Evening Star Newspaper, August 17, 1895, Page 15

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY,; AUGUST 17, 1895-TWENTY PAGES. (Copyright, 1895, by Irving Bacheller.) CHAPTER I. It would te easy to walk many a time through “Fife and a’ the lands about it” and never once find the little fishing ham- let of Pittercraigie. Indeed, it would be a singular thing if it was found, unless some special business and direction led to it. For ciearly it was never intended that human beings should bulld homes where these cottages cling together, between sea and sky; a few here and a few there, hidden away in every bend of the rock, where a little ground could be leveled, until the tides, in stormy. weather, break with threat and fury on the very door- steps of the lowest cottages. ¥et as the lofty semi-circle of hills bends inward, the sea follows, and there is a fair harbor, where the fishing boats ride together, while their sails dry in the afternoon sun. Then the hamlet is still, for the men are sleeping off the weariness of their night work, while the children play quietly among the tangle and the women mend nets or bait the lines for the next fishing. A lonely little spot, shut in by sea and land, and yet life is there in all its passionate varlety—love and hate, jealousy and avarice, youtl® with its ideal sorrows and infinite expectations; aze, with its memories end regrets, and “sure and certain, hope.” The cottages also have their individu- alities. Although they are much of the seme size and pattern, an observing eye would have picked out the Binnie cottage ~ as distinctive and prepossessing. Its out- side walls were as white as lime could make them, its small windows brightened with geraniums, and a muslin curtain, and the litter of ropes and nets and drying fish which encumbered the majority of thatches were pleasantly absent. Stand- ing on a little level, thirty fect above the shingle, it faced the open sea, and was constantly filled with the confused tones of. its sighing surges, and penetrated by its pulsating, tremendous vitality. It had keen the home of many generations of Binnies, and the very old and the very Standing Thus in the Clear Strong Light. young had usually shared its comforts to- gether, but at the time of my story there Temained of the family only the widow of the last proprietor, her son Andrew and her daughter Christina. Christina was twenty years old and still unmarried—a strange thing in Pittencrai- gie, where early marriage is the rule. Some said she was vain and set up with her beauty, and could find no lad good enoug! others thought she was a selfish, cold- hearted lassie, feared for the cares and labors of a fisher’s wife. On this July afternoon the girl had been some hours stretching and mending the pile of nets at her feet, but at length they were in per- fect order, and she threw her arms up- ward and outward to relieve their weari- ness and then went to the open door. The tide was coming in, but the children were still paddling in the pools and on the cold bladder-wrack and she stepped forward to the edge of the cliff and threw them some wild geranium and ragwort. Then she stood motionless in the bright sunlight, looking down tht shingle toward the pier and in the Uttle tavern, from which came in drowsy tones the rough monotonous songs which sea men sing. Standing thus in the clear, strong light, her great beauty was not to be denicd. She was tall and not too slender, and at this mement the set of her head was like that of a thoroughbred horse when it pricks its ears to listen. She had full, soft brown eyes, with long lashes and heavy eyebrows; an open-air complexion, dazzling, even teeth, an abundance of dark, rippling hair, ard a flush of ardent life, opening her wide nostrils and stirring gently the exquisite meld of her throat and bust. The moral impression that she gave was that of a pure, strong, compassionate woman; cool- headed, but not cold; capable of vigorous joys and griefs. After a few minutes’ in- vestigation she went back to the cotlage and stood in the open doorway, with her head leaning against the lintel. Her moth- er had begun to prepare the evening meal; fresh fish was frying over the fire, and the oat cakes toasting before it; yet as she moved rapidly about she was watching her daughter, and very soon she gave words to her thoughts. “Christina, you'll no require to be looking after Andrew. The lad has been asleep ever since he eat his dinner.” know that, mother.” ‘And if it's Jamie Lauder you're thinking o’, let me tell you, it’s a poor business. I have a fear and an inward down-sinking about that young man.” “Perfect nonsense, mother! ing to fear you about Jamie.’ “What good ever came saved from the sea? They back wi’ Yhem, and that’s known.” a could Andrew do but save the “Why was the lad running before such a sea? He should have got into harbor; there was time enough. And if it was An- drew's duty to save him, it is na your duty to be loving him; you may tak’ that much Sense from me.” “Whist, mother! He hasna said a word 0’ love to me.” “He perfectly changes colors the moment he sees you, and you are just making your- self a speculation to the whole village, Christina. I'm no liking the jiook o’ the thing, and Andrew's no liking it, and if you dinna tak’ care o° yourself, you'll be in a burning fever 0’ first love and beyont all Teasoning with.”” The girl flushed hotly, came into the house and began to reset the tea tray, for she heard Jamie's steps upon the rocky road, and his voice, clear as a blackDird’s, gayly whistling “In the Bay of Biscay 0.” “The teacups are a’ right, Christina. I’m talking anent Jamie Lauder. The led is just a temptation to you, and you'll need to ask for strength to be kept from tempta- tion, for the best o’ us dinna expect strength to resist it.”’ Christina turned her face to her mother and then left her answer to Jamie Lauder. He came in at the moment with a little tartan shawl in his hand, which he gal- lJantly threw across the shoulders of Mis- tress Binnie. “I hae just bought it from a peddler loca,” he said. “It's bonnie ani soft, and it sets you.weel, and I hope you'll pleasure me by wearing it.” His face was so bright, his manner so charming, that it was impossible for Janet Binnie to resist him. “You're a fleeching, flattering laddie,” she answered, but she stroked and findered the gay kerchief,while Christina made her observe how bright were the colors of It, and how neatly the eoft folds fell around her. Then the door of the inner room opened, and Andrew «ame sleeptly out. “The fish is burning, and the oat cakes, tco, for I'm smeHing them ben the house,” he said, and Janet ran to the fireside ande| hastily turned her herring and cakes. “I'm feared you'll no think much o’ your meat tonight,” she said, regretfully, “the tea is fairly ruined.” There's noth- through foik bring sorrcw a fact weel “Never mind the meat, mother,” Andrew; “we dinna live to eat.” “Never mind the meat! What parfect nonsense! There's something wrong wi’ fol that dinna mind their meat.” “Weel, then, you shouldna be so vain 0” yourself, mather. You were preening like a young lassie when I got sight o’ you—and the meat taking care o’ iteelf.” “Me vain! Na, na! Naebody that kens Jenet Binnie can say she's vain. I wot ‘cel that I ama frail, miserable creature, wY little need o’ beirg vain, either o' my- self or my bairns. But draw to the table and eat; I'll warrant the fish wili prove better than It’s bonnie.” They sat down with a pleasant content that soon broadened into mirth and iauzh- ter, as Jamie Lauder began to tell, and to show, kow the peddler lad fleoced and flethered the fisher 'wives out of their baw- bees, adding at the last that he “couldna come within sight o’ their fine words, they were that civil to him.” “Ou, ay, senselessly civil, nae doubt o° it,” said Jaret. “A peddier aye gives the whole village a fit o’ the lberalities. The like o’ Jean Robertson spending a crown on him. The words are no to seek that she'll get from me in the morning.” Then Jamie took a letter from his pocket and showed it to Andrew, “Robert Toddy brought it this afternoon,” he said, “and, as you may see, it is from the Hendersons o° Glasgow, and they say there will be a berth soon’ for me in one o’ their ships. And their boats are good, and the'r cap- tains good, and there’s chances for a fine sailor on that Hne. I may be a captain my- self one o’. these days!” and h2 laughed #0 gayly and looked so bravely into the face of such a bold idea that he persuaded every one else to expect it for him. Janet pulled her new shawl a Uttle closer and smiled; her thought was—“After all, Christina may wait longer and fare worse, for she's turned twenty,” yet she showed a littic re- serve as she asked: “Are you then Glasgow born, Jamie Lau- der?” “Me Glasgow born! What are you think- ing o’? I'm from the auld East Neuk, and I'm proud 0’ being a Fifer.A’ my common sense comes from Fife. There’s nane loves the ‘kingdom’ mair than Jamie Leuder. We're a’ Fife thegither. I thought yau knew it.” At these words there was a momentary shadow across the door, an a little lassie slipped in, and when she did so, all put down their cup to welcome her. An- drew reddened to tiie roots of his hair; bis sald eyes filled with light, a tender smile soften- ed, his firm mouth, and he put out his hand and drew the girl to the chair which Christina had pushed close to his own. “You're a sight for sair e’en, Sophy Thraill,” said Mistress Binnie; but for ail that she gave Sophy a giance, in which there was much speculation, not unmixed with fear and disapproval, for it was easy to see that Andrew Birnie loved her, and that she was not at all like him, nor yet like the fisher girls of Pittencraizie. Sophy, however, was not responsible for this differ- ence, for early orphanage had placed her in the care of an aunt, who carried on a dress and bonnet-making business in Largo; and she hed turned the little fisher maid into a girl after her own heart and ‘wishes. She came frequently, indeed, to visit her own people in Pittencraigie, but she had gradually grown less and less ‘ike m; and there was no wonder that Mis- tress’ Binnie asked herself fearfully, “What kind of a wife at all she would make for a Fife fisherman?’ She was 50 small and genty, she had such a lovely face, such fair rippling hair and her gown Was of blue muslin made in the fashion bf the day and finished with a lace collar rovnd her throat and a ribbon belt round her slender waist. “A bonnie lass for a carriage and pair,” thought Janet Binnie, “but whatever will she Co wi’ the creel end the nets, no’ to speak 0 the bairns and the housewark?" Andrew was too much ia love to con- sider these questions. When he was six years old he had carried Sophy in his arms all day long; when he was twelve they had paddled on the sands and fished and played and learned their lessons to- gether. She had promised then to be his wife as soon as he was a man and had a house and a boat of his own, and never for one moment since had Andrew douot- ed the validity and certainty of this prom- ise. To Andrew and to Andrew's fam- iy and to the whole village of Pitten- craigie the marriage of Andrew Binnie and Sophy Thraill was a fact beyond dis- puting. Some said “it was the richt thing” and more said it was “the foolish thing,” and among the latter was An- drew’s mother, though as yet she had said it very cautiously to Andrew, whom she regarded as “clean daft ang senselessly touchy about the lassie.” But she sent the young people out of the house while she redd up the disorder made by the evening meal, though as she wiped her tea cups she went frequently to the little window and looked at the four young things sitting together on the bit of turf which carpeted the top of the clit before the cottage. Andrew, as a privi- leged lover, held Sopby’s hand; Christina sat next to her brother and facing Jamie Lauder, so it was easy to see how her face kindled and her manner softened to the charm of his merry conversation, his snatches of breezy sea song and his clever bits of mimicry. And as Janet walked to and fro, setting her cups and plates in the rack and putting in place the table and chairs, she did what we might all do more frequently and be the wiser for it— he talked to herself, to the real woman within her and thus-got to the bottom of things. In less than an hour there began to be a@ movement about the pier, and then An- drew and Jamie went away to their night's werk, and the girls sat still and watched the men across the level sands, and the boats hurrying out to the fishing grounds. Then they went back to the cottage and “We're Sophy,” said Our Lane, Christina. found that Mistress Binnie had taken her Knitting and gone to chat with a crony who lived higher up the cliff. “We're our lane, Sophy,” said Christina, “put women folk are often that.” She spoke a little sadly, the sweet melancholy ef conscious but unacknowledged love be- ing heavy in her heart, and she would not have been sorry had she been quite alone with her vaguely happy dreams. Neither of the girls was inclined to talk, but Christina wondered at Sophy’s silence, for she had been unusually merry while the young men were present. ‘Now she sat quiet on the doorstep, clasp- ing her left knee with hands that had no sign of labor on them, but the mark of the needle on the left forefinger. At her side Christina stood, her tall, straight figure seeming nobly clad in a striped blue and white linsey petticoat, and a little posey of lilae print, cut low enough to show the white, firm throat above it. Her fine face radiated thought and feeling; she was on the verge of that experience which glorifies the simplest life. The exquisite gloaming, the tender sky, the full heaving sea were in sweetest sympathy; they were sufficient, and Sophy'’s thin, fretful voice broke the charm and almost offended her. “It is a weary lfe, Christina! How do you _thole it?” “You're just talking. You were happy enovgh half an hour wine.” ’ “I wasn’t happy at all.” “You let on ke you were. I shonld think you would be as feared to act a lie as to tell one.” e “I'll be away from Pitt2ncraigie tomor- row morn.” “Whatra for?” hae my reasons.” “No doubt you hae a ‘because’ of your own, but what will Andrew say? He’s no expecting it.” “I dinna care what he says.”” “Sophy Thrall! “TI dinna; And 9° life to me.” “Whatever is the matter with you?” “Naething.” ‘Then there was a pause, and Christina’s thoughts flew seaward. In a few minutes, however, Sophy began talking 2xgain. “Do you come often as far as Largo, Christina?” she asked. “Whiles I take myself that far. You may count me up for the last year; 1 sought you every time."” “Ay. Do you misd on the Law road a bennie house, fine ard old, with a braw garden, and peacccks in it, trailing their leng feathers o’er the grus3 and gravel?" “You'll be meaning Braelands? canna miss the house, if they tried to. “I was wondering if you ever noti young man about the place. He is aye Gressed for the saddle, or else he is in the saddle, and se, maist sure to hae a whip in his *. “What are you talking for?” “He is brawly harfisome. They call him Archie Braelands.”” “] have heard tell o’ him, and by what is said, I shouldn’t think he was an improv- ing friend for any young girl to have.” “This or that, he Iikes me. He likes me beyond everything.” “Do you know what you are saying, 2w Binnie is na the whole ver spoke to you?” “Weel, no as blate as a fisher lad. I find him in my way when I’m no think- ing; and see here, Christina! I got a let- ter from him this afternoon. A real love letter. Such bonnie words! They are like ‘They are bonnie as singing.” “Did you tell Andrew this?” “Why would I do that?” “You are a false, little cutty, Sophy Thraill. I would tell Andrew myself, but I'm loth to hurt his true heart. Now, you be to leave Archie Braelands alone, or T'll_ ken the reascn why.” “Gude preserve us a’! What a blazing passion for naething! Can’t a- lassie gie a bit o’ lassie’s chat without calling a court o’ sessions anent it?” And she and shook her skirt ard said with an of offens ‘You may tell Andrew if you Ike to. It would be a poor thing if a girl is to be miscalled every time a man told her she was bonnie.” “I'm no saying you can help men making fools o’ themselves, but you should hae told Braclards you were a promised wife.” “Everybody can’t live in Pittencraigie,. Christina, and if you live with a town fuli, you canna go up ard down saying to every man-body, ‘Please, sir, I hae a lad 9” my ain, and you're ne to look at me.” But gude night, Ghristina; you and me are auld friends, and it will be mair than a Jad that parts us.” “But you'll no treat Andrew ill. I couldna love you, Sophy, if you did the like o” that.” “Gie him a kiss for me, and you may say I would hae told him I was going back to Largo the morn, but I canna bear to see him unhappy. That's a word that will set him on the mast head o’ pride and pleasure.” (Continued in Monday's Star.) Jean Grolier and Mutoll. From the Spectator. The reformation in England meant noth- ing less than the wholesale destruction of all the great hbraries that had been col- lected with such pains and care. Of the magnificent Ibrary given to Oxford by Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, hardly a volume was left. Naturally, with the quick multiplication of books which began upon the introduction of printing the bookbinders found at once greater employment and less Incentive to excellence, the quantity of bindings detracting from their qualfiy. Nevertheless, the standard was still a high one, and the value of books and the com- parative rarity which they yet enjoyed are testified to by the curious practice which for a long time obtained in agcme of keeping them m chains. Ther®are still some places, chiefly churches, the contents of whose old book shelves may be seen to be fastened each with a long chain. Eyi- dently In those days, as now, the student was not always a student pour le bon motif. Among other forms of bookbinding which now only belong to the past may be counted embroidery—the least artistic and the least satisfactory, one would have thought, in use; and one learns with surprise that so eminent a book lover as Bacon, Lord Veru- lam, regarded it with special favor. The most important revolution in leather bind- ing was the introduction of gold tooling, first practiced at the press founded at Venice, in 1489, by the famous Aldus. Goid tooling upon leather was practically the last work in bookbinding, and in spite of the march of time and improvement in ap- pliances no artistic advance has yet been Made upon some of the volumes that date from the Aldine press. Thanks to those magnificent patrons,Jean Grolicr and Matoll, this new departure in leather work speedily attained a position from which it has never been deposed. In France, owing to Grolier’s indefatigable zeal as a collector and binder the art of gold tooling grew apace, and under the fos- tering care of such patrons as Henri I, Catherine de Medici, Dianne de Poytiers and a host of others, the golden age of bookbinding set in. Roughly speaking, one may say that the bookbinder’s art reached its zenith in the latter half of the sixteenth century. To France also belongs Le Gas- con—no unworthy successor to the two Eves, whose work is still the glory of what our author sometimes calls the “‘biblio- pegistic art.” <0 Regrets. From Harper's Bazar. I took her to sail on the bounding sea; I took her to fish the blue: I baited ber book, and abe smiled on me, And I thought ber heart was true, Was true, And I thought her heart was true. I paid my court all the summer long, Ait Lp seach toe beetie; r many a loving 80 Sod ask : ide, My bride, And asked her to be my bride. And then—oh the woe of a bad mistakel It's broken my poor old heart— The answer that girl that time did make ‘Still makes that organ smart, Gan smart, Still makes that organ smart. She answered “‘Yes"—Not as you thought ‘As you read the lines above! ‘The idea in your mind has caught That she hed ap my love, z My ilove, ‘That she had spurned my love. But nothing of the kind she sald. Alas she answered “Yes!” And we were wed ere autumn sped, And I, I must confess, Confess, And I, I must confess, I wish that we had never met Down by the sad sea wave. ‘say it to my great regret, She spends thrice what I'save, 1 save, ‘She spends thrice what I save. And had she only jilted me au ee Baughty air, en fact ankrupt T'd now be a millionaire, Yor Ta now bes miltionaire. “™*t —_—_—_e—____ The Necayed French Gentlewoman. From the London Truth. The decayed French gentlewoman has an advantage over the Englishwoman of her class in a climate that does not spoil her clothes. The English lady reduced to go about seeking for a place fs soon dragzled ard smp. Her boots and bonnet get shape- less. Sclf-respect disappears as the clothes become the worse for rain or fog and soot blacks. She becomes the image of dejection. Servants look askance at her. Cousins feel ashamed of her, and shopkeepers see in a glance that she will not do for them. The Frenchwoman can wear a gown until it falls to pieces from old age. Her shoes and stockings are always neat, and her bonnet fresh lookirg. These advantages, due greatly to climate, are not sufficiently taken into account by those who set her up as a model in all things to her English sis- ter. But she is more adaptable, has under all circumstances a clear head, and is al- ways prompt to carry out any plan she may origirate for bettering herself. COWBOYS* AT WORK Hamlin Garland Gives His Impres- sions of a ‘Round-Up. THE CRUELTY OF BRANDING Some Stirring ipeounters Between Man and Beast. ” WitnH THE COW BOSS (Copyright, 18€5, by Bacheller, Johnson & Bacheller.) : SALEDA, August 4, 1895. T CRIPPLE CREEK mining camp ¥ heard of a round-up over on Wilson creek, and saddling a horse I “hit the trail,” as they say on the range. Leaving the camp, I descended rapidly along a fine trail running among asp- ens and scattered Pines, with- hills on ¢ each side of the road. The gulch became a canon with beautiful deep red cliffs rising perpendicularly on either side. At an altitude of about 8,000 feet I came out upon the floor of a grassy valley with crested buttes standing about liké fort- resses. The lower hills were delicately modcled with curves delicious as the cheeks of peaches. Behind me the Pike's Peak range lifted to the sky, which was gray with rain. I passed by scattered ranches, desolate and squalid, among the splendid hills. Fe- draggled women showed their worn faces at the windows and half-wild children peer- ed from the doors. At 7,000 feet I came upon a finer, wider | basin, which was speckled with cattle. Here my guide had a cabin, and I stayed all night with him and his partner. The cattle were “range cattle,” as they are called, and were wild and flérce-look- ing, especialiy the bulis—great, lithe, tiger- bodied fellows with white heads and wide horns. They are a cross between Hereford cattle and Texan broad horns. I saw one or two of the few remaining pure broad horns. They ran with long, springing action, and mounted the hillg'’with the ease of deer. I slept that night in the midst of coyotes and wild cattle.s‘Ail night, whenever I awoke I could hearsthe baw! of restless bulls, the bleat of ealves and the call of the dams. bs The next morning \£ took the trail alone, with a little diagramtion paper to guide me. As I went out tovgdt my hdrse, the cattle began to snuff and te bellow, and galloped after me. One immense bull seemed par- ticularly out of sorts:with men. These cat- tle on the range qasil knew), are not ac- custcmed to seeing:men on foot. I had a heavy fence bettemn me and the bull, for which I was gratafuly My horse, unfortu- nately, was on the'same side of the fence as the bull. I took. a big rock in one hand and my bridle in the'sther and climbed the fence. The bull stoppell to paw the sod, and I leaped the fence and slipped thé bridle on my horse and rode through the herd, leaving them wondering. They scur- ried out of the way of the horse. Their curfosity about the man disappears when he sits on a horse. The six-legged animal they know; the two-legged animal they suspect and hate. s 1 climbed painfutly up a slippery trail in a heavy rain, crossed a high park and plunged down a trail in a canon which turned out to be a very rocky trail. It was hardly more than a cattle trail, and in places I had to Ve flat on my horse to go under the dripping trees. It was very steep and blind in places, and descended a thousand feet in a short dis- tance. A little stream singing along ut- tered the only sound. All else was per- fectly silent. Overhead the sky was gray and the canon’s sides were like walls of jagged masonry. As I entered Wilson Creek valley I came upon news of the-round-up. It was only “four miies down.” I began to hope. I rede four miles. It was “about two miles dqwn.” two miles; it was ‘just acros: I crossed the creek and heard the wild bawling of cattle. I round- ed a curve in the road and came upon the “hunch” being held and “worked” by a score of agile horsemen. Five or six riders were cutting out cattle which were to be left on that range, and alzo those to be branded. These separate bunches were being held by other riders. I rode up and became at once part of the “outfit.” The riders were mainly young and were the sons and hired men of the ranchers. ‘The outfit consisted of three covered wa- sons, four tents, eighty saddle horses, three cooks and about twenty riders. There was in command a “cow-boss,” or captain of the round-up, who took me in charge and showed me every possible courtesy. - The bunch was on one side of the creek and the corral on the other, and the cows and calves to be branded were separated a Night. and driven into thercorral, where two ex- pert “ropers” wene at work roping the un- branded calves and dragging them to the fire. ot The corral was a high, strong fence, con- structed of pine dogs set between stakes. All around the speckled hilis rose, the cat- tle bellowed and moaned, the calves bleat- ed, the ropers uttered wild cries. I went to the fence and peered over. One of the ropers was jyst noosing a beautiful calf. By a deft fling he caught ft by the hind legs, the horse swung about quickly, and the angry calf was dragged across the yard. A stalwart young herder selzed it by the left side and threw it to the ground. The herder called “Open Box,” which was the brand to which the calf belonged. From a smoking fire near by a man brought a rudely-shaped branding tool and pressed it vpon the calf's palpitating glossy side. Smoke arose; the poor beast gave a wild outcry .every time. the cruel iron scarred his hide. It made me shudder with sym- gathy, The smell of burning flesh sickened me and the unconscious brutality of the stalwart men disgusted me, yet there was a powerful fascination in watching these expert and powerful men and in seeing the wonderful work of the horses. After the poor brute was thrown, the horses set back upon the rope and held it taut until the signal came for release. Some of the older calves gave the men a hard wrestle. They leaped and bellowed. the men shouted, “Trip him, Bob,” “I'll bet on the calf,” and other jocular re- marks. The struggle with the calves reminded me of the pride men took in holding a pig at hog-killing time, in Iowa, In frontier days. It was unrelievedly cruel to see the fawn- like calves drogged to the hot iron, but when the men attackel a three-year-old steer the struggle grew dramatic. One roper flung the noose over the horns and while the bellowing creature leaped in the air the second man caught the hind feet. A swift turn about the pommel, a touch on the rein, and the great brute was help- less. A sharp turn of one horse and the steer was brought to the ground in a quivering heap. It all looked easy because it went on so quietly, but it takes skill to oe 1,200 pounds of beef when it is alive. After the calves sprang up they ran a ttle sidewise as if afraid the burning scars might touch something. I asked the boss whether some cther mode of marking might not be vsed. “We've tried to find some way,” he re- plied, “but it don’t seem like there is any other way. You see, when you've got so many brands you can’t earmark, and any A Reckless Young Dare Devil. paint on the hair wairs off, and anything tied on would brush off or get stole.” “How often .do you hold these round- ? “Twice a_year. In the spring and fall. In the spring we round up to brand the calves while they’re with the cows, and in the fall to separate beef cattle and also to brau calves missed in the spring round-up. “I suppose these are a:l volunteer riders— like an oid-fashioned huskin’ bee. He emiled. “Yes. That's it exactly. Each man is expected to do his share. Each man drives the cattle in his range no matter whose they are, and then we cut out the cattle that belong on the range where the round-up is and take the others into their own range.” “How long does the spring round-up last?” “We've been out since the first week of June. We'll be out till August 7, prob- beard The fall round-up isn’t quite so lone. : The branding was scon over and then the camp began to move. The next round- up lay over a formidable ridge, and as I rode behind the troupe with the boss, I saw a characteristic scene. Toiling up the terrible grade, ene horse on the cook’s Wagon gave out, und four of the cowboys hitehed their lariats to the pole and jerked the wagon up the guich “like a bat out o° hell,” as one man graphically put it. In ¥ way do these men dominate all condl- ns. As we rose the snow-covered mountains came into view again, and far to the north- west, Pike's Peak rcse like a pink moon with silver bands, All about were tumbled granite ridges anf glorious grassy swells ust at sunset we wound down into a Wide deliciously green vailey where no mark of man was set, save in the trail. In the center of the iasin a drove of cattle was feeding. Beycnd, swift riders were pushing before them the herd of saddle horses. Below. cut ef a deep defile a platoon of other riders wes moving to meet us. It was all beautiful, unworn, im- pressive. The horsemen drew up under a row of cotton wood trees and waited our ap- proach. The wagon stopped amid shouts. The cook tumbled cut. The horsemen flung saddles frcm tired ponies. Others, with ready larlats galloped away for logs of dry wood. Hemmers were heard driving hut stakes. The tents rose, the stove clattered into place and in ten minutes water was cn the fire fer coffee. The horse-wrangler and his detail round- ed in the horses and disappeared with Whoop and whistle over the hill upon a mesa. It had in it the movement, the ac- uvity and orderliness of a cavalry camp. Eating was no delicate business with these centaurs. It had the certainty and savagery of a farm threshing crew. There were no tubles and no frills like cups or butter Knives. Some ate standing, others is on rolls of bedding. Every man helped im: They were rough fron-sided, fellows— mainly Missourians—and were mostly less than thirty years of age. They wore rough business overalls and colored shirts—quite generally gray, with dirt and sweat. Their boots were short and very high heeled and their wide hats and “slickers” were ‘the only uniform articles of dress. Revolvers, bearskin leggings and cartridge belts have been discarded, as they were considered an affectation. As night fell the men built a great bon- fire, and, ¢urrounding it, sang and boasted and told stiff yarns and exploded in ob- scenity till time to turn in. Then they packed into the tent like sardines and be- came quiet in sleep—they were quiet at no other time in the day. AS we were eating breakfast the next morning, everybody feeling damp and stiff in the joints, there came the dull throbbing of hoofs, and down the valiey the horse wrangler came, shouting, “Horses.” Before him the troop was rushing like a wild herd. Others took up the cry “Horses! Get your bridles. The wrangler rounded the drove toward the tents, whence issued the riders, lariat in hand. The horses are all brencho grades, small, alert, flat-limbed, wild-eyed and tricky. They have to be caught with the rope each day. The men surround them, herding them into a compact squad. The riders advanced into the herd one by one, with coiled ropes ready and noosed and pulled out their best horses, for the ride was to be hard. One man tried three times for a wicked- looking buckskin broncho. The men jeered him, but he noosed him at last and drew him out with wild eyes rolling. The sad- dles went on meanwhile, the horses winc- ing at the cinch. At last all were secured, the riders swung into the saddle and dashed away with that singular, swift, gliding, sidewise gallop so characteristic of these men and their ponies. , They were off now for some seven hours of the hardest riding in a blinding fog and a@ thick falling rain. We plunged into a wide, ragged, walled canon for a five-mile ride and then came out upon a small val- ley. Here the boss drew up and the riders grouped themselves about him. He lifted his hand and pointed to the west and called off four names—the riders dashed away into the steep gulch and were out of sight in a moment. Four went to the east, six to the south and two remained with the wrangler to keep the herd of relay horses. No one who has not actually ridden in the drive on this range can understand its full rigor. All about were hills built of granite, clothed in places with a light soil and with grass, in others the bulbous ledges lay clear to the air and were wet with rain. Up and down the hills the half wild cattle feed like goats, and on a wet morning they are all on the hills or upper parks. To find them and to drive them means hard riding on any day, but to find and drive them on such a morning was well-nigh appalling, and yet these reck- less young dare-devils vanished in the rain singing and shouting. Compared with such work as this, herding and driving on the open country is child’s play. For a couple of hours the bunching place was silent, the rain dropped from the rim of my hat and ran down my slicker. The creek roared sleepily but sullenly below. I rode up a bill to see if I could see any of the riders, but the great curling masses of wool-like fog hid everything from me. I came suddenly upon a half dozen cattle in the mist and rain—they rushed away snuffing like elk, the stones rattling be- hind them. I returned to the valley and waited. In a short tims I heard a trample and halloo and the clatter of hoofs, and over a shingly ridge came a herd of fifty or more bawling, sncrting cattle. Behind them, riding like mad, were a couple of herders. They came down the bank with a rush, the horses ccasting on their haunches, the shingly stones grinding and clattering behind them, while the riders sat calm and easeful in the tumult ‘One by one the other hands came in out of the gray, wild obscurity, and a herd of several hundred of excited cattle circled and fought and bellowed in a compact mass. At the west the herd began to move teward the corral and toward the camp, 15 Highest of all in Leavening Power.— Latest U.S. Gov't Report Ro al Baking Powder ABSOLUTELY PURE wading streams, plunging into gulches and risirg tumultuously over ridges. The jocu- lar, boyish voices of the herders rang out. The blurr of their yellow slickers came to the eye through the rain with a glow like dull flame. There was in the scene scmething Ig and strong and manly. At such moments these riders are completely admirable. These hardy horses and their powerful and reckless men are a product of these hills as truly as the cattle. It is not a lonely life—it does not appear to be a very high sort of civilization—it will give way before civilization—it makes men hard and coarse and yet it carries-with it something fine and wholesome. It has retreated from the plains to the mountain valleys—from the mountain valleys it has sought final refuge on the mountain tops themselves, where grain and fruit will not grow. At an altitude twice as high as the peaks of the Alleghanies, these cattlemen have fixed their ranges. Whether the settler or the miner will dislodge him from these rigorous and rugged altitudes remains to be seen. HAMLIN GARLAND. —_——._— A Woman's Plack. From the Fortnightly Review. Let us consider in what ‘the physical courage of woman has hitherto most dif- fered from that of man, for the difference is one not only of degree, but quality, and the result partly of physiological condi- tions, partly of the influence of heredity, ard partly of the necessities of her social life and the education which is habitually assigned to her—all of which must affect the future as well as the past. Broadly speaking, it is in passive fortitude and en- durance, in continuance rather than vehemence of effort, in self-abnegation and vicarious pleasure that the courage of wo- man excels. She will face with equanimity a@ necessary danger, but will rarely seek or delight in it. Joys of contest and peril have for her little meaning, and no attraction; they threaten the home, they are phys! cally proscribed during a great portion of her iffe; they conflict with her special prov- ince cf being beautiful, and her special glory of being chosen’ and protected. I doubt whether there be a woman in the world who does not in her heart of hearts still like berg fought for, who does not admire even an ordinary feat of strength or daring more than all the honors of the schools. ‘ How strange it would be were this not so, when we remember that for centuries upon centuries the progress of civilization, the evolution cf sex, has been founded \pon-the contest of male for female. When we think of the course of history, the ne- cessities of structure, the influence of ma- ternity, the slow inheritance of-one w form tradition ef conduct, of ali these di- verse and potent factors alike tending in the same direction, there is no room. for wonder that a radically different concep- tion of courage should be held by men and wcmen, and we must require very strong evidence to believe that such a conception in, harmony, as it appears to be alike with nature and reason, is erroneous or destruc- tible. ie ——— —— The Technique of Pen and Ink. From the Spectator. It is easy, of course, to understand how pen drawing should have come to be so largely employed and elaborated. It is a matter of reproduction for illustration. An eiching will not print with type, nor with a ‘steel engraving. This led in the early part of the century to the imitation of steel engravings by wood engravers, who did the business most skillfully with immense labor. The drawings for them were mostly made in percil. But photographie process rendered the intervention of the wood en- graver needless, if the artist made a pen drawing that would photograph and pro- cess well. A purely technical difficulty can be overcome by large numbers of crafts- men; large numbers, accordingly, have learned to make pen drawings to supplant wood engravings. But it should be noted that to do this is itself a kind of repro- ductive process. Few elaborate pen draw- ings are made without a studious founda- tion in some other material. The pen line must frequently be traced or drawn over the pencil line, very much like the en- graver's tool. = The point about the moderns and ancients, then, resolves itself into the imi- tation by the moderns fn a new medium of the technique of an old. It is certain that the ancients could have performed this feat if they had chosen, not altogether cer- tain that they would have chosen. For, to consider those other points of reproduc- tion and dissemination, the modern master seems to be in no greater hurry than the ancient to make use of the new facilities. When such a master does take up the pen, he handles it to much grander effect than do its devotees. ——__~+e+—___ Fads in Ship: From Chambers’ Journal, ~ Fads in shipbuilding seem to date from the seventeenth century, when a Dutch merchant gave orders for a vessel to be constructed for him like the pictorial repre- sentations of Noah's ark. The shipping folk in the town where he resided jeered at him for his eccentric idea, but when the craft w2s completed and she was found capable of carrying: a third more cargo than other owners’ ships, and no extra men were required to work her, the laugh changed sides. Probably this is the only instance on record of a “fad” turning out successful when‘put to a practical test. In 18i4 William Doncaster patented what he described as being “the first hydrostatic ship which kas ever appeared upon the habitable globe.” It consisted of five pon- toons, sharp pointed, to divide the displaced water, so that she would rise well to the waves. Four water wheels were fixed fore and aft, between pontoons one and two and four and five, through which the water ran to propel the vessel. This invention, as might readily be imagined, proved to be of no use whatever. ——— ‘The Very Earliest Rose. From the Quarterly Review. ‘The earliest certaiff trace in Greek Iiter- ature of the rose as a cultivated flower is to be found in Herodotus, in his account of the rise of the House of Macedonia. The son of Temenus, he says (Bk. vill, 13%), fled into another part of Macedonia, and took up their abode “near the gardens of Midas. In these gardens there are roses which grow of themselves’—that is, we suppose, without much attention to prun- ing or budding—“so sweet that no others can vie with them in this; and thelr blos- soms have as many as sixty petals apiece.” Every rose grower will at once recognize in this, the most venerable of all rose records, the original rosa centifolia, still, more then two thousand years afterward, one of the sweetest in many an old English garden—the old Provence or Cabbage rose. And it is a curious illustration of Herodo- tus’ accuracy In unsuspected details, that Pliny describes the same rose as found principally in much the same district, in the neighborhood of Philippi, the people of which, he says, get it from the neighbor- ing Mount Pangaeus, and greatly improve it by transplantations. In the long history of roses, the Provence or hundred-leaved rose geems chiefly to have formed the backbone of continuity. ei: THE CARP AS VERMIN. An Opinion Which Is Not Indorsed by Commissioner McDonald. From Forest and Stream. A correspondent presents this problem and asks for its solution: “A pond contain- ing six acres, which is ysed as a reservoir for drinking water, is infested with carp. The bottom is so uneven that a drag net cannot be employed.. The fish were intro- duced under the hallucination that they would be a2 desirable addition to the water. They are now recognized as an abominable nuisance. How shall they be extermin- ated?” In smaller bodies of water, which are not connected with others inhabited by useful species, carp may be destroyed by liming. In a Long Island case which came under our observation, a private pond had been stocked with carp,which thrived and multi- plied and effeccuatly despoiled the pond of its usefulness and beauty. They rooted like hogs among the water lilies and other vegetable growth, destroying it and keep- ing the water continually stirred up and disgustingly dirty. They waxed fat on the ruin they wreught, but were themselves good neither for sport nor for the table. Other expedients failing to clear them out, the pond was partially drained and then barrels of lime were thrown into it. After- ward, the water being drawn off, heaps of autumn leaves were spread over the bot- tom, and subsequently the mold, mud and carp skeletons were dug up and carted away for fertilizing. Then the pond was reflooded; and the owner now rejoices in a piece of water stocked with black bass. He has had his little carp experience and has paid for it. The fact is that the carp ts in many in- stances proving itself to be a costly and dangerous fish. If the facts were known it would probably be shown that there are scores of cases similar to this Long Island instance, where the introduction of the carp has been a gigantic mistake; and uh- fortunately it often happens that the wa- ters so infested are of such extent or are so connected with other waters that a remedy. may not be applied so simply and effectually as it was here. The best cure for carp is prevention. To keep the first fish dut is to forestall the necessity of waging war upon them when they are in. Fish and Game Protector Chas. A. Shrin- er has recently directed the attention of the New Jersey fish commission to the propos- ed introduction of tench, a fish of the carp family, into the waters of that state by the national fish commission. “We have in this country,” he says, “‘a good variety of indigenous fish, whose distribution and propagation would supply not only sport for the angler, but food for all, and it seems to me very injudicious to introduce into our waters to the exclusion of our native fish European fish which nobody here seems to appreciate. I would suggest that something ought to be dene toward in- forming the people of New Jersey of the probable evil effects of the introduction of the tench.” On the other hand Commissioner Mac- Donald of the United States fish commis- sion, we believe, recommends the carp and tench as desirable species, and under his direction the government is distributing these fish throughout the country. ——__+ e+ ____ A Riot in a Theater. From the Gentieman's Magazine. Serious riot arose in the Edinburg Thea- ter in connection with the wounded feel- ings of the servants. Those were fine times for footme., when their masters attended the theater, they had free admission to the upper gallery. This was all very well so long as the management did nothing to offend them. But the Scottish servants of those days had a keen sense of dignity, and would not submit to be satirized. So when the farce “High Life Below Stairs” was announced, the footmen of Edinburg resolved in full committee that they would not allow such a scandalous libel on them- selves to be produced on the boards. A letter was written to the manager of the theater, in which it was stated that a band of seventy men had sworn, at any cost, to stop the provuction of the piece. This letter was foolishly read aloud on the stage, and then, in spite of the threat it contained,an attempt was made to perform the farce. Hereupon the upper-gallery turned rebellious. The noise and discord were prodigious. The masters in the body of the house went up to remonstrate with their contumacious servants, but the lat- ter would not listen to the voice of au- thority. Order was at last restored, but not before the footmen had been expelled in a body from the house. There was no free admission for footmen after this.