The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 29, 1903, Page 5

posed scarce he a did no h and ngs fath hen the bitter- the puir. That casta the velns runs the You represent what CRASH SE7 HIS CUN ‘70 v 2 Of any steful and of to think came to be that “The Pea- and there was iosity as to what urn a sarcastic way ffered charge of the mule he wheelbarrow gang and =0 it he held his head the higher He had made up igh-roller to the de no repl ght after break- a dav clac uld be n father and mother must pped back to Tucson by con- n train Old Castile was In h at ! asta, you mother he vill have to you that the heart? It is- hu- death. Don't v f you were to t ty you could do better y for a hun- a cowboy?" load carts with andled spade with his promer I seek to cut it short- d back hant nail keg in had sat on e knew that door- looked )ar he was lolly and a guy. but he n their ignorance. He rrived when ait. bur he became a man of roadbed had reached the foot- } where therp was cover for the Indians, who had taken a scalp when- ever there was opportunity. On this THET WITH Ff GND . THE SUNDAY CALL. #Straight abead rode Jocasta, the reins now in his left hand and his revolver in his right® bee looked like a ide of the dea (when the girl) He bout »d bibs. eaning to the side nor diversions zood song well ied the cne evening r-yard fence patch flocks of hite nias shimmered and hawk e quivering blots over them. elder thic med Agaous £ s banjo. Ag!” n’ give us a chune.” mplying. Agabus upon shouted Silas, fell > said in mild dis- es Blackeyed peas, ef a good square chune is to it oughtta be wuth =h at a trifle fer. Whut'll you simme e? TNl sing reasonable.” W 1 swear, Ag! You reckon pay out money to set yere ver little cle ple pan ver Ole Kaintucky Home? nd crickets don't charge Reckon they'll do me.” “Hol n, Sile, don't fly up creek. I wasn’t figgerin’ on plunks,” reasoned Agabus, persuasively, “gimme beans, er squawshes, er 'taters—gimme ‘taters now; you got 'em end I ain't. How meny ‘taters’ll you give fer a batch of good old songs?" and considered for five ‘tater a song,” he then a peelin’ more.” Them ne’s wuth money. pan full o* seed ones in the spring, an’ the‘old woman ke to eat every pottered one;“ she rwed they was better than lcecream. e new invented. You don't git but a ‘tater a song.” bus scrambled ‘upon the_fence, twirled his banjo into position, and that old song that seems always to drip soft southern fragrance and to ripple out _the melody of tranquil waters wed into the damp, soft glogming: Way down upon the Suwanes River, Far, far away. 014 Silas smoked, with closed eyes: his wife rocked placidly in the shadow of the porch, and Rocksena, sitting upon the step, clasped her tanned hands and inhaled the music. “Carry me back to Ole Virginny” thrilled and ebbed, and blithe “Nellle Bly” followed, bringing her broom along. Then Silasg slid stiffly from the fence and shook his pipe ash into a tuft of wet clover. “Sena,” he called to his daughter, *“git Ag. three ‘taters. I'm goin' to bed.” Rocksena brought the three largest potatoes she could find, and Agabus stowed them into his pockets. When Agabus had sung away a + £ £ AG'S BASKET OF POTATOES = By Harriet Whitney Durbin. | bushel of potatoes from Silas Weather- bee, he asked the old man to throwin his daughter Rocksena for good ineas- ure. “Agabus Biglo,” directed S shoulder yer rotten old UYanj sticks.” “But, Uncle Silas, she— “Cut sticks,” repeateqd Silas sternly, “an’ never p'int yer toes down this holler, agin, er I'll th'ow vye In the crick.” When the hunter's moon piled silver eheaves under the trees, Silas Weather- hee and his wife sat alone on their hop-grown porch. Agabus, the banjo and the potatoes were gone—and Rock- sena. Silas smoked grimly. He missed the “Old Kentucky Home" and the “Suwanee Riger.” His wife knit spirit- lessly. She missed the girl In the spring came the great freshet, when Goose Creek arose with slow, viclous hissings and plunged, foaming, over its banks. Its high tide mark it flouted, and, like a hungry beast, pil- laged cérnfleld, truck garden and po- tato patch. The sluggish blooded old farmers set to work with matter of fact patience, replanting. Silas Weath- erbee raged Itke Goose Creek. “Every darned Pearl 'tater in the county licked up by that pottered crick,” he roared, “1 gotta plant any old kind of 'taters thls‘ time."” And once again Goose Creek arose with destructive appetite. A June flood i came, and the replanted flelds were as bare'ds a desert. A drought followed in the latter part of summer, and autumn found a scanty ingathering of crops. One late autumn day Silas Weatherbee drove over to see his brother Simeon at Crab Hollow. Simeon was cutting sorghum cane. “Gotta live mostly on sorghum ’lasses this winter. Onme thing, they're good an’ fillin’,” he philogophized. “Got any 'taters?” asked Silas. “Not & ‘'tater; Goose Creek eat 'em all. Ain't you?” “Naw. My ole woman's plum pinin’ away fer 'taters—gittin’ gant an pore es a herrin’.” “Look 'ere, Sile, you ole mule,” said Simeon, “can’t you gee whut the whole trouble is? The old woman's not dyin’ fer ‘tatters; ‘she's & dyin’ fer Sena.” “It's 'taters,” said Silas obstinately. Sena,” vowed Simeon with equal obstinacy. “Why, logk yere, you cranktious ole mortal, Ag. Bigio's got ‘taters; why, he sells em, an’ has some biled an’' roasted 'sides; an he's good to Sena—mighty gocd. An' you been snurlin’ yer nose at 'im over 'n’ over!” “'N’' I'l snurl it at 'Im agin ’f he squints & eye down my holler. Got my 8al an’ all my ‘taters.” Silas turned his wagon up creek and jogged slowly homeward. He was listening to two inner voices fn hot argument, which had not ended when he reached the bars of his barn lot. o —fe THE SUNDAY CALL'S Two Full Pages of the Cleverest Fiction by the Cleverest Writers HALF-HOUR STORIETTES * ] Fresh wheel marks were in the loose, soft earth; a gray horse was browsing under the buckeye tree, standing pa- tiently between the shafts of a light country wagon. With a half growl Silas unharnessed his horses and made a short cut through the pumpkin patch to his locg cabin. As he entered the kitchen the steam puffing from a great saucepan on the stove wafted him an odor retrospectively familiar. He sniffed it enjoyingly. ‘““Where'd ye git ’taters at?’ he asked, as his wife came in from the smoke house with a square block of bacon. She locked smiling, yet appre- hensive. : “Look at ‘em,” said she, lifting the 14, “ain’t they bouncers? An’ all pop- pin’ open, they're so mealy.” “Where'd ye git 'em?” repeated Silas. A young woman ran from ambush behind the door and wound her arms about his neck. “We fetched ‘em, paw,” she cried joillly, “Ag. an’ me— two bushels of 'em, all whoppin' big an’ good.” Her father shook an accusing flnger at her. “My Island Pearls, young wo- man; good reason why they're whop- pers. You gave Ag. all the biggest ones for his ole chunes. But he got a bigger bushel'n I ever kin dig up. You better a’fetched 'em; your ma’s begun to fat up a'ready.” ““You can have bushels of 'em, pa,” avowed Rocksena, “Ag. says so. We raised a house full. Ag's here, pa, an’ got_his fiddle.” “Fish me out a ’tater, ole woman,” sald Silas, “an’ dish 'em all quick, An’ tell Ag. to unhitch that nag o' hisn an’ come to supper.” There was a moon that night. It cast zig-zag silver bars through the old rail fence, with a curious humpy shadow_at the top, smoking a shadow plpe. From the Goose Creek hollow came damp odors of bergamot and spearmint. The crickets made a merry under-accompaniment to the strains of the old song: ‘Way down upon the Suwanee River, Far, far away.”" And on the silver-swept porch of the log cabin, two women sat gossiping happily together. WAar ponies, had t to pick up any lines. There were tered along the two miles ¢ cen lyir stragg thing seemed qui around the rude campfl ing booths to eat their midday It was then that Joca him, saw the Indians swift gallop to cut off had gone afar for a st Without haste, and with any one, he rose up. A away was a pony sad and standing in the s 4 own belt was the inevitabi though no one could say that ever made use of it excep ment. Hundreds of casta as he sauntered dow to the pony with that proud and easy gait of his, and there was neither surprise curiosity until he siowly took his seat in the saddle. T wonder if he w stealing in broad daylizht As the right hand gathere reins the left lifted the so dignified salute, and then J tled down n the saddle - straight aw: There was a =« yell behind him, and out came a h dred firearms, but before 2 been sent whizzing after dians broke cover. Then h grasped and he was cheere ahead, posing in his sa posed on foo now in his lef in his right, and the Indians sight of him too late to gear off. He struck crash and set his gun there wa: haste to When a of mounted up and nted they f Dand ad on the g vith thr his body, and Ivinz around him within reach of his hand were four war-painted bucks whos couls, if they had any, had gone great divide in company with his looked and bed their eves to There was Jocasta. and dend. He had done It was o Men look again. there were what he had done. first and last pose for gl IN THE SPRING | By A. S. Richardson. ? * ORTH GLASCOW had never taken Mabel Farnham seriously, nor knew her to take life seriously. vyet there had been a lin- gering hope in the minds of the gossips when it came to the question of that matrimony, the pretty daughter of the big millowner might be sensible for once. - 3 But then North Glascow did not un- derstand Mabel, and Mabel cared pre- clous little whether he did or not. Bhe did - not feel called upon to detail her daily life nor analyze her motives for the edi- fication of the town gossips. That was why the sharp-tongued women of the manufacturing town did not know that when Mabel went tearing through the main street on her little mare. or trotted past in her dogcart, she was pretty sure to drop in*» her father's dingy office with a kiss and a merry greeting. Nor could they dream that the young girl who danced when op- portunity offered until aimost mornins. tripped downstairs In the most be- witching negligees to pour her father’'s coffee and smiled sleepily bnt good- humoredly across the table at him. What they did hear was that Mabel lay abed till 11 o'clock (which was quite true, for she went directly back to bed when her father had driven away), and sent to Boston for wrap- pers and coffee jackets of lace and silk. such as no respectable, hard-working woman in North Glascow ever dreamed of wearing. They did not dream. either, that she wore cherry ribbons in those same negligees, when she loved blue best, just because her adoring father had once remarked that red was the only color in the rainbow worth considering. At regular intervals, what Known a: the sociai set ol G! went in its best array and as many curriuges as the town colid support to be entertained in state at the mill- owner's brick and stone pile on the hill, and came away to discourse on the shocking waste of electricity, the ab- surdly massive decorations of Ameri- can Beauty roses, the dreadful expense of a caterer from Boston, when Miss Loulse Crocker could have managed the whole thing for half the price. And Mebel's gown! The brocade had surely come from Paris, and it was far too elaborately trimmed for so young a girl. Well, it was a pity that Mrs. Farnham had not lived to steady down this frolicsome daughter and keep a re- straining hand on the household ex- penses of Donald Farnham. Little they knew how hateful the display was to Mabel, how she longed sometimes to close down the house. with its gilt furniture and plush hang- ings, and to join some of the girls she had met at college, In their trips abroad, where the world was old and rich in art and book lore. But this was her father’s life, the life for which he had longed in those early days when her pinafores were short and his work- ing hours long. He was master of North Glascow to-day, and he reveled in_his sense of greatness and power. It was just when Mabel was hunger- ing for a broader life, when North Glascow seemed unbearably narrow, and when she had dazed its gossips by some pargicularly unconventional frol- ics, that Harold Barndt came into their life. For reasons not stated, the elder Barndt wished his son well out of New York for the winter, at least. One of them was a certain pretty chorus girl who had settled herself in a little fiat unpleasantly close to the great apart- ment-house wherein dwelt the Barndt family. Mr. Farnham was indebted— or imagined he was — to Mr. Barndt. and a position for the younger Barndt was made somehow on the clerical staff at the mills. And quite as natur- ally young Barndt mgde for himself a place in the Farnham home. "Twas the’ only fit place in the town, he explained to_himself. Mabel had always been accustomed to admiration, but now she woke up to the fact that there was keen rivalry for her hand. Young Barndt fretted a week or so for the pretty actre and then decided that, averaginz joints, Mabel had a trifle the best ot it: to say nothing of her financial pros- of pects, as the omly child t owner. And Jimmy Crawf loveds her ever since the first had opened the big mill gate for Ma a dainty vision in white with a cherry sash. Jimmy had been a bobbin boy that day. Now he was superintendent, and a better superintendent did not boss a mill in all New England. said Mr. Farnham, which w show that the owner of the mill judged the young superintendent by his ability to get work out of employes and not by the state of his affections. The latter would certainly have given the self-made man much concern. He meant. when he had accumulated money enough, to marry Mabel into a f. y with blood. Mabel had never taken Jimmy's de- votion seriously until young Barndt appeared on the scene. Then something in the mystery which she read in the face of her long-devoted and much- tried admirer appealed to her more womanly nature, and though North Glascow never dreamed of it. Mabel was real]y thinking deeply of the fu- ture. Matters came to a head on Hallow- e’en night. With young Barndt at her side, Mabel had ~driven through the crisp autumn air to the Hallowe'en frolic at Myrtle Graham's home. Barndt's roses were fastened under her cloak. and on the table at home the box of bonbons he had ordered sent to her each Saturday lay unopened. He had tucked her into the carriage. but now he sulked openly. “These country social affairs are such a bore, don’t you know. T sup- pose we shall bob for apples and ruin and come home deucedly I'd much rather have the even- tired. ing at home, with you at the piano and the lamplight falling on your hair.” Mabel smiled in the dark. Would he always be satisfled with that do- mestic picture she wondered. P ow each girl must walk down to the spring, quite alone, and look into it for the face of her husband-to-be.” announced the hostess, in the tones of an oraclie. She heid up a white fas- cinator, for the night was cool. and Mabel’s hand was the first to reach for ft. “1 hope you are not going te en- danger your health by such nonsense.” Mabel turned to look into young Barndt’s scowling face. He had been greatly bored, as he had predicted, and this was the last straw in his load of misery. “I thought you had too much sense to be superstitious.” “Perhaps,” answered Mabel, with an 0dd laugh. And then she was gone. While the merry party awaited her return, Mabe! walked slowly through the moon-lit garden to the spring. She was thinking of them both — Jimmy Crawford, who, though the life of the party, had seemed somehow to be watching her all the evening, and Barndt, with his polished manners and his sulky eyes. Then she bent over the spring and smiled. She had feit it all along—that his face would look over her shoulder, and their reflections would be side by side, oy - A “It was dreadfully silly, Jimmy." she said softly, as they walked slowly back to the house. “And you mustn't think that it is just because I trusted my decision to a foolish superstition. But it's because the little things make up our lives — at least they make a woman happy. Some men” — she del- icately refrained from mentionine Barndt—“would have stayed in the house and let me look into the empty pool. And I want some one who un- derstands me; who thinks of the little things for me. T've been thinkinz for other people o long—" Jimmy held her trembling hand tight In his big, strong one. “I think T understard, dear.” “I know you do,” she whispered softly. “T've known it for ever so long —only I couldn't quite—" And again he put hic #~al ~n the un- certain wo-ds. But all North Glase-w ‘thinks fo this day that it was just be- cause of the Hallowe'en superstitition that Mabel accepted Jimmy, and fought the good fight agzainst her father's pride and disappointment.