\((
Feud of the
Raccoon-Loop
By Robert Adger Bowen
Author of "A Knight of the Dariat.” “Mandy of the Twin Bar,” ■
“Plain Betty Deane,” “The Blue Ridge Mystery,”
"Because of Queechle," etc.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHECKMATE.
For a brief moment Jess stood look
ing at Buck, her startled eyes unwav
ering. Without noticing Worthing, she
came farther into the room.
"So you wouldn't do what I asked
you!" she cried. "You wouldn't keep
! quiet when I asked you to!"
Worthing caught the half-smothered
words. He gave Buck no chance to re
ply to them.
"Sit down, Jess."
Command rang in the tones, kindly
but firm. Almost unconsciously, Jess
obeyed It. Worthing drew up his own
j chair.
"Jess," he said, and he looked clear
ly into the girl’s eyes as he spoke,
| "Buck has told me nothing of what
happened today except what has con
cerned himself. 1 know no details. I
do not want to know them."
He leaned closer to her. lowering his
voice to a whisper. “I want silence to
rest on it all—as silence has rested on
what has gone before.”
Buck had risen, and moved over to
the open window, the first touch of
bitterness at his fate assailing him. He
meant that no word of his should ever
Involve Joss Kilratn's name. Yet her
seeming mistrust of him wounded Buck
in his tenderest spot.
In the silence of the room he heard
her question to Worthing; "What has
he told you?"
"That he blew up the dam—that it
was he, not Blass Cardross."
Buck could not d-ubt the relief in
| the girl’s next words: "An’ that is
all?” she cried. "He said no more than
that?"
uriuic ui t uuiu tumovi, »
stood beside him.
“You shall not lie for me, Worthing,"
he said and turned, facing Jess. “1 told
him I shot Blass Cardross an' then
blew up the dam, Jess. There'd been
a long grudge atween us two. I went
over there meanin' mischief. I went
a-purpose, mad at seein' the sufferin'
of the cattle on the Loop. An' havin’
done what I done, 1 mean to make a
clean breast of Just what I done to
morrow ’fore the law.”
Silent, wide-eyed In a palsying ter
ror. the girl looked lnt-i his face. “You
won’t do that!” she cried at length.
“You won’t let him do that, Earle
Worthing! It would mean they’d hang
you, Buck! ”
"P’r’aps!” he assented. "They’ve hung
men for less an' let 'em off for more.
I’ll take what’s cornin’ to me.”
| Then Worthing expostulated, plead
ed. exhausted his powers of persua
ion. Buck remained firm.
“There ain’t nothin’ else I wouldn't
do for you, Worthing,” he protested,
swaying by an emotion that trembled
In his voice. “I can’t do this. I’d de
spise myself forever for a coward.
’Twon’t touch no one else. Miss Car
dross knows we was enemies. We al
most come to blows before her wunst.
But I’ve always faced the music, an’ I
ain’t goin’ to live a lie now.”
He stood for a moment, head bent,
showing the effort it cost him to hold
his own against Worthing's pleas. He
straightened suddenly.
; “I reckon 1 might as well be goin'
now,” he murmured. "This is worse
’n hangln’ already—if hang I've got
to!”
Iae moved toward me door, oui, on
t Instant, Jess KUraln, who had sat
tching him, a strange warring of
otlons In her white face, sprang
m her chair, calling to him to stop.
Tve somethin' to say," she cried.
Isten to me, both of you; You know
loved Blass Cardross. . For many
inths I loved him, thinktn’ all the
le he loved me, too, an' was goin’ to
ike me his wife. You know. Earle
orthing, how far that dream was
>m the truth. Day after day, week
:er week, month after month, he kept
tin' me off—an' still, like the fool 1
is, I didn't see. didn't guess—never
;koned he was the man he was till
it day you know of when you
ocked him down In the Skunk Hol
v for what he said.
Then I knew—knew what a fool I'd
en, an' how he'd lied to me, lurin’
> on, foolin' me, waitin’ always for
■ hour. I hated him then—like a
■man hates whose been treated so.
1 lips burned with the mem'ry of his
iaes. I hated myself. I hated every
e who looked at me. I hated you.
ick Brannon, for dor in' to say to me
b things you said."
She moved quietly forward until she
>od before them.
‘•1 hadn't seen him until today—
er there on the dam. I hadn't known
l then how dead my love was or how
e my hate was. It leaped In me
:e a fire. He saw then he’d lost me
rever—lost what he wanted of me—
' the devil In him came out."
She faced Worthing only now.
“Buck Brannon tells you that he
ot Blass Cardross dead," she cried,
[e lies. He lies to save me! Ask
m if I did not strike that man 'cross
e face with my quirt. Ask him if
s didn't struggle on the dam. But
n’t b’lievc him when he says he shut
ass Cardross.
“’Twas me that done it, an' sent him
ad over the wall after he'd throat
ed to kill me an' Insulted me worse
an death—an' If Buck Brannon goes
the law an' says he done It, I'll go,
j, an' It’ll be his word ’gainst mine.
’ it’ll be me they will believe—I
■ear It to God!"
She ceased, heaving breath catching
her throat, looking from one to the
ter as they watched her in dumb
mzement. Before they could speak
stop her she had gone.
CHAPTER XIX.
RUSHING WATERS.
Phat was the strangest night in
;cks life. Alone in his cabin he lay
lepless, thinking of all that Jess Ell
in's impassioned action might mean,
he lay there thinking, the soft night
• coming in upon him from the
eping plains, the arguments Wortli
t had used recurred to Buck,
in reality what he had done had been
stifled—how much so Jess's recital
A made horribly clear. Wearied out
last by the circling of his thoughts,
ck fell asleep.
rhough he did not know It then, Jess
[1 won.
She took her victory as a matter of
irse—so far, at least, as her out
,td behavior showed. She evaded
eting Buck all she could and. as the
l's went by, her bearing fell once
re almost into Its accustomed man
■—almost, yet not altogether. She
(
never quarreled with Buck now. She
never teased him. Oftentimes, rest
less and dissatisfied himself, the young
fellow wished she had. In some subtle
way she had receded from him into a
more unapproachable distance.
In truth, Jess was on guard. A
wonderful thing had happened to her.
Even in that shocked moment when
she had stood looking down upon
Blass Cardross’ dead body It had been
of Buck that she had thought. He had
saved her. He was thereby himself In
danger.
Strang, nameless emotions stirred
In her heart as she had watched him,
so clean and capable, so fine and hu
man, so wholly hers In his love. The
scales had fallen from her eyes, yet
even as her admiration had grown and
that first sweet, wild sense of her
power over his power, fear had grown,
too, in Jess KUrain’s awakened heart.
So Jess had ridden from him that
day, her soul in a tumult of feelings
of which not the least were the wonder
and marvel at herself for her blind
ness, her folly, the new, quick bound
ing capacity within her for Joy that
seemed to be sweeping her off her feet,
a sudden zest for life which not even
the thought of death as she had just
seen it, avenging and terrible, could
serve to daunt.
* ua.um.cu i L| anu c v i’ll
before the news of the dire results of
Buck's exploding of the dam became
known, Jess had determined she would
plead with him through his love for
her to be silent about Cardross’ death.
She had been quick to avail herself
of the impression that had at once es
tablished itself In every one's mind as
to the source of that explosion, and
she had likewise been quick to see that
Buck was not going to take shelter
under it. So she had gone to Worth
ing.
Her action there had come at the
moment’s inspiration. Love and life
were in the balance, and Jess threw
in her woman's soul to give full meas
ure. She had won, as she knew she
would. Then, having won, Jess drew
the woman’s caution about her—drew
it all the closer because of the exposure
she had made.
And as though to put the past yet
more remote, the face of nature now
underwent a change.
The long drought broke, and the au
tumn came in with rains that seemed
endless. Where the creek and river
beds had lain dry as bleached bones
the water rushed in freshets that
spread over the banks and swirled like
maelstroms among the trunks of the
trees, drowning some trunks of the
which a few weeks before had been
perishing of thirst.
The forced inactivity of the days
wore on Jess Kilain. One morning she
stood by the window watching the
downpour and wishing she had a man's
work that would take her out in it.
“There's plenty of woman's work you
might do," said her aunt, to whom Jess
had unwisely communicated her desire.
“My hands would drap off if they hung
as idle as your's, Jess.”
“Is that why you keep your tongue
goin’ so. Aunt Agnes?” asked the girl.
“Though I don’t b’lleve it would stop
tlndin' fault with me if it did drop off.”
Agnes dusted vigorously not to say
virtuously.
“My tongue finds no more fault
than there's fault to find," she de
clared.
“You think too much 'bout men, Jess j
Kilraln. I’d ha’ thought you'd learned j
that lesson."
z nc h" 1 uiiimru km a muiiiviH
upon the window pane with indignant
fingers. Then she turned about.
"You should ha' married a parson,
Aunt Agnes,” she observed as she
passed her aunt. "Your children
would ha’ been angels—an' horrid lit
tle brats.”
She went on to her room, donned
rubber boots and over her riding
clothes put on a black slicker. Even
the hat she wore was a man's with I
rubber cape about the. neck.
In the stable she saddlied her horse
and rode forth.
The heavy black earth stuck like j
wax until she reached the plains, soft
and soggy under her pony’s hoofs. |
There she broke Into a splashing can- i
ter, the cold rain whipping in her face, i
the smell of the drenched earth sweet I
to her nostrils.
Agnes Kilrain had been right.
Jess was thinking not of men, but
of one man in particular; thinking of
him with an intensity that now and
again frightened her lest it rob her of
her secret and bring to happen that
very thing she yearned for hungrily.
But she had learned her lesson, that
lesson of a stinging shame that even
now sent the hot blood Into her cheeks 1
when she remembered the way she had
cheapened herself with Blass Cardross.
Never, she swore to herself, would she i
do the shadow of that again.
Rather would she let Buck think her
old antagonism toward him once more
lived in her heart.
He was avoiding her, she know, and
Jess could Imagine the rebellion in ills
heart. She had bought his compliance
with her wishes, and then refused the
payment the only payment that could
have salved his hurt manhood. But
just because Jess had dared so bravely
that night did she shrink the more now.
And already the torturing doubt that i
Buck despised her for her conduct— ]
that his love for her had died under
the exaction she had put upon it—was
forming vaguely in Jess’ mind. Could
she blame him, she asked herself now, !
"ith forlorn candor, if guessing her’
love he should deem it a platry thing? j
He should never guess It again. She ,
had scorned and repulsed him often I
Not by the lifting of an eyelash would
she have him think she plaved for him 1
now.
She rode Into the river woods.
Heavy drops from the trees fell upon
her coated body like shot. Her pony
slipped and slid on the sodden loam
of the forest.
Reaching the ford, Jess saw at a
glance that it would be a hazardous
thing for her to attempt to make it
So she drew her pony buck toward the
higher overhanging bank, and sat him
there watching the, mad race of the
river at her feet.
CHAPTER XX.
AN UNHEARD DECLARATION.
Burk Brannon had crossed that ford
earlier in the morning, going on an
'■ errand for Kilrain, and lie was not rel
j ishmg a repetition of the feat. Neither
' 1 fould he have thought of it ahead,
would he horse. It had been hare
swimming and perilous foothold am
little enough leeway to safety.
It was not long before the girl fron
her elevated post saw him coming now
through the opposite woods along th<
road to the ford.
She w’as surprised that any on<
could have made the ford that day, anc
a very real uneasiness made itself felt
in her as she watched Buck’s nearei
approach. Just where the road shelvec
into the turbid water he paused, and
raising his eyes, saw her.
A quick pleasure flashed into Burk's
eyes, though instantly he reminded
himself that, she could have known ol
his coming or expected to see him
there. Then he gave his attention to
his reluctant horse.
"Is it safe, Buck?” called Jess.
“Oh! 1 reckon so. I got over this
mornin' all right."
His horse wheeled around suddenly.
Buck putting him with spurs and quirt
once more at the risk. A risk it was,
he knew.
“There's a big log cornin’ down,”
called out Jess. “Wait till it goes by,
Buck.”
The log swirled by, eddied and
caught among the hanging roots and
vines beneath the bluff upon which
Jess sat.
“I wouldn’t stay on that bank, Jess,"
urged Buck. “It's badly scooped out,
an’ the bank is crumblin' somethin'
fierce higher up the river.”
On the words he carried his horse
plunging and floundering into the cur
rent, heading the frightened animal
well up stream lest he be swept below
the ford and down the river. Jess saw
his danger then, and her heart stood
still.
Despite his best endeavors the horse
lost headway in the rapid current.
Then for a time he seemed to be
holding his own, but it was the prog
ress of the treadmill. If he should be
swept beyond the ford where the banks
always precipitous, were now actual
ly cut under the force of the water, the
chance for horse and rider would be
slender, indeed.
And that seemed about to happen,
for the current eddying in shore was
swirling them down at an angle that
would miss the shelving ford.
In the helplessness of her terror
Jess groaned. But Buck knew his
danger, too, and realized that, unaided,
the horse would not make his escape.
Jess held her breath as she watched.
Uncoiling his snake lariat from the
horn of his saddle, Buck took a few
hasty but well considered swirls, and
sent the rope flying outward and up
ward toward the stump of a cotton
wood about whose base the noose set
tled and drew taut as he wound the
lariat by a deft twist around the sad
dle horn Just in the moment when the
battling horse was borne beyond the
ford.
Urging the animal forward once
more. Buck drew in the slight slack of
the rope inch by inch, and in a mo
ment more stood in safety on the slo
ping bottom, his horse spent and shiv
ering.
So tense had been the strain on Jess
that the reaction left her faint, and she
did not move even when she heard
Buck call to her. He stood coiling his
lariat, and blowing his horse, hidden
from sight of the girl by the higher
bank upon which she was.
“Jess," he called again, "come away
from that bank. ’Tain't safe there."
In that moment Jess wished he
would ride on homeward and leave her
alone. She did not want him to see I
the weakness that was upon her and
which she could not conquer by effort
of her will.
Instead of going on, Buck, leaving
his horse to wait for him, clambered up
the bank and drew near her.
In her nervousness Jess released her
knee from the pommel and slipped to
the ground. Her face was still very
white, and her hand on the rein trem
bled as she led her pony forward a few
paces.
"ny, jess, muck cried, “did it
frighten you so! 'Twarn't no real
danger Yept for the horse. I could ha'
swum for it, had it come to that.”
He had not seen her thus alone since
that memorable day on the dam. The
evidence of her distress about him, the
nearness of her body to him, pictures -
nue for all its ugly habiting in rain
proof rubber; the appealing expression
in her eyes—an appeal of which Jess
herself was unconscious—the remote
ness of them both from all others—
these things sent the love of her rush
ing to Buck's heart.
"Jess,” he asked suddenly very
grave, "why did you say what vou did
to Worthing that night? Tell me.”
Sho looked him fairly in the eyes,
very pallid, very still.
“ 'Cause it was so, Buck. ’Cause it
was the truth."
"It wasn't the truth!”
“It was in my heart to have it. so,”
she persisted. “It was in my mind. I
reckon Clod Almighty would call It so.
An’ all you done, you done for me.”
"I'm a man," he said, his voice muf
fled. “ 'Twarn't all done for you, Jess
—for you an' me!”
Instinctively the girl drew back, sud
den fear in her dark eyes—fear not
alone of him, and, therefore, the more
baffling to Buck.
Quickly his voice rang out in sharp,
alarmed command, and ha sprang for
ward, seizing with one hand the girl
and with the other the startled pony.
"For God's sake, come!" he cried,
and pulled them forward.
It was in the nick of time. There
was a crashing, tearing, splashing
sound behind them as the ground up
on which Jess and her horse had been
standing crumbly suddenly and plunged
Into the river below.
Jess Kilrain had never swooned in
all of her strong, young life, but now
a faintness that was overwhelming
claimed her. She reeled against her
pony, who, still startled, swerved aside,
leaving the girl swaying unsteadily.
Vet even then she lifted a protesting
hand as Buck leaped toward her.
"It is whero you belong!" he cried
exultant for all his pity as his arms
closed about her and her head rested
weakly against his breast. "It is
where I'm going to hold you, Jess, over
my heart forever. Hold you till the
rivers of hell freeze over an' the little
devils go skatin'. Hold you! Don't
you hear me, Jess?"
CHAPTER XXI.
IN THE WOODS.
The feud between the two ranches did
not cease with the death of Blass Car
dross, and that it did not do so was
due in large measure to the resentment
and desire of personal revenge of one
man.
That man was the cowpuncher, Bill
Grange, who had been taken on the Ra
coon river outfit upon his dismissal
from the Hoop. He had always been
an unpopular member of the Hoop out
tit: and though not the sort of man of
whom a dangerous criminal is usually
made, he was crafty and revengeful
over petty affronts.
Buck Brannon had incurred his jeal
ous enmity through Kilrain's marked
favor for the younger man.
His one attempt to render himself
an object of interest to Jess had been
nipped so ruthlessly in the bud that,
although Grange had never repeated
the audacity, he bad never forgotten
the discomfiture. He had lent him
self readily as an informer to Blass
Cardross. and It had been his fate to
meet' disaster once again through Jess
Kilrain's influence and her father.
Therefore, Grange had resolved to
I harry the Loop to the limit of which
I he might go with a due regard to hit
own safety.
In this he succeeded in various ways,
nor at first did they at the Loop sus
pect the source of the annoyances. Cat
tle rounded up for a certain purpose
overnight would be found scattered in
wild disorder in the morning.
They suspected the Raccoon River
sheep dogs, but not as incited thereto
by a human marauder.
The milk cows turned out overnight
in the home runs would come up in the
morning to their calves wild eyed and
wfth scant milk, as though they had
been chased and terrified, and again
suspicion fell on the dogs. Now and
then, as of old, the slaughtered carcass
of a calf would be discovered, sure sign
of the presence on the Loop of a mur
dering collie.
Then other things happened for
which a dog could not be blamed. A
shelter house near the Raccoon River
border burned down. Barbed wire
fences were cut and ruined.
The obnoxious sheep again began
their invasions; and in one conflict, en
suing between a vicious old ram and
a longhorn bull more pugnacious than
wary, the bull had been left dead on
the field of battle, and Ills companion
herd stampeded across the Owl creek,
where a steer, breaking over the low
bank, had plunged to his death in one
of Buck’s sunken hogsheads.
It was Jess Kilrain who first defin
itely connected Grange with these and
other similar happenings.
That autumn morning the girl had
ridden out into the woods about the
creek where the persimmons, touched
by successive frosts, hung luscious
upon the trees or were dropping over
ripe to the ground. Pecan nuts, too,
had rewarded her search; and Jess,
glorying in the crisp day, happy in her
self imposed solitude, hitched her pony
to a sapling, and, seating herself by the
trunk of a cottonwood, cracked her pe
cans in a dreamy leisure.
She was nursing these days to her
heart.
Like a ripening flower, her own love
was coming to its perfection. She
guarded it jealously as yet—guarded it
for the fulfillment of its promise. She
still held herself aloof from Buck, not
in coyness, nor in coquetry, but as one
lingers on the threshold of a joy, al
most afraid to profane it by a glimpse
within.
She knew she could not continue to
hold herself so for long.
More than once she had encountered
a look of determination in Buck’s eyes
that had rendered her resistance as wa
ter in her veins. Since that day when
she had lain in his arms, there would
now and then come Into his face a hint
of conscious mastery that, had he but
known it, was as sweet as life to the
girl was life in its tremulous delight
und foreshadowing of a glad surrender.
Jess paused with the half of a pecan
on the way to her lips, and turned her
head slightly.
She could almost have been sure she
had heard a step in the dead leaves of
the woods above her. Her pony, with
drooping head, stood immovable, its
ears, which had been indicating the ha
bitual apathy of the cow pony when
not in movement, now alert.
"What is it, Buster?” she asked, and
saw the ears answer at the name.
I reckon it’s a rabbit, or a coon, or
a possum that can't wait till night to
get some of them sugary 'simmons. But
it ain't, though!”
There was more than surprise in the
sudden decision which, at the same
time, brought Jess to her feet.
There might have been nothing un
usual or to be startled by in the fact
of a man being in those woods at that
hour, but intuitively the girl felt there
was something to cause both surprise
and concern in the sudden turning
away of the horseman who must have
run almost upon her and her pony be
fore aware of their proximity.
Something furtive, too. about the
man’s action in quickly shifting the ob
ject lie carried across the saddle horn,
and his slouching body, gave Jess an
unpleasant shock.
mil granger sne called sharply.
“What are you doin’ in these woods
with that brandin’ rod?”
The man swung the long iron over
his shoulder and spun around.
“What’s that to you, Jess Kilrain?”
he demanded. “Am I soilin’ this prec
ious land to ride over it?”
Jess climbed the slope that lay be
tween them.
"I'm not so sure that you ain’t. Bill.
Somebody's been soilin’ it pretty often
lately. That's a Racoon River iron,”
she said, looking sharply from the
branding rod to the man's face. “What
does you need it over on the Loop for?"
The man laughed with a covert in
solence.
"Time was," he retorted, “when you
was more Interested 'bout the Raccoon
River than you was 'bout the Loop.
T'other way about now, eh, Jess? Oth
er chips to burn!”
The girl's face flushed with anger.
"You hound!’ she cried below her
breath. “You sneakin cayute!"
He laughed again.
“Sneakin’ ain't in your line now, eh?”
he sneered. "Didn't work no how did
it, Jess?” He put his horse in motion.
“I must be movin’ on,” he said. “I’m
bound for Shanley’s forge.”
“You're bound for a halter 'bout your
neck!” declared Jess. "That's what
what you’re bound for. You’ve stole
that brandin' rod from the Raccoon
River. I wonder why!"
“Keep on wonderin', damn you!”
Grange cried in sudden fury. “But keep
your wonder to yourself, Jess Kilrain.
I owes for certain things a’ready. Don’t
you force me to pay. There ain't no
love lost ’tween me an' any one on the
Loop, let alone Buck Brannon an' your
father!"
He rode on at that, leaving the girl
not a little perturbed and vaguely un
easy. Slowly she went back to her
waiting horse.
Jess did not dream any more that
day. For a time she sat thinking, more
and more convinced that Grange's pres
ence on the Loop boded no good for
its interests.
He might have been taking that iron
to the forge at the fork of the public
roads, but for some reason Jess doubted
it.
Suddenly It occurred to her that she
might ride that far to see if he had
been telling her the truth. She would
miss her dinner, but that did not mat
ter. The service she might be render -
ing her father and Earle Worthing far
outweighed that.
She went over to her pony, tightened
the loosened cinches, and, getting into
the saddle, rode up to the plateau of
the plains, turning northward until she
might strike the ford, and so on over
towards the roads beyond the river.
CHAPTER XXII.
CAUGHT.
For a time Jess saw no living . ma
ture on the wide expanse of the prairie.
She knew that most of the men that
day were far distant on the western
ranges, where many head of cattle had
been shifted before they should be
brought to the more sheltered runs on
the nearer approach of the winter.
She forded the creek, and some dis
tance farther on. not, indeed, without
some misgiving, for the river still ran
high, crossed the Raccoon itself on a
much safer ford than the one over
which Buck had swam his horse that
other day.
[ (Continued
Found on the Dead Body of a Soldier
What, one wonders, were the circum
j stances and the spiritual experiences un
■ der which these lines were written? Had
J he come through great tribulations? On
) what spot on Gallipoli was it written, and
f did the writer foresee his own swift end?
The lines appear in the Australasian In*
lercollt granNote in London Spectator.
| Jesus, whose lot w'ith us was cast,
J Who saw it out from first to last;
j Patient and fearless, tender, true,
] Carpenter, vagabond, felon, Jewr—
1 Whose humorous eyes took in each phase
1 Of full rich life this world displays;
Yet evermore kept full in view
2 *he far-off goal it leads us to;
Who, as your hour neared, did not fail—
The world's fate trembling In the scale—
With your half-hearted band to dine.
And speak across the bread and wine;
Then went out firm to face the end,
Alone, without a single friend;
Who felt as your last words confessed—
Wrung from a proud unflinching breast
By hours of dull, ignoble pain,
Your whole life’s fight was fought in vain'
Would I could w’in and keep and feel
That heart of love, that spirit of steel,
I would not to Thy bosom fly
To shirk off till the storms go by;
If you are like the man you were
You’d turn in scorn from such a prayer,
Cnless from some poor workhouse crone.
Too toilu’orn to do aught but moan,
rlog me and spur me, set me straight
At some vile job I fear and hate;
Some sicken.ng round of long endeavour,
No light, no rest, no outlet ever;
All at a pace that must not slack,
Tho heart would burst and sinews crack;
rog in one’s eyes, the brain aswim,
A weight like lead in every limb
And a raw pit that hurts like hell
Where the light breath once rose and fell,
L>o you but keep me, hope or none.
Cheery and staunch till all is done,
And at„the last &a3P Quick to lend
effort more to serve a friend.
And when, for so I sometimes dream,
I ve swum the dark—the silent stream—
Sk ^o d takes the breath away—
that parts the dead world from the day.
And see upon the further strand
* ue lazy, listless angels stand;
And, with their frank and fearless eyes,
the comrades whom I most did prize;
lhen clear, unburdened, careless, cool,
au^funter down from the grim pool
And n m.y friends. Then you’ll come by
A 11 ^aPta,n of our company,
Call me out, look me up and down,
Aud pass me thro’ without a frown.
With half a smile, but never a word;
And so—1 shall have met my Lord.”
Chinas Industrial Revolution.
B" Maynard Owen Williams in Outlook.
1 he introduction of modern extensive
farming in China will do for Ameri
can implement makers what the Euro
pean war has done for the munition
makers. Four hundred million live5
Chinamen will eventually offer as good
a market for American goods as a few
million dead Europeans. Only a small
proportion of China’s land is being
used to feed one-fourth of the human
beings on this globe, and soon the day
will come when the nations will turn
to the finest intensive farmers in the
world for food. Railways, steamships,
a national press, good government—
these are the benefits that must fol
low the introduction of extensive farm
ing to the best farmers in the world,
more than 300,000,000 of them. Chris
tian missions are the only agencies
now operating in China to introduce
wheeled vehicles and extensive farm
ing in '.he interior of the vast em
pire.
An industrial revolution is begin
ning in China. For the first time in
the history of the world, the Chinese,
freed from superstition by Christian
missionaries are opening the richest
coal and iron deposits In the world.
One of the greatest steel mills in the
world is situated at Hanyang, 600 miles
inland. Farmers are becoming indus
trial workers. Fewer men will have to
produce more food in China. Inten
sive culture can do no more. That is
where American extensive agriculture,
taught by mission schools, will come in.
But before the millions of acres in
China covered by the graves of cen
turies car. be utilized for agriculture,
the mission schools will have to sub
stitute o. new religion for the ancestor
worship which robs China of its rich
est acres by covering them with the
wide spreading tombs of countless an
cestors.
I he oouI ot the Country Newspaper.
From Harper's Magazine.
Our papers, our little country papers,
seem drab and miserably provincial to
strangers; yet we who read them read
in their lines the sweet, intimate story
of life. And all these touches of nature
make us wondrous kind. It is the
country newspaper, bringing together
daily the threads of the town's life,
weaving them into something rich and
strange, and setting the pattern as it
weaves, directing the loom, and giving
the cloth its color by mixing the lives
of all the people in its color pot—it is
this country newspaper that reveals us
to ourselves, that keeps our country
hearts quick and our country minds
open and our country faith strong.
When the girl at the glove counter
marries the boy In the wholesale house,
the news of their wedding is good for
a 40-line wedding notice, and the 40
lines in the country paper give them
self respect. When in due course we
know that their baby is a 12-pounder,
named Grover or Theodore or Wood
row, we have that neighborly feeling
that breeds the real democracy. When
we read of death In that home we can
mourn with them that mourn. When
we see them moving upward in the
world, into a firm, and out toward the
country club neighborhood, we rejoice
with them that rejoice. Therefore, men
and brethren, when you are riding
through this vale of tears upon the Cal
ifornia Limited and by chance pick up
the little country newspaper with its
meager telegraph service of 3,000 or 4,
000 words—or, at best, 15,000 or 20,000;
when you see its array of countryside
items; its interminable local stories;
its tiresome editorials on the water
works, the schools, the street railroad,
the crops, and the city printing, don't
thrown down the little rag with the
verdict that there is nothing in it. But
know this, and know it well: If you
could take the clay from your eyes and
read the little paper its it is written,
you would find all of God’s beautiful,
sorrowing, struggling, aspiring world in
it, and what you saw would make you
touch the little paper with reverent
hands. _ _
A Blade of Grass.
Thou art only a blade of meadow grass.
Beside the footprints of those who pass;
But ths wings of butterflies rest o'er thee
4.nd bees confide in thee, dreamily,
In thine ear little insects chirp and sing.
And unto thee trembling dewdrops cling.
When shadows grow deeper, the daylight
dies,
And, chilling tide, somber mists arise.
Erect, undismayed, thou dost vigil keep
Beside the river, while others sleep.
Thy lot is to stand, and to wait, day by
day,
And yet, even so, thou are serving alwav!
—Harriet Appleton Sprague, in the Living
Church.
********** *
* THE IDEAL WIFE. *
* -
* From the Wichita Engle. -*■
* The ideal wife needs a dozen ♦
* personalities. She must be a moth- *
! * er to her husband when he is child- -f
* ish, a nurse to him when he is 111, *
* a coquette when he is a flirtatious, +
* a tailor when he needs a button, an *
* applauding audience when he is *
* boastful, a comforter when he is ♦
* sad, a good cook when he is turn- *
* gry, a business adviser when things
* go wrong, and all the time a pa- *
* tient. encouraging. light-hearted *
* comrade! Considering all this it is *
* astonishing how many women dare *
* attempt the job. *
* ♦ '
***♦***♦*♦***♦4-* **********
♦ 4
4- “Today we bring our fairest 4
♦ blossoms. 4
4- For the heroes tried and true, 4
4- Under grassy mounds low lying. 4
♦ TVhere the flags float 'neath 4
4- the blue.” 4
I ♦ —W. B. Olds. 4
4- 4
Park Godwin on tho Death of Lincoln.
The great captain of our cause—Ab
i raham Lincoln—smitten by the basest
hand ever upraised against human In
nocence, Is gone gone, gone! He who
had borne the heaviest of the brunt in
our four long years of war. whose pulse
beat livelier, whose eyes danced bright
er than any other, when
"The storm drew off
Its scattered thunders groaning around
the hills,”
In the supreme hour of hts Joy and
glory was struck down. One who,
great In himself, as well as by position,
has suddenly departed. There is some
thing startling, ghastly, awful, in the
manner of his going off. But the chief
poignancy of our distress is not for the
greatness fallen, but for the goodness
lost. Presidents have died before; dur
ing this bloody war we have lost many
eminent generals—Lyon, Baker, Kear
ney, Sedgwick, Reno and others; we
have lost lately our ilnest scholar, pub
licist, orator. Our hearts still bleed for
the companions, friends, brothers, who
"sleep the sleep that knows no waking,”
but no loss has been comparable to his,
who was cur supremest leader—our
safest counsellor—our wisest friend—
our dear father. Would you know what
Lincoln was, look at this vast me
tropolis. covered with the habiliments
•f woe! Never in human history has
there been so universal, so spontan
eous, so profound an expression of a
nation’s bereavement.
Yet we sorrow not as those who are
without hope. Our chief is gone, but
our cause remains; dearer to our hearts
because he is now become the mar
tyr; consecrated by his sacrifice; more
widely accepted by all parties; and
fragrant and lovely forevermore in the
memories of all the good and the great,
of all lands, and for all time. The re
bellion, which began in the blackest
treachery, to be ended in the foulest
assassination; this rebellion, accursed
in its motive, which was to rivet the
shackles of slavery on a whole race for
all the future; accursed in its means,
which have been "red ruin and the
breaking up of laws,” the overthrow of
the mildest and blessedest governments,
and the profuse shedding of brothers'
blood by brothers' hands; accursed in
its accompaniments of violence, cruelty
and barbarism, and Is now doubly ac
cursed in its final act of cold blooded
murder.
Cold blooded, but impotent, and de
feated Its own purpose! The frenzied
hand which slew the head of the gov
ernment, in the mad hope of paralyzing
Its functions, only drew the hearts of
the people together more closely to
strengthen and sustain its power. All
the north once more, without party or
division, clenches hands around ‘ the
common altar; all the north swears a
more earnest fidelity to freedom; all
the north again presents its breasts as
the living shield and bulwark of the
nation's unity and life. Oh! foolisti and
wicked dream, oh! insanity of fanatic
ism, oh! blindness of black bate—to
think that this majestic temple of hu
man liberty, which is built upon the
clustered columns of free and inde
pendent states, and whose base is as
broad as the continent—could be shak
en to pieces, by striking off the orna
ments of its capital. No! this nation
lives, not in one man nor 100 men, how
ever able, however endeared to us; but
m the affections, the virtues, the ener
gies, and the will of the whole Ameri
can people.
The Roll Call.
“Corporal Green!" the orderly cried;
“Here!" was the answer, loud and clear.
From the Ups of a soldier who stood
near.
And "Here!” was the word the next
replied.
"Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell —
This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear man had seen him full.
Killed or wounded he could not tell.
There "they stood in the fading light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark
looks.
As plain to be read as open books.
While slowly gathered the shades of
night.
The fern on the hillside was splashed
with blood,
And down in the corn where the pop
pies -.•ew,
Were redder stains than the poppies
knew;
And crimson dyed was the river's flood.
For the foe had crossed from the oth
er side,
That day in the face of a murderous
fire,
That swept them down in its terrible
Ire;
And their life blood went to color the
tide.
“Herbert Kline!” At the call there
came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line.
Bearing between them this Herbert
Kline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his
name.
"Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered
“Here!”
“Hiram Kerr!"—but no man replied.
They were brothers, these twu, the sad
wind sighed,
And a shudder crept through the corn
held near.
“Ephraim Deane! "—then a soldier
spoke;
"Deane carried our regiment colors,"
he said;
‘ 'Where our ensign was shot, I left him
dead,
Just after the enemy wavered and
broke.
"Close to the roadside his body lies.
I paused a moment and gave him a
drink.
He murmured his mother's name. I
think.
And death came vvitli it and closed his
eyes.”
’Twas a victory, yes; but it cost us
dear—
For that company’s roll, w'hen called
at night.
Of 100 men who went into the tight
The number was small that answered
"Here! ’’
Memorial Day.
Flowers red for the valiant courage
That could die for nat'-'e land:
Flowers blue for the ink nly purpose.
Loyal heart and ready hand;
Evergreen for lasting honor
That they bore beneath ine sod;
Flowers gold for deathless glory:
Flowers white for the peace of God.
Replies to the Methodist temperance
society’s query chow that the 4t:2 daily
papers in this country declining liquor
advertisements in February, into, hart
In February of this year increased to
U0.