The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 13, 1897, Page 18

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1897. A tall, brown, bare building lifted itself y from the earth very near to the car tracks | d its head toward the heavens— | gly, as tho loth to hide a bit of zlorious blue fr the sight of man— pologyz \e deed 1t could not help. And yet on this day of intense heat its | ost welcome place to pause over the | clir ana laboriously watching anxiously for steel rails rains. like a place of charity—a | | | looks “It to the memory of the person ied it ratber than a comfortable nument,” said the orously with his er have a flat marble stone. imself v unds issuing from be ope ittle sharp barks, ve whinings, and now and then a d-sized howl. There were strange s No doubt a | es itself by try- | the things which Humane in bumanity, as mbed the plain board steps pleasant-faced ave a cordial smile of welcome. number of patients in ents to-day,” she said, smiling, wre going to an important ope t We walked down the corridor animals, am upon veriments ot p it were. nd We c admitted by wer s afternoon. " and into a | yeriectly clezn as to wallsand but the air was laden with that r so pecuiiar to nes which the heat ably intensified. In corners | e apartment were boxes in which 1 ng animals. Along the e of the walls were cages holding flected doggie | A few anim of different sorts and in | conditions wandered about or | holdinz suspended in w. Others eyed the ges with an air of in- which mirth-pro- was g A vet monkey with a bandaged sat forlc in one e row of corner restless d who were apped so that they c move, and lay, poor little unable even to bark respectab! nd biinked their bright little eyes ar ed soitly when spoke to then bere w 1 iel there witha r—indeed, the chief ailment m of the animals’ hospit be broken legs, aithough dis- s0 holds its swa, There was a ed pus that had been run over 1ty ted. O, there was every vable kina of a dog, and they be- conceivable kind of a n de, “they are fretful an hem. Others are L It is pitiful 1o have hurt just wl less, the mpt to lap our hands, eyes on ried to | a corner of her ok sympathetic she looked at me *this poor littie sac mbled tiy in a good-<ized box of soft n ugly vellow dog. He was at you read about; the kind | v couldn't resist tying tin cans | that is if had its hing heavily. 1 he had one lefi. eyes shut and was e woman looked a | the tail of mal | ing been hurt. } some way the little thing caught cold and ’ | cant doe, crying over it as though b beautiful creature as that dies and is | buried and tbat is the last of it? Ba But we die—and we are considered moment and then spoke in a subdued tone of voice, i “About three hours ago a gentleman | came and asked 10 see this dog. It was brought here about a week ago, hav-| We thought it would be all well in a few days when 1t came, but complication ensued and we can’t save it | now.” | She wiped her eyes again. Well, it was | too bad, but being heartless I couldn’t weep over the death of a yellow dog when ; there are hundreds in the street—poor little homeless wanderers—just exactly | like it to a hair. I “This gentleman, as I was saying,” she went on, ‘‘came and asked for the dog to- | day. He was a great, tall man, finely | dressed, and his team waited for him out- | sde. We took him in to see the dog and told nim it coutdn’t be taken away, and there was only one chance in a hundred that it would live. Truly, miss, he just sat down like a big baby and cried and patted the dog's head. Presently he looked up, with the tears running down | his cheeks, and he told us that the dog was his littie boy's. The chila had been taken sick with a fever, and every day he had begged them to go and see the dog and bring it home to him. This morning the doctor advised them to give the child anything it wanted, and so he came for the dog. | ““Don’t you know, it was awful to see that strong man with that poor insignifi- heart would break. It nearly killed him to go back to the waiting baby without its pet.” As I stooped down the little animal opened its s and whined. We watched it for a moment as it slowly closed its | eyes again; then it opened them and trembled all over and— T turned away with a sick feeling at heart and when I looked back again the animal was dead. And it more than a poor little yellow dog, for it had had within its good-for-naught little frame the power to make a baby happy. There were a big Nezwfoundiand with a severe cold that affected him something like the asthma; a water spaaiel with the distemper and a pair of eyes that were strancely like a human being “What a pity there isn’t a heaven for dogs,” I ventured. We had stopped in front of the operat- ing-table, on which was stretched a beau- tiful doe. His long brown hair as | fine as ik and as glossy, too. His great eves were filled with pain and his whole ¢ quivered. ‘Do you mean to say you believe such a bo autifal creatures.”” ugled vleasantly » she said, “‘but they do hold o forus. But to say that in the n ture of things an an:mal dies and where, and a man lives for-ver. It absurd. 1i people knew more abou animals they’d know better. Why, they are the children of nature themse Humanity isn’t half as good as She hesitated a second, so 1 ventured to help her ou Doganity ? * she laughed. and see them operate.” 8he settled herself on confiden: way in which women show that they do not wish to be crossed, and she kept her eyes on the trembling and fright- | goes EVERY-DAY ened animal in a way that showed ske did not inten | to be With the perversity of a woman I de- termined to go. “Don’t you wish to watch them?" she “Now let's wait her feet in that | SCENES:*AT.. THE , following me as I turned away, towed upon me a look of pity, ck to where the surgeons were HE WAS THE IRISH LORD OF THE DESERT I nev: his ot He was | me. known m ins 10 the sea as ord. His coming to San Diego ulways meant two bits from e of the court offi He wasa politica L 12 addition 10 ¢ ting precin on the desert, that existed ely in his fertile brain, his nc ic habits zave him ze of look the priv He alway several places. gh he needed a voting in breakfa His request, however, was very brief, and spoken with the pride and bearing of a man whose sncestry had im- | posing tombstones, “Give me two bits; I'm dry.” Even the officials who were mndorsed by the Prohibition party could not refuse the request, and the Superin- | tendeut of Schools, sworn to advocate scientific temperance instruction, yielded | to the man’s strange personali It was in 189: the Irish Lord came | into my office, and said, in his jerking | “Want to zet rich?” I rey me with me tfo the desert. I | bave found a mine—vein_seven icet wide, almost solid gold. i It is od a thing to divide with me, is it not?”’ [ as 1 | “No,” be “You got that teacher out th the edge of the desert her | school, she is the queen of her sex. 1 love ner and every one of the halfbreed children in her school, 'cause they’re near to ber. That's why I'll divy with you. There's enough in the vein of gola for | both of us. Mavbe it's the Pegleg. While | 1 know all about huntin’ mines you may | be able to help theorize about’em. Wiil you go with me? IUs a —— dangerous trip. The creeks are all cowards ana run underground and whisky is so scarce that | you can’t use it to wet down dry jol | “When we get the gold I'm going to Irelund and buy the estate of the Irish | Lord and come back and give the title to | 1he school-lassie.” | 1 knew the trish Lord had spent years in | prospecting on the desert. Knew, too, that the possibility of finding rich mines | zlways existed in 1hat section of country | that e 1 from Borega to Cocopah. His love for the pretty schoolmarm was | 1he most unreal part of it. Yet here in | ihis tramy’s life were the two elements | that ruled the world—love and gold. The Irish Lord, a hermit almost of the desert, Lad the two great realities in an almost primitive state. It did not take me long to decide that I would companion the Irish Lord on the desert trip. A strong presentiment ex- isted in my mind, however, that neither one of us would get any gold and that the schoolteacher would remain in blissful ignorance of the Irish Lord’s love and his | e. Some other impulse—one of those impelling thoughts that come into one’s conscierce from a stronger will than your own—led me to make the trip. The second day out we passed a house | made of three ex-Government-claim shan- ties, with an Am-rican flag floating over it. The name of it was the Milgnatary School. Somehow, I knew that the teacher was the Irish Lord’s sweetheart.” I | stopped the team. Drive on, — you ed 3 e said. e on tend he said excit- edl “Why, don’t you want to see her?” | “See her! Look into ber preity eves now? No! I'll not speak to her until I come back from Ireland with my titles and deeas.” 1 We drove on. Ilooked back, however | | | | i of the desert. | moving air. The atmosphere stood still | there are mud volcanoes. and saw the teacher surrounded by seven | Lord’s pocket ignited and he narrowly es- | dark-skinned Indian children, or part In- | caped having his cioihes burned dian, her white apron, udy dress aud | him vouthful appearance in strange contrast | Wet rags were given the horses fo b the sand-beaten face, the weather-|in their mouth How grat worn and chaparral-torn garments of the | looked! At last night came, but our sup- man at my side. plies had been burned, except some cacned After all, it was nct the gold that he was | tomatoes. Thatisall we had ior ourselves after; it was what he thought the gold | and horses. would get him. Then for the hrst timeit| The Irish Lord insisted on voing on. dawned dvon me that if the vein only ex- | We were within an hour's walk of the isted in his mind the coming back would | gold mine. We started. In this region | be worse than going out. His assurance was catching. His mood always sanguine | of rich results, failure secmed to be on | no part of his programme. The third day | we entered the sand. The great dunes, like mountains, stood in our way. He | knew weil almost every trail. The pro- | gress was slow. At last he pointed to | the foot of one of the Cocopah Mountains, It is near there,” he said. | We were now in the most terrible part The mountains to the west, the north and the south shut out the | To step in one | | and was hot. horses’ feet. The sand burned the | is death. The dried carcass of a mule | The moon ana ars lit up the desert for | that had wendered away from some pros- | miies. The light was weird. The shad- pectors was beside the trail. The coyoles | ows in ibe disience ghostly. The sand even shunred the pisce. It was not the | yellow. It was the sphinxy, deathful heat that putrities. It was the heat that | Colorado Desert in its wildest mood. My dries one up. It does not melt. It ab- | companion’s face, lit by the moon, showed sorbe. The heat movea in thick waves | strange shadows. like the grainer moves the paint on the | “We're near the place.” The expec- door. It was hot. The matches csught | tancy of his soul made him whisper. fire and in & moment our wagon was all | Then in a moment, he cried: ablaze. The keg of water was barely | “Great God,lam in it! Boiling mud!| saved. Eveu the matctes in the Irish | Volcanol” | 4 ew feet aiead of me. I d grabbed just as his v from the edge of nd mud He was tut a nim was volcano. reat sirugele, pulling inch by inch, the Irish Lord was on his fe-t again. He took a wild, quick giance at the for- mation of the /and; then in a voice full of the pain of despair said: *The mud vo mine. no has swaliowed our It's gone. It was there. My trip to Ireland’s gone. She's gone. All's gone. Give me a drink.” I handed him the can- teen of water. “No, the whisky,” he said surlily. He wet his lips, drank a litt‘e, put some vnacloth and laid it against his throat. Then we went.back to tbe horses. We drove them before us on that moving journey across the desert. There was no sound in that lonesome universe except the tread of the hor-es and the lighter tread of the men. At high noon we struck water. It was t'me. The f{rish Lord, | strange to say, had yielded to te heat, | porticos.” SAN FRANCISCO CAT AND DOG e making preparations to begin their labor | and followed me to the door. She couldn’t appreciate my feeling. She was all alive with interesi—all anxiety. She looked forward to the results—s suc- | | | HOSPITAL. 1 cessful termination. The present pain was | too visible to me. | “Well,”” she sighed regretfully, ‘come over and see the cats.” | She led across the hall and stopped at | | chaps, proud of their possession and sc | at the thougut of being parted at ail. |a nurse, | loving bands | they | wasted | cannot understa WHERE INJURED CATS AND DOGS ARE TENDERLY CARED FOR the door a few feet from the other o d room. We have 10 keep the cats in an entirely separate place,” she explained. ‘vyoq know if there is a vestige of life left in o dog a cat will arouse him out of gl ner of constraint, and no matter hoy much of an invalid a cat is, a doz has the same violent effect upon it. So we save scenes and keep them 0 far apart that they can’t smell each other.” I measured the distance between two doors and doubted. But bless your heart, how fu looked these numerous little tabbies wity their pretty and glossy coats. Som them had one eve bandaged ana g sagely about from out the other. Oth too weak to do aught but lay about ir th sunshine, purred softly as we stroked their coats. There were flowers blossom- ing in the windows and birds sing somewhere about. It is quite pitiful to see the little tots who bring their pets here to be cu Little golen-haired girls and sturdy lit), man- ing And there’s many a real heartache the little tots have when they come to reclaim their dogs or cats and find them dead.’’ There was a sound of steps in the cor- ridor, and the attendant hurried to learn the cause. *“The ambulance has come,” she whis- | pered, “‘aud they have brought another dog.” We went out and stood looking on while they brought him in—a great large animal, maimed and bleeding. *“They’ll soon have him fixed comfort- ably,” said the lady. “You see’’ she added, as I turned to go, “there is a great deal of suffering eused, a good deal of life saved. And surely we have no right to be careless of that mysterious thing, even in the animal kingdom.” There was once a bower of roses, so beautiful that the radiance of it startled the sunbeams into fli and so fragrant was it that the traveler sank into delicious slumber, overcome by the perfume, and when he arose to go on his w. was like as though he had dropped a | of trouble from his life, and was in his first youth. Where these roses grew, a woman had lived. Her liie had been one of such sorrow that she gave her pretty villa for a hospital and entered the institution she had founded, as and waited with upon those to she hada given shelter. And the ro say, blossomed more beautiful wherever she was. They nodded the masses of pink bloom in through ihe wi dows at herand her poor sufferers. They waved their long green arms and climbed hi:her and higher until they covered the very roof with their protecting loveliness tender, whom | and there they nestled in fair and stormy And the human beings with lives and bodies and honeless bearts, with haunting miseries which we d, crushing their souls, went away happy. She who founded it died, and other hands moved the hospital to a I buiiding, but the bower of roses still re- mains and the goodness of the deed Ii gers, a refreshing instance in the histor of this century, like the wreath of her roses that reaches for many a mile. So this old brown building, with motley crowd of inmates and 1ts stran purpose, seemed. It worzed out the mo- tive of love that promnted it, and (I world was fairer and better for its be there. JEAN MoR: weather. er its {and it was with difficuity I held him on | his horse. His tongue ba vollen to twice its natural sizs and he looked at me vitifully. It wasnot the heat so much as ct that the millions be had pur-ued ne down in the boiling mud. 1 took him from the horse and, placinz him beside the sy poured water on his clot His body absorbed can after can of water and not untii it had taken in a quantity through the pores of the skin did 1 leave bim swallow |any. It was three days before we | were able to proceed on cur journey. A | this time we lived on the canned tomato The fourth day we passed the school- | bouse. The enthusiasm of the Irish Lord bad given place to dejection. Deeper and deeper the lines burnad themselves into | s face. The spirit of the man was broken. | As we passed the schoolbouse he looked | up suddenly, turned toward it, gave a de- | spairing cry and fell from his Lorze, I | triea to stop him, but he fell like a deaa | man. In a moment I was beside bim. His pulse had ceased to beat. Heart fail- The schoolteacher | 1nto his face. She could not speak for tears. She reiurned to the schoolbouse | | and brought back her wraps. Ina mo-| ment she had his head on an improvised pilow and his face covered with her i apron. The school chilaren stood around | awe-strack by the presence of the dead. | | Their whispers were aimost ss strange as i | laughter. The teacher dismissed the | school and started off to notify the people. | ““When the Coroner arrived he found the | apron and the wraps stili by the dead man | | and his body covered with wild flowers. | | Tt is said that during the whole night the teacher sat in the littleschoolhouse guard- | ing the body of the dead. Probably she | %knew, + Hanr WAGNER. i White House Pioneer Days. | *‘Congress first assembled in the new | Capitol on November 17, 1800; aad John | Adams, then President of the United | | States, took up his abode in the Execu. | | tive Mansion,” writes ex-President Harri. | 1 #ou of “The Domestic Side cf the White | | came out, looked House” in the Ladiey Home Journal. | Neither the Capitol nor the Executive | | Mansion was fully completed. The | | proportions of the house seemed to | ;l\lu. Adams as ‘grand and superb.’ | | M ‘The plan was taken from the pal ace of the Duke of Leinster in Dub- | lin. ‘If they wiil put me up some velis | | and let me have wood enough to keep fire: wrote Mrs. Adams, ‘T design to be pleased.” But though titerally 1n the woods no one could be found to cutand cart firewood. | The few cords of wood that had been pro- vided had been exvended todry the plaster- ing. A Pennsylvania wagon, secured | through a treasury clerk, delivered a cord | and & half of wood, ‘which is,” wrote Mrs. | Adams, ‘all we have for this house, where | twelve fires are constantly required, and | we are told the roais will soon be so bad that it cannot be arawn.’ *The society ladies were ‘impatient for a drawing-room’ in the Executive Mansion and this when Mrs. Adams had ‘0o look- ing-glesses but dwaris' and ‘a0t a twentieth wvart lamps enough’ to| |light the nouse. There was no in- | closure and she made a drying-room | for ber clothes of the great east| room. The original cost of the White | House 1s said to have been a litile more | than $300,000, and something more than that amount was expended in restoring it (after its destruction by fire in 1814), and in the building of the north and south | Joel Chbanaler Harris on the Savannah THE GEORGIA POET Frank L. Stanton, tha Georgia poet, | whose verses are so familiar to all news- paper readers, is a rare genius and some- thing more. His only school was the school of adversity. The misfortunes of | his early childhood swept this fatherless | boy past the doors of academies and col- ieges, and he was clad enough when just | entering his teens to act as office-boy for News. In a short time the boy drifted to a small town in South Carolina, where he went to work in a printing office. | He was fond of books, and began to lisp | in numbers at the age of 6. His rhyming | gifts were wonderful, and when he was only 15 he made a dash into print, | One night he wrote a short poem and | FRANK L. sent it to his favorite paper, with the fol- | lowing businessiike note to the editor: | “Dear Sir: I want $1 for this.” | The deliar was promptly forthcoming and the poem was printed in the course of | two or three weeks, Then young Stanton tried hisluck again, He wrote a longer poem, and his note to the editor ran as foilows: “Dear Sir: 1 want $2 for this.” The money was sent to him, and his | verses appeared 1n a short time. His next venture showed that the money devil had captured him. He forwarded s poem to the editor, with a note in which he said: “Dear Sir: I want $3 for this.” Again fortune favored him. Tue editor pubiished the poem and paid the sum de- manded. Stanton’s memory is something phe- pomenal. He can repeat the whole of L] | “Childe Harold,” page after page of Shakespeare and hundreds of poems. In onerespect Stanton resembles his dis- tinguished co-worker, *Uncle Remus.” He is unwilling to leave Georgia, and seems to think that a position on a big newspaper in any other State at double his present salary would be utterly ruin- ous. It is passing strange that these two men are willing to remain practically prisoners in *“pent-up Utica,”” when business and pleasure offer them wealth and fame in our great c-nters of population, but they are so constituted and they cannot help it. Doubtless a strange timidity and shy- ness common to both men will be found to be the true explanation of their un- willingness to change their place of abode. They seem to think that geosraphical STANTON. lines change human nature. Stanton is now 45 years old. He is of medium height, with a gunpowder com- plexion and fierce black eves. The poet is careless of his fame, and he neglects his business interests. His popu- larity causes his work to be souzhtafterin many quarters, but as a rule he throws it away where he receives the smallest com- pensation. In Atlanta he is, of course, out of rlace. The Georgia capital is a busy, money-lov- ing city, and it will be fully a half-century before it will begin to cultivate the liter- ary side of life. The average Atlantan thinks more of potatoss than of poetry— more of bricks than of books—more of capital than of cuiture. It is a cold, chilly city for a poef, but in their narrow way the peovle are proud of Stanton, and it pleases them to know that his verses can be coined into dollars else- where. Warrace PurNax Regp l