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Secret of the Lake House

By Rheta L. Todd

OME here, I say. Come on now. Quicker, Jean, quicker! You are so slow and awkward." The words, spoken half angrily, half affectionately, startled me as I sat apart from the other members of our camping party at Lake Eleanor and gazed at the panorama stretching for miles and miles around me. In a blaze of red and gold the sun had hidden himself behind the hills and the sky had faded from these brilliant hues to salmon pink, which merged into lavender, blue and the final purple haze of twilight falling softly like a filmy veil over the landscape.

The smooth surface of the Lake, reflecting the tints above, had now become broken and rippled by little circles made by the speckled trout as they leaped above the surface, gathering their evening meal..

A splashing and grinding on the gravel across the lake, and an old dugout or canoe, shaped from a hollowed tree, slipped from a cluster of willows into the water. The sole occupant was a long-haired and bearded man, who paddled with a clumsy oar to a log rising from the center of the lake. A rope thrown over the log to hold the dug-out, a line dropped into the water, and he settled back wearily as his eyes swept over the surrounding scene. Only for a minute did he recline, for, with a sudden pull, a large, flopping fish was in the air. The dull thud of a blow, and the lifeless trout was cast under the seat. These movements were repeated until a dozen fish lay in the dug-out. During this time, I studied the fisherman. wondering

about his earlier years and present life. The fragrant odor of the cedar camp fire and its ruddy glow upon the water, now growing darker and darker as twilight faded into night, made me elapsed, and, as I arose, an unexplainrealize the length of time that had able shudder passed over me.

fisherman haunted me, and when we During supper, the face of the silent assembled around the blazing logs our guide told me of this neighbor.

"'Bout seven years ago Kirby fell on the trail up by Laurel Lake and hurt his hip. Well, he lay there all one day and night, and next morning a young squaw, wandering along, found him and helped him down to their camp at Bee Hive. The place ain't famous for bees, but got its name like a bee hive. from an old log cabin, which looks. like a bee hive. Well, Kirby was taken care of so well by this girl that when he comes back here he brought her along. He was mighty good to right until a little boy come to The the squaw, and things seemed all Lake House, as he calls his cabin. Then Kirby got acting queer-like. He who his folks was, where he come never would talk much, or tell 'bout from, or anything like that. Called the brown kid Jean, and at times made out as if he cared for him, and then would not go near the kid or the squaw for days, but would wander up around Bee Hive, Laurel Lake, Lake ley and McGill Meadows. No Vernon, or over to Hetch-Hetchy Valknows where he ever landed on that name of Jean, or why he planted it on him is mighty soon given to underthe kid. Everybody that speaks to

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SECRET OF THE LAKE HOUSE.

stand there ain't no use trying to find out. Kirby's first name is Horace, and he came from Massachusetts. If you

can get wise to anything else, you'll be all-fired smart. We'll go over to-morrow and you can see them and leave your names tacked on the cabin like the other visitors do. Maybe your little boy, Mrs. Stanton, might make Kirby talk to you. Kirby's as square and honest a fellow as one could meet, and never forgets anything good or bad. Guess he's living up here this way, 'cause what he's remembering makes him want to be alone and try to forget."

The guide's story ended, my imagination fairly flew as I repeated: "Horace," "Jean," "Massachusetts." Could it be true that a search of years was to be ended by this recluse? Should I mention my suspicion of the change of name? Could there be a mistake, and might I, by my ideas, bring up painful memories? What course was left to me except a crushing down of the ever alert, fanciful creations of a newspaper woman. So I was silent when my friends turned to me and said: "Here's a chance for you to weave a story."

I pleaded fatigue and sought the refuge of a springy couch of balmy pine needles, but all night long those three words sounded over and over, and even the stars twinkling above my mountain bed seemed to be blinking like puzzled children.

I was awake when day broke and the timid stars retired one by one as the silvery light grew brighter over the hills and lake.

Breakfast over, we were on our way to the cabin of the strange neighbors. The trail led around the west end of the lake, through the green meadows spotted with varied hued wild flowers and willows, over foot logs made by felling trees across three small creeks and a deep fern gulch. On the further side nestling against huge granite boulders was the shake cabin almost entirely covered on the front by odd shaped boards and cards. A "Hello" from the guide and the moun

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taineer opened the door, but hesitated when he saw us. Mr. Stanton told of our interest in the lake and the neighboring country and desire to hear some of Mr. Kirby's experiences. To our delight we were asked into "The Lake House."

What a stage setting! - rough boards and log cross beams showed that no skilled hands built the house. At one end of the cabin was a large fire-place of rock and mud above which hung an immense pair of antlers; the opposite end had the only windows. Along two sides of the walls were the bunks of split boards and shelves holding a miscellaneous collection of things; an old stove in a corner, some empty boxes for chairs and a large table comprised the furniture. Upon our entrance the small lad approached the Stanton boy in the friendly way of childhood and immediately the two were talking. The Indian woman brought out a can of rich golden brown honey and a loaf of bread saying, "Man gets best wild. bee honey. You eat plenty." We enjoyed this simple but sincere offering. Then Mr. Kirby told of his cutting down the bee trees and gathering the sweet treasure, of fishing, hunting and trapping and various experiences, but never a word or hint of his former life or any remarks tending to illuminate the unknown period—a time previous to the twenty years he had lived in this manner.

When we were ready to leave, Mr. Stanton received permission to hang our register with the others and instructions to pick out the best place. As Mr. Stanton was tacking up the board, he laughingly said to his wife, "I used your mysterious and individual half-hearted monogram design for I was sure nobody would ever hit upon such a shape and, perhaps, some lone wanderer might find heart at seeing this piece up here."

A look of sadness flashed over her face and corresponded with her response, "No danger, Willis, of the other half of the monogram ever coming to light. The grave holds that,

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As though dazed by a blow he repeated over and over, "Eugenia, Eugenia, my Jean, my Jean." Then with cry into which was poured the pent up sorrow and suffering of years, he fell on his knees before the cabin and with eyes fixed on the wooden half-heart as though it were a crucifix prayed "Our Father, the Father of Jean my love and of me her lover whom she sent away in a moment of doubt and mistrust, I ask that you give to her the peace, the content, the happiness, I have never known since then and never will know. Bless and protect her and those she loves and bring their boy with my name to a noble manhood. Forgive me for what I will do tomorrow. I cannot let the pure love for my Jean be spotted by continuing my present life. Give me increased strength to keep my secret and grant rest to the other half of the missing heart, which she will never know is buried up here in memories. I thank Thee for this sight of her to kindle within me that inner light, which I believed was extinguished.

Father, Father, be kind to my Jean, My Beloved, my-," the chattering child and amazed mother made the mountaineer arise and wipe the tears from his eyes. Without a word, he took his hat and gun and went up the steep trail back of the cabin. Darkness came but he did not return.

* * *

The next evening I watched in vain for the dug-out and the fisherman to appear upon the lake coming out of the willows and fading light as phantoms, and disappearing likewise in the darker shades of night.

At daylight, the faithful Indian girl, who had waited all night at the door, saw him walking slowly toward home. His strong figure was bowed, his steps seemed weak and his looks were those of an old man. The long black hair and beard had turned to iron-gray and contrasted strangely with the tanned skin and clear blue eyes. A great fear came over her as she saw the change and made her words of greeting tremulous. "Me sad. Glad you come. Hot grub all ready. Little Jean he cry all night. Want you."

Kirby gave no answer but silently entered the cabin, picked up Jean and stood gazing into the crackling fireplace. Suddenly putting down the boy and turning about he began— "Mary, you and Jean must go away and never come back. My White God says it is wrong to have you here. I am sorry to send you. I will give you money so you and Jean can make a home. You are a good girl, Mary, and we must part." The poor childwoman sobbingly told how she had nursed the big helpless man back to health, worked for him, bore his child and was now to be turned out. Clinching his hands as though to gain control of his feelings, he repeated with forced sternness that she must return to her people.

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SECRET OF THE LAKE HOUSE.

red plaid cap and a penknife. As I approached the cabin, I saw a bent figure looking at the board Mr. Stanton had nailed up and it was not until the face turned toward me that I recognized the transformed man we had talked with the day before. His eyes searched mine as though to detect a sign of suspicion or curiosity. I glanced away quickly and stated my errand. He silently led me to the door and pointed in. On the floor with the boy clasped tightly in her arms was the Indian mother weeping and moaning, "I go, I leave." What did she mean? The sight of the gifts roused them as new toys do children and their sorrow was forgotten for a moment. Soon it broke out afresh. She told that after we had left the day before, the man knelt before the board saying things and afterward went up to the hills, returning at daybreak looking differently and declaring she and Jean must go away. She thought the other woman and her boy brought a message from their White God that it was wrong for her to stay, she could not understand. And I knew no words could ever make the meaning clear so I quietly stole out almost bumping into Mr. Kirby at the door.

"You are leaving?" His question showed no interest or expression, but rang lifeless and hollow.

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I was surprised to see him put his hand out to me. As he grasped mine, he murmured, as though to himself, "If I made her happy, I am very, very glad."

No mention was made of the poor little creatures within. Before I realized it, I was saying in a strange voice, "Little Jean should make you want to keep Mary. Why send her away?"

"Jean is just the reason I should. His name was the only link that bound me to the outside world and my former life but now that tie should be broken and allow me to live in pure memories, not with sullied realities that make me unfit to have even those and-," as though realizing what he was saying he suddenly turned and walked rapidly up the trail across the hill.

I stood bewildered. The man with whom Eugenia Gage had quarreled and who had quietly dropped out of her life leaving it so empty was found in this dweller of the mountains. Time and sorrow had wrought their changes in him and as as she glanced at him the day before and wondered at his history nothing that linked their past flashed before her. But for me the name of Horace had recalled memories of the past-his complete disappearance, the learning that his silence and refusal to answer

"Yes, in a short time." I paused, her accusations were caused by a debut some force made me resume. "Before I go, let me thank you for your kindness to us, especially Horace Stanton. His mother worships him as the spirit of a man whom she loved and after whom the boy was named so any attention to Horace appeals to her."

sire to protect her brother's name, the family's untiring and unsuccessful search for him, her pathetic waiting and marriage to Willis Stanton, who was much older than she, and the subsequent consolation of her gentle, spiritual life in ministering to the pain and suffering of her fellow beings.

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Getting Even With Billy

By M. W. Loraine

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"Cut it out!" I growled. "O dig my grave both wide and deep

Go dig it wide and deep!'' whined Billy through his nose.

"Confound you, cut it out!!" I repeated, shifting my kodak uncomfortably.

These mournful range ditties always filled me with a canine desire to point my nose skywards and howl. Once on a moonlight night I had yielded to this impulse. The affair had added to the hilarity of three ranges and had inspired Billy Barclay to new and audacious methods of torturing the Tenderfoot.

"What you goin' to shoot today?" he now inquired, eyeing my kodak with tolerant amusement.

"A donkey," and I aimed the kodak at him. But he spurred his horse and was off.

As for me, I was content to let my pinto amble along at his own gait, stepping now and then into pleasant little damp hollows, which testified that rain had fallen recently upon the desert. As he carried me under a palo verde I was showered with the cool drops that fell from its weeping branches and its gorgeous golden blossoms; and I was about to compose a verse or so of spring paetry, when

Billy drew up and beckoned me. Overtaking him, I noticed two horsemen riding ahead.

"Which of the boys do you think they are?" I asked, pointing.

"I'm not thinkin' of them at all," answered Billy. "I'm thinkin' about my dinner. I'm goin' to the swellest joint in town and have one good feed. First, there'll be cracked crab on ice-"

"Phoenix," I interrupted with superiority, "is exactly four hundred and twenty-five miles from a crab. Crabs live in water, and Phoenix is bounded on the north by chollas, on the east by prickly pears-'

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"And a beefsteak, with mushroons," continued the young glutton. "Mushroons don't grow on ocatilla hedges-they come in cans, same as crabs," he announced. "And a-sparrow-grass, and fish and salad and pie and ice cream and cake and olives and pudding and cheese. That will be some dinner, eh, Mr. Warren? And that dinner," he added, rolling his wicked eyes at me, "will be bounded on the north by Zinfandel, on the east by Angelica and a Scotch high-ball; on the south by champagne and a river of beer, and—”

"Look here, am I expected to participate in this orgy?"

"You take dinner on me, and don't you forget it!" emphasized Billy; then, as my right hand went instinctively to the vest pocket in which I always keep charcoal tablets and pepsin: "but of course you can have prunes and skim' milk, if you want. I shall like you just the same," he added graciously. "Only, you have to

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