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term of the glorious tribunal over which I have the honor to preside. As pene trators of bottom facts, as pryers into the future and delvers into the past, our equals don't exist. And so certain am I that our body cannot be hoodwinked, cannot be deceived by interested witnesses, cannot be fooled nor bribed to an erroneous conclusion that in the name of the court I offer one hundred pounds of gold dust to the man who shall succeed in perpetrating a sell upon this hawkeyed, foxed-nosed body.'

"The judge had scarcely taken his seat when Jack turned to me and said, 'Dick, I will go you fifty that I fool that court in thirty days.'

"Jack and his wife were living in a dug out in Coyote Gulch. His wife was kind of left hand cousin to the Widow Curley who lived in Color Cañon. The two women were very thick; if one was n't down to the Cañon, the other was up to the Gulch. Just two days after the Just two days after the judge had made his offer, the widow Curley was found dead on the floor of her cabin. There was a bullet hole in her forehead and a pistol with Jack Austin' cut in the gripstock laying against the wall. Of course Jack was arrested. I felt sure he was innocent though he pleaded straight out 'Guilty.' He was sentenced to be hanged. He asked the court to delay the swinging until he could get his wife started off to the States. This was granted.

"The tongue of a prairie schooner answered the purpose of a gallows in those days and none of us ever listened for the dull thuds' we now read about. We raised the tongue to the proper elevation and then chinked it to keep in position. Then the victim was stood upon a barrel and a pair of hobbles buckled. around his neck and around the tongue. When everything was ready, the judge kicked the barrel away and the cuss

dropped. Not far, to be sure, but far enough for all practical purposes. If the fall did n't kill him he just hung there till Providence came to his relief.

"The day came for Jack's hanging. I was sorry things had gone as they had, but with all my influence I was powerless. The law compelled me and the judge and the jurors to be present at all swingings, so we were on hand. Jack mounted the barrel, the hobbles were buckled to him and to the wagon tongue. I walked up to Jack and shook hands with him and asked him if he would n't take some brandy as a nervine. He said that he would n't, that brandy produced gout; but he 'd take about five fingers of whisky. So I fired about a tin full into him, and the judge said, 'Mr. Austin, have you any remarks to make prior to confronting your Manufacturer?'

"I hain't any remarks exactly, Judge; but I should like to have Dick Tompkins' (that's me) to read you this when I'm a. stiff.' With that, from his bootleg he drew a long envelope and held it up. Your request is granted,' answered the judge.

"I was on my bronco at the time and I rode forward to get the paper. Just as I was taking it from Jack's hand, the ornery beast began to buck and kick. I always thought it was just his way of showing his dis'proval of the proceeding. However that may be, he kicked the barrel over, and when I looked around poor Jack was waltzing on empty air. I set the barrel up, mounted it, and read the paper aloud. It ran this way:

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"To that Asinine Assembly known as the Judge and Jurors,

'Dear suckers;-1 claim the reward of the one hundred pounds of gold dust offered by you to the person who should succeed in fooling you. My wife, Nance, did the killing for which I swing. I enclose her affidavit, and she is now beyond your reach. Please hand the dust to Dick Tompkins, and don't blow so much in the future.

If I can, I will let you know if I strike color where I go.

Fraternally yours,

JACK AUSTIN.' "A madder, more crestfallen set than that court I never saw before nor since, and as poor Jack's spirit was wafted out the Golden Gate a rakish, 'Sold by Gosh!' was borne back on a gentle zephyr. Jack always was a lucky dog." "I fail to see where his luck came in," I ventured. "I think, you were the lucky one; you got the dust."

"Not a d-grain," was the emphatic reply. "And a very fine point

of law kept me out of it. You see the law says that the judge must kick the barrel over at all swingings. The fact of my bronco kicking it over made it an illegal swinging. So that hawk-eyed, foxed-nosed body argued that a legal offer could not be recovered through an

illegal transaction! Do you see? Fine point! Great body of legal lore we was. Dan,

But fearing I might have to take more liquor with my law, I from the long fellow,

Silently stole away.

Edward Livingston Keyes.

TO AGE.

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ELL me, O Ancient Sage, -
Tell me, doth hoary Age

Contemplate nought of morrow,

And scorn the thought of sorrow?

Tell me, if Hope unfilled

Is vain Ambition stilled?

If Faith in twain is rent,

Will Age be still content?

Tell me, or let me die,

If Love be crushed and fly,

And Hope be lost, and Faith,

Will Age dispell the wraith?

Tell me the secret, Age,

Of thy long pilgrimage;

If by experience, sad,

The heart may yet be glad?

If thou, decrepit seer,

Sorrow hast ceased to fear,

And from thy vale of years

Can laugh at Love's young tears.

I'd trade my love, my youth,

My buoyant faith in truth

My youthful heritage

For happiness-and Age.

Edwn Wildman.

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E HAD expected the Potentate, the Art Superintendent of a great Eastern magazine some time.

's

There were multitudes of questions we wanted to ask him. The Editor had his doubts as to the value of and's art work, and wished for the opinion of authority on the matter. The Artist was full of subtle points of technique that he desired to have settled, and the Manager had his budget of quiries as to prices and comparative merits of engravers and processes East and West. We all wanted light as to how tailpieces were to be worn this winter, and whether initials were in style.

We did not know how the Potentate would take all this pumping. Perhaps he would be so wrapped in dignity or so scornful of the humble attempts of the Farthest West, that no responses at all would be forthcoming.

But all our expectations as to how he would look, and act, and talk, were wild of the mark, as indeed, such preconcep

tions always are. One day there came into the office a smiling man of middle age, who entered with nothing more of ceremony than is accorded him who brings us "a bit of verse that perhaps we may like to put in a corner of our magazine," - and before we realized it, the Potentate was no longer only a Potentate to us, but a kindly and genial friend as well.

He wanted to see the picturesque parts of the town, he said, did not care for the brownstone districts. Saw enough of those at home. Yes, indeed, he would like to take a prowl up into the Latin Quarter.

Now the Artist is a past master of that sort of thing. He knows the queer places of the city as thoroughly as a fixed penchant for prowling and an apprenticeship of three weeks with the Chinatown squad, as reporter for a daily on special commission to hunt up the dreadful, could teach him.

The Editor wanted to go, but there was an important bit of copy to be pre

pared and the Potentate was to dine at his house that evening, so he noticed the evident desire I had to go and generously offered to stay with the stuff and let us three sally forth.

just the right proportion. Then a quail on toast, - the Potentate 's first introduction to that Californian dainty, and we were ready for the "small black" that ended the repast. It does not sound very sumptuous, but the quality of the food and the art of the cook were far better than at many places where the check is four times as much: The Potentate waxed enthusiastic over it.

We started soon after twelve o'clock and our first question to the Potentate was as to his preferences about luncheon. No, he did not want to go to the hotel or to any rotisserie in the civilized parts of town, but would vastly prefer to cut While we were eating, there was an loose from all such bases of supply, and Italian or Spanish funeral going on before forage on the country into which we the window, and there was a large gathwere to go. So we went along Montering of the dark-eyed population in the gomery Street to the Avenue and up by carriages and on the sidewalk. A mar

ROSS'S CASTLE.

Hell's Half Acre and other delectable neighborhoods to a little Italian restaurant near the Jail.

Here we were as far away from Saxon surroundings, seemingly, as if broad seas rolled between. At the right of us they were talking French and at the left they volleyed and thundered in Italian, while we could hear the children in the street playing in Spanish.

The soup was not unusual, nor yet the silver-smelt, except that these Dagos are so close to the fishermen's caste that they know what good fish is. The tagliarini was excellent and the grated Parmesan and tête de mort was mixed in

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After a friendly squabble over the possession of the check, (these Eastern people are queer about that, I once nearly came to fisticuffs with a charming Boston woman who visited San Francisco, over the payment of her carfare,) we sallied forth again and struck up into the tortuous alleys that cover the south slopes of Telegraph Hill. Here there was no lack of the picturesque, vistas of houses, no two on the same level or plan, curious balconies, twisting stairways, odd windows; little dashes of color, where Pepita played at the window with her bright green polly, her own head covered with a gay kerchief, where little Manuelito squatted on the sidewalk, taking advantage of the small level place for his game of marbles with small Luigi, or even where Dinah's head, topped with its scarlet bandana, could be caught sight of as she busied herself over some dish that the Creoles of New Orleans had taught her how to make.

The houses were universally of a neutral gray. The Potentate noticed it. "If you would only persuade your

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more, were mentioned in the course of the afternoon.

We were not unsocial voyagers in this region, but made friends everywith the

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fect of hard

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bright sunlight, the beating winds, the soaking fog, and the heavy rains, of an exposed part of San Francisco would in a short time forswear vain gaudiness and assume the dustbrown tint he saw. No new houses are now building on Telegraph Hill, and nobody has spirit enough even to paint an old one. But the little dashes of color that there were shone out grandly in such surroundings.

can recall clearly

the vivid emer

ald green of some strips of moss that grew along the battens of an old wooden awning.

I

There were wonderful vistas, too, to be had at the ends of the streets. As we looked across toward Russian Hill,

keeper of the little Italian wine

shop, whose belongings and customers did not seem to be a part of any nearer spot than Genoa, with the children on their way home from school, and with the groups of women that sat on the doorsteps with their infants.

"A fine boy that!" said the Artist to one of these women, pinching the chubby cheek of

the baby she held.

"Indeed he is! Four months old and weighs twenty-five pounds," was the pleased reply.

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