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 Rh Sálik, 229, 234.

Saqar, 97.

Sarf, 162.

Saríh, 34.

Sarwardía, 236.

Sayyid, 159.

Sift-ul-Imán, 180.

Siháh-Sittah, 57, 160.

Silsilah, 235.

Sipára, 30.

Sírát, 90.

Síyar, 162.

Shʾabán, 163.

Shab-i-Barát, 123, 169.

Shab-Qadr, 170.

Shádí, 177.

Shadíd-ul-Quá, 15.

Sháfaʾf, 207, 212.

Shahíd, 211.

Shaitán, 82.

Sharáb, 230.

Sharh, 162.

Shariʾat, 230.

Shawwál, 163.

Shekh, 158.

Shekh-ul-Islám, 155.

Shíaʾh, 12.

Subhán, 106.

Súfí, 227.

Sufi-Ullah, 84.

Sulát, 101, 104.

Sulát-ul-ʾAsar, 114.

Sulát-ul-Fajr, 114.

Sulát-ul-ʾIshaa, 114.

Sulát-ul-Ishráq, 114.

Sulát-ul-Istikhárah, 116.

Sulát-ul-Jumaʾ, 115.

Sulát-ul-Khasúf, 116.

Sulát-ul-Khauf, 116.

Sulát-ul-Kusúf, 116.

Sulát-ul-Maghríb, 114.

Sulát-ul-Musáfir, 115.

Sulát-ut-Tahajúd, 114.

Sulát-ut-Taráwih, 116.

Sulát-uz-Zuha, 114.

Sulát-uz-Zuhr, 114.

Suls, 30.

Sunna, 50.

Sunnat, 112.

Sunnat-i-Fʾili, 137.

Sunnat-i-Qaulí, 137.

Sunnat-i-Taqrírí, 137.

Sunní, 12.

Surá, 29.

Tabʾaín, 53.

Tabaʾ Tabʾaín, 62.

Tabíb, 156.

Tafsír, 161.

Tahlíl, 254.

Tahmíd, 254.

Tahríf, 267.

Tahríf-i-Lafzí, 267.

Tahríf-i-Mʾanawí, 267.

Tahzíb, 57.

Takbír, 188, 254.

Takbír-i-Jalsa, 109.

Takbír-i-Qaʾúd, 110.

Takbír-i-Qíám, 110.

Takbír-i-Rukuʾ, 108.

Takbír-i-Sijdah, 109.

Takbír-i-Tahrímah, 106.

Takía, 217.

Takiya, 238, 241.

Taláq, 182.

Taláq-i-Ahsan, 182.


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 282 Taláq-i-Bidʾaí, 183.

Taláq-i-Hasan, 182.

Taláq-i-Mutlaq, 183.

Tálib, 228.

Taqdír, 98.

Taráwih, 121.

Taríqat, 230, 234.

Tarwíah, 134.

Tasawwaf, 227.

Tasbíh, 249, 254.

Tasbíh-i-Rukuʾ, 108.

Tasbíh-i-Sijdah, 108, 109.

Tashahhúd, 111.

Tasmíyah, 107.

Taurát, 268.

Tʾauuz, 107.

Tawáf, 133, 225.

Tʾazír, 142.

Tirmízí, 56.

ʾUbudíyat, 194, 228.

ʾUlama, 157.

ʾUrs, 177.

Usúl, 160.

Wahhábí, 219.

Wáhí, 47.

Wáhí-Bátin, 48

Wáhí-Ghair-i-Matluʾ, 60.

Wáhí-Qalb, 48.

Wáhí-Qurán, 47.

Wáhí-Zahir, 47.

Wajd, 229.

Wájib, 137.

Walí, 47, 157, 241.

Wasl, 229.

Witr, 112.

Wuzu, 105.

Yajúj, 88.

Yaum-un-Nahr, 173.

Záhid, 158.

Záhir, 32, 47.

Zakát, 101, 125.

Zákir, 248.

Zarb, 244.

Zát, 37.

Zikr, 243.

Zikr-i-Jalí, 243.

Zikr-i-Khafí, 248.

Zimmí, 209.

Zuhd, 229.

Zul-Hijja, 135, 163.

Zul-Qʾada, 163.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Page:Weird Tales Volume 23 Issue 5 (1934 05).djvu/29

 "Anyway, he had it on when I told the bunch. He was half under the table, getting his control-box which he had dropped. When he heard the news he let out a whoop and straightened up. The result was that he cracked his skull on the heavy table-edge and jammed the health down tight on his head! Not only that, but now it's wedged there! He couldn't get it off to save his life, and until we let him get at the tool-room, which we're not going to do for awhile, he'll have to wear the thing. It took four of the gang to hold him down while I locked the tool-room door and hid the key. Smitty, you ought to see him, you'd die laughing

"We're under way once more. Rusty refused to take the controls, so Bradly is guiding the Meteor IV this time. Rusty's pouting in a corner now. Next time you see him"—Captain Starr groaned—"call him the 'Sulking Achilles." He'll love it

"We're out of the tunnel now and over the glowing surface of the cave. It seems to be some sort of growth that has completely covered everything.

"The entire landscape is one solid mass of this plant. Our ship casts no shadow whatever, for the light comes from below as well as from the sides and above.

"I—feel I feel rather—queer My head is throbbing strangely The rest seem to be affected too—" the voice subsided to a mere mumbling.

Captain Starr gripped his chair until his knuckles showed white. None of the other ships had sent in a message. If he listened closely he might learn something of the methods of the kidnappers. The mumbling ceased and the voice boomed forth loud, clear and metallic.

"Yes They've all got it Every one No—Rusty All but Rusty He's all right He's asking what's wrong But I—I can't tell him No I can't say why, but I mustn't The ship is staggering rocking as though Bradley doesn't know how to run her The ship—our ship—is running smoothly toward the—our—city How distinct is the craft flying up there? I can see her easily now The ship is very discernible against the glow"

The very short hair on Captain Starr's neck began to stiffen. He listened to the strange, scarcely intelligible message in a tense, stiff attitude. There was something horribly alien in the words that rumbled jerkily from the speaker.

"Wha—what was I saying? I don't feel I feel ill That fool, Rusty He's shaking me I can't get to him I wonder Can it be that that thing he wears is he's yelling at me now Stop him I must stop him He's taking the controls from Bradley! No No! Here, this will stop him No, no! No! Yes, that's it Harder! Again! Fine! That helmet didn't save him from that blow with the wrench Ha! Blood It is red Red, as ours used to be Primitive animals, these Outsiders I shall ask the Ten to allow me to take a few for my experiments But the Ten will not be through with them for nearly three weeks But after that—oh, Dick! Dick! Dick! That monster I Shut up, you fool! What are you saying? There Now I've got him again He's got a brain, this one"

Starr was pacing back and forth in front of the speaker; heads of sweat glistened on his forehead and trickled down upon his face. His expression was one of intense agony. He seemed fairly to writhe when he heard the mechanical voice of the tap tell of Rusty being


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 the capture of shrimp and craw-fish, which the natives value highly when smoked, using them to make a sauce for their kank; among these is the shrimp-basket. These baskets are tied on sticks laid out in parallel lines of considerable extent. They run about three inches in diameter, and their length varies with the place that is being worked. The stakes are driven into the mud, and to each stake is tied a basket with a line of tie tie, the basket acting as a hat to the stake when the tide is ebbing; as the tide comes in, it lowers the basket into the current and carries into its open end large quantities of shrimps, which get entangled and packed by the force of the current into the tapering end of the basket, which is sometimes eight or ten feet from the mouth. You can always tell where there is a line of these baskets by seeing the line of attendant sea-gulls all solemnly arranged with their heads to win'ard, sea-gull fashion.

Another device employed in small streams for the capture of either craw-fish or small fish is a line of calabashes, or earthen pots with narrow mouths; these are tied on to a line, I won't say with tie tie, because I have said that irritating word so often, but still you understand they are; this line is tied to a tree with more, and carried across the stream, sufficiently slack to submerge the pots, and then to a tree on the other bank, where it is secured with the same material. A fetish charm is then secured to it that will see to it, that any one who interferes with the trap, save the rightful owner, will "swell up and burst," then the trap is left for the night, the catch being collected in the morning. Single pots, well baited with bits of fish and with a suitable stone in to keep them steady, are frequently used alongside the bank. These are left for a day or more,

title: Page:West African Studies.djvu/148


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 To the


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 and then the owner with great care, crawls along the edge of the bank and claps on a lid and secures the prey.

Hand nets of many kinds are used. The most frequent form is the round net, weighted all round its outer edge. This is used by one man, and is thrown with great deftness and grace, in shallow waters. I suppose one may hardly call the long wreaths of palm and palm branches, used by the Loango and Kacongo coast native for fishing the surf with, nets, but they are most effective. When the Calemma (the surf) is not too bad, two or more men will carry this long thick wreath out into it, and then drop it and drag it towards the shore. The fish fly in front of it on to the beach, where they fall victims to the awaiting ladies, with their baskets. Another very quaint set of devices is employed by the Kruboys whenever they go to catch their beloved land and shore crabs. I remember once thinking I had providentially lighted on a beautiful bit of ju-ju; the whole stretch of mud beach had little lights dotted over it on the ground. I investigated. They were crab-traps. "Bottle of Beer," "The Prince of Wales," "Jane Ann," and "Pancake" had become—by means we will not go into here—possessed of bits of candle, and had cut them up and put in front of them pieces of wood in an ingenious way. The crab, a creature whose intelligence is not sufficiently appreciated, fired with a scientific curiosity, went to see what the light was made of, and then could not escape, or perhaps did not try to escape, but stood spell-bound at the beauty of the light; anyhow, they fell victims to their spirit of inquiry. I have also seen drop-traps put for crabs round their holes. In this case the sense of the beauty of light in the crab is not relied on, and once in he is shut in, and cannot

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 go home and communicate the result of his investigations to his family.

Yet, in spite of all these advantages and appliances above cited, I grieve to say the West African, all along the Coast, decends to the unsportsmanlike trick of poisoning. Certain herbs are bruised and thrown into the water, chiefly into lagoons and river-pools. The method is effective, but I should doubt whether it is wholesome. These herbs cause the fish to rise to the surface stupefied, when they are scooped up with a calabash. Other herbs cause the fish to lie at the bottom, also stupefied, and the water in the pool is thrown out, and they are collected.

More as a pastime than a sport I must class the shooting of the peculiar hopping mud-fish by the small boys with bows and arrows, but this is the only way you can secure them as they go about star-gazing with their eyes on the tops of their heads, instead of attending to baited hooks, and their hearing (or whatever it is) is so keen that they bury themselves in the mud-banks too rapidly for you to net them. Spearing is another very common method of fishing. It is carried on at night, a bright light being stuck in the bow of the canoe, while the spearer crouching, screens his eyes from the glare with a plantain leaf, and drops his long-hafted spear into the fish as they come up to look at the light. It is usually the big bream that are caught in this way out in the sea, and the carp up in fresh water.

The manners and customs of many West African fishes are quaint. I have never yet seen that fish the natives often tell me about that is as big as a man, only thicker, and which walks about on its fins at night, in the forest, so I cannot vouch for it; nor for that other fish that hates the

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. If I thought that her parents— But no, let them keep her. Precious baggage! Where is Don Santiago? Has he said anything to you? Has he read the papers?

. I don't think so. He never reads the opposition papers. But that letter— If he ever sees that letter!

. Don Baldomero says that he is going to send it to the minister at Madrid.

. It would take more than that to shock García Pérez.

. Yes, he is shock-proof.

. But this afternoon! It is this afternoon I am afraid of.

. This afternoon you will have a triumph. Everything is provided for.

. Do you think so?

. You will see. When Campos comes to his speech, it will be a sensation. I have given it to him in writing and he is studying it in his dressing-room. He will say: "Your Excellency, I fight for you and for liberal governors like you, for virtuous and beautiful women like those who sit at your side, liberal also like yourself. For the bull is a reactionary, and he would be for obscuration wherever it was to be found." He will say this looking straight into the box of Don Baldomero. "And long live liberty!" It will be an ovation. If there is any trouble, we have packed the amphitheatre. He who protests… Have no fear, Josefina, the sovereign public is with us. If the bulls are only good and Campos in form so as to arouse the people, the victory is ours!

. I don't know. What do you want me to say? I am very much afraid.


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 crocodile, and follows her up and destroys her eggs, and now and again dedicates itself to its hate, and goes down her throat, and then spreads out its spiny fins and kills her.

The fish I know personally are interesting in quieter ways. As for instance the strange electrical fish, which sometimes have sufficient power to kill a duck and which are much given to congregating in sunken boats, causing much trouble when the boat has to be floated again, because the natives won't go near them, to bail her out.

Then there is that deeply trying creature the Ning Ning fish, who, when you are in some rivers in fresh water and want to have a quiet night's rest, just as you have tucked in your mosquito bar carefully and successfully, comes alongside and serenades you, until you have to get up and throw things at it with a prophetic feeling, amply supported by subsequent experience, that hordes of mosquitos are busily ensconcing themselves inside your mosquito bar. What makes the Ning Ning—it is called after its idiotic song—so maddening is that it never seems to be where you have thrown the things at it. You could swear it was close to the bow of the canoe when you shied that empty soda- water bottle or that ball of your precious indiarubber at it, but instantly comes "ning, ning, ning" from the stern of the canoe. It is a ventriloquist or goes about in shoals, I do not know which, for the latter and easier explanation seems debarred by their not singing in chorus; the performance is undoubtedly a solo; any one experienced in this fish soon finds out that it is not driven away or destroyed by an artillery of missiles, but merely lies low until its victim has got under his mosquito curtain, and resettled his mosquito palaver,—and then back it comes with its "ning ning."

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. We had better not show ourselves until the last moment.

. [To ] How is it that you are so early?

. We were anxious to get ahead of the crowd. Later the men stand in two rows at the foot of the stairs

. Yes, but they don't say such things as they do in Madrid. [To ] Are you very fond of bulls?

. I know very little about them. The sooner they are disposed of the more agreeable to me.

. I hope that everything will pass off smoothly.

. I know absolutely nothing about bulls. The mayor was to have presided this year as usual, but there was some trouble at the last minute—an unsavory dispute with the management. They refused to give him the contract to remove the carcasses and dead horses for his brother-in-law, so now I am obliged to assume the responsibility.

. We shall prompt you at the proper moment.

. Remember when the picadors are on, Campos will give a signal. If he lays his finger beside his nose you are to call for banderillas. Three pairs will do, as you know, unless they miss; then give them four. Or if the bull is no good, two will be sufficient. It is all very simple. You will pick it up as you go along.

. In case you are uncertain what to do, the public will advise you. It is the safest way. If they shout "Hi, hi! Wake up there!" or "At him, Governor!" or

. Or call me idiot or fool, I suppose, or something worse? It is all very diverting. After the comedy of yesterday, the tragedy of to-day!

. Unfortunately the bulls have gone stale after


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 A similar affliction is the salt-water drum-fish, with its "bum-bum." Loanda Harbour abounds with these, and so does Chiloango. In the bright moonlight nights I have looked overside and seen these fish in a wreath round the canoe, with their silly noses against the side, "bum-bumming" away; whether they admire the canoe, or whether they want it to come on and fight it out, I do not know, because my knowledge of the different kinds of fishes and of their internal affairs is derived from Dr. Günther's great work, and that contains no section on ichthyological psychology. The West African natives have, I may say, a great deal of very curious information on the thoughts of fishes, but, much as I liked those good people, I make it a hard and fast rule to hold on to my common-sense and keep my belief for religious purposes when it comes to these deductions from natural phenomena—not that I display this mental attitude externally, for there is always in their worst and wildest fetish notions an underlying element of truth. The fetish of fish is too wide a subject to enter on here, it acts well because it gives a close season to river and lagoon fish; the natives round Lake Ayzingo, for example, saying that if the first fishes that come up into the lake in the great dry season are killed, the rest of the shoal turn back, so on the arrival of this vanguard they are treated most carefully, talked to with "a sweet mouth," and given things. The fishes that form these shoals are Hemichromis fasciatus and Chromis ogowensis. I know no more charming way of spending an afternoon than to leisurely paddle alone to the edge of the Ogowé sand bank in the dry season, and then lie and watch the ways of the water-world below. If you keep quiet, the fishes take no notice of you, and go on with their ordinary

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Page:Weird Tales Volume 23 Issue 5 (1934 05).djvu/30

 struck down by his childhood companion, Jack Starr.

"Jack! Jack! What have you done?" he raved like a madman suddenly. "No, Jack! You didn't do it. They did it. They made you. They are responsible, not you. Who are they? What are they? Jack! Jack! Tell me, Jack! You must!"

But as the speaker resumed its unfeeling, guttural rumbling, Starr clenched his teeth, maintaining an attitude of forced calm.

" The city is very close now Our work is almost done What am I—that thing—doing? Talking, yes. But to whom? Radio! I must smash it No No Yes! I must smash it How? That wrench! No Grasp it No Grasp it! No Grasp it, you idiot! No Now, lift it No Struggle—go on, struggle! Higher Higher No Now Smash it No! Smash it! No! Smash it Smash it! SMASH IT SMA—"

Crash! The speaker fell silent. Captain Starr, his face sickly white, looked at Lieutenant Smith. "Jack is still alive," he hissed through clenched teeth. "He will be alive for three weeks. But is he still human?"

HE next morning, after a sleepless night, Starr sat in his office thinking. His first wave of emotion was over now. He felt numbed, nerve-deadened. Except his brain. Like a tiny flame burning in ice it was. Plan after plan ran through his mind only to be torn to shreds and discarded.

Nothing mattered but go get to the Moon City where Jack was held prisoner. But how was he to get to the satellite's inner world? If he only had a ship!

The only other ship at the Moon Station at that time was the old hulk, La Belle France; and she was being patched up for transport use in the mines. The mines! He had it! Ore-carriers! One of them should be his ship. He sprang to his feet and dashed to the communications room.

Smith was just relieving his sergeant on "night" shift when Starr entered the room. At sight of his captain, the radioman saluted, then stood stiffly at attention, awaiting orders.

"Get me the mines, quick!" roared Starr. "Any mine! So long as they have some sort of ore-carrier or—"

Smith was not listening. He was busy at the televisor, working a number. "Here you are, sir," he exclaimed as soon as a face appeared on the screen.

It took but a moment for Starr to order the fastest ore-car to be brought to headquarters immediately. As he plugged off the set, Smith, eyes bright with anticipation, said:

"Starr! Can I go?"

Captain Starr glanced witheringly at the lieutenant. "You are supposed to be working for the T. S. L.!" he barked.

"Yes, sir!"

Smith sprang up and saluted smartly. But he was grinning with joy. His captain was over his hopeless spell. He was now a fighting man again. Action was all he craved!

"Stop grinning, you idiot!" thundered Starr, but he was smiling himself. His arm shot out, clenched itself tightly on Smith's shoulder. "You bet you can go. And we'll bring Jack back with us, won't we?"

While the two waited for the arrival of the ore-car, Starr discussed with his lieutenant the feasibility of finding Jack and rescuing him. Captain Starr had now become convinced that the feat would not


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 four days in the corrals. It was a great mistake upon your part to postpone the corrida.

. That is right. Blame it on me! It will be my fault, I suppose, if they turn out to be cows.

. Don Santiago, you must not say such a thing. You ought to see that mottled fellow, though. And we have another that is a wonder!

. Do you know, I can't keep Lucerito away from the littlest one?

. But I promised that Campos should kill him.

. What can I do?

. It is all our fault for not bringing the overseer along.

. Is this a pet bull?

. Oh, I took a fancy to him, so, naturally, I wished Campos to kill him. Sometimes one will take a fancy…

. For heaven's sake! What a fancy to take!

. I am in the hands of the Lord. In any event, it will be my last official act in the province.

. Eh?

. I have telegraphed my resignation.

. Your resignation?

. Man! Why so hasty? It is not as bad as that. You take these trifles too seriously.

. Perhaps I do, my dear Marquis, But if the exigency had not been so great, I should have resigned long ago. Order must be preserved.

. But don't you see that without consulting me… without… Now people will believe… they will say… and it seems to justify them…

. What will they say? They have deceived me,


text: Wallenstein/The Death of Wallenstein/A5S01


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 you have deceived me. Everybody, everybody has deceived me!

. Santiago!

. Everybody! And I don't care to hear another word about it.

. [Aside to ] He has seen the letter.

. [Aside to ] No. He has read the Abejorro.

. [Aside to ] His resignation! Now what are we going to do?

. [Aside to ] Forget it! It will come out all right.

. How charming you look to-day!

. Don Teodoro, you are a flatterer!

. We are too clever for you. When you are with us, you need not think that you have all the sport.

. Are you going into Don Baldomero's box?

. They are and they are not.

. The devil you say! How is that?

. It is our wish to remain neutral in these quarrels. My daughters are invited both by the Governor and by Don Baldomero; so, in order not to give offense

. I am going into the Governor's box.

. And I into Don Baldomero's.

. Very clever indeed! But what are you going to do?

. I am going home when I leave them. These spectacles do not divert me; on the contrary, they disgust me. They make me despair of the future of this unfortunate land.


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text: West African Studies/Chapter 3

title: West African Studies/Chapter 3


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 212 March 15, 1921.

If it is not incompatible with the public interest would it be possible for me to secure information from your department relative to the situation in Soviet Russia?

There is much propaganda being circulated in the United States claiming that the demand for manufactured goods in Russia is so great and the purchasing power of the Russian Soviet government so vast it is almost impossible to determine the actual capacity of the Russian market to absorb goods of foreign manufacture. ThsThis [sic] scarcity of goods is laid to the blockade, which as I understand it was removed July 8, 1920. It is said that the pressing needs of the Russians are large quantities of the following:

"Locomotives, cars, rails, tires, springs, etc. Tractors, plows, reapers, mowers, binders, harrows, and other tools, large and small, binder twine, motor trucks. Leather goods: shoes, etc. Textiles. Chemicals, drugs, soap. Notions. Belting, all kinds. Oil well machinery and piping. Mining machinery. Rubber goods. Ties. Typewriters. Sewing machines. Surgical instruments. Machinery and machine tools of all sorts. Printing presses, and printing supplies. Small tools. Sheet iron. Tool steel. Camera and camera supplies, films, etc. Raw cotton."

It is also claimed that the Commissariat of Foreign Trade of the Soviet government has given orders for the purchase of the following in America:

"Agricultural machinery, including tractors, mowers, binders, reapers, plows, cultivators, etc., specified orders to the extent of $50,000,000.00; machine tools, between $3,000,000.00 to $5,000,000.00; small tools, files, drills, etc. between $3,000,000.00 and $5,000,000.00; 30,000 to 100,000 tons of rails; 10,000 tons of locomotive ties; 250 tons of spring steel for locomotive and car springs; 10,000 tons of sheet iron; 50,000 tons of piping."


text: Page:Poems Osgood.djvu/173

title: Page:Poems Osgood.djvu/173


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 Rh These figures, it is claimed, do not represent all the orders that would be placed at once.

It is alleged that the Federal Reserve Board has refused to permit the transfer of funds to the United States from the Soviet Russian government in order to pay for the goods, although payment in gold is guaranteed. It is claimed that the American manufacturers are prevented from accepting the gold on the probability that it was illegally acquired by the Soviet government.

It is also said that the following raw materials are ready for shipment to the United States if only the American government recognizes the Soviet government of Russia:

"Lumber, unlimited quantities; Flax, 20,000 tons; Hemp, 10,000 tons; Furs, 9,000,000 pelts; Bristles, sorted and cleaned, 1,000 tons; Horse hair, 2,000 tons; Manganese ore, 250,000 tons; Asbestos, 8,000 tons; Hides, 3,500,000 skins; Platinum, large quantities; Petroleum and petroleum products, 2,000,000 tons."

Another claim made is that if the restrictions placed on trade with Russia were removed it would place in operation many mills, shops and factories now closed down and would give employment to the unemployed of America.

This propaganda is being widely circulated among labor organizations and I have received many letters asking me what is the truth. In this connection I have repeatedly called attention to the action of the American Federation of Labor convention at Montreal, June 7–19, 1920, as follows:

Resolved, That the American Federation of Labor is not justified in taking any action which could be construed as an assistance to, or approval of, the Soviet government of Russia as long as that government is based upon authority which has not been vested in it by a popular representative national assemblage of the Russian people; or so long as it endeavors to create revolutions in the well-established, civilized nations of


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 214 the world; or so long as it advocates and applies the militarization of labor and prevents the organizing and functioning of trade unions and the maintenance of a free press and free public assemblage."

This resolution was based on a report made by the Executive Council of the American Federation of Labor and previously unanimously approved by the convention as follows:

"Bolshevism has been a lure for some of our people and its doctrines have been propagated with great vigor. This hideous doctrine has found converts among two classes of people principally—those intellectuals, so-called, who have no occupation save that of following one fad after another, and those so beaten in the game of life that they find no appeal in anything except the most desperate and illogical schemes. The rank and file of the organized labor movement, as was to have been expected, has given no countenance to the propaganda of Bolshevism, but has, on the contrary, been its most effective opponent in America."

Whether the statements in the circular are true or untrue, the widest publicity of the facts should be given. It would be more effective if it could be in official form. If that can not be done the proper knowledge should be transmitted to the various organizations that have resolutions on the subject before them for approval or disapproval and only awaiting an answer from me as to the real situation.

I, therefore, request, if it is not contrary to the rules of the Department of State or if not against the public interest, that you furnish me with such information as you might have on the matter. I would also like to know the amount of exports and imports between the United States and Russia for a number of years preceding the war, as it is claimed these would be enormous because they have been enormous in the past.

This question is of vital interest to the people of the United States as they should not be misled by propa-


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 avocations, under your eyes, hunting, and feeding, and playing, and fighting, happily and cheerily until one of the dreaded raptorial fishes appears upon the scene, and then there is a general scurry. Dreadful warriors are the little fishes that haunt sand banks (Alestis Kingsleyæ) and very bold, for when you put your hand down in the water, with some crumbs, they first make two or three attempts to frighten it, by sidling up at it and butting, but on finding there's no fight in the thing, they swagger into the palm of your hand and take what is to be got with an air of conquest; but before the supply is exhausted, there always arises a row among themselves, and the gallant bulls, some two inches long, will spin round and butt each other for a second or so, and then spin round again, and flap each other with their tails, their little red-edged fins and gill-covers growing crimson with fury. I never made out how you counted points in these fights, because no one ever seemed a scale the worse after even the most desperate duels.

Most of the West Coast tribes are inveterate fishermen. The Gold Coast native regards fishing as a low pursuit, more particularly oyster-fishing, or I should say oyster-gathering, for they are collected chiefly from the lower branches of the mangrove-trees; this occupation is, indeed, regarded as being only fit for women, and among all tribes the villages who turn their entire attention to fishing are regarded as low down in the social scale. This may arise from fetish reasons, but the idea certainly gains support from the conduct of the individual fisherman. Do not imagine Brother Anglers, that I am hinting that the Gentle Art is bad for the moral nature of people like you and me, but I fear it is bad for the African. You see, the African, like most of us, can resist anything but temptation—he will resist attempts

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 to reform him, attempts to make him tell the truth, attempts to clothe, and keep him tidy, &c., and he will resist these powerfully; but give him real temptation and he succumbs, without the European preliminary struggle. He has by nature a kleptic bias, and you see being out at night fishing, he has chances—temptations, of succumbing to this—and so you see a man who has left his home at evening with only the intention of spearing fish, in his mind, goes home in the morning pretty often with his missionary's ducks, his neighbours' plantains, and a few odd trifles from the trader's beaches, in his canoe, and the outer world says "Dem fisherman, all time, all same for one, with tief man."

The Accras, who are employed right down the whole West Coast, thanks to the valuable education given them by the Basel Mission as cooks, carpenters, and coopers, cannot resist fishing, let their other avocations be what they may. A friend of mine the other day had a new Accra cook. The man cooked well, and my friend vaunted himself, and was content for the first week. At the beginning of the second week the cooking was still good, but somehow or other, there was just the suspicion of a smell of fish about the house. The next day the suspicion merged into certainty. The third day the smell was insupportable, and the atmosphere unfit to support human life, but obviously healthy for flies.

The cook was summoned, and asked by Her Britannic Majesty's representative "Where that smell came from?" He said he "could not smell it, and he did not know." Fourth day, thorough investigation of the premises revealed the fact that in the back-yard there was a large clothes-horse which had been sent out by my friend's wife to air his

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 clothes; this was literally converted into a screen by strings of fish in the process of drying, i.e., decomposing in the sun.

The affair was eliminated from the domestic circle and cast into the Ocean by seasoned natives; and awful torture in this world and the next promised to the cook if he should ever again embark in the fish trade. The smell gradually faded from the house, but the poor cook, bereaved of his beloved pursuit, burst out all over in boils, and took to religious mania and drink, and so had to be sent back to Accra, where I hope he lives happily, surrounded by his beloved objects.

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final object of all human desire is a knowledge of the nature of God. The human methods, or religions, employed to gain this object are divisible into three main classes, inspired—

Firstly, the submission to and acceptance of a direct divine message.

Secondly, the attempt by human intellectual power to separate the conception of God from material phenomena, and regard Him as a thing apart and unconditioned.

Thirdly, the attempt to understand Him as manifest in natural phenomena.

I personally am constrained to follow this last and humblest method, and accept as its exposition Spinoza's statement of it, "Since without God nothing can exist or be conceived, it is evident that all natural phenomena involve and express the conception of God, as far as their essence and perfection extends. So we have a greater and more perfect knowledge of God in proportion to our

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 knowledge of natural phenomena. Conversely (since the knowledge of an effect through a cause is the same thing as the knowledge of a particular property of a cause), the greater our knowledge of natural phenomena the more perfect is our knowledge of the essence of God which is the cause of all things." But I have a deep respect for all other forms of religion and for all men who truly believe, for in them clearly there is this one great desire of the knowledge of the nature of God, and "Ein guter Mensch in seinem dunkeln Drange Ist sich des rechten Weges wohl bewuszt." Nevertheless the most tolerant human mind is subject to a feeling of irritation over the methods whereby a fellow-creature strives to attain his end, particularly if those methods are a sort of heresy to his own, and therefore it is a most unpleasant thing for any religious-minded person to speak of a religion unless he either profoundly believes or disbelieves in it. For, if he does the one, he has the pleasure of praise; if he does the other, he has the pleasure of war, but the thing in between these is a thing that gives neither pleasure; it is like quarrelling with one's own beloved relations. Thus it is with Fetish and me. I cannot say I either disbelieve or believe in it, for, on the one hand, I clearly see it is a religion of the third class; but, on the other, I know that Fetish is a religion that is regarded by my fellow white men as the embodiment of all that is lowest and vilest in man—not altogether without cause. Before speaking further on it, however, I must say what I mean by Fetish, for "the word of late has got ill sorted."

I mean by Fetish the religion of the natives of the Western Coast of Africa, where they have not been influenced either by Christianity or Mohammedanism. I sin-

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 great currency from Comte's use of it to denote a general theory of primitive religion. Professor Tylor, most unfortunately for us who are interested in West African religion, confines the use of the word to one department of his theory of animism only—namely to the doctrine of spirits embodied in, or attached to, or conveying influence through certain material objects.

I do not in the least deny Professor Tylor's right to use the word Fetish in that restricted sense in his general study of comparative religion. I merely wish to mention that you cannot use it in this restricted sense, but want the whole of his grand theory of animism wherewith to describe the religion of the West Africans. For although there is in that religion a heavy percentage of embodied spirits, there is also a heavier percentage of unembodied spirits—spirits that have no embodiment in matter and spirits that only occasionally embody themselves in matter.

Take, for example, the gods of the Ewe and Tshi. There is amongst them Tando, the native high god of Ashantee. He appears to his priesthood as a giant, tawny skinned, lank haired, and wearing the Ashantee robe. But when

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 visiting the laity, on whom he is exceedingly hard, he comes in pestilence and tempest, or, for more individual village visitations, as a small and miserable boy, desolate and crying for help and kindness, which, when given to him, Tando repays by killing off his benefactors and their fellow-villagers with a certain disease. This trick, I may remark, is not confined to Tando, for several other West African gods use it when sacrifices to them are in arrears; and I am certain it is more at the back of outcast children being neglected than is either sheer indifference to suffering or cruelty. Because, fearing the disease, your native will be far more likely to remember he is in debt to the god and go and pay an instalment, than to take in that child whom he thinks is the god who has come to punish.

But you have only to look through Ellis's important works, the "Tshi-speaking, Ewe-speaking, and Yoruba-speaking peoples of the West Coast of Africa," to find many instances of the gods of Fetish who do not require a material object to manifest themselves in. And I, while in West Africa, have often been struck by incidents that have made this point clear to me. When I have been out with native companions after nightfall, they pretty nearly always saw an apparition of some sort, frequently apparitions of different sorts, in our path ahead. Then came a pause, and after they had seen the apparition vanish, on we went—not cheerily, however, until we were well past the place where it had been seen. This place they closely examined, and decided whether it was an Abambo, or Manu, or whatever name these spirit classes had in their local language, or whether it was something worse that had been there, such as a Sasabonsum or Ombuiri.

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Native American Church of Navajoland, Inc. v. Arizona Corporation Commission

Affirmed on appeal from D.C. Ariz.

Reported below: 329 F. Supp. 907.


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 xx over flower-besprinkled meadows beside a river, basting his sleeves with a bodkin as he goes.

When he has traversed some distance, he perceives before him a spacious garden enclosed by high embattled walls, whereon, as he comes anigh, he beholds, painted in bright colours illumined with gold, ten hideous figures, which represent respectively: Hatred, Felony, Villainy, Covetousness, Avarice, Envy, Sorrow, Old Age, Hypocrisy, and Poverty.

The characteristics of these various figures are set forth with marvellous force and insight.

Having carefully studied these paintings, and listened with delight to the singing of the birds in the trees that overtop the wall of the garden, the Dreamer becomes possest by extreme longing to gain access to the place, and carefully seeks around in the hope of finding some means of entrance, or a ladder by means of which he may scale the barrier. He at last discovers a small and narrow hornbeam wicket.

On this wicket he smites boldly several times, and then listens anxiously for a footstep. The gate is opened to him by a beautiful damsel richly habited. In reply to his inquiry she tells him that she is called Idleness, and that her sole occupation is the tiring of her hair and the adornment of her person. She is the friend of Sir Mirth, to whom this pleasaunce belongs. He it was, she says, who built the wall and caused the hideous figures to be painted on the outside


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Rh

people has its days of revolution. These it justly holds as festivals, celebrating them as so many acts of vengeance wherein it has chastised its oppressors, as halting-places along the path that leads to freedom. Amongst them those stand out with unrivalled splendour, whose effect, not limited to the country that produced them, opens to all mankind the portals to a better future. Thus it was that at the end of the 18th century all Europe hailed with acclamation the fall of the Bastille and of the ancien régime.

Thus it is that the 18th of March is a date glorious beyond all others because it belongs not to France only, but to the International Proletariat. In no country is there to-day a proletarian, conscious of his rights, who does not know that the battle fought by the people of Paris in 1871, against the new masters of capital and power, was but the first act of the universal drama in which he too plays his part, the drama that will not end until every chain, social and political, has been broken by the popular strength.

Despite the bloodshed in Hune, 1848, this insurrection, like that of Lyons, like the Chartist risings, was only a prelude, a first and as yet ineffectual appeal to to force on the part of the slaves of capital, who, unable to live by working, preferred to die fighting.

In 1871 it was again, as always, the same cause for revolt, the same suffering and misery, that put arms into the hands of the people. But this people, maddened by hunger and fury, seeing themselves immediately after a foreign war betrayed and sold through hatred of the Revolution, struggled no longer to merely escape death, but also for enfranchisement. Better than ever before they had understood that their tyrants, by means of the political power and the whole forces of the nation which were at their disposal, held at once the instruments of government, and a guarantee for their privileges. Better than ever before they saw they must begin by dispossessing them of these, and that the people, armed with the same sovereign power, would encounter no obstacles, no opposition.

For two months the Commune, the victory of the people, lasted. THe fighting, the struggle for existence and power was everything, the rest only an accident. Of what value were words, of what value ephemeral reforms, when it was a question of conquering or dying? They people of Paris, rising to the height of the task they had undertaken, knew how to fight and die. For two months the red flag of the victorious proletariat waved over the town of the Revolution, till at last in May it fell with its defenders, downed in a sea of blood. The reactionary coalition triumphed by means of bloody massacres. Furious at seeing its empire menaced, Capital could not feed fat enough its lust for revenge, and endless proscriptions followed upon the massacres.

But Paris crushed grew only greater in the eyes of the oppressed people. Each one felt himself struck. To the French proletariat's cry of distress and death the proletariat of all other countries replied with one of vengeance and hope. Everywhere the militant Socialism of the Revolution sprang into being. Everywhere, on the very morrow of the defeat, even in France, as she came back to life again, the struggle recommenced. It is growing now, hastening its march towards a goal greater than any men have yet sought. For this is no longer a struggle by one class to replace another class, but a struggle for the abolition of all privileges, for the deliverance of all, for a society of the people based upon liberty, happiness and equality, for the community of property, for a people without god or master.

And it is for this, because it has led the way, shown the means, taught the method of organisation and combat, foretold success, that the Commune is everywhere fêted, glorified, in the hope of speedy revenge and definite triumph.

At last its true meaning is becoming understood. The nonsense of federalists, the lucubrations, interested or foolish, of hypocritical or ignorant interpreters can no longer hide the truth. The Commune of Paris—everyone knows it to-day—was not a separatist effort of egotistical isolation. It was on the contrary, as in 1793, the effort of revolutionary Paris to rally all the forces of Revolution within the nation, to take the direction of the country by all its people, in order to its enfranchisement.

The Commune—that is to say, the Revolution triumphant—meant the Socialist proletariat master of power and consequently of its destinies.

The defeat is but momentary, and for the delay the triumph will be but so much the greater, the more assured. For it is not in Paris and France alone, but in all Europe, and even America, that the Socialistic idea is agitating the masses of the workers. Each day and in all lands the assault upon the old society becomes more general and more impassioned. Soon the breach will be made by which the proletariat, irresistible, will pass to victory.

In marching towards this new world of equality, of justice, and of science, towards the radiant future, let us not forget that even more than the resistance of the enemy, the divisions, the want of organisation of our forces, are the principal obstacle to our action. On this day, when appealing to all proletarians, to all the soldiers of the Revolution and of Socialism, we celebrate the revolutionary struggles and the Commune of 1871, let us pledge ourselves by the memory of those who then fell for the cause of the people that the coming struggle shall find us ready, united and resolute. ED. VAILLANT, [Member of the Paris Municipal Council; Ex-Member of the Commune.]

two monsters at last confront each other at the gates of India. It may be in a few weeks' time that the representative embodiments of the great reactionary forces of the age—military autocracy and commercial plutocracy—are involved in a life-and-death struggle. To Socialists the spectacle of Russian military despotism and of British commercial greed mutually strangling one another cannot be unwelcome, provided the issue be the permanent disablement of one or both of them. A mere useless effusion of blood would of course be deprecated on all hands; and any campaign resulting in a patched-up peace must be viewed in this light by Socialists. Better that present probabilities should be realised—that the menaces of the bear should have the effect once more of driving the lion slinking off with his tail between his legs—than that a few months' carnage should result in the status quo ante, or little more. But we repeat that should a rupture in Afghanistan mean the beginning of the end of the high contending powers implicated, then the wish of every revolutionist should be, “Let it come!”

And that it should mean this, it must be remembered, is quite within the range of possibility. That neither “power” will bear a heavy strain on its resources is generally admitted. It can scarcely be doubted but that the Czar's forces once engaged with England, and unable to repress internal risings, the revolutionary party in Russia will have a word, and may be a weighty one, to say on the situation. The revolutionary movement at home will be aided by the disaffected populations of Turkestan, who have not forgotten Geok Tepé, and who may, likely enough light the flame of rebellion throughout Central Asia. As regards the disintegration of the “Empire upon which the sun never sets,” the elements are many and rife. The whole military strength of Britain locked up on the Indian frontier would offer unparalleled opportunities for all “nations and kindreds and tongues and peoples,” now the prey of British office-mongers, stock-jobbers, and cheap goods


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 and at night he wanders away to the bleak mountains, where he passes whole hours playing that melancholy music, which almost breaks one's heart to hear."

"It does indeed," said Madeline with a deep sigh.

"Bless me, Mademoiselle, how pale you look; let me give you a glass of wine."

Madeline felt almost fainting, and took one in silence; after which, recovering a little, she begged Theresa to leave her—"I will lay down upon the bed (cried she), and try to rest myself till your father returns."

"Well, Mam'selle (said Theresa), since you desire it, I will bid you good night; but had I not better draw the window-curtains, and leave you a light?"

"No, (replied Madeline), I prefer the shadowy light of the moon to any other; good night, as soon as your father comes back, let me be called."


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 Theresa promised she should, and retired.

"Oh! de Sevignie, dear, unhappy de Sevignie! (exclaimed Madeline the moment she was left to herself), what an aggravation of my misery is the knowledge of your wretchedness—is the conviction of its being experienced on my account?—Yes, I well recollect your telling me, that it was on my account your youth was wasted, your hopes o'erthrown, your prospects blasted!—Yet, notwithstanding your sufferings, I could cruelly, unjustly condemn you, and expose you to the censure of others; falsely and rashly I judged your conduct, and for ever shall I regret my doing so.

"It was him no doubt (she continued), whom I beheld near the monumental pillar of Lord Philippe; from his vicinity to the castle, he must have heard of the occurrences which took place there, and he wandered to the forest perhaps from a hope of seeing me.


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 "What would he feel if now acquainted with the reverse in my situation? what will he not feel when he hears it—when he hears that his Madeline was sheltered beneath the roof of his father? But perhaps the latter circumstance he may never learn;—if it would add to his misery, Oh! may he never hear it!—Oh! may sorrow and unavailing regret be removed from his heart;—may his hopes be revived, his prospects rebrightened, and may!" She paused—she could not bring herself to wish him united to another—could not bring herself to wish that he should take another to his heart, and expunge her for ever from it. "And yet am I not selfish (cried she), in still desiring to retain his regard? our union is now impossible; for was he even to see me again (which 'tis very improbable he ever will), and offer me his hand, I would reject it;—reject it, because I could not now in dowry with my heart, bring any thing but simple wishes for his happiness. My destiny is fixed; the lonely solitude of my father shall be my home:


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 and should he descend before me to the grave, the remainder of my days I'll pass within a cloister."

Exhausted by fatigue and agitation, she threw herself upon the bed, but sleep was a stranger to her eye-lids: she wept bitterly—wept o'er her misfortunes—yet wept with a kind of pleasure at the idea of her tears falling upon the pillow on which, perhaps, de Sevignie had often sighed forth her name.

The day was just dawning, when she heard the rumbling of a distant carriage. She directly started from the bed, and the next instant Theresa entered the chamber.

"My father is come, Mademoiselle (said she), and impatient for you to be gone; I have brought you a hat, and given him a bundle of things for you."

Madeline, as she tied on the hat, thanked her for her kindness and attention; and


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 then with a fervent, though silent prayer for the happiness of de Sevignie, whom she never more expected to hear of, or behold, she quitted the chamber.

Oliver was waiting for her in the hall; he told her he had left the chaise at the opposite side of the river, but that they had only to cross the bridge, which was but a little way above the cottage, to reach it. He offered her his arm, which, weak and trembling, she accepted, and in a few minutes found herself within the carriage.

From their quitting the cottage to their arrival in Paris, nothing happened worth relating; they were three days travelling to it, and entered it when it was almost dark. The dejection of Madeline was not in the least abated; nor could the busy hum of voices, the bustle in the streets, or the rattling of the carriages, for a moment divert her attention from her sorrows.


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 After going through a considerable part of the town, the chaise stopped, and Oliver exclaimed, "We have at length reached the habitation of Madame Fleury." Madeline directly looked from the window, but could only distinguish a black wall. Oliver desired the postilion to alight, and knock at a small door he pointed to:—the postilion accordingly obeyed, and in a few minutes the door was opened by a female; but what kind of female it was too dark for Madeline to perceive.

"Is Madame Fleury at home?" asked Oliver.

"Lord, that she is (said the woman); it is many a good day since my mistress has been out at so late an hour as this."

"I'll step in before you (cried Oliver to Madeline), and present Lafroy's letter; as soon as she has read it, I will come back for you."


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 He accordingly left the carriage. In about fifteen minutes he returned to it—"Madame Fleury (said he, as he opened the chaise door), is impatient to see you."

He handed Madeline across a spacious court; and they entered a hall so long and badly lighted by one small lamp, that Madeline could not perceive its termination. Here Madame Fleury waited to receive her. She took her hand, and as she led her into an old fashioned parlour, scarcely less gloomy than the hall, welcomed her to the house. "I shall be happy, my dear (said she), to render you every kindness in my power, not only on my nephew's account, but your own; for your countenance is itself a letter of recommendation."

Madeline attempted to express her thanks, but an agony of tears and sobs—an agony excited by the idea of the forlorn situation which had thus cast her upon the kindness of strangers, suppressed her utterance; and,


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 sinking upon a chair, she covered her face with her hands.

"Come, come (said Madame Fleury, tapping her upon the shoulder), you must not give way to low spirits. Come, come (continued she, going to the side-board and bringing her a glass of wine), you must take this, and I'll answer for it you'll be better."

It was many minutes, however, ere her emotions were in the least abated. As soon as Oliver saw her a little composed, he declared he must be gone. Madame Fleury asked him if he could not stay the night? he replied in the negative, saying he had some relations in Paris whom he wished to visit; and as he meant to leave it the ensuing morning, no time was to be lost.

Madeline conjured him to remind Lafroy of his promise, which he solemnly assured her he would; and she saw him depart, though the father of de Sevignie,


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 without the least regret; for neither in his looks or manner was there the least resemblance to his son, or any thing which could conciliate esteem.

As her composure returned, she was able to make observations upon her companion—observations by no means to her advantage; and she felt, that if she had been at liberty to choose a protector, Madame Fleury would have been the last person in the world the choice would have devolved upon. Like Oliver, neither her looks or manner were in the smallest degree prepossessing; the first were coarse and assured, the latter bold and vulgar.

Almost immediately after the departure of Oliver, she ordered supper; and as they sat at table, attended by an elderly female servant, dirty and mean in her appearance, Madame Fleury tried to force consolation as well as food upon Madeline.


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 "You must not, my dear (cried she), as I have said before, give way to low spirits; there is nothing hurts a young person so much as melancholy—it destroys all vivacity; and what is a young person without vivacity? why a mere log. You must reflect, that when things are at the worst, they always mend; and that a stormy night is often succeeded by a fine day. Come, take a glass of wine (continued she, filling out a bumper for herself, and another for Madeline), it will cheer your heart. Nothing does one so much good when one's melancholy as a little wine: I speak from experience; I have led a dismal life, one that has hurt my spirits very much for some years past. My nephew, I suppose, told you about the gentleman to whom this house belongs."

Madeline bowed.

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 discharged; and ever since, that poor woman and I (pointing to the servant), have led the most solitary life imaginable, just like two poor lonely hermits." (Madeline could not forbear smiling at those words; very like hermits indeed, thought she, as she cast her eyes over the table, which was covered with delicacies.)—"Just like two poor lonely hermits, fasting and praying," said Madame Fleury, with a deep sigh.

It may easily be supposed that Madeline soon grew tired of conversation of this kind; her timid heart shrunk from the attentions of Madame Fleury, instead of expanding to receive them; yet she condemned the strong prejudice which she had conceived against her.—"I will try to conquer it (said she to herself), because it is unjust—unjust to dislike a person merely because they have been cast in one of the rough moulds of Nature, and their manners, in consequence of the difference of education, are unlike mine."


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 Madame Fleury seemed inclined to sit up to a late hour, which Madeline perceiving, she pleaded fatigue, and begged permission to retire to her chamber. Madame Fleury instantly rising, took up a light, and said she would conduct her to it. Madeline followed her down the hall, at the bottom of which was a folding door, that on being opened, discovered a spacious stair-case.—"This appears to be a very large house," said Madeline, as ascending the stairs, she beheld numerous passages and doors.

"Oh, quite a wilderness of a house (replied Madame Fleury); I am sometimes a year without seeing half the apartments."

"I wonder you are not afraid to live in it (said Madeline), without more servants."

"Why all the valuable things were removed from it on the desertion of its master, so that prevents my having many fears; besides, I take good care to see all the doors secured before I go to bed."


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 The room allotted for Madeline was spacious, but dirty and ill furnished; nor was there aught within it that gave evidence of better days, except a few faded portraits, large as the life, which still hung against the brown and dusty wainscot.

"Is your chamber near this?" asked Madeline, as she cast her eye around.

"Oh, yes, I shall be your neighbour; so don't be uneasy," replied Madame Fleury. Madeline assured her she would not; and then, anxious to be alone, begged she might no longer detain her.—"Good night then, my dear (said Madame Fleury); I shall call you when it is time to breakfast."

Madeline looked behind the window-curtain ere she locked the door; she then recommended herself to the protection of Heaven; and, worn out both by bodily and mental fatigue, repaired to bed, where she slept till her usual hour of rising.


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 Rh of it; and that the fair trees with which it is planted had by him been brought from the land of the Saracens. Passing the gate, at the invitation of Idleness, the Dreamer listens with delight to the many-voiced birds, and is so entranced with the beauty of the place, that he deems forsooth he must have happed upon the Earthly Paradise. His new-found acquaintance tells him, moreover, that the lord of the fair spot is just now present, having come thither to listen to the melody of the birds and enjoy the varied beauties of the garden in company with his friends. He wanders through shady alleys till he comes on a secluded spot where he discovers Mirth surrounded by a merry company.

He beholds these joyous folk join the dance, while a damsel named Gladness sings entrancingly. A description is given of the dancers, and of the minstrels who make melody with voice, pipe, and string.

He beholds these joyous folk join the dance, while a damsel named Gladness sings entrancingly. A description is given of the dancers, and of the minstrels who make melody with voice, pipe, and string.

After a while the Dreamer is approached by Courtesy, who takes him by the hand and invites him to join the dance as her companion. He describes at full the persons and attire of Mirth and Gladness.

Ere long he perceives the God of Love coming towards him, accompanied by Sweet-Looks, who carries two bows, the one gnarled, knotted, and hideous; the other flexible and


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 xxii beautiful, and adorned with fair paintings. He carries also two quivers, each one containing five arrows. Those borne in his right hand are beautiful of aspect, and sharply barbed with gold. They are named Beauty, Simplicity, Franchise, Companionship, and Fair-Seeming. The arrows borne in his left hand are hideous of aspect, and are named Pride, Villainy, Shame, Despair, and Fickleness. The Dreamer notices that the special companion of the God of Love is a lady named Beauty. Her form and appear ance are fully set forth.

Richesse, who keeps close beside Beauty, is described in careful detail. Beside her sits Largesse, and not far from her is seen the damsel hight Franchise.

The Dreamer sings the praises of Courtesy and the Lady Idleness, to whom he owed his entry into the garden.

Herein is told of Youth and her Lover, and their inexperience of the ways of life.

Having watched the dance to its end and seen the different couples retire to repose themselves in shady bowers, the Dreamer marks how the God of Love calls Sweet-Looks towards him, and takes from his hand the fair-made bow and the five beautiful arrows. He is overwhelmed with fear lest the darts should be destined for him, and notes that Cupid watches him and


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 Rh ollows his footsteps, but he nevertheless pursues his way through the pleasaunce and describes the great variety of beautiful trees that meet his gaze. Rabbits bound over the flower-decked turf, and squirrels spring from branch to branch among the trees. The grass is kept evergreen by little runlets of water which intersect the lawns. At last he comes upon a marble fountain beneath a gigantic pine-tree, on which he sees an inscription declaring it to be the fountain in which Narcissus wept himself away.

The opening of the story of Narcissus and Echo.

The story of Narcissus concluded. The Dreamer’s first impulse was flight when he recognised the fountain of Narcissus, but second thoughts induced him to stay and examine it carefully. Gazing into its crystal waters he perceives that from either side of the fountain may be seen reflected one-half of the garden and the wonders contained therein. But that which attracts him more than all else that he sees reflected in the water is a Rose-tree charged with buds. So greatly desirous does he feel to approach this tree, and if he may not possess himself of a bud, at least to enjoy the sweet savour of the blooms, that the offer of the city of Paris or of Pavia would not induce him to forego his desire. But, alas! the Rose-tree is surrounded by a thick hedge of thorns, briars, and thistles.


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 xxiv But while the Dreamer is occupied with the fountain and the Rose-tree, the God of Love has been upon his track, and now, approaching within a short distance of his quarry, draws the bowstring to his ear and lets fly the arrow named Beauty, which pierces him through the eye. So sharply is it barbed that all his efforts to with draw it are unavailing. He tries to drag himself towards the Rose, but Cupid again draws upon him and he is pierced with the arrow named Simplicity, and successively with those hight Franchise, Companionship, and Fair-Seeming. The God of Love then anoints his victim with an unguent which allays the extreme anguish caused by the wounds.

The God now approaches him as he lies supine on the turf, tells him that all resistance is vain, and that he will do well to give himself up and acknowledge his conqueror for his lord and master.

To this the Dreamer agrees, and becomes Love’s vassal. [Henceforward he is called the Lover.] The God kisses the Lover’s lips, as token and seal that hereafter he claims him for his vassal and slave, and receives from his captive assurance of submission and devotion.

Cupid takes from his purse a golden key, wherewith he locks the heart of the Lover, and expresses his willingness to make known to him all such lore as pertains to his service, if he has


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From each person to whom I loan I do exact a

token for my token chest.


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ULL many a man hath cried amain

That dreams and visions are but vain

Imaginings and lies, but I

Believe that they may truthfully

Forecast the future; and full clear

And plain this matter doth appear

By that famed dream of Scipio,

Whereof Macrobius long ago

The story wrote, and stoutly he

Affirmeth dreams for verity.

Moreover, if one think or say

That fond and foolish ’tis to pay

Respect to visions, seeing that ne’er

They prove them true, that man may dare

To call me fool, for I avow

That I dim night-tide’s warnings trow

Sincerely, and believe that they,

Of good and ill, to men betray

The shadow, showing darkly all

That shall in day’s clear light befall.


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2

’Twas in my twentieth year of age,

When Love doth all young hearts engage

To pay him toll, that on my bed

I lay one night, as custom led.

Asleep, when o’er my spirit fell

A wondrous pleasant dream that well

Delighted me, and nought therein

I saw but what did later win

Fulfilment, and I now in rhyme

Set forth the tale, to while your time

And glad young hearts, by Love’s command.

And should or swain or maid demand

How that is called which now I write,

I answer “The Romance” it hight,

For lovers written, “of the Rose,”

Which doth Love’s gentle art enclose.

Good is the matter, fair and true,

God grant that grace it find in view

Of her for whose behoof ’twas writ;

Worthy of love is she, and fit,

Before all other maids I swear.

The fragrant name of Rose to bear.

Five years have rolled their suns away.

Since in the amorous month of May

I dreamed this dream: O month of joy

That knows all nature to decoy

To mirth and pleasure; bush and brake

Alike their fresh spring raiment take

Of leaves that long in swaddlings lay

Close shrouded from the light of day.

While woods and thickets don their green

Rich mantling of resplendent sheen.


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text: Plundered Cargo

title: Plundered Cargo


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Rh

Then earth, though old, once more grows vain.

And, cheered by balmy dews and rain,

Forgets her poverished drear estate

’Neath winter stern and obdurate;

For pride awaketh new desire

To dizen her in bright attire,

And thereto doth she fashion quaint

And fair habiliments, and paint

Them o’er with tints of varying hue,

Green herb, and flowers, white, red, and blue;

And tricked in such gay robes I ween

Old Earth loves dearly to be seen.

The merry birds that silence kept

While all the world ’neath winter slept,

And wild winds roared, and skies were grey

With rain, break forth, when cometh May,

In lusty note, and let sweet song

Proclaim their joy that winter’s wrong

Is past, and now once more doth reign

Sweet spring-tide o’er old earth’s domain.

Then nightingales with new-born voice

Through day and night make dulcet noise.

While larks on high, and in the brake

The woodwales, heavenly music wake;

And hearkening such sweet clamour, soon

Young hearts respond the amorous tune

In this sweet season of fair spring.

O dull the soul that carolling

Of birds delighteth not when they

The echoes wake in joyous May.

’Twas in this season of delight.

When all things love as if of right,

Rh


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 They knew which it was from the physical condition of the spot. Either there was nothing there but ordinary path stuff; or there was white ash, or there was a log or rock, or tree branch, and the reason for the different emotion with which they regarded this latter was very simple, for it had been an inferior class spirit, one that their charms and howled incantations could guard them against. When there was ash, it had been a witch destroyed by the medicine they had thrown at it, or a medium class spirit they could get protection from "in town." But if "he left no ash" the rest of our march was a gloomy one; it was a bad business, and unless the Fetish authorities in town chose to explain that it was merely a demand for so much white calico, or a goat, &c., some one of our party would certainly get ill.

Well do I remember our greatest terror when out at night on a forest path. I believe him to have been a Sasabonsum, but he was very widely distributed—that is to say we dreaded him on the forest paths round Mungo Mah Lobeh; we confidently expected to meet him round Calabar; and, to my disgust, for he was a hindrance, when I thought I had got away from his distribution zone, down in the Ogowé region, coming home one night with a Fan hunter from Fula to Kangwe, I saw some one coming down the path towards us, and my friend threw himself into the dense bush beside the path so as to give the figure a wide berth. It was the old symptom. You see what we object to in this spirit is that one side of him is rotting and putrifying, the other sound and healthy, and it all depends on which side of him you touch whether you see the dawn again or no. Such being the case, and African bush paths being narrow, this spirit helps to make

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4

That, lying on my bed, I dreamed

Dull night was passed and dawning beamed,

And, leaping from the couch, my face

I washed in haste, the night to chase,

Put on my shoes, then straightway took

A silver bodkin from a book

Or bodkin-case, and with a thread

Engarnished it, then forthwith sped

From out the town, with will to hear

The woodland fowl with piping clear

Give welcome to the season new.

And as I went the cords I drew

Basting my sleeves, all joyous I

To hear the birds sing merrily

Among the spring-tide’s burgeoning trees.

Moved gently by the fragrant breeze.

So to a river came I near

Whose pleasant murmur struck mine ear,

And soothing, past all words, did seem

The rippling music of the stream.

From out a moss-grown rocky bank

In bubbling waves, that rose and sank

With changing force, the water cool

Fell clear and bright, until a pool

It formed, meandering o’er the plain

In volume less than rolls the Seine,

But broader spreading as I ween.

Never the eye of man hath seen

A fairer sight than that which I

Now gazed upon so rapturously.

Awhile I stood, then in the wave,

Glistening and fresh, I stooped to lave


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 evening walks unpopular, for there are places in every bush path where, if you meet him, you must brush against him—places where the wet season's rains have made the path a narrow ditch, with clay incurved walls above your head—places where the path turns sharply round a corner—places where it runs between rock walls. Such being the case, the risk of rubbing against his rotting side is held to be so great that it is best avoided by staying at home in the village with your wives and families, and playing the tom-tom or the orchid-fibre-stringed harp, or, if you are a bachelor, sitting in the village club-house listening to the old ones talking like retired Colonels. Yet however this may be, I should hesitate to call this half-rotten individual "a material object." Sometimes we had merry laughs after these meetings, for he was only So-and-so from the village—it was not him. Sometimes we had cold chills down the back, for we lost sight of him; under our eyes he went and he left no ash.

Take again Mbuiri of the Mpongwe, who comes in the form usually of a man; or Nkala, who comes as a crab; or the great Nzambi of the Fjort—they leave no ash—and so on. This subject of apparition-forms is a very interesting one, and requires more investigation. For such gods as Nzambi Mpungu do not appear to human beings on earth at all, except in tempest and pestilence. The great gods next in order leave no ash. The witch, if he or she be destroyed, does leave ash, and the ordinary middle and lower class spirits leave the thing they have been in, so unaltered by their use of it that no one but a witch doctor can tell whether or no it has been possessed by a spirit.

You see therefore Fetish is in a way complex and cannot

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Plundered Cargo/Chapter 1

EFORE-The-Fire-San Francisco was the Land of Romance for a continent. The seven seas brought mysteries to be unladen at her wharves. Mountains and deserts of the hinterland sent silent men to play strange games in her places of business and of pleasure. The city behind the Golden Gate was vibrant with the pulse of life, a little raw but spiced for strong palates.

There, in those times, a mahogany-colored monarch of the South Seas could launch a sugar king on his career by so small a circumstance as losing to him a third of his kingdom over jackpots in a hotel room. An untutored negress might make herself mistress of a fortune by voodoo magic. A black-birder and pirate wanted by three great powers could pass the collection plate of a Sunday ashore.

This tale, one whereon murder will be done and barratry—with shipwreck, and villainy finally unmasked—finds its beginning in that city of enchanted hills in those days of its earlier glory. And it is in tone that so trivial a circumstance as the breaking of the driving machinery of a Ferris wheel near the Cliff House should start something destined to come to its climax in the Vermilion Sea.

 SHRILL whistle squeak told that the manager of the Ferris wheel had duly delivered to his customers five cents' worth of revolutions. The great swinging circle of lights slowed down to discharge passengers, car by descending car, on the platform between the giant struts supporting the axle. A man in a yachting cap and with a roll of tickets conveniently under his arm stood at the point of debarkation to urge another voyage.

“Hey, Bill, 'nother swing around the circle for you?” The ticket seller leaned through the gap in a swinging gondola's side to touch its single passenger on the elbow.

The one thus addressed roused himself from a doze. He lifted the rim of a hard derby from the bridge of his nose and gave the ticket vendor a searching look.

“You guarantee this's good for loss o' memory, spots before the eyes an' that tired feeling in the morning?”

“All of that and then some, Bill.”

“Give me fi' dollars' worth, then.”

This magnificent deal having been arranged, the passenger settled himself in his private gondola—paid for certainty for the rest of the night—and tilted the rim of his derby back to the bridge of his nose to indicate that conversation was finished. His car swung upward. The Ferris wheel was merrily on its way. From over to the right of the revolving wheel, from the blazing windows of the Cliff House a hint of gay band music came winging down the keen north breeze. Nearer at hand, stretching from horizon to horizon north and south, the moon-dimpled Pacific floated its dishes of gold on changing waves. A lace of surf drew patterns along the shore far as the eye carried.

The giant wheel had made, say, three complete revolutions when a link in the endless chain drive between engine and axle snapped. The wheel stopped. It happened that with the stopping of the wheel the man who had bought five dollars' worth of rides was marooned in his gondola at the very top of the wheel's swing, a full seventy-five feet above the peanut shells on the beach. That circumstance meant nothing to him, at the moment, for he slept. But he presently awoke. It was cool up there, and the north wind blew into his ears and stirred the cobwebs which had stretched themselves across his brain. He pushed his derby up from his eyes and fixed his gaze on the box of light which was the distant Cliff House.

“Guess the old skip's stalled 'round the five hundred level,” he murmured, and his hand automatically went out to find the hoist signal and give it a tug. Then he caught a glimpse of the ocean and knew he was not back in the Gold Lode mine shaft. He hooked his chin on the edge of the car and looked down. He saw the tops of the other cars ranged in a springing curve below him. A man's arm dangled from the one next down the rank.

“Hullo, down there!”

A wide brimmed black hat with a high creased crown was poked out from beneath the eaves of the car. The hat turned. A heavily bearded face twisted upward.

“Take your foot off the brake, Gran'paw!” bawled the young man in the car above.

“I have no foot on the brake, young fellow,” the bearded one answered with great dignity.

Feeling a sociable need for further conversation, the young man of the upper car leaned swiftly out from the gondola, seized the roof edge and swung himself over it. Like a monkey he worked his way down amid steel struts until his feet plumped on the roof of the gondola he sought. A final swing and he was inside.

“Good even', Gran'paw,” he said with a wide grin. “How's tricks?”

The elderly gentleman allowed his eyes to travel slowly over the vivid checks of the intruder's spring suit enwrapping an athletic figure until they came to rest on his features. Surprisingly blue eyes with a hint of the devil in them; wide mouth of a comedian and a sturdy chin thrusting out over a choker collar and cerise puff tie: that was the sum of them.

“Good evening to you, sir,” the elderly gentleman finally replied with no visible excess of enthusiasm.

“There speaks a scholar and a gentleman!” The visitor clapped the venerable one on the knee with a resounding thwack. “Kind of man 'at makes the grade with ole Spike Horn—that's me; Spike for short. Put 'er there with ole Spike Horn!” Mr. Horn thrust out a paw in infectious camaraderie. The whiskered one was constrained to return the clasp.

“My name is Chitterly,” he said, and his voice had a fine rumbling resonance as from long public speaking. “Old Doctor Chitterly is the title given me in affectionate testimony to my long and varied practice of medicine along the shores of the Pacific Slope from Vancouver to Ensenada; and if I do say it myself”

“Doc, you're worth climbing down here just for a look-see.” The younger man drew back in exaggerated pleasure of a connoisseur before a rare work of art.

An eye-filling picture indeed he saw. A gentleman of the old-school was Doctor Chitterly; big bodied, lusty, competent. Massive shoulders stretched the Prince Albert coat of ancient cut. His generous white beard flowed down over a hard shirt bosom wherein a single diamond glimmered through the fog of the ultimate hairs. His eyes, innocent of specs, had a touch of humor under the heavy thatch of white brows. White hair cascaded down from beneath the wide brim of his old style hat to curl rakishly over the velvet collar of his coat. One would have said here was a railroad builder of the West's roaring Sixties miraculously preserved beyond the time of his contemporaries.

Had young Mr. Horn but known it, the worthy doctor in his way was quite as great a citizen as any golden spike driver on a trans-continental railroad. From the tail-board of his black and gold medicine wagon, last surviving chariot of a golden age of quackery, Old Doctor Chitterly had studied the world of men and women from a penetrating angle. He had conned the heart of mankind through its every gullible weakness. Pain, real or imaginary, had stood folk before him stripped of all play masks of sham and pretense. Perhaps that is the reason a ripe humor lodged in his eyes.

Yes, a seasoned old gentleman was Doctor Chitterly.

“How come you all by your lone in this big wheel, Doc?” inquired Mr. Horn vivaciously.

“Mr.—um—Spike, this is a custom of mine, riding in a public wheel on Saturday night. If I find myself on a Saturday night in a city which boasts one of these—ah—conveniences I ride in it. Change, you know. I've ridden horizontally in pursuit of my profession so many thousand miles it's a real novelty to ride—shall we say perpendicularly.”

For all young Horn's boisterous humor—not untinged by stimulus alcoholic—and despite his taking of liberties with one's dignity, the good doctor began to find himself drawn to the gaudy rapscallion before him. Before the pounding and tinkering noises below gave way to the creaking of the repaired wheel Doctor Chitterly learned that his young friend Spike had sold his interest in the Golden Lode mine at Goldfield for one hundred thousand dollars; that he'd come to San Francisco to “build a fire under the town”; that he had a private trolley car carrying an Italian stringed orchestra of five pieces and a colored bottle opener waiting his pleasure on a spur track over by the Casino.

And the good Doc had gotta come along! Just gotta! No fr'ens in town, Horn hadn't.

Vainly did Doctor Chitterly protest that a private sightseeing car with a five-piece stringed orchestra and a negro butler was a bit gaudy for one of his profession. When their car was once on earth Doctor Chitterly found his arm imprisoned by Spike's arm, and he was rushed through the pleasure grounds to where a brilliantly lighted car stood on a rusty spur behind the dancing pavilion, an admiring and expectant throng about it. With the air of an emperor Mr. Horn shouldered a way for himself and his patriarchal friend through the crowd at the steps. He pushed Doctor Chitterly, resisting feebly, through the door into the luxurious interior. An obsequious colored man popped into a cubby as if on a signal and reappeared with a napkin wrapped about the neck of an opulent bottle.

“Where now, Mr. Horn?” A motorman in special uniform entered from the front platform. “Can switch to any track in the city.”

“Le's play all the switches then. No fav'rites, mind you. Let 'er rollick!”

They trundled away from the Casino to a derisive cheer from the envious. Doctor Chitterly took the fizzing glass offered him diffidently and against the promptings of long conviction.

Spike called his attention to the mountainous figure of a man asleep in a chair behind the musicians' palms.

“See that li'l fellah?” Spike whispered as if in the presence of the great. “Great lil man, eh? That's Walla-Walla, the Iron Man! Found him in Thalia—you know: vaudeville theatre. Let you hit him in the rear with billiard cue, ball bat, anything. Hit him hard's you can for only two bits—that's Walla-Walla, the Iron Man. There's talent for you!”

title: Plundered Cargo/Chapter 1


text:
Plundered Cargo/Chapter 2

HE motorman of the chartered car gave Spike Horn's sailing orders the widest interpretation, doubtless arguing to himself that there was little use getting back on the more crowded network of the traction system where he would have to arrange for meeting and passing other cars on regular schedule. He chose, therefore, to follow the most roundabout way back to the city from the playgrounds around the Cliff House; traveling along the new line around Twin Peaks. At this hour, which was approaching midnight, he would not meet an outgoing trolley, on these sand dune wastes, oftener than once in thirty minutes. He knew the location of the brief intervals of double track where he could draw aside to make the passing.

So a frame of blazing light went rocketing through a fog wilderness, trailing fugitive strains of music.

Within the snug security of the palace car all was well. Though Doctor Chitterly did not believe in spirituous liquors, ardent waters in a square bottle once having been responsible for his being marooned in his nightshirt on an equatorial dot in the Pacific, yet his soul of politeness would not permit a refusal.

The second glass did not give so serious a wrench to his convictions. The third still less.

Doctor Chitterly suddenly recalled that in the brave days of the Seventies when he was a young buck in the Mother Lode country of Plumas he was counted no slouch of a singer. He set his glass on a table, arose and motioned the orchestra to quiet. He caroled lustily:

The car floor arose in a mustang leap—plumped down. Crash of glass—a single wild call from harp strings. Darkness.

Doctor Chitterly and Spike were thrown together in a clawing heap when the car vaulted. For a half minute the latter was content to feel himself over for broken limbs, cursing volubly. Finally he managed to light a match. Its feeble flame revealed a narrow area of confusion: overturned tables, a guitar speared through the sounding board by a champagne bottle, one of the orchestra plucking fronds of palm from his collar.

The voice of the motorman called from up forward where the control platform was: “All right, gents! Just jumped the track an plowed into a sandbank. Soon's I can get the trolley pole over to the wire we'll have some light.”

The scrambled passengers did not await that event. Host, guests, musicians and colored attendant groped their way to the rear platform and so out into a clammy world of fog. Even the somnolent Iron Man, Walla-Walla, had been wrenched back to life by the accident.

A cursory hand-groping around the stalled car revealed more than a casual track-jumping. All the conductor's attempts to re-establish current connection by way of the trolley pole were vain. In brief, the palace car would stay there until a wrecking crew arrived.

“Where are we, Bill?” Spike Horn put the question to the motorman in a voice of restored good humor.

“Down below Ingleside, I guess,” the other answered.

“How long before a reg'lar car comes along to take us back to the city?”

“First car due here 'bout seven in the mornin'. Passed the last owl car back at No. 2 switch.”

“How far t' nearest telephone, Bill? Maybe we can catch a brace of hacks to come fetch the outfit into town.”

The motorman, hardly visible in the swirling smoke wreathes of fog, waved an indefinite direction down the track.

“Maybe half mile from here y'oughta hit the Four Corners. Wake up the little pill-roller whose red and yellow lamps burn all night. Me, I gotta stay with the car.”

Spike organized his relief expedition. The colored man refused to budge; no “prowlin' 'round” for him. One only of the five musicians consented to accompany Spike, the doctor and the Iron Man on the hunt for a 'phone. Promising the motorman that he would send in a call to the car barns for a wrecking crew, Spike and the three set out over the shifty footing of the sand between the rails.

A ghostly pilgrimage. The fog was pressing down so densely it entered the lungs like wood smoke—slightly stinging. To the left a suggested row of eucalyptus trees marched with them; a ghostly pat-pat of condensed moisture falling from their rags of foliage kept time to their pace. On the right an unseen cabbage field distilled a rancid odor. The sand clung to their feet like muck. Occasionally one of the quartette stubbed a toe on a projecting tie and pitched against a fellow before him.

They had progressed thus perhaps fifteen minutes away from the wrecked car when a vagrant gust of wind tore a rent in the fog curtain. For the space of half a minute a light shone, startlingly near, off in the direction of the odorous cabbages.

“That's our drugstore,” Spike shouted and turned abruptly down the bank upon which the rails ran. The others followed. They came to a barbed wire fence and scrambled under and over. Then the fog closed as suddenly as it had parted and the light was snuffed out.

“Well, anyway, we know where that light was,” Spike cheered and he kicked over a cabbage head with his first stride into the field. Then a neat game of guess-work: finding a place where a light had shone.

They blundered and they back-tracked. Once again the fog shredded to reveal a smear of yellow behind them. They about-faced for the new position. Suddenly a dog yapped in the gray fluff ahead. The sound of a slammed door came to their ears.

Spike, in the lead, plumped against a crazy picket fence, half fallen. Beyond that he could discern the dim outline of a house with ghostly finger dabs representing windows. But no light.

“I should say,” ventured Doctor Chitterly, “that whoever lives here was mighty unsociable. That light we saw was in one of windows not two  minutes ago.”

A shaggy black dog came bullying out to bay and snap at their heels. Spike strode to the door, the others in a hesitant knot a few paces behind him.

The man from Goldfield thundered on the door with his fist. “Hey, inside there!” he challenged. Silence. He beat again with impatient knuckles.

“Open up in there!”

Suddenly came to the ears of the adventurers in the dooryard the pad-pad of running feet. They heard the dog, whom they had beaten off, vent a triumphant bay. Before they could turn in their tracks a half dozen shadowy shapes had swept down on them, coming around either corner of the house. These were the shapes of men carrying rifles.

A scream from the Italian musician as he turned to run. A rifle butt thudded on the back of his neck and he went down. After that no sound but the labored breathing of men in combat, fists against clubbed rifles and revolver butts short-hafted for hammer blows.

There could be but one result of so one-sided a struggle. In no time Spike Horn, the dizzy spender, a worthy vendor of Squaw Root Tonic, an Iron Man and a flute player were triced like fowls.

“Bring them inside the house,” commanded a voice as gentle as a woman's.

title: Plundered Cargo/Chapter 2


text:
Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 1.pdf/39

Rh

My face, and saw the river-bed

With smooth bright gravel stones bespread,

And all around, the meadows wide

Were freshened by the lapping tide.

Calm and serene, and bright and sweet,

Was that spring morning, as my feet

Along the river bank I bent.

Light-hearted, heedless where I went.

And hearkening, as it rolled along.

The stream’s unending murmur-song.

HORT space my feet had traversed ere

A garden spied I, great and fair,

The which a castled wall hemmed round.

And pictured thereupon I found

Full many a figure rich and bright

Of colour, and how each one hight

Clear writ beneath it; now will I

To you declare from memory

The semblance and the name of each,

And somewhat of their natures teach.