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THE UNMORAL PHILANTHROPIST

"What brand of whiskey is that you've been drinkin' lately?"

The Colonel stood a moment, amazed and subdued, but he quickly rallied and, like the true gentleman that he was, swallowed his medicine.

"I don't understand it myself," he said, "but I withdraw all my charges and hot words, and hope Mr. Warden will forgive and overlook them."

Old Spike's face fairly beamed at these words, and he held out his hand to meet the other's clasp.

"Sho," said he, "don't say another word, Colonel. Le's fergit all about it. And naow come over to the haouse and I'll see what I can find in the beanhole." And they went.

Time passed on and old Spike continued to pursue the even tenor of his way-inquisitive, acquisitive, kindly and hospitable. He continued to supply the wants of neighbors, friends and strangers, in tools, utensils or supplies, as gifts or loans, or as sales, but he incidentally found time to haul a load of wood to a widow who stood in need. Who really furnished the wood did not transpire, but Spike hauled it. A sack of spuds and a big hunk of pork kept old Jim Lundy and his equally aged partner going for some time. A poor rancher, who was about to turn down a profitable hauling contract for lack of necessary harness, was supplied, gratis, from Spike Warden's store-and yet Spike never had enough money to flag a bread wagon.

Many stories are told of our old hero's activities, which, while amusing, are not substantiated by anything but assertions and suspicions. Among these yarns, the mysterious disappearance of Jim Bannon's happy home takes first place. The facts are these:

This Jim Bannon was a blacksmith, who followed his calling in the town of Poverty Hill. He had established a home on the slope of a hill a few hundred yards from town, but cut off from view of the town by the shoulder of the hill. He had graded and ditched the site, erected walls three boards high, and over all had put up a tent, thus making a cozy, comfortable dwelling. It was well furnished with cot bed, dresser, table, two chairs,

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cook stove, dishes, etc., and his trunk, containing forty years' gatherings, held the place of honor.

Jim had been sick for a few days, but on this particular morning he felt better and so arose and attended to his household duties. About 11 o'clock he had a good fire, the pot containing his dinner was bubbling merrily, and he felt at peace with all the world. He strolled outside to enjoy the bright sunlight and the fresh air and while thus engaged caught sight of a peddler's wagon on the road going toward the town and suddenly felt the need of fresh vegetables. He seized a basket, grabbed his old hat and in a negligee costume consisting of stained red flannel undershirt, toil-stained trousers and carpet slippers, started on the run to catch the peddler before he reached the town.

It

How long he was gone he could not say-probably a half-hour-not longer, but when he returned his happy home had tetotally disappeared. The whole shebang had flown away. Amazed, he walked about the place, the little basket of vegetables hanging from his arm. was true. He was homeless. The tent, the wall boards, the bed, dresser, table, chairs, dishes, cook stove and dinnerall had taken to themselves wings and migrated, and even the excavation was pulled all skewangled in an effort to loosen it from the earth.

He turned dejectedly away and walked to the hotel, where the landlord dispatched his basket of vegetables to the kitchen, threw a drink into him, and then gradually extracted his marvelous story from him, fact by fact. He was listened to indulgently, and messengers were sent to verify his tale. They came back with the confirmation. Jim was soon properly dressed, given a room, treated innumerably times, and became quite a personage. Everybody was questioned, and parties were sent out on the roads. No trace could be found of a wagon with such a load, and in time the pursuit simmered down to nothing. As to the suspicions of old Spike's connection with the matter, the fact that he had cold corn beef on his table next day was the only thing to support them, though the

completeness of the cleanup and the attempt to steal the lot indicated a thoroughness of purpose quite in accord with Spike's efficient methods.

Old Spike did not, however, always bear off the palm of victory. He, like Napoleon, had his Waterloo, but, unlike the Little Corporal, he had no St. He lena attachment to his. He simply took his medicine like a good old sport and then forgot all about it. An idle quartz mill was the means of bringing this dis aster upon the hero of these chronicles, a mill with stamps and concentrating tables, plates and pumps, engine and boiler, etc., etc. It had stood idle for many moons, with no one to watch or care for it, and there was little prospect of any immediate change in its condition. It stood but a short mile from the Warden place and was undoubtedly a sore temptation to our friend, Spike, whose pet aversion was inert and idle personal property, which might easily be put to useful labor. For several months he visited the mill at frequent intervals, mourning over it, petting it, and incidentally loosening bolts and driving out keys to render it more free and untrammeled.

It is surmised that he first placed the plates in safety-they have never been found. Then one evening he hitched Rowdy and Baldy to the wagon and drove to the mill, backed in on the furnace floor and went mightily to work. He loaded on machinery, tools, furnishings and anything that came handy that could be used. Several times he stopped but would see some other article he might as well take along, and, wiping his streaming brow, he would load on a little more. Finally he realized that daylight was at hand and he must go. So he secured the load and, picking up the lines, spoke to his team. Rowdy and Baldy, faithful animals that they were, strained mightily at the traces but they could not budge the load. Again he called upon them, and again they responded with all their power, but in vain, and Spike saw that something radical must be done. Day was broadening and there was no time to unload. He was a man of quick decisions and he hesitated not. He unhitched his team and led them outside;

he removed a few articles from the jockey box, and then built two little fires, one under the wagon and one against the wall, and then mounting Rowdy he started away, the loose horse keeping his place close beside his mate. He laid a course for Sonora, and passing through the little city before many people were stirring, climbed the hill beyond, turned into the Ward's Ferry road and disappeared in the great canyon of the Tuolumne river, beyond which lay the rich farming, mining and timber land of the "south-of-the-river" section. On the afternoon of the following day he was at his home and bustling about his household tasks. His horses were in the barn and standing in front of the door was his, or "a" little old wagon, rickety, patched, but still serviceable and recognizable and showing signs of recent, travel. Spike listened with much interest to the story of the burning of the mill and helped speculate as to the cause of the disaster. His surmise, which was finally accepted as the true explanation, was that someone had camped there and had left their campfire burning-which might have been.

It was a dark evening in the fall when old Spike started on what was to prove his last "kinder visitin' raound" trip. Just where his two little old plugs took him that night is not known. All that can be certainly known is that some time after midnight the team drew up in front of a tunnel on the Parrott's Ferry road, where it was found later. Old Spike's proceedings can only be conjectured. He probably explored the dump, lighting matches as he went. Then, after listening at the mouth of the tunnel and hearing nothing, he found and lighted a candle and entered. He reached the mouth of a drift about one hundred and thirty feet from the surface when a sound which could not be mistaken fell on his ear. He stopped, but for a sec. ond only, and then, realizing that the short, rasping, sobbing breaths could only proceed from a man in dire need of help, he hurried into the drift, his candle held high and his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead.

Suddenly the light of his candle fell

THE MESSAGE OF THE REDWOOD

upon a tragedy. A man stood braced, with the weight of a tremendous boulder resting on his shoulders. It was crushing him to the earth slowly but surely in spite of the terrific efforts he was making. Spike did not hesitate. He shoved his candle into a crevice, seized a long drill from the floor and with a yell of "hold 'er, I'm acomin'" he dashed to the rescue. Getting one shoulder under the rock, he set his sturdy figure and heaved mightily, succeeding in taking enough of the weight to release the injured man, who staggered clear and fell to the floor of the drift. Spike tried valiently to so set the long drill as to take the weight until he could get from under, but it was too much for one man to accomplish. He was gradually getting lower and lower, and soon the end came. His strength gave way, he fell and the descending boulder crushed his life out. When Matt Heatherston's partner returned from an errand after powder, he found Matt in very bad shape and needing assistance. One arm had been caught between the boulder and the side of the drift and ground off, and blood was pour

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ing from the severed arteries. He quickly rigged a tourniquet to stop further bleeding and, casting a look of pity at the still shape under the boulder, hoisted his unconscious partner to his shoulder and staggered out to the wagon so providentially waiting. The little horses traveled fast and Matt was soon on the operating table, where his terrible injuries were dressed and his life was saved.

As quickly as possible a crew of men went out to the tunnel and reverently extricated the broken body of old Spike Warden, the unmoral philanthropist, and bore him to his home, where, with tender hands, they prepared him for the grave. He had paid the debt he owed to society, and when the story of Matt Heatherston had been told and it was fully realized that old Spike had freely and unselfishly risked and lost his life that another might live, the entire community followed him with tears to his last resting place, mourning that they could do so little to show him honor. His frailties were forgotten, his virtues live on and will live while the memory of his neighbors endure.

The Message of the Redwood

By Era Chamberlin

Gray fog and mist and ocean's roaring surge,

What matter if the roar be but a dirge!

E'en through the fog and mist must hope emerge.

Sunshine and flowers, and singing birds o'erhead,

What matter if life's promises be fled!

Still would shine hope, though all the world were dead.

Peace-breathing sentinel o'er land and sea,

What if the joys of life be not for me!

Still should I smile, for hope I draw from thee,
The redwood's message to humanity.

Crucifixion

By Stanley Preston Kimmel

(Being the experiences of a Red Cross Ambulance driver in France)

(Second Installment)

We plan to make the February issue a memorial edition for Joaquin Miller; therefore the next installment of Kimmel's story will appear in March Overland Monthly

T

HE machines are ready. We will leave Paris at eight thirty. It is less than an hour now but there is nothing to do but sit here and wait for the order.

I have left most of my things at the house so that if I do not come back the concierge can get her laundry bill out of them.

We annoyed her. She has been caught with the gardner once or twice and that was probably the reason she disliked us so much. It was her fault. She should have been more careful.

As yet we have not been told where we are going. After we leave Paris we will know the approximate front by the direction we take. I suppose they will inform us this evening.

After all there is a bit of sadness attached to our leaving. We have made many friends here and have worked together a great deal. It is hard to say good-bye to those who will remain in Paris. No one knows what might happen or what suffering they may have to endure here. They are sending us away with as many smiles as possible. The time is growing short. The officers are gathering in a group.

Charlotte came over for a few minutes. She is so very pretty but she has been crying. She tells me her father was killed last night in the munition factory.

Poor little girl! She is still a child and this shock will be hard for her to bear. There were So many standing

about she felt embarrassed and would not stay long. She gave me a small package but I will not open it until tonight. I will be so far away then and only last night we were together and her father was alive. What changes come in a few short hours!

"Fall in."

It is the last inspection here. In a few minutes we will be on our way.

As we passed through the gates I caught a glimpse of Charlotte. Her face was buried in a small blue handkerchief. A young woman went over to her and put her arms about the trembling shouldders. I am so sorry for the little girl but what can I do? That is the tragedy of the whole thing.

I am glad you gave me this small package, Charlotte, for tonight it will keep me very close to you.

We are having lunch at Meaux. The country is wonderful and this little village quite unique. The old mills and water-ways have an atmosphere about them all their own. We do not see many young men. The women and old men work in the fields and the children do what they can to help.

The roads are excellent and well kept with poplar trees stretching along on both sides. Birds are singing in them and the sun is shining. Everything is peaceful and quiet. One would never think there is a slaughter going on only a few miles away. We are to be quartered in Chalons tonight. It is only a few

CRUCIFIXION

miles from there to the Verdun front so I suppose we will be in that sector.

I have lost eight pounds. The war bread, meat, etc., are not anything to encourage an appetite.

We will be quartered in a hotel tonight and will not have to give up sleeping in a bed for a few hours more. Tomorrow we will say good-bye to all civilization and comforts and be near the front by sundown.

I wonder how long it will be before we sleep in a bed again or know what it is to feel the coolness of sheets.

It is nice to have one more night anyway.

Chalons should be an interesting place. I hope we have a few hours there before going on but that is doubtful. It was near here that the army of Chalons was formed by Mechamon, a Marshal of France, in 1870. This army marched to the Meuse, was surrounded by the Germans at Sedan, and forced to capitulate. It was also the scene of the defeat of Attila in 451. During the fifteenth century the city maintained its honor by repulsing the English.

Will the history of 1870 repeat itself? I hope not.

Chalons.

We are quartered in an old hotel. The place is very good and clean. It is raining again and I am glad, for we we will not be expecting air raids any time of the night. I hope we will have a good night's rest before going up to the lines tomorrow.

I have opened Charlotte's package and found a note and a "scapula."

Charlotte, you say I have gone away and left you while I might have remained in Paris. You are such a little girl. I have not left you. Every day and night, every second, I am there with you. My heart and my soul are yours forever, and if they take what is here they can never take what I have given to you. Yes, our countries are very far apart but our hearts are close; so close that the summer winds would be crushed if they dare come between us. Do not worry over things. Is it not enough that I love you so, Charlotte? Is it not

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enough that I have given you everything? The tears come to my eyes and I close them only to feel you nearer. Your warm cheeks and burning lips and your sad, dreaming eyes. I wonder who is in the blue room tonight. Will they have red roses on the little table? Will she vex the maid by asking for sugar and then give it to him because she knows he likes it?

This room is so bare. There are no roses and there will not be any sugar in the morning for my coffee. No one will blow smoke into streaks of sunshine as they creep through the velvet curtains and then laughingly ask, "Where do they go?"

The sunshine, the velvet curtains and you are very far away and I can only remember, that is all.

Your father

God! Why is the world so miserable?

Somewhere in France.

The cannonading is something terrific. One of the machines caught fire this morning and two of the men were badly burned. It was only through their courage that the entire section was saved. Many barrels of gasoline and oil were near the cars. The two men pushed the car out into the open and prevented what might have been a disaster.

We left Bar-le-Due about four thirty P. M. after seeing our first air battle. The Germans were coming over for a raid when they met a French delegation lurking about the sky. It was an interesting affair for those on the ground. One poor fellow went down in flames. The Germans turned and started for their own lines, but the French were able to get two more of them before they had gone far.

There were many proofs of German air raids in Bar-le-Due. The hotel where we ate our lunch had the upper rooms shattered by bombs the night before. One street was impassable and we saw large holes in several housetops.

Just beyond us is the outline of what was once a very famous cathedral town. I hope we will have a chance to get in

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