Deora Waldan
e te, Pa., November 10, 1911.
The Wise Squirrel.
A little gray squirrel was scampering ‘round
*Neath the boughs of a tall chestnut tree.
Playing tag with the leaves as they fell to the
ground.
For a spry little fellow was he.
When right at his feet with a quick little thud,
Fell a chestnut so temptingly brown.
Escaping at last from its green, prickly nest,
As though 'twere in haste to come down.
“Oho!” said the squirrel, “Jack Frost has ar
rived,
In the night he has stolen so sly;
‘The nuts will be falling and I must make haste
To gather my winter's supply,”
So the wise little fellow went bravely to work,
Increasing his store day by day;
Nor heeded his comrades that spent all theirtime
In foolish, improvident play.
Said a pert little chipmunk: “My dear Mr. Gray,
You really are working too hard;
The burrs have so ruffied your handsome gray
coat
Your beauty has sadly been marred.”
But the other replied with a whisk of his tail
And a flash of his saucy black eye:
* '"Twere better by far to be plain and well fed
Than handsome and starved by and by.”
At length when the north wind came blustering
down,
And all but the snowbirds had fled,
The little gray squirrel had nothing to fear
All safe in his warm, cozy bed.
But the poor, foolish chipmunk, alas and alack!
That was erstwhile so saucy and bold,
Searched vainly for food ‘neath the fast falling
snow,
And perished of hunger and cold.
Katherine L. Daniher.
A STITCH IN TIME.
That a dog-fight—a growling squabble
in the early summer dust and sunshine | cap. He nodded. “Pop's dead,” said he. | you got this thing up without help. Got’
—should upset the lumber-woods settle-
ment of Thirty Drinks and divert her
most eminent citizens from their accus-
tomed employments was in itself almost a
sign manifest of the awakening interest
of Providence in that benighted but fer-
vently joyous community. The absence
of an instant and grateful perception of
the impending beneficence, however, is
to be condoned: Providence had never
before interfered at Thirty Drinks. More-
over, the dog-fight was of such an extra. |
ordinary t—a contention so singu-
lar— and so indecent inissue—that Thirty
Drinks was far too happily engrossed in
the progress of the affair to discover the
hand of Providence in its inception.
According to old John Rowl, the scaler
from the ttle River camps, who had
sardonically cherished the rise of Thirty
Drinks from its obscure and struggling
beginnings with on shanty saloon to the
flourishing prosperity of its thirty-two,
Gingerbread Jenkins, the Cant-hook
swamper, subsequently remarked in Pale
Peter's bar, with the air of a middle-aged
owl in liquor:
“Gawd moves in a myster-ee-orious way
His wonders to per form,"
and the sentiment was promptly adopted
as a succinct expression of the general
feeling in respect to the occurrences of
the day and the amazing situation of the
moment.
The agitated bar agreed: Gingerbread
Jenkins had dropped a pearl of wisdom
from the casket of his memory; and
Gingerbread Jenkins, elated by the pro-
found impression he had achieved upon
the popular bewilderment, would have
cast others of the sort with a free, glad
hand, in exception of increasing the en-
lightenment, had not Charlie the Infidel,
Pale Peter's bartender, interrupted with
a suggestion which in the gravest par-
liamentary fashion was at Thirty Drinks
always and sacredly in order.
"There's more sense in them old school-
books,” said he, from behind the bar,with
a large liberality of philosophy, “than you
might think. What 'li you have, gents?”
he added, coming to the point; “the
drinks is on the house.”
Plain Tom Hitch stroked his beard, in a
muse of anxious deliberation, and gently
whispered:
“A I'l’ licker, Charlie—fer me.”
The echo ran down the frowsy line:
“A li'l" licker—fer mine.”
They had the liquor, man and boy, in
hearty drams; and in this convivial way
the arrival of Providence at Thirty Drinks
was accepted and celebrated according
to the customs. It is to be noted, how-
ever, that John Fairmeadow had intro-
duced and vouched for Him, as shall
presently be told.
It was an eventful day—the still and
mellow Sunday of Fairmeadow’s first pro-
fessional PpPescaiice at Thirty Drinks.
The dog-fight importantly served to
gather the crowd and to enlist the inter-
est of belicose John Fairmeadow in the
moral atmosphere of the community; but
the dog-fight was not all. In the early
hours of the mornimg—a warm, flushed
dawn—a tote-wagon, drawn by two stolid
black and gravely driven by Plain
Tom Hitch, had arrived from the Bottle
River camps, bearing the mortal remains
of Gray Billy Batch, who had departed
this life, much to the annoyance of the
foreman of the drive, and doubtless to his
own surprise and alarm, in the Rattle
Water Rapids below Big Bend of the Bot-
tle River. He had been a scurrilous dog
when the breath of life was in him, a
sour and unloved wastrel of his days,
ig kant, ill-mouthed, in a rage
w world, save one heart,
and least kind of all to a
the shadow
of the birches, Bottle River drive
stood voiceless and quiet in this Presence; |
aud, the Strings of memory were touched, |
ne Chal a of Sha
afternoon it was informally resolved that
the only relative of the deceas-
ed should Je informed of the
deep sense of personal loss under which
his associates of the Bottle River camps
IE a ve was Palicpceioray
Billy Batch’s brown
Saughter, a sweet,
the world of Thirty Drinks, though fast
. der, "your won't be
| t"-night. You
breath of air, when Gi
agitated and heavy with his errand, came |
upon her, waiting in the dooryard of the |
Bal Ke ee yoray
tC) 1
of the clearing in which Thirty 0 age |
was squatted. “Patty, my dear,” said he,
with a soothing on the
"Ith he comin’ t-morrow?"”
“Well, ", Gingerbread admitted, |
more AR “he'll fetched home t'-
morrow mornin'—ina sort of a way.”
“Ith he drunk?”
| “Drunk? Oh my, So} Gingerbread Jen- !
kins protested; ain't drunk, my |
| dear.” i
lh Ho Rear diuuk? i /
| Gingerbread Jenkins, hard put to it for |
| words wherewithal in the presence of a
' lady, ejaculated, "Good ous, no!”
aca he gettin’ drunk?”
“He ain't gettin’ drunk anywhere,” |
| Gingerbread
replied. “He won't be |
drunk no more.” i
' “Ith he—ith he—dead?”"
Gingerbread Jenkins was flustered by |
this abrupt question. It bewildered him, |
| too, to learn, all in a flash of revelation,
that Gray Billy Batch had been loved and |
would be mou “Oh, well, now!" he |
replied, hurriedly, “1 wouldn't go so far |
as t' say that. I'd say,” he explained, '
lamely, "that he—that was engaged.” |
“Who'th hith bithneth with?”
There was something the matter with |
Gingerbread Jenkins’s heart. It troubled |
him. And his eyes were all at once flush-
ed. “Your pop’s business, my dear,” he |
answered, softly, driven to the disclosure |
, at last, “is with God.”
“Pop'th dead!” the girl gasped. |
Gingerbread Jenkins felt his bleared |
| eyes overflow, Off came his old cloth
| “Pop'th dead!” Pattie repeated, her |
| brown eyes round with wonder, which no |
| pain had yet disturbed. "Pop’th dead!”
| She brooded upon this new thind, and
presently, with a start, her fallen |
upon her agitated bosom, she turned to
the shack, wherein, through the open’
door, she seemed to discover her loneli-
| ness in the world, but not yet to be
| troubled by it. She looked, then, with- |
| out concern, to the flaring sunset clouds,
| above the black pines, whence her wist- |
! ful glance fell to the besotted settlement, |
huddled in the gathering shadows beyond |
the confines of her familiar place. “He'th
dead!” she whispered. “Pop’th dead!” |
“Sh-h-h!" Gingerbread Jenkins be- |
| sought, “Don't cry!” |
| e was not crying; she looked up to
{ him with the light of interest lively in
: her dark eyes, for which, perhaps, the
. monotony of her days is to be blamed.
! “when'ththe fun'l?’’ she demanded. i
| “Eh?” Gingerbread Jenkins ejaculated. |
. "When's what?" i
| “"When'th the fun’l?” :
“Oh!” said Gingerbread Jenkins, en- |
lightened, but not advised, and now taken |
aback "I See!” i
| “Goin’ t’ be a fun'l, ithn't there?”
| “Well, you see, he'll be buried,” said
| Gingerbread Jenkins; “but I haven't heard
! nobody say nothin’ about a funeral.”
“No fun?” she wailed. “No fun'l a- |
tall?” |
Gingerbread Jenkins deliberated. The |
| matter of obsequies had not been in-|
' cluded in his instructions. “Didn't hear
nobody say nothin’ much about no fu-
' neerial,” he hedged: “but I'm told the
! boys had it in mind.” :
Pattie began to cry. i
"You see,” Gingerbread Jenkins made |
‘haste to add, "there was a deal o' talk |
| about consultin’
! tion.”
the on’y survivin’ rela- |
|
on.’
The girl looked up with a wet and glis-
| tening smile. !
“An’ there'll be a funeerial,” Ginger-
' bread Jenkins declared, flushed with ten- |
| der detetmination, “or there'll be hell t'
pay on Bottle River!” |
. and shyly ing seventeen years! | gravely emerged from the forest in the pi
It was Sa evening, at sunset, with hours of the morning, the reins in
ng hands of Plain Tom Hitch.
Jenkins, | It Was presehily drawn up at the Red
Peter's place, and there ex-
Tiger,
geditiously but stil gravely, abandoned.
unseeml 3 SO mM as an
Ai Big hn pl
t'- affair in hand, there was
layed.” 'no doubt about what was immediately
“That'th funny,” Pattie replied. “He desirable and proper in circumstan-
motht alwayth comth home from the ces. The movement of Plain Tom Hitch
campth on y night.” and Gingerbread J and of the
Gingerbread Jenkins sighed. - t"- | prospective mourners, who had sat with
night,” he repeated. “You see, he's—hin- | the or were si-
! dered.” | lent, simultaneous, and in the same di
bar; the swing-shutters closed
them, with a subdued and melancholy
creaking,
and the high street of Thirty
Drinks was once more deserted, except
for the tote-wagon and its indifferent oc-
C t.
t is true that Plain Tom Hitch halted
his first midway to inquire concern-
ing the disposition and entertainment of
the “only survivin’ relation” of the inert
heap under the gray blanket; but having
been assured by Gingerbread Jenkins that
in the event of her failure to appear un-
| aided she would be sought by a deputa-
tion and escorted with every courtesy to
the tail of the tote-wagon, he swallowed
his liquor with funeral satisfaction. .
“Jus' as you say, Gingerbread,” he
assented, “It's your funerial. You got
it up. But I wished] knowed,” he added,
“where you was a-goin’ t' put your cant-
hooks on them Scriptures.”
“What Scriptures?”
“Holy Scriptures,” said Plain Tom
Hitch.
“You jus' leave all that t’ me, Tom
Hitch,” Gingerbread replied, with a dis-
play of resentment to conceal a shock of
uneasiness; “if we got t' have the Holy
Scriptures for this here funeerial, we'll
have 'em."”
“Jus’ as you say, Gingerbread,” Tom
Hitch assented, again, with a doubtful
wag; “but don't you go an’ forget that
a parson?” he inquired.
“Well, no, Tom,” Gingerbread Jenkins
admitted; “not yet. I ain’t picked no par-
So hearse?”
“Not yet,” said Gingerbread Jenkins.
“Got a coffin?”
Gingerbread Jenkins shook his head.
“Got a grave?”
“I ain't a-fended t’ all them things,”
Gingerbread Jenkins exploded, impatient-
ly. “I ain't got my grave dug. 1 jus’
stopped in here for a little licker. Gimme
time, can't you?"
“Jus’ as you say, Gingerbread,” said
Tom Hitch. “It’s your funerial.’
There wasa vast uncertainty in respect
to everything connected with the large-
looming event, not only in the flustered
mind of poor Gingerbread Jenkins, who
was presently appalled by the magnitude
| his simple project had begun to assume,
but in the expectation of the men whom
the Cant-hook and Bottle River tote-roads
poured into the clearing, and whom the
drowsy street ot Thirty Drinks, imme-
diately and without quite waking up, de-
livered to the thirty-two saloons. They
came with questions: What is itall about
anyhow? and who got it up? and when
was it to be pulled off? and how was it
And it achieved a much more sterling
beneficent result: it brought young
John Fairmeadow back from the trail to
= Rapids.
ohn Fairmeadow had gone by—had
come and gone in the peaceful street—
‘ had passed the tote-wagon with never a
glance of understanding—had thrown a
smiling nod to the queer little figure in
black—and had passed on to the mouth
of the Big Rapids Trail. A moment
more—a rough vard or two—a few long
strides—and he would have vanished in
the shadows and silence of the forest.
It was the dog-fight that brought him
back—and in time for the indecent issue.
Pale Peter's Bruiser yielded the bone to
Billy the Beast’s dog from the Cant-hook
cutting and went yelping to cover with a
: broken rib; and Billy the Beast's dog
staggered out of sight, with lacerated
paws, gnawing at the as he went.
“Boys,” said John Fairmeadow, laying
off his pack, when the joyous excitement
had somewhat subsided, “I'm looking for
. the worst town this side of hell. Have I
got there?”
“You're what” Gingerbread Jenkins
ejaculated.
“I'm looking,” John Fairmeadow re-
peated, “for the worst town this side of
hell. Is this ir?”
“Thirty Drinks, my friend,” said Ginger-
bread Jenkins, “is your station.”
“Quite sure?” John Fairmeadow in-
quired.
Jenkins. “When 1 come t’ think ca’'mly
about it,” he went on, "I don’t know but
that this town beats hell. There's many a
man has moved from here t’ hell with the
idea of improvin' his situation. An’ a
damned sight more young women,” said
he, “has packed up in a hurry, let me tell
you, an’ done the same thing.”
“That's all right, boys,” said John
Fairmeadow. "I like thetown. It seems
to me that a man in my line might thrive
in a live little burg like this. If you've
0 objection, boys, I'll settle.”
i “Friend,” Gingerbread Jenkins observ-
ed, inimically, “I don't quite place you.”
“You see me for the first time,” said
John Fairmeadow.
“Yes.” drawled Gingerbread Jenkins;
“but I can’t jus’ make out what you're
| for.”
Fairmeadow was puzzled.
| “You see, friend,” Gingerbreak Jenkins
patiently elucidated, “it ain't quite plain
what use you could be put to. You look
like a honest an’ self-respectin’ lady-fin-
gered bartender,” he added, gently, "but
you might be a horse-thief.”
I” Fairmeadow bridled a little, but on the
, whole took the sally in good part. “I
chancs to be neither,” said he.
"What is your line o' business?”
“Line?" Fairmeadow replied, with a
“broad and hearty smile. “I'm a parson.”
Fairmeadow perceived but could not
; account for the sudden stir and silence.
| Jenkins reproachfully in the eye.
“1 guess | made a mistake, parson, an’
I 'pologize,” said Gingerbread Jenkins,
| humbly. “Are you lookin’ for a job?"
Fairmeadow answered earnestly,
“That's just what 1 am!”
“You wouldn't mind, would yon, par-
son,” Gingerbread pursued, in honest ex-
| aggeration of respect, “if 1 was t' ask
you what kind of a hand you was on
funecrials?”
The crowd attended.
“1 bury,” Fairmeadow replied, smiling,
to be pulled off? How was it to be pulled. all unaware of the proximity of the gray
off? at indeed was the problem, in
view of the limitations of Thirty Drinks.
For example, Thirty Drinks had never
known a parson: Thirty Drinks had
hitherto had no “call” for the ministra-
tions of a parson. Nor had Thirty Drinks
' a coffin to mitigate its indecency, nor a
shroud, nor a hearse: the obsequies which
it had hitherto fallen to the lot of Thirty
Drinks to celebrate had been for the most
part performed in the woods, without
ostentation, green boughs for coffin, the
darkness of the grave shroud enough, the
wind in the pines a choir unequalled, the
solemnity of the great woods a sufficient
sermon. Thirty Drinks, indeed, had no
graveyard—nothing but an avoided slope
near by a shuttered house on the edge of
town, where three nameless women were
buried, these sunken mounds, with one
blanket, “with neatness and despatch.”
“Do it make any difference t' you,"
! Gingerbread anxiously inquired, "which
landin’ a man makes?”
“Not in the least—once a man isdead.”
“An’ you're prospectin’ for a job in
this section?”
*I am."
Gingerbread indicated the circie of
grave-faced lumber-jacks. “What,” he
inquired, “dy,e make out o' them there
poor damned lumber-jacks?”
“I cunfess,” Fairmeadow
grimly, "to a slight attraction.”
“Boys,” said Gingerbread,
“hold up your right hands.”
Aloft went every hand.
“Now, parson,” Gingerbread went on,
i turning full upon Fairmeadow, “the
truth, the whole truth, an’ nothin’ but the
answered,
gravely,
small cherished grave, asserting jealous | truth, so help me God, you're e-lected!”
When the uplifted Gingerbread Jenkins !
went away, resolved u his own con- |
| cerns, Pattie Batch did not go into the |
cabin. She did not so much as look in’
| that ghostly direction; she turned her
| back, with a frightened little shudder, |
| and strayed off to the twilit woods. She
i did not go far at all: she dared not; it
ownership of the green and flowery spot.
“And no grave dug!” Tom Hitch mar-
ve d Gingerbread Jenk
“Not yet,” said Gi read Jenkins.
“You see, Tom, I ain't had no time t’
choose no grave.”
“Jus' as you say, Gingerbread,” Tom
Hitch replied. “You started this here
| was darkening fast, and she was afraid as ! little thing. But,” he added, as he
she had never before known fear. But
| she found atthe edge of the clearing a
' companionable patch of wild flowers,
| come to their shy and fragrant bloomi
| in the sunny weather of that day; and '
‘she plucked them, while the soft light |
| lasted, and adorned herself, according to |
her nature—God's jewels, flung broadcast !
Lin love upon the earth, inspiring no ava- |
| rice, now peeping from her cloud of dark |
‘ hair, and clasped around her slender |2
wrists, and wreathi
her shoulders, an
acceptable garland.
t was a pleasant
| thing to do; she was di by the
! delights of her fairy occupation and her
thronging fancies. All the while she sang
| very softly some sad expression of her
; mood, in the way she had; and no brood-
i ing cadence of the wild-throated woods,
' no armour serenade of the dusk, no nest-
ing twitter, was sweeter, none more spon-
taneously swelling, than her clear, melan-
! choly notes.
It was night: she must go back to her |
{ known place. €
| the shadows of the night, in 3 long sigh,
' and set out, with a resolute shake of her
| little head, which showered the flowers
| from her hair, and with a step that was
not afraid.
ig
£
§
Eg
:
So she gave her fears to ' W
crooked his finger for Charlie the Infidel,
“there's a hundred men an’ eighteen
hundred dollars a-comin’ t' this here
funerial, an’ there didn’t ought t' be no
hitch t’ disapp'int the boys.”
With the timely assi
the Infidel they sought new light upon
the situation.
Pattie Batch came to the funeral un-'helps me
ttended. fact, she was early. A purpose u my love
childish little heart. indeed, she was—and | will serve
all in a bitterest grief and { woods. So help me, Almighty God! |
dread and fluttering expecta » \
bare black and now wore with a
modestly a ing little strut. It was a
grotesque fashion, no doubt; she resem
bled, nothing so as a
t
2
{
:
§
i
]
seid
TH
I
Hl
ass
Fed
7
:
5
FEF
g
i
i
3
assistance of Charlie 83D!
|
| Fairmeadow asked no questions. The
sincerity of his call, indeed, was beyond
“Dead certain,” declared Gingerbread
Plain Tom Hitch looked Gingerbread '
would presently be added to the number.
“Jutht thome girlth,” said Pattie Batch.
Fairmeadow was not Reehding; he
heard, but did not comprehend. He was
engaged in a tenderly sympathetic con-
sideration of the odd little re trotting
beside him with awkwardly lifted skirt.
“You know,” Pattie Batch continued,
in the way of the wise to the wise.
It occurred to John Fairmeadow that
the child was complaining of the grave-
yard. “Perhaps,” said he, gently, "you
had rather have your father buried else-
where?”
“No, no!” she cried.
Fairmeadow wondered at her vehe-
mence.
“No, no!” she repeated, in a passion of
determination. "I want pop buried
there!”
“Of course!” Fairmeadow soothed her. :
“Near—me,” she whispered.
“Ah!” said Fairmeadow,
‘To be sure!”
informed.
The graveyard lay in sunshine, a little |
breeze playing softly with the long grass
—the whole freshly green and eager,
after the warm rains, and brilliantly
spread with flowers. It was at the edge
of the clearing; the forest came close.
Fairmeadow could peer into its dim tang-
led reaches, and could hear the chirp and
twitter and rustle of its busy little living
things. Gray Billy Batch had been pre
ceded in the eternal occupancy of this
serene field: there were four graves—
three unkempt and unloved, fallen in,
overgrown, and one small mound, newly
trimmed, whereon wreaths of fresh-pluck-
ed wild blooms lay smiling to the blue’
sky. While Fairmeadow labored—and
until the last spading of cool red earth
was cast up—Pattie Batch, cross-legged
i1 the grass, and much pleased with her
companion, chattered amiably, between
periods of gentle weeping. The little
mound, it seemed, was the grave of Mag's
baby, which had come, long ago, to sur-
prise her, and Mag, it appeared, lived in
the shuttered red house at the foot of the
slope, and was Pattie Batch's friend.
Pattie Batch didn't know just what she
would do, now that her father was dead;
she knew what she could do, youbet! but
she hadn't quite made up her mind, She
was not afraid. Oh my. no! And, any-
how—Mag was her friend.
“I know,” said she, shrewdly, her great
brown eyes wide in innocent regard of
John Fairmeadow, "what 1 can do.”
The grave was dug.
"Come, child,” said Fairmeadow, so
pressed; “there is no more to be done
here.”
“I ain't a child,” she replied, in a co-
quettish little pout.
“No?” said he, absently.
She looked up shyly through her long
lashes. "I'm almotht nearly theventeen,”
said she.
Fairmeadow had not attended to the
chatter of Pattie Batch: he had been pre-
occupied in melancholy musing upon the |
aspect of Thirty Drinks from a pastoral
point of view; and he had brooded sadly
upon this death, and had considered the |
forsaken little chatte , whose words,
! inconsequent to his ear, had yet been
| question. It amazed him; he could not |
at all account for it. He feltit, however;
1
advantage.
great and solemn with the news he did
not heed.
“There'th jutht one thing,” Pattie de-
clared, with emphasis, when they came
abreast of the first wretched shack of the
town.
Fairmeadow yielded the attention de-
manded.
“Don’t you have Big Butcher Long for
no Fall: bearer, said she; "he Qs pop'th
ear off.”
It was a distinguished success-—the fun-
eral of Gray Billy Batch—sedately pro-
gressing from Pale Peter's curb, after
some pardonable and quickly resolved
confusion, to the accustomed rites, per-
formed, according to the forms, in the
grassy field behind the shuttered red
hous: at the edge of the woods. Little
Pattie Batch had nothing left to desire in
respect to it: the hundred mourners from
Bottle River and the Cant-hook camps
were abundantly content with their grave
share in the proceeding, and the eighteen
hundred dollars were presently in a fair
way of being spent in the thirty-two sa-
loons. It is true that the long procession,
going two and two behind the lumbering
tote-wagon, and immediately preceded by
the Rev. John Fairmeadow, with a black-
clad little woman on his arm, was pre-
ternaturally solemn and indulgent of
grief: it is true that the selfsame proces-
| sion stumbled in rough places and was
and he promptly took hold onthe strange |
e situation passed into his |
| control in a way to make the hearts of |
' these simple men jump.
quickly to the centre of the circle—a
He stepped
' occasion may discover
| clean, stalwart young fellow, a man, in
| bearing, of the great proud and powerful |
. world —and lifted his hand. was
| an instant silence. For a moment he
| looked roundabout upon the grave and
i ing faces. Then he said
accepted. In so far as God gives me
Amen.
This was the call
of the Rev. John Fairmeadow.
Presently informed of his first minis-
terial office and presented to the object
relieved whoop. John Fairmeadow was
pitately abandoned; there remained
the gray blanket, there remained Dennie
Hump—Pale Peter's sweeper—and
there remained the quaint, shy little fe
ure in black, now blushing and dry
hand with a air
3e2
jt came in a growling, roaring, “There ithn't no them-a-tary,” Pattie
Bitepheming aah rom Peter’s bar. Batch explained, with a © John
‘The calm of day fled in shocked | F: d ; “there’th on’y a plathe for
alarm before it. It startled the stolid
black horses; it shook the tote-wagon's| Fairmeadow his pick and
unheeding passenger. It flooded theside- | shovel. “The very 1” said he.
walk and overflowed on the dusty street; | They set out ,
it drew a hurrying contribution fromeach | “There ithn’t many graveth, neither,”
of the thirty-two saloons to complete a | she went on. “Jutht a few.”
crowding, brawling circle of spectators. | Fairmeadow reflected sadly that one
forever staggering; true that it paused,
now and again, to refresh its strength and
De re: i this
yofid the woods, its practices upon
condemnation.
God knows! But the world of Thirty
Drinks, accustomed, and untutored, knew
its own sincenty, and was not perturbed,
| nor found fault with itself, but continued
|
{ over the world, and the |
in happy satisfaction with its behavior,
And there was a parson, with a copy of
and wisdom—in so far as He the Holy Scriptures—and there was a |
to keep my heart pure, my coffin, exalted on the tote-wagon—and
plifted, undivided—I | upon the coffin were masses of wild flow |
you and Him in these His | ers, of wondrous fragrance and Slory. |
gathered by Dennie the Hump—and the
birds twittered, and the sky was blue, and
and sunshine chased each other
grasses
waved and the flowers n all un-
interrupted by the passing tragedy, un-
of his consoling services, John Fairmead- heeding of it, as though it had no mean-
ow said, “All right, boys,” and his par- | ing, and grief no substance, just as they
. | ishioners returned to the saloons with a always do, in spring time, when the dead
are laid away. And the litted voice was
i
“I am the resurrection and the
ie. saith the Lord: he that believeth in me,
1 he were dead, vel shall he live: and
. . . Man thatis born of a woman hath
but a short time to live and is full of mis-
Twas rap gud is al ee
a . asi a s h
neger Conlinueiis 4 one toy. : God
asmuch as pleased Almighty in
His wise providence, to take out of this
z
|
§
i
“w
3
in the polite world be-
4
were not alone. It was lonely at home;
the cabin was isolated, and still, and des-
olately vacant. She si and wished
she were a man. Presently, having gath-
ered some clothing into a bundle, and
having possessed herself of a few simple
keepsakes—a rag doll and her father’s
pipe among them—she took the for
irty Drinks. She did not turn to look
upon all that she had left behind: she
fancied that she would come again, soon
--not knowing at all that there was no
for her : she fashioned a pendant
of white for her bosom; she circled her
wrists. The dusk fell—warm and brood-
ing. She sighed a little—she sang a little
—she cried a little; and then all at once
she jumped up, and wiped the tears away
with resolute little rubs—and she turned
' toward the grim, bedraggled, shameless
red house, her eyes shining through tears
in expectation of dehght—and she went
forward with kindling courage, her head
high, like one going into the world, in the
shining hope of youth, for the first time,
to taste of life.
She knocked.
“My child!” John Fairmeadow called
from the twilight.
She turned in doubt.
“Child!” Fairmeadow called, again, his
voice rising in quick alarm.
The door opened
“Quick!’’ Fairmeadow besought her.
“I have come for you. Don’t go in!”
She took his hand.
“Come?” said Fairmeadow.
“I'm tho pleathed you come, thir,” poor
little Pattie Batch sobbed. “I wath thimp-
ly tho lonely I couldn't thtand it."
The door was softly closed upon her
departure. Pattie's friend, Mag. came
as near to sighing “Thank God!” as she
very well dared.—By Norman Duncan, in
Harper's Monthly Magazine.
Saving Animals from Extermination.
The East Kootenay district of British
Columbia is to become a huge game-pre-
serve during the next ten years, accord-
ing to a proclamation from the Lieuten-
ant-Governor and Executive Council of
British Columbia. This region is located
sixty-three miles north of the United
States boundary line, and its eastern
limit is the Elk river, which lies fifteen
miles west of Alberta. It includes that
section of territory which has been sug-
gested as the Goat Mountain Park, and
the total area is approximately four hun-
dred and fifty square miles. In this great
tract of country there is to be an abso-
lutely closed season for ten years on
mountain-sheep, mountain-goats, mule
deer, elk, and the other important wild
: animals found in that locality.
At the present time the district under
preservation contains an abundance of
game of many varieties, although the
elk and mule deer have been greatly
thinned out by visiting sportsmen. A
conservative estimate by guides, who are
familiar with the country, places the
number of white mountain-goats at about
one thousand and mountain-sheep at two
hundred head. Along the upper ranges
of the mountsins grizly bears may be
found, and very probably there are fifty
or more in the East Kootenay preserve.
A closed season of ten years should pro-
duce wonderful resuits in this region,
and make oi it a veritable breeding-spot
for all wild things, and prove a valuable
source 10r stocking the surrounding coun-
try with the overflow,
———
Real Estate Transfers.
Mary K. Gray et ai to R. J. P. Gray,
April 11th, 1910, tract of Jand in Half
Moon township; $1. |
Thos. Foster ei al to Luther D. Fye,
October 13th, 1911, tract of land in State
College; $2100.
Mary R. Harris et bar to Agnes Shi
ley, October 25th, 1911, tract of | p-
| Unionville; $1400. ract of land in
| Marilla Dawson to Sarah E, Satterfiel
| August 5th, 1910, tract of land in Belle:
| fonte $1300
| Jona Noll ax 21 Ere to Marilla Daw-
son, Augus! h , tract of
| Bellefonte; $1300. acto awl in
I niet, While to Clara M. Conrad,
| August 15th, , tract of land i
f 1 in Taylor
Frederick W. Remy to John Polochk:
October 7th, 1911, tract of land in Rush
| township; $115.
John Yosue et ux to Andrew Be
i
, “I thank ' content, it may be, with the spirit of its | October 26 :
you for the call, boys. It is gratefully sympathy. i # 26i8, 1911, tract of land in Rush
township; $975.
Marriage Licenses.
John Rushnack and Mary Korkas, of
Snow Shoe.
{ Harry Craft and Madeline Stine, Phil-
and installation the wind flowed over the pines,and clouds, | ipshurg.
shadow
i Don. S. Devor, Milwaukee, Wis., and
Esther N. Campbell, State College.
Wm. R. Hazel, Zion, and Margaret Im-
mel, Woodward.
Harry M. Van Gorter, Toronto, Cana-
| da, and Margaret G. Krebs, State College.
Joseph A. Resides and Cora Hoover,
| Fleming.
James Bannon and Elizabeth Eggleson,
Philipsburg.
John L. Murphy, New York city, N. Y.,
and Sarah Hartsock, Stormstown.
Sydney A Keefer and Grace M. Black-
ord, Bellefonte.
:
:
f
g
;