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 "Farewell! (he cried, after the pause of a minute); if I have pained, if I have disturbed you, let the idea of my never more intruding into your presence banish all resentment for my having done so."

He rested his cold cheek for a moment upon her hand; then suddenly letting it drop, he instantly darted amongst the trees and disappeared.

An icy chillness crept through the frame of Madeline, at the idea of seeing de Sevignie no more. She listened with fixed attention to the sound of his steps, till they could no longer be distinguished; then, starting, she wrung her hands together, and exclaimed—"He is gone, and we shall never, never meet again!"

Every hope relative to him now become extinct; hopes which, notwithstanding the alteration in his manner, had lingered in her heart till this moment; hopes which had


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 cheered her in the long period that separated them, by making her look forward to a second meeting, in which he should disclose sentiments he had before only revealed by his eyes. That meeting had taken place,—those sentiments had been disclosed; but, instead of promoting her happiness as she expected, had, for the present at least, destroyed it; and she wept that crisis to which but a few days before she had looked forward with the most flattering expectations.

Yet not for herself alone she wept, her tears fell also for the wretchedness of de Sevignie; and she regretted having refused to stay a little longer with him, falsely imagining their parting, if less abrupt, would have been less painful. "He prayed for my felicity (she cried); but, oh, de Sevignie, except assured of yours, how unavailing must that prayer ever be!"

The voice of Mademoiselle Chatteneuf calling on her, now roused her from her me-

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 shared very largely in the feeling which is common to all men of ambition and energy,—a desire to stand well not only with their own generation, but with posterity. It is a feeling natural to every man who knows that his name and acts must necessarily become historical. If it is more than usually patent in Cicero's case, it is only because in his letters to Atticus we have more than usual access to the inmost heart of the writer; for surely such a thoroughly confidential correspondence has never been published before or since. "What will history say of me six hundred years hence?" he asks, unbosoming himself in this sort to his friend. More than thrice the six hundred years have passed, and, in Cicero's case, history has hardly yet made up its mind. He has been lauded and abused, from his own times down to the present, in terms as extravagant as are to be found in the most passionate of his own orations; both his accusers and his champions have caught the trick of his rhetorical exaggeration more easily than his elo-

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90 quence. Modern German critics like Drumann and Mommsen have attacked him with hardly less bitterness, though with more decency, than the historian Dio Cassius, who lived so near his own times. Bishop Middleton, on the other hand, in those pleasant and comprehensive volumes which are still to this day the great storehouse of materials for Cicero's biography, is as blind to his faults as though he were himself delivering a panegyric in the Rostra at Rome. Perhaps it is the partiality of the learned bishop's view which has produced a reaction in the minds of sceptical German scholars, and of some modern writers of our own. It is impossible not to sympathise in some degree with that Athenian who was tired of always hearing Aristides extolled as "the Just;" and there was certainly a strong temptation to critics to pick holes in a man's character who was perpetually, during his lifetime and for eighteen centuries after his death, having a trumpet sounded before him to announce him as the prince of patriots as well as philosophers; worthy indeed, as Erasmus thought, to be canonised as a saint of the Catholic Church, but for the single drawback of his not having been a Christian.

On one point some of his eulogists seem manifestly unfair. They say that the circumstances under which we form our judgment of the man are exceptional in this—that we happen to possess in his case all this mass of private and confidential letters (there are nearly eight hundred of his own which have come down to us), giving us an insight into his private motives, his secret jealousies, and hopes, and fears, and

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Rh ambitions, of which in the case of other men we have no such revelation. It is quite true; but his advocates forget that it is from the very same pages which reveal his weaknesses, that they draw their real knowledge of many of those characteristics which they most admire―his sincere love for his country, his kindness of heart, his amiability in all his domestic relations. It is true that we cannot look into the private letters of Cæsar, or Pompey, or Brutus, as we can into Cicero's; but it is not so certain that if we could, our estimate of their characters would be lowered. We might discover, in their cases as in his, many traces of what seems insincerity, timidity, a desire to sail with the stream; we might find that the views which they expressed in public were not always those which they entertained in private; but we might also find an inner current of kindness, and benevolence, and tenderness of heart, for which the world gives them little credit. One enthusiastic advocate, Wieland, goes so far as to wish that this kind of evidence could, in the case of such a man as Cicero, have been "cooked," to use a modern phrase: that we could have had only a judicious selection from this too truthful mass of correspondence; that his secretary, Tiro, or some judicious friend, had destroyed the whole packet of letters in which the great Roman bemoaned himself, during his exile from Rome, to his wife, to his brother, and to Atticus. The partisan method of writing history, though often practised, has seldom been so boldly professed.

But it cannot be denied, that if we know too much of Cicero to judge him merely by his public life, as we

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92 are obliged to do with so many heroes of history, we also know far too little of those stormy times in which he lived, to pronounce too strongly upon his behaviour in such difficult circumstances. The true relations between the various parties at Rome, as we have tried to sketch them, are confessedly puzzling even to the careful student. And without a thorough understanding of these, it is impossible to decide, with any hope of fairness, upon Cicero's conduct as a patriot and a politician. His character was full of conflicting elements, like the times in which he lived, and was necessarily in a great degree moulded by them. The egotism which shows itself so plainly alike in his public speeches and in his private writings, more than once made him personal enemies, and brought him into trouble, though it was combined with great kindness of heart and consideration for others. He saw the right clearly, and desired to follow it, but his good intentions were too often frustrated by a want of firmness and decision. His desire to keep well with men of all parties, so long as it seemed possible (and this not so much from the desire of self-aggrandisement, as from a hope through their aid to serve the commonwealth) laid him open on more than one occasion to the charge of insincerity.

There is one comprehensive quality which may be said to have been wanting in his nature, which clouded his many excellences, led him continually into false positions, and even in his delightful letters excites in the reader, from time to time, an impatient feeling of contempt. He wanted manliness. It was a quality

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 choly musing. She instantly conjectured it was her step which had driven off de Sevignie; and, wiping away her tears, advanced, though but slowly, to meet her.

"Why you must have written a volume instead of a letter, if you have been all this time employed in writing (said Olivia the moment she saw her); but the truth I suppose is, that de Sevignie intruded disagreeably upon you, and delayed you."

"No, he did not I assure you," said Madeline.

"You have seen him however, since you quitted the banqueting house."

"Yes; I met him as I was returning to it."

"And you stopped no doubt (cried Olivia), to wish him good-night."

"Well, supposing I had, would there have been any thing extraordinary in such a common act of civility?"

"No to be sure, nor in his detaining you almost an hour to thank you for it: though


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 he pretended to us the moment you were gone, that he was taken so ill he could scarcely speak or stop another moment. Pray, Madeline, did he tell you the nature of his malady?"

"I never enquired," answered Madeline, blushing.

"But he might have told you without asking; and I shrewdly suspect he did. Pray did he ask you to prescribe for him?"

"Prescribe for him! (said Madeline, pretending not to understand her meaning) do you suppose he took me for an old nurse?"

"No indeed (replied Olivia), I suppose no such thing; but I am not so certain that he would be wrong in taking you for a young nurse."

"I have not spirits to answer you (cried Madeline); so be generous, and do not take advantage of my inability."

"And pray to whose account may I place your dejection," asked Olivia.

"To whose you please; I may as well have the pleasure of giving you a latitude


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 which, whether I please or not, you will take."

"Well, I won't tease you any more (said Olivia); but let us quicken our pace, for supper waits."

They accordingly hastened to the banqueting-house, and the whole party then sat down to supper.

"I am sorry (cried Madame Chatteneuf), that de Sevignie could not stay with us to-night. Poor fellow, he looked extremely ill; but indeed I think he has done so for some days past."

"Yes, and so do I (said Olivia). I trust, however, his malady is not of an incurable nature;" and she glanced archly at Madeline.

"Heaven forbid it was (cried her mother, who took her in a serious light); I know few people whom, on so short an acquaintance, I should so much regret as de Sevignie; there is an elegance, a sweetness in his man-


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 ner, which declare a soul of benevolence and refinement; he does not by slow degrees conciliate esteem, but, on the first interview, excites a pre-possession in his favour; which, upon a greater knowledge, you have the pleasure of finding no reason to regret; so that though an interesting, he is not a dangerous, acquaintance."

"Let us ask Mademoiselle Clermont's opinion as to that (cried Olivia). Why do you blush, my dear; you know you have been acquainted with the Chevalier a much longer period than my mother has, and of course can better determine whether he is or is not a dangerous creature."

"No one I am sure (said Madeline, endeavouring to suppress her confusion), can ever doubt the justness of Madame Chatteneuf's discernment."

"Ah, Madeline (cried Olivia in a low voice), I see you can some times be guarded."

"Would to heaven I had been so in matters more material than the present," thought Madeline.


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Rh which was fast dying out, in his day, among even the best of the luxurious and corrupt aristocracy of Rome. It was perhaps but little missed in his character by those of his contemporaries who knew and loved him best. But without that quality, to an English mind, it is hard to recognise in any man, however brilliant and amiable, the true philosopher or hero.

The views which this great Roman politician held upon the vexed question of the ballot did not differ materially from those of his worthy grandfather before-mentioned. The ballot was popular at Rome,—for many reasons, some of them not the most creditable to the characters of the voters; and because it was popular, Cicero speaks of it occasionally, in his forensic speeches, with a cautious praise; but of his real estimate of it there can be no kind of doubt. "I am of the same opinion now," he writes to his brother, "that ever I was; there is nothing like the open suffrage of the lips." So in one of his speeches, he uses even stronger language: "The ballot," he says, "enables men to open their faces, and to cover up their thoughts; it gives them licence to promise whatever they are asked, and at the same time to do whatever they please." Mr Grote once quoted a phrase of Cicero's, applied to the voting-papers of his day, as a testimony in favour of this mode of secret suffrage—grand words, and wholly untranslatable into anything like corresponding English—"Tabella vindex tacitæ libertatis"—"the tablet which secures the liberty of silence." But knowing so well as Cicero did what was

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 When she found herself again alone in her chamber, she again regretted not having staid a little longer with de Sevignie. "It was a last request (said she), and I might on that account have complied with it; he might then have opened his whole soul to me: he might then have revealed the whole circumstances which oppose his wishes:—yet, alas! of what use could it be to know them, since separated it could give little consolation to know by what means."

But, notwithstanding those words, Madeline wished to know them; it was a wish however which, she was convinced, would never be gratified; for, though she was sure de Sevignie had no reason to blush in avowing them, she was equally sure he never would do so.

Madame Chatteneuf's coach was ordered the next morning at an early hour, as she wished to spend a long day with her friend; but an unexpected circumstance retarded


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 her journey to the chateau till a late hour. Just as she was setting out, a letter arrived from Verona, from a sister of her deceased mother's, who had married an Italian nobleman, and had long been settled in Italy, informing her, that her lord was no more; and that, finding herself oppressed in spirits, and declining in health, she ardently longed for the society of her niece, feeling herself rather forlorn, now that she had lost her husband, in a place where she had no connexions of her own about her. Moreover, that as he had left every thing in her power, and she intended making a will in favour of her niece, it was absolutely necessary she should be with her at the time of her death.

Affection for her aunt, whom she tenderly esteemed, and consideration for her daughter's interest, to whose fortune the possessions of her aunt would make a very splendid addition, determined Madame Chatteneuf to accept this invitation without delay; and


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 she immediately ordered preparations to be made for her journey the ensuing day; and, in overlooking those preparations, and arranging domestic concerns, was detained at her house till within a short time of the Countess de Merville's usual dinner hour.

Amidst all the bustle that was going forward, Madeline sat motionless, and in the deepest dejection. She regretted the intended departure of her friends, not only as a means of depriving her of the exquisite pleasure she enjoyed in their company, but as a means of destroying her hopes of again beholding de Sevignie; for, notwithstanding what he had said, she was convinced he would continue a little longer at V; and she had flattered herself that the Countess would again have permitted her to visit Madame Chatteneuf, and thus have afforded her once more an opportunity of seeing him; an opportunity she could not help sighing for, though now assured their attachment was hopeless.


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 In their way to the chateau, Olivia made her promise to correspond with her; a promise which Madeline gave with pleasure, yet with diffidence from a fear that she might not prove as entertaining a correspondent as her friend expected.

On entering the chateau, a presage of ill struck her heart at not beholding the Countess, who generally came forward to the hall with a smiling countenance, like the genius of hospitality, to welcome her friends.

"Where is your lady?" asked Madeline, turning to one of the servants.

"Above, Mam'selle, in her dressing-room; she has been rather indisposed to-day."

Madeline heard no more. Heedless, or rather forgetful at that moment of all ceremony, she instantly flew up stairs, leaving Madame Chatteneuf busy in ordering her servants to have the coach ready at an early


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94 the ordinary character of Roman jurors and Roman voters, and how often this "liberty of silence" was a liberty to take a bribe and to vote the other way, one can almost fancy that we see upon his lips, as he utters the sounding phrase, that playful curve of irony which is said to have been their characteristic expression. Mr Grote forgot, too, as was well pointed out by a writer in the 'Quarterly Review,' that in the very next sentence the orator is proud to boast that he himself was not so elected to office, but "by the living voices" of his fellow-citizens.

The character of his eloquence may be understood in some degree by the few extracts which have been given from his public speeches; always remembering how many of its charms are necessarily lost by losing the actual language in which his thoughts were clothed. We have lost perhaps nearly as much in another way, in that we can only read the great orator instead of listening to him. Yet it is possible, after all, that this loss to us is not so great as it might seem. Some of his best speeches, as we know—those, for instance, against Verres and in defence of Milo—were written in the closet, and never spoken at all; and most of the others were reshaped and polished for publication. Nor is it certain that his declamation, which some of his Roman rivals found fault with as savouring too much of the florid Oriental type, would have been agree-

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F you will examine a map of the United States printed fifty years ago you will find a large tract of land between the Missouri River and California designated as the Great American Desert. If you examine a recent map of the same country you will be surprised to note that this desert has entirely disappeared and that in its place are half a dozen prosperous and populous states.

The truth is that the desert never really existed except in the imagination of the geographer, with the exception of a small portion of Utah where there is still some desert land.

After the Lewis and Clarke expedition up the Missouri, and after the discovery of gold in California in 1849, a goodly number of adventurous spirits flocked across the western plains in search of gold and adventure. These adventurers who were always fickle and restless were shortly followed by a more serious-minded company who were homemakers and settlers. The thing that most vividly impressed these settlers on coming into this new El Dorado was the great herds of bison grazing upon the western prairies.

These bison kept sleek and fat not only in the summer, but in the winter as well, and they subsisted merely upon the bounty of nature.

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 Thus the question at once arose, if the bison could subsist in this way merely upon the bounty of nature, why could not cattle be raised in the same manner and thus get rid of the first cost of raising them.

So the western emigrant soon had small herds of cattle grazing upon the prairies just as the bison had done before them. These were the nuclei for the mighty herds of cattle in our western grazing land which finally made this nation the greatest beef-raising country in the world.

The root stock however, of this cattle raising industry had already been planted on this continent nearly two hundred years when the original "Texas Longhorn" was imported from Spain into Mexico. These long-horned, tall, gaunt cattle finally drifted across the Rio Grande into Texas, and thence up the Panhandle into New Mexico and what is now Oklahoma and still further north, so when the western settlers first came to the western prairies there were wild cattle grazing on the plains in the same herds with the bison.

From time to time the early cattle men introduced new stock of Durham, Hereford, and other large breeds and crossed them with the Texas Longhorn. The real Texas steer is a tall, rangy animal weighing when fat a thousand pounds.

Since the herds of cattle ran unrestrained upon the prairies the question of identification very early arose,

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 so it was not long before branded cattle and cattle with either one or both ears slit appeared upon the prairies. At first these branding marks were rather simple, but it soon became apparent that they had to be more complicated as the cattle rustler who was the professional cattle thief could easily change simple markings. Thus the letter could be changed into a G or a cipher, I could be easily changed to L, M to N and so on. This necessity for an elaborate mark soon led to a branding iron which was six or seven inches square and cattle were marked either on the shoulder or hind quarters, or both. Also in many cases the ears were slit as well. But even so the professional cattle thief or rustler grew bold and rich as well; this, notwithstanding the fact that the branding irons had been registered at the local county seats as soon as the particular district had a seat of government.

Since there were few sheriffs in the primitive west in those early days, and fewer courts and justice was very tardy, what was called necktie parties were very soon in vogue. This seemed the only way in which to deal with the professional rustler. These parties always took the form of a surprise party. In fact, the surprise of the recipient of such honors was usually beyond words to describe. From the moment that his fellow citizens called upon the rustler he was the very center of the festivity. In fact, all eyes were

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 upon him. For once he was the observed of all observers.

He was speedily conducted to a remote region where the trees grew tall. There being few stores in the region and neckties being hard to procure, an inch rope served instead. The offending rustler was soon given a commanding position above the rest of the company and the party broke up feeling well satisfied because there was one less cattle thief in the world. Of course this was not lawful, but it was a sort of primitive justice.

Not only did the cattle men have to contend with the rustlers but soon very serious differences sprang up between themselves. These were over grazing grounds, water holes, and priority of brands, etc. Here again there were no courts to settle these disputes and once again primitive methods were resorted to.

These cattle feuds became so bad in portions of Texas and New Mexico and even farther north that as a result many scores of cow-punchers finally left their bones bleaching in the sun upon the mesas and tablelands as a result of these disputes. The arbitor in most cases was the renowned Colt's forty-five revolver which the cow-puncher always carried in the holster upon his thigh.

As soon as the homesteaders flocked into the grazing country and began building homes and tilling the land,

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 another quarrel arose. This was between the settler, or nester, as he was often called and the cattle men. These nesters often preempted the water holes which were very important and also fenced off the best grazing lands, so pitched battles ensued between the cattle men and the settlers who were frequently of foreign birth and unacquainted with our laws and customs.

About 1892 this tension between the homesteaders and the cattle kings came to a crisis. This was when the cow-punchers assembled two hundred strong, and tried to dispel a settler from his holding in which he had fenced off the best water hole in the region. This force of cattle men were promptly met by an equal body of local deputies which was largely made up of homesteaders. A pitched battle was imminent near Cheyenne, Wyoming, when the United States cavalry appeared, and dispersed both parties, and the despotic power of the cattle men was forever broken. After that, barbed wire fences appeared on many of the great ranches and the cattle business was restricted.

Then there were still other fights between the cattle men and the sheep men, and finally the goat men appeared and cleaned up what the sheep had left. So from the time when the first herds of domestic cattle appeared upon the western prairies the cattle business has been surrounded by romance and glamour,

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 hour), and found her friend sitting, or rather reclining, in a great chair, with an appearance of illness and dejection, which equally surprised and alarmed Madeline.

"Oh, madam! (said she inexpressibly affected, and taking her hand, which she pressed to her lips and her bosom), why, why did you not send for me before?"

"Because I did not wish to break in upon your happiness," replied the Countess returning the pressure of her hand, while her heavy eyes brightened with a sudden ray of pleasure, and a smile broke through the gloom of her countenance.

"Alas, madam (cried Madeline mournfully), you could not have broken in upon my happiness, for I experienced none (said she, suddenly recollecting herself), which I could have put in competition with that of attending you."

"I am truly sensible of your affection, my love (cried the Countess), and am grateful for it."


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 and attended with fighting and many conditions that lent themselves to dramatic action.

The cowboy from the very early days has been a picturesque historic figure, figuring very largely in the literature of the great west. In the very early days his life was a hard one, and many have been the stirring scenes in which he has taken part. He has ranged all the way from the Rio Grande on the south, to the Peace River in the very northern confines of civilization in British America. The cow-puncher also has ridden over the great divide into California, and up into Oregon and Washington. But wherever he has gone he has always been a chivalrous hero doing his work like a man. He might well be called the knight of the plains.

He has always ridden his faithful broncho, or mustang, or cayuse, according to the locality where his range was located. But by all three names this is still the same wirey, devil—may-care, little horse, tough as a pine knot, and doing a day's work that would kill any other horse in the world.

The cowboy's dress had been as picturesque as his wild life, with the broad-brimmed felt hat, the bright kerchief, the oil slicker worn in stormy weather, and the tall riding boots and chaps not to mention the historic forty-five reposing in the holster on his hip.

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 All these are well known characteristics of this knight of the plains.

There are few dull days in the life of a cow-puncher for adventure camps upon his trail, so what with heading off wild stampedes of cattle on dark nights, riding at a headlong pace, God only knows just where, and fighting cattle rustlers and nesters, as well as wolves and grizzly bears, the cow-puncher has always had plenty to test his nerve and keep him fit.

In the old days of the Gilson and Santa Fe trails the cattle used to be driven to the north in the summer time and back south in the winter migrating just as the buffalo did. But today all the large open ranges are gone. Instead the cattle graze over a much smaller range and the riding is all done from a central camp in one day.

All these things have tended to narrow down the once endless range of possibilities in the cowboy's life, so that to-day he is a much more sophisticated creature than of yore. And cannot expect a skulking Indian to take a pot shot at him as he rides over the range, while the grizzly has become much more wary and fearful of repeating rifles.

So with this word picture of the cowboy's arena and the conditions and action which have given him his place in both fiction and history, I leave you to the adventures of this knight of the range, and more espe

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 cially to the heroism of his faithful little horse. He may on occasion buck like a fractious ram and try to pile his rider in a sorry heap on the ground, but when his antics are over he will carry his rider at a pace which would leave the best cavalry horses dead on the trail at the end of twenty-four hours. For this wild horse is a product of nature, toughened by exposure and hard conditions, and he has the fiber and heart of a wind-whipped oak.

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 "You must have been indisposed longer than to-day I am sure, madam?" said Madeline.

The Countess acknowledged she was right in thinking so.

"And why, madam (said Madeline), did you permit your servant to deceive me last night by saying you were well?"

"I did not wish to give you pain while it was possible to avoid doing so," answered the Countess.

"Ah, madam (said Madeline, with an involuntary sigh), pain is doubly great when not expected."

Madam Chatteneuf and her daughter now entered, and both, by their words and looks, expressed their regret for the illness of the Countess. The former tenderly reproached her for not having immediately acquainted them of it.


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ANK BRODIE sat easily in his saddle on his favorite mount, Old Baldy, gazing with a rapt expression at the sun-kissed peaks of the distant mountains. It was a scene that he had beheld hundreds of times before in the course of fifteen years upon

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 Crooked Creek ranch, but somehow this scene always drew him with a strange power. It was as though a great hand had been stretched out and with unseen fingers played upon the harp strings of his being sweet low music, for Hank was a dreamer and a poet as well as a cow-puncher.

Of course his name was Henry, but if you had called him that to any of his cow-puncher pals, they would have looked at you quizzically and then replied, "Beggin' your pardon, stranger, we calls him Hank in these here parts."

He was the typical cowboy figure, lean and muscular, and with muscles like rawhide even like the rawhide lariat which he carried by his side. He was quick and alert either with the rope or the six shot Colt's revolver which reposed in the holster on his right hip. His dress was the usual cow-puncher outfit, with the broad brimmed gray felt Stetson, and the bright kerchief about his neck. This handkerchief had a dual usage. It was either a neck piece or mask as occasion required. You may wonder where he would use a disguise, but there were several occasions in the cattleman's warfare with cattle rustlers and homesteaders where a mask might be convenient. Hank wore no coat and his vest was usually unbuttoned, showing the flannel outing shirt underneath. The nearest approach

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 "Why you may know (said she) by the short stay which Madeline has made with you, that I have not long concealed it from you. I was only taken ill the evening after she left me; and, had I grown better, I should yet a little longer, in compliance with your wishes, have debarred myself the pleasure of her company. But do not distress me (she continued, raising herself in her chair, and looking round with her wonted benignancy), by this melancholy; I am already better; your presence, my friends, like a rich and precious cordial, has revived me."

The exertion she made cheered her friends; and the conversation soon took a more cheerful turn. Madame Chatteneuf apologised for not coming at an earlier hour, by assigning the reason of her delay; and the Countess sincerely congratulated her on an event which had given her such pleasure.


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 to a coat he had was the slicker which he carried on the back of his saddle.

His riding breeches were just ordinary pants supplemented by ornamental chaps, but his long-legged boots were quite exceptional, with their tall slim heels and their thin soles. The tall heels were to keep the foot from catching in the stirrups and the thin soles to enable the rider to better feel the stirrup. In the pockets of his vest he always carried matches and Durham tobacco cigarettes.

For training and life background Hank was not the usual puncher, for he had been born in the east and had seen two years at Harvard University. Because of this background his fellow punchers sometimes called him Doe, but he was a thorough cattle man for all that.

For the past three days he had been out on what he termed a "fool chase." He was looking for a blooded mare named Kentucky Bell, the property of the Crooked Creek ranch owner. This fine mare had been lured away the summer before by some one of the outlaw mustang stallions that sometimes came through the mountains to the west and frequented the range, in fact she had been seen recently consorting with a notorious outlaw stallion known as the Black Killer and Mr. Morgan, the manager, was most anxious to recover her.

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 The Black Killer was a devilish outlaw mustang who had killed more than one man and several domestic horses on the ranches. He was only an occasional visitor to the Crooked Creek ranch, but even so he was a menace to both man and beast. There is among the wild horses one out of a thousand, or perhaps ten thousand, known as a killer. They are the most dangerous animal upon the western ranges, more cunning than any bear or wolf and much more to be feared.

Such a horse will often permit himself to be caught along with a score of other wild horses, and never show the killing tendency until he gets his prey at his mercy and then he strikes like lightning. The cow-puncher's mount is much quicker to sense the presence of a killer than is his rider, so when a horse begins to champ his bit nervously and to drool with excitement and fear and draw away from an unseen danger, the cow-puncher always reaches for his trusty six shooter.

Hank had told Mr. Morgan that it was like looking for a needle in a haymow to try to find the mare on the range of several hundred thousand acres and as for the Black Killer he was more wary than a grizzly, but Mr. Morgan had insisted and Hank had gone on this "wild goose chase" as he styled it.

Obedience is one of the ranch's first laws and Hank, as the head cow-puncher, had to obey. So, for the

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 past three days he and Baldy had been scouring the country, but had not seen a sign of either the mare or the killer.

Hank was so engrossed with his day dream of watching the sunset that his usually alert senses were for the moment off guard, so it was Old Baldy who first discovered that all was not well in the landscape about them, for without a moment's warning he threw up his head and snorted and then pulled restively at the bit.

"Whoa, whoa, old scout," said Hank soothingly. "What is it, old chap?"

Again Baldy snorted and pulled at the bit. He had either heard or scented something that his master had missed. What in the dickens could it be? But Hank was immediately informed, for a terrified, agonized squeal from a horse in distress cut the stillness like a knife. It was some distance away, but there was no mistaking the sound.

Hank turned partly around in his saddle and looked up the canyon behind them. Baldy had been standing where a branch creek emptied into Crooked Creek. In midsummer this small creek would be entirely dry, but now there was a little water in the river bed. What Hank saw filled him with astonishment and anxiety, for the objects of his double quest were in full sight,

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Rh able to our colder English taste. He looked upon gesture and action as essential elements of the orator's power, and had studied them carefully from the artists of the theatre. There can be no doubt that we have his own views on this point in the words which he has put into the mouth of his "Brutus," in the treatise on oratory which bears that name. He protests against the "Attic coldness" of style which, he says, would soon empty the benches of their occupants. He would have the action and bearing of the speaker to be such that even the distant spectator, too far off to hear, should "know that there was a Roscius on the stage." He would have found a French audience in this respect more sympathetic than an English one. His own highly nervous temperament would certainly tend to excited action. The speaker, who, as we are told, "shuddered visibly over his whole body when he first began to speak," was almost sure, as he warmed to his work, to throw himself into it with a passionate energy.

He has put on record his own ideas of the qualifications and the duties of the public speaker, whether in the Senate or at the bar, in three continuous treatises

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 about an eighth of a mile up the canyon where it narrowed down between the walls.

A small colt perhaps two months old was in the foreground. He was running like a jackrabbit and his mother, who was none other than Kentucky Bell, was following close behind him trying desperately to ward off the fiendish effort of a coal black stallion who was springing and biting at the colt with deadly intent. The mare was putting up a desperate running fight, but the colt seemed doomed although he ran like an antelope and doubled and twisted as the old fury came close to him.

Now the ill fame of the killer had travelled all over that portion of the state. There was not a cow-puncher in the region that had not much rather meet a grizzly bear than the killer, but his duty was plain so Hank reined Baldy sharply about and galloped rapidly towards that desperate running fight. He knew full well that he ran some risk in so doing, but a cowboy's life is full of adventure and he was enured to danger of every sort.

Again and again the little horse seemed lost, for the black stallion would swoop down upon him, his teeth snapping like a bear trap, but just in time the colt would jump aside or the mare would intervene, receiving ugly bites herself.

So intent was the killer with the object in view that

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 he did not notice Hank and Old Baldy until they were about fifty yards away. Then he spotted them and immediately the colt was forgotten and the black fury charged straight down the canyon at this new foe. The battle would have been a short one but for the nervousness of Baldy who sensed even more fully than his master the deadly character of the oncoming horse.

Hank had just raised his Colt's to shoot when the sight of the charging fury overwhelmed Baldy and he wheeled like a flash and galloped towards Crooked Creek while the bullet which would certainly have struck the stallion went whizzing over his head.

Hank sawed away upon the bit and did his best to quiet Baldy, but his panic was complete, so the best Hank could do was to fire over his shoulder at his pursuer. This was at best very inaccurate shooting and he saw his revolver being rapidly emptied to no purpose.

If he could only stop Baldy long enough for a good shot he would at least wound the fury, but Baldy had no mind to come to grips with this black devil.

Closer and closer the fury came. Baldy could probably have run away from him had Hank plied the quirt, but he had no such intentions so he and his mount were working at cross purposes. When they reached Crooked Creek, Hank guided Baldy down stream where the bank was smooth and finally after

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 "From the prospects of my friends (cried she), I must now derive my chief satisfaction."

"If they are as bright as your own (said Madame Chatteneuf) they must be pleasing ones indeed."

The Countess sighed deeply, but spoke not.

Olivia saw dejection again stealing round, and rallied her spirits to drive it away. No very difficult task indeed for her, as she was delighted with the idea of her journey to Italy. She talked of the conquests she expected to make; declared nothing less than a Marquis would satisfy her: and said the moment she was settled in her palace, she should invite the Countess and Madeline to it.—"And we will then try (she continued), whether our fair friend will follow my example, and give her little French heart in exchange for an Italian one."

"Seriously (cried Madame Chatteneuf, addressing the Countess), if we stay any long


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 desperate sawing upon the bit managed to bring him to a partial stop for just a second. Just long enough to turn in the saddle and get a good shot. At the crack of the revolver Hank heard the stallion squeal. He had scored. But to his great surprise the outlaw turned and disappeared among some piñons to the south and Hank saw no more of him.

The cow-puncher now had time to reload his revolver, for this good shot had been his last cartridge, and keeping a good sharp watch for the stallion, he went to look for the mare and colt.

He found Kentucky Bell near the spot where he had last seen her, and she seemed glad to see him and allowed herself to be roped without much difficulty.

The colt who had been badly scared by the outlaw was at first rather shy, but it kept close to the mare's flank and when Hank started on the long journey to the ranch house the colt followed obediently.

Half a mile up the creek it occurred to Hank that he should not have let the outlaw get away so easily, so after some deliberation he hitched the mare securely to a small piñon and went back to look for the Black Killer. He had now accomplished half the object of his quest and he wished to accomplish the other half.

He scoured the canyon, where he had last seen him, for an hour, but could not get a sight of him. Finally,

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 as it was getting late in the afternoon, Hank retraced his steps, back to the colt and mare.

He had hidden them in a narrow draw and at first he thought he had not remembered the place rightly, for the mare did not seem to be where he had left her. Finally after some searching he found the identical piñon to which he had tied the mare, but she was gone.

Yet, that was not all, the tree was broken down and there were signs of a desperate struggle. With a sense of foreboding Hank began searching the draw and soon came upon the mare. She was quite dead and the colt was nowhere to be seen.

Then the full purport of the tragedy came home to Hank. The old outlaw had been following him at a distance all the time. He had followed just as a grizzly will sometimes trail a man and when he was out of sight he had fallen upon the helpless mare. She had broken away in the course of the struggle, but had finally been killed.

At the sight of the broken bushes and trampled ferns Hank looked at his six gun to see that every chamber was full and that it was in readiness. They were not done with this business yet. As he hurried back to Baldy whom he had tied near that fatal piñon, he was aroused to a new danger by seeing Baldy pulling at his picket line. Then Baldy broke away and galloped

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 madly towards the creek leaving Hank alone in the draw.

"Well, I guess the devil is somewhere near," thought Hank. "Baldy wouldn't have bolted like that unless the old Satan was snooking about. I guess I am in for it now."

Baldy's hoof beats had barely died away when other hoofs were heard and the killer trotted out of the draw from a clump of cedars where he had been hiding all the time.

Hank's first impulse was to run for a small tree nearby or to climb to the top of a pile of boulders fifty feet away, but he had hardly time for either maneuver for the fury charged upon him like a cyclone, snapping his teeth and raging like a veritable demon.

Then the words of Colonel Roosevelt came to Hank and they helped to steady his hand and steel his heart. "If any wild animal ever charges you, do not run away, but stand perfectly still and keep shooting. There is not an animal living that can kill a man if he keeps his nerve."

Well, Hank would do just that. There was no other alternative. When the fury was sixty feet away the six shooter cracked for the first shot and a wisp of the black horse's mane dropped to the ground. The wound was a bad one in the neck, but not fatal and the killer went mad at the pain. After that he did not

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 mind bullets or pain. His only object was to get at his foe. Twice the revolver cracked again before he had covered half the remaining distance. Each time he was badly wounded, but thus far Hank had not hit a vital spot.

Then the killer did a foolish thing for he reared upon his hind legs and walked forward, striking with his forefeet and gnashing his teeth. Hank afterward said it was the most terrifying sight he had ever seen. To miss now was sure death, but the stallion had made the wrong move for this maneuver slowed up his charge and the cowboy sent two shots into his body and one into his head, and with a last desperate effort the killer charged forward and fell dead almost at Hank's feet. Coolness and the good Colt's revolver had won.

The stallion had barely ceased to struggle and Hank had hardly recovered from the great excitement of the few dramatic moments when he was treated to another surprise for his attention was attracted by some moving object at the very top of the pile of stones where he had thought of taking refuge when the stallion charged.

His first thought was that it was a skulking coyote, but on circling about the pile of stones he soon discovered that it was a small colt, and as he climbed up close to the terrified little horse he saw to his great

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 time at Verona, I shall flatter myself with a hope of having the pleasure of your company and Mademoiselle Clermont's."

"Do not indulge such a hope (said the Countess); for, be assured, my good friend, it would end in disappointment. There is but one journey which I can now look forward to."

The solemnity of her voice and manner, gave them no room to doubt the nature of the journey she alluded to.

"My dear friend (cried Madame Chatteneuf) you will really infect me with your gloom, and I shall begin my long and fatiguing journey with quite a heavy heart. At your time of life you may well look forward to many years. And, as I know of none whose continuance in life is more anxiously desired, so neither do I know of any who should more fervently desire that continuance themselves than you should, possessed as you are of every blessing which


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 surprise that it was Kentucky Bell's foal, the very one that the old killer had been trying to destroy when he had first caught sight of them.

The colt was very fearful of the cow-puncher, but he was perched up so high that he did not dare jump and Hank had purposely cut off the only good way of descent. So Hank got his rope which fortunately he had thrown on the ground when he hitched Baldy and lassoed the small horse and brought him plunging and very much afraid to the level ground. But now that he had him safely down, Hank was in a quandary to know how to get the colt home. Mr. Morgan, he knew, would never forgive him if he abandoned the colt now. So with great patience the cow-puncher started to halter break the colt to see if he would lead.

The small horse acted just like all colts and immediately sulked and threw himself and had to be dragged to his feet. Finally after an hour's hard work Hank got the colt so he would stand and not pull on the rope, but he did not think he would lead. In fact, as soon as he had secured Baldy and mounted and pulled on the rope, the colt again flopped to the ground. Finally the cow-puncher bound his legs with some thongs with which his saddle bags were always generously supplied and threw him across the saddle just as he would have done a dead deer and started to walk the five miles to Crooked Creek ranch. He

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 stopped several times to change the position of the colt and to readjust the slicker and piñon boughs under him. The colt thought his lot was very hard, judging from his sighs and occasional groans, but Hank assured him it was much better than being eaten up by the stallion.

About nine o'clock that night the cow-puncher arrived at the ranch, footsore and tired, but well pleased with his part in the expedition. For he had killed the killer and earned the reward of five hundred dollars, and had also rescued Kentucky Bell's colt which Mr. Morgan would prize very highly. It was an exploit that would give the cow-puncher something to talk about for several days so Hank was well pleased with the outcome.

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OUR years have now elapsed since that eventful day when Hank Brodie had engaged in that desperate running fight with the Killer, in which through sheer pluck and good shooting he had saved the life of Kentucky Bell's little colt. If one had seen that small horse lashed to Hank's saddle as he toted him home, and could also have seen the eleven hundred pound gelding which now pranced about over the ranch, free as the winds that blew, it would have been another striking reminder of the adage, "Great oaks from little acorns grow."

Never since that day when Hank had unbound the small horse and set him upon his feet before the ranch corral had he been haltered or bridled. A ranch mare which had lost her own colt the day before, had at once adopted the forlorn little horse and everything had gone on just as though he had not lost his own mother.

It is general practice among ranchmen not to break a colt until he is four years old, when he is supposed to have reached his full size and strength. Even the breaking that he gets is not the long painstaking course

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 or fluted, others have ornaments in relief in good taste. Pétis de la Croix mentions another coloured porcelain in his translation of the "Thousand and One Nights,"—the Martabani. "Six old slaves," he writes, "less richly dressed than those who were seated, immediately appeared; they distributed mahramas [blue squares of stuff used to wipe the fingers], and served shortly afterwards, in a large basin of martabani [green porcelain], a salad composed of whey, lemon-juice, and slices of cucumber." Chardin cites a green porcelain, which seems to be the same. He writes: "Everything at the king's is of massive gold or porcelain. There is a kind of green porcelain so precious that one dish alone is worth four hundred crowns. They say this porcelain detects poison by changing colour, but that is a fable: its price arises from its beauty and the delicacy of the material, which renders it transparent, although above two crowns in thickness." This last peculiarity has a great importance. It is impossible to suppose travellers would here allude to the sea-green céladon of which we have spoken above; this, laid upon a brown, close paste, approaching stone-ware, is never translucent. In the martabani, on the contrary, a thin, bright green glaze is applied upon a very white biscuit, which allows the light to appear through. It is most wonderful that a material so esteemed, and of so high a price, is not more common in our collections. Its name, on the other hand, leaves no doubt of its Persian nationality. Martaban (Mo-tama) is one of the sixteen states which composed the ancient kingdom of Siam; it may not be impossible, then, that we must restore to this kingdom the porcelain mentioned in the Arabian story. (Dr. Hirth's translation.)

M. Jacquemart's description of the martabani is imaginative. His difficulty in attributing transparency to any specimen of Chinese céladon would have disappeared had he remembered that among céladons (to be presently spoken of) manufactured at Ching-tê-chên during the Ming period, many had a genuine porcelain pâte and were translucid. As for the the-


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 of lessons which an eastern horse gets, but a rather harsh course of object lessons, in which he has to learn, or suffer the consequences. His breaking is always with force and this is force spelt with a capital F. Horses are plenty and cheap upon the western ranches, and time is valuable, so a man cannot spend too much time fussing with a refractory broncho. But most of these wild horses, which in some cases have been crossed with native stock, are very clever, and they learn rapidly, so after several severe lessons they are ready to ride, all but the outlaw, who is never safe or sure.

This refractory animal is naturally full of cussedness, and he may be expected to buck, kick, and bite at any time during his stormy life.

He is usually upon the bad string in the corral, and ultimately finds himself doing bucking stunts at the famous round-ups, or Rodeos which the cowboys hold each autumn at several western centres.

At these spectacular shows there is a premium upon pure cussedness so even the outlaw finds his place in the economy of the cattle country.

It had been as cold and blustery a Spring day as had come to the Wyoming in many a year; a day of scudding white clouds and rapidly moving shadows; a day that made one turn up his coat collar and seek shelter if possible.

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 Now in the early evening the boisterous north wind was holding high carnival about the ranch house and the out-buildings of the Crooked Creek ranch. He was picking up pieces of old paper, bits of twigs and last year's dead leaves and tossing them about in high glee. The scudding wind clouds partially hid the moon and the stars. Few sounds could be heard above the howling of the wind, only the shrill, tremulous whistle of a screech owl and the diabolical yapping of a pair of coyotes.

If it was cold and blustery outside, warmth and comfort reigned inside the ranch house. The long low room was bright with the light of two lamps and a great log fire which crackled and danced in the huge fire-place. By the long table were seated fourteen cow-punchers, hale and hearty boys and the working force of the Crooked Creek ranch.

At the head of the table sat Mr. Morgan, superintendent of the ranch. At his right was Hank Brodie, the head cow-puncher, and near him his nephew, young Larry Winton, who had come up from Terryville that very afternoon. He had made the trip on a buckboard with his trunk, which contained all his worldly possessions, lashed on behind.

Larry was Hank Brodie's only near relative. His mother had been Hank's only sister, but she had died two weeks before, and as the boy's father had died

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when he was a mere child, this had left him homeless. He was also nearly penniless and the invitation from his uncle in the Wyoming hills to come and live with him had been gladly accepted. Larry had dreamed of finishing high school and going to college but since he had no money and few friends in the East, he temporarily gave up the idea of school and went West.

The West had always had a strong appeal for him. The broad spaces and adventurous life of which he had

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 can render it happy—affluence—universal esteem—the consciousness of deserving it—and an amiable daughter who adores you, and is settled as happily as your fond heart can wish her to be."

"I am truly sensible of the blessings I possess (cried the Countess), and truly grateful for them, impute my melancholy not to discontent, but to illness."

Dinner was now served in the dressing-room; and, soon after its removal, Madame Chatteneuf rose to depart, having many important matters yet to arrange at home. She assured the Countess, but for the material reasons she had for hastening to Verona, she would have put off her journey thither till she saw her perfectly recovered. This was a measure the Countess declared she never would have consented to, and one by no means necessary to prove the strength of her friendship.


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 read in books had kindled his imagination so he had entered upon this new adventure with great zest.

He was a tall athletic youth, five feet, ten inches in height and weighing one hundred fifty-five pounds, although he was not quite sixteen years of age. He was muscular and athletic. He had always played baseball and football and camped and tramped, in fact he was a fine product of that great organization, the Boy Scouts. As he sat by his uncle's side looking at the jolly company around the table he wondered what they would think of him. They certainly were a hearty looking company. He had never seen food disappear so fast before. Mrs. Morgan, the wife of the superintendent, and Olga, the Swedish maid, had all they could do to keep the plates well-filled. Such simple fare as potatoes, which the cow-punchers always call spuds, bacon and eggs, brown bread, coffee, and pumpkin pie were disappearing at an alarming rate.

If Larry was curious about the cow-punchers, they were also curious about this young tenderfoot who had just arrived from the East and they immediately began feeling him out in a jovial good-natured manner.

If the cow-punchers were inclined to tease, Larry's Uncle Henry would not interfere for he wanted his nephew to be at once put upon his mettle and to start the new life aright.

"Your Uncle Hank says you can ride," said Big

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text: The New York Times/1918/11/11/German Dynasties Being Wiped Out


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 Bill, turning to Larry during a pause in the conversation.

"Why, yes," said Larry, eager to get into their good graces. "Major Winterby, our riding master, says I can ride anything that stands on four legs."

The moment the words were out of his mouth he regretted such a sweeping assertion, but every cow-puncher at the table immediately drew on his poker face. This was a serious, non-committal expression as blank as a bare wall, but if Larry had known, they exchanged sly pokes under the table.

"He wasn't a-referring to feather beds or rocking chairs, was he?" put in Long Tom.

"Mebbe he was thinking of saw-horses," interjected Pony Perkins.

At these sallies Larry grew hot with indignation, but at a warning look from his uncle he returned a good-natured answer, "Well, gentlemen, perhaps I did overstate it."

"Here, here, kid," called an old cow-puncher from across the table, "don't you gentlemen us. We don't have any sech out here in the Wyoming hills. We are all gents. If you call a chap a gentlemen out here, that is next to calling him a hoss thief, a cattle rustler, or a gambler who don't pay his bills. Gentlemen is a fighting word out here and it usually precedes bullets."

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bore down on the helm as the boat heeled over. For a breathless second he thought the craft would be swamped. Water poured over the gunwales. The girls screamed. Joe was thrown off his balance and went sprawling into the stern.

But the Sleuth was staunch. In a moment it recovered, righted itself, and surged on through the storm. Frank breathed a sigh of relief. The engine throbbed steadily and, although the boat was rocking and swaying in the turbulent sea, it was drawing nearer shore and already he could distinguish the line of boathouses through the downpour.

For all its violence, the storm was brief. The wind began to die down, although the rain continued as though the heavens had been opened up. In a few minutes Frank was able to pick out his own boathouse and he headed the Sleuth directly for it. The sturdy craft sped swiftly toward the open doorway, then

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 ory that ware of this nature found in the countries influenced by Arab civilisation is to be attributed to Siam, it has little if anything to support it. The dense stone-ware, with its full coloured enamel, produced in Siam during the past two or three centuries, is well known to connoisseurs, and there is no evidence that the keramic art of the country flourished notably in other directions at earlier periods. Recent researches, conducted by Sir Ernest Satow, C.M.G., then British Representative in Bangkok, at the request of the writer, do indeed go to show that céladon was among the ancient products of Siam. The great scarcity of old specimens in the market interfered with Mr. Satow's attempts, but in December, 1885, when on a tour in northern Siam, he visited a ruined city called Sawauk-halôk. More than five centuries ago a keramic manufactory existed in this city. Chinese workmen were employed there and possibly Chinese materials were sometimes used. Nothing now survives of the town but the fragmentary walls of Buddhist temples and the remains of the kiln. In the vicinity of the latter pieces of pottery are dug up from time to time. Mr. Satow secured three of them. They are evidently failures in baking, which were rejected as useless, and their condition alone, apart from other evidence, furnishes an almost conclusive argument against the probability of their having been imported from China in recent times and carried 400 miles to a ruined city never visited by any Western previously to Mr. Satow's tour. Among these three fragments was the body of a vase, now in the possession of the writer. Its pâte is coarse, reddish grey stone-ware, essentially different from the characteristic clay of Chinese céladon. But the glaze might easily be mis-


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 "Excuse me, gentlemen, I mean gents," corrected Larry. "You see I don't know your customs and I will have to learn them."

"Why, of course," put in Big Bill, "you will learn in no time. We are kind of different out here, we has our ways and we sticks by them."

"What kind of hosses did this air major of your'n ride?" inquired Texas Pete. "Was they bronchos or was they high-bred stock?"

"They surely were not bronchos," replied Larry. "The most of them were saddle horses, but some were polo ponies and they were often good jumpers. Major Winterby usually got first prize at the great Eastern States Exposition."

"How high could one of them fancy hosses jump?" asked Long Tom. "I've seen some high jumping myself among the wild hosses."

"I think the Major's record with Comet was seven feet, four inches."

At this announcement a low whistle escaped several of the cowboys and Larry followed up this good impression.

"But the world's record is eight feet, six inches," he continued.

"Well," said Pony Perkins, "that's some jump but I've seen one of the fuzzy tails beat that. One time me and Arizona Tom was up in the big Pine River

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 country catching fuzzy tails. We built a big trap around a water-hole and Tom and me hid in a pit nearby to watch it. We watched for two nights and nothing came along. Then a big bunch of fuzzy tails went into our trap and we sprung the trigger. One of them was a black stallion, the finest wild hoss I ever saw. He ran around the enclosure for a minute or two, then going to one side of it, he took two quick jumps and then a big spring and went over the top slick as a sliver. I jumped on my hoss and put after him but he was out of sight in two shakes of a lamb's tail, making about fourteen feet at a stride. When I measured that fence, it was nine feet high."

"Well," said Larry, "I guess that beats the world's record for high jumping, but you must remember that those horses jumped with a man on their back while this horse was riderless."

"That's true," said Pony.

"How are your Eastern saddles rigged?" inquired Big Bill. "Are they single shot or double shot?"

Larry looked inquiringly at his uncle. "He means, are they rigged with one cinch or two."

"That's still dark to me," said Larry. "I don't even know what a cinch is."

"That isn't strange," said his uncle, "here we say cinches, but in the East we say saddle girt."

"Oh," said Larry, "We have one girt."

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text: Talk:An Anthology of Australian Verse

title: Talk:An Anthology of Australian Verse


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 "Single shot," chorused the cow-punchers.

"Be they center fire or three quarters rigged?" inquired Long Tom.

"That's another on me," said Larry.

"I see I shall have to explain again," said Uncle Henry. "On our Western saddles we have two straps coming down from the tree. At the angle where they meet there is a ring and the cinch is lashed into that ring. If these straps are of equal length it is center fire, but if the forward one is shorter than the other it is three quarters."

"I see," said Larry, "we have one strap coming down from the saddle tree."

"I dunno," said Long Tom, "but I'm afeared that a single rigged wouldn't hold a thousand pound steer when you brung him up short. I'm afeared you would lose steer, rider, and saddle."

"I am wondering," put in Pony Perkins, "what your Major would think if he was on a wild hoss, one that would crowhop, and sunfish, and swap ends. I guess he would think there was something doing."

"Perhaps he would," said Larry, "but he is a good hurdle rider and a fine polo player."

"That air polo game is some game," said Big Bill. "Me and California Joe usen to play it for the moving picter folks down at Los Angeles."

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 "That's so," said Long Tom. "Why, Big Bill's middle name is polo."

"That's fine," said Larry. "We will have to have a team this summer."

This suggestion was received with great enthusiasm and they entered into a discussion of the game of polo with much zest.

By this time the table had been cleared off and the men had pushed back their chairs and many of them had lit their cigarettes. But Pony Perkins had gone over to one of the windows where he stood looking out into the darkness. Noticing Pony's posture and his quiet manner a hush had fallen over the cowboys. Big Bill leaned over to Larry and whispered, "You jest watch Pony. I s'pect he will break forth in a minute. He has got a touch of religion coming on. He experienced religion down at a camp meeting at Wyanne last summer."

Larry looked over his shoulder at Pony. He was a small man and his attitude indicated deep concentration. Presently he turned and faced his fellow cowboys. His face was bright with a wonderful smile and his eyes had a gleam in them like the light of the stars.

"Gents," he said, raising his right hand for silence, "I feel the spirit of the Lord acoming down out of Heaven upon me. Yes, I feel it acoming, gents, and

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 it is like Chinook, the south wind, when he breathes over the brown ranches in the Spring. For the spirit of the Lord is full of life and gentleness and it is acoming to me, gents."

"I see the Lord acoming down from Heaven on a white hoss. He is agalloping on the clouds. On His saddle horn is a new rope and He is acoming to rope all you onery old steers. Now, gents, when the Lord rides by don't put down your heads and paw the dirt, and bellow, and kick up a fuss. But jest hold up your heads and let the Lord rope ye. Then when He has roped ye. He will get out His branding iron and put His name on your foreheads and you will be His'n forever. Hallelujah, I see the Lord acoming. He is looking for all His onery old ranch steers, and all the cattle hear His voice and they are acoming. Down from the broad plateau they are acoming, from the high mesa they are acoming, from the deep canyons they are acoming, rejoicing at the call of the Lord. And, gents, you may think the Lord is fer off but He is right here among us jest ropin' cow-punchers. It won't be so long until the great round-up, the day when the Lord drives us all home on the Heavenly trail to live forever in His green pasture. And, oh, cowboys, the feed will be sweet on the Lord's ranch and the pools of water will be so fresh that when you have drunk of them you never will be thirsty again. O, cow

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 punchers, make ready, tighten up your belts and be smiling when the Lord comes."

As Pony finished it was so still in the room that one could have heard a pin drop. The cow-punchers who had been grinning when he began were all looking solemn. Long Tom had copied Pony's heavenly smile and Big Bill was surreptitiously wiping away tears.

"That's some sermon, Pony," said Big Bill.

"You gin it to us good," ejaculated Long Tom.

"That was fine, Pony," said Mr. Morgan. "I guess we all know what you meant and I can see the boys all took it to heart."

"Now, gents," continued Pony, "don't you fellers get to thinking that I am spouting jest to hear myself spout. I couldn't help it; it was the spirit of the Lord came down on me and I jest bust out like a geyser. Now, gents, let us all conclude this evening by singing the cow-puncher's hymn, When We Are Rounded Up in Glory."

They began the old cowboy hymn rather quietly, but the verses gathered volume as they went on until finally they were singing at the top of their voices and the rafters of the low room fairly rang. Presently they were swinging to and fro and keeping time upon the table with their fists or stamping their feet. It was a great religious marching song, Rounded Up in Glory,

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 for every man at the rude table entered into it with all his soul.

When the sound of the last vigorous verse had died away, the company slowly dispersed and the cow-punchers made their way to the bunk house, two or three of the older men stopping to slap Pony on the back and to tell him that he was a good old sky pilot and they would rather hear him preach than any of the sky pilots down at Wyanne.

The bunk house was very much like the ranch house in construction, a long low building with a row of army cots on either side and an aisle in the middle. At the head of each cot was a chair that had seen better days.

Laughing and joking about the weather and the day's work ahead, the cow-punchers stripped off coats, breeches, and chaps and piled them upon the chairs and stood their tall boots by the cots, then shot into their cots like prairie dogs into their holes. In five minutes time the entire company were between the sheets.

It seemed to Larry that the men fell asleep as soon as their heads touched the pillows, for soon nearly the entire crowd was snoring prodigiously. It seemed to the young tenderfoot that he had never heard such snores before.

He lay awake for several minutes listening to the

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 sleeping men and the howling wind outside with an occasional whistle from a screech owl or a howl from a coyote. Then he, too, fell asleep and dreamed of the Lord coming down from Heaven on a white horse, coming for the great round-up to bring home his cow-punchers to the Heavenly ranch to be with Him forever.

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 taken for a manufacture of the Middle Kingdom. It is light green, passing almost into white. The interior portion of the vase is vertically fluted, and the glaze in the interstices of the flutes assumes the aspect of green streaks. The upper portion is decorated with horizontal flutes and bands, between which are incised leaf scrolls. The piece is artistic, the quality of the glaze good, and the technique of more than medium quality. From this specimen of Siamese ware, manufactured probably in the fourteenth century directly under Chinese instruction, it is possible to judge Siamese capacities in respect of céladon in early times, and to conclude that, though Siam may unquestionably have furnished some of the céladons found in the former Arab possessions, the portion attributable to her is probably very small, and the pieces may easily be distinguished from their Chinese contemporaries and predecessors by the pâte. This is reddish grey, or light brown, and presents a glistening, crude appearance—not unlike that of half-burned tiles—which offers no resemblance to the reddish brown, dense, and close-grained biscuit of the Chinese ware. Dr. A. B. Meyer, as quoted by Dr. Hirth, ably describes the general type of céladon found from Egypt to Borneo:—

The céladon porcelain is extremely heavy. It is of a light green colour, and I believe that, in selecting this hue, the makers intended to imitate the colour of jadestone, and that this was the reason why it was so much appreciated. The articles which have been found in various countries between the island of Ceram on the one hand and Africa on the other, consist in dishes measuring up to about half a metre, covered by green enamel all over with the exception of a ring on the bottom, 1 to 2 centimetres in breadth and from about 10 to 15 centimetres in diameter, and being red


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ULLY an hour before daylight the following morning Larry was awakened by the cowboys who were up and dressing. The clothes they had thrown upon the chairs so unceremoniously the night before, were as hastily donned by the feeble light of a kerosene lamp and they were ready for the day's work.

"Gracious," ejaculated Larry, jumping out of bed, "do we have to work in the dark out here on the ranch?"

"No, not exactly," said Uncle Henry, "but you see this is the first day of the Spring round-up. It is always a hard day and we like to get an early start. There is nothing like starting the day right. You wait a minute, Larry, I've got some cowboy togs for you."

He went to a large closet at the end of the bunk house and brought out a brand new suit, Stetson, kerchief, chaps, tall boots, and all.

"What, are those for me, Uncle?" cried the boy.

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text: The New York Times/1918/11/11/More Warships Join the Reds


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 "Yes," said Mr. Brodie, "I sent down to Wyanne and got them for you just as soon as I received your letter saying you were coming. I want you to be a real cow-puncher from the start. You are going with the round-up men today. I am going to let you ride Old Dobbin. He is a native horse and doesn't know what the word buck means, besides he isn't old either."

Presently Larry found himself seated once more at the long table in the ranch house where several platters of hot sourdough griddle cakes were waiting the cow-punchers. These, with bacon and hot coffee and plenty of maple syrup and butter, were the regulation morning meal at the ranch house. A big crock behind the kitchen stove was always filled with the sourdough.

The morning meal was not eaten as leisurely as supper had been. This was the beginning of the day's work and the cow-punchers went at it in a business-like manner. Soon the griddle cakes and bacon were dispatched and all were off to the corral for their ponies.

To lasso one's favorite pony in the corral with a hundred others, all moving about and restless, was not an easy matter, but to do this in semi-darkness and with the ponies ducking to escape the flying nooses was quite a difficult matter. But one by one the ponies

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 were secured and brought outside the corral; then began the process of saddling and bridling.

"What, haven't those horses even been broken?" asked Larry of his uncle in surprise, as the horses pirouetted and snorted and jumped about when the men sought to saddle them. One pony even had to be thrown and his legs hobbled before the cow-puncher could get him saddled.

"Why, sure," returned Mr. Brodie, "most of these are seasoned horses, but they have been running on the range all winter and haven't been worked, so on a morning like this they are full of kinks and have to work off their steam somehow."

If Larry had been surprised at the trouble in saddling the bronchos, he was still more surprised when the first one mounted began to buck. He would put his head down between his knees and then buck straight into the air, three or four feet, and come down stiff-legged giving his rider a terrific jolt.

"Gracious," ejaculated Larry, "I wouldn't want to be on that piece of horse flesh. What is the matter with him? Is he ugly?"

"Oh, no," returned Uncle Henry, "he is just working off steam. We always say that a mustang that won't buck is bad in some other way. We like to have them buck, then we know they're natural. I had a broncho once that never bucked until I had ridden him

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 a year and then he tried to slam me into the corral fence and kill me. He nearly broke his own neck and would have broken mine as well if I hadn't slid out of the saddle. Then he 'broke wide open' as we say and the cussedness which he should have worked off a little at a time, came all at once, so in the slang of the cattle land 'let 'em buck'."

When Old Dobbin, as he was called, was brought out Larry was surprised to see a handsome Iowa horse of about ten hundred pounds.

"He's as clever as the day is long," remarked Uncle Henry, as they swung into their saddles, "and he knows the cattle game almost as well as the bronchoes. You just give him his head most of the time and he'll do the rest."

So they galloped after the cow-punchers and the first day of the Spring round-up begun.

"You see," explained Mr. Brodie, riding up close to his nephew, "this Spring round-up used to be a complicated affair before the ranches were all fenced. No one could brand even his own cattle until the day of the round-up was appointed by the superintendent of each district. Then the cow-punchers of several ranches all got together and drove the cattle to one place where they were branded and sorted out by the inspector, with a bookkeeper to note down the stock which belonged to each ranch. The branding practise

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 is an old one. The first branding irons were brought from Spain by Cortez and Pizarro. Cattle have always been branded in Spain. We also got our first long-horned stock from the Mexicans, but now it has been bred out, and most of our herds are short-horned Durham and Hereford."

"Where are we headed for?" asked Larry.

"Ultimately we are going to Piñon Valley. This ranch happens to be beautifully located for the round-up. At this time of year all of the cattle are on the lower plateau because the feed is better there. So we cut out a thousand head a day and run them into Piñon Valley and there we hold them until we have branded all the calves and the cows that need it. Then we feed them in through what we call the neck of the bottle that leads to the upper plateau. It takes about ten days to put the entire herd through this process."

When Uncle Henry and Larry arrived at Piñon Valley they found small groups of cattle already streaming into the lower end for the cow-punchers had preceded Larry and his uncle by half an hour. Larry saw that Piñon Valley was about three hundred yards long and one hundred yards wide. The sides of the valley were very precipitate and covered with piñons and junipers. Three cow-punchers had been placed at the head of the valley to keep the cattle from going through to the upper plateau. Larry and his uncle

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sat on their horses and watched the cattle come into the valley. It was a wonderful sight. To Larry they seemed endless.

"My," he said, "what a herd."

"That's only a fragment," returned Uncle Henry, "some day I will take you to a nearby hill where we

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Rh Frank shut off the engine and the boat came to rest.

"Some trip!" remarked Joe, shaking himself like a dog emerging from the water, so that spray flew from his clothing in every direction.

"My hair is all wet, and I won't be able to do a thing with it," mourned Callie Shaw, with feminine concern for her appearance first of all. In spite of the shelter afforded by the tarpaulin, both girls were thoroughly drenched. As for the boys, their clothing clung limply to their bodies. Frank clambered out of the boat and moored it fast, while Joe helped the girls up onto the landing.

"We're mighty lucky to be back at all," Iola Morton said. "I was sure the boat would be swamped."

"It takes a pretty big storm to swamp our boat," boasted Joe. "Although, to tell the truth, I was pretty nervous for a while."

"I was so frightened I couldn't speak," confessed the girl. "I do hope Chet and Biff turned back. They would never get through that storm alive."

Frank went to the door.

"No sight of them yet," he reported. Then he peered through the driving screen of rain again. "Just a minute—I hear a boat coming this way."

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 can see most of the herd through a field glass. That will be a sight worth seeing."

"What is that pink streak way off to the East?" asked Larry.

"I was wondering if you would notice it," returned his uncle. "That is man's reward for getting up early. It is the miracle of the new day. Old Sol is just climbing up over the Sierras. It's a sight to set one right for the entire day. Just watch it, boy."

Larry watched and the pink streak which at first had been small grew in both width and length and also in brightness. The pink became red and then the red was suffused with an unearthly radiance. The snow on the distant mountain tops refracted the sunlight till all the colors of the prism showed. With each passing second the glory grew in brightness until old Sol finally burst into full view, the center of all this splendor. "My!" exclaimed Larry, "it takes one's breath away."

"You bet," returned Uncle Henry. "This is a great country. It's a great place for a young man to grow up in, the wide spaces, bracing air, and the blue sky are good for a man's soul."

"What do you say, Mr. Brodie," cried a cow-puncher, riding up, "have we got enough?" The head cow-puncher looked over the seething mass of cattle in Piñon Valley with an appraising eye, then said, "All right, shut down the gate."

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 Then a dozen cow-punchers, including Mr. Brodie and Larry, made a cordon across the lower end of Piñon Valley and the main herd were turned back. When the imprisoned cattle had begun to quiet down and the steers had worked their way to the center of the herd as they always do on such an occasion, the branding began. Soon little fires were seen all about the perimeter of the valley. Presently the cowboys began roping calves. It seemed to Larry like a rather brutal process.

The rope would whiz through the air and fall over a calf's head, then if he were not near enough to the fire for the brand to be applied, he would be dragged unceremoniously into the proper position. Then the branding iron, which was six inches broad and seven inches long, would be thrust against his rump. It did not matter if he thrashed, or kicked, or bleated, the branding process went on. When the hair had been entirely singed off and the trade mark of the Crooked Creek Cattle Company burned into his skin, he was loosed and allowed to go to his excited mother. The brand for this particular ranch was C C R with a strand of barbed wire above and beneath, and also at either end.

"You see," explained Uncle Henry, "we have to make the brand more or less complicated, just C C R would

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 not do for some rustler would come along and close up the two C's and then it would read O O R."

"Is that ever done?" inquired Larry.

"Oh, yes," replied his uncle. "The rustler's game is really a very serious menace to the cattle business. In the old days the ranchers used to lose more cattle from rustling than from any other cause. We have to be very careful in selecting the brand."

"How do you keep from getting the same brand?" inquired Larry.

"Well, you see, it is this way, the branding irons are all registered at the county seat. They have to be registered just as a trade mark is patented and the registrar sees to it that no branding iron is duplicated."

Soon Larry's attention was attracted by a cow which objected seriously to having her calf branded. Finally she charged the cow-puncher with the rope so viciously that he had to call another herdsman to rope the cow and hold her while they branded the calf. Soon the air, which had been sweet with the breath of the morning wind when they had first come to Piñon Valley, was filled with the smell of singeing hair and burning flesh, and the steam and reek of a thousand excited cattle. Hour after hour the work went on, cutting out cows and calves, branding the helpless little calves and then driving them forward to the head of Piñon Valley where they were in turn driven through the

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 or neck of the bottle to the upper plateau. At noon the chuck wagon came up and the cow-punchers by relays ate a hasty lunch.

"You see," explained Uncle Henry, "the chuck wagon has about gone out of business. In the old days when the cattle were often driven even hundreds of miles from the home ranch, the chuck wagon followed after them and the cowboys lived in the open. But today it is what we call a one day stand, that is, most of the riding is done from the home ranch and we can reach any point on the ranch between sunup and sundown."

Soon the cow-punchers were back at their gruesome work.

"I don't see how they manage to go 'way into the center of the herd and get the cows and calves as they do. The pony also seems to know which cow they are after," said Larry.

"That is one of the mysteries of the cattle game," explained his uncle, "the intelligence of some of these cow-ponies. Almost as soon as you spot your cow, no matter where it is, the pony seems to know which one you have picked out and is after it. He is so eager that sometimes, when a cow does not start as quickly as he thinks she ought, he gives her a nip behind."

Feverishly the cow-punchers worked until the sun had traveled through the high heavens and hung low

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 brown in colour. The paste consists of white porcelain, but it appears that the red-brown colour of the ring has its origin in certain changes of colour produced on the surface of the paste in such parts as are not covered by the enamel, that is, the ring on which the vessel stood while being fired. The ring on the bottom is characteristic of these old céladons, and so is the heaviness and the colour. The musters are of all possible kinds. Thus, for instance, the fluted pattern is often seen. It is, like all ornaments shown in these porcelains, produced by first impressing or engraving it on the paste previous to the enamelling. By putting on the enamel, the concave parts of the surface, representing the pattern, were filled up deeper with this semi-transparent material than the plain parts of the surface, for which reason the white paste shines through in brighter tints where the enamel is thin, whereas the pattern appears in a somewhat darker shade. I have seen the lotus flower in the middle of these dishes, or the fish ornament, or some sort of a checkered pattern spread over the whole surface. These dishes never bear a mark underneath the enamel; it appears therefrom that they were made at a time when the custom of marking the period of manufacture did not yet exist.

It is a point of some interest to ascertain how Chinese céladons found their way in these early days to almost all the countries included in the region between Japan and the Key Islands. Dr. Hirth has investigated the subject with infinite pains and wide reference to sources of information. The results of his researches may be summarized here, as embodied in a pamphlet published in 1888 in Shanghai.

In the thirteenth century there were two important channels of traffic from the keramic centres of the Middle Kingdom to the outer world. The termini of these channels were at Hang-chow, the capital of Chêkiang (spoken of by Marco Polo under the name of "Quin-sai") and at Zaitun, a place


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 on the western Wyoming hills. They had worked fast, so when the shadows began to fall, they were able to drive the last remnant of cattle that had nearly filled Piñon Valley through the neck of the bottle to the upper plateau. Then all hands, except three who had been selected for the purpose, turned home. Those three who were left behind camped in the gorge between Piñon Valley and the upper plateau and held the branded cattle on the upper mesa. The following morning before sunup the force of the Crooked Creek ranch were off again. Once more the little valley was filled with excited, snorting, steaming cattle and once again the gruesome work of putting the Crooked Creek trade mark upon the newly-born calves began.

"See that little chap who is wandering around among the herd?" asked Uncle Henry, pointing to a small red calf. "That is a maverick, which means a calf without a mother. Either his mother was a heifer and has disowned him, or he was the smaller one of twins and got crowded out, or possibly his mother died. Anyway he is a maverick. In the old days when branding was done under inspection it was a criminal offense to brand such a calf before his ownership had been determined by the inspector."

"Is the rustling business really a serious thing now?" inquired Larry. "I have read lots about it in novels but have never felt quite sure that it was all real."

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 "I am sorry to say it is," returned his uncle. "There are lots of men in this world that would rather live by thieving than by getting a living honestly. The cattle business which is done on such a large scale and out in the open is especially vulnerable to such practices. It is not an unheard of thing to find your fences cut and forty or fifty fat steers missing. They always take the best ones."

"But what do they do with them?" inquired Larry.

"Why, they drive them away for a long distance and keep them for a while until the theft has been forgotten, then they sell them.

"The government has done what it could to help detect such sales for, in every county, the railroads must keep books with a list of all cattle shipped out and these figures are open for inspection any time by anybody.

"The cattle business is much more civilized today than it was twenty-five years ago, then the cattle men, the sheep men, and the goat men fought many desperate battles over the ranch land and especially the water-holes. Water, in this ranch game, is very important."

"What are the water-holes?" inquired the tenderfoot.

"You see," said his uncle, "the sub-soil in this country is clay and in all the little hollows it holds the water almost as effectively as a man-made reservoir. So, long after the spring rains have passed, water remains in

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 these holes and the cattle come to these places to drink. It was a common thing in the old days when the cattle man had driven his herd a hundred miles to a favorite water-hole, to find it was full of drowned sheep. Even the cattle themselves sometimes push each other into the water till some are drowned.

"But the exciting thing in the cattle game in the old days was the great drive over the Santa Fe trail from New Mexico to Montana. Every spring the great herds were started from the south and driven northward for nearly a thousand miles and in the fall they were turned back southward and driven to their winter quarters. As the cowboys say, 'Them was the days'; days of rustling, of stampedes, of fights with other herdsmen, and the sheep and goat men. No cow-puncher ever complained in those days that he lacked for excitement. The days were full of it, full of excitement and danger and the hardest kind of hard work from sunup to sundown, and also through the night. For in those days they always set what they called the night watch. Then the herdsman rode round and round the cattle all night long singing his cow-puncher songs. There is something about the human voice which seems to soothe the cattle and this was the cow-puncher's easiest way to keep them quiet. Thus it is that the hundreds of cow-puncher's songs have come into existence, many of them very beautiful and full of local color."

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Page:Patches (1928).pdf/69

 On the tenth day after the beginning of the spring round-up, the last bunch of cattle had been driven from Piñon Valley to the upper plateau and the spring round-up was over. This work would not be done again until September when the autumn round-up would begin.

"Now," said Uncle Henry, when the last small herd had disappeared, "I am going to take you to the top of a small mountain nearby and show you a sight which cannot be duplicated anywhere east of the Mississippi River."

So they picketed their horses and climbed up through the piñons and junipers to a small mountain.

"The piñon," said Uncle Henry, "is a small nut-bearing pine and the juniper is a small cedar. You usually find them on very barren land."

They climbed up and up through more cedars and piñons and then through lodge-pole pines and aspens. Finally they came out into an open spot near the top of the mountain. Larry who had thought himself a good mountain climber was in a dripping sweat.

"Now," said his uncle, taking a small field glass from his pocket, "I am going to show you one of the sights of the cattle land." He gave Larry the glass and pointed towards the small plateau into which they had been driving the cattle for the past ten days.

Larry looked and was amazed at the sight, for as

title: Page:Patches (1928).pdf/69