 
(Continued  from  Page  208) 

scanned  the  road  and  saw  Walter  Hum- 
phrey whirring  along  in  the  direction  of 
his  domicile.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to 
meet  the  young  lawyer  • —  for  he  well 
knew  the  import  of  that  young  man's 
mission  to  the  Harkens  ranch.  He  was 
not  prepared  to  lease  the  ranch  for  an- 
other year,  nor  was  he  ready  nor  finan- 
cially able  to  move  to  another  place. 
Nevertheless  he  went  down  the  hill  and 
met  William  Harkens'  agent. 

"Well,  Lenard,  what  have  you  decided 
to  do?"  inquired  the  attorney. 

"Not  anything,  unless  it's  to  go  into 
partnership  with  the  squirrels  and  get  at 
living  out  of  the  other  farmers,"  replied 
Len. 

"Want  to  say  here  another  year,  don't 
vou?" 


"Don't  want  to — but  can't  get  away 
— not  yet.  Don't  see  as  I  can  stay 
either." 

The  lawyer  laughed. 

"Well,  Len,  you've  had  two  years  of 
bad  luck,  so  I'll  not  be  hard  on  you.  But 
let  me  have  your  decision  in  a  few  days," 
and  the  attorney  entered  his  car  and 
started  his  motor. 

After  the  departure  of  Walter  Hum- 
phrey Len  suddenly  decided  to  go  to 
town,  see  Banker  Jessup  of  the  Farmers' 
Bank  and  put  a  proposition  up  to  him  to 
advance  the  money  required  to  secure 
the  Harkens  ranch  for  another  year. 

An  hour  later  he  left  the  presence  of 
Banker  Jessup  with  a  crestfallen  coun- 
tenance. The  hopelessness  that  had  en- 
veloped him  of  late  had  become  intensi- 
fied into  a  sort  of  desperation.  He  was 
therefore  ready  for  almost  anything  to 
secure  to  his  family  the  necessities  of  life 
that  now  appeared  to  be  receding  beyond 
their  grasp. 

He  was  passing  the  jewelry  store  of 
his  friend  Harvey  James.  He  entered 
the  store  and  stuck  the  green  stones  he 
had  found  on  Harkens  Hill  under  the 
nose  of  the  jeweler  with  the  question : 

"What  kind  of  rocks  are  these,  Har- 
vey?" 

Harvey  James  gazed  at  the  two  speci- 
mens before  him  with  the  air  of  an  ex- 
pert mineralogist.  His  eyes  glisted  in  ad- 
miration. 

"You  never  got  those  stones  in  this 
country,"  he  said,  glancing  up  sharply 
at  Len. 

"Well — what  are  they?"  insisted  Len. 

"There's  mighty  few  of  those  stones 
ever  been  found  in  the  United  States — 
and  I  never  heard  of  any  being  found  in 
California,"  announced  the  jeweler. 

"Are  they  valuable?" 

"If  you  had  a  ledge  of  that  beautiful 
stuff  your  fortune  would  be  made  right 
quick,"  declared  Harvey. 

"That  sounds  good.  But  you  haven't 
told  me  what  its  name  is  yet." 

"Chrisoprase." 

"Chris  who?" 

"Chrisoprase,  —  c-h-r-i-s-o-p-r-a-s-e  — 
chrisoprase." 

It  must  have  been  a  half-breed  Dutch- 
man and  Irishman  that  named  that 
stone,"  commented  Len. 

Len  went  straightway  to  Humphrey's 
office. 

"I've  decided  to  stay  on  the  Harkens 
place,"  he  announced.  "That  is,  if  I  can 
make  terms  with  you." 

"What  kind  of  terms?" 

"Well,  I'll  buy  the  place  if  you'll  give 
an  option  on  it  for  ninety  days." 

"Certainly — go  ahead." 

"I  want  the  option  in  writing." 

"Isn't  my  word  as  good  as  my  bond?" 

"If  anyone  besides  a  lawyer  should  ask 


July,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT    WEST   MAGAZINE 


223 


that  question  it  wouldn't  sound  funny," 
laughed  Len. 

"What's  funny  about  it?  Isn't  it 
true?"  and  there  was  a  suggestion  of  in- 
jured pride  in  the  lawyer's  voice. 

"As  far  as  you  and  I  are  concerned 
— man  to  man — yes,"  explained  Len. 
"But  suppose  you  should  get  bumped  off 
in  an  auto  accident  meanwhile — what 
would  this  option  be  worth  ?  As  a  lawyer 
you  know  why  a  legal  document  is  bet- 
ter than  plain  lip." 

"Oh,  well — have  it  your  own  way," 
smiled  the  attorney.  "I  merely  wanted 
to  know  your  reasons."  And  he  turned 
to  his  typewriter  and  began  clicking  the 
keys  on  a  legal  blank. 

WHEN  Len  Marton  left  Walter 
Humphrey's  office  fifteen  minutes 
later  he  had  in  his  pocket  a  document 
properly  executed  and  signed,  granting 
him  the  exclusive  right  to  purchase  at  a 
stipulated  price  within  ninety  days  from 
date  all  the  right,  title  and  interest  of 
William  Harkens  in  the  sixty-acre  tract 
known  as  the  Harkens  ranch,  a  liberal 
half  of  which  was  hilly  and  more  or  less 
picturesque. 

He  went  across  the  street  and  once 
more  entered  Harvey  James'  jewelry 
store. 

"Well,  Harvey,  I  bought  the  Harkens 
ranch  just  now,"  he  announced. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  head?" 
queried  Harvey,  a  look  of  something  like 
disgust  overspreading  his  features.  Then 
he  added :  "That's  notoriously  the  bum- 
mest  place  in  the  county." 

"I  know  it.  That's  why  I  bought  it," 
declared  Len.  "But  I  like  its  beautiful 
scenery." 

"Yes;  and  scenery  is  about  all  that 
ranch  ever  did  or  ever  will  produce," 
vehemently  retorted  Harvey. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  capitalize  its 
scenery  anyway,"  declared  Len.  "Be- 
sides," he  added  after  a  brief  pause,  I 
bought  that  place  on  your  say  so." 

"Say — what's  ailing  you?  Are  you 
crazy?" indignantly  flared  Harvey.  "You 
know  that's  the  last  place  in  the  county 
I'd  advise  anybody  to  buy  —  even  an 
enemy." 

"Well,  anyway — you  told  me  if  I  had 
it  I'd  be  a  rich  man,"  insisted  Len. 

"Len  Marton,  you're  talking  posi- 
tively nutty,"  spluttered  Harvey. 

"You  haven't  forgotten  those  Chris- 
What's  —  His  —  Name's  stones,  have 
you  ?" 

"What  in  the  name  of  sense  has  that 
got  to  do  with  the  Harkens  ranch?" — 
and  Harvey  showed  symptoms  of  becom- 
ing incensed  at  such  a  preposterous 
proposition. 

"A  heap — I'll  say,"  declared  Len. 
"Fact  is,  I  found  those  Chrissy  stones  on 


the  big  Harkens  hill.  That  whole  moun- 
tain's full  of  'em." 

"The  h — h — devil  you  say!"  And 
Harvey's  agitation  was  so  overwhelming 
that  he  staggered  over  to  a  convenient 
stool  and  dropped  down  on  it,  where  he 
sat  and  stared  at  Len  for  a  long,  in- 
quiring moment.  "Are  you  giving  me 
that  straight?"  he  demanded  at  last. 

"As  straight  as  a  plumb  line,"  solemn- 
ly asserted  Len. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the 
stuff?" 

"Mine  it,  of  course." 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  a  half 
interest?" 

"Two  hundred  thousand  dollars,"  and 
Len's  voice  carried  an  unmistakably  de- 
cisive note. 


All  of  which  is  why  the  Martens  no 
longer  worry  over  such  commonplace 
matters  as  grocers'  bills  or  crop  condi- 
tions on  the  Harkens  ranch.  But  every- 
where that  Lenard  Marton  travels  in 
this  good  old  world — and  that  is  many 
places  and  countries  and  climes — he  is 
pointed  out  as  the  Chrisoprase  King — 
for  so  he  is. 


COURTING  NATURE 

(Continued  from  Page  204) 

As  the  first  of  October  drew  near, 
and  ice  began  to  form  on  the  rivers,  and 
the  northern  lights  seemed  to  give  us 
ominous  warning  of  approaching  win- 
ter, we  decided  it  was  high  time  we 
should  move  a  little  farther  away  from 
the  arctic  circle. 

After  breaking  permanent  camp  and 
starting  our  retreat  southward  from  the 
approaching  arctic  winter,  our  stops 
were  mostly  one-night  camps  until  we 
went  aboard  the  Admiral  Evans  at  Skag- 
way. 

While  we  were  tied  up  at  the  wharf 
at  Sitka  loading  silver  foxes,  the  enemy 
overtook  us  in  the  form  of  one  of  those 
torrential  Alaska  rain  storms  which  start 
somewhere  in  the  Arctic  Ocean  and  lash 
the  Pacific  Coast  all  the  way  down  to 
San  Francisco.  For  seven  days  and 
nights,  as  we  threaded  our  way  among 
the  islands  of  the  inside  passage,  stop- 
ping at  every  town  and  fish  cannery,  the 
wind  blew  and  the  rain  beat  upon  our 
ship.  But  in  due  time,  which  was  several 
days  past  the  time  when  we  were  due, 
we  landed  at  that  splendid  city  ,  of 
Seattle. 

Then  onward  to  our  dear  California, 
with  her  locomotive  whistles,  her  auto- 
mobile horns,  and,  yes,  even  her  jazz 
music ! 


YOUNG  PEOPLE'S  SYMPHONY 

(Continued  from  Page  211) 

though  evidencing  a  keen  appreciation  of 
what  was  being  done  which  they  often 
expressed  both  in  letters  and  by  going  up 
to  the  director  after  the  concerts. 

The  choice  of  theater  was  the  third 
outstanding  cause  for  success.  In  the 
Columbia  Theater,  which  seats  1600, 
an  intimacy  could  be  established  be- 
tween the  young  people  and  the  director. 
Personality  loses  its  power  as  it  becomes 
diffused  and  the  impact  of  ideas  its 
strength  when  the  support  of  personality 
is  diluted.  The  theater,  one  of  the  old- 
est in  the  city,  (the  former  Tivoli  Opera 
House)  is  good  accoustically.  The  or- 
chestra sounds  splendidly  in  it.  The 
same  thing  might  be  said  of  many  other 
theaters,  but  could  not  be  stretched  to 
include  the  Civic  Auditorium.  Mr. 
Beckett  never  lost  contact  with  his  audi- 
ence. He  made  them  laugh,  sing  and 
answer  questions  and  worked  them 
around  into  an  enthusiastic  and  reveren- 
tial attitude  towards  the  music. 

Plans  for  the  next  season  are  being 
made.  They  will  include  the  presenta- 
tion of  the  stringed  choir  and  an  expla- 
nation of  its  effects.  The  symphonies  of 
Mozart  and  Haydn  will  be  given  and 
the  custom  of  singing  a  song  be  used  to 
introduce  some  beautiful  but  all  too  un- 
familiar folk  melodies,  such  as  "Deep 
River,"  "Swing  Low  Sweet  Chariot" 
from  our  own  American  Negro  Spirit- 
uals, and  Scotch  and  Irish  gems  of 
primitive  melody  or  German  tunes  of 
immortal  lilt. 


NEW  MURALS  FOR  BOHEMIAN 
CLUB 

feeling.  On  the  whole,  one  must  admit 
being  pleased  with  the  result  Mr.  Fraser 
has  achieved. 

These  are  the  first  murals  Douglass 
Fraser  has  done  but  one  does  not  feel 
that  these  are  the  "first  murals"  in  the 
usual  sense  because  Mr.  Fraser  is  already 
master  of  that  quality  that  usually  dis- 
tinguishes murals  from  other  art. 

In  his  other  work,  his  lovely  cypress 
trees,  his  stark  mountainsides,  all  have 
that  dreamy  distance  that  keeps  a  pic- 
ture in  its  frame  thus  deserving  the 
adjective,  mural.  It  is  as  though  he  has 
woven  gossamer  romance  over  the'  unre- 
lenting surface  of  reality  so  that  all  must 
love  what  he  loves  and  sense  beauty  in 
those  things  that  move  him. 

Well  known  on  the  Pacific  slope, 
Fraser  is  recognized  also  in  the  East 
where  his  work  has  found  its  way  into 
many  private  collections.  He  has  ex- 
hibited at  the  Babcock  Galleries  in  New 
York,  and,  within  the  coming  year,  he 
plans  to  have  another  showing  of  his 
canvases  there. 


224  OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE  July,  1927 

Former  United  States  Senator 

James  D.  Phelan  Overland -Poetry  Contest 

Something  Different! 

FOR  California  poets  who  have  published  during  1926-1927  to  deter- 
mine  just  what  part  California  contributes  to  the  literature  of  the 
world  through  her  medium  of  poetry.  There  will  be  a  group  for  poets 
with  unpublished  work  and  the  contest  is  open   to  all  poets  residing  in 
California.   A  poet  may  submit  work  to  either  or  both  groups  if  he  is  so 
qualified,  but  the  limit  of  entries  will  be  twelve  to  the  first  group   and 
twelve  to  the  second  group  by  any  one  poet  (twenty-four  entries  in  all). 
After  the  prizes  are  awarded,  there  will  be  a  specially-compiled  list  of 
names  of  poets  and  poems  of  California  worthy  of  contemplation. 

FIRST  GROUP 

FOR  poets  residing  in  California  with  unpublished  work.  If  you  have  a  sonnet  or 
a  lyric,  send  it  in  at  once  to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  Unpub- 
lished work  must  be  submitted  anonymously.  A  sealed  envelope,  bearing  on  the  outside 
the  names  of  the  poems  submitted,  with  the  name  of  the  author  of  these  poems  and 
return  postage  sealed  within,  should  accompany  each  group  of  entries  by  a  contestant. 
Manuscripts  must  be  in  our  hands  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best   Sonnet  $15.00  -  -  -  -  Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00 Second  Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be  honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

SECOND  GROUP 

IF  YOU  have  published  during  1926-1927  a  sonnet  or  lyric,  send  it  in  immediately 
to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  You  may  win  one  of  the  prizes. 
Published  work  must  bear  the  name  of  the  publication  and  date  of  publication,  also 
name  of  author.    Entries  must  be  in  Overland  Office  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best   Sonnet  $15.00  -  -'-  -  Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00 Second   Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be  honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

Editor's  Note:  Manuscripts  have  been  coming  in  such  volume  that  it  will  be  impossible  to  return 
each  individual  manuscript.  Please  keep  carbons  of  all  your  work.  There  has  been  question 
brought  to  our  desk  as  to  whether  poetry  submitted  to  this  contest  becomes  the  Overland's 
property  regardless  of  whether  prizes  are  won  or  not.  Only  those  poems  which  win  prizes 
will  be  the  property  of  Overland  Monthly. 

All  Manuscripts  to  be  Sent  to 
OVERLAND  MONTHLY,  356  Pacific  Building,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 


THE'ALL'YEAR^PALISADE^CITYAT-APTOS^BEACH-ON^MONTEREYBAY^ 


You  drive  lo  Seacliff^  Park  through 
Santa  Crux  or  Wattonvltle,  turning  off 
the  State  Highway  about  J}-£  mtlet  eatt 
oj  Capttola,  where  the  tigm  read  "Sea- 
cliff  Park,  Aptot  Beach  artd  the  Pati- 


tadet. 


EACLIFF 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family  —  but  the 
fact  that  Seacliff  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Reality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  Seacliff  Park  property 


([These  are  summer-like 
days  at  Aptos  Beach — warm,  lazy 
breakers  with  joamy  crests  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
scuttling  off  to  the  shore  in  a  wild 
conjusion  oj  effervescent  bub- 
bles, while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward Jor  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

({Pending  the  construction  oj  per- 
manent buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

Cftrive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  free. 

(ffree  transportation,  ij  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  Seaclijj  Park 
Ojjice  upon  arrival.  G^/tsk  jor 
Registration  Clerk. 


is  wise. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  thefact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetualchar  m 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.SeacliffParkresi- 
dents  know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park — Rjviera  of  the 
Pacific  now  emerges  in  reality. 


OWNED  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF   COMPANY,  APTO'S,  CALIFORNIA 


Descriptive  foldet 
sen'  upon  request 


AT  APTOS  .  CALIFORNIA. 


GAYLORD  WILSHIRE 
Inventor  of  the  I-ON-A-CO 

/^AYLORD  WILSHIRE  is  the  founder  of  the  famous 
^*-*  Wilshire  District  in  Los  Angeles,  beautiful  Wilshire 
Boulevard  was  named  after  him.  He  is  considered  one  of 
the  foremost  authorities  on  economics  in  America  today. 

His  circle  of  acquaintances  includes  such  names  as  William  Morris, 
Ambassador  Bryce,  H.  G.  Wells,  Havelock.  Ellis,  and  Bernard  Sharw. 
His  latest  achievement  is  the  invention  of  the  I-ON-A-CO,  based  upon 
the  recent  discovery  of  Professor  Otto  Warburg,  the  noted  German  biolo- 
gist. His  invention  seems  destined  to  revolutionize  medical  science. 


FOUNDED  BY  BRET  HARTE  IN  186 S 


Vol.  LXXXV 


AUGUST,  1927 


No.  8 


PRICE  25  CENTS 

AND  O  UT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


KOCKY   POINT,  L.I. 
~rt-&nsmittini   Station 


The  Radiophone's  Meaning 

An  Advertisement  of 
the  American  Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company 


AN  ADVENTURE  in  com- 
munication was  made 
last  January  when  trans- 
atlantic radio  telephone  ser- 
vice was  established  between 
New  York  and  London.  There 
had  been  previous  tests  and 
demonstrations.  Nevertheless, 
the  fact  that  at  certain  hours 
daily  this  service  was  made 
available  to  anyone  in  these 
cities  from  his  own  telephone, 
created  such  public  interest 
that  for  several  days  the  de- 
mands for  overseas  connec- 
tions exceeded  the  capacity 
of  the  service. 

It  was  then  demonstrated 
that  there  was  a  real  use  for 
telephone  communication  be- 
tween the  world's  two  greatest 
cities.  It  was  further  demon- 


strated that  the  Ameri- 
can Telephone  and  Tele- 
graph Company,  with 
the  co-operation  of  the  British 
Post  Office,  was  able  to  give 
excellent  transmission  of  speech 
under  ordinary  atmospheric 
conditions. 

In  accord  with  announce- 
ments made  at  that  time, 
there  will  be  a  continued  effort 
to  improve  the  service,  extend 
it  to  greater  areas  and  insure 
a  greater  degree  of  privacy. 

It  is  true  that  static  will  at 
times  cause  breaks  in  the  ether 
circuit,  but  a  long  step  for- 
ward has  been  made  towards 
international  telephone  com- 
munication and  more  intimate 
relationshipbetweentheUnited 
States  and  Great  Britain. 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


225 


B.  F.  Schlesinger 

&  Sons,  Inc. 

Cumulative    7%    Preferred    Stock    at    Market    to    Yield 
About  7.5%. 

Class  "A"  Common  at  Market  to   Yield  About  6.3%. 


The  excellent  economies  effected  through  the  "Four-Store 
Buying  Power"  of 

CITY  OF  PARIS,  San  Francisco,  California 
B.  F.  SCHLESINGER  &  SONS,  Inc.,  Oakland,  Cal. 
OLDS,  WORTHMAN  &  KING,  Portland,  Oregon 
RHODES  BROS.,  Tacoma,  Washington 

are  reflected  directly  in  the  earnings.     The  ability  of  the 
management  is  well  known. 

Earnings  and  management  are  primary  considerations  in 
selecting  securities. 

Further  information  on  request. 

GEO.  H.  BURR 
CONRAD  &  BROOM 

Incorporated 

SAN  FRANCISCO:  Kohl  Building 

LOS  ANGELES:  California  Bank  Building 

SEATTLE:    797  Second  Avenue 


San  Franciscans  Newest 

HOTEL  SHAW 

MARKET  at  McALLISTER 


Here  you  will  find  a  perfectly  appointed  atmosphere,  a 
spacious  and  homelike  freedom.  One  hundred  and  fifty 
exquisitely  designed  outside  rooms,  every  one  equipped 
with  bath  and  shower,  running  ice  water  and  every  mod- 
ern convenience  obtainable.  In  the  heart  of  a  great  city, 
looking  down  Market  Street  on  shops  and  theaters,  the 
HOTEL  SHAW  desires  only  to  serve  you  with  the  finest  of 
Metropolitan  courtesy. 


TWO  FIFTY  SINGLE 
.  THREE  DOLLARS  DOUBLE 
Monthly  Rates  If  Desired 

An    astonishingly   large    and    beautifully   furnished    lobby 
.    .    .    the  taste  throughout  one  of  culture  and  refinement. 


Management 
JERRY  H.  SHAW  HARRY  E.  SNIBLEY 


HELLO,    WORLD/ 

We  are  the  Boys'  and  Girls'  Magazine 

Grown-ups  not  allowed! 

The  TREASURE  CHEST 


Stories  and  poems  and  drawings  and  things  that 
every  boy  and  girl  likes.    Done  by  boys  and  girls 
and  grown-ups. 


THE  TREASURE  CHEST  MAGAZINE 

$2.50  Per  Year 
1402  de  Young  Building  San  Francisco,  California 


226  OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE  August,  1927 


Former  United  States  Senator 

James  D.  Phelan  Overland -Poetry  Contest 

Something  Different! 

FOR  California  poets  who  have  published  during  1926-1927  to  deter- 
mine just  what  part  California  contributes  to  the  literature  of  the 
world  through  her  medium  of  poetry.   There  will  be  a  group  for  poets 
with  unpublished  work  and  the  contest  is  open  to  all  poets  residing  in 
California.   A  poet  may  submit  work  to  either  or  both  groups  if  he  is  so 
qualified,  but  the  limit  of  entries  will  be  twelve  to  the  first  group   and 
twelve  to  the  second  group  by  any  one  poet  (twenty-four  entries  in  all). 
After  the  prizes  are  awarded,  there  will  be  a  specially-compiled  list  of 
names  of  poets  and  poems  of  California  worthy  of  contemplation. 

FIRST  GROUP 

FOR  poets  residing  in  California  with  unpublished  work.  If  you  have  a  sonnet  or 
a  lyric,  send  it  in  at  once  to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  Unpub- 
lished work  must  be  submitted  anonymously.  A  sealed  envelope,  bearing  on  the  outside 
the  names  of  the  poems  submitted,  with  the  name  of  the  author  of  these  poems  and 
return  postage  sealed  within,  should  accompany  each  group  of  entries  by  a  contestant. 
Manuscripts  must  be  in  our  hands  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best   Sonnet  $15.00 Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00 Second  Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be  honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

SECOND  GROUP 

IF  YOU  have  published  during  1926-1927  a  sonnet  or  lyric,  send  it  in  immediately 
to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  You  may  win  one  of  the  prizes. 
Published  work  must  bear  the  name  of  the  publication  and  date  of  publication,  also 
name  of  author.    Entries  must  be  in  Overland  Office  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best   Sonnet  $15.00  -  -  -  -  Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00 Second   Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be  honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

Editor's  Note:  Manuscripts  have  been  coming  in  such  volume  that  it  will  be  impossible  to  return 
each  individual  manuscript.  Please  keep  carbons  of  all  your  work.  There  has  been  question 
brought  to  our  desk  as  to  whether  poetry  submitted  to  this  contest  becomes  the  Overland's 
property  regardless  of  whether  prizes  are  won  or  not.  Only  those  poems  which  win  prizes 
will  be  the  property  of  Overland  Monthly. 

All  Manuscripts  to  be  Sent  to 
OVERLAND  MONTHLY,  356  Pacific  Building,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET   HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


AUGUST,  1927 


NUMBER  8 


EDITORIAL   STAFF 

B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 

CONTRIBUTING  EDITORS 

CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN   KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 


MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


AUGUST  CONTRIBUTORS 
IN  BRIEF 

EDGAR  LLOYD  HAMPTON  is  a 
writer  of  considerable  note.  He  has 
become  known  as  the  champion  of  Los 
Angeles  in  her  creative  ability.  Much  of 
this  work  has  appeared  in  Outlook,  Cur- 
rent Opinion,  Century  and  various  mag- 
azines. 

JOAN  RAMSAY  contributes  her  first 
short  story  to  Overland  this  month. 
While  Overland  readers  have  seen  her 
poetry,  this  is  the  first  time  she  has 
offered  prose  in  our  columns.  Before 
publishing  in  Overland,  Miss  Ramsay 
published  in  various  eastern  magazines 
of  verse  as  well  as  some  Western  publi- 
cations. We  regret  we  cannot  claim  her 
as  one  of  our  discoveries. 


WILLIAM  DENOYER  is  recently 
graduated  from  College  of  Pacific 
and  is  working  at  present  on  the  staff  of 
one  of  Stockton's  newspapers.  What  he 
has  done  with  his  short  story  is  what 
we  call  excellent.  It  is  worthy  of  our 
readers'  comment. 


OWEN  ERNEST  SONNE  is  a  new 
contributor  this  month.    Mr.  Sonne 
seems  very  well  informed  on  the  early 
history  of  the  West.  His  next  article  will 
be  on  the  Donner  Partv. 


Contents 


Tahoe 


Anne   de  Lartigue  Kennedy.. ..Frontispiece 

ARTICLES 

Los  Angeles Edgar  Lloyd  Hampton 229 

Ezekiel  Williams  ....  ...Chauncey  Pratt  Williams 232 

The  Pony  Express Owen  Ernest  Sonne 235 

"Young  Men  in  Love" Carey  McWilliams 237 

Every  Square-toed  Virtue  Has  Its  Day 240 

A  Museum  Dream Aline  Kistler 241 

Jim  Power Cleone  S.  Brown 247 

Knowledge  Dorothy  Bengston 250 

STORIES 

Encounter Joan  Ramsay 238 

AWestern  Story— with  variations. ...William   Denoyer 239 

SERIALS 

A  Modern  Endymionne Mme.  Coralie  Castelein 248 

What  Is  Your  Name? Gertrude  Mott 249 

DEPARTMENTS 

Poetry  Page. ...Sara  Bard  Field,  Jessie  Weber  Kitt,  Lori  Petri 

and  Joan  Ramsay 242 

The  Play's  the  Thing Curt  Baer 243 

Books  and  Writers....  ..Tom  White....  ..244 


Poem — Matin — Printemps Walter  T.  Lee,  Jr. 


.241 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative.  George  H.  Myers,  S  South  Wabash  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

Manuscript    mailed    The    Overland   Monthly   without  a   stamped  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 

Entered   as   Second-Class  matter   at  the   postoffice,   San   Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March   3,   1897 

(Content!  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


228 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


TAHOE 

By  Anne  de  Lartigue  Kennedy 

YOUR  BEAUTY  startles  me!    It  strikes  the  pain 
Of  some  dead  sorrow  into  life  again — 
The  lure  of  your  bejeweled  bosom's  rise 
Compels  me  like  the  charm  in  serpent-eyes. 
— There's  a  trace  of  woman's  witchery  here — 
A  wanton  fascination  that  I  fear — 
These  ripples,  rising  with  such  sudden  grace, 
Spread  like  widening  smiles  on  Circe's  face 
As  she  watches  the  storms  and  fateful  play 
She  knows  will  sweep  disabled  ships  her  way. 
— Feminine  drapes — those  tints  along  the  shore — 
Oh,  sometime  I  have  sensed  it  all  before ! 
Have  drunk  deep  from  fountains  of  Love's  perfume  .  . 
Reveled  in  its  madness  .  .  .  and  known  its  doom — 
Tahoe !  you  were  some  cruel  siren  queen 
And  I  was  your  slave  .  .  .  peacock-blue  .  .  .  bright  green 
And  purple,  from  pale  to  the  darkest  hue, 
Were  the  colors  that  lent  their  charms  to  you. 
Some  ancient  time  you  lived,  but  even  then 
You  knew  the  mystic  power  over  men 
Of  color  schemes  .  .  .  soft  scents  .  .  .  and  light  and  shade- 
And  legion  were  the  numbers  you  betrayed ; 
You  snared  men's  souls  your  vanity  to  please, 
All  night  I  hear  them  sighing  through  the  trees — 
So,  wrathful  gods  placed  you  here — thus — alone 
On  this  mountain-top,  that  you  might  atone  .  .  . 
— Ah !  what  of  love's  alchemy  .  .  .  who  can  tell  ? 
Tahoe  .  .  .  still  am  I  captive  to  your  spell ! 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


ILL 


IN  A  RECENT  issue  of  Overland 
Monthly  appeared  an  article  by  Mr. 
Carey  McWilliams  dealing  with 
Los  Angeles.  It  is  a  strange  article,  so 
strange  indeed  that  it  is  difficult  to 
understand  how  any  normal  mind  could 
have  produced  it.  Its  author  declares 
Los  Angeles  to  be  unspeakably  bad  from 
every  conceivable  angle,  and  exhausts 
a  formidable  array  of  queer  expletives 
and  lurid  adjectives  in  trying  to  tell  us 
about  it.  "It  is  a  harlot  city,"  he  says — 
"gaudy,  flamboyant,  sensuous,  noisy, 
jazzy  ...  a  mad  world ;  a  democratic 
brothel,  mob-minded  and  hopelessly 
vulgar." 

He  then  proceeds,  through  some  three 
thousand  words,  to  malign,  besmirch  and 
ridicule  the  people  and  all  their  institu- 
tions. "Nothing  could  be  more  typical 
of  the  harlot  than  their  theatres  .  .  . 
mammoth  houses  of  gaudy  cheapness, 
brothels  of  ill  taste."  The  inhabitants 
are  "prudes  and  puritans."  The  church 
people  are  morons  who  "drink  in  with 
the  gullibility  of  cat-fish  their  vapid  and 
fatuous  silliness."  The  schools  are  as 
bad  as  the  churches;  the  business  men 
are  all  Babbits;  the  newspapers  are 
guilty  of  trying  to  exploit  culture,  the 
city  has  "houses  but  few  homes,  because 
a  harlot  needs  no  home,"  and  finally  he 
even  attacks  the  electric  lights  as  viewed 
from  the  hills  at  night.  These,  he  says, 
are  "jewels  on  a  harlot's  breast." 

At  this  point  it  might  be  fair  to  sug- 
gest that  there  are  two  or  three  things 
that  every  person  of  even  meager  intelli- 
gence knows.  First,  that  there  are  no 
perfect  people  anywhere  on  earth,  and 
no  perfect  institutions.  Second,  that 
every  statement  made  by  an  author  rep- 
resents the  sum-total  of  his  knowledge, 
w.isdom  and  experience  at  the  time  he 
makes  it.  If  he  lacks  these  qualities  the 
fact  comes  forth  in  his  writings.  Thus 
in  discussing  a  subject  he  very  frequently 
though  unintentionally,  tells  us  more 
about  himself  than  he  does  about  the 
things  he  tries  to  discuss,  and,  although 
it  is  not  important  it  nevertheless  is 
true  that  Mr.  McWilliams,  in  his  fren- 
zied dissertation,  told  us  infinitely  more 


Los  Angeles 


By  Edgar  Lloyd  Hampton 

derogatory  things  about  himself  than  he 
did  about  Los  Angeles.  Third,  that  in 
this  life  we  always  find  what  we  are 
looking  for:  that  one  who  sees  Los 
Angeles  only  as  a  city  of  harlots,  must 
have  been  looking  for  harlots,  and  that 
a  mind  so  signally  obsessed  might  well 
be  watched  by  the  police. 

Now,  as  the  present  writer  sees  it, 
there  are  only  two  reasons  why  the 
article  in  question  should  be  dignified 
by  an  answer.  One  is  that  it  went  forth 
to  the  world  through  the  pages  of  the 
oldest  magazine  on  the  Pacific  Coast, 
whose  founder  was  greatly  honored  by 
us  all,  a  magazine  which,  moreover,  as- 
sumes to  typify  culture  and  encourage 
truth.  The  other  reason  is  that  stran- 
gers who  read  these  neurotic  and  highly- 
distorted  statements  could  not  fail  to 
form  opinions  regarding  the  daily  life, 
habits  and  ideals  of  Los  Angeles  that 
would  be  entirely  without  foundation, 
and  this  unfortunate  condition  would 
apply  to  the  entire  Pacific  Coast. 

In  particular  did  Mr.  McWilliams 
descend  upon  Los  Angeles  culture,  or 
the  lack  of  it.  "The  people,"  so  he 
claims,  "have  putty  souls."  The  "teem- 
ing vulgarity  of  the  place"  seems  to 
shock  his  sensitive  nature  irreparably. 
Although  the  city  "produces  a  bizarre 
and  outlandish  freakishness  that  passes 
for  art,  it  frowns  upon  all  serious  crea- 
tive effort."  Indeed  it  is  "a  gigantic 
three-ring  circus"  where  dramatic  effort 
turns  into  "theatrical  ulcers,"  while  all 
the  other  "arty"  results  attained  are 
"the  product  of  illiterate  and  unculti- 
vated minds  which,  though  passing  un- 
challenged for  great  art,  furnish  only 
trashy  amusement  for  the  yokelry  of 
America." 

Now  the  fact  is  that  the  very  opposite 
of  all  these  statements  is  true,  and  to 
a  marked  degree.  Los  Angeles  is  today 
the  recognized  creative  art  center  of 
America,  and  we  are  not  forced  to  con- 
sult Mr.  McWilliams  in  the  matter, 
since  we  have  much  better  authority.  In 
the  September,  1926,  "Current  History," 


of  New  York,  appeared  a  ten  page  art- 
icle entitled  "Los  Angeles,  as  America's 
Creative  Art  Center."  This  article 
argued  the  subject  in  detail  and  arrived 
at  an  affirmative  conclusion.  It  was  ex- 
tensively copied  and  quoted  throughout 
the  United  States — in  the  Literary  Di- 
gest, the  New  York  Times,  and  many 
other  publications.  To  these  Eastern 
editors  the  evidence  appeared  both  suf- 
ficient and  obvious.  Since  this  evidence 
in  itself  constitutes  a  conclusive  argu- 
ment let  us  abandon  for  a  moment  the 
inarticulate  ravings  of  this  writer  of  so 
large  a  number  of  opinions  and  so  small 
an  understanding,  and  briefly  set  forth 
the  reasons  upon  which  these  Eastern 
editors  based  their  friendly  conclusion. 

AMONG  the  more  obvious  reasons 
is  the  motion  picture.  There  are 
many,  I  know,  who  claim  that  motion 
pictures  do  not  embody  the  highest  form 
of  art.  The  answer  is  that  there  is  no 
highest  form  of  art,  either  in  this  or  any 
other  country,  except  in  the  minds  of 
various  people  who  have  never  yet  been 
able  to  agree.  All  art  is  relative — bad, 
indifferent  and  good.  The  test  is  found 
not  primarily  in  someone's  opinion  of  it, 
but  in  the  degree  of  its  usefulness  to 
the  aggregate  people  of  earth  who  are 
in  search  of  happiness,  entertainment, 
enlightenment,  or  what  you  will. 

As  a  purveyor  of  these  human  neces- 
sities the  motion  picture  stands  preemi- 
nent and,  as  everyone  knows,  the  field 
of  its  huge  activities  centers  in  Los  An- 
geles. In  other  words  the  county  of 
Los  Angeles  alone  produces  more  than 
seventy  per  cent  of  all  motion  pictures 
made  in  the  entire  world.  We  need  not 
here  discuss  the  details  of  this  huge 
industry.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  more 
than  two  hundred  companies  operating 
in  Los  Angeles  produce  annually  700,- 
000,000  feet  of  film,  or  more  than  eight 
completed  motion  pictures  for  each 
working  day  in  the  year.  These  they 
send  forth  to  every  corner  of  the  earth 
through  some  40,000  theatres,  reaching 
sixty-nine  foreign  countries,  which  re- 
quires the  translation  of  titles  into  forty- 


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two  languages,  while  the  pictures  are 
viewed  each  week  by  approximately 
140,000,000  people. 

The  possibilities  involved  in  this  tre- 
mendous movement  can  scarcely  be  ex- 
aggerated. The  picture  industry  calls 
for  every  type  of  expert :  authors,  actors, 
sculptors,  painters,  musicians,  dancers, 
scientists,  architects,  historians — in  addi- 
tion to  technical  experts  of  all  conceiv- 
able crafts.  Being  highly  remunerative 
it  pays  these  experts  liberally.  The  im- 
pulse to  achieve  takes  care  of  the  results. 
In  Los  Angeles  today  there  are  more 
creative  artists  of  every  sort  than  may 
be  found  in  any  other  city  on  earth,  and 
they  come  from  all  civilized  countries: 
the  greatest  creative  .minds  in  the  uni- 
verse, backed  by  unlimited  cash  and  told 
to  go  forth  and  "do  their  stuff."  The 
motion  picture  has  drawn  them  like  a 
lodestone;  the  huge  distributing  ma- 
chine acts  as  a  springboard  from  which 
their  achievements  go  forth  to  the  civ- 
ilized world.  These  facts  in  themselves 
are  sufficient  to  make  of  Los  Angeles 
the  permanent  creative  art  center  of  this 
continent. 

Yet  motion  pictures  were  not  the  be- 
ginning of  the  art  impulse  in  Los  An- 
geles. It  began  before  the  motion  pic- 
ture was  invented — in  the  days  when 
the  spoken  drama  was  the  world's  only 
histrionic  medium.  A  score  of  impor- 
tant theatrical  successes  first  saw  the 
world  across  the  footlights  of  a  Los  An- 
geles stage  and  later  ran  triumphantly 
in  New  York,  some  of  them  breaking 
world  records. 

Notable  among  these  is  "Abie's  Irish 
Rose,"  "The  Bird  of  Paradise,"  "The 
Right  of  Way,"  Edgar  Selwyn's  "The 
Arab,"  and  all  his  other  plays:  "The 
Nervous  Wreck,"  an  Owen  Davis  pro- 
duction, and  Channing  Pollock's  "The 


Jesus  and  the  children  in  the  Pilgrimage  Play.    "Suffer  little  children  to   come  unto   me." 


Fool."  Here  also  each  summer  came 
the  late  Henry  Miller  to  try  out  his 
new  plays,  while  Lee  Wilson  Dodd's 
successful  comedy,  "The  Changeling," 
was  given  its  first  showing  at  the  Mason. 
In  short,  Los  Angeles  has  long  been  first 
in  the  list  of  "try-out"  cities,  as  like- 
wise it  now  is  preeminently  the  creative 
city  of  the  new  mode. 

That  so  much  artistic  enterprise 
should  result  in  the  discovery  of  new 
and  brilliant  talent,  was  of  course  in- 
evitable. The  local  stage  developed  such 
artists  as  Fay  Bainter,  originally  a  little 
song  and  dance  girl  at  the  Burbank. 


Galli-Curfi  singing  tuith  the  Philharmonic  Orchestra  at  Hollywood  Bowl  concert,  Professor 

Hertz  of  the  San  Francisco  Symphony  Orchestra  leading.    This  is 

"Symphony  Under  the  Stars." 


Bessie  Barriscale  of  "The  Bird  of  Para- 
dise." Marjorie  Rambeau  who  passed 
on  to  fame  from  the  springboard  of 
"Merely  Mary  Ann."  Frances  White, 
Norman  Bel-Geddes,  Jane  Cowl,  Lau- 
rette  Taylor,  Florence  Roberts,  Blanche 
Bates,  Roberta  Arnold,  Bill  Desmond 
— all  these  and  many  others  adorn  the 
list  of  those  who  made  dramatic  history 
behind  Los  Angeles  footlights,  and  who 
serve  to  multiply  the  evidence  set  forth 
in  our  contention. 

Yet  it  was  neither  the  motion  picture 
nor  the  spoken  drama  that  furnished  the 
foundation  upon  which  Los  Angeles  to- 
day stands  forth  as  America's  chief 
center  of  art  in  its  various  forms.  That 
foundation,  though  wholly  intangible,  is 
best  expressed  in  terms  of  Community 
Spirit — organized  effort,  the  impulse  of 
the  people  en  masse  to  create  and  foster 
American  art  and  culture  of  every  sort. 
The  extent  to  which  the  local  popula- 
tion expend  their  time,  energy  and  cash 
in  this  direction  is  both  remarkable  and 
inspiring. 

Out  of  many  examples  which  demon- 
strate this  impulse  a  very  few  must  suf- 
fice. Notable  in  the  list  is  the  Holly- 
wood Bowl,  an  open-air  amphitheatre 
seating  20,000  people  where,  during  six 
weeks  of  each  summer  the  Los  Angeles 
Philharmonic  Orchestra,  led  by  the 
finest  directors  in  America  and  Eu- 
rope, plays  classical  music  to  many  hun- 
dred thousand  people  at  a  nominal  ad- 
mission price,  in  a  series  of  concerts 


August,  1927 


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231 


known  to  the  entire  world  as  "Sym- 
phony under  the  stars." 

A  few  hundred  yards  from  the  Bowl 
in  a  similar  chalice  of  the  hills,  is  an- 
other open-air  theatre.  Thus  during  any 
midsummer  evening,  the  music-lover, 
listening  in  the  Hollywood  Bowl  to  im- 
mortal symphonies,  may  glance  across 
the  starlit  night  to  the  dim  top  of  a 
hill,  see  there  a  huge  cross  blazing 
against  the  sky  and  know  that  beneath 
that  cross  is  being  enacted  "The  Pil- 
grimage Play,"  a  story  of  the  life  and 
deeds  of  The  Christ,  which,  by  virtue 
of  its  theme  and  the  excellence  of  its 
presentation  is  now  internationally 
known  as  an  American  institution. 

To  this  list  must  be  added  another 
world-famous  expression  of  art  that  is 
locally  fostered  and  promoted — the  Mis- 
sion Play.  This  play,  or  rather  pageant, 
dramatizes  the  period  of  the  padres  and 
their  missions,  of  a  hundred  years  ago. 
It  is  put  on  in  the  village  of  San  Gabriel 
ten  miles  east  of  Los  Angeles.  Here, 
with  such  stars  as  Frederick  Warde, 
Tyrone  Power,  R.  D.  MacLean  and  a 
cast  of  several  hundred,  it  has  run  con- 
tinuously for  more  than  fifteen  years, 
playing  to  millions  of  people.  Indeed  it 
has  been  performed  in  a  single  spot  more 
frequently  than  any  other  play  in  the 
world's  history  with  the  exception  of 
Oberammergau.  It  has  never  made 
money,  but  rather  has  lost  a  fortune 
for  its  sponsors.  Yet  within  the  past 
year  the  Los  Angeles  public,  led  by  the 
Chamber  of  Commerce  and  at  a  cost 
of  $400,000,  has  built  a  new  theatre 
commensurate  with  the  plan  and  pur- 
pose of  this  vital  American  drama. 

Thus  might  we  continue  indefinitely. 
Grand  opera,  first  brought  to  the  city 
by  L.  E.  Behymer  in  the  '90s,  is  today 
made  permanent  through  the  Los  An- 
geles Grand  Opera  Company  in  charge 
of  Mr.  Merle  Armitage  and  a  com- 
mittee of  devoted  music  lovers,  while 
its  annual  programs  equal  anything  pro- 
duced in  America.  The  Little  Theatre 
is  more  extensively  promoted  and  pat- 
ronized in  Los  Angeles  than  in  any 
other  city  in  the  United  States.  The 
Community  Chorus,  which  had  its  in- 
ception in  Hollywood  immediately  after 
the  war,  is  today  represented  by  some 
thirty  great  choruses  in  the  cities  and 
towns  of  Southern  California,  while  the 
movement  has  spread  to  many  parts  of 
the  East  and  Middle  West. 

Did  space  but  permit,  I  would  en- 
thuse at  length  over  the  work  of  Charles 
Wakefield  Cadman,  who  has  put  into 
permanent  and  beautiful  form  the  son- 
orous symphonies  of  the  American 
aborigine,  now  so  nearly  extinct.  Also 
the  achievements  of  Arthur  Farwell  in 
assembling  and  reproducing  the  music 
of  the  Spaniards  and  Mexicans  which 


Lobby  of  the  Aztec  Hotel  in  Monrovia,  a  Los  Angeles  suburb.    The  only  structure  on  earth 
that  fully  embodies  the  architecture  and  decorative  principles  of  the  ancient  Mayan  race. 


resounded  across  our  Western  plains 
long  before  there  was  a  United  States. 
Or  the  Mission  architecture,  conceived 
by  the  ancient  padres  and  evolved  by 
modern  Californians  into  what  is  ad- 
mittedly America's  most  beautiful  and 
distinctive  type.  Or  the  work  of  that 
daring  creative  artist,  Robert  B.  Stacy- 
Judd,  the  first  man  on  earth  to  capture 
and  put  into  visible  form  the  architec- 
ture and  decorative  principles  of  our 
Central  American  races  whose  culture 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era 
had  gained  an  eminence  equalling  that 
of  the  Ancient  Greeks  and  Egyptians. 
For  the  work  of  these  artists,  so  vitally 
expressive  of  American  tradition,  forms 
an  integral  part  of  this  theme,  and  as 
such  is  locally  fostered  and  promoted. 
But  the  list  is  too  long — or  the  space 
too  short — to  permit  of  further  discus- 
sion. 

And  anyhow  it  is  not  the  number  of 
these  achievements  but  the  impulse  back 
of  them  that  has  urged  this  fine  spirit 
of  culture  to  a  continually  higher  level 
throughout  the  years:  the  ideals  for 
which  these  people  stand,  the  vision 
which  they  continually  hold  in  mind.  It 
is  a  beautiful  vision,  backed  by  faith, 
in  the  midst  of  adversity,  and  courage 
in  the  face  of  heartbreaking  delays: 
qualities  honored  by  all  useful  citizens 
everywhere,  and  only  denounced  by 
those  who  find  themselves  wholly  out 
of  tune  with  a  universe  in  which  they 
nevertheless  cheerfully  continue  to  re- 
side. 


This  cultural  spirit  is  fostered  and 
promoted  not  only  by  the  individual  in- 
habitants, but  likewise  by  the  city  and 
county  institutions.  Foremost  in  this 
movement  is  the  Los  Angeles  County 
Board  of  Supervisors.  For  years  past 
this  Board  has  furnished  aid  to  many 
worthy  cultural  undertakings.  The 
Mission  Play,  the  Pilgrimage  Play,  the 
Bowl,  the  Little  Theatre,  Grand  Opera 
— these  and  numerous  others  have  re- 
ceived both  financial  and  moral  support, 
while  the  chief  city  parks  dispense  to 
the  public  both  popular  and  classical 
music,  rendered  in  open-air  pavilions 
throughout  the  entire  year,  and  these 
programs  are  broadcasted  to  many  other 
parks  in  the  city  and  surrounding 
towns. 

Thus  does  the  cultural  movement  in 
Los  Angeles  assume  a  universal  charac- 
ter, with  universal  encouragement  and 
support.  In  other  words  here  is  a  new 
and  distinct  phase  of  American  life, 
more  original,  more  vital,  more  typical 
of  our  national  impulse,  better  organ- 
ized and  more  persistently  fostered  and 
promoted  than  may  be  found  in  any 
other  city  in  America.  As  heretofore 
suggested  the  accumulation  of  these 
various  cultural  movements  has  made 
of  Los  Angeles  the  creative  art  center 
of  this  nation,  and  this  fact  will  con- 
tinue increasingly  throughout  the  future. 

And  now  a  final  word,  not  to  Mr. 
McWilliams  in  particular,  but  to  all 
his  type  in  general.  The  life  we  live 
(Continued  on  Page  252) 


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Ezekiel  Williams 


THE  recent  celebration  by  Colo- 
rado of  her  semi-centennial  of 
statehood,  the  interest  inherent  in 
the  adventures  of  our  early  western  pio- 
neers and  the  coincidence  of  family 
names  have  prompted  the  writer  of  this 
article  to  collect  the  facts  on  record 
concerning  the  life  of  Ezekiel  Williams. 
He  was  a  pioneer  of  Cooper  County, 
Missouri,  and  was  probably  the  third 
in  chronological  order  of  the  recorded 
early  explorers  from  the  east  of  the  ter- 
rain now  within  the  boundaries  of  the 
State  of  Colorado.  He  was  preceded  on 
the  ground  by  James  Pursley  or  Pursell, 
who  traveled  westward  from  St.  Louis 
in  the  year  1802  and  found  gold  nug- 
gets that  he  afterwards  threw  away,  and 
by  General  (then  Captain)  Zebulon 
Montgomery  Pike,  on  his  government 
exploration,  who  was  at  the  sites  of 
Pueblo  and  Colorado  Springs  in  1806. 
A  thread  of  mystery  running  through  the 
fabric  of  Ezekiel  Williams'  adventures 
renders  especially  interesting  the  search 
for  such  facts  as  can  be  ascertained  re- 
garding his  life. 

In  Howard  and  Cooper  counties,  Mis- 
souri, there  were  numerous  early  settlers 
named  Williams.  Ezekiel  Williams  rep- 
resented a  North  Carolina  family  which 
migrated  westward  to  Kentucky,  where 
he  was  reared,  and  hence  to  Missouri; 
but  the  place  and  date  of  his  birth  are 
not  known.  He  was  a  thoroughly  re- 
spectable character,  of  good  education,  a 
born  leader  and  a  man  of  great  deter- 
mination, patience  and  perseverance. 

Williams  differed  from  other  pioneers 
of  his  day  in  that  he  was  chosen  to  be- 
come the  hero  of  what  would  now  be 
called  an  historical  novel.  This  book,  en- 
titled "The  Lost  Trappers"  (now  many 
years  oijt  of  print),  was  written  by  Da- 
vid H.  Coyner  and  published  in  Cin- 
cinnati, Ohio,  in  1847.  It  presents  a 
colorful  and  exciting  story  of  the  alleged 
adventures  of  Captain  Williams  and  was 
long  considered  authentic.  Now  "The 
Lost  Trappers"  is  rated  as  a  mendacious 
work  in  which  the  author  distorted  the 
historical  facts  to  suit  this  narrative,  for 
in  the  light  of  present  information  many 
of  the  situations  into  which  he  brought 
his  hero  are  proven  to  have  been  impos- 
sible. Coyner  was  a  Virginian  who  lived 
in  Howard  County,  Missouri,  for  sev- 
eral years  (1845-1847)  and  who  knew 
a  number  of  Williams'  acquaintances 
and  possibly  Williams  himself.  In  the 
"Introduction"  to  his  work  Coyner  says 
that  his  narrative  is  based  on  "an  old 
musty,  mutilated  journal,  kept  by  Cap- 
tain Williams"  which  gave  an  account 


By  Chauncey  Pratt  Williams 

of  the  latter's  "expedition"  and  that  in 
"all  the  representations"  in  the  book 
"every  confidence  may  be  reposed  by 
those  who  may  read  them."  Perhaps 
Coyner  may  have  thought  that  he  was 
telling  the  truth,  but  if  so,  he  seemed  to 
have  taken  but  little  care  to  verify  his 
statements. 

According  to  "The  Lost  Trappers," 
Captain  Williams  was  engaged  by  the 
United  States  government  to  escort  She- 
haka  or  Big  White,  chief  of  the  Man- 
dans,  to  his  home  on  the  Missouri  and 
for  that  purpose  as  well  as  "to  explore 
the  country  on  the  waters  of  the  Mis- 
souri, to  trap  for  beaver,  and  even  to 
penetrate  and  cross  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains." Williams,  with  a  party  of  nine- 
teen men,  including  a  notorious  char- 
acter of  that  period,  one  Edward  Rose, 
set  out  from  St.  Louis  on  April  25, 
1807,  and  traveled  by  land  to  the  west 
of  and  quite  remote  from  the  Missouri 
river  and  reached  the  Mandan  villages, 
located  some  seven  or  eight  miles  below 
the  mouth  of  the  Knife  river  in  what  is 
now  Mercer  County,  North  Dakota,  on 
July  1,  1807.  Having  restored  the  chief 
to  his  people,  Williams  and  his  party, 
attended  by  misfortune,  wandered  for 
about  two  years  all  over  the  western 
country  from  the  Missouri  to  the  Arkan- 
sas. One  of  his  men  died  from  sickness, 
Rose  deserted  to  live  with  the  Crow 
tribe  and  later  at  different  times  all  but 
three  of  the  remainder  of  the  party  were 
killed  in  encounters  with  the  Indians. 
Finally  the  survivors,  Williams,  James 
Workman  and  Samuel  Spencer,  then  un- 
wittingly on  the  headwaters  of  the  Ar- 
kansas, decided  to  separate;  Williams 
with  the  intention  of  returning  home  to 
Missouri  and  Workman  and  Spencer 
with  Santa  Fe  as  their  objective,  for  they 
thought  it  not  far  distant.  Williams, 
after  many  vicissitudes,  succeeded  in  car- 
rying out  his  plan  and  workman  and 
Spencer  ultimately  reached  Santa  Fe,  via 
California,  in  1810. 

As  a  typical  and  sufficient  example  of 
Coyner's  distortion  of  facts:  the  escort 
of  the  Mandan  chief,  above  mentioned, 
was  actually  commanded  by  Major  (then 
Captain)  Pierre  Chouteau  of  St.  Louis 
and  went  up  the  Missouri  River,  in  boats 
with  the  Missouri  Fur  Company's  expe- 
dition of  1809.  The  Mandan  chief  was 
restored  to  his  tribe  on  the  24th  of  Sep- 
tember, 1809,  and  not  on  July  1,  1807, 
as  stated  by  Coyner. 

To  offset  Coyner's  inaccurate  and  ex- 


aggerated narrative  we  fortunately  have 
Williams'  own  account  of  his  western 
adventures  in  his  letter  dated  August  7, 
1816,  published  in  the  Missouri  Ga- 
zette of  September  14  of  that  year.  From 
this  letter,  allowing  for  the  probable 
error  in  a  few  dates,  we  learn  that  what 
actually  happened  was  that  Williams 
went  up  the  river  with  the  noted  expe- 
dition of  the  Missouri  Fur  Company 
which  left  St.  Louis  in  June,  1809 — if 
he  was  one  of  the  Mandan  escort  he 
does  not  so  inform  us — and  hunted  in 
the  upper  Missouri  country  for  some  two 
years.  In  August,  1811,  he,  with  a  close 
friend  named  Jean  B.  Champlain  and 
about  eighteen  other  men,  set  out  from 
Manuel  Lisa's  fort  on  the  Missouri, 
ten  or  twelve  miles  above  the  mouth  of 
the  Big  Knife  River,  on  a  fur  hunting 
expedition  towards  the  south.  Lisa  prom- 
ised the  party  that  he  would  maintain 
the  post  and  a  good  understanding  with 
the  Indians  so  that  its  return  should 
not  be  opposed.  The  hunters  journeyed 
southward  for  about  fifty  days  and 
reached  a  river,  unknown  to  them, 
which  proved  to  be  the  Arkansas.  They 
trapped  in  that  region  during  the  autumn 
of  1811  without  being  molested,  but  in 
the  spring  of  1812  they  were  discovered 
by  the  Indians  who  then  became  trouble- 
some, harassing  and  robbing  the  com- 
pany everywhere.  Conditions  became  so 
unbearable  that  in  June,  1812,  the  mem- 
bers of  the  party  assembled  on  the  head- 
waters of  the  Platte  where  a  conference 
was  held,  during  which  they  decided  to 
separate  into  smaller  bands.  Eight  or 
ten  crossed  the  mountains  westward  and 
about  the  same  number,  including  Wil- 
liams and  Champlain,  started  southward 
along  the  eastern  base  of  the  Rockies 
until  they  reached  and  crossed  the  Ar- 
kansas River.  Here  they  were  informed 
by  Indians  that  Lisa's  fort  on  the  Mis- 
souri had  been  abandoned  and  that  the 
adjacent  Indians  were  hostile.  To  at- 
tempt to  return  there  seemed  futile,  so 
the  party  concluded  to  separate  again 
and  four  of  them  set  out  for  the  Span- 
ish settlements,  Williams,  Champlain, 
his  two  employees  and  two  Frenchmen, 
went,  in  October,  1812,  up  into  a  cove 
in  the  mountains  to  trap.  In  so  doing 
they  spread  out,  taking  care  not  to  go 
more  than  a  few  miles  apart,  but  about 
November  1  Williams  discovered  that 
three  of  his  men  had  been  killed,  leav- 
ing alive  only  Champlain,  one  Porteau 
and  himself. 

The  survivors  then  sought  protection 
among  the  Arapaho  Indians,  whom  they 
found  to  have  the  horses  and  equipment 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


233 


of  their  three  men  who  had  been  killed. 
The  Arapaho  chief  told  them  that  the 
only  way  to  preserve  their  lives  was  to 
remain  with  him.  This  they  did  and 
passed  a  miserable  winter  (1812-13) 
filled  with  despair  of  ever  being  able  to 
return  home.  The  Arapahoes  told  them 
that  if  they  tried  to  return  by  way  of 
Lisa's  fort  they  would  certainly  be 
killed.  Champlain  and  Porteau  insisted 
that  they  would  stay  with  the  Indians 
until  some  white  man  came  who  could 
inform  them  where  they  were  and  how 
to  escape,  as  well  as  to  furnish  credible 
information  regarding  the  condition  of 
the  Missouri  Fur  Company.  Williams, 
however,  decided  to  find  white  men  or 
some  place  of  safety  or  lose  his  life  in 
the  attempt. 

LEARNING  from  the  Arapahoes  that 
the  river  they  were  on  flowed 
through  the  country  of  a  nation  he 
thought  to  be  the  Osages,  he  determined 
to  descend  it.  His  two  comrades  helped 
him  to  make  a  canoe  and  having  cached 
his  furs,  he  set  out  on  his  journey  down 
the  river  on  March  1,  1813,  according 
to  his  reckoning.  He  was  accompanied 
to  the  river  bank  by  numerous  Arapahoes 
and  his  two  companions  and  there  he 
took  his  final  leave  of  them.  Champlain, 
in  bidding  him  farewell,  shook  his  hand 
and  Porteau  turned  his  back  and  wept. 
They  told  Williams,  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore he  left,  that  they  would  also  try  to 
get  away  in  about  three  days.  Williams 
promised  them  to  inform  the  people  at 
St.  Louis  of  their  situation  if  he  should 
reach  there  first  and  they  made  him  a 
similar  promise.  He  never  saw  them 
again. 

Williams  descended  the  Arkansas 
River  in  his  canoe  some  four  hundred 
miles,  trapping  for  beaver  along  most  of 
the  way,  until  the  water  became  so  low 
that  he  was  obliged  to  stop.  About  June 
1  the  water  rose  and  he  continued  on 
down  river  until  the  23rd,  when  he  was 
captured  by  the  Kansas  Indians  who 
bound  him  fast  and  took  what  little  pro- 
perty he  had,  as  well  as  the  fur  he  had 
caught  in  descending  the  river.  A  band 
of  Osages,  which  was  in  that  vicinity, 
heard  that  the  Kansas  held  a  white  pri- 
soner and  they  sent  Daniel  Larrison  and 
Joseph  Larivee,  traders,  with  ten  Osages 
to  demand  his  surrender.,  but  the  Kan- 
sas refused  to  give  him  up  saying  that 
they  would  keep  him  until  they  returned 
to  their  village,  which  was  on  the  Kan- 
sas River  some  hundred  miles,  as  it 
flowed,  from  its  mouth ;  and  then  they 
would  send  him  home.  They  kept  Wil- 
liams a  prisoner,  greatly  abusing  him, 
until  about  August  15,  1813,  When  they 
released  him.  He  gave  his  gun  to  a 
mulatto  who  befriended  him  and  inter- 
ceded with  the  Indians  in  his  behalf. 
They  returned  the  greater  part  of  his 


property  and  he  set  out  homewards  with 
the  mulatto  and  four  Indians.  Williams 
arrived  at  his  home  in  Boonslick,  near 
Franklin,  Mo.,  on  September  1,  1813. 
On  his  way  there,  at  Arrow  Rock,  he 
reported  the  theft  of  his  fur  to  Major 
George  C.  Sibley,  United  States  Indian 
Agent,  in  charge  of  Fort  Osage  on  the 
Missouri,  near  the  present  town  of  Sib- 
ley,  Jackson  County.  Major  Sibley  had 
evacuated  Fort  Osage  and  had  removed 
down  river  to  Arrow  Rock  on  account 
of  the  war  of  1812.  He  required  the 
Kansas  to  pay  for  the  balance  of  Wil- 
liams' property  not  restored  to  its  owner. 

Of  this  stage  of  Williams'  journey — 
his  solitary  trip  down  the  Arkansas 
River — our  friend  Coyner,  already  men- 
tioned, has  given  details  in  his  "Lost 
Trappers,"  which,  in  this  connection, 
make  a  story  good  enough  to  repeat.  We 
therefore  set  forth  portions  of  it  here,  at 
the  same  time  cautioning  the  reader 
against  accepting  Coyner's  quoted  state- 
ments, which  follow,  without  consider- 
ing the  fact}  that  their  veracity  is  doubt- 
ful. 

In  describing  Williams'  voyage  down 
the  Arkansas,  Coyner  wrote,  in  part : 

"The  most  of  his  journeyings  Captain 
Williams  performed  during  the  hours  of 
night,  except  when  he  felt  perfectly  safe 
to  travel  in  daylight.  His  usual  plan 
was  to  glide  along  down  the  stream, 
until  he  came  to  a  place  where  beaver 
signs  were  abundant.  There  he  would 
push  his  little  bark  to  the  shore,  into 
some  eddy  among  the  willows,  where 
he  remained  concealed,  except  when  he 
was  setting  his  traps  or  visiting  them  in 
the  morning.  He  always  set  his  traps 
between  sun-up  and  dark,  and  visited 
them  at  the  earliest  break  of  day.  When 
he  had  taken  all  the  beaver  in  one 
neighborhood,  he  would  untie  his  little 
conveyance  and  glide  onward  and  down- 
ward to  try  his  luck  in  another  place. 

"Day  after  day  did  he  add  to  his 
stock  of  rich  peltries;  but  day  after  day 
passed  away  without  bringing  any  light 
as  to  the  destiny  before  him.  Week  after 
week  had  he  descended  this  river,  and 
no  frontier  cabin  had  greeted  his  return. 
Wildness  and  solitude  still  reigned 
everywhere.  But  Captain  Williams  was 
a  mart  of  as  much  patience  as  fortitude, 
and  possessed  a  cheerful  disposition,  that 
made  him  look  upon  the  'sunny  side'  of 
everything,  and  'always  hoped  for  the 
best.'  Solitary  as  he  was,  and  exposed 
to  danger  all  the  time,  he  frequently 
spoke  of  this  kind  of  life  as  having  its 
peculiar  attractions. 

"But  it  would  have  been  a  miracle 
if  he  had  entirely  escaped  the  observa- 
tion of  the  savages.  Circumstances  oc- 
curred that  led  to  his  discovery,  and 
threw  him  into  their  clutches.  As  he 
was  descending  the  river,  with  his  pelt- 
ries, which  consisted  of  one  hundred  and 


twenty-five  beaver  skins,  besides  some 
skins  of  otter  and  other  similar  animals 
of  the  fur-bearing  race,  ...  he  overtook 
three  Kansas  Indians,  who  were  also  in 
a  canoe  descending  the  river  as  he 
learned  from  them  to  some  post,  to  trade 
with  the  whites.  They  manifested  a  very 
friendly  disposition  toward  Captain  Wil- 
liams, and  expressed  a  wish  to  accom- 
pany him  down  the  river.  He  had 
learned  from  them,  to  his  great  gratifi- 
cation, that  he  was  on  the  Big  Arkansas, 
and  not  more  than  five  hundred  miles' 
from  the  whites.  By  this  time  Captain 
Williams  had  learned  how  much  confi- 
dence he  could  repose  in  Indians  and 
their  professions  of  friendship.  He  had 
learned  enough  to  know  that  they  would 
not  let  a  solitary  trapper  pass  through 
their  country,  with  a  valuable  collection 
of  furs,  without,  at  least,  making  an  ef- 
fort to  rob  him.  The  plan  of  these  Kan- 
sas would  be  to  decoy  him  into  a  friendly 
intercourse  with  them,  and  then,  the 
first  suitable  opportunity  to  strip  him  of 
everything  he  had.  He  resolved,  there- 
fore, to  get  rid  of  them  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, and  to  effect  this,  he  plied  his  oars 
with  all  diligence.  The  Indians,  like 
most  of  their  lazy  race,  had  no  disposi- 
tion to  belabor  themselves  in  this  way; 
but  took  it  more  leisurely,  being  satis- 
fied to  be  carried  along  by  the  current 
of  the  water.  Captain  Williams  soon 
left  them,  as  he  supposed,  far  behind 
him,  and  when  night  came  on,  as  he 
had  labored  hard  all  day,  and  slept  none 
the  night  before,  he  resolved  to  turn 
aside  into  the  willows  to  take  a  few 
hours  of  sleep.  But  he  had  stopped 
scarcely  thirty  minutes  before  he  heard 
some  Indians  pull  to  shore  just  above 
on  the  same  side  of  the  river.  He  im- 
mediately renewed  his  fire,  loosed  his 
canoe  from  shore,  and  glided  smoothly 
and  silently  off  and  away,  and  rowed 
hard  for  two  or  three  hours,  when  he 
again  pu*  to  shore  and  tied  up. 

"But  again,  a  short  time  after  he 
landed,  he  heard  some  Indians  going  in 
to  shore  on  the  same  side  and  just  above 
him.  A  second  time  the  vigilant  captain 
slipped  out  from  the  willows,  and  glided 
steadily  away  from  this  dangerous 
ground,  and  pulled  ahead  with  great  in- 
dustry until  some  time  after  midnight, 
when  he  supposed  he  could  with  safety 
stop  to  snatch  a  morsel  of  repose.  Cap- 
tain Williams  was  apprehensive  that  he 
was  in  a  dangerous  region;  the  anxiety 
of  his  mind,  therefore,  kept  him  awake, 
and  it  was  a  lucky  circumstance,  for  as 
he  lay  in  his  canoe,  invoking  sleep,  he 
heard  for  the  third  time  a  canoe  land, 
as  before.  He  was  now  satisfied  that  he 
was  dogged  by  the  Kansas  whom  he  had 
passed  the  day  before.  In  no  very  good 
humor,  therefore,  Captain  Williams 
snatched  up  his  rifle  and  walked  up  the 
bank  to  the  place  where  he  had  heard 


234 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


the  canoe  land.  As  he  suspected,  they 
were  the  three  Kansas,  and  when  they 
saw  the  captain  they  renewed  their  ex- 
pressions of  friendship,  and  wished  him 
to  partake  of  their  hospitality.  Captain 
Williams  stood  aloof  from  them,  and 
shook  his  head  in  anger,  and  charged 
them  with  their  villainous  purposes.  In 
the  short,  sententious  manner  of  the  In- 
dians, he  said  to  them,  'You  now  follow 
me  three  times;  if  you  follow  me  again, 
I  kill  you,'  and  wheeled  about  abruptly 
and  returned  to  his  canoe.  A  third  time 
our  solitary  trapper  pushed  his  little 
craft  from  land,  and  set  off  down 
stream,  to  get  away  from  a  region  where 
to  sleep  would  be  extremely  hazardous. 
Captain  Williams  faithfully  plied  his 
oars  the  balance  of  the  night,  and  sol- 
aced himself  with  the  thought  that  he 
was  very  lucky,  when  no  evil  had  be- 
fallen him,  except  the  loss  of  a  few 
hours  of  sleep.  But  while  he  was  es- 
caping from  the  villainous  pursuers  be- 
hind him,  he  was  running  into  new  dan- 
gers and  difficulties.  The  following  day 
he  overtook  a  large  company  of  the 
same  tribe  (Kansas),  headed  by  a  chief, 
who  was  also  descending  the  river.  Into 
the  hands  of  these  Indians  he  fell  a  pri- 
soner, and  was  conducted  to  one  of  their 
villages.  The  principal  chief  took  all  of 
his  furs  and  traps,  and  all  his  chat- 
tels. .  .  . 

"Captain  Williams  was  the  more 
reconciled  to  the  loss  of  his  furs,  as  he 
believed  the  Indians  would  preserve 
them  with  a  view  of  taking  them  to  a 
trading  post,  where  he  formed  the  pur- 
pose of  being  present  to  secure  them 
again.  .  .  .  The  captain  also  learned, 
whilst  with  the  Kansas,  that  they  ex- 
pected to  repair,  the  following  spring, 
to  Fort  Osage,  on  the  Missouri  River, 
to  receive  some  annuities  due  them  from 
the  United  States,  and  he  knew  that  his 
furs  would  be  found  there  at  that  time. 
There  was  a  fort  of  white  men  at  that 
time,  called  Cooper's  Fort,  (*)  some- 
where on  the  side  of  the  Missouri  oppo- 
site the  post  of  trade  where  the  Kansas 
expected  to  assemble.  He  therefore  set  off 
for  that  point  on  the  Missouri,  to  be 
ready,  the  following  spring,  to  regain, 
if  he  could,  his  peltries  that  were  in  the 
hands  of  the  Kansas.  .  .  . 

"When  Captain  Williams  reached 
Cooper's  Fort,  he  learned  that  a  United 
States'  factor  (trader),  C.  Cibley,  was 
expected  from  St.  Louis  that  winter,  to 
go  up  to  Fort  Osage  to  meet  the  Osages 
and  Kansas  and  pay  them  their  annui- 
ties. Mr.  Cibley  came  up  the  Missouri 
as  far  as  Cooper's  Fort,  but  was  not  able 
to  get  to  Fort  Osage,  on  account  of  the 


*Cooper's  Fort  was  actually  in  existence. 
Tt  was  located  on  the  Missouri  River  nearly 
opposite  Arrow  Rock  Creek  and  was  built  in 
1810  by  Braxton  and  Sarshall  Cooper.  Sar- 
shalt  Cooper  was  shot  in  the  fort  during  the 
spring  of  1815. 


ice  and  the  severity  of  the  winter.  The 
Indians  were  therefore  compelled  to 
come  down  the  river  to  a  place  now 
called  Arrow  Rock,  where  they  were 
met  by  Mr.  Cibley.  Captain  Williams 
was  present,  and  there  met  the1  very  In- 
dian chief  that  had  robbed  him  of  his 
furs  on  the  Arkansas.  The  agent  of  the 
United  States  had  already  been  apprised 
of  the  whole  affair,  and  informed  the 
Kansas  chief  that  as  Mr.  Williams  was 
a  citizen  of  the  government  for  which 
he  was  acting,  he  would  not  pay  them 
their  annuities,  unless  they  returned  the 
furs  properly  belonging  to  Mr.  Will- 
iams. They  at  first  were  unwilling  to 
admit  their  villainy,  but  Mr.  Cibley  was 
very  positive  and  determined,  and  fin- 
ally succeeded  in  bringing  them  to  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  deed.  In  com- 
pliance with  the  orders  of  the  agent,  the 
guilty-looking  fellow  (sic)  sneaked  off 
to  their  lodges  to  bring  out  the  furs, 
and  returned  with  four  packages,  which 
Captain  Williams  proved  by  the  initials 
of  his  name,  E.  W.,  which  were  on 
them.  The  agent  inquired  if  that  was  all. 
Captain  Williams  replied,  there  were 
eight  more.  The  fraudulent  chief  said 
there  were  no  more.  Mr.  Cibley  per- 
emptorily demanded  the  whole  of  the 
furs.  Three  more  packages  were  then 
brought  out,  which  the  chief  affirmed 
made  up  the  number  he  had  taken.  Mr. 
Cibley  gave  them  every  assurance  that 
he  would  not  pay  them  their  annuities, 
if  they  did  not  comply  with  his  orders. 
One  after  another  three  of  the  bales  of 
skins  were  reluctantly  brought  forward, 
until  they  numbered  eleven.  Mr.  Cibley 
demanded  the  twelfth,  but  'it  could  not 
be  found,'  said  the  Indian  chief.  'But  it 
must  be  found,'  said  Cibley.  The  old 
Kansas  chief  went  away,  and  after  an 
absence  of  an  hour,  during  which  time 
he  was  busy  searching  among  the  lodges 
for  the  lost  pack,  returned  and  told  Mr. 
Cibley  that  'he  could  not  find  it,  and 
believed  that  Gold  Almighty  could  not 
find  it'  by  which  he  meant  to  be  under- 
stood, that  such  a  bale  of  fur  did  not 
exist.  Captain  Williams,  who  was  much 
amused  with  the  answer  of  the  chief, 
suggested  to  Mr.  Cibley  the  great  prob- 
ability that  one  of  the  packages  might 
have  been  lost,  and  stated,  furthermore, 
that  he  would  not  insist  upon  their  re- 
turning it.  Here  the  matter  ended,  and 
in  the  end  it  resulted  to  the  great  advan- 
tage of  Mr.  Williams,  as  he  got  rid  of 
the  very  difficult  job  of  conveying  his 
peltries  to  the  Missouri  River.  .  .  ." 

Here  end  also  our  excerpts  from  Coy- 
ner's  version  of  Williams'  first  voyage 
down  the  Arkansas. 

Shortly  after  his  return  home  Wil- 
liams went  to  St.  Louis  where  he  met 
Manuel  Lisa.  Lisa  narrated  his  misfor- 
tunes at  his  post  up  the  river,  informed 


Williams  that  Champlain  and  Porteau 
had  not  returned  there  and  that  they 
surely  had  been  killed  if  they  had  at- 
tempted to  carry  out  the  plan  they  sug- 
gested when  Williams  parted  from  them 
at  the  Arapho  village. 

The  next  spring,  on  May  16,  1814, 
Williams  set  out  from  his  home  at 
Boonslick  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  in 
his  furs  from  the  Arapahoes  and  of  learn- 
ing the  fate  of  his  two  companions, 
Champlain  and  Porteau.  With  him  were 
Morris  May,  Braxton  Cooper  and 
eighteen  Frenchmen,  called  Phillebert's 
Company.  The  party  having  arrived 
safely  at  the  Arapahoe  village,  Williams 
called  a  council  of  the  chiefs  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  whole  personnel,  two  of 
whom,  Durocher  and  La  France,  acting 
as  interpreters,  he  asked  the  principal 
chief:  "What  has  become  of  Champlain 
and  Porteau,  whom  I  left  in  this  village 
last  year?"  In  reply  to  this  inquiry  the 
chief  stated  that  the  two  men  in  ques- 
tion had  stayed  at  his  village  three  days 
after  Williams'  departure  and  then  had 
gone  hunting  up  the  river  saying  that 
they  intended  to  wait  to  see  if  some 
white  man  would  not  come.  After  being 
away  for  some  time  they  had  returned 
to  the  village  and  then  had  determined 
to  wait  no  longer,  but  to  attempt  going 
back  to  the  fort  on  the  Missouri.  They 
had  purchased  two  horses,  making  eleven 
with  those  they  already  possessed,  had 
loaded  them  with  all  their  furs  and  had 
started  out  for  the  Missouri.  They  had 
been  seen  en  route  by  two  parties  of  the 
Arapahoes  and  the  Crows  had  informed 
them  that  they  had  seen  two  white  men 
dead  in  their  camp,  whom  they  believed 
to  have  been  Champlain  and  Porteau. 
At  the  same  council  the  Arapahoes  ad- 
mitted that  their  tribe  had  killed  Wil- 
liams' three  men  in  the  cove  in  the  moun- 
tain before  the  party  sought  their  pro- 
tection. They  also  stated  that  three 
white  men  had  come  from  the  south, 
wintered  with  them  and  returned  as 
they  came  with  their  furs  loaded  on  three 
mules  and  a  jack  and  that  they  had  left 
their  traps  behind.  Upon  Williams'  in- 
sistent demand  the  Arapahoes  produced 
the  traps  in  question,  but  he  found  that 
they  were  not  the  traps  of  his  company. 

Relinquishing  the  hope  of  finding 
Champlain  and  Porteau,  Williams  hired 
one  Michael  Le  Claire  (or  Le  Clerc) 
of  Phillebert's  Company,  which  intended 
to  remain  in  the  mountains,  and  with 
him,  besides  May  and  Cooper,  he  col- 
lected part  of  his  furs  and  set  out  down 
the  Arkansas  with  them.  The  four  des- 
cended the  river  about  five  hundred 
miles  until  they  could  travel  no  further 
on  account  of  low  water;  so  they  again 
cached  the  fur  and  walked  home  across 
country,  intending  to  return  for  it  the 
next  spring  (1815). 

(Continued  on  Page  252) 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


235 


THREE-QUARTERS  of  a  century 
has  not  passed  since  California 
mountains  resounded  the  echoes  of 
flying  hoofs  which  bore  across  the  con- 
tinent the  first  "fast  mail."  Time  has 
dimmed  the  triumph  of  this  once-her- 
alded achievement;  but  like  many  inci- 
dents recorded  in  the  annals  of  bygone 
years,  the  mastery  of  the  stubborn  ele- 
ments, the  victory  of  physical  stamina 
over  the  selfish  forces  of  Nature,  the 
dauntless  spirit  that  vanquished  human 
opposition,  each  and  all  of  which  made 
possible  this  feat  of  .endurance,  will 
never  fail  to  thrill  the  hearts  of  suc- 
cessive generations. 

The  origin  and  operation  of  the  "pony 
express"  is  written  with  indelible  per- 
manency as  one  of  the  most  notable 
events  in  western  history.  The  success 
of  the  venture  was  appreciated  more  by 
a  handful  of  pioneers  than  the  most 
popular  modern  innovation  is  appreci- 
ated by  the  present  generation.  In  this 
era  of  modern  transportation  and  trans- 
mittal  it  may  be  difficult  to  realize  the 
advantages  afforded  in  1860  by  a  regu- 
lar saddle-horse  mail  route  between  the 
western  terminal  of  eastern  railroads 
and  the  Pacific  coast.  Today  the  east 
and  west  is  so  closely  linked  that  only 
the  few  seconds  delay  for  receipt  and 
relay  of  messages  intervenes  the  ex- 
change of  current  news;  sixty-seven 
years  ago,  twenty-three  or  more  days  of 
arduous,  hazardous  travel  were  required 
to  transport  by  overland  stage  even  the 
most  vital  information. 

There  is  something  about  mail — let- 
ters— that  is  akin  to  sacredness.  In  the 
midst  of  modern  comforts  and  conveni- 
ences the  postman's  whistle  is  always 
welcome;  but  in  an  isolated  camp,  in 
the  wilderness,  or  in  a  sparsely  settled 
country,  mail  from  home  and  loved  ones 
is  a  luxury  anticipated  with  feverish  de- 
light. Those  hardy  pioneers,  who  in  the 
forties  and  fifties  severed  their  home 
ties  to  journey  to  the  land  of  promise, 
were  no  exception.  Even  the  insatiable 
lure  of  gold  could  not  displace  in  the 
rugged  lives  of  the  miners  the  delightful 
anticipation  of  mail  and  news  from  the 
east.  To  fully  comprehend  the  value 
and  importance  attached  to  the  "pony 
express,"  we  have  but  to  reflect  upon  a 
"mail  day"  scene  in  the  first  metropolis 
of  the  west. 

Seventy  years  ago  San  Francisco's 
postoffice  was  a  small  one  and  one-half 
story  building,  situated  at  the  corner  of 
Clay  and  Pike  streets.  Inside  there  was 
barely  space  for  the  necessary  clerks; 


The  Pony  Express 

By  Owen  Ernest  Sonne 

standing  room  for  inquirers  from  with- 
out was  at  a  premium.  When  mail  was 
expected  from  the  eastern  states,  there 
was  invariably  a  rush  for  the  postoffice. 
On  these  occasions  confusion  and  riot 
was  obviated  only  by  the  remarkably 
tolerant  spirit  displayed  by  anxious  mail- 
seekers — an  admirable  characteristic  of 
western  pioneers.  An  orderly  line  was 
formed,  at  the  end  of  which  the  latest 
arrivals  took  their  places.  There  was  no 
crowding,  no  jostling  or  attempts  to  dis- 


bryo  city.  There  was  a  rush  for  the 
docks  to  greet  expected  relatives  and 
friends;  newspapermen  raced  for  the 
latest  news  from  the  east,  and  the  re- 
mainder of  the  citizens  stampeded  to- 
ward the  postoffice. 

An  amusing  incident  illustrating  gen- 
eral familiarity  with  this  signal  occurred 
at  a  well-packed  theater  playing  "Sher- 
idan's Hunchback."  Julia  had  quarreled 
with  Clifford,  when  Master  Walter, 
dressed  in  black,  a  figure  in  bold  sil- 
houette against  the  light  walls  of  the 
prop  drawing-room,  rushed  excitedly  on 


Front  Street,  Sacramento,  in  the  days  of  the  pony  express. 


place  another.  Those  who  desired  to 
obtain  a  position  near  the  head  of  the 
line  arrived  accordingly.  In  some  in- 
stances eager  men  commenced  to  form  a 
line  the  day  before  mail  was  due,  wait- 
ing throughout  the  night  to  be  sure  of 
early  service. 

NEWS  of  the  approach  of  a  semi- 
monthly mail  steamer  was  the  occa- 
sion for  great  excitement.  To  signal 
their  arrival  a  tall  black  pole  with 
movable  black  arms  attached  was  con- 
structed on  the  top  of  the  highest  build- 
ing. When  a  vessel  was  seen  approach- 
ing from  the  ocean,  various  manipula- 
tions of  the  arms  indicated  the  nature 
of  the  cargo.  To  signal  the  approach 
of  mail  steamers — side-wheel  steamers 
used  by  the  Pacific  Mail  Company — the 
two  arms  were  extended  at  right  angles 
to  the  supporting  pole,  forming  a  black 
cross.  When  displayed  this  signal  caused 
general  excitement  throughout  the  em- 


the  stage  and,  throwing  out  his  arms  at 
right  angles  to  his  body,  exclaimed : 
"What  does  this  mean?"  For  a  moment 
there  was  a  dead  silence.  Then,  from 
the  gallery,  a  voice  roared  out:  "Side- 
wheel  steamer!"  The  effect  was  electri- 
cal. The  building  shuddered  from  the 
outburst  of  laughter,  and  for  many  min- 
utes it  was  impossible  for  Master  Wal- 
ter to  continue  his  speech. 

Prior  to  the  advent  of  the  "pony  ex- 
press" the  only  regular  overland  mail 
connection  between  New  York  and  San 
Francisco  was  via  railroad  as  far  west 
as  St.  Louis,  and  then  by  stage  traveling 
over  the  southern  or  "Butterfield"  route, 
through  Arkansas,  Texas,  New  Mexico 
and  Arizona  to  Sacramento.  Commenc- 
ing operation  in  September,  1858,  a 
coach  started  from  each  terminal  of  this 
route  once  a  week,  insuring,  under 
favorable  circumstances,  eight  mail  de- 
liveries each  month  in  both  directions. 


236 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


The  transportation  of  mail  from  New 
York  to  San  Francisco  in  this  manner 
required  about  twenty-three  days.  There- 
fore, the  only  advantage  of  the  overland 
carriers  compared  to  the  twenty-five-day 
trip  from  the  east  coast  to  San  Fran- 
cisco by  steamer — via  relay  from  Atlan- 
tic coast  to  Pacific  coast  vessels  across 
the  Isthmus  of  Panama — was  more  fre- 
quent deliveries.  Only  two  trips  were 
made  each  month  by  steamer. 

Although  the  overland  stage  proved 
of  no  value  toward  an  anticipated  les- 
sening of  the  time  required  for  mail  de- 
livery by  steamer,  it  served  a  great  pur- 
pose, and  was,  in  fact,  a  guiding  factor 
in  the  establishment  of  the  "pony  ex- 
press." The  regularity  and  safety  of 
the  overland  service  indicated  that  mail 
could  be  carried  on  horseback  over  a 
more  direct  route  in  about  half  the  time 
required  for  the  average  stage  coach  trip. 
In  the  winter  of  1859-60  a  company 
known  as  Russell,  Majors  and  Waddell, 
benefited  by  their  experience  as  owners 
of  a  stage  line  plying  between  the  Mis- 
souri river  and  Salt  Lake  City,  com- 
menced plans  to  establish  what  was  to 
be  known  as  the  "pony  express,"  and 
were  soon  actually  engaged  in  the  neces- 
sary preparations. 

St.  Joseph,  Missouri,  the  western  ter- 
minal of  eastern  railroads,  was  chosen  as 
the  eastern  terminal  of  the  new  system. 
Sacramento,  almost  straight  across  the 
continent,  was  considered  the  most  logi- 
cal western  terminal.  Over  the  route 
agreed  upon  the  distance  between  the 
two  points  is  1966  miles.  At  an  average 
speed  of  eight  miles  an  hour,  the  trip 
could  be  made  in  ten  days. 

Relay  stations  were  already  appro- 
priately situated  between  Sacramento 
and  Salt  Lake  City.  Although  a  rider 
could  travel  as  much  as  200  miles  a  day, 
twenty-five  miles  was  considered  a  rea- 
sonable limit  for  the  horses,  and  stations 
were  constructed  accordingly  from  Salt 
Lake  City  to  St.  Joseph.  At  each  station 
a  sufficient  number  of  fresh  horses  were 
to  be  kept  in  readiness  to  continue  with 
the  mail  pouch  as  soon  as  it  could  be 
transferred  by  the  same  rider  or  by  his 
relief.  Plans  called  for  two  mail  deliv- 


eries a  week  at  each  terminal.  Two  hun- 
dred letters  were  specified  as  the  maxi- 
mum load  for  each  horse,  and  less  than 
this  number  if  possible.  To  save  weight, 
the  use  of  tissue  paper  was  encouraged 
for  correspondence.  The  limited  traffic 
and  the  enormous  expense  for  its  main- 
tenance necessitated  the  fixing  of  postal 
rates  at  $5  a  letter. 

After  all  preparations  had  been  com- 
pleted, "pony  express"  riders  were  dis- 
patched from  both  terminals  of  the 
route  April  3,  1860.  Leaving  Sacra- 
mento at  2:45  p.  m.,  the  first  pouch  of 
mail  from  the  west  consisted  of  fifty-six 
letters  which  came  from  San  Francisco 
by  river  steamer,  one  from  Placerville 
and  thirteen  which  had  been  posted  in 
Sacramento.  The  Sierras  were  crossed 
via  Emigrant  Gap  to  Carson  City,  from 
where  the  Simpson  route  was  followed 
over  the  desert  in  Churchill  county, 
northeast  to  Ruby  valley  in  Elko  county, 
thence  southeast  through  Deep  Creek 
valley  into  Utah,  around  the  southern 
end  of  Great  Salt  Lake  to  Salt  Lake 
City,  east  to  Julesburg,  Colo. ;  east  to 
Fort  Kearney  on  the  Platte  river  in 
Nebraska,  and  southeast  to  St.  Joseph. 

The  initial  trips  in  both  directions 
were  made  in  ten  days,  three  and  one- 
half  days  being  devoted  to  the  Sacra- 
mento-Salt Lake  City  leg  of  the  journey. 
Seventy-five  miles  was  the  average  dis- 
tance traveled  by  each  rider;  two  min- 
utes the  ordinary  length  of  time  allowed 
at  stations  to  change  horses  and  transfer 
the  mail  pouch. 

On  April  13,  1860,  the  arrival  of  the 
first  "pony  express"  mail  from  the  east, 
consisting  of  eight  letters,  was  hailed 
with  enthusiastic  acclaim.  At  Sacra- 
mento, horse,  Billy  Richardson,  the 
rider,  and  mail  sack,  just  as  they  arrived, 
took  passage  on  a  San  Francisco-bound 
steamer  which  arrived  at  its  destination 
at  one  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  April 
14.  Inhabitants  of  the  thriving  bay  city 
turned  out  en  masse  to  greet  the  fast 
mail  bearers.  A  procession  with  torches, 
accompanied  by  a  large  band,  escorted 
the  proud  rider  to  the  postoffice  amidst 
a  din  of  praise  and  cheers. 

The    third    westbound    trip    of    the 


"pony  express"  brought  news  of  a  prize 
fight  in  London  between  Heenan  and 
Sayers;  also  of  the  adjournment  of  the 
Democratic  national  convention  at 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  after  failure 
to  agree  upon  a  presidential  candidate, 
and  resolution  to  meet  at  Baltimore  at 
the  18th  of  June  following.  The  fastest 
time  recorded  was  made  on  a  trip 
which  carried  President  Lincoln's  first 
message  to  congress  in  March,  1861. 
From  St.  Joseph  to  Carson  City,  1780 
miles,  from  where  the  speech  was  re- 
layed by  telegraph  to  San  Francisco,  this 
trip  was  made  in  five  days  and  eighteen 
hours,  made  possible  with  the  aid  of  an 
extra  change  of  fresh  horses  between 
regular  stations. 

TODAY  we  may  think  of  the  "pony 
express"  system  as  a  mere  handful 
of  men  and  horses  galloping  across  the 
country.  In  reality  the  project  required 
an  initial  outlay  of  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  dollars.  Five  hundred  head  of 
horses,  190  stations,  200  stationkeepers 
and  80  riders  were  necessary  to  carry 
out  the  service.  Well  chosen,  brave  and 
determined  men  were  these  riders,  who 
faced  hazards  and  hardships  with  a  sin- 
gle purpose  in  view:  to  deliver  their 
cargo  of  mail  intact,  regardless  of  cost 
to  self  or  animal.  Each  rider  usually 
rode  seventy-five  miles,  occasionally 
much  farther.  One  rider,  Robert  H. 
Hoslem,  better  known  as  "Pony  Bob," 
made  a  continuous  ride  of  380  miles 
within  a  few  hours  of  scheduled  time. 
Another,  William  F.  Cody,  "Buffalo 
Bill,"  rode  384  miles,  stopping  only  for 
meals  and  fresh  horses. 

Thus,  the  time  required  for  trans- 
mittal  of  letters  was  reduced  from 
twenty-three  to  thirteen  days.  News  dis- 
patches, telegraphed  from  New  York 
to  St.  Joseph,  and  again  from  Carson 
City  to  San  Francisco,  were  delayed  for 
only  the  nine  days  of  "pony  express" 
travel  between  these  two  points.  Until 
it  was  superseded  by  the  progress  of 
transcontinental  railroads  and  telegraph 
lines,  the  maintenance  of  this  service 
played  an  important  part  in  the  gradual 
development  of  the  west. 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


237 


"Young  Men  in  Love" 


MEN  in  love,  particularly  young 
men,  are  liars.  As  Ernest  Dow- 
son  once  said:  "Love  makes 
poets  of  us  all,"  and  how  woefully- 
true  this  is  only  the  young  can  know. 
Once  love  "goes  whooping  through  his 
meatus  auditorium  externus  like  a  fan- 
fare of  slide  trombones,"  as  H.  L.  Menc- 
ken once  so  picturesquely  put  it,  a  man 
loses  all  sense  of  truth  and  reason,  for- 
gets his  ancestry,  age,  and  station  in  life, 
and  becomes  for  the  moment  nothing  but 
a  gorgeous  liar.  Emotions  akin  to  those 
so  treacherously  evoked  by,  say,  Schu- 
bert's "Serenades,"  dissolve  his  splendid 
cynicism  into  fine  crystal  spars,  and  his 
Nietzschean  ego  becomes  but  a  harp 
upon  which  the  mysterious  hands  of  his 
hormones  play  wicked  and  voluptuous 
harmonies. 

When  I  first  visited  San  Francisco  I 
fell  in  love  with  the  place,  and  hence  I 
shall  write  of  it  after  the  manner  of  all 
lying  lovers,  and  in  the  perilous  medium 
of  the  first  person.  It  has  been  my  good 
fortune  never  to  see  so  much  of  my  love 
as  to  become  disillusioned,  but  only  to 
catch  passing  glimpses  of  her  in  all  her 
radiant  drapery  and  with  a  rapturous 
glow  about  her  eyes.  Had  I  peered  too 
intently,  or  stayed  too  long,  a  weary 
fatalism  whispers  that  I  would  have  dis- 
covered lady-lecturers,  babbits,  an  excess 
of  ministers  and  the  urge  towards  pro- 
vincialism. But  chance  has  spared  me 
all  this  and  I  can  rhapsodize  of  San 
Francisco,  like  one  in  exile  dreaming  of 
some  ultima  thule,  without  miserly  reser- 
vation or  politic  compromise. 

There  are  places  that  one  sees  for  the 
first  time  with  a  sense  of  the  utmost 
familiarity,  as  though  returning  after  a 
long  journey.  Perhaps  these  places  are 
so  unique  that  they  strike  the  imagina- 
tion as  the  embodiment  of  some  precon- 
ceived idea  and  thus  ring  strangely  old 
and  intimate  and  remembered.  Such 
was  San  Francisco  to  me,  like  some  At- 
lantis of  memory  newly  risen. 

,  I  am  still  troubled  with  vivid  and 
lyfic  rememberings  of  that  first  day  in 
San  Francisco:  richly  quiet  bookshops 
around  Union  Square,  the  sharp  image 
of  a  remarkable  portrait  of  Ambrose 
Bierce,  the  strangely  sweet  clatter  of 
cable  cars  coming  down,  always  mys- 
teriously descending,  into  the  city  from 
above  with  that  jangling  scale  of  bells 
so  somehow  soothing,  and  the  glowing 
memory  of  a  warm  and  crowded  cafe, 
heavy-scented,  and  full  of  smoke  and 
splendid  talk.  After  a  minor  epoch  in 
the  cafe  there  began  an  interminable 

walking    of    fine    streets,    streets    whose 


By  Carey  McWilliams 

narrowing  arches,  at  the  crest  of  distant 
hills  had  a  peculiar  habit  of  becoming 
purplish,  as  if  some  god  had  prodigally 
poured  a  goblet  of  purple  wine  down 
along  the  passageways. 

And  the  streets  were  infinitely  intrigu- 
ing at  night,  so  much  so  that  one  forgot 
sparkling  interiors  and  the  gay  talk  of 
men  and  women,  and  longed  to  be  out 
strolling  up  and  down  those  fascinating 
streets,  streets  so  provocative  and  paint- 
able  that  a  motor  car  seemed  like  the 
last  slurring  insult  of  a  mad  age  and 
riding  the  invention  of  a  slovenly  deity. 
When  walking  finally  became  wearisome, 
it  was  supplanted  by  myriad  ferry  cross- 
ings, just  to  see  red  and  green  lights 
bobbing  in  the  dark,  and  to  have  one's 
breath  taken  away  suddenly,  like  a  drop 
through  space,  by  the  beauty  of  those 
rising  towers  of  light,  those  astonishing 
tiers  of  radiancy,  seen  over  the  waters. 
And  ferry  noises !  Throaty,  husky  boom- 
ings,  the  sluggish  slap  of  water,  and  the 
low,  mounting  adjuration  of  a  foghorn. 
Such  things  have  a  fortunate  habit  of 
robbing  despair  of  its  immediacy  and  of 
subtly  stealing  from  the  mind  the  last 
bitter  glow  of  ruffled  feelings.  When  the 
lights  blaze  nearer  all  misanthropic  mus- 
ings are  vaporized  as  a  rising  film  of 
emotion  gathers  about  and  conceals  harsh 
thoughts,  a  film  as  intangible,  as  transi- 
tory, as  personal,  as  the  mist  sifting  in 
upon  the  city. 

And  then  the  streets  again,  well-bred 
streets,  with  an  air  of  quiet  about  them. 
A  wise  city,  this,  that  allows  its  people 
to  saunter  and  to  stroll.  No  back  jab- 
bings,  no  mad  rush  and  roar;  but  time 
and  space  and  the  intervening  illusion  of 
just  enough  activity  to  suggest  vaguely 
the  possibility  of  civilization.  With  the 
intoxication  of  evening,  the  forgotten 
shapes  of  old  ideas  and  the  timid  burg- 
eonings  of  poetry  creep  into  conscious- 
ness for  the  first  time  in  years,  and  an 
unreasonable  amour  of  life,  born  of  the 
moment,  casts  a  shining  robe  about  the 
reality  of  tomorrow.  But  with  sleep,  the 
ultimate  necessity  of  leaving  such  sur- 
roundings seems  as  revolting  as  the  spec- 
tacle of  a  gaping  wound. 

It  is  of  such  small  things  that  love  is 
constituted :  crooked  streets  and  high 
walls,  ferry  boats,  straight  hills  with  fine 
winds  rushing  downward,  and  the  en- 
circling silver  gauntlet  of  the  bay.  A 
lyrical  place,  full  of  wild  promptings  to 
"dance  and  run  up  hills,"  as  George 
Sterling  once  remarked  to  me,  but  with 
its  share  of  unwritten  sonnets  lurking  in 


half-hidden  retreats,  in  fine  faces  loom- 
ing up  abruptly  out  of  the  mist,  and  in 
the  blue  vistas  of  light  and  shade  seen 
from  the  hills. 

Who,  en  passant,  has  written  finer 
and  truer  things  about  these  famous  hills 
of  San  Francisco  than  Michael  Gold? 
I  take  the  following  passage  at  random 
from  my  notes : 

"The  hills  of  San  Francisco!  All  the 
world  can  be  felt  on  Telegraph  Hill. 
The  stars  are  glowing  overhead  in  the 
black  sky.  Ferryboats  trail  red  and  green 
lanterns  over  the  bay.  The  moon  is  fill- 
ing the  mountains  with  light.  The  world 
is  intimate  and  achingly  near. 

"After  months  in  San  Francisco,  when 
I  see  a  rabbit  I  no  longer  feel  atavistic 
angers  surge  up  within.  I  am  losing  my 
savagery.  I  was  a  Nietzschean — I  am  be- 
coming a  Tolstoyan.  I  find  myself  lov- 
ing humanity.  ...  It  is  almost  like  the 
effect  of  many  glasses  of  whiskey,  this 
living  in  San  Francisco  and  climbing  its 
hills." 

A  sorceress  indeed,  this  San  Francisco, 
mixing  many  a  "wine  of  wizardry"  to 
produce  such  dionysian  yelps  out  of  a 
New  Masses  insurgent.  And  so  it  goes. 
How  many  people  have  thus  fallen  in 
love  with  San  Francisco,  and  seen  its 
miraculously  wise  influence  cast  an  il- 
lusion of  charm,  a  glamor  of  beauty,  over 
their  minds !  For  the  magic  of  the  place 
is  its  quite  indefinable  and  poetic  charm, 
something  more  to  be  suggested  and 
hinted  of  than  stated  dogmatically  like 
the  theory  of  stoppage  in  transitu.  That 
this  charm  might  fade  and  the  city  ap- 
pear a  bit  drab  in  the  light  of  too  many 
realistic  dawns  is  obvious;  but  why 
speculate  upon  such  dreary  metaphysics 
when  the  memory  of  the  charm  persists, 
enervating  and  portentous.  Who  would 
reason  to  himself  that  the  image  of 
Cytherea  in  his  mind  is  but  a  slattern 
to  the  world  ? 

And  here  one  is  reminded  of  the  per- 
sistence with  which  San  Francisco  is 
decried  by  its  writers  of  today.  They 
constantly  bemoan  the  loss  of  the  old 
wild  glories  of  the  place;  they  pine 
eternally  for  the  bohemia  of  Xavier 
Martinez,  Jimmy  Hopper,  and  Lionel 
Josephare.  As  Idwal  Jones  has  written: 
"The  old  days  are  gone.  We  are  all  go- 
getters  this  age."  And  this  seems  to  be 
the  burthen  of  the  repeated  wail  of  these 
present-day  writers;  they  speak  apolo- 
getically of  their  San  Francisco  and 
murmur  ecstatically  of  the  past.  They 
seem  to  be  basking  in  the  reflected  radi- 
ance of  a  splendid  tradition  and  tacitly 
(Continued  on  Page  253) 


238 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT    WEST   MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


WHEN  she  met  him,  quite  casually, 
at  tea  at  the  Hemingway's, 
Daphne  knew  instantly  that  this  was 
the  man  for  whom  she  had  been  waiting 
all  her  life.  Strongly-built,  not  tall,  with 
startlingly  light  grey  eyes  in  a  vivid 
brown  face.  And  the  sense  of  fate  was 
strong  upon  her  when  he  noticed  and 
picked  up  a  book  that  she  had  loaned 
some  time  before  to  Vera  Hemingway. 
"It's  mine,"  Daphne  said  to  him.  "Take 
it  if  you  like.  I  know  Vera's  through 
with  it."  And  thought  exultantly,  he 
will  have  to  bring  it  back  to  me.  Even 
when,  after  he  had  gone,  Vera  spoke  of 
his  wife,  the  dream  remained  un- 
shattered.  As  she  walked  home  through 
streets  all  shimmering  in  a  rainy  New 
York  sunset,  Daphne  was  planning  the 
details  of  her  idyll.  The  nights  they 
would  be  together  in  her  tiny  studio 
apartment.  And  the  breakfasts  together 
— breakfast,  that  most  joyous  and  inti- 
mate of  meals — the  divine  contentment 
of  good  coffee. 

When  he  came  ten  days  later  to  re- 
turn her  book,  Daphne  by  a  lucky  chance 
was  home.  She  had  come  back  to  the 
apartment  directly  after  lunch  to  work 
on  some  designs  for  stage  sets.  As  he 
stood  in  the  doorway,  she  had  an  in- 
stant's glimpse  of  some  not  far  distant 
time  when  she  would  open  the  door  to 
him  to  be  taken  in  his  arms.  But  now 
it  was  all  rather  formal.  He  was  a 
formal  sort  of  person,  she  thought  re- 
gretfully. Daphne  sat  on  the  divan,  and 
he  sat  opposite  her  in  the  one  arm  chair. 
They  talked  about  the  book,  and  books 
in  general.  Usually  Daphne  enjoyed  this 
discovering  of  mutual  likes  and  dislikes, 
but  now  she  was  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  disappointment.  Here  was  someone 
who  seemed  to  share  all  her  tastes,  who 
was  willing  to  talk  of  just  those  things 
in  which  she  was  most  interested,  and 
she  felt,  for  her,  exceptionally  stupid 
and  incoherent.  She  seemed  unable  to 
express  the  simplest  idea  without  grop- 
ing painfully  for  the  right  words  and 
feeling  absurdly  self-conscious.  And  with 


Encounter 


l-fl  Joan  Ramsay 

this  man  of  all  men,  with  whom  she  felt 
she  had,  underneath  everything,  such 
perfect  sympathy  and  understanding.  She 
felt,  too,  that  he  liked  her.  But  she  was 
unable  to  steer  the  conversation  from 
books  and  impersonal  things  on  to  those 
delightful  challenging  personalities  that 
are  the  beginning  of  intimacy.  Presently 
he  got  up  to  go.  Daphne  followed  him 
to  the  door.  She  wanted  to  say:  "I  am 
yours  utterly  and  forever.  Take  me.  I'll 
follow  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 
She  murmured  politely,  "I'm  sorry  you 
must  go  so  soon.  Do  come  and  see  me 
again."  And  felt  her  voice  to  be  hate- 
fully cool  and  indifferent,  without  even 
a  tinge  of  warmth  from  the  fire  that  was 
glowing  within  her.  He  was  gone. 
Daphne  looked  at  her  watch — it  was  later 
than  she  had  thought.  She  might  have 
offered  him  tea.  In  the  delicate  com- 
munion of  afternoon  tea  veils  may  be 
torn  and  armor  cracked. 

That  night  in  bed  she  lay  and 
dreamed  fantastically  of  exalted  passion 
and  adventurous  romance.  The  next 
time  they  met  it  would  happen — the  di- 
vine spark  would  be  kindled  and  they 
consumed  in  the  blaze.  They  would  go 
abroad  together.  Spain,  Sicily,  Greece. 
Cold  blue  shadows  and  brilliant  white- 
hot  sunlight.  Shepherds  and  their  flocks 
on  mountain  slopes  a  thousand  feet  above 
a  sea  like  a  level  floor  of  darkly  glisten- 
ing porphyry.  They  would  sleep  in 
strange  taverns  through  starlit  nights 
like  black  glass  and  wake  to  watch  the 
day  breaking  in  glittering  golden  foam 
over  the  mountain-tops  of  the  ancient 
world.  They  would  drink  goats'  milk 
and  eat  Hymettan  honey  on  new  bread 
for  breakfast. 

It  was  three  weeks  before  she  saw 
him  again.  She  had  visioned  many  times 
this  next  meeting.  This  time  she  would 
not  be  awkward  and  stammering  with 
him.  She  would  talk  as  she  always 
talked  at  Vera's  and  other  friends — clev- 
erly, easily.  She  would  let  him  see  that 


he  had  meant  something  more  to  her 
than  just  the  fellow-victim  of  the  aver- 
age casual  introduction.  She  would  show 
him  that  there  .was  something,  deep 
down,  between  them,  drawing  them  to- 
gether, irresistibly.  Surely  he  must  feel 
it  too! 

He  came  one  afternoon  late.  Daphne 
made  tea,  and  later,  when  it  grew  dark, 
pulled  the  cord  of  her  one  lamp,  leaving 
the  rest  of  the  room  in  dim  blue  twilight 
from  the  uncurtained  window.  She 
leaned  back  and  with  half-closed  eyes 
watched  him  across  the  tea-table  through 
the  drifting  cigarette  smoke.  And  as  she 
painfully  made  conversation  she  could 
hear  within  her  the  song  of  her  love,  and 
the  music  of  the  song  was  so  clear  and 
loud  in  her  ears  that  it  seemed  he  must 
hear  it  also,  and  hearing  come  to  her. 

"Yes,"  she  was  saying,  "I  believe  I 
do  prefer  D.  H.  Lawrence  to  Norman 
Douglas."  (O  my  beloved,  come  to  me, 
come  to  me!)  Although  of  course  I  do 
think  that  Douglas  had  the  better  style." 
(Dearest,  my  dearest,  can  you  not  see, 
do  you  not  know,  I  would  walk  bare- 
foot on  red-hot  ploughshares  for  you!) 
"Won't  you  have  some  more  tea? 
"Thanks,  I'll  have  another  cigarette." 
(My  lover,  never  anyone's  but  yours  till 
the  end  of  time — and  after). 

But  he  was  speaking  now.  That  deep, 
sweet  voice!  How  often  had  she  heard 
it,  in  dreams,  calling  her  by  every  en- 
dearing little  name.  He  was  speaking 
now,  and  Daphne,  as  one  just  waking 
from  sleep,  caught  fragments  of  sent- 
ences. "Came  to  say  goodbye — sailing  for 
Italy  on  the  tenth.  Joining  my  wife  there 
and  spending  the  winter — hope  we  meet 
again  next  Spring — been  so  very  delight- 
ful knowing  you." 

Now  they  were  at  the  door  saying 
goodbye.  Iseult  parting  from  Tristram! 
But  it  was  most  horribly  wrong  that  he 
should  be  leaving  like  this.  They  shook 
hands,  casually  friendly,  but  somewhere 
in  another  world,  Iseult  was  in  Tris- 
tram's arms,  giving  a  tear-blessed  fare- 
well. 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


239 


A  Western  Story-- With  Variations 


Divide  County  killer  had  been 
hanged  by  sheriff's  posse  that 
morning.  Now,  in  late  afternoon,  with 
the  posse  returned  from  its  successful 
hunt,  the  whole  county  was  breathing 
sighs  of  relief.  In  Stacy's  bar  in  Crosby 
a  bunch  were  talking  it  over. 

"Well,  he's  sure  in  hell  now,"  said 
Paull,  the  owner  of  the  livery  stable. 

"Naw,  naw,"  remonstrated  old 
"Uncle"  Haskins,  from  up  Westby  way, 
the  home  ground  of  the  killer.  ' '  'Tis 
heaven  he's  in,  the  simple,  pious  lad  .  ." 

The  drinkers  stared.  One  man  choked 
on  a  swallow  of  beer. 

"Pious!  Fer  God's  sake  .  .  ." 
"Pious,  yes,"  repeated  "Uncle."  "An1 
if  the  sheriff  hadn't  been  such  a  hard- 
headed  man  an'  so  devoid  of  imagina- 
tion, he'd  a'  seen  matters  in  a  different 
light." 

"But  he  killed  .  .  ." 

"Unknowin'ly,  yes.  But  he  didn't 
know  that  he  shouldn't  have.  'Twas  his 
ancestry  poppin'  out." 

"Ancestry?" 

"Sure.  Ye  see,  Young  Pete  had  a 
handicap  ye  fellers  ain't  got.  He  was 
raised  piously.  Worse,  he  was  a  des- 
cendant of  one  of  a  party  of  missionaries 
what  come  up  the  Missouri  a  matter  of 
some  hundred  years  ago,  with  the  head 
Christian  of  the  outfit  standin'  up  in  the 
bows  of  the  canoe  holdin'  a  cross  out  in 
front  of  him  to  keep  off  the  demons  what 
was  hidin'  behind  the  cottonwoods  along 
the  banks  ready  to  spring  out  into  the 
river  and  grab  the  party. 

"Them  was  the  happy  days  to  be 
livin'  in.  Life  was  never  monotonous 
for  them  boys  back  in  them  days.  What 
with  devil  chasin'  an"  fightin'  off  witches 
an'  demons  that  was  lurking'  around 
waitin'  for  people  to  make  a  slip,  every- 
body led  an  excitin'  life  an'  one  a  damn 
sight  more  interestin'  than  what  we  do 
now,  even  if  we  do  think  ourselves  a 
lot  more  sensible  than  they  were. 

"Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  poor  Pete  was  a 
descendant  of  one  of  the  most  pious  of 
them.  The  lad  was  raised,  as  ye  may 
know,  by  his  grandmother  on  the  little 
place  she  had  back  in  the  hills  from 
Westby.  'Twas  in  all  that  loneliness 
that  he  grew  up,  hardly  ever  seein'  any- 
body at  all  an'  them  that  he  did  see  just 
neighbors  he'd  known  all  his  life.  Never 
any  strangers. 

"His  grandmother  was  as  simple  an' 
pious  as  the  old  boy  in  the  canoe  had 
been  an'  before  she  died  she  raised  Pete 


By  William  Denoyer 

to  be  as  pious  as  she  was.  My  what  a 
religious  kid  he  was!  He  believed  it 
all.  When  he  was  gettin'  into  the  gang- 
lin'  age  he  got  hold  of  an  old  book  tellin' 
all  about  demons,  by  some  old  writer, 
I  don't  know  who.  A  deep  impression 
it  made  on  the  boy.  In  fact,  the  first 
time  I  ever  saw  him,  one  day  when  I 
pulled  in  off  the  range  to  water  my 
horse  at  the  grandmother's  ranch,  he 
looked  up  at  me  with  them  bright  eyes 
of  his  an'  says,  sudden : 

'  'Did  you  ever  meet  any  demons?' 

'"Hell! 'says  I. 

'They're  everywhere,'  says  he.  'They 
hide  behind  rocks  an'  trees  an'  jump  out 
to  grab  you.' 

"I  sat  still  in  the  saddle  for  a  minute 
speculatin'  on  the  consequences  of  a 
lonesome  life  back  there  in  the  hills  with 
only  a  simple  minded  old  grandmother 
to  talk  to. 

"  'Ain't  there  anything,'  I  asked,  to 
keep  him  goin',  'that  ye  can  do  to  keep 
'em  off?' 

"  'Sure  there  is,'  says  he.  'In  the  old 
days  they  used  to  hold  a  cross  out  in 
front  of  themselves.  Demons  are  scared 
of  the  cross  and  they  would  run.  But  I 
haven't  got  a  cross.  I  was  goin'  to  make 
one  for  protection,  only  I  didn't.  I 
thought  of  somethin'  else.  You  see,  I 
thought  it  all  out.  If  the  demons  want 
to  grab  you  they've  got  to  assume  mortal 
form  so  they  will  have  bodies  to  come 
at  you  with.  So  I  figured  out  that  if 
demons  attacked  you  you  could  destroy 
them  by  mortal  means.  Destroy  their 
mortal  forms,  I  mean.  Of  course,  you 
can't  destroy  them  altogether,  any  more 
than  you  can  destroy  a  soul.  But  if  you 
destroy  their  mortal  forms  that  must 
cause  them  a  lot  of  pain.  So  I'm  not 
goin'  to  use  a  cross.  I'm  practicin"  up 
with  a  couple  of  guns  somebody  left  with 
grandma.  If  I  meet  up  with  any  demons 
I'll  protect  myself  with  them,  seein'  as 
how  the  demons  got  to  take  mortal  form. 
I've  thought  it  all  out.  Grandma  says  I'm 
a  bright  boy.' 

"It  was  a  couple  of  years  after  that 
first  meetin'  before  I  saw  grandma's 
bright  boy  again.  In  the  meantime  his 
grandmother  had  died  an'  he  had  sold 
the  little  ranch.  Then  he  went  to  work 
for  the  big  DeWitt  outfit.  You'd  think 
that  associatin'  with  all  them  cowpunch- 
ers  of  Dewitt's  would  a  sort  of  mod- 
ernized him.  But  it  didn't.  The  main 
reason  was  'cause  DeWitt's  men,  for 
all  that  they  was  the  toughest  bunch  of 


hellions  on  the  range,  were  leary  of  him, 
with  all  his  wild  talk  of  demons  an' 
such.  An'  he  wouldn't  join  'em  in  their 
sprees  an'  poker  games,  either.  He  said 
drinkin'  and  gamblin,'  yeh,  an'  even 
smokin,'  were  the  lures  of  the  devil. 
Again  he'd  developed  a  mos'  un-Chris- 
tion  speed  with  a  six-gun  to  protect  him- 
self from  the  minions  of  Satan.  Yeh, 
that's  what  he  called  'em. 

"So  there  wasn't  much  chummin'  be- 
tween him  an'  the  punchers.  He  stood 
apart  an'  they  let  him  alone.  In  fact,  I 
was  about  the  only  one  he  ever  did  really 
open  up  an'  talk  to.  I'd  meet  him  out 
on  the  range  or  sometimes  I'd  chew  the 
fat  with  him  in  Gregg's  store  in  Westby, 
the  only  store  in  the  place,  which  is,  ye 
know,  nothin'  but  a  wide  spot  in  the 
road  with  half  a  dozen  shacks  squattin' 
around  it. 

'  'You  know,'  he  says  to  me  one  day. 
'I  believe  the  demons  are  afraid  of  me. 
I've  thought  it  all  out.  I  bet  they  won't 
try  to  attack  me.  They  know  I'm  ready 
for  'em.  They'll  try  to  lure  me.  But 
I'll  be  on  my  guard  against  that,  too.' 

'  'That's  right,'  says  I,  joshin'  him 
lightly,  so  he  won't  know  it.  'Be  on 
your  guard.  An'  if  you  meet  any  of 
them  demons,  let  me  know.' 

'  'I  will,'  says  he,  'and  if  you  meet 
any  you  let  me  know.' 

"He  went  his  way  an'  I  headed  on 
into  Westby.  Gregg  was  makin'  up  a 
sack  of  grub  an'  such,  with  a  jug  thrown 
in,  for  a  feller  named  Flanahan,  an 
Irishman  just  over  from  the  old  country, 
who  was  going'  out  with  three  Swedes 
to  build  a  corral  on  the  range  for  old 
MacMasters. 

"I  stayed  chattin'  with  Gregg  awhile. 
We  kidded  the  Irishman  along  a  lot, 
just  to  get  him  to  talk  so's  we  could 
hear  his  brogue.  But  he  didn't  mind. 
He  was  a  sociable  little  feller.  Fact,  he 
gave  me  a  big  swig  from  his  jug  just 
before  he  left. 

"  'Twas  in  Westby,  too,  that  I  next 
saw  Pete.  He  came  into  the  store  to 
buy  somethin'  or  other  the  next  day  with 
his  eyes  as  bright  as  fire.  After  he  buys 
what  he  wants  he  pulls  me  over  to  one 
side. 

"  'Seen  any  demons'? 

"  'Nary  a  one.' 

'  'I  have,'  says  he.  I  looked  at  him 
sharp.  The  poor  kid  had  been  thinkin' 
about  demons  so  long  that  he'd  got  to 
the  point  where  he  was  seein'  things. 

'  'Yes,'  he  goes  on,  'some  demons  in 


240 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


the  guise  of  men.  But  I  recognized  'em. 
They  tried  to  trap  me  into  sellin'  my 
soul,  just  like  they  tempted  Christ  on 
the  Mountain.  But  I  routed  'em.  One 
of  'em  ran  howlin'  across  the  prairie. 
He  goes  out  of  the  store  an'  rides  away. 

"An  hour  later  I  was  still  gabbin' 
with  Gregg  an'  a  couple  of  boys  that  was 
in  the  store  when  the  door  bangs  open. 
Flanahan  stands  in  the  doorway.  The 
poor  Mick  was  a  hell  of  a  lookin'  sight, 
clothes  all  torn,  plumb  outta  breath,  an' 
lookin'  so  damned  sacred  I  pricks  up  my 
ears,  thinkin'  there  might  be  somethin' 
in  the  kid's  yarns  of  demons,  after  all. 
The  Irishman  sure  looked  like  he'd  seen 
somethin'  highly  unusual.  When  he  sees 
us  sittin'  there  he  cuts  loose. 

"  'Gallopin'  Jasus' !  he  howled.  'Phwat 
kind  of  a  country  is  this?  We  offer  a 
mon  a  drink  from  our  jug  an'  he  blows 
the  brains  out  of  thray  of  us!' 

"Yes,  the  kid  had  got  a  little  mixed 
up  in  his  demons  in  the  guise  of  men. 

'Twas  the  next  day  before  I  could 
get  out  on  the  range  to  hunt  him  up. 
'Twas  in  my  mind  to  tell  him  to  get 
out  of  the  country  an'to  travel  damn 
fast.  But  I  wasn't  the  only  one  out 
lookin'  for  him.  Old  MacMasters  was 
sore  as  hell  about  losin'  his  three  Swedes 
an'  he'd  turned  loose  all  his  riders,  an' 
a  hard-boiled  crew  they  were. 

"Consequences  were  the  poor,  pious 
lad  must  have  thought  the  whole  coun- 
try had  suddenly  been  populated  with 
demons  fresh  up  from  hell  to  avenge 
their  brothers.  Every  way  he  turned 
they  was  takin'  pot-shots  at  him. 


"Anyway,  when  I  sights  him  ridin' 
down  a  coulee,  he  thinks  I'm  a  demon, 
too.  I  wasn't  close  enough  for  him  to 
see  who  I  was  and  thank  the  Lord  I 
wasn't.  Course,  he  might  a  recognized 
me  if  I  had  been,  but  on  the  other  hand 
.  .  .  my  God,  that  lead  come  close.  I 
went  back  to  Westby. 

"So  I  was  in  town  when  the  riders 
gave  up  and  came  back.  Soon  as  he  saw 
the  demons  lettin'  up  on  him  the  kid 
apparently  decided  he'd  press  hard  on 
their  heels  an'  retaliate.  That  was  how 
come  the  stage  from  Crosby  pulled  into 
Westby  that  day  with  the  driver's  eyes 
poppin'  out  of  his  head. 

"To  get  that  look  off  his  face,  we 
had  to  get  him  so  drunk  he  couldn't  talk. 
So  we  couldn't  find  out  what  in  hell  had 
happened,  'cept  what  we  got  from  lookin' 
at  what  was  left  of  his  passengers,  two 
gamblers  and  a  barkeeper  from  Crosby. 
'Twas  a  gruesome  sight. 

"The  sheriff  shows  up  in  Westby  the 
next  day.  He  comes  in  at  the  end  of 
his  sixty  mile  ride,  tired  out,  dusty  an' 
so  mad  he  can  hardly  talk. 

'  'Who's  this  Pete?'  he  snaps  at  me, 
seein'  as  I'm  the  first  person  he  meets. 

'  'Why,'  says  I,  'he's  a  pious  young 
feller  whose  grandma  raised  him  very 
religious  .  .  .' 

'  'Say,  he  snarls,  an'  that  wasn't  all 
he  said.  He  just  let  himself  go  an'  swore 
at  me  for  ten  minutes  straight. 

"I  could  see  it  was  no  use  tryin'  to 
explain  things  to  him.  He  was  too  damn 
hot  headed  an'  bull  headed,  bull  headed 
like  a  sheriff's  got  to  be  in  this  country. 


Then,  again,  I  could  see  he  was  a  man 
of  no  imagination.  'Twas  plain  he'd 
never  appreciate  the  kid's  side  of  the 
affair. 

"But  mad  as  the  sheriff  was  then,  it 
wasn't  a  patch  on  how  howlin'  mad  he 
was  over  what  happened  to  his  posse 
when  they  surrounded  Pete.  The  pious 
lad  had  added  a  rifle  to  his  stock  of 
demon  destroyin'  implements  by  then. 
An'  when  he  saw  the  demons  closin'  in 
on  him  from  all  sides  he  just  natcher'ly 
opened  up  and  raised  hell. 

"When  they  got  him  with  a  rush  at 
last  he  just  looks  up  at  'em  an'  says: 

'  'Well,  you  got  my  body.  But  you 
ain't  got  my  soul.' 

''Damn  your  soul!'  says  the  sheriff, 
who  didn't  understand  a  bit. 

"He  was,  as  I  say,  a  man  of  no  imag- 
ination. 'Twould  a  been  useless  to  argue 
with  him.  He  wouldn't  a  listened  to  the 
few  of  us  who  understood. 

"So  he  swung  the  kid.  Perhaps  'twas 
just  as  well.  For,  as  I  tell  ye,  there's 
no  doubt  but  that  the  lad  is  safe  in 
heaven  with  his  grandma,  to  whose 
teachin's  he  owed  his  piety.  So  hangin' 
him  didn't  hurt  a  bit  an'  it  satisfied  the 
sheriff.  The  three  Swedes  are  undoubt- 
edly in  hell  as  befits  them  as  would  try 
to  lead  a  pious  boy  to  ruin  with  an  offer 
of  a  swig  from  a  whiskey  jug.  An'  any 
deacon  fresh  up  from  Illinois  can  tell 
ye  the  same  is  true  of  the  sports  that 
was  in  the  stage.  So  piety  is  rewarded, 
justice  is  done  all  around,  we've  had  a 
good  hangin'  an'  everybody's  happy." 


Every  Square-toed  Virtue  Has  Its  Day 


SOMEONE  with  a  statistical  turn  of 
mind  and  an  adding  machine  has 
been  checking  up  on  all  the  days  and 
weeks  set  aside  for  special  purposes  and 
so  far  he  has  found  more  than  100  of 
them. 

All  the  square-toed  virtues  from  hon- 
esty to  punctuality  have  their  own  par- 
ticular periods.  Most  of  the  animals  in 
the  Zoo  and  about  all  the  insects  in  the 
Smithsonian  Institution  have  places 
marked  off  on  the  calendar  where  they 
are  to  be  either  glorified  or  poisoned. 
We  have  one  week  dedicated  to  the  rein- 
deer when  a  lot  of  us  try  to  remember 
whether  he  has  horns  like  a  dilemma 


or  a  set  of  antlers  like  a  mid-Victorian 
hatrack.  We  have  honey-bee  week, 
swat-that-fly  week  and  step-on-that- 
cock  roach  week. 

In  the  domain  of  horticulture  the  pea- 
nut, the  apple,  the  cranberry,  the  potato 
and  the  boarding  house  prune  each  in 
turn  becomes  the  subject  of  special 
newspaper  comment,  band  concerts,  chil- 
dren's exercises  and  non-stop  flights  by 
orators.  The  only  member  of  the  vege- 
table family  that  has  not  yet  been  memo- 
rialized by  a  special  week  is  the  onion. 
Yes,  we  really  ought  to  have  an  onion 
week.  People  are  getting  so  they  push 


and  jostle   into  each  other  a  little   too 
much,  anyway. 

Just  to  illustrate  how  we  are  slogan- 
ized, standardized  and  synchronized,  let 
us  take  one  model,  or  typical  week,  and 
we  find  the  program  runs  about  as  fol- 
lows: Monday,  pay  your  debts;  Tues- 
day, buy  a  piano ;  Wednesday,  poison 
your  rats;  Thursday,  take  out  more  life 
insurance,  be  polite,  eat  canned  goods, 
buy  a  new  car,  read  a  book,  plant  a  tree 
and  adopt  a  cat ;  Friday,  have  your  teeth 
pulled;  Saturday,  learn  a  poem  and  get 
your  brakes  relined ;  Sunday,  go  into 
training  for  the  next  week. — Harry 
Daniel  in  Thrift  Magazine. 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY    and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


241 


A  Museum  Dream 


NOT  LONG  ago,  above  the  clat- 
ter of  the  daily  grind,  there 
came  word  of  a  gift  to  the  Le- 
gion of  Honor  Palace  of  Fine  Arts,  the 
gift  of  art  objects  from  the  Orient. 
There  was  nothing  spectacular  about 
the  giving,  no  fanfare  of  trumpets  or 
back-slapping  drums — at  most,  there  was 
a  wondering  that  Albert  Bender  should 
add  another  to  his  already  long  list  of 
benefactions. 

But  there  was  something  about  the 
Oriental  Room  at  the  Legion  Palace  to 
make  one  stop  to  speculate.  Something 
in  the  way  it  was  given,  something  in 
the  spirit  of  the  collection  itself  that 
spoke  of  half-hidden  meanings. 

After  several  days'  effort  to  get  in 
touch  with  that  busiest  of  art  patrons, 
it  was  at  last  possible  to  talk  with  Al- 
bert Bender.  And,  although  he  refused 
an  interview,  shunning  the  personal 
publicity  and  shrinking  from  the  usual 
magazine  expose  of  what  would  in  his 
case  be  a  long  list  of  public  services, 
Mr.  Bender  did  pause  in  the  midst  of  an 
important  conference  to  give  the  key  to 
the  secret  behind  his  latest  gift. 

And  with  this  key  it  was  possible  to 
return  to  the  room  of  Oriental  art  treas- 
ures in  the  Legion  Palace  to  dream  a 
dream  like  unto  that  which  had  begot- 
ten the  magnificent  gift. 

From  the  potteries  and  vases,  the 
paintings  and  statues  of  ancient  China, 
Japan  and  Thibet,  there  rose  a  vision 
of  not  just  one  room  in  a  museum,  other- 
wise devoted  to  things  of  the  Occident, 
but  of  an  entire  museum  erected  for  the 
art  of  the  Orient  alone.  And  in  that 
museum  there  were  examples  of  the 
finest  in  artistic  expression  from  past 
ages  down  to  present  time  in  Japan, 
China,  Persia,  Thibet  and  indeed  all 
parts  of  the  great  mystic  East.  Wan- 
dering at  will  along  the  stately  corri- 
dors of  this  house  of  dreams,  it  seemed 
that  from  each  object,  from  each  paint- 
ing, there  came  a  bit  of  understanding 
and,  as  one  looked  farther,  there  came 
an  understanding  of  the  philosophy  of 
ancient  civilizations.  One  felt  the 
calm  of  Mongol  thought.  One  knew  the 
depth  of  Eastern  contemplation.  For, 
through  the  art  of  past  dynasties,  one 
found  preserved  the  spirit  of  those  civi- 
lizations whose  history  is  as  a  tale  that 
is  told  in  a  mystic  tongue. 

Further,   from  out  this  dream,  there 


By  Aline  Kistler 

came  the  vision  of  multitudes  of  this 
Western  race  emerging  from  the  mu- 
seum with  added  understanding  and 
warmer  sympathy  for  those  on  opposing 
Pacific  shores. 

"I  do  not  suppose  we  can  ever  do 
away  with  all  wars,"  Mr.  Bender  had 
said  rather  wistfully ;  but  in  his  very 
denial  there  was  a  longing  hope  that 
his  dream  materialized  would  bridge  the 
gap  of  misunderstanding  between  east- 
ern and  western  modes  of  thought  and 
hasten  the  day  of  economic  and  political 
amitv. 


YOUNG  spiders  in  the  pregnant  plum 
trees  creep 

Along  their  golden  guy-ropes  in  the  sun, 
And    sturdy    ants,    slow-groping    from 

their  sleep, 

Make  subtle  tumult  for  the  day  begun. 
New    lawns    are    wet    beside    cathedral 

doors 
And    bells    descant,    in    quite    a    special 

strain, 
Of   Spring  and  how  the  quinquepartite 

sores 

Of  Christ  are  open  on  this  morn  again, 
Electrons   spin  and    atoms  whirl   apace 

Upon  this  famous  crust  the  nations  teem 

The  sun  beats  down  in  malice  and   in 

grace 

On  Man,  of  all  the  universe  the  cream: 
And  fat  young  spiders  in  the  plum  trees 

creep 
Along     their     golden     guy-ropes,     half 

asleep. 

WALTER  T.  LEE,  JR. 


There  is  every  assurance  that  Mr. 
Bender's  hopes  are  not  ill-founded,  for 
was  it  not  just  the  other  day  that  the 
following  conversation  was  overheard  in 
the  Oriental  Room  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  Palace? 

"See,  these  are  Chinese  things,  aren't 
they?" 

"But  aren't  they  strange?  Just  look 
at  this  one,  will  you?  That  doesn't  seem 
to  mean  very  much,  does  it?  And  yet 
you  know  that  it  meant  a  lot  to  the  Chi- 


nese. It  makes  one  wonder  what  they 
were  th.nking  about.  Wish  I  knew." 

"Yes,  and  look  at  this  picture.  Look 
at  the  hands  and  feet  and  their  positions. 
And  you  find  that  in  nearly  all  of  them. 
I  wonder  what  they  mean  by  that." 

"No  wonder  it's  hard  to  understand 
the  Oriental  people  themselves  when  we 
can't  even  understand  their  symbols  of 
thought." 

Certainly  there  was  sown  a  seed  of 
understanding.  At  least  these  casual 
observers  were  stimulated  to  know  more 
of  the  Oriental  mind. 

Mr.  Bender  claims  this  gift  to  be 
merely  a  gesture  toward  what  he  hopes 
will  some  day  be  accomplished  here  in 
San  Francisco,  the  log'cal  place  for  the 
greatest  museum  of  Oriental  art  in  the 
world. 

A  gesture,  it  may  be,  but  not  any 
idle  posturing:  rather  it  is  a  meaningful 
movement  toward  accomplishment,  a 
crystallization  of  the  idea  in  miniature 
— for  already  he  has  representations  from 
the  various  important  periods  of  Chinese 
art  and  objects  interpretive  of  Japanese 
and  Thibetan  art. 

Some  of  the  potteries  are  very  old  in- 
deed, dating  back  to  the  Han  dynasty, 
206  B.  C.  to  221  A.  D.  Then  there 
are  creditable  representations  from  the 
Tang,  Sung,  Ming,  K'ang  Hsi,  Yung 
Ching  and  Ch'ien  Lung  periods.  Truly 
it  is  like  wandering  through  phantoms  of 
past  ?ges  for  in  the  art  that  has  survived 
is  found  th"  essence  of  accomplishment. 
What  else  is  there  that  can  be  thus  car- 
ried from  one  generation  to  the  next? 
Surely  in  nothing  else  is  civilization's 
advance  epitomized  so  much  as  in  ait. 

Already  Mr.  Bender's  gift  has  borne 
fruit  by  stimulating  other  gifts  to  the 
colVction.  Others  have  been  fired  bv  his 
dream  and,  little  by  little,  as  dream 
builds  on  dream,  there  will  come  a  c'user 
r.nd  closer  realization  of  the  idea. 

It  will  take  years  of  time  and  millions 
of  dollars  before  it  is  all  complete.  It 
would  be,  in  itself,  the  work  of  a  lite- 
time  of  any  one  man;  and,  as  Mr.  Ben- 
der himself  is  far  too  deeply  involved 
with  his  many  interests  in  various  artis- 
tic fields  to  give  up  everything  else  to 
devote  himself  to  this  one  idea,  he  hopes 
that  the  dream  will  of  itself  draw  en- 
thusiasm from  many  sources  so  that  in 
time  San  Francisco  will  boast  of  the 
world's  finest  Museum  of  Oriental  Art. 


242 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


Page  of  Verse 


LAST  VACATION  DAYS 

(On  Carmel  Sands) 

YOUNG  and  beautiful, 

Beautiful  and  young, 
Your  bare,  brown  bodies  flung 
On  the  white  beach,  sweet  is  your  flesh 
With  sun  and  pine  and  salty  spray, 
And  firm  under  a  shifting  mesh 
Of  sand.     This  is  the  day 

The  sun,  your  father,  and  your  mother,  earth — 
(The  sea  and  shore  beneath,  the  fire  above) 
Catch  you,  their  younglings,  in  between  their  love 
To  tang  and  tumble  you  in  mirth 
And  toss  you  down  to  trickle  these  white  sands 
Through  slender,  nervous,  sun-burned  hands 
While  all  your  street  and  college  songs  are  sung — 
O  young  and  beautiful, 
Beautiful  and  young. 

O  young  and  beautiful, 

Soon  must  you  rise 

And,  garmented  from  sun, 

Enter  the  bourn  of  books  and  so  grow  wise. 

Then  must  a  moon  of  learning  finger  you 

With  her  too  pallid  hue 

And  the  sun's  tawny  touch  depart 

From  your  bright  bodies.     You  will  know  by  heart 

What  great  men  think  of  life  and  you  will  tell 

Long  beads  of  knowledge  but  you  will  not  spell 

The  lettered  stars,  compass  rings  of  Saturn 

Or  learn  design  from  sun  and  shadow  pattern 

By  night  and  day,  upon  the  wide  sands  flung, 

O  young  and  beautiful, 

Beautiful  and  young. 

SARA  BARD  FIELD. 


ASHES 

I  CANNOT  think  that  all  you  were 
Lies  locked  in  this  small,  sombre  urn. 
Does  not  some  ghostly  gossamer 

Of  love  still  linger  near  and  yearn 
About  those  things  your  heart  held  dear? 

Perhaps  the  torch  of  truth  you  bore 
Burns  now  to  make  a  star  more  clear: 

It  may  be  you  have  found  the  door 
To  deathless  beauty,  and  have  gone 
To  scent  the  chalice  of  a  flower, 
To  gild  the  glory  of  the  dawn, 
Or  round  a  robin's  lyric  hour. 

LORI  PETRI. 


THE  PLUM  ORCHARD 

YOU  tell  me  that  for  love  I  lack  a  soul — 
In  August,  when  the  level  orchard  ways 
Are  floored  with  amethyst — a  dim  violet  haze 
Of  fallen  fruit  circling  each  slender  bole — 
Then  shall  my  heart  grow  to  a  perfect  whole, 
Like  the  dark  lustrous  purple  globes  that  fill 
The  air  with  fragrance  as  my  full  heart  will — 

Thirst  is  not  solaced  from  an  empty  bowl. 
Not  till  the  plums  are  ripe  and  the  trees  shaken 
Will  I  pronounce  mature   and  solemn  vows — 
For  me,  light  loves  and  kisses  lightly  taken 
While  there  are  blossoms  thick  upon  the  boughs. 
Pluck  not  my  heart  impetuously,  but  wait — 
The  fruit  is  sweetest  when  it  ripens  late. 

— JOAN  RAMSAY. 


THE  RENDEZVOUS 

day  when  the  beach  is  deserted 
By  the  last  of  my  faithless  lovers, 
I  shall  run  to  the  shelter 
Of  your  hungry,  waiting  arms. 
Quietly  I  will  slide  into  the  water. 
Swiftly  then  O  Sea,  (one  says  he  needs  me) 
Suck  me  into  yourself. 
Clasped  in  your  frothy  arms,  carry  me 
Out  where  the  great  waves  roll, 
Farther  than  eye  can  reach — 
So  far  I  will  hear  no  call. 
If  then  perchance,  some  one  should  see 
This  storm-tossed  wreck  of  me, 
'Twould  seem  but  floating  driftwood — 
But  driftwood  they  would  see. 
Driftwood? 

Deep  is  the  water  now   .   .    . 

0  Sea,  you  are  a  tempestuous  lover. 

1  have  given  you  myself    .    .    . 
So  kiss  and  release  me  tenderly, 
For  I  am  tired. 

From  your  embrace  let  me  drift  gently 

Down down 

Down  where  the  seaweed  grows — 
(Seaweeds  have  no  thorns) 
Seaweed  is  only  soft  and  useless — 
Useless,  except  for  me  to  rest  upon, 
And  dream  upon 
Through  the  fathomless  silence. 
Driftwood  upon  seaweed. 

JESSIE  WEBER  KITT. 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


243 


THERE  were  two  good  things  and 
several  bad  ones  on  the  San  Fran- 
cisco bills.  The  bad  ones  included 
a  study  of  Hawaiian  promiscuous  inde- 
cency perpetrated  by  a  vile  company  and 
entitled  "One  Man's  Woman."  The 
others  were  not  so  bad,  but  far  from 
perfect.  They  were  Al  Jolson's  "Big 
Boy,"  the  continuation  (now  ended)  of 
the  "Patsy"  run,  and  the  opening  of 
"Meet  the  Wife."  Then  by  virtue  of 
living  unto  its  principle,  "The  Ghost 
Train"  was  good.  Most  of  the  stuff, 
and  it  includes  the  successes  growing  out 
of  a  false  sophistication  in  reading  and 
theater  matter,  is  the  result  of  an  at- 
tempt at  imitating  the  European  moods, 
whatever  they  may  be.  These  latter, 
however,  are  more  true  to  themselves 
and  no  matter  how  annoying  they  are, 
stand  alone.  The  imitations  frequently 
fall  down.  In  nearly  all  of  the  produc- 
tions recently  current  here  the  plot  has 
grown  around  a  play  on  words,  the 
stories  are  thought  up  merely  to  set 
them  off.  Not  only  clever  words,  either. 
The  Gaite  Ftancais  production  of 
"Le  Bonheur  n'est  pas  de  ce  Monde" 
being  done  in  the  French  manner  of  a 
French  farce,  was  a  considerable  suc- 
cess. Briskly  acted  out  almost  to  the 
point  of  burlesque,  the  requisite  marital 
tangle  of  the  wayward  wife  was  ex- 
tremely delicious.  It  was  most  admirably 
set  in  a  blare  of  color  and  futurism. 
Throughout  the  interpretations  were  per- 
fect, though  sometimes  they  revealed 
the  player's  desire  for  self-exploitation 
through  forcing  the  part.  It  was  indeed 
a  gratifying  and  sparkling  series  of  char- 
acters. 

AREN'T  WE  ALL,"  a  comedy  of 
marvelous  fabrications,  was  the 
first  of  the  summer  session  plays  at 
Wheeler  Hall,  U.  C.  campus.  Frederick 
Blanchard,  as  the  unscrupulous  arbi- 
trator of  affections,  and  Minetta  Ellen, 
in  her  role  of  delightful  sophistication, 
gave  just  the  right  touch  to  make  the 
audience,  composed  mostly  of  staid 
school  teachers,  gasp  and  thrill  at  their 
daring.  Mr.  Blanchard  developed  a  new 


jThe  Play's 
the  Thing 


CURT  BAER 


voice  in  the  first  act,  resumed  his  accus- 
tomed tones  in  the  second,  and  gave  only 
a  ghost  of  a  suggestion  of  change  in  the 
third.  Yet,  it  was  a  step  in  the  right 
direction.  Mildred  Heavey's  modern 
English  bride  had  an  unexpected  and 
thought-provoking  mood.  Her  leading 
man  was  insipid — a  sickly,  sneery,  col- 
lege boy. 

The  set  for  the  second  and  third  acts 
was  sportive,  but  not  akin  to  the  script. 
No  lady  of  Vicarish  tendencies  would 
have  insisted  on  such  an  astounding  pat- 
tern. Evidently  it  cramps  a  designer's 
style  to  read  the  script  of  the  play  he  is 
to  set. 

The  lack  of  curtain  facilities  at 
Wheeler  Hall  permits  the  audience  to 
watch  scene  shifting,  and  it  is  the  busy 
stage-hands  that  become  the  focus  of  all 
eyes  between  acts.  Sensing  this,  they 
have  bloomed  forth  in  bright  regalia. 
Coolie  coats  are  the  thing — and  com- 
bined with  sport  knickers. 

AT  THE  LURIE  the  public  has  re- 
-^*-  ceived  dashes  of  surprises  of  con- 
siderable strength  and  daring  in  "Chi- 
cago." Getting  away  with  murder  is 
correct,  not  only  in  the  plot  but  in  a  lot 
of  the  writing  and  attitude.  It  starts 
out  with  an  explosive  prologue  at  a  fast, 
breathless  pace,  only  to  peter  out  toward 
the  end  in  true  fashion  of  most  modern 
plays.  But  its  grand  and  flamboyant  sa- 
tire on  the  trend  of  court  procedure  was, 
though  purely  on  the  surface,  very  good 
and  brilliantly  funny.  Yet  there  is  noth- 
ing but  coarse  humor  and  swearing  which 
at  first  sets  the  pitch,  but  by  two  acts 
becomes  tiresome.  Though  all  the  scenes 
and  incidents  are  true  to  life,  the  fault 
of  the  piece  lies  in  its  being  a  denoue- 
ment of  the  prologue  instead  of  a  build- 
ing to  the  finale ;  consequently  as  late  as 
the  last  scene  new  ideas  and  characters 
are  introduced  to  bolster  up  the  opus.  It 
is  agreeably  staged,  there  is  no  real  sor- 
didness,  and  what  raciness  appears  is 
mollified  by  being  ignored  as  any  faux 
pas.  The  playing  is  of  the  same  sort, 
fast,  furious  and  jazzy ;  there  were  some 
excellent  passages  and  several  good  char- 


acterizations. The  role  of  the  reporter 
was  amazingly  genuine  and  done  with  a 
casualness  that  was  a  godsend ;  Clark 
Gable's  excellent  personality  had  much 
to  do  with  the  play's  well-being.  Nancv 
Carrol  onlv  at  times  succeeded  in  being 
a  thoroughly  demi-mondaine  Roxie  Hart ; 
she  was  in  spite  of  her  Gilda  Grey  move- 
ments and  undulations  very  far  from 
Roxie.  The  others  merely  were  satellites 
of  the  first  magnitude.  In  this  furious 
melee  of  biting  self-assertion  by  naughty 
ladies,  there  appeared  a  characterization 
worthy  of  a  Barrie  play.  She  was  also  a 
murderess,  but  so  delightfully  conceived 
that  she  assumed  the  outstanding  crea- 
tion, the  half-wit  "Liz"  played  with  fine 
intention  through  a  more  than  adequate 
medium  by  Lydia  Dickson.  Perhaps  this 
lack  of  medium  of  expression  hampered 
the  sharper  success  of  the  other  roles. 
They  were  all  good,  but  none  so  good  as 
to  leave  the  memory  of  a  complete,  a 
mental,  as  well  as  a  physical  semblance 
to  a  character  outside  the  player.  They 
were  all,  as  most  actors  are,  vitally  pos- 
sessed, there  was  no  more  respite  for 
breath  than  in  a  scenic  railway  ride, 
never  did  they  let  the  audience  lag.  Had 
there  been  a  pause  the  piece  would  not 
have  survived. 

The  forthcoming  dramas  are  varied. 
At  the  Lurie  they  are  to  do  David  Be- 
lasco's  "The  Harem,"  probably  with 
Mary  Duncan  of  "The  Shanghai  Ges- 
ture" fame;  the  Alcazar  is  doing  "Meet 
the  Wife,"  with  Marion  Lord. 


STOCK  company  technique  may  not 
appeal  to  those  seeking  in  the  theater 
a  better  field  of  drama,  yet  often  the 
very  things  done  are  justified  by  their 
not  presuming  to  be  anything  else.  The 
Duffy  presentation  of  "The  Ghost 
Train"  is  a  case  in  point,  for  how  use- 
less it  would  be  for  an  art  theatre  to 
do  this  hilarious  melodrama !  The  plot 
is  really  good,  full  of  surprises,  and  al- 
though machine-made  is  logical  and  not 
absurd.  Perhaps  the  spirit  in  which  the 
actors  thought  out  their  parts  had  con- 
siderable to  do  with  this — there  were 
some  excellent  bits  of  playing. 


244 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


k 


OORS 


CONDUCTED  BY 


TOM  WHITE 


MARCHING  ON 

JAMES  BOYD  scored  heavily  with 
his  very  first  novel,  DRUMS.  Its  as- 
similation created  an  instant  demand  for 
another  one,  just  like  it;  and  now  the 
demand  has  brought  fruit  in  the  shape 
of  MARCHING  ON,  which  bids  fair  to 
equal  or  possibly  excel  the  first. 

DRUMS  is  a  stirring  bit  of  historical 
fiction  of  the  American  Revolutionary 
period;  MARCHING  ON  is  an  historical 
novel  of  the  Civil  War  days.  Granting 
that  Mr.  Boyd  is  even  considering  such 
a  thing,  what  will  be  the  title  of  a 
worthy  companion  for  these  two  books, 
with  the  World  War  for  a  background  ? 
It  is  only  natural  that  the  public  look 
to  him  for  some  such  work. 

James  Fraser  was  the  son  of  a  poor 
white  farmer.  Not  far  from  his  father's 
humble  little  shack  stood  Beaumont,  the 
magnificent  estate  of  Colonel  Prevost, 
wealthy  planter  and  slave  owner.  Be- 
tween James  and  the  Colonel's  daugh- 
ter, Stewart,  there  springs  up  the  very 
tenderest  kind  of  a  love  affair  which 
sustains  young  Fraser  throughout  the 
unending  marches  and  in  the  long 
months  of  prison  life,  toward  the  end 
of  which  it  seems  his  reason  must  leave 
him. 

There  is  something  compelling  about 
this  book — something  more  than  the 
brutal  actuality  of  stark  combat,  with 
its  grizzly  aftermath.  It  is,  in  short, 
the  story  of  the  South,  her  sacrifices,  her 
hopes,  her  devotion  to  purpose  and  ideal, 
developed  with  an  effortless  style 
through  the  eyes  of  young  James  Fraser, 
son  of  the  soil,  and  Stewart  Prevost, 
dainty,  comely,  aristocratic,  her  father 
one  of  the  most  influential  citizens  of 
the  South. 

The  relation  between  young  Fraser 
and  the  Colonel's  daughter  is  handled 
with  consummate  skill.  A  masterful 
touch  is  required  of  such  situations,  and 
Boyd  has  risen  to  the  occasion  in  a  man- 
ner that  will  satisfy  the  most  critical 
reader.  In  fact,  in  a  book  of  this  kind, 
where  the  love  element  is  not  necessarily 
the  predominant  one,  more  often  than 
not  the  reader  is  treated  to  the  sad  spec- 
tacle of  a  witless  and  quite  superfluous 


love  affair  being  dragged  in  whether  it 
is  relevant  or  not.  In  this  respect,  Boyd 
gives  equal  weight  to  each  element  of 
the  story,  in  which  none  is  placed  in  the 
light  of  being  a  mere  accessory  or  prop. 
Splashes  of  vividness,  soft  tones  of 
pure  beauty,  neutral  tints  of  rare 
charm — these  have  been  caught  and  held, 
in  flashes  of  sharp  comparison,  to  make 
of  MARCHING  ON  an  outstanding  book 
of  the  vear. 


WHEN  YOU  GO  TO   EUROPE.    By 
Edwin     Robert     Petre.      Funk    & 
Wagnal  Company.    $1.50. 

CHAINS.  By  Theodore  Dreiser. 
Boni  &  Liveright.  $2.50. 

A  SHORT  VIEW  OF  MENCKEN- 
ISM — IN  MENCKENESE.  By  Jo- 
seph B.  Harrison,  University  of 
Washington  Chapbook  I.  65c. 

BACK  OF  BEYOND.  By  Stewart 
Edward  White.  Doubleday,  Page 
&  Company.  $2.00. 

MARCHING  ON.  By  James  Boyd. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  $2.50. 

THE  SOUTH  AFRICANS.  By 
Sarah  Gertrude  Millin.  Boni  & 
Liveright.  $3.50. 

BERBERS  AND  BLACKS.  By  Da- 
vid P.  Barrows.  The  Century 
Company.  $3.00. 

THE    HARVEST  OF  THE  YEARS. 

by    Wilbur    Hall.       Reviewed    by 
A.  H.  C. 

7  P.  M.  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  By 
Mark  Van  Doren,  Albert  and 
Charles  Boni.  Reviewed  by  Sara 
Bard  Field. 

THESE  PEOPLE.  By  Howard  Mc- 
Kinley  Corning.  Harold  Vinal, 
1.25.  Reviewed  by  Tancred. 


CHAINS 

THOSE  who  have  a  fondness  for  the 
works  of  Theodore  Dreiser  will  en- 
joy the  volume  just  brought  out  by  Boni 
&  Liveright  containing  a  collection  of 
his  shorter  novels  and  stories  under  the 
title  of  CHAINS.  The  jacket  announces 
sixteen,  but  one  of  them,  "Fine  Furni- 
ture," does  not  seem  to  appear. 

These  books  of  collected  works  hold 
a  tremendous  fascination  for  manv  read- 


ers, in  that  they  present  an  author  in 
such  a  variety  of  lights;  they  display 
most  strikingly  his  grasp  on  varying  sit- 
uations, his  method  of  handling  widely 
different  problems. 

In  the  book  under  review,  the  stories 
showing  by  far  the  greatest  strength 
are  "Phantom  Gold,"  "Typhoon," 
"Chains,"  and  "Sanctuary."  The  last 
named  is  an  intensely  human  yarn,  the 
wistful  poignancy  of  its  appeal  being 
undeniable.  The  method  of  treatment 
employed  in  "Chains"  is  both  unique 
and  effective.  "Typhoon"  and  "Phan- 
tom Gold"  are  full  of  the  essence  of 
humanity.  Many  of  the  other  stories, 
notably  "The  Old  Neighborhood,"  seem 
to  lose  much  of  their  effectiveness  be- 
cause of  their  inordinate  length.  For 
some  reason,  Dreiser  loves  his  350  and 
400-word  paragraphs,  one  after  another, 
with  little  or  no  conversation ;  in  some 
places  he  repeats  himself. 

T.  D.  has  a  loyal,  enthusiastic  fol- 
lowing, which  is  just  and  proper,  but  his 
verbosity,  his  lengthy  introspections,  espe- 
cially noticeable  in  this  book,  somehow 
seem  ill-adapted  to  the  purpose  of  the 
short  story. 


THE  SOUTH  AFRICANS 

THAT  southern  tip  of  the  Big  Black 
Continent  is  treated  like  a  step-child 
by  the  rest  of  the  world,  which  is  just 
another  way  of  saying  that  the  rest  of 
the  world  knows  precious  little  about  it. 

A  matter  of  remoteness  and  the  fact 
that  the  mention  of  South  Africa  is  pop- 
ularly dismissed  with  a  knowing  wave 
of  the  hand  as  "the  place  where  the 
Boer  War  was  fought,  wasn't  it?" 
should  not  by  any  means  dull  one's  curi- 
osity about  this  vast  country,  with  its 
white  civilization  running  back  for 
three  hundred  years,  and  that  of  the 
blacks  extending  into  the  dim  past  for 
untold  centuries.  Nor  should  the  social, 
economic  and  commercial  aspects  of  this 
huge  colonial  territory  of  Great  Britain 
be  overlooked. 

Sarah  Gertrude  Millin  (author  of 
God's  Stepchildren,  Mary  Glenn,  and 
other  books)  has  produced  a  very  read- 
able volume  titled  THE  SOUTH  AFRI- 
CANS, which  goes  as  nearly  to  the  very 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


245 


bottom  of  history  and  present-day  condi- 
tions and  affairs,  from  every  angle,  as 
it  is  physically  possible  to  do  and  still 
confine  her  work  to  the  conventional 
length.  The  history  of  the  black  races 
is  particularly  well  done,  as  is  that  of 
the  Dutch,  the  English,  the  Indian,  the 
Jew,  and  others  lured  to  this  big  colo- 
nial empire  that  has  produced  such  tre- 
mendous wealth. 

To  one  who  has  many  times  seen  "the 
devil  spread  the  cloth  over  Table  Moun- 
tain," Miss  Millin's  book  is  nothing  if 
not  a  faithful  reflection  of  that  little 
known  domain — South  Africa. 


hunt  are  fascinating,  he  takes  the  reader 
with  him  wherever  he  goes,  but  were 
the  hundred  thousand  or  so  words  in 
BACK  OF  BEYOND  boiled  down  to  their 
elementals,  omitting  entirely  the  brack- 
ish love  theme,  and  adding  a  few  well 
chosen  photographs,  there  would  have 
remained  a  wonderfully  gripping  big- 
game  hunting  yarn. 


BACK  OF  BEYOND 

MACLYN  KEOUGH,  young  Amer- 
ican ne'er-do-well,  has  been  sent 
out  to  Africa  by  a  fond  parent  willing 
and  anxious  to  let  the  Dark  Continent 
"make  a  man  of  him,"  to  use  an  over- 
worked phrase. 

Maclyn  reaches  Nairobi,  all  eager- 
ness for  big  game  hutning,  and  secures 
for  his  guide  one  Breck,  an  old  elephant 
hunter  with  whom,  during  the  ensuing 
months,  he  develops  a  deep  friendship. 
Instead  of  going  on  safari  in  the  usual 
shot-over  sections,  Breck  takes  him  into 
a  little  known  country.  On  the  way  in, 
they  encounter  Kits,  a  personable  young 
English  girl — but  more  of  her  later. 
Maclyn  grows  tired  of  the  too  abun- 
dant game  and  finally  persuades  Breck 
to  penetrate  far  off  the  beaten  track  in 
search  of  a  legendary  Mountain  of  God. 
This  is  accomplished,  after  much  hard- 
ship, finding  the  mysterious  mountain 
to  be  a  place  of  rare  beauty  and  wild 
adventure.  And  here  again  the  girl 
comes  to  the  front  under  most  unusual 
circumstances.  In  fact,  she  is  rescued 
just  in  the  nick  of  time;  but  poor  old 
Breck  is  done  for  in  the  battle  between 
the  dozen  or  so  of  savages  and  the  two 
white  men.  Maclyn  does  most  of  the 
fighting,  though,  cleaning  out  the  whole 
nest  single-handed ! 

With  the  passing  on  of  Breck  it  is 
decided  to  let  the  secrets  of  the  mystic 
mountain  remain  unknown  to  anyone 
else,  Maclyn,  Kits  and  the  gun-bearers 
returning  to  civilization.  At  the  very 
last  minute,  though,  Maclyn  discovers 
himself  to  be  pretty  desperately  in  love 
with  Kits,  and  the  last  we  see  of  him 
he  is  tearing  out  across  the  veldt  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  after  having  just  said 
good-bye  to  her. 

This  is  not  the  best  book  Stewart  Ed- 
ward White  has  ever  written.  In  the 
first  place,  it  is  far  too  long;  too  much 
extraneous  matter  is  included.  Strangely 
enough,  his  style  is  much  too  stiff  in 
places;  and  he  might  have  done  better 
by  using  fewer  native  expressions. 

There  is  no  question  but  what  he 
knows  Africa,  his  descriptions  of  the 


WHEN    YOU    GO    TO    EUROPE 

THIS  summer's  tourist  stream  to  Eu- 
rope will  shatter  all  records;  and  in 
line  with  our  country's  perennial  slogan 
having  to  do  with  bigger  and  better  this, 
that  and  the  other  thing,  the  publishers 
have  had  their  ears  to  the  ground  and 
are  right  on  hand  with  guide-books, 
which,  while  they  are  no  bigger,  fortu- 
nately, they  are  certainly  much  better. 
That  is  to  say,  they  are  human. 

To  be  of  any  practical  value  at  all, 
a  good  guide-book  should  fit  rather  than 
rip  your  pocket;  and  the  information 
contained  should  be  helpful  rather  than 
statistical  or  historical— the  guides  will 
give  you  more  of  that  than  you  can  ever 
hope  to  assimilate.  None  of  us  wants 
to  start  out  on  a  tour  against  which 
we  have  planned  and  saved  for  a  long 
time — years  maybe — loaded  down  with 
a  bulky  tome  in  which  whole  pages  are 
devoted  to  meticulous  descriptions  of 
the  Mona  Lisa  or  the  Winged  Victory. 
The  lovers  of  beautiful  canvases  or 
superbly  chiseled  marbles  can  be  equally 
rewarded  right  in  their  own  libraries, 
from  the  pages  of  their  own  encyclo- 
pedias. 

Hence  the  modern  guide-book,  a 
splendid  example  of  which  is  found  in 
WHEN  You  Go  TO  EUROPE,  by  Edwin 
Robert  Petre.  Mr.  Petre  takes  the  trav- 
eler, actual  or  potential,  on  a  complete 
tour  of  Europe,  starting  with  "How 
Much  Money  Must  Be  Saved  and  How 
to  Save  It,"  and  winding  up  with  "The 
Return  to  the  American  Continent." 
Between  the  opening  and  closing  of  his 
160-page  volume,  the  author  goes  into 
such  highly  important  matters  as  the 
cost  of  an  ocean  passage,  the  cost  of  ordi- 
nary living  in  Europe,  how  to  get  about 
with  the  English  language,  how  to 
secure  passports,  how  to  get  vises,  the 
most  useful  things  to  take  with  you, 
baggage  regulations,  money  exchange, 
embarcation  piers,  ship's  fare  and  meal 
hours,  the  ports  of  Europe,  tips,  gratui- 
ties, etc.,  customs,  porters,  street  trans- 
portation and  taxis,  European  railways, 
hotels,  boarding  houses  and  pensions,  and 
what  to  see  in  every  country  from  Aus- 
tria to  Wales.  Thrown  in  for  good 
measure  is  a  list  of  several  hundred 
hotels  on  the  Continent,  as  well  as  sev- 
enteen colored  maps,  one  large  one  in- 
dicating connecting  railway  lines  be- 
tween the  principal  European  cities. 


BERBERS  AND  BLACKS 
"TVAVID  P.  BARROWS  has  written 
-'-'  a  wonderfully  illuminating  book  on 
Africa,  particularly  that  immense  north- 
western area  which  includes  Algeria, 
Morocco,  the  Ivory  Coast,  Nigeria  and 
the  Sudan. 

The  book  deals  with  an  extended  trip 
made  by  Dr.  Barrows  recently  over  this 
far-flung  territory;  and  in  pleasingly  dis- 
cursive style  he  sketches  a  few  of  the 
more  important  historical  high-lights,  de- 
tails his  journeys  by  train  and  auto  into 
far  remote  regions,  sets  down  observa- 
tions on  French  methods  of  colonial 
government,  and  here  and  there  intro- 
duces bits  of  informati9n  that  are  bound 
to  upset  some  of  our  most  firmly  estab- 
lished ideas  relative  to  Africa. 

For  instance,  he  tells  of  snow  on  the 
Sahara!  He  then  explains  this  phenome- 
non with  reference  to  the  Ahaggar,  a 
mountain  range  approaching  the  area  of 
the  Alps,  rising  8,000  feet  above  the 
desert's  floor.  And  again :  "Those  who 
follow  camels,  dwell  in  tents  and  wear 
the  flowing  robes  of  the  East  we  are 
accustomed  to  call  Arabs;  but  very  few 
of  them  are  of  Arabic  extraction.  Their 
race  is  a  pure  white  strain ;  they  are 
known  as  Berbers." 

Dr.  Barrows'  ethnological,  geograph- 
ical and  commercial  observations  are  in- 
valuable; and  his  discussions  concerning 
the  various  problems  confronting  the 
French  colonial  administrators  involve 
questions  seldom  developed  in  other  quar- 
ters of  the  globe. 

The  book  is  fairly  well  illustrated 
with  photographs  and  sketch  maps  and 
is  well  indexed  for  general  reference  pur- 
poses. 


WRITING  in  the  Saturday  Review 
of  Literature,  under  date  of  De- 
cember llth,  1926,  Walter  Lippman 
made  the  following  prophetic  utterance 
in  reference  to  the  writings  of  H.  L. 
Mencken:  "The  Mencken  manner  can 
be  parodied,  but  the  effect  is  ludicrous 
when  it  is  imitated."  A  style  so  vigor- 
ous as  Mencken's  and  a  mind  so  steeped 
in  personal  bias  could  not  fail  but  be  a 
ready  prey  for  the  parodist  and  at  the 
same  time  remain  forever  free  from  the 
plagiarist.  It  is  remarkable,  indeed,  that 
so  few  parodies  on  his  style  and  manner 
have  appeared.  There  was,  of  course, 
that  famous  cartoon  in  the  New  Masses 
and  now  appears  A  SHORT  VIEW  OF 
MENCKENISM  —  IN  MENCKENESE,  by 
Joseph  B.  Harrison. 

Mr.  Harrison  is  a  professor  in  the 
University  of  Washington,  and  this 
little  book  is  the  first  of  the  University 
of  Washington  Chapbooks,  edited  by 
Glenn  Hughes.  It  is  a  gay  and  pungent 


246 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


treatment  of  the  Mencken  world  as  seen 
by  Mr.  Harrison  and  done  with  all  the 
gusto  and  bombast  for  which  Mencken- 
ese  is  famous.  To  Mr.  Harrison, 
Mencken  appears  as  a  great  "sinhound." 
The  sins  he  pursues  are:  1 — The  Sins 
of  God ;  2 — The  Sins  of  Pedagogues  and 
Critics;  3 — The  Sins  of  Democrats  in 
General;  4 — The  Sins  of  Americans  in 
particular;  5 — The  Sins  of  Puritans  in 
excelsis. 

This  saucy  little  chapbook  is  delight- 
fully printed  and  is  as  sprightly  and 
piquant  as  its  cover.  What  Mencken's 
national  reputation  needs  above  all  else, 
just  now,  is  the  tonic  effect  of  a  slight 
amount  of  irony.  It  is  just  this  that  Mr. 
Harrison  attempts  to  supply.  Such 
irony  acts  as  a  fine  sedative  for  the  effer- 
vescent form  of  Menckenism  that  one 
finds  rampant  in  the  average  American 
University  today,  for  Mencken's  repu- 
tation owes  no  little  debt  to  the  enthusi- 
asm with  which  campus  celebrities  have 
spread  the  legend  of  his  violence  and 
extolled  his  anti-professional  attitude. 
Doubtless  Mr.  Harrison's  book  is  the 
result  of  an  acute  annoyance  provoked 
by  the  boisterous  enthusiasm  of  his  stu- 
dents, uncritical  and  rowdyish,  for 
Mencken. 

All  of  this  is,  of  course,  just  another 
tribute  to  Mencken's  extraordinary  vi- 
tality as  a  writer.  There  is  an  electric 
zest  to  his  writing  that  has  delighted 
America  and  that  has  carried  his  name 
high  in  the  heavens.  Even  Mr.  Harrison 
has  been  seduced  and  enchanted  by  the 
captivating  qualities  of  Menckenese 
prose,  else  why  this  parody  which  shows 
such  a  close  and  loving  attention  to  its 
subject  matter?  And  in  closing  his  book 
Mr.  Harrison  cannot  refrain  from  pay- 
ing the  following  back-handed  tribute 
to  Mencken:  "Mr.  Mencken,  indeed,  is 
not  unlike  a  Babe  Ruth  who  would  at- 
tempt to  win  a  world  series  with  a  rub- 
ber bat.  Frequently  he  connects  with 
an  idea  and  the  impact  is  tremendous. 
But  as  often  he  misses  and  the  violence 
of  his  swing  leaves  him  wrapped  in  his 
weapon  like  the  tree  by  the  snake  in 
Michelangelo's  Garden  of  Eden.  He  is 
constantly  finding  it  necessary  to  unwind 
before  he  can  step  again  to  the  plate." 

A  worth-while  little  book,  and  one 
that  will  draw  immediate  attention  to 
its  successors. 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  YEARS 

THE  WORK  of  Luther  Burbank  is 
known  throughout  the  civilized 
world.  It  will  be  recalled  that  the  pres- 
ent writers  prepared  somet'ine  since  a 
story  on  some  of  the  high  points  in  the 
accomplishments  of  Mr.  Burbank.  This 
article  was  published  in  the  Sierra  Edu- 
cational News  for  March,  1925.  The 


article  also  appeared  in  bulletin  form, 
under  title,  "Luther  Burbank, — Scien- 
tist, Philosopher,  Man."  We  constantly 
receive  requests  for  copies  of  this  bulle- 
tin which  is  out  of  print.  The  most  re- 
cent request  reached  us  only  yesterday. 
Today  there  comes  to  our  desk  a  copy 
of  the  book  entitled,  "The  Harvest  of 
the  Years,"  by  Luther  Burbank,  and 
prepared  for  publication  with  the  assist- 
ance of  Wilbur  Hall.  It  is  from  the 
press  of  the  Houghton,  Mifflin  Com- 
pany. It  is  an  autographed  edition,  and 
with  it  a  personal  letter  from  Mrs.  Eliz- 
abeth Burbank,  from  which  we  quote: 

Santa  Rosa,  California, 
May  1,  1927. 

I  am  taking  pleasure  in  sending 
you  under  separate  cover  a  copy  of 
Mr.  Burbank's  last  book,  "The 
Harvest  of  the  Years."  Knowing 
your  interest  in  his  work,  and  the 
general  interest  among  the  teachers 
and  pupils  of  the  state  schools  I 
thought  you  would  like  to  have  the 
book,  and  perhaps  to  mention  it  in 
the  teachers'  bulletin.  We  are  hop- 
ing for  a  wide  sale  for  it,  not  so 
much  for  the  sake  of  the  sale  as  for 
the  sake  of  giving  people  a  true 
picture  of  Mr.  Burbank  as  he  was 
and  lived  and  thought. 

This  volume,  "The  Harvest  of  the 
Years,"  is  a  remarkable  compilation  of 
the  result  of  scientific  investigation  and 
the  philosophic  thinking  of  one  of  Amer- 
ica's greatest  men.  As  one  studies  the 
book,  with  its  296  pages,  he  realizes 
more  than  ever  the  tremendous  contri- 
bution made  by  Luther  Burbank.  Mr. 
Hall  has  succeeded  admirably  in  weav- 
ing into  the  twenty-one  chapters  of  the 
book  much  of  the  very  life  of  the  man. 
Mr.  Hall's  biographical  sketch,  under 
caption,  "Luther  Burbank,  Naturalist," 
shows  how  fully  he  has  evaluated  the 
contribution  of  Mr.  Burbank,  and  how 
thoroughly  he  has  caught  the  spirit  and 
purpose  of  his  great  work. 

Not  only  was  Luther  Burbank  a  nat- 
uralist, he  was  a  true  scientist.  As  one 
reads  into  the  volume,  he  realizes  some- 
thing of  Mr.  Burbank's  tremendous 
grasp  upon  the  underlying  principles  in 
the  field  of  biology,  of  zoology,  of  bot- 
any, of  chemistry.  He  was  a  true  psy- 
chologist, and  every  page  of  his  writing 
reveals  a  philosophy,  scientific  in  its 
background,  but  simple  and  direct  in  ex- 
pression. Indeed,  like  most  great  men, 
his  utterances  are  couched  in  simple, 
direct  language  with  little  verbiage  to 
cloud  the  meaning.  His  observations  and 
discussion  pertaining  to  the  function  of 
environment  and  heredity  in  the  devel- 
opment of  plants  and  people ;  his  work 
on  the  development  of  new  species,  and 
his  contributions  in  the  realm  of  plant 


life  are  set  forth  in  the  book  in  graphic 
manner. 

Mr.  Burbank  brought  many  of  his 
investigations  to  a  successful  conclusion. 
In  addition  he  set  in  motion  thousands 
of  experiments  which  were  under  way 
at  the  time  of  his  death.  These,  let  us 
hope,  will  be  carried  forward  to  com- 
pletion. 

There  is  much  of  autobiography  in  the 
book.  It  shows  more  clearly  than  any 
other  volume  on  Burbank,  the  person- 
ality of  the  man.  It  shows  too  how  broad 
he  was  in  his  interests,  and  how  possible 
it  is  for  a  great  scientist  to  be  also  a 
great  humanitarian. 

Students  of  elementary  and  high  age 
as  well  as  men  and  women  generally 
will  find  interest  in  Mr.  Burbank's  rem- 
iniscences as  applied  to  such  of  his  close 
friends  as  David  Starr  Jordan,  Hugo  de 
Bries,  John  Burroughs,  Jack  London, 
Thomas  A.  Edison,  John  Muir,  Henry 
Ford  and  other  nationally  known  char- 
acters. 

The  book  is  fully  illustrated.  Not 
only  should  the  volume  find  place  in 
public  libraries  and  in  the  schools,  but 
upon  the  reading  tables  in  the  homes. 
The  book  is  interesting  and  instructive 
from  cover  to  cover. — A.  H.  C. 


7  P.  M.  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

SEVEN    P.    M.    AND    OTHER 
POEMS,  by  Mark  Van  Doren,  Al- 
bert and  Charles  Boni. 

In  7  P.  M.  AND  OTHER  POEMS  Mark 
Van  Doren  has  found  himself.  When 
"Spring  Thunder,"  his  first  book  of 
poems  appeared  all  the  critics  cried 
"Robert  Frost."  They  cannot  cry  that 
now.  Writing  about  farm  fields  and 
country  roads  in  itself  does  not  relate 
Mark  Van  Doren  to  Robert  Frost  any 
more  than  writing  of  woods  and  lanes 
relates  Frost  to  Wordsworth.  These 
subjects,  old  as  literature,  will  endure. 
Mr.  Van  Doren's  rhythms,  his  individ- 
ual vocabulary,  his  imagination  colored 
by  his  own  peculiar  emotional  approach, 
constitute  a  manner  wholly  his  own. 

The  critics  who  missed  "human 
warmth"  in  his  first  book  may  stress  that 
so-called  defect  in  the  present  volume. 
I  do  not  find  it  here.  I  find  only  a 
curious  reserve  possessing  the  poet  when 
he  turns  from  nature  to  human  nature, 
especially  to  the  love  relation.  Here 
the  barriers  between  his  subject  and  him 
become  a  little  rigid.  He  is  less  at  ease. 
He  has  a  tendency  to  the  mannerisms 
of  his  contemporaries.  Yet  poems  of 
human  relationship  there  are,  and  in  one 
or  two  of  them  there  is  a  more  sup- 
pressed intensity  than  in  many  others 
of  different  subject — "To  a  Certain 
House"  and  "Confession  in  Part"  for 

(Continued  on  Page  255) 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


247 


Jim  Powers,  Postmaster 


By  Cleone  S.  Brown 


J 


AMES  E.  POWER,  Postmaster  of 
San  Francisco,  was  born  in  San 
Francisco  in  1876. 

His  education  was  secured  in  the  pub- 
lic schools  of  San  Francisco,  he  having 
graduated  from  the  Commercial  High 
School  in  1893.  Thereafter  he  took  up 
the  study  of  law  and  stenography  for  a 
year  and  then  entered  the  San  Francisco 
postoffice  as  a  clerk  in  1895. 

Work  in  the  San  Francisco  postoffice 
was  far  different  then  than  it  is  now. 
The  hours  were  long  and  uncertain  and 
the  pay  meager,  and  the  apprenticeship 
of  the  present  Postmaster  of  San  Fran- 
cisco was  served  during  the  hardest  times 
of  the  Postal  Service  generally. 

He  remained  for  twelve  years  in  the 
San  Francisco  postoffice,  rising  through 
the  various  grades  of  clerk  and  super- 
visor until  he  resigned  in  1907,  having 
attained  the  rank  of  Examiner  of  Sta- 
tions. In  this  latter  capacity,  during  the 
rehabilitation  of  the  Postal  Service  after 
the  earthquake  and  fire  of  1906,  it  was 
his  work  to  check  up  and  adjust  the  ac- 
counts of  the  burned  stations,  a  task  in- 
volving an  endless  amount  of  accounting 
and  a  large  sum  of  money. 

Upon  leaving  the  postoffice  he  entered 
business  and,  in  1911,  was  appointed  a 
member  of  the  Board  of  Education,  upon 
which  he  served  three  years.  Among 
other  things  that  he  introduced  in  the 
school  department  during  his  term  was 
the  School  Savings  Plan,  a  system  which 
began  with  pennies  and  now  totals  a 
large  sum  of  money  on  deposit. 

Mr.  Power,  after  three  years'  serv- 
ice on  the  Board  of  Education,  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Su- 
pervisors of  San  Francisco.  He  served 
eight  years  on  the  board,  two  years  of 
which  he  was  chairman  of  the  Finance 
Committee.  He  was  always  foremost  in 
measurements  for  the  betterment  of  the 
city,  and  took  a  constructive  part  in  ali 
the  projects  undertaken  by  the  munici- 
pality. On  the  first  of  January,  1922,  he 
resigned  from  the  Board  of  Supervisors 
to  accept  appointment  as  Postmaster  of 
San  Francisco. 

James  E.  Power  came  to  the  San 
Francisco  postoffice  as  no  apprentice 
hand.  His  early  training  eminently 
fitted  him  for  the  position,  and  his  serv- 
ice as  Postmaster  has  left  the  construc- 
tive marks  of  his  ability  and  experience 
upon  the  Postal  Service  of  San  Fran- 
cisco. Upon  his  entrance  to  the  duties  of 
Postmaster  he  was  greeted  as  an  old 
friend  by  many  men  who  had  worked 


side  by  side  with  him  in  the  early  days 
and  who  were  still  in  the  service. 

On  May  28,  1926,  he  was  reappointed 
for  a  second  term  as  Postmaster. 

In  his  early  days  as  clerk  in  the  post- 
office,  he  was  President  of  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Branch  of  the  United  Association 
of  Post  Office  Clerks,  and  later  on  he  was 
elected  Western  Organizer  for  that  or- 
ganization. 


San  Francisco's  postmaster. 

In  his  later  service  as  Postmaster,  he 
was  again  to  the  front  in  service  mat- 
ters. He  has  been  three  times  elected 
President  of  the  Postmasters'  Associa- 
tion of  California.  In  1924  he  was  elect- 
ed First  Vice-President  of  the  National 
Association  of  Postmasters,  in  convention 
at  Indianapolis,  Indiana,  and  was  re- 
elected  to  that  office  in  1925  at  Cleve- 
land, Ohio.  In  1926,  he  was  elected 
President  of  the  National  Association 
of  Postmasters,  in  convention  at  Kansas 
City,  Missouri. 

He  volunteered  his  services  to  the 
government  in  the  Spanish-American 
War  and  in  the  late  World  War,  and 
has  always  been  an  active  figure  in  civic 
activities  and  welfare  work. 

In  1900  he  married  Miss  Winifred 
Foster.  His  daughter,  Miss  Florence 
Power,  graduated  from  the  University 
of  California  with  high  honors,  and  his 
son,  James  E.  Power,  Jr.,  is  an  honor 
graduate  of  St.  Ignatius  College. 

Mr.  Power  is  also  prominent  in  busi- 
ness circles  in  San  Francisco  as  head  of 
the  James  E.  Power  Company,  a  pros- 
perous tire  merchandising  firm. 


Now 

through  to 

Tahoe 


c 


— 'Convenient  Pullman  service 
every  evening  via  Overland 
Route,  Lake  Tahoe  Line 


in  service  "~i 
)verland  L 
,ine  •  «  *  J 


A  swift,  comfortable  trip,  assuring  the 
maximum  amount  of  time  at  the  lake. 
Every  vacation  sport  is  there. —  Golf, 
tennis,  horse-back  riding,  hikes,  swim- 
ming, fishing,  dancing.  Steamer  trips 
around  the  lake,  only  $2.40. 

You  leave  San  Francisco  (Ferry)  at  7 
p.  m.,  Sacramento  at  1 0: 5  5  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing at  the  shore  of  the  lake  in  time  for 
breakfast  next  morning.  Returning, 
leave  Tahoe  Station  9:30  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing San  Francisco  7:50  a.  m. 

Day  service,  offering  an  interesting 
scenic  trip  up  the  Sierra,  leaves  San 
Francisco  at  7:40a.  m.,  Sacramento 
10:45  a.  m.,  arriving  at  the  lake  for 
dinner,  (5:30  p.m.) 

Reduced  roundtrip  fares  are  effective 
throughout  the  summer.  For  example, 
only  $13.25  roundtrip  from  San 
Francisco,  good  for  16  days. 

Ask  for  illustrated  booklet  about  Tahoe 
Lake  region;  also  booklet  "LOTH  Fares  for 
Summer  Trips". 

Southern 
Pacific 


F.  S.  McGINNIS, 

Passenger  Traffic  Mgr. 

San  Francisco 


Crock  of  Gold 

Circulating  Library 

119  Maiden  Lane 


Just  the  place  you've  been  looking 
for — something  different. 

Come  in  and  get  acquainted! 


248 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


A  Modern  Endymoinne 


IT  WOULD   require  superhuman 
power    to    describe    the    infinite    in 
which  we  lived    .   .   .   supreme  Love 
is   beyond   words    .    .    .   An    impalpable 
frenzy  enveloped  us,  swayed  us,  lifted  us 
above  ourselves  ...  we  were  as  gods.  .  .  . 

O  gods  of  Beauty!  divinely  wrought, 
How   could   such   grandeur   come   to 
naught? 

All  my  work  fell  in  fragments  before 
human  frailty. 

All  high  states  of  human  conscious- 
ness must  be  sustained  by  strength  which 
is  based  upon  Faith.  The  poet,  so  finely 
strung  that  a  tear  can  crucify  his  sensi- 
bilities; the  artist,  so  impressionable  that 
he  weeps  when  not  understood ;  the  ac- 
tor, so  receptive  that  his  whole  mechan- 
ism trembles  under  the  pressure  of  the 
psychological  reaction  from  the  masses 
to  his  words  .  .  .  weak  as  human  beings, 
and  yet,  with  the  divine  strength  of  faith 
in  their  work  that  enables  them  to  con- 
quer a  universe! 

His  heart  inflamed  by  my  love,  my 
Wooden-Man  suddenly  conceived  the 
desire  to  be  appraised  by  other  loves  than 
mine ;  he  was  no  longer  able  to  contain 
the  treasure  that  belonged  to  him  and 
me.  I  detected  signs  of  arrogance,  wear- 
iness in  his  averted  eyes  .  .  .  noted  the 
dawning  of  foreign  desires,  an  ironical 
preference  for  a  lower  order  of  things, 
and,  finally,  a  strange  resentment  to- 
ward me  for  having  made  him  what  he 
was  ...  as  he  was.  .  .  .  He  wished  to 
escape  me,  to  be  himself  .  .  .  did  he 
think.  .  .  What  self?  ...  In  spite  of  all 
my  devotion  and  sincerity  my  love  now 
seemed  like  a  yoke  to  him,  a  terrible 
bondage ! 

Oh  ...  that  he  should  forget  me! 
That  he  should  forget  where  and  how  I 
had  found  him  .  .  .  among  the  fad- 
dolls!  .  .  .  that  he  should  attempt  to  as- 
sert himself  by  seeking  to  conquer  others 
as — he  thought — I  had  subjugated  and 
enslaved  him ! 

He  was  mad  with  desire  for  new  con- 
quests, to  hear  from  other  lips  than  mine 
their  ardent  admiration  for  all  that  he 
was! 

He  would  crush  them,  dominate  them 
with  his  power,  all  of  them,  the  most 
beautiful,  the  most  defiant.  .  .  . 

Adorned  with  my  crown  and  my 
genius,  he  imagined  that  he  had  but  to 
show  himself  to  become  a  conqueror. 

And  I,  with  my  eyes  made  keener  a 
a  hundred  fold  through  my  suffering 


(Continued  from  Last  Month) 
By  Caroline  Castelein 

love,  divined  all  his  thoughts,  and  with 
the  habitual  courage  which  prompts  me 
to  offset  danger  by  anticipating  it,  I  my- 
self surrounded  him  with  the  women  of 
his  desires  .  .  .  Was  it  not  wiser  to  ac- 
quaint myself  with  their  capacities  for 
winning  the  man  I  had  builded  and 
learned  to  love? 

...  But  these  women  had  not  the 
slightest  desire  to  prostrate  themselves 
before  him,  as  I  had  done ;  they  expected 
him  to  pay  such  homage  to  them  .  .  . 

Then  I  witnessed  a  strange  phenom- 
enon .  .  .  for  I  had  never  taught  my 
Wooden-Man  the  humility  of  such  ad- 
miration. Under  the  warmth  of  the 
kiss  of  my  love  he  was  the  embodiment 
of  harmony,  but  when  he  faced  the  task 
of  kneeling  in  humility  .  .  .  what  a  sud- 
den transformation  ...  all  at  once  he 
was  again  the  Wooden-Man!  .  .  .  stiff, 
awkward  .  .  .  even  so  ludicrous  that  he 
evoked  ridicule  and  laughter  from  the 
women  he  had  sought  to  win.  Every 
gesture  of  his  that  was  not  guided  and 
controlled  by  Love  was  again  propelled 
by  that  cold  insensible  instinct  that  was 
his  before  love  came ! 

The  madman  ...  he  had  dreamed 
that  by  his  charming  speech  and  poise 
he  would  capture  them,  that  he  would 
even  evoke  that  divine  echo:  our  su- 
preme intoxication.  But  his  poetical 
phrases  fell  upon  deaf  ears,  it  was  mean- 
ingless as  so  much  jargon,  they  under- 
stood nothing  and  dismissed  him  with 
disdainful  shrugs  ...  so  he  turned  back 
to  the  crude  language  of  his  former 
self! 

He  was  disenchanted  .  .  . 
Concealing  his  defeat,  he  imagined  I 
was  unconscious  of  it  ...  in  despairing 
silence  I  had  watched  the  unique  trans- 
formation, and  my  life  had  trembled  to 
its  foundation  .  .  .  and  now  ...  su- 
preme agony,  I  felt  my  own  love  dying. 
Oh,  the  sudden  emptiness  of  my  life! 
...  I  had  given  all  ...  I  existed  no 
more.  For  what  was  I  crying!  Was  it 
man  or  Love  that  I  loved  ?  Love  had 
overflowed  my  life  and  universe ;  now 
that  the  object  of  this  love  was  crumb- 
ling, like  a  statue  falling  to  decay,  I  my- 
self was  less  than  the  dust  of  these.  I 
cried  after  Love  .  .  .  What  is  the  use? 
Love  comes  when  it  pleases  and  goes 
when  it  pleases  ...  I  was  now  at  the 
other  side  of  my  heaven  with  my  broken 
statue  .  .  .  every  breath  brought  back 
the  broken  bits  of  my  poor  heart,  so 


polluted  by  his  perfidious  desires  that 
they  were  saturating  my  being  with  poi- 
son. Suddenly  the  desire  to  kill  came 
to  me.  It  seemed  that  his  death  alone 
could  cure  my  suffering — for  Love 
being  Nature's  means  for  creating  life, 
it  also  bears  the  instinct  of  death.  I 
struggled,  then  turned  to  look  back  .  .  . 
to  reflect  upon  the  immortal  beauty  of 
the  phenomenon  which  the  gods  had 
built  about  me  ...  and  then  I  turned 
my  eyes  forever  from  my  Wooden- 
Man,  summoning  the  last  courage  of 
my  poor  bruised  heart  .  .  .  never  to  look 
back. 

He  is  there  ...  he  has  gone  back  to 
his  former  semblances,  the  fad-dolls 
.  .  .  his  intelligence  has  returned  to  dull- 
ness ...  he  is  still  beautiful  .  .  .  but 
stiff  and  awkward  .  .  .  when  we  meet 
in  passing,  he  looks  at  me  and  wonders 
why  and  how  it  happened  that  we  ever 
met  ...  he  has  forgotten  .  .  . 

And  here  am  I  with  the  incurable 
wound  in  my  heart,  the  wound  that  will 
forever  bleed.  I  seem  sufficiently  en- 
larged in  heart  to  encompass  a  world ; 
not  a  thing  of  beauty  that  love  revealed 
to  me  has  died  ...  I  embrace  a  uni- 
verse, and  like  a  Prosperpine,  it  seems 
as  if  every  heavenly  thing  that  comes 
out  of  my  brain  is  bathed  in  the  crystal 
tears  of  the  immortal. 

Love's  Inferna! 


NOVEMBER 
OVERLAND 

Out 
October  25 

This  issue  is  being  compiled  by 
Albert  M.  Bender  in  memory  of 
George  Sterling 

Some  Contributors 
Mary  Austin 
Robinson  Jeffers 
Witter  Bynner 
Erskine  Scott  Wood 
Sara  Bard  Field 
Edwin  Markham 
James  D.  Phelan 
Albert  Bender 

and  others 

Order  Your  Copy  in  Advance  at 
Overland  Office 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


249 


What  Is  Your  Name? 


"Bell"  (nickname  of  'le  Bel',  the 
beautiful);  "Bodkin"  ("Baud"  is  the 
nickname  for  "Baldwin",  "Baudkin"  is 
diminutive).  "Needle";  "Reel"; 
"Cage";  "Caddy";  "Toy";  "Tray"; 
"Shell";  "Cart";  "Dray";  'Sledge"; 
"Beam". 

"Post",  'Poste"  was  a  special  messen- 
ger or  courier,  hence  postal  service  or 
to  travel  post  haste.  "Cable";  "Hal- 
ter"; "Tape";  "Cord";  "Kemp"  or 
"Kempe"  (was  a  knight  or  soldier  or 
champion);  "Cane",  "Caine" ;  "Staff"; 
"Ring";  "Sheath"  shows  an  interesting 
origin;  it  was  probably  the  name  at- 
tached to  some  chasm  in  the  rocks  re- 
sembling the  scabbard  or  sheath  of  a 
knife  or  sword ;  it  may  also  come  from  a 
bubbling  spring  of  salt  water. 

And  now  that  we  have  reached  the 
"Measures"  it  brings  to  memory  a  story 
culled  from  Brown's  Wit  and  Humor 
called  "Didn't  Like  the  Name".  "That 
Mrs.  Doak  is  getting  too  smart,"  growled 
the  butcher.  "What's  the  matter  now", 
inquired  his  wife.  "Why,  when  she 
came  in  today  to  buy  a  little  piece  of 
meat,  she  told  me  I  ought  to  give  my 
scales  a  new  name,  and  call  them  'Am- 
buscade'. I've  just  looked  up  the  word", 
he  went  on  furiously,  "and  ambuscade 
means  'to  lie  in  weight'." 

Whom  the  cap  fits  let  him  wear  it, 
for  in  our  own  day  and  age  many  a 
man  and  many  a  maid  may  be  said  to 
lie  in  avoirdupois,  so  in  some  things  the 
centuries  bring  no  change. 

The  medieval  Mr.  "Measure"  yet 
abides  in  our  own  directories,  and  keep- 
ing him  close  company  are  Messrs. 
"Inch"  and  "Inches";  "Yard"; 
"Yarde";  "Foot";  "Foote";  "Rod"; 
"Rodd";  "Rood";  "Mile"  and  "Mile- 
stone"; and  we  must  not  forget  Mr. 
"Acres"  and  Mr.  "Ell."  Then  there 
come  marching  along  with  measured 
tread,  on  adjacent  pages  the  "Bushels," 
"Galons,"  "Firkins,"  "Pottles,"  "Gills" 
and  "Pecks." 

Close  following  are  the  corpulent 
"Pounds",  the  slender  "Reams",  the 
weighty  "Stones"  and  "Tons". 

The  monetary  measures  call  for  at- 
tention, too.  We  find  the  "Coins", 
great  and  small;  the  every  ready 
"Cash"  and  the  more  elusive  "Money". 
"Guinea",  "Pound"  and  "Crown"  an- 
nounce themselves  as  distinctively  Brit- 
ish, while  the  "Shilling"  is  of  German 
origin.  Then  the  representatives  of  the 
"Penny"  family  include  "Halfpenny" 
and  "Sixpence".  "Farthing"  and 
"Mark"  bear  strong  relationship  in 
value  to  each  other.  "Doucat"  and 


(Continued  from  Last  Month) 
By  Gertrude  Mott 

"Guilder"  conjure  up  in  the  mind's  eye 
many  scenes  from  the  immortal  Shake- 
spearian plays ;  small  wonder  that  these 
names  come  into  frequent  use  during 
the  Elizabethan  period. 

And  though  the  suns  may  rise  and  the 
suns  may  sink,  you  and  I  are  still  en- 
deavoring to  do  what  Jeremy  Taylor 
advised  so  long  ago,  "Measure  your  de- 
sires by  your  fortune",  and  verily,  we 
find  it  no  small  matter. 

"W/"HEN  our  forbears  launched  forth 
in  the  new  sport  of  choosing  sur- 
names they  hesitated  at  nothing,  as  was 
evidenced  when  one  ambitious  family 
head  made  the  name  "World"  his  own. 
Two  others  followed  closely  in  taking 
"Globe"  and  "Earth". 

A  recent  descendant  of  the  first  "Na- 
tion" made  considerable  stir  a  decade  or 
two  ago,  so  we  see  they  still  persist. 
"Kingdom"  and  "Kingdon"  enjoyed 
quite  a  flare  and  always  give  an  at- 
mosphere of  grandeur. 

In  a  recent  register  was  found  a  Tal- 
itha  Cumi  "People",  a  modern  survival 
of  the  ancient  use  of  scriptural  names. 

"Tribe"  comes  from  the  Dutch 
'treub',  to  drive. 

Of  the  nationalities  "English"  and 
"Irish"  are  of  most  frequent  occur- 
rence. "Cornish"  and  "Kent",  "Kent- 
ish", two  English  counties  have  fewer 
bearers  in  the  United  States  than  in  the 
United  Kingdom. 

The  name  "Welsh"  has  a  large  fam- 
ilv  and  some  that  come  not  only  from 
Wales  but  also  from  "Scotland"  and 
"Ireland".  Some  of  the  variants  are 
"Welch",  "Walsh",  "Welshman", 
"Welchman",  "Welsman",  "Wallace", 
"Wallis".  In  the  Anglo-Saxon  'valas' 
meant  foreigners  or  strangers.  There 


was  an  influx  of  Anglo-Normans  into 
Scotland  in  the  reign  of  David  I,  among 
them  Richard  Walys,  the  ancestor  of 
the  great  Wallace,  who  still  stirs  us  all 
by  the  tales  told  of  his  prowess  and 
fineness. 

"Scotchman",  "Scotland"  and  "Scott" 
are  very  frequent,  especially  the  last 
mentioned ;  this  ranks  among  the  most 
prevalent  of  British  surnames,  almost  60 
coats  of  arms  being  assigned  to  it. 

Then  the  Britons  began  going  further 
afield  in  search  of  an  appellation.  We 
find  many  "Germans",  "Germon"  and 
"Germains".  As  may  be  imagined 
"Norman"  and  "Normand"  found 
countless  devotees.  We  have  "Saxon," 
but  this  must  be  from  "Saxton"  or  "Sex- 
ton", for  at  the  time  of  the  Saxon  oc- 
cupation of  Britain,  surnames  were  un- 
thought  of. 

"Roman"  was  equally  as  impressive 
then  as  now,  bringing  with  it  a  train  of 
"Remains",  "Romaines",  "Rome"  and 
"Romer",  this  later  a  pilgrim  to  Rome. 

"French",  "Dutch"  and  "Dutch- 
man"; "Holland"  and  "Hollander"; 
"Britton,"  "Brittain,"  "Brittan,"  "Brit- 
ten", "Britain",  "Brittin"  and  "Brit- 
ian"  are  very  familiar. 

The  nickname  "Jew"  is  a  common  en- 
try in  medieval  registers. 

"Pole"  is  national  as  also  local  from 
"Pool".  "Dane"  and  "Danes"  appears 
national,  but  may  be  a  derivative  of  the 
local  name  "Dean"  ('dene',  a  valley). 
"Danish",  however,  is  purely  national. 

How  well  we  can  say  with  Lord  By- 
ron in  "Don  Juan": 

"Well,    well,    the   world    must    turn 

upon  its  axis, 

And  all  mankind  turn  with  it  heads 
or  tails, 

And  live  and  die,  make  love  and  pay 

our  taxes, 
(Continued  from  Page  254) 


The  Fireman's  Fund  leads  all  in- 
surance companies  in  premium 
income— fire,  marine  and  auto- 
mobile-in  Pacific  Coast  States 


250 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


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Knowledge 

By  Dorothy  Bengston 


ADVERTISEMENTS   today  are 
emphasizing     more     and     more 
"thrift,"  "utility,"  "comfort"  or, 
in  other  words,  savings,  adequacy,  avail- 
ability. 

These  three  latter  terms  are  vital 
considerations  to  the  investing  public  and 
you  who  read  street  car  cards,  maga- 
zines, and  special  literature  in  behalf 
of  savings  banks  or  insurance  compan- 
ies, washing  machines  or  adding  ma- 
chines, eight  cylinder  cars  and  radios, 
are  being  challenged  on  your  foresight, 
wisdom  and  economy.  Most  thinking 
people  agree  on  the  value  of  an  insur- 
ance program,  everyone  is  eager  to  estab- 
lish a  comfortable  income,  but  very  few 
have  a  definite  investment  program. 

The  Liberty  Loan  campaigns  proved 
the  ease  with  which  the  American  cit- 
izenry can  be  brought  to  purchase  se- 
curities when  properly  presented.  True 
much  of  their  success  was  due  to  enthu- 
siastic patriotism,  but  what  is  more  pa- 
triotic, what  greater  proof  of  right  to 
the  benefits  of  citizenships  can  we  have 
than  to  establish  ourselves  as  financially 
independent  that  we  may  build  instead 
of  block  channels  of  progress. 

This  business  of  a  fixed  financial 
course  develops  personal  qualities  of 
perseverance,  self-denial,  imagination 
that  we  may  see  the  ultimate  goal,  judg- 
ment to  temper  the  devil-may-care 
gambler  that  lurks  in  each.  These 
mental  and  moral  characteristics  are  the 
essences  of  national  strength.  Much  of 
the  success  of  past  French  loans  is  based 
on  the  layman's  conviction  of  the  fru- 
gality of  French  peoples. 
• 

Hundreds  of  thousands  invest  in 
bonds,  stocks,  real  estate,  mortgages,  but 
comparatively  few  build  consistently. 
They  save  here  and  there,  perhaps  they 
even  run  their  finances  on  the  budget 
plan,  allowing  specified  amounts  for  in- 
surance, and  savings,  but  because  the 
insurance  is  obligatory  upon  assumption 
premiums  cannot  be  diverted  but  "sav- 
ings" as  such  may  be  used  for  vacations, 
a  new  gun  for  the  hunting  season,  a  new 
golf  outfit,  any  one  of  the  hundreds  of 
little  luxuries  that  appeal  for  the  mo- 
ment. Funds  should  be  set  aside  regu- 
larly for  such  "bon  bons"  but  they 
should  not  be  classed  as  foundations  for 
future  security.  Some  of  the  objections 
to  a  strict  plan  are  as  follows: 

Not  sufficient  funds  to  purchase  "gilt 
edged"  securities;  not  sufficient  income 
to  permit  "tieing  up"  small  surplus;  de- 
sire funds  for  immediate  emergencies; 


want  large  balance;  have  no  time  to 
investigate  thoroughly  so  prefer  old  way. 
Opportunity  is  not  a  will  o'  the  wisp 
so  today  through  the  bond  department 
of  banks  and  especially  through  the 
services  of  investment  banking  houses 
it  is  possible  to  start  now,  today,  by 
purchasing  small  denomination  bonds 
(issued  to  meet  just  such  needs  as 
above)  preferred  and  common  stocks. 
Investment  houses  differ  not  at  all  from 
any  other  merchandising  enterprise. 
Their  business  is  established  on  the  basic 
principles  of  service  and  quality  in  ex- 
change for  confidence  and  support  for 
mutual  profit  and  satisfaction.  They 
offer  only  such  carefully  selected  secur- 
ities as  meet  the  requisites  of  profitable 
investment  namely : 

Safety  of  principal,  return  in  interest 
or  dividends,  marketability  and  further 
requisites  of  safety  in  the  matter  of  law, 
management  and  earning  power. 

Their  purpose  in  the  economic  scheme 
is  to  direct  capital  into  the  channels 
which  promote  industry  and  consequent 
prosperity.  The  individual  cannot  cope 
with  the  intricacies  of  corporation  law 
and  judge  the  legality  of  the  company, 
delve  into  the  debit  and  credit  ledgers 
of  every  corporation  nor  pass  on  the 
stability  of  its  financial  condition  nor 
know  past  earning  powers,  nor  do  more 
than  hazard  a  guess  as  to  its  future  pos- 
sibilities. Therefore  "Investment  Bank- 
ers" serve  a  double  purpose  because  they 
are  a  vital  "safeguard"  to  working 
capital. 

The  place  bonds  hold  in  the  investor's 
opinion  varies.  Some  hold  to  the  old 
principle  that  the  "safes  of  the  rich 
hold  bonds"  and  those  of  the  poor  hold 
worthless  stock  certificates  and  it  is  true 
largely,  but,  many  preferred  stocks  hold 
the  same  relative  position  as  bonds  in 
companies  operating  on  stock  financing 
instead  of  funded  debt  and  with  the 
exception  of  the  technical  and  important 
matter  of  creditor  or  obligor  are  for  all 
practical  purposes  identical,  hence  the 
security  is  assured  the  interest  or  divi- 
dend a  first  lien  on  earnings  when  any, 
and  further  the  cumulative  feature  pro- 
tects against  lean  years.  There  are  three 
checks  you  can  apply  yourself  to  pre- 
ferred stocks, — are  net  assets  50  to  100 
per  cent  in  excess  over  the  amount  of 
preferred  stock  issued?  Are  dividends 
one-third  or  one-fourth  of  the  total  net 
earnings  after  depreciation  and  taxes, 
and  further,  what  is  the  record  of  com- 
mon dividends? 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


251 


Stocks  necessitate  greater  risk  in 
their  very  nature  but  that  risk  is  ade- 
quately paid  in  higher  interest.  At  pres- 
ent greater  safety  and  high  yield  are  the 
outstanding  attractions  for  new  issues 
of  preferred  stocks  and  one  can  acquire 
a  very  safe  and  balanced  list  of  securi- 
ties by  carefully  selected  stocks  with  pre- 
ponderance of  utility  and  railroad  offer- 
ings and  a  limited  and  carefully  watched 
group  of  industrials.  Moneys  put  into 
good  utilities  and  strong  industrials, 
when  listed  on  stock  exchanges  are  gen- 
erally easily  liquidated  and  hence  avail- 
able. Further,  there  is  an  important 
borrowing  value  attached  to  such  secur- 
ities which  enables  one  to  raise  neces- 
sary money  at  interest  rates  generally 
below  the  yield  and  incur  a  financial 
obligation  to  buy  back  your  invested 
capital.  With  a  straight  savings  account 
withdrawal  entails  principally  determi- 
nation to  replace.  . 

Frequently  modest  salaried  people 
purchase  real  estate  on  installment  basis 
for  speculative  purposes.  True  nothing 
boasts  the  same  permanence  as  land,  but 
property  feels  the  prick  of  decline  first 
and  recovers  last  and  naturally  entails 
constant  further  financing  by  taxes,  im- 
provements and  (in  deferred  payment 
purchase)  by  carrying  charges.  It  is  ex- 
cellent for  people  with  excess  idle  money 


and  equally  good  for  those  who  can  put 
to  immediate  profitable  use  the  land  and 
improvements,  by  living  upon  it  them- 
selves or  by  rental  for  gain,  but  it  must 
be  admitted  that  availability  of  funds 
is  not  one  of  the  outstanding  features 
of  realty.  Even  into  the  acquisition  of 
land  there  enters  the  elements  of  spec- 
ulation versus  investment.  Investment 
for  profit  involves  time  always — when 
time  is  discounted  it  becomes  specula- 
tion. The  former  is  consistent  with 
steady  growth,  the  latter  may  show  large 
profits  time  after  time  but  consensus  of 
opinion  of  statistician  and  observer  alike 
connote  that  the  gamblers'  law  of  aver- 
age works  for  ultimate  loss.  Buying  on 
the  assumption  of  immediate  increase  in 
value  due  to  "boom"  conditions  or  prom- 
ised development  projects  where  such 
action  involves  every  cent  one  has  or 
hopes  to  raise  is  buying  on  margin  with- 
out the  security  of  "stop  loss  orders" 
nor  the  created  and  sustained  market 
afforded  by  the  stock  exchanges. 

Even  to  double  one's  money  over  a 
period  of  five  years  rarely  pays  over  6 
per  cent,  meanwhile  one's  finances  are 
"frozen,"  whereas  to  double  an  invest- 
ment means  50  per  cent  pure  profit  plus 
continuous  interest. 

To  acquire  blocks  of  well  recom- 
mended stocks  in  units  of  5,  10  or  15 


shares  then  to  pyramid  by  utilization  of 
your  interest  and  occasional  profits  until 
you  can  purchase  sound  long  term  bonds 
suggests  logical  development.  In  other 
words,  let  your  monthly,  quarterly  or 
semi-annual  savings  act  as  your  sinking 
fund  in  the  purchase  of  preferred  and 
common  stocks  and  let  the  conversion 
into  bonds  be  evidence  of  retirement. 

The  stocks  to  be  recommended  are 
those  with  promise  of  continued  earning 
in  excess  of  current  dividends.  This 
does  not  necessarily  mean  only  long 
established  firms  whose  reputation  for 
successful  operation  is  known  but  in- 
cludes new  enterprises  where  the  man- 
agement is  a  known  factor  and  noted 
for  ability  to  control  overhead  expense 
creating  an  extra  margin  of  safety  in 
case  of  curtailed  activity. 

Falling  commodity  prices  are  increas- 
ing industrial  competition,  one  develop- 
ment of  which  is  the  chain  idea.  The 
"chain"  method  has  traveled  from  drugs 
to  groceries,  dry  goods,  tobacco,  auto 
accessories  and  even  into  the  realm  of 
banking,  to  name  a  few.  Companies 
seeking  and  using  chain  administration 
and  distribution  are  better  entrenched 
against  loss  and  hence  have  universal 
profit  opportunity. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  bonds  and 
(Continued  on  Page  255) 


«<©<- 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

C/£?HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


HOTE1L 
MARK 
IOPK] 

San  Francisco 


For  a  Year  or  a 


The  rest  and  quiet  of  a  cared-for  home. 
The  "life"  and  service  of  a  large  hotel. 
Permanent  apartments  or  rooms  for  visiting 
guests. 


A  Great  New  Hotel — Generous  with  Hospitality 


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August,  1927 


on  this  earth  is  far  less  perfect  than  any 
of  us  would  like  to  have  it.  It  is  in  a 
state  of  evolution  wherein  all  results 
are  relative,  and  with  no  individual  able 
to  manifest  perfection.  Even  the  most 
intolerant  cynic,  rilled  as  he  always  is 
with  a  knowledge  of  everything  wrong 
in  the  universe,  can  not  manifest  per- 
fection, at  least  I  have  never  heard  of 
one  doing  so. 

And  neither  can  they  do  so  in  Los 
Angeles.  That  city,  with  its  huge  prob- 
lems and  institutions,  its  vast  and  rap- 
idly-increasing population,  is  much  like 
other  cities.  It  contains  all  sorts  of 
people.  The  chief  point  wherein  it  dif- 
fers from  its  contemporaries  is  found  in 
that  impulse  which  it  has  nurtured  to 
so  marked  a  degree,  with  results  that 
are  worthy  of  the  highest  praise  and 
which  likewise  form  a  distinct  contri- 
bution to  the  culture  of  the  world  in 
general.  On  these  credentials  it  gladly 
would  be  judged  by  all  people  who  are 
willing  to  measure  their  neighbors  by 
themselves. 

Yet  there  are  those  who  never  think 
of  following  such  a  policy;  indeed  they 
apparently  never  think  of  anything  ex- 
cept the  imperfections  of  their  neigh- 


Los  Angeles 

(Continued  from  Page  231) 

bors.  Iconoclasts  we  call  them,  and 
are  forced  to  put  up  with  them,  whether 
we  like  it  or  not.  So  far  as  I  know 
history  does  not  record  that  an  icono- 
clast has  ever  done  anything  useful  to 
anybody;  he  only  rants,  and  raves,  and 
tears  his  hair.  In  the  various  crises  of 
life  he  stands  on  the  side-lines,  frantic- 
ally waving  his  arms,  while  a  saner 
public  guides  the  ship  to  its  anchorage. 
Haven't  you  often  noticed  it? 

To  state  the  proposition  differently, 
Society  is  composed  of  individuals  each 
of  whom  is  a  consumer  and  a  producer 
— continually  putting  in  and  taking  out. 
The  one  who  takes  out  of  society  more 
than  he  puts  in  becomes  not  an  asset  but 
a  liability.  Such  people — and  the  world 
is  "blessed"  with  many  of  them — never 
think  of  doing  anything  to  help ;  they 
only  "hit  and  run."  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, though  they  do  no  good,  they 
never  do  much  real  harm.  Yet  all  of 
them  nevertheless  are  public  liabilities, 
and  I  don't  mean  maybe ! 

As  a  brilliant  example  we  have  with 
us  Mr  McWilliams.  Though  he  fran- 
tically raves  at  society's  shortcomings  I 
have  never  heard  of  him  exerting  himself 
to  correct  the  deplorable  condition. 


Though  he  violently  denounces  local  art, 
there  is  nothing  to  indicate  that  he 
ever  has  produced  any  art  of  any  char- 
acter, either  good  or  bad.  He  knocked 
all  the  local  institutions,  from  theaters, 
churches  and  schools,  to  beach  clubs, 
electric  lights  and  golf  courses.  Yet  has 
he  ever  contributed  anything  to  any  of 
them?  Having  assembled  all  the  words 
in  a  badly  jazzed  vocabulary  he  hurled 
them  headlong  at  Los  Angeles  art  and 
culture,  and  then  found  that  even  the 
Eastern  editors  failed  to  agree  with  him. 
Finally,  his  3000-word  dissertation  de- 
scribes a  city  which  does  not  exist  at 
any  spot  on  earth,  but  only  in  distem- 
pered imaginations,  and  this  perfectly 
apparent  fact  reduces  his  entire  effort  to 
a  complete  absurdity. 

How  unfortunate  a  thing  it  is  to  be 
so  wise,  in  a  world  so  utterly  foolish. 
What  a  lonesome  life  one  must  lead  who 
finds  everything  in  the  universe  imper- 
fect, except  himself!  .  .  .  This  final 
injunction  is  for  the  general  reading 
public,  not  for  any  iconoclast.  Don't 
ever  measure  your  neighbor  by  perfec- 
tion ;  measure  him  by  yourself.  Then,  if 
you  are  honest,  you  will  quickly  become 
both  humble  and  tolerant,  and  you  also 
may  grow  in  wisdom. 


DURING  that  winter  (1814-15) 
Williams  learned  that  his  man  Le 
Claire  had  told  about  the  hidden  fur 
and  that  a  company,  guided  by  Le  Claire, 
was  about  to  set  out  to  steal  it.  To  pre- 
vent any  such  robbery,  Williams  en- 
gaged the  services  of  Joseph  and  Wil- 
liam Cooper,  brothers  of  Braxton,  all 
members  of  the  then  well-known  pioneer 
family  for  whom  Cooper  County,  Mis- 
souri, was  named,  and  with  them 
hastened  to  reach  his  fur  cache  before 
Le  Claire's  company  could  arrive  at  it. 
When  the  trio  reached  the  little  Osage 
village  they  learned  that  Le  Claire's 
party  were  at  the  Cheniers,  the  village 
of  the  Arkansas  band  of  the  Osages;  so 
they  pushed  on  with  all  possible  speed, 
arriving  at  the  cache  ahead  of  the  plun- 
derers. They  awaited  Le  Claire's  ma- 
rauders but  they  did  not  appear.  When 
the  river  rose  with  the  spring  (1815) 
floods,  Williams  made  use  of  the  high 
water  to  take  his  fur  safely  down  to  the 
settlements. 

On  his  arrival  within  the  borders  of 
civilization,    Williams    learned    from 


Ezekiel  Williams 

(Continued  from  Page  234) 

friends,  who  had  been  at  the  Cheniers 
village  when  Le  Claire  and  his  accom- 
plices were  there,  that  Le  Claire's  peo- 
ple were  employed  by  certain  parties  in 
St.  Louis  to  kill  Williams  and  his  com- 
panions if  they  reached  the  cache  first, 
take  the  fur  contained  there  and  bring 
it  in  with  them :  that  a  large  band  of 
Indians  had  been  hired  to  assist  them, 
but  that  the  Indians  had  not  been  told 
the  particulars  of  what  was  expected  of 
them  until  they  were  within  a  few  miles 
of  the  fur :  that  the  reason  they  were  in- 
structed to  kill  Williams  and  his  com- 
panions was  that  the  fur  belonged  to  a 
company  in  St.  Louis,  that  Williams  had 
stolen  it  and  that  if  they  found  it  neces- 
sary to  kill  him  in  order  to  get  posses- 
sion of  it,  they  should  not  suffer. 

About  a  year  after  his  final  return 
from  his  second  visit  to  the  Arapahoes, 
Williams  became  greatly  concerned  over 
an  anonymous  article  published  July  9, 
1816,  in  the  Western  Intelligencer  of 
Kaskaskia,  111.,  alleging  that  he  had 
murdered  his  close  friend,  Champlain,  in 
order  to  gain  entire  possession  of  the  furs 


they  had  acquired  together.  In  refuta- 
tion of  this  charge,  Williams  wrote  the 
letter  heretofore  mentioned,  which  was 
published  in  the  Missouri  Gazette,  giv- 
ing an  account  of  his  experiences  in  the 
wilderness  that  have  been  narrated 
above. 

There  is  apparently  no  record  of  Wil- 
liams' activities  during  the  next  five  years, 
but  we  find  that  in  August,  1821,  the 
party  of  Captain  William  Becknell  ren- 
dezvoused at  Williams'  home  in  Boon- 
slick.  Whether  Williams  was  a  member 
of  Becknell's  expedition  is  conjectural, 
but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  he  was  at  least 
interested  in  the  venture.  Captain  Beck- 
nell is  called  by  a  well-known  authority, 
General  Chittenden,  "the  founder  of 
the  Santa  Fe  trade  and  the  father  of  the 
Santa  Fe  Trail."  Becknell  took  the  first 
successful  trading  expedition  from  Mis- 
souri to  Santa  Fe,  apparently  by  acci- 
dent,' and  was  the  first  to  take  a  wagon 
over  the  general  route  later  followed. 
With  four  companions  and  a  wagon  load 
of  suitable  merchandise  he  set  out  with 
the  original  intention  of  trading  with 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


253 


the  Comanche  Indians.  The  outfit  left 
Arrow  Rock  Ferry,  near  Franklin,  Mis- 
souri, on  September  1,  1821,  and  tra- 
veled up  the  Arkansas  river  until  when 
near  the  mountain,  on  November  13,  it 
chanced  to  fall  in  with  some  Mexican 
rangers  who  induced  Captain  Becknell 
to  go  with  them  to  San  Miguel,  New 
Mexico,  where  a  Frenchman  was  found 
who  could  act  as  interpreter.  From  San 
Miguel  Becknell's  party  went  to  Santa 
Fe,  where  its  members  visited  the  gover- 
nor and  were  received  by  the  inhabitants 
with  apparent  enthusiasm.  Becknell 
sold  his  goods  there  at  a  handsome  profit : 
he  was  said  to  have  received  seven  hun- 
dred dollars  from  a  wagon  that  cost  him 
one  hundred  and  fifty.  On  December 
13,  he  left  San  Miguel  with  a  single 
companion  named  McLaughlin,  set  out 
for  Missouri  and  reached  home  safely 
in  forty-eight  days  (on  or  about  January 
30,  1822). 

The  favorable  report  brought  back 
by  Becknell  soon  led  to  repetitions  of 
his  enterprise  and  during  the  next  few 
years  many  others  had  followed  his  lead 
and  were  engaged  in  trade  with  Santa 
Fe.  Among  them  was  Ezekiel  Williams 
who  again  appears  as  the  captain  of  a 
train  of  fifty-three  wagons  and  one  hun- 
dred and  five  men,  including  one  David 
Workman,  which  set  out  from  Frank- 
lin, Missouri,  in  the  spring  of  1827: 
the  largest  outfit  up  to  that  time.  About 
sixty  of  the  party  returned  at  the  end  of 
September,  after  four  months'  absence, 
with  eight  hundred  head  of  stock, 
worth  $28,000,  on  which  their  profits 
were  40  per  cent. 

An  interesting  side  light  is  shed  on 
the  aforesaid  David  Workman  of  Cap- 
tain Williams'  outfit  by  George  Fred- 
erick Ruxton,  who  wrote  "Adventures 
in  Mexico  and  the  Rocky  Mountains," 
published  in  New  York  in  1848.  He 
states  that  while  he  was  in  El  Gallo, 
a  small  town  ir.  Durango,  Mexico,  on 
or  about  October  16,  1846,  a  trader's 
outfit  of  four  mule-drawn  wagons  ar- 
rived there  which  "proved  tc  be  the  cara- 
van of  one  Davy  Workman,  an  Eng- 
lishman by  birth,  but  long  resident  in, 
and  a  citizen  of  the  United  States,  a 
tall,  hard-featured  man,  and  most  de- 
termined in  look,  as  he  was  known  to 
be  in  character — un  hombre  muy  bien 
conocirio."  Could  this  hombre  have 
been  Captain  Williams'  companion  on 
his  Santa  Fe  expedition  of  nineteen 
years  before?  Quien  sabe? 

Of  Ezekiel  Williams'  subsequent  his- 
tory we  have  no  record  and  we  do  not 
know  when  and  where  he  passed  the 
great  divide.  Let  us  hope  that  he  may 
have  lived  to  enjoy  a  well-earned,  happy 
old  age  and  that  his  final  resting  place 
will  not  be  desecrated  by  a  steam  shovel 
as  was  that  of  his  compatriot  and  con- 
temporary, John  Colter. 


Young  Men  in 
Love 

(Continued  from  Page  237) 

assuming  that  the  charm  of  the  place  is 
that  it  has  a  tradition  and  nothing 
more.  This  one  may  well  doubt.  That 
San  Francisco  has  changed  radically  must 
be  assumed ;  that  it  has  lost  grace  in  the 
transition  must  be  further  assumed;  but 
that  it  has  ceased  to  exist  as  one  of  the 
most  charming  cities  in  America  must  be 
questioned.  Some  of  these  newer  writers, 
in  fact  most  of  them,  have  been  so  en- 
chanted with  the  rich  fabric  of  the  city's 
past  that  they  have  overlooked  the  fact 
that  it  is  only  through  their  association 
with  its  present  that  they  ever  came  to 
explore  its  past.  Their  melancholic 
threnodies  about  the  "city  that  was"  is 
very  fit  and  proper,  but  it  borders  on  the 
pathological  to  weep  so  continually  over 
the  death  of  an  old  mistress  when  a  new 
one  is  sighing  indolently  in  one's  arms. 
That  this  tradition  is  enthralling  can- 
not be  gainsaid.  In  fact  I  have  done 
some  browsing  in  old  files  myself  and 
the  very  idea  of  a  "cocktail  route,"  for 
example,  sends  immense  shivers  of  joy 
through  my  being.  Reading  such  old  files 
stirs  poignant  thoughts  about  those  for- 
mer days,  when  the  insidious  voice  of 
modernity  had  not  begun  to  disturb  the 
golden  serenity  of  a  people  and  a  city 
that  took  joy  seriously  and  were  pro- 
perly amused  about  the  business  of  life. 
I  recall  an  article  by  one  Major  Ben  C. 
Truman,  appearing  in  "Town  Talk," 
under  date  of  November  17,  1906, 
wherein  he  describes  this  "cocktail  route" 
in  terms  that  would  bring  tears  to  the 
eyes  of  any  traveler  in  this  land  of  lost 
paradises.  The  route  began  "at  the 
southwestern  corner  of  Kearny  and  Bush 
and  proceeded  along  Kearny  to  Market, 
and  continued  on  the  northern  side  of 
Market  west  as  far  as  Powell ;  and  re- 
turn, or  not,  as  the  devotee  wished,  or 
could  daily  afford."  To  read  Major 


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guick  On  The  Trigger' 


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STRANGE  WATERS 

By  GEORGE  STERLING 

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A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  aims  to  give 
this  spiritual  food  in  sweet,  wholesome 
stories  of  real  life,  in  fanciful  fairy  tales, 
in  nature  stories,  and  in  poems  of  every 
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YOUNG  MEN  IN  LOVE 
Truman's  rhapsody  on  the  Crystal  Pal- 
ace, Hacquette's  Palace  of  Art,  and  the 
Reception,  "where  cocktails,  toddys, 
punches  and  highballs  were  moved  about 
like  fantoccini"  is  to  torture  the  imagi- 
nation with  thoughts  of  what  might  pos- 
sibly be,  but  what  most  assuredly  is  not, 
the  San  Francisco  of  today.  One  can 
well  sympathize  with  Mr.  Jones  and 
mourn  with  him  the  loss  of  such  splendid 
days.  But  the  hills  of  San  Francisco  re- 
main and  as  long  as  they  do  who  can 
fail  to  fall  in  love  with  the  place;  who 
can  fear  for  its  future? 

L'ENVOI 

According  to  Achmed  Abdullah  it  is 
written  in  the  Book  of  Liehtzu,  in  the 
Chapter  of  the  Yellow  Emperor,  that 
"with  tears  you  come  to  Pekin ;  with 
tears  you  leave  again."  A  fine,  sifting, 
intimate  veil  of  mist  enveloped  San 
Francisco  on  my  first  arrival,  so  that  it 
seemed  for  days  as  though  I  were  living 
in  a  city  of  astonishing  insubstantiality, 
a  city  towering  miraculously  in  the 
ghost-fog ;  and  when  I  left  the  last  time 
a  mist  was  upon  the  place  and  through 
this  mist  the  blaze  of  factory  furnaces 
along  the  way  seemed  like  the  sad  toss- 
ing of  orange  plumes  in  the  night.  The 
city  loomed  up  behind  this  screen  in  all 
its  pristine  unreality  and  other-worldli- 
ness:  had  I  actually  re-visited  the  place 
or  not?  Was  this  just  a  figment  of  the 
imagination?  As  the  last  light  winked 
out  in  the  mist,  I  was  still  left  in  this 
quandary;  so  familiar  it  had  seemed,  so 
known  of  old,  and  yet  so  impalpable  and 
full  of  shadows.  "With  tears  you  come 
to  Pekin  ;  with  tears  you  leave  again." 


Orland,  Calif. 


San   Francisco 


WHAT'S  YOUR  NAME? 
(Continued  from  Page  249) 
And    as    the    veering   wind    shifts, 
shift  our  sails." 

When  we  go  to  a  far  countree  for 
a  name  as  did  some  adventurous  soul 
when  he  chose  "Turk"  and  "Moor" 
(also  from  'more',  a  heath).  These 
names  held  much  of  glamour,  for 
though  the  enemies  of  the  Crusaders, 
yet  they  were  known  as  doughty  souls 
and  strong.  How  the  sense  of  associ- 
ation grips  one,  the  word  "Turk"  takes 
one  swiftly  back  to  child  hood  days  when 
it  was  such  a  joy  to  roll  upon  one's 
tongue  the  old  nonsense :  "Ac  and  a 
si,  a  con-stan-ti,  a  nople  and  a  pople, 
and  a  Con-stan-ti-nople". 

Fierceness  is  ever  fascinating,  so  we 
find  many  a  "Savage",  "Sauvage" ;  also 
"Wild",  "Wilde"  and  "Wildman"; 
even  "Pagan"  some  one  made  his  own, 
leaving  a  large  legacy  in  "Paine", 
"Payn",  "Payne". 

Even  the  "Heathen"  is  given  his  due, 
a  name  applied  in  the  Middle  Ages  to 
all  unbelievers.  As  a  foil  we  have 
"Christian"  with  its  companions 


"Christie"  and  "Christison" ;  "Baptist" 
also  claiming  adherents,  became  a  font 
name,  though  rare. 

Among  the  countries,  we  find  in  the 
registers,  a  James  "Albion"  and  a  Vic- 
toria "England",  as  also  a  Britannia 
"Ireland".  "Wales"  we  know  of  fre- 
quent use,  as  are  also  "France,"  "Spain." 

"Prussia"  may  not  now  enjoy  such 
popularity  as  when  first  adopted.  "Nor- 
way", "Denmark",  "Poland",  "Han- 
over", "Greenland",  "Candy"  (from 
"Cande",  near  Blois  in  Normandy),  all 
have  their  full  share  of  attention.  Even 
John  "China"  has  his  place. 

A  common  entry  in  early  registers 
was  "Paris"  with  its  corruptions  "Par- 
iss",  "Parriss"  and  "Parris";  as  also 
"Seville",  "Sevill",  "Savill",  "Saville" 
and  "Savile". 

"Canton"  has  representation  in  one 
Sarah,  while  "Milan"  in  one  William. 

A  surname  frequently  found  in  the 
13th  and  14th  centuries  is  "Florence" 
or  "Florance"  from  the  beautiful  Ital- 
ian city,  while  "Ghent"  and  "Baden" 
occur  together.  "Waterloo",  "Water- 
low"  is  not  overlooked,  from  the  Flem- 
ish "Waterloos". 

The  name  Victor  "Nancy"  brings  to 
mind  its  famous  prototype,  the  city  of 
Nancy  in  Lorraine.  This  became 
"Nantes"  in  Brittany  and  "Trenance" 
in  Cornwall. 

The  beloved  name  "Washington" 
was  a  heritage  from  the  ancestors  of  our 
great  patriot,  George  "Washington", 
who  were  of  the  old  gentry  stock  seated 
in  Northhamptonshire  and  Lancashire. 

"Melbourne"  and  "Sydney"  (from 
the  French  St.  Denis)  are  equally  as 
modern  as  medieval. 

"Galilee",  "Galley"  could  be  from 
the  porch  attached  to  a  cathedral  or 
from  the  sacred  lake  in  the  Holy  Land. 
"Calvary"  would  be  appropriately  men- 
tioned now. 

"Troy"  comes  from  the  French  town 
"Troyes". 

The  counties  of  England  are  memor- 
ialized in  "Berkshire"  ('shire'  a  division 
of  land);  "Cheshire",  "Derbyshire", 
"Devonshire",  "Hampshire",  "Lanca- 
shire", "Wiltshire"  and  its  corruption 
"Wiltsheare",  "Wiltsher",  "Wiltshier", 
"Wiltshear";  "Warwick"  and  "War- 
wickshire"; "Cornwall,"  "Cornnell" ; 
"Essex",  "Durham",  "Kent",  "Nor- 
folk" (folk  from  the  North)  as  "Suf- 
folk" (folk  from  the  South);  "Rut- 
land", "Sussex",  "Dorset",  "Northum- 
berland", "Westmoreland"  and  the  fa- 
mous "Somerset",  "Somersett",  "Sum- 
merset" of  lordly  memory. 

"It  is  a  very  good  world  to  live  in, 
To  lend  or  to  spend,  or  to  give  in, 
But  to  beg,  or  to  borrow,  or  to  get 

a  man's  own, 

It's  the  very  worst  world  that  ever 
was  known." 


August,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


255 


KNOWLEDGE 

(Continued  from  Page  251) 
stocks  that  possess  one  or  more  of  the 
requisites  of  sound  investment.  No  se- 
curity should  be  purchased  without  care- 
ful consideration  of  personal  needs  and 
present  holdings.  A  well  rounded  list 
consists  of  around  15  per  cent  municipal 
and  government  issues ;  25  per  cent 
public  utilities;  25  or  30  per  cent  rails; 
15  or  20  per  cent  foreign  bonds  where 
no  personal  prejudice  introduces  lack  of 
confidence;  20  or  10  per  cent  industrials. 
Here  is  a  list  for  this  month : 

Insured  mortgage  bonds,  5l/2  per 
cent,  1932-1937  at  100,  yield  5y2  per 
cent;  Canadian  National  Railway,  4^ 
per  cent,  1957,  at  $98.50,  yield  4:6  per 
cent;  Mortgage  Bank  of  Colombia,  7 
per  cent,  1946,  at  $97.50,  yield  7.23  per 
cent;  Associated  Gas  and  Electric,  6l/2 
per  cent  preferred,  at  $99.00,  yield  6.6 
per  cent;  Zellerbach  Corporation  6  per 
cent  convertible  preferred,  at  99^4, 
yield  6.01  per  cent. 

Our  future  plans  call  for  careful  con- 
sideration of  the  outstanding  advantages 
and  disadvantages  of  the  four  major 
classifications  of  securities,  rails,  utili- 
ties, and  government  and  industrial  and 
the  branches  of  each,  bonds  preferred 
and  common  stocks.  We  will  try  to 
give  one  or  two  brief  analyses  of  well- 
known  stocks  each  month. 


BOOKS  AND  WRITERS 

(Continued  from  Page  246) 

instance;   and    "The   Crime"   is   almost 
fierce. 

But  it  is  not  these  poems  or  his  clever 
paradoxes  that  give  this  volume  its  dis- 
tinction. This  is  given  by  such  poems 
as  the  title  poem,  by  "Night  Lilac," 
"Pioneer,"  by  poem  after  poem  disclos- 
ing his  beloved  farm  fields  under  every 
seasonal  aspect.  Indeed  he  draws  as 
many  poem  subjects  from  his  small  farm 
as  J.  Alden  Weir,  the  great  poet  painter, 
drew  picture  subjects  from  his  rocky 
little  farm  at  Branchville,  Conn.  Here, 
too,  Mr.  Van  Doren  finds  the  birds 
and  beasts  of  whom  he  loves  to  write. 
The  reason,  I  think,  these  poems  are 
the  distinguishing  ones  is  that  in  them 
the  poet  is,  emotionally,  fully  released ; 
keep  he  ever  so  tight  a  rein  on  his  firm 
and  restrained  technique.  Subjects  of 
this  nature  are  launched  on  a  tide  of 
tenderness,  deep  yet  too  high-banked  to 
overflow  into  shallow  sentimentality.  In 
the  finest  of  them,  too,  is  no  touch  of 
the  sophistication  or  obscurity  that  else- 
where sometimes  appears.  They  are  ele- 
mental in  their  strong  simplicity.  Take 
the  closing  lines  of  "Remembered 
Farm"  since  we  cannot  take  it  all : 


"Now  I  am  come,  the  fields  are  fair. 
Yet  not  the  greenest  flesh  atones 
For  when  the  skeleton  was  bare 
And  lightning  ran  along  the  bones." 

In  his  nature  poems  this  poet  conveys 
large  atmospheric  impressions  by  a  fine 
and  subtle  sense  of  the  attributes  of  at- 
mosphere and  a  sensitive  knowledge  of 
connotations,  so  that  "7  P.  M.,"  though 
dealing  almost  entirely  with  a  single  bird 
in  twilight  flight  is  the  whole  of  eve- 
ning and  "Night  Lilac"  though  con- 
cerned with  a  flowering  bush  in  a  small 
garden  is  night  in  its  immensity  and 
mystery. 

An  impression  of  a.  puppy — "Prob- 
lem" and  of  a  cat — "Contemptuous," 
have  never  been  more  adequately  done, 
and  in  "The  Gentlest  Beast"  we  have 
in  a  four-part  poem  of  changing  rhythm 
a  masterly  tribute  to  the  horse.  In  the 
last  part  of  the  poem  the  poet  is  alone 
near  a  wood  where  he  saw  "A  solemn 
Morgan's  head  hung  in  the  evening  like 
a  bough,"  and  he  tells  us: 

"Uncertain  juices  of  the  night 
Trickled  within  the  wood  ; 
My  cheek  against  his  shoulder  felt 
What  could  be  understood." 

That  is  the  keynote  to  this  poet's  work 
dealing  with  such  subjects.  He  feels 
what  can  be  understood  between  man 
and  beast,  between  man  and  the  soil 
with  all  that  springs  therefrom  and  he 
translates  this  feeling  and  this  under- 
standing into  such  a  poem  as  this: 

Turkey  Buzzards 

"Silently,  every  hour,  a  pair  would  rise 
And  float,  without  an  effort  clear  of  the 

trees — - 
Float  in  a  perfect  curve,  then   tilt  and 

drop; 

Or  tilt  again  and  spiral  toward  the  sun. 
They  might  have  been  a  dream  the  tim- 
ber dreamed  .  .  . 
But  could  have  been  a  conscious  thought, 

that  cut 
The  warm,  blue  world  in  segments.  For 

the  sky 

Unmeasured,  was  too  much  that  after- 
noon. 

It  lay  too  heavy  on  us  .  .  .  Happy  trees, 
If   they    could   so   divide    it,    wing   and 
wing!"      SARAH  BARD  FIELD. 


THE  GREAT  GOD  DREISER 

MR.  DREISER,  you  remember,  wrote 
that  enormous  platitude,  "The 
American  Tragedy."  A  double-decker, 
one  of  the  year's  "supposed  to  be  read" 
and  a  story  which  produced  a  greater 
number  of  liars  than  any  book  we  can 
remember  having  been  printed.  At  least 
fifty  thousand  Ladies  and  Gentlemen 
lied  when  asked  if  they  had  read 
Dreiser's  American  Tragedy.  And  at 


Just  a 
Moment! 

Before  you  lay  aside  that 
manuscript  you  think  should 
find  a  market,  write  for  par- 
ticulars. 


Authors7  &  Pu  blis  he  rs? 
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The  Sta-on  Co.,  Dept.  It.,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


256 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


August,  1927 


BOOKS  AND  WRITERS 

(Continued  from  Page  255) 
least  twenty-five  thousand  reviewers  lied 
when  they  urged  their  gross  assinities 
on  a  review-suffering  public.  Next  in 
line,  comes  Dreiser's  "The  Financier." 
A  revised  and  even  more  bulky  publica- 
tion of  a  1912  failure.  Mr.  Dreiser 
takes  the  usual  eight  and  ten  pages  ex- 
plaining how  a  gentleman  adjusts  his 
spectacles  and  the  manner  in  which  he 
purchases  a  newspaper.  It  is  an  excel- 
lent catalogue,  an  elaborate  print  tomb. 
— TANCRED. 


HOWARD  M'KINLEY  CORNING 

MR.  CORNING  has  done  a  great 
deal  for  Oregon,  his  home  state, 
and  for  the  modern  poetry  world  wrap- 
ped in  all  forty-eight.  "These  People," 
recently  issued  in  an  extremely  beautiful 
form  by  Harold  Vinal  of  New  York, 
proves  three  definite  facts:  He  is  no 
longer  a  minor  voice  starting  over  the 
housetops  of  his  neighborhood,  but  a 
national  spirit,  firmly  recognized  and 
become  one  with  the  lamentably  few 
sincere  poets  of  today ;  his  major  quality, 
which  is  a  simplicity  and  an  understand- 


Sail  to  New  York  or  Havana 


SISTER  SHIPS 

SS  VENEZUELA 
SS  COLOMBIA 
SS  ECUADOR 


See  MEXICO,  CENTRAL  AMERICA,  PANAMA  CANAL  and 

GAY  HAVANA,  en  route 
Panama  Mail  Liners  Are  Specially  Built  for  Service  in  the  Tropics 


Twenty-eight  days  of  pure  de- 
light aboard  a  palatial  Panama 
Mail  Liner  with  seven  never-to- 
be-forgotten  visits  ashore  at  pic- 
turesque and  historic  ports  — 
Manzanillo,  Mexico ;  San  Jose 
de  Guatemala;  La  Libertad,  Sal- 
vador; Corinto,  Nicaragua.  Two 
days  in  the  Canal  Zone.  See  the 
great  Panama  Canal;  visit  Bal- 
boa, Cristobal  and  historic  old 


Panama.   Golf  at  Panama  along- 
side the  Canal  Locks. 

Every  cabin  on  a  Panama 
Mail  Liner  is  an  outside  one ; 
each  has  an  electric  fan,  and 
there  is  a  comfortable  lower  bed 
for  every  passenger.  There  is  an 
orchestra  for  dancing  ;  deck 
games  and  sports  and  salt  water 
swimming  tank.  The  Panama 
Mail  is  world-famous  for  its  food 
and  service. 


Costs  Less  Than  $9  a  Day 

The  cost  is  less  than  $9  a  day  for  minimum  first-class  passage, 
including  bed  and  meals  on  steamer.  Go  East  by  Panama  Mail 
and  return  by  rail  (or  vice  versa)  for  as  little  as  $380.00.  (This 
price  does  not  include  berth  and  meals  on  trains.)  Panama  Mail 
Liners  leave  San  Francisco  and  New  York  approximately  every 
21  days.  Book  now  for  SS  ECUADOR,  from  San  Francisco 
August  20,  or  SS  COLOMBIA,  September  17;  from  Los  Angeles 
two  days  later.  Westward  from  New  York;  SS  COLUMBIA, 
August  13;  SS  VENEZUELA,  September  3. 

For  illustrated  booklets  and  further  details  ask  any  steamship  or  ticket  agent, 

or  write  to 

PANAMA  MAIL  S.  S.  CO. 


548  South  Spring  Street 
LOS  ANGELES 


2  Pine  Street 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


10  Hanover  Square 
NEW  YORK 


ing  ripened  in  philosophy,  will  place  him 
nicely  before  the  anthologists  and  lovers 
of  important  verse,  and  his  capability 
of  striking  the  animate  passions  of  every- 
day life  and  setting  them  in  color  and 
rhythm  undeniably  beautiful  is  a  pro- 
found and  a  complete  art.  "These  Peo- 
ple" is  one  of  possibly  five  all-poetry 
issues  of  the1  year  which  is  commanding. 
— TANCRED. 


ODDS  AND  ENDS 

Again  has  the  skill  of  San  Francisco's 
master  craftsmen  in  the  graphic  arts 
been  recognized.  This  city  has  long  been 
conceded  to  be  the  home  of  fine  printing, 
which  fact  was  recently  well  established 
by  the  award  of  first  medal  by  the  judges 
of  the  American  Institute  of  Graphic 
Arts  at  the  New  York  exhibition.  The 
book  was  one  of  a  limited  edition  of 
"The  Letters  of  Amerigo  Vespucci,"  de- 
signed by  Edwin  Crabhorn. 


Grammar!  Grammar  of  the  hard-and- 
fast,  unbending,  shell-back  variety  is 
largely,  in  the  words  of  the  man  on  the 
street — applesauce.  Just  that. 

A  keen  article  and  a  timely  one  on  the 
subject  of  grammar  appeared  in  the  June 
number  of  Century.  It  was  "The  Be- 
havior of  Words,"  by  John  Erskine,  au- 
thor of  "The  Private  Life  of  Helen  of 
Troy." 

"But  the  children  still  learn,  or  try  to, 
that  nouns  are  abstract  or  collective, 
common  or  proper;  that  'certain  proper 
nouns  become  common  nouns  when  used 
in  a  special  sense' ;  that  nouns  have  gen- 
der— or  if  in  spite  of  grammars  they 
obviously  haven't,  then  they  have  com- 
mon gender.  But  did  any  human  being 
ever  find  use  for  these  definitions  as  he 
spoke  or  wrote?  Would  the  knowledge 
of  them  solve  a  single  difficulty  of  ex- 
pression?" 

And  again:  "Our  one  purpose  in 
speech  is  not  to  illustrate  grammar,  but 
to  make  ourselves  understood." 

Text-books  on  almost  every  subject 
but  grammar  have  been  simplified  and 
modernized  to  a  point  where  they  are 
quite  in  harmony  with  million-dollar 
school  plants,  which  include  super-gym- 
nasiums, opera  houses,  movie  shows,  res- 
taurants and  other  so-called  educational 
essentials ;  but  grammar  is  the  same  old 

grind. 

*     *     * 

The  New  York  Public  Library  has 
added  to  its  equipment  an  electric  eras- 
ing machine  for  making  frequent  changes 
on  catalog  cards.  Perhaps  this  machine 
could  be  used  to  great  advantage  on 
many  volumes  ruthlessly  defaced  by 
scribbling  vandals. 


THE 


CITY^T-APTOS*BEACH-ON-MONTEREY-BAY 


VV" 


SEACLIF.,,.,. 
PARK//.^ 

»«s!saiSSa 


ou  drive  to  Seaclijfif  Park  through. 
Santa  Crux  or  Watsonvitle,  turning  off 
the  Stale  Highway  about  JH  mi/ef  east 
of  Cap  i  tola,  where  the  tignt  read  "Sea- 
ctiff  Park,  Aptot  Beach  arcd  the  Pati- 
tadet.'* 


EACLIFFJPARK- 

ofrkalitif^ 

>/  V_^        •-/ 


I 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family  —  but  the 
fact  that  Seacliff  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Reality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  Seacliff  Park  property 


((These  are  tummer-like 
days  at  Aptos  Beach — warm,  lazy 
breakers  with  Joamy  crests  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
scuttling  off  to  the  shore  in  a  wild 
confusion  oj  effervescent  bub- 
bles, while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward jor  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

GPendlng  the  construction  oj  per- 
manent buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

KJOrive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  free. 

OiFree  transportation,  ij  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  Seaclijj  Park 
Of/ice  upon  arrival.  ((Ask  jor 
Registration  Clerk. 


is  wise. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  thefact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetualcharm 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.  Seacliff  Park  resi- 
dents know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park  —  Riviera  of  the 
Pacific  now  emerges  in  reality. 


OWNED  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF   COMPANY,  APTO'S,  CALIFORNIA 


Descriptive  folder 
ten'  upon  request 


G; 


AT  APTOS  ,  CALIFORNIA. 


GAYLORD  WILSHIRE 
Inventor  of  the  I-ON-A-CO 

S^AYLORD  WILSHIRE  is  the  founder  of  the  famous 
^-*  Wilshire District  in  Los  Angeles.  ^Beautiful  Wilshire 
Boulevard  was  named  after  him.  He  is  considered  one  of 
the  foremost  authorities  on  economics  in  America  today. 

His  circle  of  acquaintances  includes  such  names  as  William  Morris, 
Ambassador  Bryce,  H.  G.  Wells,  Havelock  Ellis,  and  Bernard  Shaw. 
His  latest  achievement  is  the  invention  of  the  I-ON-A-CO,  based  upon 
the  recent  discovery  of  Professor  Otto  Warburg,  the  noted  German  biolo- 
gist. His  invention  seems  destined  to  revolutionize  medical  science. 


WilshiresI-ON-A-co 


FOUNDED  BY  BRET  HARIE  IN  1866 


Vol.  LXXXV       SEPTEMBER,  1927 


No.  9 


PRICE  25  CENTS 

AND  O  UT  WEST 


MAGAZINE 


VIIX.O1K1A  L 


.  '  ~<-. 


-"" 

-'    '- 


The  Radiophone's  Meaning 

An  Advertisement  oj 
the  American  Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company 


AN  ADVENTURE  in  com- 
munication was  made 
last  January  when  trans- 
atlantic radio  telephone  ser- 
vice was  established  between 
New  York  and  London.  There 
had  been  previous  tests  and 
demonstrations.  Nevertheless, 
the  fact  that  at  certain  hours 
daily  this  service  was  made 
available  to  anyone  in  these 
cities  from  his  own  telephone, 
created  such  public  interest 
that  for  several  days  the  de- 
mands for  overseas  connec- 
tions exceeded  the  capacity 
of  the  service. 

It  was  then  demonstrated 
that  there  was  a  real  use  for 
telephone  communication  be- 
tween the  world's  two  greatest 
cities.  It  was  further  demon- 


strated that  the  Ameri- 
can Telephone  and  Tele- 
graph Company,  with 
the  co-operation  of  the  British 
Post  Office,  was  able  to  give 
excellent  transmission  of  speech 
under  ordinary  atmospheric 
conditions. 

In  accord  with  announce- 
ments made  at  that  time, 
there  will  be  a  continued  effort 
to  improve  the  service,  extend 
it  to  greater  areas  and  insure 
a  greater  degree  of  privacy. 

It  is  true  that  static  will  at 
times  cause  breaks  in  the  ether 
circuit,  but  a  long  step  for- 
ward has  been  made  towards 
international  telephone  com- 
munication and  more  intimate 
relationshipbetweentheUnited 
States  and  Great  Britain. 


September,  1927  OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE  257 


Former  United  States  Senator 

James  D.  Phelan  Overland -Poetry  Contest 

Something  Different! 

FOR  California  poets  who  have  published  during  1926-1927  to  deter- 
mine just  what  part  California  contributes  to  the  literature  of  the 
world  through  her  medium  of  poetry.  There  will  be  a  group  for  poets 
with  unpublished  work  and  the  contest  is  open  to  all  poets  residing  in 
California.   A  poet  may  submit  work  to  either  or  both  groups  if  he  is  so 
qualified,  but  the  limit  of  entries  will  be  twelve  to  the  first  group   and 
twelve  to  the  second  group  by  any  one  poet  (twenty-four  entries  in  all). 
After  the  prizes  are  awarded,  there  will  be  a  specially-compiled  list  of 
names  of  poets  and  poems  of  California  worthy  of  contemplation. 

FIRST  GROUP 

FOR  poets  residing  in  California  with  unpublished  work.  If  you  have  a  sonnet  or 
a  lyric,  send  it  in  at  once  to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  Unpub- 
lished work  must  be  submitted  anonymously.  A  sealed  envelope,  bearing  on  the  outside 
the  names  of  the  poems  submitted,  with  the  name  of  the  author  of  these  poems  and 
return  postage  sealed  within,  should  accompany  each  group  of  entries  by  a  contestant. 
Manuscripts  must  be  in  our  hands  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best   Sonnet  $15.00 Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00 Second  Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be  honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

SECOND  GROUP 

IF  YOU  have  published  during  1926-1927  a  sonnet  or  lyric,  send  it  in  immediately 
to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  You  may  win  one  of  the  prizes. 
Published  work  must  bear  the  name  of  the  publication  and  date  of  publication,  also 
name  of  author.    Entries  must  be  in  Overland  Office  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best   Sonnet  $15.00 Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00 Second   Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be\honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

Editor's  Note:  Manuscripts  have  been  coming  in  such  volume  that  it  will  be  impossible  to  return 
each  individual  manuscript.  Please  keep  carbons  of  all  your  work.  There  has  been  question 
brought  to  our  desk  as  to  whether  poetry  submitted  to  this  contest  becomes  the  Overland's 
property  regardless  of  whether  prizes  are  won  or  not.  Only  those  poems  which  win  prizes 
will  be  the  property  of  Overland  Monthly. 

All  Manuscripts  to  be  Sent  to 
OVERLAND  MONTHLY,  356  Pacific  Building,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 


258 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


A  RECENTLY  compiled  statistic  in- 
/\  forms  us  seventy  thousand  married 
women  are  holding  down  seventy  thou- 
sand miscellaneous  jobs  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. We  pause  in  the  day's  occupa- 
tion to  wonder  what  the  forty  odd  thou- 
sand jobless  men  think  of  it  all.  Appar- 
ently we  are  approaching  the  Great  Fe- 
male Invasion  Aristotle  spoke  of  some 
years  back.  We  may  expect  any  day 
now  to  submit  transfers  to  a  conduc- 
toress  and  humbly  suggest  that  the  coal 
heaveress  deposit  less  coal  on  the  side- 
walk and  more  in  the  shute.  Mean- 
while the  Trade  Unions  prepare  their 
sassy  public  bulls  and  the  Howard 
Street  Bum  multiplies  by  the  hundreds, 
yea,  by  the  tens  of  hundreds.  The 
matter  presents  an  intensely  grave  side 
as  well.  It  is  not  at  all  amiss  to  sug- 
gest that  the  woman  who  can  no  longer 
take  her  place  in  the  home — pardon,  we 
should  have  said  apartment — be  taxed  a 
trifle  and  a  fund  be  developed  out  of 
this  tax  to  provide  for  the  man  whose 
job  she  holds.  (Her  husband  should 
likewise  be  taxed  for  allowing  her  the 
priviledge  of  becoming  a  semi-mascu- 
linated  product  of  childless  commercial 
neurosy). 


A  LETTER  from  Donald  Gray 
laments  and  gently  damns  the  edi- 
tors of  various  eastern  magazines  for 
retaining  manuscript  often  over  a  year 
before  publication.  "The  magazines  I 
list,"  writes  Mr.  Gray,  "not  only  hold 
the  material  fifteen  months  before  pub- 
lishing— but  have  the  extreme  effron- 
tery to  pay  the  author  on  publication!" 
He  lists  a  group  of  Trade  Journals, 
quite  a  few  lesser  literary  papers  and, 
surprising  indeed,  several  magazines  of 
national  importance.  Personally,  we 
believe  an  editor  mighty  desperate  who 
gathers  copy  a  year  in  advance  of  publi- 
cation. He'd  be  a  sure  calamity  in  the 
fruit  business.  And  in  this  day  of  jour- 
nalistic speed,  this  day  of  new  maga- 
zines, scoops,  red  hot  articles,  fiction 
swerving  from  one  extreme  to  the  other 
overnight,  book  publication  going  into 
the  million  copies  and  an  average  of 
three  new  magazines  a  week  we  rather 
think  such  an  editor  plays  decidedly  un- 
fair to  his  readers  and  his  publisher.  Not 
to  speak  of  an  author  who  must  wait 
fifteen  months  to  get  his  cheque. 

And  speaking  of  authors,   it's  amaz- 
ing  to   learn    of   the    modern    efficency 


sweeping  through  the  literary  field. 
Time  was  when  a  laborer  of  the  pen 
must  have  the  stage  set  with  fastidious 
care  before  he  could  get  down  to  the 
seed  of  the  muse.  But  no  more!  We 
were  visiting  a  young  man  last  week 
whose  workshop  is  a  simply  furnished 
hotel  room  and  whose  window  looks 
down  on  the  intricate  pattern  of  shops, 
theatres,  street  cars  and  taxis  lining 
Market  Street.  We  were  told  he  sells 
fifteen  to  twenty  short  stories  a  year 
and  numerous  articles  on  construction 
themes.  And  we  notice  a  good  many 
of  the  contributions  to  our  office  come 
from  hotels  scattered  about  the  nation. 
"Why  not?"  the  young  man  answered 
us.  "Here  I  am  in  direct  touch  with 
the  vital  part  of  the  city.  I  have  im- 
mediate service  by  lifting  the  telephone 
receiver.  If  I  run  out  of  stamps,  paper, 
ink — it  is  delivered  to  my  door  at  once. 
My  immediate  needs  are  taken  care  of 
with  all  the  attention  I  could  expect 
from  a  valet.  If  I  want  to  keep  on 
writing,  food  is  delivered  here.  And," 
with  a  twinkle,  "my  checks  are  cashed 
immediately  downstairs — whether  they 
come  from  the  Harp  at  Leanard,  Kans., 
or  from  the 'New  York  Times!"  All  in 
all,  we  consider  the  young  man  blessed 
with  keen  wisdom.  And  it  gives  us  a 
new  thought  on  the  hotel  as  a  home. 
We  have  discovered  that  a  monthly  rate 
at  an  excellent  hotel  is  considerably 
cheaper  than  a  two-room  apartment. 
The  modern  hotel  is  a  marvel  of  ser- 
vice and  taste.  From  the  over-stuffed 
chairs  of  the  lobby  to  the  suite  on  the 
top  floor  it  is  a  scientific  creation  of 
efficiency  and  quiet.  San  Francisco,  with 
her  newest — and  by  far  the  most  beau- 
tiful— Hotel  Shaw,  where  no  less  than 
five  writers  have  taken  up  residence  re- 
cently, her  hotel  Governor  and  Granada, 
presents  a  pretty  and  a  convenient  plan 
for  the  writer.  We  no  longer  feel,  by 
the  way,  that  fifty  acres  of  apple  orchard 
must  spread  out  before  a  window  set  in 
a  room  of  tomb-like  quiet  and  half- 
shadows  before  the  muse  may  be  won. 
We  agree  with  our  young  author  friend 
that  the  modern  hotel,  with  its  immacu- 
late service  and  its  extreme  good  taste 
is  much  more  desirable. 


OEPTEMBER  is  upon  us.  Seems  a 
O  month  ago  we  were  planning  what 
to  do  over  the  fourth.  But  no  matter 
— we  merely  wish  to  warn  the  poets 


that  our  Senator  Phelan  contest  will 
soon  be  over.  Let  those  of  you  who  are 
putting  off  the  collection  of  published 
and  unpublished  material  take  final 
warning.  We  have  received  a  good 
many  manuscripts  for  the  contest,  by 
the  way,  from  eastern  poets  who  plead 
they  are  Californians  but  no  longer  live 
in  the  State.  The  contributions  are 
returned;  we  pointed  out  in  an  an- 
nouncement some  time  ago  that  eligible 
contestants  must  live  in  California. 
Imagine  letting  Jim  Rorty,  Robert 
Frost,  George  Dillon,  Geneveve  Tag- 
gard,  Robert  Wolf  and  a  host  of  others 
who  have  deserted  the  old  home  State 
come  in  and  take  the  bread  from  the 
mouths  of  our  young  poets!  Is  the  east 
so  unbearably  starved  for  contests,  then  ? 
Hurry  in,  fledglings,  for  the  close  is  next 
month.  And  remember  there  are  equal 
prizes  for  published  and  unpublished 
poetry.  And  only  those  poems  winning 
prizes  will  be  the  property  of  the  Over- 
land Monthly. 


Among  notable  October  features  we 
will  include: 

THE  HANDIWORK  OF  MAN  is 
an  article  on  the  original  plan  of  San 
Francisco,  giving  surprising  facts  on 
how  the  city  was  planned  and  by  whom. 

YESTERDAY  AND  TODAY  is  an 
article  on  Yosemite  Valley.  This  will 
be  of  unusual  interest,  showing  how  the 
old  West  is  still  linked  with  the  New 
West. 

Ellen  V.  Martin  contributes  a  short 
story  which  will  be  of  particular  interest 
to  our  Readers.  "Not  Worth  His 
Wage"  is  the  first  contribution  to  Over- 
land by  the  author.  Another  short 
story  of  inerest  is  Dahnu  The  Deliverer 
by  Gilbert  Allen  Young.  Mr.  Young 
also  contributes  for  the  first  time  to 
Overland. 

"A  Deserted  Island  That  Became  a 
Pineapple  Plantation,"  written  by  Hazel 
Carter  Maxon  is  an  article  no  one  should 
miss.  It  is  not  only  instructive  and  good 
reading  but  it  is  facinating  in  its  ro- 
mance. 

Rug  Weaving — the  oldest  art,  is  the 
first  of  a  series  of  articles  on  the  Cutural 
Arts,  by  Leila  Ayer  Mitchell.  Do  not 
miss  any  of  them. 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET  HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


SEPTEMBER,   1927 


NUMBER  9 


EDITORIAL  STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 
CONTRIBUTING  EDITORS 
CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN  KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 


MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


SEPTEMBER  CONTRIBUTORS 

THE  Contents  of  all  back  issues  of 
Overland  with  the  Authors'  names, 
as  well  as  current  issues  can  be  found 
in  The  Readers  Guide  to  periodical  liter- 
ature in  any  city  or  county,  library 
throughout  the  country.  If  there  is  any 
certain  article  you  wish  to  look  up,  any 
certain  author  you  wish  to  read,  consult 
the  Readers  Guide  at  your  library.  Make 
yourself  familiar  with  its  contents. 

E  CITY,  by  Donald  Gray,  is  nn 
impressionistic  bit  of  work  which 
we  feel  certain  will  entertain  our  read- 
ers. One  criticism  we  have  had  of  it  is 
from  Roscoe  Burton,  present  editor  of 
the  Bookman  in  which  he  likens  the 
style  to  Ben  Hech's  "Thousand  and  One 
Nights  in  Chicago." 

FRONA  WAIT  COLBURN  is  one 
of  our  faithful  contributors.  What 
she  has  to  say  of  the  Western  writer 
will  be  of  interest  to  most  of  our  read- 
ers. We  believe  it  will  create  as  much 
interest  as  our  recent  Carey  McWil- 
liams  article  on  Los  Angeles.  If  there 
are  any  comments  we  will  be  glad  to 
receive  them. 


Earth  Song 


Contents 


Tancred. 

ARTICLES 


.Frontispiece 


The  City...  Donald  Gray , 261 

Greeks  Who  Bear  Gifts Zoe  A.  Battu 264 

The  Donner  Tragedy Owen  Ernest  Sonne 265 

What  Ails  the  Bay  Region  Writers..Mrs.  Frederick  Colburn 268 

The  Forest  Primeval  to  Tissue 

Paper Emma  Matt  Rush 269 

San  Francisco's  Opera  Season Uffington   Valentine 273 

Periodical  Essays  Now  and  Then. ...Laura  Bell  Everett 279 

Common  Place  Sermonette Kirpatrick  Smith,  Jr 282 

The  Morris  Dam Cristel   Hastings 282 


SHORT  STORIES 


The  Street  Called  Dead. 
Seed  by  One  of  Them... 


.Malcom   Panton 270 

..Laura  Ambler....  ....271 


What  Is  Your  Name. 


SERIALS 

....Gertrude  Mott. 


.280 


DEPARTMENTS 

Page  of  Verse '. 274 

Don  Gordon,  Philmer  Sample,  Lori  Petri,  L.  Brugiere  Wilson 

THE  PLAY'S  THE  THING Gertrude  F.  Willcox 275 

Book  and  Writers....  ....Tom  White  ...  ....276 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 
356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative,  George  H.  Myers,  5  South  Wabash  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

Manuscript   mailed    The   Overland  Monthly  without  a  stamped  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 

Entered   as  Second-Class  matter   at  the   postoffice,   San   Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March   3,   1S97 

(Content!  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


260 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


EARTH  SONG 

Passion  in  market  and  haven, 
Anger  in  oil  and  stone; 

All  envious  line  work,  graven 
On  tendon  and  bone — 

These  are  the  first  to  leave, 
The  last  to  believe   .   .   . 

Shade  and  the  sun  and  the  earth 
In  her  rich  green  fur — 

This  answers  to  all  of  worth 
And  is  the  answer! 

:  TANCRED 


.1C  LiBu 

SEP  -  6  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


ana 


OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


R.     it 


PARKWAY : 

AFASTIDOUS  wind  walks 
through  the  monkey  flowers  and 
lupin  on  his  way  to  the  crisp, 
severely  assembled  eucalyptus.  There 
is  a  mouse  in  the  centre  of  the  path 
quite  dead.  Half  his  small  body  has 
been  eaten  by  an  owl.  I  examine  him 
with  my  stick  and  discover  the  fearful 
secrets  of  his  energy.  Presently  the 
ants,  prim  and  brisk,  will  come  to  him 
and  complete  the  disintegration  with  ex- 
quisite patience.  My  stick  is  tinted  at 
its  base  and  I  swing  it  briefly  through 
the  grasses. 

Two  disinterested  rocks  perform  as 
portals  for  the  path.  They  are  utterly 
weary  of  the  procession  of  hours  and  as 
I  pass  I  feel  a  stab  of  sympathy  enter 
me.  If  it  were  possible,  I  reason,  they 
would  slump  to  earth  gratefully  and  be 
concealed  variously  by  the  wind.  On 
the  breast  of  the  one  at  my  left  an  ivy 
tendril  clings.  I  say:  "Hurry!  grow 
quickly  and  cover  him  so  he  can  relax!" 
I  gather  a  wandering  tendril  from  the 
base  and  lean  it  against  its  brother.  At 
once  I  am  relieved. 

My  boots  leave  irregular  ovals  in 
the  earth.  Later,  perhaps,  a  slender 
grass  snake  will  make  across  them. 
Possibly  the  splay  feet  of  a  velvet- 
skinned  mole  will  hurry  over  them 
blindly.  Or  the  wind,  exploring  rest- 
lessly, will  erase  them  with  a  short 
breath.  I  stumble  against  a  tree  as 
[  gaze  back  and  down  on  the  prints. 
The  impact  does  not  shatter  the  thought 
that  I  engrave  the  dust  I  shall  one  dav 
be. 

A  hawk,  cleanly  slitting  the  air,  drops 
below  a  fringe  of  trees.  A  moment 
later  he  leisurely  ascends.  His  hooked 
jaws  are  empty  and  I  know  the  small 
prey  has  escaped.  In  retreat  he  is  un- 
hurried, composed.  He  knows  there 
are  forests  of  trees  heavy  with  birds. 
His  wings  are  easily  taut  and  frilled  at 
their  edges  like  flags  which  have  wit- 
nessed battles.  I  point  my  stick  into 
the  air  and  squint  along  it.  I  press  an 
imaginary  trigger  and  the  hawk  drops. 
I  smile  modestlv  as  the  small  birds  of 


The  City 

Donald  Gray 


a  countryside  gather  above  me  and 
wring  my  heart  with  delicate  music. 

The  unhurried  afternoon  finally  cap- 
tures the  tree-tops.  It  is  less  warm 
immediately  and  I  draw  my  coat  to- 
gether and  button  the  edges.  The  pied 
green  of  the  grassway  assumes  a  deeper 
color,  while  the  path  becomes  at  once 
dignified.  It  would  be  droll,  I  imagine, 
to  be  a  magician  and  permit  myself  the 
luxury  of  being  a  tree  for  the  night.  The 
awful  owl  would  stand  on  my  arm  and 
gaze  into  the  moon.  Perhaps  a  rain 
would  appear  and  I  would  strain  with 
my  leaves  to  keep  the  tiny  life  sleeping 
in  the  grass  at  my  roots  from  disaster. 
And  when  the  wind  rested  on  me  I 
would  lean  quickly,  causing  the  owl  to 
hop  up  and  down  my  arm,  unbalanced 
and  irritated. 

The  sun  drops  from  sight  like  a  fruit 
whose  stem  has  broken,  leaving  the  sky 
drawn  and  unhealthy  like  a  woman 
after  child  birth.  Presently  the  lights 
of  the  city  will  burst  into  clusters  like 
the  first  drops  of  rain  on  a  dry  street. 
An  insect  blunders  across  my  face  with 
an  insolent  whine.  In  a  few  minutes 
I  shall  blunder  across  the  face  of  the 
city  insolently  growling. 

SHOP  DISTRICT: 

BITS  of  paper  spot  the  gutters  like 
rents  in  a  beggar's  clothing.  Smoke 
never  quite  leaves  and  the  calm  umber 
of  a  sporting  goods  store  is  become  a 
stale  grey.  Ashamed  of  its  ghastly  ribs, 
the  skeleton  of  a  skyscraper  hunches 
black  shoulders  and  attempts  a  blase 
attitude.  A  street  car  rumbles  by  and 
the  machines  crowd  to  the  curb-stone 
and  for  a  moment  the  pathetic  confu- 
sion of  heels,  whistles,  horns,  bells, 
words  and  cries  merges  with  the  screech 
of  the  car's  brakes.  A  nervous  woman 
clings  to  the  rail  and  looks  about  her. 
She  takes  hesitant  steps  from  the  car 
and  suddenly  darts  before  a  truck  onto 
the  walk.  I  smile  till  the  alert  eyes  of 
a  newsbov  confuse  me. 


Behind  immense  glass  fences  the  wax 
clothes  dummies  stand  inanimate,  the 
furs  of  inoffensive  animals  over  their 
shoulders  and  the  simple  mulberry 
leaves,  which  have  been  eaten  and  trans- 
formed into  silk  by  patient  worms, 
wrapped  about  their  mechanics.  Some- 
time in  the  night  indifferent  hands  will 
remove  their  cloth  exquisites  and  pre- 
pare fresh  dresses  for  them.  And  for 
a  little  while  they  will  maintain  their 
ridiculous  poses  with  wooden  slats  and 
steel  braces  covering  them  from  knees 
to  breasts.  In  this  respect  they  are  like 
the  animate  creatures  who  stare  at  them 
and  who,  also  later,  will  assume  pri- 
vate positions  of  ardour  and  passion  with 
limbs  and  trunks  as  droll  and  unlovely. 

A  perfume  shop  delivers  clouds  of 
nausea  to  passing  nostrils.  A  small  man 
with  razor-creased  trousers  and  deli- 
cate hands  stands  at  the  entrance  for 
many  minutes  inhaling  the  odor  and 
smiling  gently. 

From  the  centre  of  the  avenue  come 
loud  voices  and  a  crowd  gathers  to 
demonstrate  the  immortality  of  a  cast- 
iron  fender.  The  policeman,  bewild- 
ered, attempts  to  enter  the  occasion  in 
a  small  book.  He  is  persistently  inter- 
rupted. They  are  spending  minutes 
precious  with  brain-traffic  to  a  strip  of 
cheap  metal  curled  beneath  a  tire.  A 
man  at  my  side  says:  "It  ain't  safe  no 
more  t'walk  on  the  sidewalk!  What's 
that  -  -  cop  holdin'  up  traffic  for?" 

A  thin  boy  with  a  sack  dropped  over 
his  shoulders  asks  me  to  buy  the  Satur- 
day Evening  Post.  He  says  he  has  five 
copies  left — only.  I  deposit  twenty-five 
cents  in  his  paw,  cautioning  him  to  drop 
the  remaining  papers  in  a  trash  box.  I 
am  a  cheese-hearted  hick. 

The  food  shop  at  my  right  displays 
a  hog's  head  with  a  neurotic  apple  pop- 
ped in  its  mouth.  Bits  of  parsley  chain 
about  it.  Glistening  negroes  with  muddy 
eyes  and  filed  teeth  present  their  chief 
with  the  same  titbit  on  south  sea  islands. 
They  are  savage  because  they  dispense 
with  the  celery  and  parsley  fence. 

Three  laborers,  their  black  food 
buckets  swinging  carelessly  in  large  red 


262 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WLb  1   MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


hands,  pause  while  the  centre  one  lights 
his  pipe.  They  have  coarse  faces,  vibr- 
ant with  health,  and  their  simple  cloth- 
ing is  exquisitely  appropriate  and  sturdy. 
The  one  on  the  outside  has  brown,  rest- 
less eyes,  disturbed  with  poverty  and  in 
an  earthly  fashion  intensely  proud. 

The  rein  of  a  police  horse  is  attached 
to  a  fire  hydrant.  Several  men  and 
women  pause  to  press  a  hand  against 
his  nose.  He  lifts  a  slim  foreleg  con- 
tinually and  brings  it  down  sharply  to 
the  asphalt.  His  hair  glistens  with 
care  and  proper  food.  When  he  is 
pensioned  he  will  command  a  meadow 
and  trample  small  flowers  and  grasses 
at  will  and  die  quickly  of  impatience 
and  loneliness. 

Sweet,  suffocating  perfumes  seep 
from  a  candy  kitchen.  The  odor  of 
chewing  gum  and  dusty  tobacco  crowds 
from  a  corner  cigar  shop.  I  will  seek 
a  market  presently  and  permit  my  nos- 
trils to  fill  on  the  healthy  stench  of 
fresh  vegetables  the  carts  have  borne 
from  outlying  fields.  Or  a  coffee  stall 
where  the  virile,  masculine  perfume  of 
newly  ground  berries  will  wash  out 
the  sweat  of  commercialism. 

A  street  beggar  who  has  discovered 
life  an  error,  insolently  raps  passing 
ankles  with  a  battered  hat.  He  thor- 
oughly understands  the  artificial  mo- 
tives of  charity  and  the  superb  hypoc- 
risy of  pity.  We  insult  each  other  over 
a  ten  cent  piece.  He  by  accepting  and 
I  by  giving.  When  the  coin  is  dropped 
I  hurry  away  with  lowered  eyes,  partly 
ashamed  of  the  business.  I  too  have 
learned  something  begging  through  city 
streets.  A  man  stops  me  a  few  yards 
away  and  asks  for  money.  He  has  wit- 
nessed the  cripple's  gain.  He  uses  pep- 
per to  keep  his  eyes  watery,  and  each 
morning  rubs  moth  ball  odor  over  his 
hat  to  convince  all  who  listen  that  his 
clothing  was  recently  given  him.  There 
is  the  unmistakable  scent  of  pepsin  on 
his  breath.  I  tell  him  loudly  to  go  to 
hell.  Indifferently,  he  walks  back  to 
his  stand  a  little  apart  from  the  crip- 
ple. They  divide  their  earnings. 

An  old  woman,  the  fingers  of  death 
at  her  throat,  walks  into  the  deserted 
lobby  of  a  picture  theatre.  She  pol- 
ishes the  brass  work,  the  saliva  bowls, 
the  step  guards.  There  is  a  furtive 
restlessness  in  her  face  and  the  liver- 
red  lips  are  loose.  Her  stomach  is  like 
a  small  round  melon,  keeping  a  lower 
button  hole  on  her  sweater  continually 
empty.  Both  her  shoes  are  fastened 
only  half-way  to  their  tops.  Fifteen 
cents  out  of  every  dollar  she  earns  must 
go  for  gin.  In  the  pits  and  sewers  of 
life  the  memory  of  affection  must  be 
sustained. 


HOSPITAL: 

THE  COOL  madness  of  science 
stalks  down  frozen  corridors  and 
that  complicated  mechanism  of  stomach, 
heart,  liver  and  intestines  immediately 
insults  the  brain.  An  old  man  whose 
skin  is  like  the  shell  of  a  rotten  apple 
trembles  over  a  courtyard  on  a  new  cane 
and  barbs  a  courage  long  since  perverted 
by  sterilized  probes  and  precise  fingers 
walking  quickly  over  the  patches  of  his 
disease.  The  orderly  carrying  a  pail  of 
yellow  and  red  swabbing  from  the  sur- 
gery recalls  "The  Blue  Danube"  and 
whistles  softly. 

At  the  end  of  a  ward  of  closely  assem- 
bled beds  a  screen  frigidly  conceals  the 
eccentricities  of  a  dying  man.  His  in- 
frequent sighs  are  like  the  crackling  of 
leaves  in  a  dusty  gutter  and  a  boy  in  the 
next  bed  who  is  waiting  for  the  nurse  to 
empty  the  drain  beneath  his  leg  clenches 
his  fingers  and  repeats  over  and  over  to 

himself:    "Keep  your mouth  shut: 

Keep  your mouth  shut :   Keep  your 


mouth  shut." 


An  untidy  student  discusses  Khayyam 
with  an  interne  in  the  ward  kitchen,  em- 
phasizing each  argument  with  a  discard- 
ed scalpel.  For  a  brief  pass  of  time  the 
corridors  and  wards  drink  in  the  after- 
noon and  are  quiet,  the  elevator  doors 
slipping  into  their  rubber  grooves  with 
a  distinct  and  comfortable  music. 

In  the  musty  basement  an  old  Ger- 
man putters  about  the  X-Ray  files  wait- 
ing, always  waiting  for  the  dinner  call. 
His  brain  is  a  gallery  of  cadavers  and 
he  resents  all  men.  Braces,  crutches,  op- 
erating tables  and  drawer  after  drawer 
of  obsolete  instruments  have  become  his 
friends  and  he  tells  them  ugly  schemes, 
exposing  a  weird  surgical  mania. 

Three  frightened  mortals  stand  about 
a  narrow  bed  and  present  strained  plat- 
itudes to  the  quiet  mask  before  them. 
The  chart  dangling  from  the  foot  of  the 
bed  reads  Hernia  (two  young  medicos 
snipped  it  out  in  twelve  minutes),  yet 
for  these  three  the  miracle  of  surgery 
has  been  performed  and  the  awe  of  life 
bewilders  their  souls.  A  sullen-eyed 
nurse  sits  at  the  edge  of  a  disordered  bed 
farther  down  and  plans  with  a  patient 
who  she  knows  will  die  within  forty 
hours  his  first  holiday  on  being  dis- 
charged. 

In  the  surgeon's  dressing  room  a 
plump  specialist  stands  in  the  center  of 
the  floor  on  bare  feet  with  an  apron 
thrown  over  naked  shoulders  and  dis- 
cusses Jack  Dempsey's  success.  In  thirty 
minutes  he  will  perform  a  delicate  graft, 
exposing  the  cervical  vertebra  and  scrap- 
ing them  till  they  are  ready  for  an  appli- 
cation of  fresh  bone  which  he  removes 
from  the  patient's  right  tibia.  "No  bum 
food  or  anything  of  the  kind,"  he  ar- 


gues in  a  coarse  voice.  "Dempsey  wasn't 
shot  with  fast  living  and  women  this 
time." 

A  young  iron  worker  in  woolen  shirt 
and  greasy  jeans  explains  his  twisted 
hand  as  the  doctor  cuts  through  the  first 
aid  bandage.  He  turns  his  head  when 
the  fingers  are  exposed  and  stares  dully 
at  the  nurse  arranging  instruments  in  a 
zinc  tray.  "Be  sure  to  put  'er  to  sleep, 
Doc."  He  spits  in  a  crumpled  handker- 
chief. In  the  waiting  room  downstairs  a 
pretty  girl  whose  forehead  assumes  tiny 
crevices  easily,  disturbs  the  pages  of  the 
California  Journal  of  Medicine  and 
starts  up  with  each  step  in  the  outer 
hall.  Even  in  that  severely  appointed 
room  the  insinuating  sweetness  of  Ethi- 
dene  explores  lazily. 

An  ambulance  driver  hurries  to  the 
linen  closet  with  a  red-splotched  coat 
under  his  arm.  In  the  foyer  two  com- 
pensation insurance  adjusters  wait  for 
an  industrial  surgeon  to  admit  them  to 
the  surgery  where  they  will  witness  an 
amputation.  They  encourage  each  other 
with  off  color  tales,  miserably.  The  busi- 
ness office  hums  with  industry  as  they 
enter  diseases,  fractures,  prescriptions, 
births  and  deaths  down  immaculate  lit- 
tle columns  with  brisk  energy.  An  old 
woman,  ashamed  of  her  tears,  walks  into 
the  sunlight  and  vanishes  behind  lilac 
trees  standing  at  the  gravelled  entrance. 

AMUSEMENT  PARK;  BEACH: 

AN  ANAEMIC  girl,  goaded  on  by  a 
street  tough,  grasps  the  bars  of  an 
electric  machine  and  squeals  horribly 
when  the  needle  reaches  five  volts.  Two 
or  three  stand  about  the  punching  bag 
rack  putting  penny  after  penny  in  the 
slot  trying  to  register  the  punch  James 
Jeffries  is  given  on  the  machine's  dial. 
An  old  man  sits  silently  behind  wire 
netting  in  the  center  of  the  Arcade 
changing  pennies  for  five-  and  ten-cent 
pieces.  Every  so  often  he  bends  his 
head  and  in  a  marvelously  rapid  move- 
ment shoots  a  stream  of  tobacco  straight 
into  a  can  a  little  to  one  side  of  his 
stool. 

A  sober-faced  boy,  whose  guilty  ex- 
pression is  extremely  pathetic,  stands 
around  the  Paris  model  and  bathing 
beauty  picture  machines,  his  pocket  filled 
with  pennies,  unable  to  summon  the 
courage  necessary  to  look  through  the 
little  windows  on  these  semi-nude  prints. 
Four  loud-voiced  Italians,  healthy  as 
earth  and  perpetually  bursting  into 
laughter,  put  coins  in  the  love  fortune 
machine  and  thump  each  other  on  the 
back  with  a  roar  as  the  printed  squares 
drop  from  the  beak  of  an  owl  in  the 
case.  A  grim  music  lover  puts  a  five-cent 
piece  in  the  magic  violin  cabinet  and 
stands  in  reverend  awe  as  the  machine 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


263 


wheezes  "Break  the  News  to  Mother." 
A  man  fairly  well  filled  with  cheap 
liquor  leans  against  the  hamburger  stall 
dropping  the  yellow  sauce  from  his  food 
down  over  his  scarf.  A  handful  of  very 
young  boys  watch  him  with  awe  in  their 
dusty  faces.  An  elderly  couple,  their 
arms  filled  with  dolls  and  cheap  package 
candies  hurry  happily  from  booth  to 
booth,  taking  chances  on  every  wheel  as 
though  it  were  an  imperative  and  a 
precious  duty.  The  special  officer  sta- 
tioned near  a  hazardous  Ferris  wheel 
directs  small  girls  and  boys  to  the  ticket 
window  with  the  air  of  a  Caesar. 

A  girl  straddles  the  zebra  on  the  wild- 
ly painted  merry-go-round,  making  furi- 
ous lunges  at  the  iron  arm  suspended  a 
little  away  from  the  revolving  animals 
and  which  holds  rings  of  nickel  and 
brass.  The  brass  rings  permit  their  hold- 
ers another  turn  on  the  merry-go-round 
without  extra  charge.  The  tall  negro 
from  New  Orleans,  who  is  an  African 
Cannibal  in  the  side-show  attraction  far- 
ther up  the  concession,  sits  quietly  alone 
in  a  back  row  of  the  band  stand  smoking 
a  cork-tipped  cigarette.  Hard-faced  girls 
from  the  south  end  of  the  city  swagger 
by  in  their  brief  skirts  eating  sugared 


waffles.  They  are  released,  for  the  mo- 
ment, from  the  taut  necessity  of  keeping 
their  eyes  on  the  loudly  tailored  gentle- 
men guiding  them. 

The  grey  water  washes  up  anxiously 
and  deposits  numerous  particles  of  sea 
shells,  fruit  peels  and  weeds  across  the 
sand  like  a  child  returning  out  of  breath 
from  the  corner  grocery  shop.  A  short, 
uncomfortable  man  tests  the  ocean  with 
a  pink  toe  and  draws  quickly  back, 
alarmed.  From  the  asphalt  runway, 
where  the  glittering  amusement  ma- 
chines demand  patronage  coarsely,  come 
the  quivering  cries  of  children  and  the 
loud,  healthy  laughter  of  work  people 
released  for  the  day  from  their  machines. 

If  one  would  run  from  the  first  booth 
to  the  last,  quickly  and  with  eyes  fixed 
straight  before  him,  he  would  catch  this 
extraordinary  life  in  this  manner:  A 
gold  tooth,  the  blur  of  Indian  rugs,  a 
spot  of  tobacco  saliva,  blonde  hair  wildly 
curled,  half  a  body  broken  over  a  coun- 
ter, a  red  box  whirling  through  space, 
popcorn  bathed  on  molasses,  a  red  face 
covered  with  pimples,  the  spurt  of  steam 
from  a  peanut  wagon,  pink  and  blue 
dishes  stacked  on  cardboard  shelves, 
mouths  half  open,  wide  open,  closed, 


twisted,  straight,  crying,  painted,  laugh- 
ing, eating,  smiling,  whistling,  cursing, 
shouting,  screaming,  pouting,  begging — 
mouths,  mouths,  mouths. 

No  longer  able  to  remain  a  drab  mo- 
ment in  the  pageant,  the  lights  suddenly 
burst  into  bloom  and  twilight  has  shoul- 
dered through  the  masses  of  the  amuse- 
ment park.  The  quaint  electrics  depict- 
ing ice  skaters  and  waltzers  overhead 
begin  their  six  hour  task  of  throwing 
steel  and  glass  limbs  into  the  grey  sky. 
One  by  one  the  little  parties  across  the 
beach  disband  and  vanish,  leaving  scat- 
tered paper  and  indentions  where  their 
bodies  have  lain.  The  water  will  rush 
on  these  shallow  graves  presently,  erasing 
them  easily  with  a  tiny  effort.  On  the 
ledge  dividing  the  beach  from  the  ave- 
nue, men  and  women  remove  their  shoes 
and  hammer  the  sand  from  them  against 
the  concrete.  A  body  smell  clings  to  the 
shore  and  stale  food  perfume  lives  in 
the  air.  The  cool  winds  of  night  will 
be  here  shortly,  sweeping  away  this 
stench  as  a  tailor  sweeps  the  steam  from 
his  press.  Clouds  in  the  east  stand  wait- 
ing like  dropped  hands  and  suddenly  the 
moon  shoots  into  them  and  is  carried 
very  gently  into  the  sky. 


Paris  or  San  Francisco — The  City  Remains  the  Same 


264 


UVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


Greeks  Who  Bear  Gifts 


EVER  since  Los  Angeles  pulled  her- 
self out  of  the  sleepy,  tank  town 
class,  acquired  the  "movies,"  corn 
belt  capitalists,  subdivision  developments, 
Spanish  architecture  and  what  not  she 
has  loudly  proclaimed  her  leadership  and 
superiority    over    all   Western    cities    in 
art,   letters,   science,   industry  and  busi- 
ness. 

The  other  cities  and  sections,  on  their 
part,  have  never  been  slow  in  matching 
argument  for  argument.  Their  business 
men  have  been  as  liberal  as  those  of  Los 
Angeles  in  investing  in  white  space  in 
magazines  and  newspapers  for  the  pur- 
pose of  luring  unto  themselves  new  resi- 
dents and  industries.  The  writers  and 
artists  of  the  Northern  sections  of  the 
West  have  exchanged  sarcasm  for  sar- 
casm with  their  Southern  contestants. 
The  rivalry  is  keen ;  the  fight  has  never 
lacked  interest  and  action.  This  issue 
is  no  new  one,  nor  does  an  early  settle- 
ment of  it  appear  likely. 

But  in  the  melee  there  suddenly  ap- 
pears a  new  note.  It  is  sounded  by 
Carey  McWilliams,  Los  Angeles  writer, 
who  in  a  recent  issue  of  this  magazine 
poured  acid,  brimstone,  hot  coals,  vitriol, 
sarcasm,  scorn,  criticism  and  down-right 
hatred  upon  the  citizens  and  institutions 
of  his  home  city.  Los  Angeles  gasped  at 
this  traitor  in  the  camp.  Her  writers 
and  defenders  are  snatching  up  their 
pens  and  writing  stirring  refutations  to 
Mr.  McWilliam's  accusations.  One  of 
these,  Edgar  Lloyd  Hampton  springs 
upon  the  very  platform  (The  Overland's 
pages)  employed  by  McWilliams  and 
gives  an  imposing  array  of  facts  to  prove 
how  utterly  wrong  is  the  traitor.  Thus 
do  we  have  the  spectacle  of  this  fair 
southern  city  being  forced  to  fight  not 
only  the  outsider  but  also  to  put  down 
clamorous  and  unholy  rebellion  in  her 
own  ranks. 

The  same  issue  of  The  Overland  that 
carried  Hampton's  defense  of  Los  Ange- 
les, carried  also  an  article  by  McWil- 
liams. This  time  his  role  is  quite  dif- 
ferent; his  music  of  a  different  melody. 
He  calls  himself  a  "young  lover"  of  San 
Francisco.  In  some  two  or  three  thou- 
sand words  he  grows  classically  and  gen- 
erously rapturous  over  our  bookshops, 
cable  cars,  ferry  boats,  water  front,  old 
houses,  old  streets,  our  hills  and  our 
people.  He  lightly  chides  our  literati 
and  artists  about  their  mourning  for  a 
departed  city  that  lives  in  their  mem- 
ories, in  old  tales  and  traditions.  He 
bids  them  to  let  the  dead  burv  its  dead 


By  Zoe  A.  Battu 

and   rejoice  in  the  beauty  and   richness 
that  outlasts  time  and  change. 

In  writing  this  article  I  do  not  know 
what  Mr.  McWilliams  inner  motive 
was.  But  as  a  San  Franciscan  by  birth, 
rearing  and  choice,  I  consider  the  thing 
a  piece  of  damned  presumptuousness. 

Here  is  a  man,  who  describes  his 
home  city  as  a  noisy,  blatant,  howling, 
hypocritical,  small  town  side-show  but 
who  obviously  has  neither  the  courage, 
desire  nor  ability  to  leave  it.  In  none 
of  McWilliams  critical  masterpieces  on 
Los  Angeles  does  he  indicate  that  he  is 
there  merely  as  an  observer — a  bird  of 
passage,  as  it  were.  We  do  not  know 
what  family,  financial  or  social  ties  bind 
him  to  the  place  he  reviles,  as  a  "harlot 
city."  He  does  not  explain  any  of  these 
things  in  his  writings,  so  we  must  as- 
sume that  he  is  a  citizen  of  the  place  and 
makes  his  living  there. 

I.  and  there  must  be  others,  am 
moved  to  wonder  why  a  person  of  Mc- 
Williams' implied  superiority  puts  up 
with  such  poor  second  rate  stuff.  If  the 
architecture,  art,  music  and  general  cul- 
ture of  Los  Angeles  are  so  irritating  to 
his  fine  sensibilities  why  does  he  stay? 
If  his  soul  yearns  for  the  polish  and 
sophistication  of  opera  why  does  he  look 
upon  this  "noisy  three  ring  circus?" 
What  does  it  profit  a  man  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  such  a  high  order  of  intelli- 
gence, if  he  cannot  live  where  he  chooses, 
or  why  must  he  waste  his  talents  pawing 
the  air,  tearing  his  hair  and  stooping  to 
the  small  tricks  of  strewing  poisoned 
bones  about?  Surely  one  of  his  pene- 
trating insight  should  be  able  to  gaze 
upon  the  trivial  drivd  about  him  with 
amused  tolerance  and  go  serenely  upon 
labors  -worthy  of  his  great  gifts.  If  his 
superior  and  sensitive  mentality  starves 
for  contact  with  intellectual  equals  why 
does  he  waste  his  mental  substance  in 
the  mere  fuming  at  the  dull  shortcom- 
ings of  dull,  standardized  inferiors?  Why 
strew  pearls  before  swine? 

Why  indeed  ?  There  are  railroad 
trains,  steamships,  aeroplanes  leaving 
Los  Angeles  for  all  points  of  the  com- 
pass every  hour  of  the  day.  Lacking 
or  scorning  the  wherewithal  to  patronize 
these  means  of  transportation,  one  can 
always  walk — a  means  of  leaving  behind 
unpleasant  things  vastly  soothing  and 
satisfying  to  one  of  Mr.  McWilliams 
sensitive,  beauty  appreciating  tempera- 
ment. 


McWilliams  reviling  of  his  own  peo- 
ple is  humorous,  but  when  he  begins  to 
pen  love  lyrics  to  San  Francisco  or  any 
other  city,  he  offers  neither  praise  nor 
appreciation  but  only  the  hollow,  false 
ring  of  presumptuous  patronage.  We, 
of  San  Francisco  live  here  because  of 
the  sheer  love  of  the  place.  There  may 
be  other  cities  where  we  may  have  dearer 
friends  and  more  generous  enemies; 
there  are  other  places  where  we  might 
make  more  money.  But  do  any  of  these 
things  compensate  us  for  the  hills  of  our 
city,  for  her  fogs,  waterfront,  fisher- 
man's wharf,  the  gay  intoxication  of  her 
spirit,  the  splendor  of  her  history  and 
traditions?  There  is  nothing  that  can 
take  the  place  of  these  things  once  we 
have  read  their  inner  meanings.  There 
is  no  other  city  in  America  that  can  offer 
us  what  San  Francisco  offers. 

It  is  true  that  we  have  among  us  souls 
with  rare  memories  of  departed  days — 
of  bars,  footrails,  nickel  beers,  free 
lunches.  That  day  was  a  time  when 
Bohemia  was  Bohemia,  poets  were  poets, 
bartenders,  cooks,  salad-makers  and  chefs 
were  gentlemen  and  geniuses  and  hon- 
ored as  such.  From  time  to  time  these 
people  of  many  memories  sadly  lament 
the  passing  of  those  light,  brave  days. 
They  even  go  so  far  as  to  write  pieces 
about  it  all  for  various  magazines.  There 
is  often  irony  in  these  writings  and  a 
gentle  taint  of  comparison  between  the 
old  order  and  the  new.  But  I  have  yet 
to  read  an  article  of  this  type  whose 
writer  displays  the  violent  maliciousness, 
the  scathing  scorn  displayed  by  Mc- 
Williams when  he  writes  of  Los  Ange- 
les. 

Those  San  Francisco  writers  who 
know  both  the  past  and  present  city,  in 
the  final  analysis,  write  in  the  spirit  of 
comrades  who  are  gathered  at  the  last 
rites  of  a  congenial  soul.  While  they 
weep  for  the  departed  one,  they  do  him 
honor  as  a  man  who  loved  life,  men  and 
women ;  who  was  a  generous,  gay  com- 
rade and  a  benevolent  and  gentlemanly 
sinner.  In  short,  one  who  lived  a  rich 
life  and  died  a  good  death.  Much  as 
these  mourners  lament  the  passing  of 
yesterday's  city,  would  any  of  them  live 
elsewhere  or  leave  the  city  never  to  re- 
turn for  even  a  short  stay?  Ah,  no — 
never  that!  San  Francisco  is  San  Fran- 
cisco. 

So  when  McWilliams  comes  to  our 
past  or  present  altar,  he  stands  an  alien 
spirit.  He  cannot  be  one  of  us,  because 

(Continued  on  Page  288) 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


265 


The  Donner  Lake  Tragedy 


DONNER  LAKE,  picturesque 
summer  and  winter  haven  for 
recreationists,  outstanding  local- 
ity in  western  history  and  familiar 
beauty-spot  to  all  who  have  crossed  the 
summit  via  Truckee,  suggests  no  hint  of 
the  grim  tragedy  from  which  its  name 
descends.  Those  unfamiliar  with  the 
tragic  scene  enacted  on  its  shores  during 
the  winter  of  1846-47  would,  as  a  se- 
quence to  the  inspiring  view  it  affords, 
expect  the  archives  of  time  to  reveal  a 
coeval  theme  of  entrancing  romance. 
Certainly  it  would  seem  incongruous  to 
associate  with  the  ideal  location  of  its 
placid  waters  a  tale  of  unparalleled  suf- 
fering and  lingering  deaths  from  expos- 
ure and  starvation.  Serenely  nestled 
below  the  protecting  snow-capped  peaks 
of  the  majestic  Sierras,  the  shimmering 
beauty  of  this  crystalline  pool  may  be 
likened  to  a  scintillating  gem,  beauti- 
fully set  off  by  Nature's  cloak  of  sweet- 
ly odorous  and  vari-colored  mountain 
verdure  —  a  panorama  fully  reflected 
with  mirror-like  clearness  from  its  trans- 
parent depths. 

Situated  three  miles  west  of  Truckee 
on  the  Lincoln  Highway,  twenty-six 
miles  from  the  Nevada  state  line,  Don- 
ner lake  is  three  miles  long,  a  mile  and 
one-half  wide  and  four  hundred  eighty- 
three  feet  deep.  Extending  from  its 
eastern  shore  almost  to  Truckee,  a  beau- 
tiful mountain  meadow  affords  unlim- 
ited camp-sites.  Easily  accessible  to  mo- 
torists it  has  for  years  been  the  summer 
objective  of  tourists,  campers,  anglers, 
picnickers  and  a  popular  subject  for  the 
skill  of  brush  and  pen.  In  winter  its 
smooth  frozen  surface  provides  a  natural 
.  skating  pavilion ;  and  both  day  and  night 
the  surrounding  mountain  shoulders  re- 
verberate the  merry  voices  of  skaters  and 
the  jingling  sleigh  bells  of  sleighing  par- 
ties. Surely  it  seems  incredible  that  the 
ghost  of  tragedy  must  forever  hover 
near  this  pleasant  mountain  retreat. 

Subsequent  to  the  year  1843,  when 
the  fascinating  appeal  of  the  opportuni- 
ties existing  in  California  and  Oregon 
became  known  to  the  dissatisfied  settlers 
of  the  middlewest,  a  fever  of  anxious  de- 
sire to  migrate  promptly  ensued.  With- 
in a  short  time  the  excitement  reached 
the  proportions  of  a  near-stampede ;  and, 
considering  the  primitive  mode  of  travel 
and  contemporaneous  handicaps,  has  nev- 
er since  been  equalled  for  the  persistent 
daring  and  confident  abandon  which  in- 
variably prevailed  during  the  venturous 
expeditions. 


By  Owen  Ernest  Sonne 

This  steady  stream  of  Pacific  coast 
bound  settlers  commenced  in  1844  and 
swelled  into  a  tide  during  1845  and 
1846,  slackening  again  throughout  the 
years  1847  and  1848.  Previous  to  1849, 
most  of  the  emigrants  were  adventurers 
experienced  in  frontier  life,  hardy  pio- 
ners  accompanied  by  their  families, 
seeking  to  establish  homes  on  the  west- 
ern coast.  The  majority  of  the  first 
overland  emigrant  companies  originally 
started  for  Oregon,  but  were  diverted 
to  California  by  the  alluring  tales  heard 
enroute  of  the  superior  advantages  of  the 
latter.  Although  poor  in  a  financial 
way,  these  adventurers  were  well  pro- 
vided with  wagons,  cattle  and  provisions. 
They  traveled  in  companies  comprised 
of  a  number  of  families  sufficient  to  af- 
ford protection  against  Indian  attacks, 
but  not  so  many  as  to  endanger  a  plen- 
tiful supply  of  roadside  pasturage  for 
their  stock.  The  most  frequently  trav- 
eled route  lay  from  some  appropriate 
point  on  the  Missouri  river,  for  instance 
Council  Bluffs,  by  way  of  Fort  Hall. 
At  the  latter  town  those  bound  for  Ore- 
gon would  branch  off  to  the  northwest, 
and  those  for  California  to  the  south- 
west toward  one  of  the  Sierra  Nevada 
passes  and  then  to  Suiter's  Fort  in  the 
Sacramento  valley. 

Under  favorable  conditions  the  latter 
journey  required  about  five  months.  The 
trip  was  successfully  made  by  the  parties 
who  started  early  in  the  spring  and  met 
with  no  extraordinary  delays  or  misfor- 
tune. The  most  common  cause  of  delay 
was  due  to  exhaustion  of  cattle  or  the 
breakage  of  wagons;  but  if  forced  to  halt 
for  these  reasons,  usually  it  would  be 
only  a  short  time  before  the  next  com- 
pany would  overtake  their  unfortunate 
predecessors  and  lend  whatever  assist- 
ance they  might.  Since  all  the  compa- 
nies had  the  same  objective  they  severally 
recognized  the  advantages  in  association 
and  increased  numbers.  Fraternity  and 
good-will  prevailed;  and  the  disposition 
to  lend  a  helping  hand  without  thought 
or  reference  to  remuneration  became 
general. 

THE  all-important  object  of  those 
bound  for  California  was  to  reach 
and  cross  the  Sierra  Nevada  mountains 
before  snow  fell  and  blocked  the  passes. 
If  no  unusual  difficulty  was  encountered 
this  important  lap  of  the  journey  was 
generally  made  during  early  autumn ; 


but  in  some  instances  the  travelers  were 
delayed  and  suffered  more  or  less  in  sur- 
mounting this  final  obstacle  that  sepa- 
rated them  from  the  green  fields  and 
sunny  skies  of  their  Promised  Land. 

The  most  dreadful  and  tragic  of  these 
sad  experiences  occurred  during  the  win- 
ter of  1846-47,  or  during  what  may  be 
termed  the  early  emigration  period,  and 
befell  a  company  known  as  the  "Donner 
Party,"  named  after  Jacob  Donner,  the 
leader,  and  organized  in  Sangamon 
County,  Illinois.  The  original  company 
consisted  of  ninety  persons  nearly  equal- 
ly divided  between  males  and  females, 
including  a  number  of  children.  Al- 
though they  started  from  Springfield  in 
April,  more  than  a  month's  time  was 
lost  by  taking  a  road — Hasting's  cut- 
off— to  the  south  instead  of  the  usually 
traveled  route  around  the  northern  end 
of  Great  Salt  Lake.  This  unexpected 
delay  and  the  effect  it  had  upon  their 
none  too  plentiful  supply  of  food  occa- 
sioned the  decision  to  send  some  member 
of  the  party  on  ahead  with  news  of  their 
serious  predicament,  and  to  make  ar- 
rangements for  the  return  of  sufficient 
supplies  for  the  remainder  of  the  trip. 
William  McCutcheon  and  C.  T.  Stan- 
ton  immediately  volunteered  to  carry 
the  message  to  Sutler's  Fort  and  left 
the  main  party  at  Desert  Camp  on  the 
desolate  wastes  of  the  Salt  Lake  desert. 
From  this  time  until  Stanton  returned 
with  what  provisions  he  could  safely 
transport,  the  emigrant  party  suffered 
extremely  from  lack  of  sufficient  food 
rations.  Their  saddle-horses  and  cattle 
suffered  likewise  from  shortage  of  feed, 
fresh  water  and  sheer  exhaustion.  A 
number  of  these  animals  perished  on 
this  leg  of  the  journey. 

On  October  19,  Stanton  returning 
with  supplies,  several  mules  and  two 
Indian  guides,  met  the  famished  and 
discouraged  party  at  the  present  site  of 
Wadsworth,  Nevada.  McCutcheon  had 
taken  ill  and  was  unable  to  make  the 
return  trip.  Much  rejoicing  and  renew- 
al of  hope  was  occasioned  by  Stanton's 
arrival.  Many  had  given  up  hope  of 
ever  seeing  him  again.  Now  in  better 
spirits  than  for  over  a  month,  the  party 
traveled  on  to  where  Reno  is  now  situ- 
ated and  there  decided  to  rest  the  cattle 
and  attend  to  all  essential  repair  work 
before  commencing  the  climb  over  the 
mountains.  As  a  general  rule  snow  did 
not  fall  on  the  summit  until  the  middle 
of  November  and  there  was  no  reason 
to  expect  the  winter  of  1846  would 


266 


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September,  1927 


prove  an  exception.  The  four  days  that 
were  devoted  to  rest  and  preparation  at 
this  point  might  have  spared  many  lives 
and  months  of  suffering  and  despair. 
Refreshed  after  a  much-needed  rest,  the 
party  started  to  climb  the  eastern  slope 
of  the  mountains,  totally  unaware  of 
the  reception  destiny  had  prepared. 

On  October  21,  nearly  one  month  ear- 
lier than  usual,  snow  commenced  to  fall 
in  the  mountains.  At  Prosser  creek, 
three  miles  below  Truckee,  the  luckless 
emigrants  encountered  six  inches  of 
snow;  on  the  summit  from  two  to  three 
feet  had  fallen.  In  the  face  of  this 
forerunner  of  disaster,  their  supplies 
again  almost  exhausted,  they  were  com- 
pelled to  press  forward — to  intensify 
their  efforts  toward  crossing  the  summit 
before  it  was  too  late.  Disorder  and 
lack  of  cooperation  then  commenced  to 
manifest  itself  for  the  first  time.  Many 
of  the  wagons  were  eagerly  forged  ahead 
of  their  neighbors,  to  travel  feverishly 
until  they  met  with  an  impassable  bar- 
rier of  snow,  with  no  alternative  but 
to  return  to  the  southern  end  of  Donner 
lake.  It  became  necessary  to  abandon  a 
number  of  the  wagons  in  the  deep  drifts. 

SOME  of  the  hindermost  of  the  fam- 
ilies decided  to  remain  at  Prosser 
creek.  The  last  of  those  to  leave  there 
joined  the  remainder  of  the  party  at 
Donner  lake  on  October  31.  In  a  short 
time  they  were  hemmed  in  on  all  sides 
by  snow  and  were  obliged  to  build  cab- 
ins as  best  they  could.  Prospects  of 
spending  the  winter  where  they  were, 
with  only  the  few  days'  provisions  that 
remained,  were  contemplated  with  sink- 
ing hearts.  Another  storm  so  hampered 
the  construction  of  log  shelters  that  those 
who  had  been  slow  to  commence  had  to 
pitch  tents  or  prepare  what  similar  pro- 
tection their  property  afforded.  The 
order  and  harmony  which  had  previous- 
ly prevailed  was  entirely  abandoned. 
Dazed  by  the  terrible  calamity  which 
had  befallen  them,  consternation  and 
confusion  enhanced  the  seriousness  of 
their  predicament. 

Then  came  the  terrifying  contempla- 
tion of  starvation.  Oxen  were  killed  and 
many  that  had  previously  frozen  or  per- 
ished in  the  drifts  were  recovered,  skin- 
ned and  stored  for  future  use.  The 
skins  were  used  to  line  the  shelters  as  an 
added  protection  against  the  severe  cold. 
Later,  boiled  and  eaten,  they  were  re- 
sponsible for  the  sustenance  of  many 
lives.  Again  and  again  attempts  were 
made  to  cross  the  summit  by  small  par- 
ties prepared  to  travel  on  to  Sacramento 
valley,  but  in  every  case  they  were  com- 
pelled to  return.  The  blanket  of  deep 
snow  which  had  now  accumulated  cov- 
ered all  trace  of  the  road,  their  only 
guide  was  the  contour  of  the  mountains. 


About  November  1 ,  another  snow- 
storm commenced  and  continued  for  sev- 
eral days.  The  cabins  were  almost 
buried  and  many  of  the  improvised  tents 
and  shelters  were  completely  covered. 
The  extreme  difficulties  brought  about 
by  the  storm  served  to  impress  the  grav- 
ity of  their  predicament  more  firmly 
upon  the  minds  of  the  imprisoned  emi- 
grants. As  soon  as  the  storm  abated  and 
until  the  early  part  of  December  many 
unsuccessful  attempts  were  made  to 
reach  the  summit.  Suffering  from  lack 
of  proper  nourishment  and  exposure  to 
the  extreme  cold  and  dampness,  had  by 
this  time  reached  an  indescribable  state. 

On  December  9,  fifteen  of  the  strong- 
est emigrants,  both  men  and  women,  vol- 
unteered to  undertake  the  trip  through 
to  Sutler's  Fort  for  food  and  assistance. 
This  party  formed  under  the  leadership 
of  the  courageous  Stanton,  and  included 
the  two  Indian  guides  who  had  returned 
with  him  on  his  previous  trip  from  the 
Sacramento  valley  with  supplies.  "The 
Forlorn  Hope,"  as  the  intrepid  mem- 
bers called  themselves,  consisted  of  fa- 
thers and  mothers  who  had  volunteered 
with  but  slight  hope  of  reaching  their 
goal,  encouraged  solely  by  the  fact  that 
their  children  would  consume  the  extra 
food  they  would  have  eaten  had  they 
remained  in  the  imperiled  camp. 

Theirs  was  a  dreadful  journey  over 
strange  mountains  blanketed  with  deep 
snow.  Improvised  snow-shoes  had  been 
constructed,  but  they  were  so  cumber- 
some they  impeded  rather  than  aided 
progress.  The  distance  from  the  camp 
to  Sutler's  Fort  was  ninety  miles  on  an 
air  line,  but  much  farther  by  the  route 
that  had  to  be  taken ;  and  only  a  few 
miles  could  be  traveled  each  day.  A 
six-days'  food  supply,  considered  suffi- 
cient until  Bear  Valley  was  reached,  was 
exhausted  long  before  the  allotted  time 
had  elapsed.  Stanton's  death,  occurring 
on  the  fifth  day  of  the  trip,  was  the  first 
casualty.  By  this  time  suffering  from 
insufficient  nourishment  had  become  so 
intense,  and  the  members  of  the  party  so 
desperate,  it  was  unanimously  decided 
to  draw  lots  to  determine  which  one  of 
them  should  sacrifice  his  life  that  the 
others  might  subsist  on  the  flesh  on  his 
body.  None  could  summon  the  courage 
to  kill  the  unfortunate  loser  and  they 
staggered  forward  deliriously.  In  the 
course  of  two  weeks  several  of  the  party 
perished  and  the  flesh  from  their  emaci- 
ated bodies  was  the  only  food  eaten  by 
the  survivors  for  many  days. 

At  length,  after  the  most  excruciating 
suffering,  when  only  seven  of  the  party 
were  left,  one  of  them,  with  a  final  fren- 
zied effort,  managed  to  travel  on  ahead 
to  William  Johnson's  ranch  on  Bear 
River — a  frontier  settlement  on  the 
western  slope — where  he  related  his  hor- 


rifying tale.  He  was  cared  for  imme- 
diately and  a  searching  party  sent  out  to 
bring  in  the  remaining  six  members.  The 
party  had  been  struggling  against  the 
most  discouraging  odds  for  thirty-two 
days.  Since  there  were  insufficient  pro- 
visions and  facilities  at  the  Johnson 
ranch  to  accommodate  the  immediate  dis- 
patch of  a  relief  party  to  the  mountain 
camp,  the  plight  of  the  emigrant  train 
was  relayed  on  to  Sutler's  Fort  by  will- 
ing messengers,  and  from  there  news  of 
the  suffering  spread  rapidly  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. Captain  Sutler,  of  the  former 
place,  with  ihe  mosl  commendable 
promplness  and  generosily,  immediately 
al  his  own  expense,  oulfitted  an  expedi- 
lion  of  men  and  mules  laden  wilh  provi- 
sions and  senl  ihem  in  search  of  ihe 
isolated  camp.  Al  San  Francisco  a  public 
meeting  was  held — the  firsl  of  a  long 
series  in  ihe  inleresls  of  humanily — 
where  a  fund  of  $1500.00  was  promplly 
collecied  lo  finance  several  addilional 
relief  parlies. 

By  ihis  lime  il  was  ihe  middle  of  Feb- 
ruary and  ihe  unforlunale  emigranls 
had  been  cooped  in  ihe  series  of  camps 
for  nearly  ihree  monlhs.  They  were 
reduced  to  the  last  extremily.  For  more 
lhan  a  monlh  ihose  who  had  refused  lo 
eal  human  flesh  subsisled  solely  on  ox 
hides.  A  number  of  ihe  sufferers  had 
perished  from  slarvalion  and  ihe  re- 
mainder were  in  a  piliful  slale  of  ex- 
hauslion.  Jacob  Dpnner,  afler  whom 
ihe  emigranl  parly  was  named,  was  ihe 
firsl  lo  die  al  ihe  Prosser  creek  camp 
where  ihe  condilions  and  suffering  were 
ihe  same  as  at  Donner  lake.  Although 
all  hope  of  rescue  had  long  since  been 
abandoned,  desperate  bul  futile  atlempts 
to  cross  the  mountains  were  made  from 
time  to  time.  These  repeated  failures 
and  iheir  unrewarded  anlicipation  of 
rescue  emphasized  a  burden  of  despair 
bordering  on  insanity. 

THE  RELIEF  party  from  Sutler's 
Forl,  in  charge  of  Caplain  R.  P. 
Tucker,  reached  Donner  lake — or,  as  it 
was  ihen  called,  "Slarvalion  Camp" — 
on  February  19,  1847.  This  should 
have  been  a  day  of  unrivalled  rejoicing 
al  ihe  iwo  camps;  bul  ihe  inhabilants 
had  reached  such  a  weakened  state  they 
were  unable  to  appreciate  ihe  signifi- 
cance of  iheir  rescue.  Food  had  lo  be 
apportioned  in  small  quanliiies  lo  avoid 
ihe  falal  effeci  of  a  hearty  meal  ealen 
afler  such  a  long  period  of  slarvalion. 
Allhough  the  members  of  the  relief 
party  were  well-laden  wilh  foodstuffs 
when  they  lefl  Suller's  Forl,  more  lhan 
half  of  il  had  lo  be  cached  at  different 
points  along  their  roule.  The  dislribu- 
lion  of  ralions  to  the  large  number  of 
famished  persons  rapidly  diminished  the 
supply  brought  into  the  camp.  This 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY    and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


267 


made  mandatory  the  immediate  prepara- 
tion for  return  to  the  valley  with  those 
who  were  able  to  travel,  to  arrange  the 
transportation  of  additional  fresh  pro- 
visions. 

On  February  22,  after  everything  pos- 
sible had  been  accomplished  for  the  com- 
fort and  convenience  of  those  left  be- 
hind, the  seven  members  of  the  relief 
party  accompanied  by  sixteen  of  the 
emigrants  who  were  considered  strong 
enough  to  travel,  started  on  the  return 
trip  to  Sacramento  valley.  Of  the  latter, 
several  were  children  strapped  to  the 
backs  of  the  strongest  men.  In  order  to 
leave  as  much  food  as  possible  in  the 
camp,  only  enough  rations  were  taken  to 
last  until  the  first  cache  was  reached, 
but  the  allotment  to  each  person  proved 
insufficient.  In  addition  to  the  grave 
shortage  of  food  other  hardships  and 
misfortunes  were  encountered.  Several 
deaths  occurred  before  the  exhausted 
survivors  finally  reached  Suiter's  Fort. 

About  March  1,  a  second  relief  party 
under  the  leadership  of  Reed,  fought 
their  way  through  to  the  Donner  lake 
camp.  They  administered  all  possible 
relief  and  started  back  with  another 
small  body  of  the  emigrants.  George 
Donner  was  unable  to  accompany  them ; 
and  although  his  wife  was  strong  enough 
to  travel  she  refused  to  leave  her  hus- 
band. It  was  thereupon  arranged  that 
they  should  remain  where  they  were 
until  spring.  Several  adults  of  both 
sexes,  a  few  children  and  a  man  named 
Keseburg  were  also  left  behind.  The 
latter's  stay  at  the  camp  and  the  circum- 
stances surrounding  his  rescue  were  re- 
sponsible for  an  unparalleled  story  of 
the  extremities  to  which  one  may  resort 
to  survive  the  most  dreaded  of  deaths. 
However,  since  the  truth  of  certain 
phases  of  the  descendent  story  has  al- 
ways been  doubted,  others  contradicted 
by  reliable  evidence,  and  the  whole  ve- 
hemently denied  by  Keseburg  himself, 
'  none  can  claim  with  certainty  that  he 
was  guilty. 

The  second  relief  party  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far  on  the  return  trip  before  they 
were  overtaken  by  a  severe  storm.  It  be- 
came necessary  to  leave  the  weakest  of 
the  sufferers  along  the  route  while  addi- 
tional help  was  sought.  By  the  time  aid 
arrived  three  members  of  the  party  had 
perished  and  the  famished  survivors 
were  ravenously  feeding  on  flesh  stripped 
from  the  bodies.  After  what  seemed  an 
eternity  of  strenuous  days  and  nights  of 
deprivation  and  exposure  to  the  unre- 
lenting elements,  those  fortunate  enough 
to  defeat  the  discouraging  obstinacy  of 
nature  staggered  into  the  presence  of 
their  anxious  predecessors :  wives  and 
mothers  hoping  to  greet  their  husbands 
and  children  ;  husbands  eagerly  scanning 
the  tortured  features  in  search  of  the 


Donner  Lake,  1848 


familiar  faces  of  wives;  children  tear- 
fully clamoring  for  a  better  view  to  de- 
termine the  presence  or  absence  of 
fathers,  mothers  or  both. 

A  third  relief  party — Foster's — reach- 
ed the  stricken  camp  about  March  15, 
and  a  fourth  identified  as  Fallon's  suc- 
cessfully crossed  the  summit  April  17. 
As  each  subsequent  group  of  courageous 
rescuers  viewed  the  vicinity  occupied  by 
the  imprisoned  emigrants,  the  scene  had 
reached  a  more  revolting  state  of  grue- 
someness.  Horribly  mutilated  bodies  in 
all  stages  of  decomposition  were  strewn 
about  as  if  violently  deposited  by  some 
super-powerful  agency.  Skulls,  bones 
and  mummified  corpses  literally  covered 
the  premises  of  the  various  shelters. 
Then  followed  the  discovery  of  the  most 
horrible  phase  of  the  sickening  scene. 

When  the  fourth  relief  party  arrived 
at  the  cabins  in  April  to  bring  out  the 
remainder  of  the  refugees,  the  snow  had 
commenced  to  melt  and  winter  was  sub- 
stantially over.  Instead  of  the  several 
men,  women  and  children  they  .expected 
to  greet  with  cheerful  messages  from 
loved  ones,  to  feed  and  comfort  with 
prospects  of  their  trip  out  of  the  moun- 
tains, only  one  man  was  found  alive — 
Keseburg.  The  dead  body  of  George 
Donner  was  found  carefully  laid  out,  en- 
cased in  a  white  sheet,  apparently  by  the 
gentle  hands  of  his  loyal  wife;  but  she 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Keseburg 
was  squatting  on  the  floor  of  his  cabin, 
before  the  fireplace,  smoking  a  pipe.  His 
beard  and  uncombed  hair  had  grown  to 
great  length  and  his  uncut  finger-nails 
resembled  claws.  He  was  ragged  to  in- 
decency, filthy  and  ferocious-looking, 
like  a  wild  beast.  There  was  a  fire 
blazing  on  the  hearth  and  over  it  hung 
a  camp-kettle  filled  with  chunks  of  hu- 
man flesh.  Further  investigation  re- 


vealed a  bucket  partly  filled  with  blood 
and  additional  pieces  of  human  flesh 
packed  as  if  for  future  use. 

Although  there  has  always  been  a 
shadow  of  doubt  in  his  favor,  it  was  at 
once  surmised  that  Keseburg  had  mur- 
dered the  brave,  loyal  wife  of  George 
Donner;  and  the  manner  in  which  sev- 
eral of  the  other  bodies  had  been  muti- 
lated indicated  death  other  than  by  nat- 
ural causes.  It  was  well-known  fact 
that  Donner  had  considerable  money 
which  might  have  been  an  incentive  for 
Keseburg  to  cause  the  death  of  his  wife. 
An  intensive  search  revealed  no  single 
trace  of  the  money.  When  charged  with 
the  crimes  of  both  murder  and  robbery, 
the  emaciated  survivor  of  the  ill-fated 
camp  cringingly  maintained  that  all  the 
deaths  had  been  due  to  starvation  and 
flatly  denied  any  knowledge  whatever  of 
the  money.  However,  upon  being  taken 
out,  a  rope  placed  around  his  neck  and 
threatened  with  his  life,  Keseburg  con- 
fessed that  he  had  taken  and  secreted 
the  money  and  forthwith  revealed  the 
place  where  he  had  concealed  a  portion 
of  it. 

The  further  discovery  of  parts  of  dif- 
ferent bodies  salted  down,  added  weight 
to  the  belief  he  had  committed  at  least 
six  murders  to  provide  an  ample  supply 
of  human  flesh.  Other  evidence  indi- 
cated that  on  one  occasion  he  had  en- 
tirely devoured  the  body  of  a  four-year- 
old  child.  Those  who  had  not  suffered 
a  similar  experience,  or  had  not  suffi- 
ciently considered  the  seriousness  of  his 
predicament,  looked  upon  Keseburg  as 
a  vampire  or  ghoul.  The  disgusted 
members  of  the  relief  party — with  the 
exception  of  one  man  who  from  his 
own  experience  doubted  much  of  the 
circumstantial  evidence — would  have 

(Continued  on  Page  278) 


268 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


What  Ails  Bay  Region  Writers? 


LACK  of  a  cooperative  spirit  is  the 
greatest  outstanding  feature  of  the 
Bay  Region  writing  fraternity.  It 
is  their  greatest  hindrance,  individually 
and  collectively.  The  recent  visit  of 
Edwin  Markham  was  a  case  in  point. 
Instead  of  getting  together  and  giving 
him  a  representative  reception,  each  little 
group  got  off  in  a  corner  by  themselves 
and  wore  Markham  to  a  frazzle  by 
having  him  repeat  himself  continually. 
The  result  was  that  only  a  fraction  of 
his  rich  experiences  were  made  known 
to  his  contemporaries. 

Repeated  requests  for  the  reading  of 
favorite  poems  took  all  of  Markham's 
time  and  strength,  so  that  only  glimpses 
were  had  of  his  own  thoughts  on  the 
literary  problems  of  today.  His  is  a 
mind  enriched  and  mellowed  by  time 
and  a  sympathetic  understanding  of 
Life.  Like  all  great  poets  he  is  a  pro- 
found philosopher  and  thinker.  And  he 
is  as  kindly  as  he  is  gentle  and  refined. 
How  quickly  he  responded  to  beautiful 
surroundings  and  how  inspiringly  he 
spoke  under  such  a  stimulous.  It 
would  have  been  a  rare  privilege  to 
hear  him  talk  shop.  Not  alone  in  tech- 
nique, but  on  the  substance  of  future 
epics  in  verse  and  prose  would  his  opin- 
ion be  valuable.  The  pity  of  it  all  is 
that  he  may  not  come  again. 

Fundamentally  we  are  at  the  begin- 
ning of  a  new  era  in  letters  as  we  face 
the  development  of  Pacific  Ocean  con- 
tacts. The  old  East  reveres  poets  and 
philosophers  and  Markham's  name  is 
known  to  them.  Why  couldn't  we  pro- 
fit by  this  situation?  Is  it  because  we 
are  too  small  minded  and  provincial  ? 
There  are  no  great  outstanding  person- 
alties on  our  literary  horizon,  and  the 
age  of  combines  necessitates  a  closer 
affiliation  among  writers  of  the  Pacific 
Coast  if  our  output  is  to  make  perma- 
nent and  worthwhile  records. 

It  is  generally  understood  that  Sen- 
ator James  D.  Phelan  has  expressed  an 
intention  to  devote  some  of  his  busy  life 
to  the  best  interests  of  the  writing  craft. 
He  is  a  great  lover  of  books;  has  a  fine 
collection  of  rare  California  volumes, 
and  has  already  done  much  to  preserve 
the  early  history  of  the  State.  He  has  a 
coterie  of  literary  friends  and  is  favor- 
ably known  to  the  whole  writing  fra- 
ternity. He  is  a  world  citizen  in  its 
best  sense.  It  is  whispered  that  he  will 
follow  his  prize  poems  offer  with  an- 
other and  bigger  award  on  essays  on 
California  history.  He  is  actively  inter- 


By  Mrs.  Frederick  H.  Colburn 

ested  in  the  selection  of  the  second  name 
to  go  into  the  National  Hall  of  Fame 
from  California.  No  one  disputes 
Father  Junipero  Serra's  right  to  first 
place,  but  there  is  a  serious  divergence 
of  opinion  on  the  second  choice. 

The  Bay  Region  needs  a  recognized 
literary  center.  Music  and  art  can  get 
together  for  their  common  good.  Writers 
apparently  cannot.  Leadership  is  as  much 
a  gift  as  is  the  imagination  necessary  for 
creative  work.  If  a  man  like  Senator 
James  D.  Phelan  is  willing  to  devote 
time,  energy  and  money  to  the  establish- 
ment of  a  literary  center,  why  not  let  him 
do  it?  He  is  singularly  well  fitted  for 
such  an  undertaking.  No  one  earning  a 
living  with  a  pen  can  afford  to  devote  the 
time  necessary  to  succeed,  and  very  few 
writers  have  the  executive  ability  or  ex- 
perience required.  Not  only  is  there 
Parliamentary  Procedure  to  be  observed, 
but  there  is  a  Code  of  Ethics  involved. 

Then,  too,  how  many  writers  can 
either  speak  or  read  well?  How  many 
have  the  tact  and  grace  of  manner  to 
make  good  presiding  officers?  A  wide 
acquaintance  with  men  and  letters;  a 
general  knowledge  of  world  affairs  and 
especially  literary  opportunities  and 
trends  are  absolutely  essential  to  success- 
ful leadership.  The  best  music  and  art 
critics  are  not  producers,  nor  is  it  nec- 
essary that  an  authority  on  literature 
should  be  a  writer,  any  more  than  should 
a  dramatic  critic  be  an  actor.  Good 
taste,  correct  judgment  and  world 
consciousness  with  a  wide  knowledge  of 
books  are  the  needed  background. 

The  tousled-headed,  unkempt,  under- 
bred and  ill-natured  writer  or  critic  is 
as  much  out  of  place  as  is  the  liquor- 
soaked  and  tobacco-stained  doctor  or 
lawyer  of  yesterday.  Coarseness  and  vul- 
garity are  not  evidences  of  profound 
thinking,  nor  is  any  form  of  eccentricity 
to  be  tolerated  in  the  world  of  letters. 
An  inflated  ego,  too,  is  a  distinct  draw- 
back. At  present  the  Poseur  gets  the 
headlines,  but  there  are  signs  that  even 
Bernard  Shaw  is  tiresome.  To  rob  his 
school  of  writers  of  the  pronoun  I  would 
be  to  consign  them  to  silence  and  ob- 
livion. Everyone  is  supposed  to  be  greatly 
relieved  to  hear  from  Bernard  Shaw  by 
cable  that  he  does  not  use  soap  in  wash- 
ing his  face,  but  why  does  he  keep  us  in 
breathless  suspense  as  to  what  use  he 
makes  of  a  toothpick?  Being  an  Irish- 
man who  tries  to  act  like  an  English 


gentleman,  it  may  be  that  he  has  no  use 
for  a  toothpick.  Maybe  this  is  one  of 
the  things  not  done  in  England. 

How  refreshingly  different  are  the 
methods  of  Dr.  Phillis  Ackerman  who 
has  dared  to  add  another  chapter  to  the 
undying  fame  of  the  art  of  California  In- 
dians. She  has  gleaned  in  the  field  made 
famous  by  Dr.  Hudson  with  his  price- 
less Pomo  Indian  baskets,  now  in  the 
Smithsonian  Institute,  Washington.  Dr. 
Ackerman  has  used  the  same  designs  in 
the  decorations  in  the  new  Ah-Wah-Nee 
Hotel,  in  Yosemite  Valley,  and  she  can 
describe  her  work  without  reference  to 
the  pronoun  I.  She  talks  most  instruc- 
tively about  the  art  values  she  has  im- 
mortalized in  stone  and  other  enduring 
materials,  but  manages  to  keep  herself  in 
the  background. 

Journalism  has  forgotten  its  ethics  and 
manners  in  the  mad  scramble  for  exclu- 
sive news.  The  routine  work  of  the  day 
suffers  in  a  general  lowering  of  the  tone 
of  the  product.  There  is  almost  no  good 
writing  done  in  a  newspaper  office  today. 
The  editorials  speak  the  language  of  the 
street,  while  the  special  writer  uses  a 
jargon  peculiar  to  himself. 

It  was  both  amusing  and  enlightening 
to  hear  the  discussions  at  a  recent  lunch- 
eon in  the  New  Woman's  Club  House 
where  the  press  chairman  of  the  City  and 
County  Federation  of  Women's  Clubs 
sat  at  the  feet  of  the  club  editors  and  two 
male  special  writers  of  the  daily  papers 
to  hear  words  of  wisdom  and  advice. 
Since  the  death  of  Edna  Kinard,  so  long 
a  power  in  the  club  life  of  Oakland  and 
vicinity,  there  seems  to  be  no  club  editor 
capable  of  making  a  survey  of  club  ten- 
dencies. One  of  the  male  special  writers 
said  frankly  that  all  he  heard  of  women's 
activities  were  the  scandals  brought  into 
the  office.  Dr.  Mariana  Bertola,  while 
president  of  the  California  Federation  of 
Women's  Clubs,  publicly  protested 
against  the  emphasis  put  on  the  squabbles 
for  place  instead  of  the  really  fine  work 
done  by  club  women.  The  other  male 
writer  asked  what  the  club  women  in- 
tended doing  with  their  splendid  club 
house  so  amply  providing  for  material 
well  being.  He  ventured  the  opinion  that 
it  would  not  exert  the  influence  possible 
and  expected  of  it  if  it  failed  to  become 
a  center  of  cultural  growth. 

Edna  Kinard  was  beloved  by  all  of 
the  club  women  of  the  bay  region.  She 
was  a  wise  counsellor,  a  good  friend  and 

(Continued  on  Page  287) 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY    and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


269 


The  Forest  Primeval  to  Tissue  Paper! 


RANKING  the  head  of  a  Pacific 
>cean  inlet,  on  the  last  great  fron- 
er   of  the  west  coast,    is  situated 
one  of  the  largest  pulp  and  paper  mills 
in  the  world !     Removed  from  civiliza- 
tion by  hundreds  of  miles  of  unreclaimed 
territory,  the  Pacific  Paper  Mills,  Lim- 
ited, is  reducing  the  forest  primeval  to 
tissue  paper! 

It  takes  less  than  four  hours  to  make 
the  transfer  from  forest  to  paper  at 
this  plant — tissue  paper — wrapping  pa- 
per— fruit  wrappers  and  newspaper 
sheets ! 


By  Emmy  Matt  Rush 

over  the  precipice  to  the  pulp  plant  at 
the  ocean's  edge.  Necessary  machinery 
has  been  transported  hither,  by  British 
and  American  capital  combined,  from  all 
of  the  largest  machinery  producing  mar- 
kets of  the  world,  and  the  result  is  one 
of  the  largest  and  most  modern  paper 
producing  plants  in  the  world,  dropped 
within  a  wilderness  of  forest  primeval 
and  ocean  wilds ! 

The    forests    here    have    been    leased, 
and  the  supply  of  timber  for  the  work 


Typical  Cut-over  Forest 


Here  great  forests  of  spruce,  hemlock 
and  cedar,  drop  from  perpendicular 
heights  into  the  clear  and  limpid  depths 
of  the  waters  of  the  Pacific.  Link  Lake, 
the  result  of  harnessing  the  waters  of  a 
waterfall  that  went  scrambling  down  the 
rocks  into  the  ocean,  furnishes  not  only 
motive  power  for  many  departments  of 
the  plant,  but  the  logs  from  above  that 
are  to  be  utilized  for  paper  pulp,  are 
sent  down  in  huge  rafts,  through  the  ed- 
dying waters  of  the  lake  and  then  shot 


at  hand  is  endless.  The  area  covered 
by  the  paper  mills  approximates  seven- 
teen acres,  comprising  five  square  miles 
of  floor  space ! 

Located  at  the  upper  end  of  what  is 
locally  termed  a  "dead  inlet"  by  the  hab- 
itant lumber  jack,  the  mountains  closing 
in  about  them,  the  paper  mills  at  Ocean 
Falls,  British  Columbia,  occupy  a  terri- 
tory far  removed  from  the  haunts  of 
man.  Huge  mountains  of  the  Alaskan 
range,  snow  topped  in  the  summer  time, 


and  snow  enveloped  in  the  winter  time, 
comprise  the  habitat  of  this  enterprise 
unique,  where  twelve  thousand  souls  are 
engaged,  day  and  night,  in  the  process  of 
transforming  the  primeval  forests  into 
paper!  The  plant  never  closes  down — 
the  cost  of  firing  the  huge  engines  being 
no  small  item  to  be  considered. 

The  fifteen  thousand  horse  power  en- 
gines are  automatically  fed  two  hun- 
dred tons  of  coal  per  day  for  the  work 
in  hand.  Should  these  builders  of  an 
enterprise  in  the  wilderness  find  a  coal 
shortage  staring  them  in  the  face,  two 
large  tanks  of  oil  may  be  drawn  into 
requisition,  and  the  change  from  coal  to 
oil  requires  but  two  hours!  A  smoke 
stack  that  carries  the  vapor  from  the 
huge  furnaces  into  the  mountain  air 
above,  is  250  feet  high  and  measures  28 
feet  across,  constructed  of  brick! 

The  neighboring  mountains  supply  as 
well,  the  natural  elements  of  lime  rock 
and  caustic  soda  utilized  in  this  transfor- 
mation of  the  forests  of  their  habitat. 
The  copper  colored  liquid  produced 
from  the  heating  of  the  lime  and  soda  is 
poured  over  cedar  trees  that  have  already 
been  condensed  into  fine  chips,  and  this 
is  "cooked"  in  huge  revolving  vats  or 
tanks  until  a  brown  pulp  is  the  result. 
This  pulp,  after  being  mangled  or  rolled 
out,  at  the  rate  of  750  feet  of  paper  in 
the  making  per  minute,  is  then  folded, 
like  so  many  blankets,  and  laid  away  to 
dry!  And  lo,  you  have  the  brown  wrap- 
ping paper  commonly  used  by  your  cor- 
ner grocer! 

White  spruce  and  hemlock,  upon  the 
other  hand,  produce  the  white  papers — 
tissues — toilet  paper,  and  the  news  sheet. 
Revolving  tanks  or  vats  that  carry  the 
white  pulp  in  the  process  of  making 
white  paper,  have  a  capacity  for  eight 
tons  of  pulp — sixteen  thousand  pounds 
per  tank!  And — there  are  numerous 
tanks  for  this  purpose,  for  the  daily  out- 
put of  the  plant  is  265  tons  of  finished 
paper! 

Nothing  is  wasted — even  the  knots  in 
the  wood  are  utilized  for  the  manufac- 
ture of  the  cheaper  grades  of  paper! 

In  the  warehouses  of  the  plant  we  saw 
six  thousand  five  hundred  tons  of  fin- 
ished paper  arranged  in  cartons,  await- 
ing the  ships'  arrival  that  would  eventu- 
ally take  it  into  the  far  corners  of  the 
world!  Six  thousand  five  hundred  tons 
(Continued  on  Page  287) 


270 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


The  Street  of  the  Dead 


HAVE  you  ever  seen  a  picture  by 
Paul  Gauguin?  One  of  the 
Tahitian  ones,  I  mean?  If  you 
have  then  you  know  the  weird  life  that 
palpitates  in  the  background,  behind  the 
lyric  colors  and  rhythmic  line.  A  sense 
that  the  artist,  living  with  the  primi- 
tive for  so  long,  knew  things  that  no 
man  living  in  modern  complexity  can 
know,  things  that  Gauguin  could  not 
paint  but  only  suggest.  Perhaps  this 
sense  of  the  dark  undercurrent  of  life 
lies  more  in  his  woodcuts  than  in  his 
oil  paintings.  Weird  and  often  grotes- 
que, there  is  in  them  always  the  feel  of 
the  dark  source,  of  mysteries  more  mys- 
terious than  death,  mysteries  of  life  .  .  . 
Black  shapes  like  the  crouching  forms 
of  the  ever-living,  drinking  the  cup  of 
life-blood. 

I  had  been,  that  afternoon,  to  an 
exhibition  of  paintings  and  woodcuts 
by  the  master,  and  as  I  looked  upon  the 
pictures  there  came  to  me  a  vague  fear, 
and  I  knew  what  it  was  and  yet  did 
not  know.  And  I  found  myself  tremb- 
ling before  the  blotches  of  ink  and  oil, 
while  in  me  there  was  chaos  and  a 
groping  for  that  which  was  beyond  me 
.  .  .  and  yet  was  a  part  of  me,  a  thing 
in  my  soul.  I  knew  what  it  was,  and  I 
cried  out  in  a  voice  that  made  no  sound 
because  I  knew  and  could  not  know 
more. 

I  left  the  room  where  the  pictures 
were  hanging,  and  wrapped  my  great- 
coat tight  about  my  body.  It  was  cold. 
I  pulled  my  hat  down  far  over  my  eyes 
as  though  in  fear  of  seeing.  Outside 


By  Malcolm  Panton 

the  wind  was  blowing  with  the  fury 
of  March.  Opening  the  door  I  fought 
an  icy  blast  and  stepped  into  the  street. 
The  tails  of  the  great-coat  lashed  with 
the  sting  of  a  slave  whip  about  my 
legs.  I  was  walking  up  the  street,  and 
I  was  righting  the  wind,  and  the  wind 
seemed  the  breath  of  a  god  long  dead. 

The  houses  were  grey  and  lifeless  can- 
yons and  they  held  me  in  them,  casting 
pale  shadows  that  I  walked  through. 
The  street  was  deserted,  no  one  but  my- 
self was  on  it,  and  all  was  nothing  but 
the  wind  which  groaned  of  its  birth.  I 
sensed  that  there  was  no  one  in  the 
houses,  that  there  had  been  no  one  there 
for  ages,  and  that  the  wind  had  been 
ever  blowing  thus.  And  suddenly,  with 
a  strange  flash  of  intuition,  I  knew 
where  I  was,  and  I  knew  that  I  had 
been  there  before  and  that  I  would  be 
there  again,  perhaps,  unable  to  escape, 
forever.  The  wind  stung  me  harder,  as 
though  it  was  driving  into  me  the  know- 
ledge I  had  of  its  significance.  It  was 
all  plain  to  me  now,  the  dead  houses  that 
had  never  lived,  and  the  wind  of  ice. 
It  was  dead,  and  I  walked  in  the  street 
of  the  dead  where  I  had  walked  before 
and  would  walk  again. 

I  shrank  within  myself  and  dared  not 
think.  I  was  in  the  street  of  the  dead 
and  the  wind  that  was  the  breath  of  a 
god  long  dead.  I  raised  my  eyes  from 
the  ground  and  saw  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street  a  being  approaching  me. 
There  was  no  sound  from  him.  And  he 


was  going  with  the  wind,  and  the  wind 
was  a  part  of  him.  I  pulled  down  the 
brim  of  my  hat  so  I  could  not  see  ...  I 
dared  not  know.  But  it  was  too  late,  for 
I  had  already  seen  that  face,  and  I  knew 
it.  A  shiver  waved  the  length  of  my 
spine.  The  face  leered  and  called  to 
me.  It  nodded  and  smiled  with  crimson 
lips  that  were  set  in  yellow  skin.  It 
smiled  .  .  .  one  side  of  the  face  .  .  . 
smiled  an  invitation.  It  called  my  name, 
invited  me  to  go  with  it,  know  what  it 
knew. 

.  .  .  The  being  coming  with  the  wind 
which  was  the  breath  of  a  god  long  dead. 
I  hid  behind  the  brim  of  my  hat  and 
closed  my  eyes.  But  I  knew  he  was 
drawing  near  to  me,  drawing  me.  And 
the  wind  held  me  fast  with  talons  that 
pierced  .  .  .  Held  me  in  its  breath  .  .  . 
And  his  call  shrieked  in  my  ears  .  .  . 

And  the  wind  was  knocking  from  me 
that  which  had  grown  upon  me  in  my 
past,  and  I  was  weakened  .  .  .  And  it 
loosened  the  steady  beating  within  me — 
through  me — like  a  tom-tom  beating  .  .  . 
Booming  .  .  .  Booming  .  .  . 

And  I  knew  the  god  was  not  dead,  nor 
could  ever  die  ...  But  I  knew  they  were 
dead,  they  who  were  behind  the  black 
walls,  they  who  hid  in  their  own  decay 
from  the  god  with  the  shaggy  legs  .  .  . 
I  felt  him  leaving — and  I  cried  out  in 
pain  .  .  .  Leaving  the  street  of  the  dead 
.  .  .  And  I  turned  and  ran  after  him  .  .  . 
The  painter  whose  pigment  is  blood  .  .  . 
The  wind  which  was  the  breath  of  a  god 
once  dead  .  .  .  Reborn  in  his  own  ashes 
.  .  .  Pan — eternal,  dark,  within  me. 


THE  PLUM  ORCHARD 


YOU  tell  me  that  for  love  I   lack  a 
soul — 

In  August,  when  the  level  orchard  ways 
Are  floored  with  amethyst — a  dim  violet 

haze 
Of    fallen    fruit    circling    each    slender 

bole- 
Then  shall  my  heart  grow  to  a  perfect 

whole, 
Like  the  dark  lustrous  purple  globes  that 

fill 
The  air  with  fragrance  as  my  full  heart 

will- 
Thirst    is   not  solaced    from    an   empty 

bowl. 


Not  till  the  plums  are  ripe  and  the  trees 
shaken 

Will   I   pronounce   mature    and   solemn 


For  me,   light   loves   and   kisses   lightly 
taken 

While  there  are  blossoms  thick  upon  t'he 
boughs. 

Pluck   not   my   heart    impetuously,   but 

wait — 
The    fruit    is    sweetest   when    it    ripens 

late. 

Joan    Ramsay. 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


271 


"Seeds"  by  One  of  Them 


DID  YOU  ever  have  any  curiosity 
about  the  people  who  insert — or 
answer — the  classified  ads  in  your 
daily  paper  appearing  in  the  "Auto 
Trips"  column?  If  you  did  you  may  be 
interested  in  why  I  always  read  them — 
now — with  mixed  emotions  and  a  sar- 
donic smile. 

As  a  newcomer  to  the  state  of  Cali- 
fornia my  husband — we'll  call  him  Peter 
for  purposes  of  convenience  and  disguise 
— decided  to  devote  his  recent  vacation 
to  satisfying  the  inevitable  curiosity  con- 
cerning Los  Angeles  that  a  short  resi- 
dence in  San  Francisco  seems  to  arouse. 
In  a  manner  customary  to  prospective 
vacationers  we  considered  ways  in  which 
we  could  get  the  most  out  of  a  brief  two 
weeks  vacation  at  the  least  expense.  Al- 
though we  did  not  own  a  car,  it  occurred 
to  us  that  a  trip  by  auto  would  afford 
an  outing  and  an  opportunity  to  see  a 
greater  part  of  the  state  than  any  other 
means  at  probably  a  reduced  cost. 

The  newspaper  "Auto  Trips"  column 
suggested  itself  as  a  perfect  fulfillment 
of  our  vacation  needs.  When  the  time 
for  our  departure  neared  there  was  a 
dearth  of  invitations  for  paying  auto 
guests  to  our  destination  so  we  inserted 
an  ad  ourselves. 

Saturday  morning,  the  first  day  it  ap- 
peared, before  I  had  finished  breakfast 
I  had  plans  underway  to  leave  that  after- 
noon with  a  woman  who  wanted  to 
"drive  down  and  get  my  mother  be- 
cause my  sister  who  is  visiting  is  sick 
and  another  sister  from  the  East  is  vis- 
iting me  and  I  wanted  to  bring  my 
mother  up  to  see  her,"  etc.,  etc.  I  was 
so  enthused  over  getting  such  prompt 
results  that  for  the  moment  I  discounted 
the  fact  that  the  woman  had  to  be  back 
in  San  Francisco  Monday  morning  and 
in  order  to  do  so  planned  to  make  all 
night  non-stop  trips  both  ways. 

I  had  no  sooner  hung  up  the  receiver 
after  agreeing  to  be  ready  at  two  than 
the  telephone  rang  again.  A  pleasant- 
voiced  young  man  stated  he  was  leaving 
for  Los  Angeles  Monday  morning, 
would  take  two  days  to  the  trip  and 
stop  Monday  night  at  Santa  Barbara, 
where  I  happened  to  have  friends.  This 
was  preferable  to  riding  all  night,  espe- 
cially when  we  were  in  no  hurry  and 
wished  to  see  the  intervening  country. 
He  promised  to  call  at  Peter's  office 
within  fifteen  minutes  to  discuss  details 
of  the  proposed  trip.  I  weakened  a  little 
when  he  closed  the  conversation  with  a 
coquettish,  "Ta,  ta,"  but  realized  that 


By  Laura  Ambler 

under  the  circumstances  a  few  things 
might  have  to  be  overlooked. 

I  informed  the  first  woman  that  I 
had  changed  my  mind  about  going  that 
afternoon.  To  the  other  calls  that  fol- 
lowed in  rapid  succession  I  replied 
rather  smugly  that  arrangements  for  the 
trip  had  already  been  completed.  Later 
in  the  day  Peter  reported  that  the  young 
man  I  had  told  him  to  expect  two  hours 
before  had  never  appeared.  And  that 
was  that.  To  make  the  situation  more 
poignant  no  phone  calls  followed  where- 
by I  could  make  amends  for  the  young 
man's  lapse. 

I  comforted  myself  with  the  thought 
that  our  ad  had  been  ordered  to  continue 
for  two  days.  But  eight  o'clock  Sunday 
did  not  bring  the  deluge  of  calls  the 
previous  day  had.  It  was  after  ten  when 
a  young  woman  with  a  discriminating 
voice  called  asking  for  an  appointment. 
I  responded  cordially  and  she  agreed  to 
call  at  our  apartment  within  an  hour. 
Perhaps  I  sounded  too  eager.  But  her 
call  was  like  that  of  the  "Ta  ta"  person; 
it  had  the  effect  of  a  practical  joke.  She 
didn't  come. 

Monday  morning  we  answered  an  ad 
in  another  paper  and  as  a  result  agreed 
to  accompany  the  owner  of  a  seven-pas- 
senger sedan  who  was  leaving  Wednes- 
day on  a  one-day  trip  providing  we  made 
no  satisfactory  arrangements  to  leave 
sooner.  But  we  hoped  to  go  before  that. 

In  the  evening  I  was  in  communica- 
tion with  a  Ford  owner  who  told  me 
he  was  leaving  in  five  minutes  for  Sac- 
ramento but  would  return  the  next 
morning  if  we  would  ride  to  Los  An- 
geles with  him.  He  complied  with  our 
preference  for  a  two-day  trip,  etc.,  so  I 
agreed.  He  exacted  a  solemn  promise 
from  me  that  we  would  go. 

It  wasn't  until  he  was  supposedly  on 
his  way  to  Sacramento  that  I  realized 
I  had  "promised"  to  ride  all  the  distance 
to  Los  Angeles  wedged  in  between  two 
men  in  the  smallest  car  of  the  species. 
He  had  told  me  his  car  was  a  coupe  but 
while  talking  to  him,  by  some  mental 
twist,  I  had  visualized  a  sedan.  (It  is 
more  true  than  convincing  that  all  an 
automobile  meant  to  me  was  something 
to  ride  in  and  I  never  had  had  any  good 
reason  for  distinguishing  between  a 
coupe  and  sedan — before  this.  While  re- 
flecting upon  my  dilemma  the  telephone 
rang  and  a  Star  owner  offered  to  take 
us  the  following  morning. 


"Will  we  have  the  back  seat  to  our- 
selves?" I  asked.  He  assured  me  we 
would.  "Call  back  in  an  hour,"  I  said. 

I  succeeded  in  diverting  my  husband's 
attention  from  the  detective  story  in 
which  he  was  happily  engrossed  to  the 
exclusion  of  everything  else  long  enough 
to  listen  while  I  tried  to  justify  myself 
for  breaking  my  promise  to  the  Ford 
owner  and  accepting  the  last  offer. 

"He  might  disappoint  us  anyway,"  I 
said,  "he  wouldn't  be  the  first  one." 

When  the  Star  man  called  back,  an 
hour  later  than  the  time  he  had  men- 
tioned, I  told  him  we  would  be  ready 
in  the  morning.  I  suggested  nine  o'clock 
as  a  starting  time,  but  when  he  pre- 
ferred eight,  I  consented. 

We  were  ready  before  the  time  he  had 
set  and  were  still  waiting  for  him  at 
eight-thirty  when  he  phoned  to  say  he 
would  be  half  an  hour  late.  Several 
minutes  past  nine  I  was  gazing  anxiously 
out  of  the  window  and  saw  a  slight 
figure  in  a  tan  overcoat  walking  up  the 
hill  toward  our  house.  I  guessed  him  at 
once  to  be  the  person  with  whom  we 
had  finally  chosen  to  ride.  At  the  foot 
of  the  hill — up  which  autosists  ordinar- 
ily do  not  hesitate  to  drive — he  had  left 
a  car  that  plainly  showed  it  had  seen 
better  days.  We  met  him  on  the  front 
porch  and  introduced  ourselves.  We  ob- 
served that  he  was  not  any  more  pros- 
perous looking  than  his  car. 

His  name,  he  said,  was  Harry  Steffin, 
and  on  the  way  down  the  hill  back  to 
his  machine  he  told  us  he  was  from 
Oregon,  intimating  that  he  had  been  un- 
successful in  getting  work  in  San  Fran- 
cisco and  was  going  to  "try  it  out"  in 
Los  Angeles.  By  way  of  further  per- 
sonal history  he  stated  his  home  was  in 
Ashland  and  he  had  been  visiting  his 
brother  in  Medford.  His  license  plate 
bore  out  the  statement  of  his  Oregon 
license ;  we  didn't  notice  the  license 
number. 

His  only  baggage  was  a  canvas  roll 
on  the  running  board,  where  we  placed 
two  of  our  bags.  I  put  a  hat  box  and  a 
small  overnight  case  in  the  back  seat.  He 
drove  us  down  Van  Ness  Avenue  after 
making  detours  to  avoid  the  hills  in  our 
neighborhood.  He  stopped  his  car  at  a 
corner  in  the  Mission  district  where  he 
said  he  was  to  pick  up  a  third  passenger 
at  nine-thirty.  No  one  seemed  to  be  wait- 
ing so  he  got  out  of  the  car  and  looked 
around.  While  standing  there  a  passer- 
by stopped  and  spoke  to  him.  When  he 
returned  to  the  car  he  remarked  that 


272 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


the  man  wanted  to  drive  to  Los  Angeles, 
but  later  in  the  week.  I  asked  if  lie 
knew  the  man  and  he  replied  not.  1 
wondered  if  it  were  by  mental  telepathy 
that  the  stranger  knew  Mr.  Steffin  was 
Los  Angeles-bound.  Mr.  Steffin  drove 
down  the  street  a  few  blocks  where  he 
got  out  of  his  car,  intending,  he  said,  to 
look  for  his  other  passenger  in  the  hotel 
where  the  latter  had  been  stopping.  Peter 
declared  later  that  the  hotel  he  men- 
tioned was  in  another  block;  I  couldn't 
vouch  for  that,  but  he  was  back  in  a 
minute  or  two  after  crossing  the  street. 
As  he  was  preparing  to  drive  off  I 
said,  "It's  only  9:35.  Aren't  you  going 
to  wait  a  few  minutes  for  him"?  It 
seemed  to  me  unusual  haste  to  deny  him- 
self the  price  of  a  fare  and  in  any  event 
to  disappoint  the  other  man,  all  for  five 
minutes  delay. 

"No,  I  am  not,"  he  answered  deter- 
minedly. "In  a  few  minutes  I  am  going 
to  be  on  my  way  to  Los  Angeles." 

What  bearing  this  passenger  who 
failed  to  materialize  had  or  might  have 
had  upon  our  future  relations  with  the 
driver  adds  the  touch  of  mystery  that 
you  may  solve  for  yourself. 

Off  we  started  ;  with  no  unusual  speed, 
however ;  our  gait  could  not  have  been 
described  as  one  that  "ate  up  the  miles." 
The  car  had  a  slight  rattle  and  if  cars 
have  personalities  I  should  say  that  this 
one  lacked  self-confidence.  But  at  any 
rate,  we  were  on  our  way  and  that  was 
enough  to  cause  us  to  breathe  a  sigh  of 
relief.  I  was  rather  weary  of  all  the  pre- 
liminary arrangements  our  journey  had 
entailed.  Previously  quite  casually  we 
had  joked  about  any  possible  mishaps 
that  might  befall  us  on  the  way.  So  in 
a  spirit  of  levity  I  remarked  to  Peter 
that  if  our  safety  depended  upon  the 
outcome  of  any  physical  encounter  that 
might  take  place  between  him  and  this 
particular  driver  I  didn't  believe  there 
was  anything  to  be  feared.  I  was  to  learn 
that  evil  could  be  accomplished  by  other 
means  than  physical  prowess. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  young  man  who 
was  guardian  of  our  safety  and  happi- 
ness until  we  arrived  at  Los  Angeles, 
while  slightly  slowing  up  his  car,  ad- 
dressed Peter  thus:  "A — why — er — Mr. 
T.,  how  did  you  intend  to  do  about  pay- 
ing"? I  suppose  it  had  not  occurred  to 
either  one  of  us  that  we  would  do  other 
than  pay  at  arrival,  and  had  the  money 
been  in  my  purse  probably  I  would  have 
held  out  for  such  an  arrangement.  But, 
after  thinking  a  moment,  Peter  replied : 
"Why,  I  will  pay  half  now  and  half 
when  we  arrive."  No  sooner  said  than 
done.  We  stopped  at  the  next  service 
station  and  with  the  bill  Peter  had  just 
given  him,  the  driver  bought  gas  and 


oil,  receiving  the  greater  part  of  it  back 
in  change. 

He  drove  on  and  after  a  few  remarks 
on  the  superiority  of  the  kind  of  gas  he 
had  just  purchased,  he  queried,  "Are  you 
people  prohibitionists"  ? 

"Not  so  as  you  could  notice  it,"  Peter 
replied  agreeably. 

I  countered  emphatically,  "Well,  I 
am." 

"I  expect  we  all  are  then,"  said  Mr. 
Steffin.  He  then  explained  that  he  had 
some  friends  a  short  distance  down  the 
highway  who  had  delicious  white  wine. 

Peter  naively  commented,  "I'd  hate 
to  miss  anything." 

When  by  the  conversation  that  fol- 
lowed it  became  apparent  that  he  wasn't 
going  "to  miss  anything,"  I  said  to  Mr. 
Steffin,  "If  you  drink  more  than  a  table- 
spoonful  I  shall  get  out  and  walk."  My 
tone  was  not  as  stern  as  my  words  but 
I  hoped  he  would  "wear  the  shoe  if  it 
fit."  I  knew  Peter's  taste  to  be  of  the 
mild  variety. 

Obviously  such  an  invitation  was  not 
one  to  be  expected,  under  the  circum- 
stances, and  much  less  to  be  accepted ; 
its  sinister  possibilities  outweighed  any 
of  pleasure.  Peter,  though,  apparently 
was  oblivious  to  such  a  thought — and  it 
was  his  vacation. 

Soon  we  stopped  at  a  roadside  eating 
place  several  yards  back  from  the  road 
with  only  an  open  space  intervening.  I 
had  intended  to  remain  in  the  car  but 
on  second  thought  decided  that  my  atti- 
tude of  accepting  the  situation  with 
mental  reservations  might  serve  a  good 
purpose  and  accompanied  the  two  men. 
Inside  "Harry"  was  greeted  with  cordial 
surprise  by  the  proprietress  to  whom  we 
were  introduced.  He  led  the  way  into 
a  small  room  adjoining  the  large  one 
we  first  entered,  and  we  all  sat  around 
the  table  that  was  the  only  piece  of  fur- 
niture in  the  room.  After  a  few  minutes 
of  personal  conversation,  when  he  told 
the  proprietress  he  had  been  married 
since  she  had  seen  him  last,  he  men- 
tioned the  purpose  of  his  visit. 

"I  have  been  telling  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

T what  good  wine  you  used  to 

have,"  he  said.  "How  about  having 
some  of  it  now"? 

She  didn't  respond  with  eagerness, 
commenting  evasively  on  the  hard  times 
prohibition  had  brought.  But  Mr.  Stef- 
fin said  something,  with  effect,  about 
their  being  old  friends. 

"But  let's  have  some  of  the  fine  sherry 
you  have  instead,"  he  amended.  "Mrs. 
T says  I  can  have  only  a  table- 
spoonful  so  give  me  one  about  this  big," 
he  order,  spreading  his  fingers  far  apart. 

When  it  was  my  turn  to  order  I  de- 
clined, explaining  to  her  laughingly  that 
I  was  the  "gloom"  of  the  party. 


However  when  the  refreshments  were 
brought  in,  the  woman  reported  that  the 
sherry  was  "all  gone"  and  the  men  were 
served  white  wine.  At  Peter's  invita- 
tion I  took  a  small  sip  of  his  and  said 
what  I  was  expected  to — that  it  was 
"very  nice."  It  certainly  tasted  harm- 
less. 

As  they  finished  their  glasses  I  re- 
marked, "Do  you  think  we  had  better 
get  some  sandwiches  here  to  eat  later"? 

Mr.  Steffin  responded  enthusiastic- 
ally, "I  think  that  is  a  good  idea,  because 
at  some  of  the  places  further  down  they 
hold  you  up  so." 

I  asked  the  woman  what  kind  she 
had.  After  she  had  named  several  vari- 
eties he  spoke  up  promptly  and  rather 
chestily  ordered  "two  of  each."  The 
woman,  not  being  without  judgment,  re- 
peated three  kinds  and  I  seconded  the 
choice. 

As  she  left  the  room  he  held  the  con- 
versation by  pointing  out  various  fea- 
tures of  the  resort  we  were  in.  As  he 
talked  I  looked  at  him  analytically  and 
observed  that  he  had  rather  a  "sissy" 
looking  face.  He  had  circles  under  his 
eyes  that  suggested  he  might  either  have 
been  crying  or  up  most  of  the  previous 
night.  He  appeared  to  be  nervous,  even 
his  eyes  seemed  to  fidget;  as  he  talked 
I  watched  them  shift  back  and  forth  and 
it  occurred  to  me  that  he  was  thinking 
of  something  else  besides  what  he  was 
saying. 

He  remarked  casually,  "I  wonder  if 
I  left  my  engine  running."  He  stood 
up  and  tried  to  see  his  car  from  the  door 
of  the  room  we  were  in  through  the 
front  windows  of  the  large  dining  room. 
"The  steering  gear  seems  to  be  shaking," 
he  commented. 

"Why  don't  you  shut  your  engine 
off"?  I  replied,  which  was  where  I  put 
my  "foot  into  it." 

He  glanced  toward  the  kitchen  oppo- 
site us  where  through  the  open  door  we 
could  see  the  woman  making  our  sand- 
wiches. "She  is  just  cutting  the  cheese," 
he  said,  "perhaps  I  had  better." 

When  he  had  been  gone  several  min- 
utes longer  than  would  have  seemed 
necessary,  I  remarked,  "1  wonder  what 
he  is  doing."  Peter  had  been  so  agree- 
able to  every  suggestion  the  man  made 
that  I  took  this  first  opportunity  to  make 
a  few  pertinent  comments  on  trusting  a 
stranger.  Finally  I  said,  "You  had  bet- 
ter go  out  and  see  where  he  is."  Peter 
left  the  room  and  I  followed. 

We  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the 
spot  where  we  had  left  the  car — but 
saw  no  car! 

It  had  vanished  as  completely  as  if  it 
had  never  been  there. 

(Continued  on  Page  284) 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


273 


San  Francisco's  Opera  Season 


OUR  AMERICAN  human  nature 
pointedly  expresses  itself  in  the 
quickness  with  which  it  inures  itself  to 
benefits.  When  five  years  ago  San 
Franciscans  were  treated  to  their  first 
taste  of  locally  founded  grand  opera, 
criticism  as  to  the  merits  of  that  enter- 
tainment was  negligible.  One  was  only 
too  thankful  for  the  novelty  vouchsafed ; 
and  had  the  season  offered  less  than  it 
did — and  it  was  marked  by  admirable 
performances  —  the  public 
would  still  have  been  more  than 
satisfied.  Now  that  we  are 
habituated  to  having  our  opera 
season,  we  have  grown  more 
exacting,  even  meticulous. 

Happily,  the  propressive 
sentiment  is  shared  by  the  or- 
ganization that  provided  us 
opera.  It  has  courted  the  stim- 
ulus of  this  increasing  public 
demand  for  higher  and  still 
higher  standards.  Every  sea- 
son of  the  San  Francisco  Opera 
Association  has,  in  fact,  been  a 
decided  step  forward,  and  the 
present  one  is  a  further  advance 
on  these  achievements  in  re- 
pertoire and  artist  roster.  Never 
before  have  so  many  operas 
been  provided  nor  so  many 
noted  singers  assembled.  For 
the  first  time  will  be  enjoyed  in 
the  fortnight  season  a  complete 
cycle  of  operas  in  French,  Ger- 
man and  Italian  and  equally 
impressive  is  the  happy  blend  in 
the  program  of  novelties,  re- 
vivals and  standard  works. 

These  operas  comprise  pieces, 
with  twenty-three  principals 
filling  roles.  A  number  of  the 
latter  are  making  their  debut 
with  the  company,  including  the  Spanish 
prima  donna,  Lucrezia  Bori,  should  a 
recent  breakdown  permit  her  fulfilling 
her  engagement;  the  two  Wagnerian 
singers,  Rudolph  Lubenthal  and  Elsa 
Olsen ;  Amato,  the  popular  Metropoli- 
tan baritone;  Angelo  Bada;  Anna  Ros- 
elle,  fresh  from  new  European  triumphs; 
Pinza,  the  well  known  basso ;  Lawrence 
Tibbett,  the  youngest  of  Metropolitan 
tenors;  Tokatyan,  and  Francisa  Peralta, 
privately  known  to  San  Franciscans,  of 
which  she  herself  is  one,  as  Phyllis  Part- 
ington ;  and  the  great  tenor,  Mario 
Chamlee,  who  has  already  been  heard 
here  with  the  Scotti  Opera  Company. 

With    them   will    appear   established 
San  Francisco  favorites  such  as  Antonio 


By  Uffington  Valentine 

Scotti,  Giovanni  Martinelli  and  Ina 
Bourskaya,  the  Russian  mezzo-soprano, 
whose  rendering  of  the  name  role  in 
Carmen  in  the  Palo  Alto  open  air  per- 
formances some  years  ago  remains  so 
unforgettable  a  memory.  One  could 
hardly  ask  more  than  this  for  a  two- 
weeks'  season. 

On     the     opening     night      Puccini'.; 
Manon  Lescaut,  always  a  cardinal   at- 


Gaetano  Merola 

traction,  will  be  presented,  with  Bori 
as  Manon,  Martinelli  as  Chevalier  Des 
Grieux  and  Louis  D'Angelo  as  Edmund. 
It  is  to  be  followed  by  Tristan  und 
Isolde,  sung  for  the  first  time  here  in 
German,  with  Laubenthal  and  Alsen 
especially  engaged  for  the  Wagnerian 
chef  d'oeuvre,  respectively  filling  the 
name  roles,  Pinza  as  King  Marke  and 
Amato  taking  the  part  of  Kurvenal. 
Alfred  Hertz  conducts  this  with  a  con- 
siderable augmentation  of  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Symphony  Orchestra,  and  a  fur- 
ther interest  in  the  notable  performance 
will  be  its  scenic  investiture,  designed  for 
it  by  the  internationally  known  artist. 
Fritz  Kraencke. 

The  double  bill  of  Cavalleria  Rusti- 


cana  and  I  Pagliacci  will  celebrate  Per- 
alta's  debut  with  the  San  Francisco 
Opera  Company  in  the  role  of  Santuzza, 
though  she  has  been  heard  here  before 
under  the  auspices  of  the  Scotti  Opera 
Company;  permit  us  to  enjoy  Chamlee 
as  Turiddu ;  Picco  as  Alfio ;  Elinor 
Mario,  the  promising  mezzo-soprano, 
now  on  the  roster  of  the  Chicago  Civic 
Opera,  as  Lola;  Bori  again  as  Nedda; 
with  Martinelli,  Amato,  Bada 
and  Defrere  making  up  the  rest 
of  the  cast  in  Leoncavallo's  pe- 
renially  fresh  work. 

Monday  night  gives  us  Puc- 
cini's posthumous  opera  of  Tu- 
randot,  another  of  the  novelties, 
displaying  its  composer  in  his 
most  intellectualized  vein.  Be- 
sides its  music  there  is  the  spe- 
cial interest  of  its  legendary 
Chinese  theme,  its  strong  spec- 
tacular appeal  and  magnificent 
stage  settings,  also  designed  for 
the  occasion  by  Kraencke.  The 
piece  made  a  grand  eclat  in  Italy 
and  elsewhere  in  Europe,  and 
was  received  with  equal  enthu- 
siasm when  given  a  number  of 
times,  last  winter,  at  the  Met- 
ropolitan. Anna  Roselle,  who 
triumphed  abroad  in  the  role  of 
the  hard-hearted  princess,  is  in- 
troduced to  San  Francisco  audi- 
ences in  that  part,  and  the 
remainder  of  the  splendid  cast 
includes  Tokatyan  as  the  Un- 
known Prince,  the  California- 
born  singer,  Myrtle  Claire 
Donnelly  as  Liu,  the  slave  girl, 
and  Picco,  Bada  and  Oliviero  as 
the  fantastic  ministers  Ping, 
Pang  and  Pong. 

Aria  lovers  will  have  their  taste  grati- 
fied by  Romeo  et  Juliette  and  //  Trova- 
tore,  with  satisfying  casts  of  Bori,  Kath- 
erine  Seymour,  Mario,  Chamlee,  Bada, 
Oliviero  and  Picco  in  the  first  and  Per- 
alta, Katheryn  Meisle,  Martinelli,  Picco 
and  others  in  the  second,  and  the  ballet 
feature  of  Gounod's  work  performed  by 
the  Theodore  Kosloff  corps  under  the 
direction  of  the  Russian  dancer. 

Puccini  is  again  represented  in  the 
repertoire  with  La  Tosca,  Roselle  tak- 
ing the  name  part,  Chamlee  as  Mario 
and  Scotti  in  his  cosummate  role  of 
Baron  Scarpia,  with  which  he  is  in- 
separably associated  and  that  so  finely 
displays  his  declarnato  gifts  and  his- 
( Continued  on  Page  283) 


274 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


Page  of  Verse 


DESIRE 


DESIRE  was  born  a  small  white  pain 
Throbbing  through  a  childless  dream 
And  lost  in  early  tears  .  .  . 
I  wanted  to  drive  the  Horses  of  the  Sun 
And  crack  the  wind  for  a  whip 
Across  their  blazing  flanks; 
But  the  reins  hung  high  in  the  Tree  of  the  Dawn, 
Gold-gleaming  beyond  my  grasp  .  .  . 
And  I  wept  as  a  child  alone  can  weep. 

Youth  went  staggering  past  the  child  .  .  . 
I  wanted  the  long  warm  arms  of  the  Moon, 
I  wanted  her  pale  parted  lips; 
Humbly  I  kissed  her  nebulous  hair 
And  cringed  at  her  careless  touch ; 
But  she  heard  the  seductive  tinkle 
From  the  thousand  tents  of  the  stars 
And  sold  her  body  to  them  .  .  . 
While  I  smiled  as  youth  alone  can  smile. 

How  frail  my  desires  have  grown, 

Drifting  ash-like  through  the  fire; 

Now  I  long  only  to  creep 

Beneath  the  shoulders  of  the  hills, 

And  within  their  dark  negation  crouch  content 

While  they  bear  the  tread  of  the  rains  at  night 

And  silence  the  screaming  sky  at  noon  .  .  . 

And  I  long  as  age  alone  can  long. 

DON  GORDON. 


ALCHEMY 

THE  ancients  held  there  was  a  magic  art, 
A  mystic  power,  which  favored  men  possessed, 
To  change  with  but  a  wish  Life's  worst  to  best. 
Where  Low-borns  fought  for  trifles  on  the  mart, 
Or  bought  with  sweat  the  toilers'  meager  store, 
The  Heaven-taught  changed  base  pewter  into  gold, 
Or  silver  made  from  iron-rust  and  mould; 
Nor  soiled   their    hands,   nor   wrought   their   muscles  sore. 
"A  childish  myth",  I  said,  when  first  I  read 
The  ancient  mystics'  most  omnific  claim. 
And  then  one  day  Love  came.     "Prove  me",  he  said. 
"I  will",  said  I,  "thy  thrall  I  now  acclaim." 
And  lo!     My  world  was  filled  with  love  and  joy — 
Life's  silver  rare,  and  gold  without  alloy. 

— PHILMER  A.  SAMPLE. 


QUEST 

A  RMORED  in  dauntless,  dazzling  youth, 
-'*•   I  stormed  the  secret  towers  of  life, 
To  find  elusive,  lovely  Truth 

And  win  the  matchless  maid  for  wife. 


I  caught  at  countless  cloaks  of  faith 

And  pried  dark  doors  of  cult  and  creed — 

But  ever  I  found  a  filmy  wraith 
To  mock  my  hungry  spirit's  need. 

Then  Beauty  came,  a  peasant  lass, 

Who  tuned  my  ear  to  woodland  streams, 

Taught  me  the  barefoot  joys  of  grass, 

And  filled  the  moon's  pale  cup  with  dreams. 

She  showed  me  how  an  eagle  swerves 
And  swings  in  luminous  skies  afar ; 

She  bade  me  mark  a  mountain's  curves, 
And  warm  my  hands  before  a  star. 

Till,  comforted,  I  put  aside 

My  passion  for  the  proud  one's  charms, 
And  took  the  simple  girl  for  bride 

Who  gave  sweet  solace  in  her  arms. 


LORI  PETRI. 


POET'S  WAKE 

¥'LL  have  a  princely  funeral, 

•^    Be  it  in  fair  or  stormy  weather — 

A  brave  and  a  merry  festival — 

Scarlet  and  yellow  wines  to  broach, 

And  Pegasus  to  draw  my  coach — 

And  swinging  behind  to  a  roaring  drum 

The  bards  of  the  centuries  will  come, 

And  they'll  drink  my  health  and  sing  together. 

They'll  drink  to  my  voyage  across  the  skies 

And  bid  me  godspeed  in  gallant  wise : 

Shelley  will  fiercely  toss  his  curls 

And  weep  that  I  died  unknown  and  young, 

And  Byron  will   pledge  me  good  luck  with  the  girls 

That  I'll  sing  to  in  Heaven  my  songs  unsung, — 

Villon  will  toast  me  and  shatter  the  glass — 

"Never  you  sorrow  for  fame,  little  brother, 

For  our  songs  as  yesterday's  snows  must  pass, 

And  poets  win  praise  from  one  another." 

And  Dante — "Son,  here's  wishing  you  well, 

It  was  damned  fine  stuff  I  wrote  about  Hell — 

But  never  you  fear,  it  was  all  in  my  head, 

As  I  found  out  after  I  was  dead." 

So  they'll  gather  and  drink  at  my  funeral — 

Poets  and  good  fellows  one  and  all — : 

Till  Pegasus  whisks  me  beyond  the  blue, 

And  my  glorious  guests  come  rollicking  after — 

A  reckless,  riotous,  rowdy  crew — 

Shaking  the  sky  to  each  airy  rafter 

With  their  divinely  drunken  laughter. 

— L.  BRUGUIERE  WILSON. 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT    WEST   MAGAZINE 


275 


LOOKING   back  over  the  summer 
and  early  fall  season  of  the  thea- 
tre and  viewing  it  as  a  Westerner, 
proudly    appraising    his    region's    move- 
ment in   the  drama,  we  pause  and  en- 
deavor  to   contemplate    in    an    unpreju- 
diced  manner   what    has   actually   been 
done,   the  general   trend   of  the  theatre 
in  the  West,  and  what  the  prospects  may 
be  for  the  late  Fall. 

No  profession  so  surely  reflects  the 
temper  of  the  seasons  than  does  that  of 
the  theatre.  Feeling  the  pulse  of  vaca- 
tionists, and  sensing  the  need  of  the  less 
fortunate  residents  who  must  stay  in 
town  for  the  summer,  the  theatre  as  a 
whole  produces  plays  romantic,  and  light 
in  name  as  well  as  in  character.  Wit- 
ness: "Love  in  a  Mist"  at  the  Curran, 
"Meet  the  Wife"  and  "The  Alarm 
Clock"  at  the  Alcazar,  and  "The 
Harem"  at  the  Lurie.  Nothing  deep, 
nor  ponderous,  nor  heavy.  In  fact,  if 
played  at  any  other  season  of  the  year 
they  would  be  an  insult  to  the  intelli- 
gent theatre-goer.  But  the  average  audi- 
ence does  not  choose  to  be  intelligent 
in  the  summer.  Entertainment  is  what 
it  craves, — gay,  impossible,  and  wild, — 
and  entertainment  is  what  it  gets.  When 
the  late  fall  and  winter  months  come 
there  will  be  time  enough  to  look  upon 
the  theatre  seriously  and  to  expect  pro- 
ductions artistic,  thoughtfull,  and  worthy 
of  contemplation. 

While  the  city  is  rollicking  with 
laughter  and  shedding  all  semblance  of 
seriousness  with  a  characteristic  flap- 
perish  shrug,  the  little  theatres  and 
schools  of  drama  outside  of  town  are  not 
quite  able  to  shake  off  their  feeling  of 
responsibility  in  carrying  on  the  "move- 
ment" (whatever  it  may  be). 

Perhaps  it  is  well  that  they  do  insist 
upon  "bearing  the  light,"  even  in  a  sum- 
mer sufficiently  brilliant  by  Nature's 
means,  for  the  movement  in  the  theatre 
at  best  is  not  so  near  perfection  that  any 
promoter  of  drama,  in  the  interest  of 
the  theatre,  can  afford  to  relax  for  a 
moment.  Naturally  the  summer  session 
work  at  the  two  universities,  California 
and  Stanford,  is  the  significant  influence 


The  Play's 
the  Thing 


GERTRUDE  F.  WILLCOX 


in  the  torch  bearing.  At  Stanford,  Gor- 
don Davis,  a  young  and  very  serious 
director,  conducted  his  Little  Theatre 
Workshop  throughout  the  year.  The 
summer  season  effort  culminated  in  a 
production  of  "Loyalties,"  a  drama  of 
society  characteristic  of  Galsworthy.  A 
difficult  vehicle,  this  play,  for  while  it 
has  plot,  character,  and  suspense,  all 
these  elements  depend  a  little  more 
strongly  than  usual  upon  the  actor's 
personality  and  ability  to  project  the 
part,  rather  than  upon  lines  and  natural 
building  up  of  plot.  Be  it  said,  how- 
ever, that  the  Stanford  players  handled 
it  rather  well  on  the  whole.  The  men 
were  virile,  sincere,  and  quite  serious  in 
their  work,  but  the  women  were  inexcus- 
able. The  play  calls  for  sophistication 
and  culture,  and  they  had  neither.  They 
wore  most  fetching  negligees,  smoked 
innumerable  cigarettes,  and  frantically 
pitched  their  voices  at  various  proper 
levels  to  this  end,  but  all  to  no  avail. 
There  was  no  thought  or  sincerity  back 
of  their  work.  To  the  men  go  the 
laurels. 

What  a  dreadful  time  the  theatre  has 
in  co-ordinating  the  action  and  the  set- 
ting! If  the  sets  are  merely  suggestive, 
the  acting  is  abominably  realistic,  and 
if  the  acting  is  subtle,  the  sets  shriek 
with  the  commonplace.  At  Stanford 
there  was  a  closer  unity  than  usual,  but 
even  here  the  sets  avoided  the  modern 
tendency  to  merely  suggest,  and  became 
quite  matter  of  fact  in  a  manner  not  co- 
incident with  the  acting.  One  felt  an 
attempt  at  professional  atmosphere  in 
the  Stanford  theatre.  Something  effi- 
ciently clear-cut  and  self-consciously 
forceful, — a  drama  which  might  be  in- 
fluenced by  idealistic  football  players, 
Babbitts,  and  other  strong,  virile  men, 
contrasting  itself  in  a  startling  manner 
with  the  artistic  productions  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  California,  which  reflect  the 
influences  of  the  artist,  the  poet,  the 
thinker,  the  sculptor.  And  this  is  not 
saying  that  one  is  greater  than  the  other. 
It  is  merely  noting  that  two  great  uni- 
versities, both  of  some  influence  in  the 
dramatic  world,  choose  radically  differ- 


ent means  of  expression.  From  this  we 
might  venture  to  amuse  ourselves  by  way 
of  prophecy:  Some  day  from  Calfirnia 
will  come  a  great  poetic  drama,  its  in- 
spiration the  Greek  Theatre,  a  fusion 
of  soul  and  thought,  a  delight  to  the 
spiritually  inclined ;  Someday  from  Stan- 
ford will  come  a  production,  perfect 
from  a  professional  standpoint,  vivid, 
forceful,  a  delight  to  producers,  audi- 
ence, and  box  office.  This  is  neither  an 
estimate  nor  a  challenge.  It  is  merely 
a  surmise. 

A  delightful  experience  in  childhood's 
play  world  was  the  program  in  Perry 
Dilley's  Puppet  Theatre  on  the  U.  C. 
campus.  Tinkling,  fairy-bell,  music-box 
tunes  provoked  a  mood  adaptable  to 
childish  thrills  of  adventure.  The  adult 
felt  his  own  reactions  mirrored  in  the 
expression  of  the  children  there  as  they 
dimpled  with  merriment,  pulled  up  their 
shoulders  in  ecstasy,  and  literally  wiggled 
with  delight.  A  program  of  two  fairy 
plays  was  given.  One,  "The  Three 
Wishes,"  of  French  primer  lore,  and 
the  other,  "The  Dragon  Who  Wouldn't 
Say  Please,"  a  tale  of  Perry  Dilley's  own 
imagination.  In  Gordon  Craig's  "Art 
of  the  Theatre"  he  rather  prays  for  the 
return  to  the  stage  of  the  uber-marion- 
ette.  Chance,  unstable  emotion,  the  ex- 
ploitation of  personality,  all  of  which 
ever  retard  the  actor's  theatre  from  per- 
fection, are  eliminated  from  the  puppet 
and  marionette  shows,  and  give  the  audi- 
ence a  purely  classic  production  upon 
which  to  meditate.  While  we  would  not 
join  our  orisons  with  Craig's,  we  would 
recommend  a  puppet  show  to  some  too 
blatant  producers,  for  there  is  food  for 
thought  here,  and  possibly  an  inspiration. 

The  epitome  of  romance  and  beauty 
was  the  performance  of  "Romeo  and 
Juliet"  at  the  Forest  Theatre  at  Carmel- 
by-the-Sea  late  in  July.  The  stately 
redwoods  surrounding  the  theatre  seemed 
to  lend  their  shelter  to  the  immortal 
lovers,  and  the  stars  shone  down  kindly 
upon  them.  Nowhere  is  Shakespeare  so 
perfect  as  when  played  in  a  forest.  His 
is  the  rare  drama  that  rightly  dares  to 
play  in  close  association  with  Nature. 
(Continued  on  Page  288) 


276 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


OOR.S 


CONDUCTED  BY 


Cl£lriters 


TOM  WHITE 


THY  SON  LIVETH 

A  MESSAGE  of  cheer  to  sorrowing 
mothers:  "There  is  no  death.  Life 
goes  on  without  hindrance  or  handicap. 
We  are  very  busy  ....  The  one  thing 
that  troubles  the  men  who  come  here  is 
the  fact  that  the  ones  who  love  them  are 
in  agony  .  .  .  ." 

This  unique  book  of  84  pages  is 
made  up  almost  entirely  of  the  letters  of 
a  son,  who  was  killed  in  France,  to  his 
mother,  who  had  been  his  pal,  and  who, 
he  says  made  him  a  man. 

He  had  qualified  for  wireless  work  in 
the  army,  during  which  time  he  had 
"bullied"  his  mother  into  becoming  a 
proficient  helper.  One  day  she  goes 
into  his  room  to  read  over  his  last  letter, 
which  she  had  just  received — laughing 
and  crying  over  it,  as  she  states,  when 
the  wireless  signaled  "attention." 
Jumping  to  the  instrument  she  receives 
from  her  son  the  accurate  description  of 
his  death,  which  was  later  confirmed 
officially. 

From  then  on  she  continues  to  receive 
letters  from  him  through  the  wireless 
code,  and  she  offers  these  letters  with  no 
comment  other  than  the  following: — a 
man  who  was  killed  in  battle  and  is  yet 
alive  and  able  to  communicate  with  the 
one  closest  to  him  in  sympathy,  must 
make  his  own  arguments.  I  have  no 
knowledge  of  established  psychic  laws 
or  limitations.  But  I  know  what  I 
know. — Reviewed  by  Anne  de  Lartigue 
Kennedy. 


THE    GLORIOUS    ADVENTURE 

IT  IS  exhilarating  to  discover  in  this 
age  of  well-oiled  machinery  of  living 
one  who  so  appreciates  the  glorious  ad- 
venture of  hardship.  One  who  can  re- 
live the  glories  of  ancient  Greece  undis- 
turbed by  its  flea-ridden  inns.  Richard 
Halliburton  set  out  to  follow  the  trail 
of  Ulysses — the  idea  in  itself  is  inspir- 
ing, and  one  must  needs  admire  the  cour- 
age and  perseverance  that  brought  about 
its  fulfillment.  It  would  be  easier  more 
whole-heartedly  to  admire  the  exploit 
were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  this  is  to  a 
great  extent  done  for  the  reader  by  the 


author.  Richard  Halliburton  knows 
that  he  did  an  original  and  daring 
thing,  and  he  doesn't  mind  telling  the 
world  that  he  did  it.  He  tells  it  vividly, 
although  not  too  well  as  regards  the 
craftsmanship  of  writing.  Much  can  be 
forgiven  him  however,  for  his  reverent 
and  beautiful  description  of  the  grave  of 
Rupert  Brooke  on  the  island  of  Skyros. 
It  is  the  best  thing  in  the  book,  and  one 
feels,  reading  it,  a  quick  start  of  sympa- 
thy for  his  youthful  hero-worship  of 
the  English  poet.  The  keynote  of  the 
book  is  youth — its  impetuosity,  its  en- 
thusiasm, its  bumptiousness.  Richard 
Halliburton  might  well  take  for  his 
motto — "de  1'audace,  de  1'audace, — et 
toujours  de  1'audace." 


THE  GLORIOUS  ADVENTURE.  By 
Richard  Halliburton.  Indianapolis, 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Co.  Illustrated  by 
photographs.  $5.00. 

INSIDE  SECRETS  OF  PHOTOPLAY 
WRITING.  By  Willard  King  Bradley. 
Funk  &  Wagnalls  Company.  (No 
prive  in  -eview  copy.) 

LABELS.  A.  Hamilton  Gibbs.  Little, 
Brown  &  Company.  $2.00. 

AND  THEN  CAME  SPRING.  John  Har- 
grave.  Century.  $2.00. 

SUMMER  STORM.  By  Frank  Swinner- 
ton.  George  H.  Doran  Company.  $2.00. 


THE  HOLY  LOVER.  By  Marie  Conway 
Oemler.  Boni  &  Liverright.  $2.00. 

THY  SON  LIVETH.  Reviewed  by  Anne 
DeLartigue  Kennedy.  Little,  Brown  & 
Co.  $1.25. 

THE  ABSOLUTE  AT  LARGE.  By  Karel 
Capek.  The  Macmillan  Company.  $2.50. 

OKLAHOMA,  Courtney,  Ryley  Cooper. 
Doubleday,  Page  Co.  $2.50. 


HE  LOVED  Sophy;  he  didn't  love 
her.  He  wanted  her;  he  didn't 
want  her. 

This  is  about  the  gist  of  John  Wes- 
ley's love-life  as  told  by  Marie  Conway 
Oemler  in  THE  HOLY  LOVER.  The 
eminent  founder  of  the  Methodist  faith 
is  made  to  look  like  seven  kinds  of  a 
bigot;  and  there's  slim  chance  of  any- 
one standing  up  to  take  issue  on  the 
point. 

With  two  emigrant  ships  loaded  with 
a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  humanity, 
Colonel  James  Oglethorpe,  accompanied 
by  John  Wesley,  set  out  from  England 
to  found  a  crown  colony  in  Georgia,  as 
against  the  claims  of  the  Spanish.  Ogle- 
thorpe seems  to  have  succeeded,  probably 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  Wesley 
along. 

When  he  left  his  native  shores,  Wes- 
ley's ambition  was,  ultimately,  to  Chris- 
tianize the  red  man.  After  three  years 
in  the  settlement  of  Savannah,  the  high- 
minded  young  man  who  was  to  mold, 
according  to  his  own  severely  spiritual 
convictions,  those  of  everyone  with 
whom  he  had  contact,  packed  up  his 
duds  and  went  home.  He  not  only  gave 
up  the  idea  of  converting  the  Indian, 
but  changed  his  mind  about  becoming 
the  spiritual  guide  and  mentor  for  the 
white  man,  as  well.  Seemingly  very  few 
tears  were  shed  over  his  departure. 

People  must  have  been  very  tolerant 
back  in  the  early  years  of  the  Eigh- 
teenth Century.  Yes,  very  tolerant.  As 
for  Oglethorpe — organizer,  executive, 
representative  of  the  crown — he  was  tol- 
erance incarnate.  He  was  out  there  to 
establish  a  colony,  but  how  it  was  ever 
accomplished  is  a  mystery,  what  with 
J.  W.  hanging  to  his  coattails.  In  fact, 
the  amours  of  the  straight-laced  little 
ecclesiastic  set  the  whole  town  by  the 
ears.  You  see,  it  was  like  this:  he  loved 
Sophy,  or  thought  he  did.  He  wasn't 
just  sure,  so  he  talked  the  whole  matter 
over  with  his  good  friend  Delamotte, 
then  went  out  and  rehashed  it  with  a 
dozen  or  so  others,  finally  returning 
home  to  draw  lots  out  of  a  hat — "to  try 
the  spirits."  Sophy  gave  him  a  hundred 
chances  to  propose,  if  she  gave  him  one. 
But  either  to  torment  himself  or  to 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


277 


gratify  his  super-religious  vanity,  he  de- 
cided each  time  to  remain  a  bachelor. 

This  continual  see-saw  between  "I 
can"  and  "I  can't,"  "I  will"  and  "I 
won't"  is  very  nearly  as  wearing  on  the 
reader  as  it  must  have  been  on  the 
nerves  of  the  man  himself.  And  poor 
Sophy!  What  happened  to  her?  Mar- 
ried the  other  fellow,  of  course,  even  if 
he  was  the  illegitimate  son  of  an  errant 
Britisher. 

If  one  enjoys  page  after  page  of  tittle- 
tattle,  scandal,  gossip,  back-biting,  social 
petty  larceny — in  short,  a  continuous 
tempest  in  the  teapot,  let  him  read  this 
book. 


up  a  romance  rich   in  exciting  incident 
and  teeming  with  action. 

THE  ABSOLUTE  AT  LARGE  is  a  cap- 
ital story.  Don't  start  it  before  eleven 
p.  m. 


THE  ABSOLUTE  AT  LARGE 

A  FACTORY  for  the  creation  of  the 
Absolute    in    quantities    depending 
on  the  size  of  the  machine  installed. 

Such  is  the  idea  around  which  Karel 
Capek  builds  his  latest  book,  THE  ABSO- 
LUTE AT  LARGE.  It  is  quite  safe  to  as- 
sume that  were  anyone  else  to  attempt  a 
story  of  this  nature  it  would  never  ap- 
pear in  print.  Capek,  it  will  be  recalled, 
was  the  author  of  that  fantastic  play, 
R.  U.  R.,  he  wrote  Krakatit,  an  equally 
fantastic  novel,  and  now  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  THE  ABSOLUTE  AT  LARGE, 
which  is  still  more  fantastic,  it  is  a  mat- 
ter of  lively  speculation  as  to  what  theme 
he  will  select  for  his  next  book. 

With  the  attention  of  a  large  part  of 
the  world  directed  along  scientific  lines, 
these  books  fit  in  very  nicely  with  the 
present  state  of  the  public  mind.  Al- 
though Capek  doesn't  presume  to  do  any 
more  than  sketch  in  the  scientific  details 
of  the  device  around  which  the  tale  re- 
volves, he  does  make  a  wonderful  story 
of  the  human  reactions  following  the 
installation  of  the  machine  in  various  in- 
dustrial centers.  Like  the  others,  his 
latest  book  is  based  on  the  wildest  sort  of 
improbabilities.  With  this  much  to  go 
on,  an  author  is  immediately  placed  in  a 
ticklish  position ;  he  is  bound  to  either 
flunk  miserably  or  score  heavily.  Nor 
does  he  flunk,  in  the  case  of  K.  C.  On 
the  contrary,  he  carries  the  reader  along 
in  keen  suspense  which  is  well  sustained 
from  first  to  last. 

In  an  attempt  to  find  a  solution  for 
the  problem  of  the  coal  shortage,  a  young 
engineer  perfects  a  miraculous  mechan- 
ical device  which  makes  use  of  every 
atom  contained  in  a  lump  of  coal.  In 
the  application  of  this  esoteric  principle 
there  is  evolved  a  gas  which  produces  a 
high  state  of  emotionalism  in  those  who 
are  working  near  or  happen  to  be  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  machine.  Its  effect  on 
national  and  world  affairs,  culminating 
in  the  Greatest  War  ( 1944-1953)  makes 


LET'S  WRITE  A  PHOTOPLAY 

THE  reading  public  is  like  any  other — 
neither  sophisticated  nor  gullible,  but 
when  a  title  smacks  of  the  esoteric  they 
are  often  prone  to  make  snap  judgment, 
which  is  correct  more  often  than  not. 
However,  INSIDE  SECRETS  OF  PHOTO- 
PLAY WRITING  bears  all  the  earmarks 
of  intrinsic  worth. 

As  the  title  indicates,  the  appeal  is 
directed  primarily  to  those  who  some 
day  hope  to  be  full-blown  scenario 
writers,  as  well  as  those  who  are  actually 
contributing  to  the  silver  screen.  Be- 
sides the  pages  given  over  to  the  actual 
mechanics  of  photoplay  writing,  more 
than  half  the  book  is  devoted  to  the 
scenarios  of  "The  Beloved  Imp"  and 
"The  Sidewalks  of  New  York,"  both  by 
the  author  of  the  book,  Willard  King 
Bradley.  The  initial  chapter,  called 
"Author!  Author!"  broadens  the  appeal 
somewhat  to  include  those  of  us  not  so 
vitally  concerned  with  inspiration,  con- 
tinuity, subtitles  and  the  like,  as  it  in- 
cludes intimate  flashes  from  the  early 
lives  of  the  more  prominent  of  those 
who  have  made  the  movies,  both  on  and 
off  the  screen. 


THE  SLACKER 

A  HAMILTON  GIBBS  might  have 
titled  his  latest  novel  The  Slacker 
and  found  it  very  appropriate.  The  fact 
is  the  story  is  about  a  slacker  who  really 
after  all  the  world  of  today  will  sympa- 
thize with,  when  if  the  book  had  been 
written  three  years  ago  Major  Gibbs 
would  have  been  "killed"  in  the  name  of 
letters.  The  story  is  one  of  life;  of  a 
family,  two  boys  and  one  girl;  one  boy, 
Dick  Wickens,  was  a  hero  of  the  war; 
the  daughter,  Madge,  earned  distinction 
with  her  hospital  service,  but  Tom  re- 
fused to  fight  and  was  given  the  title  of 
Coward.  The  story  having  this  setting, 
then  the  adjustment  to  a  jazz-,  money- 
mad  world  is  most  interesting.  This  is 
a  good  credit  to  Major  Gibbs'  last  novel, 
"Soundings." 


EARLY  WEST 

THO  THOSE  who  still  enjoy  the 
•I  stories  of  the  early  West,  that  period 
of  struggle,  that  period  of  vision;  of 
determination,  of  love  and  romance,  dust 
and  rain,  will  enjoy  OKLAHOMA,  by 
Courtney  Ryley  Cooper.  Mr.  Cooper 
has  studied  the  conditions  of  Oklahoma 


when  it  was  opened  to  the  settlers.  There 
is  much  in  this  book  which  could  be 
used  for  history.  It  is  the  story,  in  short, 
of  a  group  of  homesteaders  into  new 
territory,  the  clamor  for  the  government 
to  open  the  territory  to  settlers  and  then 
finally  the  group  who  hired  Pawnee  Bill 
and  went  into  adventure  with  him  as 
their  leader.  It  is  good  reading  with 
plenty  of  action,  told  by  one  who  knows 
the  pioneer  country  as  perhaps  no  other 
man  of  today  does. 


MIDDLE  AGED  MEN 

THERE  has  been  much  written  of 
middle  aged  men  of  late.  One  of 
the  most  interesting  pictures  of  a  middle 
aged  man  is  that  which  John  Har- 
grave  gives  in  ANDTHEN  CAME  SPRING. 
It  is  a  story  of  one  Mr.  Godwin  Birt- 
whistle,  wealthy,  aging,  respectable,  mar- 
ried, grown  children  ...  of  a  trip  to 
London,  one  of  those  business  trips  and 
the  inevitable  woman.  The  alluring 
woman,  this  time  in  the  person  of  Leeta, 
a  parson's  daughter.  It  is  most  interest- 
ing how  Mr.  Hargrave  depicts  the  char- 
acter of  Mr.  Birtwhistle  and  "then  came 
spring."  It  is  a  book  you  should  not  miss. 


DO  THEY? 

IF  YOU  have  read  "Gentlemen  Prefer 
Blondes"  and  enjoyed  it  you  will  en- 
joy "They  Do  Not,"  by  Colin  Clements 
and  illustrated  by  a  Bond  Salesman.  It 
is  one  of  the  most  clever  pieces  of  humor 
yet  to  reach  our  desk.  It  is  hard  to  clas- 
sify ...  to  say  anything  about  it  except 
that  it  is  funny.  Fact  is  after  you  have 
read  it  you  aren't  perfectly  sure  whether 
it  is  NOT  written  to  prove  that  Luella 
wasn't  the  young  lady  of  whom  Anita 
Loos  wrote.  Anyway,  it  is  delightful. 
Do  not  miss  it. 


A  LONDON  TRIANGLE 

WITH  a  romantic  touch  here  and 
there,  but  on  the  whole  a  trifle 
diluted  and  not  by  any  means  up  to  the 
standard  set  in  his  NOCTURNE,  THE 
ELDER  SISTER  and  SEPTEMBER,  the 
Doran  Company  has  just  brought  out 
Frank  Swinnerton's  SUMMER  STORM. 
This  is  a  story  of  London  and  two  typists 
working  in  the  same  office,  both  in  love 
with  the  same  man.  Polly  and  Beatrice 
are  opposing  types ;  therefore  their  meth- 
ods differ  widely.  The  contrasting  mo- 
tives and  reactions,  however,  present  in- 
teresting slants.  As  a  usual  thing,  Mr. 
Swinnerton's  style  is  another  name  for 
beauty  in  prose,  but  in  the  case  of  SUM- 
MER STORM  it  would  seem,  rather,  that 
life  and  vitality  have  been  sacrificed  for 
the  sake  of  this  beauty. 


278 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


Have 

You 
Considered*  * 

WHAT  SCHOOL  YOUR 

BOY  WILL  ATTEND 

THIS  FALL? 

Of  course,  you  want  him  to 
have  the  best. 

The 

West  Coast 
Military 
Academy 

PALO  ALTO 

— a  school  for  junior  boys,  is  es- 
pecially equipped  to  handle  the 
educational,  physical,  and  moral 
needs  of  your  boy.  Sound  instruc- 
tion is  emphasized  and  individual 
attention  is  given  to  each  lad's  re- 
quirements. A  brotherly  atmos- 
phere prevails  in  the  school,  and 
through  the  field  of  athletics, 
sports  and  recreation  the  boys  are 
trained  in  manliness.  Let  us  talk 
with  you  about  your  boy. 


The  Dormer  Tragedy 

(Continuer  from  Page  267) 


killed  him  on  the  spot;  but  the  very 
horror  of  the  scene  forbade.  He  was 
spared  but  avoided  and  ignored  by  those 
who  guided  him  to  Sutler's  Fort  where 
an  anxious  wife  and  children  awaited 
his  return. 

That  Keseburg  may  not  be  too  harsh- 
ly judged  in  the  absence  of  his  conten- 
tion, the  following  is  quoted  from  his 
lengthy  contradiction  of  the  charges  as 
published  in  McClashan's  "History  of 
the  Donner  Party" : 

"It  is  with  the  utmost  horror  that  I 
revert  to  the  scenes  of  suffering  and 
unutterable  misery  endured  during  that 
journey.  I  have  always  endeavored  to 
put  away  from  me  all  thoughts  or  recol- 
lections of  those  terrible  events.  Time 
is  the  best  physician,  and  would,  I  trust- 
ed, heal  the  wounds  produced  by  those 
days  of  torture ;  yet  my  mind  today  re- 
coils with  undiminished  hor'ror  as  I 
endeavor  to  speak  of  the  dreadful  sub- 
ject. Heretofore  I  have  never  attempt- 
ed to  refute  the  villainous  slanders 
which  have  been  circulated  and  pub- 
lished about  me.  .  .  If  I  believe  in  God 
Almighty  having  anything  to  do  with 
the  affairs  of  men,  I  believe  that  the 
misfortune  which  overtook  the  Donner 
Party,  and  the  terrible  part  I  was  com- 
pelled to  take  in  the  great  tragedy,  were 
predestined.  Difficulty  and  disaster 
hovered  about  us  from  the  time  we 
entered  this  (Hasting's)  cut-off." 

Years  afterward,  subsequent  to  the 
death  of  his  wife,  Keseburg  lived  at 
Brighton,  Sacramento  County,  with 
two  of  his  children.  Although  soon 
after  his  rescue  he  was  for  a  time  suc- 
cessfully engaged  in  business,  misfor- 
fortune  seemed  to  haunt  every  move 
that  he  made ;  he  lost  what  he  had  ac- 
cumulated and  was  obliged  to  work  for 
small  wages  in  an  effort  to  support  him- 
self and  two  children.  The  dreadful 
kind  of  an  existence  he  was  compelled 
to  suffer  may  be  imagined  from  his  own 
brief  account  of  it : 

"Wherever  I  have  gone  people  have 
cried:  'Stone  him!  Stone  him!'  The 
little  children  on  the  street  have  mocked 
me  as  I  passed.  Only  a  man  conscious 
of  his  own  innocence  would  not  have 
succumbed  to  the  horrible  things  which 
have  been  said  of  me — would  not  have 
committed  suicide.  Mortification,  dis- 
grace, disaster  and  unheard  of  misfor- 
tune have  followed  and  overwhelmed 
me." 

After  a  series  of  incidents  and  ex- 
periences unparalleled  for  misery  and 
suffering,  the  persistent  efforts  of  the 


relief  parties  finally  succeeded  in  bring- 
ing the  surviving  members  of  the  emi- 
grant company  to  the  land  they  set  out 
for  in  buoyant  spirits,  with  not  the 
slightest  thought  of  encountering  the 
terrible  calamity  which  befell  them.  Of 
the  ninety  persons  that  composed  the 
original  company,  forty-two  perished. 
Of  the  forty-eight  survivors,  several 
were  children,  two  of  which  belonged 
to  the  Donner  family. 

Captain  John  A.  Sutter,  charitable 
owner  of  Sutler's  Fort,  the  terminal 
point  of  all  emigration  from  the  east, 
deserves  and  is  unanimously  accorded 
unlimited  commendation  for  the  prompt 
and  generous  manner  in  which  he  sup- 
plied and  financed  the  series  of  relief 
parties  that  rescued  the  survivors  of  the 
Donner  Party. 

In  June,  1847,  when  General  Kear- 
ney and  his  party  crossed  the  Sierras  on 
their  eastward  overland  trip,  they  stop- 
ped for  a  short  time  at  the  deserted 
camp.  The  snow  had  almost  entirely 
disappeared  and  left  exposed  a  num- 
ber of  mutilated  bodies  theretofore  hid- 
den from  view.  The  scene  encountered 
at  this  time  was  more  revolting  than 
ever  before:  a  spectacle  so  gruesome  and 
horror-striking  that  even  those  who  wit- 
nessed it  were  unable  to  describe  it 
later.  By  order  of  General  Kearney  all 
the  bodies  and  bones  were  collected  and 
buried  in  a  large  pit  in  the  floor  of  one 
of  the  cabins.  To  further  obliterate,  as 
completely  as  possible,  the  terrible 
record,  the  cabins  and  all  the  relics  of 
the  sufferers  that  could  be  found,  were 
gathered  and  burned. 

And  thus  closes  a  brief,  though  bit- 
ter chapter  in  western  history,  the  de- 
tails of  which  will  perhaps  never  be 
equalled  for  extremity  of  suffering.  The 
most  discouraging  of  hardships,  grief 
and  misfortune  \vere  borne  throughout 
with  the  stoic  fortitude  characteristic 
of  those  courageous  pioneers  whose  tena- 
city of  purpose  is  wholly  responsible  for 
the  early  settlement  of  our  present  home- 
sites. 


Crock  of  Gold 

Circulating  Library 

119  Maiden  Lane 
:•:  :•:  :•: 

Just  the  place  you've  been  looking 
for — something  different. 

Come  in  and  get  acquainted! 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


279 


Periodical  Essayists  Then  and  Now 


NOW  that  every  newspaper  accepts 
the  familiar  essay  as  a  part  of  the 
demanded  food  of  its  readers,  presents 
it  in  a  much-quoted  column,  and  even 
places  it  in  a  box  among  the  news,  one 
may  well  wish  to  know  more  of  the 
century  of  the  periodical  essay,  the 
Eighteenth  Century.  One  may  be  fairly 
well  acquainted  with  the  work  of  Steele 
and  Addison  and  the  picturesque  Doctor 
Johnson  without  realizing  how  large 
was  the  field  of  the  periodical  essay  in 
their  day.  The  Taller,  the  Spectator, 
the  Guardian,  and  the  Rambler  may  be 
known  to  us,  but  have  we  ever  heard  of 
the  Adventurer,  the  Prater,  the  Test,  or 
the  Whisperer?  We  may  recall  the 
Idler,  but  what  of  the  Spendthrift,  the 
Scourge  and  the  Devil? 

In  The  Periodical  Essayists  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century,  Doctor  George  S. 
Marr  (Appleton's)  has  arranged  con- 
venient lists,  both  chronological  and 
alphabetical,  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
periodicals.  The  book  itself  is  devoted 
to  a  discussion  of  the  more  important, 
with  illustrative  extracts.  One  of  these 
is  The  Diary  of  a  Macaroni,  from  the 


By  Laura  Bell  Everett 

Spendthrift,  in  which  we  learn  that  "a 
macaroni  is  a  gentleman  who,  having 
finished  his  travels,  on  his  return  to 
England,  devotes  his  time  partly  to  at- 
tendance on  the  ladies,  partly  to  drink- 
ing, but  chiefly  to  the  gaming  table  .  .  . 
his  principles  are  debauched,  his  fortune 
often  spent  before  he  is  five  and  twenty. 
With  this  he  is  a  perfect  connoisseur  in 
painting,  music,  and  all  the  polite  arts; 
and  well  versed  in  a  kind  of  superficial 
common-place  conversation,  with  which 
he  never  fails  to  entertain  the  'fair  sex." 

One  is  not  surprised  to  find  Oliver 
Goldsmith  here,  but  here,  too,  is  Cow- 
per,  William  Cowper  of  John  Gilpin 
and  The  Task  and  "God  moves  in  a 
mysterious  way,  his  wonders  to  per- 
form." 

"The  Swearers  I  have  spoken  of  in 
a  former  paper ;  but  the  Half-Swearers 
who  split  and  mince  and  fritter  their 
oaths  .  .  .  the  Gothic  Humbuggers  and 
those  who  nickname  God's  creatures  and 
call  a  man  a  cabbage,  a  crab,  a  queer 
cub,  an  odd  fish  and  an  unaccountable 


muskin,  should  never  come  into  com- 
pany without  an  interpreter.  But  I  will 
not  tire  my  reader's  patience  by  pointing 
out  all  the  pests  of  conversation."  Cow- 
per, in  the  Connoisseur.) 

Open  the  book  at  random  and  you 
will  come  across  some  variation  of 
modern  slang  or  comment  on  modern 
manners — or  lack  of  them.  The  book  is 
an  addition  to  any  library,  but  is  par- 
ticularly valuable  to  those  who  are  in- 
terested in  any  way  in  the  familiar  essay. 
•*»  ---nr 

SMILE ! 

Don't  join  the  dissatisfied 

army.    Let  the 
OVERLAND    TRAVEL 

BUREAU 

plan  that  vacation  for  you. 
SMILE ! 


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hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


San  Francisco's  Newest 

HOTEL  SHAW 

MARKET  at  McALLISTER 


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spacious  and  homelike  freedom.  One  hundred  and  fifty 
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Management 


JERRY  H.SHAW 


HARRY  E.  SNIBLEY 


280 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


HELLO, 
WORLD 


We   are  the    Boys'   and   Girls' 
Magazine 

Grown-ups  not  allowed! 


The 

TREASURE 
CHEST 


Stories  and   poems  and   draw- 
ings and  things  that  every  boy 
and  girl   likes.    Done  by  boys 
and  girls  and  grown-ups. 


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MAGAZINE 

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What  Is  Your  Name? 


By  Gertrude  Mott 


NOVEMBER 
OVERLAND 

Out 
October  25 

This    issue   is    being   compiled    by    ' 
Albert  M.   Bender  in  memory  of 
George  Sterling 

Some  Contributors 
Mary  Austin 
Robinson  Jeffers 
Witter  Bynner 
Erskine  Scott  Wood 
Sara  Bard  Field 
Edwin  Markham 
James  D.  Phelan 
Albert  Bender 

and  others 

Order  Your  Copy  in  Advance  at 
Overland  Office 


IRELAND  really  enters  into  the 
light  of  history  with  its  conversion 
to  Christianity  by  St.  Patrick  about 
460  A.  D.  In  the  6th  Century,  exten- 
sive monasteries  were  founded  and  learn- 
ing cultivated.  This  was,  however, 
continued  with  difficulty,  as  the  Scandi- 
navians commenced  incursions  along  the 
Irish  coast  during  the  8th  century,  con- 
tinuing more  than  300  years,  being  fin- 
ally overthrown  in  1014  by  Brian  Boru, 
hero-monarch  of  Ireland. 

Then  -came  the  Anglo-Norman  des- 
cent, about  1172,  under  Henry  II  of 
England,  when  the  little  emerald  isle 
was  seized,  and  from  that  time  the 
Anglo-Norman  adventurers  established 
themselves  and  their  feudal  systems. 
Among  them  were  the  "Fitzgeralds" 
or  "Geraldines"  (French  'fils,'  son, 
being  the  origin  of  the  prefix  'Fitz,' 
therefore  Fitzgerald  would  be  'son  of 
Gerald')  ;  there  were  also  the  families 
of  "Le  Botiller"  later  becoming  "But- 
ler" and  the  "DeBurghs,"  becoming  the 
family  of  the  "Burkes." 

It  was  Richard  Strongbow,  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  who  introduced  many  new 
Celtic  names  into  Ireland,  which  still 
endure. 

The  great  king,  Brian  Boru,  during 
his  reign,  published  an  edict  that  the 
descendants  of  the  heads  of  the  tribes 
and  families,  then  in  power,  should  take 
their  names  from  them,  either  from  the 
father  or  the  grandfather  and  that  those 
names  should  become  hereditary  and 
fixed  forever. 

These  tribes  were  called  "septs"  or 
"clans."  A  sept,  primarily  applied  to 
the  Irish  groups,  was  a  family  or  a 
group  of  families  under  a  head  or  chief 
owing  allegiance  to  a  king  or  superior 
chief. 

A  clan  was  similar,  being  a  social 
group  comprising  a  number  of  house- 
holds, the  heads  of  which  claim  descent 
from  a  common  ancestor,  bear  a  common 
surname  and  acknowledge  the  leader- 
ship of  a  chief  who  bears  this  name  as 
a  distinctive  title,  as  "the  MacGregor" 
of  the  clan  MacGregor  (from  Gregor- 
ius,  son  of  Alpin,  a  Scottish  monarch  of 
the  VIII  century,  named  after  his  god- 
father Pope  Gregory  IV.) 

The  clan  may  include  bondsmen,  and 
adopted  foreigners,  besides  the  clans- 
men of  the  blood.  The  clans  were  es- 
tablished in  Ireland  as  well  as  Scotland. 
The  chieftain  of  the  clan  was  regarded 


as  the  common  father  of  it,  and  those 
belonging  were  as  his  children. 

It  was  in  1465  that  Edward  of  Eng- 
land comanded  by  legislative  measure 
that  all  Irishmen  choose  a  surname 
from  the  name  of  a  town,  color,  art,  ser- 
vice or  occupation. 

To  this  day  the  Irish  show  a  strong 
Celtic  strain  in  many  characteristics, 
such  as  rich  enthusiasm,  lively  feeling 
and  vivid  imagination,  not  acting  coolly 
or  deliberately  but  impulsively.  These 
very  traits  make  them  the  lovable  peo- 
ple they  are  today,  as  much  as  in  the 
day  of  Brian  Boru.  Their  genuine  re- 
finement of  feeling  and  manner  and  high 
poetical  sensibilities  are  to  no  small  ex- 
tent due  to  their  admixture  of  Celtic 
blood.  Anna  B.  Bryant  must  have 
thought  of  an  Irishman  when  she  said: 

"A  laugh  can  lighten  the  heaviest  load, 
A  laugh  can  shorten  the  longest  road; 
Eyes  serene  and  a  sunny  face 
Are  ever  and  always  signs  of  grace. 
The    trusting    heart    that    laughs    and 
sings 

Soars   like   a   bird    that    has    found    its 
wings." 

The  Celtic  'ua'  grandson,  modified 
into  the  O'  of  present  day  usage,  and 
'Mac,'  son  or  male  descendent  in  Scotch 
as  well  as  in  Irish  names,  quickly  came 
into  prolific  use  as  a  prefix  to  a  Chris- 
tian name,  evidenced  in  MacFadden, 
from  Mac  Paiden,  son  of  little  Patrick; 
Me.  Andrew,  son  of  Andrew'  O'Toole, 
the  descendant  of  Tuathal,  and  so  on. 

Many  names  from  the  Celtic  are 
compounded  with  the  word  'Gil'  from 
"Giolla"  a  servant  or  disciple,  as  "Gil- 
patrick,"  the  servant  of  Patrick,  "Gil- 
christ"  the  servant  or  disciple  of  Christ, 
"Gildea,"  the  servant  of  God. 

A  man's  rank  or  occupation  quickly 
pinned  an  appellation  upon  him,  as 
"McGowan"  (from  "Gobha,"  a  smith, 
hence  son  of  the  smith;)  "Mclntyre," 
son  of  the  workman. 

The  animal,  vegetable  and  mineral 
kingdoms  also  had  their  share,  as  in 
"Carrick,"  a  rock;  "Darragh,"  an  oak; 
"Mullally,"  a  swan.  The  locality  fre- 
quently played  a  role,  to  wit :  "Galway," 
"Kilkenney,  "Monahan,"  etc. 

Personal  attributes  bestowed  on  in- 
eradicable stamp  as:  "Daly"  from  "dall," 
blind;  "Dempsey"  from  "diomusach,"' 


September,   1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


281 


arrogant;  "Brody"  from  "Brodach," 
proud,  etc. 

The  seasons,  natural  objects,  as  well 
as  other  sources  supplied  many  appella- 
tions, among  them  "Summers,"  "Flood," 
"Snow,"  "Kirk,"  "Hunt,"  etc.,  while 
parts  of  the  body  supplied  "Beard," 
"Shinn"  and  thus  like.  This  calls  to 
mind  the  story  about  Pat.  "Pat,  when 
are  you  going  to  place  your  whiskers 
on  the  reserve  list?"  inquired  a  friend 
of  an  Irish  sailor.  "When  you  place 
your  tongue  on  the  civil  list,"  answered 
Pat,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

In  order  of  numerical  strength,  the 
name  "Murphy"  (Anglicised  form  of 
"McMurrough,"  the  old  regal  family 
of  Leinster)  stands  first  in  Ireland, 
closely  seconded  by  "Kelly,"  "Kelley," 
(some  claim  a  nickname  of  Charles, 
Carl,  Karl,  Kell),  followed  by  "Sulli- 
van" (from  an  ancient  legend  concern- 
ing a  one-eyed  Druid,  "Suil-Levawn, 
Levawn's  eye)  and  "Walsh." 

Among  the  clans  or  septs  entirely 
peculiar  to  Ireland  are  those  of  the 
"Murphys,"  "Kellys,"  "Sullivans,"  "O'- 
Briens" (took  their  name  from  the 
monarch  Brian  Boru  himself). 
"Byrnes,"  "Ryans,"  "Conners,"  "O'- 
Neills," "Reillys,"  "Doyles,"  "Mc- 
Carthys," 'Galleghers,"  "Dohertys," 
and  so  on.  all  drawn  from  personal 
names. 

Among  the  principal  ancient  Celtic 
families  with  the  prefix  "Mac"  are  such 
names  as  "MacAlister"  (Gaelic  form 
of  "Alexander"),  "McCabe,"  "Mac- 
Donough,"  "MacFadden"  (son  of  Long 
John,  Mac-Fad-Ian),  "MacGettigan," 
"MacGillicuddy"  (descendant  of  the 
O'Sullivans  who  was  given  a  third  part 
of  his  father's  chieftaincy  and  received 
this  name,  meaning  "little  son  of  the 
portion")  ;  "MacKenna"  (corruption 
of  "MacKionnon")  ;  "MacMahon"  ("a 
bear"  in  Old  Irish);  "MacNamara" 
(Celtic  "hero  of  the  sea")  ;  "MacRory," 
"MacShane"  and  "MacTaggart."  Just 
these  few  from  a  long  list  of  fine  old 
Irish  names. 

A  sprinkling  with  "O"  "  are  as  fol- 
lows: "O'Bannon,"  "O'Brennan,"  "O'- 
Connor," "O'Devlin,"  "O'Farrelly," 
"O'Grady,"  "O'Halloran,"  "O'Keefe," 
"O'Meagher,"  "O'Neill,"  "O'Reilly," 
"O'Shaughnessy"  and  "O'Toole." 

The  Danes  who  went  to  Ireland  in 
the  9th  century  gave  the  Irish  such 
names  as  "Coppinger"  (one  who  had 
care  of  yarn  or  produced  it),  "Gould" 
(from  "Gold"),  "Harold"  (personal 
name  of  various  Norse  kings)  ;  the 
Anglo-Normans  left  their  impress  by 
such  names  as  "Bary,"  "Darcy"  or 
"D'Arcy,"  "FItzmaurice,"  "Mortimer" 
(from  "mortua  mara"  dead  water,  de- 
rived from  a  stagnant  lake  on  the  estate 


of  Mortemer  in  Normandy)  ;  the  great 
bulk  of  English  names  now  in  use  in 
Ireland  were  conferred  during  the  medi- 
eval period,  among  them  are  "Bates" 
(nickname  for  "Bartholemevv),  "Brad- 
shaw,"  "Canning"  (from  "Cannynges," 
the  pious  founder  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe, 
Bristol,  in  the  XV  century)  ;  "Hopkins" 
(from  Robert,  through  Hobb,  with  the 
diminutive  "kin")  ;  "Hewitt"  (diminu- 
tive of  "Hugh"(  and  "Kidd"  (young 
goat). 

Even    the    Huguenots    who    fled    for 
safety    to    Ireland    gave    their    adopted 


country  some  new  names  such  as  "Haz- 
ard," "Hazzard,"  "Champion"  (one 
who  fights  a  public  combat  in  his  own 
or  another  man's  quarrel.  The  office 
of  King's  champion  was  well  known  in 
Medieval  days),  and  "Perrin." 

Roughly  stating  there  are  about  440 
family  names  with  the  prefix  "O"  in 
Ireland,  and  about  135  with  that  of 
"Mac." 


The   poet   Aytoun   has  said : 
(Continued  on  Page  286) 


RARELY  has  a  first  book  of  verse  so  captured  the  critics  and 
the  reading-  public.   Win.  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Harold  Vinal, 
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DAWN    STARS 

By  Lucia  Trent  $1.50 

TO  BE  praised  by  Carl  Sandburg,  Robert  Frost,  Edwin  Mark- 
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Introduction  by  Joseph  T.  Shipley 
Illustrations  by  Herbert  E.  Fonts 

TOUCH    AND    GO 
By  Ralph  Cheyney  $1.50 

IF  YOU  haven't  read  the  happiest,  snappiest  book  of  the  year, 
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THE    GREENWICH   VILLAGE    BLUES 
By  Clement  Wood  $1.50 

HENRY  HARRISON  was  born  and  bred  on  New  York's  East 
Side.    He  knows  it  as  few  know  it.    In  this  first  book,  there 
are  a  dozen  East  Side  tales;  14  whimsical  essays;  and  more  than 
100  poems.    Praised  from  coast  to  coast  is 

INFUNITIVE    AND    OTHER    MOODS 
By  Henry  Harrison  $2.00 

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THE     CURTAIN    RISES 
By  Benson  Inge  &  Charles  Chupet    $1.25 

HENRY  HARRISON,  Publisher 
324  East  15th  Street  New  York  City 


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Commonplace  Sermonettes 

By  Klrkpatrick  Smith,  Jr. 

"He  who  hath  seen  stars — 
Shall  ne'er  find  rest  again." 


HE  WHO  has  known  the  thrill 
of  service  shall  never  again  be 
content  to  idle  among  the  in- 
consequential obscurities  of  this  life.  The 
tingle  of  performance  paints  a  vision 
that  cannot  be  blotted  out  from  a  soul 
that  has  once  sat  in  silence  alone  un- 
mindful of  the  love  call  of  zone  unto 
zone,  for  then  the  stars  are  ever  brighter, 
their  mystery  more  simple;  the  firma- 
ment tunes  in  with  the  infinite. 

Some  years  ago  the  head  of  the  Salva- 
tion Army  was  desirous  of  sending  a 
New  Year's  message  to  each  of  his  work- 
ers throughout  the  world.  Many  of  these 
servants  of  humanity  whom  he  wished 
to  reach,  would  have  to  be  cabled,  as 
it  was  his  design  that  all  should  read 
the  admonition  at  the  same  time,  New 
Year's  morning.  The  time  of  this  de- 
cision came  to  him  late  in  December  for 
much  study  had  been  necessary  over  the 
communication,  and  the  time  for  its 
going  was  getting  short.  He  wanted  to 
be  as  economical  as  possible  in  trans- 
mitting the  telegram,  yet  still  he  must 
cover  in  full  the  mission  in  life  which 
was  the  watchword  of  the  Salvation 
Army  worker. 

The  narrative  was  despatched  by  tele- 
gram and  cable,  and  perhaps  no  more 
profound  behest  was  ever  conveyed 
across  space  than  this,  "Others." 

All  over  the  world  at  practically  the 
same  hour  the  message  "Others"  was 
received  by  that  great  army  of  people, 
whose  lives  have  been  dedicated  to  the 
common  cause  of  others.  It  glorified 
their  endeavors  all  the  more  by  knowing 
that  their  leader  was  at  that  same  mo- 
ment thinking  of  them  and  their  mis- 
sion, it  gave  great  hope,  it  deepened 
their  faith  in  the  cause  for  which  they 
labored,  and  when  they  passed  out  of 
that  thoughtful  hour  they  were  stronger 
and  better  equipped  to  carry  the  cross 
into  the  New  Year,  not  for  themselves, 
but  "Others." 


SELFISHNESS,  which  is  the  opposite 
of  non  silba  anthar,  (not  for  self 
but  for  others)  has  come  to  be  the  fes- 
tive queen  among  human  kind,  real  help- 
fulness among  men  is  becoming  starved, 
until  at  the  present  time  real  fraternity 
is  so  weak,  its  voice  is  lost  in  the  court 
of  its  own  castle.  Man's  valuation  of 
man  is  by  the  standard  of  wealth  and 
not  worth,  multitudes  are  forgetting 
honor  and  justice.  The  thirst  for  gain  is 
dethroning  reason  and  judgment  in  the 
citadel  of  the  human  soul,  and  we  are 
praying  for  each  other  on  Sunday,  but 
preying  upon  each  other  during  the 
week. 


I  STROLLED  along  the  waterfront 
one  day  watching  a  sea  gull  soaring 
in  the  sky,  and  as  I  stood  admiring  its 
grace  and  freedom,  the  words  of  a  phil- 
osopher came  to  me:  "He  builds  too 
low  who  builds  beneath  the  stars."  That 
quotation  is  said  to  be  one  of  Abraham 
Lincoln's  favorite  maxims.  The  illus- 
trious Abe  found  solace  in  analyzing  it 
and  propping  his  great  faith  under  its 
steadfastness  when  the  temptation  came 
to  be  small  souled  over  a  judgment  that 
he  must  give,  which  perhaps  might  make 
a  difference  in  public  opinion  when  it 
came  time  for  the  voters  to  decide 
whether  or  not  he  would  be  elected  to 
office  again,  and  always  came  the  great 
reaction  that  was  best  expressed  by  Lin- 
coln himself:  "Let  us  have  faith  that 
right  makes  might,  and  to  that  end  dare 
to  do  our  duty." 

The  apostle  Paul  tells  us,  "Rejoice 
with  those  that  do  rejoice,  and  weep 
with  those  who  weep,"  for  by  so  doing 
we  shall  see  stars  of  service  and  ne'er 
find  rest  again  in  idle  boasts  and  gossip. 


The  Morris  Dam— Mendocino 


By  Cristel  Hastings 


Nothing  can  be  of  more  paramount 
importance  to  any  progressive  community 
than  its  hydro  development.  Especially 
is  this  true  of  the  rural  sections  whose 
prosperity  must  necessarily  depend  upon 


the  development  of  its  water  and  power 
projects. 

The   isolated  homestead  is  no  more. 
The    abandoned    farm    is    no    longer    a 
(Continued  on  Page  286) 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


283 


San  Francisco's  Opera  Season 

(Continued  from  Page  273) 

trionism.  It  has  often  been  said  of  this  singer's  interpretive 
finesse  in  the  part  that,  while  he  does  full  justice  to  Scarpia's 
cruelty,  he  imbues  his  personality  with  an  unmistakable 
patrician  air.  It  is  an  opera  of  Puccini's  that  always  must 
find  place  in  well-chosen  repertoires;  for  the  music  is  as  in- 
tense as  the  action  and  leaves  a  deep  impression  on  audiences. 
Fahtaff  presents  Scotti  again,  in  his  equally  famed  role  of 
Sir  John,  and  introduces  to  San  Francisco  across  the  foot- 
lights the  Los  Angeles  singer,  Lawrence  Tibbett,  who  as 
Ford  added  to  the  bays  he  reaped  at  the  Metropolitan,  sev- 
eral years  ago,  when  he  took  the  house  by  storm  by  his  first 
appearance  as  Neri  in  La  Cena  delle  Beffe.  Other  principals 
in  Verdi's  last  opera  are  Tokatyan  as  Fenton,  Bada  in  his 
particularly  effective  personation  of  Dr.  Cajusand  Ina  Bours- 
kaya,  the,  Russian  mezzo,  as  Anne. 

Bourskaya  appears  anew  in  the  next  evening's  production 
of  Aida  in  the  role  of  Amneris,  which  gives  such  scope  to  her 
voice  and  unusual  dramatic  qualities.  Roselle  sings  the  name 
role,  Martinelli  Radames  and  Amato  Amonasro  and  Pinza 
Ramfis.  The  piece,  which  retains  its  strong  hold  on  lovers 
of  the  older  Italian  school,  owes  much  of  its  allurement  to 
its  spectacular  effects  and  ballet  features,  and  these  last  will 
be  interpreted  by  San  Francisco's  popular  ballerina,  Vera 
Fredowa,  supported  by  the  pick  of  dancers  from  the  Kosloff 
Studio. 

Giordano's  La  Cena  della  Beffe  (The  Jester's  Supper)  is 
another  happy  selection  of  the  season's  repertoire.  This  new 
school  production,  dealing  with  a  vivid,  tragic  theme  of 
renascence  Florence,  presents  Tibbett  in  his  distinguished 
role  of  Neri,  Tokatyan  as  Malespini,  Peralta  as  Genevra, 
Bada  as  Chiaramantesi  and  Myrtle  Claire  Donnelly  as  Lisa- 
betta,  with  other  fine  voices  in  the  cast,  making  an  outstand- 
ing performance  that  few  opera  devotees  will  care  to  miss. 
La  Boheme  and  Carmen  complete  the  repertoire,  the  for- 
mer with  Chamlee  singing  Rodolfo  and  Bori  as  Mimi,  and* 
in  Carmen,  Bourskaya  personating  the  alluring  cigarette 
maker  with  Martinelli  the  love-distracted  Don  Jose.  This  is 
the  first  time  that  Bizet's  masterpiece  has  been  given  by  the 
San  Francisco  Opera  Company.  To  the  attraction  of  the 
splendid  rendering  it  will  have  vocally  is  added  the  full  bal- 
let features — so  often  curtailed  in  Carmen  productions — in 
which  one  will  enjoy  Madame  Fredowa  and  her  support  of 
Kosloff  trained  dancers. 

The  chorus  will  contribute  its  very  vital  part  to  the  opera 
season's  high  qualities.  It  is  composed  of  ninety  members,  a 
considerable  increase  in  voices  on  previous  years,  and  has  had 
the  drilling,  since  early  last  May,  of  the  Association's  effi- 
cient Chorus  Master,  Guiseppe  Papi,  who  is  enthusiastic 
over  the  results  of  his  labors.  All  are  drawn  from  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  are  a  splendid  tribute  to  the  vocal  resources  of 
the  city. 


"THE  WITCH  OF  SALEM" 

Write  for  Ballot  Slips 

The  response  to  the  "WITCH  OF  SALEM"  ballots  issued 
in  the  May  number  of  Musical  West  has  been  most  gratify- 
ing, with  numerous  requests  for  additional  ballots. 

To  meet  this  demand,  Musical  West  has  had  slips  printed, 
headed  as  below,  with  space  for  a  dozen  signatures,  which  it 
will  gladly  supply  to  any  desiring  them.  Therefore,  if  you 
wish  to  aid,  write  Musical  West  for  ballot  slips. 


B.  F.  Schlesinger 
&  Sons,  Inc. 

Cumulative    7%    Preferred   Stock    at    Market    to    yield 
About  7.5%. 

Class  "A"  Common  at  Market  to  Yield  About  6.3%. 


The  excellent  economies  effected  through  the  "Four-Store 
Buying  Power"  of 

CITY  OF  PARIS,  San  Francisco,  California 
B.  F.  SCHLESINGER  &  SONS,  Inc.,  Oakland,  Cal. 
OLDS,  WORTHMAN  &  KING,  Portland,  Oregon 
RHODES  BROS.,  Tacoma,  Washington 

are  reflected  directly  in  the  earnings.     The  ability  of  the 
management  is  well  known. 

Earnings  and  management  are  primary  considerations  in 
selecting  securities. 

Further  information  on  request. 

GEO.  H.  BURR 
CONRAD  &  BROOM 

Incorporated 

SAN  FRANCISCO:  Kohl  Building 

LOS  ANGELES:  California  Bank  Building 

SEATTLE:    797  Second  Avenue 


HOTEIL 


NOB  HILL 


SAN  FRANCISCO 


The  West's 
Great  New  Hotel 

Mecca  of  World  Travelers 

From    every    window    a   view    of    San 
Francisco  and  the  Bay.    Shops,  Thea- 
tres, Terminals  all  close  by 

Tariff  from  $4.00  a  day 


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OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


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. . .  because  even  those 
•who  find  it  no  novelhj 
in  registering  in  world- 
famous  hotels  experi- 
ence a.  new  note  of  com- 
fort, convenience  and 
atmosphere  in  SI  Louis 
favored  fine  holel-THE 
COROnADOl 

RATES 
From   $2.50 


"Seeds"  By  One  of  Them 

(Continued  from  Page  272) 


OVERLAND 
COMING  SHOWS 

CURRAN — Ruth      Chatterton      in 
"The  Third  Day." 

LURIE — Johnny     Arthur     in     "I 
Love  You." 

PRESIDENT — "Two    Girls   Want- 
ed." 

ALCAZAR — "The  Alarm  Clock." 
PLAYERS'  GUILD— "The  Dybbuk" 
GREEK  THEATRE — "Norma." 

THEATRE      OF      THE      GOLDEN 
BOUGH — "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin" 


In  its  place  were  our  two  bags  that 
had  been  on  the  running  board. 

A  waiter  standing  nearby  and  witnes- 
sing our  amazement,  remarked,  "a  few 
minutes  ago  from  an  upstairs  window  I 
saw  a  man  put  those  suitcases  there  and 
drive  off  like  he  was  in  a  big  hurry." 

"He's  gone  off  and  left  us,"  I  ex- 
plained, stating  the  obvious  in  my  ex- 
citement. 

Peter  looked  sheepish  and  began  to  re- 
peat over  and  over,  "Can  you  imagine 
that?  Cart  you  beat  it"? 

"Well  telephone  the  police,"  I  said  in 
exasperation,  realizing  that  although  he 
had  left  two  bags  he  had  gone  off  with 
the  baggage  that  was  in  the  back  seat, 
including  not  only  Peter's  overcoat  and 
my  new  hat,  but  a  suitcase  full  of  some 
of  my  most  cherished,  as  well  as  most 
needed  possessions.  In  comparison  with 
those  the  unearned  portion  of  the  fare 
he  had  been  paid  was  negligible. 

The  waiter  said  the  man  had  left  in 
the  direction  of  San  Francisco.  When 
Peter  tried  to  telephone  the  constable  in 
the  next  room,  he  couldn't  even  get  the 
operator  at  first.  When  he  finally  did, 
she  could  not  get  the  number  he  was 
calling.  He  jerked  the  hook  up  and  down 
for  ten  minutes,  it  seemed,  looking  more 
and  more  befuddled  while  I  stood  there 
glaring  at  him. 

And  to  the  best  of  our  knowledge 
Harry  Steffin  was  speeding  on. 

"Don't  ask  for  a  number,  tell  her 
you  want  Constable  B —  "  I  urged. 
"Tell  her  it's  a  hurry  call,  tell  her  it's 
a  murder  if  necessary.  I  never  can  get 
along  without  the  things  in  that  suit- 
case." 

After  a  few  more  minutes  of  useless 
effort  Peter  gave  up.  He  is  a  newspaper 
man,  so  he  then  called  his  paper's  police 
reporter  at  the  San  Francisco  station, 
asking  him  to  have  the  department  there 
keep  on  the  look-out  for  the  fleeing 
Harry.  The  San  Francisco  police  got 
in  touch  with  the  constable  Peter  was 
unable  to  reach,  and  thirty  minutes  after 
the  culprit  had  made  his  get-away  the 
much-sought  officer  telephoned  us  ask- 
ing for  details.  From  San  Francisco  we 
were  informed  that  all  roads  into  the 
city  were  "covered."  But  for  some  rea- 
son I  didn't  feel  hopeful. 

We  \vandered  down  the  highway  to 
see  if  the  absconding  autoist  might  have 
cast  out  our  things  along  the  roadside, 
fearing  identification.  We  met  a  uni- 
formed officer,  grizzled  and  feeble  look- 
ing, to  whom  "grasping  at  a  straw,"  we 
reported  our  case.  He  questioned  us  at 


some  length  in  an  official  manner  and 
then  told  us  he  was  there  only  to  assist 
the  school  children  across  the  highway. 

As  we  were  talking  to  him  a  roadster 
occupied  by  two  men  drove  up.  One  of 
them,  armed  with  a  shotgun,  motioned 
to  us.  When  we  went  over  to  him  we 
learned  that  he  was  none  other  than  the 
constable  himself.  He  had  just  traveled 
the  intervening  road  and  found  no  trace 
of  our  erstwhile  chauffeur. 

"If  you  had  only  gotten  in  touch  with 
me  immediately,"  he  said,  "I  could  have 
overtaken  him  without  a  doubt." 

Yes,  if  we  only  had. 

When  we  returned  to  the  scene  of 
our  dilemma  the  proprietress  sympathet- 
ically presented  me  with  a  bunch  of 
freshly  picked  sweet  peas.  The  obvious 
possibility  that  she  might  have  been  "in 
on  it,"  I  doubt.  From  her  we  learned 
that  Harry  Steffin  had  worked  there  for 
seven  months  two  years  previous.  Dur- 
ing that  time  they  had  no  reason  to 
doubt  his  honesty,  she  said,  mentioning 
an  instance  when  he  borrowed  several 
hundred  dollars  from  her  husband  to 
buy  a  car  and  repaid  it.  She  said  he 
looked  "changed"  since  she  had  seen  him 
last. 

She  declined  any  payment  for  the  re- 
freshments; there  had  been  a  cessation 
of  sandwich  making  when  "Harry's"  de- 
parture was  discovered.  She  also  told  us 
that,  taking  her  tip  from  my  attitude, 
she  had  not  only  served  white  wine  in- 
stead of  sherry  but  watered  the  wine. 

With  what  was  left  of  our  baggage  we 
returned  to  San  Francisco  via  trolley. 
Peter  left  me  downtown  so  he  could  do 
a  little  sleuthing  and  I  returned  home, 
where  I  sat  dejectedly  on  the  front  porch 
for  over  an  hour,  because  I  had  forgot- 
ten to  get  the  key  from  him.  I  spent  the 
time  recounting  my  losses,  recalling  how 
carefully  and  compactly  I  had  packed 
the  missing  suitcase.  I  had  never  started 
on  a  trip  with  all  my  needs  so  well  pro- 
vided for. 

Soon  after  Peter  returned  home  we 
left  upon  a  shopping  expedition  when  he 
bought  a  new  overcoat  and  I  bought  one 
that  cost  twice  as  much  as  the  one  I  had 
lost. 

We  inserted  another  classified  ad,  this 
this  time  reading,  "No  prosecution  if 

baggage  returned  to  St."  In  the 

evening  we  phoned  the  owner  of  the 
seven  passenger  sedan,  with  whom  we 
had  been  in  previous  communication,  and, 
just  as  if  we  had  not  already  started 
once,  asked  him  what  time  he  expected 
to  start  in  the  morning,  telling  him  we 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


285 


would  be  ready.  A  few  minutes  later 
the  Ford  man  whom  I  had  feared  to 
disappoint  called  and  asked  Peter  if 
"she"  still  wanted  to  go  to  Los  Ange- 
les. Peter  said  he  detected  no  resent- 
ment in  his  voice,  so  perhaps  he  had 
not  returned  from  Sacramento  on  time 
after  all.  However  I  felt  I  had  ex- 
perienced moral  retribution  for  breaking 
my  "promise." 

The  next  morning,  as  Peter  was  put- 
ting our  bags  into  the  sedan,  the  driver 
told  him,  at  least  so  Peter  understood, 
that  although  he  was  taking  us  South 
for  $15  he  was  charging  the  other  pas- 
sengers $10  a  piece  and  told  Peter  to 
make  a  five  dollar  deposit  when  he  col- 
lected the  fares  from  the  others.  Per- 
haps Peter  became  flustrated  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  word  "deposit"  but  develop- 
ments proved  that  his  comprehension  or 
his  hearing,  or  both,  were  below  par  at 
that  moment.  What  the  man  said  and 
Peter  understood  were  two  different 
things.  At  the  best,  under  the  circum- 
stances, the  arrangement  wasn't  one  to 
recommend  the  trip  to  us.  Riding  down 
town  Peter  showed  me  a  slip  of  paper 
on  which  he  had  copied  the  license  num- 
ber of  the  car.  He  handed  me  his  roll  of 
bills  which  I  dropped  down  the  blouse 
of  my  dress. 

A  non-communicative  individual  sat 
with  the  driver  and  on  Market  street 
we  picked  up  the  fourth  passenger  who 
took  his  seat  beside  us.  His  baggage 
bore  hotel  labels  from  all  parts  of  the 
world  and  he  gave  promise  of  being  a 
very  pleasant  riding  companion. 

We  drove  up  to  the  Oakland  ferry 
slip,  this  driver  having  chosen  the  in- 
land route,  which  first  of  all  required 
a  trip  across  San  Francisco  Bay.  As 
he  got  out  to  buy  the  ferry  tickets  he 
said,  "Well  I  guess  I  will  have  to  have 
some  money  from  you  people." 

Peter  handed  him  a  five-dollar  bill, 
but  the  man  held  out  his  hand  for  more. 
"Fifteen,"  he  said.  Peter  looked  puz- 
zled. After  a  little  more  conversation 
it  was  made  clear  that  he  intended  to 
collect  the  full  amount.  Peter  jumped 
out  of  the  car  as  if  he  were  shot.  As 
befits  a  wife,  I  followed.  Peter  mut- 
tered something  about  having  no  assur- 
ance he  would  ever  get  there,  the  driver 
asking  him  at  the  same  time  what  he 
would  expect  to  do  if  he  went  by  rail- 
road. 

Comparing  Peter's  version  of  the 
man's  statement  before  we  started  with 
what  actually  happened,  I  realized  that 
the  man  had  instructed  him  to  pretend, 
when  the  fares  were  collected,  that  he 
had  already  made  a  five-dollar  deposit, 
so  that  the  other  passengers  would  think 
we  were  being  charged  ten  dollars  a 
piece  as  well  as  they. 

As  the  driver  returned  Peter's  bill,  I 


glanced  back  at  the  now  lone  occupant 
of  the  back  seat.  He  was  fingering  his 
own  roll  of  bills  intently,  looking  down 
at  them  with  a  dark,  doubtful  expres- 
sion, as  if  slowly  apprehending  a  possi- 
bility not  altogether  pleasant. 

As  we  lugged  our  heavy  suitcases 
along  the  waterfront  (this  time  my  new 
hat  was  on  my  head,  something  bright 
and  shining  sticking  out  of  the  lower 
part  of  Peter's  overcoat  pocket  caught 
my  eye.  "What's  that?"  I  asked  in 
surprise. 

After  closer  examination  I  exclaimed, 
"Why  it's  a  dagger!" 

Peter  withdrew  from  his  pocket  the 
family  carving  knife!  He  had  placed 
it  there  for  use  in  a  crisis. 

Right  then  I  thanked  "my  stars"  that 
we  had  left  while  we  were  the  offended 
rather  than  the  offenders.  What  the 
other  passengers  would  have  thought 
when  they  saw  a  knife  blade  cutting 
its  way  threateningly  through  Peter's 
pocket  is  only  too  easy  to  imagine.  No 
doubt  we  would  have  been  forcibly 
ejected  as  desperate  characters. 

When  we  returned  to  our  apartment 
house  we  sneaked  down  the  hall  stealth- 
ily to  avoid  meeting  the  janitor  and 
making  explanations  for  our  peculiar 
actions;  we  had  left  twice  telling  him 
we  would  be  gone  for  ten  days  and  each 
time  returned  within  a  few  hours. 

That  afternoon  we  left  for  Los 
Angeles  by  boat. 

Upon  my  return  the  following  week 
the  first  thing  that  greeted  my  eyes  as 
I  entered  the  apartment  was  the  hat 
box  containing  the  new  hat  I  had  parted 
with  when  we  parted  company  with  H. 
Steffin.  The  Japanese  janitor  dimly 
recalled  placing  it  there  but  was  certain 
that  no  overcoat  nor  suitcase  had  been 
left  with  it.  After  a  week's  prodding 
of  "Who  left  it  and  when?"  he  remem- 
bered that  it  had  been  left  at  the  front 
door  on  Wednesday,  about  eleven  o'clock 
— the  day  after  it  had  been  spirited  away. 
And  the  inarticulate  hat  makes  no 
revelations  of  its  experiences  during 
our  separation.  The  hat  box  bore  my 
full  name  and  address. 

In  the  afternoon  Peter  visited  the 
police  station  to  see  if  the  officers  had 
found  any  trace  of  Hairbreadth  Harry 
during  our  absence.  He  was  told  they 
had  brought  in  two  men  with  Star  cars 
and  Oregon  licenses  but  both  furnished 
satisfactory  alibis. 

"One  was  a  seed  salesman  with  his 
car  full  of  seeds,"  the  officer  remarked, 
adding,  "the  only  seeds  in  the  car 
you're  after  were  you  and  your  wife." 

Regardless  of  my  classification  in  the 
scale  of  mental  incompetents,  if  my 
salmon-colored  knickers  don't  fit  Harry 
Steffin's  wife,  I  wish  he  would  return 
them. 


Now 

through  to 

Tahoe 


• — -convenient  Pullman  service 
every  evening  via  Overland 
Route,  Lake  Tahoe  Line  .  .  . 


A  swift,  comfortable  trip,  assuring  the 
maximum  amount  of  time  at  the  lake. 
Every  vacation  sport  is  there — Golf, 
tennis,  horse-back  riding,  hikes,  swim- 
ming, fishing,  dancing.  Steamer  trips 
around  the  lake, only  $2.40. 

You  leave  San  Francisco  (Ferry)  at  7 
p.  m.,  Sacramento  at  10:55  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing at  the  shore  of  the  lake  in  time  for 
breakfast  next  morning.  Returning, 
leave  Tahoe  Station  9:30  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing San  Francisco  7:50  a.  m. 

Day  service,  offering  an  interesting 
scenic  trip  up  the  Sierra,  leaves  San 
Francisco  at  7:40a.  m.,  Sacramento 
10:45  a.  m.,  arriving  at  the  lake  for 
dinner,  (5:30  p.m.) 

Reduced  roundtrip  fares  are  effective 
throughout  the  summer.  For  example, 
'  only  $13.25  roundtrip  from  San 
Francisco,  good  for  16  days. 

Ask  for  illustrated  booklet  about  Taboe 
Lake  region;  also  booklet  "Law  Fares  far 
Summer  Trips". 

Southern 
Pacific 


F.  S.  McGINNIS, 

Paumger  Traffic  Mgr. 

San  Francisco 


VERSE 
CRITICISM 

WRITE  FOR  PARTICULARS 

JOAN   RAMSAY 

OVERLAND 

MONTHLY 


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OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


5    PRACTICAL,    EDUCATORS 

Real   Estate 

Educator   ....200  pp.  clo.  $2.00 
Vest  Pocket 

Bookkeeper..l60  pp.  clo.    1.00 
Vest  Pocket 

"Cushing"....128  pp.  clo.     1.00 
Art  Public 

Speaking 100  pp.  clo.     1.00 

Vest  Pocket 

Lawyer 360  pp.  clo.     l.oO 

SPECIAL,   OFFER 
to  Overland  Monthly  readers: 
any  two  at  20  per  cent  discount,  all  five 
for    $5.00   postpaid,    C.    O.    D.    or   on    ap- 
proval.    Descriptive   catalog  FREE.     Sat- 
isfaction guaranteed. 
ThoB.  X.  Carey  &  Co.,  114  »0th  St.,  N.  Y. 


oA  Child's 
(jarden 


Children  need  food 

for  the  spirit  as  well  as  foo  i 

for  the  body. 

A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  aims  to  give 
this  spiritual  food  in  sweet,  wholesome 
stories  of  real  life,  in  fanciful  fairy  tales, 
in  nature  stories,  and  in  poems  of  every 
kind. 

DO  IT  NOW  -  -  MAKE  SOME 
CHILD  HAPPY  by  a  subscription  to 
A  CHILD'S  GARDEN. 

A  Sample  Copy  for  35c 
(?3.00  a  Year) 

A  Child's  Garden 
Press 


THE  MORRIS  DAM 

(Continued  from  Page  282) 

vague  area  bounded  by  acres  of  persis- 
tent forestry,  deathless  brambles,  a  soli- 
tary rut  passing  muster  as  a  discouraged 
country  road  and  a  boundless  expanse  of 
blue  sky. 

Development  of  the  country's  natural 
resources  during  the  recent  years  has  ac- 
complished a  magical  transformation  on 
farming  lands  that  has  enriched  the 
rural  communities  of  America  immeas- 
urably and  bringing  the  long-awaited 
conveniences  of  the  city  into  the  country, 
to  the  farm,  and  into  the  farmhouse. 

An  outstanding  example  of  progressive 
development  and  expansion  is  the  fertile 
Willits  Valley  in  northern  California, 
bounded  by  the  rolling  hills  of  Mendo- 
cino. 

With  the  opening  of  the  famous  Red- 
wood Highway  bordering  the  Pacific 
Coast  from  San  Francisco  to  the  Oregon 
line,  population  of  the  northern  end  of 
the  State  increased  amazingly.  Farms 
became  homes.  Progress  coveted  all 
things  for  her  farmer  folk  that  the  more 
thickly  populated  regions  possessed.  Not 
the  least  of  these  were  irrigation  and  a 
domestic  water  supply. 


And  so  it  came  to  be  that  the  lazy 
waters  of  James  Creek  in  Mendocino 
were  eventually  impounded  by  engineers 
who,  in  1923,  were  quick  to  recognize 
the  natural  site  for  a  lake  that  was  to 
glisten  among  the  oak-clad  hills  all  about, 
pouring  its  liquid  silver  into  the  fertile 
valleys  and  fields  and  supplying  the  town 
of  Willits  with  water. 

The  great  storage  basin  that  marks 
the  sign  of  progress  for  this  peaceful 
valley  is  the  new  Morris  Dam,  unique 
in  engineering  annals  for  its  unusual 
and  economical  construction.  America 
holds  but  a  very  few  so-called  "thin  arch 
type"  dams,  as  the  usual  conditions  pis- 
vailing  make  such  construction  imprac- 
icable  and  impossible. 

Measuring  107  feet  from  end  to 
end,  this  slender  crescent  of  re-inforced 
concrete  and  steel  bars,  with  its  90-foot 
radius,  stands  40-feet  high,  with  a  base 
length  of  8  and  a  half  feet,  gradually 
tapering  to  a  3-foot  thickness  at  the  top. 
Eventually  the  height  of  the  dam  will 
be  increased  to  100  feet  in  order  to  keep 
pace  with  the  growing  demands  on  its 
storage  capacity,  thus  assuring  the  people 
gallons  of  pure  mountain  water  avail- 
able at  all  times. 


Orland,  Calif. 


San   Francisco 


WHAT  IS  YOUR  NAME 
(Continued  from  Page  281) 

"iNowhere  beats  the  heart  so  kindly 
As  beneath  the  Tartan  plaid." 

What  a  noble  picture  must  have  been 
presented  when  an  ancient  clan  fore- 
gathered in  the  Highlands  of  bonnie 
Scotland,  each  member  arrayed  in  the 
charmingly  picturesque  costume  of  his 
clan,  each  man  answering  to  the  same 
surname;  how  those  hearts  must  have 
swelled  with  pride  in  answer  to  the 
tremendous  clan  spirit. 

Substantially  the  Scottish  surnames 
are  similar  to  the  English,  with  those 
coming  from  the  Gaelic  language  as  the 
exception.  The  Lowland  names  present 
very  little  difference  from  those  of  Eng- 
land. 

It  is  the  surnames  prefixed  by  "Mac," 
son  of  descendant,  which  mark  them  as 
distinctively  Scotch.  The  names  of  the 
Celtic  or  Highland  population  are 
chiefly  of  the  patronymic  class,  recog- 
nized by  the  prefix  "Mac." 

Whoever  joined  a  clan  in  Scotland, 
no  matter  what  his  position  or  descent, 
assumed  the  name  of  his  chief ;  this  was 
accepted  as  an  act  of  loyalty. 

Many  Norman  nobles  who  entered 
Britain  with  William  the  Conqueror, 
finally  went  North,  crossed  the  Border 
and  gave  to  Scotland  some  new  names 
of  Norman  origin. 


Johnson  said :  "Much  may  be  made 
of  a  Scotchman  if  he  be  caught  young." 
Many  must  have  been  caught  young  in- 
deed, if  one  can  judge  by  the  prowess, 
the  fearlessness,  the  steadfastness,  and 
the  fine  historic  names  of  Scotland's 
own. 

The  clan  spirit  did  much  to  develop 
these  in  those  far-off  days,  when  to  live 
meant  to  fight,  for  ruthless  enemies  had 
a  way  of  cropping  up  in  unexpected 
places  and  at  unexpected  times.  It  was 
the  need  for  self-protection  that  caused 
the  clans  to  be.  It  was  like  the  famous 
bundle  of  sticks,  a  single  stick  whereof 
could  be  broken  in  twain,  but  many 
sticks  bound  stoutly  together  could  with- 
stand the  strongest  hands. 

So  these  hardy  mountaineers  were 
bound  together  in  protective  clans  taking 
their  name  from  that  of  their  chieftain. 
In  time,  many  clans  came  to  be,  of 
which  45  still  endure.  They  are  as 
follows : 

Buchanan  Graham 

Cameron  Grant 

Campbell  Gunn 

Chisholm  Lamont 

Colquhoun  Macalister 

Gumming  MacDonald 

Drummond  MacDonnell 

Farquharson  MacFarlane 

Ferguson  MacDougal 

Forbes  MacGregor 

Fraser  Macintosh 

Gordon  MacKay 


September,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


287 


MacKenzie 

MacKinnon 

MacLachlan 

MacLean 

MacLeod 

MacNab 

MacNeil 

MacPherson 

MacQuarrie 

MacRae 

Munro 


Menzies 

Murray 

Ogilvie 

Oliphant 

Robertson 

Rose 
Ross 
Sinclair 
Stewart  • 
Sutherland 


Among  surnames  which  are  typically 
Scotch  is,  of  course,  the  famous  one  of 
"Scott",  implying  a  native  of  Scotland ; 
the  Scotts  of  Ancrum  and  Duninald 
claim  to  be  descended  from  the  famous 
wizard  Michael  Scott  who  flourished  in 
the  XII  century.  "Bairnsfather"  is  an- 
other name  (meaning  father  of  a  'bairn' 
or  child)  ;  "Nourse"  from  Old  English 
'nurse'.  "Playfair",  play  plus  'fere', 
companion;  "Watt"  meaning  wet; 
"Boogies"  from  'bogles',  goblins; 
"Snell",  smart,  keen  in  Anglo-Saxon; 
"Gowan",  daisy;  "Spinks",  primroses; 
"Craick",  to  storm. 

Would  space  but  permit  to  mention 
all  the  fine  old  names  that  fill  the  regis- 
ters. Only  a  few  instances  may  be  given, 
even  though  the  desire  prompts  one  to 
set  down  each  and  every  one. 

Another  stately  family  name  is 
"Keith",  signifying  confined  or  narrow. 
"Keir"  is  from  a  parish  in  Dumfries- 
shire. "Kemp",  "Kempe"  in  Scotland 
means  to  strive  in  whatever  way,  to  be- 
come a  champion. 

The  name  "Bruce"  is  so  familiarly 
Scotch  that  it  barely  requires  delinea- 
tion, yet  it  may  be  of  interest  to  know 
that  the  original  "Bruce",  who  accompa- 
nied the  Conqueror  into  England,  came 
from  the  great  parish  of  Brix  or  Bruis 
near  Cherbourg,  France. 

(To  Be  Concluded  Next  Month) 


THE  FOREST  PRIMEVAL  TO 
TISSUE  PAPER 

(Continued  from  Page  269) 

taken  from  the  life  of  the  forests  prime- 
val and  shipped  into  the  marts  of  the 
world  as  tissue  paper — toilet  paper — 
wrapping  paper  —  newspaper !  Like 
some  fairy  tale  the  result  is  attained,  for 
the  tissue  paper  in  the  making,  may  be 
seen  swimming  around  in  huge  vats  of 
water,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a 
curdled  cream  soup!  The  brown  paper, 
upon  the  other  hand,  looks  like  a  choco- 
late blanc  mange  that  has  "separated"  in 
the  making!  And — presto — within  a 
few  short  hours,  it  becames  paper — 
wrapped  and  ready  to  be  shipped  to 
China  or  Timbuctoo,  if  need  be! 


WHAT  AILS  BAY  REGION 
WRITERS 

(Continued  from  Page  268) 

a  loyal  supporter  of  the  best  efforts  of 
club  women  everywhere.  Incidentally 
she  was  a  dependable  employee  and  was 
a  power  for  good  in  the  paper  she  served. 
In  nothing  did  she  show  her  fine,  evenly 
balanced  mind  more  clearly  than  in  what 
she  left  out  of  her  columns.  She  had  the 
right  idea  of  news  values. 

The  recent  visit  of  Queen  Marie  of 
Roumania  brought  out  the  worst  fea- 
tures of  modern  journalism.  It  can 
hardly  be  true  as  alleged  by  her  friends 
that  reporters  ran  along  beside  her  and 
shouted  "Hello,  Queen!  how's  the  old 
man  ?"  but  some  of  the  authenticated  in- 
terviews were  almost  as  bad.  Baiting  a 
celebrity  is  a  common  practice.  Even 
Lindbergh  has  often  had  to  parry  an 
impertinent  question  with  "that's  an- 
other one  of  those  questions,"  instead  of 
answering  it.  The  limelight  is  full  of 
perils,  and  many  a  reputation  is  wrecked 
by  the  angle  of  publicity  given  an  in- 
dividual act  or  incident. 

More  and  more  is  it  becoming  the 
practice  of  good  families  and  good  fami- 
lies and  good  clubs  to  avoid  all  forms 
of  publicity.  Men  and  women  of  fine 
breeding  dread  the  twist  that  may  ba 
given  their  well  intentioned  speech  or 
action. 

San  Francisco  receives  many  of  the 
world's  famous  men  and  women  as  sum- 
mer guests,  and  it  is  too  bad  that  a  gen- 
erally representative  body  could  not  be 
formed  to  entertain  and  care  for  them. 
It  would  make  a  great  deal  of  difference 
in  the  impressions  of  these  worth-while 
visitors  and  would  do  much  to  make  our 
own  culture  better  known.  Why  not 
pull  together  instead  of  apart.  The  gaps 
between  the  various  phases  of  professional 
writing  are  not  so  wide  apart  after  all. 
The  reliable,  steady-going  financial 
writer  and  the  press  gallery  men  of 
Washington  do  not  indulge  in  flights  of 
fancy  nor  do  they  allow  personal  likes 
and  dislikes  to  color  their  statements  of 
facts.  Here  is  neutral  ground  on  which 
journalism  and  creative  writing  may 
meet.  To  succeed,  both  must  make  an 
impersonal,  universally  truthful  appeal. 


DO  NOT 

MISS 

NOVEMBER 
OVERLAND 


Just  a 
Moment! 

Before  you  lay  aside  that 
manuscript  you  think  should 
find  a  market,  write  for  par- 
ticulars. 


Authors'  & P u blis  he rs ' 
Quality  Brokerage 

Care — 

OVERLAND    MONTHLY 

356  Pacific  Building 
San  Francisco,  California 


GOODBYE 
TIGHT    BELTS 

Men  here's  a  new  patent 
device  for  holding  the 
flaps  of  a  shirt  together 
in  front ;  besides  holding 
your  shirt  and  trousers  correctly  In 
place.  It  is  Just  the  thing  for  summer 
when  coats  are  off  and  a  clean,  cool 
and  neatly  fitting  shirt  waist  effect  is 
most  desirable.  Holds  with  a  bull-dog 
grip  which  can't  harm  the  sheerest 
silk.  For  dancers,  golfers  and  neat 
dressers.  Start  right.  Order  today. 

Gold  PI.    4    on  card   $1.00 
The  stii-on  Co.,  Dept.  K.,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


288 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


September,  1927 


Greeks  Who  Bear  Gifts 

(Continued  from  Page  264) 


o/tlexandria  Wages 
are 


Their  watchword  is  smiling  cour- 
tesy.— This  is  but  one  of  the 
features  of  this  great  hotel  where 
thoughtful  and  kindly  service 
combines  with  ideal  comfort  and 
surroundings  to  make  a  stay 
enjoyable. 

RATES 

ft r  'Day,  single,  European  Wan 

120  rooms  with  running  water 

£2.50  to  M-00 

220  rooms  with  bath  -  3.50  to  5.00 
160  rooms  with  bath  -  6.00  to  8.00 

<Do*klr,  (4.00  uf 

Also  a  number  of  Urge  and  beautiful  rooms 
and  suites,  some  in  period  furnishings  with 
grand  piano,  fire  place  and  bath,  f  10.00  uf>. 


LARGE  AND  WELL 
EQUIPPED  SAMPLE  ROOMS 

The  center  for  Theatres,  Banks,  and  Shops 

'•PI  fait  -urtte  for  'Boot  let 


QOLF  CLUB~\ 
\         available  to  all  guests  / 

HAROLD  E.  LATHROP 


HOTEL/ 


ALEXANDRIA 

Los  Angeles     «... 


he  stands  not  as  San  Franciscans  stand — 
good  fellows,  ladies,  gentlemen,  Bohem- 
ians, scholars,  students  in  their  own 
right  and  light  and  citizens  of  the  place 
by  choice  and  desire.  Other  writers, 
poets,  celebrities  have  paid  us  rarely 
fine  compliments.  Our  doors,  hearts  and 
dining  tables  are  always  open  to  these 
people  of  other  cities  and  lands,  who 
while  they  appreciate  San  Francisco  and 
even  envy  the  good  fortune  of  those  who 
live  here,  have  the  wholesome  decency 
and  good  breeding  that  saves  them  from 
fawning  servilely  upon  us  by  reviling 
their  own  cities.  They  come  to  us  as 
equals.  They  are  received  as  equals. 

But  this  McWilliams  person  comes  as 
the  Greeks,  bearing  gifts.  He  comes  to 
lick  our  boots;  to  patronize  us;  to  make 
a  doormat  out  of  himself  and  the  city 
that  shelters  him;  that  feeds  him  and  to 
which  he  is  held  by  family,  sentimental 
or  pocketbook  ties,  as  the  case  may  be. 
San  Francisco  does  not  need  admiration 
of  the  McWilliams'  brand.  We  have 
long,  long  ago  passed  the  stage  in  the 
development  of  our  arts,  letters,  general 
cultural  interest  and  appreciation  of  our 
city's  beauty  and  traditions,  where  we 
must  have  our  heads  patted  and  our  boots 
licked  in  order  to  assure  us  that  we  have 
arrived  in  positions  toward  which  we 
were  striving,  but  were  not  quite  cer- 
tain of.  Bootlicking,  fawning,  patronage 
and  servility  are  irritating  shams  not 
needed  by  those  who  walk  with  secure 
poise  in  the  way  of  San  Francisco  and 
San  Franciscans. 

McWilliams'  very  eloquence  raises 
suspicion.  If  a  man  comes  fawning  up- 
on my  possessions ;  praising  my  home  and 
its  treasures  while  belittling  and  malign- 
ing his  own,  I  question  both  his  sincerity 
and  appreciation.  He  may  have  a  hum- 
ble consciousness  of  his  shortcomings  and 
be  ambitious  to  correct  them,  but  if  he 
has  neither  the  courage  nor  perception  to 


The  Fireman's  Fund  leads  all  in- 
surance companies  in  premium 
income-fire,  marine  and  auto- 
mobile—in Pacific  Coast  States 


cherish  a  just  respect  for  his  own  ac- 
complishments and  possessions,  what  is 
there  sound  and  worthy  about  him  and 
his  compliments?  Where  is  his  sense 
of  relative  values?  Has  he  any  founda- 
tion, however  lowly,  upon  which  to 
build  toward  the  things  he  assumes  to 
admire  and  desire?  Can  he  really  love, 
cherish  and  understand  the  things  I 
may  have,  as  I  do?  Can  I  accept  him 
in  my  house  and  home  as  an  equal,  or  at 
least,  as  a  sincere  student  and  seeking 
traveler? 

Can  San  Francisco  accept  this  would- 
be  lover  of  hers?  I  think  not — at  least 
not  in  his  present  spirit.  San  Francisco 
does  not  need  Greeks  to  bear  her  gifts. 


THE  PLAY'S  THE  THING 
(Continued  from  Page  275) 

The  actors  must  be  chosen  well  for  a 
production  in  such  a  theatre.  They  must 
have  a  reverance  and  a  love  for  their 
setting,  an  ability  to  forget  themselves 
as  players  of  a  part  and  be  as  true  and 
beautiful  as  their  surroundings.  The 
Carmel  Players  were  sincere  in  their  act- 
ing thereby  made  this  production  mem- 
orable. "Speed  and  simplicity,"  was  the 
startling  reply  made  by  Herbert  Heron, 
actor-manager-director  of  the  forest 
theatre,  in  answer  to  a  query  as  to  the 
aims  and  tendencies  of  his  theatre. 
Thirty-two  scenes  of  Romeo  and  Juliet 
were  played  in  less  than  three  hours 
with  deliberation  and  completeness.  One 
scene  in  particular,  and  one  rarely  given, 
was  the  procession  of  the  two  great  fami- 
lies behind  the  bier  of  Juliet.  Torches 
flamed  beneath  the  somber  darkness  of 
the  woods,  sad  figures  marched  haltingly 
along  the  forest  paths,  while  music, 
reminiscent  of  "The  Miracle"  wove  its 
spell  about  this  ancient  scene.  A  word 
of  the  players:  Herbert  Heron's  Romeo 
had  youthful  spirit  and  sincere  feeling; 
and  the  Juliet,  played  by  Jadwiga  Nosko- 
wiak,  combined  the  naive  charm  of 
young  girlhood  with  the  dignity  of  an 
awakened  woman ;  Edward  Kuster,  as 
the  delightful  Mercutio,  and  Susan  Por- 
ter as  Lady  Capulet,  played  with  distinc- 
tion. 

Theatre  work  at  Carmel-by-the-Sea 
will  center  its  interest  at  the  Theatre  of 
the  Golden  Bough  for  the  coming  sea- 
son, where  the  Misses  Dene  Denny  and 
Hazel  Watrous  plan  to  produce  a  series 
of  twelve  plays  which  will  represent 
what  the  American  stage  has  done  to- 
ward the  advancement  of  drama. 


Sail  to  New  York  or  Havana 


SISTER  SHIPS 

SS  VENEZUELA 
SS  COLOMBIA 
SS  ECUADOR 


See  MEXICO,  CENTRAL  AMERICA,  PANAMA  CANAL  and 
GAY  HAVANA,  en  route 

Panama  Mail  Liners  Are  Specially  Built  for  Service  in  the  Tropics 


Twenty-eight  days  of  pure  de- 
light aboard  a  palatial  Panama 
Mail  Liner  with  seven  never-to- 
be-forgotten  visits  ashore  at  pic- 
turesque and  historic  ports  — 
Manzanillo,  Mexico;  San  Jose 
de  Guatemala ;  La  Libertad,  Sal- 
vador; Corinto,  Nicaragua.  Two 
days  in  the  Canal  Zone.  See  the 
great  Panama  Canal ;  visit  Bal- 
boa, Cristobal  and  historic  old 


Panama.  Golf  at  Panama  along- 
side the  Canal  Locks.  Visit  gay 
Havana. 

Every  cabin  on  a  Panama 
Mail  Liner  is  an  outside  one ; 
each  has  an  electric  fan,  and 
there  is  a  comfortable  lower  bed 
for  every  passenger.  There  is 
music  for  dancing ;  deck  games 
and  sports  and  salt  water  swim- 
ming tank. 


Costs  Less  Than  $9  a  Day 

The  cost  is  less  than  $9  a  day  for  minimum  first-class  passage, 
including  bed  and  meals  on  steamer.  Go  East  by  Panama  Mail 
and  return  by  rail  (or  vice  versa)  for  as  little  as  $350.00.  (This 
price  does  not  include  berth  and  meals  on  trains.)  Panama  Mail 
Liners  leave  San  Francisco  and  New  York  approximately  every 
21  days.  Book  now  for  SS  COLOMBIA  from  San  Francisco 
September  17;  SS  VENEZUELA,  October  8th;  from  Los  An- 
geles two  days  later.  Westward  from  New  York;  SS  VENE- 
ZUELA, September  3rd;  SS  ECUADOR,  September  24th. 

For  illustrated  booklets  and  further  details  ask  any  steamship  or  ticket  agent, 

or  write  to 

PANAMA  MAIL  S.  S.  CO. 


548  South  Spring  Street 
LOS  ANGELES 


2  Pine  Street 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


10  Hanover  Square 
NEW  YORK 


\ 


You  drive  to  Seactity  Park  through 
Santa  Cruz  or  Wattonvitle,  turning  off 
the  State  Highway  about  3%  mtlet  eatt 
oj  Capitota,  where  the  jigni  react  "Sea- 
cliff  Park,  Aptot  Beach  artd  the  Pali- 


EACLIFF_PARK- 

off^ealitif^ 

J  /  V_-->  <? 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family — but  the 
fact  that  SeaclifF  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Reality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  SeacliffPark  property 
is  wise. 


KThese  are  tummer-like 
day*  atAptot  Beach — warm,  lazy 
breaker*  with  joamy  crettt  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
tcutlltng  off  to  the  thore  In  a  wild 
conjution  oj  effervescent  bub- 
bles, while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward Jor  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

((Pending  the  construction  oj  per- 
manent buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

KJDrive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  free. 

Kfree  transportation,  ij  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  SeacliJJ  Park 
Ojjice  upon  arrival.  ((Ask  Jor 
Registration  Clerk. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  thefact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetual  charm 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.  SeacliffPark  resi- 
dents know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park — Riviera  of  the 
Pacific  now  emerges  in  reality. 


OWNEU  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF  COMPANY,  APTO'S,  CALIFORNIA 


Dascnfrnve  joldtt 
un"  upon  request 


AT  APTOS  .  CALIFORNIA. 


QMMfi 

FOUNDED  BY  BRET  HARIE  IN  1866 


Vol.  LXXXV          OCTOBER,  1927 


No.  10 


PRICE  25  CENTS 

AND  O  UT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


Sail  to  New  York  or  Havana 


SISTER  SHIPS 

SS  VENEZUELA 
SS  COLOMBIA 
SS  ECUADOR 


See  MEXICO,  CENTRAL  AMERICA,  PANAMA  CANAL  and 
GAY  HAVANA,  en  route 

Panama  Mail  Liners  Are  Specially  Built  for  Service  in  the  Tropics 


Twenty-eight  days  of  pure  de- 
light aboard  a  palatial  Panama 
Mail  Liner  with  seven  never-to- 
be-forgotten  visits  ashore  at  pic- 
turesque and  historic  ports  — 
Manzanillo,  Mexico ;  San  Jose 
de  Guatemala;  La  Libertad,  Sal- 
vador; Corinto,  Nicaragua.  Two 
days  in  the  Canal  Zone.  See  the 
great  Panama  Canal;  visit  Bal- 
boa, Cristobal  and  historic  old 


Panama.  Golf  at  Panama  along- 
side the  Canal  Locks.  Visit  gay 
Havana. 

Every  cabin  on  a  Panama 
Mail  Liner  is  an  outside  one; 
each  has  an  electric  fan,  and 
there  is  a  comfortable  lower  bed 
for  every  passenger.  There  is 
music  for  dancing;  deck  games 
and  sports  and  salt  water  swim- 
ming tank. 


Costs  Less  Than  $9  a  Day 

The  cost  is  less  than  $9  a  day  for  minimum  first-class  passage, 
including  bed  and  meals  on  steamer.  Go  East  by  Panama  Mail 
and  return  by  rail  (or  vice  versa)  for  as  little  as  $350.00.  (This 
price  does  not  include  berth  and  meals  on  trains.)  Panama  Mail 
Liners  leave  San  Francisco  and  New  York  approximately  every 
21  days.  Book  now  for  SS  COLOMBIA  from  San  Francisco 
September  17;  SS  VENEZUELA,  October  8th;  from  Los  An- 
geles two  days  later.  Westward  from  New  York;  SS  VENE- 
ZUELA, September  3rd;  SS  ECUADOR,  September  24th. 

For  illustrated  booklets  and  further  details  ask  any  steamship  or  ticket  agent, 

or  write  to 

PANAMA  MAIL  S.  S.  CO. 


548  South  Spring  Street 
LOS  ANGELES 


2  Pine  Street 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


10  Hanover  Square 
NEW  YORK 


October, 1927  OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE  289 

Former  United  States  Senator 

James  D.  Phelan  Overland -Poetry  Contest 

Something  Different! 

FOR  California  poets  who  have  published  during  1926-1927  to  deter- 
mine just  what  part  California  contributes  to  the  literature  of  the 
world  through  her  medium  of  poetry.  There  will  be  a  group  for  poets 
with  unpublished  work  and  the  contest  is  open  to  all  poets  residing  in 
California.   A  poet  may  submit  work  to  either  or  both  groups  if  he  is  so 
qualified,  but  the  limit  of  entries  will  be  twelve  to  the  first  group  and 
twelve  to  the  second  group  by  any  one  poet  (twenty-four  entries  in  all). 
After  the  prizes  are  awarded,  there  will  be  a  specially-compiled  list  of 
names  of  poets  and  poems  of  California  worthy  of  contemplation. 

FIRST  GROUP 

FOR  poets  residing  in  California  with  unpublished  work.  If  you  have  a  sonnet  or 
a  lyric,  send  it  in  at  once  to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  Unpub- 
lished work  must  be  submitted  anonymously.  A  sealed  envelope,  bearing  on  the  outside 
the  names  of  the  poems  submitted,  with  the  name  of  the  author  of  these  poems  and 
return  postage  sealed  within,  should  accompany  each  group  of  entries  by  a  contestant. 
Manuscripts  must  be  in  our  hands  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best   Sonnet  $15.00 Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00 Second  Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be  honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

SECOND  GROUP 

IF  YOU  have  published  during  1926-1927  a  sonnet  or  lyric,  send  it  in  immediately 
to  James  D.  Phelan  Overland  Poetry  Contest.  You  may  win  one  of  the  prizes. 
Published  work  must  bear  the  name  of  the  publication  and  date  of  publication,  also 
name  of  author.   Entries  must  be  in  Overland  Office  by  November  1,  1927. 

PRIZES 

$30.00 Best  Sonnet  $15.00  -  -  -  -  Second  Sonnet 

$30.00 Best  Lyric  $15.00  -  -  -  -  Second  Lyric 

$5.00 Third  Sonnet 

$5.00 Third  Lyric 

There  will  be ,  honorable  mention  for  the  next  best  sonnet  and  next  best  lyric. 

Editor's  Note:  Manuscripts  have  been  coming  in  such  volume  that  it  will  be  impossible  to  return 
each  individual  manuscript.  Please  keep  carbons  of  all  your  work.  There  has  been  question 
brought  to  our  desk  as  to  whether  poetry  submitted  to  this  contest  becomes  the  Overland's 
property  regardless  of  whether  prizes  are  won  or  not.  Only  those  poems  which  win  prizes 
will  be  the  property  of  Overland  Monthly. 

All  Manuscripts  to  be  Sent  to 
OVERLAND  MONTHLY,  356  Pacific  Building,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 


290  OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE  October,  1927 


The  Life  of  George  Sterling 

Yes,  it  will  be  in  November  Overland  Monthly,  the  life  of  the  Man  and 
the  Poet  as  it  will  never  be  told  again,  by  the  most  intimate  in  both  private 
and  professional  life. 

A  Gift  to  Western  Literature 

Such  is  the  appellation  given  to  this  issue  of  Overland  which  is  filled  with 
appreciations  for  the  late  George  Sterling,  the  West's  greatest  poet,  by 
America's  most  eminent  authors  of  the  day. 

Cast  Your  Eye  Over  a  Few  of  the  November  Featurse 

Some  Well  Known  Poets  Represented: 

EDWIN  MARKHAM  ROBINSON  JEFFERS 

GENEVE  TAGGARD  SARA  BARD  FIELD 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  JAMES  RORTY 

CHARLES  E.  S.  WOOD  WITTER  BYNNER 

and  others 

PERSONAL  SKETCHES  AND  BIOGRAPHY  WHICH  IS  RARE 

MARY  AUSTIN  ALBERT  BENDER 

JAMES  D.  PHELAN  CHARMIAN  LONDON 

EDDIE  O'DAY  HENRY  MEADE  BLAND 

and  others 

This  mil  be  an  issue  to  keep  always 

Order  your  copies  now.  35c  mailed  to  your  door  or  start  your  subscrip- 
tion to  Overland  with  November  issue. 

There  is  no  time  like  the  Present.  One  whole  year  $2.50  including  the 
November-Sterling  issue. 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY, 

356  Pacific  Building,  B.  Virginia  Lee,  Editor. 

San  Francisco,  California. 

Gentlemen: 

Enclosed  find  check  or  money  order  for  $2.50  for  which    please    send   me    Overland    Monthly    beginning    with 

issue  to 

Name 

Street  Number 

Town....  ....State.... 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 
OVERLAND   MONTHLY  ESTABLISHED   BY  BRET  HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


EDITORIAL   STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 
CONTRIBUTING  EDITORS 
CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN  KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 


MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


OCTOBER  CONTRIBUTORS 

\  TTENTION  is  called  to  the  article 
A  ;„  this  issue,  entitled  "What  Is  Idle 
Money  Worth?"  The  author,  Mr. 
Trebor  Selig,  makes  his  initial  contri- 
bution to  Overland,  although  his  name 
is  familiar  to  most  of  our  readers. 

As  Mr.  Selig  is  known  as  an  author- 
ity on  matters  pertaining  to  finance,  in- 
vestments, bonds,  stocks,  and  the  money 
market  generally,  Overland  has  great 
satisfaction  in  announcing  that  he  has 
been  secured  to  contribute  each  month 
an  article,  under  the  general  caption, 
"Choosing  Your  Investments." 

For  the  benefit  of  our  readers,  Mr. 
Selig  will   also   conduct   each   month    a 
question  and  answer  column.    This  will 
begin  in  our  November  issue.   Questions 
regarding  the  status  of  specific  securities 
will  be  answered  frankly  and  authorita- 
tively when    dependable   information   is 
obtainable.   No  controversial  matter  will 
be  considered,   but   no   fair   request   for 
facts  will  be  ignored.    All  communica- 
tions will  be  held  confidential.    Please 
make   your  questions   brief    and   to   the 
point  and  give  name  and  address.    To 
some  questions  we  will  wish  to  make  a 
more  detailed  reply  than  will  be  possible 
in  the  space  to  be  devoted  to  this  subject 
in  these  pages.    Address  Overland 
Monthly,    Pacific   Building,   San  Fran- 
cisco,  care  of  "Choosing  Your  Invest- 
ment Editor." 


OCTOBER,  1927 


NUMBER  10 


Contents  of  this  issue  and  all  back  issues  of  Overland  may  be  found  in 

"Readers'  Guide  to  Periodical  Literature  at  any  library 

in  the  United  States 


Contents 


Twilight:  Telegraph  Hill Joan  Ramsey Frontispiece 


ARTICLES 

The  Handiwork B.  Virginia  Lee 

A  Deserted  Island Hazel  Carter  Maxon 

The  Poet  of  the  Pioneers Willard  Maas 

Yoreska,  Painter  of  Miniatures Aline  Kistler 

Rug  Weaving Mrs.  Claude  H.  Mitchell. 

Butter  Fruit Lois  Snelling 


.293 
..296 
.299 
..300 
..302 
..305 


SHORT  STORIES 

Not  Worth  His  Wage Ellen  V.   Marten 298 

Dahnu,  The  Deliverer Gilbert  Alan  Young 304 

Noon    Shadows Imogene   Sailor 305 


What  Is  Your  Name. 


SERIALS 

....Gertrude  Mott. 


.312 


A  Day  of  Life. 


POETRY 
Anna  Kalfus  Spero. 


.304 


DEPARTMENTS 

Choosing  Your  Investment Trebor  Selig 316 

Page  of  Verse 306 

Eleanor  Allen,  Dorothy  Belle  Flanagan,  Torrey  Conner,  Albert 

Hergesheimer,   John   Mullen,  Willard  Maas. 

Books  and  Writers Conducted  by  Tom  White 308 

The  Play's  the  Thing Gertrude  F.  Wilcox 307 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

356  PACIFIC  BUILDING,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

Chicago  Representative,  George  H.  Myers,  5  South  Wabash  Avenue 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 

25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

Manuscript   mailed    The   Overland  Monthly   without  a  stamped  and 
self-addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned 


Entered   as   Second-Class  matter   at  the   postoffice,   San   Francisco 
under  the  Act  of  March   3,   1897 

(Contents  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


292 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


TWILIGHT:  TELEGRAPH  HILL 


TQ  ACK  and  forth 

*~*  Across  the  bay 

The  ferries  slide 

Like  colored  beads, 

And  to  the  north 

Not  far  away 

The  mountainside 

Darkly  recedes. 

Ceaselessly  the  ferries  pass 

On  water  smooth  as  blue-green  glass. 

JOAN  RAMSAY. 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 

and 

OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


EGATU 


The  Handiwork  of  Man 


WHAT  is  there  about  San  Fran 
cisco  that  fascinates  her  inha- 
bitants and  makes  them  decid- 
edly different  from  those  of  any  other 
city  in  the  world?  Is  it  because  her 
very  streets  climb  over  hills  and  skirt 
around  shore  lines,  defying  the  work 
of  Nature  with  the  handiwork  of  man? 
Is  it  because  wherever  they  run  Nature 
has  been  cut  and  slashed,  dug  down  and 
rilled  up?  Is  it  because  the  very  houses 
are  like  inquiring  urchins  at  a  dinner- 
table,  barely  peeping  over  the  sidewalks 
and  evidently  straining  themselves  in 
the  operation,  while  five  good  stories 
are  revealed  in  the  rear?  Perhaps  this 
very  disregard  of  nature,  the  great  forces 
of  the  universe,  has  given  her  inhabitant 
the  same  quality  of  self-reliance,  that 
faculty  which  has  a  touch  of  the  Latin 
in  it  and  gives  a  satisfaction  to  the 
European  of  culture.  Is  it  because  the 
city  was  planned  by  a  child  of  sunny 
France,  in  the  days  long,  long  forgotten, 
or  is  it  a  more  modern  reason,  not  yet  re- 
vealed? At  least  it  was  a  European 
vision,  impractical,  yes,  but  neverthe- 
less artistic  that  gives  San  Francisco 
her  very  fascinating  charm  of  today. 

Little  is  known  of  the  man  to  whom 
the  astonishing  idea  of  laying  out  a  city 
upon  the  peninsula  of  San  Francisco 
was  first  presented  in  a  serious  and 
business-like  manner.  It  is  certain, 
however  that  he  was  not  called  upon  to 
found  the  future  metropolis  of  the  Paci- 
fic because  of  any  past  experience  but 
rather  because  he  was  an  engineer,  and 
was  in  possession  of  the  only  instruments 
which  could  be  found  in  Yerba  Buena. 

In  those  early  days  the  men  had  faith 
in  the  scattered  hamlets  by  the  Golden 
Gate,  just  as  men  of  today  see  a  future 
in  the  bridging  of  the  Bay.  They  looked 
down  upon  the  broad  expanse  of  a 
noble  bay  and  said  to  themselves:  "As 
sites  for  cities  are  getting  scarce,  a  great 
emporium  must,  sometime  in  the  far- 
off  future,  spring  up  here."  In  imagi- 
nation they  beheld  streets,  and  squares, 
and  promenades,  take  place  of  the  chap- 
paral  and  the  sand  dunes  by  which  the 


By  B.  Virginia  Lee 

face  of  nature  was  covered ;  but  with- 
out a  very  clear  idea  of  the  causes  which 
were  to  promote  their  construction,  or 
the  manner  in  which  the  details  were  to 
be  carried  out.  Some,  in  their  hilarious 
moments,  saw  a  New  York  rise,  as  if 
by  magic,  in  dazzling  splendor  out  of 
the  scrub-oak  bushes  through  which 
they  were  in  the  habit  of  forcing  a  toil- 
some passage;  others,  a  modernized 
Philadelphia,  with  its  streets  at  right 
angles,  its  rows  of  severely  identical 
buildings  with  solid  wooden  shutters; 
and  others  still,  a  rejuvenated  Hermo- 
sello,  or  Lima,  in  which  three-card 
monte  would  be  elevated  to  the  dignity 
of  a  National  institution. 

The  basis  for  all  these  dreams  was  a 
few  houses  scattered  about  the  peninsula. 
The  engrossing  subject  of  conversation 
was  hides  and  tallow.  The  bells  of 
the  old  Mission  tolled,  every  Sabbath, 
and  the  good  missionaries  celebrated 
their  masses,  almostly  exclusively  for 
the  poor  Indians,  who  found,  to  their 
great  contentment  and  satisfaction,  that 
Christianity  was  another  name  for  regu- 
lar rations  duly  and  fairly  distributed. 
The  waters  of  the  bay  then  washed  the 
eastern  line  of  Montgomery  street,  and 
where  our  stately  structures  now  rise, 
boats  were  once  beached.  The  penin- 
sula, as  you  looked  westward,  presented 
the  appearance  of  a  lump  of  baker's 
dough,  which  having  been  kneaded  into 
fantastic  hills  and  vales  had  been  for- 
gotten so  long  that  the  green  mould  had 
begun  to  creep  over  it.  For,  upon  this 
windy  tongue  of  land,  the  forces  of 
nature  had  been  operating  through  long 
geological  ages.  The  westerly  winds, 
blowing  upon  it  with  ceaseless  moan 
for  the  greater  part  of  every  recurring 
year,  had  rolled  up  the  sand  from  the 
bottom  of  the  quiet  Pacific,  and  then, 
when  it  had  been  accumulated  on  the 
firm  land,  had  fashioned  it  into  the 
most  grotesque  shapes. 

Telegraph,  Rincon  and  Townsend 
Street  Hills  rose  up  on  the  point  of  the 


peninsula,  like  weird  shapes  beckoning 
the  adventurers  to  this  rich  and  wonder- 
ful land,  while  Russian  Hill  stretched 
itself  in  all  its  wealth  of  nondescript 
topography,  parallel  to  them,  but  fur- 
ther to  the  west.  It  was  upon  a  site 
so  unpromising  that  Monsieur  Vioget 
was  called  upon  by  the  united  acclaim 
of  his  fellow-citizens  to  lay  out  a  city. 

If  the  truth  were  known  it  would 
probably  turn  out  that  not  one  of  these 
dreaming  colonists  believed  that  the 
city  which  Monsieur  Vioget  was  em- 
ployed to  found  would  ever  amount  to 
anything,  either  in  his  own  life  or  in 
that  of  his  grandchildren  or  great-grand- 
children. But  the  sketching  of  cities 
on  paper,  with  a  great  affluence  of 
churches,  and  school-houses,  and  public 
squares,  had  become  a  regular  business 
in  the  country  from  which  most  of  them 
emigrated.  Fortunes  had  been  made 
out  of  great  commercial  emporiums  and 
centers  of  trade,  which  had  never  as- 
sumed a  more  tangible  shape  than  that 
in  which  the  draughtman's  pencil  had 
left  them.  It  was  a  little  speculation, 
then,  upon  which  they  proposed  to  enter, 
an  issuance  of  stock  not  embellished, 
it  is  true,  with  the  most  captivating  and 
inspiring  vignettes,  but  very  insinuat- 
ing by  reason  of  its  quaint  phraseology 
and  its  solemn  averments  on  the  sub- 
ject of  metes  and  bounds. 

Monsieur  Vioget  went  about  his  new 
job  whole-heartedly.  He  made  an  ob- 
servation so  as  to  fix  one  point,  and 
then  drew  off  the  future  metropolis  of 
the  Pacific,  with  the  greatest  ease  and 
the  most  remarkable  celerity. 

For  the  topography  with  which  he 
had  to  deal  he  manifested  a  contempt 
entirely  proper  in  a  person  engaged  in 
an  engineering  romance.  The  paper 
upon  which  he  sketched  his  plan  was 
level,  and  presented  no  impediment  to 
the  easy  transit  of  the  pencil.  He  gave 
us,  with  that  disregard  for  details  which 
is  always  characteristic  of  great  minds, 
the  Quartier  Latin,  improved  and  modi- 
fied by  Philadelphia,  for  a  site  as  rugged 
and  irregular  as  that  to  which  Romulus 


294 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


and  Remus  applied  themselves  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tiber.  Over  hill  and  dale 
he  remorselessly  projected  his  right  lines. 
To  the  serene  Gallic  mind  it  made  but 
very  little  difference  that  some  of  the 
streets  which  he  had  laid  out  followed 
the  lines  of  a  dromedary's  back,  or  that 
others  described  semi-circles,  some  up. 
some  down,  up  Telegraph  Hill  from  the 
eastern  front  of  the  city — up  a  grade 
which  a  goat  could  not  travel,  then 
down  on  the  other  side,  then  up  Russian 
Hill,  and  then  down  sloping  toward  the 
Presidio.  And  this  crossed  with  equally 
rigid  lines,  leaving  grades  for  the  des- 
cription of  which  pen  and  ink  are 
totally  inadequate. 

He  had  before  him  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  picturesque  site  for  a  city  that 
could  anywhere  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
be  found !  a  cove  entirely  sheltered  from 
northern  and  southwestern  winds  with 
a  lofty  eminence  on  either  side,  and 
a  high  longitudinal  ridge  in  the  back- 
ground. What  if  he  had  ever  terraced 
these  hills,  and  applied  the  rule  and 
square  only  to  the  space  lying  between 
them!  But  he  executed  the  work 
assigned  to  him,  he  devised  a  plan  by 
which  every  settler  could  with  ease  trace 
the  boundaries  of  his  possessions  and 
placed  all  of  the  peninsula,  which  it 
was  then  thought  could  be  used  in  the 
course  of  a  century  for  purposes  of  hu- 
man habitation,  in  a  marketable  condi- 
tion. He  little  knew,  when  he  was 
at  work  in  his  adobe  office,  with  his 
compasses  and  rulers,  that  every  line 
he  drew  would  entail  a  useless  expendi- 
ture of  millions  upon  those  who  were 
to  come  after  him;  and  that  he  was 
then,  in  fact,  squandering  money  at  a 
rate  that  would  have  made  a  Monte 
Cristo  turn  pale. 

HIS  work  was  fair  to  look  upon  on 
paper — very  difficult  if  not  be- 
wildering to  follow  out  on  foot.  These 
streets  pushed  ahead  with  stern  scien- 
tific rigor.  Never  did  rising  city  start 
upon  more  impracticable  courses,  it  was 
to  be  a  metropolis  of  uncertain  if  not 
jocular  mood,  now  showing  itself  in 
imposing  grandeur  as  it  gathered  around 
some  lofty  eminence,  and  then  utterly 
disappearing  into  some  totally  unim- 
aginable concavity,  leaving  nothing  on 
the  horizon  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  dis- 
tant observer. 

But  absurdly  though  the  work  of 
tracing  out  the  lines  for  the  future  habi- 
tation of  a  large  population  was  per- 
formed, it  had  its  humanizing  effects 
upon  the  founders,  apart  altogether  from 
the  expectations  of  great  profit,  which 
the  prospective  sale  of  eligible  lots,  how- 
ever lop-sided,  engendered.  They  no 
longer  regarded  themselves  as  casta- 
ways upon  an  almost  unknown  shore. 


The  picturesque  confusion  of  a  first 
settlement  was  indeed  apparent.  No  in- 
telligible plan  of  city  could  be  imagined 
from  the  location  of  the  few  houses  by 
which  the  peninsula  was  dotted ;  but  for 
all  that,  Stockton  street  and  Broadway 
had  been  safely  ushered  into  the  world 
by  Monsieur  Vioget;  and  Montgomery, 
Kearney  and  Dupont  Streets  were  be- 
ginning to  develop  themselves.  It  was 
some  consolation  to  the  benighted  found- 
er, when  endeavoring  to  clamber  up  the 
rough  sides  of  Telegraph  Hill,  on  his 
way  home,  that  however  surprising  it 
might  appear,  he  was  then,  though  slow- 
ly making  his  way  on  all  fours,  and 
fearful  of  broken  bones  and  a  cracked 
crown,  really  at  the  corner  of  Mont- 
gomery and  Vallejo  Streets,  where 
palatial  edifices  were  at  that  moment 
germinating,  and  which,  though  silent, 
weird  and  forbidding  at  that  hour,  was 
destined  to  echo  with  the  sounds  of 
active,  bustling  life  before  long. 

The  town  did  begin  to  spring  up  after 
Monsieur  Vioget  had  fixed  the  manner 
in  which  it  was  to  grow,  but  not  with 
any  great  rapidity. 

But  hides  and  tallow,  which  were  the 
subject  of  all  conversation  and  very 
important  articles  of  commerce  were  not 
sufficient  to  force  the  building  of  a 
large  city  in  a  very  short  space  of  time. 
If  nothing  had  occurred  to  alter  the 
course  of  things,  a  century  would  have 
elapsed  even  before  Monsieur  Vioget's 
plan  had  been  carried  out.  But  the 
news  from  the  interior  was  becoming 
stranger,  more  exciting,  and  more  be- 
wildering each  day.  Discovery  followed 
discovery^  in  quick  succession,  and  the 
shining  gold  began  to  flow  this  way 
in  steady  streams.  Some  observations 
had  been  made  on  the  climate,  the  capa- 
city of  the  soil,  and  facilities  for  com- 
merce. 

There  was  a  settled  conviction  that 
the  far-off  land  of  California  would 
some  day  come  into  public  notice;  but 
here  was  gold  ...  the  very  article  after 
which  civilized  man  was  in  the  hottest 
pursuit.  .  .  the  metal  which  represented 
everything:  luxury,  fine  clothing,  fine 
houses,  lands,  friends,  doting  wives, 
loving  children,  the  respect  of  mankind 
here  below  and  heaven  hereafter — in 
immense,  incalculable  bewildering,  in- 
toxicating abundance,  at  their  very 
doors!  Who  can  estimate  the  force  of 
the  mad  whirl  of  those  early  days,  when 
it  was  first  revealed  that  colossal  for- 
tunes were  within  the  reach  of  all  who 
had  strength  enough  to  wield  a  pickaxe, 
and  labor  for  a  short  time.  That  social 
prominence,  which,  in  the  older  civili- 
zations, the  persons  who  then  found 
themselves  in  California  could  not  hope 
ever  to  achieve  except  by  some  extra- 


ordinary freak  of  good  luck,  was  now 
within  the  grasp  of  every  one  of  them, 
for  deference,  respect  and  precedence 
wait  humbly  upon  the  happy  possessor 
of  gold  in  plenty. 

Thousands  of  eager  adventurers  began 
to  make  their  appearance,  and  soon  a 
steady  human  tide  flowed  through  the 
Golden  Gate.  San  Francisco  felt 
through  every  vein  the  throb  of  the  new 
life.  American  Alcaldes,  deriving  their 
powers  oddly  enough  from  Philip  II,  of 
Spain,  granted,  with  right  royal  muni- 
ficence, lots  to  all  who  applied  for  them. 
It  was  a  strange  chance  by  which  free 
Republican  citizens  of  the  United  States 
became  the  dispensers  of  the  gracious 
favors  of  a  foreign  potentate  long  passed 
away  from  earth. 

Only  the  faintest  outlines  of  streets 
were  then  visible  in  that  portion  of 
the  city  which  owed  its  fashioning  to 
Monsieur  Vioget.  Tents  occupied  the 
place  where  stately  edifices  now  rise. 
The  elegant  mansions  of  the  day  were 
fair  to  look  upon,  but  not  evidently 
designed  to  stand  a  protracted  bombard- 
ment. The  walls  were  of  paper  and 
ceiling  of  cloth — suggestive,  without 
close  inspection  of  great  refinement  and 
progress,  but  affording  no  privacy,  for 
a  whisper  in  one  room  thrilled  through 
the  whole  structure,  revealing  in  the 
kitchen  the  projects  of  the  parlor  with 
startling  distinctness.  But  such  as  San 
Francisco  then  was,  it  was  held  to  have 
outgrown  the  Viogetan  boundaries.  The 
portion  which  had  been  surveyed  had 
gone  off  with  such  happy  results  that  a 
clamor  went  up  for  an  additional  sur- 
vey. Stout  Jasper  O'Farrell  was  called 
from  Sonoma  to  undertake  the  work. 
The  little  engineering  phantasia  which 
the  Frenchman  had  executed  on  paper 
was  turning  out  most  extraordinary 
and  bewildering.  It  had  become  appar- 
ant  that  a  great  city  was  going  to  grow 
up  on  this  peninsula  in  a  shorter  space 
of  time  than  the  most  fevered  enthu- 
siast had  ever  dreamed.  The  idea  be- 
gan to  dawn  upon  the  minds  of  some 
of  the  levanting  sailors,  who  by  for- 
tunate chance  found  themselves  at  the 
opening  of  a  strange  and  most  romantic 
chapter  in  the  world's  history,  and  who 
a  short  time  before  would  have  con- 
sidered themselves  thrice-blessed  with 
the  possession  of  an  adobe  house  and  a 
moderate  herd  of  cattle,  that  fortunes 
were  not  only  within  their  grasp,  but 
were  about  to  be  thrust  upon  them  by 
a  certain  fickle  jade  known  of  all  men, 
with  a  remorseless  pertinacity  against 
which  no  human  fortitude  could  hope 
hope  to  stand  up. 

O'FARRELL,  an  explosive  Celt,  but 
of  much  determination  and  skill  in 
his  profession,  brought  to  the  work  for 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


295 


which  he  had  been  selected,  something 
which  was  entirely  lacking  in  his  pre- 
decessor, a  conviction  that  he  was  about 
to  engage  in  a  really  important  labor 
and  not  merely  to  sketch  an  ingenious 
pleasantry  which  might  be  turned  to  ac- 
count hereafter. 

It  did  not  take  him  long  to  discover 
that  the  plan  upon  which  Vioget  had 
laid  out  the  city  was  entirely  unadapted 
to  the  site.  A  large  amount  of  engi- 
neering knowledge  was  not  necessary 
to  enable  him  to  reach  that  conclusion. 
He  proposed  to  change  the  lines  of  the 
streets  so  as  to  conform  as  much  as 
possible  to  the  topography,  but  his  sug- 
gestions were  not  received  with  the  favor 
which  he  expected.  There  was  not  an 
incipient  millionaire  then  in  all  San 
Francisco  who  did  not  have  safely  lo- 
cated up  in  his  trunk  the  title  deeds  to 
the  lot  or  lots  that  were  going  to  be 
most  valuable.  It  is  possible  that  no- 
body had  made  up  his  mind  as  to  the 
particular  use  for  which  his  property 
would  be  required.  It  might  be  needed 
for  a  Custom  House,  or  the  Capitol  of 
the  new  State,  the  germ  of  which  Mar- 
shall had  found  in  the  mill-stream,  near 
Sutlers  fort,  or  some  grand  and  inex- 
plicable structure  necessary  to  the  new 
order  of  things.  Whatever  it  might  be, 
each  settler's  lot  was  the  lot  above  all 
lots  sure  to  prove  the  focus  of  the  new 
city,  gradually  unfolding  its  outlines, 
if  not  the  hub  of  creation.  It  is  plain 
that  under  such  circumstances,  a  new 
arrangement  of  the  streets  could  not  be 


regarded  in  any  other  light  but  that  of 
a  new  deal  devised  by  the  new  engineer, 
with  occult  purposes  of  self-aggrandize- 
ment, the  result  of  which  could  not  be 
foreseen  by  the  most  perspicacious  of 
pioneers.  It  was  in  vain  that  it  was 
represented  to  them  as  being  absurd  to 
run  streets  at  right  angles  upon  such 
a  rugged  surface  as  that  presented  by 
the  northern  side  of  the  city.  The 
longer  the  discussion  continued,  the 
more  angry  and  menacing  it  grew.  There 
was  not  a  property-owner  in  San  Fran- 
cisco who  did  not  believe  that  he  was 
threatened  with  a  most  scandalous  and 
unprovoked  injury.  There  was  even  a 
whispering  of  determination,  if  driven 
to  extermity,  to  hang  by  the  neck  till 
he  was  dead  any  audacious  surveyor 
who  should  insist  upon  disturbing  the 
settled  opinions  of  these  sturdy  pioneers 
on  the  subpect  of  boundaries  of  their  pos- 
sessions. 

It  is  manifest  that  against  such  an  up- 
roar and  jangling  of  interests  no  single 
man  could  make  any  headway.  O'Far- 
rell  was  obliged  to  content  himself  with 
securing  the  widening  of  the  streets 
laid  out  by  his  predecessor,  the  elimi- 
nation to  a  partial  extent  of  the  Vio- 
getan  Quartier  Latin  from  the  origi- 
nal scheme,  and  then  proceed  to  lay  off 
the  southern  portion  in  wide  streets  at 
right  angles,  which  the  flatness  of  that 
section,  fully  justified.  He  found  a 
nondescript  plan  of  a  city,  inarticulate, 
in  violent  antagonism  with  nature.  His 
first  care  was  to  supply  it  with  a  back- 


bone which,  in  the  shape  of  Market 
Street  traverses  the  city  from  the  east- 
ern front  as  far  west  as  it  was  likely 
to  be  closely  built  up  during  the  existence 
of  that  generation. 

He  ran  his  right  lines  over  Rincon 
and  Townsend  Street  Hills  with  the 
same  airy  carelessness  which  Vioget 
manifested  in  respect  to  Telegraph  and 
Russian  Hills,  yet  the  result  was  both 
astonishing  and  picturesque.  He  leveled 
hills  and  filled  valleys  until  the  city 
was  pretty  much  a  bewilderment  of 
grades.  So  San  Francisco  was  planned, 
so  Nature  gave  way  to  Man;  impracti- 
b.lity  to  artistry,  and  we  have  the  site 
which  enraptures  the  European  as  he 
paces  the  deck  of  the  incoming  steamer, 
the  dull  red  haze  upon  which  he  has 
gazed  begins  to  assume  shape  and  form 
until  the  spectacle  is  revealed.  On 
either  side  of  him  rise  Telegraph  and 
Rincon  Hills  like  luminous  cones,  while, 
in  the  background,  towers  above  all, 
Russian  Hill  in  stories  of  light,  nor  is 
the  illusion  at  all  dissipated  as  he  is 
whirled  from  the  wharf,  through  the 
well-lighted  streets  to  his  hotel,  for  San 
Francisco  has  been  built  upon  the  vision 
of  beauty,  and  her  fine  structures,  stores 
and  styles  of  architecture  more  elegant 
and  graceful  than  is  generally  found  in 
American  cities,  is  a  tribute  to  the  vision 
of  Monsieur  Vioget — and  the  stout 
Jasper  O'Farrell,  a  metropolis  in  every 
way  adapted  for  trade  and  commerce ; 
a  carefree  gesture  to  the  dismissal  of 
the  practical,  a  city  to  know  and  a  city 
never  to  be  forgotten. 


296 


OVERLAID  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


A  Deserted  Island  that  Became  a  Pineapple  Plantation 


DO  YOU  like  South  Sea  stories? 
Well,   this   is  one   with   a   new 
slant.   It  is  the  story  of  a  desert- 
ed island,  Hawaiians  and  ancient  war- 
riors— but    curiously   enough    it    is    the 
tale  of  a  South  Sea  Island  with  honest- 
to-goodness     cow-punchers,     as      "wild 
west"  as  any  who  ever  rode   range  in 
Wyoming. 

Way  out  in  the  middle  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean  lies  the  little  island  with  a 
strange  history — Lanai,  second  smallest 
of  the  Hawaiian  group,  but  better 
known  as  the  "Forgotten  Island." 

Originally,  Hawaiians  tell  us,  it  was 
fished  up  out  of  the  ocean  by  the  Poly- 
nesian god  Maui,  who  pushed  up  the 
skies  a  bit  to  make  room  for  folks  to 
walk  around  under  it.  It  was  "forgot- 
ten" by  Hawaiian  warriois  of  old  who 
moved  their  war  base  over  to  the  neigh- 
boring island  of  Maui  because  they 
couldn't  stand  the  silent  loneliness, — and 
they  left  it  the  most  god-forsaken'  island 
of  the  entire  group. 

Five  years  ago  it  was  bought  by  a 
Harvard  graduate,  and  things  began 
to  happen.  Today,  instead  of  a  waste 
of  giant  cactus  it  has  become  a  giant  gar- 
den, the  home  of  the  gr<"at  pineapple 
activity.  And  where  a  few  short  years 
ago  wild  goats  roamed,  today  stands 
Uncle  Sam's  most  unique  model  city. 

Lanai  in  the  eighteen-forties,  accord- 
ing to  native  accounts,  boasted  several 
thousand  residents.  They  were  mostly 
war  chiefs  who  went  there  for  fishing 
and  found  it  an  almost  impregnable 
base  for  their  inter-island  warfare.  But 
Lanai  had  no  harbor  and  just  across  the 
strait  Yankee  whalers  were  putting  into 
a  harbor  big  enough  to  shelter  a  hundred 
ships.  This  was  in  the  days  of  "Moby 
Dick"  and  sometimes  as  many  as  eighty 
whaling  vessels  lay  off  Maui  at  one 
time. 

But  chiefly  because  Lanai  was  lonely 
and  Maui  was  lively,  the  war-lords 
of  Lanai  packed  up  their  feather  cloaks 
and  iron  daggers  and  moved.  It  was 
then  that  Lanai  became  known  as  the 
"Forgotten  Isle."  Sailors  passed  it  by. 
Cattle  roamed  the  uplands,  shared  only 
by  wild  goats,  sheep,  turkey,  Chinese 
pheasants  and  a  few  deer,  while  the 
ever-spreading  cactus  grew  to  giant  pro- 
portions. 

Once  an  effort  was  made  to  establish 
a  sugar  plantation  there.  Several  hun- 
dred coolies  were  brought  over  to  culti- 
vate the  cane.  But  coolies  like  solitude 
even  less  than  warriors,  and  the  enter- 
prise failed. 

Cow-boys,  however,  don't  care  a  lot 


By  Hazel  Carter  Maxon 

whether  a  country  is  lonely  so  long  as 
there  are  plenty  of  cattle  there,  and 
Lanai,  left  without  humans,  became 
more  and  more  populated  by  cattle.  Ac- 
cordingly it  became  known  as  a  cattle 
country.  The  Hawaiians  are  daring 
horsemen.  They  take  the  dizzy  slopes 
of  jagged  mountains  as  a  traveled  road 
on  the  "long-eared  dog."  The  Hawaiian 
language  had  no  word  for  hcrse,  so  when 
a  stallion  and  a  mare  of  this  strange 
species  were  given  to  King  Kamehameha 
by  an  American  sea  captain,  the  people 
had  difficulty  in  inventing  a  new  word. 
Finally  they  hit  on  a  term  meaning 
"long-eared  dog."  They  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  mastering  the  art  of  riding, 
however.  They  took  to  the  horse  just  as 
they  took  to  the  surf,  and  their  cow- 
boys have  been  "sitting  pretty"  on  horses 
ever  since. 

Charles  Gay,  well-known  cattleman, 
was  the  pioneer  in  this  business  on 
Lanai.  He  tells  of  "discovering"  the 
place  more  than  thirty  years  ago. 

"An  old  Hawaiian  chief  brought  me 
over  from  Maui  in  an  outrigger  canoe, 
and  we  landed  at  the  northeast  side.  I'd 
sailed  around  the  island  a  good  many 
times.  With  the  cliffs,  the  bare  moun- 
tain slopes  and  the  surf,  it  wasn't  exactly 
the  place  you'd  choose  to  look  for  a 
home. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  the  chief 
asked,  when  we  finally  did  get  our  feet 
on  dry  land,  and  faced  a  gulch  so  bare 
and  hot  that  a  lizard  would  have  growl- 
ed about  it. 

"  'Well,'  I  said,  'it  certainly  looks  like 
the  place  the  Creator  left  to  the  end,  and 
then  forgot  to  finish.' 

"He  just  smiled,  and  said,  'Wait 
awhile'  and  we  began  climbing  that 
gulch.  We  climbed,  and  climbed  and 
the  country  got  hotter,  and  dryer,  and 
more  forsaken.  Then  we  reached  the 
top,  and  I  got  a  view  of  the  inside,  and 
for  ten  minutes  I  looked  and  looked. 
He  didn't  say  anything,  and  I  didn't. 

"What  do  you  think  now?"  he  asked, 
by'n  by. 

"I  take  it  all  back,"  I  admitted,  and 
that  was  how  I  came  to  buy  land  on 
Lanai,  build  a  house,  and  gc  into  cattle 
raising." 

About  the  time  that  cattle-raising  was 
at  its  height  on  Lanai,  a  young  Harvard 
graduate  went  over  to  Hawaii  on  the 
trail  of  adventure.  James  Dole,  of  New 
England  parentage,  didn't  take  to  the 
ministry  as  his  father  had  hoped,  but 
Hawaii  somehow  attracted  him.  His 


Uncle,  Sanford  B.  Dole,  once  president 
of  the  Hawaii  republic  and  later  gover- 
nor of  the  islands,  invited  young  Jim 
to  come  out  there  and  look  things  over. 

One  of  the  things  young  Dole  did, 
after  arriving  in  Honolulu,  was  to  have 
the  captain  of  an  inter-island  boat  put 
him  ashore  on  Lanai.  The  romance  of 
an  almost  deserted  island  and  the  daring 
of  the  Hawaiian  cow-punchers  made  a 
lasting  impression,  and  Jim  Dole  never 
forgot  the  Forgotten  Island. 

Twenty  years  later,  when  he  had  be- 
come the  "Pineapple  King  of  Hawaii," 
his  kingdom  needed  expansion.  Over  on 
the  island  of  Oahu  he  had  built  up  the 
world's  first  and  biggest  pineapple  busi- 
ness, from  a  few  thousand  cases  a  year 
to  several  millions. 

He  had  re-visited  Lanai  occasionally, 
and  he  knew  that  pineapples  would  grow 
there  because  the  Lanai  cattlemen  had 
them  in  their  kitchen  gardens  back  of 
the  ranch  houses.  The  soil  of  Lanai  is 
well  adapted  for  pineapple  growing  be- 
cause it  is  almost  unbelievably  thick. 


is  a  story  of  a  well  being 
•I  driven  down  at  the  "tip"  given  by 
one  of  those  self-alleged  "water-finders." 
This  chap,  it  seems  was  imported  from 
Australia  to  find  water  by  the  magic  of 
his  divining  rod.  He  had  a  high  batting- 
average  where  he  hailed  from,  but  luck 
was  against  him  in  Hawaii.  He  select- 
ed a  place  to  be  dug,  divined  by  the  lit- 
tle rod  which  dipped  down,  supposedly 
through  some  mystic  affinity  of  natural 
forces.  The  men  dug  and  dug  until  the 
well  was  80  feet  deep—  but  they  struck 
no  water.  Eighty  feet  of  rich  soil  was 
the  reward  of  their  labors. 

But  this  same  rich  soil  had  nurtured 
the  growth  of  giant  cactus.  That  had  to 
be  cleared  away.  The  goats  had  to  be 
cleared  away  also.  And  then  there  was 
the  problem  of  wind.  When  the  old 
Polynesian  god  lifted  Lanai  out  of  the 
water  he  must  have  flattened  down  the 
peaks  which  appear  on  the  ether  islands 
of  Hawaii  and  protect  them  from  the 
wind.  The  result  is  that  the  trade 
winds  sweep  Lanai  at  a  rat  t  which  used 
to  blow  the  red  dust  so  far  out  in  the 
ocean  that  it  could  be  seen  by  approach- 
ing ships.  The  bushes,  which  might 
have  been  used  to  protect  plants,  were 
devoured  by  the  goats. 

The  lack  of  a  harbor  had  incon- 
venienced the  cattlemen  as  well  as  the 
early  warriors.  When  the  ranchers  sent 
their  beef  to  market  they  had  to  drive 
it  on  the  hoof  to  a  point  off  which  a 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT    WEST   MAGAZINE 


297 


boat  could  lie  in  fair  weather.  The 
animals  were  then  tobogganed  down  a 
timber  chute  into  the  water  towed  by 
a  small  boat  to  the  vessel  and  then 
hoisted  aboard. 

These  same  problems,  it  is  evident, 
had  baffled  generations  before.  But  Jim 
Dole  was  not  a  man  to  be  baffled.  His 
pineapple  enterprise  was  a  new  industry, 
in  a  new  land,  captained  by  young  men 
— a  combination  hard  to  beat  because 
young  men,  happily,  never  know  when 
they  are  licked. 

The  cactus  problem  was  solved  by 
dragging  down  the  cactus  with  long 
chains  drawn  by  tractors.  The  goat 
problem  was  solved  by1  killing  the  goats. 
The  wind  problem  by  planting  great 
barriers  of  trees  on  the  windward  side 
of  the  island,  and  for  protection  to  the 
fruit  in  the  fields,  quick-growing  ele- 
phant grass  was  brought  from  Africa. 
The  harbor  difficulty  was  left  to  an 
engineer  who  built  a  breakwater  com- 
posed of  116,000  tons  of  rock  blasted 
from  the  cliffs  and  dropped  into  the 
water  nearby. 

With  these  great  barriers  removed, 
the  new  Lanai  began.  Suppose  we  take 
a  trip  over  to  the  Forgotten  Isle  and  see 
it  as  it  is  today.  It  will  not  be  a  crowded 
trip,  as  far  as  tourists  are  concerned,  for, 
although  there  is  inter-island  steamer 
service  now  between  the  sixty  miles  from 
Honolulu  to  Lanai  several  times  a  week, 
tourists  prefer  the  easier  trips.  There  is 
something  a  bit  deserted  about  an  island 
in  order  to  reach  which  one  must  take  a 
steamer  in  the  evening  in  Honolulu,  be 
roused  out  at  midnight,  ride  up  seven 
miles  by  motor  to  the  city  and  wait  a 
couple  of  days  for  another  steamer  to 
take  one  off  on  a  route  which  louche? 
Maui. 

But  having  made  the  passage,  the 
sight  of  Lanai  is  indeed  worth  the  effort. 
From  the  wharf  with  its  large  plaza, 
seven  miles  of  asphalt  macadam  road 
extend  up  to  Lanai  City.  It  is  down 
this  road  that  great  trucks  rush  their 
load  of  ripe  pineapples  to  the  barges 
which  take  them  to  the  big  canneries  at 
Honolulu.  Ultimately  Lanai  is  expected 
to  produce  more  than  50,000  tons  of 
pineapple  a  season — making  this  road  at 
harvest  time  an  almost  endless  chain  of 
moving  trucks. 

At  intervals  along  the  road  we  see 
the  signs  "Speed  Limit.  Please  Go 
Slow."  These  signs  were  placed  by  or- 
der of  Harry  Blomfield-Brown,  planta- 
tion manager  on  Lanai — and  for  a  rea- 
son. Joy-riding  in  trucks  has  a  strong 
appeal  to  the  Hawaiian  youth.  Descend- 
ed from  whalers  and  cow-punchers,  a 
job  with  an  element  of  chance  in  it  is  the 
only  sort  of  job  worthwhile.  But  there 
is  a  big  element  of  chance  in  speeding 


As  the  lost  island  was  before  it  <was  made  commercially  profitable 


on  a  road  with  so  many  trick  turns  in 
it,  and  as  speed-regulator  Harry  says 
"a  fellow  could  spill  into  the  ditch,  or 
over  a  hill — or  worse,  tie  up  th»  high- 
way." 

When  pineapples  are  ripe  they  must 
be  hurried  to  the  cannery  so  that  every 
bit  of  their  luscious  ripeness  is  retained. 
To  see  that  there  is  no  danger  of  a  tie-up 
which  would  delay  this  frui^,  each  truck 
is  controlled  by  a  train  dispatching  sys- 
tem. Every  so  often,  along  the  road, 
the  time  of  each  vehicle  is  taken  by  a 
timekeeper  who  notes  the  hour,  minute 
and  number  of  the  truck.  Any  trip  can 
be  checked  up  for  delays  or  speeding. 

Brown,  himself,  likes  to  speed  when 
pineapples  aren't  endangered  by  the 
sport.  A  recent  visitor  to  the  islands 
tells  the  story  of  a  Chinese  pheasant 
hunt,  with  him,  in  a  flivver. 

"We  were  on  our  way  to  the  native 
forest  when  Brown  sighted  a  Chinese 
pheasant.  It  was  near  noon  and  at 
that  time  of  day,  in  the  heat,  these  large 
birds  soon  tire,  hampered  by  the  long 
tails  that  make  such  wonderful  millin- 
ery. This  fellow  tried  zigzagging,  but 
Brown  was  just  as  nimble  with  the  fliv- 
ver and  twice  as  fast.  We  headed  for 
hillocks  that  looked  solid  enough  to 
wreck  a  tank,  but  which  proved  to  be 
yielding  grass  or  brush — if  you  knew 
when  to  dodge  the  real  thing.  We 
darted  through  gaps  in  thickets  and 
cactus  and  ran  almost  under  the  nose 
of  a  bull  taking  his  noonday  siesta. 

"I  say,  if  you  have  false  teeth,  now's 
the  time  to  hang  onto  them,"  shouted 
the  manager,  and  headed  straight  for 
the  edge  of  a  gulch  upon  w''ich  the  bird 


hesitated  Five  hundred  feet,  straight 
down !  But  the  bird  decided  not  to  fly 
and  the  car  cut  close  to  the  brink  and 
after  him.  This  kind  of  hunting  is  a 
matter  of  tiring  out  the  game.  Five 
minutes  later  there  was  something  for 
the  pot  in  the  rear  seat." 

Perhaps  the  most  picturesque  part  of 
the  islands  is  that  which  we  view  as  we 
reach  the  uplands — the  pineapple  plan- 
tations. Hundreds  of  acres  of  them 
stretch  away  to  the  purple  hills.  Of 
the  twelve  hundred  acres  of  them  now 
growing,  it  seems  that  not  a  single  plant 
varies  a  thirty-second  of  an  inch  from 
the  military  lines.  These  lines  are  ac- 
cented by  rows  of  paper  mulch  through 
which  the  slips  are  planted.  In  the 
foreground  of  this  picture,  if  we  are 
fortunate  enough  to  make  our  trip  at 
harvest  time,  the  deep  gr^-en  is  bright- 
ened by  the  golden  glow  of  the  ripe 
fruit  which  has  been  gilded  by  eighteen 
months  of  tropical  sunshine 

Off  in  the  distance  are  the  russet  red 
roofs  of  the  buildings  of  Lanai  City, 
picturesque  against  the  greens  and  grays 
of  the  fields.  Extending  our  trip 
through  the  city  we  find  it  indeed 
unique — a  model  town  whose  popula- 
tion is  made  up  of  an  assortment  of  dif- 
ferent nationalities — Hawa'ians,  Chi- 
nese, Japanese,  Filipinos,  Caucasians, 
Koreans,  Fiji  Islanders — all  living  to- 
gether in  a  veritable  "spotless  town"  of 
harmony  and  happiness. 

A  Japanese  mayor  is  the  guardian  of 
Lanai  City,  and  he  is  right  on  the  job 
all  day  to  see  that  regulations  are  ob- 
served. Streets,  lawns  and  gardens  are 
(Continued  on  Page  320) 


298 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


Not  Worth  His  Wage 


LIFE  had  taken  a  gentle  soul  and 
flung  it  on  a  dung  hill.   A  pugnaci- 
ous spirit  would  have  scrambled  off 
and   found  a  better  hill.     But  George 
Spicer's  spirit  was  weak;  from  the  bur- 
den of  poverty. 

He  was  the  eldest  of  a  big  brood  and 
the  only  one  in  the  family  with  a  sense 
of  responsibility.  His  mother  spent 
much  of  her  time  in  importuning  God 
to  reform  her  worthless  husband.  Per- 
haps God  had  had  to  give  the  old  sinner 
up  as  a  bad  job,  for  father  went  his  way 
merrily  until  he  was  old  and  gray.  He 
toiled  not,  neither  did  h^  win — when 
he  gambled  with  the  fe'.v  dollars  he 
coaxed  from  his  wife;  money  that 
George  had  earned. 

The  children  drifted  from  home  when 
they  were  able  to  support  themselves. 
Only  George  stayed.  Someone  had  to 
look  out  for  Mother.  Then  one  fine 
day  Father's  career  ended  suddenly,  thru 
a  bottle  of  bootleg. 

By  this  time  George  was  well  past 
thirty.  From  youth  he  had  worked 
hard;  giving  up  one  hated  job  after  an- 
other, in  a  futile  effort  to  better  him- 
self. He  had  craved  learning,  and  went 
to  night  school;  but  when  the  body  is 
heavy  with  weariness — the  mental  per- 
ceptions are  apt  to  be  blunted.  He 
cursed  his,  seeming  stupidity  and  aban- 
doned the  pursuit  of  knowledge. 

When  he  and  his  mother  were  left 
alone,  he  took  up  his  quest  again.  Per- 
haps because  he  had  the  longing  for 
something  that  he  could  hold  fast  to. 
His  vague  dreams  of  achievement  had 
gone  long  ago.  And  that  one  sweet  bit 
of  romance  he  had  known — that  was 
dead.  He  had  forced  it  out  of  his  heart. 
What  could  he  offer  a  gH?  he  had 
asked  himself — even  while  he  was  filled 
with  a  desperate  impelling  force  to  take 
that  girl,  at  all  costs. 

Leonore  had  waited.  Even  now  he 
had  nothing  to  offer  her.  He  was  a 
rank  failure.  A  clerk;  a  poor  one  at 
that.  He  was  an  old  employe,  and  had 
stayed  for  years  in  the  department  where 
he  sold,  or  tried  to  sell,  washing  ma- 
chines and  wringers.  He  loathed  his 
work. 

In  less  than  a  year  after  her  husband 
died,  Mrs.  Spicer  fell  ill,  and  the  doctor 
lield  out  no  hope  for  her  recovery.  When 
Leonore  was  told,  she  installed  herself 
as  nurse  in  the  sick-room. 

The  poor  old  soul  was  ready  to  go 
home.  She  died  in  her  son's  arms;  her 
worn  hand  held  to  his  lips. 

In  three  months  George  and  Leonore 
-were  married.  George  was  filled  with 


By  ELLEN  V.  MARTEN 

new  ambitions.  He  was  poing  to  get 
ahead  in  the  world.  He  world  put  more 
vim  into  his  work,  and  show  Dixon  & 
Co.  that  he  was  worth  keeping. 

But  his  enthusiasm  was  hampered  by 
ill-health.  A  slow  insidious  force  was 
at  work,  undermining  a  naturally  robust 
constitution. 

One  morning  George  was  requested 
to  come  to  Mr.  Dixon's  private  office. 
He  answered  the  summons  with  a  sink- 
ing heart. 

"Good  morning  George;  sit  down. 
I've  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you  for 
some  time."  The  head  of  the  firm  hesi- 
tated— then  swung  around  and  looked 
squarely  at  his  clerk.  "I  may  as  well  be 
honest  with  you.  You're  not  worth  a 
hill  of  beans  to  this  business." 

George  started  as  tho  he  had  been 
shot.  "I — know  it  Mr.  Dixon,"  he 
flushed  and  tried  to  stifle  a  sudden  fit  of 
coughing. 

"You're  a  sick  man ;  do  you  realize 
that?"  the  voice  was  firm  but  kindly. 

"This  cough  bothers  me  at  times." 

"Yes — I've  no  doubt.  You're  a  sick 
man  and  you've  got  to  give  up  this  job. 
You've  got  to  go  away  for  a  few  months. 
When  you're  in  better,  shape,  you  can 
come  back." 

George  was  conscious  of  a  cold  dew 
on  his  forehead.  He  felt  dizzy. 

His  employer  was  putting  some  hills 
in  an  envelope.  "Here'i  your  salary 
for  the  full  week" 

"Thank  you  Mr.  Dixon."  He  half 
rose  from  the  chair. 

"No,  I'm  not  thru  with  you  yet.  I 
want  to  tell  you  of  a  place  I've  got — 
down  near  Los  Gatos ;  ten  acres  of  fruit. 
There's  a  two-room  cabin  on  it — fur- 
nished. You  can  have  it  rent  free  for 
the  winter.  Do  you  want  it?" 

Did  he  want  it? — Hadn't  Leonore 
said  only  that  morning,  that  they  ought 
to  go  South  for  the  winter? 

George  flushed  and  stammered.  "Yes, 
I  eh —  do  want  it — Mr.  Dixon.  I  thank 
you;  I — eh,  wish  I  knew  how  to  show 
my  appreciation." 

"When  you  come  back,  it  will  be 
time  enough  for  that."  Mr.  Dixon's  tone 
was  merely  casual.  He  wrote  out  some 
directions,  and  handed  George  the  slip 
of  paper,  and  also  the  key  of  the  cabin. 

"Write  and  let  me  know  how  you're 
getting  on."  He  rose  and  shook  hands, 
and  closed  the  door  gently  when  his  dis- 
missed clerk  went  out. 

"Spicer's  gone,"  he  remarked  a  little 
later  to  his  manager.  "The  poor  devil 


was  as  grateful  as  tho  I  were  giving  him 
a  home,  instead  of  lending  him  a  place 
to  die  in." 

They  stored  their  furniture;  all  but 
the  few  things  which  would  help  to 
make  their  new  habitat  more  comfort- 
able. The  bedding  and  linen,  with  some 
odd  pieces  of  table  ware,  were  packed 
with  their  clothing  in  two  big  trunks. 
A  hamper  of  food  was  to  be  carried  for 
immediate  use. 

In  just  two  hours  from  the  time  they 
left  the  city,  they  entered  "he  front  door 
of  the  cabin.  It  had  two  rooms  and  a 
screened  kitchen  porch.  And  there  was 
plumbing. 

They  were  as  delighted  as  two  child- 
ren. The  small  dwelling  was  not  far 
from  the  road,  and  prune  trees  stretched 
away  in  a  long  vista  on  either  side  and 
off  in  the  rear.  The  limbs  were  almost 
bare  of  leaves  now;  they  carpeted  the 
ground  in  gorgeous  shades  of  russet  and 
yellow. 

The  October  sun  shone  down  warmly, 
and  Leonore  opened  the  windows  to  let 
the  fresh  air  in.  When  their  trunks 
were  brought  from  the  station,  she  made 
up  the  two  couches  and  insisted  on 
George  lying  down.  He  could  hardly 
stand,  for  weariness.  She  fixed  up  a 
tempting  lunch  for  him,  and  put  it  on 
a  small  table  beside  his  coach. 

Evidently  the  cabin  had  been  recently 
cleaned.  Toward  evening,  a  neighbor 
called  at  the  back  door  with  a  can  of 
fresh  milk.  "Thought  it  might  come 
in  handy,"  he  said  affably. 

George  didn't  get  up  next  morning — 
nor  the  morning  after.  He  lay  inert 
most  of  the  time.  Not  suffering,  or 
complaining;  just  passive.  Leonore  fed 
him  with  milk  and  eggs  that  she  bought 
from  their  neighbor,  but  he  did  not  seem 
to  have  strength  or  ambition  to  rouse 
himself  into  activity. 

Leonore  was  thankful  for  the  big  pile 
of  oak  wood  back  of  the  house.  It  was 
so  cozy  to  have  a  fire  mornings  and  eve- 
nings. 

George  lay  on  his  couch  for  two  weeks. 
He  might  not  have  felt  the  inclination 
to  get  up  then,  but  he  heard  someone  at 
work  in  the  orchard  and  asked  his  wife 
about  it. 

"The  man  across  the  road  is  prun- 
ing." She  spoke  brightly.  "Wouldn't  you 
like  to  sit  at  the  window  and  watch 
him?" 

George  lay  propped  up  with  a  pile  of 

pillows.     With  all  the  car-ful   dieting, 

he  had  grown  very  thin.    His  color  was 

an  unhealthy  white.     Leonore  looked  at 

(Continued  on  Page  319) 


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OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


299 


The  Poet  of  the  Pioneers 


IF   ONE  who   had   never  heard   of 
the  name  of  Henry  Meade   Bland 
were  asked  to  give  his  impression  of 
the  author  of  the  following  octave  of  a 
sonnet,    The  Pioneer,  the   response,    no 
doubt,  would  tell  something  of  the  truth 
of  this  man's  human  equipment: 

With  a  sigh  for  the  unknown  land  fev- 
ering his  brain, 

With  a  pulse  as  strong  as  the  engine- 
beat  on  the  rail; 

With  muscle  like  blue  steel  hewn  for  a 
ship  on  the  main, 

He  crossed  the  Divide,  he  mastered  the 
wild  trail. 

No  flood  of  the  dark  Missouri,  no  white- 
hot  plain 

Could  stay  the  soul  of  his  yearning,  could 
wreck  his  dream. 

No  mountain-storm  in  its  fury,  no  sav- 
age train 

Could  daunt  or  defeat:  he  followed  the 
flying  Gleam. 

The  most  unskilled  in  the  art  of  criti- 
cism, the  most  unread  in  the  field  of 
poetry,  would  grasp  the  significance  of 
these  deep-moving  lines.  He  would  prob- 
ably say  the  author  at  some  time  of  his 
life  had  had  intimate  contact  with 
pioneers  to  have  presented  so  accurately 
and  realistically  his  word-picture.  But 
the  discerning  critic,  aware  of  the  prob- 
lems that  present  themselves  to  the  poet, 
would  have  at  once  sensed  'hat  the  auth- 
or not  only  must  have  had  contacts  with 
pioneers,  but  also  that  he  must  have 
known  the  every  mood,  ecery  impulse, 
and  desire  that  moved  that  ponderous 
rugged  race  of  dreamers.  He  would 
have  intuitive  suspicions  that  the  poet 
must  have  the  blood  of  those  very 
pioneers  in  his  veins.  There  is  a  master- 
ful comprehension,  almost  an  ominous 
brooding,  in  the  lines:  "No  flood  of  the 
dark  Missouri,  no  white-hot  plain  could 
stay  the  soul  of  his  yearning."  The 
heavy-footed  slowly-moving  rhvthm  sug- 
gests at  once  the  sturdy  pioneers  making 
their  way  across  the  "white-hot  plain," 
the  canvused  rumbling  wagons,  the  uak 
wheels,  the  steady  plodding  oxen.  These 
are  masterful  lines.  The  author  has 
never  excelled  them,  and  it  is  doubted 
whether  any  poet  who  has  written  upon 
the  epic  of  the  West  has  dor.e  better. 

Henry  Meade  Bland  was  born  in 
Fairfield,  Solano  County,  in  1863.  His 
father  was  a  Methodist  circuit  minister, 
a  member  of  that  brave  band  of  pioneers 
whose  deeds  have  found  so  little  recog- 
nition in  the  chronicles  of  our  historians, 
his  mother  a  scholarly  woman  of  Eng- 


By  Willard  Maas 

lish  ancestry,  whose  father  had  been  an 
inveterate  novel  reader  and  had  named 
his  five  daughters  after  novel  characters. 
She  was  fond  of  reading  and  was  given 
to  singing  old  folk  songs  and  religious 
hymns,  and  from  her  he  gained  a  deep 
knowledge  of  Hebrew  and  Christian 
literature.  To  the  memory  of  his  father, 
Bland  has  paid  a  beautiful  tribute  in 
his  sonnet,  The  Pionec<  Methodist 
Ministers.  In  two  lines  doubtlessly  in- 
spired by  his  father,  he  wntes: 

Many  and  many  the  sad  and  sorrow- 
ing eyes 

Made  glad  by  those  strong  men  of 
yesterday. 


Henry  Meade  Bland 

Bland's  father,  being  a  minister,  was 
constantly  moving,  and  earh  year  the 
mother  found  herself  establishing  a  new 
home.  By  the  time  the  young  boy  had 
graduated  from  the  elementary  grades 
he  had  attended  under  sixteen  different 
teachers.  This  afforded  h;m  a  most  lib- 
eral experience  from  wh-'ch  to  draw, 
when  in  later  years,  he  began  to  write 
poetry.  While  the  classics,  the  Greek 
poets,  Shakespeare,  and  Trnnyson,  al- 
ways fascinated  him,  it  seemed  the  young 
poet  was  more  interested  in  the  stretches 
of  green  wheat  fields  that  took  on  their 
gold  as  the  summer  waned,  the  great 
oaks  that  grew  in  the  valleys,  and  the 
many  birds  that  inhabited  the  dark 
branches. 

It  was  a  strange  coincid'-nce  that  six 


miles  away,  in  the  Lagoon  valley,  an- 
other great  American  poet  was  spending 
his  boyhood.  But  Bland  had  never  heard 
of  Edwin  Markham  and  never  met  him. 
The  minister  was  called  to  another  pas- 
torate, making  all  chances  of  an  ac- 
quaintance with  Markham  impossible.  It 
was  many  years  later  that  the  two  men 
met  and  a  friendship  grew  up  between 
them.  Both  men  were  then  well  started 
on  their  careers.  Markham  had  written 
The  Alan  with  the  Hoe,  and  was  easily 
the  most  widely  acclaimed  poet  in  Amer- 
ica, and  Bland  was  winning  recognition 
along  with  that  admirable  school  of  early 
California  poets  of  which  Ina  Coolbrith, 
Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  and  the 
young  and  glamorous  George  Sterling 
were  the  forerunners. 

The  Bland  household  were  still 
itinerants,  but  finally  the  father  aban- 
doned the  ministry,  moved  from  San 
Luis  Obispo  where  he  was  stationed  to 
return  to  Sutler  county  where  he  pur- 
chased a  160-acre  wheat  ranch,  and  the 
family  settled  themselves  down  to  farm- 
ing. Here,  Bland,  finishing  his  public 
school  education,  helped  about  the  farm. 
He  had  a  splendid  team  of  horses  which 
were  valued  for  their  trotting  power. 
One  day  while  returning  from  Yuba 
City  with  a  load  of  lumber  he  stopped 
to  water  the  horses,  and  while  filling  a 
bucket  he  accidently  dropped  it  beneath 
their  feet;  the  horses  became  frightened 
and  ran  away,  damaging  the  wagon. 
This  incident  resulted  in  the  youth's 
complete  discouragement.  He  had  al- 
ways trusted  the  horses.  He  lost  all 
interest  in  ranch  life.  His  father  had 
always  wanted  him  to  go  to  college.  He 
now  consented  and  in  1882  entered  the 
College  of  Pacific  in  San  Jose. 

Here  at  the  old  College  cf  Pacific  he 
received  his  first  introduction  to  uni- 
versity life.  Since  that  time  there  has 
not  been  a  day  that  he  has  not  been  con- 
nected with  educational  work  in  some 
capacity.  While  his  interest  in  litera- 
ture always  remained  the  most  engag- 
ing to  his  creative  mind,  strangely 
enough  it  was  in  mathematics  that  he 
made  his  most  brilliant  showing.  The 
end  of  the  third  year  in  college  found 
him  assistant  professor  in  mathematics. 
It  is  rarely  we  find  a  literary  personality 
that  shows  inclinations  toward  mathe- 
matics, and  rarest,  it  seems  in  the 
poetic  category.  One  wonders  if  it  is 
this  mathematical  twist  in  the  mental 
make-up  of  the  poet  that  has  enabled 
him  to  undertake  the  more  difficult  and 
technical  French  forms  such  as  the  chant 
royal  anJ  the  ballade.  Hi;  chant  royal, 


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October,  1927 


California,  A  Song  of  the  Ultimate 
West,  is  a  splendid  example  of  the  poet's 
adroitness  at  mastering  the  forms. 

TWO  years  later  Bland  was  graduated 
from  the  College  of  Pacific.  He  later 
returned  to  earn  his  Master's  and  Doc- 
tor's degrees.  While  at  colifge  he  began 
to  write  some  poetry  as  well  as  articles 
for  the  old  San  Jose  Mercury,  but  he 
did  not  turn  his  mind  to  poetry  seriously 
until  he  began  teaching.  A  few  years 
later  he  took  his  position  as  Professor 
of  English  Literature  at  the  San  Jose 
State  Teachers'  College,  where  he  has 
remained  ever  since.  His  work  among 
the  students  there  can  not  be  overesti- 
mated. He  has  founded  The  Edwin 
Markham  Chapter  of  The  Poetry  So- 
ciety of  London,  and  has  gathered  about 


him  a  most  interesting  grcv.ip  of  young 
poets,  not  a  few  of  whom  are  somewhat 
radical  in  spirit.  The  most  well  known 
in  this  group  is  Sibyl  Cro'y  Hancbett, 
the  winner  of  Senator  Phrlan's  poetry 
award,  and  much  respected  by  the  poetry 
reading  public  for  her  published  work. 
There  are  many  of  thf  opinion  that 
Bland  is  primarily  a  lyricist,  and  that  hU> 
particular  idiom  is  one  of  Keatsian 
beauty.  It  is  true  that  many  of  his 
most  charming  poems  are  love  lyrics  of 
fragile  connotations.  Probably  the  love- 
liest of  this  group  is  Elmansa.  But  the 
lyrical  Bland  is  not  comparable  with  the 
infinitely  greater  Bland,  the  poet  of  the 
pioneers.  We  have  fully  a  dozer,  men, 
and  many  more  women,  on  the  coast  who 
are  writing  commendable  love  lyrics,  but 
we  have  genuinely  few  poets  who  have 


been  cognizant  of  the  great  drama  of 
the  West  and  have  made  live  in  their 
poems  the  tragedies  and  triumphs  of  the 
pioneer.  Bland  has  succe^oed  in  weav- 
ing a  peculiar  nostoligical  quality  into 
his  poems.  The  pioneer,  after  all,  was 
a  poet,  an  imaginative  dreivner,  seeking 
a  new  home,  enduring  all  hardships,  a 
poetic  sou!,  in  search  of  tlv  golden  city. 
As  Sterling  presented  an  Oriental  splen- 
dor in  his  Wine  of  Wizardy,  as  Robert 
Frost  has  given  us  a  portrait  of  New 
England  farm  life,  Henry  Meade  Bland 
has  contributed  the  figure  of  the  roman- 
tic but  rugged  pioneer  to  American 
poetry.  Under  the  spell  of  the  poet's 
pen,  we  become  aware,  as  he  so  intensely 
sings  in  his  chant  royal  on  California, 
that 

This  is  the  Dream-World,  never  lost 
or  old ! 


Yoreska— Painter  of  Miniatures 


IF  I  WERE  asked  to  recommend  a 
miniature  painter  here  or  in  the 
East,  or  even  abroad,  I  should  not 
hesitate  to  send  anyone  to  Yoreska."  The 
artist  who  said  this  is  a  successful  por- 
trait painter  of  San  Francisco,  a  man 
who  spent  many  years  in  New  York, 
Paris  and  Vienna  and  whose  judgment 
is  to  be  relied  upon.  His  hearty  praise 
aroused  sufficient  curiosity  to  take  me 
up  the  steep  flights  of  steps  that  climb 
Telegraph  Hill  to  see  for  myself  this 
woman  and  her  work. 

Perched  on  the  very  crown  of  the 
Hill  is  a  studio  whose  tall  windows 
kindly  overlook  the  industrial  roofs  hud- 
dled below  to  enjoy  the  blue  sweep  of 
San  Francisco  Bay.  It  is  in  this  studio 
that  I  found  Madame  Marian  Yoreska. 

A  beautiful  woman  is  she.  Tall,  slen- 
der, with  features  that  are  sentiently 
strong.  Artists  have  painted  her  por- 
trait. Poets  have  written  sonnets  to  her. 
For  this  woman,  whose  talent  it  is  to 
epitomize  personality  on  fragile  ivory, 
is  possessed  of  a  personality  that  others 
long  to  crystallize  into  enduring  form. 

One  of  her  most  striking  miniatures  is 
a  self  portrait  done  in  a  broad,  colorful 
style.  In  it  she  has  recorded  the  essence 
of  her  individuality  in  mellow  tones  of 
exquisite  color.  She  has  idealized  her- 
self in  the  essential  spirit  of  the  minia- 
ture without  losing  anything  of  human 
warmth.  (This  is  the  second  of  her 
self  portraits,  the  first  having  been  pur- 
chased by  Rex  Ingram  for  his  private 
collection.) 

One  could  say  much  more  of  this 
miniature  self  portrait,  but  why  par- 
ticularize? What  is  said  of  it  is  true  in 
greater  or  less  degree  of  all  of  her  work. 


By  Aline  Kistler 

The  reason  for  this  lies,  no  doubt,  in 
the  fact  that  Yoreska  works  sincerely, 
consistently,  with  certain  ideals  in  mind. 

These  ideals  form  what  might  be 
called  her  "theory  of  miniatures."  To 
her,  this  kind  of  portraiture  occupies  a 
specific  niche  in  the  world  of  art.  She 
feels  that  a  miniature  is  an  intensely 
personal  thing,  something  that  draws  its 
value  from  both  the  spirit  of  the  person 
portrayed  and  the  insight  of  the  artist. 
Other  forms  of  art  are  for  people  at 
large.  The  miniature  is  for  one  person 
and  for  those  admitted  to  the  intimacy 
of  friendship. 

There  may  be  fashions  or  fads  in 
other  forms  of  portraiture.  Styles 
change  with  innovations  and  advance  in 
both  camera  portraiture  and  life-size 
paintings.  One  may  want  to  be  "done 
modern"  or  to  have  a  portrait  painted 
"realistically."  Such  things  are,  to  a 
large  extent,  matters  of  ones  friends' 
opinions.  A  portrait  that  hangs  above 
the  fireplace  or  is  seen  from  various 
swivel  frames  must  cater  unconsciously 
to  group  opinion. 

But  a  miniature  bows  to  no  whim  or 
fancy.  It  is  a  tiny  thing  of  great  value 
because  of  its  very  timelessness.  It  is 
personal.  It  is  intimate.  It  is  outside 
the  moil  of  public  comment.  It  is  not 
made  for  a  season  or  a  year.  One  does 
not  change  one's  miniature  with  the 
drawing  room  drapes.  A  miniature  is 
something  that  one  expects  future  gen- 
erations to  cherish.  It  is  a  wisp  of  one's 
personality  set  aside  to  mellow  with  the 
softness  time  brings  to  memories. 

Because  of  her  conception  of  a  minia- 


ture as  an  intimate  memory  of  dignified 
timelessness,  Yoreska  at  times  portrays 
subtle  idealizations  that  disregard  wrin- 
kled facts.  At  other  times  she  interprets 
the  ideal  she  visualizes  in  a  person  by 
means  of  the  very  marks  that  Time  has 
scribbled  over  the  beauty  of  youth. 
When  possible,  she  paints  more  than  one 
miniature  of  a  person  so  that  she  may 
catch  different  facets  of  each  person- 
ality. 

Although  she  has  painted  miniatures 
professionally  less  than  five  years,  Yor- 
eska has  had  commissions  from  many 
people  prominent  here  and  abroad. 
Among  her  most  interesting  portraits  are 
those  of  Lady  Clements  Markham  of 
England,  William  S.  Clark  of  Mon- 
tana, Maud  Adams,  Harrison  Post,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Joseph  Mendelson  of  Japan, 
Margaret  Anglin,  Ruth  St.  Denis,  Mary 
Pickford,  Alice)  Terry,  Rex  Ingram, 
Lewis  Stone,  Mrs.  Bertram  Berrack  of 
England,  Dr.  W.  D.  Porter  of  Oakland 
and  Mrs.  Walter  Ehlers  Buck  of  San 
Francisco. 

Mme.  Yoreska  has  refused  to  go  to 
the  east  coast  or  abroad  to  do  her  work. 
She  has  painted  most  of  her  miniatures 
in  either  Los  Angeles  or  San  Francisco. 
She  prefers  sitting  at  the  top  of  Tele- 
graph Hill,  apart  from  yet  part  of  San 
Francisco,  letting  those  who  will  climb 
the  steep  streets  to  her  studio,  to  going 
to  distant  cities  or  countries  where  rec- 
ognition might  or  might  not  await  her. 

At  times  one  feels  certain  there  must 
be  some  secret  behind  the  strict  reserve 
that  strangely  masks  her  warm  tempera- 
ment. When  questioned,  she  smiles  and 
denies  anything  unusual  in  heritage  or 
(Continued  on  Page  314) 


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301 


Theodore  Kosloff,  head  of  the  Imperial  Russian  Ballet  School  of  San  Fran- 
cisco and  Los  Angeles,  and  Ballet  Master  of  the  San  Francisco  Opera  Asso- 
ciation, with    Vera   Fredoiaa,  ieho    during  the   season's   opera   appeared   as 
premiere  danseuse  in  "Aida"  and  "Carmen"  supported  by  a 
corps  of  Kosloff  dancers. 


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October,  1927 


THERE  is  nothing  which  adds  more 
to    the   interest   and   beauty   of   a 
home  than  artistic  and  durable 
Oriental  rugs,  and  there  is  nothing  more 
enjoyable  than  to  delve  into  the  meaning 
of  the  symbolic  designs  which  distinguish 
the  different  rug-weaving  nations. 

No  one  really  knows  -,viien  the  an- 
cient art  of  rug-weaving  commenced, 
though  it  is  mentioned  twenty-eight 
hundred  years  before  the  Christian  era. 
It  is  generally  believed  that  the  Egypt- 
ians and  Babylonians  developed  the  art 
and  then  passed  it  on  to  the  Persians 
who  gradually  spread  it  thjough  Tur- 
key, the  Caucasus,  the  Turkoman  states 
and  later  to  India  and  China. 

In  the  sixteenth  century  rug  making 
in  the  Far  East  was  encouraged  by  the 
great  rulers,  the  Shah  Abftas  of  Persia 
and  the  Sultan  Murad  thi  Fourth,  of 
Turkey. 

To  understand  and  interpret  the 
story  of  the  weavers  it  is  necessary  to 
have  some  knowledge  of  the  geography, 
history,  religion,  wars,  conflicts  and 
migrations  of  the  five  or  six  groups  of 
Asiatic  rug-weaving  nations.  Rugs  are 
generally  classified  as  Persvm,  Turkish, 
Caucasian,  Turkoman,  Beluchistan  and 
Chinese,  which  in  turn  have  divisions 
and  subdivisions.  The  names  of  the 
rugs  are  acquired  from  cite  localities 
where  the  weavers  live.  Each  district, 
tribe  and  family  has  its  characteristic 
pattern  and  color  combin;;  ions,  which 
is  an  inheritance  and  never  copied. 

No  two  rugs  are  exactly  alike  al- 
though the  general  scheme  might  be  the 
same,  and  the  locality  from  which  the 
rug  comes  can  be  readily  told. 

A  deep  symbolism  is  attached  to  every 
design  and  color  and  the  prayer  rugs 
show  that  the  makers  had  a  great  re- 
gard for  religion. 

The  oriental  looms  are  primitive:  a 
rude  loom,  a  wooden  or  metal  comb 
and  a  pair  of  shears.  Tne  materials 
used  are  wool  of  sheep  and  goats,  camels 
hair,  cotton,  linen,  silk  and  hemp. 

The  colors  are  obtained  from  natural 
sources:  animal  and  vegetable  dyes; 
and  the  secret  formulas  are  carefully 
guarded  and  in  many  localities  have 
been  handed  down  in  families  for  cen- 
turies. The  dyes  do  not  fade  and  the 
colors  become  very  rich  and  beautiful 
as  they  are  used. 

Strong  threads  are  used  for  the  warp 
which  extends  lengthwise  of  the  loom 
while  single  threads  are  used  for  the 
woof  which  is  the  cross  thread.  The 
nap  or  pile  is  knotted  and  tied  by  hand 


Rug  Weaving 

By  Mrs.  Claude  Hamilton  Mitchell 

by  two  methods:  the  Senna  or  Persian 
knot,  where  the  two  ends  of  the  pile 
after  being  wound  around  two  separate 
threads  of  the  warp,  come  to  the  sur- 
face between  every  space  of  the  warp. 
The  other  is  the  Ghiordes  or  Turkish 
knot  in  which  the  nap  comes  up  between 
two  threads.  The  number  of  knots  to 
the  square  inch  determines  the  texture 
of  the  rug 

The  rugs  tied  with  the  Senna  knot 
are:  the  Feraghan,  Senns,  Kerman, 
Bokara,  Khiva,  Khorassun,  Ispham, 
Yomud,  Bishire,  Samarkand,  Afghan- 
istan and  Beluchistan  and  the  very 
closely  woven  rugs  containing  a  hundred 
or  more  knots  to  the  square  inch  are: 
Ispahan,  Kirman,  Ladik,  Saruk,  Ghior- 
des, Senna,  Bokara,  Tabriz  Kashan, 
Kermanshah,  Dagastan,  Kabistan,  An- 
tique Kula  and  Chichi. 

To  be  classed  as  antique  a  rug  must 
be  at  least  a  century  old  and  we  are 
told  that  each  antique  has  woven  into  it 
a  separate  story  and  that  certain  rugs 
mean  certain  things.  Religious  wars 
were  the  cause  of  the  inspired  prayer  rug, 
tvith  the  niche  at  one  end,  upon  which 
the  Mohammedan  bows  in  prayer  sev- 
eral times  a  day.  The  riche  always 
points  toward  Mecca.  The  identifica- 
tion of  a  rug  is  from  the  design,  color, 
material,  texture  and  finish. 

For  about  four  thousand  years  Per- 
sia has  been  the  most  imcortant  rug- 
weaving  country  and  there  are  many 
varieties  with  many  divisions.  The 
ancient  name  of  Persia  was  Iran,  "Land 
of  the  Lion  and  the  Sun."  The  coat 
of  arms  is  a  lion  holding  an  uplifted 
sword  in  its  right  paw  with  the  rising 
sun  at  its  back.  Persians  worshipped 
the  sun  and  the  sword  represents  abso- 
lute power  of  the  Persian  julers.  The 
lion  is  an  emblem  of  one  of  the  Nomadic 
tribes  conquered  by  the  Persians.  The 
design  is  used  on  the  flag,  coins  and 
various  decorations.  The  cypress  tree, 
believed  to  be  an  emblem  of  Zoroaster, 
the  traditional  founder  of  the  ancient 
Persian  religion,  is  found  in  many  of  the 
most  treasured  specimens  of  the  Iranian 
rugs.  It  is  pictured  in  both  crude  and 
elaborated  designs  but  always  pointing 
upward. 

The  palm  leaf,  a  favorite  design  of 
most  weavers,  was  used  as  a  religious 
symbol,  an  emblem  of  immortality  and 
took  many  forms:  the  pear,  river  loop, 
cone,  crown  jewel,  almond  bouquet  and 
flame.  If  the  stems  tuni  in  opposite 
directions  it  is  a  Seraband  or  Senna  and 


if  in  the  same  direction  it  is  a  Herat  01 
Khorasan.  In  a  Sheraz  it  resembles  a 
rooster,  meaning  the  devil. 

Some  of  the  names  of  the  Persian 
rugs  are:  Sheraz,  Khorasan,  Meshed, 
Herat,  Kerman,  Kermanshah,  Tabriz, 
Senna,  Saraband,  Ferahan,  Saruk, 
Herez,  Hamadan,  Sultanabad,  Ispahan 
and  Kashan. 

The  Persian  patterns  have  been  tak- 
en from  the  natural  products  of  the 
country  such  as  birds,  animals  and  flow- 
ers. Garden  rugs  were  sometimes  de- 
signed to  represent  paths,  borders  and 
streams,  with  tulips,  roses,  lilies,  iris 
and  pinks  scattered  around.  The  most 
commonly  used  birds  and  animals  are 
the  leopard,  sheep,  hyena,  wolf,  wild- 
cat, gazelle,  grouse,  pigeon,  quail,  snipe 
and  duck.  The  legendary  history  of 
Persia  has  also  given  motifs  to  rugs  such 
as  crowns,  standards,  trophies,  costumes, 
chariots  and  weapons. 

The  Saruk,  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  Persian  rugs,  is  made  in  the  little 
village  of  Saruk,  which  has  no  more 
than  one  hundred  and  fifty  houses.  It 
is  situated  in  the  mountains  of  the 
province  of  Feraghan  where  no  foreign 
influence  has  permeated.  The  rugs  are 
of  purely  Persian  design  with  irregular 
medallions  and  meandering  lines  strewn 
over  a  field  of  the  shades  of  blue  or  rose. 
They  have  one  wide  and  two  or  more 
narrow  borders  and  are  very  closely 
woven,  having  as  many  knots  to  the 
square  inch  as  any  rug  mad.?.  The  selv- 
age is  finely  overcast  like  a  cord.  The 
Saruk  rivals  the  Senna  and  Kerman  and 
is  softer  and  better  than  the  Tabriz  or 
Kermanshah. 

The  Khorasan  rugs  are  among  the 
finest  of  the  antiques,  one  of  the  char- 
acteristics being  the  many  borders,  some- 
times ten  or  twelve.  One  border  is 
usually  wide,  with  many  narrow  ones 
on  either  side,  and  the  sides  are  over- 
cast with  fringe  or  loose  warp  on  the 
ends.  There  are  rich  floral  designs  in 
elaborate  patterns  worked  on  a  ground 
of  blue  or  red  with  sometimes  a  bold 
figure  in  the  center. 

The  capital  of  Khorasan  is  Meshed, 
called  the  Holy  City,  and  here  the  rugs 
are  of  the  same  design,  material  and  fin- 
ish, but  of  a  finer  texture  and  of  lighter 
shades.  Just  across  the  border  from 
Khorasan  in  Afghanistan  is  the  old  city 
of  Herat.  The  Heratic  pattern  is  well 
known:  the  rosette  enclosed  in  elongat- 
ed edged  leaves  or  cloud  bands,  and  the 
diamond  surrounding  a  rosette  with 
eight  storks,  making  an  all  over  pattern. 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


303 


Whenever  the  palm  pattern  is  used 
the  figures  all  face  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, differing  from  the  Saraband.  The 
field  is  dark  blue,  red  or  purple  and  the 
center  border  is  green  with  ivory,  yel- 
low, red  -and  blue  in  the  figures.  They 
are  closely  woven  and  finished  like  the 
Khorasan. 

The  rugs  of  Sheraz,  the  capital  of 
Parisian,  are  loosely  woven  and  very 
soft,  the  warp  and  weft  being  wool. 
The  favorite  design  is  a  number  of  me- 
dallions through  the  center  with  flow- 
ers and  birds  scattered  through  the  field. 
The  sides  are  overcast  in  two  or  more 
colors  with  little  tassles  of  colored  wool 
along  the  sides  or  at  the  ~orners.  The 
ends  are  finished  with  lo.ig  fringe  and 
the  borders  are  usually  wide  with  large 
figures. 

The  Kerman  and  Kern;anshah  are 
from  the  district  of  Kerman  and  are 
distinguished  by  the  harmony  and  mel- 
lowness of  color,  purity  of  drawing  and 
accuracy  of  detail.  The  tree  of  life, 
the  rose  of  Iran,  fruits,  flowers,  birds, 
animals,  floral  creepers  and  'hoots  wind- 
ing in  endless  variety  upon  a  d"licate 
grey  or  ivory,  rose,  blue  green  or  fawn 
colored  field. 

These  rugs  representing  Persian  gar- 
dens are  beautiful  works  cf  art;  they 
often  have  four  hundred  knots  to  the 
square  inch,  being  closely  woven  but 
soft.  The  sides  are  overcast  and  the 
ends  have  a  narrow  web  with  a  fringe. 
It  takes  a  skillful  weaver  working  eight 
hours  a  day  a  little  over  four  years  to 
complete  a  Kerman  rug  five  feet  by 
eight  feet,  containing  four  hundred 
knots  to  the  square  inch. 

The  Saraband,  very  attractive  and 
beautiful  rugs,  are  made  ;n  the  moun- 
tains of  Saravan  where  they  adhere  to 
the  old  traditions.  The  designs  are 
usually  rows  of  small  palms,  each  row 
facing  in  an  opposite  direction.  The 
design  in  also  called  the  river  loop  of 
the  Ganges,  the  sacred  river  of  India. 
It  is  the  Saraband  pattern  and  is  copied 
by  the  Mosul,  Kurdish  and  other 
weavers. 

Among  the  finest  rugs  of  the  old 
looms  are  the  Feraghan.  They  have 
two  characteristic  designs:  the  Herat), 
with  flowers  enclosed  in  co'ored  bands 
like  the  Herat  rugs,  and  the  other  the 
flowers  of  henna  arranged  in  rows 
through  the  whole  and  surrounded  by 
a  profusion  of  floral  designs. 

The  principal  Turkish  rugs  are  the 
Ghiordes,  Koulak,  Bergamo,  Ladic, 
Yuruk,  Milas,  Khilim,  Kararnan,  Kulah, 
Smyrna  and  Mosul.  The  Turks  being 
Mohammedans  never  weave  figures  of 
animals,  birds  or  human  beings  into 
their  rugs  as  the  teachings  of  the 
Koran  forbids  lest  it  should  lead  to 
idolatry.  The  Turks  have  prayer 


niches,  while  the  Armenians  never  pray 
on  their  rugs,  and  the  Turks  do  not  use 
the  design  of  the  cross  while  the  Ar- 
menians do. 

The  sacred  color  of  the  Mohamme- 
dans is  green  and  it  is  seldom  used  ex- 
cept in  prayer  rugs  or  those  designed  for 
mosques. 

The  Turkish  and  Armenian  women 
weave  rugs  for  their  future  husbands 
and  they  are  called  bride's  rugs  or  Kis 
Khilm. 

The  Turkish  rugs  are  loosely  woven 
and  the  pile  is  left  long  to  conceal  the 
space  between  the  knots.  Some  have  as 
few  as  thirty  knots  to  the  'quare  inch. 
Many  of  the  designs  are  geometrical 
and  many  religious  emblems  gathered 
from  the  Jews,  Greeks  and  Armenians. 
The  Turkish  comb  is  an  emblem  of  Mo- 
hammedan faith  to  remind  the  devout 
that  cleanliness  is  next  to  Godliness. 
It  appears  in  various  forms  and  in  the 
niche  of  prayer  rugs.  There  is  a  Turk- 
ish Mosul  and  a  Persian  Mosul  rug. 

The  Turkoman  rugs  come  from  the 
nomadic  tribes  of  Central  Asia  and 
among  them  the  Bokara  is  the  best  and 
most  easily  distinguished  by  its  velvety 
red  background  and  wearing  qualities. 
The  two  best  known  designs  are,  one 
containing  the  octagon  which  is  woven 
by  the  Tekke  tribe  of  Tuikoman  and 
the  other  containing  the  diamond  sur- 
rounded by  hooks  made  by  the  Yomud 
tribe.  The  Tekke  Bokaras  have  rose 
and  red  in  them  while  the  Yomud  have 
browns  and  mulberry  tones.  Other 
Turkoman  rugs  are  the  Yomut,  Bel- 
uchistan,  Khiva  or  Afghan,  Kashgar, 
Yarkand  and  Samarkand. 

The  Caucasian  rugs  are  made  in  the 
Caucasus  region  where  the  Vttle  villages 
are  not  more  than  ten  or  fifteen  miles 
apart,  each  with  its  group  of  weavers 
whose  patterns  are  inherited  from  gen- 
eration to  generation.  These  rugs  are 
characterized  by  prominent  borders 
and  purely  geometrical  patterns  with 
sharp  outlines.  Blues  and  yellows  pre- 
dominate and  the  ends  are  usually  fin- 
ished with  loose  and  braided  warp 
threads. 

Among  the  patterns  are  the  eight- 
pointed  star  of  Medes,  the  six-pointed 
star  of  Mohammed,  the  triangle,  dia- 
mond, latchhook,  barber  pole  stripe, 
tarentula,  swastika,  the  tree  of  life  and 
the  crab  with  claws  extended.  The 
latchhook  and  Greek  border  carry  the 
same  meaning  as  the  swastika,  supreme 
deity  and  the  motion  of  the  earth  on 
its  axis,  health,  happiness  and  good 
luck.  They  are  the  trademarks  of  the 
Caucasian  rugs. 

A  meandering  line,  the  symbol  of 
continued  life,  is  often  seen  in  the  bor- 
ders. Some  of  the  well  known  Cau- 
casian rugs  are  the  Dagestan,  Cabistan, 


Derbend,  Baku,  Shirvan,  Scumak,  Ka- 
zak,  Karabagh,  Tzitzi,  Malgarian, 
Guenji,  and  Tchetchen. 

The  Chinese  have  few  colors  in  each 
rug  but  the  various  shades  of  the  same 
color  produce  a  beautiful  rffect.  The 
principal  varieties  are:  Pekin,  Ming, 
Tientsin,  Eastern  Turkestan  and  Sa- 
markand. The  rugs  are  loosely  woven 
and  all  kinds  of  animals  are  used  in  the 
motifs.  All  of  the  availabk  space  con- 
tains objects  of  daily  contact  such  as 
butterflies,  dogs,  doves,  du:lrs,  deer  and 
swans. 

Religious  rugs  have  the  rosary,  in- 
cense burners  and  various  altar  objects. 
Inanimate  things  are  scattered  around 
over  a  plain  ground,  vases,  pots,  chess- 
boards, baskets,  ribbons,  wheels,  shells 
and  plates.  Flowers  of  every  variety 
are  used  but  the  lotus  flow-r  is  the  most 
used  of  all  ornamental  patterns  and  sig- 
nifies new  life  and  immorality.  The 
tree  is  also  used  frequently  and  is  asso- 
ciated with  religious  belief,  divine  pow- 
er and  bounty. 

The  Longevity  rug  is  depicted  by  the 
crane,  stork,  deer  and  tortoise,  all  sym- 
bols of  longevity.  The  Literary  rug  is 
decorated  with  books,  inkstands,  pen- 
cils, brushes,  scrolls  and  scepters. 

The  Chinese  cloud  band  signifies 
mortality;  the  dragonfly,  "worthless- 
ness;  duck,  connubial  felicity;  dove, 
companionship;  deer,  succ:>s;  crescent, 
coming  events;  crow,  bad  iuck;  corni- 
copia,  fruit  and  prosperity;  palm  leaf, 
victory ;  owl,  ill  omen ;  monkey,  high 
rank ;  ox,  friend  of  man ;  gourd,  mys- 
tery ;  hare,  the  moon ;  hog,  depravity ; 
hound,  loyalty;  hour  glass,  fire  and 
water;  leopard,  ferocity;  magpie,  good 
luck,  and  wolf,  ingratitude.  The 
whole  rug  is  an  emblem  of  eternity  and 
the  pattern  the  changing  world  of 
nature. 

There  are  no  local  distinctions  in  the 
Chinese  rug  and  all  are  f'ed  with  the 
Senna  knot.  Signs  with  no  particular 
meaning  are  symbols  of  human  souls. 
Every  color  has  a  message:  yellow 
means  power  or  royalty;  blue,  joy,  sin- 
cerity and  friendliness;  white,  immor- 
tality; black,  evil;  green,  religious  be- 
lief; red,  glory. 

The  cloth  tag  upon  whicn  are  stamped 
numbers,  attached  to  the  underside  of 
one  corner  of  oriental  rugs,  is  for  the 
importer,  exporter  and  custom  officials; 
and  the  lead  seal  is  the  seal  of  the  im- 
porter, and  bears  his  initials. 

EDITOR'S  NOTE:  Mrs.  Mitchell's  ar- 
ticle on  rug  weaving  will  be  followed  by 
"Symbols  of  Christmas"  in  our  Decem- 
ber issue  of  Overland.  There  are  three 
other  articles  to  follow  which  you  will 
not  want  to  miss,  "The  Testimony  of  the 
Woods,"  "Legendary  Art,"  "Ornamen- 
tation," "Legendary  Animals." 


304 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


Dahnu,  the  Deliverer 


DAHNU,  of  Calcutta,  usually 
slept  through  the  lectures  at  the 
great  university.  Since  he  was  a 
graduate  student  nothing  was  said  about 
this  officially,  but  the  classes  knew  a  day 
of  reckoning  would  come.  Dahnu  assured 
me  several  times  that  his  drowsiness  was 
due  to  overwork,  but  that  even  though 
he  did  sleep  in  classes  he  knew,  sub- 
consciously, what  was  taking  place,  and 
would  be  able  to  give  an  account  of  him- 
self if  called  upon.  Later  developments 
did  not  hear  him  out,  but  (hat  is  beside 
the  point. 

The  point  is  that  one  day  Dahnu 
stayed  wide  awake.  That  was  the  day 
Professor  Coxen  lectured  on  the  island 
of  Lomba.  He  mentioned  among  other 
things  thrt  Lomba  dried  and  shredded 
coconuts  for  export,  and  that  he  had 
seen  shells  piled  as  high  as  slag  heaps 
about  a  Kansas  zinc  mine.  He  stated 
further  that  these  shells  m.ide  excellent 
button  material.  Dahnu,  as  I  have  re- 
lated, was  awake — his  eyes  glowed  like 
electric  bulbs,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
hour  he  followed  Professor  Coxen  into 
his  office, -and  the  door  shut  them  in. 

Spring  came  and  Dahnu  went — after 
failing  all  his  examinations.  He  sailed 
for  home,  his  baggage  plasteied  with  uni- 
versity labels;  and  he  was  hailed  upon 
his  arrival  as  another  possible  deliverer. 
Had  he  not  studied  in  Oxford,  and  in 
a  great  American  university  as  well  ? 
Would  not  he  know  how  10  deliver  his 
people  from  British  domination?  He 
would  combine  the  science,  the  crafty 
statesmanship,  and  the  commercial 
shrewdness  of  the  West  wit1,  the  dreamy 
idealism  of  the  East,  and  who  might 
vision  the  result? 

Dahnu  was  a  man  of  caste,  but  he 
did  not  allow  that  fact  to  stand  in  the 
path  of  his  democracy.  He  soon  be- 
came the  idol  of  the  common  folk,  and 
his  wealthy  friends  thought  none  the 
less  of  him  because  he  co  isorted  with 
publicans  and  sinners.  His  was  a  per- 
sonality that  won  the  hearts  of  men  in 
the  face  of  even  the  most  ancient  and 
bitter  racial  opposition.  He  had  some 
means  of  his  own,  and  betimes  he  let  it 
be  known  that  he  intended  to  undertake, 
in  a  small  way,  a  wester  i  enterprise. 
His  rich  friends  became  entnusiastir,  and 
plied  him  with  questions ;  and  though 
gracious  in  his  answers,  he  was  reticent 
and  apologetic  for  having  disturbed  so 
much  for  so  little.  He  explained  that 
his  means  were  too  limited  to  create 
anything  noteworthy;  he  meant  simply 
to  start  a  little  button  factory  on  the 
island  of  Lomba. 


By  Gilbert  Alan  Young 

To  his  friends  Dahnu  made  it  plain 
that  this  was  at  base  a  western  idea  to 
get  as  much  as  possible  from  as  little 
as  possible.  Raw  materials  would  be 
free  for  the  taking,  labor  would  be 
cheap,  and  power  would  ccst  but  little, 
for  in  the  tropical  island  of  Lomba  he 
would  run  his  plant  by  solar  engines. 
There  was  nothing  of  speculation  in  the 
plan  he  put  forward ;  the  risk  would  be 
negligible,  the  outlay  relatively  small, 
and  the  return  enormous. 

"Why  not  form  a  company  and  oper- 
ate on  a  grand  scale?"  One  of  Dahnu's 
friends  put  the  question.  Others  took 
it  up,  and  Dahnu  was  ov.-rcome  with 
bewilderment  and  emotion ,  he  did  not 
wish  to  involve  his  beloved  countrymen 
in  the  slightest  hazard,  but  they  became 

•fa 


A  DAY  OF  LIFE 

WHEN  we  review  the  day 
At  Moon-dawning 
May  its  duties, 
Done,  appear  as  adorning 
Dear  blooms  down  a  stalk  of  hollyhock, 
Or  as  beauties 

Found  in  the  steps  of  the  Sun  if  its  path- 
way 
Be  retraced  to  morning. 

ANNA  KALFUS  SPERO. 


insistent,  and  at  last  Dahnu  gave  in, 
reluctantly.  But  he  was  pleased,  and 
he  took  no  pains  to  conceal  the  fact;  he 
assured  his  friends  that  their  plan  was 
vital  with  nobility,  it  would  give  their 
country  a  commercial  foothold  in  the 
boundless  West,  it  would  bring  in  un- 
limited revenue,  and  pave  the  way  to 
colonization  and  relief  of  overpopula- 
tion. A  mass  meeting  was  called  and 
Dahnu  spoke  to  the  assembly.  His  re- 
marks took  shape  in  an  impassioned  pat- 
riotic and  economic  address;  and  his 
hearers  sat  before  him  spell'-ound.  The 
Deliverer  was  come! 

So  a  company  was  formed  along  lines 
of  western  organization.  The  rich 
bought  shares  to  the  limit  of  their  re- 
sources, and  then  a  popular  subscription 
was  takei'  in  order  that  even  poor  peo- 
ple might  have  a  profit  frcm  the  great 
project.  Farmers  and  even  day  laborers 
put  the  savings  of  years  at  the  disposal 
of  the  company,  and  this  touched  the 
heart  of  Dahnu.  He  put  every  rupee 
that  he  could  spare  into  the  business,  and 
in  addition  purchased  a  factory  site  at 
his  own  expense  and  gave  it  to  the  com- 
pany. But  Dahnu  would  accept  no 


office;  he  would  be  nothing  more  than 
a  counsellor  for  the  company.  He 
worked  out  a  financial  plan  to  take  care 
of  the  million  dollar  capital  without  los- 
ing interest  on  the  amount  until  invested. 
The  plan  was  to  put  the  whole  capital 
into  American  securities  that  could  be 
readily  converted  into  cas'.i,  as  needed, 
in  any  exchange.  Dahnu  was  sent  to 
America  to  arrange  the  terms  for  the 
company. 

In  a  few  weeks  he  was  back  again, 
the  happiest  man  in  India,  with  Ameri- 
can endorsements  of  his  whole  scheme, 
and  guarantees  that  the  securities  would 
be  delivered  by  a  certain  date. 

Enthusiasm  ran  so  high  that  the  com- 
pany's officers  planned  an  ocean  trip  to 
the  island  of  Lomba,  a  general  tour  of 
overseeing  to  acquaint  individuals  with 
the  situation  first  hand.  Dahnu  was  the 
leading  spirit  of  the  party,  eager  to 
guide  his  followers  among  <rhe  potential 
treasures  of  the  island.  Then  calamity 
fell.  A  cablegram  came  from  New  York 
stating  that  the  securities  would  arrive 
just  a  week  after  the  dat::  set  for  the 
sailing  of  the  company's  ship.  An  effort 
was  made  to  delay  the  start,  but  the 
steamship  company  would  not  consider 
that.  As  usual  the  self-forgr:tful  Dahnu 
saved  the  situation,  by  volunteering  to 
stay  home  to  receive  the  securities  in  per- 
son. Vigorous  protests  were  instant,  but 
it  was  quite  clear  that  a  million  dollars 
could  not  be  left  to  shift  for  itself  on 
an  Indian  pier.  So  Dahnu  was  given 
a  writing  of  full  power  to  act  for  his 
company,  and  he  remained  behind,  tear- 
ful but  smiling  bravely  wMle  the  ship 
of  his  dreams  faded  into  the  horizon  and 
disappeared. 

He  met  the  securities,  showed  his  cre- 
dentials, and  took  charge  of  the  treasure 
for  his  company.  The  ship  remained  a 
week  at  the  wharf,  and  frr  Dahnu  it 
was  a  busy  week  indeed.  But  when  the 
steamer  turned  her  prow  hack  toward 
the  land  whence  the  eveivng  shadows 
point  to  India,  Dahnu  wa^  on  board,  i 
prosperous  looking  entrepreneur,  with  a 
sleepy,  kindly  smile  in  hi--  fine  dark 
eyes.  He  would  surprise  his  company. 

The  officials  of  the  button  company 
found  a  huge  button  factory  already 
operating  on  Lomba,  and  using  all 
available  materials  and  flooding  the  mar- 
kets of  East  and  West  wi'h  its  product. 
So,  in  dismay,  they  returned  to  report 
to  Dahnu,  knowing  that  hs  would  have 
a  happy  solution  for  the  problem.  But 
when  they  got  home  Dahnu  was  not 
there.  He  still  lives  somewhere  in  the 
West.  He  seems  to  like  tre  West 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


305 


Butter -Fruit 


SO  RAPID  are  the  strides  which 
have  been  made  wichin  the  past 
few  years  in  the  production  of  the 
avocado  in  California,  that  we  cannot 
help  but  wonder  what  the  present-day 
status  of  this  newly-intrcduced  fruit 
would  be  in  the  state,  had  it  Peen  brought 
along  and  cultivated  by  the  padres  on 
their  early  entrance  into  the  mission 
fields  of  California,  as  were  so  many  of 
our  other  fruits. 

Up  from  Mexico  to  the  Mission?  in 
the  South  came  our  first  fruits,  there 
to  be  tended  and  improved  upon  by  the 
Fathers.  Missionary  work  among  the 
Indians  of  California  was  actually  be- 
gun with  the  establishment  of  the  Mis- 
sion at  Loreto  by  Salvatierra  in  1697. 
Horses  and  cattle  were  brought  from 
Mexico,  and  from  history  we  learn  that 
in  1701  the  establishment,  boasted  a 
small  garden  and  a  few  fruit  trees.  From 
these  same  horses  and  cows  sprang  the 
vast  herds  which  were  later  to  roam  the 
hills  and  plains  of  California,  and  from 
these  few  trees  have  doubtless  descended 
some  of  our  choicest  fruits.  But  the 
avocado  seems  not  to  have  been  amongst 
them  for  we  have  no  record  of  it  prior 
to  1856,  at  which  time  (according  to 
the  Report  of  the  Visiting  Committee  of 
the  California  Agricultural  Society)  Dr. 
Thomas  J.  White,  who  'ived  near  San 
Gabriel,  imported  the  avocado  from 
Nicaragua,  along  with  other  tropical 
fruits. 

California  has  been  very  fortunate  in 
having  among  her  early  settlers,  men 
who  took  great  interest  in  horticultural 
pursuits,  especially  in  the  culture  of  sub- 
tropical trees  and  plants,  but  whether 
or  not  Salvatierra  or  any  of  the  other 
pioneers  had  in  their  gro/es  this  deli 


LIKE  an  emerald  dropped  from  the 
hand  of  God  into  its  ri'gged  setting 
of  mountain  ranges,  the  eld  Escobar 
ranch  lay  green  and  smiling  under  the 
blue  California  sky.  Great  oak  and 
sycamore  trees,  rich  vineyards  and  a 
tumbling  stream  frothing  around  large 
rocks  in  its  sandy  bed  added  their  pic- 
turesque charm  to  the  w'ld  beauty  of 
the  place. 

Jeanne  Kingston  frequently  visited 
the  ranch  while  her  relatives,  the  Greys, 
lived  there.  She  knew  ana  loved  each 
rock  and  tree  on  the  ranch.  One  morn- 
ing she  stole  away  with  a  hook  to  a  rus- 
tic seat  under  a  large  oak  tree,  the 


By  LOIS  SNELLING 

cious  "butter-fruit,"  its  cultivation  was 
not  continued.  It  was  not  until  the 
1890's  that  the  "alligator  pear,"  as  it 
was  then  termed,  (and  which  name  is 
now,  happily,  almost  forgotten),  was 
seriously  considered  even  for  the  home 
orchard. 

So  great  has  the  interesc  of  growers 
become,  and  such  a  ready  market  has 
the  fruit  found  at  all  times,  that  ft  now 
promises  to  become  one  of  California's 
outstanding  products.  It  has,  at  least, 
emerged  from  its  pioneer  ^.age  and  es- 
tablished itself  on  a  firm  commercial 
basis,  holding  a  place  all'  us  own  on  the 
state's  horticultural  program.  It  is  esti- 
mated that  this  year's  market  from 
Southern  California  alone  will  be  in 
excess  of  a  million  pounds,  about  half 
of  this  amount  being  consumed  in  Los 
Angeles  and  nearby  cities. 

Naturally,  like  every  other  product 
the  avocado  is  most  popular  in  locations 
where  it  is  well  known,  and  the  fact 
that  it  is  not  heavily  marketed  in  the 
East  is  because  it  has  been  insufficiently 
advertised.  As  the  general  food  value 
of  this  practically-new  edible  becomes 
more  thoroughly  recognized,  it  will 
occupy  a  more  important  place  on  Amer- 
ica's diet.  The  high  percentage  of  oil 
contained  in  its  pulp  is  of  great  nutri- 
tional value,  and  though  used  chiefly  for 
salad  purposes,  there  are  numerous  ways 
in  which  the  avocado  may  be  served  ad- 
vantageously. This,  too,  during  any 
season  of  the  year,  as  there  have  been  so 
many  different  varieties  introduced  in 
California,  bearing  at  different  times, 
that  there  is  some  species  rip<  ning  during 
each  month  of  the  twelve. 


Noon  Shadows 


By  Imogens  Sailor 

favorite  spot  where  she  loved  to  read 
and  dream  the  hours  away. 

Her  position  under  the  tree  com- 
manded a  very  good  view  of  the  long 
adobe  house  which  was  built  upon  a 
gently  rising  knoll.  A  gravel  path  ran 
around  this  side  of  the  residence,  turned 
toward  the  back  door  and  continued 
through  a  large  vineyard  where  it 
merged  into  the  county  road  which  cut 
through  the  ranch  at  the  back. 

Jeanne  laid  down  her  book,  unopened. 
Who  could  read  in  such  a  lovely  spot 
on  such  a  day?  The  sleepy  hush  of 
noon  was  over  all.  The  sunshine 


California  and  Florida  now  have  the 
best  varieties  of  the  fruit  to  be  procured 
anywhere,  as  the  avocado  districts  of  the 
whole  world  have  been  searched  by 
growers  and  enthusiasts,  in  their  efforts 
to  find  th°  species  best  suited  to  our  cli- 
mate and  soil.  The  fruit  has  had  little 
difficulty  in  adjusting  itself  to  California 
conditions.  The  different  varieties,  from 
all  sections  of  the  country,  have  readily 
made  themselves  at  home,  not  only  on 
the  coastal  area  where  avncado  produc- 
tion was  at  first  attempted,  but  experi- 
ments in  the  interior  hav;  also  proved 
successful. 

The  "butter-fruit"  tree  is  a  lovely 
thing — tall,  large-leafed,  evergreen.  It 
is  a  member  of  the  Laurel  family  and, 
as  such,  is  cousin  to  the  camphor,  cinna- 
mon and  sassafras.  Its  reqvirements  are 
very  rigid  —  total  absence  of  frost, 
drought,  excessive  heat,  protection  from 
strong  winds,  good  drainag-:  and  fertile 
soil.  Certain  areas  of  California  so  ad- 
mirably meet  these  requirements  and  in- 
terest in  the  fruit  has  become  so  keen, 
that  within  these  qualifying  areas  every 
hillside  is  becoming  dotted  with  em- 
bryonic avocado  orchards.  With  Florida 
as  an  only  competitor  in  the  United 
States,  we  cannot  help  but  anticipate  a 
bright  future  for  these  young  orchards. 

Avocado  growers  are  very  curious 
about  this  interesting  fruit,  and  if  they 
continue  seeking  new  and  better  varie- 
ties the  "butter-fruit"  salac  which  you 
so  much  enjoy  today  will,  doubtless,  be 
far  inferior  to  the  brand  which  will  be 
consumed  by  your  children  in  the  years 
to  come.  It  may  even  come  to  pass  that 
their  fruit  will  be  more  nvocado  than 
seed,  while  yours  is  the  other  way  round. 


spilled  in  a  golden  shower  from  the 
deep  blue  bowl  of  the  sky.  The  leaves 
of  the  great  oak  rustled  gently.  A  low 
call  from  the  mourning  dove  somewhere 
among  the  drooping  branrhes  stirred 
Jeanne's  heart  with  its  thrilling  sad- 
ness. Those  few  soft  notes  held  the 
wistful,  haunting  beauty  and  mystery 
of  the  scene,  and  the  girl  fell  to  dream- 
ing and  wondering  about  the  old  adobe's 
history.  She  seemed  to  hear  the  tinkle 
of  guitars  and  the  laughing  voices  of  a 
vanished  past. 

Suddenly  she  became   aware  of   two 
figures  coming  rapidly  through  the  vine- 
yard toward  the  back  door.     They  were 
(Continued  on  Page  317) 


306 


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October,  1927 


Page  of  Verse 


OLD  WOMEN 

OLD  WOMEN  have  the  beauty 
of  mellowed  canvases  .... 
The  richness  of  life,  the  ache  of  love, 
child-bearing, 
and  many  sorrows, 

have  been  painted  with  unerring  brush 
upon  the  yellowed  ivory  of  their  faces. 
They  pull  their  shawls  about  them 
and  sit  beside  the  fire, 
content. 

Their  joys  are  in 
quiet  things, — old  china, 
patch-work  quilts,   and  warm 
woolens  for  winter. 
Tolerantly  they  smile 
at  the  madness  of  youth. 
Digging  in  their  gardens  they  find 
a  quiet  peace,  in  the  smell 
of  earth. 
And  yet, 

one  springtime  life  burned  hot 
within  them, 

and  dawns  were  an  ache,  intolerable  .... 
One  springtime,  wet  apple-blossoms 
showered  two 
clinging  together! 

— ELEANOR  ALLEN. 


TO  A  HALF-GOD 

WELL  then,  blow  the  stars  into  the  morn, 
I  will  not  protest; 

Hang  the  moon  from  a  tree  of  thorn 
If  you  think  it  best; 
Use  her  golden  blood  to  smear 
Your  boast  before  all  men, 
I  am  tired,  and  have  a  fear 
Of  thwarting  you  again! 

—  DOROTHY  BELLE  FLANAGAN. 


LA  CIGALE 

I  set  not  one  trades  sail  adventuring, 
For  life  had  called  to  me — and  it  was  spring. 

WINDS  blow  through  the  eucalypti. 
Light-footed,  I 

Dance,  as  one  with  the  cool  shadows; 
Till  sunset-rose 

Fades,  and  stars  bloom  in  the  broad  sky 
Meadows. 

Life?    Not  for  the  heart  afraid;  lips 

That  drink  in  sips. 

Laugh;  sing;  love  through  the  summer  day! 

Winter  will  lay 

Toll.    Joy  nods — follow,  or  she  slips 

Away! 

— TORREY  CONNER. 


A  PARADOX  OF  LOVE 

T\EAR  heart,  to  you  it  seems,  I  apprehend, 
That  I  am  diffident  and  void  of  love, 

Because,  through  man's  old  fear  of  death,  I  strove 
To  masquerade  myself  and  to  pretend 
That  I  was  soulless,  caring  naught  for  friend ; 

But  if  the  secret  of  my  ways  you'd  learn, 
I  pray  thee  watch  the  wise  mare  with  her  colt: 
Scarce  has  she  fed  him  than,  with  wild  revolt, 

She  dashes  off  at  full  speed,  snorting,  stern, 

And  should  he  dare  to  follow  her,  she'll  turn 
Upon  him  like  a  mad  thing  till  he  flees, 
And  make  him  hate  her  kindly,  by  degrees. 

Such  grace,  I  think,  makes  easier  one's  plight. 

So  damn  me  gently  for  the  wrong,  done  right! 

ALBERT  HERGESHEIMER. 


HORIZONS 

AND  these,  your  dull  horizons,  what  are  they? 
The  flat,  unbroken  ends  of  rimless  fields. 
Even  the  sunset's  vari-colored  shields — 
The  purple  and  the  crimson  and  the  gav 
Stipple  of  pink  and  mauve,  the  final  ray 
Of  gold — all  are  impoverished.    Sunrise  yields 
Its  palette  to  a  prairie  hand  that  wields 
A  grave,  unskillful  brush  upon  the  day. 
But  mountains,  mountains,  flinging  to  the  sky 
Their  undecaying  grandeur,  make  the  end 
And  the  beginning  of  each  day  so  sweet, 
So  sharp,  so  keen  in  beauty  that  the  tie 
That  holds  me  weakens,  and  the  irons  bend : 
Life's  shackles  hang  but  loosely  to  my  fee." 

— JOHN  MULLEN. 


ADAM  AND  EVE 
For  Senator  James  D.  Phelan. 

HHHERE  was  a  glassy  stillness  on  the  air, 
A  That  day,  when  golden  leaves  burst  into  fire. 
And  doves  sought  shadows  of  the  ferns  to  pair 
The  soft-plumed  longings  of  their  warm  desire. 
And  Adam  felt  the  flame  pulse  in  his  blood, 
The  flame  that  leaped  upon  the  hills  and  pressed 
The  pointed  buds  into  a  frothing  flood — 
He  dreamed  upon  the  lilies  of  her  breast. 

The  glittering  serpent  coiled  about  their  hips, 

Hissing  softly  as  a  god's  sad-throated  lute 

Of  her  still  hair;  pale  arm,  and  curling  lips 

Poised  to  the  sweet  taste  of  the  burning  fruit, 

The'  dark  sky  flashed,  the  bright  birds  shrilled  their  scream, 

And  Adam  leaned  and  plucked  the  glowing  dream. 

— WILLARD  MAAS. 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


307 


The  Play's 


«  >^^OMEDY  has  been   particularly 
I         unpropitious    to    definers,"    that 
V^->  master  definer,  Dr.  Johnson  af- 
firms, and  how  much  more  so  is  it  to  the 
critics,  when   out  of   a  riotous  evening 
they   try  to   determine   just  what   gifts 
have  been  brought  to  Drama  and  what 
to  the  great  god  Slapstick. 

San  Francisco  still  waits  patiently  for 
the  winter  months  to  bring  it  something 
worthy  the  name  of  drama.  If  in  the 
offing  it  can  see  something  less  farcical, 
something  more  of  the  theater,  perhaps 
it  can  endure  another  evening  or  so  of 
plays  not  far  removed  from  vaudeville 
skits.  Not  that  they  are  bad  in  them- 
selves, but  they  are  so  prolific  this  sea- 
son. The  community  jaw  must  have  a 
sad  ache  by  this  time  from  such  contin- 
ued laughter. 

"The  Alarm  Clock"  at  the  Alcazar 
continues  its  irritating  jangle  and  gives 
sad  proof  of  the  present  inertia  of  society 
that  no  one  is  roused  to  shut  the  blatant 
thing  off.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Presi- 
dent Theater  upholds  the  standard  of  the 
Duffy  Players  in  its  presentation  of  "2 
Girls  Wanted,,' — a  naive  farce,  not  riot- 
ous, smoothly  acted,  with  little  exagge- 
ration. Miss  Warner  and  Miss  Lane 
have  attended  well  to  their  lessons  in 
acting  and  it  is  much  to  their  credit  that 
this  is  a  surprisingly  good  show.  Peggy 
Thomson's  "Miss  Timoney"  (the 
T.  B.W.)  is  a  caricature,  but  a  clever 
one.  Dexter  Wright's  hero  is  tradition- 
ally handsome,  but  jars  a  bit  discord- 
antly all  because  of  his  striped  suit — the 
uniform  of  the  traveling  salesman.  On 
the  whole  this  production  avoids  the 
triteness,  which  is  the  bane  of  stock  com- 
panies, and  is  refreshing  in  rather  the 
manner  of  a  good  college  farce. 

A  particularly  well-balanced  and  so- 
phisticated cast  played  with  Johnny 
Arthur  in  "I  Love  You"  at  the  Lurie. 
Although  engaged  to  the  sweetest  girl  in 
the  world,  Johnny  makes  the  rash  state- 
ment that  there  is  no  such  thing  nowa- 
days as  romantic  love — that  whatever 
appears  to  be  romance  is  but  a  product 
of  environment.  He  makes  a  $5,000 
wager — and  all  the  potted  palms  in  his 
palatial  country  home  are  concentrated 


the  Thing 


GERTRUDE  F.  WILLCOX 


about  the  settee,  the  largest  gold  fish 
bowl  obtainable  and  the  most  subtle 
floor  lamp,  furnish  the  traditional  moon- 
light on  the  water,  a  violinist  of  senti- 
mental tendencies  is  instructed  to  play 
heart  throbbing  melodies  whenever  two 
people  seek  the  settee — all  this,  the  fatal 
environment  that  works  its  spell  effici- 
ently, but  not  exactly  according  to  John- 
ny's plans.  Mr.  Arthur  adapted  his 
body  and  his  voice  to  the  role  aptly.  Of 
the  women  in  the  cast,  Jean  Maan  was 
rather  less  of  the  vaudeville  type  than 
than  Marvel  Quincey  and  Alma  Tell. 

Just  a  word  about  an  actress  and  her 
cigarette.  In  "I  Love  You"  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  third  every  woman  in  the 
cast  was  smoking  violently.  True,  the 
plot  provided  a  tense  moment  and  per- 
haps that  was  the  justification,  but  it  is 
a  cheap  trick  for  a  worthy  cast.  A  ciga- 
rette in  the  hands  of  a  good  actress  dis- 
plays a  certain  grace,  keeps  up  suspense, 
gives  a  subtle  color  to  the  part,  but  when 
it  is  a  childish  trick  at  best — an  indica- 
tion of  the  actress'  lack  of  originality  and 
resource.  If  in  this  particular  case  but 
one  player  had  used  this  business,  instead 
of  all  making  the  air  blue  with  "atmo- 
sphere," the  effect  would  have  been  more 
convincing.  For  perfection  in  the  art  of 
cigarette  manipulation  see  Symona  Boni- 
face's portrayal  of  the  traveled  lady  in 
"2  Girls  Wanted."  Her  graceful  smok- 
ing is  entirely  in  character,  and  every 
gesture  indicative  of  sophistication. 

Not  only  the  first  production  this  sea- 
son of  the  Players  Guild,  does  one  want 
to  choose  poetic,  singing  words,  but  of 
the  whole  atmosphere  of  their  beautiful 
new  theater  in  the  Women's  Building  on 
Sutler  Street.  Before  the  embroidered 
plum-colored  velvet  curtains  are  lifted, 
the  lights  softly  lower,  and  from  some 
mystic  recess  come  chimes  that  cast  a 
spell  of  thrilled  expectancy  which  knows 
no  disappointment  when  the  stage  is  re- 
vealed. The  set  was  not  only  good  to 
look  at,  but  it  was  pleasing  to  the  inner 
eye  of  which  Robert  Edmund  Jones 
speaks,  and  which  he  seeks  to  satisfy  in 
his  designs.  Junius  Cravens,  the  designer, 
is  a  poetic  artist,  with  perhaps  a  too  ap- 
parent complex  of  the  interior  decorator. 


It  may  be  said  that  the  set  looked  rather 
too  much  like  one  of  the  charming  shops 
at  Carmel,  which  are  made  to  look  so 
homelike  with  all  their  museum  pieces. 
It  was  interesting  to  note  how  the  rosey 
slippers  of  Sorel  picked  up  the  color  in 
the  scarf  thrown  over  the  piano.  Of  the 
actors  in  this  play  "Hay  Fever,"  by  Noel 
Crawford,  one  would  speak  of  Miss 
Melville  as  the  "incomparable  Emilie." 
She  was  the  rhapsodized  ideal  we  have 
of  retired  actresses.  Barrie  O'Daniels' 
interesting  facial  gymnastics  were  noted. 

The  Berkeley  Playhouse  Association 
opened  its  sixth  season  with  "The  Torch 
Bearers,"  by  George  Kelly.  The  com- 
posed, almonst  finished  acting  of  Mr. 
Goldsworthy  made  one  of  the  finest  roles 
presented  this  month.  Minetta  Ellen, 
who  did  splendid  work  in  the  Little 
Theater  this  summer,  was  disappointing 
in  her  exaggeration.  Whereas  much  of 
the  comedy  this  season  has  been  of  words 
rather  than  stage-craft,  in  "The  Torch 
Bearers"  the  business  was  rather  more 
interesting  than  the  lines.  This  bespeaks 
the  director,  Everett  Glass.  The  excel- 
lent pantomime  also  showed  good  direct- 
orship— but  the  impetuous  cavorting 
about  the  stage  in  Act  2  was  a  bit  dust- 
raising. 

Laboring  under  a  heavier  than  usual 
deluge  of  "unforeseen  contingencies"  that 
besiege  the  amateur  theatrical,  the  Oak- 
land Players  Guild  proved  itself  of  noble 
birth  in  braving  disheartening  problems 
with  a  splendid  courage  and  good  spirit. 
Their  first  production,  "You  and  I," 
may  not  have  rocked  the  world,  the  bay 
region,  or  yet  the  small  audience  gath- 
ered to  its  premiere,  but  it  had  two  or 
three  memorable  moments  which  justi- 
fied the  evening.  Disregarding  the  pro- 
duction, the  movement  it  represented  is 
of  the  finest  and  we  feel  that  subsequent 
programs  will  prove  their  worth  in  the 
field  of  little  theater  drama.  The  direct- 
ors, William  H.  Marvin  and  Barry 
Hopkins,  may  be  congratulated  in  their 
double  roles  of  actor-directors,  with  the 
accent  on  the  acting.  Mr.  Cyril  Arm- 
brister  was  Pierrot  throughout  the  play, 
and  Miss  Ruth  Taft  was  charming  in  a 
(Continued  on  Page  315) 


308 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


k. 


OORS 


CONDUCTED  BY 


Writers 


TOM  WHITE 


AFTER  reading  Salvemini's  new 
book  about  Mr.  Mussolini's  dic- 
tatorship, one  wonders  just  how  much 
coming  out  of  Italy  in  the  past  few 
years  is  propaganda.  It  is  all  carefully 
censored,  presumably. 

What  is  this  dictatorship  all  about, 
anyway?  Is  Mussolini  an  opportunist? 
Is  he,  to  quote  a  theme  already  exploited, 
as  extreme  in  his  efforts  toward  the 
Right  as  was  Lenin  in  his  direction? 
And  is  not  one  extreme  as  harmful  to 
the  body  politic  as  the  other? 

If  the  book  under  review  may  be 
taken  as  an  answer  to  Fascism,  perhaps 
the  following  quotation  may  be  used  to 
best  epitomize  this  work:  "Fascism  is 
the  Bolshevism  of  the  Extreme  Right, 
just  as  Bolshevism  is  the  Fascism  of  the 
Extreme  Left." 

By  way  of  explaining  post-war  de- 
velopments in  Italy,  comparison  is  made 
betwen  that  country  and  Russia.  The 
author  says:  "Italy  is  not  Russia,  the 
latter  being  a  sparsely  populated  coun- 
try. Before  the  war  there  were  very 
few  really  small  landowners  in  propor- 
tion to  the  available  land.  In  1919  the 
Russian  peasant-soldiers  deserted  in  con- 
fusion, and  upon  return  to  their  villages 
they  expropriated  the  existing  large 
landowners.  Italy  has  a  dense  popula- 
tion .  .  .  with  few  big  holdings  of 
land.  When  the  war  was  over,  the 
Italian  peasant-soldiers  were  formally 
discharged  and  did  not  return  home  as 
the  result  of  a  revolution. 

"The  industrial  workers  knew,  then 
as  now,  that  the  Italian  population  can- 
not subsist  without  plentiful  imports  of 
corn,  coal,  iron,  and  other  basic  necessi- 
ties. They  would  be  starved  in  a  few 
days  if  a  Communist  revolution  deprived 
the  country  of  foreign  credit.  Even  if 
a  Communist  revolution  were  ever  pos- 
sible, Italy  would  be  the  last  country 
in  which  it  could  be  carried  out.  The 
Italian  workers  never  entirely  lost  sight 
of  this  fact  and  its  implications,  in  spite 
of  their  violent  strikes,  stoning  of  motor 
cars  and  votes  cast  for  Socialists  at  elec- 
tion-time. So  much  toward  the  dissipa- 
tion of  those  fears  held  for  the  'break- 
up' of  Italy  in  those  parlous  times  fol- 
lowing the  close  of  the  World  War. 


"If  there  was  one  man  who  had  no 
right  to  treat  that  disease  (post-war  neu- 
rasthenia) with  a  cudgel  and  a  revolver, 
that  man  was  Mussolini,"  the  author 
states  in  his  chapter  on  Authorized  Law- 
lessness. He  then  proceeds  to  detail 
the  most  significant  of  II  Duce's  pre- 
war political  activities,  stating  that  no 
one  had  contributed  more  to  the  spread 
of  revolutionary  and  anti-national  so- 
cialism in  Italy  than  the  man  who  is  now 
dictator.  During  the  war,  it  seems,  none 
had  made  more  promises  of  peasant 
ownership  and  worker's  control,  and  in 
1919-1920  no  one  had  added  more  fuel 
to  the  revolutionary  fire  which  led  to 
the  occupation  of  many  of  the  factories. 
These  facts  seem  to  have  been  lost  sight 
of  during  the  ballyhoo  of  the  so-called 
"bloodless  revolution." 


THE  FASCIST  DICTATORSHIP  IN 
ITALY.  By  Gaetano  Salvernini.  Hen- 
ry Holt  &  Co.  $3.00. 

DWELLERS  IN  THE  JUNGLE.  Gor- 
don Caserly.  $2.00.  THE  DARK 
ROAD.  Harold  Bindloss.  $2.00.  Stokes 
Publications.  (L.  C.) 

THE  SON  OF  THE  GRAND  EU- 
NUCH. Charles  Pettit.  Boni  Live- 
right.  $3.00.  (L.  C.) 

THE  NEW  TESTAMENT.  Sherwood 
Anderson.  Boni  Liveright.  $2.00.  (L.C.) 

ON  LOVE.  Stendhal.  Boni  Liveright. 
$2.50.  (L.C.) 

MEANWHILE.  H.  G.  Wells.  George 
A.  Doran.  $2.50.  (L.  C.) 

WHO  IS  THIS  MAN?  Alice  MacGowan 
and  Perry  Newberry.  Stokes  Publica- 
tions. (L.  C.) 

A  GOOD  WOMAN.  Louis  Bromfield. 
Stokes  Publications.  $2.00.  (L.  C.) 

BLONDES  PREFER  GENTLEMEN. 
Nora  K.  Strange.  J.  S.  Ogilvie  Pub- 
lishing Co.  $1.25. 

ADVENTURES  IN  EDITING.  Charles 
Hanson  Towne.  D.  Appleton,  &  Co. 

THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY.  By 
an  Ex-Diplomat.  Boni  Liveright.  $3.00. 


In  1921  "expeditions  of  propaganda" 
came  into  high  favor,  leaving  smoke  and 
blood  in  their  wake.  The  many  inci- 
dents of  this  nature  were  featured  by 
the  punitive  parties  outnumbering  their 
victims  five,  ten  and  often  twenty  to 
one,  the  Fascists  being  armed  to  the 
teeth.  This,  of  course,  incurred  deep 
hatred,  and  the  hatred  brought  about 
further  disorders  which  were  answered 
by  the  Fascists  in  the  form  of  reprisals 
in  which  bitterness  seemed  to  have  no 
limit.  In  practically  every  instance  of 
violence  the  carabineers  and  the  police 
were  powerless;  and  when  charges  were 
preferred  and  the  cases  came  to  trial  the 
verdict  was  a  foregone  conclusion,  de- 
spite the  evidence. 

The  author's  succinct  definition  of  a 
Fasci  is  found  in  the  chapter  headed 
Military  Conspiracy:  "The  first  Fasci, 
in  1919-1920,  consisted  of  patriotic 
youths  who  thought  that  by  their  'anti- 
bolshevist'  activities  they  were  serving 
their  country;  in  1921,  Fascism  became 
an  anti-Trade  Unionist  movement  in  the 
interests  of  the  profiteers;  in  1922  it 
also  became  an  anti-parliamentary  move- 
ment in  the  service  of  a  military  'Black 
Hand.'  " 

As  an  indication  of  just  how  Musso- 
lini weighed  and  tested  the  strength  of 
each  side  and  how  he  "straddled  the 
issue"  up  to  the  very  eve  of  the  "march 
on  Rome,"  (October  28,  1922),  the 
author  says  II  Duce  "was  in  touch  at 
the  same  time  with  the  parliamentary 
leaders  of  the  Right  and  of  the  Left, 
ready  to  throw  in  his  lot  with  which- 
ever group  was  disposed  to  grant  him 
the  greater  number  of  ministerial  posts." 
If  this  is  true,  the  man  is  certainly  an 
opportunist. 

As  to  his  executive  duties,  "the  only 
department  to  which  he  devotes  himself 
whole-heartedly  is  one  which  has  no  of- 
ficial existence:  the  advertising  depart- 
ment." No  one,  surely — not  even  the 
Fascist — will  take  exception  to  this  as- 
sertion. 

In  spite  of  official  assurances  to  the 
contrary,  Salvernini  quotes  literally 
scores  of  instances  of  frenzied  brutality 
in  which  murder,  terrible  beatings 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


309 


and  property  destruction  were  the  order 
of  the  day  throughout  the  kingdom,  fol- 
lowing the  attempt  on  Mussolini's  life 
by  the  dissident  Fascist  Anteo  Zamboni, 
in  December,  1926.  This  resulted  in 
greatly  strengthening  II  Duce's  hand,  at 
same  time  giving  his  henchmen  another 
opportunity  for  wholesale  butchery. 

THE  FASCIST  DICTATORSHIP  appears 
to  be  one  of  the  very  few  uncensored 
things  coming  out  of  Italy ;  and  with  the 
vital  facts  apparently  well  substantiated, 
the  book  carries  considerable  weight.  It 
completes  the  picture. 

Volume  II  of  this  book,  dealing  with 
contemporary  social,  economic  and  po- 
litical life  in  Italy,  will  appear  early 
this  winter. 


MEANWHILE 

IF  MEANWHILE  came  to  our  desk  with- 
out the  name  H.  G.  Wells,  we  might 
be  able  to  give  an  opinion,  uninfluenced 
by  previous  works  of  the  author.  One 
feels  awed  when  the  time  comes  to  re- 
view one  of  H.  G.  Wells'  books,  for  one 
never  loses  the  touch  of  the  gifts  of  this 
man.  MEANWHILE,  on  the  whole,  is  de- 
lightfully alive.  When  you  read  the 
book,  you  read  the  man.  His  sentences 
are  restless,  rilled  with  tension  which 
may  snap  at  any  moment  and  never 
does.  However,  the  book  is  a  thoughtful, 
well-balanced  piece  of  work.  That  Mr. 
Wells  is  surely  allowing  the  artist  in 
him  to  be  enveloped  by  the  propagandist 
and  his  heavy  moralizing  is  obvious,  yet 
one  cannot  help  but  be  conscious  of  the 
insight,  humor;  in  short,  the  equipment 
of  H.  G.  Wells  that  makes  him  one 
among  the  best  in  the  fine  art  of  prose 
fiction.  Wells  has  much  to  say,  and  he 
says  it  effectively.  Like  the  rest  of  his 
works,  one  should  not  miss  this  book. 


WHO  IS  THIS  MAN? 

ALICE  MAcGOWAN  and  Perry 
Newberry  are  co-authors  on  this  ex- 
cellent mystery  tale.  The  mystery  is 
genuine.  The  author  gives  the  reader 
what  the  reader  expects  and  everybody  is 
satisfied.  If  you  like  mystery,  if  you  can 
justify  your  own  constructive  mind  by 
solving  plots  before  they  are  finished, 
then  read  this  excellent  story  and  you 
will  have  a  better  opinion  of  your  own 
genius  for  solving  mistaken  identities 
through  the  riotous  sequence  of  exciting 
scenes. 


Possession,  Early  Autumn  —  A  GOOD 
WOMAN  is  a  study  of  one  certain  phase 
of  American  life.  It  is  a  story  of  a 
woman,  Emma  Downes,  yes,  and  it  is  a 
story  of  Philip,  of  his  wife  of  even  Mary 
Conyngham,  who,  despite  herself,  loved 
a  man  who  was  all  weakness  quixotic  im- 
pulses, and  of  Lily  Shane,  who  was  a 
sinner  but  had  charity.  Like  all  of 
Bromfield's  novels,  it  is  a  book  built 
upon  more  than  one  character,  each  dis- 
tinct in  its  individual  story  and  yet 
moulded  together  for  one  final  impres- 


sion. 


STAR  OF  THE  HILLS.  Wilder  An- 
thony. Reviewed  by  Tancred.  Macau- 
ley  &  Co.  $2.00. 

MORNING  THUNDER.  Nalbro  Bart- 
ley.  George  Doran.  $2.00. 

THEY  ALSO  SERVE.  Peter  By  Kyne. 
Cosmopolitan.  $2.00. 

THE  WAY  OF  ALL  SINNERS.  F.  R. 
Buckley.  Century.  $2.00. 

THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 
Clyde  Kluckhohn.  $4.00. 

AFTER  YOU,  MAGELLAN.    James  F. 
Leys,  Jr.     Century.    $4.00. 
Harold  Vinal  Publications  as  titled: 

OUT  OF  THE  SHADOWS. 

FIRST  FRUITS  OF  A  YOUNG  TREE. 

LEAVEN  FOR  LOAVES. 

THE  DANCE  AT  THE  FLYING 
BROOMSTICK. 


A  GOOD  WOMAN 

LOUIS    BROMFIELD    gives    us    a 
Pulitzer  prize  winner  in  his  latest 
book.    Somewhat   like   the   three  which 
preceded    it — The    Green    Bay    Tree, 


HAROLD   VINAL    BOOKS    RE- 
VIEWED BY  TANCRED 

MR.  COX  seems  to  feel  the  intense 
rush  and  glamor  of  our  present  day 
world  is  too  brazenly  blatant.  He  ad- 
vises a  slowing  down  and  a  contempla- 
tion of  finer  philosophical  values.  We 
deeply  sympathize;  but  we  have  a  mem- 
ory of  thousands  who,  like  Mr.  Cox, 
have  gone  down  fighting  the  futile  war 
for  commercial  and  mental  peace.  Many 
of  the  poems  in  "OuT  OF  THE  SHA- 
DOWS" are  firm  examples  of  a  sincere 
craftsman.  They  are  fresh  and  keen ; 
totally  lacking  in  sentimental  syrup  and 
neurotic  confusion.  Straightforward  is 
the  word. 

Perhaps  the  most  beautiful  examples 
of  the  printer's  art  and  the  bookbinder's 
skill  are  coming  from  Harold  Vinal,  of 
New  York  and  London.  If  only  for  the 
exquisite  taste  and  charming  clarity  of 
binding  and  printing,  a  selection  of  Vinal 
books  should  be  on  your  shelf.  Mr. 
Vinal  published  "OuT  OF  THE  SHA- 
DOWS" by  George  G.  Cox. 


MR.  EICHLER  titles  his  book, 
"FIRST  FRUITS  OF  A  YOUNG 
TREE."  For  first  fruits  we  would  say 
thay  are  exceptionally  tasty.  Not  highly 
flavored  and  superb  examples  of  the 
orchardist's  extreme  skill,  to  be  sure, 
but  nevertheless  luscious.  Alfred  Eich- 
ler  shows  more  promise  than  a  few 
whose  books  are  last  fruit.  Harold 
Vinal  gives  the  book  his  excellent  taste 
and  it  is  a  charmingly  bound  affair.  Mr. 
Vinal  is  of  New  York  and  London. 

SOME  of  the  poems  in  Dr.  Adler's 
"LEAVEN  FOR  LOAVES,'  (and  what 
an  excellent  title  for  a  book  of  poetry 
that  is!),  some  of  the  poems  are  too 
optimistical  for  the  blase  poetry  reader 
of  today  and  still  a  few  others  are  a 
trifle  too  sentimental.  One  feels  Dr. 
Adler  should  have  waited  and  strength- 
ened his  grip  on  the  Immortal  Pen.  Here 
and  there,  especially  amon^  the  sonnets, 
a  poem  rears  up  with  rich,  athletic  pow- 
er. It  is  an  irritation  to  read  such  a 
poem  along  side  something  totally 
puerile.  "A  Mammy's  Consolation,"  for 
instance.  And  that  gosh  awful  thing, 
"Magnolia  Buds."  Perhaps  Frederick 
Adler  hadn't  enough  of  his  rugged, 
cleanly  cut  poems  to  complete  a  volume. 
It  seems  poor  taste  to  ;fi!l  in"  with 
sentimental  pap  in  such  emergency.  Bet- 
ter, by  far,  to  wait  till  the  larder  held 
poems  of  equal  fineness  and  merit 

The  book  is  published,  with  usual 
excellent  taste  and  high  craftsmanship, 
by  Harold  Vinal  of  New  York  and  Lon- 
don. 

THE  DANCE  AT  THE  FLYING 
BROOMSTICK"  is  an  exceptionally 
worthwhile  and  well  written  book  of 
verse.  Mr.  Wright's  poem  on  "Hearth- 
fire  Light  and  Candle  Flame"  is  one  of 
the  finest  of  its  kind.  If  you  care  for 
the  subdued  and  the  cultured,  the  sha- 
dows and  half-lights,  this  rmall  volume 
of  poems  will  please  you  .mmensely. 

The  book  is  beautifully  printed  by 
Harold  Vinal  of  New  York  and  Lon- 
don. 


THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY 
"W/"HO  is  the  Ex-Diplomat  who  writes 
*  so  knowingly  of  the  kings,  dictators, 
premiers,  generals,  ladies,  authors, 
artists  and  many  others?  Who  is  this 
Ex-Diplomat  who  has  written  from  the 
leaves  of  his  diary  intimate  glimpses 
into  the  lives  public  and  private  of  the 
most  notable  personalities  in  this  gen- 
eration ? 

One  remembers  well  the  Gentleman 
of  the  Feather-Duster  and  one  will  cer- 
tainly remember  the  Ex-Diplomat  for 
what  he  leaves  the  world  in  this  extra- 
ordinary piece  of  work. 


310 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


ADVENTURES  IN  EDITING 

TO  the  majority  of  us,  particularly 
those  engaged  in  writing,  the  mind 
of  that  awesome  person  reverentially 
referred  to  as  the  editor,  is  a  "fearful 
and  wonderful  thing."  But  were  we 
all  given  the  opportunity  to  read  Charles 
Hanson  Towne's  ADVENTURES  IN  EDI- 
TING, a  wholly  different  light  would 
be  shed  on  the  subject.  Oh  yes, 
he's  very  much  of  a  human  being,  and 
as  such  he  is,  of  course  subject  to  the 
usual  foibles — and  failings  too,  per- 
haps. But  of  these  failings,  which  might 
better  be  set  down  on  the  other  side 
of  the  ledger,  Mr.  Towne  indicates 
that,  as  a  class,  editors  are  the  most 
human  beings  in  the  world.  And  for 
the  sake  of  those  who  have  accumulated 
a  sizeable  stock  of  rejection  slips,  let 
it  be  said  that  they  are  not  deliberately 
being  made  to  suffer  in  order  to  furnish 
fuel  for  the  lime-light  which  suffuses 
the  forms  of  famous  literati.  In  fact, 
he  makes  it  very  plain  that  editors  re- 
peatedly go  out  of  their  way  to  offer 
help  and  encouragement  to  those  whose 
work  indicates  the  tiniest  gleam  of  liter- 
ary ability.  No  editor  is  happier,  states 
Mr.  Towne,  than  when  he  '''brings 
out"  a  brand  new  author. 

Mr.  Towne's  editorial  connections 
in  the  magazine  field,  together  with  his 
author  contacts,  combine  to  make  fasci- 
nating reading. 


But  what  of  the  brunettes?    Who'll 
be  their  champion?    Or  don't  they  need 


oner 


BLONDES  PREFER  GENTLE- 
MEN 

BARRING  some  unforseen  accident, 
American  publishers  will  soon 
reach  their  goal — a  new  five-foot  shelf. 
And  it  will  be  most  unique,  not  alone 
in  format,  but  titles  as  well.  The  very 
newest  is  BLONDES  PREFER  GENTLE- 
MEN. 

A  great  little  game,  this  business  of 
guessing  what  the  next  title  is  going  to 
be.  Just  take  three  or  four  words — 
there  must  be  three,  at  least — stir  'em 
up  good,  then  fish  out  a  forkful.  It 
was  tried  the  other  night  at  a  party, 
when  one  girl  pulled  "The  Blondes 
Gentlemen  Prefer,"  and  another,  "The 
Preference  of  Blonde  Gentlemen." 
What  develops  between  the  covers  is 
immaterial;  at  least,  it's  always  uni- 
form. But  the  real  excitement  lies  in 
speculating  on  word  transposition  as  it 
applies  to  the  title. 

In  her  B.  P.  G.  (otherwise,  too  much 
repetition!)  Nora  Strange  gets  off  a 
good  one  occasionally.  She  catalogs  girls 
after  this  fashion:  "There  are  two  sorts 
— those  born  lucky,  and  those  who  have 
grown  careful."  As  for  the  men,  read 
this:  "There  are  (likewise)  two  sorts 
— those  who  give  and  those  who  take." 


STOKES'  PUBLICATIONS 

OTHER  books  received  from  Stokes 
are  DWELLERS  IN  THE  JUNGLE,  by 
Gordon  Caserly,  which  is  a  series  of 
colorful  animal  tales  of  the  hot  jungles 
of  Northern  India  and  convey  the  sub- 
tle, mysterious,  passions  of  tigers,  croco- 
diles, feathered  folk,  cobras,  monkeys, 
elephants,  inhabitants  great  and  small, 
fierce  or  harmless,  that  dwell  in  the  re- 
cesses of  the  Himalayas.  Another  Stokes 
publication  to  reach  our  desk  is  THE 
DARK  ROAD,  by  Harold  Bindloss.  Bind- 
loss  will  be  remembered  for  his  excel- 
lent "Ghost  of  Hemlock  Canyon,"  and 
THE  DARK.  ROAD  is  a  close  second  to  the 
preceding  novel.  Those  who  enjoy  rich 
romance  with  colorful  background  will 
enjoy  Bindloss'  last  book. 


THE  SON  OF  THE  GRAND 
EUNUCH 

T^HE  character  of  the  GRAND  EUNUCH 
A  belongs  to  history,  so  Charles  Pettit's 
publishers,  Boni  Liveright,  tell  us.  This 
is  indeed  a  book,  strange  in  its  story  and 
filled  with  that  mystery  of  the  Orient. 
Charles  Pettit  has  done  much  to  give 
us  the  character,  morals  and  customs  of 
China  previous  to  1912.  The  philosophy 
is  Chinese.  Indeed,  this  is  a  book  to  keep 
in  one's  library. 


ON  LOVE 

THIS  is  the  fourth  work  and  the  sixth 
volume  of  the  complete  translation  of 
Stendhal.  The  breadth  of  his  treatment 
of  love  is  amazing.  He  touches  on  every 
side  of  the  relationship  between  man  and 
woman  and  gives  us  a  brilliant  discus- 
sion of  the  different  phases  of  this  inter- 
esting pleasure. 


THE  NEW  TESTAMENT 
A  NOTHER  Boni  Liveright  book  of 
-£*-  interest  is  Sherwood  Anderson's  A 
NEW  TESTAMENT.  Everything  Ander- 
son has  ever  done  has  been  touched  by 
the  genius  of  the  poet.  This  is  perhaps 
the  most  poetical  and  lyrical  of  his  prose 
works.  The  book  is  comprised  of  com- 
plete unities  of  thought  that  are  rhyth- 
mic in  quality.  Some  of  his  views  are 
surprising,  but  they  are  truly  Sherwood 
Anderson's  and  we  take  them  much  as 
we  do  some  new  fad  in  dress,  to  be  at 
last  completely  captivated  by  the  cre- 
ation. 


with  naturalness  and  excel'.intly  drawn. 
Perhaps,  among  the  lighter  present-day 
fiction,  Miss  Bartley  rants  with  thi 
finest.  "Morning  Thunder"  does  noth- 
ing to  lower  her  position. 


THEY  ALSO  SERVE 

THIS  is  Peter  B.  Kyne's  fourteenth 
book.  It  is  a  racy  tale,  told  in  brief 
paragraphs  by  a  horse  who  served  in  the 
late  European  War  Circus.  Mr.  Kyne, 
you.  recall,  is  the  popu.nr  California 
•writer  who  used  to  do  excellent  work  in 
the  short  story  form  when  he  was  josh- 
ing Cappy  Ricks  over  the  San  Fran- 
cisco waterfront.  Since,  ahs,  Mr.  Kyne 
has  become  exceedingly  popular  and 
writes  merely  to  complete  Mr.  Hearst's 
contract  religiously  each  year.  This  late 
book  is  a  fair  example  of  what  the  great 
unwashed  will  buy  by  the  thousands  and 
alternately  chuckle  and  weep  over.  If 
you  like  fiction  turned  out  like  Ford 
Chariots,  here  is  your  mecca. 


STAR  OF  THE  HILLS 

HERE  is  another  novel,  based  on  what 
the  publishers  call  "WINNING  OF 
CALIFORNIA."  It  deals  wifh  that  estate 
existing  in  the  golden  state  prior  to  its 
entrance  into  the  union  ana  when  it  was 
still  the  overly  disputed  Mexican  pro- 
vince. So  many  thousands  have  written 
about  it.  Mr.  Anthony  is  to  be  compli- 
mented for  filling  the  adventure  with 
clever  situations  and  brisk  movement. 
Other  than  being  a  novel  with  not  too 
much  sentimental  floss,  "Star  of  the 
Hills"  is  simply  another  ^ood  yarn  hav- 
ing to  do  with  the  Moth'-r  Lode  .  .  . 
California.  It  is  well  worth  the  price, 
at  that! 


MORNING  THUNDER 

THIS  book,  "MORNING  THUNDER/' 
is    a    cleverly   constructed    novel    of 
everyday  life.     The  characters  are  rich 


"LINDY"  AND  LITERATURE 

1%/TAUDLIN  sentimentality  should 
-"-*•*•  in  nowise  serve  to  link  the  two 
components  of  this  caption.  That's  un- 
thinkable. The  splendid  achievement 
of  Colonel  Lindbergh  has,  however, 
stirred  the  hearts  of  the  world  as  noth- 
ing has  ever  done  before;  and  when 
hearts  are  deeply  moved  the  agitation 
is  bound  to  find  instant  reflection  in  con- 
temporary literature.  That's  QUITE 
thinkable. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  one  of  the 
early  ripples,  which  appeared  in  the 
August  number  of  ARTS  &  DECORATION. 
Commenting  on  the  daring  young  col- 
onel's epic  flight,  Burton  Rascoe  has 
this  to  say: 

"More  tears  of  admiration  and  love 
have  been  shed  by  both  men  and  women 
for  that  youth  than  perhaps  for  any 
other  hero  that  ever  lived.  Strong  men, 
unaccustomed  to  displaying  emotion,  tell 
me  they  cannot  think  of  Lindbergh 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


311 


without  a  lump  in  the  throat.  A  pretty 
matron  only  five  years  Lindbergh's 
senior  said  to  me,  'That  lad  makes  every 
woman  over  twenty-five  feel  like  a 
mother  to  him  and  want  to  be.'  What 
has  captured  the  hearts  of  people  the 
world  over,  I  think,  is  not  so  much  the 
lad's  courage,  but  his  naivete,  simplicity 
and  modesty.  .  .  . 

"It  is  just  possible  that  Lindbergh, 
having  stirred  the  hearts  of  people,  will 
influence  to  some  degree  the  literature 
of  the  immediate  and  perhaps  the  more 
remote  future. 

"Until  the  war  came  we  had  a  liter- 
ature that  was,  in  the  main,  innocently 
happy  and  optimistic  as  benefited  a 
youngish  country  just  learning  its 
power  and  with  its  interests  focused  on 
material  success.  Then  came  the  war 
and  after  it  the  disillusion  of  the  young 
writers — a  disillusion  half  real  and  half 
literary,  which  soon  degenerated  into  a 
sort  of  literary  fad  and  formula.  Fu- 
tility was  the  preachment  of  many  of 
the  stories  and  poems  that  came  from 
youths  who  had  lived  through  the  war 
and  had  begun  to  express  themselves 
through  the  media  of  words.  There  was 
that  agonized  lyric  that  epitomized  the 
feeling  of  the  younger  generation,  T.  S. 
Eliot's  'The  Waste  Land,'  which  con- 
trasted the  coarse,  weak  and  ugly  sat- 
isfactions of  the  present  with  the  more 
robust,  free  and  noble  satisfactions  of 
the  Elizabethans.  .  .  . 

"But  the  flight  of  this  boy,  Lind- 
bergh, across  the  Atlantic,  together  with 
all  the  qualities  in  him  that  make  him 
lovable  and  admirable,  will  have,  I 
think,  a  very  definite  influence  upon 
the  mood,  the  point  of  view,  and  even 
the  manner  of  literature. 

"Acclaim  makes  heroes  and  heroes 
make  literature,  and  the  qualities  of  the 
hero  praised  are  established  as  desirable 
qualities  to  emulate.  Lindbergh  makes 
the  futilitarians  of  our  young  modern- 
ists seem  both  sentimental  and  futile. 
The  smart-cracks  die  on  the  lips  at  the 
sight  of  that  simple  and  serene  youth 
who  at  times  has  on  his  countenance 
something  of  that  brooding  sullenness 
that  characterizes  the  man  of  determina- 
tion. The  whiners  of  'The  Sun  Also 
Rises,'  drinking  from  one  Paris  cafe 
to  another,  are  dwarfed  by  the  image 
of  that  slim  youngster  out  of  the  Minne- 
sota prairies,  sitting  alone  in  the  cock- 
pit of  a  small  plane,  high  above  the 
rolling  waters  of  the  mid-Atlantic,  dar- 
ing without  fanfare  or  ballyhoo  to  do 
that  which  had  not  been  done  before." 

In  other  words,  the  exponents  of 
"Blah"  are  made  ridiculous;  the  pose 
of  the  sophists  collapses  like  a  toy  bal- 
loon— it  returns  to  its  own  groundless 
foundation,  not,  however,  because  it  is 
directly  vanquished  by  the  spirit  of  that 


which  is  so  entirely  worth  while,  but 
rather  because  of  its  own  pitifully  in- 
nocuous estate,  made  all  the  more  piti- 
ful by  reason  of  such  an  odious  com- 
parison. 


"There  was  a  time  when  I  took  pride 
in  the  wideness  and  diversity  of  my  kill- 
ings," wrote  James  Oliver  Curwood  in 
the  closing  years  of  his  life.  "I  am  a 
destroyer.  Now  I  am  fighting  for  wild 
life  harder  than  I  ever  hunted." 

The  little  circle  of  writers  who 
might  most  properly  be  called  construc- 
tive novelists,  suffered  a  tremendous  loss 
in  the  death  of  Curwood  on  August 
13th,  at  the  age  of  forty-nine.  His  niche 
will  be  hard  to  fill. 

His  literary  productions  and  subse- 
quent public  services  were  devoted  to 
the  portrayal  and  preservation  of  the 
wild  life  of  the  North  American  conti- 
nent, particularly  Alaska  and  the  Cana- 
dian northwest.  A  few  of  Curwood's 
most  noted  works  were  "Goo's  COUN- 
TRY AND  THE  WOMAN,"  "NOMADS  OF 
THE  NORTH,"  "THE  VALLEY  OF  SI- 
LENT MEN,"  "THE  COUNTRY  BE- 
YOND" and  "THE  ALASKAN."  It  is  es- 
timated that  more  than  a  million  copies 
of  his  novels  were  sold,  both  in  this 
country  and  abroad. 

Due  entirely  to  the  constructive 
thread  running  through  his  later  books, 
it  is  not  altogether  unlikely  that  they 
will  live  for  many  decades  to  come. 


By  the  way,  what  WAS  last  year's 
best  seller,  anyway? 


talking,  stealing  buccaroo  given  the 
name  of  Francesco  Vitali.  The  type  of 
mercenary  rogue  every  city  of  America 
intimately  knows  today.  His  rise  in  the 
war-split  Italy  of  his  day,  his  schemes 
and  his  perversions  in  the  realm  of  men- 
tality prove  a  philosophy  witty  and 
keen,  a  character  ability  drawn  to  an  ex- 
cellent degree  and  polished  with  more 
than  light  care.  Francesco  withal  is 
human,  withal  is  suave,  withal  is  appeal- 
ing. You  will  find  him,  toward  the  end 
of  the  table,  even  lovable.  And  whether 
you  are  initiated  into  the  delights  of 
medieval  settings  in  modern  grammar 
or  no,  "The  Way  of  All  Sinners"  can 
hardly  fail  to  please  you. — TANCRED. 


And  now  that  the  presses  have  been 
groaning  under  the  strain  of  many  two- 
volume  novels,  won't  some  gentleman 
whose  word  carries  weight  with  the 
literati  and  near-lit,  kindly  stand  up 
and  propose  a  slogan  carrying  a  plea 
for  better  and  shorter  books?  Like  the 
labor  unions  when  they  frame  their  de- 
mands for  a  wage  increase,  expecting 
to  get  only  about  half  they  ask  for,  the 
tireless,  good-natured,  long-suffering 
American  reading  public  would  shout 
themselves  hoarse  at  such  a  proposal. 
They  would  know  only  too  well  the 
utter  futility  of  really  looking  for  bet- 
ter and  shorter  books,  but  their  hope- 
ful souls  would  respond  joyfully  at  the 
prospect  of  either  better  multi-volume 
books  or  shorter  ones  of  the  same  calibre. 

Better  and  shorter  at  the  same  time? 

Not  a  chance.    Too  good  to  be  true. 


THE  WAY  OF  ALL  SINNERS 

A  LATE  Century  novel — and  a  very 
good     one, — is    F.     R.    Buckley's 
"The  Way  of  All  Sinners."   Modern  in 
dictation,  medieval  in  setting,  the  story 
has  to  do  with  one  high-bagging,  loud- 


THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW 

CLYDE  KLUCKHOLM  has  writ- 
ten a  very  good  book  on  the  South- 
west. Three  thousand  miles  of  it.  Start- 
ing out  a-horse,  delightfully  green  and 
tender,  he  mets  a  fellow  voyager  and 
they  join  fortunes.  And  if  unwise  in  the 
living  conditions  of  this  exquisite  coun- 
try, they  are  extremely  appreciative  of 
its  beauty.  Descriptions  of  the  ancient 
and  beautiful  Pueblo  dwellings,  hazar- 
dous mountain  passes,  exotic  Indian 
dances  and  that  hugely  impressive  bit  of 
natural  architecture,  the  Rainbow  Na- 
tural Bridge  are  beautifully  written,  and 
cleverly.  Spliced  with  the  flow  of  des- 
criptive beauty  is  the  author's  droll  ac- 
count of  the  hardships  experienced  in  the 
travel  adventure.  Incidentally,  we  had 
no  idea  the  Southwest  could  be  so  deli- 
cately beautiful  in  cold  print. — TAN- 
CRED. 


AFTER  YOU,  MAGELLAN 

MR.  LEYS,  being  young  and  carefree, 
being  given  a  heart  thirsting  ad- 
venture and  travel  as  poignantly  as 
some  of  us  thirst  ease,  left  college  with 
the  definite  desire  implanted  in  him  to 
see  the  earth  and  all  it  holds.  He  chal- 
lenges a  fellow  buddy  to  a  race  around 
the  world,  winning  it  after  three  hun- 
dred pages  of  the  most  colorful  travel 
history  we  have  read  in  a  good  many 
moons.  Working,  begging,  sometimes 
flunking  his  way,  he  reaches  the  Orient 
— Hongkong,  to  be  exact.  After  that 
the  account  stretches  into  vivid  passages 
of  out-of-the-way  corners,  personalities, 
adventures,  all  written  as  a  vagabond 
sees  them— TANCRED. 


Buy  Overland 

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What  Is  Your  Name? 


By  GERTRUDE  MOTT 


NOVEMBER 
OVERLAND 

Out 
October  25 

This  issue  is  being  compiled  by 
Albert  M.  Bender  in  memory  of 
George  Sterling 

Some  Contributors 
Mary  Austin 
Robinson  Jeffers 
Witter  Bynner 
Erskine  Scott  Wood 
Sara  Bard  Field 
Edwin  Markham 
James  D.  Phelan 
Albert  Bender 

and  others 

Order  Your  Copy  in  Advance  at 
Overland  Office 


"Wallace"  appears  to  have  been  an- 
ciently a  personal  name,  'Galgacus',  the 
celebrated  Caledonian  chieftain  who 
fought  the  Roman  Agricola. 

"Laird"  is  the  Scottish  form  of 
"Lord". 

"Donald",  whence  "MacDonald", 
"Donalson",  "Donnison",  "Donkin" 
comes  from  the  Gaelic  'donhuil',  brown- 
eyed. 

"Reekie"  from  the  locality  Reeky 
Linn,  "Haliday",  the  Scotch  form  of 
"Holiday". 

"Airth",  a  barony  in  Stirlingshire; 
"Boyne"  from  an  ancient  Scotch  thane- 
dom.  "Leven",  a  town  in  Fifeshire. 

Lives  there  a  soul  so  dead  to  whom 
does  not  appeal  the  name  of  "Burns" 
(derivatives  are  "Burne",  "Burnes", 
"Burness")  that  poet  whose  great  un- 
derstanding of  human  nature  is  so  clear- 
ly set  forth  in  his  immortal  poems.  A 
'burn'  is  a  small  stream. 

"Linn"  (a  pool  or  rushing  cataract) 
is  also  purely  Scotch.  "Pitcaithly"  is  a 
local  surname.  "Bute"  from  the  island 
of  that  name.  "Cramond"  from  a  par- 
ish in  Linlithgow,  "Inch"  signifying 
'island'. 

"Kirkland",  church  land;  "Kirk- 
wood",  church  woods;  "Braidwood", 
broad  woods  or  forest;  "Craig",  a  rocky 
locality;  "Muir"  Scotch  for  moor; 
"Glen",  "Glenn",  a  vale;  "Glenden- 
ning",  the  glen  or  valley  of  the  river 
Denning  or  Dinning. 

"Raeburn" — 'rae',  doe;  'burn',  a 
stream.  "Piper",  a  player  on  a  bagpipe. 

"Adair",  a  branch  of  the  Fitzgeralds 
that  came  originally  from  Adare,  Ire- 
land. "Gillespie",  a  servant  of  the 
bishop ;  "Duncan",  Gaelic  for  brown 
head. 

Among  the  place  names  are  "Fife", 
"Glasgow",  "Stirling"  (from  Walter  de 
Stryvelin,  of  the  XII  century)  ;  "Lith- 
gow",  "Kirkaldy",  "Angus",  "Clydes- 
dale" (valley  of  the  Clyde)  "Aber- 
nethy",  "Scoon"  (from  Scone,  ancient 
coronation  place  of  the  Scottish  kings. 
Don't  you  remember  when  Macbeth 
said: 

"So  thanks  to  all  at  once  and  to 

each  one 
Whom    we    invite    to    see    us 

crowned  at  Scone". 

"Calder"  (wooded  stream),  "Selkirk", 
"Monteith",  "Callander",  "Dunbar", 
"Nairn",  "Currie",  "Cochrane"  and 
many  more. 

And  now  not  to  forget  the  large  fam- 
ily of  'Fitz'.  This  prefix  is  from  the 


French  'fils',  son,  via  the  Latin  'films'. 
In  contracting  the  word  'films',  some 
clerks  or  scribes  drew  a  line  across  the 
T  to  indicate  omission  of  the  following 
T;  it  thus  came  to  look  like  the  letter 
't'.  This  prefix  was  another  matter  of 
Norman  introduction  into  England.  As 
before  said,  many  Englishmen  and  Nor- 
mans crossed  the  Border  into  Scotland. 
With  them  they  took  these  names;  for 
that  reason  we  find  as  many  surnames 
thus  prefixed  in  Scotland  and  Ireland  as 
in  England. 

In  the  list  we  have  "Fitzgerald", 
"Fitzclarence  (son  of  the  Duke  of  Clar- 
ence), "Fitzellis",  "Fitzgibbon"  (son  of 
Gilbert),  "Fitzherbert",  "Fitzhugh", 
"Fitzmaurice",  "Fitzpatrick",  "Fitzwil- 
liam",  "Fitzsimmons"  (son  of  Simon) 
and  "Fitzroy",  son  of  the  king,  a  truly 
royal  name. 

And  now  we  must  say  with  the  inim- 
itable Bobbie  Burns: 

"Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O! 
Farewell  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O ! 
To  other  lands  I  now  must  go, 
To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O!" 


WELL  could  "Praise-God"  Backbite 
have  spoken  thus  wise  unto  "Fe- 
licity" Finche,  the  wife  of  his  bosom, 
for  verily  the  Christian  names  of  the 
Puritan  days  had  among  them  many 
amusing  curiosities,  great  numbers  of 
which  can  still  be  found  in  English  and 
American  directories,  particularly  in  the 
New  England  states. 

There  were  two  revolutionary  crises 
in  English  nomenclature,  the  Conquest 
in  1066,  contributing  the  Norman 
names,  and  the  English  Revolution  in 
1688,  by  which  William  of  Orange  be- 
came the  reigning  sovereign  in  place  of 
James;  the  Revolution  culminated  in 
the  Commonwealth,  the  day  of  the  Pur- 
itan. 

Now,  a  Puritan  was  one  who  prac- 
tised or  affected  great  purity  of  life,  and 
was  very  strict  and  scrupulous  in  his 
religious  ideas.  Just  as  every  cult  or 
movement  has  its  exaggerations  so  had 
that  of  Puritanism;  it  led  Shakespeare 
to  write  "She  would  make  a  puritan  of 
the  devil." 

The  Puritans  very  earnestly  set  to 
work  to  wipe  out  all  baptismal  names 
derived  from  those  of  saints,  martyrs, 
apostles,  prophets,  virgins,  etc.,  eagerly 
adopting  names  from  the  Biblical  char- 
acters. Previous  to  the  Reformation,  a 
priest  would  give  the  child  brought  to 
him  for  baptism,  the  name  of  the  saint 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


313 


whose  day  it  happened  to  be,  unless  the 
parents  were  already  provided  with  a 
name  of  their  own  choosing. 

It  was  in  the  year  1560  that  the  Ge- 
nevan Bible  was  given  to  the  people 
written  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  free  to 
the  usage  of  all  men.  Thus  it  is  that  at 
the  height  of  the  Puritan  period  we  will 
find  many  a  Roundhead  studiously  bend- 
ing over  his  Bible,  diligently  searching 
the  pages  thereof,  for  a  baptismal  name 
to  be  given  his  new-born  infant,  a  name 
smacking  strongly  of  sternness  of  con- 
science and  severity  of  will,  so  when  Mr. 
Strickelthrow  runs  across  the  name 
"Zerrubabel"  it  is  fallen  upon  with  zeal, 
"Zerrubabel  Strickelthrow" !  What 
more  could  a  fond  parent  desire  for  his 
innocent  offspring. 

By  the  way,  we  all  remember  that 
during  the  reign  of  Charles  I.  the  Puri- 
tans were  called  Roundheads,  in  deri- 
sion, by  the  "Cavaliers",  because  they 
wore  their  hair  cut  short  while  the 
"Cavaliers"  wore  ringlets.  Surely  a 
Roundhead  would  enjoy  greater  popu- 
larity in  this  year  of  the  bobbed  head 
era,  than  in  that  of  Cromwell. 

Slowly,  slowly  this  wonderful  Gene- 
van Bible  spread  into  the  valleys  and 
farms,  it  was  attractive  reading  for  these 
rustic  dwellers  and  field  workers,  as  in 
its  pages  they  saw  reflected  the  same 
primitive  life  they  were  leading  as  had 
been  lived  by  the  patriarchs  of  old; 
tillers  of  the  soil,  herders  of  sheep,  graz- 
iers of  cattle,  shearers  of  wool,  milkers 
of  kine,  bakers  of  cakes,  etc. 

So  the  love  of  Bible  names  spread  over 
the  whole  country,  resulting  in  an  ever- 
growing list  of  most  curious  baptismal 
names,  such  as  "Shadrach"  Newbold, 
"Jeduthan"  Jempson,  "Philemon"  Jakes, 
"Malachi"  Ford. 

Barclay  tells  this  story:  A  Puritan 
styled  his  dog  "Moreover"  after  the 
dog  in  the  Gospel:  "Moreover  the  dog 
came  and  licked  his  sores." 

In  the  Manchester  Directory  for  1877 
we  find  a  "Kerenhappuck  Horrocks", 
while  in  1850  there  was  one  "Kesiah 
Simmons",  and  in  1862  "Eli-Lama-Sa- 
bachthani"  Pressnail  staggered  along  un- 
der his  terrific  load.  Another  luckless 
wight,  bearing  his  sorrows  thick  upon 
him,  was  "Lamentations"  Chapman, 
mentioned  as  early  as  1590.  "Dust"  and 
"Ashes"  enjoyed  great  vogue. 

Here  we  find  in  one  register  a  "Boaz" 
Sharpe,  "Pharaoh"  Flinton,  "Obadiah" 
Hawes,  "Malachi"  Mallock,  "Epaphro- 
ditus"  Haughton,  "Annanias"  Mann. 
Surely  "Barabbas"  was  not  a  happy 
thought,  still  there  was  a  "Barabbas" 
Bower  in  1713. 

As  time  went  on  the  severer  Puritans 
found  that  the  custom  they  themselves 
had  inaugurated  had  now  spread  all  over 


England ;  this  was  agitating  to  the  stern 
religionists,  ,so  they  turned  their  atten- 
tion to  devising  a  newer  method  of  nam- 
ing the  little  ones  that  steadily  appeared 
for  baptism ;  of  creating  a  new  monop- 
oly, a  new  corner  on  names,  as  it  were. 
The  Cromwellian  period  saw  the  heyday 
of  these  eccentricities.  So  this  is  what 
they  did. 

Think  of  carrying  through  life  with 
you  such  an  appellation  as  "Learn-Wis- 
dom"  and  "Hate-evil."  One  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  characters  is  named 
"Nehemiah  Holdenough." 

Some  of  the  church  registers  show  the 
following  inflictions:  "Steadfast"  Bell, 
"Renewed"  Hopkinson,  "Safe  -  and  - 
High"  Hopkinson,  "Rejoice"  Lorde, 
"Muche-merceye"  Hellye,  "Thankful" 
Frewen,  "Hopeful"  Wheatley. 

One  register  tells  a  sad  tale,  indeed. 
A  minister  of  the  Word  of  God,  named 
Fenner,  christened  his  own  children, 
naming  them  "More-fruit"  Fenner  and 
"Faint-not"  Fenner.  A  few  years  later 
the  poor  man  was  imprisoned  for  non- 
conformity, fled  eventually  to  Holland, 
where  he  departed  this  mortal  coil.  It 
is  left  to  the  reader  whether  his  deserts 
were  just. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  carried  with 
them  to  the  rock-bound  coasts  across 
the  Atlantic,  names  which  still  grace  the 
directories  of  to-day,  such  as:  Love, 
Mercy,  Prudence,  Constance,  Truth, 
Desire,  Grace,  Faythe,  Charity,  Hope, 
Temperance,  Honor,  Rejoice. 

Strangely  enough,  "Silence"  became 
a  name  for  men.  In  1758  there  died  a 
Rev.  "Experience"  Mayhew.  But 
"Obedience,"  of  course,  was  feminine, 
as  was  "Virtue." 

But  here  we  have  Mr.  "Repentance" 
Tompson  and  "Humiliation"  Hinde. 
So  again  justice  prevails.  "Humility" 
Cooper  in  1620,  braved  the  seas  in  the 
little  Mayflower,  to  found  a  new  home 
in  the  land  of  promise. 

Not  so  long  ago  one  "Abstinence" 
Pougher,  Esq.  passed  on  to  join  his  fa- 
thers. As  late  as  1782  we  find  "Lively" 
Clarke,  a  sadler  in  Gloucester. 

A  few  that  are  genuine  antiquities 
follow.  It  is  difficult  to  state  whether 
any  such  names  are  extant  today. 

1593— Mch.  11.  Baptized  Give- 
thanks,  the  father  of  Thomas  Elliard. 

1587 — Sept.  17.  Baptized  Magnyfye, 
son  of  Thomas  Beard. 

1601 — Nov.  8.  Baptized  Be-thank- 
ful  d.  of  James  Gyles. 

1592— Nov.  26.  Baptized  Be-strong 
Philpott. 

1603 — Maye  20.  Buried  Abuse-not 
Collyer. 

The  name  "Increase"  Mather  is  fa- 
miliar to  all  Americans.  He  was  an 
(Continued  on  Page  317) 


5    PRACTICAL,    EDUCATORS 

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to  Safety 

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stamps  it  at  once  as  the  premier 
real  estate  security. 


Sheriff  Thomas  F.  Finn 


SHERIFF  THOMAS   F.   FINN 
of  San  Francisco  has  served  four 
terms  as  sheriff  of  said  City  and 
County.     Few  men  in  public  life  have 
held  as  many  offices  as  the  sheriff.     A 
member    of    the    legislature,    both    As- 
sembly   and    State    Senate,    for   several 
terms;  also  served  as  supervisor,  police 
commissioner,     fire     commissioner     and 
under   sheriff    in    San    Francisco.      For 
many  years  he  was  chairman  of  the  Com- 
mittee on  Prisons  and  Reformatories  of 
the  State  Senate  and  fostered  numerous 
measures  advocating  prison  reforms.  In 
those  days  they  were  only  pioneering  in 
the  work  and  were  beginning  to  realize 
that  prisoners  were  not  inspired  to  their 
bad  deeds  by  evil  spirits,  but  were  hu- 
man beings  and  must  be  treated  as  such. 
The  county  jails   under   the  sheriff's 
administration    are    models   of    neatness 
and    are    conducted   on   an    honest    and 
economic  basis.     The  entire  jail  system 
of  San   Francisco   has  been   revolution- 
ized.     No  criticism  can  be  offered   re- 
garding the  management.    There  are  no 
abuses.     Drug  scandals,  parole  scandals 
and  jail  graft  are  entirely  lacking.    Hos- 
pitals have  been  established  within  the 
jails.     At  county  jail  No.  2,  where  mis- 
demeanor prisoners  are  confined,  many 
acres  are  devoted  to  vegetable  gardens, 
where  the  prisoners  are  given  an  oppor- 
tunity to  work  in  the  fresh  air,  thus  not 
only   affording   them    healthful  employ- 
ment, but  by  their  labor  saving  a  ma- 
terial amount  on  food  stuffs. 

From  county  jail  No.  3,  where  fe- 
male inmates  are  incarcerated,  male 
guards  have  been  entirely  removed.  It 
is  entirely  managed  and  guarded  by 
women  officers,  which  has  proved  a  suc- 
cess. 

There  is  a  large  civil  department  in 
the  sheriff's  offices,  where  the  work  has 
increased  almost  five  fold  during  this 
sheriff's  administration. 


The  sheriff  has  additional  duties  in 
transferring  of  inmates  to  State  institu- 
tions, viz.,  prisoners  to  the  State's  pris- 
ons, boys  and  girls,  wards  of  Juvenile 
Court,  to  reformatory  schools,  as  well  as 
all  insane  persons  to  state  hospitals  and 
delinquents  and  feeble-minded  to  other 
institutions. 

At  the  last  meeting  of  the  Sheriffs 
Association  of  the  State  of  California  at 
Sacramento,  Sheriff  Finn  was  elected 
president  of  the  State  Sheriffs  Associa- 
tion. He  takes  a  keen  interest  in  the 
work  of  the  sheriffs  and  all  other  peace 
officers  associations  with  which  he  asso- 
ciates. He  is  a  sheriff  who  believes  there 
is  some  little  good  in  every  person  and 
that  the  day  of  committing  young  men 
to  jail  and  leaving  them  to  work  out 
their  own  way  without  resources  even 
when  discharged  is  past;  that  something 
must  be  done  for  the  discharged  inmate 
of  an  institution  to  rehabilitate  him  and 
keep  him  from  returning  to  his  old  en- 
vironment and  associates. 


Yoreska 

(Continued  from  Page  300) 


environment.  But  the  miniature  of  her 
mother  bespeaks  a  lineal  pride  that  may 
account  for  the  daughter's  talent.  In 
conversation  there  is  a  chance  allusion 
to  an  early,  unhappy  marriage. 

Whether  or  not  it  is  experience  or  in- 
heritance that  bequeathed  the  insight 
into  human  character  that  is  mirrored 
in  her  miniatures,  certain  it  is  that  the 


years  of  painting,  which  finally  estab- 
lished her  in  her  profession,  have  de- 
veloped a  talent  that  may  now  remain 
little  known  by  the  world  at  large,  but 
one  that  will  be  known  and  remem- 
bered in  many  an  intimate  family  circle 
in  the  years  to  come  for  the  miniatures 
of  Yoreska  will  undoubtedly  be  treas- 
ured by  future  generations. 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


315 


The  Play's  the  Thing 

(Continued  from  Page  307) 

manner  reminiscent  of  Violette  Wilson.  Miss  Eleanor  Evans' 
work  as  the  English  maid  "Etta"  was  outstanding,  but  a  bit 
extravagant.  If  she  had  considered  the  play  as  a  whole  in- 
stead of  her  role  as  a  type,  the  unity  of  the  play  would  have 
been  better  preserved.  Her's  was  an  excellent  reading  of  an 
interesting  character  development,  although  the  type  she 
wished  to  portray  gave  something  the  effect  of  a  mixed  meta- 
phor. Miss  Evans  had  the  problem  of  a  good  actress  playing 
a  minor  part.  For  her  own  exploitation  she  was  justified  in 
making  that  part  as  memorable  as  possible,  but  for  the  sake 
of  the  play,  the  spirit  of  which  was  quite  removed  from  her 
creation,  perhaps  a  finer  sense  of  proportion  would  have  been 
more  artistic. 

The  dramatic  critic  should  never  review  grand  opera. 
His  sense  of  humor  is  apt  to  cheat  his  ears,  steal  away  the 
enchantment  of  the  music,  frustrate  the  romance  of  the 
story.  With  closed  eyes  he  must  sit,  listen  with  all  his  ears, 
and  go  home  happy.  If  he  opens  his  eyes  he  too  often  sees 
what  to  him  is  a  masquerade  of  ill-fitting  costumes,  bodies  on 
which  romance  hangs  incongruously,  and  gestures  that  imi- 
tate the  conductor  rather  than  express  an  emotion.  A  student 
of  music  could  certainly  write  a  beautiful  tale  of  the  opera 
"Norma"  at  the  Greek  Theater,  but  a  student  of  the  drama 
must  close  his  eyes,  forget  his  mission,  let  the  rich  voices 
entrance  him,  the  lilting  melodies  inspire  him,  the  symphonic 
crescendos  move  him — trusting  only  to  his  ears. 


"THE  DEVIL'S  PLUM  TREE" 
RUTH  CHATTERTON — Curran  Theatre 
"TlEEPER  than  words,  though  full  of  meaning,  nearer  the 
•*--'  soul  than  thoughts,  is  this  drama  of  passion,  "The 
Devil's  Plum  Tree."  Played  with  a  vivid  and  memorable 
gesture,  Ruth  Chatterton  creates  the  character  of  Mara,  the 
strangely  lovely,  impassioned  girl  of  wild  and  holy  loves,  to 
take  her  place  in  the  outstanding  figures  of  American  drama. 
Miss  Chatterton  is  "Mara"  with  more  sophistication  and 
economy  of  emotion  than  would  be  imagined  from  a  reading 
of  the  play,  but  in  this  she  has  taken  her  cue  from  American 
audiences — the  same  cue  John  Colton  heard  when  he  re- 
wrote the  play  from  the  language  of  Central  Europe.  Amer- 
ica still  has  too  much  of  England  in  its  veins  to  endure  too 
naked  truths.  But  this  drama  as  it  is  played  for  the  first 
time  in  English,  its  premiere  on  the  Pacific  Coast  at  the 
Curran  Theatre  in  San  Francisco,  coming  as  it  does  with  a 
splendid  supporting  cast,  staged  most  beautifully,  is  very 
satisfactory  and  worthy  of  praise  and  recommendation  for  a 
long  run  in  that  mecca  of  theaters,  New  York. 


Dad- 


CALENDAR  OF  PLAYS 
Curran — Schuberts  "Gay  Paree." 
Lurie — Taylor  Holmes  "The  Great  Necker." 
Columbia — Marjorie  Rambeau  "The  Pelican," 

dy  Goes  a'Hunting,"  and  "The  Vortex." 
S.  F.  Players  Guild— "Fata  Morgana." 
President — "What  Anne  Brought  Home." 
Alcazar — "Pigs." 

Berkeley  Playhouse — "One  of  the  Family." 
Oakland  Players  Guild — "The  Bill  of  Divorcement." 


OVERLAND  is  badly  in  need  of  the  following  issues  of 
our  files.  Anyone  having  old  numbers  will  be  doing  us  a 
great  favor  by  mailing  same  to  our  office,  356  Pacific  Build- 
ing, San  Francisco:  1925 — June  and  July;  1926 — Febru- 
ary, July  and  October. 

1926 — February,  July  and  October. 


SAN  FRANCISCO 


The  West's 
Great  New  Hotel 

Mecca  of  World  Travelers 

From    every   window    a   view    of   San 
Francisco  and  the  Bay.    Shops,  Thea- 
tres, Terminals  all  close  by 

Tariff  from  $4.00  a  day 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

C/£?HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  ERASER,  Manager 


316 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


CHOOSING  YOUR  INVESTMENTS 


What  is  Idle  ZMoney  Worth? 

Bv  TREBOR  SELIG 


NOT  LONG  ago  a  San  Fran- 
cisco investment  banking  house 
exhibited  a  collection  of  Unit- 
ed States  coins  reputed  to  be 
valued   at  $20,000.    It   is  owned   by   a 
client  of  that  house  who  has  spent  many 
years  in  perfecting  his  collection.    It  has 
been  a  hobby  and  a  pastime  and  he  takes 
a  keen  pride  in  the  fact   that   it  is  the 
most   nearly   complete   collection   of   its 
kind  in  existence  in  private  ownership. 

This  man  is  a  cautious  and  shrewd 
investor  and  has  made  a  careful  study  of 
conservative  investments.  He  has  built 
up  for  himself  out  of  a  comparatively 
small  salary  and  meager  savings,  a  secon- 
dary income  ample  for  his  needs  during 
the  balance  of  his  life.  In  discussing  his 
exhibit  this  man  drew  an  interesting  con- 
trast betweet  his  coins  as  a  numismatic 
collection  and  as  money. 

"There  are  770  of  these  coins  and 
they  represent  an  intrinsic  value  of  $192 
as  negotiable  money,"  he  said.  "That, 
however,  is  but  a  potential  value.  Unless 
used  for  barter  and  trade  these  coins  are 
worth  nothing  as  money  because  they  are 
idle.  Idle  money  is  of  about  as  much 
value  as  the  proverbial  "fifth-wheel  of 
a  coach"  or,  its  modern  equivalent,  "a 
spare  tire." 

"If  money  value  represented  by  these 
coins  had  been  invested  at  the  date  of 
coinage,  put  to  work  at  a  six  per  cent 
interest  rate  compounded  semi-annually, 
as  are  most  issues  of  conservative  bonds, 
that  investment  would  now  amount  to 
$56,870  and  would  be  earning  $288 
every  month.  As  museum  exhibits  these 
coins  are  worth  about  $20,000,  but  as 
idle  money  they  are  not  only  worth 
nothing  but  represent  a  theoretical  loss 
of  some  $3,460  per  year." 

Worthless  Money 
It  is  an  uncommon  illustration  of 
something  that  is  active  in  the  minds 
of  every  ambitious  man  or  woman. 
Every  thoughtful  person  realizes  the 
soundness  of  that  homely  doctrine  which 
states  that  "you  cannot  keep  your  cake 
and  eat  it  too."  The  miser's  idle  money 
may  yield  him  satisfaction  of  a  kind  but 
it  is  a  negative  pleasure.  The  spend- 
thrift buys  himself  another  kind  of  plea- 
sure but  it  is  always  temporary  and  of 
the  type  that  is  promptly  followed  by  a 
headache. 

The  forward-looking  person,  the  am- 


bitious and  progressive  person,  seeks  safe 
and  profitable  employment  for  his  money. 
Few  are  happy  in  the  mere  possession  of 
money.  There  are  far  too  many  who 
seek  only  the  immediate  enjoyment  of 
those  things  their  money  will  buy.  But 
the  thoughtful  citizen,  recognizing  that 
the  usefulness  of  money  is  a  far  greater 
attribute  than  its  intrinsic  worth  or  ex- 
change value,  will  find  productive  work 
for  it  to  do. 

The  spendthrift  and  the  miser  are  of 
no  consequence  to  society.  They  are  but 
incidents  that  point  a  negative  lesson. 
They  achieve  nothing  of  value  to  man- 
kind in  general  or  to  themselves  in  parti- 
cular. Theirs  is  idle  money  and  it  is 
worthless  until  it  has  gone  into  other 
hands.  But  active  money  does  the 
world's  work.  It  achieves  things  for 
mankind.  It  becomes  a  silent  force  of 
tremendous  strength  when  intelligently 
guided. 

A  Dependable  Servant 

The  thrifty  and  careful  investor 
creates  for  himself  a  tireless  and  depend- 
able service  that  will,  so  far  as  money 
can  go,  satisfy  his  every  want.  His 
money  works  for  him,  mechanically  and 
continuously,  and  yields  up  its  earnings 
fully  and  freely  and  gratuitously.  It  is 
an  ideal  servant.  But  such  a  thing  is 
achieved  only  by  the  investor  who  is 
willing  to  practice  both  patience  and 
thrift.  One  is  quite  as  essential  as  the 
other. 

One  must  be  thrifty,  of  course,  must 
prudently  lay  aside  a  portion  of  his  cur- 
rent earnings  and  put  it  to  work.  He 
must  acquire  capital.  Things  worth- 
while are  achieved  only  corresponding 
effort.  In  spite  of  the  doctrines  of  those 
who  believe  in  "Lady  Luck,"  the  observ- 
ant person  knows  that  one  cannot  get 
something  for  nothing.  The  amassing  of 
a  usable  capital  requires  both  thrift  and 
patience. 

To  him  who  would  build  up  the 
strength  and  the  earning  power  of  his 
servant,  capital,  patience  is  probably  the 
more  important  but  most  often  disre- 
garded. That  servant  can  be  depended 
on  to  do  its  work  without  constant  super- 
vision or  help  but  it  cannot  be  hurried. 
It  is  a  patient  and  plodding  and  trust- 
worthy servant  only  so  long  as  it  is 
allowed  to  work  at  a  normal  pace.  Its 
trustworthiness  fades  in  direct  ratio  with 
the  impatience  one  shows  toward  it. 


Haste-Hysteria 

Many  a  thrifty  and  ambitious  person 
has  patiently  acquired  a  working  capital 
through  many  years  of  conscientious  ef- 
fort but  has  ultimately  become  discon- 
tented with  the  meager  six  per  cent  his 
money  can  safely  earn.  His  impatience 
has  led  him  to  drive  his  capital  out  of 
the  fenced  fields  of  sound  investment  into 
the  uncharted  hills  of  speculation  where 
this  servant  felt  no  bonds  of  ownership 
control,  and  promptly  ran  away. 

Those  who  have  the  thrift  and 
patience  to  lay  by  their  savings  until  the 
accumulation  becomes  an  independent 
working  force,  are  undoubtedly  a 
minority.  And  of  that  minority,  doubt- 
less the  greater  number  allow  patience 
to  lapse,  strifle  caution,  fall  victims  to 
a  haste-hysteria,  and  become  gamblers 
instead  of  investors.  The  end  of  their 
ambition  is  soon  reached.  They  are, 
of  course,  amateur  gamblers  and  it  is 
only  the  professional  gambler  who  wins. 
The  latter  very  well  knows  that  his 
profits  are  measured  by  his  "house  per- 
centage" and  not  by  the  favor  of  "Lady 
Luck." 

The  Safe  Six  Per  Cent 
Idle  money  has  a  merely  potential 
value.  So  long  as  it  is  idle  it  does  its 
owner,  nor  anyone  else,  any  practical 
good.  Money  must  be  put  to  work  if  it 
is  to  serve  a  beneficial  purpose,  if  it  is 
to  justify  its  existence  and  fully  repay 
the  labor  expended  in  its  acquisition.  It 
will  serve  its  owner  faithfully  and  well 
so  long  as  he  is  patient  with  it.  The 
"six  per  cent  and  safety"  adage  of  our 
grandfathers'  has  lost  none  of  its  funda- 
mental soundness  with  the  passing  of 
time. 

Under  certain  conditions,  one  may 
sometimes  find  employment  for  his 
money  at  a  little  better  yield  and  with 
thorough  safety  to  his  capital,  especially 
in  the  case  of  long  term  investments.  If 
he  insists  on  a  readily  marketable  secur- 
ity combined  with  a  full  measure  of 
safety,  he  must  expect  an  interest  rate 
even  lower  than  six  per  cent.  But  if  one 
would  make  his  capital  work  for  him 
under  conditions  where  a  well  balanced 
relationship  between  safety,  yield  and 
marketability  exist,  he  must  be  content 
if  his  money  earns  him  six  per  cent.  He 
must  keep  his  money  busy  but  he  must 
not  apply  the  whip. 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


317 


Noon  Shadows 

(Continued  from  Page  305) 

Mexican  women  dressed  almost  alike  in 
blue  calico.  Ample  aprons  tied  about 
the  thick  waists  fluttered  in  the  slight 
breeze.  The  sun  gleaming  on  their 
black  hair  lit  up  their  swarthy  features. 
Jeanne  could  see  that  one  of  them  was 
weeping  bitterly  and  that  the  other  was 
trying  to  console  her. 

Jeanne  watched  them  with  startled 
interest,  wondering  who  they  were  and 
what  their  trouble  might  be  They  en- 
tered the  adobe ;  and  after  ?  little  while, 
hearing  no  sound  from  the  house,  she 
decided  to  investigate. 

Standing  in  the  kitchen  door  she 
glanced  around  the  big  sun-flooded 
room.  The  strangers  were  not  to  be 
seen.  Her  hostess  sat  at  a  table  busy  at 
some  homely  task  and  she  looked  up 
placidly  as  Jeanne  entered. 

"Where  are  your  visitois  and  what 
ailed  the  weeping  one?"  the  girl  asked. 

Mrs.  Grey  looked  surprised  and  a  lit- 
tle alarmed. 

"Visitors?  What  do  you  mean?>: 
she  exclaimed.  "No  one  has  been  here 
since  you  went  out  this  morning." 

After  several  days  Jeanne  and  the 
Greys  decided  to  visit  some  friends  on 
a  neighboring  ranch  a  few  miles  away. 
This  was  a  fine  old  place  occupied  by 
heirs  of  the  original  owners.  Even  the 
servants  were  descendants  of  the  young 
Mexican  couple  who  came  to  the  place 
many  years  ago. 

During  the  conversation  over  the  tea- 
cups one  of  the  guests  laughingly  told 
of  the  two  women  Jeanne  had  thought 
she  saw,  and  of  the  fruitless  search  for 
them  afterward.  While  the  diners  were 
joking  at  the  girl's  expense,  she  heard 
a  gasp  beside  her.  The  old  Mexican 
woman  .  who  was  serving  sandwiches 
dropped  a  plate  from  her  trembling  fin- 
gers as  she  looked  at  Jeanne  with 
frightened  eyes.  "Si,  si,  senorita — you 
have  seen — but  it  happen  forty  years 
ago!"  she  said  excitedly. 

Then  the  old  woman  told  them  about 
attending  a  three  days'  fiesta  held  on 
the  Escobar  place  so  many  years  ago, 
celebrating  the  wedding  of  a  daughter 
of  the  house.  Among  the  guests  was  a 
young  boy  employed  on  the  ranch  where 
the  Greys  were  now  visiting.  He  lived 
on  the  grounds  with  his  widowed 
mother  and  his  aunt. 

On  this  last  day  of  the  merrymaking 
he  was  very  gay  and  happy,  and  once 
in  laughing  excitement  he  danced  a  wild 
measure  to  the  music  of  guitars  and 
castanets.  Spurred  on  by  the  enthusi- 
astic applause  of  companions  he  drew  his 
knife  and  brandished  it  in  the  air  as  a 
final  flourish,  but — how  it  happened  no 
one  could  ever  tell — the  boy  lost  his 


balance  and  fell,  with  the  knife  imbedded 
in  his  side. 

Quickly  he  was  carried  into  the  kitch- 
en and  laid  upon  a  bench.  He  was 
breathing  slightly.  He  was  made  as 
comfortable  as  possible  and  someone 
went  for  his  mother. 

Tenderly  his  friends  watched  over 
the  dying  boy,  not  daring  to  draw  the 
knife  away.  Just  as  his  mother  and 
her  sister  reached  the  vineyard  the  brown 
eyes  opened  wide  in  awed  wonder,  and 
so — he  died. 

The  two  women  came  rapidly  through 
the  vineyard  in  the  bright  sunshine. 
They  were  dressed  almost  alike  in  blue 
calico,  and  the  ample  aprons  tied  about 
their  thick  waists  fluttered  in  the  slight 
breeze. 

The  poor  mother  wrung  her  hands 
in  agony  while  her  sister  'fried  in  vain 
to  console  her.  Never  very  strong,  she 
did  not  long  survive  her  only  child.  A 
few  years  later  the  sister  slso  followed 
her  loved  ones  to  that  other  world  be- 
yond. 

The  years  come  and  go  in  their  end- 
less cycle  and  the  old  ranch  still  lies 
dreaming  in  its  mountain  cradle;  but 
never  again  to  mortal  eyes  have  the  two 
women  appeared  upon  their  sorrowing 
way  to  the  side  of  the  bov  they  loved 
and  lost  long,  long  ago. 


WHAT  IS  YOUR  NAME? 

(Continued  from  Page  313) 
important  figure  in  the  early  Pilgrim 
days  in  New  England.  He  became 
president  of  Harvard  College.  His  son, 
"Cotton"  Mather,  was  a  theologian  and 
writer. 

"Thankful"  seems  to  have  been  popu- 
lar, many  entries  bear  testimony.  "Be- 
loved" ranks  closely.  "Joye-in-Sorrow" 
occurs  occasionally.  "Stand  -  fast  -  on  - 
High"  deserves  mention. 

In  1589,  an  unfortunate  wee  found- 
ling was  dubbed  "Helpless"  Henley.  A 
similar  fate  befell  deserted  little  "Re- 
pent" Champney. 

In  that  dear,  old  book,  "Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  we  find  examples  of  these 
Puritan  names,  for  the  movement  was 
at  its  height  during  Bunyan's  lifetime. 

We  will  take  leave  of  these  Puritan 
Precisians  of  so  long  ago  by  giving  a  few 
Christian  names  from  a  list  in  the  Brit- 
ish Museum,  than  which  there  is  none 
better  to  show  the  eccentricities  of  Puri- 
tan nomenclature.  Make-peace  Heaton, 
Weep-not  Billing,  Meek  Brewer,  Be- 
cautious  Cole,  Search  -  the  -  Scriptures 
Moreton,  Fly-debate  Smart,  Seek-wis- 
dom  Wood,  and  finally  The-peace-of- 
God  Knight. 

A  ridiculous  modernism,  borrowed 
from  the  "Cornell  Widow"  may  not  be 
inappropriate  in  closing. 

(Continued  on  Page  318) 


Now 

through  to 

Tahoe 


— convenient  PuHman  service 
every  evening  via 
Route,  Lake  Tahoe 


dlman  service  -I 
>ia  Overland  I 
toe  Line  •  •  •  J 


A  swift,  comfortable  trip,  assuring  the 
maximum  amount  of  time  at  the  lake. 
Every  vacation  sport  is  there — Golf, 
tennis,  horse-back  riding,  hikes,  swim- 
ming, fishing,  dancing.  Steamer  trips 
around  the  lake,  only  $2.40. 

You  leave  San  Francisco  (Ferry)  at  7 
p.  m.,  Sacramento  at  10:55  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing at  the  shore  of  the  lake  in  time  for 
breakfast  next  morning.  Returning, 
leave  Tahoe  Station  9:30  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing San  Francisco  7:50  a.  m. 

Day  service,  offering  an  interesting 
scenic  trip  up  the  Sierra,  leaves  San 
Francisco  at  7:40a.  m.,  Sacramento 
10:45  a.  m.,  arriving  at  the  lake  for 
dinner,  (5:30  p.m.) 

Reduced  roundtrip  fares  are  effective 
throughout  the  summer.  For  example, 
only  $13.25  roundtrip  from  San 
Francisco,  good  for  16  days. 

Ask  for  illustrated  book  let  about  Tahoe 
Lake  region;  also  booklet  "Low  Fares  for 
Summer  Trips". 

Southern 


Pacific 


F.  S.  McGINNIS, 

Passenger  Traffic  Mgr. 

San  Francisco 


VERSE 
CRITICISM 

WRITE  FOR  PARTICULARS 

JOAN   RAMSAY 

OVERLAND 

MONTHLY 


318 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


SO  THAT  ADVERTISERS  MAY  KNOW 

The  Question  of  Nuisance 
Publications 


are  in  San  Francisco,  as  is  the  case  in  every  other  large  city 
in  the  United  States,  certain  publications  that  attempt  to  exploit  their 
nuisance  value.  Of  negligible  circulation,  and  no  editorial  character,  these 
publications,  unable  to  obtain  advertising  on  their  merits,  use  threatening 
tactics  in  an  effort  to  intimidate  advertisers. 

Their  usual  course  is  to  call  upon  an  establishment  that  has  adver- 
tised in  a  reputable  publication,  and  "demand"  that  the  same  advertise- 
ment be  given  them. 


Commercial  Blackmail 

They  almost  invariably  make  this 
threat:  "If  you  don't  advertise  with  our 
paper,  we  will  write  you  up." 

A  few  advertisers,  unfamiliar  with 
the  nature  of  these  nuisance  sheets, 
yield  to  the  intimidation,  and  spend 
money  for  advertising  that  brings  no 
return. 

A  moment's  consideration  will  show 
that  the  threat  is  empty. 

In  the  first  place,  the  libel  laws  of 
California  are  strict. 

In  the  second  place,  the  publisher  of 
a  nuisance  paper  does  not  dare  risk  a 
legal  action.  As  a  rule,  he  has  been 
guilty  of  so  many  under-handed  prac- 
tices that  he  knows  that  an  appearance 
in  court  would  spell  his  end  as  a  pub- 
lisher, and  put  his  publication  out  of 
business. 

In  the  third  place,  and  most  impor- 
tant of  all,  if  a  nuisance  paper  threat- 
ens to  "write  up"  an  advertiser,  and 
then  so  much  as  publishes  a  single  line 
derogatory  to  that  advertiser,  the  very 
fact  of  publication  is  regarded  in  point 
of  law  as  proof  that  he  has  committed 
both  blackmail  and  libel. 


Don't  Be  Bluffed 

Advertisers,  faced  with  a  threat  of 
this  sort,  should  follow  this  course: 
They  should  get  as  many  witnesses  as 
possible  to  the  threat,  and  then  sum- 
marily dismiss  the  representative  of 
the  nuisance  paper. 

However,  there  need  be  no  witnesses. 
The  character  of  these  nuisance  papers 
is  so  well  known  that  the  word  of  a 
responsible  business  man,  financial  man 
or  corporation  man  will  far  outweigh 


that  of  any  person  connected   with   any 
one  of  them. 

Many  advertisers  in  San  Francisco 
have  ended  the  molestation  of  nuisance 
papers  simply  by  insisting  that  they 
would  consider  advertising  on  no  other 
basis  than  circulation  and  editorial 
merit.  This  has  removed  the  ground 
from  under  the  feet  of  the  nuisance 
papers,  for  they  have  neither  circula- 
tion nor  merit. 


Let  Us  Help  You 

The  Argonaut  stands  ready  to  sup- 
port advertisers  in  curbing  nuisance 
papers.  It  will  be  pleased  to  hear  from 
advertisers  that  have  been  pestered  by 
them.  For  several  months  it  has  been 
collecting  data  with  respect  to  such  in- 
cidents, and  it  is  prepared  to  take  into 
court  any  case  involving  one  of  its 
own  advertisers. 

The  Argonaut  is  the  most  rapidly 
growing  publication  in  San  Francisco. 
There  are  sold  each  week  on  the  news- 
stands of  the  San  Francisco  Bay  District 
more  copies  of  the  Argonaut  than  of  all 
other  weekly  publications  of  this  city 
combined.  Its  subscription  rolls  contain 
the  names  of  a  majority  of  Bay  District 
persons  who  count  in  the  business  and 
social  worlds. 

The  Argonaut  offers  to  advertisers 
the  best  class  circulation  of  any  publi- 
cation in  the  West.  It  is  read  by  culti- 
vated persons  who  represent  a  great 
purchasing  power.  It  has  real  circula- 
tion and  real  editorial  character  to 
commend  it  to  advertisers. 

Advertisers  should  exercise  their 
right  to  place  advertisements  in  me- 
diums that  will  bring  them  returns 
commensurate  with  the  financial  outlay 
involved.  This  will  quickly  end  the 
nuisance  paper  situation. 


THE  ARGONAUT  PUBLISHING  CO. 
381  Bush  Street  San  Francisco 


"Flo  was  fond  of  Ebenezer — 

Eb  for  short,  she  called  her  beau. 

Talk  of  "tide  of  love,'"  Great  Caesar! 

You  should  see  'em,  Eb  and  Flo." 

ENGLISH  and  American  directories 
show  such  numbers  of  Jewish  names 
that  a  few  words  dealing  with  those 
names  may  be  of  interest. 

Names  distinguishing  one  individual 
from  another,  as  has  been  previously 
said,  have  been  in  use  from  the  earliest 
ages  of  human  society.  Among  the  Jew- 
ish people,  the  name  given  to  a  child 
either  originated  in  some  circumstance 
of  birth  or  was  an  expression  of  religious 
sentiment.  Almost  all  Old  Testament 
names  are  original,  given  in  the  first 
instance  to  the  person  bearing  them.  But 
the  Jews,  like  other  nations,  began  re- 
peating their  stock  of  names,  therefore 
we  find  but  few  new  names  in  the  New 
Testament. 

Again  like  other  peoples,  the  Jews 
carried  but  one  name;  the  European  na- 
tions began  much  sooner  the  use  of  the 
surname.  It  was  only  when  the  Jewish 
people  began  to  migrate  to  these  coun- 
tries of  Europe  that  the  need  of  a  sur- 
name began  to  make  itself  felt. 

Let  us  trace  the  development  of  its 
adoption  in  one  country,  in  Germany, 
for  here  had  settled  the  greatest  num- 
bers of  the  emigrants  from  the  Holy 
Land.  Spain,  France,  England,  Italy, 
were  also  chosen  as  new  abiding  places 
of  members  of  this  race  dating  back  to 
antiquity.  Persecutions,  however,  drove 
them  gradually  in  greater  numbers  to 
Russia,  Poland,  and  Germany. 

The  people  of  Germany  had  begun 
taking  surnames  about  1106,  the  Jews, 
however,  were  the  very  last  to  adopt 
them.  A  legislative  act  in  Austria  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  Joseph  II,  in  Prussia 
in  1812,  and  in  Bavaria  in  1813  en- 
forced their  adoption.  They  selected 
mainly  Hebrew  or  Old  Testament 
names,  making  baptismal  names  to  sur- 
names as  Jacob  to  "Jacoby"  and  "Jacob- 
son,"  son  of  Jacob;  "Moscheles,"  con- 
traction of  Moses'  Sohn  (German  for 
son).  "Lowensohn  (lion's  son). 

Names  were  also  derived  from  per- 
sonal qualities;  animal  names  are  fre- 
quent, as:  "Hirsch"  (deer);  "Adler" 
(eagle)  ;  "Wolf"  (wolf).  Local  names 
were  much  preferred,  as:  "Cassel,"  a 
city  in  Germany;  "Falkenstein"  (Falke, 
hawk;  Stein,  stone),  a  celebrated  castle; 
"Speyer,"  from  the  city  of  that  name; 
"Hildesheim"  (home  of  Hilde),  town 
on  the  Rhine. 

Compound  names  were  popular,  espe- 
cially with  "Gold"  and  "Silber." 
"Goldman,"  "Goldmeyer,"  "Gold- 
schmidt"  (Schmidt,  a  smith),  "Gold- 
stein," "Silberberg"  (Berg,  mountain). 
Then  there  are  compounds  with  Lowen, 
(Continued  on  Page  320) 


October,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


319 


Not  Worth  His  Wage 

(Continued  from  Page  298) 


him  with  anxious  eyes  arfer  she  had 
spoken.  Ought  he  to  get  up? — Would 
he  ever  get  up? 

He  was  feebly  pushing  Lack  the  cov- 
ers. "If  you'll  get  my  clothes  dear,  I'll 
dress." 

She  fluttered  into  the  next  room  and 
brought  his  underwear  and  robe.  It  was 
not  easy — the  getting  up  arid  dressing; 
but  it  was  done.  He  sat  in  the  wicker 
chair  at  the  window,  bathed  in  glorious 
sunshine. 

He  watched  the  man  move  the  tall 
ladder  from  tree  to  tree,  sk'llfully  snip- 
ping off  the  ends  of  the  limbs  with  his 
pruning  shears.  The  song  of  the  birds 
came  to  him  thru  the  open  window.  A 
family  of  sparrows  were  having  their 
usual  morning  quarrel;  twitting  one  an- 
other angrily.  Above  their  squabbl.'ng, 
the  quaint  sweet  song  of  a  lark  could  be 
heard.  Leonore  came  into  view,  carry- 
ing a  rake. 

She  waved  to  him  and  smiled.  She 
was  raking  the  dead  leaves  into  neat 
heaps. 

George  saw  that  the  ground  was  al- 
most cleared,  ashes  here  and  there  show- 
ing where  they  had  been  burned. 

Leonore  and  the  man  were  talking. 
George  felt  a  sudden  embarrassment. 
What  would  this  man  think  of  him? — 
sitting  bundled  up  in  blankets  while  his 
wife  worked.  They  were  coming  to- 
ward him ;  Leonore  was  smiling.  He 
leaned  forward  to  greet  fhe  neighbor 
who  was  booming  out  a  few  words  in  a 
pleasant  friendly  fashion. 

The  next  morning,  George  got  up  and 
had  breakfast  with  Leonore,  on  a  table 
drawn  near  the  stove  in  the  living-room. 
Afterward,  he  walked  slowly  thru  the 
rooms  as  tho  seeing  them  for  the  first 
time.  He  sat  by  the  open  window  for 
awhile ;  but  when  his  wife  went  out  of 
doors,  he  took  off  the  heavy  robe  and 
began  to  dress,  rather  nervously,  and 
in  haste.  Leonore  might  come  in  and 
stop  him. 

Leonore  went  into  Los  Gatos  and 
looked  for  a  job.  She  found  part-time 
employment  in  a  tea  room.  She  left 
home  at  eleven  and  returned  in  time 
to  get  their  simple  dinner.  George  man- 
aged to  get  his  own  lunch  very  well.  Be- 
fore long  he  was  able  to  go  out  to  the 
kitchen  garden  and  get  vegetables,  and 
prepare  them  too,  for  the  evening  meal. 

His  afternoons  were  spent  with  books 
that  Leonore  brought  from  the  library. 
Such  luxurious  ease  he  had  never  known 
before.  When  it  rained  he  stayed  in 
doors  all  day,  but  in  fins  weather  he 
walked  out;  along  the  drive  at  first.  Be- 
fore long  he  was  taking  walks  down  the 


road  to  the  electric  line.  Usually  he  was 
lost  in  thought  on  these  outings,  but  his 
mind  was  not  on  the  work  he  had  left 
behind,  in  the  big  furniture  store. 

One  evening  Leonore  found  a  bunch 
of  Christmas  berries  on  the  dinner  table. 
George  had  walked  half  a  mile  for  them. 
And  once  when  she  returned  home  she 
surprised  him  at  work.  He  had  several 
neatly  written  pages  of  manuscript  on 
the  table,  and  was  pondering  a  partly 
done  sheet.  The  fire  had  jrone  out  and 
there  were  none  of  the  usual  prepara- 
tions for  dinner. 

George  was  in  an  agon>  of  remorse. 
He  put  down  his  pen  and  swept  the 
written  sheets  into  a  drawer.  "Oh,  it's 
too  bad — you  coming  horn;  tired — and 
finding  me  like  this;  wasting  my  time." 
He  slipped  the  fountain  pen  in  his  pocket 
and  started  to  make  the  fire  in  the  heat- 
er. 

"George — don't  worry."  Leonore  was 
looking  at  him  in  an  amused  indulgent 
way.  "I've  just  got  to  warm  the  fricassee 
I  made  this  morning,  and  I've  brought 
home  a  pumpkin  pie." 

Christmas  eve,  George  took  the  elec- 
tric car  to  Los  Gatos  to  buy  a  gift  for 
his  wife  with  the  few  doMars  he  had 
left  of  his  savings.  After  making  his 
purchase,  he  walked  along  the  main 
street,  idly  looking  in  the  s'.iop  windows. 

Here  was  a  display  of  typewriters.  His 
gaze  was  fastened  on  them.  He  wonder- 
ed how  much  one  would  cost.  It 
wouldn't  do  any  harm  to  ask.  He 
stepped  inside,  and  in  his  nervous  blund- 
ering way.  almost  collided  with  a  young 
woman  coming  out.  He  started  to  apolo- 
gize. It  was  Leonore. 

"Well — George;  going  to  buy  some- 
thing?" 

"Why — I  was  just  looking  around — 
while  I  was  waiting  for  you."  He 
glanced  curiously  at  a  neat  black  case  she 
carried. 

Leonore  smiled  divinely  as  his  eyes 
met  hers.  She  bit  her  lip  to  keep  it  from 
quivering.  "I  bought  one  for  you  dear. 
Come,  let's  hurry  and  get  the  car." 

The  Dixon  Furniture  Company  was 
holding  a  Spring  sale.  It  had  been  a 
busy  day,  and  at  closing  time  the  mana- 
ger went  to  the  private  office  to  speak 
about  engaging  an  extra  salesman.  Mr. 
Dixon  was  reading  a  letter. 

"Very  interesting  news  from  Spicer," 
he  remarked  genially. 

"Spicer! — isn't  he  dead  yet?" 

"Spicer  dead? — why  the  fellow's  only 

begun  to  live.     He's  writing  stories,  and 

helping  to  run  the  ranch  besides.     Just 

sold  one  of  his  stories  to  a  magazine — he 

tells  me  in  this." 


Just  a 
Moment! 

Before  you  lay  aside  that 
manuscript  you  think  should 
find  a  market,  write  for  par- 
ticulars. 


Authors'&Publishers' 
Quality  Brokerage 

Care— 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 

356  Pacific  Building 
San  Francisco,  California 


GOODBYE 
TIGHT    BELTS 

Men  here's  a  new  patent 
device  for  holding  the 
flaps  of  a  shirt  together 
in  front;  besides  holding 
your  shirt  and  trousers  correctly  in 
place.  It  is  just  the  thing  for  summer 
when  coats  are  off  and  a  clean,  cool 
and  neatly  fitting  shirt  waist  effect  is 
most  desirable.  Holds  with  a  bull-dog 
grip  which  can't  harm  the  sheerest 
silk.  For  dancers,  golfers  and  neat 
dressers.  Start  right.  Order  today. 

Gold  PI.    4    on  card   $1.00 
The  Sta-on  Co.,  Dept.  K.,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


320 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


October,  1927 


What  Is  Your  Name? 

(Continued  from  Page  318) 


^Alexandria  Wages 

are 
<0uick  On  The  Trigger! 


Their  watchword  is  smiling  cour- 
tesy. —  This  is  but  one  of  the 
features  of  this  great  hotel  where 
thoughtful  and  kindly  service 
combines  with  ideal  comfort  and 
surroundings  to  make  a  stay 
enjoyable. 

RATES 

ftr  'Day,  single,  Suropean  flan 

120  rooms  with  running  water 


to  f4.00 

220  roomj  with  bath  -  3.50  to  5.00 
160  rooms  witK  bath  -  6.00  to  8.00 

'Duublr,  S4.00  Mp 

Also  a  number  of  large  and  beautiful  rooms 
and  suites,  some  in  period  furnishings  with 
grand  piano,  fire  place  and  bath,  f  10.00  up. 


LARGE  AND  WELL 
EQUIPPED  SAMPLE  ROOMS 

The  center  for  Theatres,  Banks,  and  Shops 

'Pirate  vri/e  for  'Booklet 


QOLF  CLUB~\ 
\         available  to  all  guests  / 

HAROLD  E.  LATHROP 

^Manager 


HOTEL, 


ALEXANDRIA 

Loe  Angeles 


Rosen,  Lilien,  and  so  on.  "Lowenbein" 
(lion's  leg)  ;  "Rosenbach"  (brook  of 
the  roses) ;  "Rosenblatt"  (rose  leaf) ; 
"Rosenblum"  (flower  of  the  rosebush, 
Blume,  flower)  ;  "Lilienfeld"  (field  of 
the  lilies) ;  "Lilienthal"  (valley  of  the 
lilies). 

In  their  choice  of  these  new  names, 
the  Jewish  people  evidenced  that  strong 
poetic  strain  which  has  characterized 
them  throughout  their  entire  history, 
the  sentiments  found  in  the  Psalms  of 
David  are  not  expressive  alone  of  this 
one  man's  soul,  but  of  his  entire  race. 
The  sweetness  and  purity  of  this  incom- 
parable singer's  songs  are  but  the  reflec- 
tion of  his  people's  greatness  of  heart, 
their  poetic  conception  of  the  works  of 
nature,  their  love  of  one  another,  and  of 
that  purest  of  all  emotions,  love  of 
family  and  kindred. 

So  it  is  small  wonder  that  they  eagerly 
chose  surnames,  either  simple  or  com- 
pound, from  the  landscape  round  about 
them.  "Thai"  (valley)  ;  "Feld"  (field)  ; 
"Heim"  (home);  "Bach"  (brook); 
"Berg"  (hill  or  mountain);  "Dorf" 
(village). 

The  finer  personal  qualities  had  rep- 
resentation in  "Edel"  (noble)  ;  "Ehr- 
lich"  (honest);  "Treu"  (loyal);  "Fre- 
undlich"  (friendly). 

They  then  made  combinations  with 
a  personal  name  as  shown  in  "Cohn- 
feld"  (Cohen's  field)  and  "Aronsbach" 
(Aaron's  brook). 

Occupative  names  held  quite  a  sway. 
"Cohn,  Cohen,"  a  priest;  "Kassierer" 
(a  cashier);  "Schulklopfer"  (Schule, 
synagog;  klopfer,  knocker)  one  whose 
duty  it  was  to  knock  at  the  doors  of 
the  members  of  the  Schule  or  Synagog, 
to  call  them  to  service  therein. 

At  first  the  Jewish  people  were  al- 
lowed to  select  their  own  names,  but 
many  were  stubborn  or  too  orthodox,  so 
the  law  was  forced  to  apportion  them. 
The  strongly  orthodox  Jews  had  a  ver- 
itable aversion  to  placing  what  they  con- 


The  Fireman's  Fund  leads  all  in- 
surance companies  in  premium 
income— fire,  marine  and  auto- 
mobile—in Pacific  Coast  States 


sidered  a  heathen  name  next  to  their 
own  holy  Hebrew  name.  In  conse- 
quence most  wondrous  combinations 
were  inflicted  upon  them.  The  giving 
of  names  had  been  delegated  to  the 
military;  this  gave  the  wit  and  humor  of 
the  officers  free  rein,  which  resulted  in 
such  combinations  as  "Armenfreund" 
(friend  of  the  poor)  ;  "Geldschrank" 
(money  chest)  ;  "Veilchenduft"  (odor 
of  violets) ;  "Nussknacker"  (nut  crack- 
er);  "Kussemich"  (kiss  me);  "Esels- 
kopf"  (donkey's  head)  and  many  equal- 
ly as  odd. 

Selecting  a  few  names  at  random  from 
the  directory,  we  have  "Abrahamson" 
(son  of  Abraham)  ;  "Bienenfeld"  (field 
of  the  bees)  ;  "Hamburger"  and  "Ber- 
liner" (one  from  the  city  of  Hamburg 
or  Berlin);  "Straus"  (bouquet  of  flow- 
ers); "Stein"  (stone);  "Kaufman" 
(merchant);  "Levison,"  (Levi's  son); 
"Neustadter"  (one  from  a  new  town  or 
one  who  is  a  recent  resident  in  a  town)  ; 
"Kahn"  (a  skiff) ;  "Blumenthal"  (val- 
ley of  flowers)  ;  "Mendelssohn"  (son  of 
Mendel);  "Schlesinger"  (one  who 
comes  from  Schlesien  or  Silesia,  a  prov- 
ince in  east  Prussia)  ;  and  lastly  the 
world-famed  name  of  the  great  banking 
family  of  "Rothschild"  (red  shield), 
who  drew  their  name  from  the  red  shield 
which  swung  before  the  shop  door  of 
Nathan  Rothschild  in  Frankfurt. 

Many  Jewish  names  have  become  cel- 
ebrated as  merchant  princes,  musicians, 
writers,  scientists.  Would  that  these 
illustrious  names  could  be  given. 


A     DESERTED    ISLAND    THAT 
BECAME   A   PINEAPPLE 
PLANTATION 

(Continued  from  Page  297) 
immaculate,  garbage  is  hauled  away, 
and  an  abundance  of  pure  water  is  fil- 
tered through  the  mountain  soil  for  the 
population.  There  is  a  Buddhist  tem- 
ple as  well  as  an  American  Sunday 
school.  And  there  are  moving  picture 
theaters  as  well  as  churches  and  schools, 
It  is  almost  incredible  that  Jim  Dole's 
company  bought  this  deserted  island 
only  five  short  years  ago.  And  yet  if 
you  go  out  beyond  the  town  there  are 
the  old  ranch  lands — horses  and  cattle 
still  roam  at  large  in  the  lard  that  was 
theirs  long  before  anybody  but  kings 
ever  knew  what  a  pineapple  was,  and 
on  out  beyond  the  ranch  lands  still 
grows  some  of  the  "old  man  cactus" 
that  was  there  even  before  the  horses 
and  the  cattle  claimed  the  island. 
These  are  the  things  that  remind  us 
that  busy  Lanai  was  once  a  Forgotten 
Island,  lost  out  there  in  th>  Pacific. 


B.  F.  Schlesinger 
&  Sons,  Inc. 

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What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


"FT  SEEMS  to  me  effrontery  for  one 
who  has  never  been  an  editor,  to 
1  essay  a  task  of  this  sort — a  task  con- 
noting wisdom  and  authority  over  the 
spirit  of  a  great  poet. 

But  even  as  I  contemplated  the  mat- 
ter with  misgivings  it  came  to  me  that 
there  is  nothing  demanding  apology.  I, 
who  share  with  so  many  others  a  legacy 
of  happy  memories,  am  not  the  editor  of 
this  magazine  issue.  It  is  the  poet's  own 
heart  and  mind  that  have  molded  these 
words,  for  in  life  he  gathered  to  him  by 
his  works  the  men  and  women  who  now 
gather  here  to  reflect  his  image,  to  in- 
terpret his  soul. 

So  I  breathe  easier.  The  responsibil- 
ity is  not  mine.  It  is  George  Sterling's 
rich  personality  working  its  course 
through  the  minds  and  hearts  of  his  lit- 
erary friends.  He  has  written  his  own 
epitaph  in  our  hearts.  We  merely  tran- 
scribe it  into  words  of  love  and  friend- 
ship and  remembrance. 

George  Sterling  never  left  unchanged 
anything  with  which  he  as  a  living,  vi- 
brant man  came  in  contact,  any  more 
than  he  will  leave  unchanged  anything 
which,  as  a  still  living  poet,  his  Ariel 
fingers  will  touch  in  the  years  between 
now  and  oblivion. 

We  have  but  to  witness  the  distin- 
guished list  of  men  and  women  who 
have  here  responded  eagerly  when  given 
an  opportunity  to  write  of  him  as  man 
or  artist.  Those  of  us  who  knew  him 
most  intimately  realize  that  he  never 
pretended  to  be  a  paragon  from  whose 
heroic  figure  will  be  modeled  the  pious 
child  of  tomorrow.  He  knew  his  frail- 
ties— he  would  have  wished  me  to  speak 
of  them  as  they  were,  nothing  extenu- 
ate— his  occasional  worship  of  Bacchus 
and  devotion  to  Venus.  But  what  of 
it?  He  was  beloved  by  all.  Bacchus  in- 
vested our  poet  with  an  appreciation  of 
the  wine,  but  may  it  not  have  been  that 
god  also  who  breathed  into  him  his  mel- 
lowness of  spirit  and  love  of  peace? 

And  if  he  proved,  on  occasion,  an  ar- 
dent devotee  of  Venus,  was  it  not  that 
in  his  blood  flowed  the  exhilaration  of 
the  spring,  and  the  glory  of  life  as  it 
had  been  vouchsafed  to  him  by  a  boun- 
tiful nature? 

He,  like  poets  before  him,  felt  that 
life  had  been  given  him  to  use  and  to 
enjoy  so  long  as  he  desired.  He  filled  his 
cup,  and  sipped  it  beautifully.  Then, 
when  the  wine  of  life  had  lost  its  savor 
— not  when  he  tasted  the  dregs,  for  he 


never  did — then  only  did  he  toss  the  cup 
away.  A  weak  gesture,  as  our  world 
looks  upon  it,  but  it  was  George  Ster- 
ling. He  was  done  with  life  and  he,  not 
someone  else,  should  decide  when  to 
cast  it  off! 

".  .  .  Near  the  eternal  Peace  I 

lay,  nor  stirred, 
Knowing  the  happy  dead  hear 

not  at  all." 
(From  Sterling's  "In  Extremis") 

H.  L.  Mencken  and  Gouverneur 
Morris,  meeting  at  the  death-side,  called 
Sterling  one  of  the  last  of  the  free  spir- 
its. Certainly  that  final  leave-taking 
proved  it. 

Time  re-touches  the  negative,  softens 
the  shadows,  etches  out  the  blemishes. 
Already  time's  erosion  begins  to  wear 
away  the  sharp  outline  of  the  living  man, 
and  in  the  years  to  come  he  must  be- 
come an  ethereal,  perhaps  eevn  a  legend- 
ary, figure. 

It  is  fitting,  therefore,  that  today 
those  who  knew  him  best  and  those  best 
qualified  to  discuss  his  literary  estate, 
sum  up  their  thoughts  here  so  that  the 
facets  of  George  Sterling's  character 
may  continue  to  sparkle  through  the 
years. 

He  died,  as  he  had  lived,  untram- 
meled,  brave,  unafraid.  He  had  the 
dauntless  courage  of  the  great;  the  wil- 
lingness to  sacrifice  himself,  his  honors, 
his  comforts,  the  applause  of  the  world, 
for  the  right  to  live  with  fidelity  and 
integrity  to  his  beloved  Muse.  In  this 
new  era  of  freedom  in  poetry,  he  was 
willing  to  wait  for  the  final  vindication 
of  his  work.  What  laurels  may  be  placed 
on  his  modest  head  by  future  genera- 
tions no  one  can  predict,  but  it  looks 
today  that  when  the  roll  of  great  Cali- 
fornians  is  called  his  name  will  be  among 
the  first. 

Finally,  if  in  our  appraisal  we  have 
been  honest  with  ourselves  and  with  the 
friend  who  is  saved  to  us  even  through 
the  black  pall  of  death ;  if  we  have  been 
able  to  put  into  words  what  we  feel  in 
our  hearts,  then  indeed  have  we  fash- 
ioned an  enduring  monument. 
"Lo!  when  I  hear  from  voiceless  court 

and  fane, 

Time's  adoration  of  eternity, — 
The  cry  of  kingdoms  past  and  gods  un- 
done,— 
I   stand  as  one  whose  feet  at  noontide 

gain 

A  lonely  shore;  who  feels  his  soul  set 
free, 


And  hears  the  blind  sea  chanting  to  the 
sun." — From  the  Night  of  Gods," 
one  of  Sterling's  Three  Sonnets 
on  Oblivion. 

ALBERT  M.  BENDER. 

"TVUE  to  so  many  very  excellent  con- 
-*--'  tributions  to  the  Sterling  issue  of 
Overland,  we  have  decided  to  devote 
both  our  November  and  December  num- 
bers to  the  memory  of  the  man  who  so 
generously  headed  our  list  of  contribut- 
ing editors  and  actively  directed  the 
destiny  of  our  poetry  and  wrote  each 
month  a  page  of  comment,  "Rhymes 
and  Reactions"  during  the  last  two 
years  of  his  life.  We  feel  also,  as  a 
courtesy  to  those  who  were  so  kind  in 
their  contributions,  that  better  place  can 
be  given  the  writers  by  devoting  two 
issues  to  George  Sterling,  rather  than 
combining  the  material  in  one.  The 
entire  list  of  contributors  will  be  given 
in  each  number  and  one  number  will 
not  be  complete  without  the  other.  The 
owners,  publishers  and  editor  of  Over- 
land Monthly  wish  to  thank  Mr.  Albert 
M.  Bender  for  his  splendid  cooperation 
and  also  to  extend  to  those  who  contrib- 
uted a  like  appreciation.  Those  to  ap- 
pear in  the  second  volume  are: 

Edward  F.  O'Day. 
Gertrude  Atherton. 
Albert  Bender. 
Charmian  London. 
Homer  Henley. 
Gobind  Behari  Lai. 
Marie  de  L.  Welch. 
Joyce  Mayhew. 
Derrick  Norman  Lehmer. 
Will  Irwin. 
Hildegrade  Planner. 
Upton  Sinclair. 
Inez  Irwin. 
Herbert  Heron. 
Charles  Erskine. 
Scott  Wood. 
James  Rorty. 
Oscar  Lewis. 
Carey  McWilliams. 
Edgar  Waite. 
Charles  K.  Field. 
Clarkson  Crane. 
Vernon  Kellogg. 
Edgar  Lee  Masters. 
Flora  J.  Arnstein. 
Elsa  Gidlow. 
Donald  Gray. 
Henry  Louis  Mencken. 

(Continued  on  Page  344) 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET   HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


NOVEMBER,  1927 


NUMBER  11 


EDITORIAL   STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 
CONTRIBUTING  EDITORS 
CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN   KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 


MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


23     Contents  of  this  issue  and  all  back  issues  of  Overland  may  be  found  in 
"Readers'  Guide  to  Periodical  Literature  at  any  library 
in  the  United  States 


NOVEMBER  CONTRIBUTORS 

OF  THE  poets  represented  by  their 
verse  in  this  issue,  we  have,  Clark 
Ashton  Smith,  author  of  The  Star 
Treader,  etc.;  Idella  Purnell,  editor  of 
Palms;  Elvira  Foote,  contributor  to 
current  magazines;  Rex  Smith,  news- 
paper feature  writer;  Louise  Lord  Cole- 
man,  author  of  Don  Juan,  etc.;  Axton 
Clark,  contributor  to  current  magazines. 

WITH  next  issue,  Tom  White  gives 
up  the  active  conducting  of  Over- 
land Book  Page.  Mr.  White  finds  his 
other  literary  work  too  pressing  to  con- 
tinue this  department.  He  is  at  work 
now  on  a  book  for  publication. 

IN  DECEMBER  issue  of  Overland 
will  appear  "To  a  Girl  Dancing,"  by 
George  Sterling,  one  of  those  gems  of  his 
early  work.  This  number  will  carry  an 
article  of  general  interest  for  those  of 
our  readers  who  may  not  be  in  sympa- 
thy with  our  policy  of  the  Sterling  issue. 
We  have  endeavored  to  give  that  same 
number  of  our  readers  an  article  of  ben- 
eficial information  in  this  issue. 

/^RISTEL  HASTINGS  gives  us  in 
^  December  a  most  instructive  article 
on  a  new  course  given  by  the  University 
of  California,  extension  division.  Be 
sure  to  see  what  it  is. 

AS  IN  our  previous  issues  there  will 
be  an  article  covering  "art"  by 
Aline  Kistler.  Miss  Kistler  is  now  car- 
rying on  the  department  of  Art  under 
Gene  Hailey  of  the  Chronicle.  See  what 
our  Overland  writers  accomplish! 


Contents 


George  Sterling,   1926 Johan  Hagemeyer Frontispiece 

Sarpedon,  Poem Edwin  Markham 325 

The  Man  Who  Short-Changed 

Himself Charles  Caldwell  Dobie 327 

Sterling  in  Type Donald  Gray 328 

George  Sterling,  Poem Ina   Coolbrith 328 

A  Few  Memories....  Robinson  Jeffers 329 

Poems  by  George  Sterling 330 

Cool  Grey  City  of  Love,  The  Sowers,  The  Black  Vulture 

A  Poet  in  Outland Mary  Austin 331 

King  of  Bohemia Idwal  Jones 332 

George  Sterling,  Poem Witter   Bynner 332 

Glimpses  of  George  Sterling George   Douglas 333 

Memories  of  George  Sterling Sara  Bard  Field 334 

A  Martyr James  Hopper 335 

Publishers,  Editor  and  Authors B.  Virginia  Lee 336 

George  Sterling James  D.  Phelan 343 

George  Sterling  at  Play Austin  Lewis 344 

Poet  of  Seas  and  Stars Henry  Meade  Bland 345 

POETRY 

A  Valediction  to  George  Sterling... .Clark  Ashton  Smith 338 

Good   Fellow Idella  Purnell 338 

In  Memoriam Elvira  Foote 338 

Who  Long  Walked  Here  With 

Beauty Rex  Smith 339 

The  Joyous  Giver Louise  Lord  Coleman 339 

For  George  Sterling Axton  Clark 339 

DEPARTMENTS 

Book  Department Conducted  by  Tom  White 340 

Choosing  Your  Investment Trebor  Selig 348 

Calendar  of  Plays Gertrude  Wilcox 335 


Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

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(Contents  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


324 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE  November,  1927 


GEORGE  STERLING 


By  Johan  Hagenmeyer 


NOV  '  9  ! 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 

and 

OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


Sarped 


on 


In  memory  of  George  Sterling,  citizen  of  the  Far  West, 
poet  of  the  seas  and  stars,  prophet  of  Social  Democracy. 

By  EDWIN  MARKHAM 

Author  of  "The  Man  With  the  Hoe,  Lincoln, 
The  Gallows-Bird,  Etc. 


SARPEDON,  a  native  of  Lycia  and 
a  son  of  Jove,  was  the  founder  of 
a  line  of  heroes  in  his  land.    His 
story  is  told  in  the  Iliad. 

While  a  comrade  of  the  illustrious 
Hector  in  the  Trojan  War,  Sarpedon 
confronted  Patroclus,  who,  clad  in  the 
terrifying  armor  of  Achilles,  was  driv- 


ing the  frightened  Trojans  before  him. 
The  dauntless  Sarpedon  ventured  battle 
with  the  armored  Patroclus;  and  Jove, 
the  high  Olympian,  looked  down  with 
sorrow  on  his  imperilled  son,  and  longed 
to  snatch  him  from  his  fate.  Sarpedon 
fell  with  a  fatal  spear-wound  in  his 
breast ;  whereupon  there  was  a  wild 


struggle  between  the  opposing  warriors 
for  his  body.  Apollo  snatched  him  from 
the  midst  of  the  roaring  combatants,  and 
committed  him  to  the  care  of  the  twin 
brothers,  Death  and  Sleep,  who  carried 
him  tenderly  in  airy  flight  to  Lycia — to 
his  own  friends,  to  his  own  home,  to  his 
own  land. 


Shall  I  strew  on  thee  rose  or  rue  or  laurel, 
Brother,  on  this  that  was  the  veil  of  thee? — 

Ave  atque  Vale. 
I. 

0  poet  of  the  Carmel  promontories, 
With  genius  stormy  as  the  stormy  seas, 

The  cliffs  will  miss  you  and  the  tortured  trees, 
Twisted  and  stoopt  where  the  long  torn  shore  is 
Tormented  by  the  waves  that  never  rest, 
Surges  that  seem  on  some  eternal  quest — 
Reminders  of  your  passion  and  your  grief. 

Your  high  strange  song  rusht  like  this  billow-flight 
That  swings  from  other  lands,  to  break  at  night 
In  splendor  when  long  leagues  of  shore  and  reef 
Burst  into  terrible  light. 

You  turned  and  left  it  all  for  the  husht  Hereafter, 
Great  poet  and  great  dreamer  of  the  dreams — 
Turned  to  the  land  lighted  with  misty  beams : 

1  saw  you,  who  had  longed  for  love  and  laughter, 
Borne  over  the  dim  voids  to  a  castle-keep, 
Sarpedon,  carried  high  by  Death  and  Sleep, 

Wearing  the  scars  of  your  battle  and  your  pain, 
Your  struggle  with  the  fortunes  of  our  star 
And  with  this  dust  that  is  our  mortal  bar. 

These  things  are  cryptic :  they  will  not  be  plain 
Even  where  the  Immortals  are. 

Life  is  too  deep  for  any  probe  of  reason, 

Life  is  too  veiled  for  any  mortal  ken — 

Too  deep,  too  veiled  for  these  bewildered  men: 
Life  is  a  lure,  and  yet  her  deeds  are  treason 

Against  the  Love  disheartened  by  the  wrong — 

Against  the  Justice  baffled  by  the  strong — 
Against  the  Dreams  forever  dying,  yet 

Refusing  ever  utterly  to  die, 

And  ever  crying  to  a  silent  sky — 
High  Dreams  we  cannot  utterly  forget, 

And  yet  we  know  not  why. 


You  did  not  choose  to  hold  to  "the  Great  Blunder", 
And  yet  it  had  been  better  had  you  held, 
Held  as  the  heroes  of  the  days  of  eld — 

As  Shelley  held  against  life's  trampling  thunder, 
And  lifted  for  all  time  the  Comrade  Theme, 
Lighting  the  darkness  with  a  mighty  Dream — 

As  Hugo  held,  Hugo  the  Godlike  one, 

Who  could  not  be  disheartened  nor  betrayed, 
Who  held  his  place,  unwearied,  unafraid, 

Who  hurled  his  songs,  like  thunders  of  the  sun, 
Against  the  hell  man-made. 


We  know  not  all  the  weight  you  had  to  carry, 
Sarpedon,  nor  the  fear  upon  your  brain: 
We  know  not  in  what  dungeon  and  what  chain 

You  fought  the  fiend  all  night  with  lunge  and  parry. 
Braver  you  were  perhaps — yes,  braver  far — 
Than  we  who  battle  and  show  no  fatal  scar — 

We  who  came  safe  because  we  had  no  load — 
We  who  came  safe  because  we  met  no  foe, 
Had  no  blind  wrestle  with  the  Gulf  below, 

Out  on  the  tempting,  lone,  tempestuous  road 
The  sons  of  genius  go. 


Let  no  man  judge  you,  friend  and  bard  and  brother — 
No  man  till  he  has  stood  within  your  place, 
Lifted  your  burden,  worn  your  stricken  face. 

No  man  but  him  shall  judge  you — no,  none  other; 
And  he  will  judge  you  not,  but  lift  a  hand 
To  ease  your  steps  over  the  broken  land — 

Yes,  help  you  as  we  all  must  be  some  day 

Helpt  on  life's  road  which  none  can  go  alone, 
The  long  road  strewn  with  pitfall  and  with  stone; 

For  'tis  a  dangerous  and  a  darkened  way, 
Into  the  old  Unknown. 


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OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


Ah,  the  wild  question,  Is  there  One  who  watches? 
If  so,  who  set  these  snares  on  every  hand, 
And  whose  dark  spirit  cried  the  dark  command? 

What  blind  Thing,  bungling  at  the  mortal,  botches? 
This  question  is  unanswered,  and  will  be 
When  the  last  thunder  tramples  the  last  sea. 

Still  there  is  one  thing  that  is  left  us,  friend — 
To  keep  the  high  heart,  face  the  foeman,  cry 
For  strength  to  fight  the  battle  and  to  die, 

To  fight  the  battle  bravely  to  the  end  — 
Then  to  another  sky! 


What  have  you  found  there  where  the  new  heavens  heighten  ? 

Have  you  the  old,  the  dear  familiar  things — 

Flutes  on  the  hill  and  cattle  at  the  springs? 
And  do  the  old  knots  of  life  still  tug  and  tighten? 

What  secrets  are  let  out  by  death,  what  one 

Soars  high  above  the  others  like  a  sun? 
I  hear  you  answer  from  your  castle-keep : 

"Brief  is  the  cryptic  wisdom  of  the  dead: 

Each  man  forever  mixes  his  own  bread : 
Still  as  men  sow  they  do  forever  reap: 

They  choose  their  roads  ahead." 


II. 

What  else  can  I  say  here  where  the  ways  dissever, 

Here  by  the  sacred  mystery  of  death, 

Here  by  the  grave  where  mortals  bate  the  breath, 
Where  all  the  foot-prints  seem  to  fade  forever? 

Do  all  things  crumble  at  the  last  of  earth? 

No,  'tis  another  chance,  another  birth! 
This  I  dare  cry  above  the  old  mistrust. 

The  dead  depart,  but  wild  hopes  follow  after; 

So  when  the  house  falls,  beam  and  roof  and  rafter, 
I  dare  stand  calmly  and  dispute  the  dust, 

Defy  the  Skull's  last  laughter. 

The  heart  has  other  questions :  we  must  ponder 
On  the  strange  world  that  waits  us  on  ahead, 
The  goal  of  all  these  pilgrims  to  the  dead — 

The  world  you  entered  in  the  hidden  Yonder — 
The  land  we  see  not,  yet  the  land  that  lures — 
The  land  that  seems  all  shadow,  yet  endures — 

The  land  the  poets  in  their  wistful  hours 
Have  turned  to  in  the  daring  of  their  songs, 
And  whither  our  wild  hopes  hurry  in  dim  throngs — 

The  land  we  people  with  imperious  Powers, 
With  strength  to  right  all  wrongs. 

How  can  I  call  you  back,  O  stormy  lover, 

Since  you  have  turned  and  dropt  the  mask  of  time? 
I  have  no  power,  none  but  this  flying  rime 

And  these  wild  tears ;  but  these  can  not  recover 
That  look  of  light,  that  step  of  gallant  grace, 
That  lyric  laugh,  that  old-young  wistful  face. 

We  cannot  call  you  back  to  us,  but  we 

Can  follow  you  with  shouts  of  comrade  cheer, 
Wafting  you  power,  and  this  will  draw  you  near. 

There  is  between  us,  then,  no  sundering  sea, 
No  gray  estranging  Fear. 

Nothing  can  part  us  twain,  O  friend  and  frater : 
Nothing  can  part — not  life  nor  death  nor  Hell, 
Not  Malebolge,  not  the  Stygian  Well : 

I  even  can  follow  the  flutes  of  your  dancing  satyr, 
Look  on  Diana  naked  in  the  stream, 
Or  dare  some  plunging  Aeschylean  theme. 

We're  one  in  the  love  of  love,  the  hate  of  hate — 
One  in  the  high  hope  of  that  Coming  Hour 
When  men  will  build  on  earth  the  comrade  power, 

Build  for  tired  souls  the  glad  Fraternal  State, 
A  shelter  and  a  tower. 


How  did  She  greet  you  there,  our  mighty  Mother? 
What  did  She  do  to  ease  your  heart  of  tears, 
What  gift  bestow  for  all  your  singing  years? 

Surely  She  sent  to  you  some  elder  brother, 
Some  one  who  also  had  the  darkness  trod, 
Some  one  to  cheer  you  with  a  smile  of  God — 

Byron  perhaps  or  Poe  or  Dante,  one 

Who  knows  the  burden  of  the  dust  we  wear, 
Who  knows  the  danger  of  the  upper  air, 

Who  traveled  the  shadow  of  Hell  to  reach  the  sun, 
Who  took  life's  awful  dare. 

He  has  cried  welcoming,  with  lips  a-quiver: 
He  will  cry  courage,  he  will  speak  you  peace, 
Will  lead  to  secret  paths  where  sorrows  cease, 

Under  the  pines  that  shade  the  secret  river — 
Find  you  wild  apples  and  the  robin's  nest, 
Show  sea-birds  on  their  wide-spread  wings  at  rest. 

He  will  bring  mystic  bread  that  will  restore 
The  sacred  strength  we  squander  on  the  earth ; 
Then  in  some  moment  of  the  second  birth, 

A  face  will  shine,  the  God  we  both  adore, 
The  God  of  Song  and  Mirth. 

After  the  vigils  and  the  pains  of  pardon, 

Which  all  souls  enter  and  all  souls  must  know, 
Your  soul  will  rise  as  one  ordained  to  go ; 

And  he  will  lead  you  to  the  lofty  garden, 
Where  heroes  gather  in  the  holy  night, 
With  souls  alive  with  martyr-love,  fire-white — 

Men  sworn  to  wear  the  honor  of  the  King, 
Ready  to  lead  the  people  in  their  joy 
And  ready  to  bear  the  burdens  that  destroy — 

Warriors  who  ride  to  battle  as  they  sing — 
Higher  than  heroic  Troy. 

What  can  I  pour  now  as  a  last  libation, 

What  scatter  on  your  mortal  dust,  O  friend  ? 

What  thunder  loosen  at  the  road's  last  bend? 
Let  it  be  clarion,  psan,  exultation ; 

For  it  must  be  thanksgiving  for  your  song, 

Your  laureled  head  above  the  applauding  throng, 
Your  lyric  voice  the  kingliest  in  our  choir? 

The  mightiest  voice  that  ever  shook  the  West  . 

You  ever  held  the  Muse  a  heavenly  guest : 
Not  once  did  you  befoul  her  feet  with  mire, 

Not  once  besoil  her  breast. 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


327 


III. 

Sometimes  your  soul  sang  down  the  wind  of  vision, 
Lit  by  that  dream  of  earth  that  never  ends, 
The  dream  of  earth  become  a  world  of  friends — 

Sang  on  in  spite  of  laughter  and  derision, 
Seeking  a  world  where  babes  shall  never  be 
Born  old  at  birth,  in  sorrows  like  the  sea — 

Where  work-worn  mothers,  blasted  in  the  womb, 
Shall  not  find  sacred  motherhood  a  curse — 
Where  God  will  sing  into  his  universe 

And  earth  no  longer  wear  the  ancient  doom. 
Your  song  rose  tense  and  terse. 

And  so  you  soared  with  Shelley  in  his  daring: 
You  heard  his  Men  of  England,  that  wild  cry, 
That  judgment  thunder  from  an  angered  sky: 

You  heard  it  and  it  saved  you  from  despairing. 
And  you  will  hear  him  now,  the  winged  one, 
Sing  pasans  in  the  porches  of  the  sun. 

You  will  behold  him  in  a  sudden  blaze 
Of  splendor,  high  above  all  mortal  things: 
You  will  behold  him,  one  of  the  Lyric  Kings, 

When  you  have  shaken  off  the  dust  of  days, 
And  felt  a  touch  of  wings. 


You  loved  the  poets  of  all  lands  and  ages — 

Leconte  de  Lisle  who  fought  the  ancient  wrong, 
Swinburne,  Carducci,  all  the  sons  of  Song; 

But  most  you  loved  them  in  their  sacred  rages 
When  battling  for  the  plundered  slaves  of  earth, 
Fired  by  Apollo,  who,  in  humble  birth, 

Appeared  as  Christus  with  the  wounded  hands. 
You  loved  them  all  and  joined  their  holy  quest, 
Their  search  for  something  that  will  give  us  rest- 

The  longing  of  the  heroes  in  all  lands, 
The  cry  in  every  breast. 


So  in  these  late  hours  when  the  Dream  seems  setting, 
We  will  not  lose  hope  for  the  days  ahead : 
You,  you  have  helpt  us  fight  against  the  dead, 

And  you  will  keep  our  tired  hearts  from  forgetting. 
You  will  be  watchman  when  we  camp  at  night, 
Your  song  be  fire  upon  the  front  of  fight. 

You  will  be  there,  alive  with  noble  pride, 
To  cry  us  courage  when  the  foe  appears, 
And  will  go  with  us  down  the  battling  years; 

And  all  will  hear — when  victory  is  cried — 
Your  voice  among  the  cheers. 


The  Man  Who  Short -Changed  Himself 


I  MET  George  Sterling  first  some  ten 
years  ago  shortly  after  joining  the 
Bohemian  Club.  I  had  seen  him 
many  times,  of  course,  in  old  Coppa's 
under  the  Montgomery  block,  where  he 
foregathered  over  his  combination  salad 
and  paste  with  the  other  immortals  of 
the  period.  But  I  was  a  business  man  in 
those  days  and  the  literary  lights  then 
twinkling  were  miles  away  from  me.  I 
remember  that  I  thought  him  quite 
handsome,  then,  in  a  Dante-like  way 
and,  curiously  enough,  I  fancied  him  un- 
approachable. But  only  five  minutes  in 
his  presence  dispelled  that  fiction.  To 
my  surprise,  he  was  not  only  cordial — 
but  he  knew  the  little  reputation  as  a 
writer  that  I  had  earned  at  that  time. 
That  was  one  of  his  characteristics,  he 
always  kept  up  with  the  young  writers 
who  were  coming  along — not  only  the 
poets,  but  the  writers.  He  had  a  great 
admiration  for  people  who  could  submit 
to  what  he  called  the  discipline  of  prose. 
He  thought  it  immeasurably  harder  than 
verse.  It  was  for  him,  at  any  rate.  And 
yet  he  could  write  admirable  prose  when 
he  wanted  to.  He  was  filled  with  all 
sorts  of  good  short  story  material  which 
he  flung  right  and  left  to  those  who 
could  use  it.  I  chided  him  once  for  this. 
I  said :  "But,  George,  they  ought  to 
share  their  checks  with  you,  at  least!" 
His  answer  was  a  scornful  shrug.  For 
him,  money  did  not  enter  into  such  a 
gesture.  He  gave  away  hundreds  of  dol- 
lars worth  of  material.  There  was 


By  Charles  Caldwell  Dobie 

Author  of  "Less  Than  Kin,"  Etc. 

never  a  struggling  magazine  or  periodi- 
cal that  couldn't  get  priceless  material 
from  him  for  the  asking. 

People  had  an  idea  that  Sterling  was 
a  good  press  agent  for  himself.  They 
had  the  notion  that  he  sought  the  lime- 
light, that  he  liked  to  see  his  name 
linked  with  sensational  exploits.  They 
had  visions  of  George,  sitting  in  his 
study,  surrounded  by  reporters,  like 
President  Coolidge  giving  an  audience. 
Nothing  could  have  been  further  from 
the  truth.  The  least  hint  of  a  situation 
was  distorted  by  the  newspapers  into 
something  utterly  sensational.  It  got  to 
be  a  habit  for  the  press  to  try  to  sniff 
out  startling  gossip  about  him.  I  men- 
tioned him  once  or  twice  in  my  Caliph 
column  but  in  an  entirely  different  vein 
than  usually  had  fallen  to  his  lot  in  the 
columns  of  the  press.  He  said  one  day 
shortly  before  he  died :  "Thank  you, 
Charlie,  for  that  notice  you  gave  me, 
Tuesday.  You're  the  only  person  who 
gives  me  the  kind  of  publicity  I  like."  I 
was  amazed  and  touched  at  his  simplic- 
ity and  pleasure  in  my  few  words.  I  had 
said  something  about  the  beauty  of  his 
announcement  for  his  Grove  Play 
"Truth." 

On  only  one  subject  was  George 
Sterling  rabid  and  that  was  upon  the 
subject  of  reformers.  I  have  a  carbon 


copy  before  me  of  a  poem  called 
"Origin."  It  is  duly  signed  by  him,  but 
it  was  not  for  publication.  It  has  to  do 
with  a  worm-like  spawn  of  "Jack"  Sa- 
tan. The  Old  Gentleman,  in  rare  good 
humor  at  this  new  creation,  calls  a  com- 
pany of  lesser  devils  about,  to  view  the 
strange  animal  and  pass  judgment  on  it. 
Satan  laughed 
And  told  them  all  to  guess  what  thing 

it  was 

That  stank  and  bit  so  furiously.   One 
Deemed   it   an  embryo  offal-snake,  and 

one 
That   hell   had    given   birth   to   a   new 

worm 
Which  would  grow  greater  and  torment 

the  damned. 

Another  thought  it  offspring  of  the  bite 
Of  some  mosquito,  diabolic,  huge, 
Spawned  in  the  ultimate  sewage  of  the 

Pit; 

And  yet  another  guessed  it  stood  for  sign 
Of  that  putridity  which  was  the  heart 
Of   Satan.     But   their   Master  laughed 

again 

And  said:  "Poor  fools!    'Tis  a  reform- 
er's soul !" 

Bitter  words  to  come  from  so  gentle 
a  soul.  What  George  really  detested 
was  indifference  to  beauty,  and  unkind- 
ness.  He  knew  that  a  reformer  had  both 
qualities  to  a  marked  degree.  There  was 
not  a  mean  nor  ungenerous  impulse  in 
his  entire  make-up.  The  only  man  that 
George  Sterling  ever  short-changed  was 
himself. 


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November,  1927 


CARELESS  enough  himself  with 
the  poems  he  delivered  for  publica- 
ation,  sending  hundreds  of  first 
copies  to  near  and  distant  friends,  dis- 
daining any  systematic  record  of  submit- 
ted manuscript,  indifferent  to  the  stand- 
ard of  the  publication  asking  for  mate- 
rial, astoundingly  ignorant  of  the  quality 
of  his  own  work,  deadly  foe  of  the  type- 
writer and  filing  case,  it  is  of  some  re- 
mark that  we  have  as  much  bound  mate- 
rial as  is  here  listed.  Credit  must  be 
given  A.  M.  Robertson,  Esquire,  for  the 
fastidious  care  he  gave  reviews,  manu- 
script and  books  bearing  the  Sterling 
imprint. 

A  thorough  search  of  the  Periodical 
Indexes  turns  up  no  less  than  one  hun- 
dred and  forty-two  titles  no  volume 
prints.  Here,  then,  is  a  good  sized  book 
completely  lost.  A  brief  comb  through 
the  personal  friends  of  the  poet  shows 
he  sent  out  as  gifts  over  one  hundred 
poems.  A  good  many  of  them  excellent, 
too,  in  the  original  manuscript.  Another 
book  lost.  He  would  send  a  fistful  of 
late  things  to  a  brother  poet  forgetting 
they  were  the  only  copies  he  owned.  It 
was  seldom  they  returned  his  pages. 

He  reviewed  over  six  hundred  books 
of  poetry  for  an  amazingly  large  group 
of  tiny  publications  scattered  over  the 
country.  He  reviewed  a  little  prose  work 
in  book  form  for  newspapers  and  just 
before  his  death,  a  miscellaneous  assort- 
ment of  volumes  for  the  OVERLAND 
MONTHLY.  He  is  the  author  of  seventy 
odd  short  stories,  over  two  hundred  art- 
icles, and  a  tremendous  amount  of  vari- 
ously sized  prose  sketches  for  everything 
from  the  Carmel  PINE  CONE  to  the 
NEW  YORK  TIMES.  Newspapers,  menus, 
catalogues,  fair  bulletins,  anthologies, 
pamphlets,  magazines,  book  forewords, 
parades,  public  campaigns — he  wrote 
everything  from  hymns  to  advertising. 
He  was  called  upon  by  every  civic  body 
for  a  poem.  Every  committee  started 
in  San  Francisco  wanted  something  from 
him  to  aid  their  cause.  Doctors  with 
new  inventions,  friends  with  the  auto- 
graph phobia,  little  poetry  magazines, 
motion  picture  magazines  and  druggist 
pamphlets — all  extracted  some  private 
contribution  from  the  author  of  the 
"Testimony  of  the  Suns."  No  wonder 
he  committed  suicide. 

"John  Bierce,"  "William  Appleton," 
"Thomas  Porter"  and  "Miquel  Wil- 
liams" are  the  more  important  Sterling 
pseudonyms.  "John  Bierce,"  first  of 
them,  was  used  for  miscellaneous  prose 
bits  and  minor  lyrics  early  in  1913.  He 


Sterling  In  Type 

By  Donald  Gray 

Author  of  Autumn  Dawn,  Driftwood,  Etc. 


was  particularly  fond  of  the  movies  and 
one  of  the  last  of  his  labors  was  the 
writing  of  a  comedy  for  a  Los  Angeles 
producer.  The  effort  proved  fruitless; 


GEORGE  STERLING 

By  Ina  Coolbrith 

California  Poet-Laureate 

(Suggested  by  a  strange  communication 
received  from  a  total  stranger,  purport- 
ing to  come  from  George  Sterling  a  few 
days  after  the  latter's  death.) 

BREAK  you  the  silence  that  enfolds, 
O  Comrade  mine?    Ah,  what  the 

spell 

Upon  the  close-shut  lips  that  holds 
The  mystery  that  none  may  tell ! 

What  visions  open  to  your  eyes? 

What    pathways    strange    unto    your 

tread  ? 
What  suns  illume  diviner  skies? 

What  life  requickening  the  dead? 

What  Loved   and   Lost   are  ours  once 
more, 

And  each  forgiven  is, — forgiVes? 
Upon  what  perfect,  heavenly  shore 

Is  known,  at  last,  the  Father  lives.' 

Aye,  speak,  O  Soul,  divine  of  Song! 

Lift   from  the  earth   its  wrong   and 

ruth; 
Ring  out  the  message  clear  and  strong, 

The  mighty  Anthem  of  the  Truth. 

A  message  dearer,  mightier  far 

Than  that  which  rang  through  bound- 
less space 

When  star  called  silverly  to  star, 
And  God  unveiled  Creation's  face. 

Break  the  long  silences,  while  through 
The  Universe  the  music  runs, 

And  Light  and  Life  are  born  anew, — 
Speak,  you,  O  Singer  of  the  Suns! 

INA  COOLBRITH. 


showing,  I  suppose,  a  dancing  master 
cuts  a  poor  figure  in  Hip  Boots.  An 
important  Fairbanks  production  "The 


Thief  of  Bagdad"  carried  several  Ster- 
ling titles.  Two  other  pictures  of  my 
knowledge  used  his  titling. 

His  short  stories  were  pretty  poor 
things.  They  lacked  the  tricks  of  drama  so 
common  among  present  day  "short"  story 
writers.  The  1900  melodrama  spread 
over  them  was  nothing  short  of  ghastly. 
One  of  them,  called  "An  Old  Man," 
written  late  in  1923,  was  so  terrible 
Sterling  had  it  typed,  wrapped  and 
buried  in  the  sand  dunes  back  of  the 
Sunset  district.  He  claimed  the  litera- 
ture of  today  was  on  such  a  down-grade, 
the  discoverer  of  his  manuscript  on  some 
far  later  date  would  herald  him  "an 
ancient  prophet,  wise  beyond  all  mea- 
sure." 

The  articles,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
excellent  examples  in  prose.  If  anything, 
they  were  too  filled  with  the  mellow  wit 
and  wisdom  belonging  to  Sterling.  The 
"Ambrose  Bierce"  piece,  written  for 
Henry  Mencken,  would  have  made 
three  articles.  Likewise,  the  "Joaquin 
Miller"  article,  written  for  the  same 
man.  Sterling  had  no  idea  of  just  how 
much  to  give  prose.  He  eternally  doubted 
the  value  of  any  of  it.  It  was  like  draw- 
ing teeth  to  get  him  to  do  it  at  all. 
From  the  excellence  of  his  later  prose 
work  many  critics,  fine  enough  gentle- 
men, base  their  contention  he  would 
have  made  a  greater  prosist  than  poet. 
Stuff  and  nonsense. 

Perhaps  the  pithiest  of  all  Sterling 
legend  is  forever  buried  in  his  personal 
letters.  Here  he  was  free  to  damn  or 
bless;  either  of  which  he  could  do  to 
the  king's  taste.  To  quote  the  present 
day  apostles,  he  "let  himself  out."  They 
were  rich  in  wisdom  and  health.  They 
were  unrestrained  and  glorious!  He 
would  parody  anything  from  the  psalms 
to  Eddie  Guest — and  do  it  with  keen 
relish.  He  reserved  nothing,  letting  the 
ripe  essence  of  a  life  richly  lived  scatter 
over  the  pages.  His  advice  to  the  young 
poets  he  knew,  and  whom  he  trusted, 
was  the  most  exquisite  philosophical  bar- 
barianism  ever  put  to  paper.  A  tragedy 
this  is  lost  to  the  unhallowed  multitude. 

His  files,  for  the  greater  part,  were  in 
his  inner  jacket  pocket.  The  package 
of  letters,  manuscript,  pictures  and  clip- 
pings in  that  pocket  often  rested  three 
inches  thick.  I  have  no  idea  how  he 
managed  to  be  so  exact  and  meticulous 
in  answering  letters.  Nor  has  anyone 
else.  Recalled  to  the  divine  essence, 
we'll  make  a  point  of  finding  out. 

(Continued  on  Page  350) 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY    and   OUT    WEST   MAGAZINE 


329 


A  Few  Memories 


WHEN  we  came  to  Carmel  in 
1914  George  Sterling  had 
ceased  to  live  here,  and  I  did 
not  meet  him  until  ten  years  later.  After 
that,  it  was  only  during  his  rare  visits, 
and  through  some  thirty  letters,  that  I 
knew  him,  except  as  he  was  known  to 
any  other  admirer  of  his  work;  so  that 
I  am  perhaps  the  least  qualified  of  his 
friends  to  speak  of  him  worthily. 

The  Carmel  pinewood  was  not  full  of 
houses  in  1914,  and  we  used  to  wander 
and  get  lost  in  it.  One  afternoon  we 
happened  on  a  group  of  trees,  circular 
about  a  stone  fireplace  that  looked  like 
an  altar,  and  each  of  the  tall  trunks 
hung  with  a  skull,  a  cow's  or  a  horse's, 
high  up  under  the  gloom  of  the  boughs. 
It  looked  to  us  like  the  last  of  the  sa- 
cred groves,  deserted  at  last.  We  wanted 
to  ask  about  the  place ;  we  knew  no  one 
here,  but  finally  the  house-agent  or  the 
grocer  told  us  that  it  had  been  Sterling's 
place.  Eleven  years  later,  reading  his 
poem  of  the  bird's  nest  in  the  skull,  I 
recognized  our  sacred  grove  of  long 
before. 

There  are  many  larger  scenes  on  this 
little  coast  of  which  he  appeared  the 
natural  center,  and  remains  so  now.  One 
of  his  visits  was  devoted  to  taking  us  up 
a  hill  stream,  San  Jose  Creek,  under  its 
cascade  he  had  seen  a  pair  of  water- 
ouzels  with  their  brood,  fourteen  years 
before.  The  birds  were  gone  and  their 
descendants  were  gone;  but  the  beauty 
of  the  water  slipping  over  the  grooved 
rock,  under  dense  green  alders  in  the 
redwood  shadow,  belongs  to  Sterling  in 
my  mind  as  much  as  any  line  of  his 
poetry. 

Another  day  he  led  us  to  see  an  island 
off  the  south  of  Point  Lobos,  a  lone 
haunt  of  sea-birds.  I  believe  he  knew, 
before  anyone  else  had  observed  it,  that 
pelicans  nested  there ;  and  he  had  found 
the  puffins'  burrowing  nests,  unnoted  by 
others,  and  mapped  for  us  the  birds' 
holdings  on  the  island,  each  tribe  its  ter- 
ritory, but  the  cormorants  in  hollows 
under  the  mainland  cliff.  Afterwards 
it  occurred  to  him  to  show  us  the  foot- 
prints of  a  big  dinosaur,  in  Point  Lobos 
sandstone;  and  the  cave  where  the  surf 
thundered  most  nobly,  in  the  hard  jewel- 
colored  conglomerate  near  by. 

Then  I  recall  him  on  the  reef  near 
Soberanes  Canyon,  on  the  black  ebb,  be- 
tween the  swinging  waves  and  immense 
gray  sky,  remembering  exactly  where  the 
abalones  hid,  and  exactly  where  the  mus- 
sels were  thickest.  Probably  there  was 
never  anyone  since  the  Indians  to  whom 


By  Robinson  Jeffers 

Author  of  "Tamar,"  "Roan  Stallion," 
"Women  of  Point  Sur,"  Etc. 

this  coast  was  so  presently  familiar;  he 
carried  it  in  his  mind  as  he  carried  the 
stars  and  constellations,  with  their 
strange  shining  names.  We  used  to 
make  delightful  discoveries  of  our  own, 
the  heron  erect  on  the  off-shore  kelp-bed, 
motionless  in  himself  but  swinging  with 
the  seas,  the  iris-beds  on  the  steep  hill, 
the  play  of  light  in  certain  weathers ;  but 
he  had  seen  them  first,  and  we  had  the 
second  delight  of  discovering  them  in  his 
poems. 

There  was  a  plague  of  ground-squir- 
rels on  our  place,  because  I  am  helpless 
about  killing  things;  Sterling  brought 
his  rifle  the  next  visit  and  delivered  us. 
He  sat  in  ambush  on  our  hillside  under 
the  stone  outcrop,  and  after  an  hour 
announced  that  he  had  killed  four  squir- 
rels and  written  two  sonnets.  "My  fatal 
facility: — but  the  sonnets  were  only  to 
put  in  a  letter."  He  wouldn't  show  them 
to  me;  I  have  no  doubt  they  were  good 
sonnets;  he  invariably,  in  words  and  I 
think  in  thought,  under-appreciated  his 
own  work. 

As  when  I  sent  him  a  page  from  the 
New  York  Times,  a  glowing  account  of 
his  "Liliih,"  which  it  called  the  best 
dramatic  poem  written  in  America.  He 
thanked  me;  but  he  wrote  to  the  re- 
viewer to  disclaim  the  praise  in  favor  of 
something  by  another  man,  and  in  form 
not  dramatic !  This  self-depreciation  was 
a  fault  since  it  wasn't  justified,  though 
the  most  charming  of  faults,  and  always 
running  over  into  the  brilliant  virtue  of 
his  generosity.  A  boundless  generosity, 
not  literary  alone,  but  extended  in  all 
sorts  of  affairs  to  all  manner  of  people, 
often  abused  and  yet  unwearied,  wholly 
admirable  but  too  good  perhaps  for  this 
mixed  world.  It  seems  to  me  the  pas- 
sionate quality  of  his  life. 

The  instinct  of  his  life  was  for  action; 
I  think  sedentary  thought  was  a  torture 
to  him.  If  there  was  a  question  of  doing 
something,  seeing  someone,  going  some- 
where, delay  was  a  torture.  He  was 
happiest  when  thought,  emotion,  action, 
came  all  in  one  flash.  We  were  driving 
by  a  field  that  sloped  to  the  river-mouth, 
to  reeds  and  water  and  up  again  to  the 
hills  and  sky;  a  sign  on  a  fence-corner, 
somebody's  prayer  for  election  as  sher- 
iff, caught  Sterling's  attention.  I  had 
been  by  there  a  hundred  times  and  never 
seen  it;  but  he  in  one  flash  saw  and  dis- 
liked it,  was  out  of  the  running  car, 


tore  it  down,  returned  again  before  I 
could  stop  the  car.  "Nobody  has  a  right 
to  put  a  thing  like  that  here." 

Accordingly  his  philosophy  of  life  was 
the  most  forthright  and  least  speculative, 
the  obvious  and  reasonable  plan  of  Epi- 
curus. Simply,  out  of  this  astonishing 
tangle  of  life,  to  choose  pleasure  and 
avoid  pain,  for  ourselves  and  others.  But 
the  serenity  and  temperance  of  Greek 
thought  suffer  strange  changes  in  alien 
climates;  the  mild  philosophy  became 
grand  and  somber  for  Lucretius,  massive 
and  practical  as  Roman  concrete,  a 
weight  too  heavy  to  be  borne;  so  it 
tends  to  become  in  America,  for  an  in- 
tense nature.  God  carries  the  load  for  a 
stoic,  the  impersonal  power  of  nature 
may  carry  it  for  another,  but  the  Epi- 
curean must  carry  it  himself.  It  was  not 
so  heavy  in  that  Athenian  garden. 

Of  course  a  man's  philosophy  is  not 
the  fountain  of  his  life,  often  it  is  hardly 
more  than  an  attempt  at  self-explana- 
tion. Sterling  had  not  studied  Epicurus, 
he  had  gathered  from  nearer  voices,  and 
in  part  wrought  for  himself,  his  own 
attitude.  He  loved  experience,  but  he 
wanted  by  all  means  to  make  rational 
choice  among  experiences.  He  refused 
the  experience  of  old  age.  To  him  that 
refusal  was  wisdom,  to  others  it  may 
seem  a  fault ;  in  any  case  a  man  without 
dependents  has  a  right  to  choose  for  him- 
self; and  the  power  that  requires  many 
virtues  of  men  has  never  required  fault- 
lessness. 

One  night  a  year  ago  I  dreamed 
about  the  interior  of  an  ancient  church, 
a  solid  place  of  damp  stone  about  which 
the  earth  had  crept  up,  beautiful  in  its 
ruin,  somewhat  like  the  Carmel  Mission 
before  they  restored  it.  Sterling  and  I 
were  there  in  the  stone  twilight,  among 
many  worshippers,  and  I  said  though  it 
was  pleasant  we  mustn't  stay,  it  was 
time  to  return  out-doors.  But  he  pre- 
ferred to  stay,  and  I  returned  alone, 
and  awoke.  The  afternoon  after  that 
night  a  newspaper  reporter  came  to  tell 
me  that  Sterling  had  died.  We  had  not 
seen  him  for  several  months,  but  were 
expecting  a  visit  from  him  that  week  or 
the  next. 

I  have  not  spoken  of  his  poetry,  be- 
cause it  is  public  to  everyone,  and  needs- 
neither  exposition  nor  praise;  it  is  pres- 
ent and  beautiful  and  has  no  obscurity* 
Fashion  was  against  it  a  few  years  and 
has  turned ;  but  fashion  is  no  doubt  the 
most  contemptible  of  the  critical  yard- 
sticks applied  to  poetry.  All  its  best  is. 
(Continued  on  Page  351) 


330 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


Poems  By  George  Sterling 


THE  COOL,  GREY  CITY  OF  LOVE  (San  Francisco) 

GEORGE  STERLING 

(From  Sails  and  Mirage,  published  by  A.  M.  Robertson, 
1921,  San  Francisco) 

Tho  I  die  on  a  distant  strand, 
And  they  give  me  a  grave  in  the  land, 
Yet  carry  me  back  to  my  own  city ! 
Carry  me  back  to  her  grace  and  pity! 
For  I  think  I  could  not  rest 
Afar  from  her  mighty  breast. 
She  is  fairer  than  others  are 

Whom  they  sing  the  beauty  of. 
Her  heart  is  a  song  and  a  star — 
My  cool,  grey  city  of  love. 

Tho  they  tear  the  rose  from  her  brow, 

To  her  is  ever  my  vow, 
Ever  to  her  I  give  my  duty — 
First  in  rapture  and  first  in  beauty, 

Wayward,  passionate,  brave, 

Glad  of  the  life  God  gave. 

The  sea-winds  are  her  kiss, 
And  the  sea-gull  is  her  dove, 

Cleanly  and  strange  she  is — 
My  cool  grey  city  of  love. 

The  winds  of  the  Future  wait 
At  the  iron  walls  of  hef  Gate, 
And  the  western  ocean  breaks  in  thunder, 
And  the  western  stars  go  slowly  under, 
And  her  gaze  is  ever  West — 
In  the  dream  of  her  young  unrest. 
Her  sea  is  a  voice  that  calls, 

And  her  star  a  voice  above, 
And  her  wind  a  voice  on  her  walls — 
My  cool,  grey  city  of  love. 

Tho  they  stay  her  feet  at  the  dance, 

In  her  is  the  far  romance. 
Under  the  rain  of  winter  falling, 
Vine  and  rose  will  await  recalling. 

Tho  the  dark  be  cold  and  blind, 

Yet  her  sea-fog's  touch  is  kind, 

And  her  mightier  caress 

Is  joy  and  the  pain  thereof; 

And  great  is  thy  tenderness, 
O  cool,  grey  city  of  love ! 


THE  SOWERS 

GEORGE  STERLING 

TVTOW  it  is  April,  and  the  plows  are  out. 
•"•  '    In  Manitoba  and  the  vast  Ukraine 

The  horses  of  the  sun  go  forth  again, 
And  wide  Dakota  hears  the  plowing  shout. 
Now  California  prays  against  the  drought, 

And  on  Manchuria  falls  the  changeless  rain. 

The  broken  earth  accepts  the  pregnant  grain, 
And  men  forget  the  winter  and  the  doubt. 

Slowly  the  clouds  pass  up  the  mighty  sky 

Whose  channeled  azure  deepens  for  their  snow, 

And  softer  winds  are  in  the  plowboy's  hair. 
Over  the  fields  he  hears  a  crystal  cry, 

As  the  mad  lark,  with  fenceless  fields  to  sow, 
Flings  immemorial  music  to  the  air. 


THE  BLACK  VULTURE 
GEORGE  STERLING 

From  35  Sonnets  by  George  Sterling.    Printed  June,  1917, 
by  the  California  Book  Club 

\  LOOF  upon  the  day's  immeasured  dome, 
-^*-  He  holds  unshared  the  silence  of  the  sky. 
Far  down  his  bleak,  relentless  eyes  discry 
The  eagle's  empire  and  the  falcon's  home — 
Far  down,  the  galleons  of  sunset  roam; 
His  hazards  on  the  sea  of  morning  lie; 
Serene,  he  hears  the  broken  tempest  sigh 
Where  cold  Sierras  gleam  like  scattered  foam. 

And  least  of  all  he  holds  the  human  swarm — 
Unwitting  now  that  envious  men  prepare 
To  make  their  dreams  and  its  fulfillment  one, 
When,  poised  above  the  caldrons  of  the  storm, 
The  hearts,  contemptuous  of  death,  shall  dare 
His  roads  between  the  thunder  and  the  sun. 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


331 


A  Poet  In  Outland 


PROBABLY  no  writer  ever  keeps 
his  work  wholly  consistent  to  the 
medium  to  which  his  hand  is  most 
subdued.  He  must,  if  only  to  validate 
his  final  choice,  try  himself  out  in  an- 
other vehicle,  fortunate  if  he  can  so  tar 
succeed  with  it  as  to  make  one  hand 
wash  the  other.  But  George  Sterling 
was,  by  the  necessity  of  his  nature, 
bound  to  select  for  his  alter  opus  a  me- 
dium the  least  likely  to  win  him  either 
audience  or  recompense.  What  he  would 
have  liked  to  do  when  he  was  not  doing 
what  he  did,  would  have  been  to  pro- 
duce tales  of  romantic  fancy.  He  could 
have  done  with  "Treasure  Is'and,"  but 
would  have  preferred  some  of  the  less 
micabre  tales  of  Pos  or  Hewlet's  "Love 
of  Proserpine."  Born  to  the  American 
scene,  however,  and  to  a  decade  given 
over  to  the  romantic  realism  of  Jack 
London,  Sterling's  impulses  in  that  di- 
rection failed  to  put  forth  more  than  a 
tender  leaf  or  two.  I  doubt,  indeed,  if 
any  beside  myself  gave  him  an  encour- 
agement, though  Jack  loyally  translated 
one  of  George's  ideas  into  "The  First 
Poet"  and  tried  to  sell  a  short  story,  the 
manuscript  of  which  may  still  be  in  ex- 
istence. It  was  called,  I  think,  "The 
Dryad,"  and  was  the  story  of  a  man 
who  had  seen  a  veritable  dryad  in 
Carmel  woods,  and  managed  somehow 
to  get  through  into  the  dimension  in 
which  dryads  and  all  such  have  their 
being,  though  at  the  cost  of  a  total  dis- 
appearance from  this.  It  was  my  sympa- 
thy with  the  idea  rather  than  with  the 
story  as  George  had  written  it,  that  had 
consequences,  which,  since  they  have  al- 
ready attained  the  dignity  of  book  pub- 
lication may  have  some  interest  still  for 
Sterling's  friends.  But  first  I  must  go 
back  a  little  to  explain  how  "Outland" 
came  to  be  imagined  before  it  was  writ- 
ten. 

One  of  the  poet's  endearing  traits, 
which  he  shared  with  all  creative  work- 
ers and  most  children,  was  a  quick  ca- 
pacity for  entering  into  an  imagined  sit- 
uation and  "playing"  at  being  whatever 
at  the  moment  most  interested  him.  His 
favorite  play,  reminiscent  of  his  boy- 
hood in  Captain  Kid's  country,  was  the 
"lost  treasure"  game  in  which  I  had  so 
lively  a  sympathy  that  by  the  end  of 
our  first  summer  at  Carmel  we  had  be- 
tween us  created  the  whole  of  the 
"King's  Treasure,"  and  brought  it  to  the 
coast  in  the  hold  of  a  strange  Chinese 
seeming  craft,  which  the  Japanese  aba- 
lone  fishers  reported  as  lying  sunk  off 
Point  Lobos.  Of  the  treasure,  which 


By  Mary  Austin 

Author  of  "A  Woman  of  Genius,"  Etc. 

you  will  find  partially  describ°d  in 
"Ont'and,"  which  George  and  I  hunted 
as  happily  as  though  we  reallv  believed 
it.  there  were  many  more  explicit)  items, 
of  which  the  crown  of  opals  and  the 
ruby  necklace  were  of  the  poet's  exclu- 
sive creation,  as  the  King's  cup  was 
mine.  It  was  George's  idea  that  the 
place  where  the  treasure  had  first  been 
prot  toe-ether,  was  a  burial  cave  of  kings, 
but  of  the  other  incidents  not  even  I 
ran  now  recall  the  original  author;  for 
bv  the  time  th?  book  was  written  prac- 
ticallv  every  one  of  our  group  had  had 
a  hand  in  it. 

It  was  Vernon  Kellogg  who  gave  us 
th-  first  suggestion  of  the  "Anthers," 
for  though  he  is  now  head  of  National 
Research  and  was  then  Professor  of  Bi- 
onomics, or  something  equally  imposing, 
at  Leland  Stanford  University,  he  wasn't 
above  playing  with  us,  provided  there 
were  no  other  scientists  about  to  be  mys- 
tified by  it.  That  was  the  morning  after 
the  severest  storm  any  of  us  had  known 
at  Carmel,  and  we  were  exploring  the 
bearh  toward  Mission  Point,  strewn 
with  the  many  colored  treasure  of  the 
deep.  Along  the  tide  mark  drifts  of  yel- 
lowish sea-scum  piled  or  broke  and 
skimmed  the  opalescent  sands  like  great 
birds,  overhead  a  scum  of  cloud  veiled 
the  foreshore;  seaward  the  liquid  tur- 
auoise  of  the  bav  splashed  and  cradled. 
In  the  tide  shallows  unfamiliar  purple 
sea-snails  wallowed  clumsily  and  it  was 
while  we  were  helping  them  back  to 
deep  water  that  Vernon  suggested  that 
there  might  be  other  helpers  about,  gerni 
loci  as  invisibly  incomprehensible  to  us 
as  we  were  to  the  murex-tinted  crea- 
tures of  the  sea  bottoms.  Didn't  we 
after  all  feel  this  to  be  so?  Well,  it  was 
so  easy  to  believe  as  archangels,  easier 
than  for  a  sea  snail  to  believe  in  a  Pro- 
fessor of  Bionomics.  Thus  as  we  dis- 
cussed how  such  creatures  might  live 
and  herd  together  the  Anthers  and  the 
Far  Folk  came  to  figure  in  our  play, 
though  never  so  explicitly  for  the  others 
as  for  George  and  Mary.  Only  if  we 
walked  in  the  wood  and  fell  on  that 
singular  sense  of  presence  lurking  un- 
seen in  the  world,  or  found  a  seeming  hu- 
man trace  that  could  have  had  no  human 
origin  someone  would  say — "There's 
your  word  people!"  Or,  if  we- spun  ad- 
ventures for  entertainment,  the  Anthers 
became  lay  figures  of  wish  fulfillment  in 
everybody's  favorite  adventure. 


Often  it  was  suggested  that  these  ad- 
ventures should  be  written;  but  they 
were  so  varied  and  unrelated,  so  uncre- 
ate,  that  it  was  not  until  two  or  three 
years  later,  when  I  was  lying  ill  in  a 
Pension  in  the  Rue  d'Assars  in  Paris 
that  it  occurred  to  me  definitely  to  do 
so.  I  was  homesick  and  in  pain,  and 
while  the  first  condition  made  for  vivid- 
ness in  recollection,  the  second  makes 
always,  in  my  case,  for  beauty,  but  beau- 
ty rather  of  form  and  detached  unreality, 
since  by  a  personal  idiosyncracy  I  am 
debarred  from  all  the  pharmacetic  aids, 
and  Beauty  is  my  only  anodyne.  So  the 
story  came  out,  as  one  of  the  English 
reviewers  said,  "enclosed  within  a  rain- 
bow film  of  unreality."  For  which  rea- 
son chiefly  it  failed  to  find  an  American 
audience. 


John- 


-,  who  admitted  later 


that  he  accepted  the  book  uncondition- 
ally on  reading  that  "literature  is 
produced  not  by  taking  pains  but  by 
having  them,"  published  "Outland"  in 
England  under  a  pseudonym,  and  several 
years  later  Boni  &  Liveright  brought  it 
out  with  the  author's  own  name,  in  New 
York,  with  scarcely  any  more  popular 
result.  However,  the  reaction  that  in- 
terested me  most  was  Sterling's.  He  was 
disappointed  at  first  that  I  had  really 
begun  the  story  in  the  middle,  omitting 
the  part  in  which  he  had  figured  as  the 
discoverer  of  the  treasure,  and  comman- 
der of  the  ship,  now  deep  under  weed 
off  Lobos,  that  brought  it  to  our  shores. 
Although  the  part  of  villain  in  the  strug- 
gle between  Anthers  and  Far  Folk  had 
been  of  his  own  choosing,  he  would  have 
preferred  to  figure  for  the  first  printed 
venture,  in  the  more  heroic  role,  and 
for  years  after  would  urge  upon  me  an- 
other volume  in  which  his  own  favorite 
adventure  would  be  made  to  appear.  But 
the  fortunate  conjunction  in  which  I 
could  afford  to  do  that  never  came  about. 
It  is  perhaps  because  I  still  hope  to  find 
the  opportunity,  say  in  my  Christmas 
stocking,  that  I  do  not  relate  it  in  any 
incompleted  fashion.  And  perhaps  be- 
cause it  comes  to  me  more  and  more 
that  there  is  a  profound  significance  in 
this  unpremeditated  revelation  of  the 
poet  soul,  a  significance  in  reference  to 
the  unachieved  creature  endeavor  that 
should  receive  only  the  most  considered 
handling.  For  the  part  Sterling  chose  to 
play  in  the  adventure  of  the  "King's 
Treasure"  was  in  a  larger,  more  sophis- 
ticated, intellectually  more  creditable 
way,  the  part  he  played  in  "Outland"  as 
(Continued  on  Page  351) 


332 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


INSTEAD  of  a  full  year,  it  might 
have  been  a  month,  or  just  yester- 
day,   that   George    Sterling   quitted 
these  haunts  and  life  itself.   He  went  out 
of  it  in  that  careless,  abrupt  way  he  had. 
His  last  expression  was  a  wry  smile.    I 
think  of  that  stanza  by  Hardy: 

"So  now,  that  you  disappear 
Forever  in  that  swift  style 
Your  meaning  seems  to  me 
Just  as  it  used  to  be : 
'Good-bye  is  not  worth  while!'  ' 

He  was  such  a  very  viable  fellow  that 
the  report  of  his  death  seems  even  now  to 
be  an  error,  and  that  he  must  be  some- 
where about.  Perhaps  down  the  next 
street,  moving  about  in  the  fog,  with  his 
coat  collar  turned  up  and  that  extraor- 
dinary small  hat  perched  on  the  top  of 
his  head,  and  going  into  some  booth  to 
telephone  a  friend  to  join  him  in  some 
waggish  frolic.  And  if  the  hour  is  too 
late,  then  he  must  be  standing  under  a 
corner  lamp,  wondering  what  to  do  so 
as  to  make  the  most  of  life  before  morn- 
ing. Most  of  us  have  the  curious  sense 
that  he  is  still  alive.  He  has  not  yet 
become  a  legend.  Aye,  a  year  is  too 
short  a  time  for  that. 

The  news  that  he  was  gone  seemed 
incredible.  It  was  like  an  unicorn  dy- 
ing, or  an  amoretto,  or  one  of  those 
sinewy  and  eternal  children  of  Pan.  It 
came  like  a  shock,  as  if  a  calamity  had 
happened  not  to  us  but  to  Nature  itself. 
There  was  an  eternal  quality  in  him, 
and  his  passing  disturbed  our  feeling  of 
the  essential  durableness  of  things.  And 
yet,  a  short  while  after,  we  became  ad- 
justed to  the  change  in  our  ideas  con- 
cerning him.  He  was  one  of  those  few 
men  that  became  while  still  in  the  flesh 
half  fabulous,  and  when  they  do  come  to 
die  the  feeling  that  they  were  fabulous 
after  all  is  a  sort  of  consolation.  And 
this  is  particularly  so  with  your  genu- 
ine Vates  who,  by  the  nature  of  his 
being,  is  extra-human. 

Well,  Sterling  was.  He  was  extra- 
human  in  his  friendships.  He  was  extra- 
human  in  his  sense  of  duty.  I  remember 
once  that  he  had  promised  me,  as  soon 
as  it  came  off  the  press,  a  copy  of  his 
poetic  play,  "Lilith."  It  was  slow  get- 
ting printed,  because  the  job  was  being 
done  on  a  hand  press  far  up  in  Ukiah. 
Finally,  after  weeks,  it  was  finished. 
Quite  unworthy  was  the  paper,  which 
looked  like  the  kind  butchers  use  to  wrap 
up  meat  in,  and  the  typographical  er- 
rors ran  thirty  to  the  volume.  He  spent 
all  day  and  half  the  night  correcting 


King  of  Bohemia 

By  Idwal  Jones 

Author  of  The  Splendid  Shilling,  Etc. 

them  with  pen  and  ink,  and  it  was  mid- 
night before  he  was  through.  He  car- 
ried a  volume  at  once  to  my  room,  two 
miles  away  from  the  Bohemian  Club, 
and  arrived  at  midnight,  both  querulous 
and  apologetic  over  the  delay. 

And  to  do  this,  he  had  to  stave  off 
for  an  hour  going  to  a  masquerade  party 
for  which  he  was  already  dressed.  He 


GEORGE  STERLING 

By  WITTER  BYNNER 

Author  nf  The  P°lov«d  Stranger, 

The  New  World,  Etc. 

ONCE,  when  no  war  had  caused  com- 
panion souls 

To  sicken,  parching  for  new  happiness, 
A  poet  at  Carmel,  where  the  great  sea 

rolls 

Its  warning  at  the  shore,  was  sad  no  less 
Laugh  though  he  might  at  the  ways  of 

man.    Perhaps 
Where   nature   is   too   beautiful,    man's 

height 

Lessons  as  nothing.    The  ocean's  thun- 
derclaps 
Have  too  much  meaning  for  a  poet  at 

night. 

Often  he  would  take  up  an  ocean-spear 
And,  stripping  naked,  poise  against  the 

sky, — 

Dart  over  barnacled  rocks,  and  reappear 
Bringing   an   abalone  caught  while  the 

high 
Surf  waited.    But  even  then,  he  would 

as  lief 
Have  let  those  waves  cover  his  agelong 

grief. 


came  to  me  dressed  in  a  monk's  robe  and 
cowl.  How  well  it  went  with  his  Savon- 
arola profile!  The  only  other  time  I 
saw  him  fittingly  dressed  was  at  some 
artists'  ball,  when  his  garb  consisted  in 
a  small  leopard  skin  and  a  wreath  of  vio- 
lets. He  was  priest  and  Pagan  at  the 
same  time.  He  was  a  very  superb  Pagan 
when  he  died.  It  has  never  been  stressed 
enough  that  he  was  a  sensualist.  His 
ideas  on  morality  were  not  interesting. 
A  poet  has  no  need  to  trifle  with  them, 
else  he  injure  his  chances  of  immortality. 
All  that  one  needs  to  know  about  a  poet 
are  his  concerns  with  beauty. 


He  loved  flagons  and  gaiety,  and  ro- 
bustious argument  on  politics  as  well  as 
quips  and  badinage.  It  was  surprising 
how  well  he  could  argue  when  it  was 
necessary.  Time  and  again  a  group  of 
us,  so  overheated  with  talk  that  we  had 
to  remove  our  coats  and  vests  and  turn 
up  our  sleeves  so  we  could  pound  the 
table  with  greater  freedom,  would  turn 
loose  and  demolish  his  arguments.  He 
loved  the  excitement  of  thinking  at  high 
tension.  In  the  awful  din,  that  wailing 
nasal  Yankee  voice  of  his  threaded  its 
way  through  the  storm,  like  a  dory 
through  a  hurricane,  and  arriving  with- 
out the  loss  of  a  spar. 

As  fixed  as  letters  carved  in  adamant 
were  certain  beliefs  in  his  mind.  The 
greatest  genius  of  modern  times  was  Dr. 
Abrams  of  electrotonic  fame.  Chaplin 
was  the  greatest  American  after  Lin- 
coln. (That  Chaplin  was  a  cockney  was 
of  no  consequence).  Gaylord  Wilshire, 
one  of  the  early  Fabians,  an  adventurer, 
gold-mine  exploiter  and  real-estate  gam- 
bler, and  later  a  sort  of  John  Law  pro- 
moter of  an  electric  belt,  was  an  intellect 
of  the  first  dimensions.  Garlic  was  a 
deadly  poison,  ranking  next  to  arsenic. 
Whiskey  was  unfit  to  drink  unless  dilut- 
ed with  warm  water  and  heavily 
sugared.  San  Francisco  was  equal  in 
culture  to  Florence.  The  noblest  dish 
for  human  beings  was  steamed  clams, 
and  next,  baked  beans  with  mint  sauce 
on  them.  Japanese  were  a  people  of  big 
brains,  because  they  ate  custard  with 
tiny  raw  fish  tied  in  knots  cooked  inside 
it.  Opera  singing  was  the  most  bestial 
of  human  cries. 

These  postulates  he  delivered  ex  ca- 
thedra. And  the  more  furiously  we  tried 
to  rebut  them,  the  more  convinced  he 
became  of  their  soundness.  He  believed 
in  them  as  whole-heartedly  as  a  Yankee 
farmer  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  Peruna 
or  Swamp-Root.  At  least  he  believed  in 
something.  I  think  he  was  sounder  in 
the  realm  of  beauty.  He  was  an  incar- 
nation of  some  ancient  Greek,  aflame 
with  love  of  beauty,  and  yet  a  stern 
logician.  Even  in  his  lightest  sonnets 
there  was  a  fool-proof  hypothesis,  devel- 
oped into  an  argument  that  was  as  logi- 
cal as  it  was  poetic. 

And  yet  he  was  always  kindly  and  tol- 
erant. He  sympathized  with  the  under- 
dog, even  if  the  under-dog  was  getting 
all,  as  the  saying  goes,  that  was  coming 
to  him.  He  never  graduated  from  that 
school  of  political  thought  that  went  to 
pot  in  1914 — soap-box  socialism,  and  of 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


333 


which  Jack  London,  Ben  Reitman  and 
Daniel  De  Leon  were  leading  exponents. 
They  had  engaged  his  sympathies  in  his 
salad  days,  and  he  had  a  terror  of  alien- 
ating himself  from  their  frame  of  mind. 
They  were  in  touch  with  realities,  with 
the  bed-rock  of  life.  He  dreaded  to  be- 
come hardened,  less  highly  sensitized  as 
time  went  on.  And  to  retain  that  charm- 
ing responsiveness  to  emotions,  to  pain 
as  well  as  pleasure,  he  kept  himself  al- 
ways young.  He  had  never  any  fear  of 
death  nor  of  any  man  nor  of  any  con- 
tingency— save  that  sad  one  of  failing  to 
respond  instantaneously  to  the  mystery 
of  life. 

That  staunch  friend  of  ours  had  an- 
other admirable  trait.    He  had  a  certain 


healthy  toughness  of  fibre  in  his  being. 
He  was  no  shouting  rhapsodist.  The 
psychopathic  fallacy  of  nature  was  not 
in  him.  He  might  write  about  the  moon. 
But  he  didn't  hold  that  the  moon  was 
young  Maneata,  sterile  and  subject  to 
convulsions,  and  a  worshiper  before  a 
red-and-vermilion  shrine.  Nonsense,  the 
moon  was  an  orb  of  poetic  uses  but  also 
of  deep  astronomical  interest.  In  fact, 
he  used  to  look  at  it  for  hours  through 
a  quite  expensive  telescope,  and  could 
cover  reams  of  paper  with  sines  and 
cosines  in  the  laudable  effort  to  deter- 
mine its  correct  trajectory.  Like  all 
right-minded  poets,  he  was  also  scientist. 
Poetry  was  the  artistic  presentation  of 
what  was  going  on  in  the  world,  up  in 


the  heavens,  and  in  the  heads  of  his  fel- 
low-beings. 

There  are  mealy-mouthed  apologists 
now  that  take  it  upon  themselves  to  la- 
ment his  deviation  from  the  accepted 
norm  of  conduct.  Into  the  ditch  with 
these  Pharisees!  When  he  lived  with 
us  he  was  a  gorgeous  companion,  a  high 
priest  of  revelry,  youth  and  happiness. 
There  was  always  a  glow,  a  magic  light 
on  that  cameo-face  of  his.  A  father-con- 
fessor who  always  understood.  The 
town — ah,  my  merry  lads — has  not  been 
the  same  since  he  has  gone.  When  he 
lived  he  was  the  King  of  Bohemia.  Now 
that  he  is  dead,  he  is  still  its  despotic 
master. 


Glimpses  of  George  Sterling 


THE  poet  was  one  of  five  judges  in 
a  verse  competition  for  three 
prizes.  To  ease  his  task  we  did  not 
call  him  in  until  the  contributions  had 
been  sifted  down  to  what  might  be  read 
in  the  course  of  an  hour. 

Before  as  much  as  glancing  at  the 
selections  he  spent  half  the  morning 
turning  over  the  rejected  verses  to  feel 
sure  that  no  injustice  had  been  done. 

That  he  indorsed  the  verdict  of  the 
other  four  judges  is  a  small  matter. 
What  remains  is  the  impression  of  his 
infinite  patience,  his  sympathy  with  all 
effort  to  express  itself  in  song. 

"Poor  devils,"  he  said,  "I  know  how 
they  feel ;  how  some  of  them  must  suf- 
fer. Those  that  write  better  than  others 
suffer  just  that  much  more.  They  know 
how  far  short  they  fall  of  what  they 

want  to  say." 

*       *       * 

One  day  he  came  into  the  office  with 
a  book  of  poems  and  a  manuscript  re- 
view. 

"Read  the  poems  first  and  then  the 
review.  I  am  sure  that  I  have  spoken 
the  truth,  and  some  of  it  is  just  the 


By  George  Douglas 

Literary  Editor  San  Francisco  Bulletin 

truth  that  should  be  told,  but  I  cannot 
tell  it  to  him  in  person." 

Instead  of  the  caustic  criticism  that 
one  might  have  expected  the  review  was 
warm  in  its  praise  and  contained  noth- 
ing more  severe  than  a  gentle  reminder 
that  the  bard  was  now  big  enough  to  be 
free  of  the  influence  of  other  singers. 

"He  might  take  it1  too  much  to  heart, 
if  I  said  it,  but  it  should  be  told  by 
someone  who  honestly  likes  his  work,  as 
I  know  you  do." 

*       *       * 

"I  have  come  to  make  a  confession.  I 
have  sinned  in  permitting  myself  to 
write  these  lines  to  a  man  who  has  done 
me  an  injury,  and  done  it  intentionally. 
I  have  said  what  I  think  of  him,  and  I 
am  sure  it  is  all  true,  but  the  plain  truth 
is  so  damnable  that  no  man  should  be 
told  it  this  side  of  hell — and  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  hell.  We  get  hell  enough  here 
on  earth,  but  I  am  not  going  to  send 
him  this." 


Why  had  he  shown  it  to  me?  To 
confess  the  sin  and  forget  it. 

After  reading  the  rhymed  letter  I 
could  not  forget  it,  but  I  am  sure  that 
he  did.  Tearing  it  into  little  bits  and 
dusting  his  hands  he  said:  "I  am  ab- 
solved. We  can't  afford  to  hurt  our- 
selves by  hurting  other  people." 
*  *  * 

A  room  thick  with  smoke.  Four  of 
us  seated  on  boxes  at  a  big  table  that 
Idwal  Jones  has  promised  to  give  me 
when  he  goes  to  Italy.  Nothing  on  the 
table  but  ashes,  glasses,  bottles  and 
books. 

The  bottles  were  pre-war  pints  each 
neatly  inscribed  on  its  white  label  "To 
George  Sterling." 

The  books  were  inscribed  "To  Charles 
Duncan  from  George  Sterling." 

It  had  been  a  bargain — a  book  for  a 
bottle — and  when  the  last  volume  had 
been  inscribed  the  bard  regretted  that  he 
had  not  published  more  books. 

The  bottles  were  soon  emptied — the 
books  now  seem  fuller  than  ever. 


334 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


Memories  of  George  Sterling 


WE  WERE  in  New  York  when 
the  word  reached  us  that  George 
Sterling    was     dead.      Months 
later  we  came  home,  hoping  that  long 
familiarity  with  the   fact   of   his   death 
would  ease  the   pain  of  returning  to  a 
locality   of  whose   abundant    beauty   he 
was  so  integral  a  part. 

It  was  a  vain  hope.  For  though  April, 
deep-rooted  in  the  heaviest  winter  rain 
of  many  years,  was,  in  return,  deluging 
with  bloom  all  California  from  Los  An- 
geles northward  to  Los  Gatos,  our  des- 
tination, we  found  it  impossible  to  look 
upon  it  with  the  old  gladness.  We  had 
seen  these  landscapes  again  and  again 
through  George  Sterling's  eyes  and  those 
eyes  were  closed  forever.  We  stared 
out  of  the  car  window  at  poppied  hill- 
sides and  meadow  lakes  of  lupin  as 
"through  a  glass  darkly." 

Our  first  visit  to  San  Francisco  was 
another  revelation  of  how  a  highly  sen- 
satized  individual  can  heighten  or  de- 
crease the  intensity  of  objective  beauty 
by  his  presence  or  absence.  In  Carmel 
this  experience  was  repeated.  Now  I 
better  understand  Adonais  and  realize 
with  Shelley  how  Nature,  though  appar- 
ently the  same  in  form  and  color,  wears 
a  cloak  of  mourning  for  her  dead  lover 
— a  cloak  invisible  to  all  eyes  except 
those  who  also  loved  the  lover  and  saw 
Nature  through  his  eyes. 

I  have  not  yet  assimilated  the  ache  of 
loss  enough  to  turn  it  into  literature. 
All  I  can  do  now  in  tribute  to  this  Poet 
is  to  ease  my  heart  of  some  intimate 
memories  that  were  carried  like  petals 
during  his  life  but  are  now  death-heavy. 

During  the  last  years  of  George 
Sterling's  life  he  was  a  fairly  frequent 
visitor  at  our  former  home  on  Russian 
Hill.  He  called  the  place  "Mt.  Olym- 
pus" because  of  the  presence  there  of 
"Zeus,"  his  chosen  name  for  Charles 
Erskine  Scott  Wood.  One  evening  he 
brought  to  the  house  a  celebrated  poet 
who  was  a  visitor  in  San  Francisco. 
Frederick  O'Brien  and  a  few  other 
friends  were  there,  too,  and  my  Mother 
who  was  making  her  home  with  us  that 
winter  was  one  of  our  company.  My 
Mother  was  an  exquisite  person  so  tiny 
in  stature  that  she  awoke  the  protective 
instinct  even  in  strangers ;  a  Quaker  with 
early  Victorian  views  on  religion  and 
morality  but  tolerant,  courteous  and 
wholly  without  antagonism  toward  those 
who  differed.  The  deep  sorrows  life  had 
brought  her  and  the  fact  that  she  was 
near  her  journey's  end  were  lightened 
for  her  by  her  unquestioning  orthodox 


By  Sara  Bard  Field 

Author  of  the  Pale  Woman,  Etc. 

faith.  For  her  this  faith  brought  the 
peace  beyond  understanding.  Of  the  per- 
fection and  godhood  of  Christ  she  had 
no  slightest  doubt  and  in  her  simple, 
child-like,  unworldly  way  she  had  tried 
to  pattern  her  life  on  Christ's  teachings. 

Somehow,  without  explanation,  the 
friends  who  gathered  at  our  house,  all  of 
them  free-thinking  radicals,  intuitively 
felt  all  this.  Unconsciously  they  paid 
tribute  to  her  gentle  charm,  to  the 
pathos  of  a  dependent  and  slightly  crip- 
pled old  age  and  to  the  simple  sincerity 
of  her  faith,  by  cloaking  any  agnostic 
utterance  made  in  her  presence  in  inof- 
fensive language,  so  that  my  Mother, 
though  often  in  complete  disagreement 
with  our  friends,  was  never  pained  or 
shocked. 

This  night,  the  poet  whom  George 
brought,  oblivious  of  my  Mother's  age 
and  the  obvious  implication  of  beliefs 
belonging  to  her  period,  made  a  brutal 
attack  on  the  character  of  Christ,  saying 
he  would  show  from  his  own  words 
that  he  was  "the  meanest  man  that  ever 
lived."  He  asked  for  a  Bible.  The  rest 
of  the  evening  he  sat  thumbing  its  pages, 
finding  his  references  and  continuing  his 
denunciation.  During  this  performance 
George  behaved  exactly  like  a  mother 
bird  whose  ground  nest  has  been  sur- 
prised by  a  too  heavy  human  foot.  He 
flew  in  and  out  of  every  silence,  trying 
desperately  to  change  the  subject.  He 
uttered  cries  of  distress,  sotto  voce,  to 
his  friend  who  never  seemed  to  hear 
them.  He  pulled  poem  after  poem  out  of 
his  pocket  and  read  it  in  his  slow,  fumbl- 
ing way  during  the  pauses  in  which  the 
prosecutor  relentlessly  combed  the  Bible 
for  further  self-incriminating  evidence 
against  Christ. 

My  Mother  had  never  before  heard 
even  the  most  unorthodox  lips  speak  of 
Christ  except  in  terms  of  love  and  ad- 
miration. She  was  pale  with  intense  suf- 
fering. George  understood  as  well  as  I 
did  what  was  happening.  Something  as 
solidly  sustaining,  as  firmly  unquestion- 
able as  the  earth  was  being  undercut. 
Seeing  he  could  do  nothing  else  to  re- 
lieve the  situation,  George  rose  abruptly 
and  took  his  friend  away.  My  Mother 
who  died  last  Fall  in  the  same  Novem- 
ber that  called  George,  was  aware  of 
his  sensitive  interference  for  her  sake 
and  I  wish  he  had  known  how  she  loved 
him  for  it. 

Another  evening  when  George  came 


to  see  us,  Ellen  Van  Valkenburg  Browne 
was  a  house  guest.  She  took  a  pack  of 
playing  cards  and  said  gayly,  "Come, 
Mr.  Sterling,  I'll  tell  your  fortune." 
"Do"  George  responded  with  a  strange 
look  of  sudden  concentrated  interest.  As 
Mrs.  Browne  dealt  the  cards  in  small 
piles  according  to  a  scheme  of  her  own, 
George  never  took  fascinated  eyes  from 
her.  I  felt  worried.  I  saw  at  once  that 
she  who  dealt  the  cards  was  playing  a 
game.  He  who  looked  on  was  gravely 
expectant  of  some  intensely  real  revela- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Browne  who  is  as  disciplined  an 
actress  when  playing  a  part  off  as  well 
as  on  the  stage,  told  George  many  things 
in  cryptic  language,  gazing  the  while, 
sibyl-like,  straight  before  her  so  that 
she  did  not  once  see  how  George's  eyes 
snatched  at  her  words.  Whether  by  clair- 
voyance or  from  accident  she  told  him 
things  which  I  could  guess  from  his  ex- 
pression, crept  dangerously  near  the 
locked  room  of  secret  and  haunting 
troubles.  When  she  finished  George 
was  nervous  and  excited.  "You  have 
said  more  than  you  yourself  know" 
he  earnestly  assured  her.  Not  until  then 
was  I  aware  of  George's  believing  at- 
traction for  the  occult.  Twice  after 
that  night  he  referred  to  Mrs.  Brown's 
card  reading.  "She  was  damn  right, 
too,"  he  would  add  meditatively.  But 
what  it  was  she  was  "damn  right"  about 
I  do  not  know. 

In  the  cynical  and  disillusioned  age 
that  has  succeeded  the  world  war,  one's 
sick  thought  turns  gratefully  to  the  un- 
compromising human  beauty  of  the 
friendship  between  George  Sterling  and 
Robinson  Jeffers.  Ardently,  even  wist- 
fully, we  have  contemplated  such  a  lit- 
erary friendship  as  that  of  Byron  and 
Shelley  ripening  between  the  walls  of 
the  Lanfranchi  Palace  or  in  the  dark 
Dante-haunted  forest  of  Ravenna  or  on 
Venetian  waters.  Right  before  our  eyes 
there  has  blossomed  another  such  friend- 
ship at  Tor  House  beside  the  Pacific. 
Nor  has  any  other  historic  friendship  in- 
cluded more  tender  humility  in  the  giv- 
ing and  in  the  taking  than  this.  Not 
since  John  the  Baptist  pointed  to  the 
young  Christ  "whose  shoe  latchets  I  am 
not  worthy  to  unloose"  has  there  been 
so  large  a  gesture  of  exalted  devotion 
as  that  with  which  George  Sterling 
pointed  to  the  luminous  star  of  his  own 
discovery. 

"Have  you  read  Tamar?"  asked 
George  one  afternoon  as  I  was  pouring 
him  the  tea  he  never  drank.  He  must 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


335 


have  asked  that  question  a  thousand 
times  to  as  many  people  in  the  months 
to  come.  "Tamar.  No,  unless  you  mean 
the  story  in  the  Bible." 

"You  don't  know  Tamar?"  The  ques- 
tion was  a  rebuke.  "It  is  unquestionably 
the  greatest  poem  of  our  time."  "In- 
deed, who  wrote  it?"  I  asked  meeting 
his  enthusiasm  with  such  skeptical  tones 
as  would  have  irritated  any  one  less 
gently  forbearing  than  George.  "Rob- 
inson Jeffers.  He  lives  at  Carmel.  He 
is  a  Titan  of  a  poet — perhaps  the  great- 
est living  poet.  Tamar  is  an  amazing 
performance — its  theme,  its  handling — 
loud  thundering  lines  with  a  ground 
swell  in  them.  I  will  see  that  you  get  a 
copy."  These,  I  believe  were  his  exact 
words  impressed  forever  on  me  by  the 
flushed  enthusiasm  which  was  over- 
whelmingly convincing  and  by  my  rever- 
ence for  George's  limpid  admiration  in 
which  was  no  minutest  particle  of  the 
green  scum  of  envy. 

And  again  the  voice  crying  in  the  wil- 
derness. This  time  at  our  house  on  Rus- 
sian Hill  where  a  brilliant  group  of 
poets,  artists  and  professional  men  and 
women  of  many  nationalities  from  all 
the  Bay  cities  had  gathered  to  celebrate 
the  host's  birthday.  I  had  asked  George 
to  read  some  of  his  poems  and  to  say  a 
few  words. 

He  spoke  feelingly  of  The  Poet  In 
The  Desert  and  of  its  author,  dutifully 
read  one  of  his  own  poems  and  then.  .  .  . 
"We  have  another  great  California  poet 
living  in  Carmel  who  is  as  yet  all  too 
little  known.  I  am  amazed  at  the  ob- 
scurity in  which  he  still  writes.  Those 
of  you  who  have  not  read  Tamar  have 
missed  an  acquaintance  with  what  I  be- 
lieve is  the  most  powerfully  original 
work  of  our  time."  George  was  off  on 
what  became  the  favorite  theme  of  his 
last  years.  His  face  which  could  be  so 
sadly  old,  so  oddly  weary  and  gray,  was 


the  face  now  of  an  eager  boy  talking  of 
his  favorite  sport.  I  never  saw  a  clearer 
illustration  of  rinding  one's  life  by  losing 
it. 

IT  SEEMS  to  me  that  the  feminine 
element  in  George — an  element  which 
made  him  so  attractive  to  women  and  at 
the  same  time  made  strong  friendships 
with  men  indispensable,  was  never  more 
manifested  than  in  this  abandonment  of 
himself  to  a  friend  in  whom  he  believed. 
His  joy  in  friendship  was  always  pro- 
portionate to  the  spiritual  and  intellec- 
tual worth  of  his  friend  since  large 
worth  brought  him  the  opportunity  to 
give  himself  utterly  in  devotion  and 
praise  as  women  do.  Doubtless  these 
important  friendships  with  men  were  a 
substitution  for  the  deficiency  that  Mary 
Austin  tells  us  always  existed  in  his  re- 
lationships with  women.  He  never 
achieved  one  that  brought  him  full  sat- 
isfaction. I  doubt  if  he  could  have  done 
so.  The  feminine  side  of  his  nature  was 
not  nourished  by  the  love  relation.  It 
fed,  rather,  on  friendships  with  great 
men  wherein  giving  was  more  import- 
ant than  getting  and  praising  and  ad- 
miring more  satisfying  than  being 
praised  and  admired. 

We  left  for  the  East  in  the  October 
preceeding  George's  death.  The  last 
time  I  saw  him  was  on  a  shining  Sep- 
tember day  that  betrayed  autumnal  wist- 
fulness  only  in  an  indefinable  golden 
urgance.  We  were  at  Montalvo,  Sena- 
tor Phelan's  estate.  After  luncheon  the 
guests  scattered,  talking  here  and  there 
in  small,  congenial  groups.  I  wandered 
off  to  look  at  all  the  loveliness  of  flower 
and  grass  and  tree.  As  I  passed  through 
the  patio  I  found  George  sitting  between 
two  pillars  of  the  loggia,  facing  the 
Santa  Clara  Hills  that  wall  Montalvo. 
There,  as  I  lingered  beside  him,  we  had 
the  most  satisfying  hour  of  all  our  many 


friendly  communions.  We  talked  of  the 
loneliness  and  fear  of  the  poppied  beauty 
of  California  that  drove  so  many  bril- 
liant writers  to  New  York.  "Beauty  has 
never  lulled  me  to  sleep,"  George  said. 
"It  has  been  fire  in  my  veins.  It  has 
forced  me  to  write."  We  talked  of  his 
own  poetry  and  he  speculated  in  a  de- 
tached manner  about  the  reason  his 
Black  Vulture  was  year  by  year  monot- 
onously selected  for  every  anthology.  "I 
think  that's  a  good  enough  poem,"  he 
said,  "But" — with  a  fleeting,  shy,  apolo- 
getic smile — "I  think  I've1  written  as 
good  or  better  poems,  don't  you?"  and 
then,  quite  suddenly,  "What  do  you 
think  is  my  best  poetry?"  "To  a  Girl 
Dancing,"  I  told  him.  That  poem  is  to 
me  your  most  typical  and  your  most 
beautiful  work.  Like  Shelley  you  are  at 
your  best  when  dealing  with  a  beautiful 
object  in  motion.  And  do  you  know  why 
you  are?"  "No.  Tell  me."  "Because 
Beauty  and  Transiency  together  haunt 
you  more  than  any  other  theme  and  a 
beautiful  object  'that  is  in  motion — that 
is  passing,  so  to  speak,  gives  you  the 
chance  to  play  on  two  strings  at  once 
and  you  get  a  music  and  a  content  that 
is  a  perfect  combination  of  the  two  ideas 
— 'the  twain  become  one'."  And  I 
quoted : 

"How  soon  the  wreaths  must  go 
And  those  flower-mating  feet 
Be  gathered,  even  as  flowers,  by 
cruel  Time." 

George  looked  off  at  the  hills  where 
the  evergreen  mingled  with  the  passing 
gold.  "There  is  beauty  on  the  wing" 
he  said.  "I  guess  you're  right.  I  can't 
get  away  from  it.  I  don't  know  that  I 
want  to  even  though  it  hurts." 

In  the  last  month  of  that  very  Au- 
tumn "on  the  wing,"  the  living  pres- 
ence and  companionship  of  George  Ster- 
ling was  also  beauty  that  had  passed. 


«<©«•- 


I  HAVE  been  asked  by  the  editors  of 
Overland  to  contribute  to  the  num- 
ber dedicated  to  George  Sterling. 
And  sitting  down  gladly  to  what  prom- 
ised to  be  a  delicious  task,  I  find  myself 
strangled  by  a  strange  impotence. 

I  want  to  write  of  George  Sterling, 
and  I  will  some  day.  But  I  am  not 
ready:  I  will  not  be  ready  for  a  long 
time:  the  subject  set  before  me  is  as 
heavy  and  massive  as  one  of  the  pyra- 
mids, or  the  Hymalayas,  and  at  the  same 
time  delicate  as  an  iridescence,  muffled- 
gentle  as  the  flutter  of  a  moth  at  night. 

This  I  can  say.    It  has  been  my  good 


The  Martyi 


By  James  Hopper 

Author  of  Gaybigan,  Goosie, 
The  Freshman,  Etc. 

fortune  to  be  very  close  to  a  Poet  for 
many  years,  and  I  know  now  what  a 
Poet  is.  He  is  a  martyr. 

A  concentrated  fury  drove  George 
Sterling  to  a  distillation  of  beauty  for 
our  careless  delectation,  and  that  beauty 
— this  seems  to  be  the  law — must  be 
distilled  out  of  the  vinegar  and  bitter- 
ness of  acrid  living.  The  same  implaca- 
ble urge  which  drives  the  Poet  to  the 
fashioning  of  the  cool  opals  of  perfect 


beauty  hurls  him  periodically  into  the 
lonely  and  terrible  depths  where  alone 
exists  the  material  for  his  mysterious 
transmutations. 

And  George  knew  this,  and  accepted 
perfectly.  His  was  not  the  austerely 
stoic  nature  that  appeared  to  some,  nor 
was  he  the  gladsome  child  others  be- 
lieved him  to  be;  he  was  a  compact  of 
exquisite  nerves  agonizingly  sensitive. 
And  that  quivering  sensibility,  raw  and 
palpitant,  he  unhesitatingly  plunged 
again  and  again — for  us,  for  the  fashion- 
ing of  his  opal  and  pearls  and  emeralds 
(Continued  on  Page  347) 


336 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


Publishers,  Editors  and  Authors 


WHAT  is  greater  than  the  print- 
ed word?  There  are  perhaps 
three  agencies  which  might  be 
considered  greater;  the  periodical  which 
carries  the  printed  word,  the  writer  who 
makes  possible  the  material  for  that  pe- 
riodical and  next  the  editor  who  in  some 
strange  way  holds  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  or  in  his  blue  pencil,  the  fate  of 
many  who  would  remain  in  a  groove  and 
rut  of  inconspicuous  notice1  and  the  neg- 
lectful attention  of  the  community. 
Strange  tales  these  editors  might  tell; 
tales  of  discovery,  of  intrigue  to  bring 
to  light  something  he  has  felt  was  great 
contrary  to  all  other  opinions,  some- 
thing which  he  has  been  assured  in  his 
own  analytic  mind  has  merit,  something 
which  tells  him  it  is  from  the  pen  of  a 
genius,  something  which  is  art  and  great- 
er than  the  artist  himself.  It  is  to  the 
editors  of  these  early  periodicals  of  the 
West,  as  of  today,  that  we  owe  astound- 
ing records  of  both  incidents  and  au- 
thors and  the  work  of  these  authors,  now 
reckoned  as  masterpieces  and  which  have 
sometimes  been  placed  in  type  by  the 
editor  at  great  risks.  Theirs  was  the 
living  passion  to  give  the  world  truth, 
quality  and  perfection,  a  burning  desire 
to  help,  to  find,  to  record  and  so  have 
come  to  us  in  eulogistic  strain  the  brief 
biographies  and  partial  sketches  of  those 
who  have  since  passed  into  the  grave, 
those  who  were  conspicuous  or  promi- 
nent or  measurably  distinguished  in  their 
career  in  the  community. 

It  is  not  infrequent  to  find  these  edi- 
tors who  have  striven  and  succeeded  in 
raising  from  very  common  clay  to  posi- 
tions of  honor,  emolument  and  distinc- 
tion, many  who  proved  unworthy  and 
ungrateful,  retiring  in  sad  recollections 
in  the  evening  of  a  long  and  laborious 
life-time,  poorly  rewarded  by  his  fellow 
citizen  but  with  a  consciousness  he  has 
done  a  work  and  done  it  nobly. 


California  printers  in  the  pioneer  days 
labored  vnder  great  and  peculiar  diffi- 
culties. The  supplies  of  paper,  ink  and 
type  were  subject  to  all  the  delays  and 
expenses  of  the  Cape  Horn  and  Isthmus 
routes,  and  skilled  workmen  were  scarce, 
and  it  was  not  uncommon  in  those  days 
to  have  them  throw  down  their  compos- 
ing sticks  in  the  middle  of  publication 
and  rush  to  the  mines  at  some  vague  but 
favorable  rumor  of  gold.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  public  was  willing  to  pay  well 
for  work,  and  the  rewards  of  the  busi- 
ness were  commensurate  to  the  risks. 


By  B.  Virginia  Lee 

The  printers  and  publishers  of  the  early 
days  were  a  picked  group  of  men,  fertile 
in  resources,  energetic  in  execution, 
most  of  them  young;  and  many  of  the 
books  and  magazines  they  printed  under 
frontier  difficulties  would  do  credit  to 
houses  of  the  present  day. 

The  earliest  known  example  of  print- 
ing in  California  was  done  "on  the 
Blanket"  without  the  aid  of  a  press.  It 
was  a  "broadside"  six  by  seven  inches, 
containing  nine  lines  of  type,  a  procla- 
mation issued  by  Governor  Figueroa. 
This  was  done  in  1833  at  Monterey, 
California. 

Such  resources!    Such  a  record! 

California  was  at  that  time  full  of 
writers;  educated  men  from  every  coun- 
try beneath  the  sun,  quick  to  observe 
the  strange  new  life  of  the  city  and 
state.  Borthwick,  Marryat,  and  Farn- 
ham  all  wrote  for  early  periodicals  in 
San  Francisco.  Lieutenant  Derby 
(Phoenix),  F.  C.  Ewer,  and  Edward 
Pollock  were  among  the  leading  writers 
on  the  coast  in  that  early  decade  from 
'49  to  '59.  Through  the  early  sixties 
the  writers  of  that  second  period  ended 
with  Harte,  Avery,  Stoddard  and  their 
group.  One  by  one  appear  the  work  of 
these  authors  and  the  books  of  the  time 
show  clearly  their  influence  and  presence. 

It  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  obtain 
data  about  the  earliest  publications  in 
San  Francisco  or  the  earliest  firms  of 
printers  and  bookbinders,  there  have  been 
so  many  changes,  the  records  are  so  de- 
ficient and  so  many  fires  have  swept  the 
ill-built  shanties  of  pioneer  San  Fran- 
cisco, that  book  after  book  of  which  one 
hears  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  second 
hand  store  or  library. 

Like  the  printers  the  editors  had  their 
difficulties,  but  they  must  not  be  reck- 
oned in  the  same  light  as  their  predeces- 
sors in  any  other  part  of  the  continent. 
John  Smith  brought  no  press  to  his  prim- 
itive Jamestown  Colony  to  herald  his 
planting  of  the  settlement  and  to  aid  him 
in  his  futile  efforts  to  impress  upon  the 
emigrants  whose  greed  was  gold  the 
earnest  counsel  that  mica  was  not  gold, 
that  all  that  glittered  was  not  the  pre- 
cious metal.  Hendrick  Hudson  had  no 
press  to  record  the  discovery  of  the 
Hudson;  and  the  adventurous  Dutch 
who  founded  New  Amsterdam  on  Man- 
hattan Island  were  not  accompanied  by 
a  writer  to  emblazon  their  deed  in  news- 
papers, which  did  not  exist.  The  Pil- 
grim Fathers  had  neither  press  to  record 


nor    the    Palfrey    to    immortalize    their 
founding  of  New  England. 

To  the  American  settlement  in  Cali- 
fornia was  reserved,  in  all  these  centuries 
of  the  world,  the  founding  of  a  grand 
city  and  a  matchless  state,  with  the  press 
and  able  writers  to  note  the  records  of 
the  period  and  to  advance  the  fortunes 
of  the  people.  California  ranks  unriv- 
aled and  alone  in  the  possession  of  a 
press  to  attend  her  in  the  noble  destiny 
from  colonial  position  to  sovereign  State- 
hood ;  to  note  her  progress,  to  honor  her 
worthy  pioneers  and  builders,  to  adver- 
tise her  unsurpassing  wealth  of  soil, 
richer  than  all  her  gold  and  to  spread 
upon  the  time-worn  pages  of  imperish- 
able history  the  realization  of  the  pro- 
phecy of  the  eloquent  Berkeley,  that 
"Westward  the  Star  of  the  Empire 
takes  its  course  .  .  ."  there  forever  to 
remain  a  fixed  star  in  the  earthly  firma- 
ment, and  from  year  to  year  more  glori- 
ously shine  in  worldly  splendor. 


Walter  Colton  and  Robert  Semple 
were  the  first  editors  of  the  first  news- 
paper published  in  California;  the  two 
founded  the  Californian  in  Monterey, 
August  1846.  Colton  had  brought  the 
press  and  type  from  the  American  mis- 
sionaries in  Honolulu.  It  was  an  old 
Ramage  press  of  wooden  frame,  wooden 
bed,  and  platen  of  hard  wood,  worked 
by  a  screw,  and  capable  of  making  one 
hundred  impressions  an  hour.  Think  of 
it!  It  had  been  sent  from  Boston  to 
Honolulu.  The  type  had  been  long  in 
use  and  was  very  faulty.  The  letter  ''w" 
was  missing  entirely  and  also  italic.  Two 
"V's"  were  substituted  to  represent 
"W,"  in  capitals  and  small  letters  alike. 
Walter  Colton  was  of  good  family  in 
Rutland,  Vermont,  and  was  appointed 
Chaplain  in  the  U.  S.  Navy  in  1831.  Of 
scholarly  attainments,  he  added  literary 
accomplishments  to  his  clerical  duties. 
Robert  Semple  was  a  pioneer  from  Illi- 
nois, a  brother  of  James  Semple,  United 
States  Senator  from  the  state  from  1844 
to  1847.  He  was  of  uncommon  stature, 
6  feet  8  inches  and  of  slender  figure.  It 
was  an  amusing  sight  to  look  at  Semple 
as  he  was  passenger  on  the  early  steam- 
boats which  plied  between  San  Francisco 
and  Sacramento,  so  the  story  goes.  The 
Senator,  The  Antelope,  The  New 
World,  all  side-wheelers — their  low  up- 
per deck  cabins  were  insufficient  to  give 
room  to  this  personage,  and  to  pass 
through  his  stoop  was  awkward  and  em- 
barrassing. He  was  supersensitive  be- 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


337 


cause  of  his  personal  appearance  and  that 
along  with  disappointed  ambition  in  his 
plans,  made  him  return  to  Illinois  and 
there  pass  the  remainder  of  his  years. 
Walter  Colton  gave  up  the  duties  of  the 
Californian  for  his  duties  of  U.  S.  Chap- 
lain and  thus  passed  the  editorship  of 
the  first  two  editors  of  the  first  newspa- 
per of  California.  It  was  followed  by 
a  very  able  line  of  editors  and  a  very 
brilliant  career  for  itself. 
*  *  * 

The  story  of  California  literature  be- 
gan in  the  early  fifties,  formally,  we  will 
say,  with  the  GOLDEN  ERA.  The  Golden 
Era  had  its  first  appearance  in  1853. 
There  was  another,  now  very  rare, 
which  might  be  placed  as  the  beginning. 
»  »  * 

THE  PACIFIC  was  published  August 
1,  1851,  at  $5.00  per  year  and  was  a 
weekly  publication  as  was  the  Golden 
Era.  The  first  issue  of  which  appeared 
with  a  plain  heading.  During  its  second 
volume  it  adopted  an  engraved  heading, 
a  view  of  San  Francisco.  J.  E.  Law- 
rence was  the  first  editor  and  R.  M. 
Dagget  and  J.  M.  Foard  were  the  own- 
ers. This  journal  was  the  medium  of 
much  pleasantry.  It  had  a  peculiar 
human  sympathy  about  it  which  made 
it  different  from  others  of  that  time.  It 
is  to  the  old  Golden  Era  that  the  honor 
of  Bret  Harte's  first  works  belong  .  .  . 
and  yet  it  goes  deeper,  to  one  of  those 
strange  tales  that  could  be  told  by  an 
editor.  Joseph  T.  Goodman  it  was,  the 
editor  and  compositor,  who  saw  the 
ivorth  in  his  writing.  For  some  reason, 
now  forgotten,  the  owners  of  the 
Golden  Era  held  some  grudge  against 
Harte.  Goodman  was  duly  ordered  not 
to  run  his  material,  but  the  material 
was  run.  It  was  too  good  to  keep  out. 
Harte  gave  Goodman  now  and  then  a 
little  sketch,  a  poem  which  he  put  in, 
unknown  to  the  rest  of  the  management 
and  when  it  had  appeared  they  com- 
mented, "Rather  nice  thing,  where'd  you 
get  it?"  And  Joseph  T.  Goodman 
would  shrug  his  lean  shoulders  and  an- 
swer, "found  it  in  the  box  and  used  it 
for  fill."  Ah  .  .  .  how  much  editors 
know  of  this  sort  of  thing.  How  much 
is  sacrificed  that  the  world  never  learns 
of ;  at  what  great  risk  of  bread  and  but- 
ter do  editors  force  things  into  print! 
After  sometime  of  this  sort  of  appearing 
Harte  was  placed  on  the  staff  of  the 
Golden  Era.  His  material,  placed  by 
Goodman,  had  created  demand,  the  Gol- 
den Era  owners  knew  what  their  owners 
wanted  and  they  at  last  buried  the  hat- 
chet and  became  convinced  that  art  was 
greater  than  the  artist  and  Harte  started 
from  that  day  his  public  appearance  in 
their  magazine.  After  a  short  time  he 
went  to  the  Overland  Monthly  as  editor 
where  he  became  famous  in  a  single  day. 


Perhaps  one  of  the  best  of  the  group 
of  early  magazines  was  The  Pioneer.  It 
began  publication  in  January,  1854.  The 
magazine  had  60  pages  and  was  pub- 
lished at  $5.00  per  year.  It  soon  gath- 
ered contributors  from  all  parts  of  the 
state,  John  Sweet,  J.  P.  Anthony,  Frank 
Soule,  John  S.  Hittell,  S.  C.  Massett, 
John  Phoenix  and  others  equally  as  well 
known.  It  attempted  no  illustrations 
and  printed  a  good  deal  of  Pacific  Coast 
history  and  description  that  is  worth 
reading  even  now.  The  cover  of  the 
magazine  contained  in  the  center  an  en- 
graving of  a  group  of  three  exultant 
pioneers,  looking  westward  from  a  cliff 
over  the  Pacific,  in  the  background, 
pines  and  their  white  roofed  wagons. 
F.  C.  Ewer  edited  the  Pioneer  from  its 
first  issue  to  its  last  when  it  merged  in 
June,  1856,  with  Hutching's  Magazine. 
It  was  in  the  latter  that  the  first  descrip- 
tion of  Yosemite  ever  published  appear- 
ed. F.  E.  Ewer  was  the  editor.  It  con- 
tained one  or  more  descriptive  articles 
each  issue  and  was  illustrated.  It  was 
partly  filled  with  selected  material,  but 
more  than  half  of  it  was  by  Pacific 
Coast  writers  or  upon  Pacific  Coast 
topics.  The  last  issue  was  June,  1861. 

There  was  one  magazine  which  should 
be  mentioned  here.  It  was  a  weekly, 
decidedly  the  best  literary  weekly  of  the 
time.  It  was  THE  WILDE  WEST.  The 
cover  consisted  of  three  designs.  The 
center  and  largest,  represented  a  loco- 
motive and  a  railroad  train.  A  great 
Grizzly  was  retreating  from  one  side 
and  a  buffalo  from  the  other,  while  the 
whole  background  was  purely  a  Califor- 
nia landscape.  In  this  perhaps  lies  the 
suggestion  of  the  first  cover  of  the  Over- 
land Monthly,  the  bear  crossing  the 
track,  as  Bret  Harte  and  A.  Roman 
were  very  familiar  with  The  Wilde 
West.  One  of  its  first  editorial  urges 
was  the  building  of  the  trans-continental 
railroad.  There  were  various  weeklies 
and  magazines  which  began  as  newspa- 
pers of  which  the  California  Mail  and 
the  Hesperian  are  not  to  be  overlooked. 

In  1868  came  the  Overland  Monthly, 
which  has  had,  perhaps,  the  longest  con- 
tinued publication  of  any  of  these  early 
magazines.  It  will  be  noted  with  interest 
that  in  1928,  the  Overland  Monthly 
will  have  been  published  70  years  in 
the  city  of  San  Francisco,  in  the  in- 
terests of  Western  development  com- 
mercially, industrially,  agriculturally,  as 
well  as  in  the  arts. 

In  1876  came  the  Argonaut  with 
Fred  M.  Sommers  and  Frank  M.  Fix- 
ley,  then  the  News  Letter  which  has 
held  its  pecu'iar  field  since  that  date 
under  the  Marriotts.  The  Wasp  was 
started  in  the  same  year  as  a  cartoon 
paper.  It  has  since  undergone  many 
changes,  management  and  general  edi- 
torial policy  but  it  is  still  publishing  .  .  . 


and  there  is  rumored  some  of  its  sting 
is  still  maintained. 


It  is  of  interest  to  note  that  in  that 
same  year,  Joseph  T.  Goodman,  the 
editor  on  the  early  Golden  Era  who 
"discovered  Harte"  founded  The  San 
Franciscan,  assisted  by  Arthur  Mc- 
Ewin.  It  was  a  magazine  of  quality 
while  it  lived.  On  the  stands  today 
appears  a  highly  colored  magazine  titled 
The  San  Franciscan,  edited  and  pub- 
lished by  Joseph  Dyer  Jr.,  and  its  style, 
not  unlike  that  of  the  early  San  Fran- 
ciscan under  the  editorship  of  Goodman, 
does  honor  to  that  man's  dream  of  an 
early  day  whose  magazine  had  within 
its  pages  the  choicest,  most  elegant  Eng- 
lish, a  credit  to  the  language,  besides 
many  entertaining  stories  and  sketches 
of  great  originality. 

*  *       * 

Then  came  that  interesting  Southern 
Pacific  Bulletin  which  changed  in  the 
early  1900s  to  the  Sunset  Magazine, 
under  the  editorship  of  Charles  Sedg- 
wick  Aiken.  The  history  of  this  one 
periodical  is  in  itself  of  rich  romance 
and  will  later  be  published  in  Overland. 

*  *       # 

The  limit  of  space  for  this  article  is 
reaching  a  close.  One  could  go  on  in- 
definitely, enlarging  on  material,  giving 
examples  of  work,  old  items  of  interest 
found  in  these  very  mentioned  period- 
icals— authors  who  found  light  under 
the  editorship  of  our  Western  editors 
down  to  the  present  day  (the  publica- 
tions of  San  Francisco  running  material 
from  the  pens  that  supply  the  Eastern 
magazines  with  material  the  Western 
advertiser  pays  for.  There  is  much  to 
be  said  in  further  articles  concerning 
the  wealth  of  our  west  and  the  life  and 
death  of  our  worthy  periodicals  and  the 
revenue  which  makes  Eastern  magazines 
buy  Western  literature.) 
«  *  * 

The  press  of  California  has  had  its 
black  sheep  to  be  sure,  but  in  the  main 
it  has  been  honorably  and  meritoriously 
maintained.  The  ranking  of  editors  both 
in  magazine  offices  and  newspapers  have 
adorned  and  strengthened  the  guild  so 
that  it  compares  with  those  of  the  news- 
papers and  magazines  of  the  greater 
cities  in  the  East,  in  every  way  which 
elevates  the  press  and  ennobles  the  con- 
scientious and  earnest  work  of  the  men 
who  made  the  printed  word  of  the  past 
and  those  who  are  today  carrying  on  the 
work — publishers,  editors,  and  authors. 


Other  articles  on  early  California  devel- 
opment in  different  lines  will  appear  in 
Overland  from  time  to  time.  What  would 
our  readers  like  best  to  take  up?  (Editor.) 


338 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


Verse  to  George  Sterling 


A  VALEDICTION  TO  GEORGE  STERLING 


I. 

"FAREWELL,  a  late  farewell !   Tearless  and  unforgetting, 

Alone,  aloof,  I  twine 

Cypress  and  golden  rose,  plucked  at  the  chill  sunsetting, 
Laurel,  amaracus,  and  dark  December  vine, 
Into  a  garland  wove  not  too  unworthily, 
For  thee  who  seekest  now  an  asphodel  divine. 
Though  immaterial  the  leaf  and  blossom  be, 
Haply  they  shall  outlinger  these  the  seasons  bring, 
The  seasons  take,  and  tell  of  mortal  monody 
Through  many  a  mortal  spring. 

II. 

Once  more,  farewell !  Naught  is  to  do,  naught  is  to  say, 

Naught  is  to  sing  but  sorrow! 

For  grievous  is  the  night,  and  dolorous  the  day 

In  this  one  hell  of  all  the  damned  we  wander  through. 

Thou  ha^t  departed — and  the  dog  and  swine  abide, 

The  fetid-fingered  ghouls  will  delve,  on  many  a  morrow 

In  charnel,  urn  and  grave:  the  sun  shall  lantern  these, 

Oblivious,  till  they  too  have  faltered  and  have  died, 

And  are  no  more  than  pestilential  breath  that  flees 

On  air  unwalled  and  wide. 

III. 

Let  ane  and  nig  maintain  their  council  and  cabal: 

In  ashes  gulfward  hurled, 

Thou  art  gone  forth  with  all  of  loveliness,  with  all 

Of  glory  long  withdrawn  from  a  desertless  world. 

Now  let  the  loathlier  vultures  of  the  soul  convene : 

Wingless,  they  cannot  follow  thee,  whose  flight  is  furled 

Upon  Oblivion's  nadir,  or  some  lost  demesne 

Of  the  pagan  dead,  vaulted  with  perfume  and  with  fire, 

Where  molies  immarcescible  in  vespertine 

Strange  amber  air  suspire. 

IV. 

Peace,  peace !  for  grief  and  bitterness  avails  not  ever, 
And  sorrow  wrongs  thy  sleep : 
Better  it  is  to  be  as  thou,  who  art  forever 
As  part  and  parcel  of  the  infinite  fair  deep — 
Who  dwell-st  now  in  mystery,  with  days  hesternal 
And  time  that  is  not  time :  we  have  no  need  to  weep, 
For  woe  may  not  befall,  where  thou  in  ways  supernal 
Hast  found  the  perfect  love  that  is  oblivion, 
The  poppy-tender  lips  of  her  that  reigns,  eternal, 
In  realms  not  of  the  sun. 

V. 

Peace,  peace!    Idle  is  our  procrastinating  praise; 
Though  all  our  hearts  be  as  one  sounding  harp  of  laud ; 
And  not  necessitous  the  half-begrudged  bays 
To  thee,  whose  song  forecrowned  thee  for  a  lyric  god, 
Whose  name  shall  linger  strangely,  in  the  sunset  years, 
As  music  from  a  more  enchanted  period — 
An  echo  flown  upon  the  changing  hemispheres, 
Re-shaped  with  breath  of  alien  maiden,  alien  boy, 
Re-sung  in  future  cities,  mixed  with  future  tears, 
And  with  remoter  joy. 


VI. 

And  now  one  duty  doth  abide,  one  task  for  us — 
To  fend  from  any  blame 
Of  hypocrite  or  fool  thy  fate  calamitous: 
Indubitably  thine  it  was,  to  choose  and  name 
The  time  and  path  of  thy  departure:  this  shall  be 
No  blot  but  as  a  gvles  upon  thv  blazoned  fame — 
For  wiser  he  who  drains  the  hemlock  at  his  will 
Than  they  who  wait  to  drink  it  forced  and  loathfully; 
And  nobler  thou  than  these  who  drain  the  draffs  of  ill 
And  dregged  mortality. 

VII. 

From  Aphrodite  thou  hast  turned  to  Proserpine: 

No  treason  hast  thou  done, 

For  neither  goddess  is  a  goddess  more  divine — 

And  verily,  my  brother,  are  the  twain  not  one? 

We,  too,  as  thou,  with  hushed  desire  and  silent  paean, 

Beyond  the  risen  dark,  beyond  the  fallen  sun, 

Shall  follow  her,  whose  pallid  breasts,  on  shores  Lethean, 

Are  favourable  phares  to  barges  of  the  world ; 

And  we  shall  find  her  there,  even  as  the  Cytherean, 

In  love  and  slumber  furled.  CLARK  ASHTON  SMITH. 


GOOD  FELLOW 

(George  Sterling) 

ON  MANY  nights  carousers  were  a  tangle 
As  wine  flowed  red  at  Coppa's  Old  Red  Paint, 
And  for  the  while  bright  sinner  and  gay  saint 
Wore  haloes  tipped  at  one  becoming  angle. 
On  other  nights  the  grey  and  dreaming  city 
Held  close  the  poet's  hours  of  amorous  bliss, 
The  dawn  woke  brighter  for  his  loving  kiss, 
The  noon  was  quiet  with  his  heart's  deep  pity. 

But  he  has  gone,  and  one  good  fellow  less 
Is  gay  at  nights  on  San  Francisco  hills; 
Young  poets  search  elsewhere  for  kindliness; 
And  there  are  dawns  when,  as  the  grey  fog  fills 
Each  street  with  shadows,  one  shade  more  is  there 
To  write  a  sweeter  dreaming  in  the  air. 

IDELLA  PURNELL, 

IN  MEMORIAM 

PERHAPS  his  restless  spirit  found  the  World 
too  small 

And  longed  for  larger  spaces; 
Perhaps  he  carried  in  his  heart  dim  memories 
That  bound  him  to  another  star. 
We  may  not  know  what  summons 
Called  him  through  the  tall  dark  door 
Nor  what  awaited  him, 
Were  it  to  sleep  in  the  quiet  dark 
His  restlessness  has  now  found  rest; 
But  if  to  sing  in  sun 
How  eagerly  will  his  clear  voice 
Chant  sweeter  songs 
Thart  any  ever  dreamed  of  here. 

ELVIRA  FOOTE. 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


339 


Verse  to  George  Sterling 


WHO  LONG  WALKED  HERE  WITH  BEAUTY 


shore  is  strangely  still  along  the  Bay, 
And  silent  is  a  city  "cool  and  grey." 
From  height  of  Russian  Hill,  the  fairies  see 
A  west  wind  cross  the  mountain  mournfully. 

Wherefore  this  hour  of  sombre,  purple  theme; 
Why  on  the  western  shore  moan  shades  of  dream? 

Far  off  there  wails  a  tender  threnody 
Of  trumpets  from  some  pagan  Arcady. 
Though  maidens  chant  to  lyres  of  muted  strings, 
Beyond  the  clouds  a  satyr  sits  and  sings.  .  .  . 

Whenceforth  this  hymn  of  death  strange  and  forlorn? 
He  slyly  asks  an  ancient  unicorn. 

Oh,  let  there  be  no  pious  requiem! 
Calliope  called  through  the  ages  dim. 
To  a  minstrel  brave  g.ve  joyous  serenade! 
Spoke  Zeus,  offering  wine  and  accolade.  .  .  . 

For  one  who  lived  right  loyally  and  bold 
The  fair  creed  that  Olympus  gave  of  old. 

Then  he,  who  long  had  sung  in  Arcady, 
Went  smiling  with  trumphant  melody. 
And  his  own  hand  steered  out  the  galleon 
To  horizon,  and  the  heights  of  halcyon. 

Ah,  Pegasus  is  prancing  there  on  high 

Where  centaurs  race  in  splendor  through  the  sky  ! 

Bellerophon  shares  eternal  soul  demesne  ; 
And  richer  is  the  fount  of  Hippocrene. 
Wherefore  a  dirge,  O  city  of  his  singing? 
Divine  in  those  immortal  echoes  ringing. 

Enshrine  now  and  fore'er  the  ways  he  trod 
Who  long  walked  here  with  beauty.  .  .  . 

walks  with  gods! 

REX  SMITH. 

THE  JOYOUS  GIVER 

TTE  WOULD  not  heed  our  call. 
*-*•    Shrouded  in  night  he  went, 
Down  to  the  deep-flowing  Lethe 
With  Lilith  at  his  breast. 
With  earth  warm  on  his  outspread  palms 
And  starlight  in  his  eyes, 
He  quietly  chose  a  way  apart. 
....  And  men  mumble,  "He  died." 

He  lives  in  joyousness, 

He  lives  in  love  and  wine. 

Life's  reckless  lover  gave 

Himself  to  all  who  sought 

The  path  he  trod 

Toward  beauty  and  toward  light. 


His  name  is  passed 

On  youth's  red  lips  to-day, 

"Unasked,  he  helped  the  nameless  ones 

And  said  no  seeker  nay." 

LOUISE  LORD  COLEMAN. 


FOR  GEORGE  STERLING 
OBIT  Nov.  16,  1926 

'T'HE  silent  waterfalls  of  the  fog  over  the  blue  ridge  of 
•I  Tamalpais  at  evening, — 

The  white  foam  of  their  falling,  spread  air-hung  in  the  twi- 
light across  to  the  bee-hive  hill-lights  of  Berkeley, — 

The  floating  continent  of  blue  and  gray  and  white  between 
diamond-sharp  stars  and  the  pearl-dull  water, 

The  cool,  the  quiet,  the  even : 

These  shall  not  forget  him. 

The  columned  houses  of  the  redwood,  the  deep-cut  canyons, 
roofed  with  the  frail  frayed  foliage, 

Floored  with  the  frailer  ferns,  engardened  in  red-arabesque 
manzanita  and  naked  madrona, 

Dripping,  each  leaf,  with  the  mist  and  the  breath  of  the 
ocean,  a  thousand  delicate  rains,  a  million  delicate  rain- 
drops, 

The  cool,  the  quiet,  the  even: 

These  shall  not  forget  him. 

The  streets  lampstreaked  over  Telegraph  Hill,  over  Rus- 
sian ; — the  fog-gray  rows  of  the  houses 

Jutting  baywindowed,  or  climbing,  terraced,  the  hillsides 
grayer  and  grayer  as  darker  the  evening  advances; — 

The  wharves  and  the  ferry  tower,  the  pile-cleft  water  re- 
flecting pendants  of  shattering  emeralds,  pendants  of  splin- 
tering rubies, — 

The  cool,  the  quiet,  the  even : 

These  shall  not  forget  him. 

The  dancer  edging  the  surf  on  the  sand,  the  girl  by  the 

ocean  the  dancer  beside  her; — 
The   watcher   of   blood-red   stars,   of  Antares,   Aldebaran, 

searching  the  depthless  window  of  heaven; — 
The  lover  of  wintry  moonstone;  of  vultures,  Sierra — upcir- 

cling;  of  crucified  men  for  truth; — the  lover  of  lovers  and 

love  unending, 

The  cool,  the  quiet,  the  even: 
These  shall  not  forget  him. 

For  he  was  among  them,  and  of  them : 
A  friend  of  the  misty  evenings, 
A  faun,  a  half-god  shaded  in  redwood  temples; 
For  he  was  a  lover  of  beauty  dancing  sea-skimming,  surf- 
showered, 

A  watcher  at  gates  swung  wide  on  eternal  sunset, 
A  sad-eyed  lover  of  truth,  the  star-enshrouded  and  hidden, 
The  cool,  the  quiet,  the  even. 

AXTON  CLARK. 


340 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY    and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


CONDUCTED  BY 


Writers 


TOM  WHITE 


THE  PALE  WOMAN 

IN  A  country  that  allows  the  publish- 
ing of  half  a  thousand  collections  of 
poetry  a  year,  small  hope  is  held  out  for 
a  first  book.  The  initial  venture  into 
title  page  and  binding  press  is  usually  a 
sad  affair,  a  skeleton  haunting  its  crea- 
tor all  the  days  of  his  life.  So  unfailing 
is  this  rule  I  can  recall,  out  of  two  hun- 
dred books  of  poetry  reviewed  in  the 
past  five  years,  but  three  volumes  having 
the  maturity  and  excellence  permitting 
them  front  rank  with  the  establish"d 
(Lord,  what  a  term!)  and  recognized 
poets.  An  addition  to  this  trio  is  Sara 
Bard  Field  and  her  collection,  THE 
PALE  WOMAN. 

I  am  minded,  on  reading  these  poems, 
of  the  care  with  which  a  cypress  sends 
her  slender  roots  through  the  rich  earth. 
I  am  minded  of  the  wisdom  in  time  and 
the  virtue  in  patience.  For  these  poems 
submit  to  no  incomplete  confusion  nor 
hurried  neurosy.  They  hold  the  clear- 
ness of  deep  mountain  water  and  re- 
spect the  miracle  of  simplicity.  And 
above  all  else,  a  note  of  serenity  runs 
through  the  book.  And  it  is  rare  as  a 
mauve  moon.  One  might  call  it  the 
definite  estate  of  a  poet. 

I  think  a  poet's  life  must  be — and 
will  be — as  great  or  small  as  his  poetry. 
I  do  not  think  he  can  conceive  lasting 
beauty  without  being  lastingly  beautiful 
himself.  I  do  not  mean  he  must  respect 
the  trivial  dictates  of  the  moralists  nor 
the  trite  conventions  of  the  unhallowed 
mass.  But  I  do  mean  he  must  remain 
intensely  fair  to  the  impulse  of  beauty 
within  him. 

He  cannot  give  in  this  manner: 

One  day  I  laid  my  hand  in  yours  as  sign 
Of  the  deep  urge  that  made  it  often  try 
To  measure  you  in  broken  poetry  line 
And  said,  with  love's  extravagance,  "if  I 
Brought  all  the  stars  on  a  chained  light- 
ning shot 

Inadequate  the  gift  would  seem  to  be, 
Knowing  your  stature,  yet  it  is  my  lot 
To  give  you  nothing  but  the  heart  of 

me." 
As  if  I  were  a  princess   dowered  with 

lands, 
You  took  me  carefully,   and  when  the 


blast 
Near  blew  my  dim  light  out,  you  spread 

brave  hands 
Between    me    and    the    storm    until    it 

passed ; 
Strong  words  that  nursed  the  flickering 

flame  you  said : 
"You  gave  me  life  that  dies  when  you 

are  dead." 

as  instance,  unless  he  is  able  to  receive 

as  exquisitely: 

I1  i*Tj   -T--—J 

What   can   I   bring  you   now   since   on 

that  day 

I  brought  you  all  I  had?    Only  renew 
That  very  gift  even  in  Nature's  way: 
The  morning  sunlight  and  the  evening 

dew 

She  gives  and  gives  again  while  grate- 
ful earth 


THE  PALE  WOMAN  AND  OTHER 
POEMS,  by  Sara  Bard  Field;  exquis- 
itely designed  and  printed  by  William 
Edwin  Rudge,  New  York.  Reviewed  by 
Tancred.  $2.00  net. 

SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE,  by  E.  F.  Ben- 
son. Harper  &  Brothers.  $4.00. 

THE  WOMEN  AT  POINT  SUR,  by 
Robinson  Jeffers.  New  York,  Boni  and 
Liveright.  Reviewed  by  Joan  Ramsay. 
$2.50. 

THE  ALMOST  PERFECT  STATE,  by 
Don  Marquis.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Com- 
pany. $2.00. 

THE  CANARY  MURDER  CASE,  by 
S.  S.  Van  Dine.  Scribner's.  $2.00. 

THE  BUILDERS  OF  AMERICA,  by 
Ellsworth  Huntington  and  Leon  F. 
Whitney.  Morrow  Publishing  Company. 
$3:50. 

IN  A  NUN-YAN  COURTYARD,  by 
Louise  Jordan  Miln,  Stokes.  $2.00. 

BOSS  TWEED,  Dennis  Tilden  Lynch. 
Boni  Liveright.  $4.00. 

SAMPLES,  a  collection  of  short  stories. 
Boni  Liveright.  $2.50. 

NAPOLEON  IN  CAPTIVITY;  reports 
and  letters  of  Count  Balmain,  Russian 
Commissioner  at  St.  Helena,  1816-20. 
Translated  and  edited  by  Julian  Park. 
Century  Company.  $2.00. 


Spurns  not  the  offering  but,  with  new 

surprise, 
Receives    the    day    and    night    repeated 

birth 
Clad   in  the  same  yet  always  changing 

guise. 
Sun  fingers  which  this  morning  turned 

the  heaven 

To  a  wild  riot  of  dawn  coloring, 
On   the   same   cloudy   canvass   to  them 

given, 
Will  paint  new  glory  there  from  Spring 

to  Spring. 

And  I  am  trusting  your  keen  eyes  to  see 
Some  daily  change  of  heart  and  mind 


I  cling  to  that  somewhat  old  fashion- 
ed school  which  teaches  the  poet  he  must 
live  beauty  before  he  can  write  it.  And 
when  I  come  upon  a  poet  who  says: 

Doomed  to  walk  a  narrow  track 
A  cliff,  a  chasm,  either  hand, 
What  is  hidden  in  your  pack, 
Determines  where  you'll  land. 

If  it  be  the  gossamer  day,  your  road 
Lightly  will  lift  to  the  mountain-head, 
But  be  it  sodden  night,  the  load 
Will  drag  you  down  to  the  canyon  bed. 

I  know  I  have  met  a  firm  appreciation 
of  this  most  worthwhile  teaching.  I  know 
also  I  have  met  a  poet  of  great  worth. 
I  have  taken  too  sparingly  from  the 
meat  of  this  book,  but  I  feel  enough  has 
been  reproduced  to  show  Miss  Field  has 
contributed  a  sizeable  loaf  to  contem- 
porary literature.  It  is  of  great  value 
to  California. — TANCRED. 


THE  WOMEN  AT  POINT  SUR 

IN  THE  Women  At  Point  Sur  Robin- 
son Jeffers  has  gone  yet  farther  in 
voicing  his  bitter  credo  than  in  Tamar 
and  Roan  Stallion.  In  this  his  latest 
poem  there  is  more  of  the  starkness  and 
less  of  the  nobility  and  beauty  of  tragedy 
than  is  to  be  felt  in  the  others.  "Human- 
ity is  the  start  of  the  race,  the  gate  to 
break  away  from"  he  said  in  Roan  Stal- 
lion— now  his  cry  is  "humanity  is  need- 
less." The  Women  At  Point  Sur  is 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


341 


terrible  in  its  destructive  chaos.  Human- 
ity is  needless — therefor  no  sin,  no  per- 
version of  which  humanity  is  capable 
are  of  the  slightest  moment. 

The  theme  of  the  poem,  roughly,  is 
that  of  the  preacher  who  renounces  the 
faith  in  which  he  has  been  brought  up, 
and  which  he  has  always  taught,  to  go 
forth  and  spread  a  new  teaching — but 
what  that  teaching  is,  is  impossible  to 
guess  from  the  poem.  Annihilation,  per- 
haps,— that  at  least  is  the  feeling  with 
which  it  leaves  one — better  annihilation 
than  this  humanity! 

There  are  still  a  few  compensating 
passages  of  an  exalted  power  and  a  fierce 
beauty — descriptions  of  Monterey  coast- 
range  country.  Jeffers  has  an  almost  un- 
canny faculty  for  conveying  in  an 
oblique  phrase  or  two  the  very  sight  and 
smell  and  feel  of  certain  places.  He 
does  not  describe — he  evokes.  But  there 
is  too  little  of  this  in  The  Women  At 
Point  Sur.  He  seems  to  become  more 
and  more  obsessed  with  the  filthiness  of 
humanity,  until  his  usually  so  keen  con- 
sciousness of  all  non-human  beauty  is 
infected  by  it,  and  he  uses  his  extraordi- 
narily vivid  expression  only  more  com- 
pletely to  bring  out  the  hideousness  of 
his  subject.  The  poem  leaves  one  feel- 
ing exhausted,  deadened,  oppressed.  If 
this  is  all  that  humanity  is,  why  write 
at  all,  since  it  is  only  by  humanity  that 
it  will  be  read.  Jeffers  says  in  his  Pre- 
lude—  (incidentally  the  best  part  of  the 
poem — an  heroic,  tremendous  opening) 
— "But  why  should  I  make  fables 
again?"  Why,  indeed? 

JOAN  RAMSAY. 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

IT'S  quite  common  knowledge  that 
when  the  father  of  the  British  navy 
sailed  up  the  west  coast  of  North  Amer- 
ica on  his  globe-girdling  voyage  he 
passed  right  by  the  entrance  to  one  of 
the  finest  harbors  in  the  world — what 
is  now  San  Francisco  Bay.  It's  not  so 
commonly  known,  however,  that  the  in- 
trepid explorer  actually  made  a  landing 
on  the  soil  of  what  was  to  be  Califor- 
nia. This  landing  was  made  on  the 
shores  of  Drake's  Bay,  just  inside  Point 
Reyes  where,  amidst  the  acclaim  and 
ceremonies  of  the  friendly  natives, 
Drake  took  possession  of  what  he  chose 
to  call  New  Albion,  in  the  name  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  in  June,  1579.  The 
Portuguese  explorer,  Rodriguez  Ca- 
brillo,  had  actually  touched  here  thirty- 
five  years  earlier  but  had  left  no  evi- 
dence of  his  visit. 

While  Drake's  claim  was  in  all  likeli- 
hood a  valid  one,  chiefly  by  reason  of 
his  many  witnesses  as  well  as  a  suitable 
tablet  left  in  support  of  it,  nevertheless 
the  fact  that  he  planted  no  settlement 
nor  colony  and  seems  to  have  promptly 


forgotten  all  about  New  Albion  immedi- 
ately its  shores  dropped  out  of  sight, 
laid  the  land  open  for  conquests  at  a 
later  date  by  England's  enemy,  Spain. 

From  the  standpoint  of  historical  val- 
ue, E.  F.  Benson's  SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE, 
well  grounded  as  to  its  sources  and  log- 
ical as  to  its  conclusions  when  authori- 
ties differ,  is  a  book  one  likes  to  read 
and  is  proud  to  own. 

The  assertion  sometimes  made  that 
Drake  was  a  pirate  is  not  altogether 
true,  although  the  worthy  navigator's 
operations  smacked  largely  of  illegal 
warfare  and  verged  close  to  the  pirati- 
cal. If  there  ever  was  such  a  thing  as 
ethical  piracy,  then  we  must  concede 
the  title  of  "The  First  Gentleman  Buc- 
caneer" to  Sir  Francis.  Due  in  part  to 
an  inbred  hatred  of  the  Spanish,  at 
whose  hands  he  was  a  victim  of  their 
treachery  at  San  Juan  d'Uloa  during 
the  early  days  of  his  adventurous  career, 
as  well  as  a  deep  and  abiding  love  for 
gold  and  treasure  on  the  part  of  his 
sovereign  queen,  Drake's  operations 
against  the  treasure  ships  of  King  Phil- 
lip, in  those  days  came  under  the  head 
of  reprisals.-  In  fact,  every  nation  with 
a  fleet  indulged  in  this  practice — Span- 
ish, French,  Portuguese  and  English.  It 
amounted  to  a  chronic  maritime  vendet- 
ta which  precipitated  the  Spanish  Ar- 
mada, when  that  country  could  no 
longer  stand  the  physical  and  financial 
drain  resulting  from  the  daring  and  ter- 
ror-inspiring raids  of  Sir  Francis  Drake. 
These  raids  were  staged  both  on  land 
and  sea,  their  object  being  the  capture 
of  deep-laden  treasure  ships  wallowing 
across  the  Atlantic  loaded  with  fabu- 
lous sums  in  gold  and  silver  from  the 
mines  of  Peru.  By  seizing  this  booty, 
for  which  work  Drake  was  singularly 
well  adapted,  he  accomplished  a  dual 
purpose:  he  not  only  enriched  the 
queen's  private  fortune,  and  his  own  to 
a  certain  but  lesser  extent,  but  prevented 
the  bullion  from  falling  into  the  hands 
of  Elizabeth's  brother,  King  Phillip  of 
Spain,  to  be  used  for  further  frightening 
her  timid  highness  by  building  ships  and 
equipping  armies  with  a  view  to  threat- 
ening Britain's  shores. 

From  the  standpoint  of  an  adventure 
tale,  this  book  is  hard  to  beat.  The  au- 
thor has  combined  with  a  very  excellent 
narrative  style,  the  quality  of  clearness 
which  brings  not  only  Drake,  but  Fro- 
bisher,  Hawkins  and  other  equally  pic- 
turesque figures  of  history  to  the  point 
where  their  motives  and  actions  have  all 
the  vividness  of  contemporaries. 

The  volume  under  review,  together 
with  six  others,  still  to  appear,  constitute 
the  Golden  Hind  Series.  The  other 
books  will  deal  with  John  Smith,  Hud- 
son, Raleigh,  Hawkins,  Frobisher  and 
Grenville. 


CANCER,  ITS   PROPER  TREAT- 
MENT AND  CURE 

W7TTHOUT  question  one  of  the 
•  •  most  interesting  articles  carried  by 
Overland  during  recent  years  was  the 
discussion  of  cancer  and  its  treatment 
by  the  escharotic  method.  This  article 
appeared  in  the  September  1926  issue, 
and  many  letters  were  received  asking 
for  more  information.  This  is  provided 
in  this  book,  prepared  by  the  father  of 
the  escharotic  method.  Dr.  Nichols 
gives  not  only  much  general  information 
on  cancer  and  its  process  of  growth,  but 
also  cites  numerous  authorities  on  the 
subject.  Sections  are  devoted  to  X-ray, 
radium  surgery,  and  the  escharotic 
method.  In  connection  the  author  pro- 
vides an  appendix  with  thousands  of 
names  and  addresses  of  men  and  women 
who  have  been  treated  by  the  escharotic 
method,  photos  of  the  Dr.  Nichols  Sana- 
torium at  Savannah,  Mo.  and  other  in- 
formation. The  book  issued  from  the 
press  of  the  Roycrofters,  East  Aurora, 
New  York,  and  is  available  without 
charge  to  anyone  who  is  directly  inter- 
ested in  cancer  research.  Beautifully 
bound  and  printed  ;  more  than  200  pages. 


ARE  YOU  DECENT? 
W/TTH  its  baffling  title,  striking  jacket 
^and  smart  format,  Wallace  Smith's 
ARE  You  DECENT?  is  an  extremely 
readable  book,  which  in  itself  is  a  simple 
and  sure-fire  test  for  a  book  making  a 
bid  for  popularity.  Inasmuch  as  this  is 
a  group  of  tales  from  the  backstage 
world,  dealing  with  the  folks  in  Mrs. 
Fisher's  boarding  house — "strictly  for 
the  profession" — the  title  is  quite  appro- 
priate. In  other  words,  the  author  takes 
the  reader  by  the  hand  and  leads  him  up 
to  the  threshold  of  the  "trouper's"  sacred 
shrine — maybe  it's  the  third  floor  back 
at  Mrs.  Fisher's,  but  first  he  knocks,  and 
asks  "Are  you  decent  ?"  If  the  one  within 
is  sufficiently  clothed  to  receive  guests, 
we  enter.  And  what  we  see  and  hear, 
and  feel,  too,  in  that  vast  world  of  un- 
make-believe  is  very  real  and  very  hu- 
man and  very  much  worthwhile  finding 
out. 

Out  of  Wallace  Smith's  deep  under- 
standing of  the  heart  throbs  and  banter- 
ing words  of  that  mysterious  off-stage 
land,  he  has  compounded  a  group  of  tales 
that  are  fascinating  in  their  originality, 
both  in  the  choice  of  subject  and  method 
of  treatment.  There  are  the  Four  Tum- 
bling Tarks  "In  Their  Refined  Knock- 
about Specialty";  Signer  Constricto, 
"The  Boneless  Savant  of  Serpentine  Sin- 
uosity"; Mile.  Blanchette,  "The  Dres- 
den China  Girl  With  the  Cast-Iron 
Jaw" ;  Griffo  the  Clown,  "Favorite  of 
European  Monarchs";  Eddie  Dean, 


342 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  Wh,bT  MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


"The  Nifty  Hoofer";  Coons  and  Coo- 
ney,  "Smart  Sidewalk  Chatter";  M. 
Jacques  Lavelle,  "Premier  Knife  and 
Axe  Thrower His  LIVING  Tar- 
get!!!" and  others. 

All  sketches,  decorations,  and  even  the 
jacket  design  were  done  by  the  author. 


THE  ALMOST  PERFECT  STATE 

MAN  cannot  be  uplifted ;  he  must  be 
seduced  into  virtue." 

Some  hold  that  the  ideal  book  review 
makes  no  direct  quotation  from  the  lite- 
rature about  to  be  pulled  to  pieces  or 
lauded,  as  the  case  may  be;  but  with  no 
apologies  to  the  idealists,  we'll  just  let 
that  lead  stand.  It's  a  good  one.  Besides, 
it's  a  fair  sample  of  what  you'll  find 
stuck  in  here  and  there  between  para- 
graphs and  things,  in  this  clever  little 
collection  of  material  republished  from 
the  columns  of  the  New  York  Evening 
Sun  and  New  York  Tribune. 

Witty,  original  and  full  of  zest,  loaded 
with  tolerance  and  blessed  with  a  wide, 
happy  horizon,  the  articles  found  be- 
tween the  boards  of  Don  Marquis'  latest 
offering  somehow  strike  a  responsive 
note  away  down  deep  under  a  sophisti- 
cation and  self-sufficiency  with  which  all 
of  us  are  more  or  less  cursed.  Mental 
laziness  is  conceded  to  be  mankind's 
Nemesis.  If,  therefore,  our  grey  matter 
is  capable  of  enough  agitation  to  conceive 
a  thought  worthy  of  putting  into  execu- 
tion, then  we've  done  a  good  day's  work ; 
but  to  give  birth  to  more  than  one  of 
these  thoughts  in  a  given  time  we  must 
needs  resort  to  artifice — or  disguise.  And 
this,  D.  M.  has  fully  realized  in  his 
chain  of  happy,  snappy  articles,  designed 
to  head  us  all  in  that  direction  indicated 
by  the  title  —  THE  ALMOST  PERFECT 
STATE. 


THE   CANARY   MURDER   CASE 

ASA  RULE  detective  stories  are 
'*•  overworked,  improbable,  even  tiring. 
Not  so  with  THE  CANARY  MURDER 
CASE.  This  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most 
logically  worked  out  plots  that  has  come 
to  an  editor's  desk  in  a  long  while. 
There  is  not  a  thread  left  loose  in  the 
tapestry  which  has  an  intricate  design. 
S.  S.  Van  Dine  has  certainly  struck  a 
new  style  in  the  mystery  fiction  which 
is  interesting  to  those  who  generally  lay 
mystery  stories  aside.  The  methods  of 
Philo  Vance  in  solving  the  N.  Y.  night 
club  murder  which  has  baffled  every 
source  of  N.  Y.  criminal  detection  serv- 
ice, is  unique  and  interesting.  Certainly 
Philo  Vance  has  come  to  stay,  as  have 
certain  other  characters  in  time  past  in 
mystery  stories. 


THE    BUILDERS    OF   AMERICA 

TTERE  is  a  book  of  knowledge.  The 
•'--'•  value  is  unique  in  that  it  has  been 
made  possible  through  the  view  of 
two  authors;  one  a  student  of  the 
laws  of  heredity,  the  other  an  environ- 
ist.  Within  its  pages  are  taken  up  with 
such'  questions  as  these,  "Are  the  intelli- 
gent people  of  today  cutting  the  birth- 
rate?" "What  is  to  become  of  the  build- 
ers of  America?"  It  takes  up  the  crime 
question  and  shows  clearly  why  we 
find  intelligence  among  our  worst  crim- 
inals and  to  all  these  questions,  not  only 
is  the  answer  given  but  such  concrete 
examples  placed  before  the  reader  that 
one  can  not  help  but  see  the  thing  as 
it  is.  This  is  undoubtedly  the  clearest 
book  on  conditions  created  by  warring 
elements  within  the  human  system,  than 
any  book  that  has  been  brought  under 
our  observation.  It  is  a  book  of  refer- 
ence, a  book  of  solid  reading,  of  such 
interest  that  one  reads  it  as  a  fiction 
book,  without  putting  it  down. 


IN    A    YUN-NAN    COURTYARD 

T  OUISE  JORDAN  MILN  is  the 
•*-^  author  of  this  charming  novel  of  ro- 
mance in  a  Chinese  courtyard.  Mrs. 
Miln  knows  her  Orient  so  well  that  we 
are  plunged  into  the  atmosphere  and 
peculiar  internal  strife  of  this  fascinat- 
ing land.  This  story  might  be  called  a 
Chinese  Robin  Hood,  for  certainly  So 
Wing  is  a  Robin  Hood,  holding  in  the 
palm  of  his  hand  the  power  to  make  or 
mar  the  double  romance  which  is  un- 
folded in  a  series  of  thrilling  events  and 
situations.  The  background  of  this  story 
has  an  unusual  luxuriance  of  color.  Mrs. 
Miln  will  be  remembered  perhaps  bet- 
ter than  any  of  her  other  books,  for 
MR.  Wu. 


BOSS  TWEED 

A  REAL  political  boss.  Perhaps  the 
-^*-  first  time  "boss"  was  applied  to  a 
man  running  politics,  and  certainly 
Tweed  ran  the  politics  of  his  day.  Up 
to  this  time  his  life  has  been  a  closed 
book.  Those  names  of  men,  who  did  his 
bidding  have  been  kept  from  print.  Now 
after  many  years  has  come  this  book  by 
Dennis  Tilden  Lynch.  Somehow  in  the 
earlier  days  people  seem  to  live  more 
intense  and  so  we  have  Tweed  who  in 
less  than  three  years  stole  a  sum  in 
excess  of  $30,000,000  from  the  NeWv 
York  treasury  and  what  happened?  Who 
were  some  of  the  men  who  published 
testimonials  to  Tweed's  integrity?  Ah, 
the  men  of  the  nation.  At  Tweed's 
order  John  Jacob  Astor  and  five  others 
made  this  shameful  document  in  Amer- 
ica's history.  Tweed  cracked  the  whip 
and  every  one  danced. 


Jay  Gould  stood  bail  for  Tweed  for 
a  million  dollars.  This  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  biographies  of  the  day, 
dating  to  that  time  of  romance  in  the 
making  of  a  nation,  to  that  time  when 
Lincoln  was  inaugurated  and  New 
York  took  it  in  silence  while  Mrs.  Lin- 
coln was  snubbed.  However,  there  is 
much  revealed  which  glorifies  Tweed 
and  he  becomes  a  most  colorful  picture 
before  our  eyes. 

Boss  TWEED  covers  a  real  deficiency 
in  American  history.  It  is  a  pioneer  book 
that  will  be  read,  studied  and  discussed. 

SAMPLES 

JERE  is  a  collection  of  short  stories, 
L  the  fourth  to  be  issued  by  Boni 
Liveright  and  said  by  them  to  be  the 
best.  The  authors,  for  once  are  pleased 
with  what  they  have  written.  Sherwood 
Anderson,  says  the  story  represented  in 
this  collection  is  his  best  and  so  goes  the 
testimony  of  all  the  others  which  in- 
clude the  list  of :  George  Ade,  Sherwood 
Anderson,  Barry  Benefield,  Konrad  Ber- 
covici,  Louis  Bromfield,  Dorothy  Can- 
field,  Theodore  Dreiser,  Edna  Ferber 
and  so  many  more  we  are  not  able  to 
list  them  all. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  list  a  more 
renowned  list  of  authors  and'  a  more  in- 
teresting collection  of  stories. 


NAPOLEON  IN  CAPTIVITY 

PHE  reports  and  miscellaneous  letters 
^  of  Count  Balmain,  the  Russian  Com- 
missioner at  St.  Helena  during  the  years 
1816-20,  have  been  most  excellently 
translated  by  Julian  Park  and  published 
for  English  reader's  by  Century  Com- 
pany- The  agents  of  Austria  and  Great 
Britain  contribute  an  authentic  seal  to 
this  volume,  making  it  not  only  an  au- 
thentic account  of  the  political  and  pri- 
vate life  of  Napoleon  while  in  exile,  but 
a  most  intimate  document  for  the  first 
time  fully  recounted  in  English.  It  is 
of  inestimable  value  to  all  students  of 
Napoleonic  material,  a  book  all  well-in- 
formed will  need. 


NAVIGATOR 

T^HIS  is  a  historical  novel,  based  upon 
L  facts.  Of  it  Eugene  O'Neill  says, 
"A  fine  piece  of  work  .  .  .  glamorous 
days  ...  all  the  fascination  of  true  ro- 
mance." It  is  the  story  of  that  golden 
age  of  American  history,  of  the  clipper 
ship,  of  New  England,  her  people,  cus- 
toms and  strange  religious  rites.  The 
story  catches  your  interest  in  the  first 
chapters  and  carries  it  to  the  last. 

NAVIGATOR,  by  Alfred  Stanford.  Mor- 
row Publishing  House.    $2.50. 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


343 


HOW  LONG  ago  was  it  that 
George  Sterling,  the  mere  strip- 
ling, but  handsome  boy,  came  to 
California?  I  recall  he  was  recommend- 
ed to  me  by  my  aunt,  my  mother's  sister, 
who  knew  the  Sterling  family  intimately 
at  Sag  Harbor,  Long  Island.  She  was 
a  devout  woman,  and,  I  think,  claimed 
the  credit  of  converting  to  the  Catholic 
faith  one  of  his  "innumerable  little  sis- 
ters," as  George  used  to  call  them.  But 
George,  from  my  earliest  recollections 
of  him,  was  unaffected  by  orthodox  be- 
lief in  any  church.  He  was  a  natural 
person  with  a  very  expansive  mind 
which  embraced  the  universe;  the  pious 
might  call  him  a  "heathen."  "Nature 
he  loved  and,  next  to  Nature,  Art." 

Thrown  into  the  free  life  of  San 
Francisco,  and  influenced  by  Ambrose 
Bierce,  the  most  accomplished  writer 
and  critic  of  his  time,  he  soon  exhibited 
rare  genius  and  acquired  a  perfect,  style. 
He  tried  his  hand  at  uncongenial  work, 
as  the  clerk  of  his  uncle,  Mr.  Havens  of 
Oakland;  but,  finally,  with  the  loss  of 
the  Havens  fortune,  he  was  forced  on 
his  own  resources,  and  became  a  Bohe- 
mian of  the  best  type.  He  lived  from 
hand  to  mouth,  but  he  moved  from  star 
to  star.  He  sought  excellence  and  was 
well  satisfied  with  the  approval  of  his 
friends.  I  remember  how  much  he  ap- 
preciated the  confidence  in  which  he  was 
held  by  his  publisher,  Mr.  A.  M.  Rob- 
ertson. He  would  frequently  bring  to 
me  typed  poems,  inscribed  or  signed,  of 
which  I  have  a  large  number,  as  I  al- 
ways carefully  preserved  them.  I  never 
have  known  any  one  of  them  to  be  with- 
out merit.  And  yet,  in  reading  them,  if 
a  suggestion  were  made,  he  was  most 
amiable  in  discussing  the  merit  of  a 
word  or  sentiment. 

I  recall — I  think  it  was  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  celebration  of  The  Pony 
Express — that  I  asked  him  to  write  a 
poem  on  short  notice,  to  be  given  to  all 


George  Sterling 

By  James  D.  Phelan 

Author  International  Discourse,  Etc. 

of  the  newspapers.  I  was  Chairman  of 
the  Citizens'  Committee,  and  during  an 
entertainment  at  the  Bohemian  Club,  on 
the  very  last  night  before  the  celebra- 
tion, I  called  him  into  the  library,  where 
he  produced  his  poem  from  his  pocket 
and  asked  my  opinion  of  it.  I  told  him 
frankly  that  I  did  not  like  this  or  I  did 
not  like  that,  because  I  knew  it  was 
hastily  done,  and  I  suggested  several 
changes.  He  was  a  little  reluctant,  but, 
finally,  with  his  uniform  good  humor, 
let  me  have  my  way  in  the  matter  of 
some  minor  detail.  When  the  Commit- 
tee, the  next  day,  sent  him  a  check  for 
One  Hundred  Dollars,  he  came  up  to 
me  in  the  Club,  half  apologetically,  and 
said :  "I  did  not  know  I  was  going  to 
be  paid  for  that  poem."  I  said,  "Yes.  It 
was  ordered  by  the  Committee,  and  I 
suppose,  under  the  circumstances,  you 
have  to  oblige  them;  otherwise,  I  would 
not  have  presumed  to  suggest  any 
change." 

He  then  explained  to  me  that  he  had 
great  difficulty  in  marketing  his  product; 
that  only  a  few  magazines  took  poetry 
from  authors,  and  the  rewards  they  of- 
fered were  very  meager.  "But,"  he  ad- 
ded, "I  get  my  full  reward  in  writing 
them."  And  so  he  always  had  sheaves  of 
poems,  inspired  not  by  an  occasion,  but 
by  his  inherent  love  of  the  true  and  the 
beautiful  and  his  desire  to  express  it  in 
his  chosen  medium. 

I  have  a  long  letter  which  he  wrote 
me  from  New  York,  in  which  he  very 
frankly  says  that  he  was  not  hospitably 
received  by  the  magazines  and  publish- 
ers there,  and  that  he  was  stranded  and 
had  a  great  longing  to  return  home,  hav- 
ing his  mind  set  upon  the  achievement  of 
a  poetical  tribute  to  the  great  master- 
piece of  Nature,  his  own  Yosemite  Val- 
ley. He  came  home  and  spent  days  in 


the  mountains,  and  wrote  his  "Yosem- 
ite." It  seemed  to  give  him  great  per- 
sonal satisfaction,  and  I  had  the  honor 
to  receive  the  dedication  of  the  work. 

"The  Valley  lies  below  us  like  a  cup 
Filled  with  the  wine  of  twilight." 

When  I  was  asked  by  the  President  of 
the  Bohemian  Club  to  pay  a  brief  trib- 
ute at  George  Sterling's  funeral,  I  felt 
my  knowledge  of  him  and  my  associa- 
tion with  him  would  justify  me  in  doing 
so,  but  I  could  not  but  believe  that  any- 
thing I  could  say  would  be  inadequate. 
The  world  had  accepted  him  as  a  great 
poet  who  had  earned  his  earthly  immor- 
tality. I  spoke  of  poetry  as  the  rarest 
flower  on  the  tree  of  civilization,  and 
how  he  was  its  great  exponent.  I  gave 
him  a  place  in  American  literature  as  a 
genius  and  classicist.  He  had  the  divine 
inspiration  and  the  perfect  art.  Like  all 
creative  geniuses,  he  found  his  pleasure 
and  satisfaction  in  his  writings,  and  it 
is  well,  because  the  world  does  not  pay 
in  full  measure  for  the  imaginative  work 
of  its  men  of  genius. 

George  Sterling  loved  San  Francisco, 
and,  indeed,  a  proud  possession  of  the 
City  is  the  consciousness  of  having  awak- 
ened the  affection  of  a  great  poet,  who 
wrote  so  truly  of  "the  cool  grey  City  of 
Love."  He  did  not  manifest  his  poetical 
power  until  he  came  to  California,  in 
the  first  year  of  his  maturity.  May  he 
not  have  been  inspired,  where  he  found 
the  atmospheric  conditions  favorable  to 
his  growth— the  soil  of  romance;  fair 
skies,  magnificent  objects,  congenial  and 
appreciative  friends  ? 

He  might  be  called  an  explorer  of  the 
universe.  The  pioneer  spirit  was  his  to 
find  out  what  lay  beyond  the  horizon. 
An  Italian  poet,  who  chose  the  most 
direct  and  expeditious  path,  said,  with  a 
great  deal  of  truth,  "O,  Lord,  life  and 
death  are  equally  thine ;  though  we  come 
to  life  by  one  road,  we  pass  to  death  by 
a  thousand." 


344 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


HELLO, 
WORLD 

We   are  the    Boys'   and   Girls' 
Magazine 

Grown-ups  not  allowed! 

The 

TREASURE 
CHEST 

Stories  and  poems  and   draw- 
ings and  things  that  every  boy 
and  girl   likes.    Done  by  boys 
and  girls  and  grown-ups. 

THE  TREASURE  CHEST 

MAGAZINE 

$2.50  Per  Year 

1402  de  Young  Building 

San  Francisco,  Calif. 


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George  Sterling  at  Play 

By  Austin  Lewis 

Contributor  to  Overland  Monthly 


GEORGE  STERLING  and  I 
were  friends  for  about  thirty 
years  and,  of  all  the  charming 
memories  that  I  possess,  the  picture  of 
him  as  he  was  twenty-five  years  ago 
pleases  me  most. 

He  was  then  the  center  of  a  very  in- 
teresting group,  which  ranged  from 
Joaquin  Miller  to  young  and  untried 
artists  and  writers.  The  more  intimate 
members  of  this  group  met  at  Coppa's 
restaurant  in  San  Francisco,  on  week 
days  and  on  Sundays  in  Alameda  Coun- 
ty. None  of  us  will  ever  forget  those 
Sundays. 

Jack  London  had  then  just  started 
upon  his  career  and  was  living  at  Pied- 
mont with  his  first  wife,  Bessie,  and 
two  small  children,  Joan  and  Bess. 
Sometimes  we  went  to  Jack's  place  for 
the  festivities.  Frequently,  however,  we 
went  to  a  farm  house,  the  name  of 
which  I  have  forgotten,  adjoining  a 
large  estate  in  Piedmont.  Occasionally, 
We  went  to  The  Hights,  Joaquin  Mil- 
ler's place,  and  would  go  over  the  fields 
and  sit  by  the  quarry,  discussing  the  af- 
fairs of  the  universe  and  listening  to  the 
rhapsodical  lies  of  the  old  bard. 

Those  were  glorious  afternoons.  Her- 
man Whitaker  told  stories  of  the  Brit- 
ish Army  and  a  settler's  life  in  Canada. 
He  was  just  beginning  to  write  in  those 
days.  He  was  very  poor  and  had  a 
large  family.  He  had  limitless  courage 
and  unending  perseverance.  He  died  at 
the  close  of- the  war,  a  victim  of  his  own 
energy.  Herman  Scheffauer,  then  an 
architect  and  rising  young  poet,  protege 
of  Ambrose  Bierce,  as  was  George 
Sterling,  held  forth  on  real-politik  and 
modernity.  We  fought  out  the  war 
more  than  ten  years  before  it  began  and 
the  ineradicable  differences  of  honest 
opinion  between  Sterling  and  Scheffauer 
were  manifest  even  then.  Later,  they 
were  to  flare  into  epistolary  conflict, 
when  the  cessation  of  hostilities  opened 
the  postal  service  between  Germany  and 
this  country. 

The  afternoons  at  Piedmont  were 
merry  affairs.  George's  beautiful  sisters 
frequently  came.  There  was  a  gathering 
of  youth  and  beauty.  "Bob"  Aitken,  the 
sculptor,  and  other  artists,  like  Xavier 
Martinez,  were  nearly  always  there.  We 
picnicked,  danced,  played,  sang  and  ar- 
gued till  night  found  us  weary  and 
happy.  We  usually  finished  up  at 
George  Sterling's  house,  where  Carrie, 
his  wife,  was  the  loveliest  and  merriest 
of  hostesses. 


No  one,  I  fancy,  can  claim  to  have 
really  known  George  Sterling,  without 
some  acquaintance  with  him  on  these  oc- 
casions. He  was  the  happiest  and  most 
graceful  of  the  crowd.  An  athlete  of 
prowess,  he  gave  Whitaker,  formerly  an 
instructor  in  the  British  Army  and  Jack 
London,  whose  strength  and  vigor  are 
well  known,  a  good  match.  He  could 
run  and  jump,  haul  and  throw,  drink 
and  shout  with  the  best  of  them.  He 
made  a  sort  of  chant  to  which  he  used  to 
sing  "Thus  spake  the  Lord  in  the  vault 
above  the  Cherubim"  lustily  and  well. 
He  was  then  full  of  fire  and  life  with  no 
evidence  at  all  of  the  mordant  melan- 
cholia which  was  afterwards  so  destruc- 
tive to  his  morale. 

Then  one  would  meet  him  on  the 
boat  in  the  morning,  for  he  was  work- 
ing at  the  office  of  the  Realty  Syndicate. 
He  wrote  most  of  "The  Testimony  of 
the  Suns"  while  crossing  the  Bay.  Many 
times  he  has  hunted  me  up  on  the  boat  to 
show  me  a  new  stanza.  He  was  most 
particular  about  his  work,  carefully 
weighing  every  sound  and  eager  for  sug- 
gestion. He  was  sweet,  modest  and  af- 
fectionate. 

I  like  to  think  of  George  Sterling  as 
he  was  in  those  days.  I  see  him  oftenest 
as  he  stood  laughing  at  a  picnic  at  Pied- 
mont, with  all  his  friends  about  him.  I 
think  that  nothing  will  dislodge  that 
picture  from  my  memory. 


WHAT'S  WHAT  ON  THE 
EDITOR'S  DESK 

TO  THE  poets  of  California  comes 
this  interesting  note:  The  contest  is 
bringing  in  some  extraordinary  verse, 
says  one  of  the  judges,  and  by  the  time 
it  reaches  the  hands  of  the  final  judge, 
Edwin  Markham,  there  is  no  doubt  but 
that  California  will  head  the  list  of 
states  having  excellent  poets.  We  hope 
to  announce  the  winners  in  our  Decem- 
ber issue  of  Overland.  Do  not  forget 
the  contest  closes  the  first  of  November. 
Of  further  interest  is  the  news  that 
James  D.  Phelan,  who  so  generously 
donated  the  $200.00  for  the  Overland 
poetry  contest,  has  now  donated  $1,000 
(particulars  to  be  announced  later)  for 
the  best  essay  on  that  period  of  Cali- 
fornia history  which  stands  for  achieve- 
ments, after  the  discovery  of  gold  and 
culminating  in  the  Panama  Pacific  Ex- 
position. 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


345 


Mr.  Phelan's  idea  of  the  competitions 
is  to  elicit  a  comprehensive  essay  written 
in  perfect  English.  "Some  of  our  recent 
historical  writings,"  says  Mr.  Phelan, 
"have  been  done  hastily  and  carelessly ; 
and  California  history,  furthermore,  has 
been  perverted  by  apologists  and  propa- 
gandists." 

It  is  concluded  therefore  that  the 
essay  is  to  be  founded  upon  facts,  pure 
and  simple,  written  in  the  best  English 
possible.  See  further  announcements  in 
subsequent  issues  of  Overland  of  the 
James  D.  Phelan  $1,000  Prize  Essay 
Contest,  to  be  conducted  through  the 
pages  of  the  Overland  monthly. 


.       . 

Your  friends  will 
notice  the 
difference 


We  preserve  your  natural 

features  emphasized 

'with  an  artistic 

cut  and  -wave 

*** 

A 

COMPLETE 
SERVICE 


Ij^yjudju. 


SAN  FRANCISCO:  490  POST  ST. 
PHONE  GARFIELD  234 

PALO  ALTO:  125  UNIVERSITY  AVE. 
PHONE  PALO  ALTO  433 

HOTEL  DEL  MONTE 

MATSON  NAVIGATION   STEAMERS 


\  TTORNEY  Leo  A.  Murasky  is  this 
-^*-  year  in  the  field  for  position  of  Po- 
lice Judge  in  San  Francisco.  Mr.  Mur- 
asky is  well  known  as  a  lawyer  and 
esteemed  citizen  of  San  Francisco,  with 
offices  in  the  Flood  Building.  The 
voters  of  the  city  will  do  well  to  secure 
his  services  in  the  position  of  Police 
Judge.  It  is  such  substantial  men  as  Mr. 
Murasky  and  those  of  such  sound  repu- 
tation and  proven  ability  who  are  need- 
ed in  the  civic  life  of  the  city. 


POET  OF  SEAS  AND  STARS 

By  Henry  Meade  Bland 

Professor  of  English  Literature  San  Jose 

Teacher's  College;  Author  of  the 

Pioneer,  Etc. 

GEORGE  STERLING  owes  his 
entry  into  letters  to  his  Univer- 
sity teacher,  the  Reverend  Father 
John  Bannister  Tabb,  a  poet  of  distinc- 
tion and  a  dreamer  of  a  type  appealing 
to  the  sensitive  student.  Tabb's  delicate 
lyric  touch  stirred  Sterling's  heart,  and 
so,  instead  of  becoming  at  graduation 
Father  Sterling,  Tabb's  protege  became 
a  blossoming  poet. 

One  easily  understands  reasons  for 
this  change  from  preacher  to  bard. 
There  is  much  the  apostle  of  Christ  is 
pledged  to  do  the  poet  sees  and  knows 
he  can  do.  That  the  poet  sometimes 
falls  from  grace  in  his  sacred  calling  is 
not  the  calling's  fault. 

Sterling  was  no  sooner  devoted  to 
poesy  than  he  began  to  question  the  won- 
derful aspects  of  the  outer  world,  to 
wrest  the  answers  to  the  eternal  Soul- 
Question.  He  wrote  his  rhythmic  im- 
pressions in  "The  Testimony  of  the 
Suns."  He  found  no  answer;  but  he  un- 
covered The  Beautiful  everywhere — not 
Beauty  that  endures,  but  Beauty  that 
passes  away.  The  end  of  life  was,  he 
said,  nothingness. 

"Let  us  forget  that,  one  by  one, 
Mortals  must  driftwood  be, 
Tossed  on  the  beaches  of  Oblivion 
By  Time's  rejecting  sea." 

This  tendency  to  lack  of  faith  in  the 
essentials  of  religion,  however,  did  not 
cause  Sterling  to  lose  faith  in  the  human. 
While  a  resident  of  Oakland,  he  became 
friend  and  close  associate  of  Jack  Lon- 
don, and  shared  with  that  famous  nov- 
elist an  acceptance  of  the  principles  of 
Socialism.  He  joined  the  Ruskin  Club, 
a  radical  association  belonging  to  the 
East  Bay  section,  and  became  firmly  con- 
vinced that  Socialism  was  a  solution  of 
the  ills  of  humanity. 


He  continued  to  be  a  follower  of 
London's  political  altruistic  view.  He 
was  a  strong  supporter  of  London  when 
that  arch-socialist,  once  upon  a  time, 
won  a  thousand  votes  for  the  mayoralty 
in  the  City  of  Oakland. 

London  and  Sterling's  friendship  was 
more  than  one  of  timeliness,  or  occasion ; 
it  was  one  of  the  Hamlet-Horatio  type, 
and  when  Jack  London  passed  away 
Sterling  mourned  him  in  a  poem  such  as 
the  divinest  of  poets  might  write  for  his 
dead  lady-love. 


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The  Schoolbooks  of  the  Country 
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The  Government  Printing  Office 
at  Washington  uses  it  as  authority. 

G.  &  C.  MERRIAM  CO. 

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Mass. 


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Yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the 
substantial  Jack  was  a  solid  balancing 
stay  for  his  poet-friend,  holding  him 
back  from  the  excesses  which  were 
threatening  ruin.  But  London  valued 
him  not  only  as  a  friend,  but  as  a  genius. 
The  overworked  and  ever  diligent  nov- 
elist once  told  me  Sterling  was  the  only 
poet  he  took  time  for  in  making  a  full 
scrap-book  of  his  periodical  verse. 

Belief  in  an  approach  for  mankind  to 
the  perfect  social  dream  made  Sterling 
an  advocate  of  universal  peace.  True, 
his  voice  was  not  as  strong  as  one  might 
be  led  to  suspect;  yet,  when  the  great 
United  States  battle  fleet  assembled  in 
1925  in  San  Francisco  Bay,  George  Ster- 
ling, official  poet  for  the  occasion,  de- 
livered not  a  thunderous  war-ode  of 
death  and  destruction  to  the  enemy,  but 
one,  like  Victor  Hugo's  reinterpretation 
of  the  French  war-motto,  destruction  to 
everyone:  "Destruction  to  Nobody." 

It  may  not  be  known  that,  much  as 
George  Sterling  owed  to  Ambrose 
Bierce  and  to  Bierce's  theory  of  poetry, 
which  embodied  an  avoidance  of  the  hu- 
man note,  Sterling  deserted,  so  he  once 
told  me,  the  Bierce  dictum  and  adopted 
gradually  an  intense  human  emotional 
vein.  This  resulted  in  his  greatest  work : 
"Tasso  to  Leonora"  and  "Duandon" 
with  some  wonderful  lyrics.  And  yet  we 
record  with  regret  Sterling's  descent 
into  the  maelstrom  of  the  super-erotic. 

"The  outward  wayward  life  we  see; 
The    inner   springs   we   may    not 
know." 

Yet  kindness  was  an  essential  element 


in  George  Sterling's  character;  and  he 
went  to  all  lengths,  reasonable,  to  show 
graceful  favors  to  his  friends.  He  was  a 
follower  of  The  Beautiful,  but  many 
times  fell  short  of  a  conception  of  spir- 
itual beauty,  which,  all  in  all,  gives  the 
only  great  satisfaction  to  the  artist.  Yet 
the  Reverend  Doctor  William  L.  Stid- 
ger,  in  "Flames  of  Faith,"  builds  a  chap- 
ter to  Sterling,  and  finds  a  sure  niche 
for  him  among  the  righteous. 

One  of  the  more  timid  souls  of  the 
San  Francisco  Bohemian  Club  people 
whispered  to  me,  when  Edwin  Mark- 
ham  and  I  were  guests  at  the  Markham 
function  of  the  Club,  beckoned  me 
aside,  mysteriously,  late  in  the  evening. 
He  told  me,  in  the  hall  off  the  room 
which  was  George's  when  he  was  in  the 
flesh,  that  the  shade  of  the  poet  was 
wont  to  walk  nightly  some  time  be- 
tween the  scarey  hours  of  ten  and  two. 
He  beseeched  me  to  occupy  a  room  op- 
posite that  of  the  gentle  poet,  lie  awake, 
keep  watch  and  correctly  observe  the 
phenomenon.  As  for  himself,  he  said  it 
was  too  fearful  a  task.  He  said  I  was 
a  "scholar"  and  the  image  would  doubt- 
less appear.  His  faith  in  me  caused  me 
to  consent,  and  my  vigil  began:  10:00, 
11 :00,  12:00,  12:30— then  a  flash  shone 
through  my  door.  It  was  morning  and 
an  attendant  lighting  the  hall. 

I  had  slept  through  this,  one  of  my 
most  notable  adventures;  but  through 
my  mind  was  going,  wigwagging,  a  line 
from  "Tasso  to  Leonora" — 

"Song's    archangelic    panoply    of 
light." 


Books  and  Writers 

(Continued  from  Page  342) 


M 


THE  BRIGHT  DOOM 

Solitudes 

Y  HEART  is  a  dark  forest  where 

no  voice  is  heard, 
Nor  sound  of  foot,  by  day  or  night — nor 

echo,  borne 
Down    the    long    aisles    and    shadowy 

arches,  of  a  horn, 
Trembling — nor  cry  of  beast,   nor  call 

of  any  bird. 

But  always  through  the  deep  solitudes  a 

grieving  wind 
Moves  like  the  voice  of  a  vast  prayer; 

it  is  your  love 
Lifting  and  bending  leaf  and  bough — 

while,  far  above, 
One  thought  soars  like  a  hawk,  in  the 

heaven  of  my  mind. 

There  is  no  better  way  to  review  a 
book  of  poetry  than  to  give  an  example 
of  what  the  collection  contains.  John 


Hall  Wheelock  after  a  period  of  five 
years  brings  out  another  volume  of  po- 
etry, the  last  better  than  the  previous 
volumes.  It  is  a  book,  filled  with  the 
kind  of  poetry  you  would  want  to  keep 
on  your  living  room  table  for  your 
friends  to  read. 

THE   BRIGHT   DOOM,  by  John   Hall 
Wheelock.    Charles  Scribner's.  $2.00. 


THE  FLAMING  ARROW 

IN  THE  past  year  there  has  been  evi- 
denced a  great  interest  in  the  South- 
west, in  old  civilizations,  of  romance 
prior  to  our  coming.  The  Flaming  Ar- 
row is  one  of  those  books,  which  brings 
back,  vividly,  the  life  of  the  Indians  at 
that  time.  The  story  will  keep  you  spell- 
bound from  the  first  to  the  last  with  the 
background  of  the  Indian  life  and  cus- 
toms. 

THE     FLAMING    ARROW,     by     Carl 
Moon,  Stokes  Publishing  Co.  $2.50. 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


347 


B.  F.  Schlesinger 
&  Sons,  Inc. 

Cumulative    7%    Preferred   Stock    at    Market    to    Yield 
About  7.5%. 

Class  "A"  Common  at  Market  to  Yield  About  6.3%. 

The  excellent  economies  effected  through  the  "Four-Store 
Buying  Power"  of 

CITY  OF  PARIS,  San  Francisco,  California 
B.  F.  SCHLESINGER  &  SONS,  Inc.,  Oakland,  Cal. 
OLDS,  WORTHMAN  &  KING,  Portland,  Oregon 
RHODES  BROS.,  Tacoma,  Washington 

are  reflected  directly  in  the  earnings.     The  ability  of  the 
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Further  information  on  request. 

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Incorporated 

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LOS  ANGELES:  California  Bank  Building 

SEATTLE:   797  Second  Avenue 


Brief  Mention 


ANGEL'S  FLIGHT 

THIS  is  a  story  through  the  eyes  of  a  tired  newspaper 
man,  who  has  gone  West  for  his  lungs.    It  is  a  novel 
which    reflects   modern    American    life.     The    treatment    is 
poetic  realism.    It  is  a  mental  book,  deep  thought  underlies 
each  situation. 

DREAM  OF  A  WOMAN,  by  Remy  de 
Gourmont.    Boni  Liveright.   $2.50. 


DREAM  OF  A  WOMAN 

HERE  is  another  book  which  has  come  to  our  desk  too 
late  for  a  lengthy  review  but  so  good  is  its  first  look 
that  we  want  to  mention  it  that  you  will  look  it  up  at  your 
book  store.   It  promised  to  be  meat  for  the  reader. 
ANGEL'S     FLIGHT,    by    Don    Ryan. 
Boni  Liveright.   $2.50. 


THE  MARTYR 

(Continued  from  Page  335) 

and  rubies — into  the  torture  pit.  Thus  is  it  we  have  now 
the  divine  coolness  of  his  created  beauty,  forged  out  of  his 
ineffable  terrors,  pangs  and  alarms. 

In  that  sense  was  he — as  all  great  poets  are — a  martyr. 
If  he  were  here  he  would  not  like  the  world.  The  stoic  who 
was  one  of  his  several  personalities  would  rebel,  the  beloved 
humorist  would  laugh.  But  a  Martyr  he  was. 


HOTEL  SENATOR 

Facing  Capitol  Park 

Sacramento,  California 

C/£?HE  discriminating  guest  will  enjoy  the  luxurious 
appointments,  the  delicious  food  and  cour- 
teous service  of  The  Senator.  This  scenic -view 
hotel  is  located  in  the  midst  of  the  business,  shop- 
ping and  theatre  district,  and  on  the  direct  motor 
route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

CHARLES  R.  FRASER,  Manager 


HOTEL 
MAMK 


NOB  HILL 


SAN  FRANCISCO 


A  center  of 

San  Francisco's 

brilliant  social  life 


Big  Game  Reservations  Now 
Being  Made 


348 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


CHOOSING  YOUR  INVESTMENTS 


Gold  ^Madness 

Bv  TREBOR  SELIG 


MANY  of  history's  most  vivid 
pages  record  the  echo  of  some 
voice  from  the  wilderness  cry- 
ing "Gold!"  Many  epochal  achieve- 
ments in  the  field  of  exploration  have 
resulted  less  from  man's  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge and  love  for  adventure  than  from 
man's  lust  for  gold.  Discoveries  that 
have  changed  world  geography  and  con- 
quests that  have  carried  light  into  the 
Earth's  darkest  corners  have  many  times 
been  largely  but  the  by-product  of  man's 
age-old  susceptibility  to  that  peculiar 
phenomenon  we  call  "Gold  Madness." 
In  every  land  and  in  every  era,  per- 
haps, since  gold  has  measured  wealth, 
have  men  cast  reason  out,  thrown  dis- 
cretion to  the  winds,  abandoned  estab- 
lished order,  and  rushed  in  frenzied 
haste  to  some  mystery-shrouded  spot 
where  credulity  has  convinced  them  lies 
El  Dorado.  The  fact  that  reward  has 
come  to  but  few  of  those  who  have 
answered  such  a  call,  has  never  seemed 
to  lessen  the  spell  it  casts  when  it  is 
heard. 

NEW  WORLD  GOLD 
Desire  for  colonies,  the  urge  to  carry 
the  cross  to  heathen  people,  a  patriotic 
zeal  to  plant  the  homeland  banner  far 
afield,  have  been  the  moving  forces  cred- 
ited with  opening  the  Western  Hemis- 
phere to  settlement.  Yet  the  student  of 
history  must  admit  that  as  potent  a  cause 
as  these,  perhaps,  was  the  frenzy  of  ava- 
rice inspired  in  those  who  saw  crude 
ornaments  of  beaten  gold  exhibited  by 
returning  travelers  as  tokens  of  a  New 
World  promise. 

Curiosity  was  aroused  by  sight  of 
captive  savages.  Their  heathen  creeds 
were  a  challenge  to  religious  zeal.  Imag- 
ination was  stimulated  by  the  tales  of 
a  new-found  continent.  Sages  revised 
their  established  philosophies.  Christen- 
dom was  thrilled  and  startled  by  the 
news.  Yet,  little  of  this  Western  Hem- 
isphere, probably,  would  have  become  in 
forty-three  decades  what  it  is  today,  had 
those  earlier  discoverers  not  inflamed  the 
minds  and  hearts  of  men  by  their  tales 
of  New  World  gold. 

THE  DAYS  OF  '49 

How  much  of  California  as  we  know 
it  now,  would  lure  the  traveler  west, 
one  wonders,  if  those  Oregon-bound 
homeseekers  of  the  covered  wagon  trail 
had  not  been  shown  the  gold  from  Sut- 


ter's  Mill.  Much  of  the  history  and 
development  of  our  Pacific  Coast  would 
have  been  far  different,  one  must  agree, 
had  there  been  no  "Days  of  '49." 

How  many  of  those  who  laid  the 
foundations  for  the  prosperity  and  prog- 
ress of  our  Far  West  would  have  braved 
the  dangers  and  met  the  hardships  of 
California's  pioneer  days  had  they  not 
fallen  victims  to  gold  madness?  And 
yet,  enormous  as  has  been  the  golden 
harvest  of  California's  mines,  but  few 
of  those  who  answered  that  alluring  call 
ever  "panned  a  color"  or  mined  an  ounce 
of  gold. 

TODAY'S  GOLD  MADNESS 
Few  indeed,  today,  are  the  spots  yet 
unexplored  in  this  or  other  lands,  and 
outbreaks  of  the  mining  camp  form  of 
"gold  fever"  are  few  and  far  between. 
But  racial  susceptibility  is  still  as  strong 
as  in  the  days  when  none  doubted  the 
golden  pavements  and  gem-studded  gates 
of  the  fabled  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola,  or 
in  a  later  age,  traded  plows  for  gold 
pans  and  rushed  to  wrest  a  fortune  in 
a  day  from  Sacramento's  sands.  If  one 
doubts  the  prevalence  of  Gold  Madness 
in  1927,  let  him  but  study  for  a  time 
the  investment  news  of  our  every  day. 
Men  are  just  as  prone  to  believe  what 
imagination  pictures  as  they  were  in 
1492  or  1848.  Human  traits  do  not 
change  much  nor  rapidly.  Experience 
and  learning  and  modern  governmental 
progress  have  established  certain  safe- 
guards for  the  guidance  and  protection 
of  society  that  once  were  unknown,  but 
man's  weakness  where  gold  is  concerned 
is  still  a  racial  characteristic.  Let  some- 
one rise  in  the  market  place  today  and 
tell  of  new  found  wealth,  and  a  rabble 
will  follow  him  where  he  leads  as  surely 
and  as  blindly  as  ever  indulged  in  any 
gold  rush  to  a  new  "strike." 

TRY  ANYTHING  ONCE 

We  are  rather  proud  of  our  daring, 
we  Americans,  especially  we  of  Califor- 
nia. Our  traditions  foster  in  us  an  urge 
to  challenge  the  untried.  We  boast 
facetiously,  but  seriously  nevertheless, 
that  we  are  "willing  to  try  anything 
once."  And  that  but  accentuates  the 
fever  of  irrationality  to  which,  too  often, 
we  succumb  when  some  irresponsible  but 
plausible  exponent  of  "easy  money"  per- 
suasively offers  to  share  with  us  his  soon- 
to-be  success.  In  spite  of  warnings  and 


experiences  we  turn  away  from  Caution, 
grasp  Adventure  by  the  hand,  and  with 
foolhardy  daring  "take  a  chance." 

Experience  is  a  hard  teacher  and  there 
are  far  too  many  of  us  who  learn  indif- 
ferently, if  at  all,  from  such  a  school. 
Memory  is  short  and  hope  springs 
eternal  in  the  breast  of  him  who  once 
has  felt  gold  madness  and  sought  an  El 
Dorado.  For  one  who  does  recover  his 
sanity  after  losing  his  money,  there  is 
always  another  who  hopefully,  but  as 
uselessly,  tries  again.  And  although  there 
are  many  who  steadfastly  avoid  the  se- 
ductive doctrines  of  the  easy  money 
prophets,  there  are  many  whose  names 
are  yearly  added  to  the  "sucker  lists"  of 
those  who  prey  on  the  unwary. 

CURBING  THE  PESTILENCE 

Doubtless  this  will  always  be,  in  some 
degree,  human  nature  being  what  it  is. 
We  are  all  susceptible  to  gold  madness 
as  truly  as  we  are  all  subject  to  epi- 
demics of  physical  ailments.  But  just  as 
modern  science  has  set  up  against  pesti- 
lential plagues  and  fevers  certain  depend- 
able defenses  which  have  saved  millions 
of  human  lives,  so  modern  business  and 
governmental  agencies  have  erected 
against  the  unrestrained  spread  of  gold 
madness,  protective  barriers  which  con- 
serve men's  fortunes. 

The  thing  persists,  claims  victims 
daily,  it  is  true,  and  sometimes  becomes 
almost  an  epidemic,  as  forty  thousand 
Californians  lately  learned,  to  their 
chagrin.  But  it  cannot  sweep  unhindered 
through  the  land  as  once  it  could  and 
did.  If  one,  nowadays,  falls  auto- 
hypnotic  victim  to  the  call  of  "Gold!" 
it  is  because  he  wilfully  disregards  the 
cautions  all  have  heard  and  refuses  to 
heed  the  oft-repeated  warning,  "Before 
you  invest — Investigate!" 

CONSTRUCTIVE  COUNSEL 

Stringent  as  are  the  laws  of  our  land 
in  prohibiting  deliberate  fraud  in  the 
offering  of  investments,  and  zealous  as 
are  our  public  officials  in  suppressing 
public  participation  in  unsound  promo- 
tions, hundreds  of  millions  of  dollars  are 
yearly  lost  in  enterprises  pre-ordained 
to  failure.  Fortunes  large  and  small  are 
squandered  by  those  who,  afflicted  by 
gold  madness,  have  cast  discretion  aside 
and  blindly  joined  the  mad  stampede  to 
some  new  land  where  Fortune's  smile  is 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE 


349 


reputed  sure  and  fervid  as  Yuma's  mid- 
day sun. 

And  yet,  in  every  community  in  our 
land  are  men  and  institutions,  thoroughly 
informed,  wholly  reliable,  entirely  im- 
mune to  gold  madness  themselves, 
readily  available  to  any  who  would 
consult  with  them  on  the  subject  of  in- 
vestment, whose  advice  and  counsel  is 
honest  and  sound  and  which,  if  followed, 
would  lead  to  safe  investment.  Such 
constructive  co-operation  is  freely  open 
to  all  and  is  enjoyed  by  the  most  of  us 
these  days,  and  the  daily  mounting  ratio 
of  individual  wealth  in  this  most  pros- 
perous country  proves  the  wisdom  of 
such  a  course.  There  never  was  a  time 
when  prosperity  was  so  general  and  so 
personal  as  now — because,  perhaps,  there 
never  was  a  time  when  sound  financial 
counsel  was  so  widely  offered  and 
accepted,  and  when  society  has  been  so 
conscientiously  safeguarded  from  its  own 
susceptibility  to  gold  madness. 


The  second  article  by  Mr.  Trebor 
Selig  on  Choosing  Your  Investments  ap- 
pears in  this  issue  of  Overland.  With 
this  article  under  special  title  "Gold 
Madness,"  there  is  begun  a  question  and 
answer  column. 

To  be  given  attention  questions  must 
be  brief  and  pointed.  In  answer  to  ques- 
tions of  special  technical  nature  or  those 
requiring  detailed  reply,  individual  let- 
ters will  be  sent. 

Address  Overland  Monthly,  Pacific 
Building,  San  Francisco,,  Care  Choosing 
Your  Investments  Editor. —  (Editor.) 


KEY  SYSTEM  TRANSPORTATION  Co. — 
REFUNDING  5's  OF  1938 

1.  Q. — Please    advise    if     I    should 
hold  onto  the  Key  System  5%  bonds  due 
in  1938  which  I  own? 

A. — Due  to  a  decline  in  the  earning 
power  of  the  company,  these  bonds  have 
dropped  in  price  until  they  are  quoted 
today  at  50.  The  company  has  at  pres- 
ent a  petition  before  the  railroad  com- 
mission for  an  increase  in  rates.  During 
the  past  summer  a  notable  change  has 
taken  place  in  the  management  and  the 
board  of  directors  and  these  new  officers 
are  endeavoring  to  work  out  a  solution 
for  the  corporation  which  will  increase 
its  earning  power.  I  would  not  advise 
selling  at  the  present  time. 

VERTIENTES  SUGAR  COMPANY — FIRST 
MORTGAGE  SINKING  FUND  GOLD  7's 

2.  Q. — I  hold  some  7%  first  mort- 
gage bonds  of  the  Vertientes  Sugar  Co. 
but  have  been  somewhat   disturbed   by 
its  price  fluctuations.    Should  I  sell? 

A. — These  bonds  are  due  December 
1,  1942.  $10,000,000  issued  in  Decem- 
ber, 1922,  at  97*/2,  has  been  reduced  by 


sinking  fund  operation.  They  are  classed 
as  fair  bonds,  listed  on  the  New  York 
Exchange  and  selling  at  approximately 
par.  The  Company  has  two  modern 
sugar  mills  in  Cuba  and  owns  and  con- 
trols 629,000  acres  of  sugar  lands.  Ow- 
ing to  the  wide  fluctuation  in  market 
prices  of  sugar,  the  company's  earnings 
cannot  be  consistently  controlled,  hence 
the  varying  quotations  for  these  bonds. 
Unless  you  are  willing  to  assume  a  some- 
what speculative  risk  you  should  not 
hold  these  bonds. 

LAKE  SHORE  POWER  COMPANY — FIRST 

AND  REFUNDING  GOLD  6's,  SERIES 

"A." 

3.  Q. — Can  you  give  me  any  infor- 
mation regarding  the  6%  Series  A  bonds 
of  the  Lake  Shore  Power  Company? 

A.— Approximately  $1,000,000  of 
these  bonds  are  outstanding.  They  were 
issued  in  July,  1926,  at  99,  and  mature 
July  1,  1950.  They  are  secured  by  a 
general  mortgage  on  the  properties  of 
the  company  subject  to  an  issue  of  $310,- 
000  underlying  5%  bonds  due  in  1931. 
The  company  operates  in  Ohio  serving 
electric  light,  power  and  gas  to  a  popula- 
tion of  some  30,000  in  the  area  just  west 
of  Toledo.  Because  of  a  lack  of  detailed 
financial  reports,  a  rating  of  "fair"  is 
given. 

PURE  OIL  COMPANY,  TEN-YEAR  SINK- 
ING FUND  5l/2%  GOLD  NOTES 

4.  Q. — Should  I  buy  for  permanent 
investment    the    ten-year    bonds    of    the 
Pure  Oil  Company  recently  offered  ? 

A.— This  issue,  $20,000,000,  due  Au- 
gust 1,  1937,  redeemable  at  102^  to 
August  1,  1928,  and  at  decreasing  pre- 
mium thereafter,  is  the  direct  obligation 
of  the  company  but  not  secured  by  mort- 
gage. The  company  has  an  international 
business  as  a  complete  unit  in  the  oil 
industry  from  production  to  distribution, 
is  in  good  financial  condition  with  net 
earnings  of  $10,892,000  for  the  fiscal 
year  ending  March  31,  1927,  and  should 
continue  to  show  substantial  earnings. 
These  bonds  are  selling  at  approximately 
99J4  on  the  New  York  Curb  and  are 
rated  as  sound  and  could  be  held  as  a 
good  industrial  investment. 

GOODYEAR  TIRE  &  RUBBER  COMPANY 
OF  AKRON,  OHIO,  PREFERRED  STOCK 

5.  Q. — We  would   appreciate   being 
given  information  as  to  the  prospects  for 
earnings  on  the  preferred  stock  of  the 
Goodyear  Tire  Co.  of  Akron. 

A. — Litigation  growing  out  of  the  re- 
organization of  this  company  in  1921 
was  ended  by  an  agreement  on  May  15, 
1927,  of  which  the  main  features  in- 
cluded the  elimination  of  management 
stock,  termination  of  voting  trusts,  re- 
tiring of  the  prior  preference  preferred 
stock,  refunding  of  the  bonded  debt  at  a 
(Continued  on  Page  351) 


Now 

through  to 

Tahoe 


Cevt 
Re 


— convenient  Pullman  service 
'ery  evening  via  Overland 
Route,  Lake  Tahoe  Line 


rvice  "-I 
land     I 

•  •  •  J 


A  swift,  comfortable  trip,  assuring  the 
maximum  amount  of  time  at  the  lake. 
Every  vacation  sport  is  there — Golf, 
tennis,  horse-back  riding,  hikes,  swim- 
ming, fishing,  dancing.  Steamer  trips 
around  the  lake, only  $2.40. 

You  leave  San  Francisco  (Ferry)  at  7 
p.  m.,  Sacramento  at  10:55  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing at  the  shore  of  the  lake  in  time  for 
breakfast  next  morning.  Returning, 
leave  Tahoe  Station  9:30  p.  m.,  arriv- 
ing San  Francisco  7:50  a.  m. 

Day  service,  offering  an  interesting 
scenic  trip  up  the  Sierra,  leaves  San 
Francisco  at  7:40a.  m.,  Sacramento 
10:45  a.  m  ,  arriving  at  the  lake  for 
dinner,  (5:30  p.m.) 

Reduced  roundtrip  fares  are  effective 
throughout  the  summer.  For  example, 
only  $13. Z5  roundtrip  from  San 
Francisco,  good  for  16  days. 

Ask  for  illustrated  booklet  about  Tahoe 
Lake  region;  also  booklet  "Low  Fares  for 
Summer  Trips". 

Southern 
Pacific 


F.  S.  McGINNIS, 

Passenger  Traffic  Mgr. 

San  Francisco 


VERSE 
CRITICISM 

WRITE  FOR  PARTICULARS 

JOAN  RAMSAY 

OVERLAND 

MONTHLY 


350 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


SO  THAT  ADVERTISERS  MAY  KNOW 

The  Question  of  Nuisance 
Publications 

THERE  are  in  Sa~n  Francisco,  as  is  the  case  in  every  other  large  city 
in  the  United  States,  certain  publications  that  attempt  to  exploit  their 
nuisance  value.   Of  negligible  circulation,  and  no  editorial  character,  these 
publications,  unable  to  obtain  advertising  on  their  merits,  use  threatening 
tactics  in  an  effort  to  intimidate  advertisers. 

Their  usual  course  is  to  call  upon  an  establishment  that  has  adver- 
tised in  a  reputable  publication,  and  "demand"  that  the  same  advertise- 
ment be  given  them. 


Commercial  Blackmail 

They  almost  invariably  make  this 
threat:  "If  you  don't  advertise  with  our 
paper,  we  will  write  you  up." 

A  few  advertisers,  unfamiliar  with 
the  nature  of  these  nuisance  sheets, 
yield  to  the  intimidation,  and  spend 
money  for  advertising  that  brings  no 
return. 

A  moment's  consideration  will  show 
that  the  threat  is  empty. 

In  the  first  place,  the  libel  laws  of 
California  are  strict. 

In  the  second  place,  the  publisher  of 
a  nuisance  paper  does  not  dare  risk  a 
legal  action.  As  a  rule,  he  has  been 
guilty  of  so  many  under-handed  prac- 
tices that  he  knows  that  an  appearance 
in  court  would  spell  his  end  as  a  pub- 
lisher, and  put  his  publication  out  of 
business. 

In  the  third  place,  and  most  impor- 
tant of  all,  if  a  nuisance  paper  threat- 
ens to  "write  up"  an  advertiser,  and 
then  so  much  as  publishes  a  single  line 
derogatory  to  that  advertiser,  the  very 
fact  of  publication  is  regarded  in  point 
of  law  as  proof  that  he  has  committed 
both  blackmail  and  libel. 


Don't  Be  Bluffed 

Advertisers,  faced  with  a  threat  of 
this  sort,  should  follow  this  course: 
They  should  get  as  many  witnesses  as 
possible  to  the  threat,  and  then  sum- 
marily dismiss  the  representative  of 
the  nuisance  paper. 

However,  there  need  be  no  witnesses. 
The  character  of  these  nuisance  papers 
is  so  well  known  that  the  word  of  a 
responsible  business  man,  financial  man 
or  corporation  man  will  far  outweigh 


that  of  any  person  connected  with   any 
one  of  them. 

Many  advertisers  in  San  Francisco 
have  ended  the  molestation  of  nuisance 
papers  simply  by  insisting  that  they 
would  consider  advertising  on  no  other 
basis  than  circulation  and  editorial 
merit.  This  has  removed  the  ground 
from  under  the  feet  of  the  nuisance 
papers,  for  they  have  neither  circula- 
tion nor  merit. 


Let  Us  Help  You 

The  Argonaut  stands  ready  to  sup- 
port advertisers  in  curbing  nuisance 
papers.  It  will  be  pleased  to  hear  from 
advertisers  that  have  been  pestered  by 
them.  For  several  months  it  has  been 
collecting  data  with  respect  to  such  in- 
cidents, and  it  is  prepared  to  take  into 
court  any  case  involving  one  of  its 
own  advertisers. 

The  Argonaut  is  the  most  rapidly 
growing  publication  in  San  Francisco. 
There  are  sold  each  week  on  the  news- 
stands of  the  San  Francisco  Bay  District 
more  copies  of  the  Argonaut  than  of  all 
other  weekly  publications  of  this  city 
combined.  Its  subscription  rolls  contain 
the  names  of  a  majority  of  Bay  District 
persons  who  count  in  the  business  and 
social  worlds. 

The  Argonaut  offers  to  advertisers 
the  best  class  circulation  of  any  publi- 
cation in  the  West.  It  is  read  by  culti- 
vated persons  who  represent  a  great 
purchasing  power.  It  has  real  circula- 
tion and  real  editorial  character  to 
commend  it  to  advertisers. 

Advertisers  should  exercise  their 
right  to  place  advertisements  in  me- 
diums that  will  bring  them  returns 
commensurate  with  the  financial  outlay 
involved.  This  will  quickly  end  the 
nuisance  paper  situation. 


THE  ARGONAUT  PUBLISHING  CO. 
381  Bush  Street  San  Francisco 


STERLING  IN  TYPE 
(Continued  from  Page  328) 

But  in  all  this  scattered  lot  of  writ- 
ing, nothing  seems  to  have  taken  from 
the  excellence  of  his  poetry.  He  managed 
to  leave  eighteen  books  of  it  behind. 
No  claim,  then,  can  be  set  against 
the  man's  industry.  Many  among  us 
argue  that  Sterling  might  have  writ- 
ten much  more  had  he  lived  a  "moral 
and  righteous"  civic  life.  Now,  he 
wrote  nothing  until  he  was  thirty- 
five  years  of  age.  He  died  in  the  very 
early  sixties.  Using  elemental  mathe- 
matics, I  can  prove  he  shows  ten  lines 
of  poetry  and  eight  sticks  of  type  for 
every  day  of  his  writing  life.  And  what 
clear  water  poetry  it  is!  The  exquisite 
songs  Tancred  sings  in  "Lilith,"  the 
solemn  profundity  of  "Yosemite,"  the 
Ocean  Sunsets  sonnets  of  "Sails  and 
Mirage,"  the  delicate  wisdom  of  Albion 
in  "Rosamund,"  the  slicing  satire  of 
"Everyman"  the  bitter  accusation  of 
"The  Binding  of  the  Beast,"  the  bead 
of  pure  beauty  in  Duandon  and  The 
Swimmers  in  "The  House  of  Orchids," 
the  gracious  solemnity  of  the  "Exposi- 
tion" Ode,  the  lonely  exultance  of  "Be- 
yond the  Breakers,"  the  intense  majesty 
of  "Wine  of  Wizardry"  and  the  bewil- 
dering intelligence  of  "The  Testimony 
of  the  Suns."  All  of  it  exactly  polished 
and  beautifully  written.  A  house  of 
orchids  and  field  flowers,  a  house  of  open 
doors  and  high  ceilings,  a  house  once 
entered  never  departed. 

THE  TESTIMONY  OF  THE  SUNS  (1903, 
A.  M.  Robertson)  Ded.  Ambrose 
Bierce. 

A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY  (1909,  A.  M. 
Robertson)  Ded.  F.  C.  Havens. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  ORCHIDS  (1911,  A.  M. 
Robertson)  Ded.  Mrs.  Sterling. 

BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS  (1914,  A.  M. 
Robertson)  Ded.  Mother  and  Father. 

YOSEMITE,  An  Ode  (1915,  A.  M.  Rob- 
ertson) Ded.  James  Phelan.  Color 
cover:  H.  J.  Breuer.  Photographs: 
W.  E.  Dassonville. 

ODE  ON  THE  EXPOSITION  (1915,  A.  M. 
Robertson)  Ded.  Albert  Bender. 

THE  CAGED  EAGLE  (1916,  A.  M.  Rob- 
ertson) Ded.  Raphael  Weill. 

THE  EVANESCENT  CITY  (1916,  A.  M. 
Robertson).  First  printing:  Sunset 
Magazine.  Color  cover:  Will  Sparks. 
Photographs:  Francis  Bruguiere. 

THE  BINDING  OF  THE  BEAST  (1917, 
A.  M.  Robertson)  Ded.  E.  F.  O'Day. 

EVERYMAN,  A  Play.  (1917,  A.  M.  Rob- 
ertson). In  collaboration:  Richard 
Ordynski. 

LILITH,  Dramatic  Poem  (1919,  A.  M. 
Robertson)  Ded.  Barbara  Lathrop. 


November,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


351 


ROSAMUND,  Dramatic  Poem  (1920,  A. 

M.  Robertson)   Ded.  Albert  Abrams. 
SAILS  AND  MIRAGE  (1921,  A.  M.  Rob- 
ertson)  Ded.  Albert  M.  Bender. 
SELECTED  POEMS  (1923,  Henry  Holt  & 

Co.)    Ded.  Laurence  Lenda. 
TRUTH,  A  Play  (1925  Bohemian  Club. 

Bohemian  Grove  Play). 
LILITH,   Dramatic  Poem    (1926,   Mac- 

Millan  Co.) 
CONTINENT'S   END,  An  Anthology  of 

Ca'ifornia  Poets,    1925,  collaboration 

with  James  Rorty  and  Genevieve  Tag- 

gard.  (Bohemian  Club). 
STRANGE   WATERS,    Dramatic    Poem. 

(Overland  Monthly  Magazine,  1926) 
ROBINSON  JEFFERS,  THE  MAN   (Boni 

Liveright,  1926). 


A  FEW  MEMORIES 

(Continued  from  Page  329) 
lyrical  or  descriptive,  and  addresses  the 
ear  and  the  eye  directly;  passion  is  there, 
but  is  not  allowed  to  deform  the  music, 
nor  complexity  of  thought  to  disturb  the 
pictures.  For  the  most  part  it  does  not 
care  to  organize  the  prose  of  life,  but 
steps  proudly  aside.  And  where,  in  the 
dramatic  poems,  one  expects  from  exces- 
sive acts  violence  of  speech,  one  meets 
well-bred  silence  instead;  a  better  atti- 
tude if  not  so  natural;  but  natural  to 
the  author  in  life  and  in  his  death. 

It  is  still  my  hope  to  say  something  a 
little  worthily  of  my  friend,  in  verses 
that  may  gain  beauty  from  remembrance 
of  his. 


A  POET  IN  OUTLAND 
(Continued  from  Page  331) 

Ravenntgi,  an  attempt  to  attain  through 
and  by  and  at  the  expense  of  women,  a 
great  desideratum  which  had  little  or 
nothing  to  do  with  the  woman  person- 
ally. 

It  was  not  until  years  after  "Out- 
land"  was  written  that  I  began  to  have 
a  realizing  sense  of  the  profound  psy- 
chological significance  of  what  when  it 
was  fabricated  appeared  as  a  charming 
pastime.  What  both  the  poet  and  the 
novelist  should  have  known  is  that 
where  there  is  a  true  gift  of  poesy  no 
movement  of  the  poet  soul  is  without 
significance. 


CHOOSING  YOUR  INVEST- 
MENTS 

(Continued  from  Page  349) 

lower  rate,  and  a  readjustment  of  pre- 
ferred stock  accumulated  dividends. 
This  company  is  now  said  to  be  the 
largest  rubber  manufacturing  concern  in 
the  world  and  achieved  the  greatest  unit 
tire  sales  in  its  history  during  the  first 
six  months  of  this  year,  which,  however, 


was  not  reflected  in  dollar  volume  be- 
cause of  reduction  in  selling  prices. 
Prospects  for  the  full  year  of  1927  ap- 
pear uncertain  in  view  of  increased  com- 
petition and  a  further  drop  in  tire 
prices.  For  the  three  months  ended 
March  31,  1927,  the  indicated  earnings 
per  share  on  the  common  stock  were 
$4.89  as  compared  with  $4.23  for  the 
full  six  months  ended  June  30,  1927. 
The  management  is  capable  and  future 
earnings  will  depend  to  a  great  extent 
on  the  stabilization  of  tire  prices  and 
improvement  in  the  output  of  automo- 
biles. 

MIDLAND  UTILITIES  COMPANY  —  PRIOR 
LIEN  7%  PREFERRED  STOCK 

6.  Q.  —  What  do  you  recommend  me 
to  do  with  my  Midland  Utilities  7% 
preferred  stock  which  I  have  been  urged 
to  sell? 

A.  —  This  stock  may  properly  be 
classed  as  a  good  investment.  The  pres- 
ent market  is  approximately  $102  per 
share  and  it  is  callable  beginning  in  June 
1928.  Considering  the  earnings  and  the 
market  price  and  the  possibility  of  a 
call,  we  believe  you  would  be  justified  in 
holding  this  stock  for  further  apprecia- 
tion in  price. 

EMPIRE  GAS  &  FUEL  COMPANY  — 
BONDS 


7.  Q.  —  Please  give  me  some  informa- 
tion regarding  the  Empire  Gas  and  Fuel 
Company's  6tf>%  bonds. 

A.  —  These  bonds  were  called  for  pay- 
ment as  of  September  19,  1927,  at  par 
plus  a  premium  of  5l/2%.  Interest 
stopped  on  that  date  and  if  you  hold  any 
of  these  bonds  you  should  present  them 
to  your  banker  to  be  cashed  as  soon  as 
possible.  You  should  frequently  consult 
some  investment  banker  in  whom  you 
have  confidence  about  your  various  hold- 
ings. If  you  are  holding  these  bonds  it 
is  evident  you  have  not  done  this  and, 
consequently,  have  lost  a  month's  in- 
come. 


Strange  Waters 

A  Dramatic  Poem 

By 

GEORGE  STERLING 
(Privately  Printed) 

Write  Editor   Overland  Monthly 
for  Information 


A    Guiding 
Sign 

To  Those  Who 

Appreciate  Fine 

Hotels 


The  Hollywood  Plaza  is  hotel 
headquarters  in  Hollywood,  Cali- 
fornia. 

When  on  your  next  trip  to 
Southern  California,  make  this 
famous  hostelry  your  objective. 

Situated  in  the  heart  of  Holly- 
wood, the  hotel  is  most  centrally 
located  for  either  pleasure,  business 
or  shopping  in  Los  Angeles. 

Every  room  is  a  parlor  during 
the  day  time — a  luxurious  sleeping 
quarter  at  night.  In-a-door  Beds 
make  this  possible. 

Strange  people,  exotic  sights, 
theaters,  and  entertainment  are 
but  a  step  away  from  the  door  of 
this  famous  hostelry. 

Write  or  wire  us  for  reserva- 
tions in  advance.  Appoint  this  ho- 
tel now  as  your  headquarters  while 
in  Southern  California. 


Hollywood  Plaza 
Hotel 

Hollywood,  Calif. 


352 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


November,  1927 


Quick  On  The  Trigger: 


Their  watchword  is  smiling  cour- 
tesy.— This  is  but  one  of  the 
features  of  this  great  hotel  where 
thoughtful  and  kindly  service 
combines  with  ideal  comfort  and 
surroundings  to  make  a  stay 
enjoyable. 

RATES 

Ver  'Day,  single,  European  flan 

120  rooms  with  running  water 

J2.50  lo  J4-00 

220  rooms  with  bath  -  3.50  to  5.00 
160  rooms  with  bath  •  6.00  to  8.00 

•Dvublr.  $4.110  uf 

Also  a  number  of  large  and  beautiful  rooms 
and  suites,  some  in  period  furnishings  with 
grand  piano,  fire  place  and  bath,  f  10,00  up. 


LARGE  AND  WELL 
EQUIPPED  SAMPLE  ROOMS 

The  center  for  Theatres,  Banks,  and  Shops 
Weait  -write  for  <Booklet 


QOLF  CLUB~\ 
available  to  all  guests  J 

HAROLD  E.  LATHROP 


HOTEL/ 


ALEXANDRIA 

Log  Angeles 


CALENDAR  OF  PLAYS 

Compiled  by  Gertrude  F.  Wilcox 

COLUMBIA — Marjorie    Rambeau    in 

"The  Vortex." 
LURIE  — Taylor    Holmes    in    "The 

Great  Necker." 
PRESIDENT— "Why   Men   Leave 

Home." 
ALCAZAR— "New  Brooms,"  by  Frank 

Crane. 

S.  F.   PLAYERS'   GUILD— "Hollo's 
5       Wild  Oats,"  by  Clare  Kummer. 
GREEN  STREET  THEATRE— 

"What  Price  Sin." 
BERKELEY  PLAYHOUSE  —  "The 

Beaux  Stratagem." 


STRANGE 
WATERS 

By 
GEORGE  STERLING 

PRIVATELY  PRINTED 


First  edition,  issued  in  1926  in  a 

limited  edition  of  only 

150  copies. 

May  be  procured  at 

GRAHAM  RAY  BOOKSHOP 

317  Stockton  Street 
San  Francisco 


The  Fireman's  Fund  leads  all  in- 
surance companies  in  premium 
income-fire,  marine  and  auto- 
mobile-in  Pacific  Coast  States 


STATEMENT  OF  THE  OWNERSHIP.  MAN- 
AGEMENT,  CIRCULATION,  ETC.,   RE- 
QUIRED   BY    THE    ACT    OF    CON- 
GRESS   OF    AUG.    24.    1912 

Of  Overland   Monthly  and  Out  West   Maga- 
zine,   Consolidated,    published    monthly    at 
San    Francisco,    Calif.,    for   April    1,    1927. 
State  of  California,  County  of  San  Francisco. 
ss. 

Before  me,  a  Notary  Public  in  and  for 
the  state  and  county  aforesaid,  personally 
appeared  Mabel  Boggess-Moffltt,  who,  hav- 
ing been  duly  sworn  according  to  law,  de- 
poses and  says  that  she  is  the  secretary- 
treasurer  of  the  Overland  Monthly  and  Out 
West  Magazine  Consolidated,  and  that  the 
following  is,  to  the  best  of  her  knowledge 
and  belief,  a  true  statement  of  the  owner- 
ship, management  (and  if  a  daily  paper,  the 
circulation),  etc.,  of  the  aforesaid  publica- 
tion for  the  date  shown  in  the  above  cap- 
tion, required  by  the  Act  of  August  24, 
1912,  embodied  in  section  411,  Postal  Laws 
and  Regulations,  printed  on  the  reverse  of 
this  form,  to  wit: 

1.  That  the  names  and   addresses  of  the 
publisher,  editor,  managing  editor,  and  busi- 
ness managers  are: 

Publisher,  Overland  Monthly  and  Out  West 
Magazine,  Consolidated,  San  Francisco.  Cal. 

Editor,  B.  Virginia  Lee,  San  Francisco, 
Cal. 

Managing  editor,  none. 

Business  manager,  Mabel  Boggess-Moffltt, 
San  Francisco,  Cal. 

2.  That    the   owner   is:    (if   owned   by   a 
corporation,   Its  name  and   address   must  be 
stated  and  also   immediately  thereunder  the 
names  and  addresses  of  stockholders  owning 
or    holding   one   per   cent    or    more    of   total 
amount  of  stock.    If  not  owned  by  a  corpor- 
ation,  the  names  and  addresses  of  the  indi- 
vidual  owners  must  be   given.    If  owned  by 
a    firm,    company,    or    other    unincorporated 
concern,    its   name   and    address,    as   well    as 
those    of   each   individual    member,    must   be 
given). 

Overland    Monthly    and    Out    West    Maga- 
zine, Consolidated,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 
James  F.  Chamberlain,  Pasadena,  Cal. 
Mabel   Moffitt,    San   Francisco,   Cal. 
B.  Virginia  Lee,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Arthur  H.  Chamberlain,  San  Francisco, 
C*al. 

3.  That  the  known   bondholders,   mortga- 
gees,   and    other    security   holders   owning   or 
holding  1   per  cent  or  more  of  total  amount 
of  bonds,  mortgages,  or  other  securities  are- 
(If  there  are  none,   so  state).     None. 

4.  That   the  two  paragraphs   next  above, 
giving  the   names  of  the   owners,   stockhold- 
ers,   and    security    holders,    if    any,    contain 
not  only  the  list  of  stockholders  and  security 
holders   as   they   appear   upon   the    books   of 
the    company   but   also,    in   cases   where   the 
stockholder  or  security  holder  appears  upon 
the  books  of  the   company  as  trustee  or   in 
any    other    fiduciary    relation,    the    name    of 
the    person    or    corporation    for    whom    such 
trustee    is    acting,    is    given ;    also    that   the 
said  two  paragraphs  contain  statements  em- 
bracing affiant's  full  knowledge  and  belief  as 
to    the    circumstances    and    conditions   under 
which  stockholders  and  security  holders  who 
do  not  appear  upon   the   books   of  the   com- 
pany  as  trustees,    hold   stock   and   securities 
in  a  capacity  other  than  that  of  a  bona  fide 
owner ;    and    this    affiant    has    no    reason    to 
believe   that    any   other   person,    association, 
or    corporation    has    any    interest    direct    or 
indirect    In   the   said   stock,    bonds,    or   other 
securities  than  as   so  stated  by  him. 

5.  That  the  average  number  of  copies  of 
each    issue   of    this   publication   sold    or   dis- 
tributed, through  the  mails  or  otherwise,   to 
paid  subscribers  during  the  six  months  pre- 
ceding the  date   shown  above  is   (this  infor- 
mation   is   required   from   daily   publications 
only). 

MABEL   BOGGESS-MOFFITT, 

Business  Manager. 

Sworn  to  and  subscribed  before  me  this 
25th  day  of  March,  1927. 

GEORGE  W.  LEE, 

Court  Commissioner  of  the  City  and  County 
of  San  Francisco,  State  of  California 
(Life). 


The 

Cijnstmasetittton 


of  the 
SAN  FRANCISCO 

NEWS  LETTER 

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Early  in  December,  1927 

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"A  Show-Window 


To  the  World" 


1T  All  the  principal  commodities  and  manufactures  that  enter  into  world  trade  will  be 
displayed  at  the  Pacific  Foreign  Trade  and  Travel  Exposition,  to  be  held  from  Novem- 
ber llth  to  20th  in  the  Civic  Auditorium,  San  Francisco. 

If  Manufacturers  and  producers,  interested  in  expanding  their  markets  across  the  Pa- 
cific and  in  developing  the  Western  market  as  well,  are  to  participate  in  this  event,  the 
most  colorful  held  in  San  Francisco  since  the  Panama  Pacific  International  Exposition, 
1915. 

H     It  is  estimated  that  more  than  200,000  will  see  the  displays,  and  that  among  those 
in  attendance  will  be  trade  delegations  and  throngs  of  buyers  from  abroad. 
1f     This  unique  Exposition  will  be  indeed  "a  show-window  to  the  world."    Those  who 
wish  to  gain  wide  and  favorable  attention  for  their  products  or  services  are  urged  to 
make  reservations  now. 


Display  spaces  now  available  (units,  10x10  feet)   are  admir- 
ably adapted  to  exhibit  of  manufacturers  and  food  products. 


Trade-building 
Educational 


Colorful 
Entertaining 

California  Invites  the  World 
Pacific  Foreign  Trade  and  Travel  Exposition 

San  Francisco,  November  11  to  20,  1927 

Under  Auspices  of  Foreign  Trade  Club  of  California 

Address  communications  to 
WILLIAM  D'EGILBERT,  Director  General 


308   Merchants  Exchange  Building 


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ILL. 


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OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT    WEST   MAGAZINE 


353 


B.  F.  Schlesinger 
&  Sons,  Inc. 

Cumulative    7%    Preferred   Stock    at    Market    to    Yield 
About  7.5%. 

Class  "A"  Common  at  Market  to  yield  About  6.3%. 

The  excellent  economies  effected  through  the  "Four-Store 
Buying  Power"  of 

CITY  OF  PARIS,  San  Francisco,  California 
B.  F.  SCHLESINGER  &  SONS,  Inc.,  Oakland,  Cal. 
OLDS,  WORTHMAN  &  KING,  Portland,  Oregon 
RHODES  BROS.,  Tacoma,  Washington 

are  reflected  directly  in  the  earnings.    The  ability  of  the 
management  is  well  known. 

Earnings  and  management  are  primary  considerations  in 
selecting  securities. 

Further  information  on  request. 

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CONRAD  &  BROOM 

Incorporated 

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route  to  Seattle  or  Los  Angeles.  Dancing  every 
evening.  Moderate  rates. 

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Electricity  Means  BetterWork 

THE  Woodstock  Electrite,  newest  member  of  the 
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354 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


GEORGE  STERLING 


By  Montague-Ward 
From  the  portrait  by  Johan  Hagemtytr 


What's  What  on  the  Editor's  Desk 


A3  announced  in  our  November  issue  of  Overland,  December  Overland  is  devoted  to  the  memory  of  George  Sterling, 
also  completing  the  collection  of  appreciations,  which  have  been  assembled  by  Mr.  Albert  M.   Bender,  warm  friend 
and  admirer  of  the  West's  great  poet.     The  amount  of  material  which  came  in  from  prominent  authors  and  warm 
friends  of  Sterling  was  beyond  all  expectations,  and  in  order  that  each  might  have  the  same  consideration,  Overland  divided 
the  collection  into  two  books,  that  no  author  might  feel  slighted  as  to  placement.     The  work  has  been  assembled,  to  the  best 
of  our  ability,  as  proofs  were  returned  to  us  by  the  authors.    We  wish  to  call  the  attention  of  our  readers  to  our  apology  to 
Mr.  Johan  Hagemeyer,  who  has  given  us  the  splendid  frontispiece,  a  likeness  of  George  Sterling  that  is  beyond  criticism,  for 
the  typographical  error  appearing  in  his  name  in  our  November  issue.     Mr.  Hagemeyer  has  a  studio  of  extraordinary  attrac- 
tion at  177  Post  street,  San  Francisco. 


OVERLAND 


MONTHLY 


AND  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   ESTABLISHED   BY   BRET   HARTE   IN    1868 


VOLUME  LXXXV 


DECEMBER,  1927 


NUMBER  12 


EDITORIAL  STAFF 
B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 
CONTRIBUTING  EDITORS 
CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 
JOHN  KENNETH  TURNER 
R.  L.  BURGESS 
JAMES  HOPPER 

MABEL  MOFFITT,  Manager 


Contents  of  this  issue  and  all  back 
issues  of  Overland  may  be  found  in 
"Readers'  Guide  to  Periodical  Litera- 
ture" at  any  library  in  the  United  States. 

tit 
Editorial  and  Business  Offices 

356  PACIFIC  BUILDING, 
SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

tit 

Chicago   Representative,   George   H.    Myers, 
5  South  Wabash  Avenue. 

tit 

SUBSCRIPTION  $2.50  PER  YEAR 
25  CENTS  PER  COPY 

tti 

Manuscript  mailed  The  Overland 
Monthly  without  a  stamped  and  self- 
addressed  envelope  will  not  be  returned. 

tti 

Entered  as  Second-Class  matter  at  the 
postorfice,  San  Francisco,  under  the  act  of 
March  3,  1897. 


Just  as  we  go  to  press  with  this  issue, 
Miss  Virginia  Lee's  retirement  from  the 
magazine  is  announced.  We  have  oppor- 
tunity only  to  state  that  Miss  Lee  expects 
to  leave  for  the  East  shortly. 


Contents 


George  Sterling Johan  Hagemeyer Frontispiece 

1869-1926  Edward  F.  O'Day 357 

Winter  Sun  Down,  Poem Robinson  Jeffers 359 

As  I  Knew  Him. Charmian  London 360 

George  Sterling,  The  Man Albert  Bender 362 

For  G.  S Tancred  362 

Sterling   Henry  Louis   Mencken 363 

George  Sterling Charles  K.  Field .....363 

Life  Was  Better Clarkson  Crane 363 

Epitaph    Edgar  Waite 363 

George  Sterling  at  Our  House Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood 364 

Two  of  Him Inez  Haynes   Irwin 364 

My  Friend,  George  Sterling Upton    Sinclair 365 

Golden  Gate  Park,  Poem Edgar  Lee  Masters 365 

Make  Beauty  a  Career Oscar  Lewis 366 

Living  Inseparables James  Rorty 366 

Roosevelt    Johnson Carey  McWilliams 367 

Amaranth,  Poem Alice  Sterling  Gregory 367 

George  Sterling Vernon    Kellogg 368 

Last  Words Genevieve   Taggard 368 

From  the  Fourth  Century,  B.  C Gertrude   Atherton 368 

The  Greek Will   Irwin 368 

George  Sterling's  Bohemian  Creed..  G.  B.  Lai 369 

O  Carthage  and  the  Unreturning 

Ships 1 Herbert    Heron 369 

To  a  Girl  Dancing,  Poem George  Sterling 370 

Gaudeamus  Igitur Homer  Henley 371 

The  Poetry  of  Today Henry  Meade  Bland 373 

POETRY 

The  Soul  of  a  Poet,  Poem Derrick  Norman   Lehmer 372 

Cry  Hark Hildegarde   Planner 372 

From  One  to  Whom  He  Was 

Kind    Miriam  Allen  deFord 365 

Drunkard  of  Life,  Poem Elsa  Gidlow 372 

To  George  Sterling Herbert  Heron 372 

George  Sterling Joyce  Mayhew 377 

DEPARTMENTS 

The  Play's  the  Thing Gertrude  Wilcox 379 

Books  and  Writers B.  Virginia  Lee 376 

Choosing  Your  Investments Trebor  Selig 380 


(Contents  of  this  Magazine  Copyrighted) 


356 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and   OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


GEORGE  STERLING 


By  Johan  Hagemeyer 


rr   T 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY" 


a  n  d 

OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE: 


1869-1926 


GEORGE  STERLING  was  in  his 
twenty-first  year  when  he  came 
to  Oakland  in  1890  to  work  for 
his  uncle,  Frank  C.  Havens  of  the  Re- 
alty Syndicate.  Oakland,  Honolulu, 
Carmel,  New  York  and  San  Francisco — 
his  life  from  1890  to  1926  passed  in 
these  five  communities.  The  important 
influences  were  exerted  by  Oakland, 
Carmel  and  San  Francisco. 

The  formative  period  was  perhaps  not 
quite  completed  when  George  came  to 
Oakland.  He  was  born  in  Sag  Harbor, 
New  York  in  1869.  Speaking  of  Sag 
Harbor  in  one  of  his  latest  writings,  he 
said :  "It  was,  and  still  potentially  is, 
a  boy's  paradise,  and  it  was  in  such  fav- 
orable surroundings  that  I  passed  all  my 
years,  as  far  as  the  twentieth,  aside  from 
a  few  Winters  spent  at  school  in  Mary- 
land." 

The  school  in  Maryland  where 
George  passed  several  winters  was  St. 
Charles  College  at  Ellicott  City,  a  short 
distance  southwest  of  Baltimore  on  the 
Patapsco  River.  Here  George  had  as 
his  teacher  in  English  Father  John  Ban- 
nister Tabb.  George  was  never  tired  of 
telling  how  much  he  owed  to  Father 
Tabb,  and  yet  to  many  who  knew 
George  well  the  name  of  Father  Tabb 
conveys  no  meaning. 

John  Bannister  Tabb  was  born  near 
Richmond,  Virginia  in  1845.  As  a  very 
young  man  he  served  in  the  Confeder- 
ate navy  as  captain's  mate  on  a  blockade 
runner,  and  was  taken  prisoner.  After 
the  war  he  studied  for  the  Episcopalian 
ministry,  but  in  1872,  on  the  eve  of 
ordination,  he  joined  the  Catholic 
church,  and  began  studies  for  the  Cath- 
olic priesthood.  He  was  ordained  in 
1884  by  Bishop  (afterwards  Cardinal) 
Gibbons  of  Baltimore.  The  rest  of  his 
life  was  spent  in  teaching  and  writing 
poetry.  He  died  in  1909,  having  been 
completely  blind  for  two  years. 

All  of  Father  Tabb's  poems  were 
brief  and  packed  with  thought,  and 
many  of  them  were  pointed  with  epi- 
gram. To  find  a  poet  comparable  with 
him  in  the  mastery  of  much  in  little  one 
must  go  back  to  Herrick. 

I   have   paused   on   Father  Tabb   be- 


By  Edward  F.  O'Day 

cause  while  editors  like  Gilder  of  The 
Century  properly  valued  him,  he  is  a 
good  deal  neglected  nowadays — and  also 
because  he  was  the  first  to  perceive  that 
the  boy  George  Sterling  had  the  soul  of 
a  true  poet.  George  told  me  the  story. 
Day  after  day  Father  Tabb  would  come 
to  the  play-yard  while  George  was  busy 
with  football  or  baseball.  The  priest 
would  bide  his  time  until  he  caught  the 
boy's  eye.  Then  he  would  beckon,  and 
George,  no  matter  how  reluctant,  would 
obey  the  summons.  He  knew  what  was 
coming.  "Take  this,  George,  and  memo- 
rize it.  When  you  have  it  by  heart, 
come  and  recite  it  to  me.  Then  you  can 
go  back  to  play."  One  day  it  would  be 
Keats'  Sonnet  on  Chapman's  Homer, 
another  day  it  would  be  part  of  Shelley's 
Skylark  or  it  might  be  a  poem  from 
Wordsworth  or  Tennyson.  In  this  way 
Father  Tabb  awoke  the  boy's  soul  to  the 
beauty  of  words,  stored  his  mind  with 
masterpieces,  and  nurtured  the  gift  that 
was  to  flower  so  beautifully  but  which 
only  a  genius  like  Father  Tabb  could 
suspect  in  a  child.  -I,t.  was  years  before 
George  realized  the  full  meaning  of  Fa- 
ther Tabb's  procedure. 

In  George's  very  first  book  he  has 
these  verses  entitled  "Reading  the  Poems 
of  Father  Tabb": 

So  airy  sweet  the  fragile  song, 

I  deemed  his  visions  true, 

And  roamed  Edenic  vales  along, 

Lit  by  celestial  dew. 

Illusive  gleamed  the  timeless  bow'rs; 

The  winds  and  streams  were  such 

As  Eve  had  mourned — but  ah,  the 
flow'rs! 

Too  delicate  for  touch ! 
George  had  no  intention  of  becoming 
a  poet  when  he  first  arrived  in  Califor- 
nia. He  devoted  himself  seriously  and 
efficiently  to  the  real  estate  affairs  of  his 
uncle's  office.  But  he  made  friends 
among  writers  and  artists,  and  gradu- 
ally he  began  to  understand  what  was 
his  proper  life-work.  In  Oakland  he  met 
Joaquin  Miller,  Herman  Whitaker, 
Xavier  Martinez,  Jack  London  and 


Ambrose  Bierce.  In  Oakland,  in  1896, 
he  was  married.  After  the  marriage  the 
Sterlings  spent  some  time  in  Honolulu. 

Just  how  early  Joaquin  Miller's  poe- 
try came  into  George's  life  we  know  at 
first  hand.  In  his  charming  essay  on 
Miller  in  the  American  Mercury  George 
told  how  he  and  Roosevelt  Johnson 
sprawled  under  a  wild-cherry  tree  at  Sag 
Harbor  and  read  "Songs  of  the  Sierras." 
And  how,  when  Roosevelt  Johnson  ar- 
rived in  Oakland  a  year  after  George, 
his  first  question  was:  "Have  you  gone 
to  see  Joaquin  Miller  yet?"  The  two 
boys  made  the  pilgrimage  together,  and 
for  George  it  was  the  beginning  of  a 
lasting  friendship.  Nobody  in  America 
had  a  sounder  appreciation  of  the  worth 
of  Joaquin  Miller's  poetry,  nor  a  more 
balanced  understanding  of  his  amiable 
strength  and  his  amiable  weakness. 

Jack  London,  from  those  early  Oak- 
land days  to  his  death  in  1916,  exercised 
a  strong  influence  on  George  Sterling. 
Jack,  as  we  all  know,  found  his  true 
footing  in  life  with  the  assistance  of  Ina 
Coolbrith,  and  I  like  to  think  that  the 
reverence  and  affection  in  which  George 
always  held  Miss  Coolbrith  was  deep- 
ened by  his  knowledge  of  what  she  had 
done  for  Jack.  As  London  influenced 
Sterling,  so  Sterling  influenced  London. 
It  was  the  mutual  influence  of  a  very 
strong,  close  friendship.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  London  was  the  dear- 
est to  George  of  all  his  friends.  George 
was  the  only  person,  not  related  to  Jack, 
who  was  privileged  to  be  present  when 
Jack's  ashes  were  entombed  in  the  Val- 
ley of  the  Moon. 

But  of  course  the  strongest  literary 
influence  of  those  early  Oakland  days 
was  Ambrose  Bierce  whom  Sterling  first 
met  in  1893.  Of  that  influence  George 
has  written,  "From  the  beginning  of  my 
poetical  efforts,  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  submit  to  his  criticism  all  that  I 
wrote,  and  though  he  has  been  accused 
of  laying  a  hand  of  ice  on  my  muse,  I 
can  testify  that  he  gave  of  his  counsel 
generously  and  with  acumen.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, the  day  was  to  come  when  I  could 
not  assent  to  all  his  aesthetic  suggestions. 
When  my  unwillingness  began  unmis- 


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December,  1927 


iakably  to  show  itself  he  was  not  with- 
out evidence  of  pique.  And  yet  he,  who 
seldom  found  occasion  for  unconditional 
praise,  could  give  it,  and  in  my  instance 
did  give  it,  freely  and  to  excess.  But  in 
almost  all  cases  his  praise  bore  a  tonic 
element;  when  he  gave  honey  it  held  a 
tincture  of  quinine.  In  view  of  the  mod- 
ern movement  in  poetry,  he  was  not, 
perhaps,  the  best  master  I  could  have 
known,  but  I  cannot  look  back  to  the 
days  of  my  apprenticeship  without  feel- 
ings of  gratitude.  Also  I  have  come  to 
agree  with  many  of  his  suggestions  that 
I  once  rejected." 

George's  first  book  "The  Testimony 
of  the  Suns"  was  dedicated  to  Bierce, 
and  through  the  years  that  followed  he 
found  many  occasions  to  sing  and  speak 
in  admiration  and  defense  of  his  master. 
And  when  a  selection  of  Bierce's  letters 
was  published  by  The  Book  Club  of 
California  in  1922,  it  was  George  who 
wrote  the  prefatory  memoir.  We  learn 
there  that  Bierce's  criticism  saved  the 
youthful  poet  from  publishing  many  an 
immature  attempt. 

Those  Bierce  letters  give  us  many 
bright  little  insights  into  the  progress  of 
a  poet  beginning  to  try  his  wings.  In 
1901  we  find  George  making  his  first 
acquaintance  at  Bierce's  suggestion  with 
Stedman's  American  Anthology.  We 
find  Bierce  instructing  him  in  the  vari- 
ous rhyme  schemes  of  the  sonnet.  We 
find  him  introducing  George  to  Roget's 
Thesaurus.  We  find  Bierce  getting 
George's  "Memorial  Day"  published  in 
the  Washington  Post — in  all  likelihood 
the  very  first  publication  of  a  Sterling 
poem. 

A  year  later  Bierce  is  writing  from 
Washington  to  say  that  George  is  ad- 
vancing in  poetry  "at  a  stupendous  rate." 
Bierce  has  just  read  the  Testimony  of 
the  Suns  in  manuscript.  "I  dare  not 
trust  myself  to  say  what  I  think  of  it. 
In  manner  it  is  great,  but  the  greatness 
of  the  theme! — that  is  beyond  anything." 
When  the  book  appeared  in  1903  his 
praise  was  more  significant,  because  he 
had  read  and  reread  the  Testimony  and 
found  it  greater  than  he  had  thought  it 
in  manuscript. 

By  January  1904  Sterling  was  writ- 
ing "A  Wine  of  Wizardry."  Bierce 
writes  to  him : 

"You  whet  my  appetite  for  that  new 
poem.  The  lines 

'The  blue-eyed  vampire,  sated  at 

her  feast, 

Smiles  bloodily  against  the  lep- 
rous moon' 

give  me  the  shivers.  Gee!  they're  aw- 
full" 

A  little  later  he  received  the  com- 
pleted poem,  and  wrote  to  George:  "I 
hardly  know  how  to  speak  of  it.  No 
poem  in  English  of  equal  length  has  so 
bewildering  a  wealth  of  imagination. 


Not  Spenser  himself  has  flung  such  a 
profusion  of  jewels  into  so  small  a  cas- 
ket. Why,  man,  it  takes  away  the 
breath!"  Bierce  submitted  it  to  Har- 
per's Magazine,  the  Atlantic,  Scribner's, 
The  Century,  the  Metropolitan  and 
Booklovers.  All  rejected  it.  It  finally 
saw  the  light  in  the  Cosmopolitan  in  the 
summer  of  1907.  In  the  same  issue 
there  was  a  critique  by  Bierce  begin- 
ning: "Whatever  length  of  days  may  be 
accorded  to  this  magazine,  it  is  not  likely 
to  do  anything  more  notable  in  literature 
than  it  accomplished  in  this  issue  by  the 
publication  of  Mr.  George  Sterling's 
poem,  'A  Wine  of  Wizardry'."  It  is  not 
necessary  to  follow  the  history  of  that 
great  poem.  It  carried  George's  fame 
across  the  Rocky  Mountains,  "whose 
passes,"  in  the  words  of  Bierce,  "are  so 
vigilantly  guarded  by  cismontane  criti- 
cism." 

It  was  in  1905,  I  think,  that  Sterling 
moved  to  Carmel.  Monterey  he  had 
already  been  taught  to  love  by  Charles 
Warren  Stoddard  and  Charles  Rollo 
Peters.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  was 
Rollo  Peters  who  gave  him  the  thought 
of  moving  to  Carmel.  George  was  sec- 
ond of  all  the  Carmelites,  Mary  Austin 
alone  having  preceded  him.  He  lived 
there  continuously  for  at  least  six  years, 
and  frequently  returned  afterwards.  Of 
the  influence  Carmel  exerted  on  Ster- 
ling's poetry  it  is  enough  to  say  here 
that  if  you  subtracted  the  inspiration  of 
Carmel  from  his  published  volumes,  you 
would  take  away  much  of  his  most  sig- 
nificant work.  It  is  not  too  much  to 
assert  that  without  Carmel  George 
Sterling  would  have  been  a  different 
poet  from  the  one  we  came  to  know  and 
value. 

Carmel's  debt  to  George  Sterling  is 
just  as  great.  The  late  Frank  Powers 
discovered  Carmel,  but  George  made  it 
known  throughout  America.  Distin- 
guished men  and  women  went  to  visit 
him  there,  and  departed  enthusiastic 
about  its  natural  beauty.  George  often 
said  that  the  writers  of  Carmel  were 
overrated  and  its  scenery  underrated. 
"You  get  so  used  to  this  pea-soup  bay," 
he  said  to  me,  referring  to  our  harbor, 
"that  you  forget  what  blue  water  is 
like."  At  Carmel  George  went  back  to 
the  sports  of  his  Sag  Harbor  boyhood. 
He  hunted,  fished,  walked  and  swam. 
He  was  a  strong  swimmer,  passionately 
fond  of  the  water,  and  to  my  mind  "Be- 
yond the  Breakers,"  an  ecstatic  celebra- 
tion of  swimming,  is  one  of  his  finest 
poems. 

Some  time  after  returning  from  Car- 
mel to  San  Francisco  George  went  to 
try  his  fortunes  in  New  York.  "Now 
that  I  have  got  what  has  been  called 
'the  poison  of  art'  out  of  my  system,  I 
shall  try  some  prose,  some  short  stories," 
he  said.  He  stayed  in  New  York  about 


fourteen  months,  and  was  glad  to  return 
to  San  Francisco.  He  had  not  the  knack 
of  writing  stories,  although  his  mind  was 
fertile  in  the  devising  of  plots  which  he 
passed  along  to  Jimmy  Hopper,  Harry 
Leon  Wilson  and  other  friends.  Some 
may  recall  a  very  striking  story  of  Wil- 
son's called  "The  Boy  Who  Counted  a 
Million" — it  was  based  on  an  experience 
of  George's  at  Sag  Harbor. 

In  his  late  years  in  San  Francisco 
George  began  writing  prose — and  very 
fine  prose  it  was  indeed.  In  1913  when 
General  Lucius  Harwood  Foote  died, 
George  wrote  at  my  request  a  critique 
of  his  poetry.  It  was,  I  think,  the  ear- 
liest critical  work  he  did,  and  if  so  it 
had  the  importance  of  a  first  step  along 
a  literary  path  that  he  learned  to  tread 
with  sureness  and  distinction.  His  ap- 
preciation of  Clark  Ashton  Smith,  his 
essay  on  the  modern  trend  of  poetry,  his 
tribute  to  Yeats'  "Lake  Isle  of  Innis- 
free,"  his  delightful  essays  on  Bierce  and 
Miller,  and  his  posthumous  article  on 
Robinson  Jeffers  remind  us  that  the  best 
poets  frequently  write  the  best  prose. 

It  is  a  characteristic  not  to  be  over- 
looked in  estimating  George  that  very 
much  of  his  prose  was  concerned  with 
the  praise  of  other  poets.  A  great  many 
poets  lack  either  the  time  or  the  inclina- 
tion to  celebrate  their  fellows.  Not  so 
George.  He  had  a  most  generous  atti- 
tude towards  all  of  those  who  were  try- 
ing to  express  themselves  in  his  own 
medium.  Many  hours  that  might  have 
been  given  to  creative  work  he  devoted 
to  reading  manuscripts  and  to  seeking 
that  something — it  was  often  a  very 
little  something — which  would  permit 
him  to  write  a  word  of  encouragement 
to  the  beginner  on  Helicon. 

He  was  a  deep  and  all-consuming 
reader,  and  in  particular  of  poetry.  He 
knew  more  about  the  English-writing 
poets — great  and  humble,  classic  and 
contemporaneous — than  any  other  man  I 
ever  met.  He  had  traced  all  the  streams 
of  California  poetry  from  the  beginning, 
and  to  hear  him  speak  of  Pollock,  Stod- 
dard, Harte,  Miller,  Miss  Coolbrith, 
Bierce,  Ridge,  Realf,  Sill,  O'Connell, 
Foote,  Robertson,  Josephare,  Binckley, 
Gibbs,  Scheffauer,  and  all  the  rest  down 
to  Jeffers,  was  to  realize  very  vividly 
that  California  poetry  might  boast  a 
tradition  and  a  significance  worthy  of 
study.  He  of  all  men  might  have  writ- 
ten the  critical  history  of  California 
poetry.  In  many  places,  in  dealing  with 
many  names,  he  would  have  transcended 
his  subject — but  that  is  true  of  all  great 
critical  studies  of  poetry — and  there 
would  have  emerged  from  his  work  not 
only  a  true  understanding  of  the  poets 
we  have  had,  but  a  definite  inspiration 
for  our  California  poets  of  tomorrow. 

To  the  poets  of  California  who  began 
(Continued  on  Page  383) 


December,  1927  OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST    MAGAZINE  359 

Winter  Sundown 

(In  Memory  of  George  Sterling) 
ROBINSON  JEFFERS 

ORROWS  have  come  before  and  have  stood  mute 
With  blind  implacable  masks,  the  eyes  cannot  endure 

them, 

They  draw  sidelong  and  stand 
At  the  shoulder;  they  never  depart. 

It  is  not  good  to  pretend  vision  or  enlightenment, 
Charm  grief  asleep  with  falsehoods;  no  further  is  known 
But  that  the  beautiful  friend 
We  loved  grew  weary  of  the  suns. 

He  said  there  was  a  friend  among  friends;  he  has  found  him; 
We  too  shall  go  sometime  and  touch  what  gift 
Hides  in  the  careful  hand 
Under  the  dark  cloak. 

Gifts  are  light  darts  flung  at  a  friend's  desire, 

This  last  one  takes  the  target.   I  have  thought  for  myself 

That  peace  is  a  good  harbor. 

Shall  I  not  think  so  for  him? 

The  sweetest  voice  of  the  iron  years  has  desired 
Silence,  the  prince  of  friendship  has  desired  peace. 
He  that  gave,  and  not  asked 
But  for  a  friend's  sake,  has  taken 

One  gift  for  himself;  he  gives  a  greater  and  goes  out 
Remembered  utterly  generous,  constraining  sorrow 
Like  winter  sundown,  splendid 
Memory  to  ennoble  our  nights. 

The  gray  mothers  of  rain  sail  and  glide  over, 

The  rain  has  fallen,  the  deep-wombed  earth  is  renewed; 

Under  the  greening  of  the  hills 

Gulls  flock  in  the  black  furrows. 

And  how  shall  one  believe  he  will  not  return 
To  be  our  guest  in  the  house,  not  wander  with  me 
Again  by  the  Carmel  river, 
Nor  on  the  reef  at  Soberanes? 

(Reprinted  from  Overland  Monthly  March,  1927.) 


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December,  1927 


As  I  Knew  Him 


WHEN  air  breathes  of  death  so 
lately  mourned,  it  vivifies  one 
to  turn  to  life  and  inhale  red- 
blooded  memories.  I  write  of  vivid  days 
and  nights  when  George,  and  Carrie  his 
wife,  together  made  their  home  in  Pied- 
mont. There  are,  still  about,  only  a  few 
of  us  who  were  familiar  in  that  colorful 
household  which  Carrie  kept  so  sweet 
for  her  man.  But  he  was  not 
her  man :  he  was  no  one's  man 
— not  even  his  own  man.  He 
was  forever  searching  into 
himself  to  be  sure,  but  also 
"lonely  for  some  one  I  shall 
never  know."  Most  of  those 
who  in  press  and  periodical 
have  timely  and  admiringly  re- 
called acquaintanceship  with 
George  Sterling,  know  of  a 
later  period  than  that  which 
springs  out  of  my  heart  to  my 
pen.  To  them,  his  wife  is  a 
mere  incident,  a  person  of 
hearsay — a  pale  wraith  of 
whom  they  have  been  remind- 
ed when  scanning  the  career 
of  the  man ;  a  woman  who, 
sadly  enough,  took  her  own 
life  "after  long  grief  and 
pain." 

To  friends  of  longer  stand- 
ing the  two  cannot  be  dissoci- 
ated.   I   think   it  was  shortly 
after  their  marriage  that  they 
went  to  Hawaii.   It  was  a  dis- 
appointing experience.   George 
was    from    some    cause    thor- 
oughly   discontented.     When 
told    where    they    had    made 
headquarters,  I  naturally  ask- 
ed their  impressions  of  a  neigh- 
borhood which  I  well  know — 
of  this  and  that  thrilling  gorge 
or  strand  or  crater,  things  of 
tremendous  beauty  and  easily 
accessible.    "We  never  went  there,"  an- 
swered  Carrie.    The   reason  given  was 
that  George  was  not  interested.    More 
than  once  I  have  heard  him  insist  that 
travel  books  were  sufficient.  One  needed 
no  travel  experience. 

My  earliest  meetings  with  the  tall  and 
handsome  pair,  George  and  his  wife, 
were  in  their  Piedmont  circle.  Jack,  al- 
ready a  friend  of  my  family,  was  about 
twenty-seven,  George  older.  They  were 
in  and  out  of  each  other's  houses  on  the 
hill,  and  sometimes  came  to  mine  in 
Berkeley.  The  voiceless  relationship  of 
the  two  boys,  still  in  its  infancy,  went 
on  to  the  end  of  life — basically  an  un- 
questioning friendship.  Neither  was  too 
prosperous  at  the  time.  Voiceless 


By  Charmian  Kittredge  London 

their  friendship?  Take  the  following, 
related  to  me  years  afterward  by  Jack. 
It  is  a  small  matter  in  actuality,  but 
marked  the  beginning  of  an  eloquent 
spiritual  comprehension  they  did  not 
pause  to  analyze  at  the  moment.  Never 
a  word  was  uttered  on  a  night  when  the 


Carrie  Sterling 

Poet,  walking  part-way  home  with  the 
young  story-teller  to  his  bungalow  on 
the  eucalyptus  steep,  slipped  something 
into  the  other's  pocket.  Never  a  word 
was  uttered  when,  upon  a  like  occasion 
some  months  thence,  an  equivalent  some- 
thing was  slipped  back  into  the  Poet's. 
Jack,  "being  so  made,"  was  the  first  to 
analyze.  George  seldom  analyzed  any- 
thing, apparently,  except  when  chal- 
lenged. No  matter  what  the  subject  or 
whether  he  had  ever  before  considered 
it,  with  corrugated  brows  between  nar- 
rowed, introverted  eyes,  he  pondered 
briefly.  He  would  then,  under  modest 
demeanor  come  out  with  rounded  and 


satisfying  exposition.  "Now  that  is  gen- 
ius!" Jack  marveled  with  shining  eyes. 
"I  have  it  not;  I  must  plod!"  And  so 
the  "plodder,"  evidently  deep  in  melan- 
choly at  the  time,  addressed  George  in 
this  wise:  ".  .  .  This  I  know,  that  in 
these  later  days  you  have  frequently 
given  me  cause  for  honest  envy.  And 
you  have  made  me  speculate,  trying  to 
make  you  out,  trying  to  lay 
hands  on  the  inner  side  of  you 
— what  you  are  to  yourself  in 
short.  Sometimes,  I  conclude 
that  you  have  a  cunning  and 
deep  philosophy  of  life,  for 
yourself  alone,  worked  out  on 
a  basis  of  disappointment  and 
disillusion.  Sometimes  I  say,  I 
am  firmly  convinced  of  this, 
and  then  it  all  goes  glimmer- 
ing, and  I  think  that  you  don't 
want  to  think,  or  that  you 
have  thought  no  more  than 
partly,  if  at  all,  and  are  living 
your  life  out  blindly  and  nat- 
urally. 

"So  I  do  not  know  you, 
George,  and  for  that  matter  I 
do  not  know  how  I  came  to 
write  this." 

A  year  later  when  George 
presented  his  first  book,  in  the 
flyleaf  he  wrote : 

"To  our  genius,  Jack  Lon- 
don :  Here's  my  book,  my 
heart  you  have  already." 

George  Sterling's  advancing 
reputation  brought  men  and 
women  from  afar  to  his  house. 
But  it  was  Caroline  Rand 
Sterling,  "Carrie"  and  "Cad- 
die" to  her  intimates,  who 
equally,  with  her  superior  fac- 
ulty for  home-making,  drew 
them  to  come  again  or  to  re- 
member always  the  abounding 
harmony  of  that  informal  cottage.  And 
she  was  beautiful,  moving  through  those 
years  with  a  subtle  grace  tinged  with 
childlike  humor  spontaneous  as  her  mis- 
chievous smile.  Some  sculptor  should 
have  modeled  her,  body  and  face.  The 
subtlety  of  her  beauty  was  enhanced  by 
a  trick  of  smiling  with  her  brown  eyes 
and  that  fascinating  mystic  mouth.  It 
was  small,  with  deep-cornered  lips  part- 
ing over  the  teeth  with  an  elfin,  tanta- 
lizing sweetness  of  expression. 

"Oh,  Georgie,  look — she  is  so  pretty," 
once  I  nudged  him  at  a  lull  in  cards. 
But  he  was  already  looking  at  her. 

"She's  a  very  fascinating  young  per- 
son, Chumalums  de  Chums,"  he  whis- 
pered in  return,  and  his  eyes  searched 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


361 


mine  dimly  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  ex- 
change an  elusive  something  that  could 
not  be  worded.  Those  silent  instants 
curiously  stand  out  the  clearest  in  retro- 
spect. 

It  was  shortly  after  this,  I  think,  that 
he  wrote  "To  My  Wife": 

"TVTOT  beauty  of  the  marble  set 
J-  '     To  art's  intensest  line, 
Nor  depth  of  light  and  color  met, 

Tho'  all  indeed  are  thine — 
Not  these  thy  loveliness  impart 

For,  wrought  by  wiser  Hands, 
The   charm   that   makes   thee   all 

thou  art 
Beyond  transition  stands. 

And  surer  fealty  to  thee, 

O  fairest!    I  confess 
For  that  beyond  all  fair  I  see 

The  grace  of  tenderness. 
Past  Art's  endeavor  to  portray 

Or  poet's  word  to  reach; 
For  all  that  Beauty  seems  to  say 

Is  told  in  feeble  speech." 

Caroline  seemed  an  ideal  helpmate 
for  a  genius.  She  could  engage  with  him 
merrily,  or  solace,  if  only  with  silence, 
an  inexplicable  mood.  Work  hard  Carrie 
did,  as  a  woman  must  who  plays  her  part 
in  such  wholehearted  hospitality  out  of  a 
modest  income.  But  no  trace  of  fatigue 
or  untidiness  ever  bothered  a  lucky  guest. 

Sometimes  precariously  rickety  bridges 
had  to  be  crossed.  Luckily,  if  not  a  fairy 
godmother  there  was  a  fairy  sister  who 
came  to  the  rescue  when  matters  be- 
came acute,  as  happens  in  the  house  of 
poets ! 

This  sister  of  Carrie,  was  always  at 
their  backs,  though  few  knew  this.  No 
benefactress  ever  more  successfully  hid 
her  light  under  a  bushel  than  Mrs. 
Frank  C.  Havens.  I  hope  she  will  for- 
give me  for  removing  the  "bushel."  It 
was  mainly  through  her  interest  and 
generosity  that  George  and  Carrie  were 
able  to  capture  their  paradisal  dream  at 
Carmel-by-the-Sea.  They  had  yearned 
to  build  there.  And  one  of  George's 
most  ardent  ambitions  was  to  raise  po- 
tatoes in  a  lush  meadow  overleaned  by 
their  redwood-pillared  portico.  But  that 
is  another  story. 

Carrie  was  quick  in  the  tongue  and 
could  on  occasion  throw  unnecessary  de- 
corum to  the  winds  and  romp  with  the 
best  of  the  tomboy  rout.  I  linger  through 
old  albums  that  picture  the  fancy  dress 
and  dress  that  is  not  fancy  but  pure 
characterization  by  a  clever  company  of 
souls  on  the  lark !  Carrie  was  Queen  of 
Fun  among  them.  Yes,  she  and  her  hus- 
band contributed  equally  in  their  dif- 
ferent ways  to  a  congenial  menage  that 
held  together  the  mob. 

And  those  who  were  blind  to  other 
than  Marthan  attainments  on  Carrie's 
part  had  their  eyes  opened  when  she 


tackled  the  concise  statement  of  some 
scientific  or  philosophical  subject  which 
she  had  studied. 

Some  of  us,  painfully  observant  in  the 
time  of  separation  that  was  to  come, 
could  not  but  hold  that  the  two  should 
have  remained  together.  They  were, 
most  things  considered,  in  the  long  run 
each  other's  best  fortune.  When  tidings 
of  Carrie's  shocking,  if  poetic,  suicide  in 
Piedmont  came  to  George,  who  was 
more  or  less  reveling  in  Greenwich  Vil- 
lage, he  returned  swiftly  to  California, 
never  to  leave.  Not  more  beautifully 
than  Carrie'  did  the  Lady  of  Shalott  lay 
herself  to  sleep  and  wake  no  more.  And 
George  Sterling  never  ceased  to  regret. 
He  had  learned  that,  in  some  strong  and 
enduring  kinships,  passion  is  the  passing 
part.  I  defy  those  few  who  knew  George 
and  Carrie  and  all  that  was,  to  read 
with  steady  eyes  and  lips  "Spring  in 
Carmel,"  from  "Sails  and  Mirage."  It 
was  written  upon  his  first  retracing  after 
her  death  of  the  path  to  the  Carmel  cot- 
tage in  the  pine  forest: 

SPRING  IN  CARMEL 
'ER  CARMEL  fields  in  the  spring- 
time the  sea-gulls  follow  the  plow. 
White,  white  wings  on  the  blue  above! 
White  were  your  brow  and  breast,  O 

Love! 

But  I  cannot  see  you  now. 
Tireless  ever  the  Mission  swallow 
Dips  to  meadow  and  poppied  hollow; 
Well  for  her  mate  that  he  can  follow, 
As  the  buds  are  on  the  bough. 

By  the  woods  and  waters  of  Carmel  the 

lark  is  glad  in  the  sun. 
Harrow!   Harrow!   Music  of  God! 
Near  to  your  nest  her  feet  have  trod 

Whose  journeyings  are  done. 
Sing,  O  lover !  I  cannot  sing. 
Wild  and  sad  are  the  thoughts  you 

bring. 

Well  for  you  are  the  skies  of  spring, 
And  to  me  all  skies  are  one. 


0 


In  the  beautiful  woods   of  Carmel   an 

iris  bends  to  the  wind. 
O  thou  far-off  and  sorrowful  flower! 
Rose  that  I  found  in  a  tragic  hour ! 

Rose  that  I  shall  not  find ! 
Petals  that  fell  so  soft  and  slowly, 
Fragrant  snows  on  the  grasses  lowly, 
Gathered  now  would  I  call  you  holy 
Ever  to  eyes  once  blind. 

In  the  pine-sweet  valley  of  Carmel  the 

cream-cups  scatter  in  foam. 
Azures  of  early  lupin  there! 
Now  the  wild  lilac  floods  the  air 

Like  a  broken  honey-comb. 
So  could  the  flowers  of  Paradise 
Pour  their  souls  to  the  morning  skies; 
So  like  a  ghost  your  fragrance  lies 
On  the  path  that  once  led  home. 

On    the    emerald   hills  of    Carmel   the 
spring  and  winter  have  met. 


Here  I  find  in  a  gentled  spot 

The  frost  of  the  wild  forget-me-not, 

And — I  cannot  forget. 
Heart  once  light  as  the  floating  feather 
Borne  aloft  in  the  sunny  weather, 
Spring    and    winter    have    come    to- 
gether— 
Shall  you  and  she  meet  yet? 

On  the  rocks  and  beaches  of  Carmel  the 

surf  is  mighty  to-day. 
Breaker  and  lifting  billow  call 
To  the  high,  blue  Silence  over  all 
With  the  word  no  heart  can  say. 
Time-to-be,  shall  I  hear  it  ever? 
Time-that-is,    with    the    hands    that 

sever, 
Cry     all     words     but     the    dreadful 

"Never!" 
And  name  of  her  far  away! 

EORGE,  who,  it  may  be,  was  not 
made  to  encompasss  a  grand  passion 
for  one  woman,  could  divine  and  express 
love  as  few  men  or  women,  knowing 
love,  can  do. 

To  any,  not  so  close  to  them,  who 
think  George's  wife  of  many  years  acted 
hastily  or  unwisely  in  leaving  her  hus- 
band, let  me  say  that  she  behaved  most 
wisely  and  patiently  preceding  the  di- 
vorce that  came  about. 

For  a  year  or  two  before  her  end  she 
became  warped  from  ultimate  bitterness 
that  led  toward  estrangement  of  some 
of  her  most  tried  friends — as  if  deliber- 
ately to  tear  from  her  all  association 
with  the  old  life.  That  bitterness  only 
waned  in  her  self-inflicted  death.  She 
was  not  herself. 

So  now  there  is  a  gladness  in  laying 
my  wreath  upon  her  memory,  just  as 
there  is  in  calling  attention  to  the  trib- 
ute the  essentially  desolate  poet  rendered 
her  in  verse  and  speech.  The  pages  of 
"Sails  and  Mirage"  are  drenched  with 
its  perfume. 

FROM  THE  SHADOWS 


you  call  above  the  grasses 
Where  the  lonely  river  passes 
Gently,  but  she  cannot  hear — 
Thrush  of  twilight,  lark  of  morning, 
Quail  of  noon  whose  crystal  warning 
Tells  of  one  who  wanders  near. 

Ever  out  across  the  valley, 
Veering  hawk  or  swallow  sally 

And  the  snowy  gull  goes  free. 
Pine  and  poppy,  sage  and  willow, 
Silver  foam  and  azure  billow, 

Wait  us,  but  she  cannot  see. 

Wind  of  autumn,  hush  of  dreaming, 
Star  of  evening  westward  gleaming, 

Still  you  haunt  me  from  the  Past. 
Voice  of  ocean,  sadly  calling, 
Still  you  haunt  the  days  befalling 

And  the  days  that  could  not  last. 


362 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


George  Sterling:  The  Man 


COME  lovely  and  soothing  death, 
Undulate  round  the  world,  serene- 
ly arriving 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 
Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and 
knowledge  curious, 

And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise! 
Praise!  praise! 

For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool- 
enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with 

soft  feet, 
Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of 

fullest  welcome? 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee.    I  glorify  thee 

above  all. 
I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must 

indeed  come,  come  unfalteringly. 

In  these  beautiful  words  a  great  poet 
has  challenged  death. 

"The  dark  mother,  always  gliding 
near  with  soft  feet"  has  enfolded  George 
Sterling  to  her  tender  arms  and  carried 
him  to  the  other  world.  The  sensitive, 
Dante-like  man  of  gentle,  chivalric  bear- 
ing has  gone  in  search  of  deeper  truths 
and  higher  perceptions  of  beauty. 

Life  is  what  he  loved ;  yet  his  tired 
tortured  spirit  craved  surcease  of  sor- 
row. And  now,  despite  his  own  wistful 
avowal  that  "the  happy  dead  hear  not 
at  all,"  those  faithful  friends  from  whom 
he  so  silently  stole  away  can  not  but 
feel  that  he  is  dreaming  in  fairer  realms 
than  ours. 


He  has  solved  his  problem  in  his  own 
way,  in  the  path  of  the  old  Romans 
weary  of  the  march  of  life,  and  is  car- 
rying with  him  to  his  immortal  kinsmen, 
the  bards  of  other  days,  a  beautiful 
image  of  a  world  enriched  by  his  imag- 
ination and  the  glorious  language  in 
which  he  clothed  his  thoughts. 

I  cannot  presume  to  appraise  his  liter- 
ary merits.  It  is  of  George  Sterling — 
beloved  George  Sterling,  the  man,  the 
friend,  the  lover  of  humanity — that  I 
would  write;  yet  it  is  difficult  to  disso- 
ciate the  man  and  his  work,  for  his 
poetry  and  his  personality  were  one. 

There  is  no  sad  contrast  between  the 
poet  and  his  poetry.  The  love  of  beauty 
permeates  everything  he  wrote.  His 
poetry  is  sweet,  pure,  classic.  His  per- 
sonality was  at  once  a  coalescence  of 
grace,  love,  artistry,  romance,  freedom, 
independence,  loyalty  and  courage. 


By  Albert  Bender 

The  poetic  impulse  in  him,  so  strong, 
so  creative,  manifested  itself  in  songs  of 
imperishable  lyric  beauty  to  the  last  day 
of  his  life.  Every  action  of  his,  every 
poem  he  wrote,  was  colored  and  ani- 
mated by  love  of  harmony  and  sublime 
music,  the  melody  of  spring,  the  open 
fields,  "the  clouds  of  fire,"  the  golden 
lightning,  the  sea,  the  cosmic  vistas;  of 
art  and  literature,  the  sorrows  and  joys 
and  passions,  the  hopes  and  ideals  and 
spirit  of  our  common  life — all  were 
transmuted  into  gold  of  the  soul  by  his 
rich  imaginings  and  his  articulate  trans- 
lation of  those  imageries  for  others. 


FOR  G.  S. 

Elle  est   morte   n'en  pouvant  plus. 
L'Ardeur  et  les  vouloirs  moulus. 
Et  c'est  elle  qui  s'est  tuee. 
Infiniment  extenuee. 

— Verhaeren. 

WALK  lightly!     He  is  sleeping  here. 
Be  silent  lest  your  breath 
Forming  a  word  drop  to  his  ghostly  ear 
And  start  him  up  from  death. 

Leave  him  with  silence.     Let  the  weeds 

Run  wild,  here,  and  free; 
Let  the  forlorn  wind  serve  his  needs 

And  the  moon  his  warder  be. 

Walk  gently !     Walk   quickly  by — 
We  are  the  two  who  did  not  die   .    .   . 


GEORGE  STERLING  was  born 
unto  singing,  but  he  did  not  think 
that  by  song  alone  could  life  be  lifted  to 
its  highest  plane.  In  fact,  the  dissonances 
of  life,  which  found  him  quite  as  re- 
sponsive as  its  harmonies,  beat  poignantly 
upon  his  heart.  He  flamed  against  the 
injustice  of  society  and  the  travail  of 
the  poor,  and  if  he  could  he  would  have 
created  a  new  world  where  truth  and 
justice  and  beauty  should  prevail. 

Often  he  spoke  of  his  love  for  his  fel- 
lows and  his  firm  faith  in  humanity.  He 
and  his  dear  friend,  Jack  London,  often 
argued  far  into  the  night  on  schemes  of 
socialism  for  enlightenment  and  justice, 
and  the  betterment  of  industrial  and  eco- 
nomic conditions. 

In  those  early  days,  before  the  futility 
of  it  all  descended  upon  him,  one  could 


frequently  find  him  in  crowded  halls 
where  the  toilers  and  insurgents  in  the 
great  battle  for  human  rights  congre- 
gated. Often  have  I  met  him  afterward 
and  learned  Sterling's  life.  He  was 
deeply  loved.  He  was  not  like  Shelley, 
"beating  in  the  void  his  luminous  wings 
in  vain."  He  was  effectual  from  the 
first  days  when  the  magister,  Ambrose 
Bierce,  acclaimed  him  as  one  of  the 
great  poets.  How  few  could  have,  with- 
stood the  incense  of  those  days!  Yet 
through  it  all,  with  a  world  at  his  feet 
worshipping  and  laureling,  he  walked 
among  his  fellows  with  quiet,  unaffected 
humility.  He  evolved  a  philosophy  of 
love  as  a  guide  to  his  work.  Perhaps  the 
secret  of  his  genius  was  his  intense  love 
of  woman,  and  in  the  strange  complexi- 
ties of  many  love  affairs  his  lyric  lark 
soared  to  its  highest  heavens. 

Again,  at  periods  of  great  depression, 
he  stimulated  his  powers  beyond  their 
limits,  and  paid  for  his  flights  in  bitter- 
ness and  repentence.  Of  such  conflicting 
material  is  the  poet  made! 


Repeatedly  he  declined  offers  to  make 
his  dwelling  place  either  luxurious  or  a 
repository  of  treasures.  Solemnly,  seri- 
ously, at  times  comically,  he  refused  to 
allow  himself  to  be  "enslaved  by  the 
tyranny  of  things,"  and  he  reduced  his 
wants  to  the  barest  necessities  of  life. 
To  live  simply,  without  unnecessary 
material  complications;  to  eat  health- 
fully, preserve  his  body  in  full  vigor;  to 
dress  plainly,  to  avoid  indolent  ease;  to 
court  the  sunlight  and  the  hills — these 
were  his  symbols  of  independence,  safety 
and  happiness.  In  this  wise  he  consist- 
ently preserved  throughout  his  career 
the  same  genius  for  simplicity  toward 
literature,  music,  art,  drama,  and  the 
eternal  verities. 

Even  now  I  can  not  write  of  him 
without  a  tear  threatening  to  quench  the 
smile  of  gratitude  that  is  in  my  heart 
for  his  precious,  lifetime  friendship.  He 
was  a  ray  of  light  in  a  dark  day,  a  friend 
to  depend  on  in  all  the  varied  demands 
of  constant  association.  Looking  back 
upon  him  in  tender  memory,  one  might 
well  borrow  the  words  he  himself  ap- 
plied to  merciful  oblivion  before  he  went 
to  his  last  self-appointed  rendezvous. 
Then  he  wrote,  ".  .  .  .  Until  all  friend- 
ship ends  in  death,  the  friend  of  friends." 
Truly  George  Sterling  to  others  was 
what  death  became  to  him,  a  friend  of 
friends! 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


363 


Sterli 


LET  us  not  mourn  for  George.  He 
had  a  happy  life  and  the  end  of 
it  was  a  swift  and  happy  death. 
He  was  almost  ideally  the  free  artist  of 
Beethoven's  famous  saying.  He  prac- 
ticed an  art  that  he  loved ;  he  lived  out 
his  days  among  pleasant  friends;  he  was 
not  harassed  by  sordid  cares;  he  had 
enough  of  fame  for  any  rational  man. 
What  endless  joy  he  got  out  of  his 
work!  Every  new  poem  was  to  him  an 
exhilarating  emotional  experience.  He 
was  a  sound  workman,  and  he  knew  it. 
What  more  could  any  man  ask  of  the 
implacable  fates? 


in 


By  Henry  Louis  Mencken 

Much  that  he  wrote,  I  believe,  will 
live.  There  will  be  no  American  an- 
thology for  a  century  to  come  without 
his  name  in  it.  For  the  rare  quality  of 
timelessness  was  in  nearly  all  his  work. 
He  wrote,  not  to  meet  a  passing  fash- 
ion, but  to  measure  up  to  an  immemo- 
rial ideal.  The  thing  he  sought  was 
beauty,  and  from  that  high  quest  noth- 
ing ever  dissuaded  him.  The  winds  of 
doctrine  roared  about  him  without  shak- 
ing him.  What  was  transiently  cried 
up  did  not  escape  him:  he  was,  in  fact, 


intensely  interested  in  everything  new 
and  strange.  But  his  own  course  was 
along  older  paths,  and  he  kept  to  it  reso- 
lutely to  the  end. 

It  has  been  my  destiny  to  know  many 
artists,  great  and  small.  Of  them  all, 
George  was  easily  the  most  charming. 
There  was  a  divine  rakishness  about  him 
that  never  staled.  He  enjoyed  living  as 
he  enjoyed  woiking.  Who  will  ever 
forget  his  kindness,  his  delight  in  com- 
panionship, his  unflagging  gusto?  Dy- 
ing at  fifty-seven,  he  was  still  a  boy. 
That  imperishable  boyishness,  perhaps, 
was  the  greatest  of  all  his  gifts. 


IN  George's   poet's  garland,   let  me 
fall  upon  a  little  Western   flower, 
a    naturally    obscure    posy   in    that 
wreath  of  his  fame.     Call  it  a  "four-o- 
clock,"  since  it  has  to  do  with  time  and 
occasion.     I  recall  many  a  fine  perform- 
ance that  resulted  from  the  deadly  sum- 
mons to  write  something  to  order  on  a 
given  topic  for  a  stated  time.     Knowing 


George  Sterling 

By  Charles  K.  Field 

what  George  could  do  "on  his  own," 
this  ability  to  command  his  Muse  im- 
pressed me.  I  have  known  him  to  do 
delightfully  humorous  things  for  din- 
-lesser  men  have  done  as  much — 


ners 


(I  wonder  if  Tagore  ever  saw  that  one 
on  himself) — but  take  "The  Evanescent 
City" :  I  asked  George  to  lament  the 
passing  of  the  Exposition  and  to  see  that 


the  lament  was  in  to  the  typesetter  on 
the  following  Tuesday — Monday  would 
be  lots  better.  Twelve  years  later,  the 
New  York  Times  laments  the  passing  of 
our  great  poet  and  "The  Evanescent 
City"  has  first  place.  At  least,  the  little 
"four-o-clock"  is  the  stuff  that  laureates 
are  made  on! 


Never  to  Be  Forgotten 


MERELY  the  fact  that  George 
Sterling  was  in  San  Francisco 
made  life  in  the  city  somehow 
better.  He  was  a  constant  reminder 
that  even  here  men  can  follow  careers 
in  which  no  money  is  to  be  made.  He 
was  always  a  generous,  appealing  and 
attractive  figure,  and  the  influence  he 
exerted  on  younger  poets  is  measureless. 
No  one  who  sat  with  him  at  Bigin's  or 
Coppa's  will  ever  forget  his  thin,  faun- 
like  face,  strangely  and  deeply  lined. 
Opinions  concerning  his  work  may  dif- 
fer, but  to  everyone  he  seemed  essen- 


By  Clarkson  Crane 

tially  an  artist,  careless  of  material 
things,  a  follower  of  impressions,  of  the 
indefinable,  in  short,  of  beauty. 

He  was  a  master  of  sound  and  metre. 
For  him  language  existed  to  be  wrought 
into  musical  patterns.  His  talent  was 
of  the  ear  rather  than  of  the  eye,  and 
his  poems  are  best  when  read  aloud.  An 
age  too  given  to  abstractions  has  little 
appreciation  of  such  a  man.  There  are 
lines  in  Sails,  in  To  a  Girl  Dancing,  in 
many  of  his  sonnets,  filled  with  a  deep- 
toned  melody.  Rhetoric?  Perhaps,  but 
beautiful  none  the  less. 


Who  cares  if  his  ideas  were  shaky? 
Poetry  lives  because  of  deep,  sensuous 
qualities  unrelated  to  the  intellect.  One 
has  only  to  read  over  Autumn  in  Carmel 
to  know  that  Sterling  had  an  accent  of 
his  own,  that  he  brought  a  certain  haunt- 
ing and  melancholy  note  into  American 
literature.  He  was  a  good  poet,  and 
some  of  his  verses  may  survive  and  be 
included  in  anthologies  of  the  future. 
There  are  very  few  poets  now  writing  in 
America  of  whom  one  can  sav  as  much. 


HE  was  a  sun,  burning  warmly  against 
the  blood,  nurturing  green  shoots, 
bathing   his   world    in   white-hot   light. 


Epitaph 

By  Edgar  Waite 


He  was  a  sun  that  blazed  fiercely,  in- 
tensely, until  he  consumed  himself.  Yet 
he  remains  a  sun,  and  will  still  glow 


in  the  hearts  of  men,  and  still  shed  radi- 
ance even  though,  far  away  in  time  and 
space,  he  himself  is  but  cold  ashes. 


364 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


George  Sterling  At  Our  House  On  Telegraph  Hill 


By  Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood 

Author  of  Heavenly  Discourse,  Etc. 


COME  up  the  stone  steps,  George,  as  you  used  to  do, 
Pausing  to  pick  a  red  geranium; 
Your  Dantesque  silhouette  passing  across  the  pane. 
At  the  door,  waiting,  stand,  gazing  at  the  sky 
As  the  happy  dead  stare  at  the  mystery. 
Come  in— George— welcome— and  if  it  be  May— 
The  linnets  in  the  birch  trees  singing  and  the  wistaria 
Drooping  its  purple  on  the  porch  as  plumes  about  a  nob 

bier — 

A  chair  in  the  sun  to  watch  the  ferry  boats 
Cut  their  swift,  silver  trails  across  the  turquoise  bay. 
Or  if  the  shroud  of  fog  come  wreathing  from  North  Beach, 
From  the  surf-edged  plain  fenced  by  the  frozen  Arctic, 
A  seat  by  the  live  oak  blaze  to  watch  the  fiery  fingers 
Scratch  the  great  black  throat.     No  cocktail— No? 
No  wine  to  pour  libation  to  the  old  Greek  gods  we  love : 
Ivy  tressed  Bacchus — girdled  with  the  grape; 
Why  does  he  wear  ivy,  gloomy  plant  for  the  god  of  joy.' 
Ah,  but  he  is  golden  bearded  Dionysos, 
Sadder  than  Christ— Dionysos  of  the  dreamy  death 
And  splendid  resurrection.    The  hills  arise 
And  paint  their  breasts  with  gladness;  and  the 
Fling  life  upon  the  air  and  hums  the  new-waked  hive. 
No  libation  to  Aphrodite  of  the  foam-white  breasts  forever 

full? 

You  lift  forbidding  hand  as  the  storm-tortured  pine 
Throws  to  its  god  a  bare  beseeching  arm, 
Your  smile  more  sad  than  the  dying  Dionysos, 
A  frightened  look — look  of  the  hunted  animal. 
What  hound,  dear  George,  is  on  your  track 
To  harry  you  to  death? 

Hastily  you  delve  into  the  pocket  of  your  coat, 
"Listen — some  poems  sent  me  by  a  girl." 
You  drone  the  verse  with  measured  chant, 
"The  real  fire  there — young — but,  god  bless  youth, 
"I'm  going  to  get  them  published" — Then  to  talk 
Of  some  more  elder  poet  as  yet  not  caught  by  fame 
Though,  to  the  Muses,  long  held  dear — 
The  high-priest's  anger  in  your  voice 
That  poets  still  are  shepherds  on  Parnassus, 
Living  on  goat's-milk  cheese,  honey  and  water  from  Pieria, 
Still  taking  coin  from  the  slow,  dumb  paymaster. 
And  you,  defiantly:    "He  is  a  greater  poet  than  I." 


Dear  George — dear  George — you  spread  your  generous  gos- 
pel far, 

Clean  of  all  jealousy — your  Delphic  thought 
To  kneel  before  the  sacred,  inextinguishable  flame, 
You,  the  ever  young,  loved  youth. 
"O  fair  things — young  and  fleet, 
"White  flower  of  floating  feet 

"Be  glad — be  glad — for  happiness  is  holy. 
"Be  glad  awhile  for  on  the  greensward,  slowly, 
"Summer  and  Autumn  pass 
"With  shadows  on   the  grass. 
"Till  in  the  meadow  lowly 
"November's  tawny  reeds  shall  sigh — alas, 
"Dear  eyes 

"What  see  you  in  the  azure  of  the  skies? 
What  see  you,  George? 

What  beckoning?    What  smiling?    What  exultation? 
What  deep,  expectant  eyes  sadder  than  sunsets? 
What  faces  aureoled  in  heavenly  filaments 
Streaming  to  the  last  harbor  of  the  furthest  sun? 
"You  must  go  home?"   That  is  your  Yankee  humor. 
Dear  George,  you  have  no  home. 
You  have  a  shelter  from  the  rain, 
A  burrow  from  the  storm — no  home. 
Stay  with  us  here  in  the  warmth  of  love. 
Let  shadows  darken  and  the  lights  across  the  bay 
Be  flung,  a  topaz  necklace  on  the  neck  of  night, 
Or  let  the  winding  sheet  of  fog  grow  cold  as  death. 
Still  by  the  lamp  of  love  we  will  sit  here 
And  drink  the  wine  of  wizardry. 
Have  you  not  something  of  your  own  ? 
"I  have  just  finished  this," 
"I  call  it  Shelley  at  Spezia. 

"I  brought  a  copy — for  I  know  how  you  love  Shelley. 
"Within  that  peacelessness  we  call  the  sea 
"Abides  a  peace — O  deep  tremendous  bed 
"Accept  me — least  of  all  the  weary  dead 
"Where  midnight  meets  infinity. 
"Bitter  and  chill  has  been  life's  gift  to  me. 
"Now  let  the  suns  go  dark  within  this  head 
"And  Lethe,  tower  and  thunder — all  be  fled 
"And  I,  at  last,  be  nothing — and  go  free." 
Must  you  go,  George? 
Good-night,  dear  George,  good-night, 
But  always  you  shall  return  to  us. 


IT  HAS  always  seemed  to  me  that 
there  were  two  George  Sterlings — 
the  one  I  saw  in  the  pictures  and  the 
one  I  saw  in  the  flesh.  The  George 
Sterling  of  the  pictures — the  beautiful, 
long-featured  mediaeval  face,  a  combi- 
nation of  Hamlet  and  forest  faun — ex- 
pressed himself  in  his  verse.  The  George 
Sterling  of  the  flesh — quiet,  simple,  nor- 
mal  —  mirrored  himself  in  his  talk. 


When  I  read  his  poetry,  I  seemed  to 
look_into  a  tortured  soul,  torn  by  fiery 
apathies  and  frozen  doubts.  When  I 
talked  with  him,  I  saw  only  the  out-of- 
doors  creature  with  his  passion  for  ev- 
ery kind  of  human  pleasure  .  .  .  ath- 
letic expression  .  .  .  picnics  on  the 
sand  .  .  .  abalone  .  .  .  gatherings 
of  simple  folk  for  laughter  and  talk 
.  .  .  I  liked  it  that  he  was  a  poet 
who  did  not  care  to  seem  like  a  poet. 


I  liked  it  that  he  could  slip  so  nimbly 
from  one  character  to  the  other.  Were 
there  two  of  him,  I  wonder?  And  did 
the  grind  and  tear  of  the  transmogrifi- 
cation shatter  his  soul  to  shards?  Or 
was  it  that  he  built  up  the  George  Ster- 
ling of  the  flesh  to  protect  the  George 
Sterling  who  was  compact  of  tragic  sen- 
sitiveness? I  shall  never  know. 

INEZ  HAYNES  IRWIN. 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


365 


My  Friend,  George  Sterling 


f  I  1HERE  were  two  men  in  him,  and 
a  strange  duel  forever  going  on 

1  in  his  soul.  In  his  literary  youth 
he  had  fallen  under  the  spell  of  Am- 
brose Bierce,  a  great  writer,  a  bitter 
black  cynic,  and  a  cruel,  domineering  old 
bigot.  He  stamped  inerasably  upon 
George's  sensitive  mind  the  heartless 
art-for-art's-sake  formula,  the  notion  of 
a  poet  as  a  superior  being,  aloof  from 
the  problems  of  men,  and  writing  for  the 
chosen  few.  On  the  other  hand,  George 
was  a  chum  of  Jack  London  and  others 
of  the  young  "reds,"  and  became  a  So- 
cialist and  remained  one  to  the  end. 
Bierce  quarreled  with  him  on  this  ac- 
count, and  broke  \vith  him,  as  he  did 
with  everyone  else.  But  in  art  the 
Bierce  influence  remained  dominant,  and 
George  Sterling  would  write  about  the 
interstellar  spaces  and  the  writhing  of 
oily  waters  in  San  Francisco  harbor, 
and  the  white  crests  of  the  surf  on  Point 
Lobos,  and  the  loves  of  ancient  immoral 
queens. 

After  which  he  would  go  about  the 
streets  of  New  York  on  a  winter  night, 
and  come  back  without  his  overcoat,  be- 
cause he  had  given  it  to  some  poor 
wretch  on  the  breadline;  he  would  be 
shivering,  not  with  cold,  but  with  hor- 
ror and  grief,  and  would  break  all  the 
art-for-art's-sake  rules,  and  pour  out 
some  lines  of  passionate  indignation, 
which  he  refused  to  consider  poetry,  but 


By  Upton  Sinclair 

which  I  assured  him  would  outlive  his 
fancy  stuff. 

At  the  time  of  our  "mourning  pick- 
ets" on  Broadway,  during  the  Colorado 
coal  strike  of  1914,  George  was  in  New 
York.  During  these  excitements  George 
wandered  down  to  the  Battery  and, 
looking  out  over  the  bay,  he  wrote  that 
shining  poem,  "To  the  Statue  of  Lib- 
erty" : 

Oh !  is  it  bale-fire  in  thy  brazen  hand — 
The  traitor-light  set  on  betraying  coasts 
To  lure  to  doom  the  mariner?  .  .  . 

You  will  find  that  in  my  anthology, 
"The  Cry  for  Justice."  Also  his  song 
about  Babylon,  which  really  is  New 
York,  and  San  Francisco,  too: 

In  Babylon,  high  Babylon, 

What  gear  is  bought  and  sold  ? 
All  merchandise  beneath  the  sun 

That  bartered  is  for  gold  ; 
Amber  and  oils  from  far  beyond 

The  desert  and  the  fen, 
And    wines    whereof    our    throats    are 
fond — 

Yea !  and  the  souls  of  men ! 

In  Babylon,  grey  Babylon, 

What  goods  are  sold  and  bought? 

Vesture  of  linen  subtly  spun, 
And  cups  from  agate  wrought; 


Raiment  of  many-colored  silk 

For  some  fair  denizen, 
And  ivory  more  white  than  milk — 

Yea !  and  the  souls  of  men !   .   .   . 

George  had  more  admirers  than  any 
other  man  I  ever  knew,  and  he  gave 
himself  to  them  without  limit.  When 
they  were  drinking,  he  could  not  sit 
apart;  and  so  tragedy  closed  upon' him. 
He  would  come  to  visit  us  in  Pasadena, 
and  always  then  he  was  "on  the  wagon" 
and  never  going  to  drink  again,  but  we 
could  see  his  loneliness,  and  his  despair — 
not  about  himself,  for  he  was  too  proud 
to  voice  that,  but  for  mankind,  and  for 
the  universe.  It  may  seem  a  strange 
statement  that  a  poet  could  be  killed 
by  the  nebular  hypothesis;  but  Mary 
Craig  Sinclair  declares  that  is  what  hap- 
pened to  George  Sterling.  I  believe  the 
leaders  of  science  now  reject  the  nebular 
hypothesis,  and  have  a  new  one ;  but 
meantime,  they  had  fixed  firmly  in 
George's  mind  the  idea  that  the  uni- 
verse is  running  down  like  a  clock,  that 
in  some  millions  of  years  the  earth  will 
be  cold,  and  in  some  hundreds  of  mil- 
lions of  years  the  sun  will  be  cold,  and 
so  what  difference  does  it  make  what 
we  poor  insects  do?  You  will  find  that 
at  the  beginning,  in  "The  Testimony  of 
the  Suns,"  and  at  the  end  in  the  drama, 
"Truth."  It  is  what  one  might  call 
applied  atheism. 


Golden  Gate  Park 

(For  George  Sterling) 

IT  was  a  day  of  light  over  the  vernal  sea, 

•*  Light  and  the  fringe  of  foam  on  the  soundless  waves 

Far  down  the  cliffs ;  and  green  hills  like  the  graves 

Of  gods  long  dead,  yet  brooding  time  to  be. 

Sound  of  the  wind  in  our  ears  in  a  key 

Of  epic  mourning  out  of  the  viewless  caves 

Of  sunny  skies;  and  distance  that  broods  and  craves 

More  than  the  heart  can  give.     How  silently 

The  earth  floats  here!     How  cool  these  soaring  pines 

Sphered  in  the  crystal  of  this  light!     How  slow 

Beats  now  the  heart!     How  comforted  the  flow 

Of  human  passion  here,  that  now  divines 

Through  the  spirit  of  the  Pacific  far  below 

What  balm  there  is  for  death,  for  life  what  shrines! 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS. 


From  One  to  Whom  He  Was  Kind 

FROM  a  far  planet  in  some  alien  sky, 
He,  prophet  of  the  stars,  beholding  now 
This  small  unhappy  earth  go  speeding  by, 
Might  happily  murmur :  "There  I  lived.  My  brow 
They  wreathed  with  laurel,  subtly  intertwined 
With  deadly  nightshade  and  unhappy  rue. 
There  lay  no  refuge-harbor  for  a  mind 
Set  on  strange  dreams,  and  gods  they  never  knew. 
But  let  them  be :  so  that  my  heart  was  tender 
Always  and  always  to  each  living  thing, 
What  does  it  matter  that  too  late  they  render 
Unneeded  praise,  who  plucked  from  friendship's  wing 
The  argent  feathers  that,  but  for  their  taking, 
Might  still  have  borne  me  up  above  life's  burden? 
I  am  away  now  where  new  dawns  are  breaking, 
And  men  unwitting  gave  me  death  for  guerdon." 

Sad  consolation,  that  can  make  less  lonely 
The  empty  place  he  left  to  memory's  end! — 
He,  to  disparage  whom  one  could  say  only, 
"He  was  too  good,  too  very  good,  a  friend!" 

MIRIAM  ALLEN  DEFORD 


366 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY    and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


Make  Beauty  A  Career 


IT  is  easy,  after  a  man  is  dead,  to 
remember  what  he  was  and  what 
he  did,  and  it  is  easy  to  'forget  what 
he  stood  for.  Time  blurs  the  entire 
picture,  but  some  parts  fade  sooner  than 
others  and  the  lines  that  grow  indistinct 
first  are  likely  to  be  significant  ones. 

Unquestionably  this  has  been  true  in 
the  case  of  George  Sterling.  In  mem- 
ory, the  individual  is  still  clearly  before 
us.  But  what  has  become  of  the  sym- 
bol? Who  gives  much  thought  today 
to  what  George  Sterling  stood  for? 

He  stood  for  something  highly  im- 
portant. By  his  life  he  demonstrated 
that  it  was  possible,  in  San  Francisco, 
during  the  first  quarter  of  the  twentieth 
century,  to  make  a  career  of  so  illusive 
and  unsubstantial  a  thing  as  beauty. 

This    was    no    insignificant    achieve- 


IT  is  now  a  year  since  George  Ster- 
ling died.     Perhaps  the  best  tribute 
I  can  pay  to  Sterling  is  to  testify 
that  never  in  these  past  twelve  months 
have  I  been  able  to  think  of  him  as  dead ; 
that  when  I  think  of  San  Francisco,  as  I 
often  do,  my  thought  always  joins  the 
poet  and  his  city  as  living  inseparables. 

In  a  way  I  suppose  this  is  natural. 
San  Francisco,  now  that  I  am  no  longer 
there,  is  but  an  image  in  my  mind — an 
image  formed  when  Sterling  was,  of  all 
the  human  swarm  that  clustered  by  the 
Gate,  the  most  intensely  alive.  George 
could  scarcely,  by  a  single  gesture  of 
despair  or  of  weariness  destroy  all  the 
life  he  had  imaged  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  knew  him.  One  dismisses  the  fact 
of  death  as  unreal.  The  image  remains. 
For  me  he  goes  on  living:  a  tall  lithe 
figure,  marvelously  graceful  in  spite  of 
his  fifty  odd  years,  walking  the  streets 
of  San  Francisco  with  the  large  pained 
eyes  of  a  hunted  animal;  a  divinely  sim- 
ple child  in  speech  and  action — so  simple 
as  to  be  beyond  good  and  evil ;  so  simple 
that  neither  society's  ready-made  codes 
nor  its  judgments  ever  quite  fitted  him; 
so  simple  that  no  matter  what  he  did  or 
said  he  always  remained  mysteriously 
and  utterly  clean. 

Why  were  his  eyes  like  that?  Even 
when  he  smiled  they  remained  still, 
tragic,  and  quite  hopeless.  I  have  seen 
pain  in  people's  eyes  that  made  me  wince 
as  from  a  threat.  But  George's  eyes 
prompted  no  such  feeling.  The  pain 
was  stored  there,  but  it  never  begged 
or  demanded.  Rather  did  it  draw  the 
pain  of  others,  to  heal  them.  From 
that  stored  pain,  I  think,  came  Sterling's 


By  Oscar  Lewis 

Author  of  the  Pale  Woman,  etc. 

ment.  It  was  an  extremely  important 
achievement  in  the  eyes  of  a  group  that 
is  larger  in  San  Francisco  than  in  most 
cities:  the  young  men  and  women  who 
know  the  stirrings  of  an  awakening  urge 
to  create,  and  interpret,  and  live,  beauty. 
We  all  know  how  thoroughly  the  cards 
are  stacked  today  against  the  youth  who 
wants  wistfully  to  follow  an  artistic 
career.  More  often  than  not  he  is  dis- 
couraged and  defeated  before  he  begins; 
he  merely  pauses  for  a  time,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  blue  beyond  the  street-ends, 
then  moves  inevitably  toward  the  revolv- 
ing doors  of  the  office  buildings. 

Make  beauty  a  career?  This,  the 
young  man  is  reminded  tolerantly,  is  the 
twentieth  century.  Hustlers,  not  dream- 

Living  Inseparables 

By  James  Rorty 

gentleness,  his  wisdom,  his  greatness  as 
a  person.  For  he  was  genuinely  great. 
I  never  knew  him  to  say  or  do  a  mean 
thing.  I  never  knew  him  to  refuse  help 
to  anybody,  no  matter  how  unworthy 
the  asker.  I  never  knew  him  to  save 
money  or  avoid  temptation — never  in 
fact  knew  him  to  practice  any  of  the 
Poor  Richard  virtues.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  never  knew  him  to  deny  love  or 
to  cherish  hatred;  and  I  never  encoun- 
tered man  or  woman  who  cherished 
hatred  of  Sterling. 

Sterling  loved  poetry — not  as  a  pro- 
fession, not  as  a  race  for  place,  but  as 
a  giving  of  beauty  to  the  world.  Hence 
he  was  extraordinarily  selfless  in  all 
that  concerned  his  art.  This  was  for 
me  always  the  most  convincing  evidence 
of  his  first-rate  quality. 

The  second  year  I  was  in  California 
I  wrote  a  poem  which  friends  made 
into  a  small  book.  I  met  Sterling  at  a 
luncheon  and  gave  him  a  copy.  An 
hour  later  Sterling  phoned  me  at  my 
office  to  say  that  he  had  read  the  book 
and  thought  it  good.  Most  men  would 
have  been  content  with  writing  me  a 
note.  Sterling  telephoned,  that  I  might 
be  warmed  both  by  his  promptness  and 
his  enthusiasm — no,  it  was  scarcely  that. 
George  simply  followed  his  impulse— 
and  his  impulses  were  invariably  gen- 
erous. 

Sterling  belonged  to  an  earlier  gen- 
eration of  letters.  Loving  San  Fran- 
cisco and  hating  the  east,  he  yet  suf- 
fered from  a  sense  of  isolation;  the 


ers,  are  in  demand.  With  fortunes  to 
be  made  on  Montgomery  street,  and 
room  for  more  country  homes  down  the 
peninsula,  why  contemplate  the  folly  of 
a  life  without  possessions?  Why  inflict 
on  trusting  parents  the  near-disgrace  of 
a  professionally  artistic  son  ? 

Materialism  has  so  many  confident 
champions,  beauty  so  few.  Yet,  because 
of  George  Sterling,  the  other,  steeper 
road  has  come  to  look  less  difficult,  the 
goal  less  remote,  to  every  young  San 
Franciscan  who  wants  to  be  a  poet,  or 
an  artist,  or  a  musician.  Thinking  of 
Sterling,  he  has  his  answer  to  the  old 
crafty  argument  that  he  will  be  "wast- 
ing his  life."  Make  beauty  a  career? 
Well — why  not?  It  can  be  done.  That 
much  he  knows  now.  It  is  all  he  wants 
to  know. 


modes  of  verse  were  changing — George 
in  talking  with  me  and  other  younger 
writers  would  refer  to  himself  as  an 
"old  fogy."  We  knew  and  he  knew 
that  this  was  nonsense.  I  for  one  never 
thought  of  him  otherwise  than  as  an 
actively  contemporary  artist,  excellent  to 
talk  with,  excellent  to  quarrel  with,  a 
comrade  and  a  friend.  I  would  heap 
abuse  on  the  memory  of  Ambrose  Bierce, 
whom  he  loyally  revered.  I  would  rail 
at  the  California  sentimentalists  and 
ignoramuses  in  the  arts.  I  would  de- 
nounce his  jeweled  words  as  neo-Eliza- 
bethan  rhetoric  and  trot  out  my  in- 
temperate yawps  as  models  for  his  con- 
sideration. It  never  occurred  to  me  to 
insult  him  by  being  "gentle"  or  "con- 
siderate." He  was  too  much  of  a  man, 
too  much  of  an  artist,  for  that.  If,  as 
I  sometimes  alleged,  the  organized  spir- 
itual ineptitude  of  California  was  intent 
on  making  its  little  world  safe  for  poet- 
asting,  that  objective  was  never  won  so 
long  as  Sterling  lived.  His  talent,  never 
fully  exercised  or  expended,  and  his 
courage,  never  broken,  were  standing 
perils  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

He  was  an  artist.  His  "Autumn  in 
Carmel"  I  consider  one  of  the  most 
nearly  perfect  poems  in  the  language. 
His  "Lilith,"  much  as  I  detest  its  the- 
atrical verbal  trappings,  continues  to 
haunt  me  with  its  essential  power  and 
tragedy. 

George  Sterling  is  dead.  When  I 
see  San  Francisco  again  I  won't  see 
George.  That  hurts,  .when  I  force  my- 
self to  realize  it.  But  Sterling  lives 
on  in  his  work ;  lives,  too,  in  the  memory 
of  those  who  knew  him,  and  lives  well. 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


367 


Roosevelt  Johnson  Becomes  Reminiscent 


H 


I-ONOR  George  Sterling  ...  it 
seemed  a  rather  difficult  and 
—  _  formal  thing  to  do  for  the  mem- 
ory of  one  who  was  so  delightfully  un- 
affected. Yet  I  had  been  requested  to 
do  so  and  such  rites  were  quite  proper 
for  so  great  a  poet.  These  thoughts 
kept  recurring  to  me  as  I  drove  out  to 
talk  the  matter  over  with  Roosevelt 
Johnson,  Sterling's  life-long  friend.  Idle 
eulogy  is  an  easy  task;  to  give  the  es- 
sence of  a  friendship  is  an  exceedingly 
difficult  one.  And  so  it  was  that  we 
discussed  a  younger  Sterling  and  a  far- 
away period  of  his  life.  Great  gift  that 
his  verse  was,  it  seemed  to  us,  just  then, 
that  his  friendship  had  been  a  greater. 

And  so  I  forgot  all  about  the  for- 
mality of  the  occasion  as  I  listen°d  to 
Roosevelt  Johnson  talk  of  boyhood 
pranks  and  follies.  "George  and  I  were 
boys  together  in  Sag  Harbor,"  Mr. 
Johnson  began.  "We  played  around  as 
chums  up  to  the  time  we  were  about 
twelve  years  of  age.  I  recall  that  we 
collected  birds'  eggs,  and  stamps,  keep- 
ing this  pastime  up  for  some  years. 
When  we  were  not  doing  something 
like  that  we  were  trailing  around,  in 
dumb  adoration,  at  the  heels  of  Pete 
McCoy,  an  almost  legendary  figure  of 
the  prize  ring.  Yes,  we  put  a  pirate's 
flag  on  top  the  Presbyterian  Church. 
It  was  quite  a  job  to  get  the  flag  up 
there  and  we  did  it  at  night,  George 
and  I.  Years  later  Mr.  Bierce  went  to 
Sag  Harbor  and  sent  me  a  snapshot  of 
the  church  with  a  drawing  of  his  -own 
showing  the  pirate's  flag  waving  in  the 
breeze. 

"Later  George  went  to  Baltimore  to 
school,  along  with  his  two  brothers.  It 
was  a  Catholic  school  and  the  boys  were 
going  to  study  for  the  priesthood ;  in 
fact,  one  of  them,  James,  did  become  a 
priest.  I  left  at  this  time  for  Staten 
Island  to  begin  to  study  preparatory  to 
entering  a  medical  school.  Later  George 
abandoned  his  school  and  left  for  Cali- 
fornia, and  it  was  not  very  long  after- 
ward that  I  gave  up  my  studies  also 
and  induced  my  father  to  buy  me  a 
ticket  to  California,  where  I  joined 
George.  This  was,  I  believe,  in  1891. 

"In  California  we  were  together  con- 
stantly for  many  years.  At  first  we 
lived  with  George's  uncle  and  then  later 
we  took  rooms  together  in  San  Fran- 
cisco at  Twenty-fourth  and  Telegraph 
road ;  the  place  was  called  Telegraph 
House.  One  day  George  and  I  were 
journeying  out  to  see  Joaquin  Miller. 
It  was  near  Christmas  time  and  we 


By  Carey  McWilliams 

passed  a  window  in  which  three  nice 
turkeys  were  exposed.  I  managed  to 
grab  one  and  we  enjoyed  a  fine  turkey 
dinner  in  the  woods.  We  were  always 
doing  something  of  this  kind.  I  recall 
once  that  I  sold  some  old  coats,  relics 
of  military  academy  days,  so  that  we 
could  have  funds  to  attend  a  prizefight. 
We  were  always  immensely  interested 
in  fighting,  an  outgrowth,  no  doubt,  of 
that  early  hero  worship  of  Pete  McCoy. 
Once  George  and  I  had  it  out,  with 


AMARANTH 

THE   Spring  will  come  with  all  her 
vernal  buds, 
The   while   the  rains   pour  down   their 

cooling  floods ; 
Ah !  this  we  know  as  'neath  protecting 

skies 
We  humbly  pause  to  raise  allegiant  eyes 

To  that   fair  promise  writ   in  growing 

rays 
Which    bends    above    us    through    the 

earthy  haze. 
But  canst  thou   know   that  far  beyond 

such  trust 
I   yet  would  wait  though  all  about  be 

dust, 

Fast  clinging  to  a  hope  born  of  despair 
That  thou  wilt  greet  me,  softly  stand- 
ing where 

The  thorny  paths  converge  on  lily  fields, 
And    Death    himself,    receding,    gently 
yields. 

ALICE  STERLING  GREGORY. 


four-ounce  gloves,  just  to  see  which  was 
the  better  fighter.  It  was  all  done  in 
fun. 

"Speaking  of  things  being  done  in  fun, 
I  recall  the  time  George  and  I  fought 
it  out  with  shotguns.  We  had  gone  to 
visit  Joaquin  Miller  and  had  decided  to 
give  the  old  fellow  a  great  show  by  pre- 
tending to  quarrel  with  each  other  and 
then  to  fight  it  out  with  shotguns.  It 
was  my  idea  that  if  we  walked  out  the 


regular  shotgun  distance  from  each  other 
that  the  shot  would  be  harmless.  Old 
Miller  would  not  know  this  and  we 
could  give  him  a  real  thrill.  Accord- 
ingly we  had  a  dramatic  quarrel  and  old 
Joaquin  was  delighted  at  the  thought 
of  a  shotgun  duel.  We  started  walking 
off  our  distance  and  George  misunder- 
stood something  that  I  said  as  a  signal 
and  fired  too  soon.  I  got  quite  a  few 
shots  in  my  arm,  which  infuriated  me, 
and  I  in  turn  fired  on  George.  We 
spent  all  afternoon  getting  the  shot  out 
of  each  other,  so  the  joke  was  really 
Miller's  after  all. 

"George  was  not  writing  much  during 
this  period.  It  was  not  until  his  return 
from  Hawaii  that  he  first  began  to  write 
poems  and  show  them  to  the  rest  of  us. 
He  became  a  pupil  of  Mr.  Bierce's  and 
it  didn't  seem  any  time  from  then  until 
he  became  famous  as  a  poet.  But  I  be- 
lieve that  I  think  more  of  the  old  boy- 
hood days,  when  we  rambled  through 
the  woods,  swam,  stole  turkeys,  and 
fought  together,  than  of  the  later  years 
when  George  was  writing  verse.  We 
were  always  the  best  of  friends  and 
his  death  was  a  great  loss.  He  possessed 
a  fine  lyric  gift.  I  particularly  liked 
his  songs,  such  as  'The  Carmel  Million- 
aires' and  'The  Abalone  Song.' 

"I  believe  I  was  the  first  person  to 
introduce  George  to  the  poetry  of  Swin- 
burne. At  any  rate  we  both  admired 
Swinburne's  verse  immensely  and  I  can't 
think  of  anything  to  say  about  George 
that  would  be  as  appropriate  as  these 
lines  from  Swinburne: 

'Time  takes  them  home  that  we  loved, 
fair  names  and  famous, 

To  the  soft,  long  sleep,  to  the  broad 
sweet  bosom  of  death; 

But  the  flower  of  their  souls  he  shall 
not  take  away  to  shame  us, 

Nor  the  lips  lack  song  forever  that  now 
lack  breath ; 

For  with  us  shall  the  music  and  per- 
fume that  die  not  dwell, 

Though  the  dead  to  our  dead  bid  wel- 
come, and  we  farewell.'  " 

And  as  I  drove  home  from  Mr.  John- 
son's the  sense  of  loss  occasioned  by  this 
discussion  of  a  lost  friend  and  companion 
was  merged  in  the  music  of  Swinburne's 
lines  and  I,  too,  thought  that  death  was 
not  such  a  thief,  for  there  was  left  us 
the  "music  and  perfume"  of  Lillith  and 
its  magic  was  timeless. 


368 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


I  KNEW  George  Sterling  best  and 
most  memorably  at  Carmel.  He 
revealed  there  by  the  shore,  in  the 
pine  woods,  and  at  his  own  hearth,  an 
attractiveness  not  to  be  described,  let 
alone  explained,  in  words.  He  was  the 
center  of  our  Carmel  atom — the  proton 
of  positive  electricity  around  which  the 
rest  of  us  revolved  as  negative  electrons, 
held  from  flying  off  tangentially  by  his 
magic  attraction. 

At  his  house  we  came  together  for 
New  Year's  eve  and  other  times,  wind- 
ing up  into  the  "Forest  Eighty"  with 
candle  lanterns  in  those  days  of  primi- 
tive Carmel,  bringing  sometimes  some- 
thing to  eat  or  drink  to  add  to  his  own 
and  Carrie's  generous  providing.  We 
chatted,  we  sang,  we  danced.  But  al- 


George  Sterling 


By  Vernon  Kellogg 

ways  we  were  guided  by  his  mood.  His 
presence  pervaded  the  house;  it  pene- 
trated us.  Some  of  us — I  was  not  one 
of  them — would  occasionally  bring  a  bit 
of  verse  hopefully  to  show  him.  He 
was  always  kind — but  truthful,  in  a  way 
that  was  not  a  hurt  but  a  help.  Nobody 
questioned  his  judgment.  What  he  said 
was  oracle. 

What  my  own  relation  to  Sterling 
was  is  hard  for  me  to  define.  Probably 
I  never  really  knew.  I  was  a  university 
professor;  that  meant  the  dry  academic 
type.  Sterling  was  not  interested  in 
drouth.  But  I  was  a  scientist.  Sterling 
was  interested  in  science.  We  talked 
Darwinism,  bitter  natural  selection,  na- 


ture read  in  tooth  and  claw,  the  animal 
in  man.  He  wrote  once,  and  dedicated 
to  me,  much  to  my  pride,  a  short  poem 
giving  in  fewest  words  a  seizing  picture 
of  this  struggle.  He  was  evidently 
deeply  impressed  by  it. 

He  spoke  sometimes  of  the  hopeless- 
ness of  life.  But  he  was  certainly  often 
happy.  I  remember  him  happily  collect- 
ing abalones;  happily  amusing  us  all 
at  rehearsals  in  the  Forest  Theater  as 
a  half-clad  Indian;  happily  acting  the 
unconventional  host  on  New  Year's  eve. 
Yet  sadness  was  never  far  away.  The 
look  of  it  would  steal  over  his  face  any 
time,  anywhere. 

I  cherish  the  memory  of  him ;  and  yet 
I  never  really  knew  him. 


SITTING  before  a  typewriter  try- 
ing to  write  about  George. 
(George,  I  never  expected  to  have 
to  do  this.)  What  shall  you  say  when 
he  himself  chose  silence?  (George,  I 
know  every  turn  of  the  road,  although 
it  was  yours  to  walk  on.)  How  is  it 
possible  to  write  one  unreal  word  of  the 
dead,  when  they  have  chosen  its  hon- 
esty and  wanted  its  naturalness? 
(George,  you  were  limited  by  the  time 
you  lived  in,  and  by  the  beliefs  of  your 
generation,  but  so  are  we  all.)  I  pre- 
fer to  talk  to  him  directly.  He  will 
understand  me.  Readers  of  this  troubled 


Last  Words 

By  Genevieve  Taggard 

prose,  don't  suppose  that  this  is  a  liter- 
ary tribute  to  a  man  who  gave  me  praise 
and  kindness  and  a  poet's  acknowledg- 
ment. (You  did,  George,  and  I  will 
not  forget.)  This  is  sitting  down  at  the 
typewriter  to  unravel  the  old  problem — 
Death,  Poetry,  Undifferent  Humanity, 
and  the  concrete  being  of  a  Person, 
George  Sterling.  (I  think  of  your  poet's 
years  in  terms  of  pain,  because  you 
wanted  something  you  did  not  achieve.) 
A  poet,  under  all  his  masks,  wants  to 
be  able  to  give  people  what  they  need. 


And  when  they  neither  know  what  they 
need,  nor  find  by  accident  what  he  has 
put  close  to  them  (hoping  they  will  find 
it  if  just  made  and  left  to  be  found), 
then  inevitably  the  poet  dies.  (I  knew 
you  were  dying,  George,  when  last  I 
saw  you.)  It  is  no  one's  fault.  (You 
wanted  someone  to  feed  them,  no  matter 
who.)  Now  it  is  time  to  give  him 
honor  and  burial.  (Let  them  remember 
the  Black  Vulture,  George,  aloof  on 
the  day's  immeasurable  dome.)  What 
shall  we  say  now,  when  he  himself  chose 
silence  ? 


From  the  Fourth  Century,  B.  C. 


GEORGE  STERLING  was  a  rare 
and  exquisite  poet  whose  work  is 
an  imperishable  part  of  the  dis- 
tinguished   literary    history   of    Califor- 
nia.   He  always  impressed  me  as  being 
born  out  of  time  and  place,  a  reincarna- 
tion  perhaps   from    the   Athens  of   the 


By  Gertrude  Atherton 

Fourth  or  Third  Century  B.  C.,  and  I 
used  to  wish  somewhat  fantastically  that 
he  could  have  drifted  through  this  in- 
congruous age  as  a  disembodied  spirit; 
never  seen  but  somehow  making  himself 


heard.  But  if  he  was  cursed  with  mor- 
tality and  never  succeeded  in  orienting 
himself,  at  least  he  performed  his  mis- 
sion in  giving  exalted  pleasure  to  the 
many  who  could  appreciate  his  great 
gift,  his  art,  and  his  devotion  to  his 
muse. 


HE  had  the  body  of  Mercury  and 
the  face  of  Dante.    These  ex- 
ternals expressed  the  inner  char- 
acter of  the  man.     The  gay  lightsome- 
ness  of  the  Greek  god  and  the  tragic  in- 
tensity of  the  Italian  seer  struggled  his 
whole  life  long  in  his  soul.    The  Mer- 
cury   in    him    engendered    that    poetry 


The  Greek 

By  Will  Irwin 

which  reflected  the  Greek  side  of  his 
beloved  California;  the  Dante  stirred  up 
that  spiritual  travail  which  ended  in  his 
tragic  death.  Mercury  produced  his 
lovely  lyrics;  Dante  his  mystic,  majestic 
"Testimony  of  the  Suns." 


Life  presented  itself  to  him  as  an  ex- 
traordinarily fantastic  story  of  which  he 
must  read  and  understand  every  phrase. 
Through  strange  adventures  of  the  mind 
and  vivid  experiences  of  the  soul,  he 
followed  it  until  it  neared  its  end.  Then, 
as  though  tiring  suddenly  of  its  chaotic 
scheme,  its  blind  contradictions,  he  sud- 
denly closed  the  book. 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


369 


George  Sterling's  Bohemian  Creed 


u 


P 


ARD  like  spirit,  beautiful  and 
swift :  Love  in  desolation 
masked."  Shelley  spoke  thus  of 
himself,  and  every  word  is  true  of 
George  Sterling,  too.  In  the  mazes  of 
Main  Street,  Sterling  walked  either  too 
swiftly,  or  shyly  lagged  behind,  but  sel- 
dom kept  pace  with  the  smug  and  corpu- 
lent materialists.  His  aerial  nature  in- 
cited him  to  consider  himself  a  Bohe- 
mian. But  his  Bohemian  creed  had  "a 
pard-like  spirit,  beautiful  and  swift," 
and  sparkled  with  superb  overtones  of 
love. 

''Any  good  'mixer'  of  convivial  habits 
.  ..siders  he  has  a  right  to  be  called  a 
Bohemian,"  George  Sterling  once  said 
to  me.  "But  that  is  not  a  valid  claim. 
There  are  two  elements,  at  least,  that 
are  essential  to  bohemianism.  The  first 
is  a  devotion  (or  addiction)  to  one  or 
more  of  the  Seven  Arts;  the  other  is 
poverty.  Other  factors  suggest  them- 


By  Gobind  Behari  Lai 

selves :  for  instance,  I  like  to  think  of 
my  Bohemians  as  young,  as  radical  in 
their  outlook  on  art  and  life,  as  uncon- 
ventional, and  (though  this  is  debat- 
able) as  dwellers  in  a  city  large  enough 
to  have  the  somewhat  cruel  atmosphere 
of  all  great  cities." 

Embracing  poverty  as  a  point  of  chiv- 
alry —  thus  bowing  in  companionship 
with  those  who  travel  light  and  unac- 
companied, bent  on  some  redeeming  cru- 
sade— devoted  to  art,  and  pulsating  with 
rational  intellectualism  and  revolution- 
ary emotion,  this  arch  and  anarch  artist, 
George  Sterling,  followed  a  bohemian 
life  of  epic  proportions. 

No  less  than  the  epic  of  the  Renais- 
sance was  his  historical  background.  It 
was  as  if  a  Dante  were  born  in  the 
fifteenth  century  Italy  or  Elizabethan 


England,  and  in  early  manhood  came 
over  to  the  twentieth  century  San  Fran- 
cisco. Too  much  a  wrench  in  the  unity 
of  history?  Not  if  one  understood  San 
Francisco — this  Sterling's  "pays  ami," 
his  "Cool  grey  city  of  love" — a  city  in 
which  has  been  distilled  the  essence  of 
the  fifteenth  century  Renaissance  of  the 
Italian  shores.  Not  a  city  born  of  that 
puritanic,  bleak  Reformation  that 
snuffed  out  beauty  from  the  new  spirit 
of  the  Renaissance.  Sterling  was  a  Ren- 
aissance figure  in  art  and  humanism ; 
and  he  was  in  utter  harmony  in  a  city 
that  still  proves  that  America  is  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  Renaissance,  a  city  that  holds 
perhaps  the  promise  of  a  twentieth  cen- 
tury Renaissance. 

Sterling  was  the  prophet  of  such  a 
promise,  for  while  he  summed  up  a  great 
classic  tradition,  he  also  leaned  forward 
upon  the  horizon  of  tomorrow;  such 
was  his  bohemianism ! 


"O  Carthage  and  the  Unreturning  Ships" 


THOUGH  he  looked  very  much 
like  Dante,  to  whom  he  was  also 
akin  in  the  warmth  of  his  tem- 
perament and  the  colorful  and  tragic 
quality  of  his  verse,  George  Sterling  was 
Spartan  in  the  simplicity  of  his  living 
and  Athenian  in  the  crystal  clearness  of 
his  mind.  Jack  London  called  him  "the 
Greek."  The  open  air  appealed  to  him 
strongly,  and  all  the  manifestations  of 
nature.  The  stars  and  the  ocean,  the 
moon  and  the  hills  were  the  background 
of  his  thoughts,  and  imperishably  he  put 
them  into  words.  Sunsets  and  storms, 
sunshine  and  calm,  birds  and  animals 
and  sea  things — he  loved  them  all,  and 
without  sentimentality. 

One  of  the  first  writers  to  build  his 
home  in  Carmel,  he  was  a  long  and  fast 
walker  and  knew  every  part  of  the  shore 
from  the  lighthouse  on  the  north  point 
of  Monterey  Bay  down  to  the  redwoods 
of  Palo  Colorado,  and  inland  for  miles 
he  was  familiar  as  a  scout  with  the  hills 
and  canyons.  He  hunted  a  great  deal, 
and  was  usually  in  the  sea  at  low  tide 
for  mussels  and  abalones.  Strangely 
enough  in  one  whose  poetry  was  so  aus- 
tere, he  had  a  delightful  sense  of  humor, 
and  his  song  on  the  hapless  gastropod 
mollusk  is  deservedly  famous.  His  aba- 
lone  feasts  were  the  social  events  of  early 


By  Herbert  Heron 

Carmel  days.  At  his  home  gathered 
most  of  the  interesting  folk  of  the  small 
village  and  its  visitors,  and  all  were 
treated  with  the  same  beautiful  cour- 
tesy. 

A  brilliant  wit  and  host,  Sterling  was 
also  a  man  of  the  deepest  human  sym- 
pathies. Scores  of  writers  and  hundreds 
of  would-be  writers  know  how  generous 
he  was  with  his  precious  time  in  reading 
and  criticising  their  efforts,  and  many 
are  the  friends  who  know  how  his  great 
heart  was  the  first  to  feel  for  them  in 
misfortune  and  to  help  when  it  lay  in 
his  power. 

If  he  had  never  written  a  line,  the 
loss  of  his  personality  would  have  left 
a  void  in  the  life  of  California,  though 
the  obliteration  of  the  poet  cannot  kill 
the  splendor  of  his  accomplished  work. 
We  do  not  know  what  he  might  still 
have  given  to  the  world  of  beauty,  but 
his  volumes  of  high  poetry  from  The 
Testimony  of  the  Suns  to  Sails  and 
Mirage  are  crown  jewels  in  the  treasure- 
house  of  America.  If  one  man  may  be 
said  to  have  lighted  the  dark  interreg- 
num between  the  old  poetry  and  the 
new,  that  one  was  George  Sterling. 


"He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face 
and  throat,  lyric  Apollo!" 

I  have  always  been  glad  that  I  knew 
him  as  a  poet  for  some  years  before  our 
long  friendship  began,  and  while  know- 
ing only  his  work,  formed  an  opinion 
of  its  value  that  never  needed  to  be 
changed  —  unless  an  increase  in  the 
strength  of  the  same  opinion  can  be 
called  a  change.  He  seemed  to  me  as 
a  boy,  as  he  seems  to  me  now,  the  right- 
ful successor  to  the  line  of  Keats  and 
Shelley,  or  Rossetti  and  Swinburne,  and 
of  Poe  in  America.  Twenty  years  ago 
I  wrote  of  him,  whom  then  I  had  not 
seen,  some  rather  florid  verses.  I  could 
not  write  of  him  in  this  tone  today. 
The  personal  loss  is  too  poignant.  My 
thoughts  of  him  are  very  simple  thoughts 
— of  him  and  not  of  his  poetry.  I  have 
not  read  his  books  in  the  year  since  his 
death,  but  when  the  tide  is  low  on  the 
rocks  of  Carmel  Bay,  when  the  wind 
blows  on  the  hill  that  overlooks  the 
Mission,  when  the  quail  call  in  the  un- 
derbrush or  the  surf  is  loud  in  the  dark- 
ness— then  I  wish  he  were  here,  that  he 
might  share  their  spell,  that  he  might 
see  again  the  swift  colors  of  the  setting 
sun  and  the  rose  of  Aldebaran  in  a  clear 
twilight. 


370 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


To  A  Girl  Dancing   ! 

By  George  Sterling 

(From  Sails  and  Mirage,  published  by  A.  M.  Robertson, 
1921 ,  San  Francisco) 


HAS  the  wind  called  you  sister? 
Sister  to  Kypris,  who,  as  the  far  foam  kissed  her, 

Rose  exquisite  and  white. 
For  seeing  you,  we  dream  of  all  swift  things 

And  of  the  swallow's  flight — 
Of  sea-birds  drifting  on  untroubled  wings, 
And  incense  swaying  at  the  shrine  of  kings, 
In  gossamers  of  violascent  light. 
In  what  Sicilian  meadows,  cool  with  dew, 

Ran  rosier  girls  than  you 

With  tresses  dancing  free, 
To  tell  how  beautiful  the  world  might  be? 

In  what  high  days  unborn, 
Will  sheerer  loveliness  go  forth  at  morn, 
To  wave  a  brief  farewell  to  night's  last  star? 
For  you,  we  envy  not  the  lost  and  far, 

As  now  you  make  our  day 
As  happy  and  imperial  as  they. 

More  than  the  ripple  of  grass  and  waters  flowing, — 

More  than  the  panther's  grace 
Or  poppy  touched  by  winds  from  sunset  blowing, 

Your  limbs  in  rapture  trace 
An  evanescent  pattern  on  the  sight — 
Beauty  that  lives  an  instant,  to  become 
A  sister  beauty  and  a  new  delight. 
So  full  you  feed  the  heart  that  hearts  are  dumb. 
Those  little  hands  set  back  the  hands  of  time, 
Till  we  remember  what  the  world  has  dreamed, 

In  her  own  clime, 

Of  Beauty,  and  her  tides  that  ebb  and  flow 
Around  old  islands  where  her  face  has  glearned, 
The  marvellous  mirage  of  long  ago. 

Ah !    More  than  voice  hath  said 

They  speak  of  revels  fled  — 
The  alabastine  and  exultant  thighs, 

The  vine-encircled  head, 
The  rose-face  lifted,  lyric,  to  the  skies, 
The  loins  by  leaping  roses  garlanded. 

The  sandaled  years  return, 

The  lamps  of  Eros  burn, 

The  flowers  of  Circe  nod. 
And  one  may  dream  of  other  days  and  lands, 
Of  other  girls  that  touch  unrested  hands — 

Sad  sirens  of  the  god, 

To  some  forgotten  tune 
Swaying  their  silvern  hips  below  the  moon, 

Dance  on,  for  dreams  they  are  indeed, 
A  vision  set  afar, 

But  you  with  warm,  immediate  beauty  plead. 
And  fragrant  is  your  footfall  on  our  star  — 

O  flesh  made  music  in  its  ecstasy, 
Sing  to  us  ere  an  end  of  song  shall  be : 

O  fair  things  young  and  fleet! 

White  flower  of  floating  feet! 
Be  glad!    Be  glad!  for  happiness  is  holy! 


Be  glad  awhile,  for  on  the  greensward  slowly 

Summer  and  autumn  pass, 

With  shadows  on  the  grass, 

Till  in  the  meadows  lowly 
November's  tawny  reeds  shall  sigh  "Alas!" 

Dear  eyes, 
What  see  you  on  the  azure  of  the  skies? 

Enchanted,  eager  face, 
Seek  you  young  love  in  his  eternal  place? 
Round  arms  upflung,  what  is  it  you  would  clasp — 

What  far-off  lover? 

Hands  that  a  moment  hover, 

What  hands  unseen  evade  awhile  your  grasp?          . 
Ah !  that  is  best :  to  seek  but  not  to  find  him, 
For  found  and  loved  the  seasons  yet  will  blind  him — 

To  this  true  heaven  you  are — 
That  moth  unworthy  of  your  soul's  white  star, 
Dance  on,  and  dream  of  better  things  than  he! 
Dance  on,  translating  us  the  mortal's  guess 
At  Beauty  and  her  immortality — 
Yourself  your  flesh-clad  art  and  loveliness. 

Dance,  for  the  time  comes  when  the  dance  is  done 

And  feet  not  longer  run 
On  paths  of  rapture  leading  from  the  day. 

Release  not  now 

The  vine  that  you  have  bound  about  your  brow : 
Dance,  granting  us  awhile  that  we  forget 

How  morrows  but  delay, 
Yet  come  as  surely  as  their*  own  regret. 

Through  you  the  Past  is  ours, 

Through  you  the  Future  flow'rs, 
In  you  their  dreams  and  happiness  are  met. 

Through  you  we  find  again 

That  birth  of  bliss  and  pain, 
That  thing  of  joy  and  tears  and  hope  and  laughter 

That  men  call  youth — 

A  greater  thing  than  truth, 

A  fairer  thing  than  fame 

In  songs  hereafter, 
A  miracle,  an  unreturning  flame, 
The  season  for  itself  alone  worth  living, 
And  needing  not  our  patience  nor  forgiving. 

O  heart  that  knows  enough  and  yet  must  learn 
The  wisdom  that  we  spurn! 

The  years  at  last  will  teach  you : 

May  now  no  whisper  reach  you 
Of  noons  when  pleading  of  the  flutes  shall  cease 
And  not  for  rapture  will  you  beg,  but  peace. 

To-day  it  seems  too  harsh  that  you  should  know 

How  soon  the  wreath  must  go 

And  those  flower-mating  feet 
Be  gathered,  even  as  flowers,  by  cruel  Time, 

Their  flashing  rhyme 

No  more  to  mingle  with  the  blood's  wild  beat.  , 

Dance,  with  no  wind  to  chill  your  perfect  grace, 

Nor  shadow  on  your  face, 
Nor  voice  to  call  to  unenduring  rest 
The  limbs  delighting  and  the  naked  breast. 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and  OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


371 


Gaudeamus  Igitur 


IT  was  Maria  Felicita  Mallbran  who 
said :     "Only  great  natures  are  ca- 
pable of  surrender  to  delight.     Peo- 
ple are  so  afraid  of  joy." 

In  the  many  years  of  my  friendship 
with  George  Sterling  I  never  knew  him 
to  be  afraid  of  the  surrender  to  delight. 
He  was  the  child  of  joy,  formed  for 
the  sun  and  the  chaplet  of  vine  leaves. 
He  sang  and  he  died.  But,  singing,  he 
lived  his  Pagan,  joyous  course  with  the 
whole-heartedness  that  only  genius  can 
bring  to  living.  Of  such  sons  of  the 
morning  we  must  say  with  Addison : 
"Those  who  paint  them  truest,  praise 
them  most." 

George  Sterling,  the  Pagan,  I  knew 
well.  I  first  met  him  at  a  Bohemian 
Club  Jinks  in  the  redwoods,  twenty-two 
years  ago.  I  had  tired  of  the  "Low 
Jinks"  festivities  anad  wandered  away 
through  the  empty  street  of  sleeping 
tents.  Presently  I  came  upon  a  bril- 
liantly lighted  bar.  Bottles  of  every 
color  and  shape  were  there  and  every 
liquor  known  to  man.  There  was  a 
steward  behind  the  bar  and  a  solitary 
figure  in  front  of  it.  On  the  latter's 
foaming  mop  of  hair  was  a  wreath  of 
laurel.  He  had  the  face  of  Cellini's 
Perseus.  Without  a  word  his  arm 
linked  mine  and  he  drew  me  tenderlv 
toward  a  bottle  and  a  glass.  We  drank 
and,  on  a  secret  sign,  drank  again.  "Are 
you  a  poet?"  I  asked,  adjusting  his  lau- 
rel wreath.  *  "I  wonder  if  I  am,"  he 
replied  musingly.  We  had  another  one. 
The  good  liquor  bit  deep.  Nature 
spoke  to  me.  With  sharpened  senses 
I  heard  the  soundless  communing  of  the 
trees.  A  million  threads  of  wood  odors 
sprang  to  my  dilating  nostrils  .  .  .  the 
night  came  down  and  touched  me.  "Oh, 
poet!"  I  cried.  "Speak  to  me  of  trees — 
of  regal-rearing,  kingly  trees."  The  poet 
backed  away.  "I  will  not!"  he  said  in- 
dignantly. "I  am  here  for  pleasure. 
You  sing  a  song."  So  I  sang  a  song. 
And  when  the  song  was  finished  and 
we  had  drunk  another  toast,  the  poet 
swore  by  all  the  gods  of  Olympus  that 
I  was  his  blood-brother;  and  he  fur- 
ther declared  that  it  was  immediately 
imperative  that  I  make  all  haste  to  dis- 
play my  prowess  at  the  Circle  of  the 
All-Night  Camp  Fire,  and  that  he  him- 
self, the  poet,  must  have  the  august 
honor  of  introducing  me  to  that  illus- 
trious meeting.  And,  after  many  false 
starts  engendered  by  the  poet's  unfin- 
ished adieus  to  the  siren  flagon,  we  went. 
The  poet  advanced  with  tremendous 
dignity  to  the  center  of  the  circle,  his 


By  Homer  Henley 

wreath  of  laurel  slanted  engagingly  over 
one  ear.  He  called  aloud  my  name  and 
introduced  me  in  an  impassioned  pane- 
gyric full  of  violent  gestures.  I  sang. 
Others  sang.  Many  stories  were  told. 
The  poet  refused  to  recite  any  poem  he 
had  ever  written  or  heard  of.  He  was 
here  for  pleasure  —  somebody  sing  a 
song! 

George  Sterling,  the  man  and  brother, 
I  knew  well.  How  many  times  have  I, 
in  common  with  that  other  innumerable 
host  of  wishful  writers,  taken  manu- 
scripts to  him  for  criticism  and  help. 
Untiring  in  kindness  and  patience,  he 
gave  them  the  time  he  might  have  em- 
ployed for  his  own  creative  work.  But 
who  can  say  he  did  the  lesser  thing? 
There  is  a  genius  in  kindness  and  George 
Sterling  had  that,  too. 

There  was  a  George  Sterling,  how- 
ever, that  but  few  people  knew — the 
lover  of  music.  Music  was  a  shy,  fur- 
tive sort  of  passion  with  him,  yet  still 
a  real  passion ;  though  that  strange  dif- 
fidence, sprung  from  some  obscure  cell 
of  his  psyche,  inhibited  him  from  own- 
ing to  it,  except  to  the  few  who  under- 
stood him.  He  often  told  me  that  mu- 
sic was  one  of  the  great  delights  of  his 
life,  but  it  saddened  him  that  he  did 
not  understand  it  better.  Song  was  at 
once  a  rapture  and  a  mystery  to  him. 
He  had  no  singing  voice  of  his  own,  and 
the  marvel  of  human  bird  notes  cascad- 
ing from  round,  white  human  throats 
was  his  ceaseless  ravishment  and  amaze. 
He  once  embarrassedly  confessed  to  me 
that  if  he  had  been  given  a  singing  voice 
it  would  have  made  him  happier  than 
anything  else  in  life. 

He  was  a  frequent  visitor  in  my  stu- 
dio in  the  heart  of  Frank  Norris's  Polk 
street  during  the  years  that  I  kept  open 
house  on  Saturday  nights.  He  would 
always  stop  me,  on  my  round  trips  with 
the  teapot,  "Have  some  more  singing, 
won't  you,  Homer?"  And  he  seemed 
never  to  get  enough  of  singing.  At 
these  evenings  he  invariably  had  a  few 
new  poems  in  manuscript  in  his  breast 
pocket,  and  he  liked  to  be  asked  to  read 
them  aloud.  His  was  the  perfect  deliv- 
ery for  poetry.  His  voice  was  utterly 
devoid  of  expression,  cadence  or  inflec- 
tion. A  level  flow  of  tone  issued  from 
his  barely  parted  lips  in  a  reedy  tenor. 
Nothing  in  this  sound  distracted  the  ear 
from  the  text.  It  was  as  if  clear  print 
ran  from  his  mouth,  and  every  mental 
eye  followed  it  with  perfect  ease  and 


understanding,  each  ear  supplying  its 
own  nuance  and  color.  George  would 
always  advance  with  his  tip-toe,  dancing 
step,  and  one  bent  leg  thrust  out  would 
be  set  as  if  on  a  running  mark.  Over 
his  back-slanted  forehead  a  strong  wave 
of  gray  hair  toppled  toward  one  eye. 
His  thin  nostrils  would  dilate  and  con- 
tract rapidly,  and  so  powerfully  that 
they  would  curl  at  the  edges.  But  in 
return  for  his  poesy  he  would  exact 
usury  in  songs,  sitting  with  his  hands 
folded  sedately  in  his  lap,  looking  stead- 
fastly and  soberly  at  the  floor  as  he 
listened.  His  ironic  face  wore  a  puz- 
zled, almost  rueful  expression  when 
song  or  music  was  forward,  and  I  often 
wondered  just  what  he  thought  of  it. 

I  once  gave  him  a  party;  and  that  is 
worthy  of  record  by  reason  of  its  being 
the  first  and  last  function  ever  given 
in  his  honor.  His  shyness  and  modesty 
had  always  made  him  bluntly  refuse  all 
honors  of  a  like  nature  and  only  he 
knew  why  he  permitted  the  giving  of 
this  one.  It  was  an  interesting  party 
and,  when  the  bashful  poet  had  put  his 
first  trepidations  behind  him,  his  god- 
given  capacity  for  the  surrender  to  de- 
light made  it  a  wonderful  one;  for  his 
incandescent  and  almost  furious  joy  was 
a  fire-brand  to  the  rest  of  us.  There 
was  an  unveiling  of  a  bust  of  the  poet, 
modeled  by  Henri  von  Sabern.  There 
were  erudite  anad  witty  papers  read  by 
Edward  F.  O'Day,  George  Douglas, 
Pauline  Jacobson,  Idwal  Jones,  John  G. 
Niehardt,  Grattan  English,  Louis  J. 
Stellman  and  others.  There  was  an  end- 
less succession  of  amusing  stunts,  all 
aimed  straight  at  the  blushing  and  de- 
lighted George,  and  there  was  wassail 
and  poetry  and  song — enough  song  to 
satisfy  even  the  incredible  song-hunger 
of  this  music-lonesome  poet.  George 
Sterling  said  he  would  never  forget  that 
party,  and  he  never  did.  It  was  the  one 
time  that  he  permitted  the  towering 
flame  of  his  delighting  self  to  reach  the 
ramparts  of  his  modesty. 

The  verses  by  George  Douglas,  "To 
George  Sterling,"  read  that  night,  have 
waited  for  another  audience  until  this 
time,  and  I  believe  them  to  be  worthy 
of  the  repetition : 

Presentation  to  George  Sterling  at 
Homer  Henley's  Studio. 

TO  GEORGE  STERLING 

To  Caesar  we  may  give 
The  things  we  have, 
For  what  we  have 
The  Caesars  crave. 

(Continued  on  Page  383) 


372 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


Poetry  To  George  Sterling 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  POET 

THERE  is  a  tower  standing  bleak  and 
high 
Beside  the  sea.      Its   turrets   touch   the 

sky. 
Beneath  the  sea  its  deep  foundations  lie. 

On  every  side  but  one  it  fronts  the  sea; 
Behind  it  in  a  grey  eternity 
Marshes  and  marshes  stretch  out  end- 
lessly. 

Five  grated  windows,  each  a  narrow 
slit, 

Cut  in  the  solid  wall  look  down  from  it. 

Behind  the  bars  strange  lights  and  shad- 
ows flit. 

There  is  an  entrance  upward  through 
the  base, 

A  cave  which  sluggish  creatures  some- 
times trace 

With  slimy  coil  or  shining  carapace. 

There  is  another  entrance  high   in   air 
Above  the  sea,  and  when  the  day  is  fair 
Strange  birds  of  passage  sometimes  enter 
there. 

Is  it  a  prison ;  or  the  rendezvous 
Of  mocking  spirits;  some  fantastic  crew 
Holding    strange    carnival    the    whole 
night  through? 

Sometimes  a  hand  outstretched  toward 

the  stars 
Beckons   for  help,  or  torn  with  bloody 

scars 
Beats  at  the  wall,  or  wrenches  at  the 

bars. 

Or  wafted  downward  from  that  Tower 

of  stone 
Above  the  seabird's  cry,  the  sea-wind's 

moan 
Comes  a   faint  song   of   triumph — then 

a  groan. 

DERRICK  NORMAN  LEHMER. 

*      *      * 

CRY  HARK! 

I  HAVE  heard  the  wild  slow  horns  of 
morning  blowing  on  a  hill, 

I  have  heard  the  drums  of  dawn  call 
up  the  slumbering  light, 

I  have  seen  the  amber  East  leap  up  erect 
and  shining. 

When  night  the  lover  turns  from  whis- 
pering and  the  bride  escapes, 

Up,  up  between  the  stars  she  lay  upon 

I  have  seen  the  dawn. 

I  have  seen  the  pillar  of  full  noon  stand- 
ing on  the  world, 


I  have  seen  tall  mid-day  tower  into  the 

sky 
And  the  meridian  shadow  cling  beneath 

the  rose. 
There,  there,  where  Time  and  Timeless 

halt  an  instant  face  to  face, 
I  have  seen,  higher  and  higher, 
Noon  mounting  to  her  golden  spire. 
I  have  seen,  superb  and  bright, 
Noon  standing  on  her  golden  height. 

Come  slowly,  yellow  twilight,  fill  the 
hollow  sky, 

Till  muted  radiance  of  dusk  possesses 
earth — 

Oh,  loose  the  vesper-moth  to  flutter  in  a 
bush! 

Soft,  soft  the  mellow  kiss,  the  stealing 
arms  of  night 

That  draw  the  shadows  to  the  moun- 
tain's breast 

And  lay  the  light  to  rest. 

Drive  home  the  soul  into  the  heart,  the 
light  into  the  spirit, 

Rouse,  arouse  us,  dawn  and  noon!  twi- 
light and  night,  let  us  not  slum- 
her! 

Cry  hark!  the    unsleeping    nightingale! 

Cry  hark!  the  burning  of  the  choral 
stars! 

Cry  hark!  the  implacable  feet  of  Time, 
pacing  around  the  world ! 

Until  our  song  upon  the  dust  is  fallen 

stark 

And   we   lie    down    beside    it    in   the 
dark, 

Cry  hark! 
*      *      * 

DRUNKARD  OF  LIFE 
(In  Memory  of  George  Sterling) 

DRUNKARD  of  life  as  any  bee  of 
sweets, 

Lover  of  the  swift  race,  the  good  battle 
Of  man  against  nature, 
Man  against  fate, 
Full-hearted  lover 
Of  life's  laughing  lustihood — 
Could  he  accept 
And  drink 
And  drain 
The  mild  cup  of  age? 

The  poet  knows  when  his  last  song  has 

broken 
From  lips  that  turn  no  longer  to  warm 

life; 

He  knows,  he  knows 
The  meaning  of  a  touch 
Cold  on  his  forehead, 
Colder  on  his  limbs. 


Let  us  not  blame  this  one  who  when  he 

felt 

Life  dead  in  his  heart 
Scorned  the  slow  dying 
Of  tardy  flesh    .    .     . 

ELSA  GIDLOW. 

*     *     * 

TO  GEORGE  STERLING 

(1907) 

IN    Death's    republic    lies    the    Raven 
Bard, 
And   there   in   magic  slumber  on   his 

tomb, 
Waits    Poetry   with    folded   wings.      A 

guard 
Of   wan    pretenders   battle   back   the 

gloom 
Intrenched  about  the  broken  form  that 

held 

The    lonely    beauty    of    Poe's   spirit- 
flame. 
Despairingly,   from  younger  hearts 

and  old, 

We  call,  by  need  compelled ; 
Yet  still  she  dreams  in  marble  sleep : 

her  name 

Is  lost  among  the  shadows  and  the 
cold. 

But  hark!  a  sound  beyond  the  darkness 

breaks, 

Like  music  of  the  sea  from  isles  afar; 
And   morning  flashes  on  the  mountain 

lakes 

In  gold  and  purple  to  its  herald  star. 
Up  from  the  bier  of  him  (we  cease  to 

mourn, 
Waked  by  a  harp  upon  a  westward 

shore, 
Rises    the    winged    Spirit    through 

the  grey 

Of  Europe's  rack  of  scorn. 
Above  the  deep  her  splendid  pinions 

soar: 

The  clouds  are   fire;  the  shadows 
melt  in  day. 

How    fared    thy    Keats,    O    England? 

Call  thine  own! 

And    yet,    'twere    shame    Rome    ren- 
dered him  to  thee 
Who  drave  him,  in  the  guard  of  Death 

alone, 

To  foreign  sleep  across  a  foreign  sea — 

A  soul  of  wonder  opening  on  the  world ! 

Now   flames   a   nearer   strand:   with 

burning  lip 
The   Poet  of   the   Sun  dispels  the 

night, 

And  we,  our  hopes  unfurled, 
Sail    in   the  dawn   on   his  enchanted 

ship 

O'er  oceans  of  immeasurable  light. 
HERBERT  HERON. 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


373 


The  Poetry  of  Today 


THERE  are  many  readers  of  lit- 
erary taste  in  California  who  be- 
lieve the  West  is  in  the  midst  of 
a  poetic  dearth.  Since  the  author  of  the 
immortal  "The  Man  With  the  Hoe" 
and  "Virgilia"  is  self-exiled  in  the  jun- 
gles of  New  York,  and  since  the  queenly 
pioneer  and  contemporary  of  Bret  Harte 
alone  bears  the  palm  of  letters  from  the 
sixties  and  seventies,  they  say  we  are 
perilously  near  a  poetic  "Dark  Age." 
Truly,  there  does  appear  a  lacking  of 
the  great  in  metre  and  rhyme.  Mrs. 
Atherton  has  emphasized  the  situation 
by  giving  a  list  of  fifty-six  authors  who 
have  "indisputably  arrived."  Read  her 
summary  of  immortals  in  the  revision 
of  her  "California  History."  The  poets 
are  not  many. 

Charles  Erskine  S.  Woods  has  tem- 
porarily deserted  the  singing  coterie  to 
satisfy  his  longing  for  the  ideal  by  writ- 
ing in  prose  a  burlesque  drama  of 
Heaven;  and  even  Robinson  Jeffers  has 
taken  a  fall  from  Pegasus.  In  truth, 
did  we  not  look  sharply  for  signs  of  the 
minstrel,  we  might  be  inclined  to  the 
current  pessimistic  feeling. 

But  a  careful  survey  of  contemporary 
western  verse  shows  much  to  be  hope- 
ful for,  even  if  many  of  the  younger 
school  are  playing  somewhat  timidly 
upon  old  lutes,  and  upon  the  everyday 
common  themes  of  beauty,  love,  and 
death,  with  interpretations  not  always 
striking  and  fresh,  yet  they  are  invig- 
orating and  heart-touching.  For  ex- 
ample, I  read: 

Dear  God,  to  walk  for  just  an  April 

day 
That  sunny  little  road  to  Innisfail! 

How  many  of  us  do  not  have  sunny 
ways  far  back  yonder,  over  which  we 
would  love  to  saunter? 

Alongside  this  couplet  from  Nancy 
Buckley,  I  place  a  stanza  from  "The 
Hills  of  Kent"  (Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse)  : 

You  will  come  back  to  the  hills  of  Kent 

Of  which  your  feet  were  fain ; 
You  will  come  back  to  the  wild  steep 
ways, 

And  the  wooded  isles  again. 
Our  own  one  hill  with  its  cedar  files 

Whence  all  the  hills  unfold 
Waits  for  your  happy  eyes  to  look 

On  autumn  and  its  gold. 

And  the  third  of  these  heart-melodies, 
out  of  which  the  soul  of  every  literature 
grows,  I  quote  from  "The  Old  Cow- 
boy": 


By  Henry  Meade  Bland 

Trail-end  is  nearing.     I've  followed  it 

long 

Up  to  the  clearing,  goal  of  the  strong. 
Whate'er  the  fates  be, 
If  a  horse  awaits  me, 
I'll  ride  to  judgment  singing  a  song! 

Torrey  Connor  (Overland,  August, 
'23)  writes  "Yester-Land"  in  this  same 
strain  of  universal  appeal  as  in  these 
Addison  Schuster  lines: 

Where  Time  his  rosary  of  hours 

Links  bead  to  bead  with  fadeless  flowers. 

Poems  such  as  the  foregoing  have  a 
strange  habit  of  getting  into  scrap-books 
and  anthologies,  and  of  being  quoted, 
when  they  are  old,  as  from  the  masters. 
They  are  the  undertones  of  a  period's 
letters,  and  make  the  background  we 
love. 

And  now,  before  I  leave  these  entic- 
ingly beautiful  vignettes,  which  even 
now  would  belong  to  an  anthology 
which  would  be  far  better  reading  than 
Bret  Harte's  "Outcroppings,"  I  must 
write  titles  and  quote  first  from  the  as- 
piring school  teacher  poet,  Virginia  San- 
derson : 

CHARLIE 

When  the  class  is  very  dull 
And  the  courage  in  me  dies, 

Then  I'm  very  glad  for  you, 
Charlie,  of  the  laughing  eyes. 

Lazy?    Well,  there  couldn't  be 

Such  another  lazy  one, 
With  the  term  three-quarters  past, 

And  your  lessons  never  done. 

Not  a  worry  in  your  heart, 
Only  gladness,  and  surprise 

At  each  fact  the  old  world  holds, 
Charlie,  of  the  laughing  eyes. 

Some  there  are  who,  serious, 

Listen  to  my  daily  fret, 
Copy  all  my  sayings  down 

In  neat  books,  and  then  forget. 

But  you  never  make  pretense, 
And  I'm  glad  you  are  not  wise; 

Happiness  is  better  far, 

Charlie,  of  the  laughing  eyes. 

The  following:  "Reform";  a  sonnet, 
"Because  I  Do  Not  Love,"  and  "The 
Fugitive,"  each  portray  a  widely  dif- 
ferent power,  and  are  prophetic  of  work 
taking  a  permanent  place  in  letters. 
They  are  by  Dr.  Lionel  Stevenson,  and 


taken  from  "A  Pool  of  Stars,"  one  of 
the  "Ryerson  Poetry  Chap-Boob."  Dr. 
Stevenson  is  in  the  English  department 
of  the  University  of  California.  He 
has  a  sure  poetic  touch. 

REFORM 

Said  one  blade  of  grass  to  his  fellow, 

"What  a  pity  the  sky  should  be  blue ; 
It  ought  to  be  green — rich   and  mel- 
low— 
The  only  legitimate  hue." 

"We    shall    grow    to    the    sky    ere    we 

wither," 

Replied  the  more  practical  blade. 
"As  soon  as  our  height  reaches  thither 
We'll  insist  that  the  change  shall  be 
made." 

BECAUSE  I  DO  NOT  LOVE 
Because  I  do  not  love  you  I  can  keep 
My  pleasure  in  life's  varied  loveliness, 
Of  which,  as  symbol  and  interpretress, 
You  make  my  joy  more  intimately  deep. 
Lovers,  when  parted,  agonize  or  weep, 

Pledge  their  souls'  liberty  on  a  caress, 
But  my  delight  in  you  is  passionless 
As   the   pale  morning  star,   tranquil   as 
sleep. 

And  as  you  do  not  love  me  you  can  give 
Graciously  all  that  I  desire  of  you  ; 
Our  diverse  ways  will  separate  us  soon, 
For  we  must  seek  strange  wisdom  while 

we  live: 
My    flawless    memories    will    then    be 

two — 
One  is  a  cypress  tree  against  the  moon. 

THE  FUGITIVE 
Beauty  is  fled  to  isles  of  blander  day 
To  dwell  in  iridescent  gems  of  spray 
Where   languid    rollers    whiten   on   the 

shore, 

Or  fled  to  antique  fanes  that  evermore 
Resound  with  anthems  as  the  faithful 

pray. 

To  lands  of  fabled  splendour  far  away, 
Far  from  dim  skies  of  unrelenting  gray, 
Far  from  the  pines  that  mumble  gloomy 

lore 
Beauty  is  fled.    .    .    . 

A  rain-kissed  girl  with  brown  eyes  clear 

and  gay — 
Fairer   than  sea-foam   in   the  sunlight's 

~,         play' 

Than  any  saint  that  the  devout  adore 

Glows,  like  a  cool  and  tranquil  flame, 

before 
A  dark  pine's  graven  column.    And  we 

say 
Beauty  is  fled? 


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December,  1927 


The  late  Jack  London,  though  when 
a  young  man  he  tried  his  hand  at  verse 
many  times,  is  not  now  looked  upon  as 
a  poet;  but  there  is  poem  hidden  in  the 
pages  of  the  "Iron  Heel"  (page  184), 
having  all  the  marks  of  a  man-written 
work.  It  is  verse  of  great  virility. 

It  is  possible  these  lines  are  an  inter- 
polation. I  was  once  informed  they 
were  of  the  craft  of  a  writer  in  Palo 
Alto,  and  I  was  given  her  name  and 
address.  My  letter  was  returned  by 
the  postoffice,  no  such  person  as  I  wrote 
to  being  found.  I  now  assume  it  is 
London's  own  work.  And  unless  fur- 
ther light  on  the  matter  is  found  I  must 
claim  it  as  an  important  contribution  to 
the  newer  Western  poetry.  Herewith 
is  the  first  stanza.  It  is,  in  all,  nearly 
a  page  and  one-half  in  length. 

Joy  upon  joy  and  gain  upon  gain 
Are  the  destined  rights  of  my  birth, 
And   I   shout  the  praise  of  my  endless 

days 

To  the  echoing  edge  of  the  earth. 
Though  I  suffer  all  deaths  that  a  man 

can  die 

To  the  uttermost  end  of  time, 
I    have    deep-drained    this,    my   cup   of 

bliss, 

In  every  age  and  clime — 
The  froth  of  Pride,  the  tang  of  Power, 
The  sweet  of  Womanhood! 
I  drain  the  lees  upon  my  knees, 
For  oh,  the  draught  is  good! 
I  drink  to  Life,  I  drink  to  Death, 
And  smack  my  lips  with  song, 
For  when  I  die,  another  "I"  shall  pass 

the  cup  along. 

IF  we  go  down  to  Carmel-by-the-Sea, 
which  may  be  named  a  distant  annex 
to  San  Francisco,  we  find  Robinson  Jef- 
fers.  His  studio  is  a  stone  tower  over- 
looking the  Pacific  breakers,  and  here 
he  exiles  himself,  for  such  is  the  report, 
and  thinks  upon  a  world  not  human, 
but  a  land  of  dreams — bad  dreams  at 
that!  He  writes  in  the  "Prelude"  to 
the  "Women  of  Sur": 

Humanity  is  the  start  of  the  race,  the 
gate  to  break  away  from,  the 
coals  to  kindle, 

The  blind  mask  crying  to  be  slit  with 
eye-holes. 

Culture's  outlived,  Art's   root-cut,   dis- 
covery's 
The  way  to  walk  in. 

Sure!  Discovery  is  the  way  to  walk 
in,  but  we  must  be  human  while  we  walk 
"the  way."  How  can  we  get  away 
from  our  humanity?  "Humanity  is  the 
start  of  the  race."  What  race?  Foot 


race?  Or  human  race?  What  kind 
of  a  gate  "to  break  away  from"?  Is 
humanity  to  be  burned  out  of  existence 
by  the  "coals"  kindled?  These  meta- 
phors are  contrary-wise.  They  tell  us  no 
truth. 

Again:  "Crying  to  be  slit  with  eye- 
holes." We  think  of  a  mid-Victorian 
quatrain  in  contrast : 

So   runs  my   dream;   but   what   am   I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night, 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry!" 

The  Jeffers  line  is  strong.     The  "In 
Memoriam''  stanza  is  strong,  with  some- 
thing intricately  luring  in  it. 

To  say  Culture  is  outlived,  and  Art 
root-cut,  is  bold,  but  only  half  truth. 
We  continually  revise  Culture,  and  sub- 
mit Art  to  harshest  criticism.  There  is 
always  a  surviving  rootlet  of  true  art, 
however  gopher-bitten  the  plant  may  be. 
Old  cultures  may  die;  but,  when  the 
time  for  November-thanking  come,  there 
are  always  a  few  fundamental  cultures 
we  are  thankful  for:  "The  kindly  hu- 
man heart";  the  light  that  will  flow 
mysteriously,  if  we  will  to  allow  it,  into 
our  minds;  the  freedom  of  our  wills, 
and  the  happiness  in  doing.  False  cul- 
ture and  false  art  are  root-cut. 

And  now  let  us  speak  more  softly. 
Will  not  Poet  Jeffers  smooth  out  some 
of  the  sizzling  apostrophe  "s's" — say  in 
this  line  about  culture  and  art?  The 
English  language  centuries  ago  was  full 
of  rough  gutterals.  These  are  dying 
out.  Does  he  not  realize  a  thought  slip- 
ping easily  off  the  tongue  enters  the 
mind  of  the  reader  with  more  sureness? 
There  is  a  certain  spirit  in  us  the  un- 
necessary roughness,  the  crudities,  the 
harshnesses,  are  always  doing  wrong  to. 
Men  hard-boil  themselves  in  the  life  bat- 
tle; it  is  the  purpose  of  Art  to  soften 
this.  Let  us  leave  out  of  it  the  drip- 


ping. 


"With  mange  and  stinks." 


Nevertheless,  when  Robinson  Jef- 
fers writes  "Winter  Sundown"  in  mem- 
ory of  George  Sterling,  he  is  a  noble 
poet.  These  lines  make  us  think  of 
Whitman's  wonder-chant  on  Abraham 
Lincoln,  beginning  "Come,  lovely 
death!"  But  Jeffers  is  pessimistic  even 
in  his  solemn  beauty,  while  not  so  Whit- 
man. He  looks  upward  and  sees  the 
star.  But  on  with  our  task! 

Two  lyrists  of  Berkeley  Hills,  Laura 
Bell  and  Elizabeth  Everett,  touch,  in 
their  song,  upon  the  eternal  verities,  life, 
change,  and  the  lovely.  These  writers 


are  sisters,  and  are  to  Western  litera- 
ture, though  hardly  in  subject  matter, 
what  the  Gary  sisters  have  been  to  let- 
ters. They  do  not  work  jointly,  but 
each  has  a  separate  note,  and  each  plays 
her  own  lute.  Elizabeth  is  the  more 
serious,  as  illustrated  in  her  rondeau, 
"Love  Is  Not  Blind";  in  "Felicity," 
"Progress"  and  "Inevitable  Hours." 
Laura  Bell  sings  more  lightly  an  "Echo 
Song  for  May": 


Were   songs   of    Maytime   sung 
But  once,  when  Earth  was  young? 


There  is  a  luring  note  in  Laura's 
lines,  "The  Man  of  One  Poem."  Eliza- 
beth is  haunting  in  such  lines  as:  "The 
irised  hours  through  dallying  fingers 
slip."  These  Everett  references  are  from 
"West  Winds,"  an  anthology  of  the 
California  Writers'  Club. 

Truly,  the  foregoing  shorter  poems, 
with  many  others  by  authors  worthy  of 
notice  as  are  these,  seem  to  be  building 
the  newer  literature  of  the  West. 


THESE  shorter  poems  should  be  sup- 
plemented by  many  others  appearing 
in  current  periodicals.  So  far  I  have 
discussed  mainly  those  poets  and  their 
work  who  are  publishing  in  California 
mediums  only  or  privately  published 
volumes  of  their  own  work,  and  are 
therefore  known  only,  for  the  greater 
part,  to  California.  There  are  those 
who  must  be  mentioned  who  are  help- 
ing build  the  new  literature  of  the  day 
who  are  to  be  found  in  the  current 
periodicals,  from  Eastern  publishing 
houses,  and  are  known  not  only  in  Cal- 
ifornia, but  the  whole  of  the  United 
States.  It  would  take  a  book  to  do  these 
new  poets  justice,  and  later  I  shall  at- 
tempt a  paper  on  the  subject  for  Over- 
land Monthly.  But  to  the  subject. 

My  eyes  fall  on  recent  lines  in  the 
San  Francisco  Argonaut  copied  from 
the  Nation,  entitled  "Song."  It  is  by 
Marie  del  Welch  and  treats  emotion- 
ally the  theme,  enduring  love.  It  is  art- 
fully done. 


Challis  Silvay  first  came  to  my  atten- 
tion with  his  "Petition"  in  Overland 
Monthly,  apparently  sensual,  but  really 
portrays  an  enticing  picture  of  an  ideal- 
istic adoring  lover  who  places  his  affec- 
tion on  the  highest  basis. 

Striking  a  deeper  and,  at  the  same 
time,  more  aspiring  note  is  "Dark  Mil- 
ton," reprinted  from  "Palms."  This  is 
a  noble  sonnet,  treated  in  imaginative 
style,  and  well  executed,  even  if  the 
third  line  of  the  octette  responds  to  two 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


375 


rhythms,    a   very   minor   matter.      Such 
work,  on  the  whole,  is  very  rare: 

DARK  MILTON 

Dark  Milton  with  his  constant  nightin- 
gale 

Sings  in  the  terraces  of  Paradise. 

White  with  glistening  angels  are  the 
skies 

And  at  his  side  the  morning  stars  unveil. 

He  sings  to  harp  and  thunder,  he  cries 
Hail! 

Hail,  God  Almighty  blazing  in  the  skies, 

Before  whose  glory  (Hail!)  death  pros- 
trate lies, 

And  in  whose  total  light  the  sun  is  pale. 

His  word  leaps  like  an  eagle  on  the  air, 
Reeling  sublimely  over  depths  untold, 
Hanging  above  the  void  where  once  re- 
sounded 

Foul  upon  fouler  screaming,  even  there 
Where  Satan   faltered   at   the  gates   of 

Hell,  behold 

Dark,  bright  and  mighty  Milton  uncon- 
founded ! 

Cristel  Hastings,  another  of  the 
newer  school  in  "Retired,"  which  tells 
of  ships  out-worn  in  their  ocean  service 
and  resting  (their  last  rest)  in  estuary 
fortresses : 

But,   oh,   the  wind   that   flies   in   from 

the  blue 
Remembers    seamen,    absent    from    ,the 

decks, 

And  sees  a  cloud  of  canvas  bulging  wide 
From  every  mast-head  of  these  waiting 

wrecks ! 

T^HE  West  has  long  known  Charles 
Keeler  of  Berkeley  as  a  devotee  to 
poesy.  He  has  made  two  contributions  to 
poetry  for  the  younger  readers,  which 
begins:  "There  are  many  good  books, 
my  child,  to  read."  This  has  an  en- 
during appeal  and  touches  a  lyrical  note 
pleasing  in  effect.  The  second  is  the 
"Overland  Limited,"  playful  in  fancy 
and  captivating  to  the  child.  These  are 
in  "Songs  of  Sunny  Land."  Other  ex- 
cellent stanzas  for  the  little  ones  are  to 
be  found  in  this  Keeler  collection. 

But  Mr.  Keeler  knows,  too,  the  last- 
ing note  in  song,  also  the  love  poem  with 
spiritual  touch.  His  books  are  well 
worth  study. 

Longer  and  more  sustained  efforts, 
filled  with  noble  song,  are  to  be  treas- 
ured with  pride  as  carrying  on  the  light. 

A  quite  powerful  addition  to  the 
greater  Western  verse  is  Derrick  N. 
Lehmer's  "Apples  of  Andaman,"  ap- 
pearing in  the  supplement  to  the  Eng- 
lish "Poetry  Review"  for  1926. 

This  is  more  strictly  a  ballad  after 
the  historic  English  form.  It  is  the 


story  of  a  man  who  has  gone  with  ship 
and  crew  on  a  mystically  infernal  jour- 
ney into  wild  seas,  where  he  and  his  as- 
sociate sailors  meet  two  degenerate  per- 
sonages, the  "dog-faced  man"  and  the 
"dog-faced  ape."  To  the  undoing  of 
the  man  and  all  his  ship  associates,  one 
of  their  number,  the  Yellow  Boy,  of 
Nicobar,  whom  they  have  earlier  unwit- 
tingly taken  aboard,  recognizes  the  dog- 
faced  man  as  his  father.  The  two  spirits, 
dog-faced  man  and  dog-faced  ape,  are 
invited  aboard. 

They  have  with  them  a  sample  of  the 
"Apples  of  Andaman,"  whereof  who 
eats  becomes  fiendish  and  full  of  mur- 
der. The  sample  apple  starts  the  career 
of  horror;  yet  all,  apparently  crazed, 
set  sail  for  the  accursed  island.  Here 
the  carnival  of  blood  continues,  for  the 
fiends  that  live  on  the  fruit  come  aboard 
and  the  lust  of  blood  and  murder  grows. 
And  so  the  horror  expends  itself  when, 
as  the  teller  of  the  tale  says,  he  himself 
killed  the  dog-faced  ape,  the  real  cause 
of  the  fiendishness,  and  vicariously  the 
sailor-narrator,  and  a  few  companions 
escape  the  fiends  and  sail  home. 

It  scarcely  need  be  said  the  Apples  of 
Andaman  are  symbols  of  evil:  gluttony, 
drugs  and  dissipation,  and  lust  for  fallen 
women.  The  gray-haired  old  man,  home 
once  more,  has  yet  a  hankering  for  the 
deadly  fruit,  and  so  makes  a  sad  and 
sorrowful  figure  at  the  close  of  this 
swift  moving  tragic  tale.  A  fascinating 
motive  in  the  ballad  is  that  the  sailors, 
under  the  influence  of  the  evil-producing 
fruit,  believe  they  are  happily  dreaming 
in  paradise.  It  is  difficult  for  even  him 
who  has  escaped,  and  returned  to  his 
native  haunts  to  shake  off  the  enchant- 
ment. He  is  constantly  yearning  to 
return  to  the  evil. 

Dr.  Lehmer  is  known  far  and  wide 
in  the  West  as  composer  of  Indian 
songs,  and  as  an  interpreter  of  the  In- 
dian spirit.  He  has  long  studied  Indian 
folk  chant  and  lore.  He  is  a  singer  of 
short  poems  and  sure  in  the  lyric  dream. 
Read  "Little  Starry  Eyes,"  "The  Moun- 
tain Stream"  and  "The  Stroller,"  ap- 
pearing in  "West  Winds."  Here  are 
the  first  and  last  stanzas  of  "The  Lim- 
pet": 

THE  LIMPET 
Here  on  the  reef,  where  the  sea 
Hurls  its  green  waves  over  me; 
Here  on  the  rocks  by  the  shore, 
Where   beat  the   tides  evermore; 
Here  will  I  rest  in  the  keep 
Of  the  infinite,  fathomless  deep! 

Dissolved — and  what  limpet  can  tell 
If  back  to  my  rock  and  my  shell 
From  the  infinite,  fathomless  main 
I  return  as  a  limpet  again? 
What  matter?    In  thee  will  I  sleep, 
O  infinite,  fathomless  deep! 


Dr.  Lehmer  is  professor  of  mathe- 
matics in  the  University  of  California 
and  editor  of  the  university's  magazine, 
"The  Chronicle."  His  poetry  has  at- 
tracted attention  in  England,  where  his 
striking  ballad  receives  high  praise.  Says 
the  Devon  and  Exeter  Gazette,  among 
other  periodicals  of  the  Isles: 

"I  must  draw  attention  to  the  work 
of  Mr.  Derrick  Norman  Lehmer,  who 
is  professor  of  mathematics  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  California.  I  have  never  read 
a  poem  by  Mr.  Lehmer  before,  but  I 
am  bound  to  say  that  "The  Apples  of 
Andaman"  is  a  wonderful  piece  of  work 
and  gives  distinction  to  any  journal  that 
can  get  hold  of  such  virile  and  original 
verse." 

By  the  side  of  the  mathematician  and 
poet  is  the  lyric  Eunice,  his  life  part- 
ner, and  she,  too,  sings  in  sure  melody 
upon  the  heavier  as  'well  as  lighter 
themes  such  as  these: 

SHADOW 

Let  gods  walk  fearlessly  beneath  the  sky, 
And  face  the  searching  glory  of  the  sun ; 
Our  pretty  graces  shrink  before  his  eye. 
Oh,  kindly  shadows,  shield  us  every  one, 
Lest  we  should  see  ourselves  go  halt- 
ing by! 

IN  SUMMER 

The  golden  hills  of  summer  hold 
Within  their  sheltering  arms  the  sleep- 
ing sea, 

As  might  a  dreaming  mother's  arm  en- 
fold 
Her  child,  while  baby  waves  lisp  drows- 

ily- 

And  now  and  then  a  sea  breeze  wan- 
ders by 

And  stoops  to  kiss  them  gently  as  they 
lie. 

The  art  of  the  sonnet  has  never  been 
neglected  in  California,  and  it  is  prevail- 
ing today  with  as  much  distinction  as 
ever.  Mr.  George  Rankin  Mitchell  of 
the  English  department  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Southern  California  has  an  ex- 
cellent piece  to  his  credit  on  his  home 
city,  "San  Diego,"  and  one  "To  Mon- 
talvo,"  in  which  is  the  dreamy  line,  re- 
ferring to  the  California  coast:  "Along 
the  whispering  shores  of  our  calm  sea." 

Harry  Laffler  writes  with  perfect 
Petrarchian  effect,  and  with  him  should 
be  named  Ashton  Smith,  author  of  the 
volumes,  "Sun-Treader"  and  "Ebony 
and  Crystal,"  whose  "Odes  and  Son- 
nets" were  issued  by  the  Book  Club 
of  California  in  1918.  The  light  of 
Ashton  Smith  is  burning  from  year  to 
year  with  a  more  glowing  flame.  For- 
mer Senator  James  D.  Phelan,  who  has 
for  years  been  a  distinguished  patron 
of  art,  writes  a  luring  Spenserian  stanza. 

(Continued  on  Page  378) 


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December,  1927 


Clo)riters 


LIFE  AND  LAUGHTER  'MIDST 
THE  CANNIBALS 

FROM  the  standpoint  of  a  white  man, 
at  least,  the  title  of  this  book  would 
seem  to  be  ill-chosen.  Life  'midst  the 
cannibals,  in  the  popular  sense,  would 
seem  to  be  precarious  enough,  to  say 
nothing  at  all  of  the  element  of  mirth. 
But  before  the  reader  turns  very  many 
pages,  his  fears  are  allayed  (or  his  hopes 
are  dashed,  depending  entirely  on  his 
point  of  view)  with  the  assurance  that 
lots  of  water  has  flowed  under  the  bridge 
since  the  last  human  being  has  bumped 
his  head  on  the  under  side  of  the  pot- 
cover  in  a  vain  attempt  to  escape  the 
role  of  piece  de  resistance  at  a  dusky 
chief's  dinner  party. 

Clifford  W.  Collinson  is  a  Britisher, 
and  in  common  with  so  many  of  his 
countrymen,  world-travelers  and  keen 
observers,  he  possesses  the  happy  faculty 
of  being  able  to  tell  a  story  well.  Added 
to  this  is  a  remarkable  sense  of  humor. 
These  two  ingredients  form  an  irresisti- 
ble combination,  and  just  this  combi- 
nation is  found  in  the  book  under  re- 
view. 

In  a  casual,  off-hand  sort  of  way,  the 
reader  swings  into  tune  with  the  tale 
on  the  very  first  page,  and  from  cover 
to  cover  there  is  unwound  a  yarn  of 
the  South  Seas  that  in  charm  of  style 
and  interest-compelling  qualities  is  sel- 
dom equalled  in  a  book  of  this  sort.  It's 
the  story  of  a  trader's  life  in  the  Solo- 
mon Islands,  and  may  be  taken  to  be 
fairly  typical  of  almost  any  locality  of 
the  "lazy  latitudes." 

The  intimacies  of  life  aboard  an  inter- 
island  trading  steamer  are  delightfully 
told;  but  it's  not  until  the  author  be- 
comes located  and  visits  with  his  friends 
Marco  and  Pye  that  he  scores  his  really 
big  hits.  In  absorbing,  narrative  style 
he  goes  into  the  method  of  trading  with 
the  natives,  recounting  their  weird  mar- 
riage and  burial  rites ;  but  the  charm 
of  the  native  life,  with  its  utterly  care- 
free and  altogether  happy  routine,  makes 
civilization  seem  such  a  bald  imposition. 
It  is  right  at  this  point  that  Collinson 
scores  his  biggest  hit,  and  whether  it's 
intentional  or  not,  it  makes  the  reader 
draw  an  odious  comparison.  These  two 
or  three  pages  alone  are  well  worth  the 
price  of  the  book. 


While  it  seems  crude,  nevertheless 
the  brand  of  justice  dealt  out  in  the 
Solomons  is  summary  and  is  effective. 
The  conduct  of  court  through  the  me- 
dium of  that  universal,  super-elastic 
tongue  known  as  pidgin  English  is 
highly  illuminating. 

Collinson  concludes  his  book  by  tell- 
ing of  his  return  to  England.  He  might 
have  taken  a  P.  &  O.  liner  after  reach- 
ing the  main  trade  routes.  But  he 
didn't.  He  chose,  instead,  to  travel 
as  the  only  passenger  on  a  Scandinavian 
steamer  from  the  South  Seas  clear  to 
Marseilles.  Not  an  unusual  trip,  nor 
one  fraught  with  any  dangers  or  ad- 
ventures. But,  the  man  splashes  the 
vivid  coloring  of  the  mystic  East  all 
over  the  last  few  pages  of  his  book. 

The    anchor   chain's   a-crawlin'    up, 
The  mudhook's  liftin'  free, 

An'  ole  McKay's  a-standin'  by, 
Oh,  it's  homeward  bound  for  me! 


N  UNMARRIED  FATHER"  by 
Floyd  Dell  immediately  suggests  a 


LIFE  AND  LAUGHTER  'MIDST 
THE  CANIBALS,  by  Clifford  W.  Col- 
linson. E.  P.  Dutton.  $5.00. 

GRANDMOTHERS,  by  Glenway  Wes- 
cott.  Harper  and  Brothers.  $2.50. 

CHIVALRY  PEAK,  by  Irving  Cobb. 
Cosmopolitan.  $2.00. 

CASTE,  Cosmo  Hamilton.  Putnam.  $2.50. 

NEWSPAPER  MANAGEMENT,  Frank 
Thayer.  Appleton.  $4.00. 

PICTURESQUE  AMERICA,  editer  by 
J.  K.  Kane.  Resorts  and  Playgrounds 
of  America,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

THAT  MAN  HEINE,  Lewis  Browne. 
Macmillan,  $3.00. 

BOOKS  TO  BE  REVIEWED 
NEXT  MONTH 

THOSE  QUARRELSOME  B  O  N  A- 
PARTS,  Robert  Gordon  Anderson. 
Century.  $2.50. 

THE  BOY'S  LIFE  OF  COLONEL 
LAWRENCE,  Lowell  Thomas.  Cen- 
tury. $2.00. 

THE  LOCOMOTIVE  GOD,  William 
Ellert  Leonard.  Century.  $4.00- 

HISTORY  OF  ANTHONY  WARING, 
May  Sinclair.   Macmillian.   $1.50. 
And  others. 


story  of  sex,  the  inference  being  obvi- 
ous through  the  title  and  the  author's 
name,  yet  it  is  something  far  different. 

True,  the  sex  element  is  worked  into 
the  early  chapters,  but  the  drama  is  one 
of  psychology  more  than  biology,  and 
until  the  last  chapters  is  one  of  the  most 
fascinating  of  documents  to  come  from 
the  Dell  typewriter,  and  a  study  in 
character  as  original  as  it  is  interesting. 

For  years  novelists  and  dramatists 
have  been  occupied  with  the  unhappy 
plight  of  the  young  woman  who  be- 
comes a  social  outcast  by  loving  un- 
wisely, and  the  equally  pitiful  plight 
of  the  offspring  of  such  unconventional 
unions.  No  one  has  considered  the  case 
of  the  father  except  in  terms  of  scorn. 

Dell  undertakes  to  give  the  other 
side  of  the  story.  The  father  is  the 
hero,  the  mother  is  the  villainness,  and 
the  child  merely  an  incident.  In  his 
handling  he  brings  out  the  conventional 
changes  that  have  come  about  since  the 
passing  of  the  mid-Victorian  period,  and 
at  the  same  time  paints  a  vivid  picture 
of  the  emotions  of  a  young  man  who 
wants  to  do  the  right  thing  by  every- 
body. 

Dell,  however,  becomes  uncertain  of 
the  qualifications  of  the  youthful  father 
and  develops  him  into  a  vacillating  sort 
of  male  with  romantic  tendencies.  He 
is,  honorably  of  course,  involved  with 
a  young  woman  out  of  his  class,  with 
the  fiancee  whose  friendship  he  renews, 
and,  more  strangely,  with  the  mother 
who  refused  his  hand  in  matrimony. 

It  is  a  book  that  will  arouse  discus- 
sion over  the  tea  tables,  which  is,  per- 
haps, what  the  author  sought,  for  that 
sells  books  better  than  anything  else. 
AN  UNMARRIED  FATHER  has  a  happy 
ending  with  peace  and  tranquility  reign- 
ing for  all  but  one  character;  contains 
much  good  writing,  considerable  inter- 
esting thinking,  and  an  occasional  dash 
of  humor. 


CHIVALRY  PEAK 
"CHIVALRY  PEAK,"  a  first  novel 
«  by  Irvin  Cobb.  For  a  moment  the 
reader  is  inclined  to  think  that  "first 
novel"  is  a  mis-print,  but  reflection  will 
disclose  its  verity.  Cobb  has  appeared 
in  book  form  on  many  occasions  dur- 
ing the  last  twenty  years,  but  not  as  a 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


377 


novelist,  at  least  there  is  no  record  of  it. 
Heretofore  he  has  enjoyed  a  reputa- 
tion in  triplicate,  as  it  were,  as  a  humor- 
ist, a  short  story  writer,  and  a  lecturer. 
After  CHIVALRY  PEAK  is  read,  he  will 
be  found  to  be  in  possession  of  his  three 
previous  badges,  but  to  have  added  no 
further  chaplet. 

Yet  CHIVALRY  PEAK  has  definite 
uses,  both  for  hammock  reading  and 
for  the  classroom.  It  is  not  the  great 
American  novel  by  several  miles,  it  is 
no  masterpiece  of  invention,  it  is  no 
gem  of  humor,  and  certainly  it  is  no 
marvel  of  plot  construction. 

But  it  occupies  a  place  unique  in  the 
library  in  that  Cobb  has  managed  to 
write  a  romance  of  which  almost  any 
single  chapter  may  be  taken  out  and 
used  as  a  complete  short  story.  In  its 
way  it  is  reminiscent  of  Gray's  "Elegy," 
in  which  at  least  half  a  dozen  lines  may 
be  transposed  without  injuring  the  text. 
Cobb  applied  his  art  as  a  short  story 
writer  to  the  longer  work  and  carried 
it  to  the  bitter  end.  Each  episode  in 
the  melodramatic  career  of  the  Robin 
Hood  bandit  and  his  Lady  Man  Friday 
is  complete  in  itself.  The  reader  can 
start  almost  anywhere  and  catch  the 
thread  of  the  main  story,  or  failing  in 
that  can  get  entertainment  out  of  a  sin- 
gle chapter.  It  is  a  curious  literary  af- 
fair. 

The  story  deals  wtih  a  fake  stock 
promoter  who  strikes  twice  in  the  same 
place  by  accident.  An  ancient  enemy 
crops  up  and  upsets  the  house  of  cards 
the  promoter  has  so  carefully  erected, 
by  staging  a  train  holdup.  From  that 
point  on  the  promoter  is  more  or  less 
forgotten,  while  the  bandit  stands  off 
a  posse  from  "Chivalry  Peak,"  and  con- 
ducts a  private  romance  with  a  daring 
young  female  amateur  detective  who 
captures  him,  heart  and  hand. 

CHIVALRY  PEAK  in  its  general  writ- 
ing is  rather  old-fashioned  and  cumber- 
some. It  is  replete  with  descriptive 
matter,  excellently  done  but  somewhat 
verbose  for  these  days  of  rapid  reading. 
The  character  depiction  is  up  to  Cobb's 
.standard  and  there  is  an  occasional  dash 
of  humor  introduced  through  minor 
characters,  and  considerable  melodrama 
through  the  central  figures.  The  book 
is  worth  reading,  but  will  be  easily  for- 
gotten, as  most  first  novels  are. 


CASTE 

THRSKINE  FARQUHAR  was  im- 
•*-Jmense  wealthy,  his  wife  Helen  was 
a  power  in  the  social  world,  their  daugh- 
ter Jean  was  a  modern.  Farquhar  lived 
his  own  life  and  had  his  own  "affairs"  ; 
Helen  did  the  same.  Their  marriage 
being  a  loveless  one,  each  lived  a  life 
apart,  though  nominally  husband  and 
wife,  neither  daring  to  face  the  igno- 


miny of  divorce  proceedings  —  congenial 
but  wholly  indifferent.  In  the  face  of 
this  parental  example,  it's  small  wonder 
Jean  bolts  for  Europe  to  try  her  own 
young  wings. 

A  frenzied  cable  from  relatives  brings 
both  Farquhar  and  Helen  post  haste  to 
Paris,  where  they  learn  their  daughter 
has  fallen  precipitately  in  love  with  a 
musician  whose  artistry  has  the  Euro- 
pean capitals  by  the  ears  —  but  his  name 
is  Max  Lorbenstein.  Recovering  some- 
what from  the  appalling  prospect  of 
having  to  claim  a  Jew  for  a  son-in- 
law,  and  knowing  perfectly  how  much 
of  a  mind  of  her  own  is  possessed  by 
Jean,  the  Farquhars  decide  to  see  it 
through,  somehow,  for  the  sake  of  their 
daughter's  happiness.  Caste,  however, 
proves  a  mightier  stumbling  block  than 
Jean,  Max,  the  Farquhars,  and  finally 
Lorbenstein  Sr.,  could  foresee.  In  other 


GEORGE  STERLING 

\V7"HY  should  he  stay  until  no  longer 
**  eager  feet 
Spurt  white  sand  over  dune  flowers 

as  he  runs? 
Why  should   he  wait   until  the  pulse's 

failing  beat 

Shall  cloud  for  him  the  testimony  of 
the  suns? 

Say  that  he  heard,   far-off,    the  steady 

wind  of  death, 

And  chose  to  tack  before  it  with  a 
scarlet  sail   .    .   . 

He  is  pagan  at  last,  and  free,  beneath 

their  forest  trees, 
And    I    think   the    ancient    gods   are 

happy  that  he  came; 
A  little  sad  for  Carmel   River,   but  at 

ease 

In  their  vast  dusky  meadows,  he  calls 
the  stars  by  name. 

JOYCE  MAYHEW. 


words,  CASTE  is  the  story  of  a  new  sort 
of  a  triangle.  The  elimination  of  the 
third  angle  solves  not  only  the  problem 
of  their  daughter's  happiness,  but  that 
of  the  Farquhars  as  well. 


THE  GRANDMOTHERS 

HARPER'S  1927-28  prize  novel  was 
written  by  one  of  the  youngest 
American  writers,  and  one  worth  watch- 
ing; it  is  a  story  of  midwestern  pioneer 
life ;  and  it  is  handled  in  a  manner 
entirely  new.  This  is,  in  short,  THE 
GRANDMOTHERS. 

Glenway  Wescott,  himself  born  on  a 
Wisconsin  farm,  treats  his  subject  in  a 
masterful  way.  His  background,  there- 
fore, plus  a  certain  genius  for  intuitive- 
ness  and  an  originality  of  expression, 
combine  to  form  something  more  than 


a  mere  novel,  the  whole  picture  having 
been  done  with  pigments  that  have  pro- 
duced a  quality  of  tone  which  might 
almost  be  said  to  be  haunting.  Briefly, 
Wescott  is  realistic — or  a  realist,  if  you 
choose — without  finding  it  necessary  to 
resort  to  the  morbid.  In  a  tale  of  this 
kind,  perspective  is  a  vital  element;  and 
perspective  is  exactly  what  he  has  se- 
cured and  most  effectively. 

THE  GRANDMOTHERS  is  a  typical 
cross-section  of  American  life  stretching 
from  the  days  before  the  Civil  War 
down  to  the  present,  with  a  multitude  of 
changing  character  types  in  consonance 
with  the  changing  times. 

The  swing  is  a  little  slow  at  the  out- 
set, and  the  chapter  titles  are  far  from 
being  happily  chosen ;  but  real  worth  is 
there  just  the  same  —  meat  alike  for 
young  and  old,  male  and  female. 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA:    ITS 
PARKS  AND  PLAYGROUNDS 

IN  not  so  many  months  we  will  all  be 
planning  our  vacations.  On  the  desk 
is  a  book  which  should  be  consulted  by 
all  those  who  are  undecided,  "Pictur- 
esque America."  One  of  the  greatest 
pleasures  of  a  vacation  is  to  visit  and 
find  out  for  oneself  the  splendor  of 
which  one  has  read.  Here  is  a  book 
with  all  the  outstanding  scenic  splendors, 
with  550  beautiful  illustrations  from 
the  descriptions  and  maps  of  the  limited 
edition  of  "Picturesque  America."  The 
volume  is  more  than  500  pages  of  fas- 
cinating prose  descriptions  and  poems, 
which  have  been  contributed  by  some 
eighty  well  known  writers  and  lovers 
of  the  "Outdoor"  literature  of  the 
best  type.  The  book  carries  one  on  a 
sightseeing  journey  of  enjoyment,  in- 
spiration and  education  southward  along 
the  Pacific  Coast,  into  the  great  South- 
west, northward  through  the  wonder- 
land of  the  Mountain  and  Plateau  states, 
eastward  through  the  Central,  Gulf  and 
Eastern  states,  across  Canada  from 
ocean  to  ocean,  northward  to  Alaska, 
out  over  the  Pacific  to  Hawaii,  and  back 
again  to  Mexico,  Cuba,  Bermudas  and 
Porto  Rico.  It  is  a  book  of  value,  in- 
formation and  beauty. 


NEWSPAPER  MANAGEMENT 
'T'HERE  is  more  to  newspaper  man- 
•I-  agement  than  the  average  reader 
realizes.  In  a  vague  way  this  is  sensed 
by  a  few,  but  the  majority  of  people, 
reading  their  daily  papers,  do  not  know 
the  many  things  that  depend  upon  the 
management  of  a  newspaper  organiza- 
tion. Frank  Thayer  has  given  us  the 
first  book  dealing  with  this  complex  sub- 
ject. It  is  a  contribution  of  fundamental 
value  to  the  literature  of  journalism. 
To  be  a  successful  newspaper,  the  au- 
(Continued  on  Page  384) 


378 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY    and  OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


THE  POETRY  OF  TODAY 

(Continued    from   Page  375) 
To  tell  the  truth,  he  has  for  years  wor- 
shiped   at   the   shrine   of   the   Muse   of 
Poetry. 

He  is  the  author  of  the  following, 
which  appears  in  "A  Day  in  the  Hills" 
and  which  graces  a  fore-page  in  Mrs. 
Gertrude  Atherton's  "The  Immortal 
Marriage" : 

SONNET  ON  A  GREEK  HEAD 
It  is  not  awe  that  holds  one — 'tis  not 

love, 
Too     friendly     to     be     strange,     yet 

strangely  cold, 
Like  Night,  enfringed  by  steadfast  stars 

above, 
She  veils  her  beauty,   lest  one  prove 

too  bold ; 
Divine,  austere;   nor  dare  one  venture 

far 

To  plead  a  human  longing  to  possess — 
Pride  set  upon  her  brow  a  barrier! 
And  yet  what  tribute  could  one  offer 

less 

Than  love  and  to  be  loved?    Her  pout- 
ing lips 

Are  chastely  silent,  sweetly  eloquent: 
The  nectar  of  the  gods  no  mortal  sips 
And  only  Jove  himself  commands  con- 
sent! 

A  GODDESS  she,  exalted  above  all, 
Her  inspiration  is  devotional. 

A  MONG  the  habitual  sonneteers  of 
the  Coast  is  the  well  known  Robert 
Louis  Burgess,  who  also  occasionally 
tries  a  hand  at  chant  royaling.  One 
of  his  unusual  sonnets  is  on  the  famous 
San  Francisco  mist,  otherwise  "Fog." 
This  is  exquisitely  well  done. 

Someone  who  knew  recently  told  me 
that  Kathleen  Norris  began  her  career 
in  letters  by  writing  short  love  lyrics 
of  strong  appeal  to  the  everyday  reader. 
This  reminds  me  that  Sara  Bard  Field 
is  an  original  and  emotional  singer  of 
heart  themes.  She  appears,  in  what  I 
have  seen,  to  have  buried  in  her  experi- 
ence some  piercing  sorrow  which  finds 
its  Gilead  balm  in  rhyme  and  meter. 
World-sorrow  is  one  of  the  surest  cre- 
ators of  poet-song.  The  lyrics  of  Sara 
Bard  appearing  in  "A  Day  in  the  Hills" 
are  evidence  of  her  unusual  power. 

Mrs.  Edith  Daley  of  San  Jose  began 
her  singing  in  earnest  and  tender  touches 
from  her  heart.  This  work  broadened 
in  power  till,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
conflict  in  1914,  she  wrote  the  West's 
great  war  poem,  "The  Wind  Before  the 
Dawn,"  which,  ranking  even  above 
Howard  Sutherland's  "The  Wasted 
Fruit,"  takes  a  permanent  place  in  the 
country's  war  literature. 

Mrs.  Daley's  themes  are  various. 
"Maternity"  is  an  ode  of  much  feeling 
and  music.  Two  tribute-poems  honor 


Luther  Burbank  and  Theodore  Roose- 
velt, the  latter  having  been  selected  as 
one  of  the  best  eleven  honoring  the 
strenuous  American  at  his  death.  An- 
other Daley  poem  of  burning  feeling  is 
in  trochaics  and  is  entitled  "The  White 
Rose  and  the  Wind."  This  is  quite 
balladic  in  effect,  and  moves  rapidly  in 
symbol  and  rhythm,  reaching  climax  in 
"For  the  red  fruit  of  the  rose-tree  is  the 
dead  White  Rose's  heart!" 

"A  Ballade  of  California"  and  the 
somber  "Ballade  of  Autumn"  are  illus- 
trations of  her  facility  in  the  old  French 
form.  The  former  is  a  favorite  among 
the  anthologists. 

"The  Blessed  Isle"  is  dreamy  in  its 
beauty  and  yearning,  and  "To  Edwin 
Markham"  is  tinct  with  divine  aspir- 
ing. The  foregoing  titles  of  Mrs.  Da- 
ley's work  are  all  from  "The  Angel 
in  the  Sun  and  Other  Poems,"  a  book 
now  hunted  by  collectors  with  the  same 
avidity  the  book  lover  hunts  for  the  rare 
Bret  Harte's  "Outcroppings"  or  for  the 
almost  priceless  Joaquin  Miller's  "Spe- 
cimens." 

The  trend  of  Edith  Daley's  thought 
is  so  distinctly  religious  that  the  Rever- 
end Doctor  William  L.  Stidger  writes 
an  essay  upon  her  influence  and  makes 
her  one  of  his  important  "Flames  of 
Faith."  Thinking  of  her  as  the  effec- 
tive librarian  of  the  city  of  San  Jose 
forces  us  to  recall  that  other  famous 
poet-librarian,  John  Vance  Cheney,  win- 
ner of  the  $700  prize  in  that  far-reach- 
ing contest  for  the  best  poetic  answer 
to  "The  Man  With  the  Hoe." 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell  (Mrs.  San- 
born  Young)  possesses  a  name  known 
nationally  because  of  both  her  prose 
and  poetry.  In  verse  she  belongs  to 
the  modern  school,  and  her  poems  are 
always  in  demand  by  the  magazine  edi- 
tors. "Voyagers"  is  typical  of  her  in- 
sight into  the  divine  nature  of  the  hu- 
man: The  soul  of  a  tired  old  doctor  on 
his  star-path  to  Paradise  meets  with  the 
soul  of  a  boy  on  his  way  to  earth  to  be 
born: 

But   the   tired   old   doctor   roused   once 

more  at  the  battle  cry  of  birth, 
And  there  was  memory  in   his  look  of 

grief  and  toil  and  mirth. 
"Go  on !"  he  said.    "It's  good — and  bad : 
It's  hard.     Go  on!    It's  ours,  my  lad!" 
He  stood  and   urged  him  out  of  sight, 
down  to  the  waiting  earth. 

There  is  humor  in  this  touch,  a  rare 
humor,  an  element  which  gives  poetry 
the  readable  quality  so  much  desired  in 
poets.  There  is  a  solemn  truth  in  the 
lines,  "My  Grief  That  I  Married  a 
Gypsy  Man." 

"The  Night  Court"  is  conceded  her 
masterpiece,  and  truly  in  dramatic  power 


is  strong;  but  perhaps  its  appeal  is  but 
temporary,  for  former  modes  of  treat- 
ment of  human  error  often  pass  away. 

Ruth  Comfort  lives  in  a  dream  of 
poetry,  knows  its  secrets,  its  deep  bear- 
ing upon  life.  She  knows  what  the 
reader  is  drawn  to,  and  reaches  effec- 
tively for  his  interest. 

I  run  my  eye  through  a  list  of  mem- 
bers of  the  Edwin  Markham  Chapter 
of  the  London  Poetry  Society,  and  find 
a  number  of  young  writers  of  promise, 
some  of  whose  work  has  felt  the  joy  of 
print:  Wilfred  Knudson,  Sibyl  Han- 
chett,  first  prize  winner  in  a  Montalvo 
group-poetry  contest ;  Edith  Ellery  Pat- 
ton,  winner  of  the  first  single-poem  prize 
in  the  same  contest ;  Elwyn  Bell,  Wil- 
lard  Maas,  Margaret  Chappell,  Floy 
Faylor,  Alma  Williams,  Leland  Moore, 
Mary  Lichthardt,  all  winners  of  rec- 
ognition in  the  aforementioned  contest. 
Mary  Lichthard't  "Ode  on  Peace,"  ded- 
icated to  Dr.  David  Starr  Jordan,  the 
last  stanza  of  which  appears  in  "A  Day 
in  the  Hills,"  is  a  worthy  attempt  and 
should  live.  Also  I  find  among  the 
Poetry  Society  workers  whose  lights  may- 
yet  shine  with  brilliance:  Evelyn  Brown- 
ell,  Dorothe  Bendon,  George  Rankin 
Mitchell,  Eleanor  Watkins,  a  success- 
ful writer  of  Great  War  lyrics;  Hazel 
Goldeen,  Frances  Moyes  Daft,  and  Dar- 
ell  Van  Lannen.  There  is  no  telling 
how  far-reaching  in  letters  the  influ- 
ence of  some  of  these  names  may  be. 

BOOKS  AND  WRITERS 
(Continued  from  Page  376) 

ANEW  life  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
written    with    the    impartiality   and 
fidelity  to  fact,  but  with  the  romantic 
novelist's  love  of  color  and  pageantry. 

There  is  a  graphic  completeness  in 
Mr.  Anderson's  story  which  has  not 
been  achieved  in  previous  biographies. 
Here  you  walk  and  talk  with  Napoleon, 
follow  at  his  heels.  Here  you  mingle 
with  his  family,  his  admirable  mother, 
turbulent  brothers,  fascinating  sisters,  an 
odd  crew,  down  even  to  that  great  old 
man,  his  uncle,  the  arch-deacon,  and  the 
fighting  marshals  who  climbed  from  pov- 
erty to  the  top  with  him. 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  CO.  has  pub- 
lished a  delightful  volume,  titled 
"Requiem,"  by  Humbert  Wolfe.  The 
price  of  the  book  is  $2.50  and  well  worth 
the  price.  It  is  the  fourth  volume  of 
Wolfe's  poetry  to  be  published  in  this 
country.  In  England  the  volume  is 
now  in  its  sixteenth  edition,  having  been 
taken  up  so  rapidly  in  that  country  that 
critics  have  been  led  to  call  Wolfe  the 
most  popular  British  poet  since  Tenny- 
son. "Lampoons"  and  "Kensington 
Gardens"  were  the  last  two  of  Wolfe's 
volumes  published  in  America. 
(Continued  on  Page  382) 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY   and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


379 


SAN  FRANCISCO  has  again  scored 
a  point  in  the  forward  moving 
dramatic  world.  A  new  little  the- 
ater has  been  opened  that  is  destined  to 
make  its  influence  felt  in  appreciative 
circles,  and  deserves  renown  for  its 
artistry  of  wit  and  frankness.  Claiming 
to  be  San  Francisco's  most  daring  play- 
house (situated  in  the  heart  of  Bohe- 
mia), the  Green  Street  Theater  has 
more  to  its  credit  than  its  slogan  might 
imply  to  sensation  seekers  and  certain 
of  the  perverted  public.  This  little  the- 
ater is  fascinating  in  its  Bohemian  set- 
ting, its  atmosphere  intimate  and  its  act- 
ing a  rare  treat  in  the  prevailing  deluge 
of  conventional  hokum. 

The  management  took  as  its  first  play 
"The  Married  Virgin,"  by  Edouard 
Bourdet  (the  author  of  that  rare  mor- 
sel for  censors,  "The  Captive").  A 
play  that  discusses  the  undiscussable  in 
a  truly  French  manner,  and  is  neither 
marred  nor  coarsened  by  its  presentation. 
The  actors,  if  not  native,  certainly  had 
the  rare  wit  and  conception  of  the 
French.  Maryan  Aye,  in  the  title  role, 
played  with  spontaneity  and  freshness. 
Agnes  Detro  was  priceless  as  the  much 
concerned  mother,  distressed  at  her 
daughter's  unnatural  coldness.  Harry 
Schumm,  actor-director,  presented  the 
husband  in  a  natural  and  sympathetic 
manner.  One  must  speak  also  of  the 
music  between  acts — its  rare  swing  and 
pseudo-classic  rendition  and  the  vivacity 
of  its  performers  made  the  musical  mo- 
ments memorable. 

One  might  think  from  this  rhapsody 
on  our  newest  theater  that  the  produc- 
tion had  no  faults  or  needed  no  criti- 
cism. That  is  not  so,  but  the  evening 
spent  on  Green  street  was  so  altogether 
delightful  and  fascinating,  so  surpris- 
ing and  so  satisfactory,  that  one  vents 
critical  spleen  on  the  downtown  thea- 
ters that  handle  delicate  subjects  with 
les  artistry. 

A  case  in  point  is  "The  Great 
Necker,"  starring  Taylor  Holmes  at  the 
Lurie.  While  the  theme  of  this  play 
is  one  much  more  freely  discussed  than 
that  of  "The  Married  Virgin,"  its  ap- 


The  Play's 
the  Thing 


By  GERTRUDE  F.  WILCOX 


proach  to  offensiveness  was  far  more 
apparent.  It  would  seem  that  English 
and  American  actors  have  no  finesse  in 
presenting  the  risque.  Their  self-con- 
sciousness often  makes  intimate  scenes 
disgustingly  obvious,  and  transposes 
what  might  be  wit  to  the  shady  humor 
of  a  low  type.  Aside  from  jarring  on 
the  esthetic  sense,  "The  Great  Necker" 
(admittedly  a  farce — with  melodramatic 
complexes)  was  entertaining. 

The  Players'  Guild  has  been  very  pro- 
lific of  late  and  their  industry  has  pro- 
duced programs  varied  and  ambitious — 
a  Shaw,  a  travesty  of  Clare  Kummer's, 
and  a  Florentine  tragedy  of  Benelli's. 
"Fanny's  First  Play,"  by  George  Ber- 
nard Shaw,  might  be  a  refined,  much- 
tamed  version  of  the  theme  of  Maurine 
Watkins'  "Chicago,"  but  with  an  im- 
portantly read  and  classically  costumed 
prologue  presenting  the  facts  of  the  case, 
and  an  exploiting  epilogue  placing  much 
stress  on  the  authorship,  there  is  nothing 
for  it  but  to  leave  the  intelligentsia  to 
stroke  its  chin  and  surmise,  expound  and 
philosophize  on  this,  the  lightest  of 
Shaw's  plays.  Of  all  the  productions 
of  the  San  Francisco  Players'  Guild, 
"Fanny's  First  Play"  was,  on  its  first 
night  at  least,  the  least  finished  in  point 
of  delivery,  and  rather  spasmodic  in  its 
general  presentation. 

"Rollo's  Wild  Oat"  was  just  a  han- 
kering to  play  "Hamlet,"  but  it  caused 
enough  disturbance  to  have  been  a  more 
desperate  escapade.  This  play  by  Clare 
Kummer  and  produced  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Reginald  Travers  of  the  Players' 
Guild  was  merry  and  very  well  pre- 
sented. It  was  by  far  the  best  perform- 
ance Curtis  Arnall  has  done  in  the  guild. 
He  seemed  in  his  element  in  this  role 
of  Rollo — under  less  stress  and  more 
assured.  He  made  the  universal  Ham- 
let complex  of  all  men  very  apparent. 
Strengthening  this  idea,  the  butler  (Ro- 
nald Telfer)  expressed  his  long  sup- 
pressed Hamlet  desire  in  lines  and  ges- 
tures so  beautifully  exaggerated  in  their 
Shakespearean  rhythm  that  the  audi- 
ence's response  was  merry,  but  sympa- 
thetic. Goldie  McDuff,  an  actress  of 


many  complexes,  was  played  by  Rich- 
enda  Stevick  with  a  rather  baffling  pur- 
pose, which,  however,  became  somewhat 
clearer  at  the  last. 

These  plays,  though  very  successful, 
were  but  a  prologue  to  the  very  splen- 
did production  of  Benelli's  "The  Jest." 
Though  the  character  of  neither  Gian- 
etto  nor  Neri  is  admirable,  they  each 
present  strong  roles  and  were  admirably 
delivered  by  William  S.  Rainey  and 
Cameron  Prud'homme.  Reminiscent  of 
the  opera  was  Gianetto's  song.  Best  of 
all  was  it  to  see  Isabel  Withers  sans 
the  yoke  and  chains  of  professional  stock 
company  roles,  and  free  to  show  her 
worth  in  a  role  adapted  to  her  intelli- 
gent and  sympathetic  interpretation.  A 
word  of  praise  is  due  Junius  Cravens, 
designer,  for  the  simple  but  effective  sets. 
He  seemed  to  curb  his  love  of  museum 
pieces,  and  achieved  something  more 
than  the  purely  decorative. 

Being  a  woman,  the  judgment  against 
the  play  at  the  President  is  apt  to  be 
biased,  but  it  does  seem  that  in  "Why 
Men  Leave  Home"  the  author,  Avery 
Hopwood,  and  the  director,  Henry 
Duffy,  have  collaborated  in  a  slander- 
ous attack  against  a  certain  type  of 
American  woman.  In  the  manuscript  it 
is  a  man's  play  for  men,  and  on  the  stage 
the  men  win  the  laurels  also.  The  wo- 
men in  the  cast  are  below  the  par  of  the 
men,  with  the  exception  of  Lenata  Lane, 
and  she  isn't  too  true  in  her  dramatic 
scenes. 

Over  on  the  Berkeley  side  of  the  bay 
we  look  to  the  Playhouse  and  the  cam- 
pus Little  Theater  for  dramatic  mo- 
ments. Both  of  these  organizations 
have  a  delightful  way  of  intriguing  some 
of  the  other  arts  to  their  cause,  while 
never  permitting  them  to  obscure  drama 
in  the  realm  of  the  interior  decorator 
(which  sometimes  happens  at  the  Play- 
ers' Guild  in  San  Francisco).  For  Mo- 
liere's  "Learned  Ladies"  an  ambitious 
art  student  on  the  campus  fashioned 
with  canvas  and  paint  an  excellent  rep- 
lica of  old  tapestry,  lending  not  a  little 
to  the  grace  and  beauty  of  the  staging 
of  this  witty  satire. 


380 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


CHOOSING  YOUR  INVESTMENTS 


The  Best  Assurance 

Bv  TREBOR  SELIG 


BUT  after  all,  one's  best  assur- 
ance is  in  the  integrity  and 
ability  and  the  record  of  the 
house  with  which  he  deals,"  is  the 
key  note  comment  of  an  experienced 
and  successful  investor  at  the  close  of 
a  recent  interview.  He  had  been  ad- 
vising a  friend  who  had  but  lately  un- 
dertaken to  make  his  savings  work  for 
him  in  the  investment  field.  The  veter- 
an, in  the  light  of  his  long  experience, 
had  given  his  friend  wise  counsel  and 
much  of  it.  But  in  his  closing  sentence 
he  voiced  a  guiding  thought  on  which 
the  novice  as  well  as  the  experienced 
may  rely. 

It  is  a  fundamental  and  it  is  not  pe- 
culiar to  finance.  It  applies  forcefully 
and  always,  whatever  be  the  service  or 
commodity  one  seeks.  There  are  names 
of  merchandising  concerns  that  are 
known  the  world  over  because  of  their 
dependability  and  the  sterling  worth  of 
the  goods  they  sell.  There  are  names 
which  stand  unquestioned  for  compe- 
tent and  honest  service  in  the  profes- 
sions. And  there  are  concerns  in  the 
field  of  finance  which  are  synonyms  for 
integrity  and  ability  and  trustworthiness. 

Genius  or  Fool 

The  man  with  idle  money  to  be  put 
to  work  and  who  seeks  no  advice  is  either 
a  genius  or  a  fool.  The  genius,  though 
he  asks  no  help,  has  equipped  himself  for 
his  task  by  exhaustive  study  which  few 
have  the  opportunity  or  ability  to  make. 
If  his  equipment  is  perfect  and  complete, 
he  succeeds.  If  it  is  not,  he  fails — and 
thereby  proves  he  was  but  a  synthetic 
genius  at  best.  And  as  for  the  fool, 
there  is  an  ancient  adage  that  comments 
wisely  on  him  and  his  money. 

Between  these  two  extremes  are 
grouped  the  vast  majority  of  citizens 
with  sufficient  thrift  and  ambition  to 
have  saved  money  which  they  wish  to 
employ.  Some  of  them  become  investors 
and  some  become  speculators.  Few,  in- 
deed, are  they  who  intentionally  list 
themselves  with  the  latter  class.  The 
most  of  them  consider  themselves  in- 
vestors, even  after  they  realize  that  the 
operation  that,  perchance,  lost  their 
money  was  a  speculation  and  not  an  in- 
vestment. There  is  a  wide  difference,  the 
difference  between  income  and  profit. 

Risk  or  Safety 
A  speculator  will  take  a  chance — an 


investor  will  not.  A  speculator  will  buy 
securities  in  the  hope  and  expectation 
that  they  will  enhance  in  marketable 
value,  much  and  soon.  An  investor  buys 
securities  for  their  earning  power.  The 
speculator  risks  a  partial  or  total  loss  of 
his  money  in  the  effort  to  increase  his 
capital  quickly.  The  investor  avoids  ev- 
erything that  savors  of  risk  to  his  capital 
and  is  bent  only  on  assuring  himself  the 
best  income  obtainable  with  safety.  The 
speculator  is  impatient.  The  investor  is 
content  to  make  haste  slowly. 

The  speculator  will  seek  advice  and 
perhaps  from  a  competent  and  experi- 
enced and  honest  source,  wise  in  the 
ways  and  problems  of  speculators  and 
speculations.  The  investor  will  also  seek 
advice  but  not  from  the  same  source,  for 
that  type  of  advice  does  not  solve  his 
problem.  The  investor  counsels  with  one 
who  studies  incomes  and  security  and  is 
not  concerned  with  risks  and  profits. 
The  more  discretion  and  intelligence 
each  uses  in  the  selection  of  his  advisor, 
and  the  more  circumspection  he  em- 
ploys in  following  the  advice  he  gets 
from  a  dependable  source,  the  more  suc- 
cessful he  is  likely  to  be. 

No  Svmopthy  Is  Due 
One  should  have  no  quarrel  with 
either  because  of  his  motive  or  his  meth- 
ods, perhaps,  so  long  as  each  is  known 
to  himself  and  to  others  for  what  he  is. 
One  should  not  condemn  the  speculator 
for  knowingly  taking  his  chance.  Risks 
are  frequently  justifiable.  Much  that 
has  made  history  was  founded  on  risks. 
Much  success  has  crowned  the  efforts  of 
those  who  have  taken  their  chances  with 
fortune. 

It  is  true  that  more  failures  than  suc- 
cesses are  recorded.  And  it  is  also  true 
that  the  failures  usually  come  to  those 
least  able  to  bear  them.  But  if  the  risk 
is  wittingly  and  willingly  taken,  no  sym- 
pathy is  due.  Nor  does  one  criticize  the 
investor  for  his  conservatism  and  cau- 
tion. One  does  not  condemn  his  quest 
for  income  only,  and  his  obstinate  insist- 
ence on  full  safety  for  his  principal.  For 
investor  and  speculator  alike,  one  must 
assume  that  each  knows  what  he  wants 
and  is  willing  to  do  whatever  is  neces- 
sary to  get  it. 

Dependable  Cooperation 
But  every  thoughtful  person  realizes 
that     the     intelligent     employment     of 
money   is   not   only  a   matter   of  grave 


concern  to  him  who  owns  it,  but  is  a  sub- 
ject of  peculiar  intricacies  difficult  to 
learn  and  mastered  by  few.  The  man 
with  savings  to  be  put  to  work  is  seldom 
qualified  to  solve  his  problem  and  direct 
his  operations  on  his  own  responsibility 
to  any  considerable  degree,  if  at  all.  He 
must  seek  counsel  and  advice.  He  must, 
if  he  is  just  toward  himself,  check  his 
own  ideas  and  opinions  with  those  of 
others  properly  informed.  Whether  he 
buys  speculative  securities  or  conserva- 
tive investments,  he  must  deal  through 
some  concern  in  position  to  sell  him  or 
procure  for  him  the  thing  he  wants  and 
counsel  with  him  in  its  selection.  And 
this  is  the  point  toward  which  was  di- 
rected the  veteran  investor's  comment. 

There  are  many  who  deal  in  financial 
advice  and  financial  service.  Some  are 
competent,  some  are  honest,  some  are 
responsible.  Some  have  long  and  envi- 
able records  for  valuable  and  satisfac- 
tory service.  Many  have  some  but  not 
all  of  the  attributes  one  should  seek  in 
such  a  dealer.  But  there  are  enough  men 
and  establishments  operating  in  every 
city,  wholly  trustworthy  in  all  respects, 
so  that  no  investor  need  lack  sound  and 
dependable  advice,  and  efficient  service. 
Specialized  Service 

There  are  brokers  who  deal  in  specu- 
lative securities,  thoroughly  informed  as 
to  the  merits  and  the  detriments  involv- 
ing the  things  they  sell  or  buy  for  their 
clients,  whose  service  is  efficient  and 
honest,  and  whose  advice  is  sound.  Their 
cooperation  is  indispensible  to  the  suc- 
cessful speculator.  There  are  investment 
houses  who  buy  at  wholesale  and  sell  to 
their  customers  only  securities  of  non- 
speculative  character,  sound  and  conserv- 
ative investments,  houses  with  clean  rec- 
ords for  discriminating  judgment  in 
their  selections  and  offerings.  Any  in- 
vestor may  safely  rely  on  advice  from 
such  a  house. 

No  potential  investor  need  fail  of 
honest  cooperation  and  competent  coun- 
sel if  he  is  willing  to  use  the  same  de- 
gree of  discretion  in  choosing  his  broker 
or  investment  banker  that  he  would  use 
in  selecting  a  specialist  in  the  profes- 
sions for  an  especially  important  service. 
Whether  one  is  bent  on  hazardous  spec- 
ulation or  conservative  investment,  his 
best  assurance  of  successful  effort  lies  in 
the  integrity  and  ability  and  the  record 
of  the  house  with  which  he  deals. 


December,  1927 


OVERLAND    MONTHLY   and  OUT   WEST    MAGAZINE 


381 


QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS 

I. 

SUTTER    BASIN    COMPANY— SINKING 

FUND  6's 

Question — Can  you  give  me  informa- 
tion regarding  the  Sutler  Basin  project 
and  advise  me  what  to  do  with  bonds 
of  that  corporation  which  I  hold? 

Answer — SUTTER  BASIN  COMPANY.  Fif- 
teen-Year Sinking  Fund  6%  Gold  Bonds  due 
May,  1937:  In  1922  this  company  sold  an 
issue  of  $8,000,000,  of  which  $724,000  have 
been  retired  to  date.  Bonds  are  secured  by 
a  mortgage  lien  on  all  of  the  real  property 
of  the  company,  comprising  54,208  acres  in 
Sacramento  valley,  about  22  miles  north  of 
Sacramento,  subject  to  certain  reclamation 
district  bonds  and  assessments,  and  by  col- 
lateral lien  upon  all  of  the  stock  of  the  Sut- 
ler Basin  Improvement  Company,  which 
owns  7000  acres  adjacent  to  the  above  prop- 
erty. These  bonds  were  guaranteed  by  Mr. 
J.  Ogden  Armour  as  to  principal,  interest 
and  sinking  fund.  Mr.  Armour  died  on 
August  16,  1927,  but  the  guaranty  is  binding 
on  his  estate.  Adverse  conditions  in  agric- 
culture  have  seriously  affected  the  earning 
power  of  the  properties  and  they  have  not 
been  sufficient  to  meet  the  fixed  charges.  The 
deficiency  has  been  made  up  by  Mr.  Armour. 

No  default  in  the  bonds  exists,  as  yet, 
but  Mr.  Armour's  liability  must  be  consid- 
ered in  the  settlement  of  his  estate.  To  this 
end  a  number  of  greatly  interested  parties 
have  formed  a  Bondholders'  Protective  Com- 
mittee and  are  endeavoring  to  secure  the 
deposit  of  a  majority  of  the  outstanding 
bonds  in  order  that  they  may  be  in  a  better 
position  to  protect  their  claim  against  the 
estate. 

These  bonds  are  now  selling  at  a  very  low 
figure  and  it  is  believed  that  your  best  inter- 
est would  be  conserved  by  depositing  your 
bonds  with  the  Protective  Committee. 

II. 

GREAT  WESTERN   POWER   COMPANY 
OF  CALIFORNIA— SERIES  "A"   6's 

Question — Do  you  consider  Great 
Western  Power  Series  "A"  bonds  good 
security  to  hold  for  permanent  invest- 
ment? 

Answer — GREAT  WESTERN  POWER  COM- 
PANY OF  CALIFORNIA.  First  Refunding  Mort- 
gage, Series  "A"  6's,  due  March  1,  1949: 
This  company  was  incorporated  in  1915  to 
unify  the  Great  Western  Power  system.  It 
serves  a  population  of  approximately  1,500,- 
000  in  the  greater  part  of  central  California. 
These  bonds  are  a  part  of  an  unlimited  issue, 
being  outstanding  in  the  amount  of  $5,839,- 
000.  On  December  31,  1926,  the  net  tangible 
assets  were  more  than  twice  this  issue  and 
prior  liens  outstanding.  For  the  past  nine 
years  net  earnings  have  averaged  1.6  times 
the  fixed  charges.  These  bonds  are  callable 
on  sixty  days'  notice  at  103  up  to  February 
28,  1939.  They  are  listed  on  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Exchange  and  the  present  market  is 
103M>.  They  may  be  considered  as  a  very 
sound  public  utility  bond  and  could  be  safely 
held  for  investment  purposes. 

III. 
MARK   HOPKINS   HOTEL  FIRST 

MORTGAGE  6J4's 

Question — Should  we  buy  Mark  Hop- 
kins Hotel  bonds  for  income  invest- 
ment? Are  they  fully  secured  and  are 
such  securities  dependable? 


Answer — Every  investor  should  have  some 
well  secured  first  mortgage  real  estate  bonds 
on  his  list  of  holdings.  Such  securities  when 
issued  by  a  responsible  investment  banker 
are  preferred  investment.  It  is  doubtful  if 
you  can  now  buy  any  of  the  Mark  Hopkins 
issue,  as  these  bonds  were  all  promptly  sold 
for  permanent  investment.  This  issue, 
$2,500,000  matures  serially  from  1928  to 
1941,  and  bears  654%  interest.  It  consti- 
tutes a  first  mortgage  on  the  land,  building, 
furnishings  and  equipment  of  a  19-story 
fireproof  property  in  the  Nob  Hill  district 
of  San  Francisco,  one  of  the  leading  hotels 
of  the  West.  It  has  been  in  operation  one 
year,  with  constantly  increasing  patronage, 
and  its  net  earnings  are  far  above  the  bond 
issue  requirements.  These  bonds  are  fully 
secured. 

IV. 

SPERRY    FLOUR    COMPANY    SINKING 
FUND  6's 

Question — Please  advise  me  of  the 
value  of  Sperry  Flour  6%  bonds  and  of 
the  security  back  of  them. 

Answer — SPERRY  FLOUR  COMPANY.  First 
Mortgage  Sinking  Fund  6%  Bonds,  due 
June  1,  1942:  This  company  is  the  largest 
milling  concern  on  the  Pacific  Coast  and 
the  bonds  are  secured  by  mortgage  on  all  of 
the  fixed  assets  owned  or  acquired  by  the 
company.  The  company  has  15  mills  and 
58  distributing  points  on  the  Pacific  Coast 
and  Hawaiian  Islands.  Listed  on  the  San 
Francisco  Stock  Exchange;  the  present  price, 
100.  In  1926,  fixed  charges  were  earned 
two  times  over. 

This  bond  was  recently  selling  at  96,  but 
the  recent  marked  improvement  in  the  com- 
pany's financial  status  has  been  reflected  in 
the  market  price.  Although  the  company 
deals  in  a  basic  commodity,  competition  and 
agricultural  conditions  in  the  products  it 
uses  makes  earnings  variable.  A  good  bond, 
but  one  which  requires  watching  to  prevent 
loss  through  market  depreciation. 

V. 

MILLER  &  LUX  GOLD  NOTES  7's 
Question — What  is  the  value  of  my 
Miller  &  Lux  7%  gold  notes?    Is  my 
investment  safe? 

Answer — We  believe  your  principal  is 
safe,  but  your  investment  is  likely  to  cause 
you  some  worry  through  fluctuations  of 
market  price  before  the  company  reaches  a 
sound  position.  Ten  million  dollars  of  these 
bonds  were  issued  in  1925  to  mature  October 
1,  1935,  carrying  7%.  They  are  a  direct 
obligation  of  the  company  and  secured  by 
pledge  of  securities  of  subsidiaries  owned 
by  Miller  &  Lux.  These  bonds  are  subject 
to  a  $15,000,000  first  mortgage  6%  issue  on 
the  company's  real  estate  in  California. 
Company  is  now  engaged  in  an  active  cam- 
paign to  dispose  of  its  holdings.  As  much 
depends  upon  the  management  of  the  com- 
pany, and  as  earnings  are  not  reported,  no 
rating  can  be  assigned  to  this  security. 

VI. 

WESTERN    PACIFIC    RAILROAD 
CORPORATION 

Question — Should  I  buy  Western  Pa- 
cific Railroad  stock  at  the  present  time 
in  expectation  of  an  early  advance  in 
market  price? 

Answer — WESTERN  PACIFIC  RAILROAD  COR- 
PORATION: A  holding  company  owning  all 
of  the  stock  of  the  Western  Pacific  Railroad 
Company,  which  operates  over  1000  miles 


cf  road  from  San  Francisco  to  Salt  Lake 
City.  Has  joint  ownership  of  the  Denver  & 
Rio  Grande  Western,  which  gives  it  a  con- 
necting link  and  provides  a  transcontinental 
route. 

The  corporation  is  engaged  in  a  large 
program  of  expansion  and  of  improving  the 
physical  condition  of  its  equipment.  How- 
ever, earnings  have  not  proved  as  great  as 
expected  and  on  November  1  the  dividends 
on  the  preferred  stock  were  passed;  no  divi- 
dends have  been  paid  on  the  common. 

Would  not  consider  a  purchase  at  the 
present  time,  as  it  would  appear  that  stock 
can  be  obtained  at  a  future  date  at  a  lower 
price,  and  it  may  be  some  time  before  a 
recovery  of  the  road's  earning  power  re- 
stores dividends  and  creates  a  profitable 
market  for  the  stock. 


1 


Sunset 
Trail 

through  Romance 

[You  may  see  the  pictur-'  ) 
esqueSouthwestandold  I 
South  at  no  additional  I 
fare  on  your  trip  East.J 

You'll  enjoy  so  much  the  Sunset 
way  east,  the  colorful  route  of  "Sun- 
set Limited"  to  middle  west  and  east- 
ern points,  via  New  Orleans.  Arizona 
Apache  Trail  detour,  New  Mexico, 
Texas,  luxuriant  Louisiana. 

"Sunset  Limited,"  famed  round  the 
world,  carries  you  swiftly  and  com- 
fortably over  this  fascinating  route. 
Its  appointments  are  superb;  as  fine 
as  a  first-class  hotel  or  club. 

That  is  the  Sunset  j  ourney  east.  Read 
the  new  boo!:let  describing  it  in  de- 
tail. From  N-W  Orleans,  you  can 
continue  by  train  or  go  to  New  York 
aboard  Southern  Pacific  steamship. 
Meals  and  berth  on  the  boat  included 
in  your  fare. 

Return  via  another  of  Southern  Pacific's 
4  great  routes  across  the  continent — Gold- 
en State,  Overland,  or  Shasta.  A  choice 
matched  by  no  other  railroad. 

Southern 
Pacific 

F.  S.  McGINNIS,  Tats.  Traffic  Mgr. 
San  Francisco 


382 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT  WEST   MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


BOOKS  AND  WRITERS 

(Continued  from  Page  378) 

/COLLECTORS  of  Wilsoniana  will 
^  welcome  the  appearance  of  "Chro- 
nology of  Woodrow  Wilson,"  a  novel 
volume  of  data  on  the  life  of  the  war 
president,  compiled  by  John  Randolph 
Boiling  and  others  for  Mary  Vander- 
pool  Pennington. 

Here  is  a  book  which  presents  the 
life  of  Woodrow  Wilson  through  a 
chronological  arrangement  of  dates  be- 
ginning with  his  birth  on  December  28, 


Short  Cut 
to  Safety 

A  LETTER,  a  postcard, 
•*\-  or  a  telephone  call  to 
S.  W.  STRAUS  &  CO.  is 
a  short  cut  to  investment 
safety.  By  return  mail  you 
will  receive  well-diversified 
current  offerings  of  thor- 
oughly  safeguarded  first 
mortgage  bonds,  yielding 
5.75  to  6.25  per  cent.  Ask 
for 

BOND  LIST  L-1730 

S.  W. 

STRAUS  &  CO. 

Incorporated 
ESTABLISHED  1882      INVESTMENT  BONDS 

STRAUS  BUILDING 

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523  So.  Spring  St.,  Los  Angeles 

STRAUS  BUILDING 
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STRAUS  BUILDING 

Michigan  Ave.  at  Jackson  Blvd., 

Chicago 

45   YEARS  WITHOUT   LOSS    TO  ANY 
INVESTOR 

The  Straus  Hallmark  on  a  bond 
stamps  it  at  once  as  the  premier 
real  estate  security. 


1856,  and  ending  on  February  6,  1924, 
the  day  of  his  funeral.  While  a  mere 
line  or  two  suffices  to  mark  many  of  the 
dates,  some  require  a  page  or  more,  for 
the  significance  of  an  official  act  of  his 
as  governor  or  president  is  set  down 
with  some  detail,  and  excerpts  from  his 
speeches  are  offered. 

Voluminous  appendices,  taking  up 
more  than  half  the  volume,  contain  his 
most  notable  addresses,  a  brief  descrip- 
tion of  the  League  of  Nations,  and  the 
League  of  Nations  covenant. 

The  book  is  not  only  of  value  as  a 
reference  work  on  the  history  in  which 
Woodrow  Wilson  had  a  part  in  the  mak- 
ing, but  evidently  compiled  as  a  labor 
of  love,  likely  to  prove  a  treasure  to 
admirers  of  Wilson. 

("Chronology  of  Woodrow  Wilson," 
compiled  for  Mary  Vanderpool  Pen- 
nington by  John  Randolph  Boiling  and 
others.  New  York :  Frederick  A.  Stokes 
Co.,  $3.50.) 


MOON  OF  MADNESS 


best  of  this  book  is  the  figure  of 
Major  O'Shea.  A  daring,  debonair, 
dependable  man,  ex-officer  in  His  Maj- 
esty's service  during  the  World  War, 
the  major  takes  a  leading  part  in  rid- 
ding the  kingdom  of  the  red  menace. 

In  spite  of  the  major's  —  er  —  ad- 
vanced years,  Nanette,  the  dashing  sub- 
deb,  equally  adorable  and  daring,  is  an 
unpremeditated  but  withal  a  willing 
and  eager  ally  of  O'Shea.  This  is  chiefly 
because  she  loves  him,  but  the  major 
is  too  gallant  to  acknowledge  that  he 
knows  it. 

The  S-group  of  Communists  lead 
their  pursuers  from  Madeira  to  London, 
befogging  the  scent  with  forged  pass- 
ports, code  letters  and  the  like. 

In  spite  of  the  possibilities  of  the 
yarn,  the  author's  treatment  slows  it 
down  considerably;  and  while  not  alto- 
gether dull,  it  nevertheless  lacks  that 
most  vital  element  —  readability. 


THE  BOY'S  LIFE  OF  COLONEL 

LAWRENCE 

'"PHE  story  of  the  most  dashing,  ad- 
•*-  venturous  and  incredible  figure  in 
all  of  modern  history — the  mere  youth 
of  twenty-six  years  who  became  the  un- 
crowned King  of  the  Arabs  and  led  them 
in  their  spectacular  revolt  against  the 
Turks. 

Since  the  day  when  he  first  appeared 
in  the  news  like  a  fantastic  figure  out 
of  some  story  book,  all  the  world  has 
been  eager  to  know  the  whole  story  of 
T.  E.  Lawrence,  and  no  one  has  been 
more  eager  to  hear  it  than  red-blooded 
American  boys.  Here  in  this  volume 
Lawrence's  life  story  is  set  down  espe- 
cially for  American  boys  by  the  man 
who  knows  him  best. 


HELLO, 
WORLD 

We  are  the   Boys'  and   Girls' 
Magazine 

Grown-ups  not  allowed! 

The 

TREASURE 
CHEST 

Stories  and  poems  and  draw- 
ings and  things  that  every  boy 
and  girl   likes.    Done  by  boys 
and  girls  and  grown-ups. 

THE  TREASURE  CHEST 

MAGAZINE 

$2.50  Per  Year 

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OVERLAND  MONTHLY  and  OUT  WEST  MAGAZINE 


383 


A  book  of  unusual  interest 
to  Westerners — 

THE  ECHO     1 
ANTHOLOGY 
OF  VERSE      [ 

Containing  the  best  poems  pub- 
lished in  The  Echo  and  repre- 
senting over  thirty-five  poets, 
many  of  whom  are  native  West- 
erners. 

The  Rocky  Mountain  West  has  but  i 
one  medium  expressing  its  more  seri-  | 
ous  and  permanent  culture  —  THE  \ 
ECHO. 

Therefore,  this  first  anthology  to  be 
issued  by  THE  ECHO  will  be  of  unusual    j 
importance   and   is  the  very   first  vol-     j 
ume  of   its   kind   in  the   history  of  the     | 
Rocky  Mountain  West. 

While  not  all  poets  represented  are  | 
Westerners,  the  anthology  contains  the  j 
work  of  all  of  the  important  poets  in  j 
Colorado  and  in  the  Rocky  Mountain  [ 
states. 

The  book  will  be  attractively  printed  j 
and  bound  and  the  edition  will  be  | 
strictly  limited  to  350  copies.  Each  j 
copy  will  be  numbered  and  auto-  j 
graphed  by  one  of  the  poets  represent-  j 
ed  in  the  anthology.  This  important  | 
volume  will  soon  be  a  collector's  item  j 
and  will  be  worth  much  more  than  its  | 
publication  price. 

Among  the  poets  whose  work  will  j 
appear  in  the  anthology  are  the  fol-  I 
lowing  named; 

Irene    Stewart,    Milton    S.    Rose,    | 
Gladys  Oaks,  Lilian  White  Spencer, 

Blanche   Waltrip  Rose,   Margaret 
Tod    Ritter,    Willard    Johnson, 
Harry  McGuire,  Mary  Caro- 
lyn Davies,  Kathleen  Tank- 
ersley   Young,   Ernest   H. 
Moll,    Eleanor    Allen, 

The  edition  is  strictly  limited  to  350  i 

copies,  and  will  no  doubt  be  exhausted  i 

soon    after    publication    date.     There-  \ 

fore,  in  order  to  make  sure  of  obtain-  | 

ing  a  copy  it  is  necessary  to  send  in  | 

your  remittance  for  one  or  more  books  j 
now. 

Price,  Postpaid, 
$2.00 

Each  book  numbered  and  autographed.  | 

To  reserve  a  copy  of  "The  Echo's  I 

Anthology  of  Verse,"  the  coupon  below  | 
may  be  used. 

The  Echo  Publishing  Co., 
1840   California   Street, 
Denver,  Colorado. 
Dear  Sirs: 

Please  send  me copies    | 

of  THE  ECHO  ANTHOLOGY  OF  i 
VERSE,  for  which  find  inclosed  remit-  j 

tance  in  the  amount  of  $ j 

(price  per  copy,  $2.00).  My  order  is  j 
to  be  sent  postpaid  immediately  upon  i 
publication  and  each  book  is  to  be  | 
numbered  and  autographed. 


1869-1926 
(Continued  from  Page  358) 

to  test  their  singing  qualities  during  his 
time,  he  hearkened  very  attentively.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  the  young- 
ster just  raising  his  voice  in  song  might 
be  a  competitor  for  his  own  laurels. 
George  knew  he  was  a  poet — he  took  his 
poetry  very  seriously — but  he  never 
dreamed  of  laurel.  There  was  in  him 
no  vanity  of  achievement.  For  him  the 
poets  were  a  brotherhood — he  reached 
out  an  eager  hand  to  welcome  a  new 
singer.  That  poets  like  Christian  Binck- 
ley,  Ralph  Gibbs,  Flora  McDonald 
Shearer  and  Nora  May  French  died  be- 
fore finding  complete  utterance  •was  to 
George  a  very  real  tragedy.  He  made 
Clark  Ashton  Smith  articulate,  and 
found  for  him  those  paths  of  encourage- 
ment that  the  inspired  Auburn  boy 
would  never  have  found  alone.  He  was 
whole-heartedly  pleased  when  Robinson 
Jeffers  commanded  an  audience  after 
years  of  effort. 

It  will  be  for  our  children  and  our 
children's  children  to  appraise  Sterling's 
poetry.  Our  estimate  is  unimportant. 
But  we  turn  naturally  to  his  poetry  to 
express  him  in  terms  of  what  he  means 
to  us,  and  I  think  of  those  lines  he  wrote 
in  his  noble  Ode  to  Shelley,  lines  so  true 
of  George  himself : 

"O  singer,  fled  afar! 
The  erected  darkness  shall  but  isle 
the  star 

That  was  your  voice  to  men, 
Till  morning  come  again 
And  of  the  night  that  song  alone 
remain." 


Name 

Address.. 
City 


GAUDEAMUS  IGITUR 

(Continued  from  Page  371) 

Unto  Praxiteles 
What  shall  we  bring? 
What  can  we  carve 
That  unto  him 
Were  fit  to  give  ? 

To  Leonardo  who 
Could  bring  in  pigment 
That  would  say 
We  wished  to  say? 

To  Michaelangelo 

What  gift 

In  marble  or  in  bronze? 

To  Homer, 

Shakespeare, 

Dante,  Shelley, 

Keats — 

What  but  their  deathless  lines 

Could  we  return  ? 

(Continued  on  Page  384) 


A    Guiding 
Sign 

To  Those  Who 

Appreciate  Fine 

Hotels 


The  Hollywood  Plaza  is  hotel 
headquarters  in  Hollywood,  Cali- 
fornia. 

When  on  your  next  trip  to 
Southern  California,  make  this 
famous  hostelry  your  objective. 

Situated  in  the  heart  of  Holly- 
wood, the  hotel  is  most  centrally 
located  for  either  pleasure,  business 
or  shopping  in  Los  Angeles. 

Every  room  is  a  parlor  during 
the  day  time — a  luxurious  sleeping 
quarter  at  night.  In-a-door  Beds 
make  this  possible. 

Strange  people,  exotic  sights, 
theaters,  and  entertainment  are 
but  a  step  away  from  the  door  of 
this  famous  hostelry. 

Write  or  wire  us  for  reserva- 
tions in  advance.  Appoint  this  ho- 
tel now  as  your  headquarters  while 
in  Southern  California. 


Hollywood  Plaza 
Hotel 

Hollywood,  Calif. 


384 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY  and   OUT   WEST   MAGAZINE 


December,  1927 


GAUDEAMUS  IGITUR 

In  language  such  as  theirs 
We  cannot  speak; 
Therefore  to  him 
That  here  tonight 
Graces  awhile 
Our  festive  way, 
What  shall  we  say 
Were  words  of  praise 
For  Sterling's  lays? 

We  speak  of  those  we  knew  only  "as 
we  found  them."  To  me,  George  Ster- 
ling was  infinitely  loyal,  infinitely  char- 
itable anad  infinitely  kind;  and  perhaps 
the  greatness  of  himself  in  these  great 
qualities  will  mean  more  to  him  in  that 
other  world  of  veiled  incertitudes  than 
his  poetic  genius  meant  in  this.  We  may 
not  know  how  he  experienced  that  last 
curiosity,  as  Pater  called  it;  but  when 
he  paced  through  the  far-folded  mists 
of  the  "cold  and  starless  road  of  death" 
— I,  who  knew  his  life-long  hunger  for 
the  joy  of  song — I  know  that  George 
Sterling  went  sineine. 


BOOKS  AND  WRITERS 
(Continued  from  Page  377) 

thor  informs  us,  there  must  be  sound 
business  management  at  the  foundation. 
Mr.  Thayer  speaks  not  from  an,  observ- 
er's viewpoint,  but  as  one  who  has  had 
actual  experience.  He  has  served  on 
the  staff  of  the  Detroit  News,  Spring- 
field (Massachusetts)  Republican  and 
other  journals  throughout  these  United 
States.  He  has  been  a  teacher  of  jour- 
nalism in  Universities  of  Iowa,  Wiscon- 
sin, Kansas  and  California  and  the  State 
College  of  Washington,  etc. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  last  contact  which 
gives  him  the  freedom  of  expression 
which  is  evident  throughout  the  book. 
While  he  emphasizes  the  business  prin- 
ciples of  newspaper  publishing,  he  does 
not  neglect  the  ideal  of  service  and  in- 
dependence of  thought  which  are  so  es- 
sential to  the  success  of  a  newspaper. 
There  are  in  the  15  chapters  excellent 
suggestions  as  to  newspaper  plant  pur- 
chase, equipment,  organization,  conduct, 
as  well  as  circulation,  advertising,  edi- 
torial policy  and  the  like.  On  the  whole, 
this  book  is  a  work  of  constructive  in- 
formation. 


LIFE  OF  CHRIST  AND  OF  HIS 
MOTHER 

T>  EPRODUCTI VE  p  r  i  n  t  i  n  g  has 
*•*•  reached  an  amazing  plane  of  beauty. 
Plate  work  in  colors,  indeed,  from  the 
important  presses,  is  become  a  delicate 
and  exact  science.  No  greater  example 
of  this  exquisite  work  can  be  found  than 


in  Stoke's  recent  publication,  THE  LIFE 
OF,  CHRIST  AND  OF  His  MOTHER,  ed- 
ited by  Florence  Heywood.  Here  are 
bound  together  twenty-four  facsimile 
reproductions  of  the  illustrations  made 
for  the  illumination  of  Etienne  Cheva- 
lier's manuscript,  a  particular  and  highly 
important  art  treasure  of  the  Chantilly. 
Miss  Heywood,  an  American  lecturer 
on  art  at  the  Louvre,  and  author  of 
"Important  Pictures  of  the  Louvre," 
has  given  each  facsimile  an  excellently 
devised  appreciation.  In  hand  with 
Miss  Heywood's  comment,  the  extremely 
interesting  life  of  Fouquet  is  accounted 
.  .  .  the  young,  sensitive  and  highly 
talented  artist  who  made  a  warm  friend 
of  Charles  VII  and  who  painted  that 
exotic  Frenchman's  portrait.  Important 
among  the  artist's  friends  was  one  al- 
ways to  be  remembered,  Fra  Angelico. 

Perhaps  most  vital  in  contribution  to 
the  art  of  the  world  this  volume  offers 
is  the  charming  sketch  of  rare  and  early 
French  art,  its  fresh  and  native  ten- 
dency to  realism  introduced  in  Fouquet's 
homely  and  often  startling  details.  The 
present  masters  of  the  French  school  owe 
him  an  immense  gratitude.  Young  Fou- 
quet developed  an  amazing  mastery  in 
color  detail,  distributing  brilliant  tints 
with  a  graceful  firmness  over  his  can- 
vasses. And  lastly,  in  the  prose  work 
of  the  book,  is  included  a  sparkling 
description  of  French  life,  in  particular 
the  life  at  Tours,  during  the  exciting 
and  glamorous  days  of  Charles  VII  in 
the  early  fifteenth  century.  Much,  of 
course,  is  to  be  said  of  those  colorful 
days,  the  court  intrigue,  the  bawling  inns 
and  the  velvet-souled  mistresses  cater- 
ing eternally  to  the  Bastard  King.  But 
this  account,  complete  in  itself,  deals 
mainly  with  the  inspirational  details 
offered  the  artist  at  that  time  .  .  .  the 
hum  of  the  market  place,  the  wild  pro- 
fusion of  cultured  flowers,  the  statuary 
and  estate  of  those  born  to  high  and 
expensive  beauty. 

The  pictures  .  .  .  and  words  are 
singularly  useless  in  attempting  a  de- 
scription .  .  .  are  simply  rare  and  beau- 
tiful treasures.  Unlimited  patience  and 
labor  could  alone  reproduce  them,  as 
they  are,  in  their  rich  color  and  tone. 
The  originals  were  first  gathered  to- 
gether by  the  Due  D'Aumale,  later  dis- 
covered as  "Fouquet's  Book  of  Hours." 
D'Aumale,  making  his  will,  turned  them 
over  to  the  French  government.  Thus 
the  publishers  are  allowed  the  privilege 
of  reproduction. 

The  mechanical  details  of  the  book 
are  remarkably  well  done.  Bookbinding 
in  a  country  that  publishes  ten  thou- 
sand columns  a  year  is  often  a  careless 
and  shoddy  business.  Not  so  with 
Stoke's  LIFE  OF  CHRIST  AND  His 
MOTHER.  Every  painstaking  detail  has 


been  exhausted  in  the  attempt  to  make 
this  one  of  the  outstanding  books  of  the 
year.  And  the  finished  product  meets 
with  every  particular  of  excellent  taste. 
Type,  cover,  paper — naturally  the  finest 
hand-made  material  obtainable — achieves 
prominence  on  the  collector's  shelf.  And 
at  this  time  of  the  year,  when  the  fas- 
tidious book-lover  casts  about  for  suit- 
able Yuletide  purchases,  it  is  more  than 
welcome.  We  recommend  it  not  only 
for  the  exquisite  taste  and  typography, 
but  for  the  solid  worth  of  content  and 
the  finely  exact  reproductions  of  oils 
long  since  numbered  among  the  world's 
greatest  objects  of  art. 


THIS  AND  THAT 

IN  "Jeanne  Margot"  the  reader  will 
find  quiet  and  understanding.  It  is 
of  a  little  girl  who  tends  the  cows  of 
her  uncle,  a  peasant,  a  story  to  win 
sympathy  and  admiration.  Jeanne  Mar- 
got  has  quaint  ways  and  the  adventures 
which  come  to  her  are  of  the  kind  to 
win  a  reader's  affection.  With  it  all 
there  are  action,  vivid  pictures  and  con- 
tinued interest. 


ANOTHER  book  of  value  is  Steel 
and  Jade,"  a  book  of  fiction,  priced 
$2.50  and  published  by  George  H. 
Doran.  It  is  the  latest  volume  from 
the  pen  of  the  versatile  Achmed  Abdul- 
lah. The  book  comprises  a  collection 
of  short  stories,  differing  essentially  from 
his  last  book,  "Ruth's  Rebellion."  In 
"Steel  and  Jade"  Abdullah  has  written 
stories  of  colorful  Arabian  scenes.  The 
author  has  spent  many  years  in  the  East 
and  knows  the  natives  of  the  East  bet- 
ter, no  doubt,  than  any  other  fiction 
writer  whose  works  have  appeared  in 
English.  Abdulla'h  has  written  in  seven 
different  languages,  and  speaks  and  un- 
derstands a  number  of  others. 


WE  have  given  an  excellent  example 
of  poetry,  one  of  fiction,  and  now 
comes  the  "necessary  book  for  authors," 
authors  of  any  type,  be  he  searching  for 
poetry  magazines,  magazines,  motion 
picture  companies,  trade  papers,  or  book 
publishers.  It  is  a  book  of  some  450 
pages,  and  is  a  solid  list  of  magazines, 
reviews,  periodicals,  trade  journals,  phil- 
anthropic and  humane  publications,  for- 
eign publications,  with  the  requirements 
of  each  of  them  as  to  character,  length, 
price,  etc.  One  would  feel  that  with 
such  a  Vade  Mecum  there  could  be  little 
excuse  for  those  hidden  Bluebeard  cup- 
boards we  all  have  filled  with  manu- 
scripts that  have  evinced  a  homing  in- 
stinct. Facts  and  yet  more  facts  are 
here,  and  she  who  writes  may  read. 


oAlexandria  fages 


are 


r 


guick  On  The  Trigger' 


Their  watchword  is  smiling  cour- 
tesy.— This  is  but  one  of  the 
features  of  this  great  hotel  where 
thoughtful  and  kindly  service 
combines  with  ideal  comfort  and 
surroundings  to  make  a  stay 
enjoyable. 

RATES 

Ver  T>ay,  single,  European  flan 

120  rooms  with  running  water 

$2.50  to  S4.00 

220  rooms  with  bath  -  3.50  to  5.00 
160  rooms  with  bath  -  6.00  to  8.00 

~7>::uHf.  $4.00  Up 

Also  a  number  of  large  and  beautiful  rooms 
and  suites,  some  in  period  furnishings  with 
grand  piano,  fire  place  and  bath,  f  10.00  up. 


LARGE  AND  WELL 
EQUIPPED  SAMPLE  ROOMS 

The  center  for  Theatres,  Banks,  and  Shops 
'Pleatt  'write  for  'Bookttt 

r^^CHO  gOLF  CLUB~\ 
|_       available  to  all  guests  / 

HAROLD  E.  LATHROP 

^Manager  ^^ 


» 


if, 


HOTEL/ 


ALEXANDRIA 

Los  AngeJes     *., 


STRANGE 
WATERS 

By 
GEORGE  STERLING 

PRIVATELY  PRINTED 

First  edition,  issued  in   1926  in  a 

limited  edition  of  only 

150  copies. 


May  be  procured  at 

GRAHAM  RAY  BOOKSHOP 

317  Stockton  Street 

San  Francisco 


The  Fireman's  Fund  leads  all  in- 
surance companies  in  premium 
income-fire,  marine  and  auto- 
mobile—in Pacific  Coast  States 


STATEMENT  OF  THE  OWNERSHIP.  MAN- 
AGEMENT,   CIRCUI/ATION,   ETC.,   RE- 
QUIRED   BY    THE    ACT    OF    CON- 
GRESS   OF    AUG.    24.    1912 

Of  Overland  Monthly  and   Out  West   Maga- 
zine,   Consolidated,    published    monthly    at 
San   Francisco,   Calif.,   for  October  1.   1927. 
State  of  California,  County  of  San  Francisco, 
ss. 

Before  me,  a  Notary  Public  in  and  for 
the  state  and  county  aforesaid,  personally 
appeared  Mabel  Boggess-Moffitt,  who,  hav- 
ing been  duly  sworn  according  to  law,  de- 
poses and  says  that  she  is  the  secretary- 
treasurer  of  the  Overland  Monthly  and  Out 
West  Magazine  Consolidated,  and  that  the 
following  is,  to  the  best  of  her  knowledge 
and  belief,  a  true  statement  of  the  owner- 
ship, management  (and  if  a  daily  paper,  the 
circulation),  etc.,  of  the  aforesaid  publica- 
tion for  the  date  shown  in  the  above  cap- 
tion, required  by  the  Act  of  August  2*, 
1912,  embodied  in  section  411,  Postal  Laws 
and  Regulations,  printed  on  the  reverse  of 
this  form,  to  wit: 

1.  That  the  names  and   addresses  of  the 
publisher,  editor,  managing  editor,  and  busi- 
ness managers  are : 

Publisher,  Overland  Monthly  and  Out  West 
Magazine,  Consolidated,  San  Francisco.  Cal. 

Editor,  B.  Virginia  Lee,  San  Francisco, 
Cal. 

Managing  editor,  none. 

Business  manager,  Mabel  Boggess-Moffltt. 
San  Francisco,  Cal. 

2.  That    the   owner   is:     (If    owned    by    a 
corporation,   its  name   and   address   must   be 
stated  and  also   immediately  thereunder  the 
names  and  addresses  of  stockholders  owning 
or    holding    one    per   cent    or   more    of   total 
amount  of  stock.    If  not  owned  by  a  corpor- 
ation,  the  names  and  addresses  of  the  indi- 
vidual  owners  must  be   given.    If   owned  by 
a    firm,    company,     or    other    unincorporated 
concern,    its   name   and   address,    as   well    as 
those    of   each   individual    member,    must   be 
given). 

Overland  Monthly  and  Out  West  Maga- 
zine, Consolidated,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

James  F.  Chamberlain,  Pasadena,  Cal. 

Mabel   Moffltt,   San  Francisco,   Cal. 

B.  Virginia  Lee,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Arthur  H.  Chamberlain,  San  Francisco, 
Cal. 

3.  That   the   known   bondholders,    mortga- 
gees,   and    other    security   holders   owning    or 
holding   1   per  cent  or  more  of   total   amount 
of  bonds,  mortgages,  or  other  securities  are: 
(If  there  are  none,   so  state).     None. 

4.  That   the  two  paragraphs   next  above, 
giving  the   names  of   the   owners,   stockhold- 
ers,   and    security    holders,    if    any,    contain 
not  only  the  list  of  stockholders  and  security 
holders    as    they    appear    upon    the    books    of 
the    company    but    also,    in    cases    where    the 
stockholder  or  security  holder  appears  upon 
the   books  of  the   company  as   trustee  or   in 
any    other    fiduciary    relation,    the    name    of 
the    person    or    corporation    for    whom    such 
trustee    is    acting,    is    given  ;    also    that    the 
said  two  paragraphs  contain  statements  em- 
bracing affiant's  full  knowledge  and  belief  as 
to    the    circumstances    and    conditions    under 
which  stockholders  and  security  holders  who 
do  not   appear  upon   the   books  of  the   com- 
pany  as   trustees,    hold   stock   and   securities 
in  a  capacity  other  than  that  of  a  bona  fide 
owner ;    and    this    affiant    has    no    reason    to 
believe    that    any    other    person,    association, 
or    corporation    has    any    interest    direct    or 
indirect    in   the   said   stock,   bonds,    or   other 
securities  than  as   so  stated  by  him. 

5.  That  the  average  number  of  copies  of 
each    issue    of    this    publication    sold    or    dis- 
tributed,  through  the   mails  or   otherwise,   to 
paid   subscribers  during  the  six   months  pre- 
ceding the  date   shown  above  is    (this  infor- 
mation   is    required    from   daily   publications 
only). 

B.  VIRGINIA  LEE,  Editor 

Sworn  to  and  subscribed  before  me  this 
24th  day  of  September,  1927. 

MABEL  BOGGESS-MOFFITT, 
(My  commission    expires  July   30,    1931.) 


you  drive  to  Seaclijff^  Park  through 
Santa  Cruz  or  Wationville,  turning  off 
the  State  Highway  about  5!  ;>  miles  east 
of  Capttola,  where  the  ttgnt  read  "Sea- 
cliff  Park,  Apto*  Beach  artd  the  Pali- 
tadct," 


EACLIFF_PARK- 

offwa/ilifF 

)/  \^->  *-/ 


ONTEREY  BAY, 
beautiful  with  its 
towering  palisades 
and  its  perfect  bathing  beach 
offers  its  individual  appeal  to 
the  man  who  is  seeking  an 
accessible  homesite  in  a  spot 
that  is  labeled  health  and  hap- 
piness for  his  family — but  the 
fact  that  Seacliff  Park  during 
the  last  few  months  has 
emerged  into  a  City  of  Reality 
is  the  point  that  carries  con- 
viction. 

It  is  this  that  convinces  sound 
business  men  that  their  invest- 
ment in  Seacliff  Park  property 
is  wise. 


({These  are  tummer-like 
days  at  Aptot  Beach — warm,  lazy 
breakers  with  joamy  crests  are 
ready  to  break  over  you  and  go 
scuttling  ojff  to  the  shore  in  a  wild 
conjusion  oj  effervescent  bub- 
bles, while  you  plunge  on  out- 
ward jor  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  your  first  swim  oj  the 
season. 

({Pending  the  construction  oj  per- 
manent buildings,  temporary 
bath  houses  and  a  restaurant 
have  been  completed. 

CDrive  directly  to  the  beach.  Park- 
ing space  is  free. 

Gfree  transportation,  !J  desired, 
may  be  arranged  through  our 
San  Francisco  and  San  Jose 
Offices.  Otherwise  guests  may 
register  at  our  SeaclijJ  Park 
OJjice  upon  arrival.  QAsk  Jor 
Registration  Clerk. 


Records  of  the  Title  Com- 
pany disclose  the  fact  that  men 
who  made  initial  purchases 
last  year  have  returned  to  buy 
even  larger  lots  or  sectors  this 
year.  Those  who  last  year 
doubted  the  possibility  of 
carrying  out  a  program  so  am- 
bitious (but  bought  anyway 
because  of  the  perpetual  charm 
of  the  location  itself)  now  re- 
alize that  their  faith  and  good 
judgment  has  been  rewarded. 
Buying  is  on.  Seacliff  Park  resi- 
dents know  that  present  in- 
itial offering  prices  will  soon 
be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Seacliff  Park — Riviera  of  the 
Pacific  now  emerges  in  reality. 


OWNEO  AND  DEVELOPED  BY  SEACLIFF  COMPANY,  APTO'S,  CALIFORNIA 


Descriptive  foldtt 
sen'  upon  request 


AT  APTOS  .  CALIFORNIA. 


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