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custom, a time-honored custom. Every respectable Chinaman laundered thus. It was a good way. Every garment in the Armstrong household had been so dampened for thirty years-Harold shivered, for he was a cleanly souland would be again. Against the Great Wall of China, Harold soon ceased to argue. He put his hand in his pocket and paid Wong's bail, at which Wong nearly wept. He himself could have had bail long ago, but a Chinaman is never extravagant. The cell was cozy and warm, with five other Chinese, and why, even temporarily, throw out that cash for one night.

The next morning, Harold entered an eloquent plea of "faithful old servitor" and "ignorance of Occidental customs" -coupled with a promise of "never again." He trembled at that, for he knew full well that there would be an "again" in the first hour after release; but he got his client off with a warning. Wong beamed with pride through

out the proceedings. He didn't resent a thing the district attorney said about him. It gave his boy a chance to talk back.

Once out of the courtroom, Harold talked himself hoarse over the danger of a second offense, and begged Wong to desist. Wong answered: "You no worry, Missa Harold. There be no other time. Cop no catchee me again. Me pullee down him blinds."

With that Harold had to be content. "You heap gland lawyer, Mlssa Harold. Talkee heap loud. Me payee bill."

Up went Wongs hands to his head, and somewhere from the plaits of his queue, he produced a fifty cent piece.

"You takee him. You earnee him." As Harold protested: "Me insulted. Now you lawyer for my firm. Ludder boys gettee in tlubbel, spittee on the clothes, I send for you. You gland lawyer. Holler heap louder dan udder feller. I what your flader callee him: I your first clilent, anyhow."

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By Lucy Betty McRaye

Oh, have I lived to love, who knows,

When all the earth was young,

A shepherd in a grass green glade, whose pipes of reed glad music made, Around my neck a garland hung,

Each bud dew pearled, and all the world,

Fresh as an opening rose.

And you, a nymph with gleaming feet,
And cheeks and forehead pale and fair,
Your wildwood violet eyes, so sweet,
Shone through your clouds of hair.

Or were we lovers, under skies,

Sun flooded amethyst,

And wandered on the red gold sands, as burnished as the red gold bands, Pure twisted gold, on neck and wrist,

The gems you wore pale before

The flame within your eyes.

You were some slim Egyptian maid,

I some barbaric king, your grace,

Your level brows, your hair's black braid,

I loved your glowing face.

Or was it only yesterday

We danced the minuet,

Your eyes kissed mine across the room, your powdered hair, your cheek's

rich bloom,

The roguish patch, I see them yet,
My flashing sword, the harpsichord,
When all the night was gay.

You were the toast of half the town,
And I your beau, the gossip ran,

As trailing your brocaded gown,
You flirted with your fan.

We live to-day, my girl of girls,

To kiss the lips we love,

I liked the fashion of your dress, an Empire was it, or Princess?
I liked your perfect Paris glove,

Your wide-winged hat, and under that
Your hair's soft waves and curls.

Your little high-heeled shoe displayed
The prettiest foot, oh, kindly fate,
Go, Sweetheart Shades, that faint and fade,
I love you up to date.

Hopalong Rattlesnake

By Louis Roller

I have put in ten years in this Western country rotating periodically between the sagebrush and the timbered regions. I have been lumberjack, homesteader and rancher in succession, and have thus acquired a store of valuable experience and knowledge which will be of great benefit to me in my literary ambitions. Some years ago, when the Government threw open the Coeur d'Alene Indian Reservation in Idaho, I took up a homestead there, and enjoyed living in the wilds with Indians for neighbors and Nature's creatures for companions. Only last week an enormous mountain lion was brought into town, shot by a half-breed out in the hills. As I stood and looked at his long, sharp claws and sinewy body, I wondered how many defenseless does and fawns he had pounced upon and half devoured before life was extinct. I was gratified to see his lifeless body lying there before me, and envied not a little the half-breed who had put an end to his murderous career.

I have not much to say introducing myself to you. I am twenty-eight years of age, and through circumstances I cannot help, a native born Hoosier. I have written some poetry. I think the Great West, with its musical waterfalls, its rugged mountain expanses, the sagebrush and prairie, unending miles of primitive forests and mirrored lakes mean more to the writer than the artificial surrounding of unromantic Chicago, or the brazen atmosphere of Fifth avenue. Literary Indiana may be all right, Mark Twain's beloved Mississippi may be highly esteemed, but give to me the land of Bret Harte, with the soothing cadences of Joaquin Miller. LOU ROLLER.

LTHOUGH the sun's rays were
vertical and the heat intense,
there was a cool, unrelenting

A vertical and the heat intense,

breeze blowing up out of the sagebrush and coulees that was refreshing to the wilted camas which grew in the barren waste spots where the little ruvulets of sand drifted in the wheel-tracks.

The rattlesnakes lay here and there in the hot sand uncoiled and stretched out full length, as if trying to catch as much of the cool breeze as possible. A forlorn magpie perched upon a pile of scabrock, with drooping wings and mouth open, gazed dumbly at the dust devils chasing the tumbleweeds over

coyote

the hills. A lone track here and there
bespoke the presence of the
who prowled about at night looking for
God knows what, and hiding during
the torridness of the day, God only
knows where. This dust devilish ex-
panse was what Owen Wister once
termed the God awful Big Bend.

A drink of water here in this hot, arid country will not quench a thirst, but it is supremely gratifying to the thirsty one-even though it be brackish and bitter it may still retain a certain sweet taste and stay the unsatiated thirst until one is able to reach the Columbia or the Snake.

As worthless as this country may

have looked to Owen Wister a few years have wrought a most remarkable change. The rattlesnake is still evident along with the coyote, but the sagebrush is fast disappearing. In its stead is to be found sections of summerfallow and waving grain. The homeseeker is pushing steadily and unrestrainedly on toward the Columbia. In a single day's journey overland I would not be in the least surprised to see a railroad here or a new town springing up there. Such is the history of the Great West-the West we like to think of or read about, the gray expanse of sagebrush and coulees are fast disappearing, and is marred here and there or entirely obliterated by the wheat fields of the newly arrived homesteader.

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II

A little siding where a crew of men were unloading a new threshing rig, near by a new elevator built in expectation of a bumper wheat crop, and a half dozen new stores huddled together bespoke the optimism of those who had followed the wheeltracks in the sand and volcanic ash a year or two ago, and drove their tent stakes and plowed well their furrows. A young man of perhaps thirty summers is superintending the unloading of the threshing outfit, and under the broad brim of his felt hat is to be seen the tan of the sun mellowed into a deep brown by the cool wind that ever blows up out of the mysterious, lonesome land. He, too, like the rest of them, has not lived long enough in the new country to call it his own, having located in the center of the Indian country over on the Coeur d'Alene Reservation two years previous. The seriousness of his blue eyes, the square jaw and the rugged features foretell in him a comprehensive intent of purpose and a reckoning of things vital. His two years among the Indians of the great lonesome land have not come amiss, and his knowledge thereof has not been gained in vain.

Gibson Sterling was a man who

Louis Roller

voiced the sentiments of this new country-a man who was willing to stake his all, and if he lost so much the better, it only fanned the more his flame of ambition and revealed his ultimate goal more distinctly from the obscure.

III

A long streak of dust was rising up out of the coulee. The sun was just emerging up from the sagebrush hills to the east, and its rays slanted with a gaudy splendor on the new red separator and the brass and copper trimmings of the engine, which was emitting a regular chickety-chick and creeping along in the early coolness of the morning toward the new wheat fields out on the flats.

Gibson Sterling felt an exuberant thrill permeating his being that kept time to the rhythmical exhaust of the engine, and as he opened up the throttle a little more here or closed it there, or deftly handled the steering wheel to avoid a boulder or round a bend,

he could not help but entertain the pleasantest of thoughts, and smiled to himself as he pictured the quarter section that was soon to be his over in the Indian country. His nearest neighbor, old Hopalong Rattlesnake, a most peculiar breed of savage who with his prized buffalo horn could lure the rattlesnake from his lair—a snake charmer, but an honest Injun whose peculiar antics had pleasantly helped while away the lonesome hours and tedious monotony of homesteading out in the lonesome land where a section was bounded by an invisible line that followed a newly driven stake or a freshly made blaze. Coming up to where the road merged on to the flat, Gibson turned the engine sharply to the left and entered a field of recently cut wheat. The breath of harvest time was in the fragrant breeze and the wheat straw glistened with a freshness that was pleasing to behold. Nature was giving forth a bountiful harvest to the hard working homesteader and the great sweeps of territory that sloped off gradually toward the Columbia was slowly coming into its own.

Here where the tumble weed had been accustomed to roll unhindered all day long, it now found occasionally a barbed wire fence to obstruct its natural course or banged up against the side of a new shack. The coyote who had been wont to travel the great arid waste without heed or hindrance in his aimless wanderlust now instinctively took unto himself certain precautions heretofore deemed unnecessary.

The separator set with its long red tail to the leeward, the engine backed off to a respective distance, the belt was thrown on, and a signal from the oiler to the engineer set the droning separator into motion. Two loads of bundles now drew up one on either side, the spike pitchers climbed up and soon the sack sewers and jiggers were busily engaged while the cyclone stacker was piling the bright, shining straw in a half circle at the rear.

Gibson, standing on the deck of the engine, absorbed it all in a satisfying gaze. A good run without any bad

luck, and he could pay for the outfit and prove up on his homestead and have a neat little sum left over out of the profits. He watched the strawpile looming up, and saw with satisfaction the pile of sacks growing larger. The owner of the wheat walked up and pleasantly commented on the yield, while Gibson beamed with satisfaction. Everything was going to his heart's satisfaction, and the big loads of bundles were coming in from the field and the empty wagons were going out after more. He assured himself he was lucky in possessing a good crew to start with and best of all a new machine.

Just then the field boss came riding in on a gallop and said one of the men had been bitten by a rattler. He also conveyed to Gibson the startling information the dangerous reptiles were so numerous the pitchers had been almost thrown into a panic and each wheat shock had from one to a dozen under it. The homesteader admitted the rattlers were numerous out in the sagebrush, but had not thought they would prove such a menace in the wheatfields, but they were there apparently, and in large numbers; furthermore, a man does not relish the thought of being bitten by a poisonous rattlesnake when it means sure death if not properly attended to.

At noon, when the field men came in, they unanimously informed Gibson they had quit and would not go back to work again under any consideration. And Gibson could not blame them; it was really too much to ask a man to expose himself to the lurking danger in the wheat stubble. Here was a problem which was stunning to Gibson, and a pang of remorse seized him as he saw his fond hopes fade away in thin air. It was of no use to send to Spokane for a new crew of pitchers. Gibson was too much of a man to ask anybody else do what he himself would not attempt. He studied the situation from all angles, and could arrive at no definite conclusions. He was simply up against it. He would lose his machine and possibly

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