mount’ins, in Col-
orado, 9,000 feet
above sea level, I
struck a vein of
good mineral and
surveyed a claim.
I built me a log
cabin, and there,
miles away from
any human habi-
tation, I lived
alone. Far below
me, like a thread,
was Otto Mears’
toll road from Sil-
verton to Ouray, a road that cost $40,-
000 a mile. In clear weather I could
see the stages whirl along this, or, likea
line of flies, a mule train pass on in single
file, and sometimes, like small ants, a
heavy loaded burro train. Them reminds
me of a green feller I see, reading about a
burro as was knocked off a road by a land-
slide. ‘‘Serves’em right,” said he, ‘‘for
taking that heavy furnitoor way up
there.”” He wasn’t much on spelling and
didn’t know a burro was the Colorado
name for a donkey. The burro is the sal-
vation of the mount’in miner, for the lit-
tle creatures can walk on the picket edge
of nothing and never miss a foot and carry
a load that weighs more than they do.
Far below the toll road the Uncapaghre,
brown and dark in the shadders and silver
in the sunlight, meanders through the
valley. How far down? Waal, one place
on that road is a cut torn from a solid |
mount’in wall and a look down of 900
feet. It is a ticklish place, but we gets
used to them things after a time.
For six months in winter 1 was snowed
in in my lonely cabin. I could hear the
roar of the icy gales through the crashing
timber and once in awhile another sound
that you never forget—a fearful roar like
a monstrous wave breaking over jagged
rocks and carrying with it a grand, big
ship. There’s a jar of the airth, a snap of
trees, a crunching and rumbling and a
thunder of rolling rocks, with a queer
sense of moving, not where you may be,
but far off. That's a snowslide. It be-
gins on a mount’in peak, creeping slow, a
white mass, gathering more at every inch,
getting tighter for a clinch, then faster,
taking everything in its path, cutting a
clean swath, like a scythe, then whirling,
roaring, swallowing up a cabin, with
shrieking men, or a b’ar, hid and sleeping
for the winter. ‘Then you understand what
I mean by moving, for the air is full of it,
and it lasts till, with a muffled thunder-
clap, the whole mass drops down into the
valley miles away.
Then the summer storms, when the
lightning don’t seem no further off than a
1 SAYS SUDDEN, “I'LL DO IT, BY GOSH!”
stone’s throw and glares and blinds and
goes streaking ribbons of fire over the
pines, while you’re dazed and deafened by
the thunder! Don’t that thunder boom,
a-playing catch across the crags, the last
one sending it back and all of it kinder
condensed and held in canyons and each
new roar and each past one mingling to-
gether until there’s a very fury of sound,
like nothing else on earth.
Ag’in, one day you see a mount’in peak,
a gray cloud kinder hovering, low; it’s soft
and full of crinkles and rolls like cotton
batting all flung in a heap. Bymeby there’s
a chill in the air, and the gray clond—now
the sun don’t shine on it—gets black as
ink. It gets closer and lower and all of a
sudden turns into a sheet of dazzling sil-
ver. Now under it is a big river coming
with a rush and roar, faster than an ava-
lanche and churning up rocks, earth, trees,
animals and men in its awful boiling cur-
rent. That's a cloudburst. It swells the
water in every stream in the valley, and
theriver beyond, where the streams empty,
goes mad and rushes on over home and
farm, carrying havoc and misery all along
its course:
The silence up mount’in is awful. I've
gone out and yelled jest for the company
of an echo. Then worse than the quiet is
the sound of sometaing walking after
night. Sometimes there’s a slinking four
footed creature like a monstrous yellow
cat, with the sliest gait of any animal
devil. That’s a mountain lion. Often
there’s a heavier tread, and a clumsy crea-
ture goes sniflling by—a grizzly He can’t
be tamed ror the little black imp of his
family connection. Then again there's
the sound, but when you look there ain’t
nothing to make it. That’s the worst of
all. That’s ghosts.
My mine is a tunnel 100 feet into a
mount’in side, anc often toward night
when I'm working 1 hears tap, tap, tap,
soft and low. but clear as preaching. I
gits out then. for them’s the mine speerits,
and I don’t wanter git ‘em ag’in me. It’s
funny, ain't it? But you just live up
mount’in alone and see how you feel after
awhile.
T'wice a week a burro train came 20
miles from Ouray for my ore, coming up
a trail 1 made up to my mine not three
foot wide and just cut out of the rock and
ground. Them and the man with ‘em
was mighty cheerful to see after days of si-
lence. Letters? No; I never had a soul to
write to me, but newspapers—a week or a
month old, it didn’t matter. They was
comfort, and me, setting up in that cabin,
forgot by all human creatures, could
through them papers feel the beating heart
of the great world.
Last September I got the blues so bad
that I quit work one day and went down
to the toll road, timing my trip so as to
see the stage pass and to git from some
passenger something to read. A feller
give me a book called ‘‘ Dombey and Son”
one day. Gosh, them old seafaring fellers
was the gamest crowd I ever see. Cuttle’s
my choice. 1 know the book by heart, and
Florence and Walter, and that shop and
Soll Gills is jest as nateral as if I hed
knowed 'em. Why, I set and read that
over so much, seemed like I could jest see
‘em come into life and be real folks in the
firelight. Like to know Dickens, the feller
that wrote ’em. Dead, is he? Waal, waal,
he’ll never know what a comfort he was
to me. When I git the charnce, I'm going
to lay a wreath of posies where he is plant-
ed and tell him them books he’s writ has
been more'n a gospel to us miners in the
mount’ins. and I'll say I come clear from
one of the newest states in the pew world
to give him my humble thanks.
Where was I? Oh, on the toll road. I
set there and smoked my pipe, looking
down the gulch on the Uncapaghre spar-
kling like a silver cord fur below and lis-
tening to the wind whispering through the
pines, and then I heard a sound. The road
is so sun dried and hard it echoes. This
was a sorter pattering, and wan't no shod
creature either. It can’t be a mount’in
lion, 1 says to myself. He wouldn’tdare be
here. 1 felt for my gun—revolver, you
know—and then I see this was a dorg, a
Gordon setter and a thoroughbred, white
and black, with the humanest eyes I ever
see in a animal. I called him and after a
survey he come and seemed friendly
enough. He was footsore and lean and
looked like he'd come a long way. I picked
a cactus thorn out of his paw and wan’t
he grateful? I kept a watch ‘round a turn
of the ground for his owner, and pretty
soon I see four burros, heavy loaded, and
walking behind them a youngish feller.
He was tall and broad shouldered, dressed
like the most of usin rough clothes, woolen
shirt, sombrero and long boots. He was
bronzed some, had curly hair, pleasant
blue eyes and a straggling mustache trying
hard to cover a mouth pretty asa woman's.
‘Good day.’’ he says, halting the pack
animals.
It was careless in me not to look when he
limped
‘Howdy, I says, looking him over
“Stranger in these parts?’
‘‘England,’’ he answers, setting down
on a rock and mopping his forehead.
** Miner?’
**Going to be. Dy the way, am I any-
‘where near the claim of a man named
Day?’
**You be,’ 1 says cautious, '‘near Bige
Day’s tunnel. It’s up that trail.”
**You must know him?
‘“‘Sum’at. Do you?’
‘No, the claim I have purchased of Gen-
eral Raymond of Denver is a half mile
farther up the mountain than his.”
‘*Poker Sam,” I gasps, and mebbe 1
swore some, for the young feller looked
sorter s’prised. **That’s his old gag, sends
’em here, mentions my name and gits me
into his schemes. Stranger, last month
there was seven men I'd never set eyes on
afore traveling up that trail on the look-
out for Bige Day’s claim. They come
different ways and times, and swore in
diff’rent langwidges, but all was directed
by General Raymond—where he got the
general he don’t know hisself—and had
all bought claims of him. I answered ‘em
civil at first, but my dander got up and I
took the last one—a slim fellow from New
York—and I says: ‘See that speck up
there, that p’int a half mile up mount’in
—waal, that’s it. If you don’t keer for
yer life and has good legs, youmight reach
it alive. If you've breath left then, you
kin diskiver a tunnel six foot into the
mount’in and rock, all the rock you want,
but there never was, nor never will be, any
streaks of pay dirt there and no way of
gitting it down if there was. Some of her
secrets this old mount’in won't give up,
and where a human gits overbold in
climbing up and trying to find out, why
she jest shets down on him at the start.’
Poker Sam played you for a sucker’’—I
fooked him over—‘‘and I guess you was
easy to play.’
‘“Possibly,’”” he says carelessly. He
drawed out a cigar and give me one. He
set back then smoking coolly, his hat sider
him and the little rings of hair curling
round his forehead. I chewed my cigar
awhile to git the taste.
‘‘Busted?’’ 1 asks.
‘In the vernacular of the country, just
that,’’ he laughs.
‘*Rich folks mebbe?”
‘‘Haven’t a soul to care whether I live
or die.” He looked kinder far away then,
I SET THERE AND SMOKED MY PIPE.
and I would bet ag’in heavy odds that there
was a gal concerned in it. 1 took a big
shine to the feller, and after awhile I of-
fered him a job up to my mine, to work
on shares, him to throw in the grub stake
he had with him. He was willing enough,
80 from that day Ed—that’s name enough,
for a story—and me was pards. Folks
used to call me ‘‘Groundhog’’ Bige, and
they nicknamed him *‘English’’ Ed, but 1
usually called him ‘pard.” Get along?
You bet. I was a ignorant, old creature
and he was college larned, but that wasn’t
no diffrence. He was friendly to me as to
a chum of his own class, mebbe more so,
for when I got rheumatics, he was off to
“Thanks for helping the dog. !
Ouray—and cold, too—to git linnerment
and played the nurse complete. He was
lots of company, and so was the dorg—Doc
was the pup’s name. Pard took just as
much int’rest in Cuttle and Gills as me,
and got more books—one about the gamest
old feller, Pickwick, and the eating and
drinking in that volume would make your
mouth water. We read him while we eat
pork and biscuit and drunk coffee ’thout
na milk nor sugar. We was doing well in
the mine, but when you think of the ways
vittles has to be brought on the backs of
them burros, you aint setting up for entrys
—as Ed used to say. He was a cheerful
feller, but given to fits of gloom—never
said a word about his folks though.
’Bout Chris’mus time, and we wan’t so
snowed in by then but that you could git
along on snowshoes, we was reading Pick-
wick over again. He read aloud in diff’-
rent voices, making it jest as real as live
folks a-talking, when I says sudden, “I'll
do it, by gosh!”
What?’ He kinder jumped, and the
pup riz up and licked my hand.
“Why,” says I, “I'll. hoof it to Ouray
and lay in a chickén—a turkey if I can git
it—pertaters and a squash and cranberries
and the truck to make a plum pudding.
I'll celebrate. I can’t hear of them Dick-
\
1 STUMBLED CP THE MOUNT’INSIDE A-HOL-
LERING.
ens fellers eating no more and try to fill
myself up on salt horse and slops I'll git
one goad feed if it takes a leg or costs a
life.” .
“It will be the latter,” he says, sober
enough. ‘**You couldn’t make a walking
market of yourself over three feet of snow
on the edge of a precipice.”
“I’m light and easy on snowshoes. ”’
“But, ’’ he interrupts. **what’s the mat-
ter with my going?”
“You ain't.” I answers, bringing to
mind his attempts to walk on snowshoes
and his wabblings. ‘‘you ain’t no bird on
| ‘em, pard.”
He laughed then like a boy.
“lt s a deal,”’ 1 says, ‘and tomorrer,
the 24th. I'll set off early and git back by
| night and we’ll set up and eat till morn-
{ ing I'll git brandy for the pudding sass,
but pard,’”” 1 finishes anxious. '*how is
them puddings made?’
“Why flour, raisins. lard or butter--
something that’s rich’ —
“Butter,” 1 puts in, ‘is 80 cents a
pound at Ouray. and I guess that’s rich
enough.’
‘* Butter, currants, molasses to make it
brown, and spice mixed and cooked. ’
“Teal’late Il] get it mixed to the store,”
I says. ‘and my traveling will beat it up.’
Then you sew it up in’ a’bag which
you boil and make a sauce of brandy that
you pour over and set afire, and it burns
blue flame. This is the way we used to
have it at home.’ His face grew sad, and
1 knew he was going into them glooms
ag’in.
“Waste of good liquor,’”’ 1 says under
my breath, but he didn’t note me.
I set out early the next morning, leaving
him and the pup at home. It wasn’t bad
going and the air was fresh and full of
sunshine. They was s’prised to see me at
Ouray, and laughed a deal at the truck I
bought and paid for with gold dust I
found the pudding stuff so heavy that I
really had it‘ hixed in a pail. I went over
to a saloon for awhile, and it was bout 8
in the afternoon when I come back for my
things. I had asked the storekeeper, who
was also postmaster, if there were any let-
ters for pard, but there wan’t. I tied the
eight pound turkey round my neck with
the pudding pail, the vegetables and a
squash—that seemed to weigh a ton before
I was four miles on my way. I filled my
pockets with papers and books and a bot-
tle of brandy and tobacco. As 1 fixed my
snowshoes, the storekeeper came out.
**Queer thing, Bige,’”’ he says. ‘"’Bout
an hour ’fore you got back from the sa-
loon an: Englishman named Ingalls was
here asking if I knowed your pard, Ed. 1
told him where he was and off he goes.
Impatient and stuck up enough, wouldn’t
listen to no caution Thought mebbe our
mount’in trail was a bolerward where he
could find hoss keers and them two wheeled
cabs with a jay up behind. Off he jumps
like a flash I says, ' Try it, young feller,
you'll be back in an hour or two.’ I clean
forgot all about you was going that way.”
‘I'll meet him, ' I says and starts. The
crowd give three cheers for me and wished
me a “Merry Chris’mus!’” ‘‘Keep some
of that pudding for me till spring. It will
be hard enough,’ yells the storekeeper.
**for you wouldn’t take no soda in it.”
Pard hadn’t mentioned soda and 1
wouldn’t put it in, though it was argued
it oughter be done. '*S’long!’’ I calls and
goes on. For three or four miles I could
see tracks quite plain in the snow and I
| kept a lookout for Ingalls, but my progress
| was awful slow. I was so beat out that I
i swore at the vittles, pard and Chris’mus
| straight along The turkey growed heav-
| fer and heavier. and once I lost it and
| had to go back a half mile. I wan’t a
| likely pictur’ as I floundered along and was
| ugly enough to fight my best friend. Curi-
i ous enough I put ail my mad on that feller
i ahead. ‘'The idee,’’ I'd say, '‘of him dar-
ing to climb this mount’in alone in snow-
I time,” i
‘Bout ten miles on my way, just as 1
was straight’ning up my back after mak-
ing another hitch on the turkey, I felt
something sharp strike my face. I knowed
| Iwas in for it. for snow at Chris’'mus time
| in these mount’ins means darkness, drifts
and death. But that didn’t stump me.
Every inch of that road was plain as
a map in my mind. and blunted by
cold. stunned by the snow and dark-
ness. I forgot Ingalls entirely and
| must have passed close by him. I had
enough to do to fight for my own life. On
I goes and game enough to hang to the
truck. 1 want going to be beat outer
that dinner for all the snow in Colorado.
Every now and then when I got kinder
sleepy and a sly idee kep coming how slick
it would be to lie down and take a nap—
that mneans never git up, but freeze to death
=the old turkey would sling around and
fetch me a smart slap in the face. I kinder
growed to think the old bird wanted to be
roasted an® git up to the cabin to give his
remains for the celebration.
I got along all right till I got to where
I ought to turn off to the trail, and there
I dassent leave the road. I wasn’t sure
where it lay. I listened and I heard the
muffl>d sound of a gun, and this I follered,
wondering where pard got his sense. I
stumbled up the mount’in side a-holler-
ing, and soon I got a answer and the hap-
piest sight of my life—I see a big yaller
glare. It was pard a-burning kerosene.
‘Glad it’s cheap,” I says ironical, for it
ain’t. He laughs and takes all the truck
and flounders on ahead a distance, where
by the howling I knowed Doc was tied,
and then the house was all lit uy
‘*Made three stations down the path,”
he explains; ‘‘house first, dog next, myself
with the gun and bonfire last.”
*“You’ll do,” I says. He flew around
looking at the stuff I'd brought, found
some cloth and made a bag into which he
put the pudding mixture, tied it and slung
the same into a kittle of boiling water,
which he hung over the fire.
‘The water’ll git in it,” I says. ‘‘Them
stitches is too loose.”
*‘It cooks out,” he answers, beginning
to cut up the squash. ‘‘Now sit down,
Bige, and get straightened out,’”’ he goes
on, bringing ne a glass of brandy.
**1 asked for a letter for you, but there
wan’t none,”’ I says, beginning to draw
off my boots. ;
“You were very kind, but there is no
one to write.’
“Land of the living!” I yells, jumping
up, ‘‘them tracks ahead—that feller.”’ It
come to me all of a sudden. Where was
he?
“What did you say?’ asks pard, keer-
less like.
Ingalls,” I gasps.
‘Ingalls,”” he repeats, gitting white,
‘for pity’s sake who—what do you know
of him?”
I told him. He listened quite a minit,
then goes to where his coat was hanging
on a nail.
** Where are you going?’’ I says.
**To look for him.”
“Why? What’s he to you?”
“My worst enemy.”
“Pard. you're a fool. If me, an old
mount’ineer, hed a hard fight for like a
half hour ago. what will it be for you, and
the storm is worse. The feller’s dead now
anyhow. Mebbe he went back—sure he
did, and you don’t budge a step.’
** You are sure he did not go back,’ he
says quietly. lighting the lantern. ‘'‘Let
go, Day, I mean to start.”
** You're so smart on snowshoes, you’ll
git about a mile and then tumble over a
precipice.
**1 think not,” he says soberly.
do, it don’t matter.”
**Waall, I’m not going.”
*‘1 wouldn’t let you,” says he.
*Oh, you wouldn’t,” 1 growls, ‘‘you
wouldn't, hey. You young whipper snap-
per, you cub, you. Let me go. I'll jest let
you know you don’t stir a foot out till I
git fixed. Here you are starting off with
a lantern and a dorg—no brandy, no rope.
nothing.’ ’
** The dorg will scent him.”
“The dorg will be snowed in 40 rods
from the house, and a dead dorg in 40
minits if we don’t kerry him.”
He hung his head.
*1 don’t want you to risk your life, ”’ he
stammers.
“Kd.” 1 says, ‘*you are all the thing I
have in this world to keer for. If I'd a
son. 1 couldn’t love him more’n you.
Come.’
We left the dorg in the cabin, with food
where he might git at it if we didn’t come
back, and 1 was pretty sure he’d break the
winder and git out if we were long away.
Pard fixed a candle in the winder and put
logs on the fire, and then we set out. I
had the lantern tied on my back, and had
made a rope fast to pard.
The night was jest like a curtain of
black velvet and absolutely still. The air
was thick and wet and stupefying. So we
goes on. The snow being damp had packed
some, and that kep’ us in the trail, but it
was hard work, and I was already wore
out At last we tumbles into the road
and stops a minit.
‘He never got as fur as this,”’ 1 says,
“and I'd better go on alone. You stay
here and I'll shoot when I find him.’' For
answer pard ketches my lantern.
‘**If it’s death to one of us, it shall come
to me,’’ he says. ‘‘ You stay here. I'll go.”
He'd cut the rope that bound us and
was off into the dark. I knowed one of
us must have sense, and if we lost that lit-
tle trail up mount’in we was done fur. So
1 waited. I yelled to him to try and keep
inside from the edge of the road, but I
doubt if he heard, the air was so deadened.
The time 1 waited seemed years. I made
fast the rope to a tree near the trail, and
Rl
S aie 5% 8 > AY
“If 1
RRR
I SEE A FAINT, GHOSTLY LIGHT A-COMING
AWFUL SLOW. :
kept one end of it, and made trips down as
fur as I could where he went, but I dassent
let go Bymeby I was so sleepy and
numbed I thought I dreamt it when I see
a faint, ghostly light a-coming awful slow
and something big behind the light.
“I've got him,” says Ed, panting. “I
fell across him in the snow about four
miles down. I think he is dead.’’
He had him on his back, and luckily the
stranger was a small, slight chap, but as
it was it was awful. We took him be-
tween us. There was no time to try to
bring him to life, for the storm was thick-
er every minute. But we tackled the
brandy ourselves and then started. I never
see sich strength as that pard of mine had.
He held most of the feller, and didn’t seem
to touch airth at all—in fact, the last of
the way he dragged me. We was pretty
near beat out when we heard Doc’s howl.
That put new life in us, and soon the light
from the little cabin showed faint but
stiddy. The candle we found nearly flick-
ering out, but the fire on the hearth was
burning bright. The pup went crazy over
the stranger.
‘Knew him in England,” says Ed,
working away at the chap's boots. We got
him undressed and rubbed him with snow
and poured brandy into his clinched teeth.
After an hour or so of this we could see
him breathe, and this encouraged us for
new efforts. Tired? We were nearly dead,
and if the stranger had any skin left on
him he was in luck. Bymeby he opens his
eyes. ‘‘What did you wake me up for?”’
he says crossly, and drifts off into a sleep.
‘‘That’s him,”’ says Ed bitterly. ‘‘He'’s
a natural kicker.”’
“Who is he?’ I asks after we had made
ourselves comfortable—pard was fixing
the fire. ‘‘The pudding ain’t spoiled,’’ he
mutters, ‘‘though the water nearly boiled
out of the kittle. We’ll have the dinner,
after all. He? Oh, he’s Larry Ingalls.
He and I were orphans distantly related
to Sir John Webster of—well, somewhere.
Sir John brought us up. Larry was a rich
orphan. I was a poor one, and Sir John
had a daughter’’— :
‘I cal’lated there was a young woman
in the case,’’ I says. ‘
‘Lady Maud. She was a sister to us
both when we were youngsters, but when
we were grown I fell in love with her,
and so did Larry, who always did as I did.
We had a bitter quarrel, he and I, and I
told him Lady Maud loved me, ard he,
the cur, went and explained everything to
her father. Iwas ordered out of the house,
and came here. That's all. I don’t know
what Ingalls wants of me. I suppose he
came to tell me he had married Lady
Maud.”
‘Bout noon the next day I got up and
fixed the turkey to roast and the vegetables
and set the pudding back over the fire.
Somehow, though it had a shape and was
hard, I didn’t feel much confidence in it.
Ed was lying in a corner jest wore out.
While 1 was a-fussing round I see the new
feller looking at me. ‘‘Where am I?” he
asks. I told him, and said who saved his
life at the risk of his own, and hinted that
I didn’t think the life of a mean feller wad
worth saving, and such had better go back
where they come from.
‘But youdon’t know all,’’ he says wist-
ful, his eyes full of tears. ‘‘Ed and I did
quarrel, but I did not tell Sir John.”
**Oh, you didn’t,” I sneers. ‘‘Likely
story.’’
**Lady Maud did. She ‘told her father
that she loved Ed and she wanted to marry
him. She is that kind of a girl. She never
had a secret from him. Of course he was
angry, and turned Ed out. I was mean
enough to be glad at first, for I knew her
father would give Maud to me, but she
grew so thin and unhappy and took such
a uislike to me that I was sorry enough for
the whole affair. I tried then to find Ed.
I give you my word I did. Then an
uncle came from Australia, that Ed used
to brag about when he was a child and
say he would bring back a trunkful of
gold. Well, he really did come back with
10ts of money, and he and Sir John are
great friends now. He is a sick man or he
would have come to America with me. I
came for Lady Maud’s sake. She said if 1
would find Ed she would give me the old
sisterly affection. I told her I would be
a knight of the round table and find thg
holy grail—a cup, you know.’
“Oh,” I says, ‘‘sorter prize winner, eh?’’
“Though that is a comical comparison
for Kd, who looks like a rough. I have
been watching him, but women generally
like big, stupid bears.”
‘‘Thank you,’’ says Ed, gitting up, ‘I
didn’t save your miserable life to be
abused. Lucky for you, you were a little
fellow or you wouldn’t be here. ”’
‘‘Game, though,” I puts in. ‘‘The grit
of him starting alone up these mount’ins.’’
Ed and him looked at each other then
like two animals ’bout to fight. Then I
seen ‘em lock hands and I knowed their
1 prought you her photograph. She
sent it,’’ says Ingalls, hunting around,
‘*but—but I must have lost it.’
**Here ’tis,” 1 says. ‘‘It dropped outer
your coat last night and I set it by the fire
to dry.” The heat and wet had mussed it
so you couldn’s tell what the picter was.
**T'oo bad,” sighs Ingalls. *‘I meant to
give it to you. I brought it all the way.”
1 carry her face in my heart, ”’ laughs
Ed. and then he fell to singing: :
“Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown.
Come nto the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone.”
While pard was setting the table Ingalls,
who had all our bedding piled on him,
crawled out and got on his clothes.
** You live high for miners,’ he says.
“This is Chris’mus day,” says Ed, and
then they shook hand ag’in. *‘The dear
old day, Larry, and we'll spend .next
Chris’'mus at home, and Lady Maud, my
wife, Larry—don’t that make you hate me
—will welcome you under the mistletoe.
Perhaps I'll let you kiss her then.’
**She is my sister, ’’ answers the other,
not a bit of meanness left in hin, ‘‘and
the world is full of fair women. Is it not
so, Mr. Day?” .
“They don’t trouble me none,’ I says.
“But, pard, look at this pudding He
crossed the room still a-singing:
“My heart would hear her and beat
Were it earth in an earthly bed.
“He never could carry a tunc. ' grins
Ed turned the water outer the kittle and
ripped open the bag. A round. warty
looking thing, like a small cannon ball
and pretty near as hard, rolled out. It
was a grayish color, specked with raisins
and as vicious appearing a compound as I
ever see. ‘The plum pudding of oid Eng-
land,” sings Ingalls, and then wc roared
with taughter. But the turkey roasted
in an oven sider the fire, was good and the
vegetables splendid, and the youn fellers
was the best company I ever sec. and you
kin bet the dorg didn’t go hungry He
was Lady Maud’s pup, and Ed hii :rought
him clear from England. That was the
jolliest meal I ever eat, and it was as good
as sunshine to see them two, friends now
and forever.
Where am 1 going now? Oh. down to
something hall, where pard lives with his
uncle and Lady Maud. Of cour « Id mar-
ried her. Sir .John and Ingalls. who. pard
wrote, has got a gal of his own, is going
to be there. I’ve sold the minc¢ {or a good
sum, and I’m carrying Ed his share.
Queer, though, Ingalls would have never
found Ed but for Poker Sam. So the old
villain did a good turn once, not knowing
it. Yes, I'm pretty well fixed, rich enough
to drink champagne out of a pail—which
is western—and I'm going to spend the
Chris’mus holidays with pard. I’ve
brought the dorg way across the ocean
with me to show to Lady Maud. I forgot
to tell you that when the young fellers
went away the pup wouldn’t quit me, and
is mine now. We'll probably have a good
dinner Chris’mus day, but the vittles
won't taste no better, nor the crowd be no
merrier, than it was last year in Colorado
in the Rockies, 9,000 feet above the sea.
About the plum pudding—waal, I have
nothing to say. That subject's a tender
one ’twixt pard and me.
PATIENCE STAPLETON.
Christmas Shoppin:-.
Shopwalker: ‘‘Anything +" wo can
have the pleasure of showin » srardam?’’
Paterfamilias: **The door!”
eyes was dim ——Subscribe for the W. 1r ax
Lyon & Co. ‘
I YON & CO’S
| 4
hl EXTRAORDINARY LOW-PRICE SALE ... .
UNTIL JANUARY 1st, 1898,
of all winter goods The works shutting down in this vici® Hh ng
with a much larger stock of goods on hand than we ough: + . vo. he
present time. We propose to cut'it down $20,000 this mo 0 Heww we
Lyon ! ».
give you a list of the wide swath we have cut in our prices.
Ladies’ Coats |
worth $3 00 cut down to $175 |
450 298 |
“600 ft 400 |
‘““ 6 50 ‘“ 450 |
““ 8 00 ‘ 590
“1000 “ 800 |
“1200 ft id
|
Laiies’ Plush Capes
Ladies’ Plush Capes
worth $10 (0 rt dawn to &7 50
Misses’ Coats—Alil * |
ow
=
worth #25: down to $
“ .
wt -
ol
8%
Children’s Coats
worth $1 2 at lown to 7Hets
worth $500 cut down to $375 [0 2 5 : $150
tt 8 50 & 575 * 4d. : 200
———A TREMENDOUS CUT IN MEN'S OVERCt .\ .. ee
: 3 den’ its
Men's Storm Overcoats Hens ou 1083.00, 3.5 "CL Lan nan,
worth $350 cut down to $250 | Boys’ Suits a
500 “ 400 cut down to 69¢., 0c. LL ULL Lon 3.00,
‘ ” “ Young Men’s Suits a
” 700 > 500 cut down to $2.50, 8.77 000, WEAN
800 600 | rnfants’ Shoes
v., 25¢., 34c., doc.
Men's Dress Overcoats Ares, Ma, 840,
Men's Dies. Overcouts Children’s Shoes
worth $5 00 cut down to $390 : a0e., 65c¢., T5e., H8c.
- 6.00 “ 475 | Misses’ Shoes
Te = 00 i 500 75¢., 87e., 98c., $1.07,
ial 9 Ladies’ Shoes
: 1000 8 00 98e., $1.25, 1.40, 1.77. °
: i200 2 1000 | Tadies’ and Misse wher Hons
#1500 1150 in all colors, frou. Pt
CHILDREN’S CAPE OVERCOATS, PRICES CUT IN S''1l. DI'IOPORTION.
0 -
IMMENSE LINE OF
DRESS GOOD, FLANNELS, OUTINGS..........
aera BLANK NPREEWE AR
cut in the same proportion.
money in your pocket.
Avail yourself of this oj Li
fA ithe
G. LYON, trading as
LYON & CO.
42-9 BELLEFONTE, PA.