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* I1 ,-^v *** / . i , , : - , ;.-ft><i f-V1-#^&r ^ ISSUgD ggMI'WSKKL^ . 1. v. orist'8 sobs, pubinheri. J J Kamilp Jletrspa pe r: Jfor the promotion of the political, Social, ^jricultnral and Commercial Interests of the people. { SINGLE COPV, FIVE CENTS. established 1855. YORKVILLE, S. C., FRIDAY SEPTEMBER, ?9, 1905. NO. 78. - ELLEN C 0 KING'S N Written for the Yorkville Enq CHAPTER XVI. What valor when a cur doth grin, For ope to thrust hie hand between hie teeth When be might spurn him with hla foot away T Shakspeark'k Henry VI. "Your perspective Is not good there. Miss Ellen. Give a little more distance to that landscape: tinge these clouds with greyer hue and soften these vivid colors." "No, no!" she cried, "you would make my Indian summer sunset, a hazy English day. I will not spoil my brilliant tints." "Your sky Is too glowing to be nat ural, Ellen." said Mr. Wllloughby, who generally managed to agree with Graham. She painted on in silence. Graham, absorbed In the art of which he was complete master, did not notice her ' *' * ? * inn erf k again ror some ume. uui, >i c?6u' looking; up said: "Your colors are not yet softened enough.. Those crimson tints are gorgeous, but not natural." "I have not softened them at all," said Ellen carelessly. Graham bent over her In wounded surprise. "Ellen," he whispered, "why Is It you persist Hn acting so contrary toward me? Am I not only to be denied the love I would give my being for, but the simplest courtesy of social life." .' She colored ashamed of her petulance. "Would to heaven I could be more patient, Ellen; but In denying your love, spare me your contempt," and, turning from h$r, he left the room. Mr. Mjrnioughby had been no uninterested witness of this little scene. Waiting till the footsteps of the young .{nan died In the distance he approached her. "Ellen," said he, "have you hurt Graham's feelings?" "For heaven's sake, uncle, don't question me of Graham's feelings. I cannot be responsible for the caprices of his temper.?' "It is time Ellen we understood each other upon this subject. I have allowed you a reasonable time for consideration. Are you prepared to answer me?" "What subject do you allude to. sir? I am not aware I deferred decision upon any." "This is Idle," said Mr. Wllloughby, ir sternly. "You are perfectly aware that I allude to Graham." "The allusion is as unpleasant now as It ever has been, and as It ever will be," she replied, with a determined air. "And you reject him uncondltlon ally?" _ "I reject him unconditionally." "Will you be frank enough to tell me why?" said Mr. Wllloughby. In unnatural calmness. "It might be sufficient reason to say I do not love him. If Lieutenant Graham Is a gentleman, he will accept that." ; "I profess to be concerned In this matter," replied Mr. Wllloughby, "and the reason Is not satisfactory." "I can give no other." replied Ellen, deeply flushing. *" "Then I will give It for you." said he. In bitter sarcasm. "It Is because you love oie who never wastes a thought on a maiden, who thus dishonors every principle of modesty In her sex; because you love one who himself Invites you to fix your affections elsewhere; who it may be. makes your love a Jest and a song." "It is false." cried Ellen, who had buried her burning face In her hands, but who now started up In a passion of indignation. "It Is false! Perish the tongue that could bring you such a slander." "Your anathema must fall on his own head then. Witness the letter written to Graham! Did not every line breathe a hope you would soon be another's?" "His love has been wounded. I can^ not tell how," faltered Ellen; "and he wrote under some strange misunun. standing." "Foolish girl! Your trembling words belle your trust. He wearies of a passion he cannot return." "Spare me, spare me," cried the wretched girl. "Ellen, God knows I would not willingly wound you; but why waste the 9 best treasure of your heart on one so unworthy?" "Unworthy!" cried Ellen, roused by the charge. "My uncle was not wont to consider the child of his deceased friend in such a light; was not wont to hear aught against the generous youth who so esteemed him? against ^ the brave patriot whose purity none has yet dared to doubt. Why a stran? ger, and that stranger an enemy, should so steal the affections of one hitherto so fond, I cannot understand; but one thing I know, no compulsion shall ever make me give my hand where my heart cannot accompany it." "And this is your resolve?" said Mr. Willoughby, struggling for a calmness he could scarcely obtain. "Firm and unalterable!" replied Ellen, meeting his gaze in unflinching determination. "Then hear me." said he, in low wrathful tones. "If ever words of love pass between you and Davie, you leave my roof, never to see my face again. Choose between the two. With the one you l$ave my house, and my curse follows you; with the other, I open my heart to you. my Ellen, and bless you while I live." ? "For Heaven's sake, uncle, what Is this? How has Harry offended you? What traitor, has poisoned your ear against him?" "I have nothing against him; but this is my will." "Oh! uncle, what strange madness Is this?" said Ellen. In trembling terror *-? for her uncle's reason. 'That a stranger should so infatuate you." "I speak the words of truth and soberness. and so help me Ooa, I will abide by them" replied Mr. Wlllough k "Then God help me." said Ellen. t AMPBELL >R [OUNTAl K ulrer, by Mrs. Mary A. Ewart. "Ellen, Is it much I ask you?" said Mr. Willoughby, more kindly. "A youth, handsome, generous and devoted, with every quality to make a woman happy, asks you to be his wife. What miserable infatuation forbids?" She wept sadly. "But I plead sternly. Perhaps more tender Hps can plead to more purpose. Remember your promise not to betray your love to another." And ere she understood why he had left her. "Ellen?and In tears?" said Graham. "Have my foolish words wounded you? God knows, dearest, I would give my life to spare you a 'Ingle one. Look up. look up. Ellen, ind tell me I'm fnnriv^n" bq (H h? In e-lnri surnrise. at this unwonted yielding. She did look up but with a look of despair which startled him. "What is the matter. Ellen? I cannot understand this. Your uncle bade me meet you here to plead, as only lover can plead for love anc happiness. Say. my Ellen, that you listen to me." "I can listen," said she mournfully, "but my heart gives no response." "What!" said he. 'have I again been too precipitate?" "We must understand each other," she replied. "You ask love and happiness. I might give content; but never happiness." "You wrong yourself. You wrong me by such a thought?you who are so fitted for domestic felicity. You, who possess an enthusiastic tenderness and an earnest devotion. And I? my affections and opinions shall be moulded In yours: and If ardent, devoted love can make you happy, you will be blest Indeed." "Is it not possible that you do not comprehend me? I cannot love you as you ought to be loveJ. I esteem you more than any man 1 have ever seen, but I can never regard you otherwise than as a vaiuea rriena. "May I not hope?" said he, much agitated, "that time?my future conduct, your uncle's influence?" "Forgive me. Graham. I do not willingly distress you: but better the disappointment now, than that you should hereafter discover that my silence had deceived you." "And you would tell me you cannot love me?" replied he passionately. She was silent, unwilling to pain, by repetition, the heart she had already | wounded so deeply. "Ellen, tell me; have you preference for another?" The crimson tide bathed neck and brow. "Our birth is equal, our fortunes favorable, our tastes similar. Tell me, Ellen, what Is between me and happiness?" She clasped her hard and said: "You have every right to exact such a mark of my esteem and confidence. Would I could meet you In the same generous spirit, but, alas! my lips are sealed." "Ah." cried Graham, misunderstanding her allusion. "It is because I stand against you as an enemy, that you think me unworthy of your encouragement and favor. Next to my honor. Ellen, you are dear. Its call Is sacred even were it a summons to the tents. Would you have me sacrifice all for love, and think It well lost?" "God forbid." said she. "Much as I would like to see every man of honor enlisted In our cause I would not wish to Influence you. Na>. for such weakI ness, I would despise you." "My noble Ellen. I knew It." said he, much relieved. "Then what Is It, Ellen? Do I not plead warmly enough?" and flying off the reserve he had evidently been chafing against, with all the warmth of his passionate nature, he poured out his love. Startled at his fiery vehemence, she strove to check him, but In vain. The warm blood of his Italian nature was roused and swept like a torrent over the cold barriers of an English training. "Ellen." said he, "you must be mine. My love will not brook a refusal. Do not tell me you cannot love me. My soul must And in you its supply; or falling of its fountain, it will burst Its wretched tenement In despair. Look at me. Ellen. Give me your hand and count, if you can the beatings of my pulse, and your woman's heart will not so condemn me. Ellen, Ellen," said he. in tones of passion's tenderest cadence: and unable longer to restrain the Impetuosity of his fervid nature, he threw his arm around her, and pressing her for an Instant wildly to his breast, whispered. In rapid utterance. "To hold you thus, as wife?the intoxication maddens me." He snatched a burning kiss from her flushed face, and ere she could utter the Indignant words that rose to her tongue, he had left her. Unable longer to control the emotions of his nature, and fearing her coldness might tempt him to be guilty of some strange wild impulse that would forever frighten her colder spirit, he sought reruge in somuue. While struggling for a calmness that was almost unattainable, he met Mr. Wllloughby. "How have you succeeded?" he said anxiously. "I do not know," replied he Impetuously. "I fear my violence has startled her calm nature to an indignation she will never subdue." "What do you mean, Graham?" said Mr. Willoughby, frightened at the flushed face and excited manner of his young friend. "I mean this," said he: "Better have my brains blown out and be rid of this misery at once, than suffer this torture longer." "Good heavens, Graham, don't speak so wildly." said Mr. Wllloughby. shuddering. "Speak mildly! You should see my heart?you should feel these bursting temples. Why was I ever cursed with this fervid nature. If It entails such suffering as this" And he struck his clenched hand against his brow. "For God's sake, be calm, Graham. I cannot bear, indeed I cannot bear this agony;" and the old man burst into tears. "Oh! what fate Is this that follows my wretched life?" "Had you told me Ellen could never be my wife. I would have guarded myself against this sorrow." said Graham, moved by tokens of such sympathy, from his wild passion, to a more wretched despair. "But you encouraged me. You were never happy but j when we were together. You learnt me to see in her every quality to make life happy, and you still curse me by encouraging me to grasp what you know can never be mine. Fool, fool, fool that I was to be so deceived, and doubly double fool yet to trust in it." "Hold. Graham, ere you kill me," said Mr. Wllloughby, gasping for breath. "God help me, this Is terrible," and he staggered to a seat. "And If It is terrible to you, who in caprice of friendship would give this peerless treasure to my keeping, think what it Is to me. who, having It held out to me panting to grasp it, should, In the very moment of fruition, have it snatched from me by an indifference that chills and fires my soul?" ?* m U*. 1X711 iirunum, oe pauna, naiu mi, ?... loughby. trembling: like an aspen leaf. "Be patient, and?" "Patient, patient. By heavens sir, you drive me mad. Bid an avalanche stop Its thundering career; bid the torrent rest on Its giddy helgrht, nor suffer one mad wave to fall. Then stop, If you can. these burning pulses?still this bounding heart. No. cursed In the day of my birth: cursed In the mother that bore me. giving me In these mad passions. a heritage of woe?cursed in the father that begat me." "Hold, rash boy. What would you say? For God's sake hold; one moment. be calm, and I swear by the Heavens above us. Ellen will be to you all you wish. Nay. more, her own lips shall declare It." "You would- again deceive me," said Graham Incredulously. "Give me your hand, boy. Now, before Heaven I swear, ere another month roll by. Ellen shall be your wife; or may my lying lips be silent in the grave." "You will not force her to this?" said Graham, his generous love still checking all baser passions. "Will it not suffice to tell you she will do It?" said Mr. Wllloughby. frowning. "No," replied the impetuous young man. "My heart must not be her tomb. My love must not be a sepulcher to bury every emotion of her nature. It is her love I want?the soft and pure tenderness of her soul that will radiate my life with such joy as weaker mortals dream not for. Give me this, and I will bless you while life and being last." 'If oholl Ko an" anlri Mr Wlllnillirhhv. compressing1 his Hps firmly. "Quickly then; I would not go through this agony again for myriads of worlds." "Give me one kind word then, Graham. to encourage me for this duty." "Do you need It?" said he. In surprise at the tenderness of Mr. Wllloughby's manner. "Then God bless you. as you have blessed me." "Ah," said Mr. Wllloughby, In tremulous horror. "Would you kill me? Boy, I asked a blessing. Good God. you have cursed me." "Not so, sir." said Graham, surprised at the suffering before him. "I did but thank you for what you have done for me: but I will add yet more?I pray your forgiveness for all the wild words I have uttered in my madness and may God spare me to return four fold all the mercy I have received from you." "God help me; I am doomed." muttered the wretched man. recoiling as If from a blow; and whose incipient madness seemed almost on the verge of manlacy. "But this will atone," he said, "and before heaven I record the vow. God bless you, Graham; all will yet be well." "Strange." said Graham, looking after him In surprise. "Ellen told me of a mortal terror which sometimes overcame him. What if all these promises were but the lurlngs of a madman. He talks sanely enough, though. But does not his wonderful interest In me, a stranger, an enemy, argue his Imbecility? I should have thought of that before: but If he Is mad, there's a method In his madness equal to Hamlet himself. Ah! If he can but make his words true. It will be the most blissful madness that ever befell mortal." "Capt. Hardy, bearer of dispatches from Cornwallis, awaits you In the parlor," said Jerry Interrupting his reverie. "Who?" said Graham, In surprise. "Capt. Hardy, sir, from Lord Cornwallis." "Bid him wait," said Graham, impatiently. "No use tell him dat, sir; he gwlne to wait till he got ready to go." "Cornwallis might have sent a gentleman. when he was sending," muttered Graham as he slowly advanced to the house. He there found Mr. Wllloughby exercising a strained kind of courtesy, which Ellen's contempt did not allow her to second. "Capt. Hardy," said Graham, with military stiffness, exacting the salute due to a superior officer. "You bear dispatches?" said he, not noticing Hardy's officious inquiries as to his convalescence. save by a haughty bow. "I do sir. They give you the joyful intelligence of your exchange," said he wun a niaiiguaiu niiiur. "They will no doubt, explain their own purport," said Graham, haughtl.v. Hardy bit his lip In chagrin, aivl turning to Ellen with what suavl"? of manner he might command, said? "It has been sometime since we have had the pleasure of meeting." She did not think It necessary 10 reply, save by the slightest Inclination. "I fear you will be disposed to quarrel with me, Miss Ellen, for robbing you of a guest, whom I have no doubt, has proved very entertaining." "I can relieve you on that score," said Graham, who had rapidly scanned his dispatches. "Miss Campbell (laying a stress on the name) "does not condescend to such pastimes as quarreling or, if she did, doubtless she would seek a worthier subject?and excuse me?a nobler adversary." Ellen's quick glance thanked him far more gratefully than words could possibly have done. "Nevertheless I know that Miss Campbell can take a much more active part In such a matter, than you suppose possible," replied Hardy, maliciously. Ellen looked up imploringly. "I must take it there was a worthier subject, as the adversary In the case was the same" he continued with a coarse laugh. "Capt. Hardy, I beg you will not refer to scenes which, for the sake of all parties had better be forgotten," said Mr. Willoughby, In trembling for Ellen's cherished secret. "Certainly," he replied. In affected | astonishment. "I had no idea Miss Campbell would be so affected by an incident that, for her sake I am thankful, ended so happily." And he bent a curious gaze upon her blushing face. "I have no doubt Miss Campbell will be obliged to us all, if we could find other themes for discourse," said Graham, who could not understand the allusions but seeing they were painful to Ellen, continued: "Miss Ellen, there are some prints in the other room for your inspection. Allow me?" and extending his hand with graceful courtesy he conducted her to the next room. How her heart gleamed toward him for his tender watchfulness! Looking up in his face with glistening eyes, she whispered "Brother." He shook his head mournfully. "It will not satisfy. I can never call you 'sister' again:" and pressing his lips to her hand he returned to Hardy. "Where is Cornwallis, now, sir?" he asked. "Moving up to King's Mountain." "Ah! why is that?" "doing to pen Morgan, who has grown too audacious of late," said Hardy. "But how does he expect to do that? Morgan is over here to the west." "Oh! he has sent Tarleton to drive him up; and you know it does not take long for him to execute business." "They want to prevent his escaping, I suppose. As he flies from Tarleton. Cornwallis will be down on him." "Exactly so. and we will make King's Mountain the scene of another drama, with another finale," laughed Hardy. "May not Morgan stand a fight?" said Mr. Wllloughby. "Scarcely, with Tarleton's superiority of numbers, in the proportion of five to four, and particularly of his cavalry, standing three to one," said Hardy. "What force has Tarleton?" said Graham. "Twelve hundred regulars, and five hundred of them are his legion that carries terror and conquest to every quarter. Morgan will have to use light heels to escape him." "Did Cornwall Is give you any private instructions for me?" said Graham, who had evidently been very uneasy since reading his dispatches. "None." said Hardy. "Is the country pretty quiet now?" said Graham, seeming much relieved by the answer. "Quiet for us." replied Hardy. "Cornwallls and Tarleton make It no risk for us to ride about. I could not have ventured so near the rebel camp alone, were they not protecting me." "It Is as well to respect the prejudices of those whose guests we are." said Graham, in a low tone. Hardy elevated his brows, his coarse mind scarcely comprehending the delicate reproof. "I was not aware of offending any prejudices," said he. "and if rebel is too rough a word, why I'll call them cursed traitors." said he, with a fierce oath. Graham colored, and rising, said: "I will at once reply to my Lord, and not detain you. sir." "You may write If you please, colonel. I will not leave before morning." Graham glanced at Mr. Willoughby, his high-toned breeding not comprehending the want of delicacy that should so boldly extort hospitality. But Mr. Willoughby was too well practiced in the art of the times to be other than the conciliating and courteous host. Calling Jerry to attend the unceremonious guest to a chamber, he, for a while, dismissed the Intruder. "I do not wonder," said Graham, unable longer to restrain his impatience, "that the British officer's character has fallen into such odium, when such men as Hardy are invested with the dignity. How do you suffer such impertinences? And to have your house made a common hostelry: it is mortifying in the extreme." "Oh! we are used to it," said Mr. Willoughby. "We have ceased to look upon It as a nuisance. It Is now a necessity that we meet patiently, because unavoidable." "What a miserable policy." cried Graham. "How infatuated our commanders are! The more I see of It, the more I am compelled to wonder at their blindness. But what was the meaning of those allusions to Ellen?" "Oh!" said Mr. Willoughby. striving to speak unconcernedly, "It was a very natural Interposition of Ellen's. Davie, who was here on some business matter, was caught by a party of Hardy's troopers and they were on the point of executing summary judgment on him, when I, and then Ellen, Interposed for his life." "Good God, Mr. Willoughby, you don't tell me they would have murdered him?" "I believe they would." replied Mr. wiuougnoy. "How can you speak so calmly of it? And they let him off on your interposition?" "Indeed, no. They would have strung him up, had not his own troopers, come to the rescue." "Hung him? Horrible! And Hardy was the Instigator of this? He shall be reported. By heavens, such barbarous cruelty shall not go unpunished." "Alas! he read Cornwallls' order to the effect that every rebel should be immediately hanged. The order was peremptory, and admitted of no evasion." "You cannot believe. Mr. Wllloughby. that such rigor as this was Intended. Why such measures would kill the purest cause in the world. No wonder our conquering arms give us but barren ground." "I do not believe such rigor was Intended; but I believe It would have been winked at," replied Mr. Wllloughby. "Strange, I never heard of this before." said Graham. "Why was It kept from me?" "My dear Graham. It is useless to wound your ears with these terrible tales," replied Mr. Wllloughby, In some confusion. "Better let them be forgotten." "I cannot understand why Hardy should be so bitter against Davie. He's a blood-thirsty villain it's true; but I never knew him to be engaged In such a wanton murder as this would have been." "Oh, that Is easily explained." replied Mr. Wllloughby. anxious to be rid of the subject. "He has been aspiring to Ellen's hand for some time, and he fancied if Davie were out of the way, he would stand some chance." "The brutal Idiot, to dare raise his eyes to her, and to Imagine he could gain her by such means. But It shows the coarseness of his nature. I could not endure him before; but this makes me despise him to positive loathing.' "I do trust, Graham, you will not let him see it. He is a bad and evil disposed man, and would not hesitate to injure you if it lay in his power. I pray you be careful." "Tho vlnor' T tirAiiM ornoh him Q a I would any other reptile." replied Graham, grinding his heel as If he were already under Its power. "Yes; but it is instinctive to shun the loathsome reptile that bears its poison In Its sting. I would not court a danger that might be deadly." "And I shun only those that lack the charm," said the high-spirited youth. ro BB OONTINCIU. i | THE HORRC Helen, queen of Italy. horrifie< Japanese war, has written a poem C ranks of the women poets. The I birth of her boy. the heir to the tl I wife and devoted mother, and her her subjects. ' A Russian review published th I Blue Butterfly." "Das Aeussere" I and signed the name of the queer authorship became known, and th ? throughout Europe within the las I half a dozen languages. To the Prince spoke the Prlnc "Speak, Is this war not horrible Is this struggle not horrib This massacre of men, I Who on the earth soaked J Bleeding they too from a J Lie groaning, forsaken on Whilst their life, their yoi , Is lost far from their cour I Speak, is this war not hoi J Is this death not horrible? J Ah! shall there be no char Will the times not come ' That will end the horrors I Will the times not come * When peace shall smile et g And our country, our love, Ask no more bleeding vlctl ? Thus spoke the young Princes: a To the Prince, from the depths He gave no answer. ? No answer he gave, m Except to press her hand: Her slender white hands, That trembled slightly In And he led her to the wint * The window of his Konak ! He looked out on the square o | Where many children played. "Behold those children at p Said the Prince to the Prl "See how In peaceful games } Joyful, with glowing chee! \ ' With shining eyes. Their hearts beat with Joy See how only, fiow only n Fills their contented soul? ' But, alas! what do I see? I There they begin to strugf To bandy bitter words. I And?ah, see, my beloved. Those who until now wen g See them pull each other's ^ Look they form Into partli X Comrade hits comrade. Si* So are all children. And b Our people, they, too, are m And, as long as they rem} ? We shall never have peace ? Peace will be Impossible!" J Thus spoke the Prince. The I Listened attentively and then "See down there a boy Who stands laughing apai ? And watches the bitter str X Tell me, O beloved, why. Why does he not struggle J"* And the Prince: "Becausi Thus shall we strive too, J Soon to be the strongest; Because to the strongest 01 ? Peace smiles upon earth." M THE ELEVEN CENT MINIMUM, It Will Stand If It Is Really the Proper Price For Cotton. The Ashevllle convention fixed 11 cents a pound as the minimum price for this year's cotton crop. We shall now see whether those It represented have a sufficient power of monopoly over this Important staple to suspend the operation of the law of supply and demand in relation to It. The convention calculated the quantity of the crop with wonderful exactness as 9.588,133 bales. This Is about a million bales less than has been estimated upon the government report of acreage and condition, though the Cotton Growers' association gives a higher estimate of condition than the agricultural department. while Its estimate of acreage Is considerably lower. How much competition this restricted supply Is to meet from old crop surplus the convention does not seem to have taken Into account. but it boldly assumed that the world's demand upon the total supply, whatever the latter may be, will be sufficient to sustain a price of 11 cents or more. This is Just possible, and, If It should prove to be true, the minimum price of 11 cents may be sustained. If it Is not true that price cannot be sustained, except by a monopoly hold upon the supply and so long as that hold can be maintained. The relation of demand to supply for a year to come cannot be determined now by any human Judg ment. nor can it be exactly adjusted to any particular price. There may be more cotton available as times passes than the Asheville convention counted upon. There is a limited supply which does not come from this country, and 11 cents to the planter for American cotton may have the effect of restricting consumption and materially lessening the demand from abroad, where two-thirds of our market Is to be found. If the Planters' association and those allied with it can control the marketing of the crop, which Is doubtful, they may hold the price at 11 cents or above for a while. If conditions work In their favor and the demand proves sufficient to take up the supply at that price they may keep It up*. but in that case It would be there anyway. But If the I supply should prove to be greater than they calculate, or the demand should prove less or less persistent, they would find the natural law of competition In the markets getting the better of them and the price would break. They may "resolute till the cows come home." but unless they can establish a monopoly over the supply of cotton, and control both production and consumption, they cannot tlx the price that will stay fixed. If 11 cents is a proper minimum It would become so whether they resolve that It should or not. If It Is not, they cannot keep It there by resolution or decree of conventions.?New York Journal of Commerce. (9 UTS OF THR PUREST Wonderfnl Trees of Mariposa Grove. PROBABLY 5000 YRARS OLD. The Great Sequoia and Redwoods Rise to a Height of 350 Feet and Seem to Yield to No Element Except Fire?Only One of the Trees Has Been Known to Die a Natural Death. Chicago Record-Herald. Wawona, Cal., Sept. 16.?We have seen several of the big tree groves of California, and agree that Mariposa county has the most Interesting and ' Impressive. From the base of the foothills to the timber line on the breast of Its peaits, ine ssierra. i-*e vaua iiiuuiivan 10 i are covered with magnificent forests. There is no other forest within human reach so extensive or showing such enormous growths; and while the sequoia and redwoods are the largest, the pines, cedars, firs, oaks and other var ; i >RS OF WAR. i by the slaughter in the Russian- y which raises her among the front queen, the idol of Italy since the 4 irone, has been known as a happy ? poem has come as a revelation to y ie poem over the signature of "The 2 .ranslated the poem Into German, I of Italy, and the truth as to tu g ie poem has been widely printed II fortnight, being translated Into 4 ess; 2 1 ie? y In blood, thousand wounds, 9 the field ing life, 'try. rrlble? ige? ' , of war? * ernal I ms?" y 1 of her soul. f J his, 3 low, 5 f his palace y lay," * ncess, ks, j s 1 oble rapture 4 I j , ? ? so happy together ? hair! aB, t I i < lelleve me, my beloved, children, g 1 tin children, < ?' * I 'rlncess I asked: 4 1? , rt * uggle. 1 1 too?" J e he Is the strongest. ' 1 K i ? nly. my beloved. | 5 *A?A?A*A?AKA*AKA?A*A*AftA?A? , leties are of corresponding Immensity. | There Is something peculiar about the , -?oil and climate of these mountains that has made them so. The Mariposa < grove, as I have said. Is the finest we ( have seen?an assemblage of the largpst and most magnificent examples of , the vegetable kingdom known to bot- , any. The father of them all Is 106 feet | In circumference and more than 350 ( feet high?more than two-thirds as | high as the Washington monument, ( and almost as large In girth. The top ( Is twisted, and broken, and the guides , tell us that it was about seventy-five fe< t higher many years ago. but lost ( its crest In a storm. ( There are 115 trees In one group. ( each of which is more than fifteen feet , In diameter and more than 300 feet ( high. Most of them are between twen- . ty-five and thirty feet In diameter and ( from eighty to a hundred feet In clr- , cumfertnce. You have seen pictures ( of the hole cut through the base of one ( of these trees, with a stage coach, load- ( ed with passengers, driving through it. ( That Is a feature of every one of the ( seven forests. Perhaps you have also seen one of these giants fallen f upon the ground, with a stage coach, < loaded with passengers driving Its j full length. That trick was actually < performed, and was devised to gratify ( a New York gentleman, who paid the i stage driver for his trouble. The most i striking photograph, however, to my < mind. Is one that shows a troop of the ( J Fourth cavalry on horseback drilling | I upon the trunk of a fallen giant. I did j not see the drill but I have seen the i tree: and there is plenty of room upon ( the trunK ror a squadron or norsemen i to go through their maneuvers. The i "ballroom"?the stump which has been j smoothed off and polished for a dancing floor?Is In the forest Cklaveras, a | hundred miles to the north. It was , originally thlrty-flve feet and eight , inches in diameter, and when the bark | was taken off there remained a dancing j floor twenty-five feet In diameter and | seven feet from the ground. The larg- , est tree in the Calaveras forests, called , the "New York." Is 104 feet In clrcum- , ference. The "Ohio" Is 103 feet. Many | of the trees are hollow at the bottom. | They have been burned out by forest j fires, and great rooms remain. In the , "Tree of Refuge," In the Calaveras for- | est, sixteen steers were once found , huddled together, seeking shelter In the , trunk from a storm. When President | Harrison was at the Santa Cruz forest , he assembled his entire party of forty- , two people In the hollow trunk of a , tree In which General Fremont Is said , to have camped. The bark upon these trees is often i two feet thick. It Is generally from six < to eight Inches and beautifully mottled or fluted like a granite column. The trunks taper slowly; their symmetry Is very striking, and they are usually without a limb for a hundred or mor^ feet from the ground. The largest ones will average 300 feet In height, and you often find them 375 feet. Their limbs are ragged and twisted; their foliage Is scanty due to the storms of 500 V ars. They grow closely together; sometimes two, three and even five spring from the same roots, and there are acres where the trees are so closely grown that you can reach from one to another with your finger tips. The root system is not extensive nor is It deep. It Is extraordinary that the trees have lived for so many centuries and have grown so large with so little soil and so little moisture. Botanists say that they can live almost on the nourishment from the air, and that la where they 1 have an advantage over human beings. There are no buttresses, like you see suppor.lng the trunks of monster trees In eastern forests but they rise out of the soil without showing their roots in most cases and stand squarely over their own center of gravity. They do < not die or decay like other trees, and i although you will find hundreds of them burned out at the bottoms, so that the gap will shelter a score of men or a i squadron of cavalry, yet the upper trunk and the branches will be as firm and healthful as nature could make them: and professional foresters, like John Muir. will tell you that, among | more than five thousand of these giants i scattered along the slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, they have never i seen but one sequoia tree which died i a natural death. That is famous. It i lies on the bank of Boulder creek, and was evidently starved to death. The rocky ravine where nature imprisoned , it furnished insufficient nourishment and Inadequate moisture, but It grew and grew, until it became greater than i any other tree ' the neighborhood; until it could look over the tops of the | forests around it. Then, one day. It fell from its own weight and perished. Worms and other pests do not affect i the sequoias. They seem immune from 1 ail the diseases and dangers that afflict ordinary trees, and even fire finds It i difficult to destroy them. The foresters I say that the large trees are more than four or five thousand years old. and i that the largest?those which have i passed a height of 300 feet and a dlam- i eter of thirty feet?may be as old as seven or eight thousand years. They ( were full grown when Moses was taken i from the bullrushea; when Eneas was , "toting" his Infirm father away from < trouble In Troy; and were already aged when the morning stars sang that won- | derful song at Bethlehem. < On the banks of the Nile visitors are 1 shown a sycamore under which Joseph and Mary and the Boy Jesus rested while they were fleeing Into Egypt from the wrath of Herod: In India they show | the decrepit trunk of an ancient be tree, under which Buddha?the light of Asia | ?once preached, and In the garden of Gethsemane are groups of gnarled, ragged and rotten olive trees under which , our Savior is said to have wept. Doubt , is cast upon the truth of these repre- ( sentatlons. Skeptics assert that trees , will not live as long as the Christian , era has lasted. But here, in six or sev- | en distinct groves, are trees which, < reckoning by the accepted rules, must ; have attained an ordinary size long ] before Abraham left the home of his | fathers. And what do you suppose hap- ] pened to them during the flood? The | botanists will tell you that, If they i are let alone. If these magnificent for- ; psts are only protected, they will sur- ] vlve another 10.000 years. i There Is great danger from Are, howpver. The air of all the country in this section is darkened with smoke from | forest fires every fall. They are burn- i Ing today all around the Yosemlte Val- | ley, and within a day's walk of the big i trees I have been telling you about. ( These fires occur every year. There Is ] a colony of soldiers here, whose duty ] Is to put out the fires, but they are not doing anything, and the citizens seem :o be Indifferent. Experts estimate that California loses more than Jl.000,000 during the month of September each | year from forest fires, which not only destroy the timber but eat up a surface covering of mulch, which Is Indlspen- ( sable both to the health and the repro- ( duction of the trees and to the regular- ( l:y of the water supply. This damage | cannot be repaired. The trees destroy- ( ed cannot be replaced In a hundred ( years. ( Most of the fires are started by the ( carelessness of campers and herders o? t sheep and cattle, who kindle a mass of brush and logs at night for cooking , and warmth, and in the morning leave | thtm burning when they go from camp. The present fire that Is raging around the Yosemlte, whether accurately or not, Is attributed to a passenger on ( * ??n?Ao ?.>Ka tKruii' a hnrnlnc J.:<e UI llir Miagco nuv VIIIVf* M, ? match to the ground after he had llgnted his cigar. The stage driver saw him Jo it and afterward remembered that the act was done exactly at the place where the fire started. The soil of the forests is covered with a thick matting of dry leaves and pine needles, dead twigs that have fallen from the trees, strips of bark that have sloughed off, nones that are saturated with pitch and turpentine?the most inflammable material you can Imagine?and over all at it Is growing grass, wild oats and ather plants that become dry In the fall. Thus If a match is thrown or If i burning cigar or cigarette happens to fall where the lighted end comes in contact with the ground, the dead leaves and pine needles are Instantly iflame and the fire spreads as It would ilong a powder train. Experienced foresters contend that the live large trees and the vigorous small ones would not be Injured, but rather benefited, If the ground was burned over every year or two, as the Indians did It. But If the Inflammable debris Is allowed to accumulate for several years It makes so fierce a fire that the standing timber Is burned to Jeath. They say that there are more Jres on the forest reserves nowadays than before they were withdrawn from settlement. First, because when cattle were allowed to graze on the lands they kept down the grass and wild oats; secondly, because campers and herdsmen are more careless than they used to be and take no Interest In government property, and thirdly, because the foresters do not burn the ground over 1 every year or two. as was formerly Jone. ; The Mariposa grove belongs to the state of California, having been Includ- i ed In the grant made by the federal i government In 1864, and It has been receded by the state legislature to th United States. It Is about thirty-five miles from the Yosemlte Valley and a morning drive from Wawona, the headquarters of the Southern Pacific stage line. Wawona Is an Indian word, meaning "big trees." Yosemlte means "full grown grizzly bear." Wawona Is a lovely place? a park of several thousand acres, shaded by enormous pines and Inclosed by massive mountains. At one end of the park Is a cozy little hotel, surrounded by cottages. It reminds you of some of the Virginia summer resorts. The Washburn brothers, who keep the place, are genial, hospitable men who are always looking out for the comfort of their guests and try to make them feel at home. But you find the same evidences of genuine hospitality at all of the hotels In the valley?at Glacier Point, at Ahwanee, Hazel Green and Coulterville?and you are sure of getting a good bed and a good meal wherever you stop In this country. It Is a common fault of tourists to limit their time In the Yosemlte, and they thus deprive themselves of a great deal of pleasure. People who come here should not set any time for going away, for the longer they remain the more enjoyment they will get. There are enough pleasant excursions around Wawona, for example, to occupy a fortnight. The visit to the Mariposa trees is only one of a dozen. In the center of, the Mariposa grove, like a mere atom in a universe, stands a little log cabin, occupied by the custodian and the rangers. The custodian sells photographs and curios and holds a commission as justice of the peace, so that he can deal with vandals promptly and make the majesty of the law felt in the forest. In front of the cabin Is a spring, whose waters are the coldest I have ever tasted; they could not be colder if they ran from the back of an iceberg, and this cireumstance suggests the existence of a concealed glacier. They show you the place where President Roosevelt wrapped himself in a blanket one night and lay down on the pine needles between two Titanic trees. In the morning when he was wakened he said he never slept so sweetly in his life before and that his bed was softer than any they had at the White House. He spent a week in these wood8 with John Mulr and another friend, with one of the forest rangers as a guide. They had no tents, but slept on the ground In their blankets, although there was frost every night. They had no cooking utensils except a frying pan and coffee pot, reenforced by tin plates and cups and knives and forks. They didn't even have a wash-basin. They found plenty of water in the creeks and springs. They carried a strip of bacon and some flour and they shot what fresh meat they needed. Nobody ever enjoyed a visit to the valley more than the president. Over In one corner of the Mariposa big tree grove stands a pile of boulders twelve feet high, shaped like an obelisk ?a very appropriate monument in honor of Galen Clark, the man who discovered it. Mr. Clark is still living, and you can see him and hear him tell of his wonderful experiences If you will come here and visit the tent camp run by the Sentinel Hotel. He is 91 years old, but Is as vigorous as a man of 60. He came from the town of Dublin, N. H., via the Isthmus of Panama, In 1853, and worked In the gold mines at Mariposa. In 1857. while on a hunting trip, be discovered the big trees and built the present log cabin which for thirty years was known as "Galen's Hospice." For twenty-four years he was guardian of the Yosemlte and for a long time was postmaster there. He remains In the valley winter and summer. He hasn't been out of it for many years, and with his own hands has dug his grave in a little cemetery and has *?t up a granite block upon which he has carved his name and the date of his birth. A lusty young sequoia tree is planted at each of the four corners of the lot. Wm. E. Curtis. A LINCOLN 8TORY. How Ono Major Qanaral Was Mada During tha Civil War. During the Civil war General Butterfleld was sent to Washington to ilscuss a certain plan of army operations with President Lincoln. When he appeared at the White House Senator Sumner was with the Preslient. In "A Biographical Memorial jf General Daniel Butterfleld" tha :onversatlon between the senator and ind the president Is given. "Mr. President," said the senator, you have issued an order which relieves General 3axton from the command in front of Charleston and placed General Glllmore in com-, mand. General Saxton is very highly thought of. and I am much interested in him. He has a natural feeling of pride that the ranking officer should command. General Saxton is o. Higher rank than General Glllmore. He Is perfectly willing that General 3illmore should carry out all plans ind operations and does not desire :o Interfere with them at all. but vith the pride and spirit of the old irmy officers he simply desires, and lis friends desire with him, that the -anking officer should command. It vili not Interfere with General Gillnore In carrying out the operations." "You say. Mr. Senator, that they ifo hnth hrlcnriler srenerals?" "Yes, but General Saxton Is the anklng officer." "Will It be entirely satisfactory to rou. Mr. Senator, and all our friends md to General Saxton If the ranking >fflcer is In command?" "Perfectly so. Mr. President." "Very well," said Mr. Lincoln, "I vlll arrange it. I will have General Slllmore made a major general." It was hard to keep from laughing it the quick response and the prompt ictlon of the president in taking the tenator up on his proposition and hus meeting it. Mr. Sumner bade he president good morning and reIred. "So longer able to repress the amotion the interview had caused," vrites General Butterfleld, "I laughed ind remarked, 'Mr. President, Is that :he way major generals are made?' " XT So man knows enough to entitle him to conceit. XT If you wish no man to suspect your secret, don't have one. XT When some people work they make so much fuss you are sorry they started.