The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 5, 1904, Page 4

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. TON is a great in the influ- ind over r his At cows was res ¢ dle n s tous rt of 1s good grass. 1f she supposed she was eating grass she would give as much milk as before, even if her food sup- ply happened really to be hay.” as he may be a credulous cow,” re- . Middleton in doubtful tones even your flow of persuasive make her believe hay i rass is more than I can se2. ¢ Mrs. Middleton's incredulity did not decrease her husband's ardor in his plan for revolutionizing dairy farming. The next morning Middle- ian and left an ¢ large pair of pectacles. In the sed milk supply, i he antly out to the barn rstand ton went tc 1 opt r for an unusu glass , gree rnoon, V't seem to U Ja wear spectacl any complaint of fail- t after a little she what recon- Middleton ng evesigl son around 1 it would look like Then he back to the house explain more fully to Middleton the benefits uld accrue from barn of the to Mrs. which- w his idea About an hour later the tousled- boy entered the ba eating the hay, but a much puzzled he w was tainly w Her eyesight showed that green and it 1 like grass. But it was and didn’t in the Jeast like grass. — By Martha McC. Wiiliams HAND OF PROVIDENCE | | to Amelia: ning you make get a bi , and then and speculateé ws he's dry Then think once where you p and off at will.” tright. “He does talk zen,” she said ‘But with all his chances? him a fool of the first te chipped in giv and a doting family give me a Shetland if say a word against s Jem to fight with an,” Amelia inter- head the least bit pointedly. ‘Cause his sweetheart— wait for me to grow up. to he's goin He thinks I'm a heap prettier'n Aunty now. “How about me?” Prue asked, gig- gling more than ever. Amelia looked refiectively, but Jemmy stuck his hands in his pockets, set his feet far apart, and said, sticking out his chin after the manner of his model, Benjamin Byram: “Why, Prudy, you know nobody will ever look at you, so long as Aunty Bess and "Melia are around.” “Won't they, indeed?” Prue querled, @rawing down the corners of her mouth meekly, although her eyes twinkled. Jemmy swung on his heel. saying magisterially: “Course not. Why you're all freckled same as a turkey egg, a&nd haven't hardly got meat gh to wrap up your long bones.” pon my soul! Say, Miss Pru shall I take him out and drown him Tom Rodman asked, coming through the door as he spoke. But Jemmy enly grinned at him—Jemmy was nine and Prue eighteen. They were the best of comrades, despite his brutal frankness. Prue made a dash at him, stood him upon his head, then swung Bim by an arm and a leg, chanting: Fere be goes! Fingers and toes! Up the chimney when the wind blows, Ending in a feint of flinging Jemmy wpon the open fire. Amella improved the opportunity to pull her brother's Batr until he howled. They were twing, and pretty badly spofled, as was but natural, since they had grown up motheriess in their grandfather's house. “T'll swing you by your legs, Prudy, when I'm & man; you see if I don't. Jemmy said, trying to scowl, but grin- ming in spite of himself. Tom Rod- man picked the boy up and flung him across his shoulder, sayi-7 gravely: “I hate to do it, but there's nothing eise for it. Jemmy, I've been tellin’ you this ever so long I'd carry you to the gypsies if you did not behave better. Stop wriggling. You can't get away. But I'll let you kiss ‘Melia and fhe others good-by. Be quick! You won't ever see them again.” “Kiss 'em all yourself. That's what you're after,” Jemmy the cstute piped huskily, as Pom carried him close to Aunty Bess. His arms ‘'were free; impishly be laid hold of the two heads and yanked them together, locking his hands behird the two necks and hold- ing them tight, laughing uproariously all the while. Tom was a gallant fel- low; he could do mno less than kiss Bess, if all his heart did belong to eweet Miss Prue. And just as he kiss- ed her, who ghould come ia but Mr. Byram, the rich distant cousin, who had been for three weeks a guest at Fairlaw. Mr. Byram had come there exploring —he feit the need of a -wife rather than the want of one. Bess, who was tall and twenty, and the very moral of gracious stateliness when she chose to be, had captivated him out of hand. ie would have pronosed to her the nd day of his visit, never doubting h make, but that of propriety forbade. Be- ould not do to dazzjg her he must let the great ts br gently upon her, n broke er the “world. So he been n impartial in his de- —s0 much so he had twinges of conscience whenever he thought of Prue. She was hardly more than a schoolgirl, to be sure, but quite mature gh to break her heart over loss of if she once let herself seriously him believe she had a chance of being Mrs. Byram. Of Tom Rodman he had taken no more account than to set him down as an impertinent puppy with a knack of coming in at all hours—especially when Mr. Byram least expected or wanted him. To discover him Kki: g Bess in ‘the face of evervbody made Benjamin the Blatant simply furious All the more furious that Jemmy cried out gleefu Byra Byram! Come help me hold 'em. They tried to skeer me, but I'm beatin’ 'em at their own game.” “Let loose, you little varmint! up!” Tom commanded. Pr d at the tangle and de: twined Jemmy's fingers, letting B escape. Mr. Byram stood speechlc wrath and amazement, until Am sidling up to him, slid her hand within his and said, with the least toss of the head: “They ain’t behavin Mister Tom will be Aunty S8 nephew when he marries me—and the Fairies always kiss their kinfolk, if they ain’t too far off and, great stuffs into the bargain — Prue a Aunty Bess said so the first night you came.” “Indeed!” Mr. Byram exploded. “With my coming, I suppose, for a text. Well, young ladies, I see in all this the hand of Providence. A 'just and ever- watchful God would not pérmit me to fall victim to your mereenary. designs. No doubt you were tétapted by my wealth and position, although you are so wholly incapable of appreciating a man of my character—" “Kindly come outside with me be- fore you say any more,” Tom Rodman interrupted, setting Jemmy down with a thump and putting himself in front of Bess, who had grown very white and had eyes of scorching flame. Prue, contrariwise, had flushed so scarlet it hid all her freckles. Tom reached a hand to her and drew her toward him, while he went on steadily: “Your talk needs a man to hear and answer it. I'm that man. Bess and Prue have no brother, and Mr. Fairlie is past fightin’ age. But Prue belongs to me, and that gives me the right to stand up for ‘em. 8o you come along! We'll settle this the minute we strike the turnpike and neutral ground.” h, Tom! Remember he's our Bess pleaded. Prue gave her sweetheart a roguish and heavenly smile. Amella looked fit to cry over the toppling of her aircastle, but Jemmy turned a handspring by way of showing his joy in the “melley.” As he came up standing, he stepped in front of Byram, swelled out his chest and said, stoutly: “Don’t you try no crawfish games! You know you wanted to marry Aunty Bess! You told me 8o, and said I must court her for you. I ain’t very big, but if you try to go back on her I'll let you know I can shoot my little gun—and that’s mere than you can do. We won't have a regular duel, like grandpa tells about. Let’s try a buttin’ match instead, and if I butt you over, like David did Goliath, you'll propose to Aunty Bess same as ever and gimme that Shetland you been talkin’ so much about.” “Ladies and gentlemen, good-by,” Mr. Byram began in his most ceremo- nious voice. He got po further. Jem- my went at him like a catapult, bowled him down and out of the door, only stopping when his enemy lay pros- trate upon the hall threshold. There the grown-ups came to the rescue, and s0 managed it that Mr. Byram went off an hour later, somewhat bruised in his person and self-esteem, but as to his outer man, whole and speckless. When the carriage rolled -away with him, Tom Rodman drew a long breath, and sald, as he tossed a foreign letter to Bess: “Your sweetheart is comin’ home by the next steamer; had a cable this mornin’. You see, I have been writing him things. He will agree with me and the late Byram that in all this there is unmistakably the hand of Providence.” Shut AE aSIDE- S TEPEPED VWI7TH AN BCLLITY WHCH WOULD LBVE S ORPRISLED FIS BUSIHESS ACQUANY TASCES. —t # 8 2 SHADOWS ¢ @ @ By Hartley Willard : -+ TELL yo', gal—I tell yo' TI'd rather see yo' dead twice over than jined to Abe Taylor. Befo’ I would see it cum about, I'd kill one or t'other of yo' with my own hand. Whar's yo'r pride? Whar's yo'r shame? Whar's the re- spect yo' owe yo'r dead mother? If yo' was jined up to Abe Taylor d'ye reckon me an’ yo'r brother Bill could hang around yere agin what folks would say? D'ye think we could look our nayburs in the face arter that? High up on the side of the grim old mountain, father and daughter sat on the steps of an humblie log cabin .on a summer’s afternoon. He was a man of fifty, loose-jointed and a typical moune taineer; she was a girl of nineteen. “An’ why?" she finally asked. “An’ why?” he flercely repeated as his eyes flashed. “If yo' don't know why then yo' ar' no gal o mine! Heven’t I bjn tellin’ yo' why ever since yo' was able to understand things? ‘Wasn't yo' ten y’ars old when I brung home the dead body of yo'r brother Jim? Wasn't yo' fo’teen when I cum crawlin’ home with two bullets in my body? Wasn't yo' sixteen, an’' sittin’ right yere on this spot when a bullet fired from the thicket over thar knocked my cap into yo'r face? Yo' re- member all these things, Mary—yo' heven't forgot—an’ then yo’ ask me why yo' an’ Abe Taylor can't jine up. Lawd, gal, but I wouldn’t be mo’ aston- ished if yo' struck me a blow in the face!” “See yere, pop,” said the girl, as she straightened up, clasped her hands over her knee and looked away into the laurels, “Twenty years ago, befo’ 1 was bo'n, yo' got up a fuss with the Taylors. “They dun got up a fuss with me, gal.” “Well, there was a fuss. It was about a mewl or a hawg or sunthin’. ‘The Taylors an' the Renfrews went to killin". Yo’ dun for the old man.” “Yes, by —, 1 dia!” “An’ then one of his boys dun for our Jim® “Shot our Jim down like a dawg an’ never gin him no show!"” “An’ then our Bill dun for one o' them.” “He did, an’ I'm mighty proud o' him.” i | | ¢ “An’ then you git almost dun for.” “That’s -it, gal. One o' them var- mints ambushed me an’ put two bul- lets into my body, an’ the lead’s thar' yit.” I've been waitin’ a hull y'ar to ambush a Taylor in return, but the durned cowards ar’ as cunnin’ as foxes. The chance will cum, though —it will shorely cum. Me'n Bill will never rest easy as long as thar's a Taylor left livin’, an’, thank God, thar's onlv two of 'em dodgin’ aroun’ on top of airth.” s . The girl was silent for a moment, rocking to and fro. Then, In the same quiet, even voice, she said: “A quarrel lastin’ twenty y’'ars an' three or fo' killin's bekase yo’ an’ the old man Taylor fell out like two boys! Yo've carried murder in yo'r heart all these y’'ars, an’ it's thar' yit. It might hev bin so with the Taylors once, but yo' know they've wanted peace for five y'ars past.” “Bekase they ar’' cowards, gall” “Bekase they've got sense, pop. They can't see that the game is wuth the candle. A y'ar ago I met Abe Taylor over at Bridge Cove. I knowed him on sight, and he knowed me. We knowed that we orter hate each other like pizun, bekase of the quarrels an’ killing’ but sumhow ‘twas jest the other way. We see each other agin an’ agin, an’ we liked each other bet- ter an' better every time. Abe has bin for makin' friends, an’ so hev L We 'uns didn’t <tart the quarrel. Wé 'uns can't feel that these shootin’s and killin's is right. Bimeby, me an’ Abe falls in love an’ would git married, but yo' an’ Bill stand in the road. Yo' ar' my pep an' Bill is my brother, but I'm tellin’ yo' straight that Abe Tay- lor is as squar’ and white as either one of yo’, an’ he's got a heap less murder in his heart. I'm lovin’ him, pop—lovin’ him well ‘'nuff to be his wife an’ do all a wife kin do, but when he wanted me to run away with him —wanted it bekase yo' stood ready for mo' killins—I wouldn’t agree. I said I'd come an' tell yo' all about it an’ hear what yo' had to say. I've told yo', an’ what answer hev I got?” “You've got my answer that TI'll shoot Abe Taylor on sight!” shouted the father in flerce tones. “Yes, gal, if yo' was his wife ten times over I'd shoot him down. I wasn't ‘spectin’ this treachery from yo’, Mary. I've — bin father and mother to yo' these many years, an’ I'd never believed that yo' would throw yo'r own pop over an’' side agin him. Yo' couldn’t git Bill to do it—no, not if yo' would offer him. all the land ’'twixt yere and the iver?r. "’ “I can never make yo' understand, sighed the girl.. “I love yo' as my pep, and I'm grateful for all yo'r kind- nesses, but don't yo' see that I can't pick up this old quarrel an’ hate as yc' do an’ feel yo'r feelins for revenge? It's the same with Abe. He wants peace and friendliness. Together we want a weddin’ an’ cabin home. I said Abe Taylor is a squar’ man. 1f he wasn't would he dun agree to cum over yere this evenin’ an’ hold out his hand to yo' an’ ask yo' to bury the past?” “Abe Taylor comin’ over yere?"’ asked the father in a voice hardly ve a whisper. 'm lookin' for him every minit.” The father rose and entered the house and took down his loaded rifle, and when he sat down on the steps again the weapon lay across his knees, “Is It for Abe?” asked the girl. “For shore. I'll shoot him dead in his tracks!” “Then yo' ar’ & coward, an’ I'm no kin to yo'!” For a minute they looked into each other’s eyes—his showing the darkest passions—hers revealing contempt— and then they turned their heads. Thus they sat for ten minutes without further speech and the westering sun sunk to the treetops and blazed full in their faces and half blinded them. A sudden step caught their ears and both turned their heads to the right. ‘““Abe!” gasped the girl. “I'll kill him!” growled the man. Some one turned the corner of the house and stood in the full blaze of the sunset. The old man lifted his rifle and fired over the girl's.shoulder before she could raise a hand to pre- vent. For a minute a smoke cloud hung low and obscured the body on thesground. Then the girl said quietly: “Pop, you've killed a man, but it's yo'r own son Bill!” The old man- staggered over and knelt beside the body, 4nd as he knelt, his face drawn and haggard and his breathing whistling in his throat, a young man turned in from the road and halted close beside the girl “Pop thought it was you'!” whis- pered the girl. Abe nodded his head. “Walt till I bundle my things and we’ll go.” Now the tousied-headed boy still cher- ished feelings of wrath. When he saw the spectacles on the cow he 1 with amazement. “Blamed if dat guy ain’t put glasses on dat cow to make her think she is eating grass,” he murmured. Just then he happened-to slip hand into one of his trousers pocket Among the usual treasures stowed away in a boy's pocket his fingers touched two pieces of glass. He 41:‘"\'." them out. They were red and rouni and with a little trouble might be fitted into the wims of the spectacles the cow was wearing. And Into the mind of the tousled one crept a sug- gestion of how he might have revenge on Middleton and a little fun on his own account. o “Cows ain't so flerce thought the tousled one. don’t Mke red a bit better.” He took the spectacles from the cow’'s nose, pushed out the green glasses and Inserted the red ones. He replaced the red-glassed spectacles. Then he hastily climbed into the hay- mow and awaited developments. ‘When the crimson spectacles were adjusted the cow’'s peace of mind in- g2y his bulls,” But dey stantly vanished. To the right, left, and in front was to be seen only e hated color—red. Her wrath was stirred. She made a charge at th crimson haymow. The only result was that she was thrown back, bruised and baffled. She glanced around anxiety and terror, only o find that all the objects in the once familiar barn were the same odious color. Then she began a mad rush about the barn, mooing with all the force of her lungs. The tumult aroused Middleton, who ran from the house and threw open the barn door. But when the cow saw a crimson man standing In the door- way, her terror changed to wrath. Plainly, here was the cause of all her troubles. She made a mad charge at Middleton. He side-stepped with an agility which would have surprised his business acquaintances. The cow was unable to stop and thundered through the doorway. Then she turned and prepared for a second charge. Just as Middleton was planning precipitate flight an unusuallly angry and vehe- ment shake of the cow’s. head shook off the glasses. Things once more re- sumed their natural color. The cow stood for a moment, be- wildered at the sudden change in her fleld of vision, then began to walk slowly back to the barn. Middleton saw that her rage was over, but was puzzled to account for it at all “Green is the color of a good part of the earth in summer time,” he mused. “I don’t see why green speec- tacles should affect a cow with sud- den insanity.” Then he saw the spectacles lying on the ground. He picked them up. As he did so he noticed the red gl He understood what had happen “That young rascal mu changed the glasses. If I h h I'll give him a lesson on the evils of interfering with experiments in s tific farming that he’ll remember rest of his life.” The tousled-headed boy, hidden in the haymow, wisely gave no Indication of his whereabouts. Middleton ad- justed the green glasses and tried to replace them on the cow. But that particular cow had had all she cared for of spectacles of any sort, whether provided with red or green glasses. Bhe shook her kead In such a threat- ening manner that Middleton finally ndoned the attempt. “A scientific experiment that might have made a revolution in dalry farm- ing spoiled by the malice of a red- headed boy,” he sighed as he trudged back to the house. «# :# »# CHERRIES ¢ 2 ¢ | By john Bridges (Copyright, 1904, by H. P. Taber.) HE day he landed in Japan he found her in the groves at Ya- mato, when there was celebration for the coming of the blossom which is worshiped in the April weather—the blossom of the cherry. Sewall thought there was only one name for her and though his vocabu- lary was indistinct and incomplete, he managed to make her understand t¢hat he would call her “Cherries.” “Honorable Yellow Hair,” she sald, falling into his mood, “it thangks me, yaet And so that was the meeting of Se- wall and the little woman whom he called Cherries, Sewall was a writer of fiction. His friends said he wrote the “fictionest™ kind of fictlon—the kind that doesn’t sell—but somehow he had managed to get a book published and the sales had given him a royalty which he re- ligiously saved In order that he might 8o to Japan. From that day Sewall seemed to see her everywhere. In the celebra- tions In the garden and in the tea places where he went for refreshment there was always the vision of the little girl he had seen in the day when the cherries blossomed in the groves. But it was not in her phvsical being that he saw her, for after that first day he could find her nowhere. He simply dreamed of her—and “Cher- ries” came to be a word that stood out on every page of the white paper upon which he tried to, write his im- pressions of Japan. Who she was he did not know. The American Consul had presented him to her, and the American Consul had gone away to Kobe on a mission, so Sewall could not ask him the name of the girl who had charmed him out of his day's work. But one day, after two weeks which had seemed as many years to Sewall, he found her in the gardens with her sisters, playing with the paints and the brushes, painting cher- ry blossoms on a dainty screen. He approached and she recognized him instantly. “Most August Yellow Hair,” she said, it is of pleasantness that my miserable vision is greeted with thy sight.” “I am very glad to see you again” sald Sewall, gently. Though in his heart he wanted to say, “I have want- ed to see you all these weeks.” “Yaes?” sald Cherries. “Yes,” sald Sewall, as he sat down on the ground beside her. And then he told her how his moth- er was coming out from America, and how she was a very great woman. “Bigger'n thaet?” gsald Cherries, stretching her arms out as far as they would go. “Well, no,” replied Sewall. Hardly that big, but I mean that she is & great woman because she is president of a lot of societies, and she writes books and reads papers at cluhs—and all that sort of thing.” “HEe-us,” sald Cherrfes—and that was s near as she ever came to saying “yes.” “And now,” continued Sewall, “I want you to meet my mother. She will be here to-morrow, and I am to give a little tea for her at the hotel. Wil you and the sisters come? “It gives me mooch thangks, Most Honorable Yellow Hair,” sald Cherrles as she bowed low and showed the most marvelously beautiful neck, and the unusual little curls that clustered at the back. The next day Sewall gave the tea at the hotel. His mother had arrived, and Cherries and the sisters and the Consul and his wife and a lot of other Americans were there. Sewall presented Cherries to the mother. The “great woman” ralsed her lorgnette apd regarded the little girl critically. “Beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you marry her, my boy, and take her to New York?" She spoke play- fully in English. “But what was it, that the Honor- able Great Woman was pleased to say?” asked Cherries. She asked why I didn’t marry you —you be my wife, you know,” said Sewall. “Will you?” And his voice was earnest. “It would give me mooch thangks,™ sald Cherries. Then into her cheeks came a flush such as Sewall had seen when he gave her the name. So that is how Arthug Sewall, writer of fiction, came to win his Japanese bride.