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A Very Human Maid

By G. V. Alliston

Barren, and bare, earth's war-torn breast; shell-strewn, and seared, and shorn When Spring marched through the battlegrounds one grey, and misted morn; Spring garlanded, and gladsome; all in tender green arrayed,

With blush of dawn, and lilting tread-a very human maid;

And with her came her cherubim, their accents sweet, and true:
Music, and Joy, and Jest, and Song, and Mirth, and Laughter too.
By field, and fortress, trench, and tower traveled she, and then
Serenely stood beside the graves of the grey-coated men.

"To kin, and fatherland," she mused, "perchance these have been true."
She scattered for them violets, and scarlet sage, and rue.

With fragrant chisms, footfalls zephyr-light she passed the foe;
Life, love, love's healing:

These she knew, but naught of hate, or woe.

Then trod she o'er the sacred ground where haloed heroes lay:
The men of Araby, and Ind., and France, and far Cathay,

And Albion, and Scotia who feared not pain nor loss;

And fiery souls from ocean isles beneath the Southern Cross.

Who with Columbia's dauntless sons had turned the dreadful tide

That would have drowned in blood the Creed for which our fathers died;
For these her grandest song was sung; her choicest blooms arrayed;
For these her incense, and her smiles; Spring was a tender maid.

"Oh, hearts of flame! oh, souls of truth! trench-worn, befouled, beset;
Hungered, and wearied; tortured, torn as bolts of doom ye met!
All dauntlessly, unswervingly ye held the Way of Tears

By which men pass to saner things ad own the vale of years.

When pens, and tongues, and words, and deeds in honor's leash be bound;
When swords are rust, or turned to tools; when home is sacred ground;
When love is law, and truth is might, and duty ever first;

And he who counsels wars of greed be traitor, and accursed!"

So sang she as in Argonne Woods she wove a canopy

Of Paschal buds, and snowdrop bells with wreaths of narcissi;

In Belgium her daffodils uprose to flaunt the foe;

In grim and grey Verdun she spread her Morning Glories' glow;

In Albion her bramble blooms climbed o'er the hills again;

In Italy her valley lilies rang the glad refrain:

"All dauntlessly, unswervingly ye held the Way of Tears

That men might pass to saner things adown the vale of years."

The Unmoral Philanthropist

By H. S. Richardson

I

T WOULD never do, of course, to tell stories of successful dishonesty, not altogether because of the evil effect of such stories upon the young and impressionable, but also because there are so few cases of permanently successful dishonesty to relate. Honesty is a very elastic word and is interpreted by each individual to suit himself. It has as many degrees as the circle, ranging from Sunday honesty, legal honesty, careless honesty and other brands, down to acknowledged dishonesty, which includes all the rest except the old common article itself. There are, however, men in whom the moral sense is a blank-men who are born warped in one sense alone and normal in everything else, and it is to this class that the hero or rather central figure of this tale, belongs.

His name was Spike Warden and he lived on a little old rocky farm in the lime belt of Tuolumne county. Here he cultivated a few acres of potatoes, corn, pumpkins and beans, as had his forbears in the good old State of Maine, from whence he, with all his virtues and his one lack of virtue, had sprung. He mined a little whenever water was available, working in the abandoned placers which stretched on all sides of him, and making small wages when water was plentiful. He hauled a little freight at times with his two runty little horses, and between one thing and another managed to scrape up a living.

His house was an unpainted shack, and grouped about it were an equally weather-beaten barn, a patched-up pig pen and a building called by courtesy a storehouse, though little was ever stored in it as the owner preferred to do his storing in less conspicuous and more secure places.

His one famous possession was a beanhole, from which he could draw at will, apparently, the most delectable and delightful dishes ever concocted by man. He was a natural cook, and could turn out biscuits of such lightness, delicacy and flavor as to delight the senses. It was a pleasant experience to drive up to his door on a cold winter evening and see old Spike standing in the doorway, beaming a welcome and hear his voice booining out greetings

"Git aout an' come right in. Haow be ye? Jest in time. Goin' right aout to open the beanhole naow," and he would depart to make his hospitable word good. And then he would serve a meal which it would be hard to duplicate anywhere, and would sit at table with you, his broad, red face beaming with good fellowship, his bright blue eyes twinkling with interest in your news and conversation, ready to jump up and replenish the dishes which your husky appetite depleted nearly as fast as he could replenish them. Then he would pump you for all the gossip in your system and thus keep in touch with the county and neighborhood doings. This was all the pay he received for his ungrudging hospitality, for a cash offer he would resent as an insult.

Old Spike was a gregarious old soul and nothing pleased him more than a little chat with any passerby. Much of his time was spent traveling the county roads, near and far, "kinder visitin' raound," as he called it, on foot, on horseback, or with his delapidated wagon and two runty little cayuses, he ranged the highways, calling here and there, welcomed by miner and rancher, merchant and quarryman, woman, child and dog for qualities which appealed to them as likeable, even lovable. They enjoyed

the more however,

his neighborly visits, yet experienced of his hosts, kept a watchful eye on their loose and portable personal property, until they had "speeded the parting guest" beyond the extreme limits of their lands. As a matter of fact, they suspected him of being absent-minded-or rather, thoughtless when the difference between mine and thine arose in connection with articles which seemed lonesome or unappreciated and neglected.

Kind, charitable, hospitable old Spike was a-a-peculator, an appropriator of portable property, a sure-enough pilferer. He was hardly to be called a thief-that would be going a little strong- because he did not take things for profit, for he would give, loan or sell anything he had to the first who wanted it, and he could supply any ordinary want at a moment's notice. From a set of work harness to a hay fork; from a hand pump or a shovel to a double jack or a coil of fuse, Spike had it, and would produce it from his secret store. If, in some cases, he was unable to deliver at once, he would say, "I've gut it, but 'taint here. I'll git it fer ye tonight and have it fer ye in the mornin'," and in the morning a gratified borrower would get his desire, unconscious of the fact that on some distant claim there were curses loud and deep over the unaccountable disappearance of just such an article.

When old man Boyle, the rancher, conceived the idea of building a cultivator capable of covering two rows of his crop at one operation, he needed four wheelbarrow wheels, but where they were to come from was a puzzle to him. They were very necessary to the success of his contraption and he made wide inquiries among neighbors and friends in vain. One day old Spike, passing the Boyle ranch, dropped in for a gossip, and in the course of the conversation the matter of the incomplete cultivator came up and the pressing need for wheels was explained to him. Did he have any? "Wa'al, I dunno; might be a few 'round the place. I'll see what I can do and prob'ly be over in the mornin'." Sure enough, early next morning he reappeared, his little cayuse draped and hung

with wheels, the axles of which, sticking out in every direction, made him look like a porcupine. Old man Boyle's cultivator was completed and pursued its useful way, but shrieking dolefully in protest over something unknown to its creator.

It was on that same morning that there arose a great wailing and gnashing of teeth from widely separated claims, extending from Yankee Hill to Soldier Gulch, and from Poverty Hill to Sawmill Flat, a clamor for justice, for restitution and for vengeance. But the fact that here and there, in distant places, an epidemic of locomotor ataxia had broken out among the working wheelbarrows never reached the Boyle ranch, and if Spike ever heard of it he probably pronounced the cases sporadic and gave the matter no more thought.

These nightly activities of this unmoral old scalawag of a hero did not always result in loss to others and gain to him, as witness the night when he found Tony Borretti pinned under a big oak trunk, badly injured but still alive. Spike worked like a whitehead to extricate the man and finally succeeded. Cutting the lashings which secured some few little trinkets, the fruits of his night's activities, to his saddle, he allowed them to fall to the ground while he lifted the injured man to the saddle and supported him there throughout the long trip to a doctor. He was in time, and the man's life was saved. The discarded articles at the scene of the accident were found next day, were claimed by their owners, but no inquiries as to their means of transportation were ever made. That part of the transaction was taboo.

And now, omitting a host of other doings, we come to the crowning performance of old Spike's career-a vindication, a triumph, a joyous victory-and it happened thus:

Colonel Carson was engaged in mining. He was a Southern man, of ample means and liberal education, with a generous nature and a fiery temper. He was opening a big quartz proposition not far from the humble home and junk pile of our pestiferous old scalawag.

Always, when he was on his way to or

THE UNMORAL PHILANTHROPIST

from Sonora, he broke his journey at the weather-beaten shack for a word or two of business or gossip, for a drink of cold water from the well, or frequently to sit at table and enjoy the delicious dainties evolved from that prolific beanhole. Eventually, however, the conversations at these chance meetings became a monologue on the Colonel's part, vitriolic and volcanic arraignment of some infernal thief who was helping himself to the tools, supplies and miscellaneous belongings so necessary to the operation and development of his mines. The scarifying he handed to the unknown miscreant was a severe one and was heartily endorsed by his indignant and sympathizing host and friend.

The pilferings continued and the wrath of the Colonel mounted, a wrath fully shared by old Spike. Though always buying tools and other material in quantities, yet, at times, there would be shortages in tools, powder or supplies; shortages which must be made good at once or men must be laid off and the work delayed. Several times this occurred and more than once Spike supplied his friend's deficiencies, thus saving him a long trip to town, explaining his fortunate possession of the needed articles by tales of purchases from unlucky prospectors on their way out of the country. And thus things proceeded until the last, crowning outrage. Then the Colonel stormed and raged. He lit out for Sonora, spreading the story of his wrongs all along the way. He told Spike, who swelled with indignation at the idea of such utter depravity. The Colonel told of the things he was going to do to the villain who had the audacity to steal his set of new car wheels, and Spike suggested new and original methods of punishment. Life imprisonment was finally settled upon as the very lightest sentence which could be imposed, though old Spike consented to this weak-kneed and ridiculous leniency with much reluctance. He then volunteered to patrol the roads from Springfield Flat to the Stanislaus river, and he did so for one night, but as two shovels, a pick, two single-hand hammers and a coil of fuse were gone in the morning from the dump of the

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lower cross-cut tunnel, he gave it up, but continued to "visit raound" as had always been his custom-a free lance detective.

Then came the cataclysm. One warm Summer day the Colonel, riding to town, stopped at the Warden place and, seeing no one about, proceeded to the well to slake the thirst of himself and his mount. After refreshing himself he noticed that the barn door was open, and leaving his horse swashing the water in the trough, entered, his object being to inspect the stock of hay on hand with a view to buying. But as he passed the door all thoughts of commercialism passed from his mind, for the first object upon which his eyes alighted was a set of new car wheels standing innocently and innocuously on the barn floor.

The Colonel stopped, rooted to the spot. Incredulity, followed by rage, checked his utterance for a moment, then the deluge.

"The blankety-blanked old thief," he howled, prancing and shaking his fists, "the pilfering, pestiferous, pusillanimous old rip; the biscuit-mixing, bean-baking, piratical, poisonous old pirate. Sorry for me! Wanted to catch the thief! Watched the road! Stole from me right along; fed me up on his infernal messes while he sold me my own property. Doggone his measley hide, I'll send that nightprowling old bandit to the pen for life if it takes every dollar I've got, etc., etc.," and the irate victim of misplaced confidence stamped away, a blue haze of complaints, exclamations, threats and curses streaming out behind him like the smoke from a locomotive's stack.

When his voice died away in the distance there was a stir in the hay, and up from the mow rose the broad, red face and bright blue eyes of the kindly friend and helpful neighbor-Old Spike. A whimsical look quickly merged into an indulgent smile.

"Why, the Kernel's real put aout, ain't he? Betche he thinks I stole his car wheels," and the smile broadened. He got busy right away, however, and after some effort, raised one pair of wheels to his shoulder and bore it to an old prospect shaft close by, where he

dropped it in, following it with the second pair. After throwing some brush and rocks on top of the corpus delicti he saddled his pony and took the trail for Sonoma. This trail across the divide though rougher, was much shorter than the road, and he was confident he could beat the Colonel in, notwithstanding the handicap against him.

He felt satisfied that the Colonel would be delayed by chance acquaintances along the way, so, when he reached Sonora, his hurry seemed to abate. He stopped to water his horse and allowed him to breathe a moment before proceeding.

Then he rode to Washington street and turned north toward home, his horse at a walk, while his eyes sought everywhere for a sight of the Colonel's roan. He passed the Carson residence and was ambling peacefully homeward when he met the Colonel face to face.

"H'lo, Colonel; haow be ye," smilingly greeted Spike, stopping his horse and easing himself in the saddle.

Colonel Carson wasted no time, but burst forth at once.

"How be I, you old scoundrel; I'll soon show you how I am, you ungrateful, sneaking, pestiferous old thief. Do you know what I'm going to do with you? I'm going to send you to the pen. You stole my tools and sold them back to me! You stole my new car wheels and I've got the dead wood on you!"

He paused for breath, and the accused man with a look of wonder and conscious innocence on his face, stammered forth

"Why, Colonel; what d'ye mean? I ain't never stole no tools nor car wheels from you nor nobody!"

"Don't lie!" yelled his accuser, "you stole 'em and they're standing on your barn floor right now. I saw 'em. Now deny it if you dare!"

"Deny it? Why, Colonel, you're crazy! They ain't no car wheels on my barn floor!"

"Yes, there is!" roared the Colonel, "and I'll bet you twenty dollars I can show 'em to you and the sheriff inside of an hour!"

The pitying and sorrowful look on old

Spike's face changed to one of resigna. tion, but he was game.

"I know ye're looney, Colonel, but I'll have to take the bet," and he produced a twenty from his clothes. "Who'll hold the stakes?"

"You come along to the court house," said his accuser, "and the sheriff will hold the money and you, too!" and the two men turned their horses' heads to the southward.

Sheriff Clancey was a wise old bird. He listened without comment to Colonel Carson's statement of the case, glancing occasionally at the innocent, red face and candid blue eyes of the accused man. He took the two twenties and went quietly out and mounted his horse. Motioning the two men to follow, he took the Shaw's Flat road, the accused man riding alongside, chatting amicably; the accuser, dumb and threatening, bringing up the rear.

On reaching the Warden place they dismounted and hitched their horses. All seemed much as usual. The barn door swung idly on its hinges, and the party entered, the Colonel leading. He was so sure of his position that he did not stop to look, but swung his hand dramatically and pointed. The sheriff's eyes followed the pointing hand, then roved about the place, but he said nothing. The Colonel, who had been watching Spike's injured but forgiving face, turned quickly to the sheriff and said:

"Well," and then his gaze swept the barn floor. It was clean and empty. He started forward and stared about. No car wheels; in the haymow, no car wheels; on the ground outside, no car wheels. "But they were here; I saw 'em!" he shouted, and the two looked at him almost pityingly.

"I s'pose you'd better take a look araound, sheriff, long's you're here," said Spike, "so's to be able to tell Colonel Carson he's ben mistook. He's ben pestered by them mizzable stealin's and hain't quite himself, I guess."

The sheriff searched the place thoroughly, but found nothing, and finally handed the two twenties over to Spike.

"You win," he said, and then turned to the Colonel with a quizzical smile.

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