The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 7, 1897, Page 17

spoke of n they upid, 1 aske y cit wei elf ana ventured | . where a pleasant- | nd the maga- | ich direction I ;anyon where all I asked, diplo- | ejac toward the dark green \lated, glancing out of ted, wondering if she d she laughed lighdy went on to explain. | aid, “the hills about | d with strange people. e oldest towns in the | , and in early days it was | own. The Los Gatos | depot, was ‘a danger- | It was the scene of | could count. | who stopped there was obbed and lucky if he | i. Later,” she went on, | peaceable citizens appeared, ers betook themselves into to the tops of the hills r. an vou o d they could not be eer,” you know.”’ | wond at’s about two men in the | and one of That's the near- There are Mad Canyon” y went on my guide, ‘‘or he went there a|and and, being | couple of years ago, and left Eden in zens of Los | charge oi one by the name of Dr. Veter- | place, the | ling, a gentieman from India, who was with groans and | writing a book on Buddbism | some people say, is a Buddhist pri y people stared. | don’t know about that, but he was queer and did not go out much, him when he sat bareheaded in the hot sun when 1 was driving past. And the boy,” 1 ked, “‘what became of him? Did he go to thecity, 100?"” “My goodness, exclaimed my informant. “The boy hadn’t much taith 1n his father's fad —a fact which must have troubled the old gentleman, for some people gave the young one a deal of credit for that, and said that if he hadn’t been tied to learning the Bible from tne cradle he might have had bet- ter sense than the rest of the family; but of course I don’t know about that. Tke fact is, the father left him here wita a family living far- ther up the canyon. This family baa a great number of bees and this boy could go right in among them and they never stung him. I've heard that bees wouldn’ t sting 1ilots arch of a guide. 2 ’ he questioned hat's not far, but ere now. It's shut up , vou know, was a vege- | us enthusiast, and—and -witted so Whoen the old | came here and bought the most dead, but he namea 1d began to write bles. Meanwhile ndering about t He ess for quoting Scrip- rence for we: was abol snoes 10 come into town A his shos arm, always un- about. And the! nsed to get an ash cet him up on it and in the middle eet at s of the day or He knew o if a speech, and 1 to repeat that over and over to delight of the boys and the hor- citiz who began to hold d try to evolve a plan to get utside the town limits. ight, as regularly as night shoes and a sack and He went from took from the garbage | the yards whatever suited his fancy ep him quoii ild the gain. d picked up old clothinz and tin cans | and s and carried them home with him. Finally the father built a little hut n the back yard, at some distance He said he couldn’t and so, while the boy lections he had made in wracts in the | er tk the old man wrote 10od of God.”’ ed roads and iy sun, which even 1n mild as it might be. November “The doctor is in | with a very a-begging for something to fix itself upon in tne dreary little town, stopped before a | San Francisco now,” | plain house with closely arawn blinds ! at night time, and bas done that for seven | or insane people, but until this I never paid much attention. However, this family kept him all right and he’s up there still, for all I know, herding bees.” We had passed in- to the canyon and were driving between rows of trees and fences decorated with grape vines still t ened with great bunches of ripe fruit. And furtierin there were great apple trees with their roots down near the creek bed, bending their fruit-laden boughs to the very roadside. And there were great bushes filled with the shining red holly and snow berries gleam- ing white in the bright sunshine. There were sere and yellow leaves thick falling and carpeting tho way we should g0, and there wers green trees blushing red at autumn’s ten- der touch. The guide, who shou'd, according to all accepted trad tions of California the brotherhood of man and “ and Romance, have been an Iudian or a] Spaniard, and who was most decidedly time and were | neither, but a very courteous gentleman ess-like air which went | an air of not-at-home neatness about 1t. “Do you know who lives here?” ne in | quired. My answer was negative. He pointed carelessly toasign which | had some way escaped my notice, though | ! plain enough, which read: d who, 1 T used to see ® THE IDIOT == WH0 PROWLS [ ““BY_NIGHT., ~ ;1,10. MAN RECLUSE o visitors wanted.” | “Hospitable!” I ven “I'll go1n.” | “Better not,"” he said. he’s not up. “But, i's noon,” I protested. | “But she won’t be up until to-nigh She sleeps all day lonz and does ber work | ired | worse, | herself. | night long, and then atd | and goes to sleep. | ple. TReO8a 0 Obvatd ess o or eight yea “What for? “So's not to be bothered with people, 1 suppose. She had trouble with*her hus- band, and they separated seven or eight years aco. Since that time she has hated | men with ali her might, and hated women rd so she turns day into night | and night into day, and has nothing to do with any one. When the grocir comes he finds a little note pinned to the dcorpost with her order written on it,and be brings \he things and leaves them on the siep, and she takes them in when she gets ready, and the same with ali the trades- peonle. **And it's not be nse she isn’t right,”’ he said; “she is. he had studiea law 1’d hate to be a witness under ber. Sne can talk steadily for three bours and not give you a chance to speak a word. She 'sa fine masician, too. There’s o fine In the county, and she’s young and good- Jooking and a fine business woman, but—"" I waited a few moments for him to fin- ish, but he drove on in silence for a while, and then he said: “Some nmatures, you know, are chilled and dwarfed and marred altogether by disappointment and sorrow; others are saddened, but mellowed somewhat. When the frost strikes deep it is thawed by their own warmth, aud so it does not ruin ail hope or huppiness. This woman—well, she’s young; yet she may pick up and thaw out again.” And 1 looked at my business mar in sie lence. This was certainly a glimpse into the unexpected. But one can’t aiways know in this day and generation when veople are poets or when they are mere keepers of the tithes. < *‘And she never sees any one?” I asked, presently, “How do you know musical 2" “‘Sometimes we hear her at night pass- ing by tue house, and she is playing to Sometimes she plays nearly «ll izht she stops But she does see peo- She has a lawyer in town whom she has been consulting lately, but only at night.” She never changes this. | VEGETARIAN, &7 * G So we passed the house where the “her- | | mitess’’ lives, and went on up the wind- | ing road to a little white cabin that sat by the roadside. 1 There was a gray-haired old feillow in the doorway, and he nodded cheerfully as | we came up and bade us welcome. | “Come in and sit awhile,’” he said. *'It’s S % warm in the sun.” “Haring is my name,” he said. | may not have heard it, being from tbel city, but all about the countryside know | me. 1delivered speeches for them last | | election time, and I guess I won the side | for the boys.” “You | He laughed heartily and nodded his wise old head with his bright eyes shin- ing.” “And whatdoyoudo up here all alone?"” I asked. “Alone?” he said. “Why, I'm not alone. No man wants better company than good thoughts nor more comvany than many thoughts. Ob, I know there are many who would be lonely, but I am not one of them.” “What do you do0?’ 1 questioned curiously, liking to hear tnis old fellow tell of himself. “1 am writing a book,”” he said, *‘a book that will be great.” . And, believe me, ambition and enthu- siasm both glowed In his eyes and voice. Incongruous if you will, but really there, | mingling with the white hair and white beard and wrinkled | face. **‘And what is the book upon 2’ “Natural science,” he began, “the only thing on earth for man to spend his| time upon. Why, it’s everything, every- thing,”’ he whispered, “and it’s in the ai1 and all about in this canyon. I would not live elsewhere for the world. Some day you will hear that Iam found dead here— right in this place. Thnen you will re- member that you talked with me here and heard my voice echo about the hill- side and I held your | hand, and you will | wish I could talk | with you from where I am and tell you AN\ ANCIENT HERMIY what I'see. Thisisa zlorious place to die in. So we drove away, leaving the cld man smiling at us from where he stood with a happy smile. Why, he wants noth- ing in life that he has not, and that is something that few can say in this hur- rying, scurrying world where each longs to stand in his neighbor’s place and cares not whether his neighbor stands atall or not. * - » There was a dense clump of trees and bekind itatall, plain house. “What sort of peo- vle live there?” I asked, ready for al- most anything. “No sort of peo- ple,”” he said, ‘2 woman lives there alone.” It seems to me these hills have more than their share of hermits among the gentler sex, and o I told him. “Well,” he said, ‘‘perbaps so. This woman, like all the rest of thew, has a 7 She won’t tell itatall, and I can’t really un- derstand what use there is in her having past, and Il tell it as ’twas told me. it.”” And he laughed pleasantly. *‘She came here years ago, and her hus- band with her, and they builded this house and lived comfortably. For some reason or other the husband went out one night and did not come in, and in the morning when the wife started about her housewifely duties and opened the front door to let in the sunlight and fresh air she discovered a man hanging by the neck to oneof those trees, and on rushing out discovered it to be the body of her husband., They had always been happy together and it was certain that he must have done it while temporarily insane, because his property was in good condi- tion and there was nothing apparently that could account for the rash act. After- ward the woman married again—a sirange man, much older than herself and with nothing in looks or worldly pos- vessions to attract. They lived together a number of years—he used to come in town, but she never did, and doesn’t come now, although he’s been dead righ onto a year. “And did he die a natural death ? +I don’t know,”” hesaid. ‘“Some say hie did and some say he did not, and he can’t come back and tell us, and the woman can’t.”’ “Can’t?’ Tsaild. “You mean won't.”’ “No.” He shook his head gravely. *‘No, I think the shock of finding the body of her first busband was too much for her, and her mind’s never been right since. She lives in *Mad Canyon,’ as you call it.” **‘And what next?” “Let me tee. Up by Panorama farm there’s an idiot girl, and then down below here there's a crazy man, and that’s all that live in this canyon; but you can find some more 1n the next, scattered about.” She sat on the steps, her pretty hair coming partly down and her hands clasped in the lap of her dark calico gown. And what 'a face she had. One that would send an artist mad for his paints and brusn and cause h to conjure for months the right colorings for lips and cheeks and hair and eyes—large, deep eyes, with a wealth of coior and no ex- pression, saving that of a patient ani- mal’s that has learned to trust by sight. “Surely,” I said, “she knows Some- thing.” “Go and speak with her,” he said. So I climbed down from the buggy and went up to the place where she sat. And she watched me, neither with curiosity nor interest, but simp!y b cause I was a moving object and caught her attention. Ispoke to her, and she made no sign excepting to nod her head a bit, and then I asked her for her mother, but she paid no heed, only she crept over near to where Istood and passed her hand back and forth over the soft satin surtace of the night- hued ribbon about my neck. Ana so I stood there silent while the small and prettily shaped hand passed back and forth and the large, beautiful eyes rested on the color, and she made no sign. I feared to move much asone dreads to take a toy from a babe in arms, lest it shou!d cry out at the deprivation. But she made no sound when 1 finaliy moved away. She folded her hands again | as listlessly as before, and scarcely noticed us as we drove away down the hill and out of sight. “Has she always been so?” I think not,” the guide said. “I think | it was sickness or something of the sort. She’s lived here all her life, and we towns- people don’t know much about her.’” ““All her life? Oh, then it’s the air,” [ said. “Ishould be mad, I know, it I were here a weex.” The man laughed slightly. “Maybe you would,”” he said. “Maybe you would, Maybe we all would.” MurIEL Barvy. in June of this year Countess navon Hatzfeidt,who is to appear | ncisco this week, was discovered her titlein a Harlem garret, Je was youne, beautiful and of ancient ieage. Before the expiration of a week | Greater New York rang with her tale and a kindly press heaped praise galore upon the newly discovered bit of femininity. | Count Edmund von Hatzfeldt, the ! Countess' fatber, fought a duel in Ger- | many and was banished for breaking the laws of the country. He fled to America and settled in New York, where after a | time he married. His wife died within a and he married again, this time a | Indian girl, who, to make the s'ory more romantic, was said to be extreme'ly beautiful. They could not live hap zether, however, and were divorced. Count Hatzfelat, trne to the traditions of his ta which include a great many mar- nd an equal number of divorces- itions dating back for a thonsand absequently married Annie Ane well known at one time in New To them was born the actress . who bids fair to become much own to fame than vear ha ¢ to- her mother | | Hatzfeldt secured a divorce from e ad from his second. to be free, =0 he gave his wife | nd the nobleman, once again | 1is matrimonial fetiers, de- | Eva le, Ind., where he is | He went into business, | lown somewhat financially, how- e of numerous theatrical | I into which he had ventured on ival in this country. | e d'vorced Countess married again, | time a man by the prosaic name oi | r—Willis Baker—a Thespian like her- Then Mr. Baker, Mrs. Baker and the 'lle Countess, who was known as Olga ker, moved into tbe Harlem fiat. i ount Edmund, it appear:, is half- | brotter to Count Paul! von Hatzfelit, the German Embassador in London. Conse- | quently he is uncle to Prince Francis von Hatzfeldt, the -on-in-law of Collis P. Huntington. Had it not been for tnis marriage of a Hatzfeldt into the Huntington family doubtless Countess Diga would have gone on jor many years to come as simple Oiga Recina Baker, singing little ballads in barnstorming companies or in cheap concert halls, from A FAIR COUNTESS FACES For, like a true American girl, the young [ and hal bezun to fit herself for the staze, | aristocrat had early determined to strike | aided by natural talents for the profes- training, was made in out for herself on an cs000005300a, aacoe® SeoqL 00°? .- 53 va independent career, | sion and her stepfather and mother. i Her debut, which preceded any careful “Little Faunteroy.” She afterward played in Lord | “The Runaway Wife,”” but tinally, ‘find- ing that she was not succeeding dramatic- ]ally or financially, took to concert hall b [ L] I" ! A i THE FOOTLIGHTS. singing. It was either that or starve, she said. No one dreamed then that she was of noble birth and first cousin to members of the German nobility. And she had solemnly promised her mother that she wou!d never tell. Finally the Baker family found itself penniless and out of employment. Mr. Huntington was appealed to, as their cousin’s father-in-law. The result of that apoeal, as every one knows, was a gift of $10, a chuck under the chin, and a gentle reminder that four rooms was extrava- gance on the part of the Baker family, and that one was quite enough. She was asked to not say anything to the world and his wife about title or relationship. Then the whole story leaked out as such stories always do. But how much Annie Baker had to do with the leaking of it no one knows. New York was startled by the news that a beautiful starving Countess was living there in a garret. Be- fore a week had passed the young girt found herseli famous. The Hatzleldt stock went up iike a rocket. The Countess received letters by dozens daily offering her everything from a loaf of bread to a Lusband. For the American young man, it seems, was not averse to marrying a title when it carried with it the possi- bility of a fat support. And then the matter of securing a theatrical position was found to be an easy one. | Abouttie time that negotiations were | zoing on between the Countess and vaudeville managers che, it is said, was offered a small fortune to leave New York forever and keep her noble name from the theater bills. But she suddenly became very independent and would listen to no overtures. Sbe had nearly starved through pride, and she resolved that no | false feeling of that de cription on the part of the erstwhile indifferent relations should keep the butter irom her bread in the future. | She accepted a good!y sum from the management of the Casino and made her New York debut in an elevated manner on the roof-garden stage in abbreviated skirts that showed her stockings in a very undignified way. - She sang love songs and showed her pretty teeth to an ap- plauding peblic, wh le her reiatives were no doubt showing theirs in quite a dif- ferent spirit. ‘The New York press and theater-coers realized ihat the little songstress couldn’t | belp being born a Countess, and they for- gave it straightway. They took her for the pretty, amiable, gracetul eirl that she is, and her path to plentv was smoothed as if by magic. MAE ELEANOR GATES.