compassed by endless mountain-ranges that chill the bright skies with
never-melting snows. The countless peaks look down on the clouds, while
far below the clouds wind valleys that the sunlight never reaches.
Twisting in gloomy dusk through these valleys, a gaping canon yawns.
Peering fearfully into its black, forbidding depths, an echo reaches the
ear. It is the fury of a mighty river, so far below that only a sullen
roar rises to the light of day. With frightful velocity it rushes
through a channel cut during centuries of patience deep into the
stubborn rock. Now mad with whirlpools, now silently awful with
stretches of green water, that wait to lure the boatman to death, the
mighty river rushes darkly through the Grand Colorado Canon.
No sport, no fun, no frolic there. Here are only awe-inspiring gloom and
grandeur, and dangers so hideous that only a handful of men have ever
braved them--fewer still survived.
Grandest of American rivers though it is, you will be glad to get away
from it to a noble stream like the Columbia, to a headstrong flood like
the Missouri, or an inland sea like the Mississippi; on them at least
you can draw a full breath and speak aloud without a feeling that the
silent mountains may fall on you or the raging river swallow you up.
In the vast territory lying between the Missouri River and the Pacific
Ocean the rivers are fast being harnessed for a work that will one day
make the most barren spots fertile. Irrigation is claiming every year
more of the flow of Western rivers. Even the tricksy old Missouri is
contributing somewhat to irrigation, but in the queerest possible way.
With all its other eccentricities, the Missouri River leaks badly; for
you know there are leaky rivers as well as leaky boats. The government
engineers once measured the flow of the Missouri away up in Montana, and
again some hundred miles further down stream. To their surprise, they
found that the Missouri, instead of growing bigger down stream, as every
rational river should, was actually 20,000 second-feet[1] smaller at the
lower point.
[Footnote 1: The volume of rivers is measured by the number of cubic
feet of water flowing past a given point every second. The breadth of
the river is multiplied by its average depth, and the ascertained speed
of the current gives the number of cubic feet of water flowing by the
point of measurement each second. This will explain the term
second-feet.]
Now, while 20,000 second-feet could be spared from such a tremendous
river, that amount of water makes a considerable stream of itself. Many
very celebrated rivers never had so much water in their lives. Hence
there was great amazement when the discrepancy was discovered. But of
late years Dakota farmers away to the south and east of those points on
the Missouri, sinking artesian wells, found immense volumes of water
where the geologists said there would n't be any. So it is believed that
the farmers have tapped the water leaking from that big hole in the
Missouri River away up in Montana; and from these wells they irrigate
large tracts of land, and, naturally, they don't want the river-bed
mended. Fancy what a blessing it is, when the weather is dry, to have a
river boiling out of your well, ready to flow where you want it over the
wheat-fields! For of all manner of work that a river can be put to,
irrigation is, I think, the most useful. But isn't that a queer way for
the Missouri to wander about underneath the ground?
THE WATERMELON STOCKINGS
BY ALICE CALDWELL HEGAN
(Author of "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch")
"Jes' look at dat ornery little nigger!" exclaimed Aunt Melvy, as she
deposited a basket of clothes on the cabin floor. "I lef her to clean
up, an' to put de 'taters on to bile, an' to shoo de flies offen de
twinses, an' I wisht you 'd look at her!"
Nell Tracy, who had come down with Aunt Melvy from the big house on the
hill, viewed the culprit ruefully. 'Mazin' Grace was Aunt Melvy's eighth
daughter, and had been named for her mother's favorite hymn, which began
"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound." She was very short and very fat,
and her kinky hair was plaited into ten tight pigtails, each of which
was bound with a piece of leather shoe-string. At present she sat with
her back propped against the door, her mouth wide open, and slept
peacefully while the flood of her mother's wrath passed over her.
[Illustration: "'MAZIN' GRACE SLEPT PEACEFULLY."]
"Oh, but, Aunt Melvy, won't you please let her come?" begged Nell,
throwing off her sun-bonnet and letting down a tangle of yellow curls.
"I have n't got anybody to play with me. Mother drove to town with
father, and she said I was to get 'Mazin' Grace to stay with me."
"Why, I'se gwine to let her come, honey," said Aunt Melvy, "co'se I is.
I wouldn't mek you cry fer nothin'! Only, I'se gwine to whup her fust.
She ain't 'sponsible on her word, dat's what's de matter wid her. She
done 'low to me she would n't wink her eyeball while I was gone. What
you think I ketch her doin' one time?" Aunt Melvy's voice sank to a
whisper. "She sewed, on a Sunday! She knowed as well as me dat w'en she
gits to heben she'll hab to pick out ebery one ob dem stitches wid her
nose."
Nell looked at the sleeper's round pug-nose and wondered how she would
ever be able to do it. But it was no use thinking of the punishment in
the next world, when an immediate whipping was promised in this;
consequently she turned the whole battery of her eloquence upon Aunt
Melvy, who in the end gave in.
[Illustration: "'AND I AM GOING TO WEAR THE WATERMELON STOCKINGS,' CRIED
NELL."]
Ten minutes later the two little playmates were skipping down the avenue
under the shady old beech-trees where their fathers had played
together in the long ago.
"Is yer maw gwine lemme tek you to de Christian an' Debil Society?"
asked 'Mazin' Grace, as they skirted the house, and made their way into
the back yard.
"Yes," cried Nell, gleefully, "and I am going to wear the watermelon
stockings!"
If 'Mazin' Grace had not been so black, a cloud might have been seen
passing over her face. She was the sharer of all Nell's woes, and of all
but one of her joys. The exception was the possession of the watermelon
stockings.
These were a sort of heirloom among the children of the family, and were
regarded with reverence and pride. They were of a peculiar shade of pink
silk, with clockwork up the sides and sprays of white flowers
embroidered over the instep. A long time ago they had belonged to Cousin
Mary, who was quite a big girl now, and she had sent them to Uncle
Robert's boy up in Ohio. He learned to waltz in them, and in time sent
them to little Agnes in Virginia, who wore them for a year on state
occasions, then sent them back to Kentucky to little Cousin Nell.
If ever a tempted soul longed for a forbidden treasure, 'Mazin' Grace
longed for the watermelon stockings. "Effen they was mine, I'd give you
one anyways," she argued with Nell, but to no avail.
In the back yard stood a big old chicken-coop, which had been cleaned
out and nicely whitewashed for the children to use as a play-house. It
had an upstairs and a downstairs, and a square little door that fastened
on the outside with a wooden peg. Nell could climb in easily; but
'Mazin' Grace was too fat, and after many efforts she had given up,
contenting herself with watching the play from outside.
To-day a doll funeral was in progress, and Nell, moving comfortably
about inside the coop, arranged the broken bits of china in a spool-box,
tied a sweeping piece of crape on her biggest doll, and allowed her
imagination full swing in depicting the grief of the doll family.
'Mazin' Grace, sitting under the apple-tree outside, took little
interest in the proceedings. The hot sun beat down on the long stretch
of blue-grass, and up from the creek came the warm odor of mint; a fat
old bumblebee hummed close to her head, but she did not stir. She was
thinking about the watermelon stockings.
[Illustration: "NELL TIED A SWEEPING PIECE OF CRAPE ON HER BIGGEST
DOLL."]
Presently she began to move stealthily toward the coop, watching Nell
cautiously from the corner of her eyes. "Ain't nobody to home but me an'
her," she whispered to herself, "an' there wouldn't nobody know, an'--"
With a deft movement she closed the small door and fastened it with the
wooden peg. Then she turned, and, leaving the unconscious prisoner, sped
softly up the garden path, through the basement, and up the stairs.
In Mrs. Tracy's bedroom was a wide old mahogany dresser with big glass
knobs that seemed to glare unwinking reproof at 'Mazin' Grace as she
opened the bottom drawer.
"Dis heah is where dey stays at," she said, tossing aside ribbons and
laces in her eagerness. "Oh, goody, goody! Heah dey is!"
Tearing away the tissue-paper, she gazed with delight at the coveted
stockings. The knobs might glare as much as they liked; the sparrows
might scold themselves hoarse on the window-sill; 'Mazin' Grace was lost
in the rapture of the moment, and refused to consider consequences. She
traced the pattern of the embroidery with her stubby finger, she rubbed
the silk against her cheek, and even tied one stocking around her head
and stood on tiptoe to see the result in the mirror. The more she
handled them the more reckless she became.
"I 'spect I 'se gwine to try dese heah stockin's on!" she said, with a
giggle, as she drew the silken lengths over her bare, dusty feet. "Gee
Bob! Ain't them scrumptious! I look lak a shore-'nuff circus lady!"
[Illustration: "CATCHING HER RAGGED SKIRTS IN EITHER HAND, SHE BOWED LOW
TO HER IMAGE."]
She tipped the mirror in order to get the full reflection, and stood for
a moment entranced. Then catching her ragged skirts in either hand,
she bowed low to her image, and, after cutting a formal and elaborate
pigeonwing, settled down to a shuffle that shook the floor. Music and
motion were as much a part of 'Mazin' Grace as her brown skin and her
white teeth. All Aunt Melvy's piety had failed to convince her of the
awful wickedness of "shaking her foot" and "singing reel chunes." She
danced now with utter abandon, and the harder she danced the louder she
sang:
"Suzanne Goffin, don't you cry;
Take dat apron from your eye.
Don't let de niggers see you sigh;
You'll git a pahtner by an' by."
The small figure with its flying pigtails swayed and swung, and the pink
legs darted in and out. Backward, forward, right glide, left glide, two
skips sidewise. Her breath was almost gone, but she rallied her forces
for a grand finale. With a curtsy to the bedpost and hands all around,
she dashed into the rollicking ecstasy of the "Mobile Buck":
"Way up yonder in de moon,
Yaller gal lickin' a silver spoon.
Cynthy, my darlin', who tol' you so?
Cynthy, my darlin', how do you know?"
As she dropped panting on the floor, something arrested her attention.
She held up her head and sniffed the air. It was a familiar odor that
roused her conscience as nothing else could have done. Something burning
usually meant that she had failed to watch the stove, and that
catastrophe usually meant a whipping. She scrambled to her feet and ran
to the window. Over across the road, the big barn where Mr. Tracy stored
his grain was wrapped in flames. The wind was blowing from that
direction, and it fanned the smoke into 'Mazin' Grace's eyes.
"Gee! Dat was a spark of fire," she cried, as she snatched her hand from
the window-sill. She climbed out of the window upon the porch, and
looked anxiously up and down the road. Nothing was to be seen save the
long stretch of empty turnpike, with the hot sun beating down upon it.
As she turned to go back inside the window, she stopped, horrified. On
the cornice of the roof above her a glowing ember was smoldering
dangerously. 'Mazin' Grace wrung her hands.
"Mammy said I was gwine to git burned up fer bein' so wicked. An' Marse
Jim's house, what's belonged to we-all sence de wah! An' de settin'-room
where we hangs up our stockin's ebery Christmas! An' dere ain't nobody
to take keer ob it all but me! Oh, Lordy! Lordy! what mus' I do?--what
mus' I do?"
As she stood there, wild-eyed and tearful, a thought made its way
through the kinky hair into her bewildered brain. She darted back into
the house, and reappeared with a broom.
"I'se gwine up dat ladder," she said with grim determination, "an' I'se
gwine to sweep dem sparks off. An' effen I can't sweep 'em off I kin
spank 'em out."
The fire at the barn was now raging; great volumes of smoke swept toward
the house, heavily laden with live embers. 'Mazin' Grace, choking and
frightened, wielded her broom with telling effect; no sooner did a spark
touch the roof than it was brushed off into the long grass below. But
they were coming faster and faster, and, watch as she would, she could
not keep some of them from igniting the dry shingles. From side to side
she scrambled, sweeping, beating, fighting the fire with all the
strength in her little body. Her eyes smarted fiercely, her feet were
bruised, the heat was suffocating; but 'Mazin' Grace never thought of
deserting the post: she worked, as she had danced, with all her might
and main, pitting her puny strength valiantly against that of the
flames.
[Illustration: "FROM SIDE TO SIDE SHE SCRAMBLED, SWEEPING, BEATING, AND
FIGHTING THE FIRE."]
But courage does not always bring success. Just when the fire at the
barn began to subside, and the sparks ceased to fall on the roof, a tiny
column of smoke began to curl up from the gabled roof of the porch.
'Mazin' Grace clambered down the ladder, and, sitting astride of the
angle, worked her way outward toward the fire. She could not carry the
broom, but if she could only reach the blaze perhaps she could beat it
out with her hands! Excitement gave her fresh strength. On either side
the roof sloped abruptly, but she worked her way on, inch by inch. Two
shingles had caught--three! The smoke had changed into a blaze. Leaning
over as far as she dared, 'Mazin' Grace stretched out her hand toward
the flame. She could not reach it.
With a cry of terror and despair, she fell forward on the ridge; all her
courage and strength suddenly deserted her--she could only cling there
face downward, and sob and sob as if her heart would break. "Effen our
house burns down, I want to die too," she whispered. "But Miss Lucy an'
Marse Jim won't never know how I tried to take keer on it. 'Deed I did."
Up from the creek came the faint perfume of the mint; the sparrows
scolded in the beech-trees. Nellie, who had broken her prison bars,
called again and again from the playground, while slowly but surely up
the roof crawled the ever-increasing flames. But 'Mazin' Grace heard
nothing, saw nothing; she lay unconscious on the roof, an absurdly
pitiful little figure in her ragged dress and pink silk stockings.
* * * * *
It was six weeks before 'Mazin' Grace's burns were sufficiently healed
for her to walk. Mr. Tracy, hearing of the fire on his farm, had driven
home just in time to save the child's life. His porch was completely
destroyed; but the old homestead, with its host of memories and
associations, stood intact--a monument to the faithfulness of a very
naughty little girl.
Almost the first time 'Mazin' Grace was allowed to go out, she took Nell
to the "Christian an' Debil" Society. She limped as she walked, for her
feet were still tender from the recent blisters; but, in spite of the
pain, her smile was one of unalloyed bliss. Two pairs of sturdy little
legs were keeping step in two new pairs of watermelon stockings.
The "'Gator"
BY CLARENCE B. MOORE
The alligator, or "'gator," as it is usually called throughout its home,
the Southern States, is an object of great curiosity at the North. Every
winter many tourists visit Florida and carry back baby alligators,
together with more or less magnified accounts of the creature's doings
and habits, and their stories are probably the cause of this very
widespread interest.
Though the alligator is rapidly disappearing from the banks of the lower
St. John's River, in Lake Washington and in the Saw Grass Lake (where
that river has its source), and in waters still farther south, they are
still to be found in almost undiminished numbers, and are hunted for a
living by native hunters. They are commonly sought at night, by
torch-light, for in this way they can be approached with the utmost
ease.
[Illustration: THE ALLIGATOR HUNTERS IN THEIR CAMP.]
A rifle-ball will readily penetrate an alligator's hide, although there
exists an unfounded belief to the contrary. The creatures will "stand a
deal of killing," however, and frequently roll off a bank and are lost
even after being shot through and through.
The alligator builds a nest of mud and grass, and lays a large number of
oblong white eggs, but the little ones when hatched often serve as lunch
for their unnatural papa, and this cannibalism, more than the rifle,
prevents their numbers from increasing. The alligator is not particular
as to diet. I once found the stomach of a ten-footer to be literally
filled with pine chips from some tree which had been felled near the
river's bank! They are fond of wallowing in marshes, and many a man out
snipe shooting has taken an involuntary bath by stumbling into their
wallows. In dry seasons alligators will traverse long distances overland
to reach water, and travelers have come suddenly upon alligators
crawling amid prairies or woods, in the most unexpected manner. The
alligator as a rule is very wary, but at times sleeps quite soundly. I
saw one struck twice with an oar before it woke.
[Illustration: The Haunt of the "Gator".]
There is a very prevalent impression that the alligator differs from the
crocodile in that one moves the upper jaw and the other the lower. Such,
however, is not the case. Both animals move the lower jaw, though the
raising of the head as the mouth opens sometimes gives the appearance
of moving the upper jaw only. But alligators and crocodiles differ in
the arrangement of the teeth, and the snout of the crocodile is more
sharply pointed.
The hides are salted to preserve them and are shipped to dealers in
Jacksonville, where those less than six feet long are worth a dollar,
while for those which exceed this length twenty-five cents extra is
allowed. A fair estimate of the number of alligators killed for sale in
Florida alone, and not counting those shot by tourists, would be ten
thousand annually. One hears very conflicting reports as to the length
of large alligators. A prominent dealer in Jacksonville said that out of
ten thousand hides handled by him none were over twelve feet long. I am
told that at the Centennial, side by side with a crocodile from the
Nile, there was shown an alligator from Florida sixteen feet in length.
Years ago near a place called Enterprise, on a point jumping into Lake
Monroe, during all bright days a certain big alligator used to lie
basking in the sun. He was well known to the whole neighborhood. The
entire coterie of sportsmen at the only hotel used to call him "Big
Ben," and proud hunters would talk, and even dream, of the time when a
well-aimed rifle-shot would end his long career. But Big Ben was as
cunning as a serpent, and whenever any one, afoot or afloat, came
unpleasantly near, he would slide off into the water,--which meant
"good-by" for the rest of the day.
One fine morning one of these sportsmen, paddling up the lake, luckily
with his rifle in his canoe, came upon Big Ben so sound asleep that he
stole up within range and put a bullet through the alligator's brain.
What to do next was a problem. He could not tow the monster all the way
to Enterprise with his small canoe. A bright idea struck him. He put his
visiting-card in the beast's mouth and paddled swiftly back. A number of
hunters were at the wharf, and the slayer of Big Ben hastened to inform
them with apparent sincerity that while out paddling he had come within
easy range of the "'gator," who was, no doubt, still lying motionless on
the point. A flotilla of boats and canoes, manned by an army with
rifles, instantly started for the point. To avoid confusion it was
unanimously agreed that all should go down together, and that the entire
party, if they were lucky enough to find Big Ben still there, should
fire a volley at the word of command. As they approached the point,
the hearts of all beat quickly; and when, with straining eyes, they saw
Big Ben apparently asleep and motionless upon the bank, even the coolest
could scarcely control his feelings. The boats were silently drawn up
within easy shot, and the word was given. Bang, bang! went a score of
rifles and Big Ben, riddled with bullets, lay motionless upon the point!
With a cheer of triumph the excited sportsmen leaped ashore, and
fastening a rope around the dead alligator, speedily towed him to
Enterprise. There the original slayer awaited them upon the wharf. When
Big Ben was laid upon the shore, opening the animal's mighty jaws he
disclosed his visiting-card, and thanked them most politely for their
kindness in bringing his 'gator home for him.
[Illustration: A QUIET NAP ON THE RIVER BANK.]
I once met with a curious adventure. Man is rarely attacked by
alligators in Florida, except by the female alligator called upon to
defend her young. Some years ago, in a small steamer chartered for the
purpose, I had gone up a branch of the St. John's beyond Salt Lake until
we could proceed no farther, because the top of the river had become
solid with floating vegetation under which the water flowed. We tied up
for the night, and shortly after were boarded by two men who said
that their camp was near by and that they shot alligators and
plume-birds for a living. One of the men carried his rifle, a
muzzle-loader, and from its barrel projected the ramrod, which had
become fast immediately above the ball while loading. He intended to
draw it out after they should return to camp.
[Illustration: CATCHING AN ALLIGATOR ASLEEP.]
We went ashore with these men to look at an alligator's nest near by,
and were filling our pockets with baby-alligators, when we heard a
grunting sound and saw an alligator eight or nine feet long coming
directly at us. With the exception of the man already referred to, we
were all unarmed and affairs began to look a little unpleasant, for the
creature evidently meant mischief. When it was within a few feet, the
man with the rifle, knowing that he alone had a weapon, took deliberate
aim and fired bullet, ramrod, and all down the 'gator's throat. The
animal turned over twice, and rolling off the bank, sank out of sight.
The alligators of the Amazon River in South America are very numerous,
and owing to scarcity of hunters attain a very great size. In the upper
waters apparently they are entirely unaccustomed to the report of
firearms, and if not actually hit will lie still while shot after shot
is fired. The largest I ever killed and measured was thirteen feet and
four inches in length; but this was much smaller than many which I shot
from dugouts and canoes too far away from shore to tow them in.
Buried an inch deep in one of these dead alligators I once found a
pirana, that troublesome fish which makes swimming in some parts of the
Amazon a risky matter. It bores into flesh very much after the manner of
a circular punch, and when it starts, its habit is to go to the bone.
The pirana of course could not penetrate the hide of the alligator, but
entering by the bullet-hole it had turned to one side and partially
buried itself in the flesh. I have seen men bearing very ugly scars, the
results of wounds inflicted by the pirana while they were bathing. If
this fish is cut open after having bored its way into an animal a solid
round mass of flesh will be found inside corresponding to the hole it
has made, showing that the fish really bores its way in.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE "BIG FELLOWS."]
It is said that the alligator of the Amazon is more likely to attack man
than its brother of our Southern States. The captain of a small steamer
running between Iquitos and Para, told me that on the preceding trip
he had carried to a doctor a boy who had lost his arm from the bite of
an alligator, while allowing his arm to hang in the water from a raft.
The same captain, however, also informed me that he had been treed by
one of these animals and compelled to remain "up a tree" for some time;
so that I have some hesitation in quoting him as an authority upon the
nature and habits of these alligators. The flesh of young alligators is
considered a delicacy in Brazil and is regularly sold in the markets.
THE EARTHQUAKE AT CHARLESTON
BY EWING GIBSON