Evening Star Newspaper, November 21, 1896, Page 22

ONONOWD) hse leek: € With the lulling of the wind toward evening it came on to snow—heavily, in straight, quickly succeeding flakes, drop- ping like white lances from the sky. This was followed by the usual Sierran phe- nomenon. The deep gorge, which, as the sun went down, had lapsed into darkness, presently began to reappear; at first the vanished trail came back as a vividly whitening streak in the night; then the larches and pines that ascended from it like buttresses against the hillsides giim- mered in ghostly distinctness, until at last the two slopes curved out of the darkness as if hewn in marble. For the sudden storm, which extended scarcely two miles, had left no trace upon the steep granite face of the high cliffs above; the snow slipping silently from them, left them stili hidden in the obscurity of night. In the vanished landscape the gorge alone stood out, set in a chaos of cioud and storm through which the moon beams struggled ineffectually It was this unexpected sight which burst upon the occupants of a large covered “station wagon,” who had chanced upon the lower end of the gorge. Coming trom @ still lower altitude they had known nothing of the storm which had momen- tarily ceased, but had left a record of in- tensity in nearly two feet of snow. For some moments the horses floundered and struggled on, in what the travelers be- Heved to ke some old forgotten drift or avalanche. until the extent and freshness of the fall became apparent. To add to their difficulties the storm recommenced, and not comprehending its real character and limit they did not dare to attempt to return the way they came. To go on, how- ever, was impossible. In this quandary looked about them in vain for some other exit from the gorge. The sides of that gigantic white furrow terminated im darkness. Hemmed in from the world in all directions it might have been their tomb. But although they could see nothing be- yond their prison walls they themselves were perfectly visible from the heights above them. And Jack Tenbrook, quartz MIGHT WN THE ONDE BY BRET HARTE. (Copsright, 1896, by Bret Harte.) miner, who was sinking a tunnel in the HH, ASE DON'T, MRs. rocky ledge of shelf above the gorge, step- ping out from his cabin at 10 o'clock to take a look at the weather before turn-| ing in, could observe distinctly the out- | ne he of the black . and the de, searcel; white surfa wagon, the flounderin: crouching figures by their larger than pigmies on the e of snow, a thousand feet below him. Jack had courage a strength and the good humor that them, but he contented himself for a few with lazily observing th omfiture. He ad taken ation with a glance; he in would have helped a brother miner or mountaineer, although he knew that it could only have been drink or bravado that brought him into the gorge in a snowstorm, but It was | very evident that these were “greenhorns,” | stern tourists, and it served their! and arrogance right! He re- membered also how he, having o an eastern visitor catch the mustang that had “bucked” him, had & led “my man,” and presented with $5; he recalled how he had once spread the humble re- sources of his cabin before some straying members of the San Francisco party who were “opening” the new railroad, and heard the audible wonder of a lady that a civilized being could live so “ s With these recollections In his mind he y the distant struggling sense of humor. not un- ce helped righteousness. ‘There was no real danzer in the situatio: at at the worst a delay and a campinz in the snow ull morning, when he would go down to theiir assistance. They had a spacious traveling equipage, and were, no doubt, Well supplied with furs, robes visions for a se n perk barrel » empty nkets worn. He hai miled, extended his long arms in a decided yawn, and turned back into his cabin to go to bed. ‘Then he cast a final glance around the in terior. Everything was all right: his lead- ed rifle stood against the wall; he had just raked ashes over the embers of his fire to keep it intact till morning. Only one thing slightly troubled hi: a grizzly bear, two- thirds grown, but only half tamed, which had been ven to him by a young lady named “ izgles,”” when that charming and historic girl had decided to accompany her paralytic lover to the San Francisco hos- pital, was missing that evening. It had been its regular habit to come to the door every night for some sweet biscuit or sugar before going to its lair in the underbrush behind the cabin. Everybody knew it along the length and breadth of Hemlock as well as the fact of its being a of the fair exile. No rifle had ever yet been raised against his lazy bulk or the stupid. small-eyed head, and ruff of clr- cling hairs made more erect by its well- worn leather collar. Consoling himself with the thought that the storm had prob- ably delayed {ts return, Jack took off his coat and threw it on his bunk. But from thinking of the storm his thoughts natural- ly returned again to the impeded travelers below him, and he half mechantcally stepped ou? again in his shirt sleeves for a final look at them. But bh something occurred __ that changed his resolution entirely. He had previo noticed only the three fore- shorté crawling figures around the now stativnary a wagon bulk. They were now parently making arrangements to camp or the night. But another figure had been added to the group, and as it stood perched upon a wagon seat laid on the snow Jack could see its outline was not bifurcated like the other: But even that general sugges- tion was not neede the little head, the symmetriical curves visible even at that ance were quite enough to Indicate ‘* it was a woman! The easy smile faded from Jack's face, and wi succeede by a look of concern and then of resigna- tion. He had no choice now: he must go! There was a woman there, and that set- tled it. Yet he had arrived at this con- clusion from no sense of gallantry, nor, in- deed, of chivalrous transport, but as a matter of simple duty to the sex. He was giving up his sleep, was going down a thousand feet of steep trail to offer his services during the rest of the night as simply as an eastern man would have of- fered his seat in an omnibus to a woman. Having resumed his coat, with a bottle of whisky*thrust into his pocket, he put on a pair of India rubber poots reaching to his thighs, and, catching the blanket from his bunk, started with an ux and shovel on his shoulder on his downward {ourney. When the distance was half completed he shouted to the travelers below; the cry was joyously answered by the three men; he saw the fourth figure, now unmistak- ably that of a slender, youthful woman, in a cloak, helped back into the wagon, as if deliverance was now sure znd immediate. But Jack, on arriving, speedily dissipated that illusive hope; they could only get through the gorge by taking off the whecls of the wagon, placing the axle on rude sledge runners of split saplings, which, with their assistance, he would fashion in a couple of hours at his cabin and bring down to the gorge. The only other alterna- tive would be for them to come to his cabin and remain there while he went for assistance to the nearest station, but that would take several hours and necessitate a double journey for the sledge if he was lucky enough to find one. The party quick- ly acquiesced in Jack’s first suggestion. “Very well,” said Jack, “then there's no time to be lost; unhitch your horses and we'll dig a hole in that bank for them to stand in out of the snow.” This was speedily done. “‘Now,” continued Jack, you'll just follow me up to my cabin; it's @ pretty tough climb, but I'll want help to bring down the runners.” Here the man who seemed to be the head of the party—of middle age and a superior professional type—for the first time hesi- tated. “I forgot to say that there is a lady with us—my daughte: he began, glancing toward the wagon. “I reckoned as much,” interrupted Jack, s'mply; “‘and I allowed to carry her up my- self the roughest part of the way. She kin make herself warm and comf'ble in the cabin until we've got the runners ready.” “You hear what our friend says, Amy?” snggested the gentleman, appealing to the closed leather curtains of the wagon. There was a pause. The curtain was suddenly drawn aside, and a charming lit- tle head and shoulders, furred to the throat and topped with a bewitching velvet cap, were thrust out. In the obscurity lit- tle could be seen of the girl's features, but re was a certain willfulness and im in her attitude. Being in the shadow, she had the ‘advantage of the others, particularly Jack, as his figure was fully revealed in the moontight against the snow bank. Her eyes rested for a moment on his Ingh boots, his heavy mustache, so long as to mingle with his unkempt locks broad shoulders, on } uge red hands streaked with black gre m the wagon wheels, and some blood, ianched with snow, drawn from bruises in cutting out brambles in the brush, or—more awful than all—a monstrous, shiny “speci- men” gold ring encircling one of his fingers—on the whisky bottle that shame- lessly bulged from his side pocket, and then—slowly dropped her dissatisfied eye- lids Why can’t I stay here?" she said, lan- guidly. “It's quite nice and comfortable.” “Because we can’t leave you alone, and we must go with this gentleman to help him.” Miss Amy let the tail of her eye again creep skudderingly over this gentleman Jack. “I thought the—the gentleman was going to help us,” she said dryly. “Nonsense, Amy, you don’t understand. “This gentleman is kind enough to offer to make some sledge runners for us at his cabin, and we must help him.” “But I can stay here while you go. not afraid.” “Yes, but you're alone here—and some- thing might happen.” “Nothing could happen,” interrupted Jack quickly and cheerfully. He had flushed at first, but he was now considering that the carrying of a lady as expensively attired and apparently as delicate and particular as this one, might be somewhat difficult. “There's nothin’ that would hurt ye here,” he continued, addressing the velvet cap and furred throat in the darkness, “and if there was it couldn't get at ye, bein’, so to speak, in the same sort o’ fix as you. So you're all right,” he added positively. Inconsistently enough, the young lady did not accept this as gratefully as might have been imagined, but Jack did not see the slight flash of her eye as ignoring him, she replied markedly to her father, “I'd much rather stop here, papa.” . “And,” continued Jack, turning also to her father, “you can keep the wagon and the whole gorge in sight from the trail all the way up. So you can see that every- thing's all right. Why, I saw you from the first.” He stopped awkwardly and added, “Come along, the sooner we're off the quicker the job’s over.” “Pray don’t delay the gentleman and the job,” said Miss Amy, sweetly. Reassured by Jack’s last suggestion her father followed him with the driver and the second man of the party, a youngish and somewhat undistinctive individual, but to whose gallant anxieties Miss Amy respond- ed effusively. Nevertheless, the young lady had especially noted Jack's confession that he had seen them when they first entered the gorge. “And I suppose,” she added to herself, mentally, “that he sat there with his boozing companions, laugking and jeer- ing at our struggles. But when the sound of her companions’ voices died away, and their figures were swallowed up in the darkness behind the snow, she forgot all this, and much else that was mundane and frivolous in the im- pressive and majestic solitude that seemed to descend upon her from the obscurity above. At first it was accompanied with a slight thrill of vague fear, but this passed presently into that profound peace which the mountains alone can give their lonely or perturbed children. It seemed to her that nature was never the same on the great piains, where man and cities always loomed into such ridiculous proportions when the Great Mother raised herself to comfort them with smiling hillsides, or encompassed them and drew. them close in the loving arms of mountains. The long Iam alll THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 189624 PAGES. white canada stretched before her in Purity that'did not seem of the earth; the vague bulk of the: mountains rose on either side of her in a mystery that was not of this life. Yet it was not oppressive; neith- er was it restfulness and quiet suggestive of obliviousness and slumber; on the ‘con- trary, the highly rarefied air seemed to give additional keenness to her senses; her hearing had become singularly acute; her eyesight pierced the uttermost extremity ef the gorge, lit by the full moon that oc- casionally shone through slowly drifting clouds. Her nerves thrilled with a deli- cious sense of freedom and a strange de- sire to run or climb. It seemed to her, in he: exalted fancy, that these solitudes should be peopled only by a kingly race, and not by such gross and material churis as.the mountaineer who helped them. And I grieve to say—writing of a sentimentalist that was and a heroine that is to be—she was getting outrageously hungry. But at That Moment There W other Shock in the Wagon. There were a few biscuits in her trav- eling bag, and she remembered that she had been presented with a small jar of California honey at San Jose. This she took out and opened on the seat before her, and, spreading the honey on the bis- cuits, ate them with a keen school-girl relish and a pleasant suggestion of a syl- van picnic, in spite of the cold. It was all very strange; quite an experience for her to speak of afterward. People would hard- ly believe that she had spent an hour or two, all alone, in a deserted wagon in a mountain snow pass. It was an adventure such as one reads of in the magazines. Only something was lacking which the maga- zines always supplied—something heroic— something done by somebody. If that aw- ful-looking mountaineer—that man with the long hair and mustache—and that horrible gold ring—why such a ring?—was only dif- ferent! But he was probably gorging beef- steak or venison with her father and Mr. Waterhouse—men were always such selfish creatures!—and had quite forgotten all about her. It would only have been decent for them to have brought her down some- thing hot; biscuits and honey were certain- ly cloying, and somehow didn’t agree with the temperature. She was really half starv- ed! And much they cared! it would just serve them right if something did happen io her—or seem to happen to her—if only to frightea them. And the pretty face that was turned up in the moonlight wore a charming but decided pout. Good gracious! What was that? The horses were either struggling or fighting in their snow shelters. Then one with a treightened neign broke from its halter and dashed into the read, only to ve plunged snorting and helpless into the drifts. Then the other followed! How silly! Something had frightened them. Perhaps only a rab- bit or a mole; horses were such absurdly nervous creatures! However, it was just as well—somebody would see them or hear them—that neigh was really quite human and awful—and they would hurry down to See what was the matter. She couldn't be xpected to get out and look after the sin the snow. Anyhow, she wouldn't! She was a good deal safer where she was— it might have been rats or mice about that frightened them. Goodne: She was still watching with curious won- rr the continued fright of the aniinais when suddenly she felt the wagon half bumped, half lifted from behind. It was such a lazy, deliberate movement that for @ moment she theught it came from the party who had returned noiselessiy whh the runners. She scrambled over to the back seat, unbuttoned the leather curtain, lifted it, but nothing was to be seen. Con- sequently, with feminine quic . she said, “I see you perfectly, Mr. Waterhouse don’t be silly! But at this moment there another shock to the wagon and from beneath it arose what at first to her to be an uplifting of the drift itself, but as the snow was shaken away from its heavy bulk, proved to be the enormous ad and shoulders of a bear! even then she was not wholly fright- ened, for the snout that confronted her had a feeble inoffensiveness, the small ¢ Were bright with an eager, almost cnild: curiosity rather than a savage ardor, and the whole attitude » creature lift upon his hind legs s-like and luc crous rather than aggress abled to say with some dignit ay shoo!" and to wave her luncheon basket at it with exemplary firmness. But here the creature laid one paw on the back seat, as if to steady itself, with the singular effect of coliap the whole side of the wagon, and th ened its mouth as if in some sort of ulate reply. But the reveka- tion of its red tongue, its glistening teeth, and, above all, the hot, carnivorous fume i brought the first scream from s Amy. It was real and con- vincing; the horses joined in it; the three screamed together! ‘The bear hesitated for an instant, then, catching sight of the honey pot on the front seat, which the shrinking back of the young girl had dis. closed, he slowly reached forward his other paw and attempted to grasp it. This ex- ceeding simple movement, however, at once doubled up the front seat, sent the honey pot a dozen feet into the air, and dropped Miss Amy upon her knees in the bed of the wagon. The combined mental and physical shock was too much for her; she instantly and sincerely fainted; the last thing in her amidst this wreck of matter being the ,whirp” of a bullet and the sharp crack of a rifle. oo a 8 ee le ge She recovered her consciousness in the flickering light of a fire of bark, that played upon the rafters of a roof thatched with bark and upon a floor of strewn and shredded bark. She even suspected she was lying upon a mattress of bark underneath the heavy bearskin she could feel and touch. She had a delicious sense of warmth, and mingled with a strange spic- ing of woodland freedom, even a sense of home protection. And, surely enough, Hooking around, she saw her father at ner side. He briefly explained the situation. ‘They had been at first attracted by the cry of the frightened horses and their plunging, which they could see distinctly, although they saw ncthing else. “But, Mr. Tenbgsook—” “Mr. Who?” safd Amy, rafters. “The owner of this cabin—the man who helped us—caught up his gun, and, calling us to follow, ran like lightning down the trail. At tirst we followed blindly and un- knowingly, for we could only s2e the strug- gling horses, who, however, seemed to be alone, and the wagon from which you did not seem to have stirrerd. Then, for the first time, my dear child, we suddenly saw your danger. Imagine how we felt as that hideous brute rose up in the road and be- gan attacking the wagon. We called on Tenbrook to fire, but for some inconceiva- ble reason he did not, although he still kept running at the top of his speed. Then we heard you shriek—”" “I didn’t shriek, papa; it was the horses.” “My child, I knew your voice.” “Well, it was only a very little screem because I had tumbled.” The colur. was coming back rapidly to her pink cheeks. “And, then, at ‘your scream, ‘enbrock fired!—it was a wonderful shot for the dis- tance, so everybody says—and hi!led the bear, though Tenbrook says it oughtn't to. I believe he wanted to capture the creature alive. They’ve queer notions, these hun- ters. And then, as you were unconscious, he brought you up here.” “Who brought me?” “Tenbrook; he’s as strong as a_horse. Slung you up on his shoulder like a feather pillow.”” SORE": “And then, as the wagon required some repairing from the brute’s attack, we con- cluded to take it leisurely, and let you rest here for awhile.” “And where is—where are they?” “At work on the wagon. I Getermined to stay with you, though you are perfectly safe here.” “I suppose I ought to thank—this man, papa?” “Most certainly, though, of course, I have already done so. But he was rather curt in reply. These half-savage men have such singular ideas. He said the beast would never have attacked you except for the honey pot which it scented. That's absurd.” “Then it’s all my fault?” “Nonsense! How could you know?” ‘And I've made all this trouble. frightened the horses. And spoilt staring at the And the -trying to eat wagon. And made the man run down and bring me up here when he didn't want “My dear child! Don't be idiotic! Amy! ‘Well, really!” For the idiotic one was really. wiping two tears from her lovely blue eyes. She subsided into an ominous silence, broken by a single mufie. ‘‘Try to go to sleep, dear; you've had quite a shock to your nerves,” added her father, soothingly. She continued silent, gpt not sleeping. “I smell coffee.” “Yes, sere. he: F r “You've mn wing'icoffee, papa?” “We did have some,{I think,” said the wretched man apologetically, though why he could not determine. “Before I Semen While the bear was er" “No, after.’ “I've a horrid taste in my mouth. It's the honey. I'll never eat honey again. Never!” ‘Perhaps it's the whisky?” ‘What?” “The whisky. You were quite faint and chilled, you know. We gave you some.’ “Out of—that—black—bottle?” “Yes.” Another silence. é “I'd like some coffee. I don’t think he'd begrudge me that, if he did save my life.” “I daresay there’s some left.” Her father at once bestirred himself and presently brought her some coffee in a teacup. it was part of Miss Amy's rapid convales- cence, or equally of her debilitated condi- tion, that she made no comment on the vessel. She lay for some moments look- ing curiously around the cabin; she had no doubt it had a worse look in the day- light, but somehow the firelight brought a wondrous luxury of colors in the bark floor and thatching. Besides it was not “smelly,” as she feared it would be; on the contrary the spicy aroma of the woods was always dominant. She remembered that it was this that always made a greasy, oily picnic tolerable. She raised herself on her elbow, seeing which her father continued confidently. “Perhaps, dear, if you sat up for a few moments you might be strong enough presently to walk down with me to the wagon. It would save time.” Amy instantly lay down again. “I don’t know what you can be thinking of, papa. After this shock really 1 don’t feel as if 1 could stand alone, much less walk. But, of course,” with pathetic resignation, “if you and Mr. Waterhouse supported me, per- haps I might crawl a few steps at a time.”” “Nonsense, Amy. Of course, this man Tenbrook will carry you down as he brought you up. Only I thought—but there are steps; they are coming now. No! it is only he. The sound of crackling in the underbrush was followed by a momentary darkening of the open door of the cabin. It was the tall figure of the mountaineer. But he did not even make the pretense of entering; standing at the door he delivered his news to the interior generally. It was to the effect tha’ everything was ready, and the two other men weye even then harnessing Thenghe drew back into the said Amy, in a sudden, fright- ened voice. “I've lost my bracelet!” “Haven't you dropped it somewhere there in the bunk?” asked her father. “No. It’s on the floor of the wagon. 1 remember now it fell off when I tumbled! And it will be trodden upon and crushed! Couldn't you run down, ahead of me, and warn them papa, dear?’ Mr. ‘Tenbrook will have to go so slowly with me.” She tum- bled out of the bunk with singular alacrity, shook herself and her skirts into instanta- neous gracefulness, and fitted the velvet cap on her straying hair. Then she said hurriedly: “Run quick, papa, dear, and as you go, call him in and say 1 am quite ready.” Thus adjured, the obedient parent dis. peared in the darkness. With him also dis appeared Miss singular alacrity Sitting down y again on the edge of the bunk, she leaned against the post With a certain indefinabte languor that was as touching as it was graceful. I need ne tell any feminine readers that there wa D- no dissimulation in all this—no coquetry, no ostentation—and that the young girl was perfectly sincere. But ‘the mas culine reader might like to know tha the simple fact wa regeined consciousnes ith remorse for her s rejection of T proffered vice. More than that. she felt she had periled her life in ‘that moment of foliy, and that this mansthis hero—had save her. For here he was, even if he did nc fulfill her ideal—it was only she that wa not a heroine. Perhaps if he had bee more bke what she wished she would hav felt this less keenly;love makes little ro for the exercise of moral ethies. So Mis Amy Forester being a good girl at bottom, nd not exactly man, felt to- ward him a frank leration which a more romantic person would hav shrunk from showing sequently, whe ‘Tenbrook entered a moment later, he foun Amy paler and more thoughtful, but, as he fancied, much prettier than before, looking up at him with eyes of the sincerest soloci- tude. Nevertheless, he remained the door, as if in anding near rating a possible intru- sion, his face ring a look of lowering abstraction. It struck her that this mighi be the effect of his long hair and general tneouthness, and this cnly spurred her to a fuller recognition of Lis other qualities. “Iam afraid,” she began, with a charm- ing em “that instead of rest- ing sats our kindnes ing me up here, 1 again with my dreadful weakness, you to carry me down aiso. But all th seems so little after what you have just done—and for which I can never, never ope to thank you!” She clasped her two little hands together, holding her gloves be- tween, and brought them doy upon her lap in a gesture as prettily helpless as it was unaffected. “I have done scarcely anything,” he said, glancing aw»y toward the tire, “and—your father has thanked me.” “You have saved my life. “No! no!” he said quickly. “Not that! You were in no danger, except from my rifle, had I missed.” “I see,” she sail, eagerly, with a little pesthumous thrill of having been after all a kind of heroine, “and it was a wonderful shot, for you were s0 careful not to touch me. ‘Please don’t say any more,” he said, with a slight movement of half awkward- ness, half impatience. “It was a rough job, but it’s over now He stopped and chafed his red hands ab- stractedly together. She could see that he had evidently just washed them—and the glaring ring was more in evidence than ever. But the thought gave her an inspira- tion. You'll at least let me shake hands with you!” she said, extending both her own with childish frankness. “Holi on, Miss Forester,” he said, with sudden desperation. “It ain't the square thing! Look here! I can’t play this thing on you—I can’t let you play it on me any longer! You wasn’t in any danger—you lever were! That bear was only a half- wild thing I helped to ra’r myself! It's taken suger from my hand night after night at the door of this cabin as it might heve taken it from yours here if it was alive now. It slept night after night in the trush, not fifty yards away. The morn- ing’s never came yet—till row,” he said, hastily, to cover an odd break in his vol “When it didn’t brush along the whole side of this cabin to kinder wake me up and say ‘So long’ afore it browsed away into the canon. There ain't a man along the whole Divide who didn’t know it; thar ain’t a man along the whole Divide that would have drawn a bead or pulled a trig- ger on it till nova It never had an enemy but the bees; it never, even knew why horses and cattle were frightened of it. It wasn’t much of 4 pet, you'd say, Miss Forester; it wasn’t much to meet a lady's eye; but we of the ,woods must take our friends where we find 'em and of our own kind. It ain’t no fault of yours what hap- pened; but when it comes to your thank- ing me for it, why, jt’s—it’s rather rough you are—and gets me.” He stopped short as desperately and as abruptly as he had begun, and stared blankly at the fire. A wave of pity and. shame swept over the ycung girl ard left its ‘high ‘ide on her cheek. But even then !t was closely fol- lowed by the fem stinct of defense and defiance. The real héro—the gentleman —she reasoned bitterly, Would have spared her this knowledge. “But why,” she said, with knitted brows. “why, if you knew it was so precious and so harmless—why did you fire upon it?” “Because,” he satd, almost fiercely, turn- ing upon her, “because you screamed, and then I knew it had frightened your” He stopped irstanfly, as she momentarily re eciled from him, but the very brusquenes: of his ection hed dislodged a tear from his dark eyes, that fell warm on the back of. her hard, and seemed to blot out the in- dignity. ‘Listen, miss,” he went on, hur- riedly, as if to cover up his momentary un- maniiness, “I knew the bear was missing tenight, and when I heard the horses skreeying about I reckoned what was up. I knew no harm would come to you, for the horses were unharnessed and away from the wagon. I pelted down that trail ahead of them all, like grim death, caJ- kilatin’ to’get there before the bear; they wouldn't have understood me; I was too high up to call to the creature when he did’ come’ out, and I kinder hoped you wouldn't see him. Even when he turned toward the wagon, I knew it wasn’t you he was after, but suthin’ else, and I kinder hoped, miss, that you being different and quicker-minded than the rest, would see it, too. All the while them folks were yellin’ behind me to fire—as if I didn't know my work. I was half-way down—and then you screamed! And then I forgot everything— everything but standing clear of hitting you—and I fired. It was that savage that I wanted to believe that he'd gone mad and would have touched you, till I got down there and found the honey pot lying alongside of him. But there—it’s all over now! I wouldn't have let on a word to you only I couldn’t bear to take your thanks for it, and I couldn't bear to hay you thinking me a brute for dodgin’ them. He stopped, walked to the fire, leaned against the chimney under the shallow pre- text of kicking the dull embers into a blaze, which, however, had only the effect of re- vealing his two glistening eyes as he turn- ed_ back again and came toward her. “Well,” he said, with an ineffectual laugh, “it’s ail over now, and it were all in the day’s work, I reckon—and now, miss, if you're ready, and will just fix yourself your own way so as to ride easy, I'll carry you down." And slightly bending his strong figure, he dropped on one knee be- side her with extended arms. Now it ts one thing to be carried up a hill in temperate, unconscious blood, and practical business fashion by a tall, power- ful man with steadfast glowering eyes, but quite another thing to be carried down again by the same man who has been cry- ing, and when you are conscious that you are going to cry, too, and your tears may be apt to mingle. So Miss Amy Forester said: “G wait, please! Sit down a mo- ment. O Mr. Tenbrcck, I am so very, very sorry,” and, clapping her hand to her eyes, burst into tears. “O please, please don’t, Miss Forester,” said Jack, sitting down on the end of the bunk with frightened eyes; “please don’t do that! It ain't worth it. I'm only a brute to have said anything.” “No, no! You are so noble! so forgiv- ing!” sobbed Miss Forester, “and 1 have made you go and kill the only thing you cared for, that was all your own.” “No, miss—not all my own, either—and that makes it so rough. For it was only left in trust with me by a friend. It was her only companion.” “Her only companion?” echoed Miss For- ester, lifting her bowed head. “Except,” said Jack, hurriedly, miscom- prehending the emphasis with masculine fatuity—‘except the dying man for whom she lived and sacrificed her whole life. She gave me this ring, to always remind me of my trust. I suppose,” he added, rue- fully looking down upon it, “it's no use row. I'd better take It off. j Then Amy eyed the morstrous object with angelic "simplicity. should,” she said, with infinit “it would only remind you of your los But,” she added, with a sudden, swift, im- ploring look of her blue eyes, “if you could part with it to me, it woald be such ar minder and token of—of your forgiveness. Jack instantly handed it to her. “And ,” he said, “let me carry yeu down. think,” she said, hesitatingly, “that—I had better try to walk,” and she felt her- self lifted in the air, smelt th tha within an inch of her nose, saw the firelight vanish behind her, and subsiding {nto curved arms as in a hammock, the passed forth into the night tog % tind your bracelet nowhere, Amy said her father, when they rea g It was on the floor in the hut,” said Amy, careiessly. “That was what detained us. My pen halts with some diffidence be- tween iwo conclusions to this veracious chronicle. As they agrze in result though not in theory or intention, I may venture to give them both. To one coming from the lips of the charming heroine herself 1 naturally yield the precedence. “Oh, th bear story! I don’t really remember whet er that was before I was engaged to John or after. But 1 had known him for some e; father introduced him at the gove or’s ‘ball at Sacramento. Let me sce’ think it was in the winter of °56. Yes! i Was very amusing; I always used to charge John with having trained that bear to a tack our carriage so that he might come in hero! Oh, of course, there are a hun- absurd stories about him—they used y that he lived all alone in a cabin like , and all that sort of thing, and was a friend of a rather dubious woman in the locality, whom the common people ruade a heroine of—Migzies er Wig! or seme such preposter ame. But loo! t John, there—can you conceive it!” The listener, glancing at a very handsom slean-shaven fellow, faultlessly atti could not conceive Such absurdity. So 1 therefore simply give the opinicn of Josh Lixley uperintendent of the Long Divide Tunnel Company, for what it is werth never took much stock in that bear story, and its ating old Forester's daug! ter. Old Forester Knew a thing or two, and when he wa out here consolidating tun- nels, he found out that Jack Tenbrook wa about headed for the big lead and brough him out and introduced him to Amy. You see clear grit as he was, was mighty le, and about as simple as they nd they had to get up some- thing to account for that girl's taki shine to him. But the: em to be happy enough—and what are you going to do about it?” And with this philosophic query I commend them to the reader. BRET HARTE. eg The Sewing Mac m the New York Times. The sewing machine does not occupy the F pesition in domestic life that it did ten years ago. There has been a great revolu- tion in the sewing machine business in that time. The evolution which began when the fcremothers of the country gave up iheir hand looms and sent their spinning and weaving to the factory is still going on. The appearance of the sewing maciine marked one stage of the evolution, and its disap- pearance as onc of the most important as- sistants in every family marks another. The sewing machines are superior now to those made ten or twenty years ago, and they are made to do better and a greater variety of work, but the great demund for them comes from different quarters, large sewing machine company which has an output of over 400,000 machines a year in this country alone manufactures fifty distinct types of machines, and with the variations of the types there are several hundred different kinds of machines. Many of these go into factories. A woman can buy undergarments ready made cheaper than she can buy the material and make them herself. This is owing to the factory werk, where each worker makes a part of @ garment which has perhaps been cut out by a die, fifty pieces at a time. The lack of room in city departments makes economy of space a necessity, and the housekeeper for the periodical visitations of the seam- stress or dressmaker hires a machine trom places where a specialty is made of that branch of the business. Outside the large cities this practice is not so common. The manufacturers say that the family trade they lose is made up not only in selling to manufacturers, but to the many forelgiers in the country, who, in a city like New York, do great quantities of work for manufacturers on their own machines in their own homes. It is estimaie.l there are one million machines sold in the United States annually. The stazistics of the census of 18% showing 1 number -of manufactures on which machine sewing is used are interesting. ‘They also show that the production of men's clothing in fac- tories was nearly double tiat of the tailor- ing establishments. While the actual num- ber of machines sold annually during the last ten or twenty years has not varied greatly, considering the increase of the population, it has proportionately decreased 25 per cent or more. ——____+e-_____ They Do Not Throw Their Quilis. From the Portland Oregonian. The spines of the porcupine are very loosely attached to the body, and they are very sharp—as sharp as a needle at the outer end. At almost the slightest™ touch they penetrate the nose of a dog or the clothing or flesh of a person touching the pereupine, and stick there, coming away from the animal without any pull being required. The facility in catching hold with one end and letting go wiih the other has sometimes caused people to think that the spines had been thrown at them. The ouier end of the spines, fot some distance down, is covered with small barbs. These barbs cause a spine once imbedded in a living animal to keep working further in with every movement of the muscles, so that it is not a pleasant thing to get stuck full of them. ——__—_+e-__. A Popular Remedy. From Puck. He—“I think Dr. Jenkins will very soon have a large practice.” She—“Why?” He—“He has just had a case in which he prescribed millinery for hysteria.” . merits of CECEEEEEEE RE EE CECECECEECECEEE: Betetetetetetetetee i a e D LOL MMMM The Late Railroad Magnate and M. Menier Both Novelized. From the Boston Post. It is a singular coincidence that after Several months of more peaceful rest in | the grave than is usually vouchsafed to a dead millio ire, two widely different events should have recalled to earth the shades of Austin Corbin thin the same week. One of them—a_ sensational suit—may be a day’s wonder and then be forgotten, the other will within thirty days have spread all over the civilized world the briefest possible summing up of his chief claims for renown. The very day before the news of the law suit came out there d the first installment of Rudyard ling’s long ex- pected American novel, “Captains Cour- ageous, in the second chapter the hero, who is on a fishing schooner off the banks, is giving the captain’s son some idea of his father’s wealth (he is a multi-miilion- aire’s son re ed from the sea). “When ants to rid he says, “he takes his jaow? Lobster car?” ‘o. His own private car, of course, ren a private car some time in eman, he hez one,” “I saw her at the pot in Boston, with three nigg: her run. said Dan, Union de- rs hoggin’ (Dan _ meant cleaning the win- Sut Slatin Beeman he owns “baout every railroad on Long Island, th 3 an’ they say he’s bought “baout ha’af Noo Hampshire an’ run a line fe her, an’ filled her up with lions an ligers an’ bears an’ buffalo an’ crocodiles an’ such | all. Slatin Beeman he’s a millionaire. seen his car. Yes!” “Well, my father's what they call a mul- ti-millionaire; and he has two private cars.” So thinly veiled is this reference that the twelve letters in Slatin Beeman's name might just as well have been plain Austin Corbin. There can be no mistake as to who is meant, and if the success of the novel justifies the expectations of the three pui- lishers, who between them are said to have paid $12,000 for the serial rights and $15, more cn account of the book rights, ali in advance of publication, the memory of the capitalist who built up a great railroad system and an immense game preserve, living by the one and dying by the other, is likely to be long kept green in the minds of the great world of novel readers. It is a pretty terse recapitulation of a man’s career, but it covers the chief points in the life of an unostentatious person. Apropos of game preserves, M. Menier, who intends to devote a portion of his ne’ ly acquired Island of Anticosti to that pur- pose, is said to figure in one of the most successful of modern French novels, “Le Maitre de Forges,” by George Ohnet.’ Not, however, in so desirable a manner as in the case of Mr. Corbin. On the contrary, he appears as a leading character, M. Mouli- nier, a noveau riche chocolate manufac- turer, a disguise so slight that all Paris is said to have easily recognized the original. This book, by the way, has been the salv: tion of many an anxious schoolma’am who wanted something eminently proper for the ubiquitous young person to read in French. The author's dramatization of the story has been played on our stage in French, Engilsh and German, besides, which it fur- I've law | ce Tound | cJT is a pleasure for me to testify to the Johann Hoff’s Malt Extract, which is used in my family.” Let Hanns, BEWARE OF IMITATIONS. Ask for the Genuine JOHANN HOFF’S MALT EXTRACT, It makes FLESH AND BLOOD. EISNER & MENDELSON CO., Sole Agents, New York. } WHAT ark Hanna SAYS: SoiesesetestshetestetesteteceatotoipetodtedtetetetediodindsdodnsDoinitsheseibeintbetedodndiodiedtdiodt HUNYADI JANOS, The World’s Best Natural Aperient Water. 25 Years’ Success in U. S. Highest Reputation all Over the World. CAUTION: None genuine without the signature of the firm “Andreas Saxlehner,” On the Label. From Harper's Razar. “Regg'e, this is the third time I have had to tell you not to make so much noise when you are playing. “Well, ma, it ms like three hundred to me.” “Come, come, sir; is that the way toe an- swer your mother?” ied Mr. John- son, sternly. “How could I tell you were lis ning, pa?” fed the artless child, with more logic arswer n might at first appear. “Reggie, Regeie!” remonstrated his mo- ther; “you're getting just like of those naughty littie street arabs. anded the culprit. I've forbidden you “Bat why did you forbid me you a . spoken to me “And making such impossible to hear one “Didn't you make were a little hoy? “Reginak exclaimed warninely, “is that b father?” T just ask: ow, Now! I only want “I declare, i make the | you!” : There was silence for nearly a minute after this, and then: Mamma? s se when you ohnson, to your r word, rls you say a st bit more noise, I wouldn't do that if I were you.” “Do what?” “Because I’m sure if you did I'd make @ great deal more noise.” Then Mr. and Mrs. Jo hats and went for a lon on put on thelr walk together. ober. xi An ODject of Pity. From the New York Press. “Gentlemen of the jury,” ried the counsel for the accused, “ihere can be no doubt of the unsound mental condition of the prisoner. We shall prove to you that during his long and striking career as @ ass poster artist he got every one of his de- signs out of his own head! At this conclusive evidence a wave of pity swept over the audience and the most callous of the jurymen burst into <7e Women Afraid of Women, From the New York W Jinks—“Have you ever noticed what spite- ful things women will say of one another?” Blinks (married)—“Yes, and I never could understand why they were afraid to make digs at a woman except behind her back, and yet they will rip out anything they please to a man.” Mr. Cox—‘“John, why do you call that pretty typewriter of yours Mary Ann? You told me her name w: Mr. Fox—" name is Mary Ann, Mabel.’ ‘Well, you see, I have a bad habit of speaking in my sleep, and my wife's