gers the unfinished gingham apron, disclosing a tireless mother's life, woven in the stitches of the baby garment.

Before an open window stood the sewing machine. A little sleeve held fast by the needle fluttered as the cool breeze of the evening crept in, a kitten tangled a spool of thread, round and round her chair. The bread in the oven had burned black, and the kettle had boiled itself out. In the cellar, under the fig trees, pans of thick, leathery cream were ready to be skimmed, and up by the bench of sunning, shiny rows of milk-pans, impatient pigs turned over and rolled about the empty swill-pail.

A lagging bee flew about the room, then out to the few border-flowers she had planted in response to an inborn love for the beautiful, the common homely little flowers, that had struggled on and bloomed in spite of heat and chickens. The voices of passing neighbors homeward bound mingled with the dying sounds of evening,-still she slept. Far down the road, bordered with the tall bunch of grass, came the rumble of empty wagons, nearer and nearer, till the songs of drivers and shouts of children were shaped and blended into distinctive melody.

A sudden halt at the gate, the creaking of rusty hinges, the rattling of harness chains, the welcoming bark of dogs, filled the tranquil air. Then a sound of bare, pattering feet, of books thrown by careless, childish hands, eager calls for the mother's ever willing servitude. Through the low-roofed kitchen to the sitting and bed room, they trooped, and started back, their clamorous voices instantly hushed to find her lying on the company quilt. Astonishment merged into fear, as she made no sign, and from that silence, action was born, and the lesson of life learned.

The neighbors came in softly and the

frightened and wondering children were sent away. Many willing hands worked out her tasks, while her own lay folded across her pulseless heart.

The western sky mirrored the flaming tints of the setting sun, that changed to opalescent hues, while the silent dusk thickened over the landscape. Behind the house the moon rose. Her beams found their way through the branches of the fig, and fell in lacy tracings on the group of men beneath, as they conversed in monotone, awed by the sudden going; for death comes in slower forms to most country lives. One was whittling a stick, as they talked of crops and stock. Others watched curiously, yet sympathetically, the husband, sitting apart.

The realization that she was gone from him awoke a tender chord in the depth of his nature, and broke the calm monotony of his existence. It roused the memory of an early romance that had faded years ago, in the necessary strife for daily gain. Each dawning year had found them renewing the old round of duties, as links in an unbroken chain, to sow the grain, to watch the varying weather and market, to meet the taxes.

Hard continuous toil had leveled all barriers of sex: she had planted the long rows of peach trees, now bending under the weight of their fuzzy pink-skinned. fruit, and in the height of haying season had pumped for the thirsty cattle, as they stood licking the damp boards of the empty trough. What was begun through pity, became an almost daily custom. What cravings for sympathy or unuttered dreams filled her hungry heart were stifled in the continued effort to meet the stern tax imposed by pressing needs. Self-interest binds most country lives, isolation creates a personal dependence, and so bound by the ties of a mutual interest, he had learned to look

to her as a helpmate, a partner who through the thrift and faithful service of her nature, supplied his life and home with the daily needs, and in the busy absorption of the life about them, he had lost sight of the finer, tenderer claims she had as a woman.

The air smelt damp and fragrant with the spicy odor from the dew-moistened fig leaves. He looked out to the shimmering moonlight, and the old familiar landscape seemed changed and somber; far across the cornfields he saw the house where she was born and where they were married, standing out sharp, and square, and ugly, from all the softened beauty of the scene. The tall Lombardy poplar threw its elongated shadow across the grave of their first-born, the little grave he had dug in the corner of the rail-fence, now so plainly outlined by the glistening row of shells, and over-run by the white verbenas.

A cool breeze came down the valley, starting the canvas fans of the old windmill, awakening the soft, mysterious sounds of night, to sigh among the trees and grasses, and bearing the fragrance of peaches still warm from the afternoon. sun. The air reverberated with the hoarse croaking of frogs, on the ditch down in the alfalfa field.

Touched and pained by the crowding memories, a feeling of utter loneliness swept over him. Moved by a sudden impulse, he arose and went in to where she lay, and lifting the cloth from off her face, stood looking down upon her. Death's relaxation stamped on every feature, had smoothed out the deeper lines, and in the half dusk, the sweet

ness of girlhood had returned, and softened the pathetic droop about the lips he had long forgotten to kiss. In the effort to replace the sheet, his trembling, rough, clumsy fingers became entangled in her hair.

Oppressed by the close room, the nearness of people, and the emotions that seemed to suffocate him, he passed out, around to the back of the barn, and sat down on the tongue of the headerwagon, while against his knee the old. house-dog pressed his nose in dumb sympathy.

Too late he read her nature and understood the woman who without complaint had shared his burdens, borne his children, and given to them and to him, all the patient, unselfish service of her life, till wearied and spent, she had sunk under the strain. Great beads of moisture stood upon his face, and with a hoarse inarticulate cry, he tore at the fastenings of his shirt, while labored sobs of agony rent his frame, and choked the words of remorse he would have uttered.

Inside the house the flickering tallow candle threw fantastic lights on the bent heads of the women as they sewed upon the shroud, and conversed in low whispers of the dead woman, advancing many theories as to how, and why she died, and with the freedom of friendship discussed her faults, and so drifted into personal matters that absorbed their lives.

The hours wore on, and teams were coming and going far into the night as the news traveled around the neighborhood.

A. Morgan Hays.

was feared that it might be true, that the OVERLAND or any other magazine would be unable to win and hold the respect and affection of so vast and varied an audience as the trustees, teachers, and scholars, of this great State. We have simply done our best not to truckle but to make the OVERLAND so valuable an historical and educational work that no school after once becoming acquainted with it would ever leave it out of its library. We long ago realized that it was impossible to please everybody. One school refused to renew their subscription because they found a champagne "ad" in its columns, another because of two articles, one criticising and the other eulogizing the dear old Mission fathers. It was a free open discussion, but there were unfortunately two sides; another school dropped it because of the tender age of its pupils.

Of course the OVERLAND must plead guilty to these heinous charges. On the other hand almost every County Superintendent of Schools in the State has written unsolicited letters of commendation and encouragement, several of which will be found in the Publisher's Column this month. When it is remembered that the coming generation of this State are readers of this magazine it will be easily seen what a power for good the OVERLAND will become as the years go by.

IN the October 1894 number of the OVERLAND there appeared an article by a well known English horseman on the then "Coming Horse Show."

While the article contained the pictures of most of the noted blooded horses of this Coast it was written principally with the object in view of outlining the classes of horses and turn-outs ould properly appear at such an exhibition and the most approved methods for controlling and judging all such exhibits.

During the last days of November and the first of December the initial Horse-Show took place at the Mechanics' Pavilion and proved a tremendous commercial, financial, and social success. It called the attention of the entire world to the blooded horses of this Coast and stimulated the demand for California stock.

President Henry J. Crocker demonstrated what he has maintained for years, that San Francisco was capable of as great a showing as New York. He made the Horse-Show a permanent, yearly festival and the program of the show for next December promises an exhibition even more brilliant and broader than the one of last year. The prize list is doubled and State pride will be aroused by the participation of Eastern horsemen and owners. There is little question of California's supremacy in the horse line and it only remains for all horse owners on this Coast ably to second Mr. Crocker's work.

Now this same concern is reaching out for a like amount of Japanese gold, which if it is successful in obtaining will likewise go into the pockets of the citizens of this Coast. Mr. Irving M. Scott has left for Japan to figure with that government for the building of one or more of the great warships that country is soon to build with the money received from the Chinese indemnity. It is a subject of profound congratulation and pride that this city possesses ship yards equal to the great yards of the East and Europe and one that is capable of bidding for such vast contracts. All the influence of this Coast, commercial and political, ought to be brought to bear the Japanese government in Mr. Scott's benefit. A few more industries like the Union Iron Works on this Coast, and the object of the Half Million Club would be accomplished.

But when the waving grain, John, stood rank among the pines,

And reaching from the plain, John, grew golden in the mines,

We bade goodby for aye, John, to everything but hope,

And took our wintry way, John, adown the Eastern slope.

Years came and sped away, John,- each year a virile life;

They streaked our beards with gray, John, our brows with lines of strife.

Some pressed the grapes of sin, John, while others played the fox;

You wisely gathered in, John, the vintage of the rocks.

Now silent are the mills, John, and faint their morning blast

That echoes through the hills, John, the Washoe of the past.

Wild, fateful years! They seem, John, a fairy tale, half told,—

A weird, fantastic dream, John, of palaces of gold.

or with gold,

Who would not baffle fate, John, by never growing old?

On some life's cares sit light, John; they

toughen as they grow,

Like pines that brave the height, John, rockanchored in the snow.

Years should not chill our hearts, John, nor tears bedim our eye;

If sunshine with us starts, John, 't will tarry till we die.

In youth, with muscles strong, John, flushed with Aladdin dreams,

With laughter and with song, John, we dredged the golden streams.

Our fare was bread and beans, John, and flapjacks fried in fat

Of bacon in its 'teens, John, and strong — but what of that?

Our appetites were plain, John, and hunger, over-ripe,

Felt genuine disdain, John, for terrapin and snipe.

We tunneled through the snow, John; unroofed

beneath the stars

We slept, and felt the glow, John, of August

heated bars.

was not to blame,)

And largely fell to you, John, we all enjoyed the game.

But gold was only part, John, of Fortune's gifts devout;

You drew a sunny heart, John, to keep wealth's mildew out.

Our life-paths now diverge, John, but, looking up, I hope

That somewhere they will merge, John, beyond the Sunset Slope.

February 22, 1895.

R. M. Daggett.

New Trail up Mt. Shasta.

OAKLAND, Cal., Aug. 13th, 1895. EDITOR OVERLAND MONTHLY:

When the OVERLAND has been in any way instrumental in accomplishing a desired object, I presume you desire to be informed of it. In this instance a work has been done which will be gladly remembered in coming years by all mountain climbers.

Referring to my article, "Path-finding up Shasta," in the May number of your magazine, it pleases me to say that the trail therein advocated to be built up the east side of Mud