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this girl was. But he was proud and he some time he sat stolidly and looked upon did not wish to have her see how much her. He saw the outline of her figure; she hurt. “Marry George,” he said a portion of her smooth breast was disthen.

closed through the torn bosom of her gala “ Marry George ?" she answered. dress. Her face was half turned towards “Why, foolish Yat! George and I were him and he noted that there was a great married yesterday."

red mark down across the temple. But She laughed again, and bent over him. he sat for hours gazing immovably upon

Poor Yat,” she said, but there was her. Then that soft breast and that only mockery in her tones. “Poor Yat." cruel red streak began to appeal to him

She stooped closer — so close that he and he called softly, “ Maria !" and then saw every little mocking wrinkle about louder, “ Maria! Maria !” her mouth and felt her breath fan his But Maria did not hear. A blue-jay cheek. Suddenly his eyes fired up and heard him, though, and chattered loudly. he made a start as if to take hold of From the sweat-house came laughter her. She leaped back, and then, as Yat and shouts, and the ponies tied close to sank down once more, she came and where he sat whinnied and stamped stooped over him again. “Poor Yat," about. But from Maria came no sound. she crooned. “Did you come near hav- And so Yat sat until some of the Indians ing another fit then ?!

came and carried Maria away. George The fire flamed in Yat's eyes once swore vengeance, but Chief Pamblo, out more. His long, strong arms reached of his love of Yat, paid a large indemnity out suddenly and he seized her by the and the matter passed. shoulders, - seized her and shook her For many years Yat was a familiar until he felt by her unresistant weight figure to the hill people. He never bethat she was unconscious. Then he came able to walk, but he could swing called all his strength to one mighty effort his body over the ground by his arms, and hurled her savagely from him. which became unusually long and strong.

She fell among the stones some feet So this is the story of Yat, and like away, but in plain sight. And there for Yat, it is now ended.

Elwyn Irving Hoffman.



I was, or was not,-
Who can say,
From nothing something,
Or alway?
Today I am! yet - what?
Tomorrow I may be
Worm-food, or heir
To all eternity!

William H. Anderson.

VOL. xxvj. – 40.


HE garish glare of the noon as though in protest of the roseate gloom,

day sun died slowly but only served to intensify the dull red out. The warm,

sweet of the vast columns that turned mid-day breath of the orchards into twilight. On either side the trees gave place to the warm, reached up into the clear blue of the Calrich incense of the red ifornian sky three hundred feet. Our car, woods. We were mov the engine, the forests of our childhood, ing quietly along a vast our very anticipations and expectations,

woodland aisle that was became insignficant in comparison with ever on the point of terminating. Light their vast bulk.

Light their vast bulk. There is almost an unand color seemed to steal upward as reality about them that makes one feel though escaping a repetition of adjectives that they belong to another world or of appreciation and expressions of rev have outlived their age


when erence that came naturally to all lips. giants stalked beneath their shade.

Here and there a shaft of sunlight fil From Guerneville four miles into the tered down from the interlaced tree tops heart of the redwoods the railroad twists

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and turns along the shelving banks of Russian River over trestles and down syivan glades, preparing one by easy stages for the full beauty of what is to come. The term forest, as known to all the world outside of California, gives but a faint idea of the home of the redwoods. The trees are so vast, the distance between them so great, the bark-strewn ground so open, that the almost absolute lack of underbrush, and the absence of branches within two hundred or more feet from the earth, suggest rather a chapter from Baron Munchausen. A mastodon walking demurely down a village street could not call forth more ejaculations of surprise. You begin to doubt your eyes, for you look twice before you reach their tops.

On a sunny day, when streamers of light fresco and enamel the redwoods' leafy roof, or when the fog creeps in from the Pacific and fills all the higher arches with a clinging fleecy mist like clouds of incense, hiding everything save the gigantic architecture of the boles, then all that is lacking is the Sistine choir and the processional to convince the beholder that he is on sacred ground within some Brobdignagian cathedral.

not to the height of the trees. There is As a mere sight for the tourist and the nothing inspiring in such a living wall, globe-trotter a redwood grove is as much and the impression is one of irritation one of the “lions ” of California as the rather than of wonder. Yosemite, Mount Shasta, the Geysers,

Across the Bay, past the frowning or the higher Sierra. Nowhere else in portals of Alcatraz, to Tiburon, three the world are there trees to compare in

hours ride through tule marshes, past size and height with either the “big typical ranches, by picturesque towns

, tree," the Sequoia gigantea, or the red

in the midst of vineyards and orchards wood, the Sequoia sempervirens, not even

of peach, fig, and prune, brings one, in the jungles of the tropics. I have cut

almost before he is aware, out of the my way day after day through the most smiling California lowlands into the heart impenetrable Asiatic jungles where the

of the finest grove of redwoods in the light of the sun is never seen and have

State. It is a bit of Nature's wonderfelt neither enthusiasm nor wonder, for

land that stands almost within sight of I knew that they were remarkable only

the Golden Gate and yet is missed by for their denseness, which was due to

thousands of sight-seers, who think that the network of vines and parasites and

there is nothing to do but go out to the

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Seal Rocks while waiting twenty-four hours for the Pacific steamers.

Lying within the fog belt on the west side of the Coast Range, never farther than twenty miles from the coast, the gigantic redwoods breast the gales of the Pacific as though in derision of their even

more gigantic brethren, the Sequoia gigantea, who choose the warm breezes and genial sunshine of the western Sierra foothills in the interior. Three hundred feet in height and eight to seventeen feet in diameter, they present an imposing mark not only for the tour.

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