THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
THE DUNE COUNTRY
91
VHF VOICES OF VHF DUNES
QOMCttl MBS So v \ .
ETCHING:
nt QoMtra Cum ; - N
THE
DUNE COUNTRY
By
EARL H. REED
AUTHOR OF
"THE VOICES OF THE DUNES"
ETCHING: A PRACTICAL TREATISE'
WITH SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS
BY THE AUTHOR
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
TORONTO: S. B. GUNDY, MCMXVI
Copyright. 1916
By JOHN LANE COMPANY
PRESS OF
Eaton & Gettinoer
new york, v. s. a.
f
To C. C. R.
\
3060942
INTRODUCTION
THE text and illustrations in this book are
intended to depict a strange and pictur-
esque country, with some of its interesting
wild life, and a few of the unique human char-
acters that inhabit it.
The big ranges of sand dunes that skirt the
southern and eastern shores of Lake Michigan,
and the strip of sparsely settled broken country
back of them, contain a rich fund of material for
the artist, poet, and nature lover, as well as for
those who would seek out the oddities of human
kind in by-paths remote from much travelled
highways.
In the following pages are some of the results
of numerous sketching trips into this region, cov-
ering a series of years. Much material was
found that was beyond the reach of the etching
needle or the lead pencil, but many things seemed
to come particularly within the province of those
mediums, and they have both been freelv used.
While many interesting volumes could be filled
by pencil and pen, this story of the dunes and the
"back country'1 has been condensed as much as
seems consistent with the portrayal of their essen-
tial characteristics.
We are lured into the wilds by a natural in-
stinct. Contact with nature's forms and moods
is a necessary stimulant to our spiritual and intel-
lectual life. The untrammelled mind may find
inspiration and growth in congenial isolation, for
in it there are no competitive or antagonistic in-
fluences to divert or destroy its fruitage.
Comparatively isolated human types are usually
more interesting, for the reason that individual
development and natural ruggedness have not been
rounded and polished by social attrition.
Social attrition would have ruined "old Sipes,"
a part of whose story is in this book, and if it
had ever been mentioned to him he probably
would have thought that it was something that
lived up in the woods that he had never seen.
Fictitious names have, for various reasons, been
substituted for some of the characters in the fol-
lowing chapters. One of the old derelicts objected
strenuously to the use of his name. "I don't want
to be in no book," said he. "You can draw all
the pitchers o' me you want to, an' use 'em, but
as fer names, there's nothin' doin'."
"Old Sipes" suggested that if "Doc Looney's
pitcher was put in a book, some o' them females
might see it an' locate 'im," but as the "Doc" has
now disappeared this danger is probably remote.
E. H. R.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Dune Country 15
II. The Gulls and Terns 39
III. The Turtles 47
IV. The Crows 55
V. "Old Sipes" 73
VI. "Happy Cal" 97
VII. "Catfish John" 115
VIII. "Doc Looney" 149
IX. The Mysterious Prowler 169
X. "J. Ledyard Symington" 179
XI. The Back Country 193
XII. Judge Cassius Blossom 229
XIII. The Winding River 255
XIV. The Red Arrow 279
THE DUNE COUNTRY
CHAPTER I
THE DUNE COUNTRY
WHILE there are immense stretches of
sand dunes in other parts of the world,
it is of a particular dune country, to
which many journeys have been made, and in
which many days have been spent, that this story
will be told.
The dunes sweep for many miles along the
Lake Michigan coasts. They are post-glacial,
and are undergoing slow continual changes, both
in form and place, — the loose sand responding
lightly to the action of varying winds.
[15]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
The "fixed dunes" retain general forms, more
or less stable, owing to the scraggly and irregular
vegetation that has obtained a foothold upon them,
but the "wandering dunes" move constantly. The
fine sand is wafted in shimmering veils across the
smooth expanses, over the ridges to the lee slopes.
It swirls in soft clouds from the wind-swept sum-
mits, and, in the course of time, whole forests are
engulfed. After years of entombment, the dead
trunks and branches occasionally reappear in the
path of the destroyer, and bend back with gnarled
arms in self-defence, seeming to challenge their
flinty foe to further conflict.
The general movement is east and southeast,
owing to the prevalence of west and northwest
winds in this region, which gather force in com-
ing over the waters of the lake. The finer grains,
which are washed up on the beach, are carried
inland, the coarser particles remaining near the
shore. The off-shore winds, being broken by the
topography of the country, exercise a less but still
noticeable influence. The loose masses retreat per-
ceptibly toward the beach when these winds pre-
vail for any great length of time.
[16]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
To many this region simply means a distant line
of sandy crests, tree-flecked and ragged, against
the sky on the horizon — a mysterious and unknown
waste, without commercial value, and therefore
useless from a utilitarian standpoint.
It is not the land, but the landscape, not the util-
ity, but the romantic and interesting wild life
among these yellow ranges that is of value. It is
the picturesque and poetic quality that we find in
this land of enchantment that appeals to us, and
it is because of this love in our lives that we now
enter this strange country.
The landscapes among the dunes are not for the
realist, not for the cold and discriminating record-
er of facts, nor the materialist who would weigh
with exact scales or look with scientific eyes. It
is a country for the dreamer and the poet, who
would cherish its secrets, open enchanted locks,
and explore hidden vistas, which the Spirit of the
Dunes has kept for those who understand.
The winds have here fashioned wondrous forms
with the shuttles of the air and the mutable sands.
Shadowy fortresses have been reared and bannered
with the pines. Illusive distant towers are tinged
[17]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
by the subtle hues of the afterglows, as the twilights
softly blend them into the glooms. In the fading
light we may fancy the outlines of frowning castles
and weird battlements, with ghostly figures along
their heights.
If the desert was of concrete, its mystery and
spiritual power would not exist. The deadly si-
lences which nature leaves among her ruins are
appalling, unless brightened by her voices of en-
during hope. It is then that our spirits revive
with her.
There is an unutterable gloom in the hush of
the rocky immensities, where, in dim ages past,
the waters have slowly worn away the stony bar-
riers of the great canyons among the mountains.
The countless centuries seem to hang over them
like a pall, when no living green comes forth
among the stones to nourish the soul with faith
in life to come. We walk in these profound soli-
tudes with an irresistible sense of spiritual de-
pression.
On Nature's great palette green is the color of
hope. We see it in the leaves when the miracle
of the spring unfolds them, and on the ocean's
[18]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
troubled waters when the sun comes from behind
the curtains of the sky. Even the tiny mosses
cover with their mantles the emblems of despair
when decay begins its subtle work on the fallen
tree and broken stump.
We find in the dune country whatever we take
to it. The repose of the yellow hills, which have
been sculptured by the winds and the years, re-
flects the solemnity of our minds, and eternal hope
is sustained by the expectant life that creeps from
every fertile crevice.
While the wandering masses are fascinating, it
is among the more permanent forms, where na-
ture has laid her restraining hand, that we find the
most picturesque material. It is here that the
reconstructive processes have begun which impart
life to the waste places. At first, among these
wastes, one is likely to have a sense of loneliness.
The long, undulating lines of ridged sand inspire
thoughts of hopeless melancholy. The sparse veg-
etation, which in its struggle for life pathetically
seizes and holds the partially fertile spots among
these ever-shifting masses, has the appearance of
broken submission. The wildly tangled roots —
[19]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
derelicts of the sands — which have been deserted
and left to bleach in the sun by the slow move-
ment of the great hills, emphasize the feeling of
DERELICTS OF THE SAXDS "
isolation. The changing winds may again give
them a winding sheet, but as a part of nature's
refuse, they are slowly and steadily being resolved
back into her crucible.
To the colorist the dunes present ever-changing
panoramas of hue and tone. Every cloud that
trails its purple, phantom-like shadow across them
[20]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
can call forth the resources of his palette, and he
can find inspiration in the high nooks where the
pines cling to their perilous anchorage.
The etcher may revel in their wealth of line.
The harmonic undulations of the long, serrated
crests, with sharp accents of gnarled roots and
stunted trees, offer infinite possibilities in compo-
sition. To the imaginative enthusiast, seeking po-
etic forms of line expression, these dwarfed, neg-
lected, crippled, and wasted things become subtle
units in artistic arrangement.
As in all landscape, we find much material in
these subjects that is entirely useless from an ar-
tistic standpoint. The thoughtful translator must
be rigidly selective, and his work must go to other
minds, to which he appeals, stripped of dross and
unencumbered with superfluities. An ugly and
ill-arranged mass of light and shade, that may
disfigure the foreground, may be eliminated from
the composition, but the graceful and slender weed
growing near it may be used. A low, dark cloud
in the distance may be carried a little farther away,
if necessary, or it may be blown entirely away, if
another cloud — floating only in the realm of im-
[21]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
agination — will furnish the desired note of har-
mony. Truth need not necessarily be fact, but we
must not include in our composition that which is
not possible or natural to our subject. Represen-
tation of fact is not art, in its pure sense, but
IN THE WILD PLACES
effective expression of thought, which fact may
inspire, is art — and there is but one art, although
there are many mediums.
One must feel the spirit and poetry of the dunes,
if he deals with them as an artist who would send
[22]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
their story into the world. The magic of success-
ful artistic translation changes the sense of deso-
lation into an impression of wild, weird beauty and
romantic charm. It is the wildness, the mystery,
the deep solemnity, and the infinite grandeur of
this region which furnish themes of appealing
picturesqueness.
Man has changed or destroyed natural scenery
wherever he has come into practical contact with
it. The fact that these wonderful hills are left
to us is simply because he has not yet been able
to carry away and use the sand of which they are
composed. He has dragged the pines from their
storm-scarred tops, and is utilizing their sands for
the elevation of city railway tracks. Shrieking,
rasping wheels now pass over them, instead of the
crow's shadow, the cry of the tern, or the echo of
waves from glistening and untrampled shores.
The turmoil and bustle of the outside world is
not heard on the placid stretches of these quiet
undulations. Here the weary spirit finds repose
among elemental forms which the ravages of civil-
ization have left unspoiled. If we take beautiful
minds and beautiful hearts into the dune country,
r 23 ]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
we will find only beauty in it; and if we have not
the love of beauty, we walk in darkness.
Filmy veils of white mist gather in the hollows
during the still, cool hours of the night, and begin
to move like curling smoke wreaths with the first
faint breaths of dawn. The early hours of the
morning are full of strange enchantment, and
dawn on the dunes brings many wonders. When
the first gray tones of light appear, the night-
prowlers seek seclusion, and the stillness is broken
by the crows. A single note is heard from among
the boughs of a far-off pine, and in a few moments
the air is filled with the noisy conversation of these
interesting birds — mingled with the cries of the
gulls and terns, which have come in from the lake
and are searching for the refuse of the night
waves. The beams of a great light burst through
the trees — the leaves and the sands are touched
with gold — and the awakening of the hills has
come.
The twilights bring forth manifold beauties
which the bright glare of the day has kept within
their hiding-places. The rich purples that have
been concealed among secret recesses creep out on
[24]
(From the Author's Etching)
DAWN IN THE HILLS
THE DUNE COUNTRY
the open spaces to meet the silvery light of the
rising moon, and the colors of the dusk come to
weave a web of phantasy over the landscape.
It is then that the movement of nocturnal life
{From the A ulhor's Etching)
TWILIGHT ON THE DUNES
commences and the tragedies of the night begin.
A fleeting silhouette of a wing intersects the moon's
disc, and a dark shadowy thing moves swiftly
across the sky-line of the trees. An attentive
[26]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
listener will hear many strange and mysterious
sounds. The Dune People are coming forth to
seek their food from God.
When the morning comes, if the air is still, we
'A FLEETING SILHOUETTE OF A WING
INTERSECTS THE MOON'S DISC"
can find the stories on the sand. Its surface is
interlaced with thousands of little tracks and trails,
leading in all directions. The tracks of the toads,
and the hundreds of creeping insects on which
T 27 ]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
they subsist, are all over the open places, crossed
and recrossed many times by the footmarks of
crows, herons, gulls, sandpipers, and other birds.
The movement of the four-footed life is mostly
nocturnal. We find the imprints of the fox, rac-
coon, mink, muskrat, skunk, white-footed mouse,
and other quadrupeds, that have been active dur-
ing the night. To the practiced eye these trails
are readily distinguishable, and often traces are
found of a tragedy that has been enacted in the
darkness. Some confused marks, and a mussy-
looking spot on the sand, record a brief struggle
for existence, and perhaps a few mangled remains,
with some scattered feathers or bits of fur, are
left to tell the tale. A weak life has gone out to
support a stronger.
With the exception of the insects, the mice are
the most frequent victims. Their hiding-places
under tufts of grass, old stumps and decayed wood
are ruthlessly sought out and the little families
eagerly devoured. The owls glide silently over
the wastes, searching the deep shadows for the
small, velvet-footed creatures whose helplessness
[28]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
renders them easy prey. They are subject to im-
mutable law and must perish.
Much of the mysterious lure of the dunes is in
the magnificent sweep of the great lake along the
wild shores. Its restless waters are the comple-
ment of the indolent sands. The distant bands of
deep blue and green, dappled with dancing white-
caps, in the vistas through the openings, impart
vivid color accents to the grays and neutral tones
of the foregrounds.
No great mind has ever flowered to its fullness
that was insensible to the allurements of a large
body of water. It may be likened to a human
soul. It is now tempestuous, and now placid.
Beneath its surface are unknown caverns and
unsounded depths into which light never goes. If
by chance some piercing ray should ever reach
them, wondrous beauty might be revealed.
The waters of the lake are never perfectly still.
In calms that seem absolute, a careful eye will
find at least a slight undulation.
On quiet days the little waves ripple and lisp
along the miles of wet sand, and the delicate streaks
of oscillating foam creep away in a feathery and
[29]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
uncertain line, that fades and steals around a dis-
tant curve in the shore.
After the storms the long ground-swells roll in
for days, beating their rhythmic measures, and
(From Ike Author's Etching)
THE SONG OF THE EAST SHORE
unfolding their snowy veils before them as they
come.
The echoes of the roar of the surf among the
distant dunes pervade them with solemn sound.
An indefinable spirit of mute resistance and power
[30]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
broods in the inert masses. They seem to be hold-
ing back mighty and remote forces that beat upon
their barriers.
The color fairies play out on the bosom of the
lake in the silver radiance of the moon and stars,
and marvelous tones are spread upon it by the
sun and clouds. Invisible brushes, charged with
celestial pigments, seem to sweep over its great
expanse, mingling prismatic hues and changing
them fitfully, in wayward fancy, as a master might
delight to play with a medium that he had con-
quered. Fugitive cloud shadows move swiftly over
areas of turquoise and amethyst. Fleeting irides-
cent hues revel with the capricious breezes in lov-
ing companionship.
When the storm gods lash the lake with whis-
tling winds, and send their sullen dark array
through the skies, and the music of the tempest
blends with song of the surges on the shore, the
color tones seem to become vocal and to mingle
their cadences with the voices of the gale.
We may look from the higher dune tops upon
panoramas of surpassing splendor. There are
piles on piles of sandy hills, accented with green
[31]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
masses and solitary pines. These highways of the
winds and storms, with their glittering crowns and
shadowy defiles, sweep into dim perspective.
Their noble curves become smaller and smaller,
■BOHnpnMBHj
-'«**.
feCyf*
(From the Author's Etching)
HIGHWAYS OF THE WINDS
until they are folded away and lost on the hori-
zon's hazy rim.
A sinuous ribbon of sunlit beach winds along
the line of the breakers, and meets the point of
a misty headland far away.
[32]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
The blue immensity of the lake glistens, and is
flecked with foam. White plumes are tossing and
waving along the sky-line. In the foreground lit-
tle groups of sandpipers are running nimbly along
the edges of the incoming waves, racing after them
as they retreat, and lightly taking wing when they
come too near. There are flocks of stately gulls,
balancing themselves with set wings, high in the
wind, and a few terns are skimming along the
crests. The gray figures of two or three herons
are stalking about, with much dignity, near some
driftwood that dots the dry sand farther up the
shore.
Colors rare and glorious are in the sky. The
sun is riding down in a chariot of gold and pur-
ple, attended by a retinue of clouds in resplendent
robes. The twilight comes, the picture fades, but
the spell remains.
Intrepid voyagers from the Old World jour-
neyed along these primitive coasts centuries ago.
Their footprints were soon washed away in the
surf lines, but the romance of their trails still rests
upon the sands that they traversed.
In years of obscure legend, birch-bark canoes
[33]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
were drawn out on the gleaming beach by red men
who carried weapons of stone. They hunted and
fought among the yellow hills. They saw them
basking under summer suns, and swept by the
furies of winter storms. From their tops they
watched the dying glories of the afterglows in the
western skies. They saw the great lake shimmer
in still airs, and heard the pounding of remorse-
less waters in its sterner moods. They who car-
ried the weapons of stone are gone, and time has
hidden them in the silence of the past.
Out in the mysterious depths of the lake are pale
sandy floors that no eye has ever seen. The mobile
particles are shifted and eddied into strange shad-
owy forms by the inconstant and unknown currents
that flow in the gloom. There are white bones and
ghostly timbers there which are buried and again
uncovered. There are dunes under the waters, as
well as on the shores. Slimy mosses creep along
their shelving sides and over their pallid tops
into profound chasms beyond. Finny life moves
among the subaqueous vegetation that thrives in
the fertile areas, and out over the smooth wastes,
[34]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
but this is a world concealed. Our pictures are
in the air.
When winter lays its mantle of snow upon the
country of the dunes the whitened crests loom in
softened lines. The contours become spectral in
their chaste robes. Along the frosty summits the
intricacies of the naked trees and branches, in their
winter sleep, are woven delicately against the
moody skies, and the hills, far away, draped in
their chill raiment, stand in faint relief on the
gray horizon. The black companies of the crows
wing across the snow-clad heights in desultory
flight.
When the bitter blasts come out of the clouds
in the north, the light snow scurries over the hoary
tops into the shelters of the hollows. Out in the
ice fields on the lake grinding masses heave with
the angry surges that seek the shore. Crystal
fragments, shattered and splintered, shine in
the dim light, far out along the margins of the
open, turbulent water. Great piles of broken ice
have been flung along the beach, heaped into be-
wildering forms by the billows, and a few gulls
[35]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
skirt the ragged frozen mounds for possible stray
bits of food.
The wind and the cold have builded grim ram-
parts for the sunshine and the April rains to
conquer.
[ 36 J
(From the Author's Lulling)
'HERALDS OF THE STORM"
CHAPTER II
THE GULLS AND TERNS
THE gulls are a picturesque and interesting
feature of dune life. These gray and
white birds, while they do not entirely
avoid human association, have few of the home-
like charms of most of our feathered neighbors.
"Catfish John," the old fisherman with whom I
often talked about the birds and animals in the
dune country, had very little use for them. He
said that "they flopped 'round a whole lot, an'
seemed to keep a goin'." He "didn't never find
no eggs, an' they didn't seem to set anywheres.
They git away with the bait when its left out, an'
they seem mostly to live off'n fish an' dead things
they find on the beach an' floatin' round in the
lake. They'll tackle a mouthful big enough to
choke a horse if they like the looks of it."
He thought that "them that roosted out on the
net stakes didn't go to sleep entirely, or they'd slip
off in the night."
The gull has many charms for the ornithologist
and the poet. He is valuable to the artist, as an
[39]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
accent in the sky, when he is on the wing, giving
a thrill of life to the most desolate landscape.
He is interesting to the eye when proudly walk-
ing along the beach, or sitting silently, with hun-
"THEM THAT ROOSTED OUT ON THE NET STAKES"
dreds of others, in solemn conclave on the shore.
Old piles and floating objects in the lake have an
added interest with his trim figure perched upon
them. The perched birds seem magnified and
ghostly when one comes suddenly upon them in
[40]
THE GULLS AND TERNS
the fog and they disappear with shrill cries into
the mists.
There is no gleam of human interest in the eye
of a gull. It is fierce, cold, and utterly wild. The
birds we love most are those that nest in the land
in which we live. The home is the real bond
among living things, and our feathered friends
creep easily into our affections when we can hear
their love songs and watch their home life.
The transient winged tribes, that come and go —
like ships on the sea — and rear their young in
other lands, arouse our poetic reflections, challenge
our admiration, and excite our love of the beau-
tiful. They delight our eyes but not our hearts.
The graceful forms of the gulls give an ethereal
note of exaltation to the spirit of the landscape — a
suggestion of the Infinite — as they soar in long
curves in the azure blue, or against the dark clouds
that roll up in portentous masses from the distant
horizon and sweep across the heavens over the
great lake. They are the heralds of the storms,
and a typical expression of life in the sky.
Their matchless grace on the wing, as they wheel
in the teeth of the tempest or glide with set pin-
[41]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
ions in the currents of the angry winds, makes
them a part of nature's dramas in the heavens —
aloof and remote from earthly things — mingling
with the unseen forces and mysteries of the Great
Unknown.
These rovers of the clouds seem to love no abodes
but the stormy skies and foaming waves. Their
flights are desultory when the winds are still.
When the calms brood over the face of the waters,
they congregate on the glassy surface, like little
white fleets at anchor, and rest for hours, until
hunger again takes them into the air.
They often leave the lake and soar over the
dune country on windy days, searching far inland
for food, but when night comes they return to
the water.
In early August they come down from the Lake
Superior country and from the more distant north,
where perhaps many of them have spent the sum-
mer near the arctic circle. They bring with them
their big brown young, from the rocky islands in
those remote regions, and to these islands they
will return in the spring. The young birds do not
don their silver-gray plumage until the second
year.
[42]
THE GULLS AND TERNS
In the autumn the unseen paths in the sky are
filled with countless wings on their way to the
tropics, but the gulls remain to haunt the bare
landscapes and the chill waters of the lake, until
the return of the great multitudes of migrant birds
in April or May, when they leave for their north-
ern homes.
In the wake of the gulls come the terns — those
graceful, gliding little creatures in pearl-gray
robes — which skim and hover over the waves, and
search them for their daily food.
There is something peculiarly elf-like and wispy
in their flight. Agile and keen eyed, with their
mosquito-like bills pointed downward, they dart
furtively, like water-sprites, along the crests of the
billows, seeming to winnow the foam and spray.
With low plaintive cries the scattered flocks fol-
low the surf lines against the wind and the dipping
wings can be seen far out over the lake.
They often pause in the air, and drop like plum-
mets, entirely out of sight under water, in pursuit
of unsuspecting small fish, to reappear with the
wiggling tails of the little victims protruding from
their bills. Many thousands of them patrol the
[43]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
shores and waters, but they also are transients, and
soon wing their ways to colder or warmer climes.
The nature lover finds manifold charms in the
bird life of the dune country. There are many
varieties to interest him. While we may endeavor
to restrict our consideration to the purely artistic
side of the subject, it would be impossible to define
a point that would separate the artistic instinct
from the love of the live things, and of nature
in general, for there is no such point. One merges
naturally into the other.
It is not necessary for a lover of nature to have
an exact scientific knowledge of all the things
he sees in order to derive enjoyment from them,
but a trained observer is more sensitive to the
poetic influences of nature, has a wider range of
vision, a greater capacity for appreciation, and is
more deeply responsive to the subtle harmonies
than one who is only susceptible to the more ob-
vious aspects.
The love of the Little Things which are con-
cealed from the ordinary eye comes only to one
who has sought out their hiding-places, and learned
their ways by tender and long association. Their
[44]
THE GULLS AND TERNS
world and ours is fundamentally the same, and to
know them is to know ourselves.
We sometimes cannot tell whether the clear,
flutelike note from the depths of the ravine comes
from the thrush or the oriole, but we know that
the little song has carried us just a little nearer to
nature's heart than we were before. If we could
see the singer and learn his name, his silvery tones
would be still more pure and sweet when he comes
again.
The spring songs in the dune country seem to
exalt and sanctify the forest aisles, and to weave
a spell out over the open spaces. The still sands
seem to awaken under the vibrant melodies of the
choirs among the trees. These sanctuaries are not
for those who would "shower shot into a singing
tree,''' but for him who comes to listen and to wor-
ship.
The voices of the dunes are in many keys. The
cries of the gulls and crows — the melodies of the
songsters — the wind tones among the trees — the
roar of the surf on the shore — the soft rustling
of the loose sands, eddying among the beach grasses
—the whirr of startled wings in the ravines — the
[45]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
piping of the frogs and little toads in the marshy
spots — the chorus of the katydids and locusts — the
prolonged notes of the owls at night — and many
other sounds, all blend into the greater song of
the hills, and become a part of the appeal to our
higher emotions, in this land of enchantment and
mystery.
[46]
CHAPTER III
THE TURTLES
SOMETIMES we find interesting little com-
edies mapped on the sands.
One morning the July sun had come from
behind the clouds, after a heavy rain, and quickly
dried the surface, leaving the firm, wet sand un-
derneath. On the dunes, walks are particularly
delightful when the moist, packed sand becomes
a yellow floor, but it requires much endurance and
[47]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
enthusiasm to trudge through miles of soft sand
on a hot day and retain a contemplative mood.
We suddenly came upon some turtle tracks, be-
ginning abruptly out on an open space, indicating
that the traveler had probably withdrawn into the
privacy and shelter of his mobile castle, and re-
sumed his journey when the sun appeared. All
traces of his arrival at the point where the tracks
began had been obliterated by the rain.
We were curious to ascertain his objective, and
as the trail was in perfect condition, we followed
it carefully for several hundred yards, when we
found another trail interrupting it obliquely from
another direction. Within an area of perhaps
twenty feet in diameter the tracks had left a con-
fused network on the smooth sand. Evidently
there had been much discussion and consideration
before a final decision had been reached. Then
the trails started off in the same direction, side by
side, varying from a foot to two feet or so apart.
There was much mystery in all this. Our curi-
osity continued, and about half a mile farther on
the smaller trail of the last comer suddenly veered
off toward the lake and disappeared in the wet
[48]
THE TURTLES
sand of the beach. The original trail finally ended
several hundred yards farther on in a clear stream,
and there we saw Mr. Hardfinish resting quietly
on the shallow bottom, with the cool current flow-
ing over him.
We may have stumbled on a turtle romance.
Perhaps a tryst had been kept, and after much
argument and persuasion the two had decided to
combine their destinies. It may have been in-
compatibility of temperament, or affection grown
cold, which caused the later estrangement. A
fickle heart may have throbbed under the shell of
the faithless amphibian who had joined the ex-
pedition, but whatever the cause of the separation
was, the initiator of the journey had been left to
finish it alone. His trail showed no wavering at
the point of desertion, and evidently the rhythm
of his march was not disturbed by it.
There is much food for reflection in this story
on the sand. What we call human nature is very
largely the nature of all animal life, and com-
munity of interest governs all association. When
it ceases to exist, the quadruped or biped invari-
ably seeks isolation. Selfishness is soul solitude.
[49]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
In the case of the turtles the highly civilized
divorce courts were not necessary. They simply
quit.
The record of the little romance was written
upon a frail page, which the next wind or shower
obliterated as completely as time effaces most of
the stories of human lives.
The turtles are persistent wanderers. Their
trails are found all through the dune country, and
usually a definite objective seems to be indicated.
A trail will begin at the margin of a small pond
back of the hills, and follow practically a direct
route for a long distance to another pond, often
over a mile away. Sometimes high eminences in-
tervene, which are patiently climbed over with-
out material alteration in the course which the
mysterious compass under the brown shell has laid
before it.
The deserted habitat may have been invaded
by unwelcome new arrivals and rendered socially
unattractive. Domestic complications may have
inspired the pilgrimage, the voyager may have
decided that he was unappreciated in the com-
munity in which he lived, or he may have been
[50]
THE TURTLES
excommunicated for unbelief in established turtle
dogmas.
The common variegated pond turtle, which is
the variety most often found among the dunes, is
a beautiful harmless creature, but his wicked
cousin, the snapping turtle, is an ugly customer.
He leads a life of debased villainy, and no justifi-
cation for his existence has yet been discovered.
He is a rank outlaw, and the enemy of everything
within his radius of destruction. His crimes are
legion, and like the sand-burr, he seems to be one
of nature's inadvertencies. The mother ducks,
the frog folk, and all the small life in the sloughs
dread his sinister bulk and relentless jaws.
He is a voracious brute, and feeds upon all
kinds of animal fare. He often attains a weight
of about forty pounds, and the rough moss cov-
ered shell of a full grown specimen is sometimes
fourteen inches long. One of the peculiarities of
this repulsive wretch is that he strikes at his
victims much in the same manner as a rattlesnake,
and with lightning-like rapidity.
Possibly he was sent into the world to assist
in enabling us to accentuate our blessings by con-
[51]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
trast — as some people we occasionally meet un-
doubtedly were — and it is best to let him abso-
lutely alone. He is an evil and unclean thing
and we will pass him by. Like the skunk, he does
not invite companionship, and has no social charms
whatever.
It was not he who helped to play the little
comedy on the sand.
SOCIALLY UXATTRACTIVE
[52]
am
warn
'STEADILY "WINGING THEIR WAY
TO THE CHOSEN SPOT"
CHAPTER IV
THE CROWS
OF all the wild life among the dunes, the
crow is the most active and conspicuous.
He is ever present in the daytime, and
his black form seems to be intimately associated
with nearly every mass and contour in the land-
scape.
The artists and the poets can love him, but the
hand of the prosaic and the philistine is against
him. His enemies are numberless, and his life is
one of constant combat and elusion. The owls
seek him at night, and during the day he meets
antagonism in many forms. Some ornithologists
have tried to find justification for the crow, but
the weight of the testimony is against him. He
pilfers the eggs and nestlings of the songsters, in-
vades the newly planted cornfields, and apparently
abuses every confidence reposed in him.
He has been known to take his family into fields
of sprouting potatoes and, when the plants were
hardlv out of the ground, feed its members on the
[55]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
soft tubers which were used as seed. Even very
young chickens and ducks enter into his economies.
He is an inveterate mischiefmaker, and by those
who fail to see the attractive sides of his character,
is looked upon as a general nuisance.
He cannot be considered valuable from a utili-
tarian point of view, but as a picturesque element
he possesses many charms. Notwithstanding the
sins laid at his door, this bird is of absorbing in-
terest. His genteel insolence, his ability to cope
with the wiles of his persecutors, and his complete
self-assurance may well challenge our admiration.
He takes full charge of the dune country be-
fore the morning sun appears above the horizon,
and maintains his vigils until the evening shadows
relieve him from further responsibility. All of
the happenings on the sands, and among the pines,
are subjected to his careful inspection and noisy
comment. His curiosity is intense, and any un-
usual object or event will attract his excited scru-
tiny and an agitated assemblage of his friends.
Like many people, he is both wise and foolish
to a surprising degree. He is crafty and circum-
spect in his methods of obtaining food and avoid-
[56]
THE CROWS
ing most of his enemies, but shows a lack of judg-
ment when his curiosity is aroused.
He will approach quite near to a person sitting
still, but will retreat in great trepidation at the
slightest movement. An old crow knows the dif-
ference between a cane and a gun, but a man carry-
ing a gun can ride a horse much nearer to him
than he can go on foot.
In the community life of the crows there is much
material for study. Their social organization is
cohesive and effective. It is impossible not to be-
lieve that they have a limited language. Different
cries produce different effects among them. They
undoubtedly communicate with each other. The
older and wiser crows have qualities of leadership
which compel or attract the obedience of the sable
hordes that follow them in long processions
through the air, to and from the feeding grounds,
and to the roosting-places at night.
The cries of the leaders are distinctive, and the
entire band will wheel and change the direction of
its flight when the loud signal comes from the
head of the column. These bands often number
several thousand birds.
[57]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
After spending the day in detached groups, they
gather late in the afternoon, and prepare for the
flight to the roosting-grounds, which is an affair
(From the Author's Etching)
NEIGHBORHOOD GOSSIP
of the utmost importance and ceremony. A single
scout will come ahead, and after slowly and care-
fully inspecting the area in the forest where the
night is usually spent, he returns in the direction
from which he came.
[58]
THE CROWS
In a few minutes several crows come over the
same course and apparently verify the conditions.
These also return, and a little later, perhaps twenty
or thirty more will appear and fly all over the
territory under consideration. They go and re-
port to the main body beyond the hills, and soon
the horizon becomes black with the oncoming
phalanxes, steadily winging their way to the chosen
spot.
For a long time the sky above it is filled with
their dark forms, circling and hovering over and
among the trees. Much uncertainty seems to agi-
tate them, and there is a great deal of noisy con-
fusion before even comparative quiet comes. It
requires about half an hour for them to get com-
fortably settled after their arrival. Sentinels are
posted and they maintain a vigilant watch during
the night.
I have sat quietly on a log and seen these mul-
titudes settle into the trees around me in the deep
woods. Although perfectly motionless, I have
sometimes been detected by a watchful sentinel.
His quick, loud note of alarm arouses the entire
aggregation, and the air is immediately filled with
[59]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
the turmoil of discordant cries and beating wings.
Sacred precincts have been invaded, and an enemy
is within the gates.
After much anxiety, and shifting of positions,
confidence seems to be finally restored, and the
black masses on the bending boughs become quiet.
A footfall on the dead leaves, the snapping of
a twig, a suspicious movement among the trees, or
the hoot of an owl, may alarm the wary watchers
and start another uproar that will result in com-
plete desertion of the vicinity of the suspected
danger.
When morning comes, various groups visit the
beach and strut along the shore, drinking and pick-
ing up stray morsels. Dead fish that have been
cast in by the waves, and numerous insects crawl-
ing on the sand, are eagerly devoured. Usually
before sunrise the crows have started out over the
country in detached flocks.
Like all the affairs of the crows, courtship is
a serious and important matter. The young male
stretches his wings, struts dramatically, and per-
forms all kinds of crow feats to attract favorable
glances from the coy eyes of a black divinity who
[60]
THE CROWS
sits demurely still and waits. After the manner
of female kind, she will remain obdurate as long
as supplication continues. She will yield only
when it ceases.
-
•
... ■^!l^}ti-f-i
(From the Author's Etching)
"THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE"
Several days are spent in the wooing. It often
has its vicissitudes. The proverbial course of true
love has its rough spots, for sometimes shiny-coated
rivals come which are insistent and boisterous.
[61]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
They refuse to respect a privacy that is much de-
sired, and create unwelcome disturbances.
There are battles in the tree-tops that send many
black feathers down before the fickle beauty makes
her final decision. She has little love for defeated
suitors, and her admiration is the spoil of the
victor when trouble comes.
When the love-making is over the happy pair
begin the construction of the nest, which is usually
composed of broken twigs or small bits of grape
vine, and lined with moss or dead grass. It is
generally built about thirty feet from the ground
among the strong branches in the deep woods. It
is jealously guarded, and combats with would-be
intruders are numerous and desperate. The sharp
bills are effective weapons when the home is at
stake, and it is a bold invader who would risk con-
tact with them for the sake of the mottled eggs
or the tender young in the nest.
The crow may be a subtle and artful villain, and
his evil ways may have brought him into disrepute,
but he has picturesque quality. His black form
is often an effective accent in composition, and his
[62]
THE CROWS
presence adds character and interest to the waste
places.
The black roving flocks impart a peculiar charm
to the white winter landscapes. The bleak up-
lands and the solemn trees in the still bare woods
are enlivened by the dark busy forms. They seem
undaunted by the cold and but few of them mi-
grate. During the winter storms they find what
refuge they can in the seclusion of the hollows
in the deep woods, and among the heavy foliage
of the pines. They eke out a precarious livelihood,
with scanty food and uncertain shelter, until na-
ture becomes more heedful of their wants and
again sends the springtime into the world.
This bird has his own peculiar and special ways
of living, which are adapted to his own tempera-
ment and necessities. He is only a crow, and na-
ture never intended that he should adjust himself
to the convenience and desires of other forms of
animal life. He is without ethics or conscience,
and in this he differs little from the man with a
gun.
Some of the most pleasant memories of the dunes
are clustered around "Billy," a pet crow which re-
[63]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
mained with us one summer through the kind-
ness of a naturalist friend. He was acquired at a
tender age, a small boy having abstracted him
from a happy home in an old tree in the deep
woods.
(From the Author'' s Etching)
'BILLY"
His early life was devoted principally to bread
and milk, hard boiled eggs, bits of meat, and other
food, with which he had to be constantly supplied.
A large cage was built for his protection as well
[64]
THE CROWS
as for his confinement, until he could become
domesticated and strong enough to take care of
himself.
He became clamorous at unreasonable morning
hours, and required constant attention during the
day. His comical and whimsical ways soon found
him a place in our affections, and Billy became a
member of the family.
He developed a decided character of his own.
When he was old enough to fly he was given his
freedom, which he utilized in his own way. He
would spend a large part of his time in a nearby
ravine, studying the problems of crow life, but his
visits to the house were frequent, and his demands
insistent when he was hungry.
He would almost invariably discover the depar-
ture of any one of us who left the house, flying
short distances ahead and waiting until he was
overtaken, or proudly riding on our heads or
shoulders, if he was not quite sure of the general
direction of the expedition.
The berry patch was a great attraction to him,
and if we took a basket with us he would help
[65]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
himself to the fruit after it had been picked, much
preferring to have the picking done for him.
One of his delights was walking back and forth
on the hammock. The loose meshes seemed to
fascinate him, and he would spend much time in
studying its intricacies and picking at the knots.
He soon became distantly acquainted with Gip,
our black cocker spaniel. While no particular
intimacy developed between them, each seemed to
understand that the other was a part of the family.
They finally got to the point where they would
eat out of the same dish.
Billy was a delightful companion on many
sketching trips into the dunes, and it was amusing
to watch the perplexities of the wild crows when
my close association with one of their own kind
was observed. They could not understand the re-
lationship, and it gave rise to much animated dis-
cussion. Billy was immediately visited when he
flew into a tree top, and carefully looked over.
Other crows joined in the consultations and the
final verdict was not always favorable, for hostility
frequently became evident, and poor Billy was
compelled to leave the tree, often with cruel
[66]
THE CROWS
wounds. He was probably regarded as a heretic
and a backslider, who had violated all crow tra-
ditions— a fit subject for ostracism and seclusion
beyond the pale.
He promptly responded to my call when he got
into trouble, or thought it might be lunch-time.
He would watch with much interest the undoing
of the sandwiches, and would wait expectantly on
my knee for the coveted tid-bits which constituted
his share of the meal.
When preparations were made for the return,
Billy's interest in the day's proceedings seemed to
flag, and he would suddenly disappear, not to be
seen again until the next morning, when he would
alight on the rail of the back porch and loudly
demand his breakfast.
I was never able to ascertain where he spent a
great part of his time. His identity was, of course,
lost when he was with the other crows unless he
happened to get into a storm center near the house,
and we only knew him when he was with us.
He had the elemental love of color, which al-
ways begins with red, and the vermilion on my
palette seemed to exercise a spell over him. After
[67]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
getting his bill into it, he would plume and pick
his feathers, and I have spent considerable time
with a rag and benzine in trying to make him
presentable after he had produced quite good post-
impressionistic pictures on the feathers of his
breast.
Occasionally he would take my pencils or
brushes into the trees while I was at work, and
play with them for some time, but would not re-
turn anything that he had once secured. I often
had difficulty in recovering lost articles, but usu-
ally he would accidentally drop them. In such
cases there would be a race between us, for he
quickly became jealous of their possession.
Billy was, to a certain extent, affectionate, and
would often come to be petted, alighting on my
outstretched hand and holding his head down
toward me. When his head feathers were stroked
gently, low, contented sounds indicated the pleas-
ure he took in the attention devoted to him.
Stories of the numerous little tricks and insinu-
ating ways of this interesting bird could occupy
many pages, but enough has been told to convey
an idea of his character. Perhaps he may have
[68]
THE CROWS
been a rascal at heart, but his ancestry was respon-
sible for his moral shortcomings.
One morning we missed Billy, and we possibly
have never seen him since. He may have answered
"the call of the wild" and joined the black com-
pany that goes over into the back country in the
morning and returns to the bluffs at night, or he
may have fallen a victim to indiscriminating over-
confidence in mankind — a misfortune that is not
confined to crows.
He left tender recollections with us. He had
an engaging personality, and was a most admirable
and lovable crow. Such an epitaph would be due
him if he has departed from life, and a more sin-
cere tribute could not be offered him if he still
lives.
During the following year I was able to ap-
proach quite near to a crow who seemed to show
slight signs of recognition. A broken pinion in
his left wing, a reminiscence of a vicious battle
in the fall, seemed to complete the identification
of Billy. He appeared to be making his head-
quarters in the ravine. Further careful observa-
tion and investigation convinced me that if this
crow was actually Billy, he had laid three eggs.
[69]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
The name, however, meant much to us, and by
simply changing its spelling to "Billie," we pre-
served its pleasant associations.
A HAPPY HOME
It was a contented couple whose nest was in the
gnarled branches in the ravine, where the little
home was protected from the chill spring winds.
In due time small, queer-looking heads appeared
[70]
THE CROWS
above the edge of the nest, with widely opened
bills that clamored continuously for the bits of
food which the assiduous parents had to supply
constantly. The nest required much attention.
Marauding red squirrels, owls, hawks, and other
enemies had to be kept away from the time the
first egg was laid until the fledglings were old
enough to fly. Their first attempts resulted in
many falls, but they soon became experts, and one
morning the entire family was gone.
They probably flew over into the back country,
where food was more abundant and where they
were subjected to less observation.
The nest was never used again. The twigs, little
pieces of wild grapevine, and moss of which it was
made, have gradually fallen away during the suc-
ceeding years, until but a few fragments remain
in the tree crotch. A red lead pencil was found
under the tree. Possibly "Billie" may have tucked
it in among the twigs as a souvenir of former
ties, or its color may have suggested esthetic adorn-
ment of a happy home.
[71]
•
"6L> 3f?K
/■
CHAPTER V
OLD SIPES
BEYOND its barren wastes, inland, the dune
country merges into the fertile soil and
comes into contact with the highly trained
selfishness which in this age of iron we call civili-
zation. The steady waves of such a civilization
have thrown upon this desolate margin some of
its human derelicts — men who have failed in the
strife and who have been cast ashore. Their little
[73]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
huts of driftwood are scattered here and there at
long distances from each other, among the depres-
sions and behind the big masses of sand along the
shore.
Their faces wear a dejected look. They walk
with shambling step, and their bearing is that of
men who have received heavy blows in their early
struggles, which have extinguished the light in
their lives. They are, as a rule, morose and
taciturn. They have become desocialized, and
have sullenly sunk into the hermit lives that har-
monize with the dead and tangled roots which
the roving sands have left uncovered to bleach
and decay in the sun and rain.
They eke out a simple existence with their nets
and set-lines in the lake, and by shooting and
trapping the small game which still lives in this
region. The driftwood supplies them with fuel
in winter, and occasional wreckage that is washed
ashore sometimes adds conveniences and com-
parative luxury to their impoverished abodes.
The world has gone on without them, and they
are content to exist in solitudes where time is
measured by years, rather than by achievement.
[74]
OLD SIPES
Sometimes the bitterness of a broken heart, or
the story of thwarted hopes, will come to the sur-
face out of the turbid memories which they carry.
When their confidence is inspired by sympathetic
association, they will often turn back some of the
hidden pages in the stories of their lives, which
are almost always of vivid interest.
Feeble flashes will then light up from among
the dying embers. The story is not the one of
success that the world loves to hear, but it is
usually the melodies in the minor keys that touch
our hearts. Many of the simple narratives, told
under the roof of driftwood, before the rude scrap
iron stove, are full of homely philosophy, subtle
wit, and tragic interest.
"Old Sipes" was a grotesque character. He was
apparently somewhere in the seventies. He
had but one eye, his whiskers were scraggly, un-
equal in distribution, and uncertain as to direction.
His old faded hat and short gray coat were quite
the worse for wear, and a few patches on his
trousers, put on with sail stitches, added a pic-
turesque nautical quality to his attire.
He lived in a small driftwood hut, compactly
[75]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
built, about sixteen feet long, and perhaps ten feet
wide. A rude bunk was built into one side of
the single room, and another was placed about
three feet above it.
He explained this arrangement of the bunks
with quite a long story about a friend of his named
Bill Saunders. It seems that he and Saunders
had once been shipmates. They had been around
the world together, and had cruised in many far-
off waters. A howling gale and a lee shore had
finally put an inglorious end to the old ship and
most of the crew, and left Sipes and Bill on an
unknown island in the South Pacific.
His stories of the man-eating sharks and other
sea monsters which infested these waters, were
hair-raising, and his descriptions of the wonderful
natives whom they met, indicated that somewhere
a race of people exists that the ethnologists have
never found — and would be much astounded if
they did. His accounts of man-apes and strange
reptiles, olive-skinned beauties, and fierce war-
like men nearly seven feet tall, would have made
a modern marine novelist pale with envy.
No ship had ever sailed that was as stanch as
[76]
OLD SIPES
the "Blue Porpoise," and no winds had ever blown
before like those that took awray her proud sails
and ripped the shrouds from her sides. No fish-
poles had ever bent as her masts did when the
ropes parted, and no waves had ever soared as
high as those that broke in her faithful ribs, and
cast the two shipmates high on the sands of that
distant island.
After years of waiting for a friendly sail, Bill
married into the royal family several times, and
became a part of the kingdom. Sipes persist-
ently resisted blandishment for nearly five years,
when a small cloud of black smoke on the horizon
gradually grew into a tramp steamer. A boat
came ashore for fresh water, and our hero gladly
became a member of the crew, leaving happy Bill
in the land of luxury and promiscuous matri-
mony. After a long voyage he was put ashore
at some gulf port and became a wanderer.
How he got into the sand hills he didn't exactly
know, but his idea was to keep as far as possible
away from salt water. He had developed an an-
tipathy for it, and felt that the lake would be quite
sufficient for his future needs.
[77]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
I asked him how he spent his time, and he said,
"mostly smokin1 an' thinkin' about Bill, an' them
sirenes, an' their little black an' tan families,
'way off down there in the South Pacific."
J
"THINKIN' ABOUT BILL AN' THEM SIRENES"
He hoped that Bill would change his mind and
come back to a decent country. Perhaps Bill
might find him here, and if he did the extra
bunk would come in handy. He said that some-
how he didn't feel so lonesome with the other
bunk above him, and, at night, he often thought
that maybe Bill was in it.
His idea of what constitutes companionship may
[78]
OLD SIPES
appear a little crude to some of us, but after all
it is our point of view that makes us happy or
unhappy in this world.
I asked him if he thought Bill would be able
to find him if he ever tried to, and he replied,
"never you mind — you leave that to Bill. He's
a wonder."
I regretted that he did not tell me all about
what happened to Bill after he had left him on
the island. This would not have been at all im-
possible if he had taken up the subject with the
same compositional abilitv that he applied to the
rest of his narrative.
His conversational charms were somewhat
marred by a slight impediment in his speech,
which he said had been acquired in trying to pro-
nounce the names of all the foreign parts he had
visited. Now that he had got settled down the
impediment was becoming much less troublesome.
His brawny arms and chest were tattooed with
fantastic oriental designs — fiery-mouthed dragons,
coiling snakes in blue and red, and rising suns —
which he said had been "put on by a Chink" when
he was ashore for three weeks in Hong Kong.
[79]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
The intricacy and elaborateness of the work in-
dicated that a large part of the three weeks must
have been spent with the tattoo expert, for he had
absorbed much more of Chinese art in the short
time he had been in contact with it than most
modern scholars do in a lifetime.
In answer to a delicate allusion to his missing
eye, he declared* that it had been blown out in a
gale somewhere off the coast of Japan. The ter-
rible winds had prevailed for nearly two weeks,
and his shipmate, Bill Saunders, had lost all of
his clothes during the blow. The eye had gone
to leeward and was never recovered. He said it
was glass anyway, and he never thought much of
it. How the original eye had been lost he did
not explain. He wore what he called a "hatch"
over the place where the eye ought to be, and
said that "as long as there was nothin' goin' out,"
he "didn't want nothin' comin' in."
His "live eye," as he called it, had a wide range
of expression. It was shrewd and quizzical at
times, occasionally merry, and often sad. It would
glitter fiercely when he talked of some of his
"aversions," or told of wrongs he had suffered.
[80]
OLD SIPES
In his reminiscent moods it would remain half
closed, and there was a certain far-away look that
seemed to wander in obscurity- This lone eye was
the distinguishing feature of a personality that
seemed to dominate the little world around it.
I asked this ancient mariner if he had many
visitors. He replied that the artists bothered him
some, but outside of that he seldom saw anybody
" Vept them I have business with, an' them two
guys that live about three miles apart down the
shore, an' the game warden that comes 'long oncet
in a while. If people commence buttin' in 'ere
I'm goin' to git out, an' go 'bout forty miles north,
where I can't hear the cars. I ain't got much to
move. The stuff 11 all go in the boat, an' I'll just
take my ol' flannel collar an' the sock I keep it
in, an' skip."
He seemed to feel that he could properly
criticize most of the people he had met, being
practically free from frailties himself. Although
he was somewhat of a pessimist, there was seldom
much heartfelt bitterness in what he said. His
mental attitude was usually that of a patronizing
and indulgent observer. His satirical comments
[81]
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were generally tempered with unconscious humor.
He knew that out beyond the margins of the yel-
low hills lay a world of sin, for he had been in
it, and his friend Bill was in it now. His philos-
ophy did not contemplate the possible redemp-
tion of anybody he had ever met in the dunes, with
one or two exceptions. He thought that most of
them were "headed fer the coals."
"Happy Cal," was one of his pet aversions, and
from a human standpoint, he considered him a
total loss. They had once been friends, but Sipes
was now "miffed" and there was rancor in his
heart. Cal had "gone off som'eres," but the wound
was unhealed. The trouble originated over the
ownership of a bunch of tangled set-lines, which
had got loose somewhere out in the lake, and
drifted ashore some years ago. It was conceded
that neither of them had owned the lines origi-
nally, but Cal thought they ought to belong to
him as he had seen them first.
Sipes descried the soggy mass and carried it up
the beach to his shanty. Cal came after the prize
before daylight the next morning, but found that
he had been forestalled. Sipes spent two days in
[82]
OLD SIPES
getting the tangles out and had stretched the lines
out to dry. One night they were mysteriously
visited and cut to pieces.
A few days later a piece of board, nailed cross-
•
i ■ i
wise to a stake which was driven into the sand,
appeared about a mile down the shore, between
the two shanties. On it was the crude inscrip-
tion:— "The Partys that cut them lines is knone."
While protesting that he was perfectly inno-
[33]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
cent, Cal looked upon this as a deadly personal
affront, and the entente cordiale was forever
broken.
After this Sipes bored a small hole in the side
of his shanty, through which he could secretly
reconnoiter the landscape in Cal's direction when
occasion required. He was satisfied that Cal
would be up to something some day that he would
catch him at, and thus even the score.
I had noticed a similar hole in the side of Cal's
hut, during a day that I had spent with him two
years before.
Since the disappearance of Cal the old man had
used the peep hole to enable him to avoid the visits
of a certain other individual with whom he had
become disgusted. Through it he would study
any distant approaching figure on the shore that
looked suspicious, with an old brass marine spy
glass, that he said "had bin on salt water." If
he was not pleased with his inspection, he would
quietly slip out on the opposite side and disappear
until the possible visitor had passed, or had called
and discovered that Mr. Sipes was not in. He
referred to his instrument as a "spotter," and
[84]
OLD SIPES
claimed that it saved him a lot of misery. While
more refined methods of accomplishing such an
object are often used, none could be more effective.
After learning what the orifice was for, I always
felt highly flattered when I found my old friend
at home, although I sometimes had rather a curi-
ous sensation, in walking up the shore, feeling
that far away the single brilliant eye of old Sipes
might be twinkling at me through the rickety old
spy glass. Astronomers tell of unseen stars in the
universe, which are found only with the most
powerful telescopes. These orbs, isolated in awful
space, may be scrutinizing our sphere with the
same curiosity as that behind the little spotter
in the dim distance on the beach.
I made a practice of taking a particularly good
cigar with me on these expeditions, especially for
Sipes, which may have helped to account for his
almost invariable presence when I arrived. He
would accept it with a deprecating smile and a
low bow. If the weather was pleasant he would
seat himself outside on the sand, with his back
against the side of the shanty, and extend his feet
over the crosspiece of a dilapidated saw-buck
[85]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
near the door. He would carefully remove the
paper band from the cigar, light it, and tilt it to
a high angle. After a few whiffs of the fragrant
weed, he once sententiously remarked, "Say, this
is the life! — I'd ruther be settin' right 'ere, smok-
in' this 'ere seegar, than to be some famous mutt
commandin' a ship."
The cigar bands were always scrupulously saved.
He hoped eventually to get enough of them to
paste around the edges of a picture which was
stuck up on his wall opposite the bunks, and was
willing to smoke all the cigars that might be neces-
sary to furnish the requisite number of bands for
this frame, which he thought would "look fine."
The picture had been taken from the colored
supplement of some old sporting journal, and
depicted two prominent pugilists in violent action.
When he had "cussed out" nearly everybody else,
he would take up the case of one of these cham-
pions, who had gone into the ring once too often.
His ornate vocabulary came into splendid play on
these occasions, and the unfortunate "pug" had
no professional reputation left when the old man
had finished his remarks.
[86]
OLD SIPES
There was an interesting and formidable array
of armament in Sipes's shanty. In one corner
stood an old-fashioned muzzle-loading, big bore
shotgun, weighing about sixteen pounds, with
rusty barrels and one broken hammer. The stock
had once been split, but had been carefully re-
paired and bound with wire. It was a murderous
looking weapon.
A heavy rifle of antiquated pattern was sus-
pended from a couple of hooks above the bunks,
but the old man explained that this piece of ord-
nance was "no good," as he "couldn't git no cat-
ritches that 'ud fit it, an' it 'ad a busted trigger
an' a bum lock." He had traded some skins for
it years ago, and "the feller that 'ad it didn't 'ave
no catritches neither. I was stung in that trade,
but them skins wasn't worth nothin' neither.
Some day I'll trade it off to some feller that wants
a good rifle."
On the shelf was a sinister looking firearm,
which had once been a smooth-bore army musket.
The barrel had been sawed off to within a foot
of the breech. This he called his "scatter gun."
It was kept loaded with about six ounces of black
[87]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
powder, and wadded on top of this was a handful
of pellets which he had made out of flour dough,
mixed with red pepper, and dried in the sun. He
explained that, at three rods, such a charge would
go just under the skin. "It wouldn't kill nothin',
but it 'ud be hot stuff." He was keeping it "fer
a certain purpose," the nature of which he refused
to divulge.
The intended destiny of the "hot stuff" was sug-
gested by a story I afterwards heard from "Catfish
John." It seems that an eccentric character occa-
sionally roamed along the beach who was a theo-
logical fanatic. He had tried to convert Sipes, and
had often left tracts around the shanty when the
owner was absent. He was intensely Calvinistic
and utterly uncompromising in his beliefs. John
did not consider that he was "quite all thar."
This unkempt individual projected his red bushy
whiskers and wild eyes through Sipes' open win-
dow one night.
"Do you believe in infant damnation?" he
roared.
"Wot?" asked the dumfounded Sipes.
" 'Cause if ye don't yer jest as sure to go to hell
[88]
OLD SIPES
as the sun is to rise tomorrer mornin'," the intruder
continued. He then left as suddenly as he had
come. "Sipes sailed a pufectly good egg after 'im,
but it didn't stick,'1 remarked John.
It was Sipes's custom to take the old shot gun
over into the marshes of the back country, and
shoot ducks in the fall and spring. His ideas of
killing ducks were worthy of the Stone Age, for
it was meat that he sought, and not sport. He
always "killed 'em settin','' and would "lay fer 'em
'till fifteen er twenty got in a bunch, an' then let
'em 'ave both bar'ls.
"I don't allow nobody but me to shoot that gun.
It kicks like it was drivin' some spiles, an' so does
my scatter gun. When it goes off one end is
pretty near as bad as the other. I fetch them
ducks home an1 salt down them I can't use right
off, an' sometimes I git enough to last all winter."
I suggested that lighter charges might cause less
recoil, and do just as much execution.
"Not on yer life," he replied, "if they ain't no
kick behind they won't be no kick forrads, an' the
shot won't go no distance. Now just lemme show
you."
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In spite of my protest, he got the gun out, loaded
it far beyond its maximum efficiency, and fired
it at a passing flock of sandpipers, that were for-
tunately beyond range. The report was like a
thunder clap, and when the echoes died away, and
it was evident that the innocent little creatures
had escaped unharmed, he explained that he
"wasn't any good at shootin' 'era flyin', but them
shot made 'em skip all right."
I had my own suspicions as to what had made
the little birds "skip."
His supplies of ammunition were obtained for
him at the general store in the sleepy village by
his old friend "Catfish John," whose reward con-
sisted in portions of the bloody spoil from the
marshes.
Sipes's shanty would have been a most unpleas-
ant place to approach if hostility should develop
inside of it. He "didn't want no monkeyin' 'round
that joint, an' they wasn't goin' to be none."
It was to the old man's credit that he let most
of the wild life alone that he could not utilize.
The crows, gulls, and herons along the beach did
not interest him. The songsters and the little
[90]
OLD SIPES
shore birds were exempt on account of their size.
They required too much ammunition, and it was
too much trouble to pick them.
mi ■.WKKm
THE DISTU
IN THE RAVINE
Occasionally a pair of eagles would soar around
over the dune country. These he longed to kill,
but he could never get near enough to them. The
wary birds were inconsiderate, and "wouldn't
never light, 'cept away off."
A "hoot'n owl" somewhere in the ravine caused
[91]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
him many sleepless nights. Its prolonged and
unearthly cries frequently startled him from
dreams of his friend Bill off in the South Pacific,
and he spent many hours prowling softly around
among the trees in the darkness, trying to locate
the offender. Probably the owl, in the wisdom of
his kind, had kept the silent stealthy figure under
observation, and was careful not to do any hooting
within shooting distance, — certainly an example
to be emulated. He usually resumed his lamenta-
tions when Sipes returned to his shanty.
The old man had this owl listed as one of his
bitter enemies, and annihilation awaited the wily
bird if he ever found it. "One hoot'n owl's too
dam' many to have 'round," he declared. "This
critter reminds me o' one night when I was on a
ship off the coast o' South Ameriky.
"I was aloft on one o' the yard-arms, an' there
was a little roll on the sea. I seen some long
white streaks o' foam comin', about two points
offen the lee bow, an' there was sumpen that shined
in the moonlight mixed up in it. It seemed all
vellow, an' about two hundred feet long, an' it
flopped up an' down. When it got close, it opened
[92]
OLD SIPES
up a mouth pretty near half as big as the ship,
an' let out an awful yell. It sounded like a hoot'n
owl, only ten thousand times louder an' deeper.
Then it dove down an' went under the ship. The
sails all shook, an' my blood was froze, so I could-
n't call out to the feller at the wheel, an' I dropped
off on to the deck.
"I never found out what the cussed thing was.
If I'd bin drinkin' very much I'd 'a' thought I had
the jimmies. The wheel feller said he hadn't
noticed nothin', but I did all the same, an' I'll
never fergit it.
"I had some ter'ble experiences off down there
in that part o' the gorgofy. We sailed fer months
an' months, an' never seen nothin' but the big
waves an' the sky. There wras a lot o' latitude an'
longitude, an' me an' Bill used to offen wonder,
when we was roostin' out on the bowsprit smokin'
at night, what 'ud happen if we butted into one o'
them lines that's always runnin' up an' down an'
sideways on them salt water maps.
"There was ter'ble perils all the time. Some-
times we'd run among icebergs, an waterspouts,
an' cyclones, an' we wallered in bilin' seas, an' the
[93]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
skies was black as yer hat, an' we got lost on the
ocean a couple o' times, an' we got smashed up
on that island I told ye about. You bet this lake's
plenty wet enough fer me, an' I'm goin' to spatter
'round right 'ere, an' if Bill was only 'ere instid
o' cavortin' 'round with them South Pacific
floozies, I'd be all right."
Some of Sipes's many sea yarns sounded suspi-
ciously like stories I had read in early youth, but
I generally gave him the benefit of the doubt, as
he did not need to be strictly truthful to be enter-
taining. In one instance he related a thrilling
tale in which his experiences were practically
identical with those of the hero in a favorite yel-
low covered treasure of years ago. I rather tact-
lessly called his attention to that fact. He at once
replied, "Now you see how queer some things git
'round in this world. I was that feller/'
After that I considered comment hopeless, and
simply listened.
Perhaps this lonely philosopher may have solved
one of the problems of existence that have baffled
more serious and deeper thinkers. He has per-
fectly adjusted himself to his environment, and his
[94]
OLD SIPES
life is complete and happy within it. Even his
many aversions give him more pleasure than
pain. His memories afford him abundant and
pleasant society, and he is able, psychologically,
to import his friend Bill when he needs him. Be-
yond these things he apparently has no desires.
To use his own expression, — "the great an' pow'r-
ful o' the earth 'as got nothin' on me."
That priceless jewel, contentment, is his, and the
kindly fates could do little more for one who wore
a crown.
[95]
,
"jWy Ciu"
(From the Author's Etching)
HAPPY CAL'S SHAXTY
CHAPTER VI
HAPPY CAL
ONE of the nondescript beach characters
bears, or did bear, the somewhat decep-
tive sobriquet of "Happy Cal." His
little shanty was on the sand about two hundred
feet from the lake. The grizzled head, the gnarled
rugged hands, the sinewy but slightly bent figure,
betokened one who had met tempests on the high-
ways of life. The deep set gray eves were with-
out luster, although they occasionally twinkled
with quiet humor.
The slightly retreating chin, which could be
discerned through the white beard when his pro-
file was against the light, offered a key to the
[q7]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
frailty of his character. The power of combat
was not there. He had yielded to the storms.
He said they called him "Happy Cal" because he
wasn't happy at all.
One dreary forenoon, when the black clouds
piled up over the lake in the northwest and the
big drops began to come, I went to Cal's shanty
and was cordially asked to put my sketching out-
fit behind an old soap-box back of the door. It
is needless to say that he had acquired this soap-
box when it was empty. A long cigar and the
recollection of a former visit put him at his ease.
The rain increased, and the breakers began to
roar on the beach. The wind whistled through
the crevices in the side of the shanty, and Cal
went out to stuff them with some strips of rotten
canvas that he had probably picked up along the
shore. It was quite characteristic of Cal to delay
this stuffing until stern necessity made it impera-
tive.
He came in dripping wet, and asked if I hap-
pened to have a bottle with me. The stove was
a metamorphosed hot-water tank. The rusty
cylinder had been found somewhere among some
[98]
HAPPY CAL
junk years before. He had made an opening in
the front for the wood, a hole in the bottom pro-
vided for the draft and the egress of the ashes,
and a stove pipe, that had seen better days, led
through a hole in the irregular roof.
A fire was soon singing in the cylinder, and
under its genial warmth Happy Cal became
reminiscent.
"I've had some mighty strange experiences since
I've bin livin' 'ere," he began. "About nine years
ago they was a shipwreck out 'ere that raised the
devil with all on board an' with me too. Nobody
got drownded, but it would 'ave bin a good thing
if some of 'em had.
"It was late in November an' nobody 'ad any
business navigatin' the lake, 'less they 'ad to,
'cause when it gits to blowin' out 'ere at that time
o' year, it blows without any trouble at all. A big
gale come up in the night an' the breakers was
tearin' away at a great rate, an' they swashed 'most
up to the shanty. I was settin' up in the bunk
plavin' sollytare, an' wonderin' if the shanty was
goin' to git busted up, when I thought I heard
voices. I lit my lantern an' went out to see what
[99]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
was doin' an' I saw a light a little ways out an'
heard somebody yellin'.
"There was a big schooner almost on the shore.
She was poundin' up an' down on the bottom in
about five feet o' water. The big rollers was tak-
in' 'er up an' smashin' 'er down so you could hear
it a mile. Pretty soon the light went out an' after
that four o' the wettest fellers y' ever seen came
pilin' in with the breakers. I grabbed one of 'em
that was bein' washed back agin', an' after that I
got another one that seemed to be pretty near dead.
The other two got out all right by themselves,
but they was pretty shaky. They helped me git
the others up to the shanty, an' they was a sight
o' pity when we got 'em there.
"I put some more wood in the stove an' gave
'em all some whisky. They was about a pint left
in a gallon jug that I got about a week before,
with some money I got fer a bunch o' rabbits.
I don't drink much, but I like to keep sumpen in
the shanty in case somebody should git ship-
wrecked, an' it might be me, but I ain't got none
now. I went on the water wagon about an hour
[100]
HAPPY CAL
ago, an' I'm afraid I'm goirT to fall off if I git
a chance.
"Them fellers lapped up the booze like it was
milk, an' when they found they wasn't any more
they got mad an' said I was runnin' a temperance
joint. Then they asked me sarcastic if I had any
soft drinks, an' I told 'em they'd find plenty out-
side. I fried 'em some fish an' they et up all
the crackers I had. Then one of 'em got my pipe
an' smoked it.
"They were a tough lot an' when they got all
dried out an' fed they got to cussin1 each other.
I told 'em if they wanted to fight to git out fer
I didn't want no scrappin' in the shanty. Then
two of 'em clinched an' I shoved 'em out doors.
Then the others went out an' pitched on both of
'em. After that they all piled inside agin' an'
over went the stove. In a few minutes the place
looked like it 'ad bin blowed up. We got the
stove up after a while, but I lit out up the ravine
an' stayed there pretty near the rest o' the night,
waitin' fer a calm in the shanty. Hell was pop-
pin' down there an' ev'ry minute I was expectin'
to see the sides fly out.
[101]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
" 'Long toward mornin' I took a sneak down an'
peeked in. Them sailors was all settin' in there
quiet as lambs, playin' cards with my deck an'
usin' all my matches fer chips. I opened the door
an' spoke pleasant like to 'em but they told me to
git out fer the place 'ad changed hands. After
a while, when they found they couldn't make
the stove work, they let me in an' we had some
coffee."
There are some visitors who make calls, others
who come and visit, and still others who make
visitations. It was not difficult to classify Cal's
guests as he proceeded with his story.
"It seems that them devils," continued Cal,
"had started down the lake with a load o' slabs
an' some lumber from one o' the saw mills up
north. One of 'em's name was Burke, an' 'e got
to scrappin' with the cap'n, a feller named Swan-
son, about the grub they had on board. The other
two butted in an' said they wasn't goin' to eat
no more beans, an' the feller at the wheel headed
the vessel — the Mud Hen 'er name was — straight
fer the coast, an' swore 'e'd hold 'er there 'till the
cap'n 'ud tell where some canned things was that
[102]
HAPPY CAL
'e knew 'e had on board hid, an' a' big jug that
they seen 'im put on the night before they
sailed. They was about a mile off shore when the
wind struck 'em, an' one o' the wheel ropes busted,
an' before they could git things fixed up they
blowed in.
"They was all sore at the cap'n an' the cap'n an'
the other two was sore at the feller at the wheel,
an' 'e was sore at the whole bunch fer cussin' 'im,
an' so when they all got soaked it didn't help
things any, an' when they got dried out they begun
beatin' each other up.
"Olson, the one that 'ad bin pretty near
drownded, couldn't talk much English, but him
an' me sort o' took to each other after a couple o'
days, an' 'e told me all about the doin's on the
boat.
"Swanson an' Burke took my gun an' went over
in the back country an' shot some tame ducks an'
brought 'em back to the shanty an' wanted me to
fix 'em up to cook. When I was pickin' 'em on
the beach the owners come over. They'd heard
the shots an' they found some tracks an' seen where
they was some feathers. I told 'em I didn't have
[103]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
nothin' to do with it, but as I was settin' there
undressin' the fowls they seemed to think I had,
an' I had a lot o' trouble fixin' things up.
"All this time the ol' boat was layin' in the
shallow water keeled over sideways, an' badly
busted up. We climbed into 'er an' got out a lot
o' stuff, an' that bunch was mighty glad to git
the beans, an' so was I. We found the cap'n's
jug an' the cans, an' that night things broke loose
agin, an' they all went on a bat. They went the
limit an' acted like a lot o' wild Indians. I poured
about a quart out o' the jug into a bottle an' hid
it in some bushes, but they got to that, too. I told
'em I was just tryin' to save it fer 'em till the next
day, but they got sore about it. They only let me
have two drinks from the whole jug.
"The next night they set the ol' wreck afire an'
lit out. What they done that fer I can't make out.
After she burnt down to the water, some big comb-
ers washed 'er up on the beach one night an' you
can see what's left of 'er stickin' up out there yet.
They was a lot o' good stuff in that boat fer a nice
new big cabin fer me, an' I felt awful bad about
it. I saw the tracks of two of 'em goin' up the
[104]
:ig&-'
iticWrecK,
'f^Su
lew
THE DUNE COUNTRY
beach, an' the others 'ad gone off in the hills, an'
I guess they'd 'ad another row. They carried off
my gun an' my cards, an' I never want to see a
bunch o' lunatics like that agin. I'd as leave take
in a lot o' mad dogs as I would them geezers. I
wish that dam' Swede at the wheel 'ad headed 'is
ol' tub som'eres else, 'er sunk 'er out in the middle
'o the lake, instid o' shootin' 'er in 'ere an' fussin'
me all up. Them fellers'll be about as pop'lar as
a skunk if they ever come 'round 'ere agin."
The remains of the poor old "Mud Hen" were
visible about half a mile down the coast. Her
charred and broken ribs protruded from the sands
that had buried her keel, seemingly in mute pro-
test against final oblivion. The fate that evil com-
pany brings was hers, but her refuge is now secure.
Happy Cal had been born and educated in
a southern city. At twenty he had fallen in love
with a dark-haired, beautiful, and softly languor-
ous creature, with dreamy eyes, whose faded and
worn photograph he produced after a long search
through the leaves of an old and very dirty book.
The book, which he also showed me, was rather
anarchistic in character, and its well-thumbed
[106]
HAPPY CAL
pages may have considerably influenced Cal's lack
of faith in things in general.
After the exchange of fervent mutual vows, he
had shouldered a musket and answered the call
of the cause that was lost on the battlefields of the
sixties.
After many vicissitudes and many months of
suffering and hardship, poor Cal, in a tattered uni-
form, found his way back through the mountains
to the altar on which he had laid his heart. He
found the raven tresses on the shoulder of another,
and retreated into the soul darkness from which he
never emerged. He was only partially conscious
of the weary miles and aimless wanderings that
eventually took him into the silence and isolation
of the sand hills, where he elected to abide in
secrecy.
The golden chalice had been dashed from his
lips — he had drunk of bitter waters. His star had
fallen, and, like a wounded animal, he had sought
the solitudes, beyond the arrows that had torn him.
The sad, lonely years in the little driftwood
hut had benumbed the cruel memories, but the
problems of existence brought only partial forget-
[107]
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fulness. Under the cold northern stars and during
the winter storms, his seared and tortured soul
strove for peace, but it came not.
His sole companion in his exile was a big gray
and white dog. He had found the poor, half-
starved, stray creature prowling around in the vi-
cinity of the hut one night, and had taken him in.
Community of interest had caused these two atoms
to coalesce. The dog's name was Pete, and it was
Pete who was the indirect and innocent cause of
Cal's final awakening to what he considered a sad
reality a year or two later.
Pete got in contact with a voracious bulldog,
that came from somewhere over in the back coun-
try; and in the final analysis — in which the two
animals participated — Pete was left in a badly
mangled condition.
Cal found him, and happening to be near the
shanty of a neighbor, several miles from his own
shack, carried the unfortunate Pete tenderly to
shelter.
It was through this neighbor, another hermit,
with another history, that Cal got interested in a
pile of old newspapers and magazines which had
[108]
HAPPY CAL
been procured in some way by this isolated tenant
of the sands, who still maintained a lagging in-
terest in the affairs of the outside world.
During Pete's convalescence, Cal found in one
of these old papers an account of a women's rights
meeting in his native city, in which his former
ideal of beauty and loveliness had taken a promi-
nent part.
Her picture was in the paper and Cal was dis-
[109]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
illusioned. The finger of time had touched the
love of his youth and she was ugly. The tender
blossom of nineteen was a cactus at fifty. To use
iif;-»'
v\ CcukxZ
\
O^priu *
his own phrase — "she looked like the breakin' up
of a hard winter." In addition to the picture, the
report of the proceedings, during which his for-
mer affinity had violently attacked what Cal con-
sidered were the sacred prerogatives of the male
[110]
HAPPY CAL
sex, extinguished the last lingering fond impres-
sion, and the lovely vision vanished.
He did not believe that women had sufficient in-
telligence to vote, and the idea of their taking part
in sage political councils was repugnant to him.
While he did not vote himself, he said that there
"was plenty o' men to 'tend to them things, an'
its foolish to allow women to git mixed up in the
govament."
This wise and smug anti-suffragist thought that
the female sex "should be allowed to meet, if they
want to, but they hadn't ought a butt in on things
that require superior intelligence."
The newspaper cut had done its awful work on
Cal, and women's rights had completed the de-
molition of an ideal that had been cherished
through the years. His idol had crumbled and
turned to ashes, and his dog was now the only live
thing that he considered worthy of affection.
The story had in it much pathos, but inter-
spersed through it was a great deal of picturesque
profanity, particularly in connection with the idea
of women casting votes, which had aroused the
dormant passions of his nature.
[Ill]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
The storm was over. I left him a small supply
of tobacco, promised to drop in again, and bade
him good-bye.
Several days later, in talking with Sipes, I hap-
pened to mention Cal's sad life history. He
laughed and said that Cal was a liar.
"The real facts is 'e lived over in the back coun-
try fer twenty years, an' 'e was chased into the
hills by 'is wife an' mother-in-law fer good an'
sufficient reasons. He handed me all that dope
oncet about some girl 'e was stuck on some'res down
south. It's all right fer an old cuss like 'im to
set 'round an' talk, but 'e was just 'avin' dizzy
dreams, an' you fergit 'em. If 'e'd only tell the
truth, the way I always do, 'e wouldn't never have
no trouble, an' folks would 'ave some respect fer
'im, like they do fer me."
A year elapsed before I again saw the little
shanty. The drifting sands had partially covered
it, and my knock was unanswered. Several boards
were missing from the roof, and through a wide
crack I saw that occupation had ceased. The bunk
[112]
HAPPY CAL
was covered with debris. There were some empty
cans on the floor and, I am sorry to say, a few
bottles, but Happy Cal was gone.
Let us hope that the wave of fortune or mis-
fortune that took this poor piece of human drift-
wood on its crest carried him to some far-off, sun-
kissed, and glorious shore, where there is no po-
litical equality, and where women have no rights.
Either he had spent a most pathetic and adven-
turous life, or he was one of the most delightful
liars I ever listened to.
[113]
/
.
■
"\^^
CflTRSM "D©Htf
l M-
c
' of
G
CHAPTER VII
CATFISH JOHN
|ATFISH JOHN" lived several miles
farther up the shore. He was nearly
eighty — at least, so he thought. Rheu-
matism had interfered with his activities to a con-
siderable extent, and his net reels on the beach
were getting a little harder to turn as the years
rolled on. He considered the invasion of the dune
country by the newcomers a great misfortune, al-
[115]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
though he was perfectly content to deal with them
in a business way.
"Fifty years ago, when I fust come 'ere," he
said, "this country was sumpen to live in. There
was some o' the Injuns 'ere, but they didn't never
bother nobody. Thar was lots o' game, an' things
'round 'ere was pretty wild."
"How did you happen to come here, John?"
I asked.
"I come from down East on the Erie Canal, an'
I traveled out 'ere to see some land a feller was
tryin' to sell that 'e showed me on some maps 'e
had. He said it was pretty wet, but it had thou-
sands o' huckleberry bushes on it, an' the berries
grew so thick the bushes all bent over with 'em.
"I didn't 'ave much money, an' I didn't expect
to pay much out, but I thought I'd come out an'
take a look at it. I didn't see no huckleberries,
but it was wet sure 'nough. If I'd 'a' gone on it I'd
'a' had to gone in a boat an' feel fer the land with a
pole, an' if I'd wanted to live on it, I'd 'a' had to
growed some fins. It was a good thing fer that
feller that he didn't git that thar land onto me
afore I'd seen it.
[H6]
CATFISH JOHN
"After I'd bin 'round 'ere fer a while, I built
a cabin over on the river, five miles back o' here.
I got some slabs from the lumber comp'ny that
was skinnin' out the pine an' robbin' the guvament,
ai"f put up a good house. I stayed thar 'bout ten
years, I guess.
"One night somebody knocked at the door. I
opened it, an' thar stood three fellers. I asked 'em
in, an' we smoked an' talked fer awhile, an' I
cooked 'em some pork. I had about fifty pounds
outside in a bar'l, with a cover an' a stone on it.
"In the mornin' them fellers wanted to go fishin'.
We went up the river a ways, an' chopped some
holes in the ice, an' caught a lot o' pick'rel. We
took 'em to the cabin an' put 'em on the roof to
keep 'em away from the varmints. In the mornin'
I got up, an' all that pork an' them fish was gone,
an' so was them fellers. It's bin forty years that
I've bin watchin' now, an' I haint never seen them
fellers since."
John then relapsed into a reflective silence, and
shifted his quid of "natural leaf," that was filter-
ing down through his unkempt whiskers. "Them
fellers" were preying on his vindictive mind.
[H7]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
"What do you do with them pitchers you make?"
he asked.
"I just make them for fun."
"I don't see no fun makin' them things. Thar
was a feller along 'ere in the spring that used to
set under an umbreller, when it wasn't rainin'.
He painted a pitcher o' me, an' then took it away
with 'im. It had a lot o' paint on it, an' it was
all rough. I don't think 'e amounted to much."
"Did it look like you, John?"
"I s'pose it did to him; 'e carried it off."
John knew most of the outcasts along the beach
for many miles. He occasionally visited some of
them, particularly Sipes, to obtain extra supplies
of fish, with an old gray horse and a dilapidated
buggy frame — both of which were also rheumatic.
On the wheels back of the seat he had mounted a
big covered box for the fish, which he peddled
over into the back country. Some of the fish were
very dead, and the whole box was replete with
mystery and suspicion.
"After the second day," he said, "I sometimes
give 'way them I haint sold." Even at this price,
some of them were probably quite expensive.
[118]
CATFISH JOHN
Snuggled up against the bluff, near the shanty
he lived in, was an odd-looking little structure that
John used for a smoke-house. When his fish be-
came a little too passe to permit of ready sales, or,
THE LITTLE SMOKE HOUSE
as he expressed it, "too soft," he smoked them.
Thus disguised, they were again ready for the
channels of commerce.
He generally included some smoked fish in his
[119]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
load when he started out, and usually it was not
their first trip.
While his thrift was commendable, it was al-
ways best to let the output of that little smoke-
house severely alone, for its roof, like charity, cov-
ered a multitude of sins.
Sipes declared that he always knew when the
old man "was gittin' ready to smoke fish, if the
wind was right."
His nickname had been acquired because of the
yellow slimy things which he procured from the
sluggish river, when the storms prevented supplies
from the lake. A prodigious haul of catfish was
made from the river one spring by a settler, who
turned' the catch over to John to peddle on shares.
"I loaded up them fish, an' I peddled 'em clear
to the Indianny line. I was gone a week, an' I sold
'em all. When I got back that feller said 'e hadn't
never seen no fish peddled like them was."
I tried to get him to talk about some of the char-
acters he had met in his travels, but he said he
"didn't never ask no questions of nobody." Then,
after a long silence, he remarked, reflectively, "I
[120]
CATFISH JOHN
guess them fellers that stole the pork prorVly left
the country."
Catfish John apparently relied on the heavenly
rains, when he got caught in them, to keep him
I
JOHN'S METHOD OF TAKING A BATH
clean, and on the golden sunshine that followed
them to remove the traces of these involuntary and
infrequent ablutions.
I doubt if he suspected the existence of soap.
[121 ]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
Such cleanliness as he possessed must have been in
his heart, for it was invisible.
I once asked John to allow me to spend a day
with him on one of his peddling trips to the vil-
lage, and he cheerfully consented.
"I don't git lonesome, but it 'ud be nice to have
somebody 'long," he said.
I was to meet him at five o'clock the following
morning at Sipes's place. I inwardly rebelled at
the unseemly hour, but those who would derive
the full measure of enjoyment with Catfish John
must not be particular about hours.
I rowed along the shore, and was at the trysting
place promptly. Fortunately I had a slight cold,
and was thereby better enabled to resist some of
the odors that I was likely to encounter during
the day.
Sipes was dumfounded when I explained the
object of the early visit.
"You cert'nly must be lookin' fer trouble," he
declared; "if ye want to spend a day like that,
why don't ye go over an' set quiet 'round 'is smoke-
house, instid o' bein' bumped along on 'is honey
cart all day?"
[122]
CATFISH JOHN
The air was still, and the low, gentle swells out
on the water were opalescent in the early morning
light. Sipes had just returned from a visit to his
set-lines and gill-nets, over a mile away in the lake.
He had started about two o'clock, and his boat on
the beach contained the slimy merchandise which
we were to convert into what Sipes called "cash-
money" during the day.
We went down to the shore to inspect the catch.
Numerous flopping tails and other unavailing pro-
tests against uncongenial environment were evi-
dent in the boat. There were fifteen or twenty
whitefish, about a dozen carp, several suckers, and
a lot of good-sized perch, which had been found in
the gill-nets. The set-lines had yielded two stur-
geon, one weighing about thirty-five pounds and
the other over fifty. These two finny victims dom-
inated the boat.
"I swatted 'em when I took 'em in, but they
seem to be gittin' gay agin," remarked Sipes, as he
reached for an old axe handle lying near the bow.
The struggling fish soon became quiet.
"There comes ver old college friend," he said,
as he glanced up the beach. The rheumatic horse
[123]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
was patiently pulling the odd vehicle along the
shore, near the water line where the sand was firm,
partially concealing the bent figure with the faded
slouch hat on the seat behind him.
"I'd know that ol' hat if I seen it at the South
Pole," said Sipes. "It turns up in front an' flops
down behind. It's got some little holes in the
top, through which some wind blows when 'e's
wearin' it. He's 'ad it ever since I come on the
beach, an' that wasn't yisterd'y, neither, an' they
ain't no other lid that 'ud look right on John, an'
they ain't nobody else that 'ud wear it fer a min-
ute. He needn't never be 'fraid that anybody's
goin' to swipe it, 'specially 'round 'ere."
After the conventional greetings, flavored with
much bantering and playful innuendoes by Sipes
concerning the disreputable society which some
nice fresh fish were about to get into, the two wor-
thies weighed the catch, in installments, on some
steelyards with a tin pan attachment, wThich were
kept in the shanty. Sipes made a memorandum
with a stubby pencil on the inside of the door,
where his accounts were kept. "I got so dam' many
things to think of that I can't keep track of 'em
[124]
CATFISH JOHN
'less I jot 'em down," he remarked, as he slowly
and laboriously inscribed some figures on the
rough board.
John had a few fish in his box that he had found
in his own nets that morning, and a few more that
Sipes said "didn't look recent" and "must 'ave
bin caught some time previous."
The fish that Sipes had brought in were turned
over to John on a consignment basis. It was their
custom to divide the proceeds equally. Sipes con-
sidered that old John was "pufectly honest about
everythin' but cash-money an' fish." He therefore
kept "strict 'count o' wot goes out an' wot comes
back." The inside of the door was covered with
a maze of hieroglyphics, the complicated records
of previous transactions.
"If I wasn't strictly honest at all times," said
Sipes, confidentially, while John was out of hear-
ing, "I'd slip some hunks o' lead that I use fer
sinkers on the set-lines down the gullets o' them
sturgeon. I can git lead fer six cents a pound an'
sturgeon is worth twenty. If anybody found the
hunks they'd think they'd bin eat offen the lines,
but of course I wouldn't do nothin' like that; an'
[125]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
besides, them big fish has to be dressed 'fore
they're weighed, an' they 'ave to be cut in chunks
fer small sales. A sturgeon that only weighs about
six or seven pounds an' don't 'ave to be cut open
'fore 'e's sold, can swallow a couple o' sinkers
without hurtin' 'is digestion any."
After all necessary details had been attended to,
we climbed into the seat and started. Sipes winked
at me impressively, and his last words were, "Don't
you fellers take in no bad money."
Pie had several ways of opening and closing his
single eye, which were very different from wink-
ing it naturally. He would wink with the whole
side of his face, thereby conveying various subtle
meanings which words could not express.
As we departed, the old man, with a final wave
of his hand, disappeared into his shanty to prepare
his breakfast. John had brought him a few fresh
eggs, and Sipes hoped that "they wouldn't hatch
'fore they got to the kittle."
The poor old horse had rather a hard time pull-
ing the additional burden through the sand. This
interesting animal was quite a character. He was
somewhere in the early twenties, and his name was
[126]
CATFISH JOHN
"Napoleon." John had bought him from a far-
mer for ten dollars. The horse was sick and not
expected to live, but it transpired that what he
really needed was a long rest. This he was in a
fair way of getting when John came to look at
him.
WM
r* it
•
The old fisherman built a little shanty for him,
put a lot of dead leaves and straw into it, fed him
well, and in the course of a few weeks the patient
began to evince an interest in his surroundings.
"Doc" Looney came over to see him and volun-
[127 j
THE DUNE COUNTRY
teered to prescribe, but John refused to permit
Doc to give anything but an opinion. Sipes
claimed that John had thereby greatly safeguarded
the original investment.
"If Doc wouldn't give patients nothin' but opin-
ions, most of 'em would pull through, but 'is opin-
ions'll make me sick even when I'm well," Sipes
declared.
Napoleon was finally able to get into the har-
ness that was constructed for him out of various
straps and odds and ends of other harnesses that
John had picked up around the country. Several
pieces of rope and frayed clothes-line were also
utilized, and when it was all assembled it was
quite an effective harness.
The convalescent was taken only on short trips
at first, but he gradually became stronger, and,
with the exception of a limp in his left foreleg,
he got along very well. His speed was not great.
He walked most of the time, but occasionally
broke into a peculiar trot that was not quite as fast
as his walk. His trotting was mostly up and down.
Like many people, whom we all know, he was in-
clined to mistake motion for progress. He was
[128]
CATFISH JOHN
more successful when he recognized his limita-
tions, and adhered strictly to the method of loco-
motion to which he was naturally adapted.
His intelligence might be called selective. He
understood "Whoa!" perfectly, and obeyed it in-
stantly, but "Giddap!" was not quite so clear to
him. He could not talk about his rheumatic leg,
and thus suffered from one great disadvantage that
made him more agreeable to those around him.
I asked John how the horse happened to be
called Napoleon, but he did not know. He was
equally ignorant concerning the animal's eminent
blood-stained namesake. He thought he "was
some flghtin' feller in Europe," but did not know
"which side 'e was on."
The world execrates its petty criminals, and im-
mortalizes its great malefactors. As Napoleon, for
selfish ends, caused the destruction of countless
lives, instead of one, his glory should reach even
unto Catfish John.
If the poor little horse had been called "Rem-
brandt" or "Shakespeare," the name would have
been just as heavy for him to bear, but it would
suggest good instead of evil to enlightened minds.
[129]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
He was, however, oblivious to all these things, and
went on his humble way, thinking probably only
of his oats and the queer smells that emanated
from the fish-box.
We proceeded about half a mile along the shore,
and took the road that led through the sand hills
into the back country. When we got to the marshy
strip, we bumped along over the corduroy for
quite a distance, but the road became better when
we got to higher ground. As soon as we arrived
on firm soil, Napoleon stopped. A fat man
with a green basket was advancing hurriedly along
the edge of the thin timber, about a quarter of a
mile away, and the horse probably surmised that
his coming was in some way connected with a
rest.
The fat man was a picturesque figure, and we
watched his progress with interest. His embon-
point was rendered more conspicuous by the legs
of his breeches, which were about twice as large
and not as long as appeared to be necessary. The
wide ends flapped to and fro about nine inches
above his feet as he ambled along. The garment
was ridiculous simply because it did not happen
[ 130 ]
CATFISH JOHN
to be "in style" at the time. A faint and mys-
terious whisper from the unknown gods who
dictate the absurdities in human attire would im-
mediately invest its masses and contours with ele-
gance and propriety, and those we now wear would
appear as outrageous, artistically, as they really
are. The freaks of vanity are the mockeries of
art.
"Them are high-water pants all right, an' some
day I'm goin' to have some like 'em," remarked
John.
It might be suggested that "trousers" are
breeches which are in style, and "pants" are those
which are not. Gentlemen wear trousers and
"gents" wear "pants."
"That of feller lives in that brown house over
in the clearin' yonder," said John. "His name is
Dan'l Smith. He's got two sons, an' them an' 'is
wife do all the wTork now, an' 'e's got fat settin'
'round an' eatin' everythin' in sight. He trots over
'ere when 'e sees me comin' an' gits fish. He's
partic'lar 'bout 'em bein' fresh, an' 'e likes to git
'em when I first start out. He's a good customer,
but 'e owes me a lot o' money. He says 'e's got
[131]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
some money comin' from a patent he's inventing
an' I'll have to wait awhile. This patent's to keep
flies offen cows when they're bein' milked, but I
ain't never seen it work. He drawed it all out on
some paper oncet, to show me, but I don't know
nothin' 'bout patents, an' I couldn't see just how
it went. It's some kind o' thing with little oars
on it that 'e winds up an' fastens on 'em, an' then
it goes 'round an' 'round. The little oars are all
sticky with some goo 'e puts on 'em, an' the flies
that don't go 'way, when the little oars come
'round, git stuck on 'em, an' can't git off. The
contraption's got some guide sticks on behind, an'
when the cows switch their tails, they have to
switch 'em back'ards an' forrads, instid o' side-
ways. There's some parts of it that 'e's keepin'
secret, so's none o' them fellers down to the store'll
git the patent fust."
"Good mornin', Dan'l!" said John cheerily, as
the fat man came up, much out of breath; "did
ye have a hard time gittin' through?"
"I got through all right, but it's a good ways
over 'ere from the house, an' I ain't as frisky as I
was oncet, an' I'm 'fraid I'm gittin' a little rheu-
[132]
CATFISH JOHN
maticks in my legs. Wotcher got in th' box to-
day?"
Old John patiently sorted over the fish for in-
spection. The fat man selected four, which he
carefully put in his green basket, and covered with
leaves. He then waddled away with them and we
drove on.
"I don't never keep no 'counts," said John, "but
Dan'l's got all them fish marked down som'ers,
that 'e's got from me, an' keeps track of 'em.
When 'e gits 'is money fer 'is patent 'e's goin' to
fix it all up. Sipes says we can git slews o' them
kind o' customers, an' 'e wants me to quit givin'
'im fish er else feed 'im on smoked ones fer awhile.
He says if we try to fat up all the fellers we meet
on the road, the fish'll all be gone out o' the lake
'fore we're through, an' 'e don't want to be in
on it."
While Napoleon and I may have regarded the
fat man and the green basket with some suspicion,
John's faith seemed secure.
We approached a weather-beaten house stand-
ing near the road. A middle-aged woman in a
gingham dress and brown shawl stood near the
[133]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
fence. The nondescript rig had been seen coming.
Travelers on the road in the back country are so
rare that a passing vehicle is an event; it is al-
ways observed, and its mission thoroughly under-
stood, if possible. In no case during the day were
we compelled to announce our arrival.
"Got any live ones this mornin', John?" she
asked.
"Anythin' ye like," he replied, as he raised the
lid of the box. A bargain was soon struck, and
actual commerce had commenced. John put
eighteen cents into a big, greasy, leather pouch,
the opening of which was gathered with an old
shoestring. He carried it in his side pocket.
He then gave the lines a shake, said "Giddap!"
to Napoleon, and we moved slowly on.
"That thar woman," said he, "has bin married
to two fellers. The fust feller died right away,
an' the last one skipped off som'eres an' never
come back. She's got that little place an' 'er
father's livin' thar with 'er. He's got money in
the bank som'eres. He didn't like neither o' them
husbands, an' now they're gone' e's' livin' 'ere.
She's a nice woman, but she made it hot fer them
[134]
CATFISH JOHN
fellers, an1 if she'll quit gittirT married she'll be
all right. That house we're comin' to now b'longs
to ol' Jedge Blossom. He's a slick one. I had
some trouble with some fellers oncet, an' went to
the Jedge's house to have 'im haul 'em into court
over to the county seat. We got beat in the case
an' them fellers got discharged by the court, but
the Jedge said I owed 'im ten dollars. I didn't
have no ten dollars to spare, but I told 'im I'd
leave 'im a fish whenever I went by, so I must
drop one off when we git thar."
We stopped in front of the house. The old man
reached back into the box and pulled the slippery
inmates over until he got hold of two that were
near the bottom. When they came up they did
not look quite as attractive as those I had seen in
the boat. He climbed slowly and painfully down
and carried them around to the back door. On
his return he remarked that "them fish ain't so
awful good, but they're a dam' sight better'n some
o' the law that ol' bunch o' whiskers ladled out fer
me over to the county seat. I never see 'im 'cept
at the store when I go thar. The Jedge's got a
turrible thirst, an' most always 'e's soused. I
[135]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
gen'rally take the fish 'round an1 give 'em to the
housekeeper, er else leave 'em near the pump."
With another "Giddap!" we continued our
journey.
About a quarter of a mile farther on we met a
little cross-eyed man with stubby whiskers, carry-
ing a big stiff satchel covered with shiny black
oilcloth. It did not seem very heavy. He swung
it lightly back and forth as he walked. He stopped
and asked if we could direct him to "Sam Peters's
place." He explained that Peters was a relative
of his and that he had come to visit him. John
told him that he had passed the cross road that led
to his destination, and offered to give him a ride
back to it, if he would sit up on the fish-box. The
traveler gratefully accepted the invitation. When
we came to the corner where the cross-eyed man
was to leave us, he said that he "would like to buy
a couple o' fish, an' take 'em over to Peters fer a
present."
Evidently he desired in this way to repay John
for his ride; and thirty cents dropped into the
capacious maw of the greasy pouch.
The fish were wrapped up in a piece of news-
[136]
CATFISH JOHN
paper, and the cross-eyed man cautiously opened
the satchel on the ground to insert the package.
To our great astonishment a large maltese cat
jumped out, ran a few yards, stopped, and gazed
back at us with a scared look.
The cross-eyed man was much excited, but
finally succeeded in capturing the animal. He
then explained that it belonged to his mother-in-
law. It "yowled so much nights" that after try-
ing various other expedients, he concluded to carry
it away and give it to Peters, who had once told
him that he was fond of cats. He had got off at
the railroad station, about six miles away, and had
walked the rest of the way.
The cat and the package were soon safely en-
closed and he started off down the road.
"That cat'll prob'ly eat them fish up on the way
to Peters' place," said John, "but it's my business
to sell 'em an' not to say what's done with 'em
afterwards."
The cross-eyed man must also have had misgiv-
ings as to the security of the fish, for we saw him
stop in the distance, and open the satchel, probably
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with a view of separating the contents while it was
still possible.
"I ain't goin' to stop at the next place," said
John. "When I drive in thar the feller always
comes out an' jaws about half an hour, an' then
sometimes don't buy nothin'. When I go on by,
if 'e wants a fish, 'e comes out an' yells fer me to
stop. When 'e gits the fish 'is wife hollers fer
'im to hustle up an' fetch it to the house, out o'
the sun, so I git away, an' thar ain't no time
wasted."
The old man's acumen in this case resulted in the
enrichment of the greasy pouch to the extent of
twenty-five cents, without objectionable delay in
the day's business.
We were now getting into the sleepy village,
and the houses were nearer together. We stopped
at several of them before we arrived at the gen-
eral store. The male population was lined up in
chairs on the platform under the awning, and a
curious assortment of horses and vehicles stood
around in the neighborhood.
None of the horses looked as though they would
[138]
CATFISH JOHN
run away if they were not tied, but all of them
were securely fastened to hitching rails and posts.
We had a number of things to attend to at the
store. A poor old gray-haired woman, who lived
alone at the edge of the village, had requested
John to "please see if there is a letter for me
when you stop at the post office, and bring it to
me on your way back, if there is one."
John had presented her with a fish, and said
that he always gave her one when he went by,
when he had a good supply.
"She's bin expectin' that letter fer nearly twenty
years, from 'er son that went away, but it don't
never come. She's always waitin' at the gate, when
I go back, to see if I git it."
Alas, how many forlorn ones there are who wait,
with hearts that ache, through the lonesome years,
for letters that "don't never come!" Those who
have gone may have wandered far in the world —
they may have forgotten, or their fingers may have
become cold and still, but there is hope in one
heart that only ends with life itself. A pen may
sometimes tremble, lips may sometimes falter, and
eyes become dim, when the thought comes that
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a mother's love will be "waitin' at the gate" when
the other loves in this world are dead.
We tied Napoleon tightly with a big piece
of rope which it would be utterly impossible for
'WAITIN' AT THE GATE"
him to break if he should attempt to run away,
fixed a small bag of oats so that he could munch
them, and went over to the platform.
John was greeted with solemn nods, good-na-
[140]
CATFISH JOHN
tured sallies, in which there was more or less wit —
generally less — and various questions about "the
fishinV One old fellow had "bin over to the
river" and "seen a feller with a couple o' catfish
an' a pick'rel, but Vd bin all day gittin' 'em, an'
'e didn't need no wheelbarrow to git 'em home."
We went inside the store to make a few pur-
chases, and to inquire for any mail which we might
be able to leave with people who lived on the re-
turn route.
John bought several pounds of number six shot,
three dozen heavy lead sinkers, and a pound of
"natural leaf" for Sipes, and two pounds of
natural leaf for himself. I was tempted to
purchase a few cakes of soap and present them
to John as a souvenir of the trip, but remember-
ing that it is the tactless people on this mundane
sphere that have most of the trouble, I changed my
mind and purchased a big briar pipe for him.
He was greatly pleased with it, and thought that
"in about six months smokin' it 'ud git mellered
up an' be a dam' fine pipe." We bought some
crackers, cheese and a can of sardines for our
lunch, which we ate out under one of the trees.
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"I don't know what Sipes has to 'ave so many
sinkers fer," remarked John. He wants me to git
'im a whole lot ev'ry time I come to town. I
guess 'e must use 'em fer bait, fer I offen find 'em
in 'is fish when I dress 'em."
The expression on the old man's face conveyed
a suspicion that he was not quite as gullible as
he might be, and that Sipes's strategy had not en-
tirely deceived him. He probably had his own
quiet way of adjusting matters on an equitable
basis.
After lunch we spent a few minutes more with
the wise ones in front of the store, deposited our
parcels under the seat, released the reluctant horse
and departed.
"Them fellers that set 'round that store don't
'ave nothin' else to do," said John. "They set
inside in the winter time an' do a lot o' talkin',
an' sometimes I set with 'em just to hear what's
goin' on. When it's hot they set outside an' count
the clouds, but they're always settin', an' they don't
never hatch nothin'. Ev'ry year one or two of
'em drops off, an' thar ain't many of 'em left to
what thar was ten years ago. They didn't none
[142]
CATFISH JOHN
of 'em amount to much, but I guess they're just
as well off now as anybody else that's dead."
The contents of the greasy pouch had been sadly
depleted at the store, but we got more "cash-
money'' from the few remaining houses in the
village. The miller took three fish, and credited
John's account with the amount of the sale. There
was a debit on his books against John for flour and
meal furnished during the winter.
It wras getting late in the afternoon, and it was
a long way to John's smoke-house, where the un-
sold portion of the stock must be "dressed an'
put in pickle," preparatory to smoking it.
We returned by the same route as we came.
The poor old woman was "waitin' at the gate,"
and turned sadly toward the house as we passed.
She carried her cross in silence, and the picture
was pathetic.
On the way back we saw a sharp-featured man
with red hair, who had come out of a house and
was waiting near the road.
"That feller," declared John, as we approached
the possible purchaser, "gives me pains. He seen
me goin' bv all right this mornin', but 'e didn't
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come out. He's a tight wad, an' 'e thinks I'll sell
'im fish fer almost nothin' before I'll tote 'em back.
I've got 'em all trained but 'im. Now you just
watch me."
When we stopped the man asked if we had "any
cheap bargains in fresh fish."
"Yes," said John, "I have, an' I'll tell ye what
I'll do. I hain't sold many to-day, an' I've got
about twenty left. If you'll take the whole bunch,
you can have 'em fer a dollar an' a half."
"I can use two of 'em, at ten cents apiece, if
you'll let me pick 'em out," the man replied.
"Giddap!" said John, and we were once more
on our way.
Pride is the most expensive thing in the world,
and under various forms it dominates mankind.
I could not help but admire John's resolute sacri-
fice of this opportunity to add twenty cents in
"cash-money" to the greasy pouch, which sorely
needed it, but evidently he was following a policy
that had in it much wisdom.
After crossing the marshy strip, we went
through the sand hills, and down the beach to
Sipes's place, where I had left my boat.
[144]
CATFISH JOHN
We found him peacefully smoking out in front
of his shanty, apparently without a care in the
world.
John showed Sipes the fish he had brought back,
and gave him the things he had bought for him
at the store. When the account was all figured
out, there was a balance of twelve cents in John's
favor, which Sipes said "we'll make up next time."
He was deeply disappointed that there was no
"cash-money" coming.
Sipes considered the fish that were to go to the
smoke-house "a dead loss, an' they'd soon be
worse'n that." He wanted "nothin' to do with 'em
after they struck the morgue." He looked upon
the smoke-house as a sink of iniquity, from which
nothing good could possibly emanate.
I thanked John for his kindness in taking me
with him, and bade him good-bye. He and Na-
poleon departed, and soon faded away in the dis-
tance.
The old fisherman had retailed a great deal of
the current gossip of the country to me during
the day. Humor and pathos, happiness and mis-
ery, honesty and wickedness, and all the other ele-
[145]
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ments that enter into the stories of human lives,
found their places in the day's recital. The old
man has much benevolence in his heart. Most of
his comments upon the frailties of his fellow-crea-
tures were tolerant and charitable. They were
usually tempered with sly quips, and a disposition
to accord the benefit of doubt.
He frequently gives away fish, on his various
trips, to people who cannot afford to buy them
and to whom the food is most welcome, and ex-
tends credit to others who he knows can never pay.
He does all kinds of little errands that his routes
make possible, and altogether he is a simple, good-
natured soul.
Like everybody else, he is an infinitesimal item
in the scheme of creation, but there are many other
items that are much more objectionable than Cat-
fish John. Cleanliness may be next to godliness,
but it is often associated with cussedness, so we can
safely leave the matter of John's redemption to
other agencies than soap.
Sipes once wisely remarked that "it's no use
tryin' to tell ev'rybody wot to do all the time,
an1 I've quit. If ev'ry fellerd mind 'is own busi-
[146]
CATFISH JOHN
ness instid o' butt'n in an' tryin' to boss ev'rybody
else, there'd be a lot less fussin' goin' on. The
only way to git John clean 'ud be to burn 'im, an'
they's a lot o' clean-lookin' people that'll come
to that long 'fore he does. He's a nice ol' feller."
[147]
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))oC Loonen
CHAPTER VIII
DOC LOONEY
ANOTHER nondescript, whom I occa-
sionally met prowling around among the
hills and along the beach, was known as
"Doc Looney." Catfish John said he was a "yarb
man," and that he had been to see him sometimes
when he "felt bad."
Doc seemed to have no fixed abode, and
seemed disinclined to talk about one. He had
rather a moth-eaten appearance, and wore an old
pair of smoke-colored spectacles. He spent a great
deal of time around the edges of the little marshes,
back of the hills, looking for some particular "po-
tential plant," which he was never able to find.
He gave me an interesting account of Catfish
John's case, and said he hoped to operate on him
in the spring if he didn't improve. His theory
was that the knee-joints had lost the "essential oils"
that nature had used for lubrication, and that re-
inforcements were needed. He intended to "make
a cut" in the side of the left knee, and "squirt some
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animal oil into it." If this worked, he would
"oil up the other leg later."
The consent of the intended victim of this ex-
perimental surgery had not yet been obtained.
He had tried smart-weed tea, slippery elm, and
snake-root on John, internally, and fish oil and
rat musk externally, without being able to make
him stop complaining. The smart-weed was to
furnish the compound with the necessary "punch."
The slippery elm was a "possible interior lubri-
cant," and the snake-root was designed to impart
the desired "sinuousness and mobility" to the af-
fected joints. The fish oil, applied to the outside,
was also to provide possible lubrication, and the
addition of the rat musk was intended "to drive
it in."
Before resorting to the operation, he was willing
to try the mysterious herb that he had been looking
for all summer. Possibly this might fix John up
all right if he wouldn't consent to the operation.
Doc hoped, however, that the operation could be
arranged, as he had "never performed one on a leg.
and would like to try it."
He believed that everybody, even when the
[150]
DOC LOONEY
general health was good, should "take some pow-
erful remedy occasionally. It would explore the
system for imperfections, find disease in unsus-
pected localities, and probably eradicate it before
it had a chance to form. Whatever the remedy
was good for would be headed off and it was best
to take no chances." He thought that the medi-
cine used "should have some bromide in it." He
did not know exactly what the bromide did, but
"anyway its a dam' good chemical, and it ought
to be used whenever possible."
He had what he called a "spring medicine"
which I could have for half a dollar. He stated
that the compound contained "ten different and
distinct sovereign remedies and the bottle must
be kept securely corked." The remedies were all
"secret," and "seven of them were very powerful. "
He had known of cases "in which a few doses had
destroyed two or three diseases at once, and had
undoubtedly prevented others.1' Used externally,
it "made an excellent liniment for bruises and
sprains." It was also "good to rub on eruptions
of any kind."
He thought that a little whisky might help a
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patient of his if he could get it to him that after-
noon, and asked if I "happened to carry any." He
suggested that I bring some the next time I "hap-
pened along, as it might be very useful." He
seldom used it himself, except when he had "stum-
mick cramps," but these were "likely to come on
'most any time" — in fact he had had quite a severe
attack about an hour before, and this was what
had reminded him of it.
He told me a long story about his matrimonial
troubles. He had been married twice, to unap-
preciative mates. To use his own expression, he
had been "fired" in both instances, but they were
now trying to find him again. He was a much
abused man. He had been badly "stung," and
was now "hostile toward all females." He did
not intend to get caught in their toils again — and
probably there is not much danger that he will be.
My private sympathies were entirely with these
unknown irate women who had resorted to the
radical methods of which Doc complained.
He had met with some very difficult cases dur-
ing the past few years. Some of them "presented
symptoms which had never been heard of before."
[152]
DOC LOONEY
In such cases it was his custom to give the patient
"a certain solution that would produce convul-
sions," and, as he was "particularly strong on con-
vulsions," he was usually "able to cure these in a
short time." When the convulsions stopped, the
unknown symptoms would usually disappear.
He had endeavored several times to get Cat-
fish John to try this method, "but for some reason
he didn't want to do it." His fees in John's case
had consisted of the entree of the smoke-house that
contained the fish which had become too dead to
be peddled. He did not think much of the fish,
but declared that he had got a large one there
the week before, "an' some of it was all right."
Sipes once suggested to John that he smoke
some fish " 'specially fer the Doc," and if he was
not willing to do it, he would come up some day
and do it himself. He would "smoke some that
'ud finish the Doc in a few hours." John objected
to this and thought that the "Doc ought to have
the same kind o' smoked fish that other people
got." Sipes replied that this was "pufectly satis-
factory" to him.
After discoursing at length on some wonderful
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cures which he had effected, in cases that "the
reg'lar doctors had given up,1' and the "marvelous
potentialities" of some of his secret herb extracts,
and "saline infusions, even when given in small
doses," Doc would disappear in the gray land-
scape— probably absorbed in his reflections upon
the "general cussedness of womankind" and the
futility of medical schools.
I was always apprehensive when he went in
John's direction, but as the old fisherman looked
comparatively well when I last saw him, it was
evident that Doc had not yet operated.
"You know its far be it from me to knock any-
body," said Sipes one morning, "but this Doc
Looney gives me a big chill. He's always mosey-
in' around, an' never seems to be goin' anywheres.
"Oncet 'e come here an' borrowed a kittle. He
took it off up the shore, an' that night I seen 'im
with a little fire that 'e'd built on the sand up
next to the bluff, near some logs. He was roostin'
on one o' the logs, studyin' sumpen that was in the
kittle. I sneaked up unbeknown, an' watched 'im
fer a long time. He kept puttin' weeds an' han'-
fulls o' buds in the kittle an' stirrin' the mess with
[154]
DOC LOONEY
a stick. Every little while 'e'd taste o' the dope
bv coolin' the end o' the stick an' lickin' it. Be-
fore I seen 'im doin' this I thought 'e might be
mixin' pizen. He was mixin' sumpen all right,
fer after a while 'e got the kittle off en the fire an'
let it cool a little; then 'e dreened it into a flat
bottle through a little birch bark funnel, an' hid
the bottle under a log, an' covered it up with sand.
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He took my kittle an' stowed it in some thick
brush, an' went off up the ravine.
He's bin doctorin' ol' Catfish, an' 'e's always
talkin' 'bout operatin' on 'im. There ain't nothin'
the matter with the Catfish, 'cept 'e's got cricks
in 'is legs, an' they bend out when 'e walks. All
'e needs to do is to set down instid o' standin' up,
and 'is legs won't bother 'im. He comes along
'ere oncet in a while, with that ol' honey cart that
'e loads them much deceased fish into that 'e
peddles. It ain't no rose garden, an' I always stay
to wind'ard when 'e's 'round. The next time 'e
comes I'm goin' to tell 'im wot I seen the Doc
doin'. The first thing Catfish knows Doc'll dope
'im with that stuff in the bottle, an' then go after
'im with a knife. There ought to be a law aginst
fellers like that. He's full o' bats, an' 'e ought
to be put som'eres where they could fly without
scarin' people.
"I never got my kittle back. I went an' looked
where I seen 'im hide it, but 'e'd got to it first,
an' I ain't seen it since. The next time the Doc
comes up 'ere fer a kittle 'e'll git it out o' the air,
an' 'e'll recollect it the rest of 'is life.
[156]
DOC LOONEY
"There was a funny lookin' female come along
the beach a couple o' years ago. She asked me
if I'd ever seen a man 'round 'ere with colored
glasses, an' I'll bet she was on the trail o' the Doc.
y\f :
She had three or four long wire pins stickin'
through a pie shaped bunnit, with a dead bird
on it. She didn't look good to me an' I'd hate
to 'a' bin the Doc if she ever got to 'im. I told
'er I wasn't acquainted with no such person. I
may not like the Doc, but I wouldn't steer nothin'
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like that ag'inst 'im, even if 'e did swipe my kittle.
She asked me about a thousand questions. The
lake was calm an' there was a lot o' places out
on it where some breeze was puffin', an' there was
a lot of other places where it was all still an' glassy.
She wanted to know what made them little smooth
spots, an' I told 'er that them places showed where
I cut ice out last winter."
Catfish John said one day that "the feller that
hates the Doc the worst 'round 'ere is Sipes. He
gave Sipes some medicine oncet when 'e was feelin'
poorly. It was some 'e'd bin usin' fer a horse.
He said Sipes 'ad got pips, an' would need a lot
o' doctorin'. He kept takin' it fer about a week,
an' when 'e went out on the beach one day 'e
thought 'e met 'imself comin' back, an' 'e quit tak-
in' it. I guess the dope was too strong fer 'im.
After that they had a fuss about sumpen else, an'
the old man didn't have no use fer 'im. Sipes
located a big hornet's nest som'eres up in the
woods. He went thar one dark night an' slipped
a bag over it so the hornets couldn't git out, an'
carried it into the ravine to a little path that the
Doc always used when 'e went to see Sipes. He
[158]
DOC LOONEY
fastened it in a bush, close to the path, so the Doc
'ud flush 'em when 'e come by. He come through
several times but thar was nothin' doin. Sipes
said the reason they didn't sting the Doc was that
they was all friends o' his, an' they was all the
same kind o' critters 'e was. He hoped they'd
swarm on the Doc an' chase 'im out o' the county,
but like a lot of 'is plans it didn't work."
Sipes's theory of the existence of a state of natu-
ral affinity between Doc and a nest of hornets,
seemed to amuse old John immensely-
"The Doc seems to think I'm goin' to let 'im
tinker my knee, but I ain't. He gen'rally leaves
some dope that 'e cooks up 'imself fer me to take,
when 'e comes up 'ere, but I throw most of it out
back o' the smoke-house. I let 'im leave it fer I
don't want to make 'im feel bad. He keeps whet-
tin' a funny lookin' knife when 'e's 'ere, an' hintin'
about sumpen 'e wants to try on my leg, but I
ain't goin' to have no cuttin' done. I've got a
new cure that I'm tryin' now, that I ain't sayin'
nothin' about."
One cloudy day during the following fall, my
friend Sipes and I went up the shore a few miles,
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and landed our boat near the opening of a deep
heavily wooded ravine, through which a small
creek flowed to the lake.
I intended making some sketches in the neigh-
borhood, and Sipes offered to accompany me. He
took his gun, as he thought there might be some
"patritches" in the ravine.
We pulled the boat well up on the beach, and
picked our way along through some pine-trees and
underbrush, following a narrow trail that crossed
the stream several times. We had proceeded per-
haps a couple of hundred yards, when we came
to a queer looking structure, built into the side
of the ravine, which had been partially hollowed
out. It was rudely constructed of planks, short
boards, and various odds and ends of building
material, which had evidently been gathered up
on the beach. It was about twelve feet long and
possibly nine feet wide. There were two windows
and a door that hung on rusty hinges. One hinge
had lamentably failed to meet the necessary re-
quirements and had been reinforced with a heavy
piece of leather, which had once been a part of
an old boot.
[160]
DOC LOOXEY
It began to rain, and as the little hut was ap-
parently deserted, and seemed to offer a conve-
nient shelter, we ventured to investigate the inte-
rior. After removing a large accumulation of dead
THE DESERTED LABORATORY
leaves and sand in front of the door, we pulled
it open and looked in.
There was a small rusty old stove, in a bad state
of repair, two broken chairs, and a table in the
[161]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
single room. An irregular row of bottles, of
various shapes and sizes, filled a long shelf, and
sundry worthless looking utensils were scattered
about. At the end of the room was a mildewed
husk mattress on some boards which had been
nailed to the ends of four pieces of wood, about
two feet from the floor. Suspended from nails
which were driven along the boards next to the
roof, were large bunches of dried plants of various
kinds.
"This is 'is nest all right, an' this is where 'e
makes 'is dope," remarked Sipes, and a minute
later he held up a battered looking object, and
exclaimed, "Dam'd if 'ere ain't my kittle!"
We had indeed stumbled upon an abandoned
secret retreat of Doc Looney. Like an illicit still,
his laboratory had been hidden in untrodden re-
cesses, away from the paths of men. In this quiet
spot he could meditate, and compound his mysteri-
ous "powerful remedies" with little fear of in-
trusion by his female pursuers, and out of it he
could emerge and roam where his fancy led.
Into this deep seclusion the turmoil of warring
schools of medicine, and the abuse of a captious
[162]
DOC LOONEY
world could not come. His medicines and his
theories were beyond criticism. Such a fortress
enabled him to concoct ammunition with which
to offer battle to the diseases of his kind, without
fear of capture and incarceration, which he may
or may not richly deserve.
If the motto "similia similibus curantur" be
true, some terrible human suffering could be alle-
viated with some of the stuff we found on the shelf.
Many of the bottles were empty, but we removed
the stopper from one of them, and regretted it.
We were assailed by a pungent and sickening odor.
Sipes remarked that "sumpen must 'a' crawled in
that bottle an' died." On taking it out to the light
we discovered that it was about half filled with
angle worms, whose identity was practically gone.
"I know wot that stuff is," said Sipes, "its angle
worm ile. That old cuss said oncet 'e was goin'
to squirt some in John's knees to make 'em supple,
when 'e operated on 'im, but John wouldn't let
'im monkey with 'em."
There were no labels on the bottles, with the
exception of one which was marked "Bromide."
The remaining materia medica could not be
identified.
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We examined the odd pieces which had been
used in building the shanty, with much interest.
The widely scattered driftwood, along the miles
of curving sandy shore, suggests many reflections
to the imaginative mind. Trees that have been
washed from their footholds on the margins of dis-
tant forests — logs, slabs, and wasted material of
many kinds, incident to man's destruction in the
wilderness — broken and lost timbers from piers,
bridges and wrecks — are among the spoils of winds
and seas that are relentless.
Nature is as regardless as she is beneficent, and
her storms and her sunshine do not discriminate.
Some lonely dweller on the coast may have
builded too near the abodes of the water gods,
and, in their anger they may have reached out
long arms to his humble home, and flung the fruits
of his toil among the mysteries of the deep. Some
unfortunate bark may have lost its battle with the
tempest, and given its sails and timbers to the
waves.
When the vagrant breezes found them, they
may have wandered for many months on the wide
expanse. They may have floated in on the crests
[164]
DOC LOONEY
of the singing ground swells — touched strange
shores and left them — drifted lazily in summer
calms, and offered brief respites to tired wings far
out on the undulating waters. They may have
been buffeted by savage seas under angry skies,
and battered among the ice fields by the winter
gales.
Like frail and feeble souls, unable to master
their course, the lost and worn timbers have been
the sport of the varying winds and the playthings
of chance. They have at last found refuge and
quiet on the desolate sands. Living forces have
thrown them aside and gone on.
Sometimes a name, a few letters on a plank, or
a frayed piece of canvas, will offer a clue to its
origin, and tell a belated story of misfortune some-
where out on the trackless deep.
Outside, on one of the boards used in the con-
struction of the rude little hut, we deciphered the
name "Pauline Mahaffy." It had evidently come
from the hull of some proud craft that had once
ridden nobly through the white-caps, and dashed
the foam and spray before her. Alas, to what a
prosaic end had her destiny led her! Immured in
[165]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
a deep ravine, her last sad relic — her honored
name — was a part of a disreputable shanty, and
her last friend had left it to fade into oblivion.
Even unto his solitude had femininity, in a
modified form, pursued poor Looney. Sipes, un-
poetic and irreverent, found much joy in the name.
He chuckled in his glee, and mingled his mockery
with his quaint philosophy.
"Oh, Lord, if only that funny lookin' female
I told ye about, that was huntin' the Doc, could
see this! She'd spend a few seconds on the Doc,
an' the rest of 'er life trackin' Pauline. She
wouldn't know nothin' about names on ships, an'
she'd think the Mahaffy woman 'ad snared 'im
an' took 'im away, an' 'e was that fond of 'er that
'e put 'er name on 'is shanty.
"Mebbe she landed on 'im 'ere, an' 'e lit out
up the ravine. Them that live in this world can
make all the trouble fer themselves they want,
an' they don't need the help o' nobody else, an' I'll
bet the Doc thought so too, an' scooted. "Pauline
Mahaffy! Gosh what a name! Wouldn't that
blow yer hat off? He ought to 'a' hunted fer a
board that 'ad 'Idler' or sumpen like that on it
[166]
DOC LOONEY
that wouldn't never make no trouble. Most o' the
pleasure boats that gits wrecked is named 'The
Idler.' They'r mostly run by lubbers, an' 'e
wouldn't have no trouble findin' one if 'e wanted
a nice name to put on that old dog house. 'Idler'
'ud just mean that 'e wasn't workin', an' you bet
'e ain't, but 'Pauline Mahaffy' don't sound good to
me. I seen the old cuss less'n a week ago, an' 'e
must 'ave another coop som'eres else. This ravine
'ud be a good place to set some bear traps 'round
in. There's no knowin' wot they might ketch."
When it stopped raining we continued our
journey up the ravine to higher ground, and
walked through the woods. We finally emerged
into the open country, made a long detour, and
returned to the boat.
A sketch had been made of the shanty, but we
had found no "patritches." The old man was
greatly elated over the recovery of the long lost
"kittle." Its present value was at least question-
able, but he was happy, and he had carried it
tenderly during the trip.
"When I git home," said he, "I'll git some sod-
der an' plug it up. If you've got some o' them
[167]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
kind of seegars with you, that you gave me the
other day, I think it 'ud be nice fer us to smoke
one on the strength o' me findin' my kittle."
The disreputable utensil was stowed carefully
in the boat, with the rest of our belongings, and
finally reached its rightful home.
The adaptation of particular minds to particular
forms of activity is one of the most difficult
problems of our highly specialized social struc-
ture. Happiness and achievement are largely de-
pendent upon mental and physical harmony be-
tween the man and his task. The learned pro-
fessions, like all other mediums of human activity,
carry with them in their progress the "misfits"
and the "by-products" which are inseparable from
them.
Poor old Doc Looney is both a misfit and a by-
product. He is innocently drifting in waters that
are beyond his depth, and while he is of little value
in the world, his "powerful remedies," "potential
herbs" and "infusions" will probably find but few
victims.
[168]
^fc^vti—.Ti
CHAPTER IX
THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER
ONE fall there were queer happenings in
the dune country. The story is nearly
twelve miles long, the details extending
all along the shore, from Happy Cal's shanty to
a point away north of where old Sipes sweeps the
horizon through his little "spotter."
The tracks of some strange and unknown animal
began to appear on the sand at different places
along the beach. They were about three inches
long, and nearly round, with irregular edges.
The impressions were not very deep. They had
[169]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
not been made with hoofs. They were too large
for the imprints of a dog or wolf, and were too
small, and not of the right shape for a bear.
No bird or beast could have made these tracks,
that had ever been seen or heard of by anybody
who inspected them. The denizens of the sand-
hills, who had hunted and trapped among them
for many years, were utterly amazed and dum-
founded. Some marvelous thing had come into
the country. All conjecture seemed futile, and
there appeared to be no possible or plausible
theory that would in any way explain the enigma.
The mystery became more and more impene-
trable. Many superstitious speculations and sur-
mises were indulged in by the old derelicts. They
were deeply perplexed and completely at a loss
to understand a situation that was becoming un-
canny, and began to suggest some kind of witch-
craft.
Extended search and diligent watch failed to
locate the four-footed thing in the daytime. It
seemed only to travel at night. Like the wond-
rous "Questing Beast1' in the Arthurian legend,
and the fabled ferocious white whale of the ant-
[170]
THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER
arctic seas, it became the object of vain and anxious
pursuit. It seemed to elude miraculously all of
the snares and stratagems devised for its capture.
Evidences of its recent presence were apparent at
the most unexpected times and places.
Attempts to trail it through the woods resulted
in failure, as there seemed to be no scent that a
dog could distinguish. The only tracks that could
be followed were those that were visible on the
smooth sand of the shore. They always eventually
led into the woods on the bluffs and were lost.
The unsolved riddle became more puzzling with
the discovery of each new depredation, committed
by the unknown marauder, and the fresh unde-
cipherable imprints were seen somewhere on the
beach almost every morning.
Once a half-devoured woodchuck was found
near the mouth of a little creek that emptied into
the lake, and a large fish, that had been cast in
by the waves, was discovered, partially eaten, a
little farther on.
Catfish John left half a pailful of dead min-
nows, which he intended to use for bait, under an
old box. When he returned the next morning,
[171]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
he found the box overturned, and the pail empty.
His little smoke-house was invaded, the half-cured
fish were gone, and the tell-tale tracks were all
over the sand.
Late, one dark night, Sipes landed his rowboat
on the beach. From some unknown source he
had obtained a side of bacon, which he left, with
some other things, in the boat, while he went over
to his shanty to get a lantern. He puttered around
for awhile, getting his lantern ready, and looking
for some tobacco. When he went back to the boat
with his light, he discovered that the bacon and
the remains of some lunch that he had taken with
him, had disappeared. The round tracks of the
mysterious thief were around the end of the boat,
and the trail led straight across the beach into the
ravine. Three nights later a couple of dead rab-
bits, that he had hung up on the side of the shanty,
were missing.
With this fresh outrage, Sipes went on the
war-path. He loaded up his old shotgun, with
double charges of powder, and some lead slugs,
and lurked along the edges of the bluffs all night.
He was beside himself with curiosity and rage,
[172]
THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER
and it would have gone hard with almost any live
thing that he might have seen silhouetted between
him and the dim light on the lake during his vigil.
The baffling mystery was getting entirely too seri-
HE WAS "COIN TO
BUTCHER IT ON SIGHT'
ous, and was affecting him too much personally,
to admit of further temporizing.
He went on several of these nocturnal expedi-
tions, all of which were fruitless, and his sulphur-
[173]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
cms comments on his failures to find what he was
looking for, indicated the intensity of his eager-
ness to meet and annihilate "that cussed thing that
'ad rained down, or come in often the lake, an'
done all this." He "didn't care whether it 'ad
scales, wings er tusks." He was "goin' to butcher
it on sight."
"He was cert'nly dead sore," said Catfish
John, in relating Sipes's part in the drama.
"After 'e'd hunted it awhile, 'e thought 'e'd try
an' trap this varmint. He got an old net an' spread
it up over some sticks. Then 'e put some meat on
a long stick under the middle of it, an' fixed it so
the net 'ud fall down over anything that tried to
pull away the meat. The net was to tangle the
varmint all up, when it fell on 'im, an' 'e tried to
git loose.
"The next day 'e went thar an' found them
tracks all 'round an' the meat gone. Somehow the
contraption hadn't worked. He set it agin, an'
in about a week there was a big skunk in it, all
messed up an' hostile, an' after that Sipes quit.
He said that them fellers that wanted to trap that
varmint could go ahead an' do it. He didn't
[174]
THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER
want nothin' to do with no more traps. He was
goin' to wait 'till 'e saw it, whatever it was, an'
plug it with 'is gun.
"He hunted 'round a whole lot at night, an'
once 'e saw sumpen black, movin' along under the
bluff. It was bright moonlight, but this thing was
in the shadow. He took a couple o' pops at it,
but it got away up in the brush. Sometimes 'e'd
hear queer sounds outside 'is house in the night.
He'd git up quick an' sneak out with 'is gun, but
'e didn't never find nothin'. The next mornin'
'e'd look for them funny tracks an' most always
found some. Next 'e was goin' to put out some
pizen, but 'e couldn't git none.
"Afterward the whole thing come out. It was
Cal's dog that done it. He come 'long the beach
one day when I was fixin' my boat. I had it up
on the sand, an' 'ad poured a lot o' tar in it. I
was tippin' it an' flowin' the tar 'round in it to
catch all the little leaks in the bottom. I left it
fer a minute, an' the dog got in the boat an'
puddled all 'round in the tar. What 'e done it
fer I don't know. Then 'e hopped out on the sand
an' caked 'is feet all up, an' that's the reason 'e
[175]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
made them funny tracks, an' that's why them fel-
lers with the dogs couldn't follow the scent. He
didn't leave no animal scent. The tar an' the sand
killed it. He probly didn't like the way 'is feet
felt, an' when 'e skipped out from 'ere 'e was
prob'ly scart an' didn't go back to Cal's. He must
'av spent his time hidin' 'round in the woods in
the daytime, an' at night 'e'd come out 'long the
beach to git sumpen to eat.
"I didn't think of all this 'till some feller come
'long 'ere an' said 'e'd followed them tracks down
to Cal's place an' found 'im settin' outside rubbin'
'is dog's paws with grease, an' tryin' to git big
lumps o' tar an' sand off 'em. The dog 'ad bin
gone about two weeks, an' Cal thought 'e'd gone
off fer good. I'll bet Cal was glad to git 'im back.
"I'd oughter thought it out before, fer Cal come
up 'ere one day an' asked me if I'd seen 'is dog,
but I'd forgot all about 'is gittin in the tar, an'
s'posed 'e'd gone off home when 'e left 'ere."
Pete's adventures had been varied and exciting
while they lasted. He had added variety and in-
terest to the community in which he lived, and
[176]
THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER
had really done but very little actual harm during
his absence from home.
Sipes philosophically remarked that ' everythin'
comes to an end in this world, an' this 'ere dog
'11 come to one, if 'e ever gits this way agin.
I s'pose it's all sweet an' proper fer me to git a
bunch o' bacon an' two rabbits stole, an' I s'pose
Fm the only one that cares about them things I
lost, but all the same, I ain't runnin' no animile
restaurant, an' some day there'll be some dog
tracks on this beach that '11 all point the same way,
if that thievin' quadrypeed ever comes skulpin'
'round 'ere/'
[177]
m
X Le^cr-X Sum\rv^7
CHAPTER X
J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON
A LONELY abode near the opening of a
ravine, about four miles from Sipes' hut,
bore the scars of many winters. It was
not over twelve feet square. It had two small win-
dows, a narrow door and a "lean to1' roof. On
the door was the roughly carved inscription — "J.
Ledyard Symington, Tuesdays and Thursdays."
Near this was nailed an old cigar box, with a
slit in the cover. Lettered on the box was a re-
quest to "Please leave card."
I often passed this mysterious dwelling with-
out seeing any indications of life, but one chilly
rainy day I saw smoke issuing from the bent piece
of stove-pipe, protruding through the roof. The
fact that it happened to be Thursday helped to
overcome my reluctance to disturb the occupant.
A cordial and cheery call to "come in" was the
response to my gentle knock.
I found a rather tall, pleasant faced, watery
eyed old man, with a gray beard, aquiline nose,
[179]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
and shaggy eyebrows, who rose from a box on
which he had been sitting before a small table.
There was an unmistakable air of noblesse
oblige in his polite offer of another box. His
clothes bespoke the "shabby genteel," which was
accentuated by a somewhat battered and much
worn plug hat, that hung on a peg near the win-
dow back of the table.
I apologized for my intrusion, told him that I
had had rather a long walk, and would be glad
to rest awhile before his fire. He seemed in-
terested in some sketches made during the morn-
ing, which he asked to see. His courtly air did
not desert him when he confessed that he "hadn't
had a smoke for a week." I handed him some
tobacco. He fished a disreputable looking big
black pipe out of some rubbish on a shelf, and
was soon enveloped in the comforting fumes.
I was made to feel much at home, and his con-
versation soon lost its tinge of formality. He
looked at me curiously and asked where I was
from. When I told him, his eyes brightened, and
he wanted to know what the principal society
events had been during the winter. He said he
[180]
J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON
had only seen half a dozen papers in five or six
months, and had lost all track of what had been
going on.
Along one of the shelves at the end of the room
were ranged several books on etiquette, and thirty
or forty much worn novels, of the variety usually
absorbed by very young ladies in hammocks, scat-
tered around the shaded lawns of white flannel
summer resorts, where the most intense intellectual
occupations are tennis and dancing — books in
which are recorded the "dashing devilish beauty
of Cyril," with his "corking and perfectly rip-
ping" ideas, and the bewildering charms of wil-
lowy Geraldine, the violet eyed heiress, with the
long lashes, her many stunning costumes and
clinging gowns. Flashing glances, nonchalantly
twirled canes, faintly perfumed stationery, and
softlv tearful moods adorn the pages.
The limousine of the "Soap King" goes whirl-
ing by, which is placed at the service of the duke,
when he arrives, incognito, to annex, matrimoni-
allv, the anxious millions that await him. The
storv takes us up wondrously carved staircases,
among many palms, and into marble halls, through
[181]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
which faint voluptuous music flows. The walls
are lined with long rows of priceless old masters.
Modern society novelists have found and given to
the world many more Rembrandts and Van Dykes
than those two humble toilers at the lower end
of the social scale could have painted in a geo-
logical era. The duke eventually fails to produce
his coronet, and the true love match is off. Cupid
disappears through a stained glass casement. Dare
Devil Cyril rescues the lovely Geraldine from
under a fallen horse, or a purple touring car,
and bravely carries her to another; her warm
breath touches his cheek, and the wedding chimes
come just in time to enable the fair reader to
dress for dinner.
Oh, noble Cyril, and bewitching Geraldine! —
your names may change on different pages, but
ever and anon you flit through the countless
cylinders of unnumbered presses. Like the lilies
of the field, you toil not, neither do you spin. The
triumphs and the failures of a thinking, striving
world are not for you; its problems and its tears
are not within your charmed circle, but He who
marks the sparrow's fall, may gather even you,
[182]
J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON
with the rest of the created things, if there are
other worlds to come.
Noticing my glance at the book-shelf, my host
said, rather apologetically, "my library is not as
large as I would like to have it. The fact is that
I take a great deal of interest in social matters.
I am unfortunately placed in a very peculiar and
humiliating position. A great many years ago I
fell heir to a large fortune, on the death of my
uncle, and expected to devote my time entirely to
society, and the pleasures of a gentleman of leisure.
A lot of contesting relatives came on the scene,
and for over twenty years the case has been in
the courts. Several times I almost got cheated out
of my inheritance, but it looks now as though I
might get it.
"I keep in touch with everything that may be
of use to me when I go into the world in the way
that my uncle intended that I should. As social
novelists generally reflect their own periods quite
accurately, I feel that these books give me a very
good idea of what is going on, and I get a great
deal of pleasure out of them.
"I had a pretty good education, when I was
[183]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
young, but I don't care so much about that, as I
do for the ability to do things in proper form
when I get what is coming to me. This enforced
residence in these miserable hills, is just to make
certain people think that I am dead. I am going
to be alive at just the right time, and when I show
up there will be a lot of surprises.
"As a matter of fact my ancestry is very ancient.
I looked it up in Burke's Peerage when my uncle
died, and found that I came from two of the very
best families. On the other side I would be a
baronet, but I don't want to go over there until
I get my money. When I walk into my estates,
I will do so unknown. I will suddenly reveal
myself, and there will be a scattering of a lot of
upstarts and false nobility who have been enjoy-
ing what rightfully belongs to me.
"I don't associate with these loafers that live
around in these sand hills at all. They are low
fellows, and I have no use for them. Every three
months I go to a certain post-office, and get a
money order for a certain amount, from a certain
party who knows where I am, and is keeping track
of things for me. It isn't as big a money order as
[184]
J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON
I would like, but I assure you that these conditions
are only temporary, and when the proper time
comes, you will find me gone."
I listened to the old man's story, which occupied
most of the afternoon, with some suspicion, but
with much interest. Some mysterious tea and a
couple of damp soda crackers were served at this
impromptu reception. He expressed much pleas-
ure that I had called, and said that he hoped I
would come again.
The impressions of my visit were really very
pleasant, until, a few days later, they came under
the fire of the withering sarcasm and barbed satire
of Sipes, who from his lonely eyrie four miles
away, across a bend in the shore, could observe
the home of J. Ledyard Symington through his
little spy-glass.
"That feller down there makes me tired. When
'e fust come in the hills, about six years ago, 'e
put up a sign that said 'J- Simons.' He used to
go 'way oncet in a while, an' ev'ry time 'e'd come
back with a lot o' red an' green books that 'e'd set
out on the sand an' read. He's got the society
[185]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
bug, an' 'e thinks 'e's cut out fer to shine in new
clothes all the time.
"Some day 'e says 'e's goin to live in a big house.
He comes 'ere sometimes to see if I've got any
newspapers. I got some oncet, to see if them Japs
'ad got them fellers in Port Arthur yet, an' Simons
set down an' studied 'em all through to see wot
the society push was doin'.
"He's got a box out in front that says to drop
in cards. Oncet, just to show 'im that I was polite,
I stuck a seven spot into it. I wouldn't hand
nothin' above a seven to a guy like 'im. After
that I laid out a lot o' games o' sollytare that I
couldn't make work, an' I seen sumpen was the
matter with my deck, an' then I recollected that
cussed seven spot, an' I skipped back there when
that ol' goat was snoozin' one night an' fished it
out of 'is box. He's plumb nutty, an' 'e don't
amuse me a bit. You fellers may like 'im, but I'll
bet that when 'e gits 'is big house, you an' me won't
be asked to it. Nothin' like him goes with me.
"He never has no whisky, an' I don't never see
'im out on the lake. He don't fish ner hunt, an'
Hell! I don't know where 'e gits 'is money. After
[186]
J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON
'e'd bin down there a couple o' years, 'e changed the
name on 'is door to 'J. L. Simons', an' after that
'e had it 'J. Ledward Simons' an' now its 'J. Led-
yard Symington — Tuesdays & Thursdays'. I
s'pose 'e'll 'ave 'Tuesdays & Thursdays' fer a part
o' that name 'e's grad'ally constructin' if 'e keeps
it up. Mebbe 'e means that on them days 'e's al-
ways out, but I ain't goin' to keep track o' the
days o' the week fer him, and 'e and 'is ol' hard-
boiled hat can go to the devil.
"If 'e has 'J. Ledyard Symington Tuesdays &
Thursdays' fer a name 'ere, wot d'ye s'pose 'e'll
'ave it when 'e gits in 'is big house, that 'e's al-
ways tellin' about? I'll bet 'e'll 'ave a name that
ye can't git through the yard. His plug hat makes
me sick. Wot d'ye s'pose Dewey at Maniller
would 'av said to a man with a lid like that? He'd
a said 'Bingo!' an' smashed it. After that 'e'd a
told Gridley to begin' on 'im any time 'e was
ready."
At this point the old man's comments began to
be mingled with so much ornate profanity that it
seems futile to attempt properly to expurgate his
remarks. He declared that Simons was certainly
[187]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
"bunk." "A name like wot 'e'd built out o' noth-
in' would finish anybody." He thought that some-
thing "ought to happen to everybody that got stuck
on themselves, an' usually it did. All o' them
geezers that live 'ere an' there on the shore, are
prob'ly 'ere an' there 'cause it's better so fer them.
With me its different. I'm 'ere 'cause I want
to be 'ere. Simons '11 prob'ly light out some day,
the same way Cal did. I'm goin' down there some
night an' slip the whole darn deck in 'is card
box, just to show my heart's in the right place."
Sipes was a captious critic, and to him the
"mantle of charity" was an unknown fabric. It
was evident that the social strata in the dunes had
some humps that would never be leveled.
I passed the shanty some months later, but there
was no smoke or other sign of habitation. The
disappointed old occupant had evidently "lit out."
The sad-looking "plug" was stuck over the top of
the rusty section of stovepipe that had served as
the chimney. It was now literally a "stovepipe
hat" — that crown of absurdity among the follies
of mankind, against which both art and nature
have vainly protested through blinding tears.
[188]
J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON
I suspected the subtle facetiousness of Sipes in
the apt decoration of the protruding piece of stove
pipe with this melancholy emblem of departed
gentility. Its top was ripped around the edge,
and it moved languidly up and down in the vary-
ing winds, as if in mockery of inconstant fashion,
'y
which is regulated by custom instead of artistic
taste.
The building of the distinguished name had,
[189]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
however, been continued, and the legend on the
door was now, "J. Ledyard Symington-Syming-
ton, Bart." The reception days had been effaced.
The old man may have achieved that point in his
social aspirations when he "didn't care to know
anybody who wasn't anybody." Like Don Qui-
xote, he may have departed to battle with hostile
windmills, or he may have walked into his estates
"unknown," to mingle in phantom social functions
in ghostly halls and silent chambers in the Great
Beyond.
Perhaps there are no "Tuesdays and Thursdays"
there, and calling cards and stovepipe hats are
unnecessary. His blighted hopes, and those that
may have ended in fruition, concern the widely
distributed gossips along the coast no more.
While we may be interested and amused with
the petty gossip, the rude philosophy, the quaint
humor, the little antagonisms, and the child-like
foibles of these lonely dwellers in the dune country,
the pathos that overshadows them must touch our
hearts.
They have brought their life scars into the deso-
late sands, where the twilight has come upon them.
[ 190]
J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON
The roar of a mighty world goes on beyond them.
Unable to navigate the great currents of life, they
have drifted into stagnant waters.
Happy Cal's unwelcome guests and his blighted
affections — Catfish John's rheumatism and his
pork that "them fellers" stole — Old Sipes's lost
"kittle" — Doc Looney's unappreciative wives — J.
Ledyard Symington's "humiliations," and all the
other troubles of the old outcasts, will disappear
into the oblivion of the years, with the rest of the
affairs and happenings of this life.
If they have not been ambitious, their rapacity
has not destroyed empires, or deluged the earth
with blood. If they have not been learned, they
have not used knowledge to devise means for the
destruction of human life. If they have not been
powerful, their greed has not oppressed and im-
poverished their fellow-beings.
Let us hope that the storms from the lake, and
civilization on the shore, will deal gently with
these poor derelicts, as they peacefully fade away
into the elements from which they came.
[191]
{From the A uthor's Etching)
'RESUMING THEIR MIGRATIONS'
I ■
CHAPTER XI
THE BACK COUNTRY
BEHIND the ranges of the sand hills, lie
stretches of broken waste country. It is
diversified with patches of woods, tangled
thickets, swamps, little ponds, stagnant pools
covered with green microscopic vegetation, and
small areas of productive soil. There are long,
low elevations, covered sparsely with gnarled
[193]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
pines, spruces, poplars, and sumacs. Tall elms,
many willows, and an occasional silvery barked
sycamore, lend variety to the scene.
Here and there, just back of the big hills, are
deep secluded tarns, which have no visible outlets
or inlets. One looks cautiously down from the
surrounding edges. In the obscurity of the deep
shadows there is tangled dead vegetation, a few
decayed tree-trunks, and an uncanny stillness.
Unseen stagnant water is there, and the mysterious
depths seem to be without life. They are fit abodes
for gnomes, and evil spirits may haunt their si-
lences. There is an instinctive creepy feeling, and
an undefined dread in the atmosphere around
them.
Swamps of tamarack, which are impenetrable,
contribute their masses of deep green to the charm
of the landscape. The ravagers of the wet places
hide in them, and the timid, hunted wild life finds
refuge in their still labyrinths. In the winter
countless tracks and trails on the snow lead into
them and are lost.
Among the most interesting of the marsh
dwellers is the muskrat. This active little animal
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is an ever-present element in the life of the sloughs,
and he is the most industrious live thing in the
back country. His numerous families thrive and
increase, in spite of vigilant enemies that besiege
them. The larger owls, the foxes, minks, and steel
traps are their principal foes.
A MARSH DWELLER
The houses, irregular in shape and size, dot the
surfaces of the ponds and swamps. Thev are built
of lumps of sod and mud, mixed with bulrushes
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and heavy grass. They usually contain two rooms,
one above the other, and little tunnels lead out
from them, under ground, providing channels of
escape in case of danger, and safe routes of ap-
proach to the houses from the burrows in the
higher ground along the banks.
The upper cavity of the little adobe structure
is usually lined with moss and fine grass. Lily
roots, freshwater clams, and other food are carried
up into it from under the ice in the winter. In
these cosy retreats the little colonies live during
the cold months, oblivious to the cares and dangers
of the outside world.
There is a network of thoroughfares and bur-
rows in the soft earth among the roots of the wil-
lows on the neighboring banks. The devious
secret passages and runways are in constant use
during the summer.
The muskrats are great travelers, and roam
over the meadows, through the ravines, up and
down the creeks, and around on the sand hills, in
search of food and adventure. They run along the
lake shore at night, and their tracks are found all
over the beach. Their well-beaten paths radiate
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in all directions from their homes. They are not
entirely lovable, but the back country would be
desolate indeed without them.
The herons stand solemnly, like sentinels, among
A SENTINEL IN THE MARSH
the thick grasses, and out in the open places,
watching for unwary frogs, minnows, and other
small life with which nature has bountifully
peopled the sloughs. The crows and hawks drop
quickly behind clumps of weeds on deadly errands
in the day time, and at night the owls, foxes, and
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minks haunt the margins of the wet places. The
enemies of the Little Things are legion. Violent
death is their destiny. With the exception of the
turtles, they are all eaten by something larger and
more powerful than themselves.
In the fall and early spring the wild ducks and
geese drop into the ponds and marshes, and rest
(From the Author's Etching)
THEY "DROP INTO
THE PONDS AND MARSHES"
for days at a time, before resuming their migra-
tions. They come in from over the lake during
the storms to find shelter for the night, and are
reluctant to leave the abundant food in these nooks
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behind the hills. A flat-bottomed boat among the
bulrushes, and a few artificially arranged thick
bunches of brush and long grass, which have been
used as shooting blinds, usually explain why they
have not stayed longer.
A few of the ducks remain during the summer,
build their nests on secluded boggy spots, and rear
their young; but the minks, snapping turtles, and
other enemies besides man, generally see that few
of them live to fly away in the fall.
Occasionally a small weather-beaten frame
house, and a tumble-down old barn, project their
gables into the landscape. Around them is usually
a piece of cleared land that represents years of toil
and combat with the reluctant soil, obstinate
stumps, and tough roots.
Nature has begrudgingly yielded a scanty liveli-
hood to the brave and simple ones who have spent
their youth and middle age in wresting away the
barriers which have stood between them and the
comforts of life. The broken-spirited animals that
stand still, with lowered heads, in the little fields
and around the barn, are mute testimonies of the
years of drudgery and hardship.
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On approaching the house we encounter a few
ducks that splash into the ditch along the muddy
road, and disappear in great trepidation among the
weeds and bulrushes beyond the fence. The loud
barking of a mongrel dog is heard, a lot of chickens
scatter, and several children with touseled heads
and frightened faces appear. Behind them a lean-
faced woman in a faded calico dress looks out with
a reserved and kindly welcome. The dog is re-
buked sharply, and finally quieted. The scared
children hastily retreat into the house, and peek out
through the curtained windows. We explain that
we came to ask for a drink of water. The woman
disappears for a moment, brings a cup, and some
rain water in a broken pitcher, with which to
prime the pump in the yard.
This wheezy piece of hardware, after much
teasing, and encouragement from the broken
pitcher, finally yields, and one object of the visit
is accomplished. The children begin cautiously
to reappear, their curiosity having got the better
of their alarm.
A few commonplace remarks about the weather,
a complimentary reference to a flower bed near the
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fence, an inquiry as to the ages of the children,
soon establish a friendly footing, and we are asked
to sit down on the bench near the pump and rest
awhile.
"Don't you sometimes feel lonely out here, with
no neighbors ?" I asked. "No, indeed,1' she re-
plied. "We've got all the neighbors we want.
Nobody lives very near here, but there isn't a
day passes that I don't see somebody drivin' by
out on the road. I ride to town every two or three
weeks, an' that's enough for anybody."
A man of perhaps forty, but who looks to be
fifty, rather tall and spare, with bent shoulders
and shambling step, appears after a few minutes.
His shaved upper lip and long chin whiskers
strictly conform to the established customs of the
back country.
It is a land of the chin whiskers, and they are
met with everywhere in the by-paths of civiliza-
tion. Their picturesque quality is the delight of
him who uses the lead pencil and pen to portray
the oddities of his race.
He has come from over near the edge of the
timber, where he has been repairing a decayed rail
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fence. His greeting is kindly, and we are made
to feel quite at home. Some fresh buttermilk from
an old-fashioned churn near the back door adds
to the pleasant hospitality, and the loud cackling
of a proud and energetic rooster, adorned with
brilliant plumage, who takes credit for the warm
egg which a dignified old hen has just left in the
corner of the corn crib, lends an air of cheerful-
ness and animation to the scene. He has just
learned of the achievement, and the glory is his.
Out in the yard is a covered box with a circular
hole in its front. A small chain leads into it,
which is attached to the outside by a staple. After
a few minutes the furtive wild eyes of a captive
coon peer out fearfully from the inner darkness
of the box. He was extracted from the cosy in-
terior of a hollow tree, over near the edge of the
swamp, during his infancy, and was the sole sur-
vivor of a moonlight attack on his home tree, after
the dogs had located the happy family. The tree
was cut down, the little furry things mangled by
savage teeth, and their house made desolate. The
little fellow was carried into a hopeless captivity,
where his days and nights are passed in terror.
He is a prisoner and not a pet.
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It is mankind that does these things — not the
brutes — and yet we cry out in denunciation when
humanity is thus outraged. We chain and cage
the wild things, and shriek for freedom of thought
and action. Verily this is a strange world!
I talked with one of the little girls about the
coon. She told me his story and said they called
him "Tip." My heart went out to him, and I
longed to take him under my coat, carry him into
the deep woods, and bid him God speed. He
probably would have bitten me had I attempted
it, but in this he would have been justified from
his point of view, for he had never had a chance
in his despoiled life to learn that there could be
sympathy in a human touch. In this poor Tip is
not alone in the world.
Time slumbers in the back country. The
weekly paper is the only printed source of news
from the outside, and, with the addition of a
monthly farm magazine, with its woman's de-
partment, constitutes the literature of the home.
These periodicals are read by the light of the big
kerosene lamp on the table in the middle of the
room, and the facts and opinions found in them
become gospel.
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The country village is perhaps a couple of miles
farther inland. There is a water-mill on the little
river, and bags of wheat and corn are taken
to it to be ground. The miller — sleepy-eyed and
white — comes out and helps to unload the incom-
ing grain, or deposit the flour or meal in the back
part of the wagon.
The general store and post-office is on the main
road, near the mill. The proprietor is the oracle
of the community, and a fountain of wit and wis-
dom. The store is the clearing-house for the news
and gossip of the passing days.
A weather-beaten sign across the front of the
building reads, "THE CENTER OF THE World/'
The owner declares that "this must be so, fer the
edges of it are just the same distance off from the
store, no matter which way ye look."
There is much unconscious philosophy in the
quaintly humorous sign, for, after all, how little
we realize the immensity of the material and intel-
lectual world that is beyond our own horizon.
The homely wit touches incisively one of the
foibles of human kind.
Elihu Baxter Brown, the storekeeper, is well
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along in years. He is tall, somewhat stoop-
shouldered, and his eyes look quizzically out of
narrow slits. His heavy gray mustache dominates
tfGRLD
ii
THE "GENERAL STORE"
his face, the cumbersome ornament suggesting a
pair of frayed lambrequins. He lives in a little
old-fashioned house that sets back in a yard next
his store. A quiet gray-haired woman, with a
kindly face, sits sewing in the shade near the back
door. They walked to the home of the minister
fifteen miles away, to be married, over fifty years
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ago. They trudged back in the afternoon and
began their lives together in the humble frame
house that now shows the touch of decay and the
scars of winter storms.
THE STOREKEEPER
The small trees that they planted around it have
grown tall enough almost to hide the quiet home
among their shadows. Little patches of sunlight
that have stolen through the leaves are scattered
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over the roof on bright days, like happy hours in
solemn lives.
In a sealed glass jar on a "what-not" in a corner
of the front room is a hard queer-looking lump,
encrusted with dry mold, a fragment of the wed-
ding cake of half a century ago, which has been
faithfully kept and cherished through the years.
To the world outside it is meaningless; here it is
sacred.
The little things to which sentiment can cling
are the anchorages of our hearts. They keep us
from drifting too far away, and they call to us
when we have wandered. The small piece of
wedding cake — gray like the heads of those who
reverence it — has helped to prolong the echoes of
the chimes of years ago. It was a rough gnarled
hand which carefully put the glass jar back into its
place after it was shown, but it was a tender and
beautiful thought that kept it there.
The old man is now seventy-six. He says that
sometimes he is only about thirty, and at other
times he is over a hundred — it all depends on the
weather and the condition of his rheumatism.
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"When I git up in the mornin'," said he, "I
first find out how my rheumatism is, then I take
a look at the weather, an' figger out what kind
of a day it's goin' to be. If it's goin' to rain I let
'er rain, an' if it ain't, all well an' good. Business
is pretty slow when it rains, an' when its ten or
fifteen below in the winter, they ain't no business
at all. When it gits like that I hole up like a
woodchuck, an' set in the back part o' the store
in my high-chair, an' make poetry an' read. I
don't like to do too much readin', fer readin' rots
the mind, an' Ed rather be waitin' on people com-
in' in. Most gen'rally a lot o' the old cods that
live 'round 'ere drop in an' we talk things over.
"This rheumatism o' mine is a queer thing. Ell
tell ye sumpen confidential. You prob'ly won't be-
lieve it, an' I wouldn't want what I say to git
out 'cause its so improb'le, an' it might hurt my
credit, but Eve bin cured o' my rheumatism twice
by carryin' a petrified potato in my pocket. An
old friend of mine, Catfish John's got it now, an'
I don't want to take it away from 'im as long as
it's helpin' 'im, but when 'e gits through with it,
Em goin' to have it back on the job, an' you bet
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I'll be hoppin' "round 'ere as lively as a cricket.
The potato '11 prob'ly be 'ere next week. I've
had it fer ten years, an' it beats everything I've
ever tried."
I asked the old man to allow me to see some
of the poetry he had "made," and thereby opened
up a literary mine. The request touched a tender
chord and I was ushered back to a worn desk
of antique pattern in the rear of the store. He
raised the lid and extracted the treasure. A book
had been removed from its binding, and the covers
converted into a portfolio. He gently removed
about a hundred sheets of paper of various shapes
and sizes, covered with closely written matter.
Some of the spelling would have shocked the shade
of Lindley Murray, and made it glad that he had
passed away, and some of it would have made a
champion of spelling reform quite happy. It was
vers libre of the most malignant type. Rhymes
were freely distributed at picturesque random, and
while the ideas, rhythm, and meter were quite
lame at times, much of the verse was better than
some recently published imagist poetry, which
contains none of these things. Humor and pathos
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were intermingled. Sometimes there was much
humor where pathos was intended, and often real
pathos lurked among the lighter lines.
There are many singers who are never heard.
Melodies in impenetrable forests and trills that
float on desert air are for those who sing, and
not for those who listen. A happy soul may pour
forth impassioned song in solitude, for the joy of
the singing, and a solitary bard may distil his fancy
upon pages that are for him alone.
The verse of Elihu Baxter Brown is its own
and only excuse for being. It has solaced the still
hours, and if its creator has been its only reader,
he has been most appreciative.
A touching lay depicts his elation upon the de-
parture of his wife "in a autobeel" on a long visit
to distant relatives, but the joy prevails only dur-
ing the first six lines. The remaining thirty are
devoted to sorrow and "lonely misery as I walketh
the street," and end with "when will she be back
I wonder?" He falls into a "reverree" and from
under its gentle spell the virile lines, "The brite
moon makes a strong impress on me," and "I've
named my pet hen after thee," float into the world.
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With "eyes full of weep" he reflects that "some-
times she's cold as all git out," and further on he
wishes that his "loved one was a pie," so as to
facilitate immediate and affectionate assimilation.
He bids the world to "go on with its music and
kink it another note higher." In later lines he
naively admits that "of all the poets I love myself
the best." Alas, he has much company! This
effusion ends with "Gosh, I can't finish this poetry
till I pull myself together."
War, love, spring, and beautiful snow flow
through the limping measures. There are odes
to the sun, the rain, and to his old bob-tailed gray
cat, "Tobunkus," who drowses peacefully on the
counter near the scales.
The inspection of the poems led to the exhibi-
tion of his box of relics and curios, which he
greatly valued. Among the carefully ticketed and
labeled items, which we spread out on the coun-
ter, was a small chip from Libby Prison, a frag-
ment of stone picked up near the National Capitol,
a shark's tooth, some Indian arrow-heads, an iron
ring from a slave auction pen of ante-bellum
days, a chip from the pilot house of a steamboat
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that was wrecked sixty years ago on the Atlantic
coast, the dried stump of a cigar which had been
given to him when he visited a Russian man-of-
war in Boston harbor in 1859, and many other
odds and ends that were of priceless value to him.
I picked up a small, round piece of wood, which
he told me was the most remarkable and inter-
esting relic of the whole lot. "That," said he, "is
a piece of the first shaving brush I ever shaved
with" — a fact fully as important as most things,
seemingly significant at present, will be a century
hence. This wonderful object completed the ex-
hibition, and the collection was carefully put away.
The interior of the store was rather gloomy,
badly ventilated, and was pervaded with number-
less and commingled odors. I could distinguish
kerosene, dead tobacco-smoke, stale vegetables,
damp dry-goods, and smoked herrings, but the
rest of the indescribable medley of smells baffled
analysis.
The stock of merchandise was varied, but there
was very little of any one kind, except plug to-
bacco. Over a case containing several large boxes
of this necessity of life in the back country was a
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strip of cardboard, on which was inscribed, "Don't
use the nasty stuff." Under a wall-lamp was an-
other placard, "This flue don't smoke, neither
should you." Other examples of the proprietor's
wit were scattered along the edges of the shelves,
and on the walls, and helped to impart an indi-
vidual character to the place. Among them were,
"Don't be bashful. You can have anything you
can pay for." "This store is not run by a trust."
"No setting on the counter — this means you!"
"Credit given only on Sundies, when the store is
closed." "Don't talk about the war — it makes me
sick."
A large portion of the stock was in cans. Some
of them had evidently been on the shelves for
many years. There were cove oysters, sardines,
and tinned meats of various kinds, with badly fly-
specked labels. The old man remarked that "some
o' them air-tights has bin on hand since the early
eighties."
The humble tin can has been one of the impor-
tant factors in the progress of the human race.
With the theodolite, the sextant, and the rifle, it
has been carried to the waste places of the earth,
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and because of it they have bloomed. Tin cans
have lined the trails to unknown lands, and they
have been left at both of the poles. The invader
has flung them along his remorseless path when he
has gone to murder quiet distant peoples whose
religion differed from his own, and they have thus
been made "instruments of the Lord's mercy."
They lie on ghastly battlefields, mingled with
splintered bones, where a civilization, of which
we have boasted, has left them.
They are scattered over the bottom of the sea,
float languidly in the currents of uncharted rivers,
and rust on the sands of the deserts. They are
hiding-places for tropical reptiles in tangled mo-
rasses, and prowling beasts sniff at them curiously
in deserted camps along the outer rims of the
world.
They symbolize the ingenuity of the white man,
and in them has reposed the remains of every kind
of fish, reptile, bird and beast that he has used for
food. The aged bull, the scrawny family cow,
the venerable rooster, the faithful superannuated
hen, the senile billy goat, and other obsolete do-
mestic animals, have found a temporary tomb
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within mysterious walls of tin, and have helped
to feed others than those who canned them. They
enclose fruit and vegetables that could not be sold
fresh, and in them they go to the uttermost parts
of the earth.
It was indeed strange destiny that took the sar-
dine, flashing his bright sides in the blue Medit-
erranean, and left him immured on a musty shelf
in a store in the back country. If he, with the
contents of the cans around him, could return to
life, there would be a motley company.
Perhaps, in quiet midnight hours, wraiths come
out of the tins and play in the moonbeams that
filter through the dusty windows. They may all
have been there so long that social caste has been
established. The fish, lobsters, cove oysters and
clams, being sea people, probably hold aloof.
This they may well do, as they are on the upper
shelves.
The elderly domestic animals may have a digni-
fied stratum of their own, in which the afTairs of
the old families can be discussed, while those who
were feathered in life possibly form another pale
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group that devotes itself entirely to questions of
personal adornment.
Behind the red labels on the lower shelves are
the devilled ham and the pig's feet. The goblins
from these may hold high carnival in the silvery
light — the frolics of the indigestibles — and their
antics may last until the gray of the morning comes.
Nameless elfs may appear in the little throng.
They are from the soups, and have so many com-
ponent parts that they know not what they are.
Naturally they may precede the others, but if they
are in the ghostly circle, they are not of it.
Probably the specters from the canned hash are
at the lower end of the scale.
I suggested to the old man that all these things
might be happening while he slumbered, but he
declared that I was mistaken. "There's never bin
any doin's like that goin' on 'round the store,"
said he.
Figuratively, it might be said that many of us
obtain most of our intellectual food from cans.
The diet may be varied occasionally by fresh nu-
trients, but too often we rely upon products bear-
ing established trade-marks for our mental suste-
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nance. The rows of labels, honored by time and
dimmed by dust, stand like tiers of skulls, with
their eyeless caverns gravely still — mute symbols
of the eternal hours — as if staring in dull mockery
out of a vanished past. Living currents flow
around us unheeded. We absorb predigested
thought to repletion, and neglect vibrant mental
forces, that through disuse become depleted, in-
stead of enriching them with the study of the green
and growing things that have not been put in cans.
"About ev'ry third year," said the old man,
"business gits worse'n ever, an' that's when a hoss
trader named Than Gandy comes 'round. He lives
some'rs in the eastern part o' the state, an' after
'e's bin through 'ere 'e waits long enough fer
most of 'em to fergit 'im before 'e comes agin.
He starts out from where 'e lives with a sulky,
an' a crow bait hoss, an' about five dollars. He
spends a couple o' months on 'is travels among the
little places away from the railroads, an' when 'e
gits through with 'is trip, 'e has a string o' seven
er eight hosses, an' four er five little wagons an'
buggies, an' a lot o' harnesses an' whips an' calves
an' sheep, an' a big wad o' money. He's got all
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them things to boot in trades 'e keeps makin'. He
beats ev'rybody 'e runs up ag'inst, an' when 'e quits
'round 'ere nobody's got any money left to buy
things with. They don't know what's happened
to 'em till 'e's away off. When 'e stops at the
store, he gen'rally trades me sumpen fer what 'e
wants.
"Once Jedge Blossom traded hosses with 'im
when 'e was piped, an' gave 'im ten dollars to
boot. He got a bum animal shifted on 'im, an'
when 'e sobered up, 'e sent Gandy a bill fer fifteen
dollars fer legal advice, an' the advice was not to
come into this part o' the country any more."
The old man told me that he was born in a small
town in Massachusetts.
"I was named after the preacher of our church.
He was a great man an' 'is eloquence was won-
derful. His name was the Reverend Elihu Bax-
ter, an' 'e used to go up into the pulpit, an' lean
'is stummick 'way out over it, an' say, Wow you
listen to me 7 — an' that's the way 'e d rawed 'em to
'im. When 'e'd first begin, the church 'ud be so
still that you could hear the flies buzz, an' 'is voice
would sound all hollow, like 'e was talkin' into a
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big dish-pan. We don't have no more preachers
like 'im now days, an1 people don't go to church
no more like they did then. We don't have no
more old-fashioned Sundays. There's too many
newspapers, an' what they have to say takes the
place o' what we used to hear in the pulpit. What
the preachers say now days ain't interestin' any
more. People rest an' play on Sunday now, instid
o' bein' solemn an' sad an' settin' 'round an' lis-
tenin' over an' over to somebody tellin' about them
three fellers that was in the fiery furnace."
He felt deeply his responsibility as a representa-
tive of the national government. The post-office
department, with its rows of glass-fronted mail
boxes, numbered from i to 40, was located at the
right of the store entrance. The mail bag was
brought daily from the railroad station, five miles
away, by a fat-faced young man in blue overalls
and a hickory shirt. His elbows flopped madly
up and down as his horse galloped along the high-
way with the precious burden across the pommel.
He made another trip at night with the out-going
mail, and when the hoof-beats were heard on the
road, there would be many glances at the clocks
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in the houses along his route, and the fact approv-
ingly noted, that "Bill's on time to-night, all
right."
There are many people in the world who win
lasting laurels by being "on time." Some do it
quietly, and others by flopping their arms vio-
lently, to the accompaniment of resonant hoof-
beats, as "Bill" does, but being "on time" is essen-
tial to success in life. "Bill" may have no other
argument to present for his eventual redemption
than the fact that he was always "on time," but it
cannot fail to be powerful and convincing.
"I would like this postmaster business," said the
old man, "if it wasn't fer all the books I have to
write in an' the blanks I have to fill out. It keeps
people comin' in, but sometimes I have to set up
pretty near all night writin' out things fer the gov-
'ament. I don't keep no books fer the store, fer
I never sell nothin' 'cept fer cash, or fer sumpen
that's brought in, an' I keep my expense account in
my hat. If the sheriff ever comes 'round 'ere to
close me up, 'e won't find no books to go by. I
spend all the money that gits in the drawer, an'
if what's in the store should burn up, I'd be ahead
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'cause I've got insurance, an' I'd git it all at once;
so I guess I'm all right. I ain't got much to show
fer my life, 'cept a grin, but that's sumpen.
Some day I'll have all the poetry I've made
printed into a volume that'll be put on sale, an'
I'll have a reg'lar income an' I won't have to work
no more.
"I'm keepin' a first class place here. There's
a lot o' this new-fangled stuff that I've stopped
carryin'. People always buy it out when they
come in, an' I have to keep gittin' more all the
time. If I don't have them things they ask fer,
they'll prob'ly buy sumpen that's already on hand.
I can't please ev'rybody all the time, or I'd be
worked to death. I don't keep no likker, but any-
body can git most anything else here that'll make
'em smell like a man, an' I don't sell no cigarettes.
A feller come in 'ere with one once, an' when 'e
went out 'e left 'is punk on the edge of a pile o'
paper. After a while some o' the bunch out in
front noticed some fire, an' it pretty near burnt up
the store, an' besides they smell like a burnt offer-
ing, an' I don't like 'em."
I asked him if he ever went over to the lake.
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"Not fer about fifteen years. We all drove over
there fer a bath, an' I took a bad cold an' I haven't
bin there since. This talk o' washin' all the time
is nonsence. Jedge Blossom's got a big tin bath
tub up to his place, that's painted green, an' 'e gits
in it an' sloshes 'round ev'ry Saturday night when
Vs home, but when Monday mornin' comes 'e
don't look no better'n anybody else."
During one afternoon that I spent with him in
the rear of the store, he showed me some of the
literature which he had taken down from the stock
on one of the upper shelves, and had been reading
during the winter. The pile consisted of old-fash-
ioned dime novels of years ago, with their multi-
colored illustrated paper covers. Among the titles,
and on the blood-curdling, well-thumbed pages, I
found names that were once familiar and much
beloved. "Lantern-Jawed Bob," "Snake Eye,"
"Deadwood Dick," "Iron Hand," "Navajo Bill,"
"Shadow Bill," "The Forest Avenger," "Eagle-
Eyed Zeke," "The War Tiger of the Modocs,"
"The Mountain Demon," and many other forgot-
ten heroes of boyhood days, "advanced coolly and
stealthily" out of the mists of the dim past, and
[ 222 1
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once more they scalped, robbed, trailed, circum-
vented bloodthirsty pursuers, had hair-breadth
escapes, mocked death, rescued peerless maidens
from savage redskins in the wilderness, and finally
married them, as of yore.
The romance in the pile was irretrievably bad,
but it recalled happy memories. It was not sur-
prising that the old man was impressed with the
idea that "too much readin' rots the mind," when
spring came, and he had finished the stack.
Around the big stove, on chilly days, the owners
of the chin whiskers congregate, with cob pipes
and juicy plug. They contribute liberally to the
square boxes filled with sawdust that serve as cus-
pidors. In this solemn circle the great political
problems of the nation are considered and solved.
The gossip of the township is exchanged, and
the personal frailties of absent ones discussed. The
local Munchausen tells wondrous tales of his cow,
that stands out in the river and is milked by hungry
fish that wait among the lilies, and of hailstorms
he has seen that have demolished brickyards.
A projected barn, the sale of a horse or cow,
the repairs on a wagon, the prospects of frost or
[223]
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rain, the crops, the price of hogs, the tariff, the
trusts, the rascality of the railroads, and many
other subjects, are mingled with the gossip of the
neighborhood. These matters are all deeply pon-
dered over. They talk about their rheumatism,
THE PESSIMISTS
the "cricks" in their backs, their coughs, their
aches and pains, and the foolish vagaries of the
"women folks." They buy patent medicines, and
they bathe only when they get caught in the rain.
A slatternly looking woman comes in, buys some
[224]
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calico, thread, two yards of ribbon, and some hooks
and eyes. When she departs some one remarks,
"Wonder wot she's goin' to make now!" From
that the conversation drifts to "the feller that left
'er about two years ago." The proprietors of the
chin whiskers all knew "when 'e fust come 'round,
'e wasn't any good," and the sage prophecies of
by-gone days are now fully verified. The demerits
of a certain horse, which he had once sold to one
of the prophets, are again recounted, and the gen-
eral opinion is that after the delinquent "got
through with the lawsuit 'e was mixed up in, 'e
went out west som'ers with the money 'is lawyer
didn't git. Anyhow, 'e was no good." Nobody
is "any good."
When the time comes to "git home to supper,"
the dilapidated vehicles begin to crawl out into
the fading light and disappear. They carry the
pessimists and the few necessaries which they have
bought at the store — some molasses, sugar, tea and
coffee, possibly a new shovel, some nails, and al-
ways a plentiful supply of plug tobacco, a great
deal of which is filtered into the soil of the back
country. Some eggs, butter, vegetables, and other
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produce of the little farm has been left in pay-
ment.
After the tired horses are unhitched and fed,
the exciting gossip is retold at the supper table. A
THEY "CRAWL OUT INTO THE FADING LIGHT"
few chores are done, an hour or so is spent around
the big lamp, and another eventful day has closed.
A week may pass before another trip is made to
the sleepy village.
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Those who are gone are under the tall grasses
and wild flowers on the hill near the woods, be-
yond the little weather-beaten country church.
The iron bell has tolled for them as they were laid
away, and now that it is all over, it is the same
with them as if they had been monarchs or mil-
lionaires.
A touching, if crude, epitaph can be deciphered
on one of the gray mossy stones through the crum-
bling fence. After the name and the final date
are the lines,
"Shed not for me the bitter tears
Nor fill the heart with vain regrets.
'Tis but the casket that lies here,
The gems that filled them sparkles yet."
and lower, under a pair of clasped hands, "We
will meet again," and it may be that a mighty
truth is on the stone.
[227]
M
1
CHAPTER XII
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
THE road leading from the lake, through
the sand hills, and the low stretches of the
back country, over to the sleepy village,
is broken — and badly broken — by numerous sec-
tions of corduroy reinforcements, which have been
laid in the marshy places, across small creeks and
quagmires. The portion of the road near the lake
is seldom traveled. Occasionally, during the hot
weather, a wagon-load of people will come over
from the sleepy village, and from the little farms
along the road, and go into the lake to get cool.
They will then spend the rest of the day swelter-
ing on the hot sand to get warm, and return at
night.
Beyond the marsh, perhaps half way to the vil-
lage, is the residence and office of Judge Cassius
Blossom, the local Dogberry, the repository of the
conflicting interests, and final arbiter in most of the
petty dissensions of the sparsely settled country
in which he lives.
[229]
OLD SETTLERS IN THE BACK COUNTRY
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
The "ledge'' was a faithful member of the sol-
emn conclaves of the wise ones with the chin whis-
kers at the general store in the sleepy village,
where he often reversed the decisions of the su-
preme court. His chair in the charmed circle
around the big old-fashioned stove, and among the
sawdust cuspidors, in winter, and out on the plat-
form under the awning in summer, was looked
upon as the resting-place of about as much legal
wisdom, and about as much bad whisky, as one
man could comfortably carry around. His disser-
tations were always anxiously listened to and ab-
sorbed by his auditors, each according to his ca-
pacity. His opinions and observations were vari-
ously interpreted to the home firesides around
through the country at night, according to the in-
tellectual limitations of the narrator.
"The Jedge says that they's some cases that's
agin the common law, an' they's some cases that's
agin the stattoot law, but about this 'ere case he was
talkin' about, 'e said 'e'd 'ave to look up sumpen.
He told about a case where some feller 'ad sued
another feller fer some money that was owin' to
'im, but 'e'd lost the notes, but 'e was goin' to
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git a judgment agin this feller all the same, an'
make a levy on 'im. You bet I'm goin' to be thar
when this case comes up in court an' see wot's
doin'. The Jedge is sharper'n a tack, an' you bet
them fellers over to the county seat ain't goin' to
put nothin' over on' im, if 'e's sober. He'll make
points on all of 'em, but if 'e goes over thar an'
sets 'round Fogarty's place boozin', 'e'll lose out.'1
In talking with Sipes, one afternoon, about some
of the roads in the back country, he suggested that
we take a walk over to the Judge's house and see
him. "The Jedge has got a map that's got all
them things on it. The ol' feller deals in law, an'
land, an' fire insurance, an' everythin' else."
After Sipes had carefully shut the door of his
shanty, and secured it with an old iron padlock,
we started on our journey. He said that he gen-
erally locked the place up when he went away, as
"there was sometimes some fellers snoopin' 'round
that might swipe sumpen, an' the Jedge told me
oncet that if anybody ever busted open the lock,
it would show bulgarious intent, an' they'd git sent
up fer it if they ever got caught, but if they went in
[232]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
when the place wasn't locked, it was trespass on
the case, or sumpen like that.'1
We trudged along through the deep sand for
half a mile or so, and then turned through an open-
ing in the dunes where the road came in. Our
walk led through the broken wet country for about
a mile before we came to more solid ground. On
the way across the marshy strip the old man
pointed out familiar spots where he had "lam-
basted pretty near a whole flock o' ducks at one
shot." In another place he had once spent nearly
an hour in "sneakin' up on a bunch o' wooden
decoys that some feller had out, an' when I shot
into 'em you'd a thought a ton o' lead 'ad struck
a lumber pile. The feller yelled when I fired.
He was back in some weeds, an' I guess 'e was
afraid there was goin' to be sumpen doin' on 'im
with the other bar'l if 'e didn't yell."
A tamarack swamp, about half a mile away,
was a favorite haunt for rabbits in the winter.
He often went over there on the ice after there
had been a light fall of snow.
"Them little beasts are pretty foxy, but I just go
over there an' set still, an' when one of 'em comes
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hoppin' 'round out in the open, I shoot the fillin'
out of 'im. I've got as many as twenty there in
one day.
"When we git over to the Jedge's house, don't
you go ag'inst none o' that whisky that 'e's got in
a big black bottle in the under part of 'is desk.
He calls the bottle 'Black Betty,' an' it's ter'ble
stuff. It kicks pretty near as hard as my ol' scat-
ter gun, an' 'e has to keep a glass stopper in the
bottle. A common cork would be et up. A man
that laps up whisky like that has to have a sheet-
iron stummick, an' I guess the Jedge's got one
all right, fer 'e's bin hittin' it fer years.
"He fills the bottle up out of a big demijohn,
that 'e gits loaded up from a partic'lar bar'l at
Fogarty's place over to the county seat when 'e
goes to court, an' lots o' times when 'e don't go
to court. The bar'l replenishes the demijohn, the
demijohn replenishes Black Betty, an' Black Betty
replenishes the Jedge, an' after that the Jedge has
to replenish Fogarty — so it all works 'round natu-
ral— an' the Jedge keeps a skinful all the time.
"A white man could drink the grog we used to
have on the ship an' still see, but the Jedge's dope
[234]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
would make a hole in a pine board, an' you pass
it by."
This I solemnly promised to do.
"I notice that them fellers that take up stiddy
boozin' have to 'tend to it all the time. When ol'
Jedge Blossom finds out that them law cases that
'e's always talkin' about interferes with 'is boozin',
'e'll quit monkeyin' with 'em. It must a bin a
sweet country that 'e bloomed in. Pretty near
every time I go to see 'im, 'e ain't home. They
say 'e's off 'tendin' to some important cases before
the master in chancery. Them cases is prob'ly
mostly before Black Betty, fer I notice 'e always
comes home from 'em stewed, an' sometimes 'is
horse comes home alone an' 'e comes later. He
takes drinks lots o' times when 'e don't need 'em.
He just drops 'em in to hear 'em spatter.
"They'll find 'im in a catamose condition some
day when 'e's over to the county seat, that 'e won't
come out of, an' when it's all over they can dispose
of 'is remains by just pourin' 'im back into Fogar-
ty's bar'l. All that'll be left of 'im'll be 'is thirst,
an' they'd better put wot'll be left of 'is fire insur-
ance business in with 'im, fer 'e'll need some."
[235]
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The old man's entertaining review of the frail-
ties of the "Jedge," and of alcoholic humanity in
general, continued until we arrived at our des-
tination.
The small frame house, which was once white,
but now a dingy gray, was adorned with faded
green blinds. It stood about fifty feet back from
the road. Some mournful evergreens stood in
painful regularity in the front yard. The fence
was somewhat dilapidated, and on it was a weath-
er-beaten sign:
Cassius Blossom, J. P.,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law,
Notary Public,
Fire Insurance, Real Estate.
A gravel walk, fringed with white shells, led
from the rickety gate to the rather ecclesiastical-
looking front door. Sipes remarked in passing
that "them white shells was to help the Jedge steer
'is course on dark nights, when 'e was three sheets
in the wind, an' beatin' up aginst it."
There was a brown bell-handle near the door,
and when it was pulled we could hear a prolonged,
hoarse tinkling somewhere off in the rear of the
[236]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
house. We soon heard footsteps, and a forbidding-
looking female opened the door. She was quite
tall and angular. A few faded freckles around
the nose — a mass of frowsy red hair, liberally
streaked with gray — a general untidiness — and a
glint in her yellowish-brown eyes, as she peered
out at us over her brass-rimmed spectacles, pro-
duced impressions that were anything but assuring.
On being admitted to the house, we were ush-
ered into the "library," which also evidently served
as a dining-room and office. A round table
stood in the middle of the room, covered with a
soiled red and white fringed table cloth. A hair-
cloth sofa, with some broken springs and bits of
excelsior protruding from underneath, occupied
one side of the apartment, and there were several
chairs of the same repellant material. A narrow
roll-top combination desk and bookcase, freely
splotched with ink-stains, stood near the window.
Behind the dusty glass doors of the bookcase were
a few well-worn books, bound in sheepskin. The
first volume of Blackstone's Commentaries, a copy
of Parsons on Contracts, two or three volumes of
court reports, and the Revised Statutes of the state,
completed the assemblage of legal lore.
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The pictures on the walls consisted of some
stiff-looking crayon portraits in gloomy frames,
evidently copied from old photographs — all of
which were very bad — another somber frame con-
taining a fly-specked steel engraving of the jus-
tices of the U. S. Supreme Court, and still another,
out of which the stern and noble face of Daniel
Webster looked into the room. His immeasurable
services to his country did not prevent him from
leaving a malign influence behind him. His un-
fortunate example convinces many budding states-
men and promising lawyers that the human in-
tellect is not soluble in alcohol, and they are lulled
into the belief that the brilliancy of his mind was
not dimmed by his indulgences. They emulate his
weakness, as well as his strength, and console them-
selves in their cups with the greatness of Webster.
The "Jedge1' sat at the desk, without his coat,
writing, his back toward us. His shirt-sleeves,
and his wide stand-up collar, were not clean. Evi-
dently he was very busy and must not be disturbed
just yet. With a solemn wink of his solitary eye,
and an expressive gesture, Sipes attracted my at-
tention to a faint wreath of softly ascending smoke
[238]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
issuing from a cob pipe, which was lying on a
window-sill on the opposite side of the room,
which suggested that the important business at the
desk may have commenced when the bell rang.
Evidently the "Jedge" appreciated the tactical
advantage which preoccupation always establishes
when business callers come. The visitor, in being
compelled to await the disposal of more weighty
matters, is duly humbled and impressed with the
fact that, at least so far as time is concerned, he
is a suppliant and not a dictator.
Dissimulation is an universal practice of man
and woman kind. A pessimistic student of the
complexities of the human comedy might, with
much justice, conclude that at least half of the peo-
ple on the globe— and especially of those who are
super-civilized — pretend, to a greater or less de-
gree, to be something that they are not, and the
other half pretend not to be something that they
are.
Further thought upon this subject was inter-
rupted by the "Jedge." The cane-seated swivel
chair turned with a loud squeak, and we were be-
fore the disciple of Blackstone & Bacchus — that
[239]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
famous firm whose dissolution the shade of Web-
ster will never permit.
He was a spare, red-faced man, of perhaps sixty-
five, with white hair and tobacco-stained whiskers.
His prominent nose appeared to be a little swol-
len and wore a deep blush. With a learned frown
he looked out of his deep-set and bloodshot eyes,
over the tops of his spectacles. His voice was
deep and hoarse.
"Good morning, gentlemen. What can I do for
you?"
It was afternoon, but, as the uncharitable Sipes
suggested later, "the Jedge prob'ly hadn't got
home last night yet, or mebbe 'e'd just got up."
"You will have to excuse me for keeping you
waiting, but I've just been preparing the final pa-
pers in a very important case that I've got to file
in court by Saturday. I've had to work on them
steadily for the past few days, as there are some
very complicated questions of law involved, and
I've had to look up a lot of decisions. I am now
entirely at your service."
After being formally introduced by my friend
Sipes, I explained the object of the visit. The
[240]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
"Jedge" was very cordial. He arose from his
chair, walked impressively, and with much dig-
nity, across the room, resumed his cob pipe, which
was still alive, and raised the lid of an old leather-
covered trunk, bound with brass nails. After a
long search he produced the desired map and
spread it out on the table.
"Before we take up this matter of the roads, I
think, gentlemen, that we had better have a little
refreshment."
We both politely declined his invitation and ex-
pressed a preference for some cold water. He
seemed disappointed, and, with a surprised and
curious glance at Sipes, returned to the desk,
opened one of the lower doors, and gently lifted
"Black Betty" out of the gloom.
"I haven't been feeling very well for several
days, and I've had some pains in my back. If
you'll excuse me for drinking alone, I'll just take
a little bracer." Sipes' solitary eye again closed
expressively, as the "Jedge" removed the stopper,
grasped the big bottle firmly around the neck, and
tilted it among his whiskers with a motion that
no tyro could ever hope to imitate.
[241]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
The answering gurgle indicated that the "bra-
cer" was "going home," and that, to say the least,
it was not homeopathic. After the restoration of
"Black Betty" to her hiding-place, the "Jedge" re-
sumed the conversation, without referring to the
cold water which we had suggested. Possibly the
mention of it had affected him unpleasantly.
He explained the map in detail, and told of
several changes that would have to be made in a
new one. This led to long accounts, punctuated
with more winks by Sipes, of petty litigation, in
which he had taken a prominent part, as a result
of which a lot of land had been condemned and
some new roads established. Had it not been for
him, the highways would have been "entirely in-
adequate, and in very poor condition."
In summing up his public services he said that
he had lived in that part of the state for about
thirty years. His advice was now being generally
followed, and the country was beginning to pick
up. He had several small farms for sale which
he would like to show me, if I thought of locating
around there; in fact, there was nothing anywhere
in that part of the country that was not for sale.
[242]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
I told him that my interest in the subject was
entirely of an artistic character.
"Well, if that's the case, I can show you a lot
of fine scenes, and if you'll come over some day
and get into a buggy with me, I'll drive you over
to the county seat when I go to court."
He seemed much flattered when I asked him to
allow me to make a sketch of him. After it was
finished, he examined it critically, to the intense
amusement of Sipes. He thought the nose was a
little too big, and the hair was "too much mussed
up." He also thought that the drawing made him
look a little older than he was, and that the eye
was not quite natural, "but of course I can't see
the side of my face, and it may be all right.
"As you are interested in art, you'll enjoy look-
ing at my pictures."
He then showed me the array on the walls, of
which he was very proud. The crayon portrait of
his first wife, with the cheeks tinted pink and the
ear-rings gilded, he thought "was a fine piece of
work." A man had come along, about ten years
ago, and had made three "genuine crayon por-
traits" for ten dollars. The "Jedge" supposed that
[243]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
"now days they would be worth a great deal more
than that." The other two "genuine crayon por-
traits" represented his father and mother, an anti-
quated couple in the Sunday dress of pioneer days,
who looked severely out of their heavy frames.
The man had taken the old daguerreotypes away
to be copied, and when the completed goods were
delivered, he claimed that "the frames alone were
worth as much as the pictures." In this he was
quite right.
The "Jedge" wanted to show me an album con-
taining pictures of the rest of his relatives, but
fortunately he was unable to find it. In searching
for it, however, he ran across a box containing a
collection of Indian arrow heads, flint implements,
and spears, which were of absorbing interest. He
had found some of them himself, and numerous
friends, knowing of his hobby, had furnished him
with many of these valuable relics of the red man,
whose white brothers came with guns and strong
waters and appropriated his heritage.
He soon began to show signs of more pains in
his back. With an apologetic reference to them,
and with more sly winks from Sipes, "Black Betty"
[244]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
was again produced, and her fiery fluid again
solaced the arid esophagus of the "Jedge."
The contents of the bottle were evidently getting
dangerously low. He excused himself for a min-
ute, and took it into the next room, where he re-
filled it from the big demijohn that stood in the
corner. Sipes indulged in many amusing grimaces
as the sounds from the other room indicated that
"Black Betty's" condition had again become nor-
mal.
After we had talked a little while longer, Sipes
related to the "Jedge" the story of the tangled set
lines, over which he and "Happy Cal" had got into
trouble years ago, and wanted to know "what the
law was."
After listening carefully to all of the facts, the
"Jedge" cleared his throat slightly and delivered
his opinion.
This preliminary slight clearing of the throat
implies deliberation, and often adds impressive-
ness to a forthcoming utterance. Sipes remarked
later, that "nobody never lived that was as wise
as the Jedge looked when 'e hemmed a little an'
got on 'is legal frown."
[245]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
"It seems from the facts before us, that the mass
of property under consideration was discovered
on the shore, about half-way between the homes
of the two claimants, neither of whom, as a matter
of fact, possessed original title to it. The position
of the mass when found brings up several difficult
questions of law, involving facts which are malum
in se. A portion of it was on the surface of the
water, a portion of it was submerged, and still
another portion was on dry land. According to
maritime law, that portion on the surface was
flotsam, and that portion which was submerged
was jetsam. The laws affecting flotsam and jet-
sam would prevail as to these two portions, but
as to the portion which rested on dry land, I am
inclined to think that the lex loci would apply."
Whereupon, the bewildered Sipes asked, "Who
done this?"
Disregarding the interruption, the "Jedge"
again slightly cleared his throat and continued:
"A priori, I am of opinion that prima facie
evidence of ownership rests with possession, and
that the onus probandi must necessarily be ex ad-
verso." The "Jedge" then stated that the opinion
[246]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
would cost half a dollar. Sipes was speechless,
but paid the fee.
The "Jedge" had charged "Happy Cal" a dol-
lar one night, years ago, for an opinion in the same
case. He had advised Cal "not to disturb the
status quo." The dazed client paid the money
and disappeared into the darkness. He probably
stopped at Sipes's place, where the untangled lines
were stretched out to dry, and cut them up, on
his way home, thus disposing of the ''status quo"
entirely.
It was to the credit of the "Jedge" that he never
took any more than his clients had, and they could
always come back when they had more.
We finally thanked the "Jedge" for his courtesy,
and bade him good-bye.
On the way back I reimbursed Sipes in the mat-
ter of the half-dollar which he had paid for the
opinion, as it had really been worth more to me
than it was to him. After we had left the house,
the old man's comments on the visit were earnest
and caustic.
"Wot d'ye think o' the gall o' that old cuss
chargin' me half a dollar fer all that noise 'e made
[247]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
about them lines? I don't know that feller Losey
'e spoke of. He was never 'round 'ere at all, an'
'e never 'ad nothin' to do with them lines, an'
that melon in the sea, that 'e told about, was all
bunk. There was nothin' like that near that bunch
o' stuff. I don't know what ever become o' Cal.
He may be now in spotless robes, fer all I know,
but I know 'e cut up them lines just the same.
There was about two miles of 'em, when they was
fixed up an' stretched out, an' they was worth some
money, an' as long as the feller that 'ad 'em out
in the lake didn't come along to claim 'em, they
was mine. Cal never 'ad no bus'ness with 'em,
an' I don't need to mosey over an' pay that old
tank fifty cents to find it out, neither. Cash us
Blossom is a good name fer him, all right. He's
everythin' I said 'e was on the way over, an' more,
too. He's got some fresh money now, an' I'll bet
the demijohn'll be trundled over to the county seat
the first thing in the mornin'. He can buy a lot o'
the kind o' whisky 'e drinks fer half a dollar.
"He lays 'is demijohn on the side, underneath,
when 'e starts out, but when 'e drives home it's
always standin' up in the back o' the buggy, so
[248]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
nothin' '11 spill, an' that's more'n the Jedge could
do. When I see 'im drivin' on the road, I can
always tell, by where the demijohn is, whether 'e's
got a cargo or travelin' light. That heap big Injun
dignity that 'e's always puttin' on when 'e makes
them spiels o' his, gives me tired feelin's. You
can't mix up dignity with whisky without spoilin'
both of 'em. If 'e ever comes over to my place,
you can turn me into snakes if I don't charge 'im
a half a dollar fer the first question 'e asks. I'll
bet 'e won't come though, fer I'm too near the
water. I wish I could sic old Doc Looney on 'im
some time. He wouldn't stay afloat long after
the Doc got to 'im."
I asked Sipes if the forbidding-looking female
who came to the door was the Judge's wife.
"Not on yer life," he replied. "If 'e had a
wife, she'd kill 'im. That ol' cactus is 'is house-
keeper. She's a distant relative o' some kind, an'
she's just waitin' fer Black Betty to finish 'im up
so's she'll git the house."
We arrived at Sipes's place about dusk. I had
left my boat on the beach, and, as the old man
helped me push it into the water, he indulged in
[249]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
final anathemas against the "Jedge." He shook
his fist in his direction and said that "when we go
over there ag'in we'd better leave our money in
the shanty."
I happened to stop at the store in the sleepy vil-
lage one hot day during the following summer.
The "Jedge" was just getting into his buggy, but
stopped and greeted me cordially. I intended
leaving for home that evening, and he kindly of-
fered to take me to the railroad station, about five
miles away. I gladly accepted his offer, although
he did not appear to be in a very good condition
to drive a horse.
On the way across the country he recited his
public services, discussed the details of his "im-
portant cases," and unfolded his dreams of the
future of the county.
We arrived at the station just in time to enable
me to jump quickly out of the buggy and catch
the train that was pulling out. I paused on the
rear platform to call out a good-bye to the "Jedge,"
but he had tried to make too short a turn on the
narrow road, and the buggy was lying on its side,
much twisted up. The horse had stopped and was
[250]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
looking inquiringly back from between the broken
thills. The "Jedge,1' who was partially under the
wreck, but evidently unhurt, waved a cheerful
farewell at me as the train passed the water tank,
and in the distance I could see that he was getting
safely out of the scrape.
The station agent and a few villagers, who had
come to the depot to see that the train arrived
and departed properly, were going to his assist-
ance.
From about two miles away I saw the black
buggy top slowly resume its normal position and
begin to move on the road. The "Jedge'1 was
probably by this time much in need of "refresh-
ment," and, as he was now on the way to the
county seat, relief was not very far off. Undoubt-
edly his friend Fogarty would fully and deeply
sympathize with him in his troubles as long as his
cash lasted.
He was one of the pathetic failures whom we
meet daily in the walks of life. Naturally gifted,
and fairly well educated, he had started bravely
out on his road of destiny, with noble ambitions
and alluring hopes. In the early part of the jour-
[251]
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
ney he had lifted a fatal chalice to his lips, and
the way became dark. He drifted from the high-
way that might have led to fame and fortune to
the still by-path in which we found him. Because
he was not strong, he fell — as countless others have
fallen before him.
The shadow of "Black Betty" has fallen over a
chair in the sleepy village that is now empty, and
it may be that the poor old "Jedge" is arguing his
own plea for mercy before a greater Court. Let
us hope that his final appeal may bring forgive-
ness and peace.
The stone, simple and suggestive, which was
erected to his memory, was designed and paid for
by his friends. Even Sipes relented and requested
Catfish John to put fifty cents in "cash-money"
into the contribution box at the store for him.
}
[252]
"AMONG BIG WET STRETCHES OF
HIGH GRASS AND BULRUSHES"
CHAPTER XIII
THE WINDING RIVER
TO enjoy a river we must adjust ourselves
to its moods, for a river has many moods.
It moves swiftly and light-heartedly over
the shallows, as we do, and it has its solemn, quiet
moments in the shadows of the steep banks, where
the current is deep and still. It begins, like our
lives, somewhere far away, and twists and turns,
flows in long swerves, meets many rocks, ripples
over pebbly places, smiles among many riffles,
frowns under stormy skies, meditates in quiet
nooks, and then goes on.
As it becomes older it broadens and becomes
stronger. It begins to make a larger path of its
own in the world, which it follows with varying
fortunes, until its waters have gone beyond it.
[255]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
The Winding River begins miles away and
steals down through the back country. It curves
and runs through devious channels and makes wide
detours, before it finally flows out through the sand
hills into the great lake.
Along its tranquil course there are many things
to be studied and learned, and many new thoughts
and sensations to grow out of them. We must go
down the river, and not against its current, to know
its strange spirit, and to love it. There is always
a feeling of closer companionship when we are
traveling in the same direction.
It is best to go alone, in a small boat, carrying
a few feet of rope attached to a heavy stone, so
that the boat may be anchored in any desirable
spot. You should sit facing the bow, and guide
the boat with a paddle, or a pair of oars in front
of you, and let the current carry you along.
The journey commences several miles up in the
woods, where the banks are only a few feet apart.
The boat is piloted cautiously through the deep
forest, among the ancient logs that clog the cur-
rent. The patriarchs have fallen in bygone years,
and are slowly moldering away into the limpid
[256]
THE WINDING RIVER
waters that once reflected them in their stately
Indian summer robes of red and gold.
Masses of water-soaked brush must be encoun-
tered, and sunken snags avoided. Fringes of small
turtles, on decayed and broken branches, protrud-
ing from the water, and on the recumbent trunks,
splash noisily into the depths below — a wood duck
glides away downstream— a muskrat, that has been
investigating a deep pool near the bank, beats a
hasty retreat, and a few scolding chipmunks flip
their tails saucily, and whisk out of sight. A gray
squirrel barks defiantly from the branch of an
over-hanging tree, and an excited kingfisher circles
around, loudly protesting against the invasion of
his hunting grounds.
All of the wild things resent intrusion into their
solitudes, and disappear, when there is any move-
ment. If we would know them and learn their
ways, we must sit silently and wait for them to
come around us. We may go into the woods and
sit upon a log or stump, without seeing the slightest
sign of life, and apparently none exists in the
vicinity, but many pairs of sharp eyes have ob-
served our coming long before we could see them.
[ 257 ]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
After a period of silence the small life will again
become active, and in the course of an afternoon,
if we are cautious as well as observant, we will
find that we have seen and heard a great deal that
is of absorbing interest.
Larger openings begin to appear among the
trees, the sunlit spaces become broader, and
patches of distant sky come into the picture.
There are fewer obstructions in the course, and
the little boat floats out into comparatively open
country. Tall graceful elms, with the delicate
lacery of their green-clad branches etched against
the clouds, a few groups of silvery poplars, some
straggling sycamores, and bunches of gnarled
stubby willows line the margins of the stream, and
detached masses of them appear out on the boggy
land.
The Winding River flows through a happy
valley. From a bank among the trees a silver
glint is seen upon water, near a clump of willows,
not so very far away, but the sinuous stream will
loiter for hours before it comes to them.
A few cattle, several horses, and a solitary crow
give a life note to the landscape. A faint wreath
[258]
THE WINDING RIVER
of smoke is visible above some trees on the right,
there are echoes from a hidden barnyard, and a
fussy bunch of tame ducks are splashing around
the end of a half-sunken flat-bottomed boat at-
tached to a stake.
A freckled faced boy, of about ten, with faded
blue overalls, frayed below the knees, and sus-
tained by one suspender, is watching a crooked
fishpole and a silent cork, near the roots of a big
sycamore that shades a pool.
He wears a rudimentary shirt, and his red hair
projects, like little streaks of flame, through his
torn hat. His bare feet and legs are very dirty.
He looks out from under the uncertain rim of the
hat with a comical expression when asked what
luck he is having, and holds up a willow switch,
on which are suspended a couple of diminutive
bullheads, and a small but richly colored sunfish.
The spoil is not abundant, yet the freckled boy
is happy.
After the boat has passed on nearly a quarter
of a mile, his distant yell of triumph is heard.
"I've got another one!" Paeons of victory from
conquered walls could tell no more.
[259]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
Farther on, the banks become a little higher, the
stream is wider and faster. In the distance a dingy
old water-mill creeps into the landscape. This
means that a dam will soon be encountered. The
boat will have to be pulled out and put back into
the river below it. For this it will be necessary
to arouse the cooperative interest of the miller in
some way, for the boat is not built of feathers.
A crude mill-race has been dug parallel to the
river's course, and the clumsy old-fashioned wheel
is slowly and noisily churning away under the
side of the mill. The structure was once painted
a dull red, but time has blended it into a warm
neutral gray. Some comparatively recent repairs
on the sides and roof give it a mottled appearance,
and add picturesque quality. A few small houses
are scattered along the road leading to the mill,
and the general store is visible among the trees
farther back, for the little boat has now come to
the sleepy village in the back country. There are
no railroad trains or trolley-cars to desecrate its
repose, for these are far away. Several slowly
moving figures appear on the road. There is an
event of some kind down near the mill, and the
[260]
THE WINDING RIVER
well-worn chairs on the platform in front of the
store have been deserted. Whatever is going on
must be carefully inspected and considered at
once.
There is an interesting foregound between the
boat and the mill, the reflections to be seen from
the opposite bank seem tempting, and an absorb-
ing half hour is spent under the tree, with the
sketch book and soft pencil.
The curious group on the other side is evidently
indulging in all sorts of theories and speculations
as to "wot that feller over there is tryin' to do."
It is a foregone conclusion that curiosity will
eventually triumph, and soon the strain becomes
too intense for further endurance. The old miller,
with the dust of his trade copiously sifted into his
clothes and whiskers, gets into the flat-bottomed
boat near the dam and slowly poles it across. All
of the details of the voyage are attentively scru-
tinized from the other side.
After a friendly "good morning," a few remarks
about the stage of the water, and the weather
prospects, he stands around for a while, and then
looks over at the sketch. He produces a pair of
[261]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
brass-rimmed spectacles, which enables him to
study it more carefully, and he is much pleased.
He "haint never noticed the scene much from this
side, but it looks pretty. After this is finished off
you'd better come 'round on the other side, so's
to show the platform an' the sign. A feller made
a photograph of my mill once, an' 'e promised
to send me one, but 'e didn't never do it." The
long remembered incident, and the broken faith,
seemed to disturb him, and he appeared to be con-
cerned as to the destiny of the sketch. He wanted
it "to put up in the mill."
His befloured whiskers and general appearance
suggest more sketches, and he is induced to pose
for a few minutes. One of the drawings is pre-
sented to him, and the curiosity on the other bank
is now getting to the breaking point. Only the
absence of transportation facilities prevents the
crossing of the anxious spectators. There have
been several additions to the gaping group on the
other side. A portly female, in a gingham dress,
stands bareheaded in the road, contemplating the
scene from afar, and a couple of barking dogs
have come down to the edge of the water.
[262]
THE WINDING RIVER
The deliberate and dignified approach of the
keeper of the general store lends a new note of
interest.
After further pleasant conversation, the dusty
miller helps to drag the boat around the dam. He
waves a cheerful farewell, recrosses the stream,
and immediately becomes the center of concen-
trated interest. The fat woman in the road
waddles down to the mill, and a number of bare-
headed children come running down the slope,
who have peeked at the proceedings from secluded
points of vantage.
As the boat floats on, the figures become in-
distinct, the houses fade into the soft distance, the
mill, like those of the gods, grinds slowly on, and,
with the next bend in the river, the sleepy village
is gone.
The story of the eventful day percolates from
the store off into the back country, and weeks later
we hear it from a rheumatic old dweller in the
marshy land, near the beginning of the sand hills,
He unfortunately "wasn't to town" at the time.
"A feller come 'long in a boat an' stopped at
the mill. He was 'round thar fer over an hour
[263]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
an' drawed some pitchers of it. He made one o'
the old man with 'is pipe showin'. He was some
city feller, an' had to git the old man to help 'im
with 'is boat 'round the dam. The old man's
"WITH THE NEXT BEND IN THE RIVER
THE SLEEPY VILLAGE IS GONE"
got a pitcher 'e made of 'im stickin' up in the mill
now. A feller like him oughter larn some trade,
instid o' foolin' away 'is time makin' pitchers. No-
body 'ud ever buy one o' them dam' things in a
thousand years. I'll bet 'e was spyin' fer the rail-
[264]
THE WINDING RIVER
road, an' they'll prob'ly be 'long here makin1 a
survey before long."
A little farther down is a loose-jointed bridge
with some patent medicine signs on it. Another
sign tells the users not to drive over the structure
"faster than a walk." Any kind of a speed limit
in this slumbrous land seems preposterous, but
the cautionary board is there, peppered over with
little holes, made by repeated charges of small
shot, and partially defaced with sundry initials cut
into it with jack-knives. Some crude and un-
known humorist has changed some of the letters
and syllables in the patent medicine signs, and
made them even more eloquent.
Another lone fisherman is on the bridge, watch-
ing a cork that bobs idly on the dimpled tide
below. Another single suspender supports some
deteriorated overalls. Possibly the freckled boy
up the river was wearing the rest of the suspenders.
He is an old man, with heavy gray eyebrows, and
long white whiskers that sway gently in the soft
wind. His face has an air of patient resignation.
He wears a faded colored shirt and a weather-
beaten straw hat. His feet, encased in cowhide
[265]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
boots, hang down over the edge of the rickety
structure, and he sadly shakes his head when asked
if he has caught any fish. His lure has been in-
effectual and he is about ready to go home. There
is still a faint lingering hope that the cork may
be suddenly submerged, and the appearance of a
new object of interest has decided him to remain
a little while longer.
He explains that "the wind ain't right fer fish-
in'. IVe seen fish caught off'en this bridge so fast
you couldn't bait the hooks, but the wind has to
be south. Besides the water's all roily to-day an'
the fish can't see nothin'. I bin drownin' worms
'ere most all day, an' I ain't had a bite, an' I'm
goin' to quit."
Just after the boat had passed under the bridge,
a dead minnow floated along on the current. A
large pickerel broke water and seized it. His
sweeping tail made a loud swish, and the water
boiled with commotion as he turned and dove with
his prize.
Instantly the dejected figure on the bridge be-
came thrilled with a new life, and a torrent of
profanity filled the air.
[266]
THE WINDING RIVER
"Now wot d'ye think o' that! The gosh dangled
idjut's bin 'round 'ere all the time, an' me settin'
'ere with worms fer 'im. They's a lot o' fish in
this 'ere river that I'll teach sumpen to before
I'm through with 'em. I'm a pretty old man, but
you bet I'm goin' to play the game while I'm 'ere.
I wonder where 'e went with that dam' minnie!"
The boat goes tranquilly on, and in the dim dis-
tance the old man is actively moving around on
the bridge, flourishing his cane pole and casting
the tempting bait all over the surface of the water,
evidently hoping that the "gosh dangled idjut"
will rise again.
The river now comes to the beginning of the
vast marsh, through which its well-defined channel
follows a tortuous route among big wet stretches
of high grasses and bulrushes, winds with innu-
merable turns, makes long sweeps and loops, and
comes back, almost doubling itself in its serpentine
course. The current slackens and the water be-
comes deeper.
The cries of the marsh birds are heard, and
muskrats are swimming at the apexes of the long
V-shaped wakes out on the open water. On small
[267]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
boggy spots are piles of empty freshwater clam
shells where these interesting little animals have
feasted. As the crows seem to dominate the sand
hills, the muskrats contribute much picturesque
quality to the marsh. Their little houses add in-
'THE RIVER NOW COMES TO THE BEGINNING
OF THE VAST MARSH"
terest to the wet places, and traces of them appear
all over the low land.
A wild duck hurries her downy young into the
thick grasses — a few turtles tumble hastily from
the bogs into the water — a large blue heron rises
slowly out of an unseen retreat, and trails his long
[268]
THE WINDING RIVER
legs after him in rhythmic flight down the marsh
— mysterious wings are heard among the rushes —
immense flocks of blackbirds fill the air — there is
a splash out among the lily pads, where a hungry
fish has captured his unsuspecting prey, and the
deep sonorous bass of a philosophic bullfrog re-
sounds from concealed recesses.
Another bend in the channel reveals a flock of
wild ducks feeding quietly along the edges of the
weeds. The intrusion is quickly detected and they
swiftly take wing. A sinister head, with beady
eyes, appears on the surface behind the boat, and
is instantly withdrawn. A big snapping-turtle has
come up to investigate the cause of the dark
shadow which has passed along the bottom.
Some open wet ground comes into view around
the next curve, and some lazy cattle look up in-
quiringly. After their curiosity is satisfied, they
turn their heads away and resume their reflections.
The Winding River has its solemn hours as well
as those of gladness. Heavy masses of low gray
clouds are creeping into the sky, the shadows are
disappearing and a moody monotone has come
over the landscape. Deep mutterings of thunder,
[269]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
and a few vivid flashes, herald the approach of
a storm.
Some thick willows, which can be reached
through openings among the lily pads, a short
distance from the main channel, offer a convenient
shelter, and from it the coming drama can be
contemplated.
The big drops are soon heard among the leaves,
the distant trees loom in ghostly stillness through
veils of moving mist, the delicate color tones gently
change into a lower scale, and the voices of the
falling waters come. The reeds and rushes bend
humbly, and there are subdued cries from the
feathered life that is hurrying to shelter among
them. The rain patters and murmurs out among
the thick grasses and on the open river.
There are noble beauties and sublimities in the
storm, which those who only love the sunshine
can never know. Truly "Our Lady of the Rain"
weaves a marvelous spell, and her song is of sur-
passing beauty, as she trails her robes in majesty
over the river and through the marshy wastes.
Her pictures blend with her measures, for a song
may have other mediums than sound, and there
[270]
THE WINDING RIVER
are many symphonies that are silent. The prelude
in the lowering clouds, and the melody of the
loosened waters, bring to us a sense of unity and
closer communion with the powers in the skies
above us.
The sheets of flying waters have gone on up
the marsh, a long rift has appeared in the clouds
beyond the hills, a bright gleam has come
through it, and the end of a rainbow touches a
clump of poplars far away. The storm is over
and the little boat is piloted out through the lily
pads, to resume its journey on the tranquil stream.
It finally reaches the sand hills. The river nar-
rows and runs more rapidly as it leaves the swamp.
Another sleepy little town, with two or three
bridges, appears ahead. There are more still
figures on the bank, watching corks on lines at-
tached to long cane poles, which are stuck into
the earth and supported by forked sticks. The
labor of holding them has proved too great and
natural forces have been utilized to avoid unneces-
sary exertion. The anglers appear much depressed
and are soaking wet. A nearby bridge would have
provided a refuge from the recent rain, but pos-
[271 ]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
sibly their intellectual limitations did not permit
of advantage being taken of it.
A friendly inquiry as to their success evokes
sleepy responses, and looks of languid curiosity.
"The fishin' ain't no good. I got one yisterd'y,
but I guess the water's too high fer 'em to bite."
We have now come to the end of the Winding
River. Its waters glide peacefully out and blend
into the blue immensity of the great lake. Like
a human life that has run its course through the
vicissitudes and varied paths of the years, they
have ceased to flow, and have been gathered into
unknown depths beyond.
There are many winding rivers, but this one
has numberless joyful and poetic associations. On
its peaceful waters many sketch-books have been
filled, and happy hours dreamed away. From the
little boat wonderful vistas have unfolded, and
marvelous skies have been contemplated.
The heavens at twilight, flushed with glorious
afterglows in orange, green and purple — the clear
still firmament at mid-day, lightly flecked with
little wisps of smoky vapor — the lazy white masses
against the infinite blue, and the billowing thun-
[272]
THE WINDING RIVER
derheads on the horizon on quiet afternoons — the
stormy array of dark battalions of wind-blown
clouds, with their trailing sheets of rain — and
many other convolutions of the great panoramas
in the skies, have been humbly observed from the
little boat. The Winding River has reflected
them, and the picturesque sweeps and bends, the
masses of trees on the banks, with the silvery
stretches of slowly moving waters, have given
wonderful foregrounds to these entrancing pros-
pects.
Fancy has woven rare fabrics, and builded
strange and fragile dreams among these glowing
and ever-changing symphonies of light and color.
The little boat has been a kingdom in a world of
enchantment. The domes and vistas of a fairy-
land have been visible from it. The Psalm of
Life has seemed to float softly over the bosom
of the river, and mingle with the harmonies of
infinite hues in the heavens beyond. The lances
of the departing sun have trailed over the waters,
and dark purple shadows have gently crept into
the landscape. Manifold voices are hushed, and
the story of another day is told.
[273]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
Nature, seemingly jealous of other companion-
ship, yields her spiritual treasures only to him who
comes alone into her sweet solitudes. Before him
who comes in reverence, the filmy veils are lifted,
and the poetic soul is gently led into mystic paths
beyond.
In her great anthems of sublimity and power,
she fills our hearts with awe, and appals us with
our insignificance, but her soft lullabies, which
we hear in the secluded places, are within the
capacity of our emotions. It is here that she comes
to us in her tenderness and beauty, and gently
touches the finer chords of our being.
One may stand upon a mountain-top and behold
the splendors of awful immensities, but the imag-
ination is soon lost in infinity, and only the atom
on the rock remains. The music of the swaying
rushes, the whispers among rippling waters and
softly moving leaves, and the voices of the Little
Things that sing around us, all come within the
compass of our spiritual realm. It is with them
that we must abide if we would find contentment
of heart and soul.
The love of moving water is one of our primal
[274]
THE WINDING RIVER
instincts. The tired mind seeks it, and weary
travelers on the deserts of life are sustained by
the hope of living waters beyond. There are wind-
ing rivers on which we may float in the world of
our fancy, and it is on them that we may find
peace when sorrows have afflicted us and our
burdens have made scars. They may flow through
lordly forests, and stately mansions and magic
gardens may be reflected in their limpid tides.
The songs of these rivers are the songs of the heart,
and in them there is no note of triumph over the
fallen, or despair of the stricken. They are songs
of courageous life and melodies of the living
things, but only those who listen may hear them.
Sometimes, in faint half-heard tones from far
away, we may imagine echoes from another world
than ours, and, as we enter into the final gloom,
these harmonies may become divine. In the darker
recesses of our intellectual life we find shadows
that never move. They seem to lie like black
sinister bars across our mental paths. We know
not what is beyond them, and we shrink from a
nameless terror. Into these shadows our loved
ones have gone. They have returned into the
[275]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
Elemental Mystery. Their voices have not come
back to us, but their cadences may be in the sing-
ing winds and amid the patter of the summer rain.
Our Ship of Dreams can bear a wondrous cargo.
We can sometimes see its mirage in the still skies
beyond the winding rivers, though its sails and
spars are far below the horizon's rim. We know
that on it are those who beckon, and its wave-kissed
prow is toward us. Frail though its timbers be,
the years may bring it, but if it never comes, we
have seen the picture, and new banners have been
unfurled before it.
[276]
HE "WAITED UNTIL PE SAW HIS STAR COME OVER THE
HORIZON IN THE PATH OF THE YOUNG MOON"
CHAPTER XIV
THE RED ARROW
WHILE merciless masters have driven
the red man from the dune country,
indelible impressions of his race re-
main. His nomenclature is on the maps, and the
lakes, rivers, and streams carry names that were
precious to his people. His mythology still en-
velops the region with a halo of romance and
fable.
The dust of his forefathers has mingled with
the hills, and time has obliterated nearly every
material trace of him, except those among the im-
perishable stones. The debris of the little quarries
is still visible on small promontories, and in the
depressions along the ridges, where the pines have
held the soil against the action of the wind and
rain. Here we find innumerable chips and frag-
ments of broken stones, left by the workers, who
fashioned the implements of war and peace on
these sequestered spots.
[279]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
Occasionally an imperfect or unfinished arrow
or spear-head appears among the refuse, which
the patient artificer discarded. Many perfect
specimens are found, but these are seldom dis-
covered near the sites of the rude workshops.
They are uncovered by the shifting sands in the
"blow outs," where the winds eddy on the sides
of hills that may have held their secrets for
centuries, and turned up out of the fertile soil in
the back country, by the plowshares of a race
that carried the bitter cup of affliction to the
aborigine.
The little flakes of flint may be scattered over
a space forty or fifty feet across, and many thou-
sands of perfect points may have gone forth from
it, as messages of death to the hearts of enemies,
or to pierce the quivering flesh of the innocent.
The refined ingenuity of man has ever been
applied to things that kill. The art of annihila-
tion has attracted some of the dominant intellects
of mankind, and the extinction of life has been
the industry of millions since human history
began.
The feathered shaft of the savage, and the steel
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THE RED ARROW
shell of the white man, go upon the same errand,
and they both leave the same dark stain upon the
green earth. The children of men, in all ages,
have been taught that war is the only path to glory.
Under His quiet skies the living things must
die, because they live. The Great Riddle awaits
solution beyond the confines of our philosophy,
and in the midst of our speculative wanderings,
we become dust. Theology is as helpless before
a burial mound in the wilderness, as beside the
gilded tomb of a prince of the church.
The spiritual needs of the primitive savage were
administered by his tribal gods, and the spirits
of his mythology. In his child-like faith he be-
lieved the favor of a Great Spirit to be in the
sunshine, and that omnipotent wrath was thun-
dered in the storms. His good manitous presided
over his fortunes in life, and gently led him into
fabled hunting grounds beyond the grave.
He was a fatalist, and not being civilized, his
theology was imperfect.
Civilization approached him with a Bible in
one hand and a bottle in the other, and the decay
of his race began. The finger of fate had touched
[281]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
him, and the last heart-broken remnants of once
happy and powerful tribes were tied and led away
by benign and Christian soldiers. They carried
crushed spirits and shattered lives to an alien soil,
which an all-wise conqueror had selected for them,
leaving their burned homes, and the bones of those
they loved, in the land of their birth.
The moralist finds abundant food for reflection
in the sufferings of the weak, at the hands of the
strong, and the triumph of might over helpless-
ness, but the Indian interfered with enlightened
selfishness and he perished.
The record of the expatriation and the practical
extinction of the Pottawatomies, who lived in this
region, is written upon dark pages of our history,
but perhaps they had no rights as living creatures
that an enlightened government was bound to
respect.
When the fog rolls in from the distant waters,
and steals through the pines, wraith-like forms
of a forgotten race seem to haunt the scenes of
by-gone years. We may imagine the march of
phantom throngs through the trees, to meet silent
battalions beyond the hills. The sands seem to
[282]
THE RED ARROW
yield to the folds of a gray mantle that is laid
upon them, and retreat into obscurity.
When the night shadows come into the dune
country, the spell of mystery and poetry comes
with them. The sorcery of the dark places leads
us into a land of dreams and unreality.
Out on the tremulous surface of the lake, we
may fancy the lifting of silvery paddles in the
path of the moon's reflections, and the furtive
movement across the bar of light, of mystic shapes
in phantom canoes.
Mingled with the lispings of the little waves,
we may hear ghostly prows touch the sand, and
see spectral figures file into the hills. The faint
echoes of strokes upon flint come out of the
shadows.
The spirits of an ancient race have gone to their
quarries, for arrowheads and spears, for the un-
seen battles with evil gods.
Voices in the night wind recall them, and they
go out into the purple mists, that come upon the
face of the waters before the dawn.
Sometimes among the silences, comes the beauti-
ful dream form of Naeta, the Spirit of the Dunes,
[283]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
who was once an Indian maiden with laughing
eyes and raven hair. It was she who lured the
soul of Taqua, a mighty warrior, who first saw
her in the silver moonlight among the pines, in
a far-off time, before the first legends of the people
were told.
Love stole into their lives and brought with him
a train of sorrows, which, one by one, were laid
upon aching hearts, until the burden became too
heavy to bear. A dark shadow fell upon the little
wigwam, and the world-old story of shattered
faith, that sent two souls adrift, was told by the
two trails that led from the ashes before the door.
The heart of Taqua became black, and for many
days and nights he sped over sandy hills, and along
rocky shores, with the deadly gleam of revenge
in his eyes, and the bitterness of hate in his breast.
Once he sat brooding by the shore of the great
lake, and saw a fragment of red flint, which the
numberless waves had worn into the rude re-
semblance of an arrow-head. He picked it out
of the wet sand, and with patient skill, he fash-
ioned it to a cutting point. He fastened it into
[284]
THE RED ARROW
a shaft of ironwood, which he feathered with the
pinions of a hawk.
He then climbed to the top of a high promon-
tory, and waited until he saw his star come over
the horizon, in the path of the young moon. It
was at this time that he could talk to Manabush,
the hero god, who was the intermediary between
the Indian and his manitous.
When he was certain of the presence of Mana-
bush, he held his red arrow before him — told the
story of his wrongs — and consecrated the arrow
to the heart of his enemy. When the dawn came,
and Manabush was gone, he placed the arrow in
his quiver, and began his march upon the path
of vengeance.
Through weary years he followed it, finding
upon it many cross trails, and the footprints of
those who had gone before, upon the same errand.
The path led him into strange places, and through
numberless dark defiles, into which the sunlight
never came.
It led him through lonesome loveless years, that
marked his brow with wrinkled hate, and hard-
ened the lines that are only curved by smiles.
[285]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
Time finally bent the sinewy form, the springing
strides became shorter, and their vigor became less.
The frosts and sorrows of many winters had turned
the dark locks white, when, at the end of one
summer — just as the first leaves began to fall — he
once more journeyed to the high rock to invoke
the aid and counsel of the hero god.
His dimmed eyes once more sought the star, and
wrhen he saw its light, he told Manabush the story
of his fruitless quest. His tired limbs could no
longer keep the trail, and his weary arms could no
longer bend the bow to the arrow's length.
Long he talked and meditated, and a voice
seemed to come out of the darkness. It was a
voice of sweetness and mercy — a voice of love and
forgiveness- — that told of the futility of hatred and
revenge, which would be lost in the gloom of the
Great Beyond, when the earth should know him
no more.
A new light burst upon him. He became glori-
fied with a new thought. He resolved that he
would no longer carry the red arrow in his quiver.
He would abandon the black and sinister trail
which he had hoped to redden with the blood of
[286]
THE RED ARROW
his enemy, and part with this evil thing that had
mastered him.
When the morning sun came over the hills, and
bathed them in the radiance of a new day, he
straightened his bent figure, and resolutely placed
the red arrow in the bow. With a new strength,
he drew the shaft to its full length, and, with a
loud twang, the red arrow sang in the morning air.
His poor old eyes could follow it only a little
way, but he saw it strike the shining bark of a
little tree. With a sad smile — the first of many
years — he saw the leaves of the little tree turn red.
He looked for the arrow in vain. It had gone
on through the forest, and at night he found that
it had struck many trees, for their leaves were also
red. The next day he traveled on, and the scarlet
leaves were ever before his eyes.
At last, tired and footsore, he laid down and
slept. There came to him in his dreams the beauti-
ful Naeta. She told him of a long journey through
the years; how she had wearily sought him, how
she had patiently followed the tangled threads of
fate, hoping to find the end, where the sun might
[287]
THE DUNE COUNTRY
shine, without bitterness, without hatred — with
love and repentance in her heart.
Her feet had faltered on her weary way, and
many times she had grasped the little trees to
keep from falling.
He awoke and looked again into the forest. He
saw that these little trees were touched with gold.
He then closed his eyes in eternal sleep, and the
Indian Summer had come upon the land.
The red arrow and the repentant hand had
transfigured the hills, and the glory of the Divine
was upon them.
THE END
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
Los Angeles
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
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