Chapter VI: Preface (5)

By all means have a bed of these most sweet and lovely Roses. If the season happens to be a hot and dry one, mulch your rose bed with grass clippings from the lawn. Spread them evenly about the plants, to a depth of two or three inches, in such a manner as to cover the entire bed. By so doing, you prevent rapid evaporation and the roots of the plant are kept much cooler than when strong sunshine is allowed to beat down upon the surface of the bed. When the mulch begins to decay, remove it, and apply fresh clippings. About the middle of the season give the soil a liberal dressing of fine bone meal, working it well about the roots of the plants; or, if you can get it, use old cow manure. Whatever you apply, be sure it gets where the roots can make use of it.

While the above illustrations show Mr. Rexford's interests in
the affairs of home life and demonstrate his simple, direct
way of saying what he wishes us to know, yet they do not
manifest that finer literary sense of which he is possessed.
They are scientific thought, clearly and directly expressed,
but he has that sentiment of the heart and that keen
appreciation of the relation of sound to sense which marks
him as the poet and song writer.

His first book publication of a poetic nature is a long
narrative poem entitled "Brother and Lover." It is a story of
Civil War times and is rich in the sentiment of friendship
which, to his mind, endures not merely through this life, but
abides throughout all time. The plot of this story is very
simple, involving but three characters, a young woman, her
brother, and her lover.

Mr. Rexford's last collection of poems appeared in 1911 under
the title "Pansies and Rosemary." He explained this title in
the following quotation: "Pansies--for thoughts, and
Rosemary--that's for remembrance." Many of the thoughts in
these poems seem to be such as come to us at eventide, for
they reflect many sentiments concerning death. It would seem
that Mr. Rexford has cherished those occasions which bring a
community in humility and close sympathy, to point the
significance of the great lesson of hope, in the most
beautiful language that he commands.

In a few of these poems, dialect has been chosen as the form
of expression. One of this type has been selected for this
reading. It illustrates the fact that in these simple acts of
community effort to do the constructive, there always comes
more joy than can come from the polished product of practised
art.

Naturally we expect one who loved the beauty of the landscape
and the color of petal and the fragrance of flower to be more
or less of a Nature poet. To him Nature is the great teacher
of God's handiwork, and imparts to us solace and joy. Mr.
Rexford has also chosen to disregard the life of the city for
the life of the country village, where every individual to
the youngest school child may know him and reverence him for
his kindly helpfulness. He loves the humble worker in the
common walks of life. "The Two Singers" given later will
illustrate his theory of usefulness.

He does not conceal the presence of evil, nor does he condone
it, but he does show the great strength which may be attained
through resistance of it. The unfruitful tree illustrates
this point.

Mr. Rexford has always been a great lover of music. He has
led the village choir and he has played the organ at the
church service for many years. He has written not merely the
words that he sings, but he has also set many of his little
lyrics to music. When the village school has needed a song
for a special program, when the church service has been in
special need, or when the Memorial Day program could be
rendered more sacredly helpful by his music, Mr. Rexford has
always been ready to assist. He has kindly consented to our
publishing his famous song, "Silver Threads Among the Gold,"
and its sequel, "When Silver Threads are Gold Again."

THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR

All of these poems are reprinted with consent of the author
and the J. B. Lippincott Publishing Co.

I have be'n in city churches where the way-up singers sing,
Till their thousand'-dollar voices make the very rafters ring.
Seems as if the sound kep' clim'in' till it got lost in the spire,
But I all the time was wishin' 'twas our dear ol' village choir.

Somehow, highfallutin' singin' never seemed to touch the spot
Like the ol' religious singin' o' the times I hain't forgot;
Jest the ol' hymns over'n over--nothin' city folks desire,
But some heart was in the singin' of that same ol' village choir.

Nothin' airy 'bout the singers--land; they never tho't o' style,
But they made you think o' Heaven an' of good things all the while,
Made you feel as ef the angels couldn't help a comin' nigher
Jest to lis'en to the music made by that ol' village choir.

When they sung ol' Coronation, w'y--it somehow seemed to grip
An' to take your heart up with it on a sort o' 'scursion trip
To the place where God stays! Of'en heart an' soul seemed all afire
With the glory that they sung of in the dear ol' village choir.

Then they'd have us all a-cryin' when they sung, at funril-time,
Soft, an' low, an' sweet, an' sollum hymns that told about the clime
Where there's never death or partin', an' the mourners never'd tire
Lis'nen' to the words o' comfort sung by the ol' village choir.

You c'n have your city singin' if you think it fills the bill;--
Give me the ol'-fashioned music of the ol' church on the hill.
Music with no style about it--nothin' fine folks would admire,
But it makes me homesick, thinkin' o' the dear ol' village choir.

THE TWO SINGERS

I know two of this earth's singers; one longed to climb and stand
Upon the heights o'er looking the peaceful lower land,
"There where great souls have gathered, the few great souls of earth,
I'll sing my songs," he told us, "and they will own their worth.

"But if I sang them only to those who love the plain
They would not understand them, and I would sing in vain.
Oh, better far to sing them to earth's great souls, though few,
Than to sing them to the many who ne'er one great thought knew."

So he climbed the heights, and on them sang, and those who heard--
Earth's few great souls, ah, never they gave one longed-for word,
For the mighty thoughts within them filled each one's soul and brain,
And few among them listened to the music of his strain.

But the other singer sang to the toilers in the vale,
The patient, plodding many, who strive, and win, and fail.
His songs of faith and gladness, of hope and trust and cheer,
Were sweet with strength and comfort, and men were glad to hear.

Little this valley singer knew of the good he wrought;
He dreamed not of the courage that from his songs was caught--
Of the hearts that were made lighter, the hands that stronger grew,
As they listened to his singing to the many, not to few.

He who sang upon the mountains was forgotten long ago--
Not one song of his remembered as the swift years come and go.
But the dwellers in the valley sing the other's sweet songs o'er,
And as his grave grows greener they love them more and more.

THE UNFRUITFUL TREE

There stood in a beautiful garden
A tall and stately tree.
Crowned with its shining leafage
It was wondrous fair to see.
But alas! it was always fruitless;
Never a blossom grew
To brighten its spreading branches
The whole long season through.

The lord of the garden saw it,
And he said, when the leaves were sere,
"Cut down this tree so worthless,
And plant another here.
My garden is not for beauty
Alone, but for fruit, as well,
And no barren tree must cumber
The place in which I dwell."

The gardener heard in sorrow,
For he loved the barren tree
As we love some things about us
That are only fair to see.
"Leave it one season longer,
Only one more, I pray,"
He plead, but the lord of the garden
Was firm, and answered, "Nay."

Then the gardener dug about it,
And cut its roots apart,
And the fear of the fate before it
Struck home to the poor tree's heart.
Faithful and true to his master,
Yet loving the tree as well,
The gardener toiled in sorrow
Till the stormy evening fell.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I will finish
The task that I have begun."
But the morrow was wild with tempest,
And the work remained undone.
And through all the long, bleak winter
There stood the desolate tree,
With the cold white snow about it,--
A sorrowful thing to see.

At last, the sweet spring weather
Made glad the hearts of men,
And the trees in the lord's fair garden
Put forth their leaves again.
"I will finish my task tomorrow,"
The busy gardener said,
And thought, with a thrill of sorrow,
That the beautiful tree was dead.

The lord came into his garden
At an early hour next day,
And to the task unfinished
The gardener led the way.
And lo! all white with blossoms,
Fairer than ever to see,
In the promise of coming fruitage
Stood the sorely-chastened tree.

"It is well," said the lord of the garden.
And he and the gardener knew
That out of its loss and trial
Its promise of fruitfulness grew.
It is so with some lives that cumber
For a time the Lord's domain.
Out of trial and bitter sorrow
There cometh countless gain,
And fruit for the Master's harvest
Is borne of loss and pain.

A DAY IN JUNE

I could write such a beautiful poem
About this summer day
If my pen could catch the beauty
Of every leaf and spray,
And the music all about me
Of brooks, and winds, and birds,
But the greatest poet living
Cannot put them into words.
If I might, you would hear all through it
The whispering of the breeze,
Like a fine and far-off echo
Of the ocean's harmonies.
You would hear the song of the robin
A-swing in the appletree,
And the voice of the river going
On its search for the great gray sea.

You would breathe the fragrance of clover
In the words of every line,
And incense out of the censors
Of hillside larch and pine.
You would see through the words the roses
And deep in their hearts of gold
The sweets of a thousand summers,
But words are so weak, so cold!

If I only could write the color
Of the lilacs' tossing plume,
And make you feel in a sentence
The spell of its rare perfume:--
If my pen could catch the glory
Of the clouds and the sunset sky,
And the peace of the summer twilight
My poem would never die!

SILVER THREADS AMONG THE GOLD

Copyright, 1915, by Estate of Hamilton S. Gordon.

I.

Darling, I am growing old,--
Silver threads among the gold,
Shine upon my brow today;--
Life is fading fast away;
But, my darling, you will be
Always young and fair to me,
Yes! my darling, you will be--
Always young and fair to me.

II.

When your hair is silver-white,--
And your cheeks no longer bright
With the roses of the May,--
I will kiss your lips, and say:
Oh! my darling, mine alone,
You have never older grown,
Yes, my darling, mine alone,--
You have never older grown.

III.

Love can never-more grow old,
Locks may lose their brown and gold;
Cheeks may fade and hollow grow;
But the hearts that love, will know
Never, winter's frost and chill;
Summer warmth is in them still,
Never winter's frost and chill,
Summer warmth is in them still.

IV.

Love is always young and fair,--
What to us is silver hair,
Faded cheeks or steps grown slow,
To the hearts that beat below?
Since I kissed you, mine alone,
You have never older grown,
Since I kissed you, mine alone,
You have never older grown.

Chorus to last verse.
Darling, we are growing old,
Silver threads among the gold,
Shine upon my brow today;--
Life is fading fast away.

WHEN SILVER THREADS ARE GOLD AGAIN

Words by Eben E. Rexford; music by H. P. Danks. Copyright,
1915, by Estate of Hamilton S. Gordon.

You tell me we are growing old,
And show the silver in your hair,
Whence time has stolen all the gold,
That made your youthful tresses fair;
But years can never steal away
The love that never can grow old.
So what care we for tresses gray,--
Since love will always keep its gold.

Oh, darling, I can read today,
The question in your thoughtful eyes;
You wonder if I long for May,--
Beneath the autumn's frosty skies.
Oh, love of mine, be sure of this:
For me no face could be so fair
As this one that I stoop to kiss
Beneath its crown of silver hair.

Oh, darling, though your step grows slow,
And time has furrowed well your brow,
And all June's roses hide in snow,
You never were so dear as now.
Oh, truest, tend'rest heart of all,
Lean on me when you weary grow,
As days, like leaves of autumn, fall
About the feet that falter so.

Oh, darling, with your hand in mine,
We'll journey all life's pathway through,
With happy tears your dear eyes shine
Like sweet blue blossoms in the dew.
The sorrows of the passing years
Have made us love each other more,
And every day that disappears
I count you dearer than before.

Chorus.

Oh, love, I tell you with a kiss,
If heav'n gives back the youth we miss
Your face will be no fairer then
When silver threads are gold again.

CARL SCHURZ.

Carl Schurz was born at Liblar, Prussia, 1829. He was
educated in the gymnasium of Cologne, and the University of
Bonne. He entered the revolutionary army in 1848, and was
likewise the editor of a revolutionary paper. He was obliged
to flee to Switzerland, and his accounts of his narrow
escapes in getting across the border, as given in his
Reminiscences, are intensely thrilling. He came to America in
1852, and after three years' residence in Philadelphia, he
settled in Watertown, in our own state. Though he was later a
resident of Michigan, Missouri, and New York, and indeed
represented the second-named state in the Senate of the
United States, yet throughout his Reminiscences he frequently
speaks of Wisconsin in a manner that shows he thought of it
as his home.

His life as an American citizen was full of honor and
responsibility. He was made Minister to Spain by President
Lincoln, but soon resigned to come back home and serve in the
Civil War. He was a brigadier-general of volunteers and took
part in the battles of Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, and
Chattanooga. During all the rest of his life he was active in
the service of his country, both in and out of office. He was
strongly on the side of reconciliation with the South, and he
hoped and worked for a re-united country. His addresses and
his letters show his intense faith in Civil Service reform.
His Reminiscences indicate how thoroughly American this man
became, and how deeply he appreciated, and how jealously he
wished to guard, the freedom which he had failed to find in
his mother country, and which he had risked so much to obtain
here.

The first selection here given is from Volume I of his
Reminiscences. It relates the escape from the prison at
Spandau of his dear friend, Professor Kinkel, in which Schurz
played an important part. We see here how closely organized
this band of revolutionists was, and the intensity of their
love for each other, together with the sense of fun and
adventure in all they did.

The second selection is characteristic of the oratory of Mr.
Schurz during his later years. It shows an intense
patriotism, and emphasizes the fact that though he was not
born here, for him but one country had the slightest claim
upon his devotion.

THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ

From Vol. I--1829-1852. Chapter X, p. 311. Copyright, 1907,
by the McClure Co.

Shortly before midnight I stood, equipped as on the night before, well hidden in the dark recess of the house door opposite the penitentiary. The street corners right and left were, according to agreement, properly watched, but our friends kept themselves, as much as possible, concealed. A few minutes later the night watchman shuffled down the street, and, when immediately in front of me, swung his rattle and called the hour of twelve. Then he slouched quietly on and disappeared. What would I have given for a roaring storm and a splashing rain! But the night was perfectly still. My eye was riveted to the roof of the penitentiary building, the dormer windows of which I could scarcely distinguish. The street lights flared dimly. Suddenly there appeared a light above, by which I could observe the frame of one of the dormer windows; it moved three times up and down; that was the signal hoped for. With an eager glance I examined the street right and left. Nothing stirred. Then on my part I gave the signal agreed upon, striking sparks. A second later the light above disappeared and I perceived a dark object slowly moving across the edge of the wall. My heart beat violently and drops of perspiration stood upon my forehead. Then the thing I had apprehended actually happened: tiles and brick, loosened by the rubbing rope, rained down upon the pavement with a loud clatter. "Now, good heaven, help us!" At the same moment Hensel's carriage came rumbling over the cobblestones. The noise of the falling tiles and brick was no longer audible. But would they not strike Kinkel's head and benumb him? Now the dark object had almost reached the ground. I jumped forward and touched him; it was indeed my friend and there he stood alive and on his feet.

"This is a bold deed," were the first words he said to me.

"Thank God," I answered. "Now off with the rope and away."

I labored in vain to untie the rope that was wound around his body.

"I cannot help you," Kinkel whispered, "for the rope has fearfully lacerated both my hands." I pulled out my dirk, and with great effort I succeeded in cutting the rope, the long end of which, as soon as it was free, was quickly pulled up. While I threw a cloak around Kinkel's shoulders and helped him get into the rubber shoes, he looked anxiously around. Hensel's carriage had turned and was coming slowly back.

"What carriage is that?" Kinkel asked.

"Our carriage."

Dark figures showed themselves at the street corners and approached us.

"For heaven's sake, what people are those?"

"Our friends."

At a little distance we heard male voices sing, "Here we sit gayly together."

"What is that?" asked Kinkel, while we hurried through a side street toward Kruger's hotel.

"Your jailers around a bowl of punch."

"Capital!" said Kinkel. We entered the hotel through a back door and soon found ourselves in a room in which Kinkel was to put on the clothes that we had bought for him--a black cloth suit, a big bear-skin overcoat, and a cap like those worn by Prussian forest officers. From a room near by sounded the voices of the revelers. Kruger, who had stood a few minutes looking on while Kinkel was exchanging his convict's garb for an honest man's dress, suddenly went out with a peculiarly sly smile. When he returned carrying a few filled glasses, he said, "Herr Professor, in a room near by some of your jailers are sitting around a bowl of punch. I have just asked them whether they would not permit me to take some for a few friends of mine who have just arrived. They had no objection. Now, Herr Professor, let us drink your health first out of the bowl of your jailers." We found it difficult not to break out in loud laughter. Kinkel was now in his citizen's clothes, and his lacerated hands were washed and bandaged with handkerchiefs. He thanked his faithful friends with a few words which brought tears to their eyes. Then we jumped into Hensel's vehicle. The penitentiary officers were still singing and laughing around their punch bowl.

THE TRUE AMERICANISM

By Carl Schurz. From "MODERN ELOQUENCE." Vol. IX, p. 1025.
Copyright, 1900, by The University Society.

(Address delivered in New York City at a meeting of the
Chamber of Commerce of the State of New York, January 2,
1896, Mr. Schurz rising to second the resolutions embodied in
a report to the Chamber by its Committee on Foreign Commerce
and the Revenue Laws upon the then pending Venezuelan
question).

... What is the rule of honor to be observed by a power so strongly and so advantageously situated as this Republic is? Of course I do not expect it meekly to pocket real insults if they should be offered to it. But, surely, it should not, as our boyish jingoes wish it to do, swagger about among the nations of the world, with a chip on its shoulder, shaking its fist in everybody's face. Of course, it should not tamely submit to real encroachments upon its rights. But, surely, it should not, whenever its own notions of right or interest collide with the notions of others, fall into hysterics and act as if it really feared for its own security and its very independence. As a true gentleman, conscious of his strength and his dignity, it should be slow to take offense. In its dealings with other nations it should have scrupulous regard, not only for their rights, but also for their self-respect. With all its latent resources for war, it should be the great peace power of the world. It should never forget what a proud privilege and what an inestimable blessing it is not to need and not to have big armies or navies to support. It should seek to influence mankind, not by heavy artillery, but by good example and wise counsel. It should see its highest glory, not in battles won, but in wars prevented. It should be so invariably just and fair, so trustworthy, so good tempered, so conciliatory, that other nations would instinctively turn to it as their mutual friend and the natural adjuster of their differences, thus making it the greatest preserver of the world's peace.

This is not a mere idealistic fancy. It is the natural position of this great republic among the nations of the earth. It is its noblest vocation, and it will be a glorious day for the United States when the good sense and the self-respect of the American people see in this their "manifest destiny." It all rests upon peace. Is not this peace with honor? There has, of late, been much loose speech about "Americanism." Is not this good Americanism? It is surely today the Americanism of those who love their country most. And I fervently hope that it will be and ever remain the Americanism of our children and our children's children.

MRS. HONORÉ WILLSIE.

Mrs. Honoré McCue Willsie is a young woman who received her
collegiate training in the writing of English at the
University of Wisconsin, she being a graduate of that
institution with the class of 1902. Since her graduation she
has written many things that have claimed the attention of
readers in all parts of our country. She has traveled widely.
She writes intimately and understandingly of the Indians of
our Southwest, as well as of society folk of New York. Many
readers of this volume have, no doubt, read her story, "Still
Jim," recently published in Everybody's Magazine. Aside from
the story here published, perhaps the best-known work of Mrs.
Willsie is "We Die, We Die--There is No Hope," a plea for the
Indians of the Southwest.

The editors of this book are very proud to be permitted to
publish "The Forbidden North." It impresses them as being one
of the great dog stories of all time. No doubt Mrs. Willsie
got some of her inspiration in writing it from a Great Dane
puppy, Cedric, who was her constant companion during her
upper classman years at the University of Wisconsin. Indeed,
this pair--the tall, dark-haired girl and the great,
dun-colored dog--were a familiar sight to the students of the
University and the residents of Madison. The reader may be
sure that all the love expressed for Saxe Gotha is genuine.

THE FORBIDDEN NORTH--THE STORY OF A GREAT DANE PUPPY

Reprinted, by permission, from the Youth's Companion.

One hot morning, a year or so ago, an Uncle Tom's Cabin Company arrived in a small Arizona town. On the platform of the blistered station the members of the company learned that the hall in which they were to play had just burned to the ground. That was the last straw for the company. They were without money; they stood, disconsolately staring at the train, which waited for half an hour while the tourists ate breakfast in the lunchroom of the station.

The stage-manager held in leash three dogs--the dogs that the bill-posters displayed as ferocious bloodhounds, pursuing Eliza across the ice. As a matter of fact, Coburg and Hilda were two well-bred, well-trained Great Danes. The third dog, Saxe Gotha, a puppy of ten months, was their son.

A well-dressed tourist eyed the dogs intensely; finally, he came up and felt them over with the hand of the dog-fancier.

"Give me fifty dollars for the three of them!" said the manager suddenly.

The stranger stared at the manager suspiciously. Fifty dollars was a low price for such dogs. The stranger did not believe that so poor a company could have come by them honestly. However, he shrugged his shoulders and drew a roll of bills from his pocket.

"All right," he said. "Only I don't want the pup. He's bad with distemper. I haven't time to fuss with him."

The manager in turn shrugged his shoulders, took the fifty dollars, and, while the new owner led Coburg and Hilda toward the baggage-car of the train, the Uncle Tom's Cabin Company boarded the day coach.

Thus it happened that a thorough-bred Great Dane puppy, whose father and mother had been born in the soft green dusk of a German forest--a young boarhound--was left to fight for his sick life on the parching sands of an alien desert.

There had been no need to tie Saxe Gotha. When the puppy had started down the platform after his father and mother, the manager had given him a hasty kick and a "Get back, you!" Saxe Gotha sat down on his haunches, panting in the burning sun, and stared after the receding train with the tragic look of understanding common to his kind. Yet, in his eyes there was less regret than fear. The Dane is a "one-man dog." If he is given freedom of choice, he chooses for master a man to whom he gives his heart. Other men may own him; no other man except this choice of his heart ever wins his love. Saxe Gotha had yet to find his man.

The station-master started toward the dog, but Saxe Gotha did not heed him. He rose and trotted toward the north, through the little town, quite as if he had business in that direction. The pup was not handsome at this period of his life. He was marked like a tiger with tawny and gray stripes. His feet and his head looked too large for him, and his long back seemed to sag with the weight of his stomach. But, even to the most ignorant observer, he gave promise of distinction, of superb size, and strength, and intelligence.

At the edge of the little town, Saxe Gotha buried his feverish head in the watering-trough at the Wrenn rancho, drank till his sides swelled visibly, then started on along the trail with his business-like puppy trot. When he got out into the open desert, which stretched thirty miles wide from the river range to the Hualpai, and one hundred miles long from the railway to the Colorado River, he found the northern trail with no apparent difficulty.... Saxe Gotha was headed for the north, for the cool, sweet depth of forest that was his natural home.

He took fairly good care of himself. At intervals he dropped in the shade of a joshua-tree, and, after struggling to bite the cholla thorns from his feet, he would doze for a few minutes, then start on again. His distemper was easier in the sun, although his fever and the desert heat soon evaporated the moisture that he had absorbed at the Wrenn's.

About three o'clock he stopped, wrinkled his black muzzle, and raised his finely domed head. The trail now lay along the foot of the Hualpai. He turned abruptly to the right, off the main trail, and trotted into a little cañon. On the other side of a rock that hid it from the main trail was Jim Baldwin's tent. Jim came to the door, at the sound of Saxe Gotha drinking up his little spring. Jim was a lover of dogs. He did not know Saxe Gotha's breed, but he did recognize his promise of distinction.

"Howdy, old man!" said Jim. "Have a can of beef!"

Saxe Gotha responded to the greeting with a puppy gambol, and devoured the beef with gusto. Jim went into the tent for a rope. When he returned, the pup was a receding dot on the north trail.

* * * * *

About four o'clock, the tri-weekly stage from the Happy Luck camp met Saxe Gotha. Dick Furman, the driver, stopped the panting horses and invited the huge puppy to ride with him. Saxe Gotha wriggled, chased his tail round once with a bark like the booming of a town clock, and with this exchange of courtesies Dick drove on southward, and the pup continued on his way to the north.

* * * * *

As darkness came on, he slowed his pace, paused and sniffed, and again turned off the main trail to a rough path up the side of the mountain. Before a silent hut of adobe, he found a half-barrel of water. Saxe Gotha rose on his hind legs, thrust his nose into the barrel and drank lustily. Then he stood rigid, with uncropped ears lifted and nose thrust upward, sniffing. After a minute he whined. The business to the north was pressing; the pup did not want to stop; yet he still stood, listening, sniffing. At last, he started back to the main trail; when he reached it, he stopped once more, and once more sniffed and listened and whined; then he deliberately turned back to the silent hut, and trotted along the narrow trail that led up behind it to the west.

A short distance up the mountain, clear in the light of the Moon, a tiny spring bubbled out of the ground, forming a pool the size of a wash-basin. A man lay beside the pool. Saxe Gotha walked up to him, whining, and then walked round and round him, sniffing him from head to foot. He licked his face and pawed at his shoulder with his clumsy paw. But the man lay in the heavy slumber of utter exhaustion. He was a tall, lean, strong young fellow, in his early twenties. His empty canteen, his pick and bar beside him, with a sack of ore, showed that he was just back from a prospecting trip. He had evidently run short of water and, after a forced march to the spring, where he had relieved his thirst, had dropped asleep on the spot.

At last Saxe Gotha lay down with his nose on the young man's shoulder, and his brown eyes were alert in the moonlight. Saxe Gotha had found his man!

* * * * *

Saxe Gotha had found his man! A discovery as important as that, of course, delayed the journey toward the north. All through the desert night the Great Dane pup lay shivering beside his man. What he saw beyond the silent desert, what vision of giant tree trunks, gray-green against an age-old turf, lured his exiled heart we cannot know. To understand what sudden fealty to the heedless form he guarded forbade him his north would solve the riddle of love itself.

Little by little the stars faded. At last dawn lighted the face of the sleeping man; he stirred, and suddenly sat up. Saxe Gotha bounded to his feet with a bark of joy. Startled, the young man jumped up, staggering with weakness, and scowled when he saw the big puppy chasing his tail. Hunger and a guilty conscience are richly productive of vicious moods. Saxe Gotha's man picked up a rock and hurled it at him.

"Git! You blamed hound, you!"

In utter astonishment, Saxe Gotha paused in his joyous barking, and stood staring at the young fellow's sullen face. It was unbelievable! The young man did not in the least realize that he had been found! And yet, despite the eyes inflamed by the glare of the desert, his face was an intelligent one, with good features. He glared at the pup, and then walked weakly down the trail to his hut. Saxe Gotha followed, and sat on his haunches before the door, waiting. After a long time, the young man came out, washed and shaved, and with fresh clothes. He picked up his sack of ore, and as he did so, a haunted look came into his gray eyes. Such a look on so young a face might have told Saxe Gotha that the desert is bad for youth. But Saxe Gotha would not have cared. He kept his distance warily and wagged his tail. When the young man's glance fell on the dog, he saw him as something living on which to vent his own sense of guilt. Again he threw a stone at Saxe Gotha.

"Get out! Go back where you belong!"

The pup dodged, and stood waiting. Strangely dense his man was! The young man did not look at him again, but fell to sorting samples of ore. Certain tiny pieces he gloated over as he found them, and he put them in a sack that he hid behind the door.

Now, Saxe Gotha never meant to do it, but he was young, and his distemper made him very ill, and he had not slept all night. When he saw his man safely absorbed in his work, he curled up in the shade of a rock and went off into the heavy sleep of a sick dog.

When he awoke, his man was gone! Saxe Gotha ran round and round through the adobe. The house was thick with scents of him, but whither he had gone was not to be told, for desert sands hold no scents. On the door-step lay an old vest of the man's. The dog sat down on this, and lifted his voice in a howl of anguish. There was only one thing to do, of course--wait for the man's return.

* * * * *

All day Saxe Gotha waited. He drank deeply from the barrel of water, but he went without food, although the remains of the young man's breakfast lay on the table. It was not in Saxe Gotha's breed to steal. All day and all night he waited. Now and again, he lifted his great voice in grief. With his face to that north which he had forbidden himself to seek, even though he was but a dog, he might have been youth mourning its perennial discovery that duty and desire do not always go hand in hand. Saxe Gotha might have been all the courage, all the loneliness, all the grief of youth, disillusioned.

The morning of the second day, a man rode up the trail. He was not Saxe Gotha's man. He dismounted, and called, "Hey, Evans!"

Saxe Gotha, a little unsteady on his legs, sat on his haunches and growled.

"Where's your boss, pup?" asked the man. "I didn't know he had a dog."

Saxe Gotha growled.

"Humph!" said the man. "Off stealing ore again, I suppose."

The stranger prowled round the outside of the hut, and then came to the door.

"Get out of the way, dog! I'm going to find out where this rich claim is that he's finding free gold in. He's a thief, anyhow, not to report it to his company."

As he put his foot on the door-step, Saxe Gotha snapped at him. The stranger jumped back.

"You brute hound!" he cried. "What do you mean? If I had a gun, I'd shoot you!"

Saxe Gotha's anger gave him strength to rise. He stood lurching; his lips were drawn back over his fangs, his ears were flat to his head. The stranger walked back a few steps.

"He must weigh nearly a hundred pounds!" he muttered. "Come on, old pup. Here, have some of my snack! Here's a piece of corned beef! Come on, old fellow!"

Cajolery and threats were alike futile. Saxe Gotha was guarding for his man. After a while the dog's dumb fury maddened the stranger. He began to hurl rocks at the pup. At first the shots were harmless; then a jagged piece of ore caught the dog on the cheek and laid it open, and another slashed his back. With the snarl of a tiger, Saxe Gotha made a leap from the door at the stranger's throat. The man screamed, and jumped for his horse so hastily that Saxe Gotha caught only the shoulder of his coat and ripped the back out of the garment. Before the pup could gather his weakened body for another charge, the stranger was mounted. He whipped his snorting horse down the trail, and disappeared.

Saxe Gotha feebly worried at the torn coat, then dragged himself back to the door and lay down on the vest, too weak to lick his wounds. The rest of the morning he lay quiet. At noon he suddenly opened his eyes. His ears pricked forward, and his tail beat feebly on the floor. His man rode up. He had a sack of fresh supplies thrown across his saddle. He turned his horse into the corral, then came toward the hut. The vicious mood seemed still to be with him.

"You still here?" he growled.

Then he caught sight of the piece of cloth, picked it up, and looked at the mauled and blood-stained muck on it. He stared at Saxe Gotha curiously.

"Johnson was here, eh? I'd know that check anywhere. The thief! What happened?"

As Evans came up, Saxe Gotha tried to give the old gambol of joy, but succeeded only in falling heavily. The young fellow strode into the hut, and walked slowly about. The sack of nuggets was still behind the door. The map that he had long ago prepared for the company for which he was investigating mines still lay covered with dust. On the table were the hunk of bacon, the fried potatoes, the dry bread. A number of jagged rocks were scattered on the floor. The dog was bloody.

* * * * *

Slowly young Evans turned his whole attention to Saxe Gotha, who lay watching him with passionate intentness. Evans took a handful of raw potato skins from the table and offered them to the pup. Saxe Gotha snatched at them and swallowed them as if frenzied with hunger. Evans looked at the food on the table, then at the famished, emaciated dog. He stood gripping the edge of the table and staring out at the desert. A slow red came up from his neck and crossed his face; it seemed a magic red, for it wiped the vicious lines from his face and left it boyish and shamed. Suddenly his lips trembled. He dropped down in the doorway and ran his hand gently along the pup's sensitive back. His bloodshot eyes were blinded with tears.

"Old man," he whispered to Saxe Gotha, "I wasn't worth it!"

The dog looked up into the young man's face with an expression eager and questioning. And then, summoning all his feeble strength, he crowded his long, awkward body into the young man's lap....

After a moment he set Saxe Gotha on the floor and fed him a can of evaporated milk, carefully warmed, with bits of freshly fried bacon in it. He washed out the dog's cuts, then put him to bed in his own bunk. All that afternoon, while the dog slept, Evans paced the hut, fighting his fight. And, like all solitary desert-dwellers, he talked aloud....

"They promised to pay me regularly, to raise me, to give me a job in the home office after a year. It's been two years now. Yes, I know, I made some promises. I was to report all finds and turn in all valuable ore to them. But they haven't treated me right."

Then he turned to the sleeping dog, and his face softened.

"Wouldn't that beat you, his not eating the stuff on the table! Goodness knows I'd treated him badly enough! It seems as if even a dog might have a sense of honor; as if it didn't matter what I was, the fool pup had to keep straight with himself; as if--"

Suddenly Evans stopped and gulped. Again came the slow, agonizing blush. For a long time he stood in silence. Finally, he squared his shoulders and moistened his lips.

"I can send the maps and what ore I have left by stage tomorrow. But it will take another year to get the whole thing straightened up, and get them paid back--another year of loneliness, and sand-storms, and sweltering. No snowy Christmas or green spring or the smell of burning leaves in the fall this year for me. I guess the pup will stay by me, though."

As if he realized that there was need of him, Saxe Gotha woke, and ambled over to the man's side. Evans sat down in the door, and the dog squatted beside him. Evans turned, took the dog's great head between his hands, and looked into the limpid eyes.

"I guess, old man, that there are more ways than one of making a success of yourself, and money-making is the least of them."

In Evans's eyes were the loneliness and grief of disappointed youth. But the rest of his face once more was clear and boyish with the wonderful courage of the young.

Saxe Gotha pawed Evans's knee wistfully. Perhaps across the stillness of the desert he caught the baying of the hunting pack in some distant, rain-drenched woodland. Yet he would not go. The dog leaned warmly against his man, who slid an arm across the tawny back. Then, with faces to their forbidden north, man and dog watched the desert night advance.

EDNA FERBER.

Among those who are striving for a permanent place among
short story writers is Edna Ferber, a young woman who makes
her stories interesting through her own keen observation of
character traits revealed in the everyday life about her.
Miss Ferber's work deserves mention among any group of
Wisconsin writers quite as much from the promise of what may
still come as from that already accomplished. Her ability to
see the real in character and the truth in real life is the
strong characteristic of her work. She has attempted to
follow somewhat closely the language of the everyday life she
portrays.

Edna Ferber's short stories, many of which have appeared in
various magazines, have been collected into books published
under the titles of "Buttered Side Down," "Dawn O'Hara,"
"Roast Beef Medium," and "Personality Plus." These stories
are unified through the two characters portrayed, Dawn O'Hara
and Mrs. Emma McChesney. It is probable that much of her own
struggle and much of her aspiration for women is portrayed in
these two characters. She hopes to show that women may make
an undisputed place for themselves in the professional and
business life.

The first of these characters is a young Irish woman who has
devoted her energies to the mastering of the city newspaper
reporter's work. Through the story of Dawn O'Hara's
struggles, Edna Ferber has been able to give many interesting
comments upon the toil and thrills of this nerve-racking
work. At the same time she has been able to paint the
struggle of the young writer to produce the first book, to
picture German Milwaukee in a most interesting manner, and to
make some interesting comments upon mutual helpfulness.

Emma McChesney is an example of the extraordinarily
successful business woman. Despite the most discouraging
conditions, she works her way from the beginning of a firm's
least inviting employment to the complete management of its
affairs. All the time she is inspired by the desire to give
her son the best education and the best start in life and to
assist him to the most manly character possible. The author
rewards Emma McChesney with the full realization of her
ambitions.

Edna Ferber was born in Appleton, Wisconsin. Her home was a
humble one, but was able to provide her with the opportunity
for high school education and a very little work in Lawrence
College. After graduating from high school, she did work for
the Appleton Crescent in the capacity of news collector and
reporter. Through this work she began to realize her powers
and at the same time she trained herself to that keen
observation of character which constitutes one of the
greatest pleasures in her work. Appleton's stores, hotels,
newspapers, and working life in general became her laboratory
in which to study the characteristics, defects, and
aspirations of human life as she finds it. As she has
achieved greater success in her writing she has widened her
sphere of acquaintanceship and of helpfulness. Her present
home is Chicago.

The selection from her writings which we are permitted to
give here is chosen because it illustrates her style and at
the same time gives a vivid picture of one phase of the life
of Wisconsin's metropolis. It is a chapter taken from her
book, "Dawn O'Hara," and is entitled, "Steeped in German."

STEEPED IN GERMAN

From "DAWN O'HARA." Copyright, 1911, by Frederick Stokes
Publishing Co.

I am living in a little private hotel just across from the court house square with its scarlet geraniums and its pretty fountain. The house is filled with German civil engineers, mechanical engineers, and Herr Professors from the German academy. On Sunday mornings we have Pfannkuchen with currant jelly, and the Herr Professors come down to breakfast in fearful flappy German slippers. I'm the only creature in the place that isn't just over from Germany. Even the dog is a dachshund. It is so unbelievable that every day or two I go down to Wisconsin Street and gaze at the stars and stripes floating from the government building, in order to convince myself that this is America. It needs only a Kaiser or so, and a bit of Unter den Linden to be quite complete.

The little private hotel is kept by Herr and Frau Knapf. After one has seen them, one quite understands why the place is steeped in a German atmosphere up to the eyebrows.

I never would have found it myself. It was Doctor von Gerhard who had suggested Knapf's and who had paved the way for my coming here.

"You will find it quite unlike anything you have ever tried before," he had warned me. "Very German it is, and very, very clean, and most inexpensive. Also I think you will find material there--how is it you call it?--copy, yes? Well, there should be copy in plenty; and types! But you shall see."

From the moment I rang the Knapf door-bell I saw. The dapper, cheerful Herr Knapf, wearing a disappointed Kaiser Wilhelm mustache, opened the door. I scarcely had begun to make my wishes known when he interrupted with a large wave of the hand, and an elaborate German bow.

"Ach, yes! You would be the lady of whom the Herr Doktor has spoken. Gewiss Frau Orme, not? But so a young lady I did not expect to see. A room we have saved for you--aber wunderhübsch. It makes me much pleasure to show. Folgen Sie mir, bitte."

"You--speak English?" I faltered with visions of my evenings spent in expressing myself in the sign language.

"English? But yes. Here in Milwaukee it gives aber mostly German. And then, too, I have been only twenty years in this country. And always in Milwaukee. Here is it gemütlich--and mostly it gives German."

I tried not to look frightened, and followed him up to the--"but wonderfully beautiful" room. To my joy I found it high-ceilinged, airy, and huge, with a vault of a clothes closet bristling with hooks, and boasting an unbelievable number of shelves. My trunk was swallowed up in it. Never in all my boarding-house experience have I seen such a room nor such a closet. The closet must have been built for a bride's trousseau in the days of hoop-skirts and scuttle bonnets. There was a separate and distinct hook for each and every one of my most obscure garments. I tried to spread them out. I used two hooks to every petticoat, and three for my kimono, and when I had finished there were rows of hooks to spare. Tiers of shelves yawned for the hat-boxes which I possessed not. Bluebeard's wives could have held a family reunion in that closet and invited all of Solomon's spouses. Finally, in desperation, I gathered all my poor garments together and hung them in a social bunch on the hooks nearest the door. How I should have loved to show that closet to a select circle of New York boarding-house landladies!

After wrestling in vain with the forest of hooks, I turned my attention to my room. I yanked a towel thing off the center table and replaced it with a scarf that Peter had picked up in the Orient. I set up my typewriter in a corner near a window and dug a gay cushion or two and a chafing-dish out of my trunk. I distributed photographs of Norah and Max and the Spalpeens separately, in couples, and in groups. Then I bounced up and down in a huge yellow brocade chair and found it unbelievably comfortable. Of course, I reflected, after the big veranda, and the tree at Norah's, and the leather-cushioned comfort of her library, and the charming tones of her Oriental rugs and hangings--

"Oh, stop your carping, Dawn!" I told myself. "You can't expect charming tones and Oriental doo-dads and apple trees in a German boarding house. Anyhow there's running water in the room. For general utility purposes that's better than a pink prayer rug."

There was a time when I thought that it was the luxuries that made life worth living. That was in the old Bohemian days.

"Necessities!" I used to laugh, "Pooh! Who cares about necessities. What if the dishpan does leak? It is the luxuries that count."

Bohemia and luxuries! Half a dozen lean, boarding-house years have steered me safely past that. After such a course in common sense you don't stand back and examine the pictures of a pink Moses in a nest of purple bull-rushes, or complain because the bureau does not harmonize with the wall paper. Neither do you criticize the blue and saffron roses that form the rug pattern. 'Deedy not! Instead you warily punch the mattress to see if it is rock-stuffed, and you snoop into the clothes closet; you inquire the distance to the nearest bath room, and whether the payments are weekly or monthly, and if there is a baby in the room next door. Oh, there's nothing like living in a boarding-house for cultivating the materialistic side.

But I was to find that here at Knapf's things were quite different. Not only was Ernest von Gerhard right in saying it was "very German, and very, very clean;" he recognized good copy when he saw it. Types! I never dreamed that such faces existed outside of the old German woodcuts that one sees illustrating time-yellowed books.

I had thought myself hardened to strange boarding-house dining rooms, with their batteries of cold, critical women's eyes. I had learned to walk unruffled in the face of the most carping, suspicious and the fishiest of these batteries. Therefore, on my first day at Knapf's, I went down to dinner in the evening, quite composed and secure in the knowledge that my collar was clean and that there was no flaw to find in the fit of my skirt in the back.