t


OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
A STORY OF THE FAR EAST.
BY MARY E. BAMFORD.
David C. Cook Publishing Company, Elgin, Ill., and 36 Washington St., Chicago.
CHAPTER I.
VOICE rang through one
of the streets of Alexan-
dria.
“Sinners, a way, or
keep your eyes to the
ground! Keep your eyes
- to the ground!”
The white-robed priestesses of Ceres,
carrying a sacred basket, walked in pro-
cession through the Alexandrian street,
and as they walked they cried aloud their
warning.
So, for four centuries, since the reign
of Ptolemy Philadelphus, had priestesses
of Ceres walked and called aloud their
admonitions through this city; though of
late years men had come to know that
what the sacred basket held was a live
snake, supposed to be the author of sin
and death.
Before the great temple of Ceres in the
southeast quarter of the city, the crier
stood on the steps of the portico, and pro-
claimed his invitation: “All ye who are
clean of hands and pure of heart, come to
the sacrifice! All ye who are guiltless in
thought and deed, come to the sacrifice!”
Among the passing people, the lad
Heraklas shrank back. When the sacred
basket of Ceres had met him, he had bent
his eyes downward, deeming himself un-
worthy of the sight. And now, as the
crier's invitation rang from the portico,
“All ye who are guiltless in thought and
deed, come to the sacrifice!” Heraklas
trembled.
Swiftly he hurried away and passed
down the broad street that led to the Gate
of the Moon on the south of Alexandria.
At length he reached the gate, but
swiftly yet he pushed forward a short dis-
tance along the vineyard-fringed banks
of Lake Mareotis. Heraklas lifted up his
eyes, and marked how the vines by the
lake's side contrasted with the burning
whiteness of the desert beyond. The
glaring sand shimmered in the heat of
the flaming Egyptian sun. A thin,
vapory mist seemed to move above the
heated, barren surface of the grim sea of
sand. Heraklas stretched out his hands
in agony toward the desert, and cried
aloud, “O my brother, my brother Tim-
okles! How shall I live without thee?”
The soft ripple of the lake beside him
seemed like mockery. The tears rolled
slowly down his cheeks, as he looked
toward the pitilessly unresponsive desert
of the west and southwest. Then Her-
aklas, helpless in his misery, raised his
[ Copyright, 1895 and 1897, by David C. Cook Publishing Company.
-


OUT OF THE TRIANGLE. 5
ran out of the house, and hastened home-
ward, full of apprehension as to what
might await him.
“Where are the lentiles?” asked the
slave by the threshold, as Athribis, for-
getful, in his excitement, of the excuse he
had made for his departure, passed swiftly
and softly in.
“I found none,” quickly answered Ath-
ribis, with alarm.
He sped silently to his former place of
work, and fell to polishing the pavement
with a zeal unknown before. He knew
well enough that the slave-by the thresh-
old would not believe in that excuse, len-
tiles being plentiful enough. Terror had
robbed Athribis deceitful tongue of its
usual cunning, and now he silently be-
wailed his startled answer. If the slave
by the threshold, should report to Herak-
las’ mother the fact that Athribis had
been away!
Athribis longed to have time to unroll
the scrolls which he had hidden in his
garment, but he dared not look at them
till he should be alone.
A voice sounded in the court. Ath-
ribis redoubled his zeal. He recognized
the tones of Heraklas’ mother.
“I was not long gone! I was not long
gone!” the guilty Athribis hastily assured
himself. “Surely she hath hated the
Christians, even as I hate them! I was
gone but a moment! Surely she cannot
know! If I find treasure in my rolls, I
will give some to the slave by the thresh-
old. Surely, treasure is as dumbness to a
man!”
The footsteps of the mother of Herak-
las drew near. The servant bowed over
his work, and dared not lift his eyes. She
did not stop! And Athribis looked
breathlessly after the woman, as she
passed majestically on.
“Surely she hath not known what I
did!” he gasped as the stately figure dis-
appeared among the columns. “Isis pre-
serveth me from stripes! My feet are
unbeaten!”
Athribis waited till night, when the
household slept. Then he crept out of
the little chamber on the roof where the
slaves were wont to sleep, according to the
custom of Egyptian households.
A dim thread of a moon floated toward
the west. Athribis crept to a far part of:
the roof. The wind blew somewhat, but
it did not cool the fever of excitement
felt by him. Within a moment he
might be rich! He might find gold in
these scrolls!
He drew out the scrolls. Surely there
was something firm inside this one! He
felt something! He narrowly scanned
the Christians' papyrus, as he hastily un-
rolled it. His lips were parted with
eagerness, his breath panted into the
heart of the scroll, as he held his face
down that he might see. He unrolled
the papyrus to the end. He sat up, and
drew a breath. His bare feet kicked
viciously at the unrolled papyrus. No
treasure in that first scroll!
He seized the second. With eagerness
all the greater because of his former dis-
appointment, he searched through this
roll, his face bent down till his eyelashes
almost swept the surface of the writing.
In vain! There was nothing!
“These Christians! What cheats they
are!”
He snatched the third roll. With
trembling fingers he unrolled this, the last
of the papyrus scrolls. There must be


6 OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
something hidden! It could not be pos-
sible that he would be disappointed in the
last scroll! Was there no treasure? Not
a thin wedge of gold at the heart of this
papyrus? Not a jewel, not anything that
savored of riches?
Athribis shaking fingers unrolled the
papyrus to its very end. Nothing but the
continuous writing, and the stick on
which the scroll had been rolled! His
limp hand let fall the end of the papyrus.
It descended upon the heap at his feet.
Had he dared, he would have cried aloud
in his disappointment.
But it was not his voice that pierced the
night. Some one had seen him!
“A robber!” cried a woman’s tones.
“A thief! On the roof!”
Athribis leaped to his feet.
the papyri. Alas, alas! they were not
rolled, now! The wind tossed the long
streamers, and as Athribis in fearful haste
snatched them, the breeze blew one scroll
entirely free. It swept from the roof,
and, descending into the court, hung in a
long strip from one of the palms.
The dismayed Athribis cast the other
papyri on the roof, and fled. It was time.
The house was being aroused by the cry
of the woman. With his bare, silent feet,
Athribis sped through the shadows of the
corridors to what he thought a secret
spot, and hid himself. The house re-
sounded with outcries. Feet ran hither
and thither.
Out in the court, hanging all unseen
from a palm-tree, swayed the papyrus, the
written copy of part of the Sacred Book
of the Christians!
$ $ $:
He caught
CHAPTER II.
T was night on the Libyan
desert. The stars glit-
| tered on the rocky high-
| lands that compose so
much of that desert, and
lit faintly, too, the areas
between, where stretches
of sand waited to be shifted by the next
simoon that should blow.
In one spot, at the edge of a rock, there
was a movement of the sand. Out of it
a form slowly rose.
The sand shook near by, and another
person appeared. Another arose, and an-
other, till five had arisen.
The man who had first appeared spoke,
slowly, in a voice that told of exhaus-
tion.
“The Emperor Septimius Severus
reigneth over our land,” he said. “He
hath forbidden that any one should be-
come a Christian. But how shall we
cease to tell men of Christ? How shall
he cease to draw men to himself?”
“Severus hath not been always thus,”
answered another voice, faint with weak-
ness. “Proculus, the Christian, once
saved the life of either Severus or his
child, and the emperor took Proculus into
the palace and treated him kindly, and
chose a Christian nurse for Severus' boy,
Caracalla. When the Romans rose
against the Christians, Severus shielded
our brethren. Oh, that the priests of the
false gods of Egypt had not enticed our
emperor!”
“Alas for him!” responded the first-
voice. “The Emperor Severus worship-
eth the false gods of Egypt, but we serve
the Lord Christ. Farewell to Egypt's


8 OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
The sound died away. Timokles lay
listening for a long time. Once he
thought he heard a creeping sound, but it
was only the wind.
Sleep came upon him at last, and when
he woke it was day. He dared not come
out, but lay there through the torrid
hours, moistening his lips now and then
with a little water from the small, skin
water-pouch he carried.
The sun plunged beneath the horizon
at last, with the usual seeming sudden-
ness observed in the desert. Night was
welcome to Timokles, and he came forth.
The lad's heart was very lonely. He
looked toward the northeast, and remem-
bered his Alexandrian home—his mother,
the brother with whom Timokles whole
life had been bound up, the little sister
Cocce, whom Timokles had last seen play-
ing gleefully with a toy crocodile, and
laughing at its opening mouth.
“O Severus!” whispered Timokles,
“what didst thou see, when thou visitedst
Egypt five years ago, that thou shouldest
decree such evil against the Egyptian
Christians now?”
Softly Timokles went his way in the
dark. He was hungry, yet he dared eat
little of the dried dates he had with him.
When would he find other food?
For a time he looked warily around,
but soon his sense of loneliness overcame
his fear, and he watched more for some
sign of his four friends than for an indi-
cation of an enemy.
“Perhaps some Christian hath escaped,
even as I have,” thought Timokles.
He started.
Outstretched before him lay the figure
of a man! Timokles stood motionless,
till he perceived the man to be asleep.
Then the lad bent over the sleeper to scan
his face. But, as Timokles stooped, he
dimly saw, in the relaxed, open palm of
the man’s hand, a small stone of the tri-
angular form under which the Egyptians
were wont to worship Osiris, Isis, and
Horus. Such are the stones found in the
tombs of the Egyptians.
This was no Christian sleeper that lay
at Timokles’ feet! The lad turned and
fled into the distance.
Through the desert there wailed a thin,
plaintive cry. It was the voice of a night-
wandering jackal.
Timokles was dizzy to faintness, and
staggered as he was driven on. He had
been discovered and taken. His life had
been spared that he might henceforth be a
slave.
“I bear this for thy sake, O Lord, dear
Lord!” murmured the exhausted lad, as
the blows drove him through the pathless
desert.
Again came the plaintive cry of the
wandering jackal. -
“For thy sake!” faintly repeated Tim-
okles.
A few minutes passed, and once more
the jackal's inarticulate voice wailed
through the desert, but Timokles had
fallen, helpless. A man sprang forward,
and the lash fell again and again on Tim-
okles' prostrate body, but the boy did not
stir.
“Now see how the Christian would die
in the desert, and cheat us of all the work
he might do!” grumbled the vexed
voice of a dismounted camel-rider. “He
is young. There are many years of work
in him!” *
“Leave him!” scornfully advised an-


12
OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
petua and Felicitas were put into a net,
and allowed to be attacked by a wild cow.
Then the two martyrs gave each other the
kiss of peace, and a gladiator killed
them.”
Timokles paused once more.
response.
“I remember hearing one thing more
concerning Vivia Perpetua,” ventured
Timokles. “In prison she had had a
vision. She thought she saw a golden
ladder stretching up to heaven, and on
either side of the ladder were swords, and
spears, and knives. At the foot of the
ladder lay a dragon. Perpetua thought
in her vision that she was commanded to
mount the ladder. She set her foot on
the dragon’s head, saying, “He will not
harm me, in the name of Jesus Christ,’
and went up the ladder. At the top she
found a large garden, and the Good Shep-
herd met her.”
Pentaur sprang to his feet, and put out
a shaking hand.
“No more!” he cried. “Oh, no more!
No more! O Vivia, Vivia!”
With a groan of anguish, Pentaur
looked upward, as if behind the desert's
sky he might see again that youthful face,
the face of that sweet Christian with
whom he had been acquainted from child-
hood and whom he had last seen dying in
Carthage's amphitheatre. Little did Tim-
okles know how the memory of Vivia Per-
petua's death hour had haunted Pentaur.
They had been children together in Car-
thage, and the martyrdom that Vivia Per-
petua had suffered in her young woman-
hood had impressed Pentaur more than
all the agony he had seen other Chris-
tians endure. When she gave up her life,
he had clinched his hands, and muttered
Still no
fierce words against Carthage's gods,
words he afterward trembled to recall.
He served those gods now, yet he revered
the memory of the Christian, Vivia Per-
petua, as of one of the holiest of women.
Timokles ventured no further words.
Pentaur summoned a slave, and com-
mitted to his care the young Christian.
The memory of Vivia Perpetua might
pierce the merchant's soul, but would not
avail for Timokles’ release.
Bound to another slave to prevent es-
cape, Timokles traveled with the company
that night, and before morning the oasis
of Ammon, “Oasis Ammonia,” was
reached. It was a green and shady val-
ley, several miles long and three broad, in
the midst of sand-hills. Here, over five
hundred years before, had come the
founder of Alexandria, Alexander the
Great, to visit the oracle of Ammon, the
god figured to be like a man having the
head and horns of a ram. The statue of
Amun - Ra had then been loaded with
jewels, through the reverence of the
merchants who halted their caravans at
this oasis, and who left their treasures in
the strong rooms of the temple, while
resting the camels under the palm trees.
All this Timokles remembered, as he
stood beside the steaming Fountain of
the Sun in the oasis, and watched the
bubbles that constantly rose to the surface
of that famous body of water.
“O branded-cheeked cutter of dykes,
art thou in very truth a Christian?” con-
temptuously asked the slave that guarded
Timokles.
“I am, O friend,” gently answered the
lad.
“Ill shalt thou fare in this oasis, then,”
threatened the slave.


OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
13
Timokles’ eyes wandered over the land-
scape. The surface of the oasis was undu-
lating, and on the north it rose into high,
limestone hills. Date palms abounded
near by Timokles. He could see the in-
habitants of the village, and the wander-
ers from farther, more isolated homes.
The oasis was composed of several discon-
nected tracts, and Timokles heard that in
the western part of the oasis there was a
lake.
Suddenly the lad became aware of a
number of angrily excited voices. At a
short distance stood Pentaur the mer-
chant, surrounded by a group of men, but
what he said was lost in the confusion of
tongues.
At length the merchant made a careless
gesture, and walked away.
“Take the Christian!” shouted fierce
voices.
A man ran straight from the group to
Timokles. Without a word the man
seized the lad. Other hands assisted, and
Timokles was hurried away from the vil-
lage, past palm trees and resting camels,
toward the north. Breathlessly the men
dragged him a long distance over the ris-
ing ground. No word of explanation was
uttered. Timokles was swept along, till
at length the silent, determined company
came to a solitary, ruined building.
Timokles was pulled over the fallen
stones, across what had once been the
court of the dwelling. Then the com-
pany reached a spot where part of the
house was still standing. Here a barred
door shut off further progress, but two of
the men with great effort opened the en-
trance.
All grasping hands fell from Timokles.
The company waited.
“Go in, O Christian,” commanded a
man. “Others have gone before thee!”
Timokles looked fixedly forward. Be-
fore him was a hall-way, leading into the
portion of the dwelling-house yet remain-
1ng.
Timokles stepped forward. Eager
hands pushed him quickly into the hall
and shut the door behind him. He heard
the sound of bars that fastened the door
securely at his back. He was alone.
What building was this?
He felt here and there in the dark hall.
A peculiar odor floated in the heavy air.
Timokles hesitated, fearing he knew not
what. His eyes could not pierce the deep
gloom.
Resolving to see whither the hall led,
he groped on, wondering if this were the
place in which the inhabitants of the
oasis were wont to confine prisoners.
He came to a door. It opened readily
to his touch, and he passed into what had
once been a large dwelling-room. He
stepped softly forward, noting the empti-
ness and desolation of the place. The pe-
culiar odor of the air was more noticeable
than before, but it was not till he had
reached the middle of the darkened
room, and stood gazing about him, that
he perceived at the farther end, in the
shadows, a space of yellowish fawn color,
and then saw manifold dark spots, also,
that shaped themselves into a large, liv-
ing form.
Timokles drew one quick breath. He
softly retreated. Keeping his eyes fixed
on the huge, sleeping leopard, Timokles
put out his hand to take hold of the door
through which he had come. His grop-
ing fingers found nothing but the blank
wall!


OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
15
once as he touched the surface of the wall,
seeking for some hidden spring, he
thought he heard behind him the leop-
ard’s soft footsteps, but, turning hastily,
found himself mistaken.
At length, in his search, Timokles
slightly stumbled over some lumps of
mud that had fallen from the roof. The
crunching sound partly aroused the leop-
ard. With a long - drawn sigh, the
drowsy creature stirred and rose slowly to
his feet, stretching himself. He did not
yet see Timokles.
How beautiful the spotted hide was!
Timokles, watching with steady eyes for
the instant when he should be discovered,
had a fleeting memory of that leopard-
skin that covered a seat at home in Alex-
andria. He would never sit there again.
Even in these dread moments of sus-
pense, there flashed across Timokles' mind
the memory of the saying of the martyr
Ignatius, bishop of Antioch, who was sent
to Rome to fight with wild beasts: “I am
God’s wheat; the teeth of the fierce beasts
will but bruise me, that I may be changed
into the fine bread of my God.”
It was the moment of discovery! The
leopard had been standing, looking
around half sleepily. Now his great eyes
spied the lad.
--
CHAPTER IV.
HE beast gave a quick,
A purring sound of satisfac-
| tion. His tail began to
sweep to and fro. His
hungry eyes were eager.
Timokles stood quiet.
The leopard walked slowly forward. Tim-
okles retreated, still facing the leopard.
They passed down one wall. They
turned, and proceeded along another.
They turned again, and passed the third.
Now they turned, and this wall was the
one that Timokles had not before had op-
portunity to examine closely, because of
the leopard's proximity to it. But now
he dared not look from the leopard.
“Oh!” whispered Timokles' pale lips,
“What shall I do!”
Suddenly life seemed sweeter to him
than ever before. He must not fall into
the jaws of this fearful beast! To be
caught in this death-trap, and be torn to
pieces! It must not be! He did not re-
gret that he had avowed his belief in
Christ. He would do such a thing again,
if necessary. No less, there grew within
him a determination to ward off this beast
as long as possible.
“Oh, Lord, help me!
whispered Timokles. -
They turned another corner, and once
more the two enemies proceeded down the
treacherous wall through which Timokles
had entered the room. Even as he re-
treated, Timokles with a last hope kept
one hand pushing against this wall. But
they reached the other corner, and turned,
without any revelation of an opening.
The leopard walked leisurely, but steadily.
Softly the footsteps of Timokles and the
beast sounded in the room, one footfall
answering another. Backward, backward,
went Timokles—now a turn of a corner-
backward, backward. Another corner.
This was the wall by which the leopard
had slept. Backward, backward! The
lad could not pause, but now, as he neared
the end of the wall and looked up once
beyond the leopard, Timokles saw, in the
dark corner that he had passed, what he
!”
Deliver me


16
OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
had not before noticed when near enough
to see it, as he had not before lifted his
eyes from the leopard. In that farther,
dark corner there was a darker line that
marked the wall for some distance from
the roof.
Timokles dimly perceived that the line
was part of one of the old palm branches
that, years ago, had been laid across the
split date tree that formed the roof’s
beam. At the time of the making of the
roof, the palm branches had no doubt
been securely fastened, and now this por-
tion of a branch which hung down was
still attached to the top of the outer wall
of the building, but had ceased to be con-
nected with the central split date tree
beam, and had fallen inward, hanging
near the wall. Did the palm branch hang
low enough so that, if he jumped, he
could grasp it?
The portion of the old palm branch
was a slender thing. It would not have
borne the leopard's weight. Probably
the animal had tried to clutch the branch
before now. The lower end might be
frayed by his claws.
“Will the branch bear my weight?”
questioned Timokles.
He dared not rush across the room, and
leap toward the hanging palm branch.
He felt certain that if he should turn his
back, the leopard would spring immedi-
ately. How quickly the beast was com-
ing! Timokles' head whirled. He was
dizzy.
Suddenly the leopard growled. He
crouched as if to spring, and Timokles,
with a wild cry, fled across the room
toward the palm branch. After him
rushed the leopard. -
Timokles jumped. He grasped the
palm branch with one hand. The other
brought a handful of frayed bark down.
He caught hold of the branch with both
hands just as the leopard sprang into the
all".
Timokles swung aside as far as pos-
sible. A great mass of mud, dislodged
from the roof, fell, smiting alike boy and
beast, enveloping them in a cloud of
blinding dust. The lad clung to the
branch with desperate strength, though
his support was swaying to and fro. The
claws of one of the leopard’s paws raked
Timokles’ arm, and then the beast
dropped to the floor.
The leopard's angry cries stunned
Timokles' ears. He clutched the palm
branch tightly. From the swaying mo-
tion and the sound of a slight, though
ominous, cracking, Timokles doubted if
his support were reliable.
The rage of the leopard was frightful.
He seemed beside himself. He leaped
and rushed hither and thither, as he saw
Timokles climbing higher.
The boy shook with exhaustion. His
right arm bled from the wounds of the
leopard's claws. He was alarmed lest the
old palm branch should break or should
loosen from the wall. If he once fell
back into the leopard's jaws, there would
be a swift end to this skirmishing.
Timokles looked down at the eager
eyes. Then he scanned the palm branch
narrowly. It did not hang parallel with
the wall, but stood out a little from it,
and Timokles thought that the branch
was partly broken, up next the roof. He
hardly dared climb much higher for fear
of breaking it entirely off. So he lay
along the branch, clasping it with his
arms, and shut his eyes. He heard the
*


- - T ~~ -
"- - -
- -
- - -
-
-
- -
-
-
- - -
-
The lad clung to the branch with desperate strength.—See page 16.
*


OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
19
The man spoke, and, by his tones, Tim-
okles recognized Pentaur the merchant.
“Oh, Christian!” cried Pentaur into
the depth of the building, “livest thou?
Ill shall I fare at the judgment of Osiris
for this day's deed!”
There was silence.
Perhaps, from the darkness of the room
below, Pentaur could see the shining of
the brute's eyes, or hear his uneasy step-
ping to and fro. Something sent a shud-
der of horror through the man.
“I have taken pleasure in righteous-
ness,” he protested. “I have heretofore
done no injury to men who honored their
gods. Oh, Osiris, I have been righteous!”
There was an awful horror in the man's
voice. Timokles was moved with compas-
sion for his former owner, and yet the lad
kept silent.
“Shall I speak to him?” Timokles
questioned himself. “If he shall be be-
set in some other place by those who hate
Christians, will he not abandon me again
to my enemies?”
The merchant waited a moment longer.
“Oh, Osiris!” then he wailed again, “I
have been righteous! He was only a
Christian!”
The merchant sprang up, and sped
toward the edge of the roof where he had
first appeared. His foot plunged to its
ankle through a weak place in the mats.
He shrieked aloud at the fear of falling
through into the room below. Hurrying
forward, he disappeared down the side of
the building. Timokles heard the man
running among the fallen stones. The
footsteps grew faint, and ceased to be
audible.
Timokles drew a breath of thankful-
ness. He crept and felt in the dark for a
few, scattered dates that he had before
noticed lying near the roof’s edge, the
fruit having fallen from a date palm and
having lain there till nearly as dry as
shards. But there was still nutriment
left in the dates, and, having eaten noth-
ing since morning, he gnawed the fruit.
He could not descend by the date
palm's trunk, for that was too far from
the roof to be reached by him. The
palm's straight trunk shot up twenty
cubits above the roof’s level, and, after
the manner of the date palm's growth,
bore no branches, such as the doum palm
has.
“How did Pentaur climb?” thought
Timokles.
The lad passed to the other edge, where
the merchant had disappeared. Here, a
little lower as yet than the roof, he found
a group of young doum palms, the
branching stems of which variety of trees
he had noticed here and there in forest-
like clumps throughout the oasis. Tim-
okles found no difficulty in descending
with the doum palms help, and he re-
flected that perhaps food for the leopard
was often brought up this way, and
thrown to the creature through the roof's
holes. No one had come to-day with
food, because the Christian had been sent
to keep the leopard company!
The village, some distance away, was
quiet. Scarcely had he gone a score of
steps before he saw a star reflected in a
spring at his feet. Timokles dropped
upon his knees, and with thankfulness
drank of the refreshing water. How he
had longed for some, as he had lain on
the roof under the parching sun this day!
He bathed his scratched arm, which had
ceased to bleed but still felt very sore.


OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
21
maker, the hippopotamus grew in hideous
perfection. Helplessly Timokles watched
the process. The mouth of the hippopot-
amus - goddess was almost shut, but the
teeth of the lower jaw were visible, and it
was upon their making, as well as upon
that of the wide nostrils, that the young
man was expending his skill. The huge
ears of the goddess descended on the fore-
feet, which were placed on the sides of
the upright animal, as a man’s arms hang
by his sides when he walks, and from each
of the hippopotamus' arms there de-
scended to the level of her feet the Egyp-
tian emblem of protection, called “Sa.”
As Timokles looked at those emblems
of protection, a new thought grew within
him.
“Women will worship that hippopota-
mus-goddess and think themselves safe!
I worship the God of heaven, and yet I
am afraid! Shall I not put as much
trust in the delivering, protecting power
of my God, as the idol-worshiper will put
in this hippopotamus?”
There came the sound of hurried foot-
steps, and a young girl ran by the black
- tent, and spoke gayly to the woman.
From the resemblance of the maiden to
the worker on the hippopotamus, Tim-
okles had no doubt she was his sister. But
when the girl, turning her brilliant,
laughing face toward Timokles, first saw
him, her dark eyes dilated with a look of
startled horror.
Timokles knew, as well as if she had
spoken, that she was one of those who
had seen him dragged to the leopard's
home. He looked beseechingly at her
now, as she stood transfixed, the shocked
expression deepening in her eyes. If she
should say a word! Timokles could feel
She had thought him
She knew him! If she should say
himself tremble.
dead!
so!
The silent appeal of Timokles’ be-
seeching face seemed to find its answer for
the moment. The girl turned toward the
work of the idol-makers. No one beside
Timokles had noticed her frightened
gaze. Now, with assumed carelessness,
she watched her brother's busy fingers,
yet Timokles felt that her thoughts were
of him. She had only to speak; to say,
“This is the Christian who was thrown to
the leopard,” and father and son would
drop their work, spring upon him, drag
him back all the way to the building from
which he had escaped, and toss him,
bound and helpless, to the leopard.
It was not till nearly dark that the idol-
makers ceased their work. Having eaten
dried dates and barley bread, the father
and the son, first tightening Timokles’
thongs, went away in the direction of the
far distant village. During their ab-
sence, the girl came to Timokles, bring-
ing him water and dried dates.
“Tell me, O Christian,” she whispered
in the tongue of Egypt, “art thou not
he?”
She needed not to make the question
more explicit.
“I am, O maiden,” answered Timokles.
The girl's awe-struck eyes searched his
face.
“Did thy God deliver thee?” she ques-
tioned, whispering still.
“Yea,” replied Timokles reverently
and truly. “Yea, O maiden, my God de-
livered me from the leopard.”
The girl looked alarmed.
back.
“Did he come to thee?” she asked in a
She drew


22
OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
terrified whisper. “O Christian, no one
ever before came back from the House of
the Leopard! O Christian, I am afraid of
thy God!”
There was real terror in her voice.
Timokles was moved with compassion.
He leaned forward, eager to explain to her
the truth. What should he say?
“He is a great God, the only God!”
whispered Timokles, reverently. “O
maiden, he is not like an idol! He is the
only God. Thou canst not see him, yet
he seeth and loveth thee. Speak to him,
and he will hear. He loveth us. He
sent his Son to die for our sins. For that
Son’s sake, O maiden, he will blot out our
sins, if we entreat him. O maiden, pray
no more to idols! Lo, I tell you of the
true God!”
He hardly knew whether she under-
stood or not. She gazed at him as if half
comprehending his words, and then the
fact of his having returned from the
House of the Leopard seemed to over-
whelm every other thought, and she mur-
mured, “O Christian, I am afraid of thy
God and thee!”
She fled back to the black tent.
Timokles’ bound hands made but awk-
ward work of eating. He could hear the
voices of the mother and the daughter
talking in the mother's tongue, but what
they said he knew not. Would the father
or the son learn something about their
captive?
The voices hushed within the tent.
The hours of sleep came on.
The night had grown black. There
were footsteps audible.
“They have come back!” thought Tim-
okles.
The father and the son had returned,
and with them came another man. Tim-
okles heard and understood something of
what was said at the tent’s door in the
dark.
“If I may but see his face, I shall know
whether he hath been here before,” de-
clared the new voice eagerly. “I have
seen all who have come to our village.”
“Thou shalt see him in the morning,”
impatiently answered the maker of the
hippopotamus. “Knowest thou not that
on this day I cannot make a flame by
which thou shouldest see? It is the
eleventh day of Tybi, concerning which
it is commanded by the priests of Egypt,
“Approach not any flame on this day; Ra
is there for the purpose of destroying the
wicked.’”
“I fear no flame!” muttered the new
voice discontentedly. “Let me but see
the stranger!”
“There shall no flame be kindled!”
burst out in wrath the superstitious
father. “Bide thou till morning! Then
shalt thou see the branded one.”
Silence followed. The discontented
villager did not dare say more. After a
short time, the quietness of slumber
seemed to envelop the black tent.
Concealed by the dark, Timokles en-
deavored with his teeth to loosen the
bonds of his wrists. After prolonged at-
tempts, he undid one knot, and by succes-
sive wearisome trials he at length entirely
released his left hand.
Timokles was near the black tent. It
seemed to him that he heard the faintest.
stir within. But a long silence followed,
and he thought he had been mistaken.
Timokles tugged at the thongs of his
right hand. His arm was lame from the
leopard's claws, and he could not reach


OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
23
the knots that held him. He struggled
mightily, till at last he lay exhausted, no
nearer free than before.
“I cannot do it!” he despaired.
He must wait for dawn, for recognition,
and for death, such death as was thought
meet for a Christian. Timokles shut his
eyes, and prayed.
“Be with me, be with me, O Lord!”
besought Timokles.
Again within the tent he conjectured
there might be a faint stir.
“My enemy cometh!” he thought.
But there was silence. Timokles
waited, yet there came no sound.
Remembrances of what he had heard
concerning former martyrs crowded upon
him. He thought of Pothinus, the ninety-
years-old bishop of Lyons, who, in answer
to the legate's question, “Who is the God
of the Christians?” boldly answered, “If
thou art worthy, thou shalt know,” and
was tortured so severely that he died in
prison. Timokles remembered hearing of
Ponticus, the boy who, in the same perse-
cution, bore all the tortures unflinchingly,
though he was but fifteen years old. And
Blandina, the maiden, who, tortured,
bleeding, mangled, still persisted in her
declaration, “I am a Christian! Among
us no wickedness is committed,” came to
Timokles' mind. His thoughts turned to
the martyr Christians of four years ago at
Carthage, and he remembered the words
of one of those Christians: “We will die
joyfully for Christ our Lord.”
Timokles prayed long and fervently.
His heart went back to his beloved Alex-
andrian home. Heaven would be sweet,
but would his dear ones ever know the
only way there? Would they ever accept
Jesus Christ as their Savior?
“O Lord, help Heraklas to know thee!”
prayed Timokles with dropping tears.
Nothing did Timokles know of the roll
of the Book of the Christians, the papyrus
that had swung from the palm tree in the
court at home!
Something made him turn his head.
He started, for he saw, stretched out
toward him from beneath the black tent,
an arm. No more was visible. The
black tent descended to the very ground.
Looking more closely, he discerned in the
hand a knife. For an instant, Timokles
thought his enemy was upon him. But it
was a small hand, and it was the handle
of the knife, not its blade, that was offered
to him!
Timokles stretched out his one free
hand, and took the knife. The arm dis-
appeared beneath the black tent so
swiftly and so noiselessly that Timokles
would almost have thought that the sight
of the arm had been an illusion had he
not held the knife in his left hand. He
remembered the girl's words, “O Chris-
tian, I am afraid of thy God and thee!”
“Would that I might have told her
more of Him!” wished the young Egyp-
tian, as he awkwardly cut at his bonds
with the knife.
He was free again! He crept softly
away after pushing the knife’s handle
back under the edge of the black tent.
He felt that in the secrecy of the tent one
listened who knew he was free.
“Thou didst put it into her heart to
save me!” whispered Timokles with a rev-
erent look at the sky.
He knew that as soon as his escape
should be discovered there would be in-
stant pursuit, therefore he sought to
travel as swiftly as possible.


Heraklas unrolled the writing and read in eager haste.—See page 24.
s",


26 OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
back to reading it. At the end of the
second month, Heraklas read with even
more eagerness than at first. Here was
something that even the maxims of Ptah-
hotep had not attained. Never had Her-
aklas seen such a book as this Gospel of
John. Its words followed him when he
was not reading. Why should the words
of Jesus of Nazareth cling to one's mem-
ory with so persistent a force? Was it
true that “never man spake as this
man ’’?
Even when Heraklas passed outside the
city streets, and walked the northern
cliffs beside the sea, he was constrained to
remember that it was along these craggy
places that, men said, a century and a
half ago, Mark, the first Christian apostle
to Alexandria, had been dragged by cords,
at the time of the feast of the god
Serapis. Then, tradition said, there had
arisen a dreadful tempest of hail and
lightning, that destroyed the murderous
heathen.
Was the Christian God greater than
Serapis, the great deity of Egypt?
Such thinking sent Heraklas back
again to study the papyrus of John's Gos-
pel. And now Athribis wearied, waiting
for Heraklas reading to end. -
Suddenly Heraklas, attracted perhaps
by the silent force that lies in a human
gaze, lifted his head from his reading,
and glanced upward. Athribis had not
time to start aside. The eyes of the two
met in a long, piercing gaze! Heraklas
sprang to his feet. The papyrus fell on
the loose brick beside him.
Athribis head vanished instantly, and
Heraklas, snatching the papyrus, wound
it closely, and thrust it into his garments.
He hastily replaced the loose brick. No
safe place for the papyrus would the hole
be, hereafter.
When he met Athribis afterwards in a
corridor, Heraklas felt his heart beat more
quickly against the hidden roll. But the
lad was stern in outward semblance.
“Athribis!” he said.
The slave bent before the lad.
“How wast thou where I saw thee?”
demanded Heraklas.
“I was attending to the salted quail.
Thou knowest they are drying on the
roof,” explained Athribis, meekly.
Heraklas felt compelled to accept the
excuse. There were quail drying, accord-
ing to the custom of lower Egypt.
“But what was it that I read in his
face, as he looked down at me?” Heraklas
asked himself.
Thenceforward, unspoken, yet felt as
surely as though expressed, there existed
in Heraklas’ mind a constant suspicion of
Athribis.
Heraklas carried the papyrus roll with
him, day and night. Well did he know
the danger, but he said to himself that he
would not be dictated to by a servant.
That was the ostensible reason he gave
himself for not immediately burning the
roll. In reality, he knew that the words
of the Christians' Book had pierced his
soul. He dared not burn the book. He
stood before its searching words a con-
victed sinner.
The suspicion of veiled surveillance
that haunted Heraklas made him cautious
of reading his papyrus at home. He
sought places to read it abroad. Hidden
among the crags beside the sea, or in the
vines on the banks of Lake Mareotis, Her-
aklas read, and waged the soul-struggle
that had risen within him.


OUT OF THE TRIANGLE. 27
One day Heraklas had hidden himself
among the northern crags beside the great
sea. His eyes were bent upon his roll.
He had been reading John’s record of the
conversation between Christ and the man
who was born blind.
“Jesus said unto him, Dost thou be-
lieve on the Son of God?”
The man whose eyes Christ had
opened, answered and said, “Who is he,
Lord, that I might believe on him?”
“Dost thou believe on the Son of
God?”
It seemed to Heraklas that there came
to him, also, Christ's solemn question.
With awe-struck lips, Heraklas whispered,
out of a heart that craved its answer,
“Who is he, Lord, that I might believe
On him?”
Heraklas bent above his roll.
swer of the Lord was there.
that talketh with thee.”
The lad dropped his papyrus, and cov-
ered his face. He bowed in awe. For a
long time he knelt there, pouring out his
soul in prayer—but not to Egypt's gods.
And that which is written of the blind
man was fulfilled in Heraklas, also—
“And he said, Lord, I believe. And he
worshiped him.”
When Heraklas rose from his knees,
the sun was high in mid-heaven. It was
the time at home when his mother would
burn myrrh to the sun. But no prayer
to Re or hymn to Horus escaped Her-
aklas' lips. How should he, who rejoiced
in the knowledge of sins forgiven, pray
more to false gods?
A holy awe and a great joy wrapped
his soul. The burden of sin that had op-
pressed him, the hopeless burden which
The an-
“It is He
.* .
- **
had not ceased to cause Heraklas misery
even when he made offerings to Isis and
poured forth prayers to Serapis, was
gone, gone at the touch of Jesus.
Plucking from his girdle his carnelian
buckle, that signified to an Egyptian the
blood of Isis, said to wash away the sins
of the wearer, Heraklas leaned forward,
and flung the rosy ornament far into the
white foam of the waves below. He
could not wear that heathen sign, even
though his mother had given the orna-
ment to him.
“O Isis,” murmured Heraklas, as he
lost sight of the carnelian buckle within
the waves, “I care not for thy blood! I
know whose blood hath washed away my
stain.”
With reverent rejoicing, he concealed
his papyrus and turned homeward.
He passed into the great city. A
woman was worshiping before a statue of
the god Chonsu, the moon. Heraklas
went by quickly, making no sign of rever-
ence. Glancing back, he saw the woman
gazing after him.
A little farther on stood a statue of
Anubis. Other men, as they passed,
gave homage, but Heraklas did not turn
his head toward the idol. He noted, in
the stalls and in the shops, the altars and
little idols. When he next went to pur-
chase anything, must he do reverence?
Heraklas met a beggar and dropped a coin
into his hand.
“Isis and Osiris bless thee!” wished the
suppliant.
Heraklas' lips parted to answer. Should
he, who had been blessed of the Lord,
seem to accept the blessing of idols? But
the beggar turned to another giver, and
Heraklas hurried on his way.


28
OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
Before he could reach home, a sacred
procession came in sight. Already Her-
aklas could plainly see the leopard-skin
that fitted over the linen robes of the
Egyptian high priest who was coming.
Twelve or sixteen inferior priests walked
beside the superior one. The high
priest's lock of hair, pendant on one side
of his head, became more and more plain
to Heraklas with every step of the proces-
sion.
“They carry the shrine of the sacred
beetle of the sun,” suspected Heraklas.
“I cannot meet them!”
He turned, and dashed down the first
opening that presented itself. The pass-
age led him utterly out of his way.
“But better so,” meditated Heraklas,
“ than that I should have met that skin-
dressed priest!”
He stopped an instant. His circuitous
way had led him in sight of a spot where
he had once seen the Christian woman,
Marcella, and her daughter Potamiaena,
passing on their way to martyrdom. How
awful a form of martyrdom was it that
Alexandria visited upon that beautiful
Christian daughter! Gradually, hot,
scalding pitch was poured over her body,
in order that she might endure the ut-
most torture possible.
Heraklas looked around him at the
proud, beautiful city.
“O Alexandria, Alexandria!” he whis-
pered, “in thee is found the blood of the
saints!”
For a moment the thought of such a
death, as a Christian's punishment, over-
came him. Yet he remembered that it
was through Potamiaena's martyrdom
that the soldier, Basilides, was led to be-
come a Christian also. He refused to
take a pagan oath, and was brought to
martyrdom.
When Heraklas reached home, he was
trembling. His short journey had been
freighted with silent meaning.
-e-
- CHAPTER VII.
*
W0 men passed out of
the Gate of the Sun,
the northern gate of
Alexandria, and came to
the docks that bordered
- the Great Port. The gaze
of one man wandered from the promon-
tory of Locrias on the east to the isle of
Pharos on the north, and followed back
the dyke that connected that island with
the docks and marked the division be-
tween the Great Port and Alexandria's
other harbor, the Port of Eunostus.
“When that ship saileth,” remarked
the man, indicating a large vessel moored
in the Great Port, “some Christians go
as ballast!”
“How knowest thou?” asked the other.
The former speaker smiled.
“Thou didst not see a little procession
that came through the Gate of Necropolis
last evening,” he conjectured. “Some
Christians brought in from the desert.
This ship carrieth them to Rome, to the
lions of the arena.”
An unbelieving spirit looked from the
other man’s eyes.
“When the Christians see that ship
waiting for them, they will recant,” he
prophesied. “A man doth not readily
take shipping for the port of a lion's
mouth!”
“Thou dost not know the Christians,”


OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
29
asserted the other. “They are an ob-
stinate people. Our Lord Severus know-
eth that right well. See! He hath for-
bidden all public worship for the Chris-
tians. Their great school here hath been
scattered. And yet, Christians remain
Christians still! It is incredible! Thou
didst speak without knowing what hath
happened. The Christians have already
seen the ship. They are on it! Not one
hath recanted. But the ship saileth not
for two days yet, and now the men on
board make merry. Hearest thou not
their voices?”
A slave passed so near as almost to
brush the speaker's apparel, yet the man
paid no heed.
But Athribis had heard. For what else
but to hear had he this morning stolen
down to the docks? He knew of the lit-
tle company of Christians that had been
brought captive to Alexandria, for a slave
belonging to another household had told
Athribis secretly, “He who was once thy
young master—the Christian, Timokles—
hath been brought in from the desert and
goeth on the ship!”
In his heart Athribis made answer,
“The ship needeth another passenger—
my young master, the Christian, Her-
aklas!”
But, as yet, Athribis hardly dared say
so, for he had no certain proof to bring of
Heraklas Christianity. If only he could
find decisive proof, and bring it before
the authorities, what a reward he might
hope to have given him!
Yet never, from the day when Her-
aklas spied Athribis watching the reading
of the roll, had the slave, with all his con-
triving, been able again to catch sight of
the papyrus. It was no longer kept in its
secret hole behind the bricks. Athribis
had looked.
Where else had he not looked? He
had hunted the house through as thor-
oughly as he had been able, snatching a
hasty opportunity here and there. If
only he could lay hands on that very papy-
rus! If he could have time to show it to
somebody who could read! Deeply had
Athribis regretted that he had not been
more cautious in his first spying. But
now, what hope was there? Athribis had
set some of the other slaves of the house
to watch, but they had discovered nothing
save the old papyri that had been in the
house for years. Some of the slaves could
read, and they were sure this was so.
Out on the docks, Athribis stared now
at the large mast of the ship, and at the
ship's painted eye, and at the sculptured
figure of the goddess Isis on the visible
side of the ship's bow, both eye and fig-
ure, as Athribis knew, being duplicated
on the bow’s other side. A small boat
belonging to the large ship lay floating in
the water, but connected with the ship by
a rope.
Athribis dared not tarry longer.
hastened home again.
Closer than ever, as he went his morn-
ing round of duties, did Athribis watch,
but Heraklas was invisible.
“He is not at home. He went away
three hours ago,” cautiously signaled the
slave of the threshold to Athribis.
The slave of the threshold, like Ath-
ribis, hated Christians. There was a se-
cret agreement between the two men that
if Athribis ever should gain any reward
for betraying Heraklas to the authorities,
the reward should be evenly divided.
Half should belong to the slave of the
He


30
OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
threshold, in consideration of his having
been apparently asleep at times when
Athribis went out without permission.
The hours went by and Heraklas did
not come, to be spied upon.
That morning, Heraklas had gone out
to seek some Christians whom he knew.
Two weeks ago he had sought them for
the first time to tell them that he wished
to join their number. Greatly had he
and they rejoiced together.
“Witness a good confession, as did thy
brother Timokles,” an old man admon-
ished Heraklas.
Almost daily, since then, Heraklas had
sought some Christian who taught him
more perfectly the way of the Lord.
To-day, as Heraklas sat in a house,
secretly studying another portion of the
Book than was written on his own papy-
rus, a Christian woman came hastily to
him, and told him the tidings concerning
his brother.
“He hath assuredly come!” affirmed
the woman. “Vitruvius saw him carried
to the ship with other Christians!”
The before eagerly - read papyrus
dropped from Heraklas hand. He grew
weak and faint. The woman looked at
him pityingly.
A wild impulse seized Heraklas. He
rushed from the house to the street. His
brother, his Timokles, back again! Back
from the desert! Back in his city-home
of Alexandria! And not to be allowed
to draw one free breath, to come back to
the house, to see Cocce, to see him, Her-
aklas! What could be done! What
could be done! To be taken to Rome to
meet the lions!
Heraklas ran toward the northern gate.
He bethought himself of caution, and
tried to go with his usual step. He
passed through the Gate of the Sun, and
by discreet inquiries discovered which
ship the Christians were on. Then he
hid himself near one of the docks, and
watched the ship.
Two days! One of the days partly gone
already! Timokles would go away never
to return, surely, this time.
“I also am a Christian!” cried Heraklas
aloud.
Only the swaying of the water against
the dock answered him. He sprang up
and walked out on the dyke that stretched
toward the isle of Pharos. Opposite him,
the ship showed still more plainly than
from the docks. Heraklas made out the
prayer inscribed on the vessel: “Do
thou, O Isis, preserve in safety this ship
over the blue waves!”
“O Timokles! Timokles!” cried Her-
aklas, as he stretched his hands toward the
ship.
Heraklas walked the dyke till the burn-
ing sun of noon forced him to find shel-
ter. He went back to his hiding-place at
the docks. He watched and waited
through the long hours.
At length the day departed. When the
darkness covered the surface of the har-
bor, Heraklas rose and girt about him the
ample dress he wore, of fine linen, that
descended to his feet.
He slipped softly into the water, and
swam toward the ship. Reaching the
small boat that floated by the ship, Her-
aklas drew himself up into the little craft.
He listened to the lap of water on the
side of the ship. A sudden joy shot
through Heraklas that they were so near
together, Timokles and himself. It was
for this he had stayed outside Alexandria


“What is it, my mother?” he asked gently.—See page 37.


36
OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
sought the mother with tears. “Oh, tell
me! I cannot lose them! What is my
home to me without them? I will not
betray any Christian! Only tell me, and
let me see my sons again!”
Then the messenger saw in the mother's
eyes that she spoke truthfully, but he
said, “How can I trust thee?”
“I swear by Isis!” implored the mother.
“Nay,” returned the messenger gravely,
“it is not meet that a Christian should
bind any one by a heathen oath.”
The mother cried out, and besought
him, declaring that she would depart
from Alexandria, if her sons could not
dwell there.
“They cannot, except they risk death,”
stated the messenger. “Thou knowest
Timokles’ life is forfeit. Knowest thou
not how many Christians have fled, and
what torments Christians who have been
brought here from all Egypt have suf-
fered? Wouldst thou thy two sons should
suffer in like manner?”
“I will go into exile with them,” an-
swered the woman. -
“How wilt thou leave this, thy beau-
tiful home?” asked the messenger.
“I will leave it in the care of my kins-
men,” she replied.
“It may never be thine again,” warned
the messenger. -
“Hear me, O Christian!” cried the
mother, passionately. “I know not the
Christians’ God, but the Emperor Severus
shall not take away my sons! I care not
if he takes my home!”
“Come then with us,” answered the
messenger. “I trust thee! May the
Christian’s God cause thee to know Him!”
That day there passed through Alexan-
dria's streets a chariot drawn by two
naught.
mules. Seated in the chariot a lady and
a child rode in state. The charioteer
was only a small lad.
Out of the city by the eastern gate, as
they had passed so many times before,
Cocce and her mother rode. Who would
hinder so devout worshipers of the gods
from taking a pleasure drive? Alexan-
dria knew nothing yet of Heraklas de-
fection.
When Alexandria was some distance be-
hind, the lady spoke.
“Stop the chariot,” she commanded.
The young lad obeyed. The woman
and child descended to the road.
“I would walk,” said the woman.
“Drive thou home again, and say thou
See, here is something for thee.”
She gave him some money.
The lad did as he was bidden. The
mother of Heraklas had known whom to
choose for her charioteer this day.
The chariot receded. It passed out of
sight. A distance away from the road, a
man rose and beckoned. It was the mes-
senger of the morning, disguised as a
beggar.
They went northerly toward the sea.
The mother's straining eyes looked ever
forward. How if the Christians had been
discovered! How long the way was!
A faintness seized upon her as they
neared the sea. What if her sons were
not there? She hurried forward.
The sea splashed on the rocks at her
feet. The salt spray blew in her face.
They were not here! They were not here!
Out of the recesses of the rocks, some
forms arose, and Heraklas, as in a dream,
saw his mother, his proud mother — she
who had burned incense to the sun, she
who had once held the sacred sistrum in


38
OUT OF THE TRIANGLE.
overcome by the glad tidings.
more can I ask of him than this!”
The sun sank, and Heraklas raised for
the little company the evening hymn of
the early church. His mother's voice
rose clear and sweet, as all sang:
“What
“Children, praise the Lord,
Praise ye the name of the Lord.
We praise thee, we hymn thee, we bless thee,
Because of the greatness of thy glory.
O Lord the King, the Father of Christ,
Of the spotless Lamb who taketh away
The sin of the world,
To thee belongeth praise,
To thee belongeth song,
To thee belongeth glory, to the God
And Father, through the Son, in the Spirit,
To the Most Holy, unto ages of ages.
Amen.”
However long their exile might be,
whatever privations they might suffer in
this desert place, the little company could
sing their praises with gratitude, for now
not one voice of their number would be
silent. Here they would abide, telling of
Christ to every heathen wanderer whom
they could seek out in these wilds. And
if it should please God that henceforth
Egypt might never hold a home for them,
yet they could dwell in the deserts beyond
Rome's dominion, knowing that He who
when on earth had no place to lay his
head would be with them. He had de-
livered the last one of the little company
from the snare of false gods.


THE SQUASH OF THE ESVIDOS. 41
There had long been a deep-seated quarrel
between her and Sara Frates. Thinking
of this bitter animosity, Delpha felt
keenly the command, “Fazei bem aos que
vos tem odio.”
Olive harvest went on. The ESVido
olives were gathered. Then Delpha and
Sara and others went to work in the
American's costly olive-oil mill, scalding
the mill-stones and the crushing troughs


42
THE SQUASH OF THE ESVIDOS.
daily, sweeping the scraps of olive skins
from the floors, and scalding the floors to
keep every odor away from the precious
olive oil. Before beginning this season,
the walls of the building had been given
a coat of whitewash, and now a wood fire
must not be lit anywhere near the prem-
ises, for the precious olive oil might take
a smoky taste.
It was therefore with great wrath that
Delpha, who was careful to obey rules,
found one day, in a crushing trough
under her supervision, some scattered lit-
tle pieces of iron. Now iron must never
be allowed to come in contact with olive
juice. The tannic acid in the olive juice
acts very rapidly on the iron, producing
a kind of ink, that turns the oil black and
almost ruins it. The American’s crush-
ing troughs and weights were of granite.
Delpha was sure Sara had scattered the
pieces of iron in the crushing trough on
purpose to bring Delpha into trouble.
“I do something to her!” resolved
Delpha fiercely. “I pay her for this!”
Then she remembered, “Fazei bem aos
que vos tem odio.” (Do good to them
that hate you.) To Sara's amazement,
Delpha did not retaliate. Sara could not
understand why.
Toward the end of the olive season, the
American went away for a day. During
the noon rest, Delpha, sitting in a side
door, thought she caught the odor of
smoke. No wood fire was allowed around
the oil-mill! Delpha went out to inves-
tigate.
She saw a film of smoke rising from a
gulch. Delpha discovered that some of
the young mill - workers’ friends had
caught some fish in the bay sparkling in
the distance, and had brought them this
way going home. The American being
absent, the young mill-workers and their
friends had made a fire in the gulch,
and were merrily broiling fish. Sara
was there, disobeying rules with the
others.
Delpha ran back to the oil-mill. She
hoped the fire's smoke would not injure
the oil. She was troubled as she dropped
in the door. But she could do nothing.
By and by she heard screams. She
sprang up. Sara came running around
the mill. Her dress was on fire!
“Delpha! Delpha!” she screamed,
“Delpha, help me!” She seemed crazed
with fright.
“Fazei – bem—aos—que—vos—tem—
Odio!”
Did a voice say it to Delpha? She
snatched a great canvas bag used for olive-
picking, and a shawl. She ran to Sara.
She breathlessly tore at the blazing gar-
ments, rolling Sara in the shawl and can-
was bag. Blackened, sobbing, Sara lay at
length safe on the ground. Delpha ran
for water and olive oil.
As Delpha gently spread some olive oil
on the burns, Sara flung her arms about
Delpha's neck.
“Amigal” (friend) she sobbed, and the
enmity between the girls was over.
Miles away, Miss Elizabeth one day said
to herself, “I don’t believe we can ever
use that squash I brought home from
those Portuguese! But anyhow the
squash made that Portuguese woman feel
that she paid for the Bible! I hope she
reads it, poor soul!”
But Miss Elizabeth did not know the
whole story of the squash of the Esvidos,
or of the message that the Biblia had
brought to Delpha's heart.


THE VERSE MARTIN READ.
ARTIN put his bare feet
down through the
thick dust of the coun-
try road. It was
warm summer, and he
- was used to going
barefoot, even to Sunday-school, from
which he was now returning. Over the
hot, dry grass of the fields there swayed
at frequent intervals the heads of Cali-
fornia wild oats. One such stem grew
near the road, and Martin, with a quick
sweep of his hand, pulled off the wild oat
heads and went on through the dusty
road, scattering the oats as he walked.
Martin was thinking.
“Teacher doesn’t know how ’tis,” he
said. “I have to carry 'round milk morn-
ings and nights, and I have to go down to
the barn to hunt eggs, and I have to help
pa about the stage horses, and sometimes
I have to ride the horses back to be shod,
and I have to walk a mile to day-school
and back, and learn my lessons, and I’d
like to know how teacher thinks I’ve got
much time to read the Bible some every
day. There's lots of days I don’t believe
pa reads any in the Bible. He's too busy
driving the stage and 'tending to the
horses. And ma doesn’t read it, because
she has to cook for the teamster boarders.
It's a real pretty book teacher's given me,
though.”
Martin felt inside his jacket, and
brought out a little New Testament. It
was only a ten-cent Testament, for Miss
Bruce, his Sunday-school teacher, did not
have money enough to buy Bibles for her
class of thirteen boys. She had felt that
she must do something, however, for the
boys were destitute of Bibles of their
OWIm.
The best she could do was to buy small
Testaments with red covers, and she had
cut a piece of bright red, inch-wide ribbon
into thirteen lengths, had raveled out the
ends so as to make fringe, and had put a
piece of this fringed ribbon into each
boy's New Testament for a book-mark.
The boys thought a great deal of the
pieces of ribbon, they were so bright and
pretty. Miss Bruce had written some
special little message to each boy in the
front of his Testament. The general
purport of each message was that the book
was given with the teacher's prayer that
the boy might learn to love the Bible and
might become a real Christian. Some of
the boys let the others read what was
written in the Testaments, and some boys
did not.
Miss Bruce had given them the Test-
aments to-day, and had said that she
hoped each boy would read a little, daily,
in his Testament, even if it were only two
or three verses.
“I wonder if teacher’ll ask me next
Sunday whether I’ve read any?” Martin
questioned himself now, as he admiringly
eyed his piece of red ribbon. “It’ll be a
shame if I have to tell her, the first Sun-
day, that I’ve forgot it! I'd better read


THE VERSE MARTIN READ. 45
The stage-driver moved uneasily at the heavy load on his wagon. The wheels
words. scraped on the wagon bottom, and the
“He hasn’t forgot that verse after all team went with a heavy, dragging sound.
the se weeks!” As the heavy wagon came opposite a
though t the
Imall.
“I know what
that verse means
now,” went on
Martin. “Miss
Bruce told me.
She says some
folks for get
they’ve got to
die, and they
ough t to be
ready for that.
A good many
folks don’t be-
come Christians, and Miss Bruce
says she's afraid they'll be like that
verse, “Lest coming suddenly, he
find you sleeping. You and I won’t
be that way, will we, father? I'm
going to try to be ready. Ain't
you? Miss Bruce says folks ought
to always be.”
His father's eyes were on the har-
ness he was buckling.
“I hope you’ll be ready, Martin,”
answered the father, “even if I
ain’t.” -
The place where Martin lived was
a small settlement distant from
town. Martin’s father, Mr. Colver,
not only three days in the week The words faced the stage-driver.—See page 44.
drove the stage, but other days acted
as a sort of expressman, bringing freight The sharp corner of one box struck Mr.
in a large wagon over the miles from Colver's head near the temple.
town. One night about nine o'clock, The weary horses waited to be urged
Mr. Colver was on the long, lonely road forward again. They did not know that
coming toward home. He had a very their driver lay insensible in the road.
clump of white blossoming buckeye trees,
one of the fore wheels of the dragging
wagon suddenly gave way and fell off.
Mr. Colver was thrown violently from the
wagon's high seat into the road, among
the tumbling heavy boxes and barrels.


48
BY THE WAY.
not rob yourself of your own fish,” re-
monstrated the child's mother; but Addie
assured the woman that fish were so plen-
tiful in the settlement that neighbors
often gave part of the results of a catch
to some one else. -
The girl went away over the cliffs with
the child. Mrs. Weeks sat down on a log.
When Addie and the little girl came back
with the fish and some milk, Mrs. Weeks
rose and went home with her daughter.
“The woman’s husband is dead, and
she's driving north with her children,”
Mrs. Weeks told Addie. “She has an
idea she can get work in some cannery up
the coast. I told her there were some un-
occupied tents in our settlement, and I
wished she and the children would come
and sleep in the tents, while she's here.
But she won’t come. I was sorry they
slept on the beach last night, but she
says they are used to sleeping in the
wagon, and it is warm weather, you
know.” -
The wagon did not drive on that day,
though the woman and the children kept
away from the little summer settlement.
It was the custom of the people of this
small settlement to go down on the beach,
after dark at evening, and have a camp-
fire. Some old stump would be lit, and
the people would sit on logs or on the
sand about the fire, and talk and sing.
The last thing, every night, hymns were
sung.
To-night Addie and her mother went
down to the beach as usual. After sit-
ting by the fire awhile, Addie rose and
wandered up the beach, as persons some-
times did, to watch the waves. At a dis-
tance from the camp-fire, where the dark-
ness covered the beach, Addie turned to
go back. She was startled by a move-
ment in the darkness.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the voice of the
woman who, with her children, had spent
that day in the nook farther up the beach.
“The little girls were asleep, and I came
here to listen to the folks sing. That's
the reason I haven’t driven on to-day, be-
cause I hoped the folks would sing again
to-night, the way they did last night. I
haven’t heard hymn-singing for years, be-
fore. I’ve lived in mining and such
places. I want to ask you a question.”
The woman paused.
“Do you suppose my baby’s at the
River?” she went on.
Addie hardly comprehended
woman’s meaning.
“What river?” asked the girl.
“The River they sang about last night,”
explained the woman.
She motioned toward the group at the
distant camp-fire, and Addie remembered
that on the previous evening the people
had sung:
the
“Shall we gather at the river?”
“I haven’t heard that sung before for
years and years,” the woman continued.
“We used to sing it when I was a little
girl at home in the East, but I’ve mostly
forgot such things. Mining camps and a
drunk husband make you forget. There
never was a church anywhere we lived,
and Sam got drunk Sundays. And then
he died. I don’t suppose Sam got to the
River. I don’t know. I wish he did.
But if my baby's got there, I want to go
to the River.”
The woman began to sob.
“I never told you about my baby,” she
faltered. “He was a dreadful nice little


|
-
-
“Good-morning!” said Mrs. Weeks pleasantly.—See page 47.


AT COUSIN HARRIETS.
HE “filaree,” or pin-
clover, had borne its
seeds with curious
long ends — those
seeds that California
children c all
“c lock s” — a n d
- among the filaree
there stood, on slender, bare stems, small
flowers of the lily family which are known
as “bluebells.” A boy was walking
through the filaria. He was carrying a
hatchet and an ax, and he looked tired,
though it was early in the day. -
“I guess Cousin Harriet doesn’t know
how hard working on the alkali patch
is,” he murmured softly. “She isn’t like
mother.”
The boy's head dropped, and a sob es-
caped him.
“I wish mother hadn't died,” he said
chokingly. “’Most every boy has a
mother.”
He tried to stop crying, but it was hard,
for he was overworked, and he was only
twelve years old.
Six months before this, his mother had
died. Several weeks after her death,
Claude’s father had been called East on
business, and had left the boy and his
younger sisters Rose and Daisy on a ranch
owned by Cousin Harriet, several miles
from the children’s former home. It had
been very hard for the children to part
from their father so soon after their
mother's death, but he told them that
%'.
while the business that called him East
would take a number of months, yet there
was some prospect that their mother's own
sister, Aunt Jennie, with her husband and
little boy, would come with Claude's
father on his return. Then they could
all live together at the dear home place.
So the stay at Cousin Harriet's would not
probably be perpetual.
Cousin Harriet was a widow. She
looked after her ranch with great dili-
gence. She had several hired men and
women, and the ranch was a very busy
place. Cousin Harriet was not much used
to children, having none of her own, but
she tried to do her duty by the three left
in her charge. Rose and Daisy did not
find the household tasks that were as-
signed them very difficult. Cousin Har-
riet secretly did not like boys, however.
She tried to treat Claude justly, but the
boy sadly missed the mother-love to which
he had been accustomed all his life. He
was expected to help the hired men on the
ranch, and they made him work rather
hard, especially since they had been fixing
the “alkali patch.”
The alkali patch was in the southwest
corner of Cousin Harriet's ranch. On
several acres, nothing would grow, on ac-
count of the alkali in the soil. The alkali
stood on the ground in white patches here
and there, and Claude hated the sight of
it. Cousin Harriet, however, was very
enthusiastic about trying to reclaim this
“alkali sink,” so that it might bear crops.


52
AT COUSIN HARRIET’S.
Alkali extended over the fields of adjoin-
ing neighbors, and Cousin Harriet
thought that if only her hired men could
conquer her alkali patch, then the dis-
couraged neighbors might think it pos-
sible to do something with such parts of
their land, also. So, one of the first
things that was done with Cousin Har-
riet’s “alkali sink ’’ was to make some
redwood drains, shaped like the letter V,
and place these about three feet below the
surface. A “sump,” or drainage pit, was
dug, too, into which the drains might dis-
charge the alkali water. The hired men
expected Claude to help dig the “sump,”
and it proved quite hard work. So did
the pounding of the “hard pan’” on the
alkali tract, itself. The tough, hard clods
of earth were so difficult to pulverize that
they had to be pounded with crowbars
and axes.
“I used to think that helping pick
lemons, at home, was work,” Claude
thought to-day, as he went toward the
part of the ranch where he was expected
to work, “but I didn’t know about alkali
patches, then. And—I had mother.”
The tears would come into his eyes.
The hired men were scattered over the
extensive alkali tract, and were pounding
the clods. Claude chose to work near a
man called Neil. The boy liked Neil
better than the other men, because he did
not speak crossly.
Claude sorrowfully pounded the alkali
clods. How tiresome the work was, and
how uncomfortably warm the sun! The
boy worked dejectedly. After a while,
pausing to take breath, he looked up and
found Neil also pausing.
“We are tired,” said Neil, with a
friendly smile.
“Don’t you hate this work?” exclaimed
Claude vehemently. “I wouldn’t touch
it, if Cousin Harriet didn’t make me.”
The hired man looked kindly at the
small, tired boy.
“It is not most pleasant,” he returned,
“but what I think of makes me glad
while I work.”
“What do you think of?” asked Claude,
giving an alkali clod a push.
“I was thinking,” answered Neil
gently, “how once I had a hard heart—
very hard. It was like these clods, where
nothing good can grow. People who
looked at me could see that my heart was
hard. Men would have said, “Neil's
heart can never be different.” But Jesus
took away my hard heart and gave me a
new one. That is what makes me glad
all the time, though I work on these hard
alkali clods. Some day this patch we
work on will be different. There will be
beautiful, green, growing crops on it.
But that is not so great a change as it is
to change a hard heart and get a new
heart from our Savior.
Claude did not say anything. He bent
over the hard clods and worked silently,
but he was not thinking of his work.
He was remembering his mother's voice
as it had sounded nights when she had
knelt beside his bed and prayed that her
boy might become a Christian. There
had been one night that Claude would al-
ways remember, when his mother had
come for the last time to his bedside, and
prayed feebly for her boy. The next week
she had died.
Claude looked up at Neil, now. The
man evidently found the work hard, but
his face showed that he had spoken truly
when he said that he was glad, even


54
AT COUSIN HARRIET’S.
than this alkali plot can change itself,”
said Neil, “but we can yield ourselves
and our life to the blessed Jesus and love
him, for he is love.”
One day, Claude said softly, “I’ve done
it, Neil. I’ve given myself to Jesus.”
The face of the hired man glowed with
added happiness through the toiling days
that followed. When the alkali clods
were broken and plowed, gypsum was scat-
tered on the land and harrowed in. Then
water was turned on and allowed to stand
several inches deep over the alkali plot.
The water stood for several weeks. Grad-
ually it soaked through the soil and
passed out into the drainage pit. After
several soakings, alternating with break-
ing of clods and treatment with gypsum,
the former alkali patch was given some
seed. How the men watched the land
day after day, and how the first green
sprouts of corn were hailed! The alkali
patch was changed. Cousin Harriet was
rejoiced.
“There’s so much land saved,” she said.
“It’s a great change.” -
Neil listened to the words as in a par-
able. He was thinking of a greater
change. He was rejoicing over the boy of
the household.
Months had gone by. One day there
was a joyful outcry at the farm-house.
The little girls rushed out to meet their
father. With him was their mother's
sister, Aunt Jennie, with her husband and
little boy.
Claude was on the ranch at work, and
did not hear the joyful outcry at first.
He was not aware of the new-comers, till
his father and the two little girls rushed
where Claude was working, and the boy's
father caught him in a close embrace.
“Come and see Aunt Jennie,” his
father said to Claude.
“She—she looks like mamma,” whis-
pered Rose tremulously, and Claude came
somewhat bashfully into the house.
There he saw a woman whose face did
indeed look like his mother's, and he felt
mother-arms put around him. He heard
a voice like his mother's say, “Is this my
boy?” He felt a warm teardrop on his
cheek, and he knew that Aunt Jennie
understood and cared for boys, and that
he would be indeed “her boy.”
That afternoon they all drove away
from the ranch, leaving Cousin Harriet
smitten with a sudden sense of loneliness,
for she had even grown attached to Claude
as well as to his sisters. The boy looked
back at the ranch. It was rapidly being
left behind, but he could still see the
green patch of corn that covered the place
where the alkali used to be. But the boy
was not thinking of the alkali patch alone.
A look of reverent thankfulness came into
his face. “Mother will be glad I ever
met Neil,” he thought.


THE NEPHEW OF TIA MARTA.
WO small b row n
hands were held out-
stretched in the air.
C a utiously they
moved for w ard,
lower a n d lower.
Then they darted
and grasped with
speed what seemed to be some sand.
Something in the sand objected, but the
boy held on and gathered sand and all
into his tin. He looked with much sat-
isfaction at his presumably indignant
prisoner, a spiny gray “horned toad” that
had been peaceably sunning himself,
nearly buried in sand, on the hill.
The owner of the two nimble hands,
Arturo, smiled.
“Get four bit, maybe!” he anticipated.
“Get four bit for tia Marta!”
In California “four bits * means a half
dollar. Occasionally somebody on the
overland train that stopped at the station
in town would be attracted toward a
spiny “horned toad” as a curiosity, and
would buy one. Arturo meant to try to
sell this specimen in that way. If he
got the money, he would give it to tia
Marta.
Tia Marta was Arturo’s aunt. “Tia’’
means “aunt” in Spanish. Presumably
for the reason that nephews are some-
times troublesome to their aunts, there is
a Spanish proverb that warns a nephew
against making his aunt too frequent
visits:
“En casa de tia,
Mas no cada dia.”
(“In the house of thy aunt,
But not every day.”)
Notwithstanding this adage, however,
the boy Arturo lived with his Aunt Marta.
This was not always pleasant, for neither
Arturo nor tia Marta was perfect. Yet
they really thought a good deal of each
other. The third member of the house-
hold was tia Marta's husband, tio (uncle)
Diego, but he was very old and lame, and
could not work. Tia Marta earned the
living, and Arturo usually thought of
himself as dwelling with tia Marta rather
than tio Diego. Arturo never quarreled
with his uncle.
When the overland train stopped at the
station for water, and Arturo rushed
breathlessly to sell his horned toad, the
eager boy found no passenger who was
desirous of being a customer save an old
gentleman who doubtfully offered twenty-
five cents for the creature. Arturo stuck
bravely to his intended price of “four
bits,” but the train creaked for starting,
and, alarmed, the boy hastily handed over
the toad, took the quarter of a dollar, and
rushed off the train.
The old gentleman shouted from the
platform for instructions as to feeding his
pet, and Arturo shouted back advice in
broken English to let it catch “muchos,
muchos” (many) flies, and have “mucho,
mucho’ air. The toad was in a paste-


-
-
| - Cox, |
He begged the grocer to take the watch-chain for some beans.—See page 58.


COMALE'S
REVENGE. 59
“Poor child!” she said, “thou art
young.”
But when next day the school teacher
asked Arturo the reason of his absence
from school the previous afternoon, and
he had confessed the whole story, the
teacher said, “Arturo, it is more beauti-
COMALE'S
ful to have a heart of love toward others
than it is to wear a watch-chain even of
real gold. Will you remember that?”
Arturo promised, and the teacher said
to herself:
“I will see that tia Marta does not
come to such straits again.”
REVENGE.
WAVES splashed
on the bold rocks
that guard the lit-
tle harbor of Col-
omb o on the
southwest shore of
the island of Cey-
lon. Groves of
palm trees looked
down on the one-
- story houses of the
town. Upon a rock outside of Colombo
stood a barefoot boy, his dark eyes gazing
toward the tropically green mountains of
the island. His attention was particu-
larly riveted on one of the highest peaks,
that one which is known to English-
speaking people as “Adam’s Peak,” and
which is reverenced by natives as being
the traditional spot from which Buddha
ascended to heaven.
“The butterflies are making their pil-
grimage to the holy footprint,” murmured
the boy, Comale, to himself.
He could see from his standpoint great
streams of butterflies, taking their flight
apparently from all parts of the island,
and going toward the famous Peak.
These flights of butterflies, occurring oc-
casionally in Ceylon, have won for the
butterflies themselves the name of “Sa-
manaliya,” since it is thought that the
heathen god, Saman, left his footprint on
the mountain, and the butterflies, like
devout beings, take pains to go on pil-
grimage to the holy footprint.
Comale himself knew better than to
believe in this old heathen tale, yet he
never saw the myriads of flying butter-
flies without remembering what he had
been taught in his earlier years, before
Christianity came under the high-pitched
roof where Comale's father and mother
lived.
Long time did Comale stand on the
rock and gaze at the vast numbers of fly-
ing, winged “pilgrims.” The butterflies
seemed countless, and at last Comale,


64
AT THE PANADERIA.
Comale's outcry had aroused the house-
hold, and without reserve the penitent
lad told to the family the story of his mis-
deed. His dark-faced father smiled
slightly and showed his teeth through his
beard. He understood now the mistakes
Comale had made in the cinnamon work
the previous day.
“A wrong heart makes corundoo peel-
ing go ill, Comale,” he said, gravely.
“Corundoo ” is the native word for
cinnamon.
“A wrong heart makes rice-cooking go
ill, too,” softly confessed Pidura. “I am
sorry for yesterday's rice! It was I who
made Comale's heart angry.”
The father looked from one child to the
other.
“Little children, love one another,” he
said.
AT THE PANADERIA.
= HE door of the “pana-
deria” opened. Amer-
icans would have called
the place a bakery, but
the sign said “Pana-
> deria,” which might be
interpreted “bread-
ery” or bake-house.
All California does not
read English, and it behooves shop-keep-
ers sometimes to word their signs for the
customers desired. In like manner the
“Restaurante Mexicana,” across the
street, on a sign advertised “comidas,” or
meals, at twenty-five and fifty cents.
Through the panaderia doorway came a
girl and a boy. They walked along by
the “Zanja,” or irrigation ditch, that here
bordered the road. The fern-leaved pep-
per trees beside the zanja were dotted with
clustérs of small, bright, red berries.
“Rosa,” said the boy, when the two had
walked a little way, “I saw in that big
yard many purple and green grapes,
spread out drying for raisins.”
Rosa did not answer. She trudged on,
carrying her basket of bread. The brother
carried a loaf in brown paper. He and
she lived at the panaderia, and had set
forth to carry the bread to the two regu-
lar customers.
“Rosa,” stated the boy again, after a
pause, “all the little oranges on the trees
over there are green.”
Rosa did not even look toward the
oranges.
“Rosa,” affirmed the boy emphatically,
when a few minutes had gone by, “the
Chinese doctor is measuring a window in
his house! See! He has some little tea-
cups and a teapot in his front room! I
saw them just now.”


AT THE PANADER.I.A.
65
Rosa looked absently toward the old
building, inside a window of which was
visible the head of the Chinese doctor,
who wore black goggles, and who was in-
deed measuring his window for some rea-
son. Rosa had small hope of the Chinese
these days Rosa was in danger of looking
upon the world from a strictly calculating
standpoint, and of regarding only those
people as worthy of her interest who
either were or might become customers of
the panaderia. Still indeed customers
doctor as a future customer.
She had,
seen him eating his rice with chop-sticks,
and he never came to buy a scrap of bread
or anything else. Rosa sighed to think
what would become of the panaderia, if
all the world had the same opinion as the
Chinese doctor, in regard to eating. In
were needed, for the receipts had been
slight, lately, and Rosa's grandmother's
parrot, Papagayo, a bird of such under-
standing that he had learned to screech,
“Pan por dinero,” (bread for money) had
recently seen more of the former than of
the latter in the shop.


AT THE PANADER.I.A.
67
customers to whom Rosa and Joseph
could carry eatables, then the grand-
mother would not attempt sewing at all,
for it strained her eyes very much. But
now she did not know what else to do.
There must be a living for herself and the
children someway.
Rosa found the afternoon long, sitting
behind the counter, waiting for custom-
ers and trying to sew. A little boy came
in and bought a loaf. Two girls bought
another. Then the panaderia door
ceased to swing, and the quiet afternoon
went on. Across the street, women
stood here and there and gossiped.
Nobody came. It grew four, then five,
then six o'clock. Finally the panaderia
door opened, and a woman entered. Rosa
sprang up. Here was a customer, at
last!
But the woman only came to the
counter, and stood still. She was young,
very thin and ill, evidently, and her eyes
had tears in their depths. Under the
black shawl that was over the new-
comer's head Rosa spied a dark mark, as
of a bruise, on the forehead. The young
woman tried to speak.
“I have three little children,” she said.
“I am sick. I cannot work, and their
father drinks mescal—always mescal. I
have no money. Will you give me a little
bread? I am no beggar, but my babies
are so hungry!”
Rosa knew how much harm mescal (a
kind of intoxicating drink made from the
maguey or Mexican aloe) did among the
neighbors. She did not doubt the
woman's tale; only it was disappointing,
when one thought a real customer had at
last come to the panaderia, to find that it
was not so. But the girl nodded sympa-
",
thetically at the conclusion of the young
woman's appeal.
“I will speak to grandmother,” she
promised.
She found her grandmother lying
down still, but half awake, and explained
to her the situation.
“Yes, yes,” returned the grandmother,
her wrinkled face full of sympathy.
“Give her the bread. Has not the Lord
told us to care for the poor? He would
not be pleased if we sent her away with-
out bread. Tell the poor woman to come
again. The little children must be fed.”
Rosa hurried back to the counter, and
gave the woman two fresh loaves and the
grandmother's message.
“Gracias!” (thanks) sobbed the young
woman and hurried away.
“I hope she will not tell that we gave
her bread,” murmured Rosa to herself as
the usual quiet settled over the pana-
deria. “We can’t afford to give bread to
many people.”
The weeks went by, and the panaderia
did not prosper very well. It grew to be
a customary thing for the thin, sick
woman to come daily for bread, and she
was never refused. She said with a sen-
sitive eagerness that when she was well
again she would work and pay all back,
and Rosa's grandmother answered “Yes,”
cheerily, to this promise, though any one
who looked at the poor young mother's
face could see that there was small pros-
pect of her ever being well again in this
world. Her husband still drank.
Times grew harder and harder at the
panaderia. In the midst of the winter a
heavy blow fell, for the Zanjero’s wife
took a fancy to making her own bread,
and as she was the regular customer who


gh the
darkness.-See page 70.
-
Miss Stratton hurried throu


72
MISS STRATTON'S PAPER
indignantly. “Why didn't you come in
and tell me, so I’d know where to look
for it?”
“If I’d had an extra copy with me, I’d
have thrown in another,” said the boy.
“I’ll get you one.”
He walked back into the sitting-room,
glad to escape from the accusing sub-
scriber, whom he had not expected to see
following him to his home. Miss Strat-
ton sternly waited. The boy's sister had
come into the hall, and was holding a
candle for a light. Her brother came
back with the evening paper, and Miss
Stratton took it.
“I wish you’d be careful where you
throw that paper, Harry,” she admon-
ished him, her indignation cooling. “I’ve
spoken to you about that before. I don’t
like to have to come away up here for the
paper. It isn’t convenient.”
“Yes'm,” answered the boy.
Miss Stratton hurried home. When
she arrived there, one of the first things
she saw gleaming faintly through the
garden's darkness, was the missing even-
ing paper that Harry had thrown into a
pepper tree near the side fence. During
Miss Stratton's absence, the strong wind
had shaken the paper down, and it lay at
the foot of the tree.
“How did he suppose I was going to
find that paper up that tree?” questioned
Miss Stratton. “I did look up there be-
fore dark, but I didn’t see anything.”
The evening paper was easily discover-
able for a week or so after this. Then
matters went back to their old state
and Miss Stratton frequently spent a
quarter of an hour finding her evening
paper.
“If he'd take the slightest pains he
could throw it on this walk that is ten
feet wide!” she would tell herself indig-
nantly, as she pushed aside the branches
of blue marguerites and the leaves of
calla-lilies, and peered into holes on
either side of the steps near the front
gate, where the watering of the garden
had washed away the soil.
Miss Stratton had liked Harry very
much, when he first became paper boy.
He had a frank manner that made him
friends. At first he carefully threw the
paper on Miss Stratton's front piazza.
He never skipped an evening, as the
former paper boy had sometimes done,
and Miss Stratton rejoiced that at last
a paper boy who was reliable had been
found for the route. Months had
passed, and while Harry was as careful at
some houses as before, Miss Stratton’s
was not among that number. Harry had
three customers on that street and he
nightly walked only as far toward Miss
Stratton’s as would enable him to throw
her paper and then, with two or three
steps, throw another paper to the neigh-
bor diagonally across the street. A few
more steps would have made Harry sure
that Miss Stratton's paper fell every night
squarely on the broad front path, but he
“fired the paper at her,” as he expressed
it, and the result was Miss Stratton's
otherwise unnecessary number of steps
hunting after her paper. Yet Harry
would have scorned to cheat any customer.
He fulfilled the letter of the law. He
delivered the paper.
Late one afternoon the minister and his
wife, Mr. and Mrs. Landler, came by in-
vitation to take supper with Mrs. and
Miss Stratton. After a while, as they
sat pleasantly chatting, Mr. Landler


MISS STRATTON'S PAPER.
73
spoke of a ship that had been overdue for
almost two weeks. A neighbor’s son was
on board, and this fact caused Mr. and
Mrs. Landler to look at the papers, morn-
ing and night, as soon as possible, to as-
certain if anything had been heard of the
missing vessel.
“That's what my daughter and I have
been doing, too,” returned Mrs. Stratton.
“I wonder if this evening's paper hasn’t
come, so we could look?”
Her daughter glanced at the clock.
“Why, yes!” said she. “That paper
ought to have come before now.”
Miss Stratton went out and hunted
carefully. No paper was visible, search
as she might.
“Perhaps it hasn’t come yet,” she said
to the guests, when she came in.
A little later she went out again.
Mrs. Landler came to help search, though
Miss Stratton disclaimed the need of aid.
“The paper doesn’t always fall where
I can see it,” explained Miss Stratton,
mortified at her failure to find the paper
for her guests.
“Who brings it around?” asked Mrs.
Landler, looking at the broad front walk.
“Harry Butterworth,” answered Miss
Stratton.
She did not tell of the annoyance
Harry had caused her heretofore. Harry's
mother was a church friend of the Land-
lers and the Strattons, and Miss Stratton
was loath to expose the boy's shortcom-
ings.
No paper appeared, and after a
thorough search, Mrs. Landler and Miss
Stratton went into the house. Dusk was
coming. Miss Stratton had occasion to
go upstairs for something, and glancing
out of the front hall window, she saw the
twisted roll of that evening's paper lying
on a projection of the roof.
“He threw the paper on the roof!”
exclaimed Miss Stratton, “and he didn’t
come in to tell me!”
She pushed up the hall window, and
reaching out as far as she dared, she tried
with an old umbrella handle to dislodge
the paper. She drew breathlessly back.
“It’s no use! I can’t get it!” she
gasped.
She went downstairs and told her
mother quietly, but Mrs. Stratton had no
scruples about informing her guests what
had happened.
“That boy's thrown this evening's
paper on the roof!” stated old Mrs. Strat-
ton. “He does put us to so much
trouble!”
The minister instantly offered to
climb the roof. Miss Stratton and her
mother protested, but Mr. Landler took
off his coat, climbed out of an upper-
story window, and secured the paper. In
one column was a notice that the missing
ship had been heard from and was safe.
Great was the rejoicing around the Strat-
tons' supper-table that their friend's son
was not lost.
The next time Mr. Landler saw Harry,
the minister said pleasantly, “You gave
me quite a climb the other night, my
boy.”
Harry looked astonished.
“Gave you a climb?” he questioned.
“I gave you one?”
“Yes,” nodded Mr. Landler. “Miss
Stratton's evening paper fell on her
roof. My wife and I were taking supper
there, so I climbed the roof for the
paper.”
Harry turned very red. Was ever a


AN HONEST DAY'S WORK.
* ILLIS walked down
§ one of the city
wharves. He was
going to see his
father, Mr. Suther-
land, who was one of
the men employed by
the State Harbor Com-
missioners in repairing
wharves. The piles
that supported the wharves often needed
renewing, being eaten by teredos. Some-
times the flooring of the wharves sagged
and needed restoring to the former level.
Willis liked to see the pile-driver with
its big hammer. He marveled at the air-
pumps with which sagging wharves were
raised. Perhaps three air-pumps at a
time would be stationed over as many
“caps,” as the twelve-inch timbers under
the wharf's flooring were called.
pumps, being worked, would raise the
caps and hold them until blocks could be
shoved underneath. Then the pumps
were worked some more, and other blocks
put under, till the wharf was restored to
the required level. Great screws such as
are used in raising buildings were also
employed under wharves sometimes.
There were rocks under some wharves,
and water was under others. Whichever
it was, Willis' father often had to go under
the wharves and climb around among the
caps and stringers and piles, repairing.
Seven or eight other men were em-
ployed like Mr. Sutherland. It was mid-
(S.
The .
forenoon, but Willis saw that three or
four of the men were not working. They
were idling around the engine of the pile-
driver, and were eating something that
Willis found to be cooked crabs.
“Where's father?” asked Willis.
“Under the wharf, working,” answered
one man. “He thinks the State's look-
ing after him every minute.”
Willis saw some planks had been taken
up in a distant part of the wharf's floor-
ing. He went there and swung himself
down under the wharf. There were rocks
there, and Willis, following the sound of
a hammer, came to his father.
“That you, Willis?” asked his father
pleasantly. -
“Pa,” said the boy, “some of the other
men are up there eating crabs. Why
don’t you go up and get some, too?”
“It isn’t lunch-time,” returned Mr.
Sutherland. “We’re expected to work
now.”
“Three or four of the men aren’t
working,” said Willis.
“No,” rejoined his father. “Several
of the men lately have taken to catching
crabs sometimes during work - hours.
The men tie a rope to a big twine net, and
bait it, and let it out into the bay. In a
little while they haul it in again, and
there are maybe half a dozen big crabs
in the net. The men have made a sort
of boiler out of an empty kerosene can
with one end cut off. They attach a
hose to the boiler of the engine and fill


Willis drove one of the carts.-See page 76.


TIMOTEO.
WO white jaw-bones of
a whale stood upright
in the sunshine, their
surfaces showing to a
near observer numer-
o us small indenta-
tions that caught the
dust. The jaw-bones
were relics from a lit-
tle whaling station
that had once been in
business n e a r the
town. Even now
whales occasionally
wander from the
great Pacific into the
blue bay on which this old, partly Span-
ish, California town was situated.
The two white jaw-bones now served
the purpose of gate-posts, and stood some
six feet high beside the front gate that
opened into a garden where red holly-
hocks rose higher than the humbled jaw-
bones. Inside the gate, the front walk
had long been paved with the vertebrae
of whales, each vertebra being laid sep-
arately.
No one who had not seen such a walk
would realize how well whales’ vertebrae
will answer for paving. Some of the old
vertebrae had now sunk below the original
level of the walk, so that the path by
which a person went to the old adobe
house beyond the red hollyhocks was
somewhat uneven as to surface.
The long, low house was partly roofed
with tiles, and the adobe walls of the
dwelling were a yard thick, as any one
might see who looked at the window-
sills.
On one of these broad sills Isabelita
leaned, her black eyes fixed on the bone
gate-posts that she could see through the
blossoming hollyhocks. There was a dis-
pleased expression on the young girl's
face. She was watching for her brother
Timoteo, who would soon come from
school.
“He must go for the cow to-night,”
resolved Isabelita aloud in Spanish. “I
will not go! I wish the Americans had
never come to this town! In the old
days, my father says, there were no cattle-
notices on the trees. My father did not
have to go for cows every night!” And
Isabelita frowned as she remembered the
notices about letting cattle run loose upon
the highway.
These Spanish - and - English notices
were now nailed on pines here and there
along the roads, and proved a source of
inquiry to wandering Americans who saw
the boards with their heading:
“; ; AVISO !!”
preceded by two inverted exclamation
points and followed by two others in the
upright position — that some Americans
have perhaps been wont to think is the
only attitude in which an exclamation
point can stand, Americans not being
accustomed to the ease with which an ex-


THE VICTORY OF QUANG PO. 87
sinkers off Quang Po’s big net. Perhaps had slyly at night cut the line that held
Quang Po did not know that Jo had taken the flounders high in air above the village
“Wha' fo you do that?” inquired Quang Po-See page 86.
part in that mischief, but the thought of street. The flounders now were safely
it made Jo uncomfortable. So did the re- stretched aloft again, but the last time
membrance that he and the other boys Jo remembered seeing them they were


88
THE VICTORY OF QUANG PO.
lying in the dust. Jo was not an ill-
natured lad, but he had not objected to
helping do the mischief. And now Quang
Po had spoken kindly of Jo's drawing!
Jo winced a little. He was rather proud
of his ability as an artist, himself. He
turned his attention to the flaming yellow
pair of trousers worn by a small Chinese
boy among the numerous Chinese children
in the street below. The brilliant color
made the little fellow most conspicuous as
he toddled here and there. In watching
him, Jo tried to forget his own self-re-
proach.
So far did he succeed in forgetting it
that, that evening, when Louis Rouse, one
of the other boys whose parents were stay-
ing at the resort during the summer vaca-
tion, proposed going over to the Chinese
village, Jo did not object, though he knew
that the purpose of going was to have
some “fun,” as Louis called it.
“Was the line of flounders up?” asked
Louis gleefully, as the boys went over the
fields in the dusk. “Let’s cut it again!
And, say, let's just tip over one of those
frames for drying fish in the field back of
the village. We can do it carefully, so
they won’t hear.”
Chuckling softly and speaking in whis-
pers only, the boys crept about the fishing-
village and did the mischief planned.
They pretended that the Chinese village
was a fort of enemies, and the boys were
a band of soldiers reconnoitering in the
dark. They became quite excited over
the idea. Doing mischief seemed so
much more glorious than it would if they
had allowed themselves to think that they
were really American boys doing a con-
temptible thing to quiet, peaceable peo-
ple.
Just as the boys had quietly tipped over
one of the fish-frames, letting the par-
tially dried fish slide to the ground, there
were shouts in the dark of the Chinese
village.
“The enemy's coming, boys!” whis-
pered Louis, and the lads rushed for the
fence.
Some boys caught their feet in the big,
spread-out net, and fell, and rolled over,
shaking with laughter. Others stuck be-
tween the barbed wires of the fence, but
all were outside, running across the fields,
before the Chinese had sallied out toward
their frames. Some distance from the
fishing village, the boys dropped breath-
less behind the large rocks near the sea,
and laughed softly together. Jo laughed
with the others, though he said, “I sha’n’t
dare go near the village for a week, till
my hand gets well. The barbed wire gave
me some pretty deep scratches on the back
of one hand, and the Chinamen might
guess how I got the marks.”
“I’ve got one on my forehead, I guess,”
answered Louis, laughing. “It feels so,
anyway, and I guess it's bleeding.”
The boys went home. Jo was silent on
the way.
“I’m tired, laughing so much,” he ex-
plained to the rest.
He could not help remembering how
kind Quang Po’s voice had sounded when
he said, “You draw like Melican.”
During the next week Jo stayed away
from the fishing village. The scratches
on his hand and on his cheek were all too
plainly visible. He occupied his vacation-
time in rambling in other places besides
the Chinese village.
One morning, in his rambles, he went
to what had once been an old adobe


THE VICTORY OF QUANG PO.
89
dwelling. It was on a hill, quite a dis-
tance outside the town, and was not
often visited by any one. The old adobe
had long ago lost its tile roof, some of the
walls had fallen, its former Spanish in-
habitants had long since disappeared, and
quick-motioned, small lizards now and
then ran over the thick, ruined walls that
stood, dark and crumbling, against the
light-brown of the wild oats on the
hill.
Jo climbed on top of one of the higher
adobe walls. It still retained its Spanish
thickness, being about five feet through,
although crumbling at the sides and
somewhat uncertain as to uprightness.
“Must have taken a lot of clay to make
it,” thought Jo.
Just then a little lizard, that had been
sunning itself in a niche in the adobe wall,
started, disturbed by Jo's proximity, and
ran swiftly over to another part of the
wall. Jo was anxious to see where the
creature went. The boy jumped over a
broken place in the wall, and walked on
its top, regardless of the fact that the
adobe was trembling.
“Guess it's gone where I can’t see it,”
said Jo to himself. “This is a nice sunny
place for a lizard. I—”
Jo had stepped a little too far. There
was a sudden trembling of the wall. Jo
caught at the adobe, which came away in
handfuls, and he fell with a large portion
of the old wall.
The next thing he knew, he was lying,
choked with dust, on what was once the
floor of the old Spanish dwelling. He
was overtopped by a heavy pile of débris,
from under which he struggled in vain to
extricate himself. He had one free hand,
with which, when he found that other
exertions did not avail, he tried to dig
himself out; but the more he dug, the
more the great pile of adobe above him
slid down on his face, till he was in such
imminent danger of being smothered that
he was forced to desist.
It was almost all he could do to breathe
with such a weight upon him, but after a
few moments’ rest he tried to shout for
help. His shouts were not very loud, and
soon he had to stop. He lay breathing
heavily and looking up at the pile of dull
earth. - -
“I wish,” he panted, “I hadn't—come
here.”
He fervently hoped that some sight-
seer like himself might be attracted to the
old, out-of-the-way adobe, for Jo was now
convinced that it was impossible for him
to set himself free. He tried again and
again, but always with the same result of
semi-suffocation under the sliding débris.
The forenoon passed away. The sun,
mounting higher, shone over the dilapi-
dated walls, and fell full on Jo's face. He
shielded his eyes with his free hand. The
sun beat heavily on his head. Some-
times he thought he heard a rustle in the
wild oats, and he cried out for help, but
he afterward concluded the sound had
been made by the wind or by some lizard.
Gradually the shade began to lengthen
in the adobe. Jo looked wistfully at the
shadow of the wall as it stretched a little
farther toward him, and he sighed with
relief when at length the sun that had
made his head so hot was guarded from
his face by the shadow that reached him.
He had lain here a number of hours, and
now, as he began to think about evening,
he wondered what his father and mother
would do when he did not come home. If


THE NEW IGLOO.
91
sorry! I won’t bother you any more! I
won’t let the other boys do it, either! I
can stop it.”
Quang Po smiled.
“Me glad you solly,” he said. “We be
good flends, now.” And he trotted away,
the heavy baskets creaking.
Jo looked after him.
“And I thought you were the heathen!”
he whispered.
THE NEW IGLOO.
==#|HE sky was lowering.
: The small storm-‘ig-
loo,” or round-topped
snow house, was full of
Eskimo dogs that had
crowded in to shelter
themselves from the
bitter w in d. This
small igloo was built in
front of the door of a
bigger round igloo in which an Eskimo
family lived. The dogs’ small igloo was
built where it was, to keep the wind and
the cold from coming in at the family's
igloo door.
Over the snowy ground a boy, clad in a
reindeer coat, came running. His brown
cheeks were flushed, and his black eyes
were bright with excitement. His lips
curved and parted over his white teeth as
he chuckled happily to himself about
something. He rushed to the very low
door of his home, dropped down on his
hands and knees, put some slender thing
between his teeth, pulled the hood of the
reindeer coat up over his head so as to
keep the snow from slipping down the
back of his neck, and then scrambled
quickly through the low opening, pushing
aside the dogs, till he reached the interior
of the larger igloo. Then the boy
jumped up and snatched the thing he had
held in his mouth.
“Oh, see, see!” he cried, holding up his
treasure. “See what the teacher gave
me!”
What he held was the half of a lead
pencil, a rarity to him, given to him now
as a prize at school.
“And see!” cried the excited lad once
more.
He pulled from his reindeer coat a
piece of paper. The paper was part of his
prize, too. He made some rude marks on
the paper with his pencil, and held them
where they were visible by the light of the
small stone lamp, shaped like a huge
clam shell, and burning with walrus oil.


THE NEW IGLOO.
93
Anvik, knowing that the Eskimo sorcerer
had gone to the teacher but a few days
previous, to prophesy evil concerning the
ringing of the bell. “The foxes and the
seals care not for it. Go to school with
me, Tanana, to-morrow. The teacher
wants you.”
Tanana did not answer. He drew a
bottle from out of his skin suit and
drank. Anvik looked at his mother.
The odor of the liquor spread through the
small round house. Anvik had not
noticed the odor when he came in, being
then too excited over his prize to have
room in his head for any other idea. But
now he felt a great sadness of soul.
Tanana and their father were both begin-
ning to learn to drink. The sailors who
came to the shore had liquor with them
sometimes, and traded it to the natives.
The teacher at school had told the boys
never to touch the sailors’ liquor. The
teacher said it would steal the boys' souls.
Anvik did not understand that very well,
but he knew liquor made Tanana and
their father cross and lazy, and the lazi-
ness kept them poor, and the mother was
sad.
Anvik lay long awake that night, on the
raised platform of snow in the igloo, and
thought.
“My teacher said he heard that at one
Eskimo village a canoe came with whisky
and the Eskimos pounded on a drum all
night, and shouted,” thought the lad.
“When the morning came, the people
were ashamed to look in the face of their
teacher. My teacher said I must pray the
dear Lord Christ to save Tanana and my
father from drinking.”
And Anvik prayed in the dark igloo.
The next day came, and Anvik went
again to school, but Tanana and the father
went off to look at the ice-traps wherein
Eskimos catch any stray wolves or foxes.
When Anvik came back at night to the
igloo, he met his father and Tanana re-
joicing over a bear cub that they had
killed. They were bringing it home with
them, and were laughing, and shouting,
and singing, not so much from joy as from
drinking together from the bottle that
Tanana had procured.
“We have a bear cub, a bear cub!”
shouted Tanana in maudlin tones to his
brother. “See how strong the hot water
we drink makes us! We come home with
a bear cub! Hot water, let us drink hot
water!”
Now by “hot water” Tanana meant of
course the liquor in his bottle, and when
Anvik saw the young bear and the con-
dition his father and brother were in, the
lad immediately became very anxious, for
the Eskimos are usually very careful not
to kill a young bear without having first
killed its mother. It is considered a very
rash thing to kill the cub first, and when
men who are pressed by hunger do it,
they are obliged to exercise the strictest
precaution lest they should be attacked by
the mother-bear, for she will surely follow
on the track of the men.
So the Eskimos usually go in a straight
line for about five or six miles, and then
suddenly turn off at a right angle, so that
the mother-bear, as she presses eagerly
forward, may overrun the hunters’ track
and lose her way. The men go on a dis-
tance, and then turn as before.
After doing this several times, the men
dare to go home, but even there weapons
are placed ready for use by the bedside,
and outside the house sledges are put up-


THE NEW IGLOO.
95
growls ceased, and the dead bear lay
among the ruins of the igloo.
The next day Anvik stayed away from
school to help build a new igloo. His
father and Tanana did not talk much,
from the time when they laid the blocks
of extremely hard snow in a circle till the
time when the inwardly-slanting snow
walls had risen to the topmost horizontal
block that joined the walls. But, once
during the building, when the three work-
ers had taken great flat shovels, made of
strips of bone lashed together, and were
throwing loose snow against the sides of
the new igloo to protect its future inhab-
itants from the cold, the father stopped,
and turning to Tanana said:
“My heart is ashamed! The hot water
made us forget to hide the way to the
igloo, and when the bear came to kill my
wife and children, the hot water made us
sleep. My heart is ashamed.”
And Tanana, keenly humiliated that
his younger brother and not himself had
killed the bear, answered, “My heart is
ashamed, also.”
“The hot water bottle shall not come
to my mouth again,” resolved the father,
with determination.
And Tanana promised the same. The
bottle had been broken in the scuffle, but
Tanana knew his father's and his own
promise included any other bottle of
liquor.
“You shall go to the teacher's school
with Anvik,” decided the father. “The
teacher speaks well when he tells the boys
that the hot water will steal their souls.
If Anvik had drank it, we should all have
been killed.” -
Anvik jumped up from chinking a
crack between two snow blocks. He re-
membered his prayer, and he laughed
aloud now with joy for the answer.
“The new igloo is better than the old!”
he cried. “The hot water will never go
in at the door of our new igloo!”
And in his heart the boy added, “May
the dear Lord Christ come into our new
home!”