Evening Star Newspaper, January 20, 1894, Page 13

THE DALLES, COLUMBIA RIVER. THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JANUARY 20, 1894-TWENTY PAGES. KING OF GAME FISH. The Noble Salmon of the Columbia River. HE ISGOING THE WAY OF THE BUFFALO Caught by the Thousands in In- human Wheels. MAY VERY SOON BE EXTINCT. ‘Written Expressly for The Evening Star. AR OUT BEYOND Nebraska's mighty plains—where but late was wont to roam the king of American beasts—lies the Co- lumbia’s scenic land; known still to fame sportsman something of the keen delights of spearing ® chinook or a steelhead, to say nothing of the pleasures of landing a blueback, even if be doesn’t know that their scientific mames, the oncorbynchus choncia and the salmo gairdueri, are nearly as large as themselves. But few of us seem to realize that the salmon is in the same danger that overtook the buffalo, and that, unless their senseless slaughter be retarded, they will become ex- tinct. Unlike the buffalo, the salmon has mo means of protection afforded him by mature, and he can be murdered by ma- ehinery, a thing that was not resorted to on the land. Fortunately the salmon’s enemies are not as numerous as were those of the buffalo, but they are more wanton and less merci- ful. There is not even the excuse of the savage who shot down half a herd of hoof and horn and found something of brutal satisfaction in the spectacle. The salmon’s enemies has no eyes to see the havoc he works in his way, but he has more arms than Briareus to work it with. He is a monster of wood and wire, senseless and sordid, and, though controlled by man in a measure, once set in operation is no more within man’s government than is the guil- lotine when defectively constructed. And yet from the Dalles to the stately Palisades these insensate monsters go unchecked, staining the queenly Columbia with their victims’ mangled flesh and defiling the stateliest streams in all America with thar It is but just to say that only sportsmen see this shame to its full extent and that valuable commercial considerations seem to the short-sighted fishermen to be depen- dent upon their persistence in their use of the inhuman wheels. Four years ago the writer protested to the general government only to learn that the protection of the river fisheries of tne United States, being dependent upon the ordinarily defective laws of the several states, nothing could be done even by Mr. Marshall MacDonald, tish commissioner of the United States. It was and is, however, the opinion of the fish commission that the use of fish wheels in the taking of salmon ought to be prohibited, as they not only maim hun- Greds of fish unfit for food, but being operated on the upper reaches of the river near the spawning grounds, they capture thousands of fish who have escaped the nets lower down. The destruction of one such female fish means the loss of hundreds of eggs. When tal and uns; like method of Kill- ing God's creatures. But there in their worst form and fashion stand the fish wheels. “Number forty,” the very worst on the river, is clean and harmless enough externally, but no more sickening sight toa sportsman could exist than is discovered within. Just about Bonneville and vicinity the fish wheels simply swarm and the writ- er could but call to mind the cordial hat- red of them expressed one day in the ter- rible blizzard of 'S8 by the heroic Conductor Lyons of the Oregon Railway and Naviga- tion Company, on whose train I was try- ing to travel on to San Francisco by this route. A man who runs a fish wheel and a train wrecker were ut alike in Lyons’ opinion, and as Lyot ideas are entitled to the weight of those of a man who saved some forty lives at the peril of his own that winter they are cordially shared by brave men everywhere. ‘That the fish wheel is not a necessity for those who follow Simon Petres’ profession for a living is shown all along the lower reaches of the river. Both the stake and draw seines are used successfully, whiie the sportsman with a landing net, in ad- dition to his gaff and rod and line, can en- joy the grandest possible pastime with less to annoy and more to enjoy than in any other American waters. Of course, a stur- geon may be now and then encountered, even in the upper stretches of the river, but this adds to the zest of the sport. - pound salmon is no small game, either. At Kinneys, near Astoria, in Oregon, they fre- quently catch them this size. Such fish, of course, never leave the lower waters of the river. They are safe from fish wheels and such snares and there is something regal in their abnegation as they lie on the wharves at Astoria, in season, before they are taken way to be canned. There is no more splen- did spot on fhe river either than this same Astoria, rich as it is with recollections of the great estate, the foundations of whose fortunes were laid there, and the scene of Washington Irving’s thereof. picturesque account A Fast Wheel. They are cosmopolitrns of the worst class to be found there during the fishing times, but they have energy enough to set seines and not to resort to the wheel of torture. They realize that, like Othello, their occupation will soon be gone if the fish do not spawn in season, and they would be among the very first to advocate the surest salvation for our salmon—the calling together of an interstate commis- sion with powers to act in framing an ef- fective law against the use of wheels, providing for a uniform season in all the states, regulating the catch or cannery for a few years and the providing for in- creased propagating facilities both at the McCloud and C! stations. The United States commission did some good work in July, 1887, on the grounds above Astoria, but there is room for more. As the commission has itself said, “pro- tective culture is easier than artificial cul- ture.” It is cheaper to save our salmon fisheries from destruction than to be obliged to restore them. Such a restoration ‘would require years of toil and millions of money. In the meantime the cost of salmon as an article for food would far exceed any ordi- Bary means as Scotland could not begin to herself. The sportsman would be robbed of his rights and a sport which no less an au- thority than Earl Dufferin said to the writer he considered only a little less thrill- ing hunting the tiger when the tiger is also hunting you, would be gone from our day and generation, and, perhaps, forever. Even my half-breed Indian guide, Pierre Loti, with whom I have thus fished, “where rolls the Oregon and gives no sound”— would protest against such a possibility did he understand its proximity. We who have noted the experiencé of Norway must, how- ever, so understand and it is the part of common prudence to act in the defense of ourselves and of posterity, as well as of our right royal king game fish and his Oregon friends. — oo ____ THE CAMEL IN AMERICA. Am Attempt to Naturalize the Animal im This Country Years Ago. From the Rider and Driver. The introduction of camel riding at the world’s fair enabled visitors to acquire a knowledge of the peculiarities of the “ships of the desert,” such as they could not have obtained except by a trip to the Orient. Doubtless there has been many a regret expressed that the experience named was necessarily so short and incidental; that, with the departure of the Cairo camels, camel riding in America would only be a world’s fair memory. It therefore seems to be one of those things not generally known that the camel has been—if not now—an actually natural- ized citizen of the United States. This is, however, a fact known to a few. About a year ago ii went the rounds that “Gustav Bender of Texas informs the pub- Me that in the wilds of Arizona sixty cam- els are roaming about at their ease, or rath- er would be if they were not kept on thejump it is seen that the government is able to|>¥ the cow punchers, who use them for afford but two stations on the west coast for the maintenance of the salmon, the one on the McCloud in California, the other on the Littie Clackamas, an Oregon tributary of the Willamette, and that the average number of egss taken at the Oregon sta- tion is only about tive million per annum, Gecadence of the upper Columbia fisheries would seem to be painfully near. As a matter of fact it has begun. Four years ago splendid fishing existea everywhere along the upper portions of the river. Now it is becoming rare. The fish are thoroughly frishtened and even that most patient cf anglers, my Chinese friend, Wing, finds the still water sport of the tamest. In order to understand just how tame my celestial friend found it, he should be seen iike the prehistoric “ump on a log” at Rooster Rock, where Some superb fifty-pounders have been speared; with a half dozen “sprats” as he calls them, beside him. Then one should watch the splendid formed Indians from Umatilla and nearby as they stand at “the eels” on their sway- ing platforms, ready to spear a swift-seud- fing chinook, or lower down stream, with ever-ready balanced div net, watching the foam for “a racer.” The Indian has the sport as it ought to be—the Chinaman as it son will become. Following the river down te the cascades. one can see the cause of what our celestial friend feels in effect. it s wonder to us as we view the effulgent smiendor of the scene that men are not by so close a communion with visible forms of nature into a less bru- practice targets.” These are relics of an attempted naturalization of the animal, made forty years ago for use in the arid regions. About 1852 the problem of the transporta- tion of army suppiies became such a serious one that the War Department recommended such an attempt. Some time elapsed before the necessary animals could be secured. Their first successful employment, so far as can be learned, was in 1857, when a train of camels conveyed the stores and baggage of a surveying party locating a wagon road between Santa Fe and Califor- nia. This first trial was attended with uch good results that some time after one hundred and fifty camels were imported for use in the southwest, and as late as 1876 a camel train was in operation be- tween Yuma and Tucson, Arizona. The camels throve well and did their work sat- isfactorily, “but the hostility of the team- sters soon thinned their number, and their use was further rendered unnecessary by the spread of the railroads.” We also read that it was “found that the pebbles and boulders were too severe for their feet, and that, while doing very well on the sandy desert, as soon as they reach- ed the foothills their feet became so sore that they were unable to travel, and fin- ally were turned loose to take care of them- selves. Indian superstition protected them against native hostility, so that they in- creased to over a hundred head.” Then they began to be a source of annoyance to proprietors of ranches on account of the fear displayed by the horses, who have a natural antipathy to that animal. After that the killing began. Such are some of the reminiscences of the naturalization of this animal in this coun- try. Some time ago we discovered the follow- ing, given in the Zoologist of London, June, as to the introduction of the camel into America: “On a farm in the state of Nevada, near the river Larson, there is a troupe of twenty-six camels, all of which, with the exception of two, have been reared there. A few years ago nine of these ani- mals were imported irto America, but only two survived, and these two, being fortu- nately a male and female, have produced twenty-four—ten of which are now alive. The soll is ‘sandy and sterile in the ex- treme,’ and the animals thrive weil, al- though their only food consists of ‘the prickly leaves of a small shrub’ and bitter herbs which cattle will not touch. They are employed to carry merchandise and per- form considerable journeys across a very barren country.” FOR INDOOR WEAR. Artistic Conceits in Smoking Jackets id House Robes. Frem the New York Herald. The charge that American gentlemen are too somber in their dress cannot truthfully be made respecting their modes in house wear. The garment which takes the place of the business or dress coat when it is laid aside for an evening at home is bright or rich in coloring, fancy in the finish and comfort giving in the fit. Time was when such a garment was looked upon as | an extravagant luxury, indulged in only by rich students, bondholders or dudes; but lounge coats and smoking jackets can be obtained so easily nowadays that the man) who does not own one or more is the ex: | ception to the rule. | A smoking jacket recently imported from Japan for a distinguished dresser of this city was composed entirely of pure silk, with satin-lined sleeves, which, by the way, “er were inserted in this city by the man’s tailor. The ‘nside of this gorgeous and ex- pensive garment was a very bright red; the outside a rich brown. The quilting was all done by hand. Frogs also of pure silk, formed the fasteners. An excedingly handsome design in a “swell” lounge coat is shown in cut No. 1, made of tricot cloth. It is soft and yield- ing, enabling the wearer to loll about with- cut the danger of marring its beauty. At the same time it presents, by reason of its superior finish and rich quilting, an air of distinction. Fashion inclines to this sort of house coat more than to the handsomer but less comfortable conceptions in silk or vel- vet. As ® relief from the rounded-off style ts the square cut finish shown in No. 2. The straight, formal cut is robbed of its se- verity by the almost effeminate character of the quilting and general finish. This garment is composed of velvet, in some rich, deep shade, dark blue being particu- larly favored just now. ‘The silk facing and lining are in a lighter color, contrast- ing strongly with the outer hue. The frogs are of the same color as the velvet, while the cuffs and pockets agree in material and shade with the inside of the jacket. But No. 3 may look like a tennis coat, but is a vastly different sort of an affair. It is plump and warm, and resembles the old-time lawn coat in the gayly colored down stripes only. The material is eider- down, in white, which sets off the brilliant colors in the stripes to excellent advan- fe. The fad ts to have the colors of your college alternating in stripes. A single frog forms the fastening. Among the late comers in office coats is the one depicted in cut No. 4. This is of Jersey cloth, with just enough stretch to make it comfortable. The old time cardi- gan and similar cumbersome jackets have been entirely displaced by these cosy yet stylish -looking Jersey coats. They are made perfectly plain and have deep out- side pockets. Swell smoking jackets from London are of soft wool, with plaid patterns, some of them loud enough to wake the neighbors, but the effect which the best dressers affect are neat mixtures in browns, grays and blacks, with here and there a little dash of red. Goods of this class are not lined, and are made up without any attempt at fan- ciful effects. In other words, there are no frills on the swell English smoking jacket. Another novelty in home wear is the robe Mlustrated in cut No, 5. This is a gorgeous venture. The colors employed in the pat- tern, which is on the Persian order, are well nigh endless in their variety. The binding, girdie and tassel are of pure silk, in @ bright color. Reaching almost to the feet, with its great wealth of beautiful tone colors, changing according to the light in which the wearer stands, this Persian garment is certainly a stunning article, and has already worked its way into the wardrobes of the fashionable fellows. Other late styles in house robes are of plain and fancy flannels; also of dark cloths, In cut No. 6 we have a conceit in bath robes that has caught on well. Covering up the entire body, it protects it against chilling. Various sorts of materials are used in its making. Of these French flan- nel, terry cloth and Turkish toweling are preferable. The slippers worn with this wrap are made of the same goods. Some of the new patterns are exquisitely dainty; others have plain red or blue stripes. The single color stripe variety is the sort that goes best at the present time. But He Had Tested the Free Meal Ticket System Clear Through. From the Buffalo Express. A thin man, dressed in very old and very ragged clothes, stood on the corner of Washington and Exchange streets about 8 o'clock last evening and shivered. He looked cold. His face was pinched and drawn and his nose was blue. He accosted a well-dressed man who was coming down Washington street. “Please, boss,” he said, “will you kindly give me a few cents toward gettin’ some- thin’ t’ eat. I've bin two days without a thing passin’ my lips but water, an’ I’m weak an’ faint with hunger. Besides, I've walked the streets for t'ree days an’ I’m about dead.” The well-dressed man walked by and paid no attention to the plaint. The tramp look- ed after him and cursed under his breath. Then another well-dressed man came along and the tramp accosted him. “Say, boss,” he said, “I'm hungry. I ain’t eat in t’ree days. I’m out of work an’ I'm starvin’. Gimme a few cents to help me along an’ you'll never miss it.” The well-dressed man stopped. “What's that you say?” he asked sharply. The tramp took courage and he told his tale of woe again, embellishing it with sev- eral new and pathetic features. “Haven't eaten anything for three days, hey?” asked the well-dressed man. “No, I hain’t, boss, so help me. I hain’t had a thing since early Saturday mornin’. “Been in Buffalo all the time?” “Yessir. I bin right here, but they’s so many fellers like me that you can’t git nothin’.”” “How much will do you?” said the well- dressed man, fumbling in his vest pocket. The tramp’s face lighted up. “Anythin’ ve like, boss,” he replied, “only let it be big enuff t’ git me a meal.” The well-dressed man hesitated. He was lost in thought, apparently. Then he reach- ed into an inside pocket id pulled out a pocket book. The tramp’s eyes bulged out and he started forward. The well-dressed man opened the pocket book and took out @ square bit of pasteboard. The tramp held out his hand. “There,” said the well-dress- ed man, “I guess that will fix you.” “What is it, boss?” asked the tramp, eagerly. ‘Hain’t a check, is it?” “No, it’s a meal ticket.” ‘The tramp fell back. His face was the picture of disappointed hope. He shook his head. “Don’t you want it?” asked the well- dressed man. “Naw,” replied the tramp, “I don’t want i “But I thought you hadn’t eaten any- thing for three days.” The tramp smiled derisively. game of talk for t’ ketch gillies,” he said, as he started to move away. ‘“‘I’ings has cum t’ such a pass here dat you can’t git no money any more.” Then, as if moved by some sudden revulsion of feeling, he exclaimed: “Meal ticket? Wy, I got my pocket full ov ‘em. So’s every good fi: man in de town, an’ wese ail dyin’ fer sumptin’ t’ drink. Meal ticket? W’y, on a’ dead, boss, I got ad’ worse case ov dys- pepsy y’ ever see, all frum dem meal tickets, an’ de hull community of fly fellers is in de same fix.” And he moved off down the street brisk- at's my ly, leaving the well-dressed man staring after him in blank amazement. ANY PEOPLE wondered why Par- son Kimbro did not marry. For twenty years he had minis- tered to the spiritual interests of Chooga- ~ loo, of Short Bark, of the Long Ridge—rude settlements snugly stowed away amid the corrugated spurs of the North Carolina mountains. His spare form and severe features, bent over his shambling, one-eyed gray pony,had been a familiar sight to the wayfarers of that rugged region so long that even the “worldings” who scoffed at religious fervor and laughed at his antique, ascetic habits, would have missed the sight of him more than they cared to confess. He never asked pay for his work. If any chose to give, he accepted; if naught was forthcoming, he labored on ands gave no sign, except in prayerful confession that his labors were all too feeble—his unworthi- ness too great—for God's forbearance in al- lowing him to live, and love, and labor, and endure—among his chosen people. He was self-searching, narrow-minded, dogmatic, somewhat bigoted in doctrine, yet, some- how, lovable; caring, over all, less for his own comfort and success than for the eter- nal welfare of others. He lived in a smail house on Choogaloo creek, unattended, save by a half-witted young fellow called Pack, who cooked for him, and in his absence bothered the neigh- bors by his unexpected appearances and semi-idiotic chatter. One day there came a letter addressed in @ zig-zag hand to “Mr. Lem Kimbro.” The Parson took it from the office at Tor- mey’s store and placed it carefully in his hat. After supper that night, with his pipe alight, his legs stretched before the fire and Pack snoring in bed, he opened and read it. Though deemed “terrible smart” by many of his flock, he was almost as a babe in the wilderness, amid the intrica- cies of pencraft. He deciphered each word slowly, with an effort that wrinkled his forehead and made his old eyes ache: “Deerfoot, texas janooerry forth, 188— Mister Lem Kimbro dear fr-nd. I takes my pen in hand tu let yu no 1 am well and hopin these fu lines will find yu the same. 1 am cummin back home agin I am tirde ov livin out heer and 1 want you tu git the old house reddy fur me. I want yu tu du this fur the sake ov old times. from missis Arizony Adkins tu Mister Lem Kimbro at Chugylu Crick.” The Parson laid the letter down, pushed his glasses up and gazed musingiy on the fire. His brow, severely bent at first, grad- ually relaxed, and his lips—usually com- pressed and rigid—wreathed themselves into an expression almost tender and womanish. After awhile his face hardened again as he said, half aloud: “r ner why she di’n't make Mose write? She don’ ax nary word erbout Pack, ‘nd him her own born’d brother. "Nd yit— she mout think he wuz dead, ‘nd yit—ef she do, why di’n't she ax atter ‘Im, ‘an him all the livin’ kin she hev got ez I knows on?” He dismissed this query under the suc- ceeding influence of fonder retrospections. “She wuz mons‘ous pert ‘nd lively, she wuz, In them thar yurs of vanity I useter think the hull worl’ didn’ hol’ ‘ez takin’ a gal ez Arizony Farner. I 'memmer one time, at some Krismus doin’s down ter her pap's,when she w'u'dn’t let the old man b'ar xiss ‘er. Then I pulls up the head ‘nd tole ‘er ole man b’ar wuz Sandy Claws, ‘nd Sandy Claws wuz me; ‘nd she put up ‘er mouth ez nateral—jist ez nateral ez tho’ my a kissin’ of ‘er wuz w'at she'd all'ays egspected. ’Nd now Mose Adkins hey mar- ried ‘er yurs ‘nd yurs ago.” Could it be that somewhere in this early past lay the secret of Parson Kimbro’s present unwedded isolation? A preacher without a wife—Choogaloo did not approve of it, and had often reminded him of his deficiency in that respect. He now re- proached himself for giving way to these reminiscences of his unregenerate past. “I'm afeerd, when hit comes ter the reel pull, I yain’ got no more strenk nur back- bone ergin the devil than some o’ them thar Mefferdiss over at Short Bark; not but w’at they sorter tries in thur youn blin’ way ter git true grace, but when one starts out on the wrong trail, sech strivin’ is a gcod deal like mendin’ a smail hole by rip- pin’ a bigger one. However, they yain’ tiss, 'nd I reckin they can’t hope sech doin’s. The perversities of the Short Bark Metho- dists always made the Parson unamiable when he thought of them. He, therefore, withdrew from this stone-throwing into his own glass house, by saying, with true , wal; thurs wus Christyuns than Mefferdiss, ‘nd ef the hul troof wuz known, I’m afeerd I’m one on 'em sometimes. But Arizony Adkins now—why I hain’t heerd that much on ‘er before in a many a year. I mos’ wish she'd nuver writ, tho’ I reckin’ I’'se hatter look atter the house fur ‘er. I wonner ef she ever furgot how we—how I useter keer fur ‘er?” Here the Parson, as though ashamed of this reflection, rose abruptly, laid Arizony’s letter between the leaves of his Bible, care- fully “kivered up” the fire, and went to bed. There were various surmises on Chooga- loo creek as to the purport of Arizony’s proposed return. A few old ones chuckled a little over her writing to Parson Kimbro ly how he, when had fallen a willing fresh and blooming ‘Yhe generai inference was that beauty. Arizony and her husband must have had good luck in Texas, and were returning home to air their prosperity before the eyes of Choogaloo. Choogaloo did not object, though considering itself and its own ways as good as those of any one else. “I reckin the man she run’d off long of ‘nd married ‘nd ez tuk ’er out thar mus’ hev made a mint o’ money,” said Aunt Salomy Witt to her husband. Aunt Salomy was a leader of local gossip. The ‘Widder Stickney,” who had been one of Arizony’s schoolmates, wondered if Mose were yet alive. She remembered that she had “sorter sot ‘er own cap fur ‘im,” but had been cut out by Arizony’s super- for attractiveness. Though she had since acquired and buried two helpmates of her own, her vanity still lazily reproached her when she heard the news that now brought back so many memories of the past. The Parson—at first grumbling over the trouble of repairing the old Farner house, soon found a sad kind of pleasure in the as his mind bred reminiscent fancies that quickened tenderly under the congen- jal labor of his hands. “Pack,” he said, for the twentieth time, as that grinning aid handed up covering boards, while the Parson—on the roof—was stopping sundry leaks, “does ye know yere own born’d sister air a-comin’ back ter see er? YGack laughed and jabbered in a language peculiar to himself. “Wal, she is; ‘nd tho’ she didn’ edzacky say so in ‘er letter--I reckin Mose Adkins'll turn up erlong with ‘er. You'll be hevin’ go many rich relashuns a-pilin’ on ye,Pack, I’m afeerd ye won’ wanter be keepin’ house fur me much longer. Bit thass all eright, boy; ye’ve be’n master good, seein’ how leetle sense the Lord hev’ seen fittin’ ter bless ye with; 'nd I hope Arizony 'nd her man’ll do a better part by ye 'n I've reely be’n able to, all these yurs.” Pack again laughed, as though he viewed his own lack of sense solely in a humorous light, but ignored the allusion to Arizony ely. oe fool muttered the Parson, “I mout a knowed he w'u’dn't ‘memmer ‘er, when hits more’n he kin do at dinner ter tell w’at he cooked up fur breakfus. He wur master small 'nd puny, too, when Arizony rund erway long o’ that thar Mose. Here, Pack—you trot over ter the house ‘nd make fire fur dinner. I'll be er- long es soon ez I gits this chimley jam stopped up. To be shore—to be shore! A patchin’ up thish yer old cabin keeps my mind pestered long o’ them thar days ‘nd them thar noshuns. Somehow I cain't git sbet of ‘em. Hyur I is @ cooterin’ eround’ ole Farner's cabin fur Arizony, ez wuz ter @ married me, bit run’d erway long o’ Mose Adkins; ’nd now they’s both a comin’ back like ernuff with a remshun 0’ money. I don’ see ef thur so rich, w’at they wants ter patch up this ole’ shack fur. Perhaps hits ter ter on The Parson slowly slid down the roof, dropped to the ground and went inside. The aspect of the dingy room reminded him strongly of its past association with the early love dream of his Nfe—long stern- ly buried—yet, of late, stirring in its sepul- cher, despite his resolve and his self-repre- hension. A bed and some chairs had been brought over by kindly neighbors. The Parson, with a womanly care he felt half ashamed of, had taken from his own house bedding, dishes, and his only looking glass, with one of his two tables. ‘hey won't think much on ‘em, I reck- in,” he thought, “but they'll do ‘em twell tney hev time ter buy better ones. Lemme see! Wuz hit on that side of the fireplace ‘er on thish yur, ez I fus’ tole Arizony how I—wal—yes—how I keered fur her? I b'lieve she wuz a-settin’ thar—nd I wuz erbout hyur." The Parson placed himself on the identical spot, and one might have fancied he still saw some lingering sign of Arizony’s long vanished presence. “Hit wuz way over yonder, by the bed, ez she finally tole me yes; nd thar’s whur I hugged ‘nd kissed ‘er when old Farner com’d in 'nd ‘caught me. I wuz plum skeer’d, bit the old man, he unly larfed. Old Farner tuk ter me, he did, 'nd he nat’rally hated Mose. ‘Nd then— ‘nd then—” the Parson's tones, after all these yeers, shook a little, “the very nex’ night bit two atter that she run’d off long o’ Mose Adkins, ‘nd I hain’t seen er heerd of ‘er twell that thar letter. Hit air strange ez Mose didn’ write it.” He now stood silent—pondering—upon the very spot where, a quarter of a century before, he had told his love. For the time, the usually self-controlled preacher had van- ished—there was only a sad-faced, elderly = gently grieving over what might have n. A nolse of falling “draw bars” outside in- terrupted his reverie. Then steps, that sounded timid and hesitating, came across the yard, the door slowly opened, and a faded, worn-looking woman stood within. The Parson was behind a corner the fireplace; she did not at first see him. She looked fearfully around, as dreading some unwonted appearance, and closed the door behind her without turning. This rendered the Parson visible as he stood wondering, and a. well-worn satchel dropped from her hands as she ed the door latch in alarm. came a “I reckin yore a stranger erbout hyur?” he said. “Wat kin I do fur ye?” oe The woman, after another rapid glance around, replied: “I tho’t this—isn't this the old Farner house?” “To be shore—w’at thur air lef’ of it. We'uns hev be’n a-patchin’ it up a leetle fer Mose Adkins ’nd his wife, bit I mus’ "low hit ain't har’ly wuth the tr’uble. “Hit air all I hev lef’ now wuth comin’ to,” she said with a weary sigh, and—as her face turned sideways, while the window light sharpened a profile fair indeed, yet sorely accentuated by time and sufferiug- the Parson’s heart gave a great thro! lump after lump rose in his throat, blocking his utterance for a moment. Then he half whispered: “Arizony!” ‘The woman regarded him intently, and a wan smile parted her lips as she said: “Is that you—Lem Kimbro?” “Whar's Mose?" inquired the Parson, feel- ing incapable of adequately expressing his a of the forlornness of her arrival and looks. “Mose died three yur er more back. Didn’ you all hyur on it?” “How could we when you ‘uns never writ nuthin'?”" “I tole ’em ter write; bit ez I never got no answer, I just tho’t ye'd all never furguv the way me ‘nd Mose lef’ hyur, ‘nd I —— write no more ‘twell—twell I had er.”” “We'uns didn’ git no letter ez I riccorlick on,” he replied, ***twell ye writ tother day.” So this was Arizony—worn, faded, home- less, and alone—driven, doubtless by neces- sity rather than inclination, back to the home of her childhood. Had Parson Kimbro felt that the past still owed him satisfac- tion, he might have smiled at the slow re- venge of time. As it was, a deep sense of pity was sheathing his heart from selfish retrospection; and in contrasting what she had been with what she was now, his kindly so much loverlike as thom st enna so much loverlike as those of a it fora ere le ought to behold her ride still blooming and buxom—with Mose, whe would doubtless be weil preserved and pros- perous—both of them overflowing with good spirits and the lucre of the great west. He had dwelt upon their return as being more bright and dramatic than their flight had been dark and semi-tragic. Choogaloo would applaud,, and all ears be filled with cheering gossip of their strange career—ending gloriously where it had gloomily begun—at old Farner’s, who had —— Mose often enough in his own ‘etime. I see,” she sali do em twell they kin put up a bet- grasp- le at once after a somewhat op- pressive silence, you’uns did fix up a leetle for me. I knowed ye hed a kind heart, Lem, ‘nd that hoped me up ter send that thar letter. I didn’t know nary soul yelse ter trouble 'cepn’ you.” “Wal, wal, Arizony,” the Parson recov- ered his severe balance with an effort, “that wuz all right. We—that is, I—weren’t able ter do much. An ole bachler like me yain’ fittin’ ter do much in the way of house fixin’. But sech ez hit is—” he hesitated, yet resolved then and there that Arizony should keep these few things, though he had to secretly buy those not his own, “Ahem! such ez hit is—" aa" ye never married, then,” she said 'y. “No, Arizony; I tuk ter chin’, *nd somehow I didn’t keer ter. Marvin’ "nd sarvin’ the Lord didn’ seem ter work to- gether fer me after you left. Not bit w'at you did right, tho’, in takin’ the man ¢f yor own ch’ice. I hopes Mose wur good ter ye, Arizony. “I dunno—I reckin he tried to be—for a while—bit—I'm master tired, Lem—seems like I'll hatter to sit down.” She sank into a chair, while fhe Parson suddenly remembered that she: might be hungry. “Thass right,” he said, “res’ yorese’f a bit, "nd ‘member, yore in yore own house now. I'll sen Pack over with some dinner, ‘nd the womén folks ‘ll be a-commin’ in when they hyurs yore hyur. You hain’ furgot Pack, hev ye, Arizony?” “My poor brother! Whose be'n a-keerin’ ‘im all this yer time?” “He made out ter stay long o’ me atter yore pap died.” “Ah me! Lem Kimbro, yo've be'n a- heapin’ coals of fire on my sinful head fur yurs, ’nd I never knowed.” The Parson got out of the house hurried- ly, to prevent an open exposure of what he feared was an unwomanly show of sym- pathy. Arizony sat motionless for a long while, her face kindling with a gentle color, then slowly whitening, until it remained as though carved in marble. ‘When Choogaloo found out the real facts concerning Arizony’s.return, the general verdict was that time had served her right. There were a few sympathizers, but gossip is proverbially heartless, when her victims return upon fortune’s reluctant hands beg- gared and forlorn. Arizony, however, quietly settled down, went nowhere, and by the Parson’s tact much of her real destitution was veiled from the public eye. According to his resolve, the household goods—not his own—he bought somehow from their owners, en- couraging vague inferences that he was using Arizony’s money, then seitled with his conscience as best he could thereafter. She must have understood, yet she shrank from noticing it otherwise than by a kind of piteous forbearance of words when he was present, which her mournful eyes, fol- lowing him about, seemed to protest against, as though making plain that she knew and was thankful, yet dared not shock him by a more effusive show of gratitude. Pack stayed with her now, and during the Parson's frequent periods of absence the two supervised his household affairs and kept him tidier and more comfortable than ever. Pack accepted his long-lost sister like any other pleasing fact project- ing itself into his existence—us a matter to be grinned at, jabbered over and otherwise acceptable. “Wuz Mose good ter ye?” Parson Kimbro had asked at various times, but Arizony would usually return some evasive answer. One morning, when she was wash! down by the spring between their two houses, he noticed a long scar above her elbow. “How did that git thar?” he asked, slizh' ly shocked at such a sign on Arizony’s once t- plump arm, now so spare and brown. “I dunno’—seems like hit hev always be’n thar,” she said, regarding him pensively. “Hit weren't thar when you wuz a gal, wuz it?” “Wal, then—hit wur an accident, I reck- “An acciden’! Arizony, ef thar air eny- thin’ a b’arin’ on yur mind, ye hedn’ orter keep hit from me.” He was more like the old friend and would-be lover now than the sober Parson; but she put up one hand, saying: “What Mose, done it, but he wuz drunk. Thar now! Don’ deference kin hit make now? he ye make me say no more ergin "im—he'’s now. dead “No, no—pore child!—but I wish, Arizony—but no! Ye c'udn’ nuver think on me like ye onct did—afore Mose comed erlong—c'u'd ye? Seems like I wants ter take kyur on ye wus’n ever now.” warningly. “No, Lem Kimbro! I'm a-fearin’ hit’s too late,—everlas'ingly too late fer sech cz that now. Yore a preacher; yore luk’d up to, ‘nd the good Lord hev blessed ye—bit—me? What am I? I’ve made my bed ‘nd I mus’ He in it. Don’ ye tempt me. Don’ ye do yorese’f sech a onjestice. Let me live on . I've bro’t hit on myse’f, 'nd I don’ desarve no better. se’f. Bit ez fur you, Lem, bad onct, I’m too good a frien’ ter ye let ye saddle yorese’f with sech a wreck I hev gotter be now.” His protestations could not shake her res- Gossip—iike ywhall—gathers venom from tne very strength of the repu- tations it assails. The Parson had looked after poor Pack for years; this must have been subtly reprehensible all along, though Gossip had never reasoned it out before. Now he evidently looked after them both— he a single man and a minister. This was dou! wrong, though Gossip captiously falled tose that it might be worse to let them starve. Arizony—in her seclusion—soon had a hint as to how the tide was setting. One day the Parson ran over, after one of his monthly trips to Short Bark, with a sack of meal which, said he: “The bruthern jest made me kerry off, tho’ I've got more grist now on hand than I kin use afore hit sours.” hands, finally “Ye mus’n’t—ye mus'n’t,” she at sobbed forth. “Does you think I don’t know what hit all costs ye, ter be a-keerin’ fer me ‘nd borecgiien ys in money re phen | in sumpin’ durer ner money—yore own mame and kerrecter. I done ye one bad turn onct, when I wus young ‘nd foolish, bit Lord furbid ez I sh’u’d do ye ernother one!” do ye mean, e: “Why, thur a-tellin’ hit up ‘nd down that in lukin’ atter me 'nd Pack, ye 2 ey sez wus 'n that; ‘nd tho’ I yain a-keerin’ fur myse'f, i " She sighed—iooking so cot powws that his eyes grew ye. frail dim as he replied ene-getically: “Thar’s jest one right way ter put a stop ter all this yer tale beerin’ ’nd folly, ‘nd on- kindness. it yore bunnit, Arizony, ‘nd we'uns ‘ll ride over to Squire Gambie's. Thar’s no minister nur hyur, bit he'll do. When we gits back, we'uns ‘ll see if my nabors hain’ how dearly this faithful friend of her youth. “No, no!” she cried at length. “For yore own sake don’t ye tempt me. I'm not to her feel! curiosity, and be- gan to read. Parson Kimbro, watching her Ber look up presently: and fare ee up with smiles brightening her tears. “I @ruther see ye laugh than cry, Ari- zony,” he said quaintly, as he aeerich oe ye tho’t better on it?” him the a replied, giving ‘As he bent over it her whole face kindled, and a of color again touched her cheeks. It seemed as though Arizony were ero" The letter was from a lawyer in Waco, offering Mrs. Adkins $2,000 for a piece of long recorded there as the property of “You nuver sed nuthin erbout this,” said he, looking up inquiringly. “Why, the place wuz 80 poor me "nd Mose jist starved out on it, tho’ hit wuz powerful nur the town. We lef it yurs ergo, ‘nd I never lowd hit w’u'd be wuth much of any- The reflected. Arizony would now be quite well off, according to the Primitive ideas of Choogaloo. He himself was poor in comparison. If she had de- clined his offer before—though on generous, self-abnegative principles—was it likely she weuld want to marry him now? He was old, gray-headed, rich only in an eternal hope not of this world. He drew gently back, and his face saddened, though not unkindly, “Wal, Arizony,” he said, “I’m powerful glad of thish yer—fur yore sake—nd yit—” He hesitated. How could he give up this sweet revival of his youthful hope—this fresh rekindling of his early and only earthly love? Arizony—watchin; him— seemed to divine his thoughts. She st forward and stretched out her hand. “Lem,” she said, then looked down in sweet confusion, withdrawing her hand and twisting her fingers together awkwardly. “Perhaps I won't be such a burden to ye now, atter all—ef—ef—" “Arizony,” he cried, and gazed upon her as one fearing yet striving to understand. With another swift movement she buried her face in her hands for an instant, then looked at him. Ah! the eyes of these sad- faced mountain women! Though all else about them is trite and commonplace, a touch of the haven they wearily sigh for often glasses itself there at moments like these. The Parson read his dumb answer truly, and held out his arms. Arizony nestled there shrinkingly, yet fondly, and felt that the rest she had so long despaired of had come to her at last. Late that afternoon two of the deacons of the Choogaloo Baptist Church, coming up the road, saw Parson Kimbro and Ari- gony standing together before the minister's gate. They approached slowly, with sober faces and an air of em! ent. “Parson,” said Brother McJenkin, the sexior deacon of the church, “at our las’ church meetin’ ez wuz over ter the "nd Brother Spadden hyur was "pinted ter wait on ye ter—a—ahem!—wal, w'at we hev got- ter say, Parson, air fur yore y'urs erlone.” “Say on, bruthern,” returned the minis- ter. “I hev no secrets now fom Arizony yur.’ The two deacons exchanged glances, when Mr. McJenkin continued: “Parson, you hev be’n our shupp’rd fur yurs ‘nd yurs, ’nd we'uns air loth ter give ye up. The church hev prayed over ye, ‘nd waited on ye, hopin’ ye mout see the error inter which ye hev be'n a-fallin’.” “What error, bruthern? Come ter the I think I see w'at you air a-driv- “Yore bruthern demand that ye give up the companyunship of this woman hyur, ez a snare ‘nd a temptation ter yore soul, *nd a scannie ter the cause ye hev so long ‘nd faithfully upheld.” ‘The Parson felt Arizony’s clasp upon his arm tighten; it nerved him to yet greater plainness of speech, as he said solemnly: “Shall not a man cleave ter his wife be- ea—though men turn stammered the deacon, but the minister interrupted him sternly: “This woman is my wife—my beloved wife—tried by affliction, yet still pure and thera of Choogaioo ‘Church: bit, ef ye bruthern of 100 urch; bit, take not her unto your love and fellowship. ye take not me henceforth.” this day by Squire Gamble—‘n4, bruthern—I speak it in ‘ove ‘nd sadness—ef ye don’t like it—make the best er it on it, ez it pleases ye. Come, ae ey The Parson and his wife turned and walk- ed into the house, leaving the two deacons staring afters them, feeling that, after all, & fis Fs i He | lit i Fit METALLIC “ERUPTIONS” Ox ‘THE sun. Is the Matter Really Ejected or ts There Some Optical Mlusiont The light which we receive from the tt is generally conceded by astronomers, is emitted by a mixture of metallic vapors heated to incandescence and arranged in detached but closely associated clouds, im @ layer known as the “photosphere.” Out- side of it is a thin scarlet stratum, made up mostly of hydrogen gas, with a wave like or flame-like irregularity of surface. ‘This is called the “ "Reach ing still further out into much more attenuated, is the sun's apparent disk is ity space, corona. cernible with a spectroscope at by @ proper manipulation of ment. Some of these prominences quiet appearance and seem to be composed of materials as the c! containing metallic vapor have the shape of jets, ishing rapidity and are as “eruptions.” And the these latter are produced matter from below the photosphere many students of solar of the outer layers i i ef ik | j | | bs | ! i it i 4 i such metallic vapors as are all seem to be buried char- | be it B i ih i § l & i iE it i E [ i | i ag i hi : ee Hi 48 i 5 § 1 | F j t i F E i : i EH | § : i be would invalidate tt. The Maxim Air Ship. McCiare’s for January. Pushed by the workmen the machine completely filled the workshop from roof to floor, but here, with only the sky above, owner, who stood at the boller, conning half a dozen different gauges, and, climb- was of the lightest matched boards, so thin that they seemed insufficient to bear @ man’s weight. Prior to the start a rope running to a dynamometer and post was attached behind to measure the forwnrd | impulse or “push” of the screw. Mr. Max- im turned on the steam, and the screw on the port side began to revolve. It is sew enteen feet eleven inches in length, five feet wide at the ends ani twenty-two inches at the waist. It is maue of the lightest American yeilow pine and painted @ pale blue, the paint having oecn sand- papered to lect’ smoothness, reducing the skin friction to a point at which it became negligible. It revolved fasver end faster as the steam power was tocreased, until it was whirling on its scemlay!y frail framework at a dizzying speed. Tho steam was shut off; it came quickly to a stand- still, and its fellow on the other side wes tried. All working smoothly, boch scrows began to turn faster and faster and faster, until the eye began to lose the blades and ness, steadiness and compactaess of the whole. Behind the screws, forty feet away. two men were squatting over the dynamometer, and indicating the degree of “push” on a large index board for the engineer to read. The index marked on 5S. 2, 709 and finally 1,200 pounds of ." The pressure aan on ‘diminished below 500, and the commander yelled: pulled, the machin: railway train, and with the whirling, the — hissing rod yoy ty fing and gurgling, flew ov P00 feet of Te much less time than it takes to tell it. It was le of ropes stretched across the track, working on capstans fitted with revolving fans. The stoppage was gentle, and the passenger breathed freely again, looking now upon the machine with more friendiy and less fearful eye, as if it were « ous bulldog with which amicable had been established and fear of was over. The machine was then