The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 21, 1896, Page 18

18 THE SAN FRANCISCO DAY, JUNE 21, 1896 SHAMUS IN GAMBRIDGE OPERA NIGHT IN LONDON LONDON, ExG., June 7.—So much has been said and written in praise of | “Shamus O’Brien” — the drama, the | music, the interpretation by the excel- | Jent company—that echoes of all the ap- | plause and enthusiasm have long since’ reached San Francisco. Nevertheless it | may be of interest to hear of the effect of the vivid, piciuresque little opera in the gray old university town, the quiet, the | reserved, the dignified Cambridge. | For the benefit of the few who have not read of it, it may be well to explain that | hamus O'Brien” is a romantic comic | opera — distinctly more romantic than comic—in two acts. The story is founded | on the poem byJoseph Sheridan Le Farm. The'composer is Charles Villiers Stanford, | and George H. Jessop has written the book. | The success of the opera has been a great | encouragement to those who have the de- | sire at heart to fosier national music—and Dr. Stanford has found his inspiration 1 the wild, sweet harmonies so peculiar to | Ireland. Irish ballads and lrish songsare | heard in every drawing-room, and for this | the ideal impersonation of Shamus by Denis O'Suilivan is not alittle responsible. People are inclined to grow a little hys- terical in speaking of his fine presence, his beautiful voice and his really remarkable acting. The story is intensely stirring— not for an instant does the interest abate. The period of the play is immediately after the suppression of the rebellion of' 1 Shamus O’Brien is an outlaw, he | has played an important part in the re- | bellion and there is a price on his head. | The scene opens in the poor village street of Ballybamis, in the mountains of Cork. Shamus’ cottage occupies tle left of the stage. Other cabins, veritable Irish hovels, are to be seen all alopg the road which winds up the mountain and fades away in the distance. The aspect of the | country is rather forbidding, in spite of the id green of occasional stretches of gra The chorus rushes on from both sides of the stage; there is a rumor that the soldiers are after Shamus with dogs. Through all the confusion of voices the repeated wail ‘‘Ochone, and it’s cruel, cruel, wicked, wicked,” is distinctly audi- ble. The appearance of Father O'Flynn, | the parish priest, is the signal-for renewed | excitement. He can but confirm the | rumor, and appeals to them to protect | Shamus by enumerating all his virtues: | 171 give ye to next M | A g0ss00n 50 presentable and famous, h Soloved in all the neighborhood, as Shamus— | Faith nidn’t find bis match in twiceaslong, | At burling, it’s give in he bates the devil; He'll lep yez either high or on tbe level; He's the fairest, hardest drinker at a revel, And an illigant performer at a song. The chorus then joins in: 1t Romutus and Ramus Had lived along with Shamus They'd be like two puppy jackals with a lion. up, now 3 you biame us 11 the boys of Ba haelmas to name us gh, impersonated by Joseph O'Mara, who, actuated by jealousy and revenge, betrays Shamus to the English captain who is searching for bim. Kitty O‘'Toole, the sister of Shamus’ wife, overhears the in- terview, manages to delay the captain by employing all the arts and graces of a vil- lage coquette and warns Shamus of his | danger. The viliagers are aroused by the sign of the ‘‘creel,” or basket upon the roof, and when the soldiers finally appear there is but slight resistance. Shamus, in the disguise of the ‘‘village nateral,” in-: duces the soldiers to take him as guide across the bog where Shamus himself is supposed to be in hiding. After the dis- appearance of the soldiers the viilagers in- dulge in a revel, the piper has come and vlays them a reel, and the dance is carried on with delightful spirit and enjoyment. | Nora, the wife of Shamus, is unable to dismiss her fears, and confides to the vil- lage priest the reason of her terrors— for two nights she has heard the ban- shee wail. The reappearance of Shamus | puts a momentary end to her misgivings, | but her terroris turned to despair when she hears a third cry, the long and melan- choly wail of the banshee. To Shamus and Nora it is the knell of doom, and the act closes with the sudden descent of the soldiers, who have been assisted to return ike Murphy, and who, in spite of the stance of Shamus and the villagers; in spite of the pleadings and shrill cries of the women, finally effect the capture. | The second act opens on the court yard of the barracks, closed by a great iron | gate, showing when it is opened a charm- | ing bit of scene painting, the fresh and vivid Irish landscape, Kittie 0’Toole, who has fascinated the English captain, comes to plead with him to allow her poor sister Nora to have a last interview with Shamus, her husband. The scene between the rebel and his wife is touching in the extreme, and during the court-martial, when the terror-stricken woman interrupts the pro- ceedings constantly in order to putin a good word for her husband, the humor is verilously close to tears. He is sentenced | to be hanged the following morning before sunrise, and the curtain falls with the soldiers beating back the infuriated vil- lagers, and Shamus struggling to reach his wife, who has fallen forwara upon her face with & ery that is the last rite in a scene almost too poignant in its dramatic in- tensity. The second scene of this act opens upon the morning of the execution; the appearance of the villagers raising | their arms in a fire movement and givmgl vert to strange, unearthly wails of sor- | row, has the impressiveness of a Greek chorus. Shamus is brought to execution in a cart, and the procession is stopped in order to give the wife an opportunity to say farewell and the village priest an op- portunity to confess the hapless Shamus. Shamus’ bearing is that of a hero, and he delivers a “last speech” full of defiant courage—until he suddenly perceives his wife and child—when his great voice breaks and he turns his head aside in order to hide his overwhelming emotions. Father O’Fiynn in a sudden impulse seizes the moment when he is listening to the confession to cut the cords and set Shamus free. The soldiers fire, but Mike Murphy, who has throwr. himself in the way of the escaping rebel, receives the shots and Shamus disappears, shouting: “Good-by to you, captain! Good-by to your men! ‘When you next want a guide you'!l em- ploy me again!” while the villagers burst into a repetition of {lie rousing chorus of | the first act: Oh, boys, listen to Shamus, Sarch, boys, sarch after Shamus! And the curtain falls on the tumultuous chorus and the wild, involuntary dance, as the peasants toss up hatsand sticks and seize each other and weep and laugh and shout with that irrepressible desire to find & vent for strong emotion that makes of Irish men and women a race of impetu- ous children, A peculiar interest attached itself to the OBRIEN AND THE LAST presentations of the opera in Cambridge. Dr. Stanford is a Cambridge man, and the audience to which he was to submit his work was composed aliaost entirely of col- legemen, notoriously reserved and criticai, and out of respect to them Dr. Stanford was to conduct the opera himself. The whole company went down to Cam- | bridge together in a large private car, not, unlike a Pullman, that is to say the prin- cipals and the composer, the manager, the librettist, etc. So there was Dr. Stanford and “Shamus,” Mr. Denis O'Sullivan, and Mrs. Stanford ana Mre. O’Sullivan. Miss Louise Kirkly Lunn, who 1s Nora O'Brien in the play, arrived with Miss Davies, who | makes a sharp, pert and coquettish figure of the part of Kitty O'Toole. That ragged and disreputable rascal, Mr. Mike Mur- phy, is hardly recognizable in the irresist- ibly good-humored Mr. Joseph O'Mara; nor does the big blonde boy, with the fiery blze eyes and the fresh complexion, sug- gest the old village priest in sober gar- ments and white hair. The ‘big soldier man” is introduced asa civilian in the person of Mr. Stephens; there is Mr. Jes- sop, who will be remembered by members of the Bohemian and Union clubsin San Francisco, Mr. Esmond, who is the mana- | ger, and the humble scribe. Dr. Stanford has the head of a musician | | hero of the play perhaps it might be well | to let him pass; he wished to speak to Mr. Esmond. The dignity of his oftice as maintained, however, by the guard- ian, who remarked coldly that there was no free list and that his *‘horders are that 1o one shall pass.” Mr. Esmond, the manager, now ap- peared behind us, and for a moment it seemed unlikely that even he would be allowed to enter the theater he had hired. English officiais have a stern conception of their duty. The scene within the theater was one most generally likely to warm the man- agerial heart. Row above row the peovle sat, a mass of black coats and white shirt fronts, with the vivid dots here and there of scarlet and blue and green in the hats and dresses of the women. ‘When Dr. Stanford appeared there was a shout of welcome and then the breathless silence of the deepest attention. The transition was very sudden between this quiet old English town, with the sober people in the streets and the rough little Irish village clinging to the mountain side, the passionate intensity of the play, the swift rush of emotion, the painful cli- max and the last shout of joy in the final surprise of the liberation of the hero. The applause after the first numbers was restrained with characteristic reserve, but as the hearers warmed to the action of the play, the freshness of the young voices— which has been generally and warmly commented upon—and to the mild beauty of the music the enthusiasm grew until at last it burst into a loud applause and recalls and shouts for Shamus and Nora, hisses for Mike Murphy and call after call for Dr. Stanford. Mr. O’Mara plays the try- | ing part of the villain with such remark- able force, that although his numbers are “ U live for my country, I'lt live for my Nora, DU live for my gossoon, My litle Paudeen.” and a manner somewhat shy and reserved, | but most unaffectedly cordial. He might have been a kindly tutor takinga's unruly children out for a holida dignity was assumed in order to pre order, but underneath it was something | almost like delight in the gayety and good humor of his companions. | The villain and the village priest, the | hero and his mortal enemy, the soldier, played shuffleboard with pennies in the | most amiable manner or discussed the new operas and the meriis or demerits of their brother and sister artists with dis- tinguished generosity. The fifty-six miles | from London in the rushing train, through the green and leve) country—that is some- times like an admirable setting to an old- fashioned play in its quiet simplicity of fields and cottages and clustered, round, well-ordered trees—was ull too short, and very soon the entire company were scat- tering in hungry eroups, “seeking what | they might devour.” Such a quaint little town is Cambridge, with the narrow little River Cam ram- bling ali over—the only irresponsible force in all Cambridge. I use the word *'quaint,” but it is too trivial to describe anything but the old houses, the curious corners, the arches of old doorways. The colleges are impressive not only through their associations, and the old churchesadd a touch of ancient severity almost like the somber dignity of a cathedral town. ‘What a place in which to pass the most impressionable vears of a life! To be a | King’s College man; to have grown fa- miliar with every detail of that magrificent building; to pass at will into that wonder- ful chapel, the finest example of perpen- dicular Gothic in England! The roof is unsupported by pillars and contains twelve divisions of exquisite ‘lacework tracery in stone. To listen to beautiful music in the rich light from the twenty- four stained-glass windows, and then to issue forth into those silent quadrangles; to see the great fields vetween the arches that are overshadowed by tall elms, and everywhere ivy and wisteria waved over the blackened stone. We wandered into Christ's College, proud of its memories of Milton, with the far-fameda mulberry tree in the gardens, and the fine quadrangle rebuilt by Inigo Jones; into Trinity, with its three quada- rangles around and closing in the noble gardens, like perks. King Harry the Eighth did more than marry numerous wives—he founded Trinity. i It was nearly 2 and we hurried to the new opera-house, the only really modern building in Cambridge, over the old | market place, passing the old village inns with their little squares of latticed win- dows and their curious signs swinging on iron arms. A crowd surrounded the theater, and it was with some difficulty that we pushed to the door. A stern guardian of the peace, magnificently stalwart and stern as a Roman, barred the way. Mr. O'Suili- van suggested mildly that as he was the musically the most popular in the opera, he is greeted upon every act with a storm of hisses; a rather thorny wreath of ap- plause to assume nightly, bowever flatter- ing to his powerful actiz During the last scene of the second act there was an involuntary acrobatic per- formance. The pony who dragged in the cart for the execution was a most unwill- ing steed. The unhappy hero, with his hands bound behind him, exhibited re- markable nerve, cven when the pony stood up on its hind legs, butted at the soldiers and made every possible effort to overturn the cart and to pitc the hero headfore- most upon the brass mnstruments of the orchestra. It was a trying moment and not a little relief to the strained nerves of the audience when the little brute was finally brought to stand upon his four legs and the interrupted defiant “last speech” could be brought to its touching close. The general verdict of the younger men was that it was a “‘jolly good opera’; the women remarked tearfully that it was “too awfully sad,”” and even the graver and older men couid not say enough in praise of the music, the orchestration or the singing. The day was finished in the train. The company, tired and hungry, but triumphant, were regaled with an ex- cellent dinner. The golden sunset and the golden wines received impartial atten- tion. The villain ana the banshee wail clinked glasses in harmony, and gayety and good humor were the order of the day at the end, as they had been at the begin- ning. The last performance in London was given on Saturday, May 23, before an audi- ence as large and as enthusiastic as on the first might. The play appears to appeal direct® to the emotions of the people. ‘When the English captain demanded of an imaginary listener what he was to do— if he allowed Shamus to escape he would sacrifice his sword, if he did not he would sacrifice Kitty—one deeply interested spec- tator shouted, “Marry her! marry her!” and hopelessly upset the gravity of the sit- uation. When Mike Murphy offered to free Shamus, to refuse to give evidence against him,.if his colleen, Nora, would but go with him next morning to Amer- ica, an infuriated voice from the pit groaned, “Ye d— villain!"” Never were an audience and a company of “play actors” so entirely at one—the chorus was in irrepressible spirits and the dance was something to witness. The real Irish piper piped as though he were on his native heath, and the suiden shouts and the tossing of arms, the swaying of the swift figures, made a dance of almost reckless color and animation. Every number was recalled, every noble sentiment of the hero, his courage, his dare-devil defiance, his gay deception of the soldiers, were applauded to the roof, and after the first act, when great bunches of tlowers were lifted over the heads of the orchestra, the house rang. Even Mike Murphy, for once, had the usual hisses drowned in applause. VAN Dyck Browx. HOW IT FEELS 0 - BE A LADY BURGLAR Some of the Tribulations of an Unpleasant Calling. The Horrible Uncertaiaty in Search- ing the Pockets of a Man Who Is Married. “Yes,” said the lady burglar, as she ran a dainty gold-tipped jimmy through her back hair and toyed idly with a dark lan- tern, ‘it was somewhat of an innovation, 1 confess, and I ratber pride myself that I am the first real lady who has ever made a serious study of the science of burglary. Other ladies have tried it, but it wasa mere fleeting fad, like roller-skating and hoopskirts. They never took up the call- ing in earnest, and I believe I am correct in mv assertion that I am positively the only lady who has adopted the profession 2s a means of livelihood. “How did I happen to enter it? No, don’t say what was the first misstep. That is mere sentimental gush. There was no misstep. I took up burglary deliber- ately, and, if I may say it, with malice aforethougnt. All the legitimate profes- sions were overcrowded, and I was far too proud to ever think of becoming a house- maid or a waitress in one of those quick and dirty lunch places. And there wasno money in typewriting. *“Once”’—and the lady burglar laughed a merry, reminiscent langh—*“I remember entering a gentleman’s house by way of the second story window—he was a per- sonal friend of mire. ““Oh, no; I never let such trifles stand in the way of business; in fact, if Iam not much mistaken, he was an old sweetheart, or something on that order. Well, I was just gazing in the glass to see if my hat was on straight preparatory to going through his jeans and what other articles of furniture he had, when he awoke with | & violent, 10, 20 and 30 per cent popular price start. **‘My Gawd, Mag, is it you?' he ejacu- lated in a low, sad voice, ‘what are you do- ing here at such an hour. Think of what the neighbors will say!” | “‘Iam here to rob,’ I replied, ina hard- | boilea Barbary Coast voice. He seemed i surprised, but contained himself with re- markable self-possession. ‘If you will promise to go home and shed those bloom- | ers forever you can bave anything I have | got,” and he gave me the key to his wife's bureau drawer on the spot. “Yes. I have found that, as a rule, men are gallant. I always make it a point to disturb them as little as possible, bat whenever I do arouse them they receive me in a courteous and kindly manner. I | recall an instance of my early days, when | I was little better than a second-story novice. Ibad entered a bachelor’s apart- ment and was hastily separating the wheat from his unpaid bills, when he unexpect- edly opened his eyes and gazed long and earnestly at me. “‘Do you find anything that strikes your fancy?’ he asked in a gentlemanly Nothing,” I replied, ‘that will enable me to live ih ease and luxury.’ “‘Well,” he answered, ‘in that lower drawer you will find a pair of pink-silk pajamas. If you will ve so good as to take them, I think you can use them when | your bloomers have gone into dryaock.’ “0Oh, no; I was not offended. We lady burglars have to put up with a greatdeal of risque remarks, and besides the pajamas, [ found, made excellent shirt waists for the seaside, “Would I recommend other young women to follow ir. my footsteps? No, not unless they were willing to put up withall manner of unconventional things. Some- times I almost envy Billie Fly, little Davy Dare Devil and those other ladies who hang by their toes from eighteen-story buildings at $7 a column. ““It is a great deal more genteel than to go through a pair of gentleman’s trousers with the horrid dread in your heart that his wife has already been through them,” Saved in a Neck. Asthe lithe fingers of the assassin closed about his throai the manacled hero felt his brain turn sick. He struggled vainly | for breath. o die at the hands of a com- mon strangler! It was horrible! He felt his senses fast leaving him. He thought of home—of a loved une whose heart would break when the news reached ber. A lump came into his throat. The strangler felt it swelling beneath his clutch, and redoubled his efforts. In vain, The lump grew larger. With a yell of baffled rage and fury he sprang to his feet and fled. The hero was saved. . o — At the Concert. She—What charming teeth Mrs. Highsae has! He—You flatter me, madam. 8he—Oh, pardon, you are her husband ? He—Oh, no, only her dentist.—Judy. — e The Last Word. Vinegar—If you don’t quit calling me names I'll tell my mother! Champagne — That's all right. haven’t got any pop! Hot Weather at the Zoo. The elepnantopened his trunk in & doze And got out his light-welght underclothes. The yak perspired himself quite thin, ‘The boa-constrictor shed his skin, You The monkey hoarsely called for a ball, An1 used the skin for a parasol. The polar bear swallowed & cake of fce, And remarked, “Oh, my! that curry is nice!” | He was old and worn and wrinkled and gray. As he lurched along the shore of the bay He sang in a pitchy, nautical way A roundelay—this mariner gray: ““Away wi’ slumgullion, Salt horse and slop bullion, An’ away wi’ the duff they call plum; What more wants the Jacky Than hunks of tobaccy An’ ’is belly awash wi’ blue rum— Yo, ho—yo, ho! Awash wi’ the bloomin’ blue rum.” T i gy 1 halted and queried this son of the sea (A son of a gun he seemed most to me); I told him his numbers were breezy and free— Too breezy and free for even the sea. 1 observed that his ditty Was misleading—a pity, For the sailor man now is the pink Of undoubted sobriety, And ’twas rankest impiety To assume that his soul is a-drink— Yo, ho—yo, ho! Or his body is tainted with drink. I took this old shellback clear down through a course Of sprouts, and bore on him with logical force. I told him “slumgullion,” “slop bullion,” “‘salt horse™ Or rum or ‘““tobaccy” were terms rather coarse. I inferred that abstaining Was not in his training, And his morals I judged were awry; I grew quite sarcastic And was saying things drastic When he said my “jaw’’ made him durn dry— Yo, ho—yo, ho! "Yes, it made him uncommonly dry. He said he’d contracted a sort of disease; He thought it must be that the wet of the seas Had soaked deeply into his lungs and his knees— He seemed to enjoy it—this man of disease. The doctor had said liquor Would help him the quicker, And whenever he had a bad spell The thought of the water Would make his legs totter, And he felt even now quite unwell— Yo, ho—yo, ho! He was sure he was feeling unwell. Then he came to an anchor down by my side, And his troubles were such as seldom betide The sailor, he said—and | knew that he lied, This sodden marine fast moored by my side; And from the deep wailings Regarding his ailings 1 gathered this seafarer had More woes in a minute— Even Job wasn’t in it With him—and he made my soul sad— Yo, ho—yo, ho! Oh, his pathos and lies made me sad. As he wandered away in a dismal key 1 heard the low moan of a death-haunted sea, And he kept his Svengalic sidelights on me And his siren-like song in its dismal key. The sunlight went fading And in a weird shading I saw only his blear eyeballs gleam; A place most unhallowed He saited for—I followed, For my senses were walking a-dream— Yo, ho—yo, ho! He had set all my senses a-dream. 1 filled up this fellow with buckets of gin, Some whisky, some brandy, some wine I poured in; Some ale and some porter to loosen his skin, And likewise some lager to mix with the gin. He said then with sighing, With sobbing and crying, That his life was a sad martyrdom; He’d feel ’twas worth living If he could be giving Himself daily swims in blue rum— Yo, ho—yo, ho! Daily plunges in blooming blue rum. TOM GREGORY. A Bad Break. Reefer—Jones looks awfully down in the mouth. What's the matter with him? Banks—Well, the other evening he was doing the sweet to his wife, don’t you know, petting her, and all that, and he absentmindedly called her Kitty. Reefer—Well, what of that? Banks—Her name’s Eva.—Weekly Tele- graph. —_———e— Is There Any Design in Posters ? Tommy—Paw, what is a designing vil- lain? Mr. Figg—Ob, the description would ap- ply to one of these poster artists about as well as anything.—Indianapolis Journal. Evils of Civilization. “It is true,” answered the savage, ‘‘that civilization has taught us many sins of which we previously knew nothing. Rum? Oh, yes. And then there are many of our people who say done for did."”—Detroit Tribune. His Versatility. Tourist (in Oklahoma)—I should not think that piano-tuning wculd be a very lucrative occupation in this region—pianos are not very plentiful here, are they? Piano-tuner—Well, no; but I make a pretty fair income by tightening up barb-wire fences on the side.—Puck. i Time Flies All Too Quickly When Love Talks—and Works. |THE BACK NUMBER OF MARIPOSA COBNTY. Has Lived in the Mountains for Forty Years. Never Saw a Telephone, a Bicycle or an Electric Light, and Does Not Believe in Them. Far back in the mountains of Mariposa County lives an old man who in many ways is a curiosity. Heisan hongs! old soul, but he doesn’t believe anything he never saw, and ,he has seen very little for the past twenty years except the everlast- ing mountains that loom up on all mdt_as of his cabin. He is an Irishman by birth, Michael Dugan by name and a miner by profession. He has lived forty years among the mountains of Mariposa (::ounty, and never was absent except for eighteen months, and then he was in Nevada, and of course saw but little of the outside world. % That event took place back in the six- ties. He had heard that a war was in progress, and having a strong desire to do some fighting somewhere, he volunteered in the Union army. He thought be would be sent East to lambaste rebels on the Shenandoah and Rappahannock, but in- stead of that he was packed oft to Nevada to tussle with the bloody red men of the desert, Nevertheless there was plenty of fighting to be done, and that was all he wanted, and he foilowed the quartermas- ter's wagon with unflagging persistency for eighteen months. By that time the red men of the wilderness had joined their fathers in the spirit land, and the Mari- posa County Irishman was sent home. He crossed the Sierras and came down into the familiar scenes of Mariposa, and from that day to this he has not been out- side of the county. He never saw a tele- pbone nor a hammerless shoigun, nor an electric light, nor a bicycle, and he does not believe such things exist. He has a vague idea that something in the shape of a hammerless shotgun may exist, but he is decidedly skeptical. As for a tele- vhone, he does not believe it at all. After his return from the far off land of Nevada, he kept up his fighting habits until every man’s hand in taat neck of creation was against him. He finally got envugh of it and moved off to him- self. When visited a few days ago he gave as his reason for turning his back upon humanity that he had been im- posed . upon. *'One bloothy scullion,” said he, ‘‘come into meown house and broke meown jawn with meown ax,and [ would not sthand thot insult.” He has a placer mine and pans out enough gold to buy bacon and beans, and 50 be lives from year to year. HE ATE T00 NOCH OF THE DEAD COV. A Monster Vulture That Was Too Full to Fly, Captured in the Hills South of Chino. A Bird Bigger Than a Man. A bird of prey as tall as a man! Such is the prize captured by the superintend- ent of Richard Gird’s ranch in the hills south of Chino, San Bernardino County. The prisoner is a magnificent specimen of the California vulture, without doubt the largest ever taken captive. From the crown of his ferocious-lgoking, red-wattled head to its strong, scaly talons, it meas- ures six feet. Its plucky captor is an inch or two shorter in his cowhide boots. The man has the advantage in weight, for the bird weighs 100 pounds. Sull that is a fair fighting weight to carry through the rarefied air. In order to accomplish this feat the vulture is providea with wings that bave a spread of twelve feet. The local ornithologists who have seen the bird say that it is merely a youngster, says the San Luis Obispo Breeze. Allured by the palatable flavor of a dead cow recently the bird devoured nearly every particie of flesh from its bones, which so oppressed him that, however vigorously he flapped his wings, he was unable to soar away to hiseyrieamong the distant moun- tain fastnesses. In this humilialing pre- dicament he was lassoed and drageed, flut- tering ponderously but helplessly, to Mr. Gird’s stable. Rattlesnakes in General and One Narrative in Particular. ‘Written by C. M. Fitzgerald. The writer—manager Cuba Water and Min- ing Company, Georgetown, El Dorado County— has lived for many years in El Dorado County, in some portions of which rattlesnakes are quite numerous, and has observed that this species of snake is seldom found in regions wholly covered with timber, but loves to bask in the warm sunshine on rocky hillsides, ‘where the numerous crevices among the rocks afford it a secure retreat when danger threat- ens, and where the heat from the sun’s rays, absorbed by the rocks during the day, is given off during the night by radiation, thus iasur- ing a more equable temperature than prevails in places shaded during the day by heavy timber. Itis the experience and observation of the writer that the danger from rattlespakes, the only poisonous snake known in this country, is greatly exaggerated. This snake seldom if ever attacks a human being except when trodden upon or when it is itself attacked, but will invariably retreat if given an opportunity to do so. After a residence of neariy twenty yearsat an altitude of 2750 feet in the Sierras ana fol- lowing & business requiring him to traverse many parts of this section every year up to an altitude of over 6000 feet, and having had every year more or less men under his charge in the survey of new and the repair and main- tenance or old ditches extending over a sec- tion of country ninety miles in extent, mostly wild and uninhabited, he only knows of one buman being having been bitten by a rattle. snake in that time. That person was a China. man, who was bitten in the arm and who had no medieal attention other than that from a Chinese doctor, to whom he was conveyed many hours aiter the occurrence. Yet he re. covered in time, though the arm remained in a shriveled condition forever after. Up to Date. The Eastern potentate eclupped his bhands. ‘‘Ho, guards!” he cried, ‘‘call out my corps of Ethiopian light infantry and behead them instantly!” His glance bespoke his fiery resolution, “Never shall it be said that we lag be- hind the Western ervilizations!” He mused reflectively. “How fortunate that I saw that New Jersey newspaper s:ating that the black- burying season was on!”’ ——————— AThere may be two sides to every ques- tion, but not two right sides.