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lewis m. grist, proprietor. J |nr Jndcpcndijnt ^uiilg Jtapaptr: <$on the |)roniotion of fltq political, ^oqial, gipiiicultuiial and tgommqaal Interests of tint |terms?$2.00 a tear in advance. "VOL. 3a ~ 7 YORKVILLE, 8. O., WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 6, 1892. NO. 1. i ii?I.* (mi. mntitiiia on-1.in itir? n. hmnif I Ioot ou his face wtionover ha whs think* | exDlosion. General 0. 0. Howard has, JOHN] BY THEODOR [Copyright, 1891, by Am [Nora.?Major Wlnthrup was killed at the b&ttle of Big Bethel, Va., Jane 10,1S61,and was one of the first Union officers that fell in the war. He was General Butler's representative j on the field, and met his fate while gallantly leading forward a detachment to flank the Confederate position. Upon examining his personal effects his relatives discovered the an- ; published manuscripts of several sketches and novels, among them the story of John Brent.] j * I CHAPTER L QRRRIAN'S RANCH. A few years ago I was working a gold quartz mine in California. It was a worthless mine, nnder the conditions of that time. I had been v dragged into it by the shifts and needs of California life, Destiny probably - meant to teach me patience and self poaeearion in difficulty. So destiny thrnst me into a bitter bad business of qnartz mining. If I had had conntless dollars of capital to work my mine, or quicksilver foi amalgamation as near and plenty as the snow on the Sierra Nevada, I might have done well enough. As it was, I got but certain pennyworths of gold to a most intolerable quantity of qnartz. The precious metal was to the brute mineral in the proportion of perhaps a hundred pinheads to the ton. My partners down in San Francisco wrote to me, "Only find twice as many pinheads and our fortune is made." So thought those ardent fellows, fancying that gold would go up and labor go down?that presently I would strike a vein where the mineral would show yellow threads and yellow dots, perhaps even yellow knobs, in the crev ices, instead of empty crannies which nature had prepared for monetary deposits and forgotten to fill. So thought the fellows in San Francisco. They had been speculating in beef, breadstuffs, city lots, Rincon Point, wharf property, mission lands, Mexican titles, Sacramento boats, politics, Oregon lumber. They had been burned out, they had been cleaned out, they had been drowned out They depended upon me and the quartz mine to set them up again. So there was a small, steady stream of money flowing up from San Francisco from the depleted coffers of those sanguine partners, flowing into onr mine and sinking there, together with my labor and my life. * At last he licked my hand. I went on toiling, day after day, week after week, two good years over that miserable mine. Nothing came of it I was growing poorer with every ton we dug, poorer with every pound we crushed. In a few months more I should have spent my last dollar and have gone to : day labor. I saw, of course, that something must be done. What, I did not know. I was in that state when one needs an influence without himself to take him by the hand gently, by the shoulder forcibly, by the hair roughly, | or even by the nose insultingly, and drag him off into a new region. The influence came. Bad news reached me. My only sister, a widow, my only near relative, died, leaving two young children to my care. It was itrange how this sorrow made the annoyance and weariness of my life naught! How this responsibility cheered me! My life seemed no longer lonely and purposeless. Point was given to all my intentions at once. I must return home to New York. Further plans when I am there! But now for home! If any one wanted my quartz mine he might have it I could not pack it in my saddlebags to present to a college cabinet of miueralogy. I determined, ns time did not abso- j lately press, to ride home across the ; plains. It is a grand journey. Two ! thousand miles or so on horseback. ! Mountains, deserts, prairies, rivers, Mor- ! mons, Indians, buffalo?adventures with- j oat number in prospect. A hearty campaign and no carpet knighthood about it. It was late August. I began my preparations at once. It happened that on a journey early in the same summer, some twenty miles from my mine, I had come upon a band of horses feeding on the prairie. They cantered off as I went riding down the yellow slope, and then, halting just out of lasso reach, stopped to reconnoiter me. One horse, however, among them, had more courage, or more curiosity, or more faith. He withdrew from the gregarious j commonalty?the haughty aristocrat!? and approached me, circling about as if j he felt a certain centripetal influence? as if he knew himself a higher being than his mustang comrades?nearer to ; man and willing to offer him his friendship. He and I divided the attention of the herd. He seemed to be, not "their I leader, but rather one who disdained j leadership. Facile princeps! He was too far above the noblest of the herd to i care for their unexciting society. I slipped quietly down from my little i Mexican cabailo, and, tethering him to a bush with the lariat, stood watching the splendid motions of this free steed of the prairie. He was an American horse?so they i distinguish in California one brought ! from the old states?a superb young : stallion, perfectly black, without mark, j It was magnificent to see him as he cir- j cled about me, fire in his eye, pride in his nostril, tail flying like a banner, j power and grace from tip to tip. No j one would ever mount him or ride him, ! unless it was his royal pleasure. He was 1 conscious of his representative position, | and showed his paces handsomely. It is ; the business of all beautiful things to ex- : hibit Imagine the scene. A little hollow in the prairie, forming a perfect amphithe- j ater; the yellow grass and wild oats ! grazed short; a herd of horses staring ! from the slope, myself standing in the . middle, like tne ringmaster in a circus, ; and this wonderful horse performing at I his own free will. He trotted powerful- ! ly, he galloped gracefully, he thundered j at full speed, he lifted his fore legs to welcome, he flung out his hind legs to j repel, he leaped as if he were springing : over bayonets, he pranced and curveted as if he were the pretty plaything of a girl; finally, when he had amused him- I self and delighted me sufficiently, he 1 trotted up and snuffed about me, just ont of teach. A horse knows a friend by instinct, j So does a man. But a man, vain creatnre! is willing to repel instinct and {.-nst intellect, and so suffers from the attempt to revise his first impressions, which, if he is healthy, are infallible. The black, instinctively knowing me for a friend, came forward and made the best speech he could of welcome?a 1 neigh and 110 more. Then, feeling a dis-' appointment that his compliment could not be more melodiously or gracefully turned, he approached nearer, and, not; without shying and starts, of which I 1 took no notice, at last licked my hand, j put his head upon my shoulder, suffered i me to put my arm round his neck, and in fact lavished upon me every mark of j iRENT. E WINTHROP. crlcnn Press Association.] confidence. We were growing fast friends when I heard a sound of coming hoofs. The black tore away with a snort and galloped off with the herd after him. A Mexican vaqnero dashed down the slope in pnrsnit. I hailed him. "A qnien es ese caballo?el negrito?" "Aqnel diablol es del Senor Gerrian." And he sped on. I knew Gerrian. He was a Pike of the letter class. He had found hia way early to California, -bought a mission farm, and established himself as a r&nchero. His herds, droves and flocks darkened the hills. It chanced that, when I was making my arrangements to start for home, business took me within a mile of German's ranch. I remembered my interview with the black. It occurred to me that I would ride down and ask the ranchero to sell me his horse for my journey. I found Uernan, a ianK, wire uruwu man, burned almost Mexican color, lounging in the shade of his adobe house. I told him my business in a word. "No bueno, stranger!" said he. "Why not? Do you want to keep the horse?" "No, not partickler. Thar ain't a better stallion nor him this side the South Pass; but I can't do nothing with liim no more'n yer can with a steamtoat when the cap'n says, 'Beat or bust!' He's a black devil, ef thar ever was a devil into a horse's hide. Somebody's tried to break him down when he was a colt, an now he won't stan nobody goan near him." "Sell him to me, and Til try him with kindness." "No, stranger. I've tuk a middlin shine to yon from the way you got off that Chinaman them Pikes was goan to hang fur stealing the mule what he hadn't stoled. I've tuk a middlin kind er Bhine to you, and I don't want to see yer neck broke, long er me. That thar black '11 shut up the hinge in yer neck so tight that yer'll never look np to ther top of a redwood again. Allowin you hain't got an old ox yoke into yer far backbone, yer'll keep off that thar black kettrypid till the Injins tie yer on, and motion yer to let him slide or be shot" "My backbone is pretty stiff," said I; "I will risk my neck." "The greasers is some on hosses, you'll give in, I reckon. Well, thar ain't a greaser on my ranch that '11 put leg over that thar streak er four legged lightning, no, not if yer'd chain off for him a claim six squar leagues in the raal old Garden of Paradise an stock it with thar best gang er bullocks this side er Santer Fee." "But I'm not a Mexican; I'm the stiffest kind of Yankee. I don't give in to horse or man. Besides, if he throws me and breaks my neck I get my claim in Paradise at once." "Well, stranger, you've drawed yer bead on that thar black, as anybody can see, an ef a man's drawed his bead thar ain't no use tellin him to pint off." "No. If you'll sell I'll buy." "Well, if you want go fur to ask me to throw in a coffin to boot, p'raps we ken scare up a trade. How much do you own in the Foolonner mine?" I have forgotten to speak of my mine by its tftle. A certain Pike named Pegrum. Colonel Pegrum, a pompous Pike from Pike county, Missouri, had once owned a mine. The Spaniards, finding the syllables Pegrum a harsh morsel, sp-oke of the colonel, as they might of any stranger, as Don Fulauo?as we should say, "John Smith." It grew to beanickname, and finally Pegrum, taking his donship as a title of honor, had procured an act of the legislature dubbing him formally Don Fulano Pegrum. From him our quartz cavern had takeu its name. I told Gernan that I owned one-quarter of the Don Fulano mine. "Then you're jess one-qnarter richer'n ef yon owned liaff, and jess three-quarters richer'n ef you owned the hull kit and boodle of it." "You are right." said I. I knew it by bitter heart. "Well, stranger, less see ef we can't banter fur a trade. I've got a boss that ken kill ayry man. That's so; ain't it?" "You say so." "You've got a mine that'll break ayry man, short pocket or long pocket. That's so; ain't it?" "No doubt of that." "Well, now; my curwolyow's got grit into him, and so's that thar pile er quartz er yourn got gold into it. But you can't git the slugs out er your mineral, and I can get the kicks a blasted sight ihicker'n anything softer out er my animal. Here's , horse agin mine?which'd yer rether hev, allowin't was toss up and win." "Horse!" said I. "I don't know how bad he is, and do know that the mine is worse than nothing to me." "Looker here, stranger! You're goan home across lots. You want a horse. I'm goan to stop here. I'd jess as lives gamble off a hundred or two head o' bullocks on that Foolonner mine. You can't find ayry man rouud here to buy out your iuterest in that thar heap er stun an the hole it cum out of. It'll cost you more'n the hul's wuth ef you go down to San Frisco and \*iit tell some fool comes along what's go: gold he wants to buy quartz with. Take time i f a inulra vor !i hunfpr" I UUYV, i IU {^vau UW Uiwaujv* "Well make it." "I stump you to a cleau swap. My boss agin your mine." "Done," said I. "I allowed you'd do it. This here is one er them swaps when both sides gits stuck. 1 git the Foolonner mine, what I can't make go, and you'll be a fool on a crittur what'll go a heap inore'n you'll want. Haw! haw!" And Gerrian laughed a Pike's laugh at his pun. It was a laugh that had been Btunted in its childhood by the fever and ague, and so had grown up liusk without heart. "Have the black caught," said I, "and we'll clinch the bargain at once." There was a Mexican vaquero slouching about. Gerrian called to him. "Oh, Hozay! kesty Siuyaw cumprader j curwolyow nigereeto. Wamos addel- I anty! Corral curwolyose toethoso!" Pike Spanish that! If the Mexicans i choose to understand it, why should Pikes study Castilian? The bukkarer, as Gerriau's Spanish entitled Hozay, comprehended enough of the order to know that he was to drive up the horses. He gave me a Mexican's sulky stare, muttered a caramba at my rashness, and lounged off, first taking a lasso from it,s peg in the ; court. "Come in, stranger," said Gerrian, | "before we start, and take a drink of ; some of this here Mission Dolorous wine." "How does that go down?" said he, pouring out golden juices into a cracked rumoier. It was the very essence of California sunshine?sherry with a richness that no sherry ever had? a somewhat fiery beverage, . but without any harshness or crudity. Age would better it, as age betters the work of a young genius; but still there is something in the youth we would not willingly resign. "Very fine," said I; "it is romantic old Spain, with ardent young America interfused." "Some likes it," says Gerrian; "but taint like good old Argee to me. I can't git nothin as sweet as the taste of yaller corn into sperit. But I rec kon thar ken be stuff made out er grapes what'll make all owdoors stan round. This yer wuz made by the priests. What ken you spect of priests? They ain't more'n haff men nohow. I'm goan to plant a wineyard er my own, and 'fore you cum out to buy another quartz mine, I'll hev Borne of ther strychnine what'll wax Burbon county 's much 'a our inyona here ken wax them low lived smellers what they grow to old Pike." i j CHAPTER H. DON FULANO. A.8 tie rode he whirled his lasso. After hobnobbing with_cracked tumblers of the Mission Dolores wine, Gerrian and 1 mounted our mustangs and rode toward the corral. As we rode on, our ponies half hidden in the dry, rustling grass or a nouow, a tramp of hoofs came to us with the wind ?a thrilling sound! with something free and vigorous in it that the charge of trained squadrons never has. "Thar they come!" cried Gerrian, "that's a rigiment wuth seeing. They can't show you a sight like that to the old states." "No indeed. The best thing to be hoped there in the way of stampede is when a horse kicks through a dashboard, kills a coachman, shatters a carriage, dissipates a load of women and children, and goes tearing down a turnpike, with 'sold to an omnibus' awaiting him at the end of his runaway!" We halted to puss the coming army of riderless steeds in review. There they came! Gerriau's whole band of horses in full careei! First, their heads suddenly lifted above a crest of the prairie; then they burst over, like the foam and spray of a black, stormy wave when a blast strikes it, and wildly swept by us with manes and tails flaring in the wind. It was magnificent. My heart of a horseman leaped in my breast. "Hurrah!" I cried. "Hurrah! 't is!" said Gerrian. The herd dashed by in a huddle, making for the corral. Jnst behind, aloof from the rush and scamper of his less noble brethren, came the black, my purchase, my old friend. "Ef you ever ride or back that curwolyow," says Gerrian, "I'll eat a six 6hooter, loaded and capped." "You'd better begin then at once," rejoined I, "whetting your teeth on Derringers. I mean to ride him, and you shall be by when I do it." It was grand to see a horse that understood and respected himself so perfectly. One, too, that meant the world should know that he was the very chiefest chief of his race, proud with the blood of a thousand kings. How masterly he looked! How untamably he stepped! The herd was galloping furiously. He disdained to break into a gallop. He trotted after, a hundred feet behind the hindmost,with large and liberal action. And even at this half speed eiisily overtaking his slower comrades, he from time to time paused, bounded in the air, tossed his head, flung out his legs and then strode on agaiu, writhing ull over with suppressed power. There was not a white spot upon him, itrVxir-u o flnha nf fimtn from his indignant nostril had caught upon his flank. A thoroughbred horse, with the perfect tail and silky mane of a noble race. His coat glisteued, as if the best groom in England bad just given him the final touches of his toilet for a canter in Rotten Row. But it seems a sin to compare such a free rover of the prairie with any less favored brother, who needs a groom and has felt a currycomb. Hard after the riderless horses came Jose, the vaquero, on a fast mustang. As he rode he whirled his lasso with easy turn of the wrist. The black, trotting still and halting still to curvet and caracole, turned back his head contemptuously at his pursuer. Jose took the hint. He dug cruel spurs Into his horse. The mustang leaped forward. The black gave a tearing bound and quickened his pace, but still waited the will of his pursuer. They were just upon us, chased and chaser, thundering down the slope, when the vaquero, checking his wrist at the turn, flung his lasso straight as an arrow for the black's head. I could hear the hide rope sing through the summer air, for a moment breezeless. Will he be taken! Will horse or man be victor! The loop of the lasso opened like a hoop. It hung poised for one instant a few feet before the horse's head, vibrating in the air, keeping it's circle perfect, waiting for the vaquero's pull to tighten about that proud neck and those swelling shoulders. Hurrah? Through it went the black. With one brave bound he dashed through the open loop. He touched only to spurn its vain assault with his hindmost hoof. "Hurrah!" I cried. "Hurrah! 't is," shouted Gerrian. Jose dragged in his spumed lasso. The black, with elated head, and tail waving like a banner, sprang forward, closed in with the caballada; they parted for his passage, he took his leadership, and presently was lost with his suite over the swells of the prairie. "Mueho malicho!" cried Gerrian to Jose, not knowing that his California Spanish was interpreting Hamlet. "Htought to hev druv 'em straight to corral. But I don't feel so sharp Bet on lettin yer hev that black after that shine. Reg'lar circus, only thar never was no sich seen in no circus! You'll never ride him, allowiu he's cotched, no more'n you'll ride a alligator." Meantime, loping on, we had come in sight of the corral. There, to our great surprise, the whole band of horses had voluntarily entered. They were putting their heads together as the manner of social horses is and going through kissing maneuvers in little kuots, which presently were broken up by the heels of some ill mannered or jealous brother. They were very probably discussing the black's act of horsemanship, as men after 1* J! Al. - C A A U.. A U10 Danes uiscuss uie urss euuecucis ui the danseuse. We rode up and fasteued our horses. The black was within the corral pawing the ground, neighing and whinnying. His companions kept at a respectful distance. "Don't send in Jose!''said I to Gerrian. "Only let him keep off the horses, so that I shall not bo kicked, and I will try my hand at the black alone." "I'll hev 'em all turned out except that black devil, and then you ken go in and take your own resk with him. Akkee Jose!" continued the ranchero, "fwarer toethose! Dayher hel diablo!" Jose drove the herd out of the staked | inclosure. The black showed no special disposition to follow. He trotted about at his ease snuffing at the stakes and bars. I entered alone. Presently he begau to repeat the scene of our first meeting | on the prairie. It was not many minutes before we were good friends. He | would bear my caresses and my arm about his neck and that was all for an hour. At last, after a good hour's work, I persuaded him to accept a halter. Then by gentle seductions I induced him to start and accompany me homeward. Gerrian and the Mexican looked on in great wonderment. "Praps that is the best way," said the modern patriarch, "ef a man has got patience. Looker here, stranger, ain't you a terrible fellow among women?" I confessed my want of experience. "Well, you will be when your time comes. I allowed from seeing you handle that tliar hoss that you had got your hand iu on women?they is the wust devils to tame I ever seed." I had made my arrangements to start, about the first of September with the Sacramento mail riders, a brace of jolly dog<}, brave fellows, who, with their scalps as well secured as might be, ran the gantlet every alternate month to Salt Lake. That was long before the days of coaches. No pony express was dreamed of. A trip across the plains without escort or caravan had still some elements of heroism, if it have not today. Meantime one of my ardent partners from San Francisco arrived to take my place at the mine. "I don't think that quartz looks quite so goldy as it did at a distance," said he. "Well," said old Gerriau, who had come over to take possession of his share of our bargain; "it is whiter'n it's yaller. It does look about as bad off fur Blugs as the cellar of an Indiana bank. But I u'leeve in iuck, una iuck i? uuuz wmm at me with its head down and both eyes shet. I'm goan to shove bullocks down this here hole, or the price of bullocks, until I make it pay." My wooing of the black occupied all my leisure during my last few days. Every day a circle of Pikes collected to see my management. I hope they took lessons in the law of kindness. The horse was well known throughout the country, and my bargain with Gerrian was noised abroad. The black would tolerate no one but me. With me he established as close a brotherhood as can be between man and beast. He gave me to understand, by playful protest, that it was only by his good pleasure that I was permitted on his back and that he endured saddle and bridle; as to spur and whip, they were not thought of by either. He did not obey, but consented. I exercised no control. We were of oue mind. We became a Centaur. I loved that horse as I have loved nothing else yet, except tho other personages with whom and for whom he acted in this history. I named him Don Fulauo. I had put my mine into him. He represented to me tho whole visible, tangible result of two long, workaday years, dragged out in that dreary spot among the Pikes,with nothing in view except barren hillsides ravaged by mines, and the uubeautifnl shanties of miners as rough as the landscape. Don Fulano, a horse that would not sell, was my profit for the sternest and roughest work of my life! I looked at him and looked at tho mine, that pile oi pretty pebbles, tfiat pile of bogus ore, and I did not regret my bargain. I never have regretted it "My kingdom for a horse"?so much of a kingdom as I had, I had given. pttaptpr TTT. JOHN BRENT. ^ " " "* ->* * I sat where J was and suncycd the stranger. T U?.l MAnAonI A .?*?n Mn nwanuwofiAri nn_ X liau ucvciai uajo iut MVU| UU til my companions, the mail ridel's, should arrive. One morning I was busy making up my packs of such luxuries as I have mentioned for the journey, when I heard the clatter of horses' feet, and observed a strange:.* approach an 1 ride up to the door of my shanty. He was mounted upon a powerful iron gray horse, and drove a pack mule and an Indian pony. My name was on an elaboratel y painted shingle over the door. It was my own handiwork, and quite a lion in that region. I felt whenever I inspjcted that bit of high art that, fail or win at the mine, I had a resource. Indeed, my Pike neighbors seemed to consider that I was unjustifiably burying my artistic talents. Many a not unseemly octagonal slug, with Moffatt & Co.'s imprimatur of value, had been offered me if I would paint up some miner's hell, as "The True Paradise," or "The Shades and Caffy de Paris." The newcomer read my autograph on the shingle, looked about, caught sight of me at work in the hot shade, dismounted, fastened his horses and came toward me. It was not the fashion in California at that time to volunteer civility or acquaintance. Men had to announce themselves and prove their claims. I sat where I was and surveyed the stranger. "The Adonis of the copperskinsl" 1 said to myself. "This is the 'Young Eagle,' or the 'Sucking Dove,' or the 'Maiden's Bane,' or some other great chief of the cleanest Indian tribe on the continent. A beautiful youth! 0 Fenimore, why are you dead? There are a dozen romances in one look of that young brave. One chapter might be written on his fringed buckskin shirt; one on his equally friuged leggings, with their stripe of porcupine quills, and one short chapter on his moccasins, with their scarlet cloth instep piece, and his cap of otter fur decked with an eagle's feather. What a poem the fellow is! I wish I was an Indian myself for such a companion; or, better, a squaw, to be made love to by him." As he approached, 1 perceived that he was not copper, but bronze. A paleface certainly. That is, a pale face tinged by the brazen sun of a California summer. Not less handsome, however, as a Saxon, than an Indian brave. As soon as I identified him as one of my own race, I began to fancy I had seen him before. If he were but shaved and clipped, black coated, booted, gloved, hatted I with a shiny cylinder, disarmed of his dangerous looking arsenal, and armed with a plaything of a cane?in short, if be were metamorphosed from a knight errant into a carpet knight, changed from a smooth rough into a smootn 6inooth?seems to me 1 should know him, or know that I had known him once. He came up, laid his hand familiarly on my arm, and said: "What, Wade? Don't you remember me? John Brent." "I hear your voice. I begin to see you now. Hurrah!'' "How was it I did not recognize you?" said I, after a fraternal greeting. "Ten years have presented me with this for a disguise," said he, giving his mustache a twirl. "Ten years of experience have taken all the girl out of me." "What have you been doing these ten years since college, () many sided man?" "Grinding my sides against the adamant, every one." "Has your diamond begun to see light and shine?" "The polishing dust dims it still." "How have you found life, kind or cruel?" "Certainly not kind, hardly cruel, unless indifference is cruelty." "But indifference, want of sympathy, must have been a positive relief after the aggressive cruelty of your younger days." "And what have you been doing, Richard?" "Everything that Yankees do?digging last." Odd talk this may seem, to hold with an old friend. Ten years apart! We ought to have met in merrier mood. We might, if "we had parted with happy memories. Bnt it was not so. Youth had been n harsh season to Brent. If fate destines a man to teach, she com pels him to learn?bitter lessons, too, whether he will or no. Brent was a , mau of genius. All experience, therefore, piled itself upon him. He mustlearn the immortal consolations by probing all suffering himself. Brent's story is a short one or a long one. It can be told in a page, or in a score of volumes. We had met fourteen years before in the same pew of Berkeley College chapel, grammars by our side and tutors before us, two well crammed candidates for the freshman class. Brent was a delicate, beautiful, dreamy boy. My counterpart. I was plain prose, and needed the poetic element. We became friends. I was steady; he was erratic. I was calm; he was passionate. I was reasonably happy; he was totally miserable. For good cause. The cause was this; and it has broken weaker hearts than Brent's. His heart was made of stuff that does not know how to break. Dr. Swerger was .^he-aause of Brent's misery. The Reverend Dr. Swerger was a brutal man. One who believes that God is vengeance naturally imitates his God, and does not better his model. Swerger was Brent's stepfather. Mrs. Brent was pretty, silly, rich, and a widow. Swerger wanted his wife pretty, and not too wise; and that she was rich balanced, perhaps a little more than balanced, the slight objection of widowhood. Swerger naturally hated his stepson. One intuition of Brent's was worth all the thoughts of Swerger's lifetime. A clergyman who starts with believing in hell, devils, original sin and such crudities can never be anything in the Nineteenth century but a tyrant or a nuisance, if he has any logic, as fortunately few of such misbelievers have. Swerger had logic. So had the boy Brent?the logic of fi true, pure, loving heart. He could not stand Swerger's coming into his dead father's house and deluding his mother with a black fanaticism. So Swerger gave liim to understand that he was a child of hell. He won his wife to shrink from her son. Between them they lacerated the boy. Ho was a brilliant fellow, quite the king of us all. TO.,4 Ua mnslni* o /ilnn/1 No PAlllfl JJUl liD >VUiACU UUUC1 i* viuuu* aav wv??im not get at any better religion than Swerger's; and perhaps there was none better ?or much better?to be had at that time. One day matters came to a quarrel. Swerger cursed his stepson; of course not in the same terms the sailors used on Long wharf, but with no better spirit. The mother, cowed by her husband, backed him and abandoned the boy. They drove him out of the house, to go where lis would. He came to me. I gave him half my quarters and tried to cheer him. No use. This bitter wrong to his love to God and to man almost crushed him. He brooded and despaired. He began to fancy himself the lost soul Swerger had called him. I saw that he would die or go mad; or, if he had strength enough to react, it would be toward a hapless rebellion against conventional laws, and so make his blight ruin. I hurried him off to Europe for change of scene. That was ten years ago and I had not seen him since. I knew, however, that his mother was visited by compunctions; that she wished to be reconciled to her son; that Swerger refused and renewed his anathemas; that he bullied the poor little woman to death; that Brent had to wring the property out of him by a long lawsuit, which the Swergerites considered an unconstitutional and devilish proceeding, another proof of total depravity. Miserable business! It went near to crush all the innocence, faith, hope and religion out of my friend's life. Of course this experience had a tendency to drive Brent out of the common paths, to make him a seer instead of a doer. His fortune made him independent He could go where he pleased. This was the man who rode upon the iron gray horse. This was the Indianesque Saxon who greeted me. It put color and poetry into my sulky life to see him. "Off, old fellowl" said Brent, pointing his whip at my traps. "I can't hear him squeak, but I'm sure there is pig in that gunny bag and flour in that sack. I hope you're not away for a long trip just as I have come to squat with you." "No longer than home across the plains." "Bravol then we'll ride together instead of squatting together. Instead of your teaching me quartz mining I'll guide you across the Rockies." "You know the way then." "Every foot of it. Last fall I hunted up from Mexico aud New Mexico with an English friend. We made winter headquarters with Captain Ruby at Fort Laramie, knocking about all winter '.t? that neighborhood and at the north among the Wind River mountains. Early in the spring we went off toward Luggernel alloy and the Luggernel springs and camped there for a month." " Logger nel alley! Luggernel springs! Thoso are new names to me; in fact, my Rocky mountain geography is naught." "You ought to see them. Luggernel alley is one of the wonders of this continent." 'Who was your English friend?" ' Sir Biron Biddulph?a capital fellow, pink In the cheeks, warn in the heart, strong in the shanks, mighty on the hant.'" "Hunting for love of it?" 'No; for love itself, or rather the lack of love. A lovely lady iri his native Lancashire would not smile; so he turnad butcher of buffaloes, hears and big horn." "Named he the 'fair but frozen maid?'" "Never. It seems there is something hapless or tragic about her destiny. Sho did not love him; so ho came away to forget her. He made no secret of it. We arrived in Utah hist July on our way to see California. There ho got letters from home, announcing, as ho told ma, some coming misfortune to the lady. As a friend, no longer a lover, he i X _ A.. ...lwi l\/\ fiAiilil frv nvorf: proposal lO '!(> Wllilb lie w u>v>> I tho danger. I left him in Salt Lake, preparing to return, and came across country alone." "Alone! through the Indian country, with that tempting iron gray, those tempting packs, that tempting scalp with its love locks! Why, tho sight of your scalp alone would send a thrill through every Indian heart from Dear river to the Dalles of the Columbia! Perhaps, by the way, you've been scalped already and are safe?" "No; the mop's my own mop. Scalp's all right. Wish I could say tho same of tho brains. The Indians would not touch me. I ain half savage, you know. In this and my former trip, I have become a privileged character?something of a medicine man." "I suppose you can tall: to them? You I used to have the gift of tongues. By tho way, how did you find me out?" "1 heard some Pikes, at a camp last night, talking of a person who had sold a quartz mine for a wonderful horse. I asked the name. They told mo yours, and directed 1110 here. Except for this talk, I should have gone down to San Francisco and missed you." "Lucky horse! lie brings old friends together- a good omen! Come and so? him." CHAPTER IV. .FAKK SirA.MHKUI.AI>', I led my friend toward the corral. "A fine horse that gray of yours,' said I. "Yes; a splendid fellow?stanch and true. Ho will go till he dies." "In tip top condition too. What do you call him?" "Pumps." "Why Pumps? Why not Pistons? or Cranks? or Walking Beams? or :soino part of. the steam engine that docs tho going directly?" "Buna my cycsl" "Yon. have got the wrong o lew. I named him after oar old dancing master. Pumps, the horse, has a favorite amtle, precisely like that skipping walk that Pnmps, the man, used to set ns for : mot.el?a mincing gait that prejudiced me until I saw what a stride he kept for ' the time when stride was wanting." "Here is my black gentleman. What i do yon think of him?" Don Fulano trotted up and licked a | handful of corn from my hand. Corn ; ' " ' 1--1 mi Ci. was. roar aonars a uusuei. mopiuum of the "Foolonner" mine did not allow of irac'n luxuries. But old Gerrian had presented me with a sack of it. Fulnno crunched his corn, snorted his thanks and then snuffed questioningly, and afterward approvingly, about the stranger. "Soul and body of Bucephalus!" said Brent. "There is a quadruped that is a horse." "Isn't he?" said I, thrilling with pride for him. "To look at such a fellow is a romance. He is the most beautiful thing I ever saw." "No exceptions?" "Not one." "Woman! lovely woman!" I cried, with mock enthusiasm. "If I had ever seen a woman to compare with that horse, after her kind, I should not be here." "Where then?" "Wherever she was. Living for her. j Dying for her." * * * Tomorrow it was. Having a comrade, j I need not wait for the mail riders. J Lucky that I did not. They came only three days after us. But on the Hum- ! bolt the Indians met them and obliged them to doff the tops of their heads, as j a mark of respect to Indian civilization, i We started, two men and seven animals. Each of us had a pack mule and a roadster pony, with a spare one, in case | accident should befall either of his wiry | brethren. Pumps and Fulano, as good friends as their masters, trotted along without bur- j den. We rode them rarely, uniy orten enough to remind them how a saddle feels, and that dangling legs are not frightful. They must be fresh, if we should ever have to run for it. We might. Indians might cast fanciful glances at the tops of our heads. The other horses might give out. So Pumps, with his fantastic dancing step that would not crush a grasshopper, and Fulano, grander, prouder, and still untamable to any one but me. went on waiting for their time of action. I skip the first thousand miles of our journey. Not that it was not exciting, 1 but it might be anybody's journey. Myriads have made it. It is an old story. I will not even delay to describe Utah, not even for its watermelons' sake, though that tricolor dainty greatly gladdened our dry jaws, as we followed the valley from Box Elder, the northernmost settlement, to the city of the great Salt Lake. In a few days of repose we had exhausted Mormon civilization and, horses and men fresh and in brave heart, we rode out of the modem Mecca one glorious day of early October through the bare defiles of the Wasatch mountains, wall of Utah on the east. We passed Echo canyon and the other straight gates and rough ways through which the Latter-day Saints win an entrance to their Zion. We met them in throngs, hard at work at such winning. The summer emigration of Mormons was beginning to come in. No one would have admitted their rlaim to saintshiD from their appearance. If they had no better passport than their garb, "Avaunt! Procul este profani!" would have cried any trustworthy janitor of Ziou. Saints, if I know them, are clean?are not ragged, are not even patched. Tlieir garments renew themselves, shed rain like mackintosh, repel dust, sweeten unsavoriness. These sham saints needed unlimited scouring?persons and raiment. Wo passed them, when we could, to windward. Poor creatures! we shall see more of their kindred anon. We hastened on, for our way was long and autumn's hospitable days were few. Just at the foot of those bare, bulky mounds of mountain by which the Wasatch range tones off into the great plains between it and the Rockies, we overtook the Salt Lake mail party going eastward. They were traveling eight or ten men strong, with a four mule wagon, and several horses and mules driven beside for relays. "If Jake Shamberlain is the captain of the party," said Brent, when we caught sight of them upon the open, "we'll join them." "Who is Jake Shamberlain?" "A happy-go-lucky fellow whom I have met and recognized all over the world. Ho linn Viopn a. London noliceinan. He wiis pulling stroke oar in the captain's gig that took mo ashore from a dinner on board the Firefly, British steamer, at the Piraeus. He has been a lay brother in a Carthusian convent. Ho married a pretty girl in Boston once, went off on a mackerel trip and when he came back the pretty girl had bigainized. That made Mormon and polygamist of him. He came out two or three years ago, and, being a thriving fellow, has got to himself lands and beeves and wives without number. Biddulph and I staid several days with him when wo came through in the summer. His ranch is down the valley, toward Provo. Ho owns half the | United States mail contract. They told me in the city that ho intended to run this trip himself. You will see an odd compound of a fellow." "I should think so; policeman, acolyte, man-of-war's man, Yankee husband, Mormon! Has ho come to his finality?" I "He thinks so. Ho is a shrewd fellow of many smatterings. He says there are | only two logical religions in the civilized I world?the Popish and the Mormon. These two aro the only ones that have any basis in authority. His convent experiences disenchanted him with Catholicism. He is quite irreverent, is the estimable Jake. Ho says monks are a set of snuffy old reprobates. He says that he found celibacy tended to all manner of low vice; that monogamy disappointed him; so he tried the New Revelation, polygamy and all, and has become an ardent propagandist and exhorter. Take the man as ho is, and he has plenty of brave, honest qualities." We had by this time ridden up to the mail party. They were moving slowly along. The night's camping spot was near. It was a bit of grassy level on tho bank of a river, galloping over the pebbles with its mountain impetus still in it ?Green river, perhaps; Green or White, or Big Sandy or Little Stony. "Hillo, Shamberlain!" hailed Brent, riding up to the train. "Howdydo? Howdydo? No swap!" responded Jake, after the Indian fashion. "Bung my eyes! ef you're not the mate of all mates I'm glad to see. Pax vobiscrum, my filly! You look as fresh as an Aperel shad. Praised be the Lord!" continued he, relapsing into Mormon slang, W IIU UUO OCliW IUV.U W M v.MM? I from the burning, to fall into paths of j pleasantness with the saints, as they wander from the promised land to the mean section where the low lived Glentiles ripen their souls for hell." Droll farrago! but just as Jake delivered it. He had the slang and th< swearing of all climes and countries at his tongue's end. "Hello, stranger!" said he, turning to me. "I allowed you was the barrownight." "It's my friend, Richard Wade," said Brent. "Yours to command, Brother Wade," Jake says hospitably. "Ef you turn out prime, one of the out and outers, like Brother John Brent, I'll tip 'em the wink to let you off easy at the Judgment Day, Gentile or not. I've booked Brother John fur Paradise. Brother Joseph's got a white robe fur him, blow high, blow low!" We rode along beside Shamberlain. ?TI7Via4> AiA w/mi 0*1 4nof oalro/3 ing his own thoughts. But either, if suddenly startled, showed the unmistakable look that announces worse crime than mere knavery. They tangled their names so that we perceived each was an alias hastily assumed. Smith compared sixshooters with me. 1 detected on his the name Murker, half erased. Once, too, Brent heard Murker, alias Smith, call his partner Larrap. ? "Larrap is appropriate," said I, when Brent told me this; "just the name for him, as that unlucky mule branded 'A. & A.' could testify." "I have no prejudices against the family Larrap. But when Larrap's mate spoke the name, he looked at me as if he had been committing a murder, and had by an irresistible impulse proclaimed the fact. Look at him nowl How he starts and half turns whenever one of our horses makes a clatter. He dares not quite look back. He knows there is something after him." '* "The dread of a vengeance, you think." I tire of these unwholesome characters I am describing. But I did not pat them into the story. They "took their places themselves. I find that brutality interferes in most dramas and most lives. [to be continued next week.] ?lts(cllat?wus fUadittg. FLAGS FOR UNCLE SAM. ? . "Our firm makes all the flags for the postoffices, custom houses, court houses and revenue cutters of the United States," said a Washington dealer to a Star reporter. "The government furnishes the bunting. On the same terms we manufacture by contract the code signals. Each set of signals consists of nineteen flags, of different shapes and colors. They form a sort of alphabet, and with them a whole language has been made up, so that vessels can talk with one another at a distance of miles as plainly as if they spoke English. This is the international code, which sailors of all countries comprehend. "The national flags which we manufacture must be of a certain pattern, as directed in the revised statutes. Whenever a new State is admitted an extra star is added to the blue field, and the stars must all be arranged just so. At present there are forty-four stars, and the law directs that they shall be in six rows, the upper and lower rows each containing eight, and the other rows seven. Thirteen stripes there must be to correspond with the number of the original colonies, and the blue field is required to be twoflrt-lia r\f tf>o" untirp lpncrt.h nf thfi flttlT. TV uav UiU J v/u wvau J uow mv tt mumw. my friend. "You spoke of Wade's being the baronet." "I allowed you wouldn't leave him behind." "I don't understand. I have not seen him since we left you in the summer. I've been on to California and back." "The barrownight's ben stoppin rcund in the valley ever since. He seems to have a call to stop. Perhaps his heart is fetched, and be is goan to jine the Lord's people. I left him down to my ranch ten days ago, playing with a grizzly cub, what he's trying to make a gentleman of. A pooty average gentleman it'll make too." "Very odd!" says Brent to me. "Biddulph meant to start for home at once when we parted. He had some errand in behalf of the lady he had run away from." "Probably he found he could not trust his old wounds under her eyes again. Wants another year's crust over his scarified heart." "Quite likely. Well, 1 wish we had known he was in the valley. We would have carried him back with us. A fine fellow! Couldn't be a better!" "Not raw, as Englishmen generally are?" "No; well ripened by a year or so in America." By this time we had reached camp. Horses first, self afterward, is the law of the plains travel. A camp must have: 1. Water. 2. Fodder. 8. Fuel. These are the necessities. Anything else is luxury. We joined suppers with our new friends. After supper wo sat smoking our pipes and talking horse, Indians, bear fights, scalping and other brutal business, such as the world has not outgrown. CHAPTER V. ENTF.lt, THE BRUTEs! ' ' ^ ^ ~ ^ ^ "Hello, men/" said he, with a familiar air. The sun had just gone down. There was a red wrangle of angry vapors over the mounds of mountain westward. A brace of travelers from Salt Lake way rode up and lighted their camp fire near ours. More society in that lonely world. Two families, with two sets of Lares and Penates. Not attractive society. They were a sinister looking couple of hounds. A lean wolfish and a fat bony dog. One was a rawboned, stringy chap? as gauut, unkempt and cruel a Pike as ever pillaged the cabin, insulted the wife and squirted tobacco over the dead body of a Free State settler in Kansas. The other was worse, because craftier. A little man, stockish, oily and red in the face. A jaunty fellow, too, with a certain shabby air of coxcombry even in his travel stained attire. They were well mounted, both. The long ruffian rode a sorrel, big and bony as himself, and equally above such accidents as food or 110 food. The little villain's mount was a red roan, a Flathead horse, rather naggy, but perfectly hardy ! and wiry?an animal that one would ! choose to do a thousand miles in twenty ; days or a hundred between sunrise and ; sunset. They had also two capital J mules, packed very light. One was | branded "A. & A." Distrust and disgust are infallible inj stincts. Men's hearts and lives are writ: ten 011 their faces, to warn or charm, j Neyer reject that divine or devilish : record! Brent read the strangers, shivered at | me, and said, sotto voce, "What a j precious pair of cutthroats! We must | look sharp for our horses while they are ; about." [ "Yes," returned I, in the same tone; i "they look to me like Sacramento gamj biers, who have murdered somebody, and had to make tracks for their lives." "The Cassius of the pair is bad ' enough," said Brent; "but that oily little i wretch sickens me." * * * Tho objectionable stranger came to , our camp fire. "Hello, men!" said he, with afamil n lar air, "its a nut m^uij uuuuiccuu^ I with no response, he continued, "but I reckon you don't allow uotliin else but I fine nights in this section." "Bud company makes all nights bad," j says Jake Shamberlain, gruffly enough. ; "Ay; and good company betters the j orneriest sort er weather. The more the merrier, eh?" "Supposin its more perarer wolves or more rattlesnakes or more horsethieving. ! scalpin Ules!" says Jake, unpropitiated. "Oh," said the newcomer a little uneasily, "I don't mean secli. I mean jolly ! dogs, like me and my pardener. Wo alj lowed you'd choose company in camp. We'd like to stick our pegs in alongside ! of your'n ef no gent hain't gothin to say | agin it." i "It's a free country," Jake said, "and looks pooty roomy 'round here. You ken camp whar you blame please?off or on." "Well," says the fellow, laying hold of I this very slight encouragement, "since j you're agreeable, we'll fry our pork over j your fire and hev a smoke to better ac; quaintance." "He ain't squiinmidgc," Baid Jake to us, as the fellow walked off to call his comrade. "He's bound to ring himself into this here party, whoever says stickleback. He's one er them Algerines what ! don't know a dark hint till it begins to make motions and kicks 'em out. Well, two more men, with two regiments'alj lowance of sliootm irons won't do no harm in this Ingin country." j "Well, boys!" said the unpleasant fat ling, approaching again. "Here is my | pardener, Sam Smith, from Sacramenj tor; what he don't know about a horse ain't worth knowin. My name is Jim j Robinson. I ken sing a song, tell a story | or fling a card with any man, in town or ; outer town." * * * Next morning the two strangers wero free and accepted members of the party. I They traveled on with us without quesI tion. Smith the gaunt affected a rough j frankness of manner. Robinson was low j comedy. His head was packed with ' scurvy jokes and stories. He had a foul Also it must be of the depth of seven stripes. The regulation flag is ten feet by nineteen feet. "We get our flags from factories in New England in the shape of bunting. It is a woolen material, loosely woven, so that the wind may blow through it easily. We receive it in big rolls? some red, some white, and some blue. The blue, of course, is for the field, and the red and white for stripes. To make the stripes we take a roll tightly wound and cut it into slices with a very keen-edged carving knife, sawing it through. Then we cut the stuff thus sliced into the proper lengths. Afterwards they are sewed together. The blue field is called the "Union." "The stars are cut out of white linen and sewed upon each side of the blue field. They are made very simply, with a pair of scissors aud a tin pattern. The sewing and arrangement of them has to be very carefully done. First they are basted on, and then the edges are turned under before the final sewing is performed. After the 'Union' and the striped part are sewn together a canvas bag is strongly attached along the back of the flag. With the large flags, a rope is run through between two thicknesses of the canvas fnr fastening the flag to the pole tackle, with a loop on each end of it. "Flag poles are made of the best spruce timber. The big ones represent very tall trees. There is one on a building here in Washington that is sixty feet in height. It took a monarch of the forest to supply that. That sort of wood is chosen because it will bend like a whip before it will break. Sticks for small flags are mostly of ash. Such flags are made of white cloth in one piece and are colored with stencils, leaving the stars and white stripes untouched by the dyes. In small flags no attempt is made to have the number of stars in the blue field correct, because no one takes notice of that." The Rev Mr. Reed and the Gamblers.?The Rev. Myron W. Reed, of Denver, Col., is a guest of the Tremont House. The reverend gentleman is noted for his liberal views in the way of practical religion. One characteristic of his belief is that the right hand of fellowship should be extended to the gamblers to reform them. And here's the way he puts that principle into practice : A story is told that one day the Rev. Mr. Reed was presiding over a meeting of the associated charities in Denver when some money was needed and could not be raised. He called a good brother to the chair, and said: "Don't adjourn the meeting?I'll j return shortly." i A half hour afterward Mr. Reed re! turned and threw $000 on the table. "Where did you raise the money so quickly, Mr. Reed ?" was asked on every side. "Oh, I went out and touched the gamblers?that's all," replied the progressive minister. The gamblers admire Mr. Reed for his liberal views, and he never extends the hand with a request for money that it is not filled.?Chicago Herald. A Danger to the South.?A great many well-informed people claim, and with snrno reason, that persistent efforts are being made by the "bears" to depress the price of cotton, and that after the crop is out of the farmers' hands an equally as vigorous effort will be made to advance the price. Herein is a danger to the South. Next spring if the farmer finds that j cotton is high lie is apt to forget his , resolutions made while it is low to plant j less cotton and more grain, and delude himself into believing that he will | raise just one more big crop and get j big prices for it, because, he will argue, j the stock on hand is small and prices 1 high, and this will certainly keep up , prices through the next season. Vain ! delusion. He will only be playing a j losing game again. If the Southern I farmer wants to get through the season j of 1892-3 in good shape he will have to raise his own foodstuffs next year, I because every indication points to continued high prices for grain and provisions. The Southern farmer ought j not to be tempted into raising cotton i to the exclusion of foodstuffs, no matj ter how high cotton may go this j spring.?Manufacturer's Record. The New Explosive.?A new exi plosive of great power is "AmericanJ ite." It is a liquid compound, whose j principal ingredient is nitro-glyeerine | The other ingredients are still a secret j It is said to have advantages over othI or explosives. "It is insensitive tc j shock, and can be exploded at will.' : The inventors assert that the explo | sive can always be used without dan I ger. It has withstood a blow o : twenty-seven thousand pounds, and i ; lighted match simply sets it on fire, s( | that it burns like a candle. Neithei j is it affected by friction, and an incx j perionccd person can handle it with j out running the risk of a prematun therefore, recommended the adoption of it by the government. "The advantages of being able," he says, to use an explosive of a force equal to nitro-glycerine with safety, fired from any gun now in existence, and with terrific effect at extreme range, is evident. With such a powerful agent, the problem of coast defence is resolved almost to one of range, and our great seaboard cities can be made comparatively safe without excessive expenditure." RESPONSIBILITY OF PARENTS. The story that has been widely published within the last few days of the downfall of Harry Miller, the son of the poet Joaquin Miller, suggests the thought that parents are responsible to a much greater extent than is generally believed for the entrance upon evil ways of the many young men and, women whose lives end in dishonor andt, discrrace. Harrv Miller's story is a pit- " iful one. He has scarcely passed bis 21st ye*r> an4.y?t he is in prison for , attempting to rob a stage carrying the United States mails. Had his lather shown affection for him and extended to him the care and attention he had a right to expect, he would have developed into an honest man, in all probability, and become a respected and honored citizen* When he was 17 years old his father sent him to his ranch to work as a laborer, promising, however, to pay him wages. The boy was satisfied. He was ambitious. He intended to use the money he earned to perfect himself in the higher branches of education. His father, however failed to keep his promise. The money that had been promised him was not paid, and he became discontented. He left the ranch, became a tramp and finally entered upon a career of crime. Tt tVi? otnrv tolls Is triiA Is not his father responsible for his present unhappy condition ? The boy has never known a mother's nor a father's love. He was neglected?virtually told that no one cared whether he became a respected citizen or a thief. No one helped him or urged him to resist the evil influences that surrounded him, no loving hand was stretched out to rescue him when had taken his first step toward evil. This case of young Miller's is a sample one. There are tens of thousands just like it. In every part of this broad land there are homes in which there is no love and no happiness, and which the children leave just as soon as an opportunity to do so presents itself. They go out into the world with hearts full of bitterness toward those who might have brought sunshine aud joy into their hearts and inspired them with a desire to lead honest and useful lives. They are glad to get away, and never having been trained to have a proper regard for that which is good aud virtuous, many quickly drift into evil ways and become the victims of vice and crime. If parents could be made to understand how greatly the success of their children depends upon their home life?the kind of treatment they receive there?they would perhaps take greater pains to make their homes attractive. They would give to their children more care and a fuller measure of love. They would seek to shape their characters that they could easily resist evil influences when they Kn44lA nnfVi Vi a wnrM fnt* tVlPTT) V/VUiO IU UCkVVIV mvu buv nvi?w vwv*M selves. To the selfishness and indifference of parents is traceable the wrecks of many lives.?Savannah News. #6?" The name "Arkansas," whether applied to the State or the river, is properly pronounced very nearly as if spelled "Arkausaw." It is an Indian name and the Indians pronounced it Arkansaw, or something very close to that. The French were the pioneers in!that region and the first to put this Indian name into writing. The termination as in the French language is used to denote the broad sound of a or aw, so that they gave it the spelling "Arkansaw." But nobody in the Southwest ever pronounced the name in any way except Arkansaw until the carpet-baggers Down East got possession of the State in the evil days of reconstruction, and then the official pronunciation was changed to Ar-kan-sas. When the Democrats got control again the legislature caused an inquiry to be made by a board of scholars familiar with the history of the State. This board reported that the proper pronunciation is "Ark-an-saw,"and the report was adopted by the legislature. Nobody except those whose orthography is guided by a cheap article of Down East spelling-book learning ever pronounced it in any other way. The Down-Easters, most of the Cbicagoans and all the Kansas Republicans pro nounce it Ar-kan-sas. As a matter of fact, the name Kansas ought, by rights, to be pronounced Kan-saw.?Republican. Improving the Occasion.?A story comes from Kansas, where the Farmers' Alliance and its platform of principles are the chief topics of conversation. A man of rather questionable character died in a remote part of Waterloo township. The nearest preacher was summoned to preach a funeral sermon. Not knowing the man, the preacher contented himself with a few general remarks on the solemn nature I of the occasion, and then said be i would be glad to have any of the company present to say a word about the dead man, if they desired. No one moved or spoke, and again the preacher extended an invitation to the com! pany to offer remarks, but again his invitation met with silence. Finally an old farmer, who sat in the corner of the front room, rose and said: "If no one has any remarks to make about the deceased, I would like to make a ! few remarks about the Alliance's subtreasury plan." Anecdote of Parson Brownlow.? The following incident is told of the i once widely known, but now nearly j forgotten, Parson Browulow: It was ! before the war, when he was about 1 equally venomous against the Baptists and Abolitionists. The fume of his ! controversy with both filled several j States. Somehow' though, when he ' stepped into the pulpit of a Methonist j church in Clarksville, Tenth, notori1 ously a Methodist town, he found him| self with just one auditor. The sexton even, had gone away after opening the doors and ringing the bell. The par! son looked about for a minute, then lifted his hands and said: "Let us pray." The prayer was long and fervent, but nobody came. At the close : of it the minister courageously sang a hymn. Still there were uo more | listeners. Drawing a long breath, the preacher said : "Sister, we will be dismissed," then repeated the benediction, grabbed his hat and overcoat, and i I took the next train home. White Hairs.?White hairs have j been called "flowers of the cemetery;" but is it not better to think of them us ! "a streak of the dawn of eternal day ?" . ! And will not this thought tend to make . us more patient and cousiderate to ward those aged servants among whom > our lot is cast? Often their waiting' time is dreary. Old friends and com ) panions have passed away, and these - | survivors arc among the loneliest of f the lonely. Their ways and their habi its of thought cannot be exactly those ) of younger folk. It will help us to r : brighten the close of their pilgrimage - if we accustom ourselves to look upon - them as having already seen "the dawn j of the eternal day."?The Quiver.