Puslapio vaizdai

ing by the hundred out of nothing at extraordinary apparition in direct deall?

The dancing girl, full lipped, insolent, her eyes sultry under a cloud of hair, rode by on her donkey. At sight of her Hamid stiffened to keenness, like a setter at the flight of a bird.

"I have seen that woman before,' he whispered.

It was probably only the remembrance of the day before, now bitten on their brains by the acid of spilt blood, but to all came a sense that they also had seen that woman before. The black and white of the pictures seized upon physical points with almost the crudeness of caricature; the girl was taller than they had supposed, and every now and then some turn or gesture brought a haunting, uncatchable memory. The memory was stronger as she danced; there was the swift intake of breath as they saw her fling herself before Sir Everard. Millard almost cried out to Sears to stop the damned thing before those pictured lips moved in the words that had led to the treachery in the tower. But Sears would not have heeded, he saw; the fellow stood there, cranking the old-style machine, his eyes upon the wall as those of one who waits the first sight of his own masterpiece.

He was looking at the arch, dark and empty at the side of the picture. But it was not so empty now. There was a moving glimmer in its depths, an advancing figure still hidden by the shadows; then suddenly, unbelievably, Hamid Vansittart appeared. Straight toward them he came, pausing as he caught the sunlight, with a glance of veiled preoccupation. There was an impression of something hidden and sinister, and again that resemblance tormentingly uncaught. It was an

fiance of all that had really been. With a strangling shout Hamid sprang to his feet, pointing at his flickering double.

"No, no; it was not so! I was not there." There was fear on his face, in his tone a passion of too much defense that struck strangely upon their ears. "How could it be?" Hamid was demanding of them. "How could I have come in like that when-"

He caught at his words as one who suddenly discovers himself on the brink of a precipice. But with an almost audible crash that haunting resemblance, the two figures on the screen, came together in Millard's mind, melting into one with a horrible certainty, and it was his cry that finished the broken sentence:

"When you were disguised as the dancing girl. Hold him, fellows!" Millard cried again. "Sears, run that bit once more. Now look at them."

None of them cared to remember that moment-Hamid writhing under their grip like some trapped animal while the evidence paraded again and again with the inexorableness of a veritable writing on the wall. They had the clue to that resemblance now, running it down item by item, the same high-built, narrow face, the unchangeable contour of the hands, a tilt of the chin, a habit of glance not to be denied by practice; then the comparison of the two as Hamid in person came through the arch.

"I see it now," Millard bitingly accused. "You whispered to Sir Everard who you were and that you had news for him. Then, when it was done, you slipped back to the town to change your disguise. That was how you turned up so suddenly this morn

ing. But there are finger-prints on that knife."

"But how-how could it be?" Hamid cried.


It was the question that lay in Millard's mind also, but in the rush of events it was days before he could ask it. Sears was leaving. Since he had made the pictures of the Koom Katia occupation, his work was done, and his baggage-camera, motorcycle, and all -was now piled upon the truck waiting to take him to rail-head. As he came sauntering out through the arch, a mushroom sun-hat tilted over one ear, the usual dead cigarette drooping from his lower lip, Millard halted him.

"Before you go there 's one thing I must know. How was it done?"

Sears stopped in evident surprise that any one should need to be told.

"Why, I told you I wanted to see what might have happened if that guy had been here that day, did n't I? And I told you I had left a hole in my films, too. Well, if you 've got a blank spot, you can print any other picture into it. See?"

"And you already had that picture of Vansittart coming through the arch." Millard remembered.

"Sure; that's all there is to it."

Millard saw that to Sears that really was "all." Hamid's approaching court-martial; Hewitt's dramatic entry with the reinforcements; the flag still drooping above the fort in symbol of that strange, unbreakable British "hold" upon things; the invisible influence of the affair, spreading over half the world like ripples from a stone cast in a pool-all these things seemed to leave the fellow unimpressed. A flash upon a blank screen, and for him they were ended.

"You see, it's quite simple," Sears said. "Well, so long. I'm going to beat it back to Los Angeles this time, sure."

As he passed on, Millard felt a desire to call him back, oppressed by the inadequacy of this farewell, with its utter lack of drama. Considering all that had gone before, surely something more was demanded than this. Then he saw that the sense of what had gone before was for himself alone, and no such weight was resting on Sears's shoulders. To Millard, watching the other pass on through the arch to the vast outside, it was as though Sears was walking straight out of those Koom Katia pictures, while he himself was still held there upon the screen of events.


Johnny Appleseed, whose real name was John Chapman, was born in New England in 1775. He died near Fort Wayne in 1847. He was less than thirty years of age when he began the picturesque and purposeful life-work to which Mr. Lindsay pays vivid tribute in the following pages. In 1803, or perhaps a bit earlier, young Chapman moved westward to the neighborhood of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. There he began to work out the settled purpose of his life, which was to move westward, keeping always a little in advance of the peopled frontier, planting orchards as he went. As civilization periodically caught up with him, he disposed of his trees for a "fip-penny bit" apiece, for food or old clothes, or, more frequently, gave them away.

For forty-six years he walked barefoot and unarmed through the wilderness. He was often clothed only in an old coffee-sack, with holes for his head and arms, and carried a tin pan, which often served as his hat. The Indians regarded him as a great "medicine-man," doubtless because he scattered through the woods the seeds of medicinal plants, such as catnip and pennyroyal. He was a lover of children and animals. He was never molested by the Indians or by the beasts. He was welcomed everywhere. He lived to see his trees bearing fruit over a territory of a hundred thousand acres.

He was a sort of secular medicant friar. An incidental part of his mission was to spread the doctrines of Emanuel Swedenborg. In the following poem Mr. Lindsay pays homage to a character that has been too often treated as eccentric only.-THE EDITOR.

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Crossed the Appalachians,

Found the glades of rotting leaves, the soft deer-pastures,

The farms of the far-off future

In the forest.

Colts jumped the fence,

Snorting, ramping, snapping, sniffing,

With gastronomic calculations,

Crossed the Appalachians,

The east walls of our citadel,

And turned to gold-horned unicorns,

Feasting in the dim, volunteer farms of the forest.

Stripedest, kickingest kittens escaped,

Caterwauling "Yankee Doodle Dandy,"

Renounced their poor relations,

Crossed the Appalachians,

And turned to tiny tigers

In the humorous forest.
Chickens escaped

From farmyard congregations,

Crossed the Appalachians,

And turned to amber trumpets

On the ramparts of our Hoosiers' nest and citadel,

Millennial heralds

Of the mazy forest.

Pigs broke loose, scrambled west,

Scorned their loathsome stations,

Crossed the Appalachians,

Turned to roaming, foaming wild boars

Of the forest.

The smallest, blindest puppies toddled west
While their eyes were coming open,

And, with misty observations,

Crossed the Appalachians,

Barked, barked, barked

At the glow-worms and the marsh lights and the lightning-bugs, And turned to ravening wolves

Of the forest.

Crazy parrots and canaries flew west,

Drunk on May-time revelations,

Crossed the Appalachians,.

And turned to delirious, flower-dressed fairies.

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"Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,"

Chief of the fastnesses, dappled and vast,

In a pack on his back,

In a deer-hide sack,

The beautiful orchards of the past,

The ghosts of all the forests and the groves-
In that pack on his back,

In that talisman sack,

To-morrow's peaches, pears, and cherries,
To-morrow's grapes and red raspberries,
Seeds and tree souls, precious things,
Feathered with microscopic wings,

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