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CHARLES NPOLLE BUCK
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SYNOPSIS.
Juanita Holland, a Philadelphia young
Woman of wealth, on her Journey with
her guide, Good Anse Talbott, into the
heart of the Cumberlands to become a
teacher of the mountain children, faints
at the door of Fleteh McNash’s cabin.
While resting there she overhears a talk
between Bad Anse Havey, chief of his
clan, and one of his henchmen that ac
quaints her with the Havey-McBriar feud
Juanita has an unprofitable talk with Bad
Anse and they become antagonists. Cal
Douglas of the Havey clan is on trial In
Peril, for the murder of Noah Wyatt, a
McBriar. In the night Juanita hears
feudists ride past the McNasli cabin.
Juanita and Dawn McNash become
friends. Cal Douglas is acquitted. Nash
Wyatt attempts to kill him but is him
self killed by the Haveys. Juanita goes
to live with the Widow Kverson. whose
boys are outside the feud. Milt McBriar.
head of his clan, meets Bad Anse there
and disclaims responsibility for Wyatt's
attempt to kill Douglas. They declare a
truce, under pressure from Good Anse
Talbott- Juanita thinks she finds that
Bad Anse is opposing her efforts to buy
land and build a school.
CHAPTER VIII.
As days grew into weeks Bad Anse
Havey heard nothing of the establish
ing of a school at the head of Tribula
tion, though all the gossip of the coun
tryside which might interest a dicta
tor filtered through the valleys to his
house.
He smiled a little over the copy of
Plutarch’s "Lives,” which was the com
panion of his leisure moments, and
held his counsel. While he thought of
Juanita herself with a resentment
which sprang from hurt pride, he felt
for her, as a menace to his power, only
contempt.
But Juanita’s resolve had in no wise
weakened. She had seen that her
original ideas had all been chaotic and
born of ignorance, so she occupied her
self, like a good and patient general,
in pulling all the pins out of her little
war map and drafting a completely
hew plan of campaign.
With Good Anse Talbott she rode up
dwindling watercourses to the hovels
of the "branch-water folks” and across
hills wheresoever the cry of sickness
or distress called him, and since his
Introduction was an open sesame, she
found welcomes where she went.
And soon this figure, that walked
with an almost lyric grace, yet with a
boyish strength and litheness, became
familiar along the roads and trails.
Instead of asking, “Who mought thet
be?” mountaineers nodded and said:
“Thet’s her,” and some women added:
“God bless thet child.”
one naa Been into many gloomy
cabins that repelled the brightness of
the summer sun, and she had been
more like sunlight than anything that
had ever come through their narrow
doors before.
She sometimes rode over to the
cabin of Fletch McNash and brought
little Dawn back with her to spend a
day or two. The “furrin” girl and the
mountain girl wandered together in
the woods, and Dawn’s diffidence gave
way and her adoration grew. Twice
Juanita found another visitor at the
McNash cabin—Bad Anse Havey. He
recognized her only with a haughty
nod, like that of an Indian chief, and
she gave him in return a slight incli
nation of her head, accompanied by a
glance of starry contempt in her violet
ayes. Yet, in the attitude of the moun
taineers to the man, she saw such
hero-worship as might have been ac
corded to some democratic young
monarch walking freely among his
subjects.
Once Fletch said: “Ma’am, how’s
yore school a-comin’ on? Air ye git
ttn’ things started ter suit ye?”
Juanita flushed.
“Not yet,” she answered. “I’m try
ing to get acquainted first. When I
do start, I hope to make up for lost
time.”
“I reckon thet school will be a right
good thing over thar; don’t ye ’low
bo, Anse?" Fletch’s good-natured
density had not recognized the hos
tility between his two guests.
Anse laughed quietly.
“I reckon," he said, “so long as the
lady just keeps on sayin’ ‘not yet’ thar
won’t be no harm done. I don’t quar
rel with dreams.”
The lady flushed, and a hot retort
rose to her lips, but she only smiled.
“I’m biding my time, Fletch," she
assured him. “My dream will come
true.”
But for this dream’s fulfillment she
must have land. There must be dormi
tories for boys and girls, and play
grounds where muscles and brains,
grown slow from heavy harness, could
be quickened. She fancied herself
listening to the laughter of children
who had not before learned to laugh.
But as she made inquiries of land
holders whom a price might tempt to
Bell, she was met everywhere with a
reserve which puzzled her until a bare
footed and slouching farmer gave her
a cue to its cause.
This man rubbed his brown toe in
the dust and spoke in a lowered voice.
“I don’t mind tellin’ ye thet I’d be
plumb willin’ ter sell out an’ move.”
His eyes shone greedily as he added:
“Fer a fair figger, but I moughtn't live
ter move ef I sold out.”
“What do you mean?” she asked,
much puzzled.
"Wall, I wouldn’t hardly like ter hev
this travel back ter Bad Anse, but I’ve
done been admonished not ter make
no trades with strangers.”
“Oh!" she exclaimed in a low voice,
and her face flushed wrathfully.
“Whom does your land belong to?” she
demanded after a moment’s silence.
“Are you a bondman to Bad Anse Ha
vey? Isn’t your property your own?”
He looked away and rummaged in
his pockets for a few crumbs of leaf
tobacco, then he commented with the
dreary philosophy of hopelessness:
“Hit’s a God’s blessed truth thet a
feller hyarabouts is plumb lucky es
long as his life’s his own.”
So, she told herself, Bad Anse had
begun his war with boycott! She
could not even buy a foothold on which
to begin her fight. Back there in the
Philadelphia banks lay enough money,
she bitterly reflected, to buy the coun
try at an inflated price, to bribe its
courts, to hire assassins and snuff out
human lives, yet, since the edict of one
man carried the force of terror, she
could not purchase a few acres to
teach little children and care for the
sick. At least it was a confession that,
for all his fine pretense of scorn, the
man recognized and feared the poten
tiality of her efforts.
As the bright greens of June were
scorched into the dustier hues of July
and the little spears of corn grew
taller, she began to feel conscious of a
certain drawing back, even of those
who had been her warm admirers, and
to notice scowls on strange faces as
they eyed her.
Somewhere a poison squad was at
work. Of that she felt sure, and her
eyes flashed as she thought of its au
thorship. Each day brought her new
warnings offered under the semblance
of kindness and friendship.
“Folks hereabouts liked her power
ful well, but hit wam’t hardly likely
thet Bad Anse, ner Milt McBriar,
would suffer her to go forward with
her projecks. They’d done beeTi hold
in’ off ’cause she war a woman, an’
she’d better quit of her own behest.”
So they were willing to let her sur
render with the honors of war! Her
lips tightened.
In answer to detailed questioning
her informant would shake his head
vaguely and suspect that "hit warn’t
rightly none of his business nohow;
he just ’lowed hit war a kindly act ter
give her timely warnin’.”
CHAPTER IX.
»
One afternoon, while old Milt Mc
Briar was sitting on the porch of his
house, a horseman rode up and “light
ed.” The horseman was not of pleas
ant expression, but he knew his mis
sion and was sure of his welcome.
“ 'Evenin’, Luke," welcomed the Mc
Briar chief, and as the visitor sank
into a chair with a nod, he laconically
announced:
"I’ve done found out who kilt Nash
Watt.”
Old Milt never showed surprise. It
was his pride that his features had
banished all register of emotion. Now
“Are You a Bondsman to Bad Ante
Havey7”
he merely leaned over and knocked
the ash from his pipe against the rail
ing.
“Wall,” he commanded curtly, “let’s
hev yore tale.”
“They picked out a man fer ther job
thet hain’t been mixed up in no feud
iightin* heretofore,” pursued the other
with unruffled calmness. “He’s a fel
ler thet nobody wouldn’t suspect; him
bein’ peaceable an’ mostly sober. But
he shoots his squirrels through the
head every time he throws up his
gun. Thet war ther kind of man they
wanted.”
Milt McBriar shifted his position a
little. He seemed bored.
“Who war this feller?”
The bearer of tidings was reserving
his climax and refused to be hurried.
“I reckon ye’ll be right smart as
tonished when I names his name, but
thar hain’t no chanst of bein’ mistook.
I’ve done run ther thing down.”
“I hain't nuver astonished,” retort
ed McBriar. “Who war he?”
Very cautiously the second man
looked around and then bent over and
whispered a name. There was a short
pause, after which the chief comment
ed: “Wall, I reckon I don’t need ter
tell yer what ter do now.”
“I reckon I knows,” confessed Luke
with a somewhat surly expression.
But Milt McBriar was paying no
attention. His face was darkening.
“I wish I could afford ter git the
real man!” he exclaimed abruptly. “1
wish I durst hev Anse Havey kilt.”
“Wall”—this time it was the un
derling who spoke casually—“I reck
on I mought as well die fer a sheep as
a lamb. 3hell I kill Anse Havey fer
ye?"
The chieftain looked at him during
a long pause, then slowly shook his
head.
“No, Luke,” he said quietly. “1
hain’t quite ready ter die myself yit.
11 reckon if I hed ye ter kill Bad Anse
thet’s ’bout what’d happen. Jest git
ther lamb this trip an’ let ther old
ram live a spell.”
So, one unspeakably sultry morning,
a few days after that informal session.
Good Anse Talbott arrived at the
Widow Everson’s house. As Juanita
Holland appeared at the door to greet
him he came at once to the point.
“Fletch McNash hes done been
kilt,” he said. “ ’Bout twilight last
night, es he was a-comin’ in from ther
bam somebody shot one shoot from
ther la’rel. I reckon hit’d be right
smart comfort ter his woman an’
little Dawn ef ye could ride over thar
an’ help 'tend ter ther buryin’. Kin
ye start now?”
Go! Juanita would go if it were
necessary to run a gantlet of all the
combined forces of the Haveys and
McBriars. Her heart ached for the
widow and the boys, but for Dawn the
ache was as deeply poignant as it
could have been for a little sister of
her own. So with set face and hot in
dignation Juanita mounted for the
journey.
At last they reached the McNash
cabin and found gathered about it a
score of figures with sullen and scowl
ing faces.
From the barn came the screech of
saw and rat-tat of hammer, where
those whose knack ran into carpentry
were fashioning the box which was to
serve in lieu of a casket.
There was no fire now, and the
cabin was very dark. In a deeply
shadowed corner lay Fletch McNash,
made visible by the white sheet that
covered him.
Juanita had come in silently, and
for a moment thought that no one
else was there. The younger children
had been sent away, and the neigh
bors remained outside with rough
sense of consideration.
There, in a squat chair near the
cold hearth, sat Mrs. McNash, her
back turned to the room. She was
leaning forward and gazing ahead
with unseeing eyes. Dawn was kneel
ing at her side with both arms about
her mother’s drooping shoulders.
Juanita bent and impulsively kissed
the withered face, but the woman only
stirred a little, like a half-wakened
sleeper, and looked stolidly up. After
a while she spoke in the lifeless, far
away tone of utter lethargy.
“Ef ye'd like ter see him, jest lift
up ther sheet. He’s a-layin’ thar.”
Then once more she sank back into
the coma of her staring at the hearth
with its dead ashes.
Then the door opened, letting in two
men, and in them Juanita recognized
Jeb McNash and Bad Anse Havey.
At their coming Dawn looked up,
drawing away from the embrace of
the older girl, and retreated silently
to a corner, as though ashamed of
having been discovered in tears. For
a few moments there was silence in
the room, complete except for the rap
of Jeb’s pipe when he knocked out its
ashes against the chimney.
Bad Anse stood with folded arms in
the dim light and gave no sign that he
had recognized the presence of the
“furrin” woman.
The boy jerked his head toward the
hearth and said in a strained, hard
voice: “Set ye a cheer, Anse,” and
after that no one spoke. Jeb’s thin
but muscular chest rose and fell to
the swell of heavy breathing and his
face was wrapped black in a scowl
that made his eyes smolder and his
lips snarl. Juanita had dropped back
to one of the beds with Dawn’s face
buried in her lap.
Then, as if rousing from a long
dream, Mrs. McNash looked up, and
for the first time appeared to realize
that her son and his companion had
entered the place.
The dead blankness left her pupils,
and Into them leaped a hateful fire.
Her voice came in shrill and high
pitched questioning: “Wall, Jeb, hev
ye got him yit?”
The boy only shook his head and
glowered at the wall, while his moth
er’s voice rose almost to a scream.
“Hain’t ye a goin’ ter do nothin’?
Thar lays yore pap what nuver harmed
no man, shot down cold-blooded. Don’t
ye hear him a-callin’ on yer ter settle
his blood score? Air ye skeered? Ther
spirit of him thet fathered ye’s a
pleadin’ with ye—an’ ye sets still In
yore cheer!”
Juanita felt the slender figure in her
embrace shudder at the lashing invec
tive that fell from the mother’s lips.
She saw the boy's face whiten; saw
him rise and turn to Bad Anse Havey,
half in ferocity, half in pleading.
“Maw’s right, Anse,” he doggedly
declared. “I kain’t tarry hyar no
longer. He b’longs ter me. I’ve got
ter go out an’ kill him. Thar hain’t
but one thing a-stoppin’ me now,” he
added helplessly. “I don’t know who
did it; I hain’t got no notion.”
He stood before the clan chief, and
the latter rose and laid one hand on
the shoulder which had begun to trem
ble. Man and boy looked at each
other, eye to eye, then the elder of the
two began to speak.
“Jeb, I don’t want ye to think I
don’t feel for ye, but ye don’t know
who the feller is, an’ ye can’t hardly
go shootin’ permiscuous. Ye’ve got
to bide your time.”
“But,” interrupted the boy tensely,
"you knows. You knows everything
hyarabouts. In heaven’s name, Anse,
I hain^ askin’ nothin’ out of ye but
jest one word. Jest speak one name,
thet’s all I needs.”
The mother had dropped back into
her stupor again, and her son stood
there, his broganed feet wide apart
and his whole body rigid and tense
with passion.
Anse Havey once more shook his
head.
“No, Jeb,” he said quietly; “I don’t
know—not yet. The McBriars acted
on suspicion—an’ they killed th%
wrong man. Ye ain’t seelcin’ to do
likewise, be ye? Ye ain’t quite twenty
one, Jeb, an’ I’m the head of the fam
ily. I reckon ye’d better take counsel
of me, boy. I ain't bent on deludin’
ye, an’ ye can trust me. Ye’ve got to
give me your hand, Jeb. that until
“Fletch McNash He* Done Been Kilt.
ye’re plumb, everlastingly sartain
who got your pa, ye won’t raise your
gun against any man.”
The boy sank down into his chair
and bowed his head in his hands,
while his finger-nails bit into his tem
ples. Even Juanita Holland had felt
the effect of Havey’s wonderfully
quieting voice. Finally Jeb McNash
raised his face.
“An’ will ye give me yore hand,
Anse Havey, thet if ye finds hit out
afore I do, ye’ll tell me thet man’s
name?”
“I ain't never turned my back on
a kinsman yet, Jeb,” said Anse grave
ly.
The boy nodded his acquiescence
and hurriedly left the room. Juanita
gently lifted Dawn’s head from her
lap and went forward to the hearth.
She had listened in silence, out
raged at this callous talk and this
private usurpation of powers of life
and death. Now it seemed to her
that to remain silent longer was al
most to become an accomplice.
Something in her grew rigid. She
saw the bent and lethargic figure of
the bereaved wife and the stark, sheet
ed body of the feud’s last victim. Be
fore her stood the man more than
anyone else responsible for such con
ditions.
“Mr. Havey,” she said, as her voice
grew coldly purposeful with the ring
of challenge, “I have been told that
you did not mean to let me stay here;
that you did not intend to give these
poor children the chance to grow
straight and decent.”
She paused, because so much was
struggling indignantly for utterance
that she found composure very diffi
cult. And as she paused she heard
him inquire in an ironically quiet
voice: “Who told ye that?”
“Never mind who told me. I haven’t
come here to answer your questions.
I came too these feud-cursed hills to
fight conditions for which you stand
as sponsor and patron saint. I came
here to try to give the children re
lease from ignorance—because ig
norance makes them easy tools and
dupes for murder lords—like you.”
Again her tumult of spirit halted
her and she heard Dawn sobbing with
grief and fright on the bed.
"Are ye through?” inquired Anse
Havey. His voice had the flinty quiet
of cruelly repressed passion, and his
face had whitened, but he had not
moved.
“No, I’m not through,” she want on
with rising vehemence. "I came here
seeking to interfere with no man’s af
fairs—wishing only to give your peo
ple, without price, what they are en
titled to—the light that all the rest
of the world enjoys. I found the com
munity bound hand and foot in
slavery to two men of a like stripe.
I found their hirelings murdering each
other from ambush. I’m only a wom
an, but I carry the credentials of de
cency and civilization. You two men
have everything else—everything ex
cept decency and civilization. You
and Milt McBriar!”
He had listened while the muscles
of his jaws stood out in cramped ten
sity and the veins began to cord them
selves on his temples. Now he said
in a low voice, between his teeth: “By
heaven, don’t liken me to Milt Mc
Briar!”
The girl laughed a little hysterically
and wildly, then swept on:
“I do liken you to Milt McBri&r.
What in heaven’s name is the differ
ence between you? He kills your vas
sals and you kill his. Both of you do
ft by the proxy of hirelings and from
ambuscade. In this house a man lies
dead—dead for no quarrel of his own,
but because of your quarrel with Milt
j McBriar. But it seems that’s not
| enough. You must enlist the son of
J the dead man into a life that will have
the same end for him. You bind him
apprentice to your merciless code of
murder."
Her hands were clenched and her
eyes burning with her tempest uf rage.
When she stopped speaking the man
inquired once again “Are ye through
now?” But Juanita threw both her
hands out and continued:
"You have taken the boy—very
well. I mean to take the girl. I
shall try to undo in her and in her
children the evil you will do her
brother. I shall try to give the fam
ily one unbligbted branch. Unless
you kill me. I shall stay here and fight.
I’ll fight you and your enemy Mc
Briar alike, because you are only two
sides of the same coin. I’ll try to
fake the ground out from under your
feet and leave you no standing room
outside a state’s prison. Dawn shall
learn the things that will, some day,
set this coutnry free.”
Mrs. McXash was looking up vague
ly, but her thoughts were still far
away, and this outpouring of speech
near at hand meant little to her.
Juanita, as she finished her wild
peroration, fell suddenly to trembling.
Her strength seemed to have gone
out of her words. Her knees seemed
too weak to support her, and for the
first time In her life, as she looked
into the face of Anse Havey, ominous
ly blanched with rage, she was physi
cally afraid of a man.
His eyes seemed to pierce her with
the stabs of rapiers, and in his quiet
self-repression was something omi
nous. For a moment he did not permit
himself to speak, then he thrust a
chair forward and said in a level,
toneless sort of voice: “If ye’re all
through now, mebby ye’d better sit
down. Such eloquence as that’s liable
ter tire ye out right smartly.”
The girl made no move to take the
chair, and Anse Havey took one step
forward and pointed to it. This time
his voice came quick and sharp, like
the crack of a mule-whip.
"Sit down, I tell ye! I've got just
a few words ter say my own self.”
CHAPTER X.
For a few moments Bad Anse Havey
did not speak, and Juanita dropped al
most limply into the chair he had
pushed forward. Havey paced the nar
row length of the room, pausing once
to gaze down at the rigid body of the
dead man. At last he came and took
his place squarely before her by the
hearth, both hands thrust deep into
his coat-pockets. A long black lock
fell over his forehead and he impa
tiently shook it back.
“In the first place,” he began in his
deliberate voice, “ye’ve said some
things thet I doubt not ye believe to
be true, but they’re most all of ’em
lies.”
He flung back his head and looked
squarely down at her, his eyes nar
row and snapping, but with his voice
pitched to a low cadence. “Ye’ve said
things that, since ye’re a woman, I
ain’t got any way of answerin’. The
only thing I asks is thet ye harken to
what I want to say.”
“Go on; I'm listening with humble
attention.”
“Ye’ve called me a murderer an’ a
hirer of murderers. That’s a lie. I’ve
never killed no man that didn’t have
his face t’ords me, nor one that wasn’t
armed. I’ve never hired any man
killed.
“Ye've likened me to Milt McBriar.
Thet was a lie, too. Ye've said some
right bitter things, an’ I can’t answer
ye. If ye was a man I could.”
"And If I were a man, what would
you say to me?” she inquired.
“I reckon”—his words came with an
icy coldness—“I’d be pretty liable to
tell ye to eternally go to hell.”
“And if I were a man,” she promptly
retorted, “I’d endeavor with every
ounce of manhood I had in me to see
that you and the others like you did
go there. I’d try to see that you went
the appropriate way—through the
trap of the gallows.”
She saw his attitude stiffen and his
face flush brick-red to the cheek-bones.
But after a few seconds she heard him
speak with a fair counterfeit of amuse
ment.
“Wall, it ’pears like we’ve both got
to be right smart disappointed—on ac
count of your bein’ a woman.”
And this time it was she who
flushed.
“I don’t hardly know why I’m tak
in’ the trouble to make any statement
to ye.” Havey went on. “It ain’t hard
ly worth while. Ye came up here with
your mind fixed. Ye’ve read a lot of
hearsay stuff in newspapers, an’ facts
ain’t hardly apt to count for much. I
reckon afore ye decides to hang me
ye'll let me have my day in court,
won’t ye?”
“Before your own judge and your
own jury?” she naively asked him.
‘That’s the way you usually have your
day in court, isn’t it, Mr. Havey?”
“It’s you that’s settin’ as the court
just now,” he reminded her. “I reck
on ye can judge for yerself how much
I owns ye.”
In spite of herself she smiled.
“I rather think I can,” she admit
ted. “Approximately, at least.”
“I think I understand ye better
than ye do me,” he went on slowly. “I
think ye’re plumb honest in all the
notions ye fotched up here, despite
the fact that most of 'em are wrong.
Ye’ve done come with a heap of money
to teach folks what you 'low they’d
iAagif to know. Ye didn't Snow that
they’d ruther have ignorance than
charity. Ye think that you an’ Al
mighty God have gone in partners fer
the regeneration of these mountains,
where no woman has ever been in
sulted an’ no man has to bar his door
against thievery; where all we ask is
to be left alone. I reckon every day
ye’re wonderin’ ‘Is my halo on
straight?’ It’s nat’ral enough that ye
should be right scornful of a man that
some newspaper reporter has called a
murderer.”
His voice fell away, and Juanita
heard again the beating of the ham
mers out in the barn.
“Is that all?” she asked, but the
man shook his head and stood there
looking down on her until under the
spell of his unusual eyes she felt like
screaming out: “Talk if you want to,
but for heaven's sake don't look at
me. I can’t stand it!”
“Mebby ef ye’d stopped to think
about things,” he resumed, “ye’d have
seen that I didn’t have no quarrel with
your plans. Mebby I mought even
have been able to help ye. I could
have told ye for one thing that
whether the ways here be right or
wrong, they’ve done stood fer two
hundred years. Ye've got to go slow
changin’ ’em. Ye can’t hardly pull up
a poplar saplin’ with one jerk. Thar’s
a tap-root underneath it thet runs
down half-way to hell.
“If people hyarabouts is distrustful
of furrin teachers an’ ways, it’s be
cause of the samples they’ve had. A
feller came here once from the settle
ments to teach school. He was a
smart, upstandin’ feller an’ well
liked. A man by the name of Trevor.
“When folks found out that he was
locatin’ coal an’ buyin’ their land fer
next to nothin’—robbin’ them of their
birthright—it looked right smart like
somebody might kill him. I warned
him away to save his life. Ye’ve got
to make folks forget about Trevor
afore ye makes ’em trust you.”
“Thank you,” said Juanita coldly.
“I’ll try to show them that I’m not an
other Trevor. Are you warning me
away to save my life?”
“I’m tol’able ignorant," went on the
man, “but I've read a few books, an’
one of ’em told the story of the Trojan
hoss. I wanted ter see what kind of
a critter you was a ridin’ into these
hills. I come to this cabin the night
ye got here to find out.”
“I thought so,” she quietly answered.
“I was to be inspected like an immi
grant, and the lord of the land was to
decide whether or not 1 should be sent
back.”
“Put it that way if ye’ve a mind to,”
he answered. “Ye was cornin’ to be a
schoolteacher here. Well, I’d done
been a schoolteacher here. I see your
smile—ye're wonderin’ what I could
teach. Maybe, after all, it’s a right
good idea to teach A B C’s before ye
starts in with algebra an’ rhetoric. Ye
wouldn’t have me as a friend, an’ I
reckon that won’t break my heart.”
“Then,” said the girl, looking up
and meeting his eyes with a flash of
challenge, "I shall endeavor to get
along without your favor. We could
hardly have met on common ground
at best. I shall teach the ten com
mandments, including ‘Thou shalt not
kill.’ 1 shall teach that to lie hidden
behind a bush and shoot an unsuspect
ing enemy is cowardly and despicable.
I would not be willing to tell them
that they must live and die vassals to
feudal tyranny.”
“No," he agreed, “ye couldn’t hard
ly outrage your holy conscience by
tryin’ to teach ’em things in a way
they could understand, could ye? If
Jeb had come to ye, like he came to
me, askin’ the name of the man he
sought to kill, ye would have said ter
him, ‘It was so-and-so, but ye mustn’t
harm him, because somebody writ in
a book two thousand years ago that
killin’ is a sin.’ An’ the hell of it is
ye’d ’low such talk would satisfy him.
“Ye couldn’t do no such wicked
thing as to stop an’ reflect that he’s a
mountain boy, an’ that for two hun
dred years the blood in his veins hes
been a cornin’ down to him full of
"You Have Taken the Boy—Very Well,
I Mean to Take the Girl.”
grudge-nursin’ an' hate. Ye couldn’t
make allowances for the fact that he
wasn't hatched in a barnyard to peck
at corncobs an’ berries, but in an
eagle’s nest—that he’s a bird of prey.
Ye couldn’t consider the fact that the
killin’ instinct runs in the current of
his blood an’ was drunk in at his moth
er’s breast. Ye’d just teach barnyard
lessons to young eagles, an’ that’s why
ye might as well go home.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
REASON CANNOT BE GUIDE
Product of the Mind, and Is Subject
to the Will but Never
Superior.
Reason cannot select correct prem
ises; she can only prove the prem
ises you give her. “Oh. what a won
derful creature Is man," exclaimed
Ben Franklin; “he can find reasons
for anything he wishes to do.” That
Is the troupe with reason as a guide.
Reas'*- -a-n'i.M guide Reason is e*
ways guided by something else be
hind it, which supplies the premises
from which reason makes its calcula
tions and records. Reason is a calcu
lating machine. Give it correct
premises and it will compute and
record the right answer every time.
But reason has no power of choice
in the matter of premises; like any
well regulated calculating machine it
automatically accepts the premises
fed into it Tou have but to watch
your own thoughts carefully to prove
this.
Who, or what, then, Is responsible
for the choice of premises that you
feed into your calculator? It is life
itself which uses reason. It is life
itself which creates reason, the cal
culator. And why does life need
reason? Life needs reason to weigh,
compute, compare and record life’s
institutions and experiences. Without
the calculator and recorder, reason,
fife would endlessly duplicate its ex
periences and intuitions without
learning anything from them. Life
is the creator, reason the creature.
Life la the actor, reason Is acted
upon. Life la positive and reason
negative. To depend upon reason as
guide Is to exalt the machine above
the mind that made It.
Clever Borrowing.
The college stadium Is but another
Instance of the modern adaptation of
ancient devices to twentieth century
needs. In many things the so-called
civilised nations of our day have ex
celled the ancients of Greece and
Rome, and in other ttlna they
have not Improved much on what had
been acomplished some two thousand
years ago. In science, discovery and
invention, especially in regard to
things material and utilitarian, we
have undoubtedly outstripped them;
but in poetry, philosophy, painting,
sculpture, architecture—in short, in
the realm of the arts—we have made
but little progress, and that not on
particularly original lines. Their
works are still serving as our models,
although occasionally we do succeed
in expanding their Ideas to lit our own
larger needs, and the modern stadium j
is a case directly in point, in this
instance we have borrowed both the
Idea and the name.
True.
Someone has found out that widow
ers remarry more often than widows;
with the latter this is regarded as a
misfortune and not a fault—Washing
ton Post.
Whatever the mind enjoins os itself
as an object, it attains
THE CHARM
OF MOTHERHOOD
Enhanced By Perfect Physi
cal Health.
The experience of Motherhood is a try
ing one to most women and marks dis
tinctly an epoch in their lives. Not one
woman in a hundred is prepared or un
derstands how to properly care for her
self. Of course nearly every woman
nowadays has medical treatment at such
times, but many approach the experi
ence with an organism unfitted for the
trial of strength, and when it is over
her system has received a shock from
which it is hard to recover. Following
right upon this comes the nervous strain
of caring for the child, and a distinct
change in the mother results.
There is nothing more charming than
a happy and healthy mother of children,
and indeed child-birth under the right
conditions need be no hazard to health or
beauty. The unexplainable thing is
that, witlrall the evidence of shattered
nerves and broken health resulting from
an unprepared condition, and with am
ple time in which to prepare, women
will persist in going blindly to the trial.
Every woman at this time should rely
upon Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable
Compound, a most valuable tonic and
invigorator of the female organism.
In many homes
once childless there
are now children be
cause of the fact
that Lydia E. Pink
ham’s V egetable,
Compound makes
women normal,
healthy and strong.
If yon want special advice write to
Lydia E. Pinkham Medicine Co. (confl*
dential) Lynn, Mass. Your letter will
be opened, read and answered by a
woman and held In strict confidence.
BOYS, Read This
We want, an agent AT ONCE in your school—in every
school in America to sell Never-Slip shoe lace holders
to scholars, teachers and others (everybody needs
them). They fit any shoe, hold any lace and are
neater than any knot. We pay big commission and
take back any goods you can't sell and return your
money. Write today. Secure agency and earn your
own Christmas money. Rex Mfg. Co., Newton, la.
TIME FOR GUEST TO LEAVE
Ordinary Man Will Have Little Doubt
as to What Mr. Mulligan Meant
by His Remark.
"That Patrick Mulligan is a funny
fellow. I can’t quite understand him."
“Why? What's he been up to now?”
“Well, you see, he and I were hav
ing a little argument at his house the
other evening, and then I offered to
prove that he was a fool, in black and
white.”
“Yes; well, what about It?”
"Well, up to then we had confined
ourselves to lightly raised voices, but
when I said that he flared up im
mediately.
"Prove Ol’m a fool in black and
white, will ye?” he yelled. Well, if
ye don't clear out of this house at
once Oi’ll prove in black, blue and red
it's a falsehood ye’re telling!”—Pitts
burgh Dispatch.
Remembered the Charge.
The judge had a colored man before
him in a police court and he asked
him when he had been arrested be
fore. The fellow scratched his head,
thought a moment, and then said, “Ah
think It was about a year ago, jedge.”
“What was the charge?” asked the
court
After thinking awhile the prisoner
looked up and said: “Ah’m not quite
shuah, but ah t’ink it was free dol
lahs, yer hannah.”
He was discharged.
About the only time a woman ever
overlooks a bargain is when she se
lects a husband.
A woman’s lite is full of trouble. If
she has no children to worry over, she
is pretty sure to try to grow a fern.
MOTHER’S “NOTIONS”
Good for Young People to Follow.
“My little grandson often comes up
to show me how large the muscles of
his arms are.
“He was a delicate child, but has de
veloped into a strong, healthy boy and
Postum has been the principal factor.
“I was induced to give him the Post
um because of my own experience
with it.
"I am sixty years old, and have been
a victim of nervous dyspepsia for
many years. Have tried all sorts of
medicines and had treatment from
many physicians, but no permanent re
lief came.
“I used to read the Postum adver
tisements in our paper. At first I gave
but little attention to them, but finally
something in one of the advertise
ments made me conclude to try Pos
tum.
“I was very particular to have it
prepared strictly according to direc
tions, and used good, rich cream. It
was very nice indeed, and about bed
time I said to the members of the fam
ily that I believed I felt better. One
of them laughed and said, ‘That’s an
other of mother’s notions,’ but the no
tion has not left me yet.
“I continued to improve right along
after leaving off coffee and taking
Postum, and now after three years’
use I feel so well that I am almost
young again I know Postum was the
cause of the change in my health and
I cannot say too much in Its favor. I
wish I could persuade all nervous peo
ple to use it”
Name given by Postum Co., Battle
Creek, Mich.
Postum comes in two forms:
Postum Cereal—the original form—
mast be well boiled. 15c and 25c pack
ages.
Instant Postum—a soluble powder
dissolves quickly in a cup of hot water
and, with cream and sugar, makes a
delicious beverage instantly. 30c and
50c tins.
Both kinds are equally delicious and
cost about the same per cup
“There’s a Reason” for Postum.
—•old by Grocers.
