The Saint Paul globe., April 30, 1899, Novels for Leisure Hours, Page 7, Image 35

About The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905

Image provided by: Minnesota Historical Society; Saint Paul, MN

                
that he would have the bear in five or six
(-ays at the outside.
The prospectors spent the days in the
mountains or along the foothills looking for
mineral, without any great success, it must
be confessed. As soon as they got home and !
the smoke of their cap fire rose in the even- !
ing air, La Farge always came over to report j
tha progress he .vas making in capturing the j
bear, and, incidentally, to eat supper with
them. Five or six hundred ya,rds from camp.
Just within the green edge of the forest and
close to the bank of the little stream, he was
building a log pen with a sliding door. When
completed he would kill a deer or big horn
and drag it to the trap and place it in the
further corner, attaching the door string to
it in such a manner that when the bear en
tered and disturbed the bait down the door
would come, securely imprisoning the animal.
This seemed a very simple plan to the pros
pectcrs, but one entailing much useless labor.
They ventured to suggest that it would be
quite as sure and much easier to kill a deer
or sheep, drag it to some likely place, and
as soon as it was found that the bear was
feeding on it, watch until the animal came
to make its next meal and shoot it. La Farge
shrugged his shoulders. "Mais," he said.
"You'm not much hunt him bear. Varre
strong, bear. Shoot him t'ro' heart, t'ro'
lungs; shoot him full holes, he no stop; hit
you with one paw, biff. You keeled sure."
THE SQUEEZE.
The fourth evening after La Farge's arrival
he reported that the pen was completed. The
fifth evening he said he had climbed to the
top of the Butte and killed two bighorns, but
was so tired he had brought down only a
little of the meat for the family. The next
night he would drag down one of the car
casses and bait the trap. It was almost sun
down the next night when the prospectors
got to camp, very tired after their long day's
scramble on the rocks. They threw down
their picks and began listlessly to build a
fire and prepare the e/ening meal, when
suddenly from the great timber came the
loud scream of a man, and then a hoarse bel
lowing sound, something like that of an en
raped bull. With one accord they grasped
their rifles and ran up the slope toward the
timber. They were not tired now, and made
almost as good time as a deer could have
dene. When half way up the roaring bel
lowing sound ceased. They kept on, however,
and had no difficulty in finding the pen;
that is to say, what was left of it, for one
corner was broken out and the roof was
slanting at a steep angle toward the open
ing. In the far corner they saw the carcass
of a bighorn, and behind that, between it
and the wall, they made out the form of La
Farge, stretched out full length, face down
ward. The prospectors felt sure he was dead,
and, entering the pen, carefully, for the roof
looked as if it was about to fall, one of them
took hold of the sleeve of the prostrate man
and began to raise him. As he did so La
Farge gave a piercing scream and* raised the
most terror-stricken face they had ever seen.
As one of them said afterwards, , "His eyes
were bulging out so >ou could have brushed
them off with a stick." The poor fellow's
teeth chattered, he trembled, and continually
rolled his eyes about as if looking for some
thing to appear. The prospectors stood him
up, and, while one of them held him to keep
him from collapsing, the other rubbed him
down and examined him thoroughly. He
hadn't a scratch. After a while they started
down the hill toward camp. La Farge wasn't
much inclined to talk, but by much question
ing, they learned that he had dragged the
bighorn down the mountain and "into the
pen, and was just finishing tying the door
string to one of its legs when he heard a
slight noise, and, looking over his shoulder,
saw the chief grizzly standing half within the
docrway. In his fright he let go of the
string, the heavy gates fell on the bear, caus
ing it to leap clear in, and that was the last
he remembered. The prospectors knew the
rest, evidently the pen had given way at the
first assault of the angry and frightened bear.
La Farge did not oat supper with the pros
pectors that night, and when they got up be
times the next morning they saw him and
his outfit just passing out of sight around
the bend of a distant hill.
Stilt another evening, while the prospectors
were eating their supper, they saw Chief
Grizzly nosing and pawing about the de
serted earning place of the half-breed. Tak
ing their rifles and cautiously approaching
the spot, they succeeded in getting within
sixty or seventy yards of him. As the almost
simultaneous reports of their guns rang out
the old fellow slowly sank to the ground, his
muscles twitched a. little, and all was over.
He was, indeed, a large bear, but there are
many as large or larger roaming the fast
nesses of the Rockies today.— Brooklyn
Times.
City of the Sun God
Baal Bek, the city of the sun god lies *♦
the foot of Anti-Lebanon, m order to reach i
it you must ride many miles over bare brown
Pjlains, across ridges, hoary with olive and i
green with mulberry, and between ma=sivp
hills streaked 'ike the zebra. Suddenly "out
of the silent fields spring mighty walls and
pillars, giants who lift their heads into the
amber sky. The sight of these superhuman '
columns, beside which *he tallest trees look '
like blades of grass, fills .me with amazement i
It is not alone -heir size and strength and '
beauty that inspire wonder, but their very
existence in such a solitude, far from *h P '
track of mankind. We of the nineteenth !
century, meek dependents on rail and steam '
are so in the habit of association that we are '
astounded at the presence of massive ruins
In the heart of a valley remote from river !
and sea.
As we draw near our wonder grows, for
out of the thick grove, whose dark branches
sweep and moan like a troubled sea around
the foot of imperishable cliffs, there rise new
■THE DUKE'S HEIR
walls and new columns, massive, ornate,
stately even in their heaped confusion. This
is the Temple of Sun, a relic of pagan wor
ship that has looked unmoved on the birth
and death of dynasties and faiths. Led, as
by some enchantment, we pass through the
grove whose dark avenues, overgrown with
weeds, have echoed with the shrieks of the
victims of Baal, Lord of the Heavens. There
in the shadow of that poplarmay have stood
the molten image, the human figure, of a
bull's head, and outstretched arms, from
which children dropped into the fiery lap.
"They caused their sons and daughters to
pas.? through the fire."
"They made themselves molten images,
even two calves, and made a grove, and
worshipped all the hosts of Heaven, and
served Baal."
It is not easy to associate these bloody
rites with such splendor of design and colos
sal workmanship, yet it is beyond dispute
that these walls have seen the worship of
Baal; that here incense has been consumed
in his honor; that his priests, clothed in rich
vestments, have trodden these paths; that
hero mothers have looked on dry-eyed at
the sacrifices of their children, while the
screams of the burning victims were deadened
with fluate and drum.
Six columns, graceful and gigantic, carry
ing a broken frieze — six columns each 75 feet
high and 7 1-2 feet in diameter — are all that
remain standing of this marvel of paganism.
The grove, whose tail poplars look like grass
growing out of fissures in the fallen walls, is
silent. "There is no voice, nor any that
j answereth." We leave the ghostly shade,
| and, walking down a quiet country lane,
; reach the gate that leads into the temple. A
Turkish guard admits us, and in a moment
Iwe are plunged into the gloom of a vast
! vault-like passage. The nickering glare of
j torches reveals the huge blocks of stone that
; shut out air and sky. Emerging from these
; vaults, we arrive at the Acropolis, and wander
iin growing amazement among the ruinous
; heaps of stone, so monstrous in size, so per
| feet in shape, so rich in carving as almost to
| raise doubts of their human origin. Those at
Kamak — familiar to every tourist in Egypt —
and at Palwyra cover a wider area. Their
I strength, the massive simplicity of their pro
] portions, and the elaborate beauty of their
ornament are the things that move wonder
, and admiration and make every modern pal
| ace and cathedral dwindle into the insignifi
cance of a paltry and ephemeral structure.
I The west wall contains stones each from 62 to
| 64 feet long, 13 feet thick, and as many broad.
i What Titans hewed and placed these enor
mous blocks that appress us with the insig
nificance of the Church of St. Peter at Rome,
and the meanness of the Colliseum? What
| genius conceived and what cunning hands
! wrought the elaborate tracery and embroid
lery of frieze and capital and sculptured arch
itrave? Wherever your steps lead you —
through the spaces of the Acropolis, in the
j Temple of Jupiter, or in the Temple of the
! Sun — the same marvels of masonry appear,
i the same giants of hewn rock. And the
color! The deep orange stain on wall and
pillar "reflects the sunsets of a thousand
years." — London Standard.
American Women Lack Soul
Miss Edith Young, writing in the London
Lady's Realm, comments at length on the
| American woman, praising her cleverness,
i daintiness and good looks. She gives es
i pecial praise to that trait in American
j women which is not so often commented
upon— her domesticity and housewifely abil
ity. But Miss Young concludes her remarks
I with the frank statement that American
women are lacking in "soul." She says:
"Chief among the accomplishments of the
; American woman is her talent for house
: keeping. The uncertainty in securing ser
| vants— for in America anything may be had
i for money, but a good servant last of all—
; and probably the influence of a hard working
, ancestry have had their effects. An Ameri
i can woman, with the exception of very mon
eyed American women, can run her house
without a 'help' if she needs to, and runs it
so well that one cannot always credit there
is no retinue of servants behind. She keeps
her house bright and beautiful, but not at the
expense of her personal appearance, she al
i ways being neatly and prettily dressed,
whatever she does."
Her house is most conveniently appointed
for the saving of labor and useless drudgery
—the reason being that the prevailing stub- \
bornness of servants in trying new appli
ances has small weight in a country where
brainy women have so often to do their own
housework, and naturally chose the best
ways of accomplishing it.
"It would be a revelation to some ardent
English housewives to know that the ladles '
one meets at an afternoon whist party in
America, who have a stub meeting for every
day in the week, o: who lounge on their
piazza hammocks ps though life were one!
long holiday, and who are all animation and
vivicity, have now and again, perhaps all the
time, been doing housework of a kind we
should have two or more servants for in this
country, getting up in the small hours to
cook their elaborate breakfasts of hot bread :
and various indispensable dishes, and later
making cakes, candies, and dainty stuffs be
side the real meals of the day.
"From her attributes of beauty, liveliness
and acoomplishmtm. --ne might infer the
American woman perfect, were it not + hat
putting aside nil her faults and taking her at !
her best, there is still something wanting. !
Neither good looks nor cleverness nor sound
common sense constitutes genius; daintiness
and prettiness do not constitute art, and one
may have all talent and all means of edu
cating one's self and j^t be destitute of that
sympathetic feeling for things which we call
'soul.' "
One finds one's self wondering if Miss
Young is an American or does she write sim
ply from an English standpoint. The con
clusion leans rather to the latter opinion.
For to Americans, our women seem no more
devoid of sentiment than their English cous
| ins. Americans are brighter, there is more
j laughter, more jesting among vs — but truly
jno lack of soul. The great movements of the
day find as ready a sympathy among our
women as among the English; charitable en
terprises are as numerous and as successful.
We have a Clara Barton where England has
her Florence Nightingale; a Frances Willard
where she has a Lady Somerset; a Helen
Gould where she has — who?
American women are all right as far as
souls are concerned. They need none of
England's roast beef— that's all.
Child and tin Devil
"So you're here again, are you?" said the
Devil.
"Yes," cried the Child. Then moving her
crutch on the other side, and wriggling along
the seat, "I saved a place for you in case
you came — spread my clothes out on purpose,
so I did." Devil sat down.
He wasn't a real devil, of course. People
only called him that because he was rich and
miserly, and had a club foot.
Said the Child, turning on him two grave
eyes, looking proport'orately large in her
small, pale face: "You are kind to come
again! I told mother my Devil wasn't as
black as he was painted."
Her Devil frowned.
"Where did you hear that phrase?" he
growled suspiciously.
"P'raps Mrs. Ryley — in our buildings." She
I snuggled close. "Her husband's a devil
(only it's 'divil,' you know, in Irish). They're
friends of mine; they li/e on the floor above.
Bu f she shouts at him through the ceiling
when he's tired on Saturday nights."
The Devil's tone was acrid.
"And is he a trifle paler than neighborly
report would paint him?"
A glimmer of his meaning shone in her
troubled eyes.
"Don't ycu like being called that? I didn't
know your name. Mother and me is strang
ers hereabouts.
She showed such fear of wounding him. Ho
stroked her hair.
"Are strangers," he corrected, nodding and
smiling down.
"Of course! He is — I am — you are. Mother's
always telling me!"
Peace fell between them, and, with it, si
lence.
Said the Child, speaking dreamily, with
eyes half closed: "Nicknames are horrid! I
knov it of myself."
. "How's that?" said the Devil, who seemed
preoccupied.
"The boys — sometimes — at our buildings."
The thin cheeks flushed.
"Call you names, do they?" He tapped his
stick on the ground. "Wnat names?"
She did not answer.
"What names?" he said again.
"Just 'Rickets' sometimes, and 'Timber-
Toes,' and — and 'Cripple.' '
The last escaped with a sob. He drew her
closer muttering.
Presently, "I'll call you by your real name,
X you like," she whispered. "I was reading
about you in print this morning."
He seemed surprised.
"Dry enough reading for a little maid,"
he said.
He was thinking of stocks and shares, so
that the look on her face puzzled him. She
drew down his hand, she held it in her own.
"How it must have hurt you when you fell
from Heaven!" she cried. He gaped at the
Child in wonder. "When God was angry, and
He 'cast you out.' When you got hurt," she
added, stammering with nervous haste. "I
think, p'raps, I felt wicked and got cast out,
too. That's why my leg's crooked, and I have
to walk on crutches."
With the point of one she began tracing
uncouth figures in the gravel.
"You— wicked?" gruffly. "Come, I wouldn't
believe that."
"P'raps I swelled inside, like when the
boys shout out 'Cripple'; p'raps God scolded,
| and I gave back answers. Or— no!" The
I grave voice quivered, gi owing soft and ten
jder: "Maybe God — knowing we was friends —
cast me out with you, to keep you company."
The Devil, with head averted, passed an
arm round one thin shoulder.
Said the Child, with solemn gaze fixed on
the leaden sky —
"Do you remember Heaven? What was
It like, I mean?"
"Not clearly," grimly. "I didn't stay long,
you see."
"Neither did I, and I was little than you.
But I've seen pictures of it," brightening:
"and it's awfully wonderful!" She leaned
back against him, her eyes upturned.
"It's like the sands at Margate, with the ;
sea turned upside dcwn. You can't walk
about, 'cos only flies would know the way;
iegs are no good to you, so you're cut off up
to here." \,
She implied decapitation with a small fore- j i
finger. He read the tender meaning her i '
downward glance conveyed. i
"And there's no Mght in Heaven; it's al- 1
ways light as day. It's so bright and shin- I -
ing," she continued in a sort of gentle ecsta- !
sy. "that the baby angels' eyes water and the j i
old ones put on spectacles. You're never ; 1
hungry, so there isn't any food; you've no j
clothes— you couldn't wear them if you had; \i
but there's bands— and swings— and sack-rac- 1 1
ing in the parks, and no fathers go there. : 1
only mothers, and boys and giris. Nobody 1
ever beats you. nor makes your mother cry, j
and when you take physic God and the angels 1
hold your head. 'Had I the wings of a dove ! 1
I would fly,' " she broke off, crooning, her i
inspired gaze lifted to follow a London spar- ! 1
row in its flight. ■ \
"And there's crowns and harps," she cried, ]
her young voice shrill and tremmulous; "and i
wings sprout where your ears are, and you j
fly about all day, and when you're tired of
flying you sit down on your necks."
And then she lay back and smiled at celes-
tial fancies. "But I won't go back without
you," she added, hastily, and all her smiles
vanished, her chin sinking to her breast.
"How's mother?" asked the Devil, who
seemed to have a cold.
"Nicely, thank you. She's in the tailor
trade today."
"The tailor trade, is she? Then shut.-,
didn't pay?"
'"Not as well as trousers. It's the button
holes, you see."
She was profound in her practical wisdom.
The Devil rose to go.
He must get back to the office. He should
see her soon again. But she was going into
hospital, she told him, to have an operation
on her leg. He wished her well then; he
hoped it might prove successful. He begged
b?r on departing, with a humorous twinkle in
his eye, not to sneer at his foot when they
had made her whole again.
He left her hurt and troubied, poor, sensi
tive little soul! Then he forgot the Child for
week?— things were stirring in the city.
One evening, going homeward, he was pass
ing near the green when a woman ran to
ward him with a letter in her hand.
"The choild was dead he'd used to talk
wid in the park, had died at peace that
morning, talkin, affable wid de saints."
He was genuinely shocked. Then she gave
him a crumpled letter.
Her own name was Riley; she lived on the
floor above. He recognized her as the woman
whose "husband was a divil," too.
He put some leading questions about the
mother of the Child, he was a widdy, in bad
circumstances, but a lady, sure, far all.
"No; there seemed small prospect of a da
cent buryin'," jhe said.
Now the Devil's thumb and finger, which
ha'J strayed to his waistcoat, pocket, stayed
toying very lovingly with the golden coins
within.
A moment later he was nurrying down th?
street, pursued by shrill-toned blessings and
loud calling on the eamts.
When he reached home he opened the
Child's letter. It began, "Dear Devil," in a
i round, uncertain hand. "It is cumming off
j tomorrow. (The crooked one, I mean). But
1 1 am not prowd, dear Devil. I wish it was
j yure foot." It was signed. "Youre loving
lickle friend you speak to on the grean."
There was a "P. S."
"Mother's ankshus. She says you will not
mind."
There was another:
"Mother's very sadly. Trowsers are wuise
than shurts."
As he turned the letter there was a note
in the nurse's hand.
"The Child— who is fast failing— begs me
to write these words: "She is sorry to go
without you, but will be waiting near the
deer.' "
******
A week after the funeral the Devil paid a
call. It was a visit of condolence. The
Child's mother had been ill.
He found the door ajar. It creaked on its
hinges as he entered. Tiie sound brought the
wcrnan by the fire to her feet. She came
toward him.
"I think, sir," she said, hurriedly, and
smoothing her roughened hair, "you must be
the gentleman who's' been so kind to me
and "
"Maggie!" cried the man, and took a step
toward her; and then they stood still and
stared in each other's eyes.
She was weak and underfed, worn with
grief and worry. She dropped into a chair
presently, and began to cry behind her
hands. That distressed him. Hard, worldly,
selfish, as folks called him, he set his teeth
and began walking up and down.
He recalled the Child's disclosures, inno
cent hints dropped in chatter by the way.
Father was dead— she thought that she was
glad. He wasn't fond of children, and used
to kneck her mother down.
Why, he had shrugged careless shoulders
at the commonplace skeleton laid bare. But
now?
•He turned hot eyes and looked at her.
Maggie! His Maggie, as he had been used
to call her; the pretty, gentle creature who
had flushed under hij first kiss! Something
in his throat swelled big and seemed to choke
him.
"Maggie!" going near and laying a hand
upon her arm.
She conquered her tears, and began some
untrcken thanks. Then he brought a chair
and placed it at her side.
"It's years since we met," said the man,
breaking the silence.
"Eleven," said the woman, who struggled
to seem calm. "It's a long time," she added,
"and time brings many changes."
"Does it? I don't see them. To me you're
just the same."
He was studying her attentively She bent
to stir the fire.
"Maggie, you treated me very badly eleven
years ago."
"I was eleven years younger, John," she
urged, as lightly as she could.
"Eleven years younger; yes, a slip of sev
enteen"—his eyes left her face and wandered
to the fire— "and things have not gone well
with you? Life's been harder than you
thought?"
"Jim wasn't lucky"— evasively— "but he al
ways did his best."
She jumped up and began to make tea
and they drank it together, sitting soberly
by the hearth.
They found much to talk about— the Child
md many things. De'ecing a morbid craving
to dwell on her recent loss, he led her
Noughts backward, till they were busy with
:he past.
Did she remember the little scholl-house?
[t was a brand new board school now. The
"arm house was pulled down; there was a
:ed brick villa on its site. Then he recalled
ler girlish conquests, and rallied her for a
flirt. What a dance she used to lead them,
Rob and Andrew and the rest! And there
was a certain lame old bachelor who must
needs go wooing, too. He laughed quite
heartily, and she winced a little at the
sound.
"And. after all," he went on jovially, "it
*?