CHAPTER IV.--ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

|The magic words that Geraldine emptied into Pumpkin James' ear roused

him, and his eyes opened with their old diabolical light. A slight

grating sound was heard. It was the broken bone of our hero's off-limb

coming back into its place and reuniting.

Then his rib came back out of the ground and waltzed into him, his liver

healed up, and he arose and sat in the moonlight.

His first words were, "Ah, Geraldine, you have brought me back to life.

Now would you please look around and see if there is any cold pie in the

house, my very ownest own?"

This seemed to indicate that he had not fully recovered his mental

faculties, as the most accessible cold pie was 327 miles from where they

then were, and in a direct line.

Geraldine, however, set herself at once about procuring food for her

soul's idol. Taking some salt she went out along the wooded slope to

find a jack-rabbit on whose tail she could throw the salt, thus securing

him as an easy prey.

She soon scared up one with a broken leg.

Most all of my gentle, refined, and intellectual readers of the Rocky

mountains have frightened from his lair, at some time or other, a

jack-rabbit with a broken leg. Jackrabbits with shattered limbs are very

common in the West.

Geraldine followed hopefully on. Up hill and down, over low parks

covered with hunch-grass, across little mountain streams, through

long stretches of greasewood and sagebrush, starting the owl from some

blasted pine tree, or frightening the smiling coyote from his course,

onward and ever onward she flew like a hunted fawn.

Her every motion was grace and poetry itself. The limber sun bonnet

flopped to and fro with a merry Runic flop, but the crippled John rabbit

did not tarry. For an invalid, he seemed to make very fair time.

Occasionally he would look around over his shoulder, and laugh a merry,

taunting laugh. Then he would give his attention to getting over the

ground.

Geraldine got mad, and resolved to overtake her game and mete out to him

a horrible death.

Now and then she would wildly throw a lump of salt in the direction of

the fleeing rabbit; but it always failed to connect.

It was, indeed, an exciting chase, and, in fact, is yet, for as we go

to press, Geraldine is still madly pursuing the ostensibly disabled

jack-rabbit with a handful of common table salt poised in the air, ready

to throw upon the tail of her rapidly retreating adversary.

*****

Jesse James, alias Pumpkin Jim, waited a reasonable length of time for

the return of Geraldine; but as she cometh not he said, he arose, and

bestriding his narrow guage mule, he rode away.

He readily laid down his life again wherever he went, and although he

died a miserable death in almost every corner of the earth, he never

more met Geraldine Carboline O'Toole, the Italian Countess, to whom he

was betrothed.

It is thought that she chased the crippled jack-rabbit into the realms

of space.

WILLIAM NYE AND THE HEATHEN CHINEE.

|The subject of agriculture, which really lies nearest my heart of

anything I can think of, naturally brings to the front the oriental

buckwheater.

The Chinaman, as an agriculturalist, is generally successful in a small

way, and I love to watch him work. Whenever I get bilious and need

exercise, I go over to the southend of town and vicariously hoe radishes

for an hour or two till the pores are open, and I feel that delightful

languor and the chastened sense of hunger and honesty which comes to the

man who is not afraid to toil.

There is a feeling now too prevalent among our American people that the

Chinaman should be driven away, but I do not join in the popular cry

because I enjoy him too much, and he soothes me and cheers me when all

the earth seems filled with woe.

My favorite oriental onion-promoter is called Tue Long. This, however,

was a piece of side-splitting mirth on the part of his parents, for, as

a matter of fact, he is too short.

He is considerably bronzed by the action of the sun and his out-of-door

pursuits, so that his complexion has that radiant olive tinge that we

see on the canvas-covered ham.

I go over to Tue Long's farm, in Sherrod's alkali addition to Laramie,

when I feel that office work does not give me the physical exercise that

I need, and I lean over the fence and tell Tue Long my experience with

club-footed parsnips and early-fried potatoes. At first he used to

listen to me with his mouth open, so that you could throw a Mason &

Hamlin organ into it, but now he don't seem to pay much attention to

what I say to him.

This shows that the Chinaman cannot keep pace with the rapid strides now

being made by American agriculture.

One day last week I had lost my appetite, and needed active bodily

exertion, so I strolled over to the rat-eater's rural retreat, to watch

Tue Long a few hours, and see if I couldn't get up an appetite.

The wind was blowing pretty fresh, as it sometimes does in this lovely

clime, and Tue Long was trying to hold down some vulcanized rubber

beets, and moss-agate asparagus. He wasn't succeeding very well, for

just as he would get the beets driven into the ground securely, the

zephyr would spring up from the south and blow the moss-agate asparagus

all over the military reservation. Then while he would be giving his

attention to the asparagus, the wailing winds would blow down his fence,

and turn the tail of Tue Long's morning wrapper over his head, and leave

his spinal column sticking up into the summer sky.

It seemed to be a bad day for agriculture, and Tue Long would

alternately uncork some brocaded profanity, and then chase his hat, or

do up his hair in a fresh Grecian coil I leaned over the fence, and

laughing a low gurgling laugh, I said:

"Tue Long, you must learn to control your fiendish temper. Agriculture

requires patience and serenity of disposition. You must always be

cheerful and gentle. Always be pleasant and amiable in your home life.

When the mountain wind uncoils your back-hair, and you cannot hold down

the flap of your dressing sacque, you must not get mad and swear; but

fill the air with merry laughter, just as Confucius used to do. Be a

philosopher, and frown down these little annoyances."

Now, when I was propagating my Scotch-plaid summer squashes, the

squash-bugs got in one morning before breakfast, and ate the vines. Soon

after that I tried a new kind of fire-proof squash, with a hunting-case

on it; but the squash-bugs took a spade and pried open the hunting-case,

and ate the supreme stuffing out of every individual squash. I then

tried the Bessemer-steel squash, with plaster of Paris works inside, but

the irrigation was defective, and it never matured.

But, did I forget myself and swear like a Guinea hen, the way you

do? Did I break forth into petulant remarks, and lower myself in the

estimation of my neighbors?

Not to any remarkable degree.

I went to the stockholders of the Pioneer Canal Company and said, "Here,

gentlemen, I am an inexperienced agriculturalist, and I do not succeed.

Nothing grows under my watchful care but the speckled squash-bug, and

the fresh water cut worm. You are old, horny-handed sons of toil, and

practical tillers of the soil; what shall I do?"

Then the secretary called a meeting of the stockholders, and the matter

was discussed. The general custodian of peculiar seeds and rare bulbs

was ordered to select certain seeds from the bureau, and give them to me

for trial. Among these were the seeds of the early dwarf salad oil

vine, the Northern spy horse radish, the black and tan Lima bean, the

non-explosive codfish ball, the soda water melon, the grammatical sugar

beet, and the anti-cut worm asbestos string bean.

These have all grown well and thrived when my neighbors, who were too

proud to ask advice, have failed. I shall this year raise, no doubt,

enough of the non-explosive codfish ball alone to place me far beyond

the reach of want. But Tue Long is a thousand years behind the great

irresistible tide of progress, and will cling to his celluloid beets and

cottonwood cucumbers for ages yet to come.

HONG LEE'S GRAND BENEFIT AT LEADVILLE.

|It will be remembered about nine months ago Hong Lee resolved to

establish a branch laundry and shirt-destroying establishment--at

Leadville, with the main office and general headquarters at Laramie. All

at once he came back, and seemed to be satisfied at the old stand. So I

would ask him his opinion of the future of the carbonate camp.

Hong Lee had just tied his hair up in a Grecian coil and secured it in

a mass of shining braids, as I came in, and was giving some orders as

to the day's work. One employe was just completing his devotions to a

cross-eyed god in one corner, and another was squirting water out of

his mouth like an oriental street sprinkler over the spotless front of a

white shirt.

Hong Lee asked me to sit down on the ironing table and make myself at

home. I asked him how trade was, and a few other unimportant questions,

and then asked him what he thought of Leadville. I cannot give the

conversation in the exact language in which it was given, as I am not up

in pigeon English. He said he went over to Leadville, thinking that at

$4.25 per dozen he could work up a good business and wear a brocaded

overshirt with slashed sleeves and Pekin trimmings. Trade was a

little dull here and he had more Chinamen than he could use, so he had

concluded to establish a branch outfit at Leadville and make some scads.

I asked him why he did not remain at the camp and go through the

pro--- gramme.

He said that the general feeling in Leadville was not friendly to the

Chinaman. The people did not meet him with a brass band, and the mayor

didn't tender him the freedom of the city. On the contrary, they seemed

cold and distant toward him. By and by they clubbed together and came

to call on him. They were very attentive then. Very much so. Some had

shot-guns to fire salutes with, and others had large clotheslines in

their hands. Hong Lee felt proud to be so much thought of, and was

preparing an impromptu speech on orange paper with a marking brush, when

the chairman came and told him that a few American citizens had come,

hoping to be of use to him in learning the ways of the city.

Then they took him out to the public square where Hong Lee supposed that

he was to make his speech, and they proceeded to kick him into the most

shapeless mass. They kicked him into a globular form and then flattened

him out after which they knocked him into a rhomboid. This change was

followed by thumping him into an isosceles triangle. When he looked more

like a bundle of old clothes than a Chinaman, they took him with a pair

of tongs, and threw him over the battlements.

[Illustration: 9124]

Hono-Lee returned to consciousness, and murmured, "Where am I?" or words

to that effect. A noble mule-skinner passing by, touched him up with the

hot end of his mule whip, and showed him the route to Denver.

Hong Lee says now, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

YOU FOU.

|She is rather below the medium height, and her gait is the easy

gliding movement of a club-footed Guinea pig. She has a mouth like a

whippoorwill, and when she laughed at some little _bon mot_, such as I

am always getting off, her upper lip was thrown back over her head, till

it caught on a large Celestial hair-pin, and her attendant had to go

up there with a monkey-wrench and unfasten it. It was the most heavenly

smile I ever saw. It had so much depth and soul to it. I felt flattered,

of course, but I was more guarded in my remarks after that. The Chinese,

as a nation, cannot grapple with our American style of joke. They are

not strong enough.

You Fou was held here on a telegram from Denver, until Monday, when she

was released on writ of _habeas corpus_. I went up to see how the writ

would work on a China woman. At first it 'didn't seem to catch on, but

after awhile it began to work on her all right; and eventually turned

her loose. But I wouldn't be a habeas corpus for $2 per day and board.

After being released on the writ, there being no warrant at that time,

counsel told Ah Say, who had You Fou in charge, that the best thing for

him to do would be to light out with great vehemence for some foreign

strand, as the Denver officer would be here Monday evening with the

required documents to take You Fou back to Denver. She was therefore

taken to the palatial residence of Hong Lee, on Second, near A street,

where she was rigged up in man's attire; but Sheriff Boswell stepped in,

and through the gauzy disguise he discovered You Fou.

He arrested her. She was bathed in tears. It was the first bath she

ever had. He took her and held her, figuratively speaking, until

another telegram announced that the requisition of the Governor was

countermanded, and You Fou lit out for her destination.

I shall write a little novelette next summer with this tale as a

foundation, and it will be a good thing. I am having the cuts made now

at a shoemaker shop here in town.

THE LOP-EARED LOVERS OF THE LITTLE LARAMIE.

CHAPTER I.--A TALE OF LOVE AND PARENTAL CUSSEDNESS.

|The scene opens with a landscape. In the foreground stands a house; but

there are no honeysuckles or Johnny-jump-ups clambering over the door;

there are no Columbines or bitter-sweets, or bachelors-buttons, clinging

lovingly to the eaves, and filling the air with fragrance. The reason

for this is, that it is too early in the spring for Columbines and

Johnny-jump-ups, at the time when our story opens, and they wouldn't grow

in that locality without irrigation, anyway. That is the reason that

these little adjuncts do not appear in the landscape.

But the scene is nevertheless worthy of a painter. The house,

especially, ought to be painted, and a light coat of the same article on

the front gate would improve its appearance materially. In the door of

the cottage stands a damsel, whose natural lovliness is enhanced 30

or 40 per cent, by a large oroide chain which encircles her swan-like

throat; and, as she shades her eyes with her alabaster hand, the gleam

of a gutta percha ring on her front finger tells the casual observer

that _she is engaged_.

While she is shading her eyes from the blinding glare of the orb of

day, the aforesaid orb of day keeps right on setting, according to

advertisement, and at last disappears behind the snowy range, lighting

up, as it does so, the fleecy clouds and turning them into gold,

figuratively speaking, making the picture one of surpassing lovliness.

But what does she care for a $13.00 sunset, or the low, sad wail of the

sage-hen far up the canon, as it calls to its mate? What does she care

for the purple landscape and the mournful sigh of the new milch cow

which is borne to her over the greet divide? She don't care a cent.

CHAPTER II.

|It is now the proper time to bring in the solitary horseman. He is

seen riding a mouse-colored bronco on a smooth canter, and, from his

uneasiness in the saddle, it is evident that he has been riding a long

time, and that it doesn't agree with him. He has been attending the

spring meeting of the Rocky Mountain Roundup.

He takes a benevolent chew of tobacco, looks at his cylinder-escapement

watch, and plunges his huge Mexican spurs into the panting sides of his

bronco steed. The ambitious steed rears forward and starts away into

the gathering gloom at the rate of twenty-one miles in twenty-one days,

while a bitter oath escapes from the clenched teeth and foam-flecked

lips of the pigeon-toed rider.

But stay! Let us catch a rapid outline of the solitary horseman, for he

is the affianced lover and soft-eyed gazelle of Luella Frowzletop,

the queen of the Skimmilk Ranche. He is evidently a man of say twenty

summers, with a sinister expression to the large, ambitious, imported,

Italian mouth. A broad-brimmed white hat with a scarlet flannel band

protects his Gothic features from the burning sun, and a pale-brown

ducking suit envelopes his lithe form. A horsehair lariat hangs at his

saddle bow, and the faint suspicion of a downy mustache on his chiselled

upper lip is just beginning to ooze out into the air, as if ashamed of

itself. It is one of those sickly mustaches, a kind of cross between

blonde and brindle, which mean well enough, but never amount to

anything. His eyes are fierce and restless, with short, expressive,

white eyelashes, and his nose is short but wide out, gradually melting

away into his bronzed and stalwart cheeks, like a dish of ice-cream

before a Sabbath school picnic.

Such is the rough sketch of Pigeon-toed Pete, the swain who had stolen

away the heart of Luella Frowzletop, the queen of the Skimmilk Ranche.

He isn't handsome, but he is very good, and he loves the fair Luella

with a great deal of diligence, although her parents are averse to the

match, for we might as well inform the sagacious and handsome

reader that her parents are Presbyterians, whereas the hero of this

blood-curdling tale is a hard-shell Baptist. Thus are two hearts doomed

to love in vain.

CHAPTER III.

|During all this time that we have been going on with the preceding

chapter, Luella has been standing in the door looking away to the

eastward, a soiled gingham apron thrown over her head, and a dreamy,

far-away look in her mournful sorrel eyes. Suddenly there breaks on her

finely moulded and flexible ear the sound of a horse's hoof.

"Aha!" she murmurs. "Hist! it is him. Blast his picture! Why didn't he

have some style about him, and get here on time?" And she impatiently

mashes a huge mosquito that is fastened on her swarthy arm.

Any one could see, as she stood there, that she was mad. She didn't

really have any cause for it, but she was an only child, and accustomed

to being petted and humored, and lying in bed till half past ten. This

had made her high spirited, and she occasionally turned loose with the

first thing that came to hand.

"You're a fine-haired snoozer from Bitter Creek; ain't ye?" said the

pale flower of Skimmilk Ranche, as the solitary horseman alighted from

his panting steed, and threw his arms about her with great _sang froid_.

"In what respect?" said Pigeon-toed Pete, as he held her from him, and

looked lovingly down into her deep, sorrel eyes...

"O fairest of thy sect," he continued, as he took out his quid of

tobacco, preparatory to planting a long, wide, passionate kiss on her

burning cheek, "you wot not what you feign would say. The way was long,

my ambling steed has a ringbone on the off leg, and thou chidest me, thy

erring swain, without a cause." He knew that she would pitch into him,

so he had this little impromptu speech all committed to memory.

She pillowed her sunny head on his panting breast for an hour or so, and

shed eleven or eight happy tears.

"O lode star of my existence, and soother of my every sorrow," said

he, with charming _naivete_, "wilt thou fly with me to-night to some

adjacent justice of the peace, and be my skipful gazelle, my little _ne

plus ultra_, my own _magnum bomum_ and _multum in parvo_, so to speak?

Leave your Presbyterian parents to run the ranche, and fly with me. You

shall never want for anything. You shall never put your dimpled hands in

dish-water, or wring out your own clothes. I will get you a new rosewood

washing machine, and when your slightest look indicates that you want

forty or fifty dollars for pin money, I will make out a check for that

amount."

He had just finished his little harangue, whatever that is, and was

putting in a few choice gestures, when the old man came around from

behind the rain-water barrel with a shotgun, and told the impassioned

swain that he had better skip. He told the ardent admirer of Luella that

he had better not linger to any great extent, and as he said it in his

quiet but firm way, at the same time fondling the lock on his shotgun,

the lover lingered not, but hied him away to his neighing steed, and,

lightly springing into the saddle, was soon lost to the sight. We will

leave him on the road for a short time.

CHAPTER IV.

We will now suppose a period of three years to have passed. Luella had

been sent to visit her friends in southern Iowa, partly to assuage her

grief, and partly to save expenses, for she was a hearty eater. Here she

met a young man named Rufus G. Hopper, who fell in love with her, about

the first hard work he did, and when, metaphorically speaking, he laid

his 40-acre homestead, with its wealth of grasshopper eggs, at her feet,

she capitulated, and became his'n, and he became her'n.

Thus these two erstwhile lovers of the long ago had become separated,

and the fair Queen of the Skimmilk Ranche had taken a change of venue

with her affections. Still all seemed to be well to the casual observer,

although at times her eyes had that far-away look of those who are

crossed in love, or whose livers are out of order. Was it the fleeing

vision of the absent lover, or had she eaten something that didn't agree

with her?

Ah! who shall say that at times there did not flash across her mind the

fact that she had sacrificed herself on the altar of Mammon, and given

her rich love in exchange for forty acres of Government land? But the

time drew nigh for the celebration of the nuptials, and still no tidings

of the absent lover. Nearer and nearer came the 4th of July, the day

set apart for the wedding, and still in the dark mysterious bosom of the

unknown, lurked the absent swain.

*****

These stars indicate the number of days which we must now suppose to

have passed, and the glad day of the Nation's rejoicing is at hand. The

loud mouthed cannon, proclaims, for the one hundredth time, that in the

little Revolutionary scrimmage of 1776, our forefathers got away with

the persimmons. Flags wave, bands play, and crackers explode, and scare

the teams from the country. Fair rustic maids are seen on every hand

with their good clothes on, and farmers' sons walk up and down the

street, asking the price of watermelons and soda water. Bye and bye the

band comes down street playing "Old Zip Coon," with variations. The

procession begins to form and point toward the grand stand, where the

Declaration of Independence will be read to the admiring audience, and

lemonade retailed at five cents a glass.

But who are the couple who sit on the front seat near the speaker's

stand, listening with rapt attention to the new and blood-curdling

romance, entitled the "Declaration of Independence?" It is Luella and

her bran new husband. The casual observer can discover that, by the way

he smokes a cheap cigar in her face, and allows the fragrant smoke from

the five cent Havana to drift into her sorrel eyes. All at once the band

strikes up the operatic strain of "Captain Jinks," and as the sad melody

dies away in the distance, a young man steps proudly forth, at the

conclusion of the president's introductory speech, and in a low, musical

voice, begins to set forth the wrongs visited on the Pilgrim Fathers,

and to dish up the bones of G. Washington and T. Jefferson, in various

styles.

What is it about the classic mouth, with its charming _naivete_, and

the amber tinge lurking about its roguish outlines, which awakes the old

thrill in Luella's heart, and causes the vital current to recede from

its accustomed channels, and leave her face like marble, save where here

and there a large freckle stands out in bold relief? It is the mouth of

Pigeon toed Pete. Those same Gothic features stand out before her, and

she knows him in a moment. It is true he had colored his mustache,

and he wore a stand-up collar; but it was the same form, the same low,

musical, squeaky voice, and the same large, intellectual ears, which she

remembered so well.

It appeared that he had been to the Gunnison country, and having

manifested considerable originality and genius as a bull whacker, had

secured steady employment and large wages, being a man with a ready

command of choice and elegant profanity, and an irresistable way of

appealing to the wants of a sluggish animal. Taking his spare change, he

had invested it in hand made sour mash corn juice, which he retailed at

from 25 to 50 cents per glass. Rain water being plenty, the margin was

large, and his profits highly satisfactory. In this way he had managed

to get together some cash, and was at once looked upon as a leading

capitalist, and a man on whom rested the future prosperity of the

country. He wore moss-agate sleeve buttons, and carried a stem-winding

watch. He looked indeed like a thing of life, and as he closed with some

stirring quotation from Martin F. Tupper amid the crash of applause,

and the band struck up the oratorio of "Whoop'em up'Liza Jane," and

the audience dispersed to witness a game of base-ball. Luella took her

husband's arm, climbed into the lumber wagon, and rode home, with a

great grief in her heart. Had she deferred her wedding for only a few

short hours, the course of her whole life would have been entirely

changed, and, instead of plodding her weary way through the long,

tedious years as Mrs. Hopper, making rag-carpets during the winter, and

smashing the voracious potato bug during the summer, she might have

been interested in a carbonate 'Bonanza, worn checked stockings, and

low-necked shoes.

There are two large, limpid tears standing in her sorrel eyes, as the

curtain falls on this story, and her lips move involuntarily as she

murmurs that little couplet from Milton:--

```"I feel kind of sad and bilious, because

``My heart keeps sighing, 'It couldn't was.'"=

SPEECH OF SPARTACTUS.

ADAPTED FROM THE ORIGINAL ESPECIALLY FOR THIS WORK.

|It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus returning with

victorious eagles, had aroused the populace with the sports of the

amphitheatre, to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city.

A large number of people from the rural districts had been in town to

watch the conflict in the arena, and to listen with awe and veneration

to the infirm and decrepit ring jokes.

The shouts of revelry had died away. The last loiterer had retired from

the free-lunch counter, and the lights in the palace of the victor were

extinguished. The moon piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, tipped the

dark waters of the Tiber rith a wavy tremulous light. The dark-browed

Roman soldier moved on his homeward way, the sidewalk occasionally

flying up and hitting him in the back.

No sound was heard save the low sob of some retiring wave, as it

told its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach, or the unrelenting

boot-jack struck the high board fence in the back yard, just missing the

Roman Tom cat in its mad flight, and then all was still as the breast

when the spirit has departed. Anon the Roman snore would steal in

upon the deathly silence, and then die away like the sough of a

summer breeze. In the green room of the amphitheater a Jittle band of

gladiators were assembled. The foam of conflict yet lingered on their

lips, the scowl of battle yet hung upon their brows, and the large knobs

on their classic profiles indicated that it had been a busy day with

them.

There was an embarassing silence of about five minutes, When Spartacus,

borrowing a chew of tobacco from Trioforatum Aurelius, stepped forth and

thus addressed them: "Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: Ye call me

chief, and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years has

met in the arena every shape of man or beast that the broad empire of

Rome could furnish, and yet has never lowered his arm. I do not say this

to brag, however, but simply to show that I am the star thumper of the

entire outfit.

"If there be one among you who can say that ever in public fight or

private brawl my actions did belie my words, let him stand forth and say

it, and I will spread him around over the arena till the Coroner will

have to gather him up with a blotting paper. If there be three in all

your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come, and I will

construct upon their physiognomy such cupolas, and royal cornices, and

Corinthian capitols, and entablatures, that their own mothers would pass

them by in the broad light of high noon, unrecognized.

"And yet I was not always thus--a hired butcher--the savage chief of

still more savage men.

"My ancestors came from old Sparta, the county seat of Marcus Aurelius

county, and settled among the vine-clad hills and cotton groves of

Syrsilla. My early life ran quiet as the clear brook by which I sported.

Aside from the gentle patter of the maternal slipper on my overalls,

everything moved along with me like the silent oleaginous flow of the

ordinary goose grease. My boyhood was one long, happy summer day. We

stole the Roman muskmelon, and put split sticks on the tail of the Roman

dog, and life was one continuous hallelujah.

"When at noon I led the sheep beneath the shade and played the Sweet

Bye-and-Bye on my shepherd's flute, there was another Spartan youth, the

son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to

the same pasture, and together picked the large red ants out of our

indestructible sandwiches.

"One evening, after the sheep had been driven into the corral and

we were all seated beneath the persimmon tree that shaded our humble

cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra

and George Francis Train and Dr. Mary Walker and other great men, and

how a little band of Spartans, under Sitting Bull, had withstood the

entire regular army. I did not then know what war was, but my cheek

burned, I knew not why, and I thought what a glorious thing it would be

to leave the reservation and go on the warpath. But my mother kissed my

throbbing temples and bade me go soak my head and think no more of those

old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans landed on our

coasts. They pillaged the whole country, burned the agency buildings,

demolished the ranche, rode off the stock, tore down the smoke-house,

and rode their war horses over the cucumber vines.

"To-day I killed a man in the arena, and when I broke his helmet-clasps

and looked upon him, behold! he was my friend. The same sweet smile was

on his face that I had known when in adventurous boyhood we bathed in

the glassy lake by our Spartan home and he had tied my shirt into 1,752

dangerous and difficult knots.

"He knew me, smiled some more, said 'Ta, ta,' and ascended the golden

stair. I begged of the Prætor that I might be allowed to bear away the

body and have it packed in ice and shipped to his friends near Syrsilla,

but he couldn't see it.

"Ay, upon my bended knees, amidst the dust and blood of the anna, I

begged this poor boon, and the Prætor answered: 'Let the carrion rot.

There are no noble men but Romans and Ohio men. Let the show go on.

Bring in the bobtail lion from Abyssinia.' And the assembled maids and

mations and the rabble shouted in derision and told me to 'brace up'

and 'have some style about my clothes' and 'to give it to us easy,' with

other Roman flings which I do not now call to mind.

"And so must you, fellow gladiators, and so must I, die like dogs.

"To-morrow we are billed to appear at the Coliseum at Rome, and reserved

seats are being sold at the corner of Third and Corse streets for our

moral and instructive performance while I am speaking to you.

"Ye stand here like giants as ye are, but to-morrow some Roman Adonis

with a sealskin cap will pat your red brawn and bet his sesturces upon

your blood.

"O Rome! Rome! Thou hast been indeed a tender nurse to me. Thou hast

given to that gentle, timid shepherd lad who never knew a harsher tone

than a flute note, muscles of iron, and a heart like the adamantine

lemon pie of the railroad lunch-room. Thou hast taught him to drive his

sword through plated mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the

palpitating gizzard of his foe, and to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of

the fierce Numidian lion even as the smooth-cheeked Roman Senator looks

into the laughing eyes of the girls in the treasury department.

"And he shall pay thee back till thy rushing Tiber is red as frothing

wine; and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled. You doubtless

hear the gentle murmur of my bazoo.

"Hark! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he

tasted flesh, but to-morrow he will have gladiator on toast, and don't

you forget it; and he will fling your vertebrae about his cage like the

tar pitcher of a champion nine.

"If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen waiting for the

butcher's knife. If ye are men, arise and follow me. Strike down the

warden and the turnkey, overpower the police, and cut for the tall

timber. We will break through the city gate, capture the war-horse of

the drunken Roman, flee away to the lava beds, and there do bloody work,

as did our sires at old Thermopylae, scalp the western-bound emigrant,

and make the hen-roosts around Capua look sick.

"O, comrades! warriors! gladiators!!

"If we be men, let us die like men, beneath the blue sky, and by the

still waters, and be buried according to Gunter, instead of having our

shin bones polished off by Numidian lions, amid the groans and hisses of

a snide Roman populace."

CORRESPONDENCE.

Dalles of the St. Croix, September 8, 1880.

|Yesterday we steamed up this beautiful river from Stillwater, and as

I write, our boat is moored at the head of navigation, with the mighty,

perpendicular walls of the St. Croix, shutting in the grassy waters

below, while a hundred yards above us the foaming torrent is dashing

against the invincible fortress of smooth, moss-grown rocks, with here

and there a somber pine or graceful spruce clinging to a jutting shelf

midway between the clear, calm sky above and the roaring, angry flood

beneath.

Most every one has heard of the wonderful Dalles of the St. Croix. They

are not, however, the sole feature of the locality entitled to notice.

I consider the entire picture between Stillwater and the Falls one of

surpassing loveliness. At this season of the year, the high, gray walls

on either side of the lake and river are clad in garments of green and

gold, which mock the pen of the poet, and strike the beholder dumb, as

he stands in the royal presence of autumn.

The deep green of the stately pine, stands side by side with the golden

glory of the poplar, and here and there the brazen billows and royal

coloring of maple and oak, the hectic flush upon the features of the

dving year, are spread out between the silent sky and the sandy beach;

while softly mirrored in the glassy waters, the whole broad picture

colored by a mighty, master hand, and with the myriad dyes from Nature's

inexhaustible laboratory lies repeated, the echo of a thrilling vision.

There are two rival steamers plying on the Upper St. Croix. I do not

remember their names, because they charged me full fare both ways. I can

see that my memory is failing a little every day, and I am getting more

and more prone to forget those who do not recognize my innate and

spontaneous greatness at a glance, and extend the usual courtesies.

When we came down we towed a wheat barge loaded with 21,000 bushels of

wheat, and it was pretty difficult most of the way.

The opposition boat went up the night before, and had taken up the water

with a blotting-paper, so that every little while I had to roll up my

pants about nine feet, and go out into the channel, and luff up on the

starboard watch of the barge with a jenny pole and bring her to, so that

she could find moisture.

Then I had a good deal of fun going ashore after ferns when the boat was

aground. While the crew went aft and close-reefed the smoke-stack and

hauled abaft the top-gallant, or side-tracked the wheat barge, my wife

would send me ashore to gather maiden-hair ferns, and soft, velvety

mosses, and sad, yearnful wood-ticks. O how I love to crawl around

through the underbrush, and tear my clothes, and wilt my collar, and

gather samples of lichens, and ferns and baled hay and caterpillars to

decorate my Western home.

At first I thought I would not mention the little domestic cloud that

has shot athwart my sky, but I cannot smother it in my own breast any

longer.

St. Croix Falls is on the Wisconsin side of the river and Taylor's Falls

on the Minnesota side. They are connected by a toll-bridge which charges

you one and a half cents each, way for passage. One can stand halfway

across this bridge and see up and down the river, with the Devil's Arm

Chair at his right and the Dalles at his left. After supper I took a

couple of friends down to the bridge and without Jetting them know the

treat that I had in store for them, I went up to the gate-keeper

and paid for all three of us both ways. Then I told them to enjoy

themselves. It was a novel treat perhaps to throw open a toll-bridge to

the enjoyment of one's friends, but I did it with that utter disregard

of expense which has characterized my mining developments in the Rocky

Mountains.

Then I took the boys over across the river and gave them the freedom of

St. Croix Falls.

Jutting out into the river south of Osceola, is a high, rocky promontory

called Cedar Point. Lonely and proud like a sentinel of the forgotten

past, there stands a tall cedar tree on this natural battlement, devoid

of foliage for some distance up the trunk.

This tree was the old mark that stood upon the dividing line between

the Chippewa and Sioux territory. Below it, in the water-worn rock, is

a large semi-circle, made by the action of the river, and this it was

stated had been the footprint of the horse upon which the Great Spirit

had ridden across the stream when he drew the line between these two

mighty nations, and set the tree upon it to show his children the

boundary between their respective territories. This was the Indian Mason

and Dixon's line.

What a wild, weird suggestion of the crude legislation and amateur

statesmanship of these two nations rises up before me as I write, and

how I yearn to go into the details and try to enter the free-for-all

contest and match a bob-tail Caucasian lie against these moss-grown

prevarications of the red-man.

At Stillwater, my first wild impulse was to visit the State

Penitentiary.

When I go into a new place I register my name at the most expensive

hotel, and after visiting the newspaper offices I hunt up the

penitentiary, if there be one, and if not, I go to the cooler. I do not

go there under duress, as the facetious reader might suggest, but I

go there voluntarily to see how the criminal business of the place is

looking.

We went to the warden's office, and talked with him a little while,

showed him that we were not loaded with giant powder and cross-cut saws,

and then we were placed in charge of an usher, and sent through the

building to view the mighty manufacturing interests that are carried

on inside, where the striped criminals silently and doggedly are moving

about at their varied occupations.

After awhile I got gloomy and began to whistle one of my tearful

refrains in G. The usher told me to please put up my whistle, and I

did so, partly to gratify him and partly because he had a temporary

advantage over me. Most every one who has heard me whistle seems glad

that his lines have fallen in such pleasant places; but this man, as I

afterward learned, did not know the first principle of music. He groped

along through life without knowing the difference between a symphony in

B, and the low, sad song of the twilight cat.

Pretty soon we came to three men whose faces attracted my attention.

They were the Younger brothers. Their faces were easy of identification

from the resemblance to wood cuts published at the time of their

capture. I stood silently looking at them for some time.

Their countenances are a study for the reader of human character.

Sullen, grim and depraved, they impress the beholder with their utter

scorn for the laws and usages of the land. I asked the usher if I

guessed right; but he turned away and told me it was against the rules

of the institution to point out any one to visitors, or identify the

convicts in any way. Then I knew that I was right, because he was so

reserved.

I gave one of the men my card and entered into a conversation with him.

It wasn't much of a conversation, however, because the usher broke in on

me, and shut me off, as it were.

The description that I have given of the Younger brothers in this letter

is not over full, owing partly to the fact that the usher wouldn't let

me be as sociable with them as I wanted to be; and partly because I

afterward discovered, casually, that they were not the Younger brothers.

Speaking of convicts reminds me of my experience with a poor, ignorant

man at Laramie--the creature of circumstances--who was sentenced to

three years in the Territorial penitentiary, for stealing a pair of

flea-bitten bronchos. He was convicted mainly on the testimony of a man,

who was afterward sent up for the same offence, and it was the general

belief that the first-named man was entirely innocent. He was trusted

about the penitentiary at all times, and allowed to go outside the walls

without guard, but never betrayed the trust reposed in him.

I went to him and talked with him. His spirits and health were broken,

and he told me, with tears in his eyes, that he hoped only for a

merciful death to end his sufferings. While acting as guard to a party

of convicts outside one day, they fell upon him and nearly killed him

with a huge stone, and then leaving him bleeding and insensible.

He could not tell of his sufferings without crying. I undertook to

enlist sympathy for him, and when I told his tale of misfortune to

the governor and authorities in that thrilling way of mine, I had no

difficulty in securing his pardon.

He came to my office and sobbed out his gratitude till I told him it was

of no consequence, and begged him not to mention it, although it was the

proudest moment of my life. He went to work for a citizen of Laramie,

with the old, industrious, patient air, and I pointed him out with pride

to my friends as a man whom I had rescued and brought back to a useful

life.

One morning, however, before the pale dawn had streaked the eastern sky

he took his employer's team and what money there was in the house and

struck out for the Gunnison country. He did not know anything about

mining, but he had such implicit confidence in himself that he started

out alone and without letters of introduction to leading men in that

country. It was a good thing that he did have perfect confidence in

himself, for no one else had much confidence in him after that.

During that day a good many of my friends came around to see me. I

didn't know I had so many friends. They all seemed to be in first-rate

spirits. They seemed glad to see me, and laughed a good deal. Sometimes

I couldn't see what they were laughing at, for my horizon was shrouded

in gloom. It don't take much to make some people laugh.

I have never felt perfectly at ease with Governor Thayer since that. I

know that he regards me as a confederate with that man, and he thinks

that I got part of the money realized from the sale of that team, but

I didn't. If it were the last statement I should make on earth I would

still say?

As Heaven is my witness, that I have never realized a single dollar from

the sale of that team.

HE WENT OUT WEST FOR HIS HEALTH.

|In my capacity of justice of the peace and general wholesale and retail

dealer in fresh, new-laid equity and evenhanded justice, I often meet

with those who have seen better days, and who, through the ever-changing

fortunes of the west, have fallen lower and lower in the social scale,

until they stand up and are assessed as "common drunks," or "vags," or

"assault and batteries," with that natural and easy grace which comes

only to those who have been before the public in that capacity,

so numerously, that it has ceased to indicate itself by the usual

embarrassment of the amateur.

[Illustration: 9145]

Perhaps no surging sentiments of pity have stirred my very soul during

my official career, like those that throbbed wildly athwart my system a

few days ago.

It was a case of the most bitter disappointment of a young life. A youth

from Chicago, came to me, near the close of day. I was just about to

lock up the judicial scales for the evening, and secure the doors of

the archives, preparatory to going out and "shaking" the mayor for the

lemonade, after which I intended to breathe in a little fresh atmosphere

and go home to dinner.

It had been a hard day in the temple of justice that day, and the court

was weary.

It had dealt out even-handed justice at regular rates, since early

morning, at so much per deal, till fatigue was beginning to show itself

in the lines upon the broad, white brow.

Therefore, when a halting step was heard on the stair, there was a low

murmur on the part of the court, and a half-surprised moan that sounded

like the tail end of an affidavit.

The young man who entered the hallowed presence of eternal justice, and

the all-pervading and dazzling beauty of the court in its shirt-sleeves,

was of about medium stature, with shoes cut decollette, and

Roman-striped socks clocked with brocaded straw-colored silk.

He wore an ecru colored straw hat, with navy-blue brocaded band,

and necktie of old gold, with polka dots of humberta and cardinal,

interspersed with embroidered horseshoe and stirrup in coucherde soleil

and ultramarine.

His hair was dark and oleaginous, and his shirt was cream colored

ground, with narrow baby-blue stripes, cutaway collar, and cuffs that

extended out into space.

He also had some other clothes on.

But over all, and pervading the entire man, was the look of hopelessness

and corroding grief. With all his good clothes on, he was a hollow

mockery, for his eyes were heavy with woe.

The nose also was heavy with woe.

This feature in fact was more appropriately draped in token of its

sadness than any of the rest. Few noses are so expressive of a general

and incurable gloom as this one was. It had evidently at one time been

a glad, joyous, and buoyant nose, but now it was despondent and low

spirited.

There was a look of goneness and utter desolation about it that would

stir the better impulses of the most heartless.

The feature had evidently tried to centralize itself, but had failed.

Here and there narrow strips of court-plaster had gone out after it and

tried to win it back, but they had not succeeded.

I said, "Mister, there seems to be a panic among your nose. It's none

of my business, of course, but couldn't you get a brass band and call it

together? Then you could hold a meeting and decide whether it had better

resume or not."

The gentleman from Chicago went through the motions of wiping the wide

waste and howling desolation where his once joyous nose had been, and

then, putting away the plum-colored silk handkerchief with the orange

border, he said "'Squire, I have been grossly deceived. You see in me

the victim of a base misrepresentation. In Chicago this season of the

year is extremely unhealthy. The intense hot weather carries away the

innocent and the good, and I feared that my turn would come soon.

"I heard of the salubrious clime of your mountain city, where the days

are filled with gladness and the burning heat of the mighty city by the

inland sea never comes.

"I came here two brief days ago, and you can see with the naked eye what

the result has been.

"It is not gratifying. The climate may in the abstract be all right, but

there are certain sudden and wonderful atmospheric changes that I cannot

account for, and they are very disastrous.

"I was sitting in a Second Street saloon to-day, talking about matters

and things, when the conversation turned on physical strength. One thing

led to another, and finally I made a little humorous remark to a young

man there, which remark I have made in Chicago many times without

disastrous results, but the air clouded up all of a sudden, and in

the darkness I could see Roman candles going off and pin-wheels and

high-priced rockets and blue-lights, etc.

"Shortly after that I gathered up what fragments of my face I could find

and went down to the doctor's office.

"He held an inquest on my nose, and I paid for it.

"I shall go back to Chicago to-morrow. I shall not be as handsome as I

was, but I have gained a good deal of information about the broad and

beautiful west which is priceless in value to me.

"All I wished to say was this; if you see fit to mention this matter

to the public, tone it down as much as possible, and say that for a

bilious, nervous temperament, perhaps the air here is too bracing."

I have considered his sensitive feelings, and have tried to give the

above account in fair and impartial terms.

A QUIET LITTLE WEDDING WITHOUT ANY FRILLS

|Another class of those who frequent the temple of justice includes

those who are in search of matrimony at reduced rates.

I remember one unostentatious little wedding which took place at the

general headquarters of municipal jurisprudence, over which I preside,

and during the earlier history of my reign.

It was quite a success in a small way.

I had just moved into the office, and had been engaged that morning in

putting up a stove. The stove had seemed reluctant, and as my assistant

was sociably drunk, I had not succeeded very well.

The pipe didn't seem to be harmonious, and the effort to bring about a

union between the discordant elements, had not, up to the time of which

I speak, produced any very gratifying results.

I had reached down into the elbow of the pipe several times, to see how

it felt down there, and after satisfying my morbid curiosity in that

respect, I had yielded to a wild and uncontrollable desire to scratch my

nose with the same hand.

This had given me an air of intense sadness, and opaque gloom.

I stood on the top of a step-ladder trying to make the end of a six-inch

joint of pipe go into the end of a five-inch joint, when the groom

entered. He wanted to know if he could see the general manager, and I

told him he could if he had a piece of smoked glass, and a $5 promissory

note executed by old man Spinner.

Then he told me how he was fixed. He desired a small package of

connubial bliss, and without delay.

The necessary preliminaries were arranged; the groom made an extempore

effort to spit in the mosaic cuspidore, but was only partially

successful, put on his hat and went out in search of Juliet.

She was very unique in her style, and entirely free from any effort to

appear to the best advantage.

She wore her hair plain, _a la_ Sitting Bull. It had been banged, but

not with any great degree of system or accuracy. Probably it had been

done with the pinking-iron or a pair of ice-tongs by an amateur banger.

She looked some like Mrs. Bender, only younger and more queenly,

perhaps.

She swept into the arena with the symmetrical movement and careless

grace of a hired man--only her steps were longer and less methodical.

Both bride and groom had come through with a band of emigrants from

Kansas, and, therefore, they were out of swallow-tail coats and orange

blossoms.

There was no airy tulle and shimmering satin, or broadcloth and

spike-tail coat in the procession; at least there was none visible to

the court.

The groom was bronzed and bearded like a pard, whatever that is, and

wore a pair of brown-duck overalls, caught back with copper rivets and

held in place by a lonely suspender. He also wore a hickory shirt with

stripes running vertically. His hair looked like burnished gold, only he

hadn't burnished it much since he left Kansas.

The entire emigrant train dropped in one by one to witness the ceremony,

and seemed impressed with the overshadowing and awe-inspiring nature of

the surroundings.

One by one they filed in, and, making their little contribution to the

mosaic cuspidore, they leaned themselves up against the wall and wrapped

themselves in thought.

I bandaged my finger, which I had skinned some in putting the stove

together, wiped off what soot and ashes I had about my person and

thought I would not need, and boldly solidified these two young hearts.

The ceremony was not very impressive, but it did the required amount of

damage. That was all that was necessary.

The applicants seemed to miss the wedding-march and some other little

preparatory arrangements, which I had overlooked, but I apologized to

them afterward, and told them that when times picked up a little, and

I got established, and the new fee-bill went into operation, I would

attend to these things.

The wedding presents were not numerous, but they were useful, and showed

the good sense of the donors.

The bride's mother gave her one of the splint-bottom chairs that one

always sees tied to the rear of every well regulated emigrant wagon, and

her father gave her a cream-colored dog, with one eye knocked out.

With his overflowing wealth of flea-bitten dogs, he might have done much

better by her than he did, but he said he would wait a few years and if

she were poor enough to need more dogs, he would not be parsimonious.

The young couple went up on Coyote Creek and went to housekeeping, and

years have gone by since without word from them.

In the turmoil and hurry of life, I had almost forgotten them until

Cole's circus was in town the other day.

That brought them to light.

They had done well in the dog business, and had succeeded in promoting

the growth of a new kind of meek and lowly dog, with sore places on him

for homeless and orphan flies.

They also had several children with reddish hair and large, wilted ears.

The youngest one was quite young, and cried when the calliope burst into

a wild rhapsody of Nancy Lee.

When I saw the family, the mother was eagerly watching the parade, and

at the same time trying to broil the baby's nose in the sun. It was

almost done, when I was called away by other business, so I cannot say

positively whether the child was taken home rare or well-done.

THOUGHTS ON SPRING

|Spring is the most joyful season of the year. The little brooklets are

released from their icy fetters and go laughing and rippling along their

winding way. The birds begin to sing in the budding branches, and the

soft South wind calls forth the green grass.

The husbandman then goes forth to dig the horseradish for his frugal

meal. He also jabs his finger into the rosebud mouth of the wild-eyed

calf, and proceeds to wean him from the gentle cow. The cow-boy goes

forth humming a jocund lay. So does the hen. Boys should not go near the

hen while she is occupied with her tuneful lay. She might seize them by

the off ear, and bear them away to her den, and feed them to her young.

The hen rises early in the morning so as to catch the swift-footed

angleworm as he flits from flower to flower. The angleworm cannot bite.

In the spring the young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Love is a

good thing.

The picnic plant will soon lift its little head to the sunshine, and

the picnic manager will go out and survey the country, to find where the

most God-forsaken places are, and then he will get up an excursion to

some of these picturesque mud-holes and sand-piles; and the man who

swore last year that he would never go to another picnic, will pack up

some mustard, and bay rum, and pickles, and glycerine, and a lap-robe,

and some camphor, and a spyglass, and some court-plaster; and he will

heave a sigh and go out to the glens and rural retreats, and fill his

skin full of Tolu, Rock and Rye, and hatred toward all mankind and

womankind; and he will skin his hands, and try to rub the downy fluff

and bloom from a cactus by sitting down on it.

I have attended picnics regularly for nearly ten years now, and I am a

man of a good deal of firmness, too, but I cannot hold a cactus down on

the ground with my entire weight, any better than when I first began;

and I feel that I am getting farther and farther from redeeming grace.

With the approach of spring the correspondence between myself and Mr. Le

Duc begins to get more brisk also. He writes me under date of March 20,

saying that he is preparing for amore vigorous campaign this summer than

ever before. He thinks the clip from his Cotswold hydraulic rams

will exceed that of any previous year. He will also experiment in a

scientific manner to perfect the laying of fancy Easter porcelain and

decorated China eggs by Cochin China fowls. If they cannot manage it he

will try some experiments on the egg plant. Mr. Le Duc is a man who is

not easily discouraged by small obstacles. He will watch the habits of

the grasshopper and curculio and bed-bug, also with great assiduity.

I have begged him to transfer the bed-bug to the Indian Department. He

always regards my suggestions very favorably, because, as he says, I am

"so practical."

We are going to devote a part of the summer to grafting the saddle-rock

oyster on the vegetable oyster-plant, and will spare no pains to

secure an inland oyster that will stand this dry air and high, rigorous

climate.

THE SAME OLD THING.

|Recently I have had the pleasure of acting as chief mourner at a

mountain picnic. This subject has been pretty well represented in

romance and song already; but I venture to give my experience as being a

little out of the ordinary.

The joy which is experienced in the glad, free life of the picnicker is

always before the picnic. On the evening before he makes the excursion,

he is too full of sacred pleasure and lavender-colored tranquillity for

anything.

He glides about the house, softly warbling to himself the fragment of

some tender love song, while he packs the corkscrews and matches, and

other vegetables for the morrow.

I was placed in command of a party of ladies who had everything arranged

so that all I needed to do would be to get into the buggy and drive to

the mountains, eat my lunch, and drive back again.

I like to go with a party of ladies, because they never make suggestions

about the route, or how to drive.

[Illustration: 9154]

They are just as full of gentle trust and child-like confidence and

questions as they can be.

They get the lunch ready and get into the buggy, and keep thinking of

things they have forgotten, till they get 400 miles from home, and they

sing little pieces of old songs, and won't let the great, horrid man in

charge of the excursion have any lunch when he gets hungry, because they

are hunting for a romantic spot beneath the boughs of a magnificent elm,

while every sane man in the Territory knows that there isn't an elm big

or little, within 1,4321 1/2 miles.

We went up in the mountains, because we wanted to go where it would be

cool. As a search for a cool resort, this picnic of ours was the most

brilliant success. We kept going up at an angle of forty-five degrees

from the time we left home until we had to get out and walk to keep

warm. We got into one of the upper strata of clouds; and a cold mist

mixed with fragments of ice-cream, and large chunks of hail and misery,

about the size of a burglar-proof safe came gathering over us. Then we

camped in the midst of the mountain storm, and the various ladies

sat down on their feet, and put the lap-robes over them, and looked

reproachfully at me. We hovered around under the buggy, and two or three

little half-grown parasols, and watched the storm. It was a glorious

spectacle to the thinking mind.

They began to abuse me because I did not make a circus of myself, and

thus drive away the despair and misery of the occasion. They had brought

me along, it seemed, because I was such an amusing little cuss. It made

me a good deal sadder than I would have been otherwise. Here in the

midst of a wild and bitter mountain storm, so thick that you couldn't

see twenty yards away, with nothing to eat but some marble cake soaked

in vinegar, and a piece of cold tongue with a red ant on it, I was

expected to make a hippodrome and negro minstrel show of myself. I burst

into tears, and tried to sit on my feet as the ladies did. I couldn't

do it, so simultaneously and so extemporaneously, as it were, as they

could. I had to take them by sections and sit on them. My feet are not

large, but at the same time I cannot hover over them both at the same

time.

Dear reader, did you ever sit amidst the silence and solitude of the

mountains and feel the hailstones rolling down your back, melting and

soothing you, and filling your heart with great surging thoughts of the

sweet bye-and-bye, and death, and the grave, and other mirth-provoking

topics? We had now been about two hundred years without food, it seemed

to me, and I mildly suggested that I would like something to eat rather

than die of starvation in the midst of plenty; but the ladies wouldn't

give me so much as a ham handwich to preserve my life. They told me to

smoke if I felt that I must have nourishment, and coldly refused to let

me sample the pickled spiders and cold-pressed flies.

So in the midst of all this prepared food I had to go out into the

sagebrush and eat raw grasshoppers and grease-wood.

Bye and bye, when we concluded that we had seen about all the

mountain storm we needed in our business, and didn't pine for any more

hail-stones and dampness, we hitched up again and started home. Then we

got lost. The ladies felt indignant, but I was delighted. I never was

so lost in all my life. When I was asked where I thought I was, I

could cheerfully reply that I didn't know, and that would stop the

conversation for as much as two minutes.

The beauty of being lost is that you are all the time seeing new

objects. There is a charm of novelty about being lost that one does not

fully understand until he has been there, so to speak.

When I would say that I didn't know where the road led to that we were

traveling, one of the party would suggest with mingled bitterness and

regret, that we had better turn back. Then I would turn back. I turned

back seventeen times at the request of various members of the party for

whom I had, and still have, the most unbounded respect.

Finally we got so accustomed to the various objects along this line of

travel, that we pined for a change. Then we drove ahead a little farther

and found the road. It had been there all the time. It is there yet.

I never had so much fun in all my life. It don't take much to please me,

however. I'm of a cheerful disposition, anyhow.

Some of the ladies brought home columbines that had been drowned; others

brought home beautiful green mosses with red bugs in them; and others

brought home lichens and ferns and neuralgia.

I didn't bring anything home. I was glad to get home myself, and know

that I was all there.

I took the lunch basket and examined it. It looked sick and unhappy.

At first I thought I would pick the red ants out of the lunch; then I

thought it would save time to pick the lunch out of the red ants; but

finally I thought I would compromise, by throwing the whole thing into

the alley.

I am now preparing a work to be called the "Pick Nicker's Guide; or

Starvation Made Easy and Even Desirable!" It will supply a want long

felt, and will be within the reach of all.

THE VETERAN WHO DIED WHILE GETTING HIS PENSION.

|Many years ago, when business in my office was not very rushing, and

time hung heavy on my hands, before I had attempted journalism, and no

dream of my present dazzling literary success had entered my mind,

I rashly offered to assist applicants for pensions in attracting the

attention of the general government, at so much per head.

One hot day in July while I sat in my office killing flies with an

elastic band and wondering if my mines would ever be quoted in the

market, a middle-aged man came in and, spitting calmly into the

porcelain cuspidore, began to tell me about his service as a soldier,

and how he was wounded, and wished to secure a pension.

He said that several attorneys had already tried to procure one for him,

but had failed to do so, giving up in despair. I examined the wound,

which consisted of a large hole in the skull, caused by a gun-shot

wound. He was almost entirely prevented by this wound from obtaining a

livelihood, because he was liable at any moment to fall insensible to

the ground, as the result of exercise or work. I told him that I would

snatch a few moments from my arduous duties and proceed to do as he

requested me.

Then I began a very brisk correspondence with the Interior Department.

I would write to the Commissioner of Pensions in my vivacious but firm

manner and he would send me back a humorous little circular showing

me that I had been too hasty and premature. I never got mad or forgot

myself but began a little farther back in the history of the world, and

gradually led up to the war of the rebellion.

In reply the Commissioner would write back to me that my chronological

table was at fault and I would cheerfully correct the error and proceed.

At this time, however, my client became a little despondent, several

years having elapsed since we began our task. So to my other labors I

had to add that of cheering up the applicant.

Time dragged its slow length along. Months succeeded months and the

years sped on.

The Interior Department never forgot me. Every little while I would

get a printed circular boiling over with mirth and filled with the

most delightful conundrums relative to the late unpleasantness. These

conundrums I would have my client answer and swear to every time,

although I could see that he was failing mentally and physically. He

would come into my office almost every day, and silently raise his right

hand and with uncovered head stand there in a reverent attitude for me

to swear him to something. Sometimes I had nothing for him to swear to,

and then I would make him take the oath of allegiance and send him away.

I wanted to keep him loyal if I could, whether he got his pension or

not.

The last work had been nearly completed, and the claim had been turned

over to the Surgeon-General's office, when the applicant yielded to the

crumbling effect of relentless time, and took to his bed.

It was a sad moment for me. I could not keep back the silent tears when

I saw the old man lying there so still and so helpless, and remembered

how rosy, and strong, and happy he looked years and years ago, when he

first asked me to apply for his pension.

I wrote the Department that if the claims could be passed upon soon,

I would keep my client up on stimulants a short time, but that he was

failing fast. Then I went to the bedside of the old man, and watched him

tenderly.

When he saw me come into his room, although he could not talk any more,

he would feebly raise his right hand, and I would swear him to support

the Constitution of the United States, and then he would be easier.

It seemed to me like a ghastly joke for the old man to swear he would

support the Constitution of the United States, when he couldn't begin to

support his own constitution; but I never mentioned it to him.

At last the blow fell. The Surgeon-General wrote me that owing to the

lack of clerical aid in that office, and a failure of Congress to make

any appropriation for that purpose, he was behind hand, and could not

possibly reach the claim referred to before the close of the following

year.

Then the old man passed into the great untried realm of the hereafter.

But he was prepared.

With the aid of the government, I had given him an idea of Eternity and

its vastness, which could not fail to be of priceless benefit to him.

After the government had used this pension money as long as it needed

it, and was, so to speak, once more on its feet, the money was sent, and

the old man's great-grand-children got it, and purchased a lawn-mower, a

Mexican hairless dog, and some other necessaries of life with it.

I am now out of the pension business. It is a good thing, for I find

that I am too impatient to attend to it. I am too anxious for tangible

results in the near future. My desire to accomplish anything speedily is

too violent and too previous.

GINGERBREAD POEMS AND COLD PICKLED FACTS.

|In an old number of _Harper's Magazine_, will be found a little poem

upon the subject of Joseph, the chief of the Nez Perces. There is a kind

of mellow and subdued heroic light cast over the final defeat of

this great North American horse thief, which is in perfectly pleasing

harniony with the New England idea of the noble unlettered relic of a

defunct race. This soft-voiced poet, who probably knows about as much of

the true occidental pig-stealer, as the latter does about the Electoral

College, starts out this little brass-mounted epic in the following

elegant style of prevarication:=

```From the northern desolation,

```Comes the cry of exultation,

``It has ended--he has yielded, and the stubborn fight won.

```Let the nation in its glory,

```Bow with shame before the story

``Of the hero it has ruined, and the evil it has done.=

It is too true that here in the wild West people haven't the advantages

that are accorded to the East, and in our uncouth ignorance, and meager

facilities for obtaining information, we are, no doubt, too prone to

ascribe to the hostile inebriate of the plains a character which

does not compare very favorably with the boss hero in the poem hereto

attached, and marked "Exhibit A." But the people on the frontier should

not set themselves up to judge what they know nothing of. Why should

frontiersmen, without colleges, without observatories, without

telescopes, or logarithms, or protoplasms, or spectroscopes, or

heliotropes, how should they, I ask, who can lay no claim to anything

but that they are poor, unsophisticated, grasshopper sufferers; with

nothing to refer to but the naked facts--the ruins of their desolated

homes, and the ghastly, mutilated corpses of their wives and

children--try to compete with the venerable philosophers who live

where the Patent Office reports are made, and within the shadow of

the building in which the _Illustrated Police Gazette_ and other such

reliable authorities have their birth, and in which are illustrated with

graphic skill, the Indian raids of the border, using the same old cut

which is taken from the "Death of Captain Cook," to illustrate every

Indian outbreak from Nebraska to Oregon.

Is it nothing forsooth for a nomadic race of buffalo slayers and maple

sugar makers and cranberry pickers to rise from the dust and learn to

love the wise institutions of a free government? To lay aside the

old hickory bow of the original red man and take up the improved

breech-loader? To take kindly to mixed drinks and Sabbath school picnics

and temperance lectures and base-ball matches? To live contentedly about

the agencies, playing poker for the whiskies during the cold and cruel

winter? Then when the glad song of the robin awakes the echoes in

spring, and the air is filled with a thousand nameless odors, among

which may be detected the balmy breath of the government sock, to

hie him away to the valleys with his fishing rod and flies (and other

curious insects), or to spend the glorious days of midsummer at the

camp-meeting or the horse-race? We can never know how his poor heart

must burn to kick off his box-toed boots and throw aside his dress coat

and suspenders, and gallop over the green hills and kick up his heels

and whoop and yell, and tear out the tongues of a few white women and be

sociable.

They are indeed the nation's wards, a little frisky and playful at

times, to be sure, but we must overlook that. There can be no reason nor

justice in forbidding these freeborn descendants of these mighty races

the inalienable right to lock up their front doors at the agency and

put the key in their pockets, and light out, if they wish to, across

the country, spreading gory desolation along their trail, eating the

farmers' hard earned store, pillaging his home, murdering his household,

burning his crops, riding their war horses over his watermelon vines,

eating his winter preserves, scalping the hired man and wearing away the

farmer's red-flannel undershirt wrong side to, and wrong side up if they

want to. And if any ignorant upstart of the frontier, who feels a little

sore over the loss of his family, undertakes to defraud these wild, free

sons of the forest of any or all of their rights, let the lop-eared,

slab-sided, knock-kneed, crosseyed, spavined, lantern-jawed,

sway-backed, mangy, flannelmouthed poet of the educated and refined East

write poetry about him till he is glad to apologize.

ORIGIN OF BEAUTIFUL SNOW,

|The following letter is from Captain Jack relative to the expedition

under his charge, sent out for the purpose of bringing in the murdering

group of Utes, against whom the government seems to maintain a feeling,

it not of enmity, at least of coolness, and perhaps unfriendliness.

The Indian is not generally supposed to be a humorist, or inclined to be

facetious; but the letter below would seem to indicate that there is, at

the least, a kind of grim, rough, uncouth attempt on his part to make a

paragrapher of himself.

I am not at liberty to give my reasons to the public for the publication

of this letter; nor even the manner of securing it. Those to whom my

word has been passed relative to a strict secrecy on my part in the

above connection, shall not be betrayed. Friends who know me are aware

that my word is as good as my bond, and even better than my promissory

note.

On the Wing, February 1, 1880.

Dear Sir:--I have a little leisure in which to write of our journey, and

will dictate this letter to an amanuensis. [Amanuensis is a Ute word;

but you will understand it in this connection. It does not mean anything

wrong.]

We find much snow through the mountains, which impedes our progress very

materially. We crossed a canyon yesterday where there was a good deal.

I should think there might be 1,500 feet in depth of it. It filled the

canyon up full, and bulged up ten or fifteen feet above the sides. I

composed a short poem about it. I knew that it was wrong to do so; but

almost every one else has composed a poem on the beautiful snow, then

why should I, although I have not taken out my naturalization papers, be

denied the sweet solace of song? I said:=

````O drifted whiteness covering`

```The fair face of nature,

````Pure as the sigh of a blessed spirit`

```On the eternal shores, you`

```Glitter in the summer sun`

```Considerable. My mortal`

```Ken seems weak and`

```Helpless in the midst of`

```Your dazzling splendor,

````And I would hide my`

```Diminished head like`

```Serf unclothed in presence`

```Of his mighty King.=

`````You lie engulphed`

```Within the cold embrace`

```Of rocky walls and giant`

```Cliffs. You spread out`

```Your white mantle and`

```Enwrap the whole broad`

```Universe, and a portion`

```Of York State.=

`````You seem content,`

```Resting in silent whiteness`

```On the frozen breast of`

```The cold, dead earth. You`

```Think apparently that`

```You are middling white;`

```But once I was in the`

```Same condition. I was`

```Pure as the beautiful snow,`

```But I fell. It was a`

```Right smart fall, too.

````It churned me up a`

```Good deal and nearly`

```Knocked the supreme`

```Duplex from its intellectual`

```Throne. It occurred in`

```Washington, D. C.

`````But thou

````Snow, lying so spotless`

```On the frozen earth, as`

```I remarked before, thou`

```Hast indeed a soft,

````Soft thing. Thou comest`

```Down like the silent`

```Movements of a specter,`

```And thy fall upon the`

```Earth is like the tread`

```Of those who walk the`

```Shores of immortality.

````You lie around all`

```Winter drawing your`

```Annuities till spring,

````And then the soft`

```Breath from the south with`

```Touch seductive bids you`

```Go, and you light out`

```With more or less alacrity.=

`````Then rest, O snow,

````Where thou hast settled`

```Down, secure in conscious`

```Purity. Avoid so far as`

```Possible the capital of`

```A republic, and the`

```Blessing of yours truly`

```Will settle down upon`

```You like--like--a`

```Hired man.=

There are, no doubt, some little irregularities about this poem, but I

scratched it off one night in camp when my chilblains were hurting me

and itching so that I had to write a poem or swear a good deal.

We have not seen anything as yet to shoot at.

That is, of course, I refer to what we came here for. I shot at what

I thought to be Douglas the other day, but it turned out to be an old

Indian who was out skirmishing around after cotton-tails for his

dinner. I snuffed his light out, however. By this time he is chasing

cotton-tails in a better, brighter sphere, where the wicked cease from

troubling and life is one prolonged Fourth of July. Occasionally we see

a squaw and shoot her just for practice. I am getting so I'm pretty good

on a wheel and fire.

Douglas ought to be easy to indentify, however, at a great distance,

for his features are peculiar. He has a large nose. It is like a premium

summer squash, only larger. I don't think I ever saw such a wealth of

nose as his. Napoleon used to say that a large nose is indicative of

strong character. According to this rule, Douglas must have a character

stronger than an eight-mule team.

We start out early to-morrow and hope to bag something, but cannot tell

how we will make it. I will report as soon as I get to where there is a

telegraph. I do not allow any reporters along with me. A great many

of them wanted to go along with me for the excitement. I told them,

however, that I could furnish the press with such reports as I saw fit

to furnish, and I did not want to take a young man away from the haunts

of civilization and waltz him around among the hills of Colorado, for

it isn't so much of a success as an editorial picnic after all. I often

wish that I could run down to dinner as I did at Washington and eat

all I need. I also yearn for the hot Scotch and the spiced rum of

the pale-face, and the Scotch plaid lemon pie, and the indestructible

blanc-mange, and the buckwheat cakes like door-mats that I got at

Washington.

But I must attend to the business of the Great Father, and prepare

the remains which he requires for his grand Indian funeral. Till then,

adieu. Jack.

UTE ELOQUENCE.

(SPEECH OF OLD MAN COLOROW AT AN OLD SETTLER'S REUNION IN NORTH PARK,

COLORADO.)

|The following short oration, delivered by Colorow in the North Park, I

send in as a sort of companion-piece to the letter written by Jack, and

given in this work. Few people actually know the true spirit of Greek

and Roman oratory that still lingers about the remnants of this people,

now nearly driven from the face of the earth. I have never seen this

speech in print, and I give it so that the youth of the nineteenth

century may commit it to memory, and declaim it on the regular public

school speech day.

"Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen:--Warriors, we are but a little band

of American citizens, encircled by a horde of pale-faced usurpers.

"Where years agone, in primeval forests, the swift foot of the young

Indian followed the deer through shimmering light beneath the broad

boughs of the spreading tree, the white man, in his light summer suit,

with his pale-faced squaw, is playing croquet; and we stand idly by and

allow it.

"Where erst the hum of the arrow, as it sped to its mark, was heard

upon the summer air; and the panting hunter in bosky dell, quenched his

parched lips at the bubbling spring, the white man has erected a huge

wigwam, and enclosed the spring, and people from the land of the rising

sun come to gain their health, and the vigor of their youth. Men come to

this place and limp around in the haunts of the red man with crutches,

and cork legs, and liver pads.

"Things are not precisely as they formerly were. They have changed.

There seems to be a new administration. We are not apparently in the

ascendancy to any great extent.

"Above the hallowed graves of our ancestors the buck-wheater hoes the

cross-eyed potato, and mashes the immortal soul out of the speckled

sqursh-bug. The sacred dust of our forefathers is nourishing the roots

of the Siberian crab apple tree, and the early Scandinavian turnip.

"Our sun is set. Our race is run. We had better select a small hole in

the earth into which we may crawl and then draw it in after us, and tuck

it carefully about us.

"These mountains are ours. These plains are ours. Ours through all time

to come. We need them in our business. The wail of departed spirits is

on the winds that blow over this wide free land. The tears of departed

heroes of our people fall in the rain drops, for their land is given

away. To-day I look upon the sad wreck of a great people, and I ask

you to go with me, and with our united hearts' blood win back the fair

domain. Let two or three able-bodied warriors follow me and hold my

coat while I mash' the white-livered snipe off the lowlands beyond

recognition.

"Let us steal in upon the frontier while the regular-army has gone to

his dinner and get a few Caucasians for breakfast.

"Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire." [Applause.]

THE AGED INDIAN'S LAMENT.

[copyrighted: all rights reserved.]

|Warriors, I am an aged hemlock. The mountain-winds sigh among my

withered limbs. A few more suns and I shall fall amid the solemn hush of

the forest, and my place will be vacant. I shall tread the walks of the

happy hunting grounds, and sing glad hallelujahs where the worm dieth

not and the fire-water is not quenched.

"Once I was the pride of my tribe and the swift-foot of the prairie. I

stood with my brethren like the towering oak, and my prowess was known

throughout my nation. Now I bow to the wintry blast and hump myself with

a vigorous and unanimous hump. My eagle-eye is dimmed. The fleetness of

my limbs is gone. The vigor of my youth is past. I do not shout now to

my warriors, for the cliffs and rocks refuse to answer back my cry, and

it sinks away like the sad moan of the low-grade refractory mule.

"When my brethren go forth to shoot the swift-footed ranchman as

he gambols on the hill-sides, I cower above the camp-fire and rub

mutton-tallow on my favorite chilblain through the still watches of the

night.

"Warriors, I yearn for immortality. The White Father has said that

over yonder the life is one of uninterrupted editorial excursions. No

inflammatory rheumatism can ever enter there.

"I want to be a copper-colored angel and out-fly the boss angel of the

entire outfit. I want to see Pocahontas and other great men who have

clomb the golden stair. I want something to eat, so as to surprise my

stomach. I want a long period of rest and soul-destroying inactivity.

"Warriors, my sun is set. I have lost my grip. My features are sharpened

by age, and one by one my white teeth have resigned till but two are

left, and they do not seem to mash by an overwhelming majority. I cannot

masticate buffalo tripe or even relish my tarantula on toast as I once

could.

"My twilight is fading into evening, and the day is gone. I hear the

crickets chirp in the dead grass and I know that the night is at hand.

Far away upon the gentle winds I hear the soft cooing of the Colorado

tom-cat, and the thump of the stove lid as it misses the cat and strikes

with a hollow, mournful sound against the corral. A few more moons and

you will meet, but you will miss me. There will be one vacant chair.

"The veal-cutlet and the watermelon of the pale-face hold out no

inducements to me. The circus and the icecream festival will miss me,

for I shall be far away in the ether-blue, where the wicked cease

from troubling and the weary are at rest. I shall be revelling in more

eternal rest than I know what to do with.

"Farewell, my warriors. Make my humble grave low in the valley where the

wild columbine and the Rocky Mountain flea can clamber over my last

resting place, and carve upon the slab above my head the name of

Minneconjo-presipitatenuxqonicatahskunkahcoquipahhahamazanpah

kahconkaska. The-cross-eyed-caterpillar-who-walks-on-his-hind-legs-and

howls-like-the-pale-face-pappoose-who-adver-tises-to-hold-down-the

blonde-bumble-bee."

HOW A MINING STAMPEDE BREAKS OUT.

|Dear reader, shall I give you a few symptoms of the mining epidemic in

Mountain towns? All right. I will anyhow!

Symptom 1.--A long-haired man is seen pounding up a piece of quartz

about the size of a man's hand.

Symptom 2.--Two men meander up to him and ask him where he got it.

Symptom 3.--The long-haired man looks down into the mortar, and lies

gently to the inquiring minds who linger near.

Symptom 4.--More men come around. The long-haired man gets a gold-pan

and doubles himself up over the ditch and begins to pan.

Symptom 5.--Two hundred more men come out of saloons and other

mercantile establishments and join the throng.

Symptom 6.--The long-haired man gets down to black sand, and shows

several colors about the size of a blue-jay's ear.

Symptom 7 times.--Several solitary horsemen start out, with some

pack-mules, and blank location notices, and valley tan. The plot

deepens. The telegraph gets red-hot. Men who have been impecunious, for

lo, these many years, come around to pay some old bills. Poor men buy

spotted dogs and gold-headed canes. Stingy men get reckless, and buy the

first box of strawberries without asking the price.

I have caught the epidemic myself.

I am getting reckless. Instead of turning my last summer lavender pants

hind side before, and removing the ham sandwich lithograph on the front

breadths, I have purchased a new pair.

I never experienced such a wild, glad feeling of perfect abandon.

I go to church and chip in for the heathen, perfectly regardless of

expense. If Zion languishes, I come forward and throw in the small

currency with a lavish hand.

Banks, offices, hotels, saloons and private residences show specimens of

quartz carrying free gold and carbonates, hard, soft, and medium soft,

with iron protoxide of nitrogen, rhombohedral glucose indications of

valedictory and free milling oxide of anti-fat in abundance.

Nellis, who lives near the Mill Creek carbonate claims, came in to town

the other day to get an injunction against the miners, so that he could

injunct them from prospecting in his cellar, and staking his pie-plant

bed.

When he goes out after dark to drive the cow out of his turnip patch, he

falls over a stake every little while, with a notice tacked on it, which

sets forth that the undersigned, viz., Johnny Comelately, Joe Newbegin,

Shoo Fly Smith, and Union Forever Dandelion claim 1,500 feet in length,

by 600 feet in width for mineral purposes on this claim, to be known as

"The Gal with the skim-milk Eye," together with all dips, spurs, angles

or variations, gold, silver, or other precious metals therein contained.

Mr. Nellis says he is glad to see a "boom," and at first he did all he

could to make it pleasant for prospectors; but lately he thinks that

their sociability has become too earnest and too simultaneous.

I told him that the only way I could see to avoid losing his grip, and

having his string-beans dug up prematurely, was to stake the entire

ranche as a placer claim, buy him a Gatling gun that would shoot the

large size of buckshot, and then trust in the mysterious movements of an

overruling Providence.

I do not know whether he took my advice or not; but I am looking

anxiously along the Mill-Creek road every day, for a six mule team

loaded with disorganized remains, and driven by a man who looks as

though he had glutted his vengeance, and had two or three gluts left

over on his hands.

THE GREAT ROCKY MOUNTAIN REUNION OF YALLER DOGS.

|Secretary Spates, the silver-tongued orator and gilt-edged mouth organ

of Wyoming, acting general superintendent and governor extraordinary of

Wyoming, expressed a wish the other day for a dog. He had a light yellow

cane, and wanted a dog to match. He said that he wanted something to

love. If he could wake up in the stillness of the night and hear his

faithful dog fighting fleas, and licking his chops, and coughing, he

(the secretary) would feel as though he was loved, at least? by one.

Some friends thought it would be a pleasant thing to surprise Mr. Spates

with a dog. So they procured a duplicate key to his room and organized

themselves into a dog vigilance committee. There were several yellow

dogs around Cheyenne that were not in use, and their owners consented to

part with them and try to control their grief while they worried along

from day to day without them. These dogs were collected and placed in

the secretary's room.

Throwing a heterogeneous mass of dogs together in that way, and all

of them total strangers to each other, in the natural course of things

creates something of a disturbance, and that was the result in this

case. When the secretary arrived, the dogs were holding a session with

closed doors. The presiding officer had lost control, and a surging

crowd of yellow dogs had the floor. Only one dog was excepted. He was

struggling with all his strength against the most collossal attack of

colic that ever convulsed a pale, yellow dog. Just as he would get to

feeling kind of comfortable, a spasm would catch him on the starboard

quarter and his back would hump itself like a 1,000-legged worm, and

with such force as to thump the floor with the stumpy tail of the

demoralized dog and jar the bric-a-brac on the brackets and what-nots of

the Secretary of Wyoming Territory.

Just then the secretary arrived. He was whistling a trill or two from

the "Turkish Patrol," when he got within earshot of the convention.

Several people met him and asked him what was going on up in his room.

The secretary blushed and said he guessed there was nothing out of

character, and wondered if someone was putting up a Conkling story on

him, to kill a Spates boom.

When he got to the door and went in, thirty-seven dogs ran between his

legs? and went out the door with a good deal of intensity. More of them

would have run between the secretary's legs, but they couldn't all make

it.

Mr. Spates was mad. He felt hurt and grieved. The dogs had jumped on the

bed and torn the pillow shams into minute bandages, and wiped their feet

on the coverlid. They had licked the blacking off his boots, and eaten

his toilet soap. One of them had tried on the secretary's dressing gown;

but it was not large enough, and he had taken it off in a good deal of a

hurry.

Long after it was supposed that the last dog had gone out, yellow dogs,

of different degrees of yellowishness, and moving in irregular orbits,

would be thrown from the secretary's room with great force. Some of them

were killed, while others were painfully injured. It is said that there

are fewer yellow dogs in Cheyenne now than there used to be, and those

that are there are more subdued, and reserved, and taciturn, and skinned

on the back, than they used to be; while the secretary has a far-away

look in his eye, like a man who has trusted humanity once too often, and

been everlastingly and unanimously left.

WHAT WOMAN'S SUFFRAGE HAS DONE FOR WYOMING.

SOME TESTIMONIALS, AND ONE THING AND ANOTHER.

|The managing editor of a Boston paper, is getting material together

relative to the practical workings of Woman's Suffrage, and as Wyoming

is at present working a scheme of that kind, he wants an answer to the

following questions:

1. --Has it been of real benefit to the Territory?

2. --If so, what has it accomplished?

3. --How does it affect education, morals, courts, &c.?

4. --What proportion of the women vote?