Title: The black cat (vol. i, no. 3, December 1895)
Author: Various
Language: English
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[Illustration:

  The Black Cat

  December 1895

  =THE GREAT STAR RUBY.=
  BARNES MACGREGGOR.

  =THE INTERRUPTED BANQUET.=
  RENÉ BACHE.

  =THE ARCHANGEL.=
  JAMES Q. HYATT.

  =ASLEEP AT LONE MOUNTAIN.=
  H. D. UMBSTAETTER.

  =KOOTCHIE.=
  HAROLD KINSABBY.

  =FRAZER'S FIND.=
  ROBERTA LITTLEHALE.

  5
  CENTS

  THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO. 144 HIGH ST., BOSTON, MASS.
  No. 3. Copyright 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.
]



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The Black Cat (Vol. I, No. 3)

A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.

  No. 3.        DECEMBER, 1895.        5 cents a copy.
                                       50 cents a year.

Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.

Copyright, 1895, by The Shortstory Publishing Company. All rights reserved.



 CONTENTS

    Title                     Author                  Page

    The Great Star Ruby.      BARNES MACGREGGOR.         1
    The Interrupted Banquet.  RENÉ BACHE.               11
    The Archangel.            JAMES Q. HYATT.           19
    Asleep at Lone Mountain.  H. D. UMBSTAETTER.        24
    Kootchie.                 HAROLD KINSABBY.          37
    Frazer's Find.            ROBERTA LITTLEHALE.       40
    Advertisements.                                     47



The Great Star Ruby.

BY BARNES MACGREGGOR.


IT was late in the evening of Melbourne Cup Day. In one of the
dining-rooms of the Victoria Club three men sat smoking and talking
earnestly together. Certainly the events of the last sixteen hours
furnished ample subject for conversation. Melbourne Cup Day means to
the Australian all that Derby Day does to the Englishman. It means,
also, many things that even the greatest sporting event of the English
year cannot mean to the inhabitants of the compact little island,
provided with so many other facilities for amusement and intercourse.
In this land of tremendous distances—where four million people occupy
an area equal to that of the United States,—in this island continent
of opposites—where Christmas comes in midsummer and Fourth of July in
midwinter, where swans are black and birds are songless,—this is the
one day when all classes and conditions assemble at one place and take
their pleasures as a unit.

From Victoria and New South Wales, from North, South, and West
Australia, from Queensland, even from Tasmania and the sister colony
of New Zealand, separated from the continent by miles of water,
visitors of all kind and degree had flocked by the thousands. When
the starting flag fell that morning there were assembled about the
track picturesque miners and rugged bushmen, self-made capitalists,
book-makers, and millionaire wool growers, charming women and
well-groomed men, to the number of almost a quarter of a million.
To all of these the occasion was one anticipated and planned for
during twelve months past. It was the occasion when their long pent
Anglo-Saxon sporting taste—for nine out of every ten Australians are
of English ancestry—intensified by the free, out-of-door life, and by
the absence of the outlets furnished in a more concentrated state of
civilization, found exuberant expression. To each it carried, besides,
some special significance, according to his rank and occupation. To the
betting man it meant that a single firm of book-makers had on deposit
in the banks of Melbourne and Sidney wagers to the amount of over one
hundred thousand pounds sterling; for, like the English Derby, this
is a "classical" event, upon which bets are often made for the coming
year the very day after the preceding race has been run. Among the
women it meant triumphs of millinery, gowns that had been ordered from
London and Paris many months or even a year in advance, the fashionable
display of Goodwood, the Derby, and the Ascot all compressed into a
single day.

Among the mine owners and wool growers it meant journeys by rail, boat,
or private coach, extending over hundreds, sometimes thousands of
miles, and lasting for days and weeks, even months. Australia has well
been called "The Land of the Golden Fleece." Its flocks of sheep are
the largest, its gold mines and coal mines the richest in the world.
Its flocks are counted not merely by hundreds or thousands, but by
hundreds of thousands; and a single sheep station often extends over
a hundred thousand acres. But with this immensity of interests there
is linked the familiar loneliness of grandeur. The greater a country
gentleman's possessions, the farther he is removed from society, until
the largest proprietors are often separated by forty or fifty miles
from their nearest neighbors. For this solitude the one outlet is the
journey to Melbourne for the annual cup races.

Upon this particular day the fashionable parade had eclipsed in size
and splendor that of any previous year. In addition to the races,
there had been the notable first night of the Grand Opera House, opened
now for the first time to the public; and the day had culminated in an
evening of such brilliancy and distinction that the three men who sat
talking at the Victoria Club found superlatives too weak to express
their enthusiasm.

"Rather than miss this day, I would have lost five years of my life,"
said one of the group. Then, turning to beckon the waiter, in order
that he might emphasize his words by some refreshment, he observed
a guest of the club—evidently a stranger—sitting alone at an
adjoining table. With the exuberant new-world hospitality of a man who
had evidently not been a loser in the day's exchange of wealth, he
stretched out a welcoming hand, with, "Stranger, won't you join us?"

Without waiting for further formality, the solitary man strode up to
the group and seated himself at their table.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I couldn't help overhearing what you said. I,
too, would have given a good deal to have been a spectator. In fact, I
had been looking forward to this event for a whole year, and, as luck
would have it, missed it by the delay of an hour. If the steamer from
Calcutta had reached Sydney half an hour before sundown yesterday,
instead of half an hour after, I should have been in Melbourne early
this morning, instead of late to-night. As it is, I arrived only ten
minutes ago, and, having a card to your club from the Wanderer's in
London, I came here to take the edge off my disappointment. The next
best thing to being on the scene of action is to hear about it from an
eye-witness. So I depend upon you to give me an account of the affair.
At any rate, I only hope the races aren't finished."

"Oh, of course there will be more races," said the spokesman of the
party; "but such a sight as the opening of the Opera House Melbourne
isn't likely to see again. There were stars, of course, but no one
noticed what was going on on the stage, you understand; the real show
was in the house, which was simply packed. Such women! Such stunning
gowns! And the jewels—why, it looked as though half the kingdoms of
Europe had lent their crown jewels for the occasion.

"In all that gorgeousness it was mighty hard to pick out the handsomest
face or the finest ornaments. But of course there was one woman here,
just as there is everywhere, who carried off the palm. It wasn't only
that she was beautiful, though in her dark, stately fashion she was far
and away the handsomest woman present; and it wasn't only that she sat
where she did in the front of the stage box, with her solitary escort
in the background, when every other box in the theater was crammed; but
upon the bodice of her gown—it was a gorgeous gold and white brocaded
and lace-trimmed affair, so I heard it whispered among the women—she
wore the most striking and gorgeous ornament in the entire audience.
This was a jockey-cap made entirely of precious stones; the peak was a
solid mass of diamonds, the band a row of sapphires, while the crown
consisted of an enormous ruby. 'Twas rather showy, of course, but so
appropriate for this particular race night that no woman could have
resisted wearing it. Of course it stood out wonderfully—it was as big
as a half-crown piece, you understand,—and it wasn't long before every
glass in the house was fixed upon that pin and the beautiful woman that
wore it.

"I turned my glass on it with the rest," he added, laughing, "and
that's how I got such a good photograph of it."

"Speaking of precious stones," said the stranger, who so far had
listened without comment, "reminds me of a fifty-thousand-pound ruby
that once involved a daring young Englishman in a series of strange
adventures."

"Give us the adventures," said the spokesman of the party, scenting at
once a stirring tale that would make a fitting wind-up to the day's
varied excitements. "A jewel always serves as a magnet for romance,
especially if the jewel is a fifty-thousand-pound ruby."

"To begin with," said the strange man, apparently unmoved by his host's
last remarks, "you must understand that, while there are millions of
rubies mined every year, a really first-class stone is one of the
rarest as well as the most valuable gems in the world. In Ceylon, where
some of the largest ruby mines in the world are located, the Moormen,
who have a monopoly of the gem trade, often bring down from the north
country bullock cartloads of uncut rubies, but probably in handling
ten million gems not one will be found of the desired fineness and of
flawless purity and luster. These Moormen are the shrewdest, with a
few exceptions the most unscrupulous, and always the most wonderful
judges of gems in the world, and they are without exception rich.
They have parceled out the gem-fields in the Tamil districts, and the
natives whom they hire to hunt gems along the river bottoms, where the
finest are found, are subjected to the most rigid scrutiny and daily
search; for, though the diggers are always naked, they often attempt to
conceal gems in their ears, nostrils, armpits, or elsewhere, with the
end in view of disposing of them to rival Moormen. For, though these
Moormen are openly fair dealers among themselves, they cannot resist
buying gems smuggled from their neighbors' fields. Consequently, a
complete detective service is attached to each one of these diggings,
and woe to the Tamil who is caught attempting to smuggle gems across
the lines! He simply disappears, that's all. No one is ever called
to account, and the awful secrecy of his captors and the mystery
surrounding his end appal his fellows, keeping them in a subjection
that is all but slavery, and in some respects infinitely worse.

"But these Tamil diggers are very wise, and they know when they happen
upon a grand uncut gem. Perhaps they will bury it again and spend a
whole year maneuvering to get the jewel over the lines to the rival
buyers, finally giving it up, and turning it over to the owners of the
fields. As the really fine ones are rarely larger than a hazelnut, and
each is worth from twenty to one hundred times as much as a diamond of
the same size, it is worth the digger's while to make a lifelong study
of the relative values, and then profit thereby.

"Now, this young Englishman had a curious hobby. For years he had
desired to possess one of these almost priceless rubies, and it was
partly with the hope of obtaining one that he visited Ceylon, where he
had left orders with the Moormen gem dealers to reserve for him the
finest and largest stone that could be found.

"Meantime he headed an exploring party, whose way lay through the
jungles about a hundred miles north of Kandy, toward the ancient
Buddhist city Anarajapoora, the throne of the famous King Tissa, the
shrine of the oldest tree in the world,—the sacred Bo. It was a long
and tedious march. The travelers usually halted at mid-morning, slept
till the shadows cooled the air a little, then resumed the journey
as far into the night as possible, sometimes continuing till the next
mid-morning, when the sun's heat again brought them to a standstill.
On this particular daybreak they had halted beside a swift stream,
doubtful at which point to attempt to ford it. The leader had sent men
both up and down the stream to search for a suitable spot, and wandered
along its banks, more occupied with the glories of the tropic sunrise,
the sparkle of the dew on the giant spider-threads stretched from limb
to limb, the stir of rare birds and animals with which the jungle was
more than alive, than with the problem of fording the stream. Upon
reaching an inviting nook, he sat down to roll a cigarette, first
taking care to search for any jungle enemies in ambush which might make
him legitimate prey. Suddenly he heard a great crashing of branches in
the thicket on the opposite side of the river. Then, like a flash of
lightning, a naked Tamil, red with blood, a look of desperation and
hopeless despair on his face, plunged out of the avalanche of green
beyond, and, leaping headlong into the water, struck out across the
stream. The traveler had risen to his feet, and stood watching amazedly
the course of the swimmer, which was aimless, like that of a desperate
man wandering through a totally unfamiliar country. His head was shaven
closely, though the natives usually wear their hair long. He swam with
great effort. Indeed, the watcher on the bank saw that it was ten to
one against the swimmer's success, and instinctively his heart went
out in pity. The unfortunate wretch was now being carried rapidly down
stream and toward the man on the bank, who could see the straining
of every fiber in the Tamil's body, even the look of despair in his
bloodshot eyes. Suddenly, just as success seemed assured, the swimmer
threw up his hands, uttered a strange moan, and went down. The man on
the bank rushed down the stream, stopped at a point where a huge banyan
tree spread its branches far over the swollen waters, and climbed out
on a thick limb. A moment later he saw the body of the Tamil rise
almost directly beneath him. Clinging with one hand to the tree, he
lowered himself over the treacherous torrent, and with a mighty effort
seized the drowning man by the ankle and so dragged him to the shore.

"Back into ambush he half carried the poor wreck, and, laying him
on the sod, began the task of reviving him. In less than ten minutes
the Tamil opened his eyes, discharged a gallon of water, then gasped,
struggled up into a half-sitting posture, and looked about him. When
he saw the Englishman bending over him, and comprehended, he uttered
the most pitiful wails of gratitude imaginable, groveling in the dust,
kissing his preserver's feet. The water had washed the blood from him,
but he was a mass of wounds, scars, bruises, lash marks, and bullet
cuts. How he ever managed to go as far as he must have gone, leaving a
trail of blood behind him, was a mystery. But what specially attracted
the Englishman's attention was a blood-stained bandage around the
fugitive's leg, midway between the knee and thigh, which was the only
rag on the poor fellow's body. He was about to question him, by signs
and syllables, for his knowledge of the Tamil patois was very limited,
when he heard another great crashing of the thicket across the stream,
accompanied by the sound of voices. Instantly, there flashed across
the poor creature's face a look of unspeakable terror, as he panted
out in hoarse gutturals, 'Sa-ya-ta! Sa-ya-ta!' an appeal for salvation
which would have moved a heart of stone. Motioning to him to remain
quiet—an unnecessary precaution, since he was scarcely able to lift
his head from the marshy ground—his preserver gave him brandy; then,
by a circuitous route, ran up stream, coming out directly opposite four
mounted Moormen who were ranting up and down the shore.

"Upon his appearance, the horsemen approached, and asked if he had
seen any one go by. They were on the track, they explained, of a Tamil
gem-digger, who was smuggling a ruby worth fifty thousand pounds over
the lines of the Bakook-Khan gem-fields, and with the owner of the
fields had chased him sixty miles. The man could be recognized, they
said, because his head was shaven, and he was quite naked, except for a
bandage tied around one leg, in which he had cut a hole and buried the
ruby.

"To all of this the Englishman answered that he had seen such a man
leap from the jungle and plunge into the river only a few moments ago,
adding that they would better wait until the flood went down before
searching the river bottom, as it would be impossible to find even an
elephant in that muddy water. At this the Moormen set up a howl of
rage, and, after an angry consultation, passed on down the stream,
scanning the river bank. The traveler was about to return to the Tamil,
realizing the man's immediate danger, when another crowd burst through
the jungle opposite, and at the sight of the Englishman approached
him with much the same story as had the first, except that, according
to their tale, the gem-digger had been smuggling from the Sabat-Keel
fields. To them he made the same reply, adding that another party had
just been there from the Bakook-Khan fields, making a similar claim. At
this the spokesman set up a terrific wail, denouncing them as rogues,
thieves, impostors, and heaven knows what not. But just in the midst of
his tirade he was cut short by the approach of still another band of
claimants, and immediately the three groups of angry Moormen were in
the midst of a wrangle over the ownership of the disputed gem.

"In their absorption the Englishman saw his chance to escape. With an
occasional glance backward to make sure that he was not observed, he
made his way stealthily to that spot in the ambush where he had left
the wounded Tamil.

"The man was gone!

"For a moment his rescuer stood nonplussed. Then, as he looked first
one way and then the other, his eye caught the gleam, a few yards
away, of the silver top of the brandy flask that he had left with his
patient by way of a comforter. As he stooped to recover it, he detected
a fresh blood stain on the grass, and farther on still another.
Evidently the Tamil, overcome by his fear of capture, had attempted
flight,—an undertaking that in his enfeebled state meant certain and
early death. Without stopping to consider the danger of following his
ill-fated protégé alone into the unknown depths of the jungle, the
Englishman started in pursuit. Before he had gone five steps, however,
he realized his peril. Beyond him, creeping along on all fours, he saw
the blood-stained fugitive, moving, unconscious of his peril, into the
very jaws of a huge tiger, crouched ready to spring upon his prey."

"And the Tamil was killed?" cried the party.

"No," said the stranger; "the Tamil was saved from this horrible
death, though only after his rescuer had passed through a hand-to-hand
struggle with the tiger, in which he was almost killed. As it was, he
lost the use of his right arm for the rest of his life. But, in spite
of all that he could do, the fugitive died a few hours later, overcome
by fright and fatigue."

"And the ruby?"

"The ruby, of course, fell into the hands of the Englishman, who,
convinced that, owing to the multiplicity of claimants, it would be
impossible ever to ascertain the stone's rightful owner, concealed
it in his tobacco pouch before he was joined by his party. These, he
learned when he was brought to his senses, had returned several hours
ago from the other side of the river, to which they had retired,
frightened by the many outcries of the mounted Moormen, and had found
their leader only after a long search, which would have been hopeless
except for the blood trail left by the wounded Tamil.

"For a few days after his return to their camp, wounded as he was, and
weakened by his encounter with the tiger, he gave little thought to the
stone that had fallen into his hands, as if from the sky. But with his
earliest convalescence, his jewel mania returned, intensified by the
actual possession of a ruby that it afterwards proved was, no doubt,
the finest in the world. By the time that he reached Amsterdam, to
which he had taken passage at his earliest opportunity, with the idea
of having his treasure cut by an expert, this mania had reached such a
pitch that it was only with the greatest effort that he could finally
make up his mind to leave it in the hands of a jewel cutter; and from
the moment that it was out of his possession he began to suspect every
person that he met, the jewel cutter included, of a desire to rob him
of his treasure. What gave color to his suspicions was the fact that at
the shop where he left the ruby delay followed delay, and postponement
succeeded postponement, the dealer putting him off each time with vague
excuses and never-fulfilled promises. At length, after five weeks of
these mysterious delays and excuses, almost crazed by wearing anxiety,
he confided his secret to one of a firm of private detectives, a man
whom he employed to watch and investigate the movements of the jewel
cutter.

"On the very night of the day in which he had taken this step, the
jewel was returned to him; it had proved to be a stone not only
magnificent in size and color, but curiously ribbed with white
rays,—that is, a star ruby, pronounced to be the finest in existence.
But the reaction from his fright and anxiety, joined with the effect
of his recent adventure, from which he had not yet fully recovered,
cut short his joy. He was seized with brain fever, and for days lay
unconscious in the room of his lodging-house, unattended except by his
doctor and landlady. When he finally returned to his senses he found
that the jewel was gone. At a time when his life was despaired of, the
detective employed to protect his interests called at his lodging, and,
thinking the man as good as dead, stole the gem, and—"

Suddenly the eyes of the listeners turned to the door behind the
speaker. There was a rustle of skirts and the whispered exclamation:
"There she is now."

The story teller started, flushing at the interruption, but only for an
instant. Then he faced about, leaped to his feet, and, rushing forward
like a maniac, tore from the breast of the mysterious beauty of the
opera the glittering ornament upon which, an hour before, had been
focused the attention of an entire audience.

"Here," he cried, brandishing a handful of lace and satin from which
gleamed the jeweled jockey-cap, "is the stolen star ruby!—and there,"
pointing to a man's figure that appeared in the doorway, "is the
cowardly wretch that stole it!"

It was not until then that his companions observed that the stranger's
right arm hung useless at his side.

[Illustration]



The Interrupted Banquet.

BY RENÉ BACHE.


THOUGH quite familiar with the street, I could not remember having seen
that particular house before. My recollection had been that there was a
vacant lot just there. But I must have been mistaken, for the dwelling
before me was substantial enough, though old-fashioned, with high front
steps and large windows. A trifle out of repair it looked, by the way,
and I even noticed that two or three panes of glass were gone. On the
whole, the mansion presented a somewhat mournful appearance, as if
fallen from an old-time respectability into a condition of decay and
decrepitude.

I am sure that it would never have occurred to me to enter, had it not
been that the young lady who accompanied me turned and deliberately
mounted the steps towards the front door. Of course I followed. She did
not ring the bell; for, in truth, there seemed to be no bell to pull.
But the portal was noiselessly thrown wide from within, and we entered.
I looked in vain for the servant who, I supposed, would receive our
cards; but, to my surprise, Mabel walked straight ahead through the
wide hall, without hesitation, appearing quite familiar with the place.
There should have been a light, I thought, though it was only two
o'clock in the afternoon; for the interior of this strange mansion was
very dark, and I could only make out in an indistinct sort of way the
faces that looked down upon me from some old portraits, obviously fine
works of art, as I passed.

Mabel had introduced me to most of her friends, for we had been engaged
for six months and were to be married very soon; but she had never
spoken to me of these people, who, perhaps, were rather out of the
fashion and had been forgotten. As these reflections passed through my
mind, we ascended a broad staircase to the second floor, and then it
was that I heard a sound of revelry which came from a room which I
correctly judged to be the dining-room of the house. The heavy oaken
doors of the room were slightly ajar, and through them was cast a
strong beam of light that fell full upon an object which startled me
for an instant. It was a headless human figure. A second later I smiled
at my own alarm, inasmuch as the figure was nothing but a suit of old
armor without the helmet.

If I had had a chance, I should have questioned Mabel, in order to
make sure that our unannounced entrance was not an intrusion; also, I
might have asked why, after starting out for a day's yachting trip, we
had returned so early and for so strange an entertainment. But either
query would have been out of place just then. Very likely, I thought,
she had some surprise in store for me,—a lunch party, maybe, arranged
by some friends in our honor; for quite a series of dinners and other
entertainments had been given to us in celebration of our engagement.
Moreover, all that I have related took place within less than a minute
and a half, and in another moment I found myself in the large and
brilliantly lighted dining-room. If the rest of the mansion was dark,
there was no lack of illumination here. I was fairly dazzled by the
numerous lights, clusters of which, arranged in silver candelabra,
helped to adorn a long table, at which twenty-five or thirty people
were seated. There were flowers in profusion, with a great display of
silver and cut glass.

To my astonishment, not one of the people present seemed to take the
slightest notice of our entrance. Near one end of the table were two
vacant chairs together. Mabel quietly took one of them, and I, deeming
the time hardly proper for an explanation, seated myself in the other.
Soup was immediately placed before us—evidently we were not very
late—and I took two or three spoonsful of it. It struck me as being
singularly tasteless.

The courses followed each other in the usual mechanical fashion. What
there was to eat I do not remember with any distinctness, for I was so
absorbed in wonder and in studying the other guests that I took little
notice of the viands. Opposite me was a funny-looking old lady in white
silk, cut low at the neck to such a degree, I thought, as would have
been more appropriate to a younger and plumper person. I particularly
recall the fact that she wore camellias in her hair—a fashion which
I had heard of as belonging to a generation ago. It was palpable,
too, that her front hair was false. Withal she was most agreeable and
amiably disposed, as I presently discovered from her conversation. She
was the first person who addressed any remark to me, abruptly making
some inquiry about my grandfather, and stating in the same breath that
she was from Philadelphia.

At her left sat a gentleman of rather more than middle age, as I
judged, with a remarkably pink nose and a great expanse of shirt-front,
who was devoting himself so assiduously to his plate that not a word
escaped his lips. On the other side of the old lady with the camellias
was an extremely thin man, with a peaked countenance, who so strongly
reminded me of an undertaker that I felt almost tempted to ask him a
question or two about the state of the market in respect to coffins and
other funeral equipments. His necktie was black and likewise his hair,
while his expression was one of extreme solemnity. Mabel was seated at
my right, while on my other hand was a buxom matron of forty or so,
who manipulated knife and fork with an activity that suggested a most
excellent digestion.

Among the guests these were the first whom I noticed particularly. As
I looked along the table, I was rather surprised to find that not a
face was known to me. There was a cadaverous-looking young man with a
prematurely bald head whom I pointed out to Mabel, asking who he was;
for I had noticed that a sign of recognition passed between them.

"My brother," she replied quietly and, as I imagined, sadly.

Now this was a surprise, for I did not know that Mabel had a brother.
Perhaps, I thought, he was not an especially estimable youth, and so
was ignored by her family. If that were so, why should he be present on
this occasion? Here was another puzzle, to be solved when a suitable
opportunity offered for questioning my fianceé.

On the left of Mabel's brother was a remarkably pretty, though very
pale young lady, who wore in her hair, oddly enough, what looked to me
like a bridal wreath. But the handsomest woman present was she whom
I supposed to be our hostess. She was of regal presence, and, with
her velvety eyes and coronet of black braids, resembled a Spanish
señorita. Though I had never seen her before, I took it for granted
that she must know who I was, and repeatedly I tried to catch a glance
from her; but it was in vain, for her conversation and attention were
addressed almost exclusively to an elderly man on her right, apparently
a foreign diplomat, as half a dozen orders glittered upon his breast.
At the other end of the festive board sat a gentleman with a huge gray
moustache, presumably our host. I heard no remarks from him, save now
and then a request to "pass the decanter," addressed to one or another
of the guests near him. I had no opportunity for speech with him,
inasmuch as Mabel and I were divided from him by almost the length of
the table.

On the whole, the affair struck me as entirely extraordinary. Here we
were, myself completely a stranger, at a banquet in a house which I had
never visited before! Indeed, had it not been for Mabel's assurance of
welcome and the two seats apparently reserved for us, I should have
supposed that we had made some mistake. Mabel herself was singularly
silent, though ordinarily quite talkative and even jolly, and offered
no explanation of the situation. But perhaps what astonished me more
than anything else was my discovery, some time after we were seated
at the table, of a young man, some distance away, who bore a striking
resemblance to my chum at college. Upon my word, I was on the point of
shouting at him across the board. In fact, the words, "Why, Bill, old
man, how did you get here?" were on my lips, when I checked myself in
time, owing to a remembrance of the fact that Bill had been dead for
eight years, having met a most untimely fate in a railway disaster.

While engaged in wondering whether the young man could be a near
relation of my former chum's, I was startled at seeing a telegram in
the familiar Western Union envelope laid beside my plate. Some people,
notably stock brokers and newspaper men, are accustomed to telegrams,
and for that reason are not alarmed by them. But habit had not rendered
me thus callous, and with some haste I tore open the envelope and
glanced over the contents. It read:—

 "Mabel died this morning of acute congestion of the lungs.

  "AMELIA PARKER."

I declare that I trembled as if I had a chill. If Mabel had not been
by my side, I should have been overcome by the shock. Holding the
telegram before Mabel's eyes, I exclaimed in a voice that trembled
with conflicting emotions of horror and anger: "This is carrying a
practical joke too far. Here, some brainless wretch telegraphs me in
your mother's name that you are dead."

Careless of the almost frenzied energy with which I spoke, I looked
around upon the faces of my fellow-guests as one does who is confident
of sympathy. To my amazement, in response to my speech, there arose
a cackle of laughter which was presently transformed into a general
ripple of mirth. And such mirth! The like of it I had never heard
before, and, please heaven, I hope I never may again. It was not like
real laughter, but rather the empty and strident cachinnation of beings
lost to the feelings of humanity.

Pale with anger, I rose to my feet and, steadying myself with one hand
on the back of my chair, exclaimed:

"What does this mean?"

Dead silence was the only response. Conversation had ceased, but I felt
that every eye was fixed upon me. Aghast, I looked at Mabel, but she
did not return my gaze. At length, the old woman with the camellias in
her hair, who sat opposite, addressed me, saying:

"Why do you think that Mabel is not dead?"

"Good God!" I replied. "Here she is. Don't you see her? What do these
people mean?"

The old woman grinned and waved her feather fan at me, playfully,
saying:

"Ask her if she isn't dead?"

I turned to Mabel in wonderment, but she only shook her head sadly.

"Why, of course she's dead!" said the old woman. "Don't you know that
all of us here are dead?"

"Indeed, yes; we are all dead," cried the other guests in general
chorus.

"This is getting beyond patience!" I exclaimed. "You, too, are pleased
to joke with me, but I tell you frankly that I fail to see the fun
of it. Perhaps, since you possess such a fund of humor, you will be
telling me next that I am dead, also."

Then came that laugh again. I never shall forget it. Beginning with a
cackling titter, it spread until the whole table was in a roar, making
my very flesh creep. Then all at once it ceased, and again there was
dead silence.

"Certainly you are dead," said the old lady with the camellias. "She's
dead, and all of us are dead. She died this morning of acute congestion
of the lungs, but I have been dead for these twenty years, and he,
too," indicating with her fan the elderly gentleman with the pink nose.
"My own complaint was cerebrospinal meningitis."

My legs gave way under me and I sank into my chair. As I did so my
hand touched Mabel's, and I grasped hers tightly. It was cold as ice.
Leaning toward me, she whispered in my ear:

"Don't make a scene! It is all quite true. You were run over an hour
ago by a trolley car."

Not daring to believe my senses, I replied:

"And this house—?"

"Sh—h!" said Mabel. "It is only the ghost of a house,—the phantasmal
reproduction of an old mansion that used to stand on this spot, where
there has been an empty lot for fifteen years past."

"I—I think I understand," I gasped. Then, though my brain swam, I made
a tremendous effort to summon up my courage and face composedly this
dreadful situation. Addressing myself to the old woman opposite, I said:

"Perchance you were acquainted with the former occupants of this
dwelling?"

"Oh, yes," she answered pleasantly. "I am somewhat distantly related to
our host and hostess of this evening. They were drowned—lost on the
ill-fated _Ville de Paris_. This house belonged to them, and not very
long afterwards it was torn down."

"But suppose that the present owner of the lot were to build upon
it?" I suggested. "It would be necessary to hold these charming
entertainments elsewhere?"

"Not at all," she said, laughing and waving her fan. "The occupancy of
the site by a real house would not interfere. It frequently happens,
of course, that a building is put up on ground previously occupied by
another dwelling. You must understand, though I might have supposed
you knew it, that, while the material parts of a tenement may be
removed at any time, its astral shell remains in perpetuity. Thus
the ghosts of half a dozen or more dwellings may remain on the site
occupied by a new and substantial structure. They are none the less
real for being invisible to living eyes. The most remarkable instances
of haunted houses that you have heard about are due to conditions of
that sort,—several families of phantasms, perhaps, tenanting premises
topographically coincident with a mansion which affords physical
accommodation to people in the flesh. I trust I make myself clear?"

"Quite so," I replied politely.

This conversation was interrupted by the elderly gentleman with the
pink nose, who seemed to be dissatisfied with something. Having poured
out a water goblet half full of sherry from a decanter, he called for
brandy, and with those strong spirits filled it to the brim. Then he
took a caster of red pepper and sprinkled its contents liberally on the
surface of the mixture. Raising the goblet to his lips, he drained its
contents to the last drop and set it down with a sigh.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "it has no strength. If only I could get a schooner
of real beer."

The old lady regarded this performance attentively, with a lorgnette
held to her nose. Said she sympathetically:

"That is the way with all pleasures in the after world. They seem to
have no savor. Even the milk is chalk and water."

"I suppose that is why this mince pie tastes so insipid," I responded,
toying absently with a bit of pastry on my plate.

"Of course it is," she said. "Don't you see it is only the ghost of a
mince pie."

"Then it seems that—"

But at this point the banquet was suddenly interrupted by a convulsive
swaying and creaking of timbers. The table rocked, the lights in the
silver candelabra flickered, and all was darkness. Then, through a ray
of brilliant sunlight, I saw the strange dining-hall, the gleaming
table, the ghostly banqueters all fade into the distance. Another
moment of utter darkness, of creaking and swaying, during which I
made a desperate effort to grasp and steady Mabel's chair. To my
bewilderment, my hand touched a coil of rope. I heard familiar voices.
There was a burst of sunlight. I sat propped up by cushions on the
deck of the pleasure yacht _Undine_, surrounded by solicitous friends.
Mabel, with her warm hand reassuringly clasped in mine, told me of my
half hour's unconsciousness. I had fallen overboard in my attempt to
recover her hat, and had been rescued only after sinking for the third
time. Not until I had heard all this, could I banish from my mind my
horrible experience in the house of the dead.

[Illustration]



The Archangel.

BY JAMES Q. HYATT.


CRAWFORD and I had gone up into the foot-hills of the Sierras to shoot.
It was autumn; yet the sun unscrewed us so immediately when we walked
abroad that we were forced to seek the shelter of pines and dusty scrub
oaks, as often as they fell across our path.

We were lying, one afternoon, under a row of young firs on the crest
of a ridge, when the gaunt figure of an old man labored up the slope
toward us.

"If all the world'd lay about in the shade like you 'uns and me—not
interferin' with Nature—she'd get her hand in again on her own hook,"
he said, throwing himself down beside us.

What he may have looked like when his features were normal we never
knew. At this advanced period he wore so inflated a nose of such
eccentric modeling that his eyes couldn't count for much, and his mouth
was only suggested under a flippant gray beard.

"I'm the Archangel," he said sweetly, and smiled at us.

Crawford shrugged himself a trifle nearer his gun and smiled back again.

"There's no crack," he assured us immediately. "That's been my title
for three years. I got it because I held my hand from gorin' a man
under false provocation."

"Tell us about it," we said.

He found a stone to rest his back against, and threw open his shirt at
the throat.

"These hot summer days sizzle just as they did then—crisp your throat
like coals curl bacon. I'd mined all this country in the gold days, and
held my own with the dizziest dog of 'em all in findin' the color and
epicuring the liquids. I run a drinking fountain in opposition to the
Dead Falls, up Mokelumne way, and counted on Joaquin and his band for
makin' a pot for me regular once a week—but t'aint what I started out
to say."

The old man fell into a reverie. He seemed to see only the ends of his
toes.

"About the Archangel," Crawford prodded.

"Yes—the Archangel. That's a matter of three short years aback."

This gentle old man stood up, and hitched savagely at his trouser band
before he sat down again.

"Adolphe—his name'd tell you, wouldn't it? Chin beard—juicy
voice—and hands a-curvin' through the air. Well, Adolphe and me set up
backin' and minin' together five years aback. I stayed on and on with
him because his bread'd make you hungry in your sleep.

"'Twas flour for that very bread that I went a-ridin' into town for,
one summer day. There was a real estate dude'd come up. 'Socks'
we called him. Actual—he went round in wormy-lookin' things held
up by garters! Well, Socks, he tucked a folded newspaper under my
saddle-flap, just as I was tightening up to go home.

"'Read that,' says he. 'It's time all you fellers settled down
to raisin' families, so's we could have a population, and school
districts, and churches, and sich. Never no hope of doin' anything with
a lot of bachelors.'

"Well, d'you know, it struck me like wisdom from the mouth of babes?
I rode along a-tryin' of my best to read that paper. Not bein' over
profuse in acquaintance with learnin', and the sun strikin' the white
clay like a lookin'-glass, I tucked it away and whistled till the
barkin' of the dog realized me I was home.

"Later, when the smoke went out of the chimney, curlin' through the
trees, Adolphe and me sat out on the saw-bucks a-readin' of that
paper,—the _Matrimonial Messenger_.

"By your names, sirs, there was three pages of 'um saying how
enchantin' they was!

"Tall women and short women, and young women and old women, women with
children and women without, women that could work, and sew, and cook,
and women that could sing, and dance, and talk. Every blamed one of
'em willin' to send their photograph, swearin' their faces was their
fortunes all their life!

"'Twasn't long before we'd settled between two of 'em, but Adolphe, he
was for one, and me for the other.

"'What's it to you?' sez I. 'You aint marryin' of her, are you?'

"He couldn't but admit the fact.

"'Still—there's my livin' round her,' he says.

"'Twas a widder, I remember, Adolphe was set on. She'd raven locks,
and what she'd most pride in was her cookin', and her sewin', and her
lovin' heart. I argued long. I needed him favorable, if it was to be
peaceful-like. I remember tellin' of him that we didn't need cookin'
and sewin', being used all our lives to managin' these. What we wanted
was somethin' amusin' and up in learnin', so's we could feel spiritual
proud, you know. I asked him if we'd ever strike it rich, what'd we do
with a wife that couldn't go dance and talk with the best of 'em.

"Anyway, seein' it was my business, and I was set like a jumper on a
claim, Adolphe, he give in. The woman what made my heart feel empty
said she was eighteen. She was decorated with yellow hair and eyes like
copper-ore. She could talk French, and understood German, and could
play the pianner. She'd marry a man that wanted a companion and not a
cook.

"Sez I to myself continual: 'That's you, Daniel.'

"Well, Adolphe and me, we talked this thing, wakin' and sleepin'. I'd
more plans than a cow has capers.

"We got up a letter'd melt snow, and then we waited.

"First, nuthin' was said to the boys, but when they caught on to my
hangin' round the post-office they began to josh. I always stepped up
gallant to the post-mistress, sirs—I've turned the cheeks of most
women pink in my day—and I said, said I:

"'Letter, please?' with a doffin' of my hat, and a risin' inflection
very polite but understandin'. It got to be so that when there never
was anythin' handed out the boys'd take to coughin' down a laugh.

"After awhile it grew so's none of 'em turned up or paid any attention.
Even Adolphe—he took to goin' to sleep when I talked her.

"Then a whole year ran out to summer again, and I couldn't unthrone her
that reigned in my heart.

"One day I said to Adolphe, a-workin' away:

"'Blamed if I can forget her, the ornamint,' I said.

"Adolphe he went in for grub that day and came out late, a-holdin' of a
envelope.

"'Here's your letter,' he called.

"Sure enough! I went out on the saw-buck and read it alone. Then he sat
down by me and we read it over again.

"'Twas only that she'd arrive on the afternoon train on the fifth, and
to have a Methodist minister.

"Well, sirs, it meant a good deal for me to supply the necessaries for
a sparklin' jewel—let alone the settlin' down for her to sparkle on!
but luck come my way. There'd been a milliner up from San Francisco
and fitted her a elegant place. She'd failed, and quick's a winkin' I
bought her lookin'-glass and red plush easy-chair. You'd ought to seen
that cabin! There hung the thing opposite the stove, all shinin' an'
smilin' and gildin'. Right in front of it my red plush chair, so's you
could set down and put your feet up on another an' see how you'd look
in heaven.

"On the fourth, Adolphe revealed he'd business in a little town a mile
up the railway. He suffered a crampy kind of desperation not to be on
hand to support me, he said, but he'd come in with the girl. Then he
baked up bread and a cake and rode away.

"Sun come up on the fifth like a bull's-eye lantern. I'd set up all the
night before, not to disturb anythin', and there was the mornin' for me
to shave and git into my riggin'. A calf-skin vest, with the hair on,
aint a thing to slight, sirs, ceremonies or no ceremonies.

"When I rode my mule up to the depot the boys was out, to the puniest
scrub of 'em all. They give me cheers that'd blast rock.

"And there was an arch, sirs—all flowered! My legs wanted to sit down
more than me!

"The train whistled in the distance. There was no slaknin' off round
the corner, for the boys braced me everywhere.

"Out she stepped, sirs, and whether she was the sorriest or the
likeliest lookin' critter, I couldn't 'a' told for the flunk I was in!

"After the blackness I see her long yellow hair and red cheeks. All the
conquerin' of my youth rose up within me, and I up and held her to me
for a kiss.

"By the great snake mine, but women don't shave beards off and drink
whisky!

"I dropped her like a nettle, but she went forward with the crowd,
smilin' an' smirkin' through the cheerin' an' the uproar.

"'To the parson's,' the boys yelled.

"I was forced off my feet, but out came my gun.

"'Halt!' I cried, in a voice that brought 'em all on their haunches and
still as colts raised on the spur.

"'I mean to shoot the wig off your head and the paint off your face,
Adolphe Lefevre, and leave you for the slimiest viper that crawls
without legs.'

"The sight of my gun lay between his eyes an' the crowd was as still as
the barrel.

"Of a sudden came a voice in my ear. To this day God only knows from
where.

"'Be like unto the archangels.'

"My arm fell to my side. They lifted me onto their shoulders.

"'The Archangel,' they sent out a-echoin' in the hills.

"And it stuck, sirs, from that day to this, though I've lived alone,
sirs, ever since."

[Illustration]



Asleep at Lone Mountain.

BY H. D. UMBSTAETTER.


IT occurred nearly fourteen years ago, yet I never enter a sleeping-car
without being confronted by that innocent face. It clings to me all
the more because I have always looked upon partings and leave-takings
as mile-posts of sorrow in the journeys of life. I dislike good-bys. I
hate farewells.

I had just returned from Australia and was about to start on my journey
across the continent. In company with two old friends who had crossed
the ferry from San Francisco to Oakland to see me off, I sat chatting
in my sleeper, when two Sisters of Mercy hurriedly entered the car.

Just what it was in the appearance of the newcomers that arrested the
attention of the earlier arrivals—whether it was their humble yet
characteristic attire, so suggestive of charity the whole world over,
the apparent anxiety betrayed by their manner, or the fact that a
sleeping child, clasped tenderly in the arms of one, was their sole
companion—whether it was any or all of these things that caused a
sudden reign of respectful silence in the car, I am unable to say.
Certain it is, however, that their coming was not unnoticed; neither
was the circumstance that the only visible baggage of the trio
consisted of a small square bundle neatly done up in a gray shawl.

Upon being shown to seats in the section directly opposite the one
occupied by myself and friends, they at once entered into earnest
conversation with the sleeping-car conductor. At the first few
whispered words the man's manner showed unmistakable surprise. He
appeared either unable or unwilling to comply with some request
they had made. Although the nature of the request was not apparent,
the occupants of neighboring seats could not fail to note from the
conversation, which now and then became quite audible, that it bore
some important relation to the sleeping member of the party. The
evident fact that the sisters felt much concerned respecting the safety
and welfare of their youthful companion served only to increase the
mystery of the situation.

After patiently listening for some minutes to appeals first from one
and then the other, and after glancing over a railroad ticket and
letter they had handed him, the conductor consented to meet their
wishes, declining, however, to accept a sum of money they repeatedly
tendered him. Before leaving them the man spoke a few words of
reassurance and encouragement, which were cut short by the shrill
whistle of the locomotive announcing the train's departure. The
sisters arose instantly, hastily expressed their earnest thanks to the
conductor, and then, sinking upon their knees before the child, which
had been aroused from its slumbers and sat innocently gazing about,
first one and then the other clasped the infant in fond embrace, and,
amid sobs and kisses, showered upon the little being the most fervent
blessings and tender farewells. Then, covering their tearful faces with
their hands, they arose, still weeping as though their hearts would
break, and hurriedly left the car, which was already moving slowly out
of the station.

No sooner had they gone than all eyes were directed towards the
diminutive stranger who had caused the scene just witnessed. Too young
to realize what was going on, he sat motionless, as though spellbound
by fear or astonishment at his strange surroundings. In an instant
the child became an object of intense curiosity. More than that, its
extreme youth and utter helplessness aroused, on the part of its
fellow-travelers, feelings of genuine sympathy and pity—feelings which
the heroic silence maintained by the little innocent, in spite of the
now swiftly moving train, only served to intensify.

Neither memory nor imagination can suggest to me a more touching
picture than the one presented by that plainly clad handful of human
loneliness, as it sat there in meek silence, its tiny hand timidly
resting on the little bundle by its side, while its eyes remained
intently fixed on the door which, a few moments before, had closed upon
its late companions. Whose child was this? Who was to care for it? What
was to become of it? Was one of the nuns a relative? Was the younger,
perhaps, its sister? Or was either neither? These and similar questions
could be easily read on the countenances of the wondering passengers.

Some minutes elapsed before the conductor again made his appearance,
when he was at once besieged with questions concerning the mysterious
stranger. And, as if determined that not a word should escape their
ears, each of the twelve or fifteen occupants of the car crowded about
him as he seated himself beside the lonely child.

The story they heard was brief and pathetic. The little boy was as much
of a stranger to the conductor as he was to the passengers. His mother
was dead. His home was in one of the smaller manufacturing towns of
New England, where his father, who was to meet him on the arrival of
our train at Omaha, lived in humble circumstances. The conductor had
promised the sisters to protect and care for the child during the five
days' journey. It was, however, not the little fellow's first trip
across the plains, as nearly a year and a half ago, when but a few
weeks old he had come to California with his invalid mother. The latter
had survived the long journey but a very short time, and died among
strangers in one of the foot-hill towns near San Francisco. The Sisters
of Mercy of that city had by correspondence arranged with the father
to adopt, or, rather, to provide a temporary home for the little waif,
until he should be old enough to make the long return journey. And now,
although the boy had reached but the tender age of eighteen months,
the distant parent, craving for his presence, had begged the sister
to enlist in his behalf the sympathies and care of some kind-hearted
East-bound passenger or railway employee. Their repeated efforts in
the former direction having failed, they had at last applied to the
conductor.

In relating the child's sad history, the sisters had, the conductor
continued, so feelingly solicited his kindly offices and paid such
glowing tribute to the almost angelic disposition and exceptional
bravery of the infant that, however disinclined he had been to assume
the responsibility, a persistent refusal of their unusual request
seemed almost inhuman. He had therefore undertaken the strange charge,
and trusted, he said, that the passengers would in no wise be
inconvenienced thereby. From that moment on, every one who had less
than half an hour before witnessed the scene of sorrowful parting,
which had so touchingly told how completely the little fellow had
walked into the hearts of his benefactors,—from that time on, every
one felt a personal responsibility for the comfort and safety of the
boy. Introduced under circumstances that rendered him a hero at the
outset, at the end of the first day he had already become the pet of
the passengers and the object of their kindliest attentions.

While the claim that this child was remarkable for beauty and
cleverness might lend sentiment and romance to my simple narrative,
the fact is that he was neither handsome nor bright. In appearance
he was simply a plain, plump, red-cheeked, flaxen-haired baby boy,
with apparently little to be proud of, save his evident good health
and a pair of large blue eyes that seemed frankness itself. His
accomplishments were few, indeed. He was still, as the sisters had
said, learning to walk. His vocabulary included but three or four
imperfectly spoken words, and he was conspicuously deficient in
that parrot-like precociousness so common and frequently so highly
prized in little children. But what our youthful companion lacked in
attractive outwardness was more than made up by the true inwardness
of one accomplishment he did possess. That was silence. This virtue
he practised to a degree that soon won for him the admiration and
affection of all. Though exhibiting no sign of embarrassment at the
friendly advances of the passengers, and while not unmoved by their
tender attentions, he maintained through that long journey a humble air
of mute contentment that lost its balance on but three occasions.

His quiet ways were a theme of constant comment, while his presence
proved not only a source of increasing pleasure to our small band of
tourists, but did much to relieve the monotony of the tedious journey.

One important detail in the boy's eventful history was missing. Cared
for by strangers from earliest infancy, deprived of his mother's love
and father's care, he had thus far not even received that all-important
parental gift,—a Christian name. To the sisters he had been known
simply as "Baby." By that infantile appellation he had passed from
their gentle mercies to the conductor's care. And only as "Baby
homeward bound" was he spoken of in their letter addressed to his
father.

Before he had spent a day among us it was suggested that his exemplary
conduct entitled him to a more dignified name—at least during the
period of our companionship. And this suggestion led to one of many
amusing incidents. By what name should the boy be known? After the
question had been eagerly answered a dozen times in as many different
ways, with apparently little hope of a unanimous choice—for every one
felt that his or her preference was peculiarly appropriate—a quiet
old man, whose appearance was strongly suggestive of the pioneer days,
offered a happy solution of the difficulty. He proposed that, in view
of the humble circumstances of the child, the privilege of naming
him for the trip be sold at auction among the passengers of our car,
adding, by way of explanation, that the sum thus realized might "give
the little fellow a start in life."

The average overland tourist is never slow to adopt any expedient to
relieve the tedium of the journey; and here was, as one chap expressed
it, "A chance for an auction on wheels, and one for charity's sake, at
that." So the proposition was no sooner stated than acted upon. The
auctioneer found himself unanimously elected, and, placing himself in
the center of the car, heard the bidding, prompted by every generous
impulse that enthusiasm and sympathy can give, rise rapidly in sums
of one, two, and three dollars until thirty-five was called. There it
halted, but only for a moment. The situation had become exciting. The
auctioneer himself now took a hand in the competition; and a round
of applause greeted his bid, made in the name of his native State,
"Ohio bids fifty dollars." It was regarded as a matter of course that
this sum would secure the coveted privilege. But no! Some one remarks
that yet another county remains to be heard from. The voice of the
weather-worn pioneer,—the suggester of the scheme,—has not yet been
heard in the bidding. He has been a silent looker-on, biding his time.
Now it has come. As he rises slowly in his seat he is intently watched
by every eye, for somehow the impression prevails that he hails from
"the coast," and that consequently there can be nothing small in
anything he does; In this no one is disappointed. The heart and purse
of the gray-haired veteran are in the cause. Besides, his "pride is up"
for the State he worships, almost idolizes. As his clear voice rings
out with: "California sees Ohio's fifty, and goes fifty better," he is
greeted by a storm of cheers that he will remember as long as he lives.
And when the auctioneer announces: "California pays one hundred dollars
and secures the privilege of naming the boy; what name shall it be?"
the answer comes back quick as a flash:

"Grit! That sounds well and seems to fit well."

The passengers thought so, too, and very plainly showed their approval
by overwhelming the man with congratulations and good wishes.

Reports of our proceedings were not slow in reaching the passengers
in other parts of the train, whose curiosity or compassion led to
numerous daily visits, while thoughtful sympathy found expression in
liberal gifts of fruit, photographs, and a variety of Indian toys,
as curious as they were welcome. To the old Californian, whose great
liberality had secured for him a place in the respect and good-will of
the entire party which was second only to that held by Grit himself,
these continued attentions proved a source of special delight. Though
he bore his honors with becoming modesty, he found early opportunity
of proposing the health of the boy, who, as he aptly expressed it,
"had been rocked in the cradle of misfortune, but had at last struck
the color." Equally happy was his reply to a party of jolly cowboys,
whom curiosity had led to solicit "a peep at the silent kid," while the
train was delayed at one of the eating stations along the road. Their
request having been granted, one of their number felt so highly elated
upon receiving a handshake from Grit that he insisted upon presenting
him with his huge cowboy spurs as a keepsake, proclaiming as he did
so—with a trifle more enthusiasm than reverence—that in "paying a
hundred to nominate the cute little kid, 'old California' carved his
own name upon the Rock of Ages."

"Bless his little heart," replied the grizzled miner; "I'd give ten
thousand more to own him, now that he has won his spurs."

Among the recollections of my personal experiences with Grit, the
second night of the journey stands out with especial clearness. At
that time we were passing through the famous snowshed section on the
eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada, our train running at a high rate of
speed in order to make up lost time. It was here that the bravery of
our little hero was put to a cruel test. Some time after midnight I was
awakened by a child's frantic screams, that rose loud above the train's
thundering noise. And, though up to this time there had not been a
single tearful outbreak on the part of the young Trojan, there could be
no mistaking the source of the piercing shrieks that now met my ears. I
lost no time in hastening to his assistance, for I knew that, by way of
experiment, he had been quartered in a "section" entirely by himself,
the previous night having been a sleepless one to both the conductor
and his charge. Furthermore, it was evident from his agonizing cries
that I was the first to hear him. Finding the car in total darkness,
the lights on both ends having gone out, I met with some delay in
feeling my way to the terrified child, calling to him as I went; and
at the first touch of my hand the trembling, feverish little form drew
close to me, its chubby arms closed wildly about my neck, while loud,
hysterical sobs told more plainly than words can express the agony
that the child had endured. Only one who is familiar with sleeping-car
travel over mountainous country, who has found himself suddenly aroused
by the terrific roaring and swaying of a swiftly running train, and
who, unconscious for the instant of his surroundings, has felt his
flesh creep and his heart stand still, as he imagined himself engulfed
by a mighty torrent or hurled over some awful precipice, only such an
one can realize the position of this terror-stricken child.

Arousing the porter, who had gone to sleep while blacking the
passengers' boots, I carried Grit to my own berth, where my endeavors
to soothe his disturbed feelings proved so highly successful that the
re-lighting of the car was greeted by him with loud laughter, through
the still lingering tears. But go to sleep again he would not. No
matter how often I tucked him beneath the blankets and settled myself
to pretended slumbers, he would as often extricate himself, and, in
a sitting posture, silently contemplate his surroundings. Fearing to
doze off under the circumstances, I finally concluded to sit up with
the little fellow until sleep should overcome him. Making his way to
my side as I sat on the edge of the berth, and placing his face close
to mine, he imparted the cause of his persistent wakefulness by a
gently uttered "dwink!"—repeating the word with more emphasis after
a moment's pause. Happily, ample provisions had been made to meet his
wants in this direction, and, procuring from the porter's "baby's
bakery," as the well-provided lunch basket we had presented him at
Sacramento had come to be known, I helped him to a glass of milk, after
drinking which he fell quickly to sleep.

After that night's experience, Grit singled me out as his particular
friend; and, as a consequence, he was nightly permitted to share my
section with me. In these closer relations I found him the gentlest,
most loving, and best-behaved child I ever met. It seemed as though
he knew and felt that he stood sadly alone in the world, and that the
less trouble he gave to others the better he would get on. His spirit
of contentment and faculty of self-entertainment were phenomenal. While
cards, books, conversation, and sleep served as a means of passing away
time among the other passengers, he would for hours at a time remain in
sole possession of a favorite corner seat, silently musing over some
simple Indian toy. Again, an illustrated time-table or railway map
would absorb his entire attention, until he had apparently mastered
every detail of the intricate document. To watch the little toddling
figure, after these prolonged periods of self-amusement, as, clad in a
long, loose, gray gown, it quietly made its way along the car on a tour
of inspection, proved an appealing study. Finding his arrival at my
seat unnoticed at times—by reason of my absorption in a book or game
of cards—he would announce his presence by a series of steady pulls
at my coat, and make known his wants by a sweetly mumbled "Mum-mum."
Repeated falls, incurred during these excursions, never caused him to
falter in his purpose, nor did these, at any time, result in any other
than good-natured demonstrations.

On but one occasion, aside from that already alluded to, was he moved
to tears—an unlucky incident that happened while our party was taking
breakfast at Cheyenne, sadly upsetting the remarkable tranquillity
of his mind. We had scarcely seated ourselves at the table, with the
boy, as usual, perched in a baby chair in the midst of the party, when,
espying an orange that a little girl next to him had placed beside her
plate, Grit, innocently unmindful of its ownership, proceeded to help
himself to the inviting fruit. No sooner had he grasped it than a sharp
slap from his fair neighbor's hand sent it rolling along the floor.
The child started, trembled; keenly hurt in more ways than one by what
was, no doubt, the first punishment he had ever received, he burst into
heart-rending tears.

Turning to me with outstretched arms, his piteously spoken "Mum-mum"
cast a shadow over the festive occasion, and to some of us, at least,
placed the further discussion of the meal beyond desire. Taking him
back to the car, we were quickly joined by the conductor and our friend
from the coast, who, after denouncing the "outrage" with frontier
fluency, insisted that he should demand an apology from the offender,
who was "plenty old enough to know better," and whose indignity to
Grit, "right before a lot of strangers, was nothing short of an insult
to our entire party." He "would rather," he continued, "fast a whole
month" than sit by and again witness such conduct from one whose "sex
and insignificance prevented a man from even drawing his gun in defense
of the most helpless and innocent little creature on earth."

Something in the old man's manner, as he uttered these words, left
little doubt in the minds of the passengers, now returning from the
hurriedly finished meal, that, had Grit's tormentor been unfortunate
enough to belong to the sterner sex, the novel experience of serving
on a coroner's jury in the cowboy country would doubtless have been
afforded us. This tension of feeling was happily relieved, however,
by the appearance of the offender in person, who, accompanied by her
mother, tearfully presented, not only her humble apology, but that bone
of contention, the tropical product itself, which she insisted should
be accepted as a peace offering.

As the journey progressed, each day brought to our party frequent
reminders of their constantly increasing attachment, not only for the
little hero, but for each other. And it became more and more apparent,
now that the Rockies had already been left behind, and our thoughts
turned to the inevitable breaking up of the happy band, that Grit's
presence had been the unconscious means of forming among his companions
a strong bond of friendship and good-fellowship—one that could not be
severed without sincere mutual regrets.

The morning of the last day found us still speeding over the seemingly
endless cattle plains, where the frequent spectacle of immense grazing
herds, guarded by picturesque bands of frolicking cowboys, added
novelty and interest to the monotony of the scene.

It was in the early part of the afternoon of that day, while Grit was
enjoying his customary mid-day nap, and the final games of whist and
euchre so completely enlisted our interest as to render unnoticed the
locomotive's shrill notes of warning to trespassing cattle, that a
sudden terrific crash, followed by violent jolting and swaying of the
car, breaking of windows, and pitching about of passengers and baggage,
caused a scene of consternation and suffering.

Mingled with shouts of "Collision!" from men, and the screams of
panic-stricken women, came the engineer's piercing signal for "Down
brakes!" and before the car had fairly regained its balance upon the
rails and the occupants had time to extricate themselves or realize
what had happened, the train had come to a standstill.

More frightened than hurt, people instantly began bolting frantically
for the doors, questioning and shouting to one another as they went.
In the midst of the wild confusion arose cries of "Save Grit! Look out
for the baby!" The words sent a shock to the heart of every hearer.
Fear vanished. Personal peril was forgotten for the moment. Not a soul
left the car! Though women had fainted and men lay motionless as if
paralyzed, but one thought filled the minds of those who had heard the
appeal: Was Grit safe?

In a moment the answer to this unasked question fell from the lips of
one whose intense affection for the boy he had so appropriately named
needed no appeal to carry him to his side in time of peril. "The child
is hurt! Somebody go and see if there is a doctor on the train!" In
willing response, several men rushed out among the excited throng that
poured from the other cars.

Before us, on a pillowed seat, to which he had just borne him,
lay Grit, half unconscious, pale, limp, and breathing with painful
difficulty. The sudden shock which had almost overturned the car
had rudely thrown him from his bed to the floor. There, between two
unoccupied seats on the opposite side of the car, we had found him,
convulsively gasping for breath, one little hand still grasping tightly
the Indian doll-baby that for days had been his cherished companion.
Though an examination of his body revealed no marks of violence, he was
evidently in great pain. Applying such restoratives as were at hand, we
gradually revived consciousness. Every attempt, however, to lift him or
change his reclining position visibly increased his suffering.

Word soon came back that no physician could be found, that the accident
was caused by the train coming into collision with a band of stray
cattle. So far as could be hastily ascertained, one man had been
fatally injured, while many persons had sustained serious bruises and
strains. From the train conductor it was further learned that neither
the locomotive nor any of the cars had been sufficiently damaged to
prevent our proceeding to Omaha—still some five or six hours distant.

After a brief stop for the purpose of a careful examination of all
parts of the train, we were again under way; the engineer having
orders, in view of the injured passengers, to make the run in the
fastest time possible.

The remainder of the journey was, even to the most fortunate,
associated with sadness. But whatever the suffering on that ill-fated
train, memory carries me back to but one sorrowful scene,—the
bedside about which lingered the friends of the little stranger whom
we had learned to love so well. In the presence of his suffering our
own lesser injuries were forgotten, and all efforts were bent upon
securing for the little sufferer every comfort possible under the
adverse circumstances. With a view to lessening the painful effect of
the constant jarring and shaking motion, a swinging bed was speedily
improvised in the middle of the car, and here, surrounded by his
sorrowing companions, lay Grit, enduring in silence the pains that his
pale, sadly troubled face so keenly expressed.

Late in the evening the train reached its destination, without further
mishap.

It had not yet come to a standstill in the station when, accompanied by
the sleeping-car conductor, the father of Grit entered the car. Early
in the day it had been resolved by the passengers that three of their
number should meet the father upon his arrival, for the purpose of
exonerating the conductor from any carelessness, and also for offering
their assistance in caring for the child during the night. Now,
however, reminded of their former happy anticipation of the meeting
between parent and child, a shudder of sadness caused them irresistibly
to shrink from a scene of welcome more deeply sad, even, than that
sorrowful parting which they had witnessed on entering upon their
journey a few days before.

As the stranger, deeply agitated, anxiously made his way to the central
group, however, earnest sympathy found ready expression; and ere his
eye had met the object of its search a friendly voice checked and bade
him be calm and hopeful. "Your child, sir," continued the speaker
reassuringly, "has not entirely recovered from the rough shaking-up
we got a little while ago. He had a lucky escape, but now needs rest
and quiet, and—you and I had perhaps better go for a doctor, while
our friends here convey the boy to the hotel, where we shall join them
shortly." And as the uneasy parent bends over the little bed and with
inquiring look seeks from the calm blue eyes some token of recognition
or sign of hope, the voice, more urgent—as though suddenly stirred by
memories of an eventful past—again breaks in: "Let us lose no time in
making the child more comfortable."

A few moments later Grit's friends stood around his bed at the
neighboring hotel, listening to the verdict of the physician hastily
summoned by the big-hearted pioneer. Internal injury of an extent
unknown, but whose nature would probably develop before morning, was
the verdict given after a careful examination. Alleviating measures,
however, were suggested, which the distracted father hastened to put
into effect. It was during one of his absences from the room that the
big-hearted pioneer, drawing the doctor to one side, appealed to him in
faltering tones to save the child "at any sacrifice or any cost."

But the appeal, though touching, was unnecessary. Higher considerations
than those of personal gain prompted the kind doctor to exercise his
utmost skill. After his first visit not an hour passed but what his
footsteps brought to the watchers reassuring proof of his deep interest
in the case. And finally, yielding apparently to the soothing remedies,
Grit fell into slumber that brought encouragement to his friends, none
of whom could be induced, however, to forsake his bedside.

During the vigils of the night the father was repeatedly moved to speak
of the sorrows of his life; of the sudden, fatal illness of his loving
young wife; and of her ardent assurance that her last thoughts were
solely of himself "and baby," coupled with the fervent wish that the
two might "some day find a home in California, where in their final
rest all three might once again be side by side."

Towards morning the boy grew suddenly restive, and violent coughing
spells brought back the condition of semi-unconsciousness of the
previous day. The doctor, evidently expecting a crisis, now remained
constantly at his side.

The change came at last.

Just after dawn a beam of light broke softly over the little face,
and new hope came to the anxious watchers. But, mistaking the silent
messenger's approach for the herald of returning health, they had hoped
in vain. The peaceful smile lingered but a moment, then returned once
again, as though the beckoning spirit

  "Was loth to quit its hold,"

and Grit had fallen asleep.

As a token of affection for her child, and in compliance with the
dying mother's wish, the friends of Grit secured for the husband and
father—chiefly through the generosity of one whose deeds shall outlive
the recollection of his name—a permanent home in California; while
the boy sleeps by her side, where the peaceful silence be so sweetly
symbolized is never broken save by the weird lullaby of the waves that
gently rise and fall over the distant shadows of Lone Mountain.



Kootchie.

BY HAROLD KINSABBY.


THE east wind had failed to put in an appearance that evening, and the
thermometer registered ninety-five under the stately elms of the Boston
Common.

The family had gone away for the summer, and Buttons and the butler
were out for an airing. Both were so well fed and so little exercised
that they needed something to stir their blood.

Buttons was a sleek, fat pug, with a knowing eye and oily manner. They
called him Buttons because the harness he wore about his forequarters
was studded with shining ornaments.

His companion was likewise sleek and fat, and the amount of lofty
dignity he stored under his bobtailed jacket and broadcloth trousers
told everybody that he was the butler. He carried a wicked little cane
with a loaded head, and seemed to own the greater part of the earth.

As the two strolled proudly through the Beacon Street Mall, fate
favored Buttons and the butler. There was a cat on the Common,—a pet
cat without an escort. This cat belonged to one of the wealthy families
who at the tail end of winter board up their city residences and go to
the country to spend the summer and save their taxes. The owners of
this particular cat had speeded missionaries to the four corners of the
globe to evangelize the heathen, but their pet puss they had turned
into the streets of the modern Athens to seek its own salvation. With
no home or visible means of support, but with true Christian fortitude,
the dumb creature now haunted the doorstep of the deserted mansion and
grew thin. Hunger had at last driven her to the Common in the hope
that she might surprise an erring sparrow, or, perchance, purloin a
forgetful frog from the pond.

The instant Buttons spied her he gave chase and drove her for refuge
into a small tree. Then he stood below and barked furiously, until
the sympathizing butler shook the tree and gave him another chance.
This time the cat barely succeeded in reaching a low perch on the iron
fence, from which with terrified gaze she watched her tormentor.

"Why do you torture that cat?" angrily asked a quiet gentleman who sat
on one of the shady benches holding a yellow-haired little girl on his
knee.

"Oh, me and Buttons is having a little fun," answered the butler.
"Buttons is death on cats."

The quiet man said nothing, but got up, helped the frightened cat to
escape to a safe hiding-place, and then resumed his seat.

That night puss went to bed without a supper, while her owner presided
at the one hundred and eleventh seaside anniversary of the Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and punctuated the courses of a
fish dinner with rare vintages of missionary port.

The next evening the same heat hung heavily over the Beacon Street
Mall, and Buttons and the butler were again taking an airing and
looking for fun.

As Buttons neared the scene of his former encounter, he pricked up his
ears, and sniffed the air for the scent of game. Presently his anxious
eye was attracted by something his pug nose had failed to detect. On a
bench near by sat the quiet gentleman whose acquaintance Buttons and
the butler had made on the previous evening. The same yellow-haired
little girl was seated near him, intently watching the rings of cigar
smoke he puffed high into the evening air. Between the two a huge
inflated paper bag was surging to and fro. It was this paper bag that
had caught the eye of Buttons. It interested him. Drawing himself all
up in a heap, he proceeded with cautious, measured step to satisfy his
curiosity. As he slowly approached the curious object, his low, fretful
growls seemed to rouse it to renewed gymnastics. This frightened
Buttons and caused him to turn tail and flee. His curiosity had,
however, got the better of him, and, returning to what he deemed a safe
distance, he began barking furiously.

"Cat, Buttons, where's the cat?" came from the butler, who was
leisurely bringing up in the rear, unconscious of Buttons's find.

With renewed courage, the pug rushed towards the paper bag. He had
almost reached it when the quiet gentleman gave the bag an opening
twist, and, as a furry head with a pair of fiery eyes shot out, he
exclaimed:

"Hi, hi, Kootchie!"

The earnestness with which Kootchie hi, hied became instantly apparent
by the piteous howls that rose from out of the murderous clawing,
snarling mass of flying fur and silver ornaments. And the speed with
which Buttons's companion hastened to the rescue with his loaded cane
proved that even a Boston butler can get a move on. Before he could
interfere, however, the quiet gentleman took a hand in the game.

"Stand back," he demanded, in tones that showed he would brook no
interference. "Buttons is death on cats. Kootchie is death on pugs. You
like fun. I like fair play."

In less than twenty seconds a crowd of loungers, newsboys, nurse-girls,
and pedestrians hurried to the scene. In the confusion somebody
thoughtfully told a policeman to ring for the "hurry-up" wagon. But
before it arrived the butler was permitted to carry home in his arms
what there was left of Buttons.

"Cheese it, der cop!" shouted a newsboy, as the butler picked up his
limp and disfigured companion. And, as the crowd scattered, every one
was amused to see a fine, gray, stumpy-tailed cat make its way to the
yellow-haired little maid on the bench.

As the latter lovingly stroked her shining coat she remarked proudly,
"Kootchie is my little pussy tat. Papa say,'Kootchie, put Buttons to
sleep.'"

And the policeman winked with ghoulish satisfaction when the father
spoke up, "Kootchie is a regular California cyclone. She is a young
wild cat a friend in Tiger Valley sent me. I'm fond of pets, you know,
and as she felt a bit homesick this evening I brought her out here to
give her a picnic."

[Illustration]



Frazer's Find

BY ROBERTA LITTLEHALE.


THE midnight stars glowed through the broken blackness of a winter's
sky down upon the roof of a house where a man sat alone with his arms
stretched over an empty bed. Such of his thoughts as were within
his control were focused on the life and the death of his past. The
bare branches of the willows scraped to and fro on the shingles, and
the water in the reservoir lapped softly against the piles of the
foundation. There was no light in the room to show the already hopeless
untidiness of inanimate things, and the quiet figure of the aging man
seemed carved out of rock.

To the youth of him, physical and mental, he returned, and remembered
that he had been modeled on lines which made people expect the things
for which they willingly yielded him affection and consideration in
advance. It was in the tempered pain of the hope of fulfilment that his
family and friends had speeded him from New England to the practise
of his profession of law in a Southern city. It was in their early
triumph at having counted on him truly that the fever of the California
gold days got into his veins. It had been no struggle to him to throw
everything over and make for the life that beat fastest and fullest
in incident. The struggle had lain in separation from a woman whose
saneness and spirit he felt he could not live without. But in the
end he had disregarded her opposition for the sake of the beckoning
fortunes and joined an ox-train caravan over the plains. The dragging
slowness with which the days went by had been broken only by the
alertness of his own fancy, until the discovery, one blistering Arizona
night, of the loss of his money-belt. He had bathed only five miles
farther back, and he had no memory of having restrapped the hot and
heavy buckskin about his waist. Ignoring the danger of Indian attack,
he rode over again in the starlight the miles to the little creek in
the wilderness. It had been so much of a relief to find it safe. He
stood strapping it about him, and he could hear as distinctly now as
then the sound that fell on his ears. It was the hot and hopeless
sobbing of a human voice. He had stood immovable, conscious that a
group of cacti on his right sheltered a prostrate body. Then he had
hurried over and found a slender boy, a slight, nervous, black-eyed
Mexican, with a sunburned fairness of skin revealing his mixture of
Castilian blood.

He had raised the boy quietly, and the child had hung about his neck,
frenzied and fainting. The weakness of his condition made anything
impossible beyond literally riding with him in his arms back again to
camp. The boy's clothes were torn and dirty and his flesh was bleeding,
but his delicate Southern beauty was none the less strongly in evidence.

Frazer remembered the interest and assistance of his comrades. They
had hovered in the silence of men's earnestness until the boy was able
to make himself coherent. His father, and mother, and brothers had
been seized by the Indians, and only the accident of his having been
sent after a straying mare had saved his life, by enabling him to hide
himself successfully from the raiders.

His extravagant affection for Frazer made a shadow the only simile
of his constant presence with him. The boy's nervous timidity and
gentleness had found its chief outlet in the watchfullest care of him
and the things he cared for. He had seemed wholly lacking in the lore
of his class regarding life in the open. He had never gone among the
horses or cared to use a gun, but had taken upon himself the cooking
and domestic duties of camp life.

The men, in their vigorous courage and spirit, had found the boy
monotonous except in the satisfaction he picturesquely afforded, and
Frazer had accepted his homage with a mind so absorbed in his own
affairs as to be little short of indifferent to the lad's presence.

As they had traveled heavily on over the Texas plains and slept under
the Texas stars, Frazer could remember the softness of the small hand
that had wakened him from sleep in its searching for the comfort of
his presence. And one night the child had crept close to him.

"Señor——"

Frazer had wanted to sleep; he had answered nothing.

"Señor!" The boy's hand lingered this time in an earnest pressure upon
his own.

"Yes?" he had said.

"It is only—may I stay always with you?"

It had seemed a simple thing to promise to keep him with him, and
Frazer had gone to sleep in the very midst of the passionate little
torrent of Mexican gratitude.

In the excitement of his early months in California the boy had seemed
vastly a nuisance in transportation. Frazer had stayed only long enough
in San Francisco to acquire an outfit and vocabulary, and hurried off
to the southern mines. The boy rode closely by his side, indifferent
to fatigue, his cheerfulness clouded by the fear that he might be
overlooked and left behind.

Those months of feverish toil, and exaltation, and depression! As they
lengthened into years, with the pot of gold still at the inaccessible
end of the rainbow, and the blunt unloveliness of the frontier life
rusting the vigor of his finer fiber, Frazer remembered his sense
of restless resentment because the woman whom he loved and had left
would not make any acknowledgment of his mistake or his failure. The
impersonal tone of her early letters had been easier to bear than the
silence she was beginning to make him endure. It seemed to him the
tensity of his resolve to wrest the success of yellow gold through the
clustering difficulties had only taken its firmest hold of him before
the illness came that had hastened a revelation perhaps unfortunately
delayed.

He remembered through the first hours before unconsciousness had come
to him how glad he had been to feel that the boy was with him. They
were living in the roughest of cliff cabins, alone, and he had ordered
him off to camp for a doctor. The boy had given him whisky, and then
had stood in so irresolute a fright and suffering that Frazer had sworn
him into action.

He knew now that he had lain four weeks near death; but when he
opened his eyes upon that mellow October twilight, long ago, he was
unconscious of anything but a pair of dimming Mexican eyes that
dropped tears on his gaunt face, and an intense feminine sobbing
mingled with expressions of love for him shaken out of the abyss of a
suffering woman's heart. The hot cheeks that rested on his own were
those he was used to in the boy. The clothes on her limbs in all
their pitiful poverty were the masculine ones he had liked to see so
picturesquely carried, but the strain in the voice and the music of its
words were new, and amazing, and appalling.

In the silence of weakness he listened, and over and over again he
heard the reiteration of her resolve.

"There is nothing, beloved, that can drive me from you but the death
from your hand which will not kill."

And after awhile he had said to her:

"Little one, why did you do it?"

But he had known it was the wisdom of the wisest before she had
answered him, that for a girl this life offered greater perils as well
as fewer chances.

She did not light their candle, but remained on her knees by the bed,
getting his medicine at intervals by the lingering light that came in
from the window.

"It will be just the same," she had whispered; "it need make no
difference, señor."

And Frazer had lain there, facing the fact of the very great
difference, in a regret that could fancy no arrangement not death-doing
to this woman who had nursed him, and had loved him, and had told him
so.

"The woman at the hotel—the landlady," he had said to her in his weak,
thin voice, "she would care for you if I paid her, or you might go
East. You might go to school."

But the helpless poverty of his present condition had forced a wan
smile on his dry lips, and the girl was writhing as with actual
physical pain and would not listen.

In his weakened condition he could not concentrate himself sufficiently
to adopt any decisive measure. He had felt the tumult of her emotions
gradually still itself as he laid his hand on her short, black hair,
and when her breathing was even and quiet he had asked her, feeling a
revolt within him, "The doctor, and the boys—have they guessed it?"

But how had he expected her to know anything of any man but the one she
loved? She did not know, she had answered him; she had not thought to
think of it.

And she had not slept through the long night hours, nor had he, and in
the morning the fever was high again.

In the dragging feebleness of his convalescence both had avoided any
reference to the revelation that night. Things went on as before,
but the humble devotion and care of Frazer's Mexican protégée was as
properly interpreted by the quick camp instinct as it was immediately
acquiesced in and forgotten.

From this time Frazer had little communication with the civilization
he had deserted, and none whatever with the woman who waited in the
South in silence and the suffering of doubt. He remembered the utter
emptiness of his life and his hope as the following years of his toil
and alertness yielded him only bitterer disappointments. There came
children now, little dark miniatures of their stout, faded mother,
whose heart was as full of reverence and love for him as was her girl's
heart, and who seemed not to know that the hours which he lived with
her were lost hours.

It was on his way home to her one night, in the gentleness which masked
his hideous unrest, that his eye discovered the ledge of quartz which
had more than laid the foundation of that success he had early strived
for. It had not taken long to form a company, and before the year was
out gold came to his pocket in as unsweated for a fashion as the air to
his lungs.

The men, his partners, had thrown back their shoulders and inflated
their chests. The blood ran in their veins to more composite measure,
and they planned diversion and further manipulation after their
different natures. Three of them were for the East and the world
again—and, O God! but the frenzy in his own brain. They had come to
him seriously as man to man and explained their sense of his absolute
insanity in throwing up the entire future of his career by life in this
place, tied down in his fashion. Other men,—they themselves,—were
under obligation, but not so deeply that money would not bridge it
and—damn it!—friends and family must have some consideration in
successful men's lives.

That night had been another so strongly accented that its impression
would, never fade. He had sat at the oilclothed table, in the little
cabin, and tried to sufficiently detach himself from the children and
himself to get an unbiased view-point. He could see only the light of
her love in her eyes, the child-love in theirs, and, through their
gentle subjection, their genuine faith in and dependence on him. The
shabbiness of his environment she did not permit to become slovenly,
but the common vulgarity of it all surged through his eyes like light.
He had sent the children from him and gone out into the pines, until
the vast, sweet silence of their majesty laid more on him than he could
bear.

As he came in the door she had handed him a letter left by a miner
on his way from camp. She had lighted two candles, and pulled up his
chair, and hushed the talking of the children in their bed. She had sat
near and searched his face for what the actual possession of the letter
could not have given her, and felt only misunderstanding because she
had never seen a struggle between the spirit's life and death.

Frazer had read, "Whatever the mistake, we can yet outlive the pain of
it. I am waiting for you." She had signed the name he had made for her,
and he could not look at it twice for the blinding tears under his lids.

Geraldine was waiting for him!

Geraldine's mouth, which drooped at the corners and created the dimples
she hated, when it fell a-smiling, was ready to yield to him!

Geraldine's face, and beauty, and spirit were true to him!

He could not tell how long it was before he got possession of himself.
The candles were dripping low in their tin sockets, and one of the
women who loved him was still in her chair near his elbow, frightened,
and quiet, and intense.

He had held out a hand to her and she had come over and knelt at his
side.

"Little one," he had said, "this life is not right for our children.
To-morrow we must get the priest and be married. There is money now,
and they must be taught to live more cleverly than their father and
their mother."

He had left her perplexed in her relief, while he threw himself on the
bed for the sleep of utter exhaustion.

The burden of life would be doubly worse with the material leisure
money could bring, but Frazer had never stopped toiling all his days.
He could not.

Money in the helpless hands of his wife meant only unwelcome care for
her, and their exclusion in a larger, isolated home was in no sense
different from life in their cabin.

Frazer held himself aloof from the movement of the growing towns and
cities, and watched the weak physical fiber of his children, marked by
their unambitious Southern strain. Energy for acquirement of any sort
was not theirs, and for his family his money meant only the material
supply of food and clothes.

From this very home on the reservoir banks he had gone to his mines
with a regularity interrupted only when it was necessary to follow the
coffin of one of his children to the rocky, shrub-dotted cemetery on
the hills. There had been three of them, and none of the apparently
sturdy children had escaped the fatal collapse of consumption.

That morning he had driven there the fourth time. The body of his wife
was laid under the ground after her thirty years of faithful care,
according to her light. And Frazer was alone with his money, and his
love, and the suffering he had made it his business to bear.



ADVERTISEMENTS.


 [Illustration: ℞ _Drink Londonderry_

 Copyright, 1895, by Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Co., Nashua, N. H.
]



[Illustration:

 GOFF'S BRAID
 IS THE
 BEST MADE

 "For ...
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 ... it is ...
 Unequaled."

This is the opinion of experienced Dressmakers who have tried so-called
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 =Red Spool=, five yards, mailed for 8 cents, or =Black Spool=, three
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 find the proper shade where you trade.

 D. Goff & Sons,
 PAWTUCKET, R. I.
]



[Illustration:

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]



[Illustration:

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]



[Illustration:

 The Baby's Life

DEPENDS ON THE FOOD IT GETS; this is true in more ways than one.
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]



[Illustration:

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]



[Illustration:

 Houghton, Mifflin & Co.'s

 Autumn Fiction.


A Singular Life.
 By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS, author of "The Gates Ajar", etc. 16mo,
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  _HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Boston._
]



[Illustration:

  When the wild waves of ocean break upon the sounding shore,
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]



[Illustration:

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Investors of money

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]



[Illustration:

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 JOHN LEWIS CHILDS,    FLORAL PARK, N.Y.
]



[Illustration:

 Free Magic Lantern Book

All about lanterns, stereopticons and views, for Public
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NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
]



[Illustration:

 The Barta Press

 Printers of The Black Cat.

 Artistic, Original, and Unique Typography.

 Boston, Mass.
]



[Illustration:

 Copyright, 1895, by The Shortstory Publishing Co.

 The Black Cat
 FOR
 January, 1896,

Will contain the seven following original stories. All for Five Cents.

These stories are all complete, all interesting from beginning to
end, and all "fascinating tales, cleverly told." They are neither
translations, borrowings, nor stealings, and represent the best money's
worth ever offered by any magazine at any price.

In Solomon's Caverns. By CHARLES EDWARD BARNS.
 The astounding experience of a man lost for many days in the ancient
 cave under the city of Jerusalem.

An Angel of Tenderfoot Hill. By FREDERICK BRADFORD.
 Being interesting chapters in the career of Mr. James Hewson, of
 Blackhawk.

In Miggles' Alley. By HERMAN BROWNSON.
 A dramatic episode of a tenement housetop.

The Missing Link. By JAMES BUCKHAM.
 A series of startling events connected with a mysterious donation of
 twenty-five thousand dollars.

Unchallenged. By KATHARINE MORROW.
 The amusing account of a real midnight ride by which two California
 girls won a wager of a twelve-mule threshing machine.

Aidu. By HERO DESPARD.
 A beautiful Hindoo waif adopted into the family of a medical missionary
 in India is the heroine of this mystical love story.

Mrs. Emory's Boarder. By C. MARIE MOTT.
 The affecting romance of a maiden dressmaker.

THE BLACK CAT is sold by newsdealers at five cents a copy. If yours
hasn't it and won't get it for you, get another newsdealer. But if you
haven't a newsdealer, send fifty cents to the undersigned, and you will
receive THE BLACK CAT, postage paid, for one year.

 The Shortstory Publishing Company,
 Boston, Mass.
]



[Illustration:

To give you some idea how entirely different the
    Bridgeport "New" Rochester
=is from all other lamps=, we give the No. 2 burner photographed exact
size; are these draft holes likely to get filled up to endanger your
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We cannot tell you here _why_ there is =no climbing= of the flame, =no
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_Don't mistake and think we are advertising a burner; this illustration
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 Bridgeport Brass Co.
 Bridgeport, Conn.,
 or 19 Murray St., N. Y.
]



[Illustration:

 =If you are thinking= about advertising in any newspaper, magazine, or
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 DODD'S
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 AGENCY

 {916, 915, 914}
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]



[Illustration:

_It cures from head to foot._

 Puritana

 Trade Mark        Registered.

 Nature's Cure

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Prof. Dixi Crosby, M. D., LL. D., who for thirty-two years was at
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was Dr. Asa Crosby, of Dartmouth, who procured the charter of the State
medical society, of which he was for thirty years a conspicuous member;
one brother, Dr. Josiah Crosby, invented the invalid bed and the method
of making extensions of fractured limbs by adhesive strips; another
brother, Dr. Thos. R. Crosby, was chief surgeon in Columbian College
Hospital during the war, and later professor of animal and vegetable
physiology at Dartmouth College; while Dr. Dixi Crosby himself was
the inventor and discoverer of various important improvements in
medicine and surgery, including a new and unique mode of reducing
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At the early age of twenty-four his extraordinary skill and success in
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The foundation of this remarkable medical discovery consists of simple
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brew it whenever needed in the early days of its history, and after
the scattering of the Puritan families to remote localities, where the
necessary ingredients were not to be found, many attempts were made to
put it up in permanent form, all of which failed until Dr. Dixi Crosby
discovered means and methods, the result of which is: Nature's Cure
compounded in the laboratory of Common Sense.
]



[Illustration:

 Hair Cloth Crinoline,

NOTWITHSTANDING the great number of imitations and substitutes
advertised to be twice as wide and twice as cheap, has a hold upon the
fashionable dressmakers and fashionable women that cannot be shaken.
It was only a matter of time for the old adage, "_The best is the
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Such HAIR CLOTH CRINOLINE as above referred to is made by the American
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 American Hair Cloth Company.

 PAWTUCKET, R. I.

 CHARLES E. PERVEAR, Agent.
]



[Illustration:

 "GOLD MEDAL AND DIPLOMA, CONSTITUTING HIGHEST AWARD,
 MUNICH INTERNATIONAL EXPOSITION, 1895. AN UNPARALLELED VICTORY IN THE
 VERY HOME OF BREWING."

 THE HISTORY OF BREWING BEGINS WITH EGYPT

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]



[Illustration:

 Copyright, 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.

 The climax of the story-telling art.—Boston Herald.

 Entirely original, interesting, thrilling,—nothing borrowed and
 nothing stolen.—Chicago Times-Herald.

 A new departure in story telling. Unique, fascinating, attractive,
 original.—New York Tribune.

 Its fascinating inwardness consists of complete original stories,
 every one of which is a gem.—Rochester Herald.

 More entertaining fiction for five cents than a whole year's
 subscription to other magazines secures.—Manchester Union.

 The Black Cat

The sale within three weeks of the entire edition of one hundred
thousand copies of the first number of THE BLACK CAT is entirely
unprecedented in the history of periodical publication.

No other magazine ever published anywhere at any price has met with so
flattering a reception. This immediate bound into popular favor shows
that the public appreciates A REAL STORY MAGAZINE devoted exclusively
to FASCINATING STORIES CLEVERLY TOLD,—stories told on their own
merits, not floated on the reputation of writers.

The January issue of THE BLACK CAT will be made up of as clever and
original complete tales as story-telling genius can devise and money
can buy. As the edition will be limited to two hundred thousand, every
one desiring a copy should place his order in advance of publication.

 THE BLACK CAT is sold by newsdealers at five cents a copy. If yours
 hasn't it and won't get it for you, get another newsdealer. But if you
 haven't a newsdealer, send fifty cents to the undersigned, and you
 will receive THE BLACK CAT, postage paid, for one year.

 The Shortstory Publishing Company,
 Boston, Mass.
]



[Illustration:

 Queen Victoria

Was ordered to cease drinking claret, champagne, etc., by the
celebrated physician, Sir William Jenner, who prescribed _pure_ whisky
and water—four parts of water to one of whisky—and the greatest
benefit resulted from so doing.

The reason is that the saccharine of the champagne, the acid of claret,
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"Heather Blossom" differs from all other whiskies in the following
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 =1.  It is made of different materials.=
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 =5.  Its effects are different.=

The analyses of the foremost chemists, the experiments of the ablest
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Our pamphlet:

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 If your dealer won't supply you with =HEATHER BLOSSOM PURE OLD MALT=
 let us know and we'll see that you get it....

 B. H. R. Distillery Co.,
 PROVIDENCE, R. I.
]



[Illustration:

 COASTING
 IN THE DARK
 IS SAFE
 IF YOU HAVE A
 SEARCH
 LIGHT

The only Bicycle Lantern
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]



[Illustration:

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]



[Illustration:

 Story Tellers

Will simply waste time and postage in sending us manuscripts which do
not in every particular meet the following requirements:—

We can use only such stories as, both in plot and handling, are of
striking originality and universal interest, stories which never,
either in whole or part, have appeared in print before, and which are
free from padding, commonplace and attempted fine writing. No dialect
stories, poetry, or translations will be considered. The Black Cat will
give space only to

 Fascinating Tales, Cleverly Told.

To receive attention, all manuscripts must bear the writer's full
name and address, together with the number of words, which may range
from fifteen hundred to five thousand, but must in no case exceed the
latter number; they must be very legibly written, sent unfolded, and
accompanied by sufficient stamps for their return. Manuscripts will
be received and returned only at the contributor's risk. All stories
will be judged purely on their own merits, and the writer's name
or reputation will carry no weight whatever. Payment for accepted
manuscripts will be made not according to length, but according to the
editor's opinion of their worth. Manuscripts will be paid for on the
day of acceptance.

 THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO., 144 High St., Boston, Mass.
]



[Illustration:

 Specimen pages, etc.,
 sent on application.

_The Best
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 or the best addition to one's own library is WEBSTER'S INTERNATIONAL
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 a paragraph.

 =It is easy to ascertain the pronunciation.=

 The pronunciation is shown by the ordinary diacritically marked
 letters used in the schoolbooks.

 =It is easy to trace the growth of a word.=

 The etymologies are full, and the different meanings are given in the
 order of their development.

 =It is easy to learn what a word means.=

 The definitions are clear, explicit, and full, and each is contained
 in a separate paragraph.

  G. & C. MERRIAM CO., PUBLISHERS,
  SPRINGFIELD, MASS., U.S.A.
]



[Illustration:

  "_Dandruff
  neglected_

  _Ends in
  Baldness._"

Eminent physicians tell us that: "The chief requirement of the hair
is cleanliness—thorough shampooing for women once a fortnight, and
for men once a week." And that: "The best agents for the purpose
are 'pure,' 'mild,' 'antiseptic' soap and water. Packer's Tar Soap
comprehends these qualities."

PACKER'S TAR SOAP is a pure, mild, antiseptic and delightful shampooing
agent for cleansing the scalp and maintaining the strength of the hair,
and is a constant protection against contagion. Hair-dressers use
it. Physicians recommend it for its valuable antiseptic and remedial
qualities in treatment of Dandruff and Baldness.

Sold by Druggist.
]



[Illustration:

 The Hook
 That's
 Flat

The Hook that shows isn't so good as the Hook that doesn't. There's no
show to the Singer Hook and Eye. Sold everywhere.

 Singer Safety Hook & Eye Co.,
 GRAND RAPIDS, MICH.
]



[Illustration:

 The Ink
 used in
 printing
 The Black Cat
 is manufactured
 by
 Geo. H. Morrill & Co.,
 Boston, Mass.
]



[Illustration:

 _It cures from head to foot._

 Puritana Nature's Cure

 _OFFICIAL._

[Illustration: Seal of New Hampshire.]

The cures effected in this State by Dr. Dixi Crosby's prize formula
Puritana are so astonishing and the results with which we personally
have used this remarkable medical discovery are so entirely
satisfactory that we deem it our duty to accord it our public
indorsement and private recommendation.

 Signature of the
   _Governor of New Hampshire._

 Signature of the
   _Ex-Governor of New Hampshire._

 Signature of the
   _Secretary of State._

 Signature of the
   _R. R. Commissioner._

 Signature of the
   _Mayor of Concord._

 Signature of the
 _Sec'y Board of Agriculture._

 Signature of the
   _County Solicitor._

 Signature of the
   _Insurance Commissioner._

 Signature of the
   _Cashier Merrimac Co. Bank._

 Signature of the
   _Practising Physician._

 Signature of the
   _Treas. Loan and Trust Savings Bank._

Puritana has cured case after case that had been given up as hopeless.

It has cured case after case from head to foot, whether the suffering
was due to disordered _Blood_, _Liver_, _Stomach_, _Kidneys_, _Lungs_,
_Brain_, _Nerves_, or _Skin_. A trial proves its worth.

If you are a sufferer get of your druggist this great
disease-conquering discovery (the price is $1, for the complete
treatment, consisting of one bottle of Puritana Compound, one bottle
of Puritana Pills, and one bottle of Puritana Tablets), or write
to the undersigned, and you will bless the day when you heard of
Puritana. The Puritana Compound Co., Concord, N. H.
]



[Illustration:

 USE IT
 EVERY
 DAY
 IN THE
 WEEK
 &
 THEN
 REST
 ON
 SUNDAY.

 S MONDAY

 A  TUESDAY

 P   WEDNESDAY

 O    THURSDAY

 L     FRIDAY

 I      SATURDAY

 O       SUNDAY


 Armstrong & Co. Boston, Mass.
]



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.

1. Table of Contents created by the transcriber.
2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.




*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The black cat (vol. i, no. 3, December 1895)" ***

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