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Men looked askance at this. There in the other the bloody remains of a large must be a trick somewhere-the stakes black cat of the domestic variety. were too high. Wet Dog, as they well knew, valued this horse more than the whole of his other possessions, squaws and all. It was a temptation, however, and several hesitated, until, at last, the Reverend Randolph stepped out of the shadow, placing at the Chief's feet a canvas shot-bag, partially filled. "Dar's de dust," he observed. "Does she go?"

Wet Dog stooped and lifted the bag It weighed well, and he was glad, for of all men, he would rather despoil this one, and he signified that the wager held. But who was to carry out its terms? Not the Indians, for they had specifically declined doing so, and the reverend jockey seemed to have little inclination in that direction, so there was a pause of some seconds, broken by Pete.

"Stand by to help, boys, if I don't kill,” he said, and, turning, he walked toward the cave. The Indians drew away, except the squaw, who still stood by the horse's head. In his hand Pete held a shot-gun of the kind used by express messengers, with sawed-off barrels and heavy charges of buckshot in them. It was pitch dark inside the cave, and Pete edged his way carefully, seeing nothing until the passage took a turn. Then, beyond, glowed two spots of dull, green flame. They were the eyes of the beast; the Wells Fargo burned a red hole in the darkness, and the echoing walls gave back a crash like thunder. Then another shot, and Pete backed into the open, coughing and choking from the sulphurous fumes. He caught a breath of fresh air, and, dropping the shot-gun, drew a pistol and dove into the black hole

once more.

"Is it a puma, Pete?" someone asked at length. It was not. Pete's answer was lengthy and hyperbolic, but on that point it was quite clear, and the squaw, catching up the precious bag, which she thrust into her bosom, bundled on to the wagered horse, and lashing him furiously, followed her companions.

Then once more Pete's voice was heard from inside the cave, raised in earnest profanity, which grew louder and more distinct until Pete appeared in the opening, his six-shooter in one hand and

It was Tom. Tom, the sign and totem of the Black Cat saloon; Pete's especial pet, and the only tame cat within fifty miles. Around his neck there was a thong, by means of which he had been tied in the cave. Pete's wrath grew greater as he looked, and he became quiet, as was his wont when angry. It was a trick. A trick played on him, and by an Indian who was gone, now, and gone with many of his tribe about him. Besides, an Indian, more especially one of a tribe that occasionally varies the monotony of reservation life by the murder of defenceless settlers, one must not shoot, for they draw Government rations and are protected by Federal laws and officers. A Mexican, however, is different. No one protects him, or wants to, and Pete looked at the swarthy faces about him for a sign of levity, but more dejected appearing specimens of the Latin race it would be impossible to find; so he retired to his saloon, closing the door after him.

Wet Dog was soon overtaken by the squaw who had been left behind with the horse, and they had ridden on for some time. They were going slowly, for the way was steep. When he beckoned her to him he was rocking in his saddle with silent mirth, for the Apache, unlike many other Indians, will laugh heartily enough when anything strikes his somewhat peculiar sense of humor, and his dignity allows, and now he was on exceedingly good terms with himself as his wife, with a dutiful little murmur of joy, handed him the bag. He undid the string and poured part of the contents out in his hand. His face grew dark, for this was not goldfar from it but little black pellets, and many of them. About a pound and a half of No. 4 shot.

Wet Dog was dazed for a moment, but the squaw wailed. This recalled him to himself, and he was impolite enough to throw the handful of shot in her face. Then he rode on, lost in thought. The wisdom of the red man he had been born to; he had acquired that of the whites, and of the black man he now had seen something, but his heart was heavy within him, and he desired to know no more.

NEIGES D'ANTAN

By Rosamund Marriott Watson

SUNLIGHT, and birds, and blossom on the trees-
What, O my heart, is wanting more than these?
What shall content if these may not avail?
Once on a time 'twas joy enough to lie
Beneath the young leaves and the limpid sky,

A spell-bound traveller in a fairy-tale.

Oh! nevermore for us the Palace of Spring,
No more those haunted chambers echoing
Sweet, sweet, and hollow, to the cuckoo's song;
Filled with a mellow lustre all day long,
And lit by golden lamps at evening.

No more the enchanted woods-their purple haze
Enveils them yet-but closed are all the ways—
The elfin meadows glimmer, deep in dew,
Misty with flowers-but we have lost the clew;
There is no path into the magic maze.

These were youth's emissaries, every one,

The darting birds between the orchard snows
'Twas Youth that blossomed lovelier than the rose,
And Youth that fluted in the blackbird's throat,
And Youth that steered the sun's great golden boat,
The westering golden galley of the sun.

Youth comes no more forever-even although
The fields take flower again and lilacs blow,
And pointed leaf-buds gather on the vine:
Even although the sun should sail and shine
Bright as of old, and all the thickets rang-
That sun is set, and mute the spirit that sang.

A council was held, at which Nick-Nack, sitting on the table with Mà-le, presided.-Page 582.

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HEN Emma was in the dawn of her history marked also born, her mother its brief high noon and flickering twilight. was rather preoccu- All the contrasts of a checkered career pied. In some hu- were powerless to render her other than man, as in feline cir- consistent, equable, and just. She left cles, a birth more or despair to smaller minds. less is never a matter of moment. Besides, Frau Rupp had had eight infants already, was by nature scatter-brained, and contemplated moving to Zürich. Emma was wrapped in something and laid aside while the packing went on. She appeared in no respect agitated by her new environment. A large placidity in accepting the inevitable distinguished her from first to last, while the unphilosophical tendency toward gourmandise her unique vice-evinced

VOL. XXII.-61

Frau Rupp happened to marry about this time, thereby changing her name ; but Rupp will be retained for the purposes of this narrative. She had had already two or three husbands, and was never particularly engrossed by anything of the sort or "careful of the type." The new husband was about to establish himself in the beer and grog business in Zürich, whither he proceeded shortly after the ceremony, leaving Frau Rupp and all the little Rup

plets to follow. The contracting parties had been delayed slightly by Emma's impending entrance into this stage of being; but, once an accomplished fact, she was but a minute obstacle in their path, and Frau Rupp's few and not very clean possessions were speedily ready for the emigration. Emma blinked and said nothing, except when her inherent gourmandise triumphed briefly over her habitual serenity of

manner.

On the day of Frau Rupp's departure her cheeks looked glazed, her eyes unnaturally brilliant, and her utterance sounded husky, all of which may have been due to fatigue or to emotion called forth by the painful necessity of bidding farewell to her neighbors in the mansard Lotte Mez, the washerwoman and house-cleaner; Leni and Mina, the factory-girls; the widow Dugenhubel and her offspring; old Daddy Schanz, who was a little silly but could still read publishers' proofs; Granny Schanz, who could not; and the consumptive little chimney-sweep, jolly Nack Nickerson, called, by his intimates, Nick-Nack. Happily, they could all be present, for the hour appointed for the exodus was early on a Sunday morning, so that Frau Rupp's cousin, the teamster, might, unimpeded by the exactions of employers, place himself and his cart at her disposal. Sympathetic animation pervaded the mansard. Each helped after his own fashion. Leni and Mina skipped up and down five flights to fling things into the cart and made bold jokes at the inviting driver. The Widow Dugenhubel stood at her door and talked solid cubic feet. Old Daddy Schanz walked about smiling feebly and rubbing his hands. Nick Nack, having emerged from his cloud of soot, shone upon the world with his handsome Sunday-face, sat upon a box and laughed like a young god. Lotte Mez quietly did three-quarters of the work, while Frau Rupp wept in a confused, maudlin way, and diligently dropped parcels; but this may have been due to overpowering regret. The available Rupp children-the older ones were in service, the later-born mostly deadobeyed Lotte Mez's orders, and bore, with careworn, anxious little faces, the

burden of responsibility which, for some reason or other, was slipping more and more from their mother's shoulders.

Everything was collected except a few straggling parcels. Frau Rupp took several at once under her arm. One of them was Emma. Making Widow Dugenhubel ceremonious, prolonged, exhaustive, emotional, and even teary adieux-which was not unnatural, they being very old neighbors who had never quarrelled beyond human capacity - Frau Rupp dropped one of her encumbrances. It was not Emma. But Lotte Mez thought it might have been, and for this and other reasons said, abruptly:

"Why not leave the baby here until you get settled?"

The cart drove off without Emma. Lotte Mez, the washerwoman and housecleaner, took no airing that Sunday, but sat all day long in her room, old memories tugging at her heart, and, with a strange mixture of pain and bliss, watched and tended a feeble mite, breathing indeed, evidently manifesting no prejudice. against life, but making no distinct claims upon it. This impartial attitude the child never abandoned. It was an unchristened infant. Frau Rupp, who forgot most things, had forgotten to think of a name for this most irrelevant baby. Lotte, with hot tears and shuddering, stifled sobs—although she was alone in the mansard-knelt before it and murmured Emma. Five and twenty years previous had appeared, incidentally, in her own life, just such a soft, helpless thing. It had lived long enough to stammer sweet, absurd words, and laugh, and be adorable, and fill its mother's life with delight, although her former friends no longer spoke to her. When it died suddenly, Lotte left her home, a change in all respects commendable and worldly wise. She was now forty-five years old, the most able, conscientious, and respected of her profession, had her circle of regular patrons and was usually engaged six months deep-a rugged woman, strong as a man.

The exigencies of Lotte's profession necessitated days at home and days abroad. On the latter, Emma was handed over to Granny Schanz or the Widow Dugenhubel. Some babies ob

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