Upon a dozen or two of the islands in the Southern Pacific, where the waves lap the sloping sands lazily, and life should be calm and peaceful, there are, or were until lately, certain people who occasionally killed certain other people for reasons sufficiently good, no doubt, to them; and who thus coming into possession of a group of dead creatures with fingers, conceived the idea that the fingers of these dead, when dried, would make most artistic, not to say suggestive, necklaces. So they strung these dried fingers upon something strong and pliant, and wore them with much pride.

When I see the bright feathers of birds, slain that hats may be garnished for the thoughtless females of a higher grade of beings, I am reminded somehow of the Dyaks and of the wearers of the necklaces made of fingers.



A MID-PACIFIC FOURTH

The sun shone very fairly on a green hillside, from which could be seen the town of Honolulu, the capital of Hawaii. The sun makes some very fair efforts at shining upon and around those islands lying thousands of miles out in the Pacific Ocean. He was doing his best on this particular morning, and under his influence, so brightening everything, two little boys and a little jackass were having a good time near a long, low, rakish, but far from piratical-looking house upon the hillside already mentioned. One of the boys was white, one of the boys was brown, and the little jackass was gray. The name of the white boy was William Harrison, though he was always called Billy, and his father, an American merchant in Honolulu, owned the house near which the boys were playing. The name of the brown boy was Manua Loa, or something like that, but he was always called Cocoanut, the nickname agreeing perfectly with his general solid, nubbinish appearance. The name of the jackass was Julius Caesar, but he wore almost no facial resemblance to his namesake. The date of the day on which the little boys and the little jackass were out there together was July 3, 1897.

As far as the three playmates were concerned, there was a practical equality in their relations between Billy and Cocoanut and Julius Caesar. Billy's father was a rich white man, but Cocoanut's father was a native and of some importance, too; and as for Julius Caesar he was quite capable at times of asserting his own standing among the trio. He could be, on occasions, one of the most animated kicking little jackasses living upon this globe, upon which the moon doesn't shine quite as well as the sun does. On the occasion here referred to the little jackass stood apart with head hanging down toward the ground, silent and unmoving, and apparently revolving in his own mind something concerning the geology of the Dog Star. He could be a most reflective little beast upon occasion. The boys sat together on a knoll, their heads close together, engaged in earnest and animated and sometimes loud-voiced conversation. There was occasion for their lively interest. They were discussing the Fourth of July. They were about equally ardent, but if there were any difference it was in favor of Cocoanut, who, within the year, had become probably the most earnest American citizen upon the face of the civilized globe. His information regarding the United States and American citizenship had, of course, been derived from Billy, who had derived it from his father; and Billy's father had told Billy, who in turn had told Cocoanut, that by the next Fourth of July the Stars and Stripes would be flying from the flagstaffs of Hawaii, and that then, on the Fourth, small boys could celebrate just as small boys did in the United States. Thenceforth Billy and Cocoanut observed the flags above Honolulu closely, but neither of them had ever seen the Stars and Stripes lying flattened out aloft by the sea breeze. They had faith, though, and their faith had been justified by their works. They had between them, as the result of much begging from parents and doing a little work occasionally, gathered together probably the most astonishing supply of firecrackers ever possessed by two boys of their size and degree of understanding. There were package upon package of the small, ordinary Chinese firecrackers, and there were a dozen or two of the big "cannon" firecrackers which have come into vogue of late years, and the first manufacturer of whom should be taken out somewhere and hanged with all earnestness. They were now consulting regarding the morrow. Would the flag fly over Honolulu and could they celebrate? They didn't know, but they had a degree of faith. Then they wandered off somewhere with Julius Caesar and had a good time all day, but ever the morrow was in their mind.

It was early the next morning when the two boys and Julius Caesar were again on the point of hill overlooking Honolulu. It was so early that the flags had not yet been hoisted over the public buildings. Each boy carried a package, and these they unrolled and laid out together. The display was something worth looking at. Any boy who could see that layout of firecrackers and not feel a kind of a tingling run over him resembling that which comes when he takes hold of the two handles of an electrical machine wouldn't be a boy worth speaking of. He wouldn't be the sort of a boy who had it in him to ever become President of the United States, or captain of a baseball nine, or anything of that sort. But these two boys quivered. Cocoanut quivered more than Billy did.

Silently the two boys and Julius Caesar awaited the raising of the flags over Honolulu. Could they or could they not let off their firecrackers? They might as well, said Cocoanut, be getting ready, anyhow, and so he began tying strings of firecrackers together, adjusting cannon crackers at intervals between the smaller ones, and adding Billy's string of crackers to his own. When completed there were just thirty-seven and one-half feet of firecrackers of variegated quality. Billy looked on listlessly, and Cocoanut himself hardly knew why he was making this arrangement. The sun bounced up out of the ocean, a great red ball behind the thin fog, and bunting climbed the flagstaffs of Honolulu. With eager eyes the boys gazed cityward until the moment when the breeze had straightened out the flags and the device upon them could be seen. Then they looked upon each other blankly. It was not the Stars and Stripes, but the Hawaiian flag which floated there below them!

They didn't know what to do, these poor boys who wanted to be patriots that morning and couldn't. They sat down disconsolately near to the heels of Julius Caesar, who was whisking his stubby tail about occasionally in vengeful search of an occasional fly. It chanced that in the midst of this he slapped Cocoanut across the face, and that Cocoanut incontinently grabbed the tail, to keep it from further demonstration of the sort. Julius Caesar did not kick at this, because it was too trifling a matter. Far better would it have been for Julius Caesar had he kicked then and there, but the relation of why comes later on. Lost in their sorrows, Cocoanut and Billy communed together, and Cocoanut, in the forgetfulness of deep reflection began plaiting together the end of the string of firecrackers and the hairs in the tail of Julius Caesar. He was a good plaiter, was Cocoanut—they do such work with grasses and things in and about Honolulu, and lots of little Hawaiians are good plaiters—and it may be said of the job that when completed, although done almost unconsciously, it was a good one. That string of thirty-seven and one-half feet of firecrackers was not going to leave the tail of that little jackass except under most extraordinary circumstances.

A fly of exceptional vigor assaulted Julius Caesar upon the flank, and his tail not whisking as well as usual, because of the incumbrance, he missed the enemy at the first swish and moved uneasily forward for several feet. As it chanced, this movement left the other string of firecrackers fairly in the lap of Cocoanut. The boys were still discussing the situation.

"It's too bad; it's too bad," said Billy. "What'll we do?"

"I don't know," said Cocoanut.

"Do you think we dare let 'em off even if the flag didn't fly?" said Billy.

"I don't know," said Cocoanut.

"I believe I'll get on Julius Caesar and ride a little," said Billy, "and you throw stones at him and hit him if you can. It's pretty hard to make him run, you know."

"All right," said Cocoanut.

Billy rose and wandered over and mounted Julius Caesar, Cocoanut barely turning his head and watching the white boy lazily as Billy gathered up the bridle, which was the only equipment Julius Caesar had. It was then, just as Billy had fairly settled himself down, that an inspiration came to Cocoanut.

"Lemme let off just one little cracker," he said. "Mebbe it'll start Julius Caesar a-going," and Billy joyously assented.

Now Cocoanut had never seen the effect which a whole string of firecrackers can produce. He had assisted in firing one or two little ones, and that was all he knew about it. Billy didn't know that the string of firecrackers was attached to the tail of Julius Caesar, and Cocoanut himself had absolutely forgotten it. Cocoanut produced a match and lit it and carefully ignited the thin, papery end of the ultimate little cracker on the string, and it smoked away and nickered and sputtered toward its object.

There have been various exciting occasions upon the island whereon is Honolulu. There have been some great volcanic explosions there, and earthquakes and tidal waves. It is to be doubted, however, if upon that charming island ever occurred anything more complete and alarming and generally spectacular, in a small way, than followed the moment when the first cracker exploded of that string of thirty-seven and one-half feet attached to the tail of Julius Caesar. Cocoanut had expected one cracker to go off, but had anticipated nothing further. He was correct in his view, only as regarded the mere going-off of the cracker. What followed was a surprise to him and to all the adjacent world. There was a rattle and roar; the first two or three feet of small crackers went off; and then, as the first cannon cracker was reached with a thunder and blast of smoke, Cocoanut went over backward and away off into the grass, while Julius Caesar simply launched himself into space. It was all down-hill before him. He started for Australia. Anybody could see that. You couldn't tell whether he was going for Sydney or Melbourne, but you knew he was going for Australia in a general way. His leaps, assisted by the down-hill course, were something to witness. Cocoanut has since estimated them at forty feet a jump, while Billy says sixty—for both boys, it is good to say, are still alive—but then Billy was on the jackass and may have been excited; probably somewhere, say about fifty feet, would be the correct estimate. Talk about your horrifying comets with their tails of fire! They were but slight affairs, locally considered, for terrific explosions accompanied every jump of Julius Caesar, and comets don't make any noise. It was all swift, but the noise and awful appearance of Billy and Julius Caesar sufficed in a minute to startle such of the populace of Honolulu who were already awake, and there was a wild rush of scores of people in the wake of where Billy and Julius Caesar went downward to the sea. The extent of the leap of Julius Caesar when he finally reached the shore has never been fully decided upon, but it was a great leap. Billy, jackass, and fireworks went down like a plummet, and very soon thereafter Billy and jackass, but no fireworks, came to the surface again, and then swam vigorously toward the shore, for everybody and everything in Hawaii can swim like a duck. They were received by a brown and wildly applauding crowd of natives, and a minute or two later by Cocoanut, who had run like a deer to see the end of the vast performance he had inaugurated.

An hour or two later two boys and a little jackass were all together upon the hill again, the boys excited and jubilant and saying that they'd had a Fourth of July, anyhow, and the jackass in a doubtful and thoughtful mood.

The boys have grown amazingly since. The jackass seems to be about the same. But about the Fourth of July next at hand the boys won't have the same trouble they had in 1897.



LOVE AND A LATCH-KEY

This is the story of the circumstances surrounding the invention of Simpson's Electric Latch-Key, an invention with which everybody is now familiar, but regarding the origin of which the public has never been informed. There were reasons, grave ones for a time, why the story should not be told—in short, there was a love affair mixed with it—but those reasons no longer exist, and it seems a good thing to relate the facts in the case. They may interest a great number of people, particularly middle-aged gentlemen in the large cities. I know that for me, at least, they have possessed no little attraction.

Love proverbially laughs at locksmiths, but it is safe to say that before Simpson's Electric Latch-Key was known even that cheerful god would not have dared to smile in the presence of some of the problems connected with locks and keys. Now all is changed. The general use of the latch-key mentioned has increased the gayety of nations since the recent time in which this story is laid. Otherwise there would be no story to tell, as this is but the plain narration of the love and ambition which inspired, perfected, and triumphantly demonstrated the usefulness of the invention.

The North Side in the city of Chicago may put on airs as a residence district, and the South Side may put on airs as containing the heart of the vast business district of Chicago, but the West Side is as big as the two of them, and its population contains a large number of exceedingly rich men, who, like the rich men of the other sides, are as content with themselves for being "self-made," are just as grumpy, and with as many weaknesses. Some of these West Side rich men live on Ashland Avenue. There certainly lived and lives Mr. Jason B. Grampus, a great speculator, whose home has its palatial aspects.

West Side millionaires, like those on the other sides, are not infrequently the fathers of fair daughters. Sometimes they have only one daughter, and no sons at all, and in such cases the daughter becomes a very desirable acquisition for a young man of tact and enterprise. There is no law of nature which makes a millionaire's daughter less really lovable than other young women, and there is no law of nature which makes a young man who may fall in love with her, even though he be poor, a fortune-hunter and a blackguard. The young man who has a social position without money is in a perilous way. He may fall in love with a young woman with money, and then his motives will be impugned, especially by the parents. It depends altogether on the young man how he accepts the more or less anomalous position described. If he be strong, he adapts himself in one way; if he be weak, he does it in another.

Ned Simpson was not of the weaker sort, and he was desperately in love with the daughter of "old man Grampus." The fact that she would eventually be worth more than a million did not affect his love to its injury. He said frankly to himself that she was none the worse for that, but it must be asserted to his credit that he thought of her prospective money very little. He stood ready to take her penniless, on the instant. Unfortunately, he could not take her on any conditions. Mr. Grampus and Mrs. Grampus stood like mountains in his way.

Not that Simpson lacked social equality with the Grampus family. He was a young stockbroker, with expectations as yet unrealized, it is true, but with a good ancestry and with business popularity. By day he met old Grampus upon terms of equality. Old Grampus liked him, after a fashion. He had visited the Grampus house, had dined there often, had met the old lady with the purring ways, had met, also, the radiant daughter, Sylvia, and had fallen in love with the latter, deeply and irrevocably. He had made love cleverly and earnestly, as a fine man should, and had succeeded wonderfully.

Sylvia was as deeply in love with him as he was with her. They had solemnly and in all honesty entered into an agreement that they would remain true, each to the other, no matter what might come. Then he had approached the father, manfully explained the situation, and had encountered a reception which was a sight to see and an amazing thing to hear. The old man was striking when at his worst, and Simpson almost admired him for his command of explosive expletives. One likes to see almost anything done well. Simpson was ordered never to enter the house again. He contained himself pretty well; he made no promises, but he met that young woman almost every evening. Meanwhile, the young man and the old man met daily in a business way.

As a rule, the relations between a lover who has been figuratively kicked out of a house and the man who has figuratively kicked him out are somewhat strained. Still, young Simpson and old Grampus met down town in a business way, and it is only putting it fairly concerning Simpson to say that he showed a forgiving spirit—almost an impudently forgiving spirit, one might say. Light-hearted and careless as he seemed to be among his business associates, Simpson possessed a resolute character, and when he decided upon a course, adhered to it determinedly. He was not going to be desperate; he was not going overseas to "wed some savage woman, who should rear his dusky race"; but he was going to eventually have Miss Grampus, or know the reason why. He did not want to elope with the young woman; in fact, he felt that she wouldn't elope if he asked her, for she was fond of her father, and he knew that his end must be attained by vast diplomacy. Just how, he had not decided upon. But he felt his way vaguely.

"One thing is certain," he said to himself, "I must keep my temper and cultivate the old man."

He did cultivate Mr. Grampus, and did it so well that after a season the two would even lunch together. It was an anomalous happening, this lunching together, of a poor young man with a rich old one, who had refused a daughter's hand; but such things occur in the grotesque, huge Western money-mart. In Chicago there is a great gulf fixed between business and family relations. Grampus began to consider Simpson an excellent fellow—that is, as one to meet at luncheon, not as a son-in-law. A son-in-law should have money.

There was a skeleton in the Grampus closet, but it was not scandalous, and was never mentioned. Still, to old Mr. Grampus, the guilty one, the skeleton was real and terrible. He, the gruff, overbearing, successful man of business, the one beneath whose gaze clerks shuddered and stenographers turned pale, was afraid to go home at least four nights of the seven nights in the week. He was afraid to meet his wife.

A great club man was Mr. Grampus. He delighted in each evening spent with his old cronies, in the whist-playing, the reminiscences, the storytelling, the arguments, and the moderate smoking and drinking. Unfortunately, he could not endure well the taking into his system of anything alcoholic. He always became perfectly sober within three hours, but a punch or two would give a certain flaccidity to his legs, and when he reached his home the broad steps leading up to the vestibule seemed Alpine-like and perilous. He would almost say to himself, "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch, beware the awful avalanche." But after all it was not the danger of the ascent which really troubled him; it was what would assuredly happen after he had reached the summit. The disaster always came upon the plateau.

The man could fumble in his pockets with much discretion, and could always find his latch-key, for its shape was odd, but with that latch-key he could not find the keyhole in the door. There came a clamor always at the end. When finally he entered, Mrs. Grampus was as alive and alert as any tarantula of an Arizona plain aroused by a noise upon the trap-door of its retreat. And Mrs. Grampus was a wonderful woman. Talk about death's-head! Jason B. Grampus would have welcomed one in place of that pallid creature in a night-dress, who met him when he came in weavingly.

Mrs. Grampus, who was known to her husband's inner consciousness as Sophia, was a slender, blue-eyed woman, soft of voice and by day gentle of manner. Her health was not perfect. She knew this, and so did every one she met. While not an invalid, she in her imagination trembled on the edge of invalidism, and upon this subject she was almost loquacious. She was domestic in her tastes, and ambitious and devoted to her home and family.

She was a model wife and mother, and this, too, she knew; so did her family and friends, for this subject was second in her topics of conversation only to the state of her health; and, furthermore, she was peculiar and almost original in the perfection to which she had brought the fine art of nagging.

Let it not be imagined that she scolded, or said small, mean things, or used any of the processes of the ordinary nagger. Her methods were refined, studied, calculated, and correct. Her style of day-nagging was, to be explicit, to maintain perfect silence as to the grievance under which she suffered—indeed, this was often a profound secret from the first to the last; to adopt the look and bearing of a Christian martyr on the way to the stake, and to keep this demonstration up for days without a gleam of interruption. She shed no tears, made no reproaches; she just looked her agony, sitting, walking, doing anything. This was by day. But at night! How is it that women so have the gift of speech at night? Mrs. Grampus had it in a marvelous degree, and it was the speech which is a thing to dread, penetrating and long-continued. The nerves of Jason B. Grampus were gradually giving way. Some of the finest old gentlemen in every large city in the country know that one's physical condition differs with moods and seasons, and that what may be endured at one time cannot be at another. This lesson was brought forcibly to Jason B. Grampus one morning. He had passed his usual evening at the club, had gone home at the usual hour, and had encountered even more difficulty than usual in discovering the keyhole. He made more than the ordinary degree of noise, and had encountered even more than the usual hour or two of purgatory, subsequently. He came down town in the morning heavy-eyed, with a headache, and with spirits undeniably depressed. He sought what relief he could. He first visited the barber, and that deft personage, accustomed, as a result of years of carefully performed duty to the ways and desires of his customer, shaved him with unusual delicacy, keeping cool cloths upon his head during the whole ceremony, and terminating the exercise with a shampoo of the most refreshing character. An extra twenty-five cents was the reward of his devotion.

Mr. Grampus went to his business somewhat improved in physical condition, and by noon was almost himself again. Still, he had a yearning for human sympathy; he could not help it. He saw young Simpson at a table, the only acquaintance who happened to be in the dining-room when he entered, and, led by a sudden impulse, walked over, sat down opposite the young man whose aspirations he had discouraged, and entered into affable conversation with him. From affability the conversation drifted into absolute confidence. Jason B. Grampus could no more have helped being confidential that day to some one than he could help breathing. He told Simpson of his trouble of the night before, and concluded his account with the earnest and almost pitiful exclamation:

"I'd give fifty thousand dollars for a keyhole one could not miss." Simpson did not reply for a moment. He thought, thought—thought deeply—and then came to him the inspiration of his life. He looked at Grampus half quizzically, but in a manner not to offend, and as if it were merely a jest over a matter already settled, said:

"Would you give your daughter?"

Grampus looked at him puzzled, and then, responding to the joke which seemed but one of hopelessness, he said:

"Well—if I wouldn't!"

He was startled the next second by the uprising of Simpson, who grasped him heartily by the hand, and said:

"I've got the thing! It's a new invention! There is nothing like it in the world! It is going to revolutionize the social relations and make home happy. Write me a note, giving me permission to operate upon your front door!"

The old man sat dazed. It slowly dawned upon his mind that Simpson had caught him in a trap; but the word of Jason B. Grampus had never yet been violated. He thought rapidly himself now. Of course, the young lunatic could not do what he promised! That was impossible. No man could invent a keyhole which a man could not miss at night. There might be some annoyance to it all, but the young fellow could do as he pleased, only to be rebuffed again, this time with no allowance of a subsequent familiarity. And so they parted, the old man wearing a look somewhat perplexed, and the younger one, despite his assumed jaunty air, exhibiting a little of the same quality of expression.

As a matter of fact, Simpson had not the slightest idea of how such a keyhole and latch-key as he had promised could be made, save that on one occasion he had been the author of a practical little invention utilized in a box-factory, and felt that he had a touch of the inventive genius in his nature. But there was his friend Hastings. It was the thought of Hastings which gave him the inspiration when he spoke to Grampus. Hastings was one of the cleverest inventors and one of the most prominent among the younger electricians of the city. They were devoted friends, and they would invent the greatest latch-key in the world, or burn half the midnight oil upon the market. This he was resolved upon. He sought Hastings.

To Hastings Simpson unfolded his tale carefully, leaf by leaf, and interested amazingly that eminent young electrician. Hastings, though now married, the possessor of a baby with the reddest face in all Chicago, and perfectly happy, had himself undergone somewhat of an experience in obtaining the mother of that baby, and so sympathized with Simpson deeply.

"We'll invent that keyhole or latch-key, or break something," was all he said. There were thenceforth meetings every evening between the two—meetings which were sometimes far extended into the night; and the outcome of it all was that one morning, just as the sunbeams came thrusting the white fog over blue Lake Michigan, Simpson sought his own room somewhat weary-eyed, but with a countenance which was simply beatific in expression. The invention had been perfected! What that invention was may as well be described here and now. The first object to be sought was, naturally, a keyhole which could not easily be missed. Of course, this is a non-scientific description of it, but it may convey a fair idea to the average reader. First, instead of the ordinary keyhole there was something exactly resembling the customary mouthpiece through which we whistle upstairs from the ground floor of a flat seeking to attract the people who rarely answer. The only difference between it and the ordinary mouthpiece was that it was set in so that it was even with the woodwork of the door, and did not project at all. This mouthpiece tapered all around inside, and terminated in a keyhole which was rubber-lined. On the other side of this keyhole was a hard surface, padded with rubber, but having just opposite the mouth of the keyhole a small orifice extending through to a metal surface. That metal surface was a section of one of the most powerful horseshoe magnets ever invented in the United States, and was to be imbedded in the woodwork of the door.

It was a huge thing, reaching nearly across the door, and warranted to pull toward it anything magnetic of reasonable dimensions. The keyhole was all the design of Simpson, the electric part of the affair all the invention of Hastings. Combined, they made something beautiful and wonderful.

A key was made and magnetized so thoroughly that never before was a piece of iron so yearningly full of the electric fluid. The whole thing was adjusted against the wall of the room, and then the men brought in the magnetized key to ascertain if their invention would work in practice. Simpson was carrying the key. No sooner had he entered the door than something began to pull him toward the magnet. He walked sideways, like a crab, resistingly, and could not help himself; and then, just as he had nearly reached the bell-shaped keyhole, he was whirled around, as is the end child in a school playground when they are playing "crack-the-whip," fairly in front of the keyhole, and literally hurled toward it, while the key shot fiercely into the lock. But there was not a sound; the rubber cushion had obviated that.

Well, to say that those two young men were delighted would be to use but one of the commonplace, everyday, decent conversational expressions of the English language. They were simply wild.

Since their latest conversation Jason B. Grampus had engaged in no further communication with Simpson. He thought it best to avoid all relations with the young man who could jest on serious occasions; and yet underlying his upper strata of thought was a dim and undefined impression that he would hear from that young man again. He did.

The morning after the perfection of the invention Simpson called upon Mr. Grampus and calmly, coldly, and dignifiedly announced that his lock was complete, and that he was now about to install it in the Grampus front door. He suggested to Mr. Grampus that to avoid any encounters which might be embarrassing, the latter should suddenly discover some fault in his own front door—in the stained glass, or something of that sort—and have it taken off bodily and sent away to be remodeled; while a temporary door should be put in its place. The old gentleman listened amazed, and thought it all a farce; but then the word of Jason B. Grampus had gone out, and he must keep his word. "All right," he said.

So the front door was sent down town and another one put in its place, and in that front door down town Simpson and Hastings established and firmly secured the marvelous electric lock and keyhole. Then the door was sent back and put in its place. The same day Simpson called at the office of Mr. Grampus and handed him a key, the ring of which was big enough to hold at least two fingers. Mr. Grampus grinned sardonically over this continuation of the jest.

"That's a big ring," he said.

"I am confident you'll not find it any too large," was Simpson's respectful answer.

The old man grunted. "Will it unlock the door, and how? That is all I want to know."

"It will," said Simpson; and so they parted.

That evening Mr. Grampus spent a late evening at the club, and went home in apprehension. As he neared his residence the apprehension grew. He was wobbly, and he knew it. He ascended the steps with some difficulty, and began fumbling for his latch-key. He had forgotten all about the fact that he had a new one. The remembrance came to him only when he thrust his hand into his pocket, felt the huge key, and drew it forth. That instant he felt himself leaning forward. Then something happened. He was literally "yanked" toward that sunken keyhole. His hat smashed against the door (fortunately it was a soft one), and he found himself a minute later leaning against the entrance to his own house, grasping the handle of a latch-key which was in place and which would afford him admission without the slightest sound.

Never was a man who could walk in such condition, who, once inside a door, could not conduct himself with the utmost quietness. Grampus was no exception to the rule. He removed the key with a tug, closed the door softly and stepped into the drawing-room, where for three hours he slept, as sleeps a babe, upon the sofa. It has already been told that only three hours were required to enable Mr. Grampus to recover from three hours' indulgence at the club. He awoke refreshed and clear-headed as a man may be. He straightened out his hat, opened the front door quickly, pulled it to with a bang, as if he had just come in, and stalked upstairs in dignity. Never has a man more conscious and oppressive rectitude than one who has barely escaped a dreadful plight. No word came from the just-awakened terror in a night-dress. He had been saved—saved by Simpson.

The word of Jason B. Grampus had never been violated, and never could be. His first duty when he reached his office in the morning was to send for Simpson.

"The key worked," he said, "and you may have my daughter."

Simpson has her now and is his father-in-law's partner in business. Sometimes, looking at the color of his wife's eyes, and the graceful but somewhat square conformation of her jaws, he wonders a little what experiences time may bring him. But she is different from her mother in many ways, and Simpson is a more adaptative and inventive man than his father-in-law ever was. He is not much worried.



CHRISTMAS 200,000 B.C.

It was Christmas in the year 200,000 B.C. It is true that it was not called Christmas then—our ancestors at that date were not much given to the celebration of religious festivals—but, taking the Gregorian calendar and counting backward just 200,000 plus 1887 years this particular day would be located. There was no formal celebration, but, nevertheless, a good deal was going on in the neighborhood of the home of Fangs. Names were not common at the time mentioned, but the more advanced of the cave-dwellers had them. Man had so far advanced that only traces of his ape origin remained, and he had begun to have a language. It was a queer "clucking" sort of language, something like that of the Bushmen, the low type of man yet to be found in Africa, and it was not very useful in the expression of ideas, but then primitive man didn't have many ideas to express. Names, so far as used, were at this time derived merely from some personal quality or peculiarity. Fangs was so called because of his huge teeth. His mate was called She Fox; his daughter, not Nellie, nor Jennie, nor Mamie—young ladies did not affect the "ie" then—but Red Lips. She was, for the age, remarkably pretty and refined. She could cast eyes which told a story at a suitor, and there were several kinds of snake she would not eat. She was a merry, energetic girl, and was the most useful member of the family in tree-climbing. She was an only child and rather petted. Her father or mother rarely knocked her down with a very heavy club when angry, and after her fourteenth year rarely assaulted her at all. So far as She Fox was concerned, this kindness largely resulted from discretion, the daughter having in the last encounter so belabored the mother that she was laid up for a week. The father abstained chiefly because the daughter had become useful. Red Lips was now eighteen.

Fangs was a cave-dweller. His home was sumptuously furnished. The floor of the cave was strewn with dry grass, something that in most other caves was lacking. Fangs was a prominent citizen. He was one of the strongest men in the valley. He had killed Red Beard, another prominent citizen, in a little dispute over priority of right to possession of a dead mastodon discovered in a swamp, and had for years been the terror of every cave man in the region who possessed anything worth taking.

On this particular morning, which would have been Christmas morning had it not come too early in the world's history, Fangs left the cave after eating the whole of a water-fowl he had killed with a stone the night before and some half dozen field mice which his wife had brought in. She Fox and Red Lips had for breakfast only the bones of the duck and some roots dug in the forest. Fangs carried with him a huge club, and in a rough pouch made of the skin of some small wild animal a collection of stones of convenient size for throwing. This was before man had invented the bow or even the crude stone ax. He came back in a surly mood because he had found nothing and killed nothing, but he brought a companion with him. This companion, whom he had met in the woods, was known as Wolf, because his countenance reminded one of a wolf. He could hardly be called a gentleman, even as times and terms went then. He was evidently not of an old family, for he possessed something more than a rudimentary tail, and, had his face looked less like that of a wolf, it would have been that of a baboon. He was hairy, and his speech of rough gutturals was imperfect. He could pronounce but few words. He was, however, very strong, and Fangs rather liked him.

What Fangs did when he came in was to propose a matrimonial alliance. That is, he grasped his daughter by the arm and led her up to Wolf, and then pointing to an abandoned cave in the hillside not far distant, pushed them toward it. They did not have marriage ceremonies 200,000 B.C. Wolf, who had evidently been informed of Fangs's desire and who was himself in favor of the alliance, seized the girl and began dragging her off to the new home and the honeymoon. She resisted, and shrieked, and clawed like a wild-cat. Her mother, She Fox, came running out, club in hand, but was promptly knocked down by Fangs, who then dragged her into the cave again. Meanwhile the bridegroom was hauling the bride away through furze and bushes at a rapid rate. Red Lips had ceased to struggle, and was thinking. Her thoughts were not very well defined nor clear, but one thing she knew well—she did not want to live in a cave with Wolf. She had a fancy that she would prefer to live instead with Yellow Hair, a young cave man who had not yet selected a mate, and who was remarkably fleet of foot. They were now very near the cave, and she knew that unless she exerted herself housekeeping would begin within a very few moments. Wolf was strong, but slow of movement. Red Lips was only less swift than Yellow Hair. An idea occurred to her. She bent her head and buried her strong teeth deep in the wrist of the man who was half-carrying, half-dragging her through the underwood.

With a howl which justified his name, Wolf for an instant released his hold. That instant allowed the girl's escape. She leaped away like a deer and darted into the forest. Yelling with pain and rage, Wolf pursued her. She gained on him steadily as she ran, but there was a light snow upon the ground, and she could be followed by the trail which her pursuer took up doggedly and determinedly. He knew that he could tire her out and catch her in time. He solaced himself for her temporary escape by thinking, as he ran, how fiercely he would beat his bride before starting for the cave again, and as he thought his teeth showed like those of a dog of to-day.

The chase lasted for hours, and Red Lips had gained perhaps a mile upon her pursuer when her strength began to flag. The pace was telling upon her. She had run many miles. She was almost hopeless of escape when she emerged into a little glade, where sat a man gnawing contentedly at a raw rabbit. He leaped to his feet as the girl appeared, but a moment later recognized her and smiled. The man was Yellow Hair. He reached out part of the rabbit he was devouring, and Red Lips, whose breakfast had, as already mentioned, been a light one, tore at it and consumed it in a moment. Then she told of what had happened.

"We will kill Wolf, and you shall live with me," said Yellow Hair.

Red Lips assented eagerly, and the two consulted together. Near them was a hill, one side of which was a precipice. At the base of the precipice ran a path. The result of the consultation was that Yellow Hair left the girl, and making a swift circuit, came upon the precipice from the farther side, and crouched low upon its summit. The girl ran along the path at the bottom of the declivity for some distance, then, entering a defile which crossed it at right angles, herself made a turn, climbed the hill and joined Yellow Hair. From where they were lying they could see the glade they had just left.

Wolf entered the glade, and noted where the footsteps of the girl and those of a man came together. For a moment or two he appeared troubled and suspicious; then his face cleared. He saw that the tracks had diverged again. He had recognized the man's tracks as those of Yellow Hair.

"Yellow Hair is afraid of my strong arm," he thought. "He dare not stay with Red Lips. I shall catch her soon and beat her and take her with me."

The two crouching upon the precipice watched his every movement. They had rolled to the edge of the declivity a rock as huge as they could control, and now together held it poised over the pathway. Wolf came hurrying along, his head bent down like that of a hound on the scent of game. He reached a spot just beneath the two, and then with a sudden united effort they shoved over the rock. It thundered down upon the unfortunate Wolf with an accuracy which spoke well for the eyes and hands of the lovers. The man was crushed horribly. The two above scrambled down, laughing, and Yellow Hair took from the dead Wolf a necklace of claws and fastened it proudly upon his own person.

"Now we will go to my cave," said he.

"No," said Red Lips; "my father will look for Wolf to-morrow, and will find him. Then he will come and kill us. We must go and kill him to-night."

"Yes," said Yellow Hair.

Hand in hand the two started for the cave of Fangs. The side hill in which it was situated was very steep, and the lovers thought they could duplicate the affair with Wolf. "We must cripple him, anyway," said Yellow Hair, "for I am not strong enough to fight him alone. His club is heavy."

They reached the vicinity of the cave and crept above it. Having, with great difficulty, secured a rock in position to be rolled down, they waited for Fangs to appear. He came out about dusk, and stretched out his arms lazily, when the two above released the rock. It rolled down swiftly and with great force, but there was no such sheer drop afforded as when Wolf was killed, and Fangs heard the stone coming and almost eluded it. It caught one of his legs, as he tried to leap aside, and broke it. Fangs fell to the ground.

With a yell of triumph Yellow Hair bounded to where the crippled man lay and began pounding him upon the head with his club. Fangs had a very thick head. He struggled vigorously, and succeeded in catching Yellow Hair by the wrist. Then he drew the younger man to him and began to throttle him. The case of Yellow Hair was desperate. Fangs's great strength was too much for him. His stifled yells told of his agony.

It was at this juncture that Red Lips demonstrated her quality as a girl of decision and of action. A sharp fragment of slate, several pounds in weight, lay at her feet. She seized it and bounded forward to where the struggle was going on. The back of Fangs's head was fairly exposed. The girl brought down the sharp stone upon it just where the head and spinal column joined, and the crashing thud told of the force of the blow. Delivered with such strength upon such a spot there could be but one result. The man could not have been killed more quickly. Yellow Hair released himself from the dead giant's embrace and rose to his feet. Then, after a short breathing time, to make assurance sure, he picked up his club and battered the head of Fangs until there could be no chance of his resuscitation. The performance was unnecessary, but neither Yellow Hair nor Red Lips was aware of the fact. Their knowledge of anatomy was limited. Neither knew the effect of such a blow delivered properly at the base of the brain.

Yellow Hair finally ceased his exercise and rested on his club. "Shall we go to my cave now?" said he.

"Why should we?" said Red Lips. "Let us take this cave. There is dry grass on the floor."

They entered the cave. She Fox, who had witnessed what had occurred, sat in one corner, and looked up doubtfully as they entered. "I am tired," said Yellow Hair, and he laid himself down and went to sleep.

She Fox looked at her daughter. "I killed three hedgehogs to-day," she whispered.

The new mistress of the cave looked at her kindly. "Go out and dig some roots," she said, "and come back with them, and then with them and the hedgehogs we will have a feast."

She Fox went out and returned in an hour with roots and nuts. Red Lips awakened Yellow Hair, and all three fed ravenously and merrily. It was a great occasion in the cave of the late Fangs. There was no such Christmas feast, at the same time a wedding feast, in any other cave in all the region. And the sequel to the events of the day was as happy as the day itself. Yellow Hair and Red Lips somehow avoided being killed, and grew old together, and left a numerous progeny.



THE CHILD

There was a man who was called upon to write a Christmas article for a great newspaper. He had been a newspaper man himself at one time and it occurred to him, in all reverence, that if some modern daily publication could, nearly 1900 years ago, have reported faithfully all it could learn regarding the Birth in Bethlehem, there might now be fewer doubters in the world. He imagined what a conscientious representative of the Daily Augustinian, had such newspaper existed in Jerusalem, might have written concerning what was the greatest happening in the story of all mankind since the days of Moses and the Shepherd Kings.

Rarely has man worked harder than did this person, who, for a month or so—he had studied it all years before—sought the certain details of the historical story of the Christ. He re-read his Josephus; he sought new sources of information, and called to his aid men who knew most along the lines of the outstanding spokes of the main question. Then he lost himself as a reporter of the Daily Augustinian, and this—headlines and all—is what he wrote:

THE BIRTH OF THE CHILD

IS THEIR MESSIAH COME?

OLD JEWISH PROPHECY DECLARED FULFILLED IN THE BIRTH OF A GREAT PRINCE.

THE STRANGENESS OF THE STORY.

A CHILD BORN IN A STABLE IN BETHLEHEM ASSERTED TO BE THE CHRIST.

THE ACCOUNT.

A strange story comes to the Daily Augustinian from the suburb of Bethlehem, the result of which has been to create deep feeling among the Jewish residents. It is asserted that the Messiah prophesied in their books of worship has come, and that there will be a revolution in the religious world. This belief seems to be spreading among the poor, but is not concurred in by the more wealthy nor by the rabbis who officiate in the temple, though one of them, named Zacharias, is a believer. Upon the first knowledge gained of this reported marvel every effort was made by the Augustinian to learn all possible concerning it. The account was that the Messiah had come in the form of a babe, born in the stable of an inn at Bethlehem, and a trustworthy member of the Augustinian's staff was sent to the place at once. Here is his account:

It was learned before Bethlehem was reached by the reporter that the story of the Child had first been circulated by those in charge of the flocks kept for sacrifice in the Jewish temple. These are shepherds of an intelligent class who associate with the priests, and whose pastures are very near the city on the Bethlehem road. It was thought best to interview these men before seeking the Child. They were found without difficulty, and told their story simply, a story so remarkable that it is impossible to determine what comment should be made upon it.

The head shepherd, an intelligent and evidently thoroughly honest man of about forty years of age, spoke for all present. "We were watching our flocks as usual on the night concerning the occurrences of which you ask," he said, "when all at once the sky became full of a great light. It was wonderful. We looked up, and there in the midst of the light appeared a form which I cannot describe, it was so bright and dazzling. It spoke to us; spoke in a voice like nothing that can be conceived of for its sweetness, saying that the Savior we have so long awaited had been born to us, and that we might know Him because we should find Him in Bethlehem wrapped in His swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. The wonderful figure had but ceased speaking when the whole world above seemed filled with similar forms, and there came from the heavens such music, such sounds of praising, as I cannot convey an idea of to you more than I can of the figure. We were awestricken at first, and then with one accord we started for Bethlehem. Then another strange thing happened. A great light seemed to float above and ahead of us until we reached Bethlehem, when it hung suspended over the inn. And there we found the Child."

"Is the Child the Messiah of your race? Do you believe it?"

"I know!" was the answer. "It is the Messiah!" And that all the shepherds believe was apparent. They appear intelligent and honest and straightforward of speech. It is incomprehensible. The next step was to visit Bethlehem.

There is but one inn in Bethlehem; there was but one place in which to seek the Child. Thither went the seeker after facts. The inn is a plain structure of the usual stone-work of the hillside towns, and the stable, extending backward from the house proper, is largely an excavation in the rock. There is a narrow entrance at the side as well as one through the house. About the gates of the inn stood a number of people, the look upon their faces indicating that they were aware of the great news to their race, but all silent in their joy or disbelief or whatever sentiment affected them. The visitor was shown through the inn into the stable. There were the man, the woman, and the Child. They chanced to be alone at the time.

Of the Child it may be said that it is a beautiful male infant, nothing more, to the ordinary eye, and conducting itself not differently from any babe of its age. It clings to its mother's bosom, knowing nothing of the world, and as yet, caring nothing. The man is a sober-faced Jew, apparently about thirty years of age. The woman would attract attention anywhere, for she is one of the fair women of Nazareth, and even among those so noted for their beauty she must have ranked foremost, so sweet of face is she. She is seemingly not yet twenty years of age, with the dark hair, Oriental features, and wonderful eyes of the women of her class and town, but with an added expression which makes one think of the angels of which the Jewish writers tell. That she herself believes she is the mother of the Messiah, that the Child she has borne is the Christ, does not admit of doubt. Even as she clasped Him to her breast there was awe mingled with the affection in her look, a devotion beyond even that of motherhood. The man, it was apparent, shared with her in the faith. He was asked to tell the story of the miraculous birth, and stepping aside a little from the woman and the Child, he talked gravely and earnestly, answering all questions, since, as he said, it was his duty to tell the great thing to all the world, to Jew and pagan alike.

He was betrothed to the young woman Mary, he said, months ago, in the town of Nazareth, in Galilee, where he is a carpenter. They were to have been wedded, but during the interval between the betrothal and the marriage there came to her a figure, which was that of an angel of the Lord, saying to her that a son would be born to her the paternity of which would be supernatural, and that this son would be the Messiah told of in Jewish prophecy. She informed her betrothed of this, and that she had evidence that what had been told her would occur. At first Joseph was greatly troubled and resolved that the marriage should not take place lest a great disgrace should come upon him. He loved the young woman, and did not want to harm her in the eyes of the world, yet there seemed no alternative but to refuse a consummation of the betrothal. It was at this time that there came to him, as there had come to her, an angelic visitation, in which was confirmed what she had told him, and in which he was commanded to marry her. He was told this in a dream, and believed, and did as he was commanded, though as yet he has been the husband of Mary but in name.

After their marriage came the recent order from Rome for the census of all the Jews, and as it was accompanied by the direction that all should be enumerated, not where they might be living, but where they were registered at birth, Joseph, who was originally from Bethlehem, was compelled to make the journey. He was accompanied by his young wife, who rode upon a donkey, her husband walking all the way from Nazareth beside her. Upon their arrival in Bethlehem they found the place so full of those called in by the census that there was no place for them to lodge. The owner of the inn, though, who knew of Joseph's family, did all he could to relieve them, and they were so given lodging in the stable. There to the patient Mary came a woman's great trial, and the Child was born. Then came the shepherds, with their wonderful tale of what they had seen, followed, as related, by their adoration.

It was learned by inquiry in Bethlehem that Joseph, the carpenter, though a poor man, is a direct descendant of David, the famous Jewish king, and, strangely enough, too, that the beautiful Mary belongs to the same princely family. The Hebrew records of this great race are most complete, and there is no doubt as to the blood of the man and woman. Mary, so it is said, is the daughter of a gentlewoman named Anna and of a Hebrew who was held in great respect. There is another most singular fact to be related in this connection. It will be remembered that some months ago, when it came the turn of the venerable priest Zacharias to offer the sacrifice in the Jewish temple—a privilege which comes to a priest but once in his lifetime—he returned before the people from the inner sanctuary stricken dumb, and manifesting by signs that he had seen a vision, the event creating great excitement among the members of his faith. Later he made it known that in the sanctuary he had a vision of an angel, who declared to him that his wife, who was childless, should have a son in her old age who should be a great prophet and preacher, proclaiming the Messiah. Since that time, the aged couple, who live south of Jerusalem, have indeed been blessed with a child, the father's dumbness disappearing with its birth and the priest again praising the Lord of his people. To this child has been given the name of John.

What is most remarkable and unexplainable of all is something confirmed by Joseph and Mary, as well as by Zacharias and his wife. The wife of Zacharias, who is named Elizabeth, is a cousin of Mary, and some impulse moved the latter, after she had explained her condition to Joseph, to visit her aged kinswoman. She did so, and no sooner had she reached the home of Zacharias and entered the door than Elizabeth, who had not known of her coming, broke forth into praise of Mary as to be the mother of her Lord. The unborn babe, it is declared, recognized the presence of the Messiah, and so Elizabeth was led to adore and prophesy.

Many Nazarenes who are now in Jerusalem were seen, and all confirmed the story, so far as they could know of the relations of Joseph and Mary, while many people of the hill town where Zacharias and Elizabeth live confirm all that is related of the extraordinary occurrence in their household, of the husband's recovery from dumbness when his child was born, and of his apparent inspiration at the time. There is a strong feeling among the Jews, and the belief in the real appearance of the Messiah is spreading, though, as intimated, the priests of the temple, with the exception already alluded to, seem disposed to discredit the revelation. They declare that the Messiah would scarcely come in such humble way; that the Prince of the House of David who shall renew the glory of their race will come in great magnificence and that all will recognize Him at once.

What has been related is what was learned some days ago from the interviews given and from inquiries in all quarters where it seemed likely that they would throw any light on what has really occurred. Since then something as inexplicable has happened as anything heretofore reported, something from many points of view more startling and unexplainable. There came into Jerusalem recently three Persians of the sort called magi, or wise men, the students of the great race who have been to an extent friendly with the Jews since the time when Babylon was at its greatest. These three men, who had made a journey which must have occupied them nearly two years, seemed hurriedly intent on some great mission, and presented themselves at once before the Tetrarch, Herod, asking for information. They wanted to know where the Child was to be found who was born King of the Jews, seeming to think that the Tetrarch must know and would direct them willingly. They said they had seen the Child's star in the far east and had come to do Him homage. This was astonishing information to the Tetrarch. As is well known, there are many political intrigues in progress now, and Herod has adopted a severe policy. As between the Romans and the Jews he has been considerate in the endeavor to preserve pleasant relations with both parties, but he is most alert. His reply to the magi was that he did not know where the Child was, but he hoped they would succeed in their mission. He requested, furthermore, that when they had found the King they should inform him, that he also might visit Him. The magi departed, and shrewd officers were at once sent to follow them, but, as subsequently appeared, with slight success. The magi eluded the officers and found the Child. Joseph and Mary had moved from the stable into a house in Bethlehem, and there the three Persians bowed down before the Babe and, after the style of adoration in their country, presented gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

These last related facts were learned, as were those first given, in Bethlehem. The next step in the inquiry was naturally to seek an interview with the magi, the three travelers from Persia who so oddly showed their belief in the supernatural nature of what has occurred, but they were found with difficulty. After visiting the Infant they had returned at once to town, and it proved a hard task to discover their whereabouts. It was ascertained, after much inquiry, that three Persians of the better class had been stopping at a small hotel near the southern gate, and a visit to the place revealed the fact that they were still there, though about to leave. They had, after their visit to Bethlehem, remained close indoors, and, the keeper of the hotel said, seemed apprehensive of a visit from the authorities. The reporter was presented to three fine-looking Chaldeans, evidently men of some importance at home, who received him with reserve, but who, after learning his occupation and object, became a little more communicative. The eldest of the three, a man past middle-age, with full beard and remarkably keen eyes, acted as spokesman for all. He was asked what he thought of the Child at Bethlehem.

"It is the Messiah of the Jews," was his prompt reply.

"How do you know that?"

"We know it by His star—the star that was prophesied as heralding His coming. That the Jewish Messiah was to come was foretold by their own prophets and by our own Zoroaster. We are astronomers, and know the mystery of the heavens and the nativities. In what is called Mount Victory in our country is a cave, from the mouth of which the heavens are studied by wise men. About two years ago appeared the star of the Messiah. Then we began our journey to the city of the Jews to pay homage to the Great Ruler born."

"But why do you, who are not Jews, come on such an expedition?"

"Our belief is broad. We care very little for any old teachings which are not verified by celestial phenomena. We saw the prophecy fulfilled. That was enough."

"What about the star? Is it something which will not last?"

"No. It is a star which will last as long as any, but one which is visible on earth only at intervals of long ages. Then it foretells a great event. It appeared last just before the birth of Moses."

"What is it like?"

"It is a bright, almost red, star, visible in the sign Pisces of the zodiac only when Jupiter and Saturn are in conjunction. It is the star of the Messiah."

His companions assented to all the elder man said, but he declined to talk further on the subject. The name of the speaker was given as Melchoir; the names of his two friends were Caspar and Balthasar. The first was the one who made a gift of gold for the child, while the second contributed frankincense, and the third myrrh. The reporter returned to the hotel later in the day to ask certain additional questions, but the visitors had left hurriedly. The landlord said they had gone none too soon, as agents of the authorities visited the place soon after their disappearance. It is said that they were warned in a dream that they must escape. They were all three well mounted, and are now, no doubt, some distance from Jerusalem.

Such are the facts. Such is the story as learned of the Messiah of the Jews. Were their prophets right? Has the great Prince come? Is the glory of Rome to pass away before the glory of the Hebrew Christ?

Will the Tetrarch remain undisturbed?



THE BABY AND THE BEAR

This is a true story of the woods:

It was afternoon on the day before a holiday, and a boy of nine and a fat-legged baby of three years were frolicking in front of a rough log house beside a stream in a forest of northern Michigan. The house was miles from the nearest settlement, yet the boy and baby were the only ones about the place. The explanation of this circumstance was simple.

It was proposed to build a sawmill in the forest, and ship the lumber downstream to the great lake. The river was deep enough to allow the passage up to the sawmill site of a small barge, and a preliminary of the work was to build a rude dock. A pile-driver was towed up the river, but as this particular pile-driver had not the usual stationary steam-engine accompanying it, the great iron weight which was dropped upon the piles to drive them into the river bed was elevated by means of a windlass and mule power. The weight, once lifted, was released by means of a trigger connected by a cord with a post, where a man driving the mule around could pull it. The arrangement was primitive but effective.

A Mr. Hart, the man in charge of the four or five workmen engaged, lived with his wife and two children, Johnny and the baby, in the log house referred to. The men had leave of absence, and had left early in the morning to spend the day in the settlement, about ten miles off. Later in the day Mr. Hart and his wife had driven there also to obtain certain things for making the holiday dinner a little out of the common, and to secure certain small gifts for Johnny and the baby. So it came that Johnny, a sturdy and pretty reliable youth of his years, was left in charge of things, with strict injunctions to take good care of the baby. A luncheon neatly arranged in a basket was likewise left to be consumed whenever he and his more youthful charge should become hungry. The pair had been having a good time all by themselves on the day referred to. Breakfast had been eaten very late that morning, but Johnny was a boy and growing. It was about one o'clock when he proposed to the baby that they eat dinner. That corpulent young gentleman assented with great promptness. Johnny went into the house and got the lunch. The broad platform of the pile-driver, tied firmly beside the river's bank, attracted Johnny's attention as he emerged, and he conceived the idea that there would be a good place for enjoyment of the feast. He helped the baby to get on board. The great mass of iron used in the work chanced to be raised to the top of the framework, and in the space underneath, between the timbers was a cozy niche in which to sit and eat. The boy and baby sat down there and proceeded to business.

It occurred to the boy that he had done a tolerably good thing. He didn't analyze the situation particularly, but he had an idea that eating on the barge was fun. The platform rocked gently, the air was crisp and keen, a smell of the pine woods came over the river, and Johnny felt pretty well. He thought this having charge of things all by himself was by no means bad.

"Whoosh!"

Born in the backwoods though he had been, Johnny did not at first recognize that sound—half grunt, half snort, and full of a terrible meaning. He sprang to his feet and looked up the bank. There, gazing down upon the pair on the platform, was a big black bear!

The beast looked fierce and hungry. The weather had been cold, and bears which had not gone into winter quarters were all savage. A yearling steer had been killed by one in the woods a few days before. The attention of the brute upon the bank seemed fixed upon the baby. There was something in its fierce eyes indicating that it had found just what it needed. If there was anything that would make a meal just to its taste that day it was baby—fat baby, about two years old. It gave another "whoosh!" and came lumbering down the bank.

For a moment Johnny stood panic-stricken; then instinctively he clutched the baby—that individual kicking and protesting wildly at being dragged away from luncheon—and stumbled toward the other end of the barge. As Johnny and the baby reached one end, the bear came down upon the other, and shuffled rapidly toward them. There was slight hope for the fleeing couple, at least for the baby. That personage seemed destined for a bear's dinner that day. Suddenly the bear hesitated. He had reached the remains of the dinner.

Part of what Johnny's mother had provided for the midday repast was bread and butter, plentifully besmeared with honey. If a bear, big or little, has one weakness in this world it is just honey. He will do for honey what a miser will do for gain, what a politician will do for office, what a lover will do for his sweetheart, what some women will do for dress. For that bear to pass that bread and honey was simply an impossibility. He would stop and devour it. It would take but a moment or two, and the baby could come afterward.

The boy gave a frightened glance behind him as he jumped off the platform and scrambled up the bank with the baby in his arms. He saw that the bear had paused, and a gleam of hope came to him. He put the baby down on its feet and started to run with it. But the baby was heavy; its legs besides being, as already remarked, very fat, were very short, and progress was not rapid. The bear, the boy knew, would not be occupied with the luncheon long. He reached the windlass where the mule had worked, and leaned pantingly against the post holding the cord by pulling which the weight was released from the top of the timbers on the barge. A wild idea of trying to climb the post with the baby came into his head. He looked up and noticed the cord.

Like a flash came to the terrified boy a great thought. If he dared only stop a moment! If he dared try to pull the cord as he had seen his father do and release the trigger which sustained the great weight! There was the bear right under it!

Even as this thought came to Johnny the bear looked up and growled. Johnny grabbed at the baby and started to run again, but the baby stumbled and rolled over into a little hollow with its fat legs sticking upward. In desperation Johnny jumped back and caught at the cord. He pulled with all his might, but the trigger at the top of the pile-driver sustained a great burden and the thing required more than Johnny's strength. "Come, baby, quick!" he cried. "Put your arm about me and lean back!" The young gentleman addressed had regained his feet again and was placid. He waddled up, put his arm about Johnny, and leaned back sturdily. The bear looked up again and growled, this time more earnestly. The luncheon was about finished. Johnny set his teeth and pulled again. The baby added, say, thirty pounds to the pull. It was just what was needed. There was a creak at the top of the pile-driver, and then—

"W-h-i-r-r! T-h-u-d!"

Six hundred pounds of iron dropped from a height of twenty-five feet on the small of the back of an elephant would finish him. It is more than enough for a bear. Over the river and through the forest went out one awful roar of brute agony, then all was still. A bear with its backbone broken and crushed down into its stomach is just as dead as a chipmunk would be under the same circumstances. For a moment the silence prevailed, to be followed by the yell of a healthy youngster in great distress. As the trigger yielded, Johnny and the baby had keeled heels over head backward into the soft moss, and Johnny had fallen on the baby.

The boy arose a little dazed, lifted the howling infant to its feet, and then looked toward the boat. The bear was there—crushed beneath the iron. From one side of the mass projected the animal's hind-quarters, from the other its front, and there were the glaring eyes and savage open jaws. It was enough. Johnny grabbed the baby and started for the house.

Johnny was perfectly convinced that the bear was dead, very dead, but he didn't propose to take any chances. He liked adventure, but he was satisfied with the quantity for one afternoon. He was young, but he knew when he had enough. He dragged the baby inside, bolted the door, and waited. At about six o'clock in the evening his father and mother returned. Johnny didn't have much to say when he opened the door and came out with the baby to meet them, but for a man of his size his chest protruded somewhat phenomenally. He told his story. His mother caught up the fat baby and kissed it. His father took him by the hand, and they went down and looked at the bear. Tears came in the man's eyes as he laid his hand on Johnny's head.

Along in January or February it was worth one's while to be up in Michigan where they were building a sawmill. It was worth one's while to note the appearance of a young man, nine years of age or thereabouts, who would saunter out of the log house along in the afternoon, advance toward the river, and then, with his legs spread wide apart, his hands in his pockets, and his hat stuck on the back of his head, stand on a small knoll and look down upon the spot where he killed a bear the day before Christmas. It was worth one's while to note the expression upon his countenance as he stood there and as he finally stalked away, whistling Yankee Doodle, with perhaps, a slight lack of precision, but with tremendous spirit and significance.



AT THE GREEN TREE CLUB

Tom Oldfield sat comfortably over his newspaper in his big chair at the Green Tree Club. He gave a good-natured swing of his shoulders, but heaved a sigh when he was told that two ladies desired to see him immediately on important business. The well-trained club servant, a colored man, gave the message with a knowing look, subdued by respectful sympathy.

Now, Tom Oldfield was well known for his gallantry, and no one had ever accused him of being disturbed over a call from ladies, under any circumstances, but all had not yet learned what was the sad, sincere truth, that Mr. Oldfield decidedly objected to any interruption when he was smoking his after-breakfast cigar and glancing over the news of the day. While engaged in this business Mr. Oldfield insisted upon a measure of quiet and self-concentration. When it was over he was ready to meet the rest of the world—and not before.

And so he sighed and made his moan to himself as he took his eyes from the column of The Daily Warwhoop, and bade Joseph show the ladies to the club library, his pet loafing place, not only despite of, but because of the fact that it was open to visitors and much frequented by club members at all hours. Tom Oldfield was a genial and companionable soul.

His welcoming smile faded as his kindly eyes took in the advancing group. Led by Joseph in a most deferential, not to say deprecating, manner, the two ladies slowly crossed the big room, and came around the great table to the chair set for them near Mr. Oldfield's accepted harbor in the club rooms.

One of the visitors was a middle-aged woman of much elegance of figure, and with a face the outlines of which were beautiful, while its expression of discontent, accentuated by lines of worry, made its owner distinctly unattractive. She was clothed in all the glory of richly exaggerated plainness and in the latest fashion for morning walking dress. Her daughter, simply the beautiful mother over again without the disagreeable expression, though her young face was clouded by grief and concern, was the other caller. Joseph announced the names of the fair interlopers, and Oldfield groaned inwardly as he heard them.

"Mrs. and Miss Chester, Mr. Oldfield," said Joseph, with a low and sweeping Ethiopian bow, and after the ladies were seated he withdrew, not before casting upon Oldfield, however, a significant glance.

Oldfield was slow to seat himself again, after his greeting to his guests. Manifestly, he thought, his easy chair would not do for him during the coming interview. He selected a high-backed cane-seat chair from those around the writing table, and as he had already twice said, "Good morning, Mrs. Chester," and "I am very glad to meet you"—the last being a wicked perversion of his real emotions—he waited for the party of the second part to open the business of the meeting.

"We have come to you—and hope you will pardon us for troubling you, Mr. Oldfield—"

The club man saw that Mrs. Chester was not going to cry, and took courage.

"We need your help," the lady continued, "and we are sure you will give it to us."

"I shall be very glad if I can in any way assist or oblige you, Mrs. Chester," Oldfield assured the elder lady, while he looked determinedly away from the younger one, who, he was positive, was getting ready to cry. "What do you want me to do? Ned isn't in any trouble is he?" This was going straight to the point, as Mr. Oldfield knew full well.

Of course, Ned Chester was at the bottom of this spectacular disturbance of his morning. It might as well be out and over the sooner.

"Oh! Mr. Oldfield," cried the daughter, "have you seen papa?"

She was bound to cry, if she hadn't already begun. Oldfield was sure of it.

"Catherine!" expostulated the girl's mother, and Oldfield noticed the sharp acrimony of voice and gesture. "Mr. Oldfield," she softened as she addressed him, but there was a hardness about her every feature and expression, "my husband has not been seen nor heard from since last Sunday, when he left home, and I am almost distracted."

"And we have waited until we can bear it no longer. This is Friday—it is almost a week," broke in the girl, ignoring her mother's protesting wave of the hand and angry glance.

"Oh, he's all right," asserted Oldfield. "Don't worry. We will find him at once; I'm sure some one in the club will know all about him. You have, of course, inquired at his office?"

"Yes, and no one there knows anything about him. His letters lie unopened on his desk; he has not been there since Saturday."

There was no occasion for all this fencing. The heaven's truth, known to all three, was that Ned Chester was away on a symmetrical and gigantic spree, according to his custom once or twice a year.

Oldfield, looking straight at Mrs. Chester's slightly bent brow, said, quietly, "I have known Ned Chester for twenty years; it is no new thing for him to be away for a day or a night occasionally, is it?"

"No," replied the poor wife, "but he has never stayed so long before, and I know something has happened—he has been hurt, may be killed. We must find him!"

"You say he left home Sunday?"

"Yes, Sunday evening. He left in a fit of anger over some little thing, and now—"

She was dangerously near breaking down, and Oldfield could plainly hear smothered sobs beside him on the side of his chair toward which he chose not to look.

"I will inquire," he said, hopefully, "and I know I can find him almost immediately. Nothing has happened to hurt him. Sit here a moment and wait for me."

Just outside the door Oldfield met Joseph. "Well, where is he?" he asked.

"Mr. Oldfield, I tell you Mr. Chester has on a most awful jag, and he fell and almost split open his skull Tuesday morning, and I've had him over at the Barrett House ever since. The doctor has patched him up, but he ain't fit to be seen, not by ladies."

"Pretty nervous, is he?"

"Nervous! Why, he's just missed snakes this time, that's all!"

"Oh, nonsense! He's not so bad as that; but I must go and see him. When did you see him last?"

"Stayed all night with him, sir, and left him quite easy this morning. Don't let the ladies see him, Mr. Oldfield; it would break him up."

"Break him up! What do you think about their own feelings!"

"Well, you see, he is dreading to go home, and to see her walk right in on him would break him all up. It would so! He would have 'em sure then."

"Joseph, you've got sense. Take this for any little thing you may need," said Oldfield, as he put a green colored piece of paper in Joseph's hand, and turned back into the library where the waiting women sat.

"Your father is safe, Miss Chester," he said, softly to the pale, anxious daughter, who ran to meet him; "you shall see him soon. I will tell your mother all about it."

Miss Chester, expressing great relief, and, giving Oldfield her hand, sat obediently down to the illustrated books and magazines he handed her. She was quite out of earshot of the place where her mother sat impatiently waiting for news.

"Your husband is all right, Mrs. Chester. He has met with a slight accident, but is under a doctor's care at the Barrett House. I will go to see him. Without doubt he will be able to go home in a day or two."

The wife nearly lost self-control, but as Oldfield talked on, reassuring her of her husband's safety, she gradually became calm, and then the look of settled hardness came back into her face.

"What shall I do?" she burst out. "How can I go on in such shame and agony year after year? You're an old friend of Ned's, Mr. Oldfield—excuse me—perhaps you can advise me."

"I want to," answered Oldfield, promptly. "But will you hear me without becoming angry?"

"Certainly! I will be thankful for your advice, Mr. Oldfield."

The man had a certain hardness in his own look now.

"Let us sit down by this window. There, you look comfortable. Now, let's see—oh, yes, I remember where I wanted to begin. Ned is one of those fellows who find Sunday a bad day—and holidays. I've heard him say often how he hated holidays; and it's then, or on a Sunday, that he goes off on these drinking bouts, isn't it?"

"Yes," gasped the astonished woman. This cool, practical way of looking at the trial of her life was strange to her; she found it hard to adjust herself to the situation.

"He's a hard-working man, is Ned, a regular toiler and moiler. When he is at work he is all right, or when he is at play, so far as that goes. He is never so happy and so entirely himself as when he is among congenial friends, unless it is when over a good book, or off hunting or fishing. These crazy drinking spells come on at Christmas or Thanksgiving time, or on some Sunday, when he is at home with his family."

Mrs. Chester's face had flushed painfully. Not seeming to notice her agitation, Oldfield continued: "You remarked, did you not, that Ned left home in anger Sunday evening. Pardon me, since I have said so much already, was there some argument or contention in the house—between you and Ned, for instance?"

"It was a little quarrel, nothing serious," faltered Mrs. Chester.

"I don't want to hear about it," said Oldfield, hurriedly, himself much embarrassed, and inwardly fuming over himself as a colossal idiot for entering upon such a conversation. "I only want you to think for a minute about the last hour or two Sunday evening before Ned left home. No doubt he was to blame for whatever that was unpleasant, not a doubt; but since you ask me for advice, can't you think of some way to make Sundays and holidays endurable to Ned, bless his big heart! Be a little easy on him, a little careless about his ways. Ned is such a simple fellow! Hard words, irony and sarcasm, complainings and scoldings cut him very deeply! Don't be offended, but don't you think that perhaps you could manage it to somehow keep Ned from flinging out of the house desperate and foolish every once in a while, on some Sunday or holiday? I'll tell you! Begin early—begin sometimes before he is awake—to get things ready, and keep them going so that Ned won't start out, a reckless, emotional maniac before nightfall!"

Oldfield paused, struck by his own earnestness and plain speaking, and somewhat scared.

Mrs. Chester arose, and Oldfield's heart ached for her. "Madame," he said, "any man who leaves wife and child to worry over him for days while he carouses is to an extent a brute. There is no comprehensive excuse for him. But when one is living with, and intends to go on living with a man who at times becomes such a brute, it is as well to know and acknowledge his weak points, and forbear to press him too far, even in the best cause, even when you are perfectly right, as I am sure you always are, for example. But let us come back to our original topic of conversation. I am afraid you cannot see Ned to-day. I will call upon him, and then telephone you his exact condition, telling you if he needs anything. And to-morrow, after the doctor has made his morning visit, I will send you another message. Ned will be all right and at home in a day or two.

"In the mean time you might think over what I have said to you, and make up your mind whether I am right or not. About what, you ask, Miss Chester? Oh! only some nonsense I have been talking to your mother, a sort of theory of mine with which she has no patience, I can see. Good-by, ladies—no, don't waste time thanking me; I am glad if I have been of any use. Good-by."

He bowed them into the elevator, and slowly drifted back into the club library. "Of all fools I am the prize fool!" he murmured to himself. And he called Joseph, and with him set forth to the Barrett House to see Ned Chester.



THE RAIN-MAKER

John Gray, civil engineer, good looking and aged twenty-eight, was engaged in the service of the United States of America. He had, upon emerging from college, been fortunate enough to secure a place among the new graduates who are utilized in making what is called the "lake survey," that is, the work upon the great inland seas we designate as lakes, and had finally from that drifted into work for the Agricultural Department—a department which, though latest established, is bound, with its force for good upon this great producing continent, to rank eventually with any place in the cabinet of the President. In the Agricultural Department John Gray, being clever and a hard worker, had risen rapidly, and had finally been appointed assistant to the ranking official whose duty it was to visit certain arid regions of Arizona and there seek by scientific methods to produce a sudden rainfall over parched areas, and so make the desert blossom as the rose.

Mr. John Gray went with the expedition, and distinguished himself from the beginning. He could endure hard work; he was a good civil engineer and comprehended the theory upon which his superiors were working, and above all, he was an enthusiast in the thing they were undertaking, and had independent devices of his own, to be submitted at the proper time, for the attainment of certain mechanical ends which had puzzled the pundits at Washington. He had ideas as to how should be flown the new form of kite which should carry into the upper depths explosives to shatter and compress the atmosphere and produce the condensation which makes rain, just as concussions from below—as after the cannonading of a great battle—produce the same effect. He had fancies about a lot of things connected with the work of the rain-making expedition, and his fancies were practicalities. He proved invaluable to his superiors in office when came the experiments the reports of which at first declared that rain-making was a success, and later admitted something to the contrary.

There had been, as all the world knows, certain experiments of the government rain-makers followed by rains, and certain experiments after which the earth had remained as parched and the sky as brazen as before. The one successful experiment had, as it chanced, been conducted under Mr. Gray's personal and ardent supervision. He had overseen the flying of the kites, the impudent invasion of the upper depths when a button was touched, and then he had seen the white cumulus clouds gather and become nimbus, followed by a brief rainfall upon a hot and yellow land. He had felt as Moses may have felt when he smote the rock, as De Lesseps may have felt when he brought the seas together. He thought one of the man-helping problems of the ages almost solved.

So far John Gray, civil engineer in the service of the Government, had been lost in his avocation. He saw no flower beside his path; he dreamed of no woman he had known. But there came a change, for which he was not responsible. There was delay in the shipping of additional supplies needed for the expedition's work—as there usually is delay and bad management in whatever is intrusted to certain encrusted bureaus in Washington—and in the interval, with nothing to do, this civil engineer spent necessarily most of his time in the little town about the railroad station, and there fell in love. It was an odd location for such luxury or risk as the one denned; but the thing happened. John Gray fell in love, and fell far.

Arizona is said, by its present inhabitants, to have a climate which makes the faces of women wonderfully fair, given a face whose features are not distorted to start with. This assertion may be attributed rather to territorial pride than to conviction; but it doesn't matter. There was assuredly one pretty girl in Cougarville, and Gray had begun to feel a more than passing interest in her. He had even gone so far in his meditations as to conceive the idea of taking her East with him when he went back (he had laid up a little money), and though he had not yet suggested this to the young lady, he felt reasonably confident. She had been with him much and seemed very fond of him. Once he had kissed her at the door. Certainly he was fond of her.

The little town upon the railroad was not new, and Miss Fleming belonged to one of the old families of the place—that is, her father had come there at least twenty-five years ago. He had mined and dealt in timber and taken tie contracts, and was now considered as fairly ranking among the twenty-five or thirty "warm" men of the place. There were castes in Cougarville, and the society made up of these families was exclusive. Their parties in town were as select as their picnics in the foothills, and the foothill picnics were the occasions where Cougarville society really came out. It was a foothill picnic which brought an end to all relations between John Gray and Miss Molly Fleming. It came about in this way.

There had been a party in Cougarville, and Gray, finally abandoning himself to all the risk of falling in love and marrying this flower of the frontier, had committed himself deeply. He had declared himself. The girl was reserved, but beaming. He had to leave his apparently more than half-acquiescent inamorata to whom he was an escort. At 11 P.M. he left her temporarily in charge of one Muggles, the curled darling and easily most imposing clerk among all those employed in the big "emporium" of the frontier town. He felt safe. Such a character as Molly Fleming could never be attracted by such a person as that scented floor-walker, even if he did chance to have a small interest in the concern and reasonably good prospects. He left them with equanimity; he saw them together an hour later with just a shade of apprehension. They seemed to understand each other too well, and their eyes, as they looked each into the other's face, seemed a trifle too soulful and trusting. He asked Miss Fleming on the way home if she would go with him to the picnic to be held in the wooded foothills on the following day. She laughed in his face, and said she was going with Mr. Muggles. He saw it all. Civil engineering and devotion had been cast over for a general store interest, home relatives, Muggles, and devotion. He was jilted.

The reflections of John Gray that night, described by colors, may be referred to as simply green and red—green for jealousy, red for vengeance. He slept and had nightmares, and waked and made plans. It was an awful night for him. But as morning came and his head cleared, the instinct of jealousy lessened and that of vengeance increased. He arose in the morning a more or less dangerous human being.

The picnic had no attraction for John Gray. He attended to business about the headquarters of the expedition, and when noon came sat aside and brooded. He thought to himself, "They are up there together, and she has discarded me for this storekeeper, who knows nothing save how to make close little trades and make and save money." Then a new and broader range of thought came to him: "She is but following the instinct of her family. Blood will tell. Both her father and mother are below the grade which means the average of my own kind. She will in time show her blood, who ever may marry her. That is the law of nature." This encouraged him.

As his reasoning process became more smooth and true, he realized what an escape he had had, and then, as he reviewed the story of the past months, his desire for "evening up" things grew. It was low and mean, he knew, but that made no difference. He must get even.

He thought over the situation. There they were, the elite of Cougarville, up in a canyon of the foothills, beside a creek, where were trees and turf and picturesque rocks, and were having a good time. Muggles and Molly had no doubt withdrawn from the mass of picnickers, and were billing and cooing together. His veins burned at the thought. Oh, for some means of settling them! Then came an inspiration to him!

Gray's superior was away, but there had come to hand at last all the material necessary for a renewed experiment. He had the kites, the explosives, and the assistants. He had authority to act should his superior not return on time. His superior was not on time. Was it not more than his inclination but really his duty to try to make rain at once, and in the particular locality just suited in his judgment for securing an effect? As to the locality, there was no doubt. It was up the foothills a mile or two above, and just beside the valley in which were the picnickers. The men about the post were summoned, burros were loaded, and at 2 P.M. the whole rain-making force was far up the foothills unloading and preparing to fly gigantic kites and explode in the upper vaults of the atmosphere bombs and rockets and all sorts of things to make a rainstorm.

All went well. The wind was right, and the huge kites, bomb-laden, climbed into the sky like vultures. The electric wires were in order, and when at last the buttons were touched and the explosion came, it seemed as if the very vaults of heaven were riven. It was a great success. Gray, elated and hopeful, but not fully assured, stood and watched and waited.

He did not have to wait long. Not far to the north in the hard blue sky suddenly appeared a little dab of woolly white. Another showed in the east. They showed all about, and grew and grew in size until they became great, over-toppling, blending mountains, a new and mysterious world against the sky. Then came a darkening of the mass. The cumulus was changing to the nimbus. Then came a distant rumble, and, preceding another, a great blaze of lightning went across the zenith. To those in the region the world darkened. A mountain thunderstorm was on.

The darkness increased; the clouds hung lower and lower, the lightning flashed more frequently and fiercely, and finally the flood-gates of the clouds were opened and the rain fell with such denseness that the mass of drops made literal sheets. The little brooks were filled, and tumbled into the creek which ran down the canyon where were the picnickers. Bred in the region, the picnickers knew what such a flood meant, and with the first sound of thunder had clambered up the canyon side, where they sat unsheltered and awaiting events. The very first downpour wetted every young man and woman to the bone and filled thin boots with water. The worst of it was that they had not yet eaten. They had brought up with them two burros laden with supplies, and two mule teams, which had dragged them up into the wooded elysium beside the tumbling creek of the canyon. When the storm gathered it was at a moment when the burros stood, still unloaded, and the mules attached to the two wagons still unhitched. They, the four-footed things, knew what the thunder and the darkness meant. They knew, somehow, that the upper canyon was no place for them, and, reasoning in the four-footed way, they exercised the limbs they had, obeying the orders of such brains as they owned, and gathering themselves together for independent action, went down the canyon clatteringly in a bunch.

Foodless and scared, the picnickers huddled far up the little canyon's side and sat awed and watchful as the lightning flashed about them and the waters rose beneath them. The torrent of rain loosened the soil above, and they were so drenched in clay-colored water coming down, and sat so still beneath it, that they looked like cheap terra cotta images.

Suddenly the thunder ceased, the rainfall ended, and this particular slight area of Arizona was Arizona again. The power of the rain-maker was limited. Through four yellow miles of yellow muck, beside a temporarily yellow stream, waded for hours wearily a dreadful picnic party, seeking in disgust the town of Cougarville. They reached their separate homes somehow, and washed and went to bed.

In the Cougarville Screamer of the following morning appeared a graphic account of the great exploit of "Professor" Gray, of the Department of Agriculture, who on the preceding day had, after taking his force into the foothills and utilizing the means at his command, attained the greatest rainfall of the season. Of course it was to be regretted that a picnic including the elite of Cougarville was in progress beside the creek of the canyon alongside which Professor Gray operated, but scientists could not be expected to know anything of social functions, and all was for the best. One of the mules and one of the burros had been recovered. It was a great day for Cougarville. "Now," concluded the account, "since the means for irrigation are assured, the valleys about our promising city will bloom eternally fresh, and no one doubts the location of the metropolis of the region."