. . 
 
 
 
 
 University of California Berkeley 
 
 From the 
 
 FRANCIS P. FARQUHAR 
 EXPLORATION LIBRARY 
 
 Gift of 
 
 THE MARJORY BRIDGE FARQUHAR 
 1972 TRUST 
 
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THE 
 
 MOUNTAINS 
 
 BY 
 
 STEWART EDWARD 
 WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE FOREST 
 
 THE BLAZED TRAIL 
 
 THE SILENT PLACES Etc 
 
 WITH PICTURES BY FERNAND LUNGREN 
 
 I. The Ridge Trail 
 
 SIX trails lead to the main ridge. 
 They are all good trails, so that 
 even the casual tourist in the little 
 Spanish-American town on the seacoast 
 need have nothing to fear from the 
 ascent. In some spots they contract to 
 an arm's length of space, outside of 
 which limit they drop sheer away ; else 
 where they stand up on end, zigzag in 
 lacets each more hair-raising than the 
 last, or fill to demoralization with loose 
 boulders and shale. A fall on the part 
 of your horse would mean a more than 
 serious accident ; but Western horses do 
 not fall. The major premise stands : 
 even the casual tourist has no real rea 
 son for fear, however scared he may 
 become. 
 
 Our favorite route to the main ridge 
 was by a way called the Cold Spring 
 Trail. We used to enjoy taking visitors 
 up it, mainly because you come on the 
 top suddenly, without warning. Then 
 we collected remarks. Everybody, even 
 the most stolid, said something. 
 
 1 Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company, New 
 York. 
 
 You rode three miles on the flat, two 
 in the leafy and gradually ascending 
 creek-bed of a canon, a half hour of 
 laboring steepness in the overarching 
 mountain lilac and laurel. There you 
 came to a great rock gateway which 
 seemed the top of the world. At the 
 gateway was a Bad Place where the 
 ponies planted warily their little hoofs, 
 and the visitor played " eyes front," and 
 besought that his mount should not 
 stumble. 
 
 Beyond the gateway a lush level canon 
 into which you plunged as into a bath; 
 then again the laboring trail, up and 
 always up toward the blue California 
 sky, out of the lilacs and laurels and 
 redwood chaparral into the manzanita, 
 the Spanish bayonet, the creamy yucca, 
 and the fine angular shale of the upper 
 regions. Beyond the apparent summit 
 you found always other summits yet to 
 be climbed. And all at once, like thrust 
 ing your shoulders out of a hatchway, 
 you looked over the top. 
 
 Then came the remarks. Some swore 
 softly ; some uttered appreciative ejac- 
 
 261 
 
262 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 ulation ; some shouted aloud ; some 
 gasped ; one man uttered three times 
 the word " Oh " once breathlessly, Oh ! 
 once in awakening appreciation, Oh ! 
 once in wild enthusiasm, OH ! Then 
 invariably they fell silent and looked. 
 
 For the ridge, ascending from seaward 
 in a gradual coquetry of foot-hills, broad 
 low ranges, cross-systems, canons, little 
 flats, and gentle ravines, inland dropped 
 off almost sheer to the river below. And 
 from under your very feet rose, range 
 after range, tier after tier, rank after rank, 
 in increasing crescendo of wonderful 
 tinted mountains to the main crest of the 
 Coast Ranges, the blue distance, the 
 mightiness of California's western sys 
 tems. The eye followed them up and up, 
 and farther and farther, with the accumu 
 lating emotion of a wild rush on a tobog 
 gan. There came a point where the 
 fact grew to be almost too big for the 
 appreciation, just as beyond a certain 
 point speed seems to become unbear 
 able. It left you breathless, wonder- 
 stricken, awed. You could do nothing 
 but look, and look, and look again, 
 tongue-tied by the impossibility of doing 
 justice to what you felt. And in the 
 far distance, finally, your soul, grown 
 big in a moment, came to rest on 
 the great precipices and pines of the 
 greatest mountains of all, close under 
 the sky. 
 
 In a little, after the change had come 
 to you, a change definite and enduring, 
 which left your inner processes forever 
 different from what they had been, you 
 turned sharp to the west and rode five 
 miles along the knife-edge Ridge Trail 
 to where Rattlesnake Canon led you 
 down and back to your accustomed 
 environment. 
 
 To the left as you rode you saw, far 
 on the horizon, rising to the height of 
 your eye, the mountains of the channel 
 islands. Then the deep sapphire of the 
 Pacific, fringed with the soft, unchang 
 ing white of the surf and the yellow of 
 the shore. Then the town like a little 
 map, and the lush- greens of the wide 
 meadows, the fruit-groves, the lesser 
 ranges all vivid, fertile, brilliant, and 
 pulsating with vitality. You filled your 
 senses with it, steeped them in the 
 beauty of it. And at once, by a mere 
 
 turn of the eyes, from the almost crude 
 insistence of the bright primary color of 
 life, you faced the tenuous azures of 
 distance, the delicate mauves and ame 
 thysts, the lilacs and saffrons of the arid 
 country. 
 
 This was the wonder we never tired 
 of seeing for ourselves, of showing to 
 others. And often, academically, per 
 haps a little wistfully, as one talks of 
 something to be dreamed of but never 
 enjoyed, we spoke of how fine it would 
 be to ride down into that land of mystery 
 and enchantment, to penetrate one after 
 another the canons dimly outlined in the 
 shadows cast by the westering sun, to 
 cross the mountains lying outspread in 
 easy grasp of the eye, to gain the distant 
 blue Ridge, and see with our own eyes 
 what lay beyond. 
 
 For to its other attractions the pros 
 pect added that of impossibility, of un- 
 attainableness. These rides of ours 
 were day rides. We had to get home 
 by nightfall. Our horses had to be fed, 
 ourselves to be housed. We had not 
 time to continue on down the other side 
 whither the trail led. At the very and 
 literal brink of achievement we were 
 forced to turn back. 
 
 Gradually the idea possessed us. We 
 promised ourselves that some day we 
 would explore. In our after-dinner 
 smokes we spoke of it. Occasionally, 
 from some hunter or forest-ranger, we 
 gained little items of information, we 
 learned the fascination of musical names 
 Mono Canon, Patrera Don Victor, 
 Lloma Paloma, Patrera Madulce, Cuya- 
 mas, became familiar to us as syllables. 
 We desired mightily to body them forth 
 to ourselves as facts. The extent of 
 our mental vision expanded. We heard 
 of other mountains far beyond these 
 farthest mountains whose almost unex 
 plored vastnesses contained great forests, 
 mighty valleys, strong watercourses, 
 beautiful hanging-meadows, deep canons 
 of granite, eternal snows mountains 
 so extended, so wonderful, that their 
 secrets offered whole summers of soli 
 tary exploration. We came to feel their 
 marvel, we came to respect the inferno 
 of the Desert that hemmed them in. 
 Shortly we graduated from the indefi- 
 niteness of railroad maps to the intrica- 
 
rHE TOP OF THE WORLD" 
 
DRAWN BY FERNAND LUNfiREI 
 
 THE TRAIL 
 
The Mountains 
 
 265 
 
 cies of geological survey charts. The 
 fever was on us. We must go. 
 
 A dozen of us desired. Three of us 
 
 went ; and of the manner of our going, 
 and what you must know who would do 
 likewise, I shall try here to tell. 
 
 II. On Equipment 
 
 If you would travel far in the great 
 mountains where the trails are few and 
 bad, you will need a certain unique expe 
 rience and skill. Before you dare ven 
 ture forth without a guide, you must be 
 able to do a number of things, and to 
 do them well. 
 
 First and foremost of all, you must be 
 possessed of that strange sixth sense 
 best described as the sense of direction. 
 By it you always know about where you 
 are. It is to some degree a memory for 
 back-tracks and landmarks, but to a 
 greater extent an instinct for the lay of 
 the country, for relative bearings, by 
 which you are able to make your way 
 across-lots back to your starting-place. 
 It is not an uncommon faculty, yet some 
 hick it utterly. If you are one of the 
 latter class, do not venture, for you will 
 get lost as sure as shooting, and being 
 lost in the mountains is no joke. 
 
 Some men possess it ; others do not. 
 The distinction seems to be almost arbi 
 trary. It can be largely developed, but 
 only in those with whom original en 
 dowment of the faculty makes develop 
 ment possible. No matter how long a 
 direction-blind man frequents the wilder 
 ness, he is never sure of himself. Nor 
 is the lack any reflection on the intelli 
 gence. I once traveled in the Black 
 Hills with a young fellow who himself 
 frankly confessed that, after much ex 
 periment, he had come to the conclusion 
 that he could not "find himself." He 
 asked me to keep near him, and this I did 
 as well as I could ; but even then, three 
 times during the course of ten days he 
 lost himself completely in the tumultuous 
 upheavals and canons of that badly 
 mixed region. Another, an old grouse- 
 hunter, walked twice in a circle within 
 the confines of a thick swamp about two 
 miles square. On the other hand, many 
 exhibit almost marvelous skill in striking 
 a bee-line for their objective point, and 
 can always tell you, even after an en 
 grossing and wandering hunt, exactly 
 where camp lies. And I know nothing 
 
 more discouraging than to look up after 
 a long, hard day to find your landmarks 
 changed in appearance, your choice 
 widened to at least five diverging and 
 similar canons, your pockets empty of 
 food, and the chill mountain twilight 
 descending. 
 
 Analogous to this is the ability to fol 
 low a dim trail. A trail in the moun 
 tains often means merely a way through, 
 a route picked out by some prospector, 
 and followed since at long intervals by 
 chance travelers. 
 
 It may, moreover, mean the only way 
 through. Missing it will bring you to 
 ever-narrowing ledges, until at last you 
 end at a precipice, and there is no room 
 to turn your horses around for the return. 
 Some of the great box canons thousands 
 of feet deep are practicable by but one 
 passage and that steep and ingenious 
 in its utilization of ledges, crevices, 
 little ravines, and " hog's-backs ;'' and 
 when the only indications to follow con 
 sist of the dim vestiges left by your last 
 predecessor, perhaps years before, the 
 affair becomes one of considerable skill 
 and experience. You must be -srble to 
 pick out scratches made by shod hoofs 
 on the granite, depressions almost filled 
 in by the subsequent fall of decayed 
 vegetation, excoriations on fallen trees. 
 You must have the sense to know at once 
 when you have overrun these indications, 
 and the patience to turn back immedi 
 ately to your last certainty, there to 
 pick up the next clue, even if it should 
 take you the rest of the day. In short, 
 it is absolutely necessary that you be at 
 least a persistent tracker. 
 
 Parenthetically ; having found the 
 trail, be charitable. Blaze it, if there 
 are trees ; otherwise " monument " it by 
 piling rocks on top of one another. 
 Thus will those who come after bless 
 your unknown shade. 
 
 Third, you must know horses. I do 
 not mean that you should be a horse- 
 show man, with a knowledge of points 
 and pedigrees. But you must learn 
 
266 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 exactly what they can and cannot do in 
 the matters of carrying weights, making 
 distance, enduring without deterioration 
 hard climbs in high altitudes ; what they 
 can or cannot get over in the way of bad 
 places. This last is not always a matter 
 of appearance merely. Some bits of 
 trail, seeming impassable to anything 
 but a goat, a Western horse will negotiate 
 easily ; while others not particularly 
 terrifying in appearance offer complica 
 tions of abrupt turn or a single bit of 
 unstable, leg-breaking footing which 
 renders them exceedingly dangerous.. 
 You must, moreover, be able to manage 
 your animals to the best advantage in 
 suc!i bad places. Of course you must 
 in the beginning have been wise as to 
 the selection of the horses. 
 
 Fourth, you must know good horse- 
 feed when you see it. Your animals are 
 depending entirely on the -> country; for 
 of course you are carrying no dry feed 
 for them. Their pasturage will present 
 itself under a variety of aspects, all of 
 which you must recognize with certainty. 
 Some of the greenest, lushest, most sat- 
 isfying-looking meadows grow nothing 
 but water-grasses of large bulk but small 
 nutrition ; while apparently barren tracts 
 often conceal small but strong growths 
 of great value. You must differentiate 
 these. 
 
 Fifth, you must possess the ability to 
 pare a hoof, fit a shoe cold, nail it in 
 place. A bare hoof does not last long 
 on the granite, and you are far from the 
 nearest blacksmith. Directly in line 
 with this, you must have the trick of 
 picking up and holding a hoof without 
 being kicked, and you must be able to 
 throw and tie without injuring him any 
 horse that declines to be shod in any 
 other way. 
 
 Last, you must of course be able to 
 pack a horse well, and must know four 
 or five of the most essential pack 
 " hitches." 
 
 With this personal equipment you 
 ought to be able to get through the coun 
 try. It comprises the absolutely essential. 
 
 But, further, for the sake of the highest 
 efficiency, you should add, as finish to 
 your mountaineer's education, certain 
 other items. A knowledge of the habits 
 of deer and the ability to catch trout with 
 
 fair certainty are almost a necessity 
 when far from the base of supplies. 
 Occasionally the trail goes to pieces 
 entirely : there you must know something 
 of the handling of an ax and pick. Learn 
 how to swim a horse. You will have to 
 take lessons in camp-fire cookery. Other 
 wise employ a guide. Of course your 
 lungs, heart, and legs must be in good 
 condition. 
 
 As to outfit, certain especial conditions 
 will differentiate your needs from those 
 of forest and canoe travel. 
 
 You will in the changing altitudes be 
 exposed to greater variations in temper 
 ature. At morning you may travel in 
 the hot, arid foot-hills ; at noon you will 
 be in the cool shades of the big pines ; 
 towards evening you may wallow through 
 snowdrifts ; and at dark you may camp 
 where morning will show you icicles 
 hanging from the brinks of little water 
 falls. Behind your saddle you will want 
 to carry a sweater, or, better still, a buck 
 skin waistcoat. Your arms are never 
 cold, anyway, and the pockets of such a 
 waistcoat, made many and deep, are 
 handy receptacles forsmokables, matches, 
 cartridges, and the like. For the night 
 time, when the cold creeps down from 
 the high peaks, you should provide your 
 self with a suit of very heavy underwear 
 and an extra sweater or a buckskin shirt. 
 The latter is lighter, softer, and more 
 impervious to the wind than the sweater. 
 Here again I wish to place myself on 
 record as opposed to a coat. It is a 
 useless ornament, assumed but rarely, 
 and then only as substitute for a handier 
 garment. 
 
 Inasmuch as you will be a great deal 
 called on to handle abrading and some 
 times frozen ropes, you will want a pair 
 of heavy buckskin gauntlets. An extra 
 pair of stout high-laced boots with small 
 Hungarian hob-nails will come handy. 
 It is marvelous how quickly leather 
 wears out in the down-hill friction of 
 granite and shale. I once found the 
 heels of a new pair of shoes almost 
 ground away by a single giant-strides 
 descent of a steep shale-covered thirteen- 
 thousand-foot mountain. Having no 
 others, I patched them with hair-covered 
 rawhide and a bit of horseshoe. It suf 
 ficed, but was a long and disagreeable 
 
DRAWN BY FERNAND LUNGREN 
 
 REPLENISHING THE LARDER 
 
268 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [4 June 
 
 job, which an extra pair would have 
 obviated. 
 
 Balsam is practically unknown in the 
 high hills, and the rocks are especially 
 hard. Therefore you will take, in addi 
 tion to your gray army-blanket, a thick 
 quilt or comforter to save your bones. 
 This, with your saddle-blankets and pads 
 as foundation, should give you ease if 
 you are tough. Otherwise take a second 
 quilt. 
 
 A tarpaulin of heavy canvas 17x6 
 feet goes under you, and can be, if nec 
 essary, drawn up to cover your head. 
 We never used a tent. Since you do 
 not have to pack your outfit on your 
 own back, you can, if you choose, include 
 a small pillow. Your other personal 
 belongings are those you would carry 
 into the Forest. I have elsewhere de 
 scribed what they should be. 
 
 Now as to the equipment for your 
 horses. 
 
 The most important point for your 
 self is your riding-saddle. The cowboy 
 or military style and seat are the only 
 practicable ones. Perhaps of these two 
 the cowboy saddle is the better, for the 
 simple reason that often in roping or 
 leading a refractory horse the horn is a 
 great help. For steep-trail work the 
 double cinch is preferable to the single. 
 as it need not be pulled so tight to hold 
 the saddle in place. 
 
 Your riding-bridle you will make of 
 an ordinary halter, by riveting two snaps 
 to the lower part of the head-piece, just 
 above the corners of the horse's mouth. 
 These are snapped into the rings of the 
 bit. At night you unsnap the bit, re 
 move it and the reins, and leave the 
 halter part on the horse. Each animal, 
 riding and packing, has furthermore a 
 short lead-rope attached always to his 
 halter-ring. 
 
 Of pack-saddles the ordinary sawbuck- 
 tree is by all odds the best, provided it 
 fits. It rarely does. If you can adjust 
 the wood accurately to the anatomy of 
 the individual horse, so that the side- 
 pieces bear evenly and smoothly, with 
 out gouging the withers or charing the 
 back, you are possessed of the handiest 
 machine made for the purpose. Should 
 individual fitting prove impracticable, 
 get an old low California riding-tree, 
 
 and have a blacksmith bolt an upright 
 spike on the cantle. You can hang the 
 loops of the kyacks or alforjas the 
 sacks slung on either side the horse 
 from the pommel and this iron spike. 
 Whatever the saddle chosen, it should 
 be supplied with breast-straps, breech 
 ing, and two good cinches. 
 
 The k)'-acks or alforjas just mentioned 
 are made either of heavy canvas or of 
 rawhide shaped square and dried over 
 boxes. After drying, the boxes are 
 removed, leaving the stiff rawhide like 
 small trunks open at the top. I prefer 
 the canvas, for the reason that they can 
 be folded and packed for railroad trans 
 portation. If a stiffer receptacle is 
 wanted for miscellaneous loose small 
 articles, you can insert a soap-box inside 
 the canvas. It cannot be denied that 
 the rawhide will stand rougher usage. 
 
 Probably the point now of greatest 
 importance is that of saddle-padding. 
 A sore back is the easiest thing in the 
 world to induce three hours' chafing 
 will turn the trick and once it is done 
 you are in trouble for a month. No 
 precautions or pains are too great to 
 take in assuring your pack-animals 
 against this. On a pinch, you will give 
 up cheerfully part of your bedding to 
 the cause. However, two good-quality 
 woolen blankets properly and smoothly 
 folded, a pad made of two ordinary 
 collar-pads sewed parallel by means of 
 canvas strips in such a manner as to lie 
 along both sides of the backbone, a 
 well-fitted saddle, and care in packing 
 will nearly always suffice. I have gone 
 months without having to doctor a single 
 abrasion. 
 
 You will furthermore want a pack- 
 cinch and a pack-rope for each horse. 
 The former are of canvas or webbing 
 provided with a ring at one end and a 
 big bolted wooden hook at the other. 
 The latter should be half-inch lines of 
 good quality. Thirty-three feet is enough 
 for packing only ; but we usually bought 
 them forty feet long, so they could be 
 used also as picket-ropes. Do not fail 
 to include several extra. They are 
 always fraying out, getting broken, being 
 cut to free a fallen horse, or becoming 
 lost. 
 
 Besides the picket-ropes, you will also 
 
1904] 
 
 The Path of the White Cow 
 
 269 
 
 provide for each horse a pair of strong 
 hobbles. Take them to a harness-maker 
 and have him sew inside each ankle- 
 band a broad strip of soft wash-leather 
 twice the width of the band. This will 
 save much chafing. Some advocate 
 sheepskin with the wool on, but this I 
 have found tends to soak up water or to 
 freeze hard. At least two loud cow 
 bells with neck-straps are handy to assist 
 you in locating whither the bunch may 
 have strayed during the night. They 
 should be hung on the loose horses most 
 inclined to wander. 
 
 Accidents are common in the hills. 
 The repair-kit is normally rather com 
 prehensive. Buy a number of extra lati- 
 gos, or cinch-straps. Include many cop 
 per rivets of all sizes they are the best 
 quick-repair known for almost every 
 
 thing, from putting together a smashed 
 pack-saddle to cobbling a worn-out boot. 
 Your horseshoeing outfit should be com 
 plete with paring-knife, rasp, nail-set, 
 clippers, hammer, nails, and shoes. The 
 latter will be the malleable soft iron, 
 low-calked " Goodenough," which can 
 be fitted cold. Purchase a dozen front 
 shoes and a dozen and a half hind shoes. 
 The latter wear out faster on the trail. 
 A box or so of hob-nails for your own 
 boots, a waxed end and awl, a whetstone, 
 a file, and a piece of buckskin for strings 
 and patches complete the list. 
 
 Thus equipped, with your grub sup 
 ply, your cooking utensils, your personal 
 effects, your rifle, and your fishing-tackle, 
 you should be able to go anywhere that 
 man and horses can go, entirely self- 
 reliant, independent of the towns. 
 
 The Path of the White Cow 
 
 By Ella F. Mosby 
 
 Narrow and winding the pathway, 
 
 Deep in the heart of the wood ; 
 It ran through the beds of fern, 
 
 Where the spreading beeches stood 
 Beeches whose tiny leaf-buds 
 
 Were just unfurling their wings. 
 With a flutter, a whisper, a stirring, 
 
 A thousand soft murmurings! 
 
 The W T hite Cow browsed as she moved 
 
 Under the boughs at her ease, 
 The feathery fronds of the fern 
 
 Rustling about her knees. 
 Before her the brooklet widened, 
 
 A placid and shadowy pool, 
 Or netted the darting minnows 
 
 In the shallows shining and cool. 
 
 Blue was the earth with violets, 
 
 And white with the stars between ; 
 Anemones, nodding softly, 
 
 Were weaving a leafy screen ; 
 While under dry leaves of autumn 
 
 The arbutus, still in bloom 
 Exquisite, rosy, and fragrant 
 
 Scattered the winter's gloom. 
 
 Tingle, ling the cow crops a blossom 
 
 Blooming low in the grass, 
 Or nibbles the pungent and yellow 
 
 Buds of the sassafras. 
 
 She moves on slow in the gloaming ; 
 
 You hear the brook as it flows 
 All at once are the meadows enchanted, 
 
 And a wind of memory blows 
 
 In the boy's heart as he loiters; 
 
 He is counting them, name by name ; 
 The bell seems telling their story 
 
 Cadmus, of ancient fame, 
 Who followed the White Cow truly 
 
 As she moved through sunlight and 
 
 shade, 
 By river and mountain and forest, 
 
 And never her footsteps strayed, 
 
 Till she reached a spot where Cadmus 
 
 Should build a marvelous town, 
 And rule a powerful kingdom, 
 
 Where the White Cow lay down 1 
 The white bull swam with Europa 
 
 Safe through the breakers' foam ; 
 And lo, the milk-white heifer, 
 
 Was driven by Juno to roam 
 
 Far from the pastures familiar 
 
 To the old banks of the Nile, 
 Where from her blood a Deliverer 
 
 Rose, without hatred or guile. 
 Jingle, jangle, jingle ! 
 
 The White Cow quickens her pace ; 
 She remembers the calf in the barnyard, 
 
 And the little red spot in its face ! 
 

 
 The Feet of the Young Men' 
 
 By Rudyard Kipling 
 
 With Drawings by Alden Peirson 
 
 Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting 
 
 Winds are loose 
 
 Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain ; 
 Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper 
 
 of the Trues, 
 
 Now the Red Gods make their medicine again ! 
 Who hath seen the beaver busied ? Who hath watched 
 
 the blacktail mating? 
 
 Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry ? 
 Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche 
 
 is waiting, 
 Or the sea-trout's jumping-crazy for the fly ? 
 
 He must go go go away from here ! 
 
 On the other side the world he's overdue. 
 'Send your road is clear before yo^t when the old Spring- 
 fret comes o'er you 
 
 And the Red Gods call for you ! 
 
 1 Copyright, 1897, by Rudyard Kipling. Reprinted from " The Five Nations " by special 
 permission of the author, Messrs. Doubleday, Page& Co., and Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
WHO HATH HEARD THE BIRCH-LOG BURNING 
 
So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow round 
 
 the bow, 
 
 And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust ; 
 And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits 
 
 the cow, 
 
 And for one the mi^le-train coughing in the dust. 
 Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath 
 
 heard the birch-log burning ? 
 Who is quick to read the noises of the night ? 
 Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men's feet 
 
 are turning 
 To the camps of proved desire and known delight ! 
 
 Let him go go, etc. 
 
 I. 
 
 Do you know the blackened timber do you know that 
 
 racing stream 
 
 With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end ; 
 And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask 
 
 and dream 
 
 To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend ? 
 It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and 
 
 traces, 
 
 To a silent, smoky Indian that we know 
 To a couch of new-pulled hemlock with the starlight on 
 
 our faces, 
 For the Red Gods call us out and we must go ! 
 
 They must go go, etc. 
 
 II. 
 
 Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep 
 
 and short, 
 
 Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride ? 
 Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of 
 
 your port 
 
 On a coast you've lost the chart of overside ? 
 It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her 
 Just one able 'long-shore loafer that I know. 
 
'THE BAR OF SUN-WARMED SHINGLE WHERE A MAN MAY BASK AND DREAM 
 
EAS ARE STEEP AND SHOK 
 
He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail 
 
 and sail her, 
 For the Red Gods call me out and I must go ! 
 
 He must go go, etc. 
 
 III. 
 
 Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers 
 
 trade 
 
 Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo ? 
 Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented 
 
 glade 
 
 When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through ? 
 It is there that I am going with my camphor, net, and 
 
 boxes, 
 
 To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know 
 To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes, 
 For the Red Gods call me out and I must go ! 
 
 He must go go, etc. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Do you know the world's white roof-tree do you know 
 
 that windy rift 
 
 Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change? 
 Do you know the long day's patience, belly-down on 
 
 frozen drift, 
 
 While the head of heads is feeding out of range ? 
 It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the 
 
 snow lie, 
 
 With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know. 
 I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis 
 
 Poli, 
 And the Red Gods call me out and I must go ! 
 
 He must go go, etc. 
 
 Now the Four-way Lodge is opened now the Smokes of 
 
 Council rise 
 
 Pleasant smokes, ere yet 'twixt trail and trail they 
 choose 
 
THE WORLD'S WHITE ROOF-TREE 
 
Now the girths and ropes are tested : now they pack their 
 
 last supplies : 
 
 Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues ! 
 Who shall meet them at those altars who shall light them 
 
 to that shrine ? 
 
 Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal ? 
 Unto each the voice and vision : unto each his spoor and 
 
 sign- 
 Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath 'neath 
 
 the Line 
 
 And to each a man that knows his naked soul ! 
 White or yellow, black or copper, he is waiting, as a lover, 
 
 Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train 
 Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring 
 
 flats discover 
 Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat 
 
 brings the rover 
 Where the rails run out in sand-drift . . . Quick ! 
 
 ah, heave the camp-kit over ! 
 For the Red Gods make their medicine again ! 
 
 And we go go go away from here ! 
 
 On the other side the world we're overdue ! 
 'Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring- 
 fret comes o'er you, 
 And ttje Red Gods call for you ! 
 
VICE-ADMIRAL SKRYDLOFF 
 
 Two War Leaders 
 
 RECENT events in the war in the 
 East have brought into very 
 great prominence a Japanese 
 military commander and a distinguished 
 Russian naval officer. General Kuroki 
 has been and is in supreme command of 
 the first great division of the Japanese 
 army that which landed at Chemulpho 
 and other Korean ports, marched north 
 ward to the Yalu River, at the begin 
 ning of last month effected the crossing of 
 the river in a fierce battle with the Rus 
 sians in which the latter were driven 
 back with great loss, and has since 
 advanced rapidly into Manchuria and 
 toward the Russian bases of military 
 
 278 
 
 concentration. General Kuroki is a 
 Lieutenant-General in the Japanese 
 army, and also bears the title of Baron. 
 He is a member of the famous Samurai 
 or war clan, all of the members of which 
 are soldiers by the tradition of centuries. 
 He is fifty-nine years old, is said to be 
 scarcely more than a dwarf in stature, 
 but as cool and imperturbable in the 
 thick of the hottest battle as though on 
 dress parade. There is no general in 
 the Japanese army who is more es 
 teemed either as a fighter or as a com 
 mander. 
 
 Admiral Skrydloff succeeded to the 
 command of the Russian fleet in the 
 
1904] 
 
 The South and the Negro 
 
 367 
 
 between the negroes of the coast and 
 those of the interior. The back doors 
 of indulgent whites, proverbially the 
 source of food supply to the kith as 
 well as the kin of negro servants, take 
 the place of oyster-beds and fishing- 
 grounds. On the other hand, the most 
 cultivated, prosperous, quiet, home- 
 loving, and independent negro people I 
 have met live in Southern cities. 
 
 The distinctions among negroes 
 caused by environment of one sort or 
 another are modified by distinctions 
 resulting from heredity. Among the 
 colored people of the South there is 
 a great variety of racial inheritance. 
 Tribal differences, having their origin 
 in Africa, still persist and can be seen 
 in variations of physiognomy. Then the 
 infusion of white blood has left its trace 
 on a very large proportion (no one 
 knows just how large) of people classed 
 as negroes in the South. 
 
 To the element of white blood in the 
 negro race Southern white people with 
 whom I talked attributed both the best 
 and the worst traits of the colored peo 
 ple. One young Virginian, a doctor, 
 remarked that the full-blooded negroes 
 were lazy, quiet, orderly, unprogressive, 
 servile ; while the mixed bloods were 
 more alert, some disorderly, some pro 
 gressive, and constituted both the de 
 generates and the leaders. This, I think, 
 is a very general opinion. It is hard to 
 substantiate, however ; for there are no 
 statistics which can be cited to prove 
 either point. It happened, however, 
 that every one of the leaders of the race 
 whom I have met, with possibly two 
 exceptions, have been manifestly of 
 mixed blood, and I include among these 
 the teachers, preachers, and others who 
 were doing other than perfunctory or 
 very obscure work for the race. At 
 every normal school, industrial school, 
 and college for negroes the contrast in 
 physiognomy between an audience there 
 and a congregation in any ordinary 
 negro church I have attended was 
 marked. The extreme negro type pres 
 ent in large numbers in the church I 
 have never noticed in the normal or 
 industrial school or college. The picked 
 members of the race have seemed to be 
 disproportionately of mixed blood. Ne 
 
 groes themselves have the feeling that 
 this is so. There is a church in Rich 
 mond known as the fashionable negro 
 church of the city. A Richmond negro 
 described it to me this way : " Ah don' 
 know how you think, but the colored 
 people think that wha' the mos' yeller 
 people goes is the high-toned chu'ch, 
 and that's the chu'ch right over ya'." 
 He said that the church was not espe 
 cially rich. It was another church in 
 the same city which had the appearance 
 of being the richest negro church I had 
 ever been in. Evidently it was the 
 yellow people, not the yellow metal, that 
 made the church high-toned. There are 
 similar churches in Washington, D. C., 
 and in Charleston, S. C., and, I am told, 
 in other places. An impression seemed 
 to prevail in the South that among a 
 certain class of mulattoes, especially 
 among the " colored four hundred," 
 there is a growing feeling of aversion to 
 social commingling with those who have 
 not the saving benefit of a white ancestor. 
 
 For the opinion which I heard fre 
 quently expressed that the mulattoes 
 were inferior in vitality to the pure- 
 blooded negroes, no evidence was ever 
 offered to me except the fact that all the 
 very aged colored people are apparently 
 of pure blood. That mulattoes are in 
 ferior in vitality to the whites in the same 
 station I could find no evidence whatever. 
 
 Certain causes entirely outside of the 
 control of the negroes themselves are 
 thus effective in grouping them into 
 classes. Environment determined by 
 the time of birth effects one classifica 
 tion. Environment determined by the 
 place of birth (entirely outside of the 
 individual's control) and of residence 
 (only in part under the individual's con 
 trol) effects another classification. In 
 heritance of tribal African blood or of 
 white blood effects a third classification. 
 When one speaks of The Negro, it is 
 impossible to tell what classification of 
 the negroes is meant. Even of a class 
 scarcely anything definite can be predi 
 cated. At any rate, in view of these 
 involuntary distinctions, it is important 
 to remember in speaking of the negroes 
 that indiscriminate statements concern 
 ing inherent characteristics of "the 
 race " are of no value. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS' 
 
 BY STEWART EDWARD WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE FOREST," " THE BLAZED TRAIL," " THE SILENT PLACES," ETC 
 
 III. On Horses 
 
 I REALLY believe that you will find 
 more variation of individual and inter 
 esting character in a given number of 
 Western horses than in an equal number 
 of the average men one meets on the street. 
 Their whole education, from the time 
 they run loose on the range until the 
 time when, branded, corralled, broken, 
 and saddled, they pick their way under 
 guidance over a bad piece of trail, tends 
 to develop their self-reliance. They 
 learn to think for themselves. 
 
 To begin with two misconceptions, 
 merely by way of clearing the ground : 
 the Western horse is generally designated 
 as a " bronco." The term is considered 
 synonymous of horse or pony. This is 
 not so. A horse is " bronco " when he 
 is ugly or mean or vicious or unbroken. 
 So is a cow "bronco" in the same con 
 dition, or a mule, or a burro. Again, 
 from certain Western illustrators and 
 from a few samples, our notion of the 
 cow-pony has become that of a lean, 
 rangy, wiry, thin-necked, scrawny beast. 
 Such may be found. But the average 
 good cow-pony is apt to be an exceeding 
 ly handsome animal, clean-built, graceful. 
 This is natural, when you stop to think 
 of it, for he is descended direct from 
 Moorish and Arabian stock. 
 
 Certain characteristics he possesses 
 beyond the capabilities of the ordinary 
 horse. The most marvelous to me of 
 these is his sure-footedness. Let me 
 give you a few examples. 
 
 I once was engaged with a crew of 
 cowboys in rounding up mustangs in 
 southern Arizona. We' would ride slowly 
 in through the hills until we caught sight 
 of the herds. Then it was a case of 
 running them down and heading them 
 off, of turning the herd, milling it, of 
 
 1 Copyright, 1904. by the Outlook Company, New 
 York. 
 
 368 
 
 rushing it while confused across country 
 and into the big corrals. The surface 
 of the ground was composed of angular 
 volcanic rocks about the size of your two 
 fists, between which the bunch-grass 
 sprouted. An Eastern rider would ride 
 his horse very gingerly and at a walk, 
 and then thank his lucky stars if he 
 escaped stumbles. The cowboys turned 
 their mounts through at a dead run. It 
 was beautiful to see the ponies go, lift 
 ing their feet well up and over, planting 
 them surely and firmly, and nevertheless 
 making speed and attending to the game. 
 
 Once, when we had pushed the herd 
 up the slope of a butte, it made a break 
 to get through a little hog-back. The 
 only way to head it was down a series 
 of rough boulder ledges laid over a great 
 sheet of volcanic rock. The man at the 
 hog-back put his little gray over the 
 ledges and boulders, down the sheet of 
 rock hop, slip, slide and along the 
 side hill in time to head off the first of the 
 mustangs. During the ten days of riding 
 I saw no horse fall. The animal I rode, 
 Button by name, never even stumbled. 
 
 In the Black Hills years ago I hap 
 pened to be one of the inmates of a small 
 mining-camp. Each night the work-ani 
 mals, after being fed, were turned loose 
 in the mountains. As I possessed the 
 only cow-pony in the outfit, he was fed 
 in the corral, and kept up for the pur 
 pose of rounding up the others. Every 
 morning one of us used to ride him out 
 after the herd. Often it was necessary 
 to run him at full speed along the moun 
 tain-side, over rocks, boulders, and 
 ledges, across ravines and gullies. Never 
 but once in three months did he fall. 
 
 On the trail, too, they will perform 
 feats little short of marvelous. Mere 
 steepness does not bother them at all. 
 They sit back almost on their haunches, 
 
The Mountains 
 
 369 
 
 bunch their feet together, and slide. I 
 have seen them go down a hundred feet 
 this way. In rough country they place 
 their feet accurately and quickly, gauge 
 exactly the proper balance. I have led 
 my saddle-horse, Bullet, over country 
 where, undoubtedly to his intense dis 
 gust, I myself have fallen a dozen times 
 in the course of a morning. Bullet had 
 no such troubles. Any of the mountain 
 horses will hop cheerfully up or down 
 ledges anywhere. They will even walk 
 a log fifteen or twenty feet above a 
 stream. I have seen the same trick 
 performed in Barnum's circus as a won 
 derful feat, accompanied by brass bands 
 and breathlessness. We accomplished 
 it on our trip without any brass bands ; 
 I cannot answer for the breathlessness. 
 As for steadiness of nerve, they will 
 walk serenely on the edge of precipices 
 a man would hate to look over, and, 
 given a palm's breadth for the soles of 
 their feet, they will get through. Over 
 such a place I should a lot rather trust 
 Bullet than myself. 
 
 In an emergency the Western horse 
 is not apt to lose his head. When a 
 pack-horse falls down, he lies still with 
 out struggle until eased of his pack and 
 told to get up. If he slips off an edge, 
 he tries to double his fore legs under 
 him and slide. Should he find himself 
 in a tight place, he waits patiently for 
 you to help him, and then proceeds 
 gingerly. A friend of mine rode a horse 
 named Blue. One day, the trail being 
 slippery with rain, he slid and fell. My 
 friend managed a successful jump, but 
 Blue tumbled about thirty feet to the 
 bed of the canon. Fortunately, he was 
 not injured. After some difficulty, my 
 friend managed to force his way through 
 the chaparral to where Blue stood. Then 
 it was fine to see them. My friend 
 would go ahead a few feet, picking a 
 route. When he had made his decision, 
 he called Blue. Blue came that far and 
 no further. Several times the little horse 
 balanced painfully and unsteadily like a 
 goat, all four feet on a boulder, waiting 
 for his signal to advance. In this man 
 ner they regained the trail, and pro 
 ceeded as though nothing had hap 
 pened. Instances could be multiplied 
 indefinitely. 
 
 A good animal adapts himself quickly. 
 He is capable of learning by experience. 
 In a country entirely new to him he 
 soon discovers the best method of get 
 ting about, where'the feed grows, where 
 he can find water. He is accustomed 
 to foraging for himself. You do not need 
 to show him his pasturage. If there is 
 anything to eat anywhere in the district, 
 he will find it. Little tufts of bunch- 
 grass growing concealed under the edges 
 of the brush he will search out. If he 
 cannot get grass, he knows how to rustle 
 for the browse of small bushes. Bullet 
 would devour sage-brush when he could 
 get nothing else ; and I have even known 
 him philosophically to fill up on dry 
 pine-needles. There is no nutrition in 
 dry pine-needles, but Bullet got a satisfy- 
 ingly full belly. On the trail a well- 
 seasoned horse will be always on the 
 forage, snatching here a mouthful, yon 
 der a single spear of grass, and all with 
 out breaking the regularity of his gait 
 or delaying the pack-train behind him. 
 At the end of the day's travel he is that 
 much to the good. 
 
 By long observation thus you will con 
 struct your ideal of the mountain horse, 
 and in your selection of your animals 
 for an expedition you will search always 
 for that ideal. It is only too apt to be 
 modified by personal idiosyncrasies, and 
 proverbially an ideal is difficult of attain 
 ment ; but you will, with care, come 
 closer to its realization than one accus 
 tomed only to the conventionality of an 
 artificially reared horse would believe 
 possible. 
 
 The ideal mountain horse, when you 
 come to pick him out, is of medium size. 
 He should be not smaller than fourteen 
 hands nor larger than fifteen. He is 
 strongly but not clumsily built, short- 
 coupled, with none of the snipy, speedy 
 range of the valley animal. You will 
 select preferably one of wide, full fore 
 head, indicating intelligence, low in the 
 withers, so the saddle will not be apt to 
 gall him. His sureness of foot should 
 be beyond question, and of course he 
 must be an expert at foraging. A horse 
 that knows but one or two kinds of feed, 
 and that starves unless he can find just 
 those kinds, is an abomination. He 
 must not jump when you throw all kinds 
 
370 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [11 June 
 
 of rattling and terrifying tarpaulins 
 across him, and he must not mind if the 
 pack-ropes fall about his heels. In the 
 day's march he must follow like a dog 
 without the necessity of a lead-rope, nor 
 mubt he stray far when turned loose at 
 night. 
 
 Fortunately, when removed from the 
 reassuring environment of civilization, 
 horses are gregarious. They hate to be 
 separated from the bunch to which they 
 are accustomed. Occasionally one of 
 us would stop on the trail, for some 
 reason or another, thus dropping behind 
 the pack-train. Instantly the saddle- 
 horse so detained would begin to grow 
 uneasy. Bullet used by all means in his 
 power to try to induce me to proceed. 
 He would nibble me with his lips, paw 
 the ground, dance in a circle, and finally 
 sidle up to me in the position of being 
 mounted, than which he could think of 
 no stronger hint. Then when I had 
 finally remounted, it was hard to hold 
 him in. He would whinny frantically, 
 scramble with enthusiasm up trails steep 
 enough to draw a protest at ordinary 
 times, and rejoin his companions with 
 every symptom of gratification and de 
 light. This gregariousness and alarm at 
 being left alone in a strange country 
 tends to hold them together at night. 
 You are reasonably certain that in the 
 morning, having found one, you will 
 come upon the rest not far away. 
 
 The personnel of our own outfit we 
 found most interesting. Although col 
 lected from divergent localities, they soon 
 became acquainted. In a crowded cor 
 ral they were always compact in their 
 organization, sticking close together, and 
 resisting as a solid phalanx encroach 
 ments on their feed by other and stranger 
 horses. Their internal organization was 
 very amusing. A certain segregation 
 soon took place. Some became leaders ; 
 others by common consent were rele 
 gated to the position of subordinates. 
 
 The order of precedence on the trail 
 was rigidly preserved by the pack-horses. 
 An attempt by Buckshot to pass Dinkey, 
 for example, the latter always met with 
 a bite or a kick by way of hint. If the 
 gelding still persisted, and tried to pass 
 by a long detour, the mare would rush 
 out at him angrily, her ears back, her 
 
 eyes flashing, her neck extended. And 
 since Buckshot was by no means in 
 clined always to give in meekly, we had 
 opportunities for plenty of amusement. 
 The two were always skirmishing. 
 When, by a strategic short cut across 
 the angle of a trail, Buckshot succeeded 
 in stealing a march on Dinkey, while she 
 was nipping a mouthful, his triumph 
 was beautiful to see. He never held 
 the place for long, however. Dinkey's 
 was the leadership by force of ambition 
 and energetic character, and at the head 
 of the pack-train she normally marched. 
 
 Yet there were hours when utter in 
 difference seemed to fall on the militant 
 spirits. They trailed peacefully and 
 amiably in the rear while Lily or Jenny 
 marched with pride in the coveted ad 
 vance. But the place was theirs only 
 by sufferance. A bite or a kick sent 
 them back to their own positions when 
 the true leaders grew tired of their 
 vacation. 
 
 However rigid this order of prece 
 dence, the saddle-animals were acknowl 
 edged as privileged and knew it. 
 They could go where they pleased. 
 Furthermore, theirs was the duty of cor 
 recting infractions of the trail discipline, 
 such as grazing on the march, or at 
 tempting unauthorized short cuts. They 
 appreciated this duty. Bullet always 
 became vastly indignant if one of the 
 pack-horses misbehaved. He would run 
 at the offender angrily, hustle him to his 
 place with savage nips of his teeth, and 
 drop back to his own position with a 
 comical air of virtue. Once in a great 
 while it would happen that on my spur 
 ring up from the rear of the column I 
 would be mistaken for one of the pack- 
 horses attempting illegally to get ahead. 
 Immediately Dinkey or Buckshot would 
 snake his head out crossly to turn me 
 to the rear. It was really ridiculous to 
 see the expression of apology with which 
 they would take it all back, and the 
 ostentatious, nose-elevated indifference 
 in Bullet's very gait as he marched 
 haughtily by. So rigid did all the ani 
 mals hold this convention that actually 
 in the San Joaquin Valley Dinkey once 
 attempted to head off a Southern Pacific 
 train. She ran at full speed diagonally 
 toward it, her eyes striking fire, her ears 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 371 
 
 back, her teeth snapping in rage because 
 the locomotive would not keep its place 
 behind her ladyship. 
 
 Let me make you acquainted with our 
 outfit. 
 
 I rode, as you have gathered, an 
 Arizona pony named Bullet. He was a 
 handsome fellow, with a chestnut brown 
 coat, long mane and tail, and a beauti 
 ful pair of brown eyes. Wes always 
 called him " Baby." He was in fact the 
 youngster of the party, with all the 
 engaging qualities of youth. I never 
 saw a horse more willing. He wanted 
 to do what you wanted him to ; it pleased 
 him, and gave him a warm conscious 
 ness of virtue which the least observant 
 could not fail to remark. When lead 
 ing, he walked industriously ahead, set 
 ting the pace; when driving that is, 
 closing up the rear he attended strictly 
 to business. Not for the most luscious 
 bunch of grass that ever grew would he 
 pause even for an instant. Yet in his 
 off hours, when I rode irresponsibly 
 somewhere in the middle, he was a great 
 hand to forage. Few choice morsels 
 escaped him. He confided absolutely 
 in his rider in the matter of bad country, 
 and would tackle anything I would put 
 him at. It seemed that he trusted me 
 not to put him at anything that would 
 hurt him. This was an invaluable trait 
 when an example had to be set to the 
 reluctance of the other horses. He was 
 a great swimmer. Probably the most 
 winning quality of his nature was his 
 extreme friendliness. He was always 
 wandering into camp to be petted, nib 
 bling me over with his lips, begging to 
 have his forehead rubbed, thrusting his 
 nose under an elbow, and otherwise tell 
 ing how much he thought of us. Who 
 ever broke him did a good job. I never 
 rode a better-reined horse. A mere in 
 dication of the bridle hand turned him 
 to right or left, and a mere raising of 
 the hand without the slightest pressure 
 on the bit stopped him short. And how 
 well he understood cow workl Turn 
 him loose after the bunch, and he would 
 do the rest. All I had to do was to 
 stick to him. That in itself was no 
 mean task, for he turned like a flash, 
 and was quick as a cat on his feet. At 
 night I always let him go foot free. He 
 
 would be there in the morning, and I 
 could always walk directly up to him 
 with the bridle in plain sight in my 
 hand. Even at a feedless camp we 
 once made where we had shot a couple 
 of deer, he did not attempt to wander 
 off in search of pasture, as would most 
 horses. He nosed around unsuccess 
 fully until pitch dark, then came into 
 camp, and with great philosophy stood 
 tail to the fire until morning. I could 
 always jump oft anywhere for a shot, 
 without even the necessity of "tying 
 him to the ground," by throwing the 
 reins over his head. He would wait for 
 me, although he was never overfond of 
 firearms. 
 
 Nevertheless, Bullet had his own sense 
 of dignity. He was literally as gentle 
 as a kitten, but he drew a line. I shall 
 never forget how once, being possessed 
 of a desire to find out whether we could 
 swim our outfit across a certain stretch 
 of the Merced River, I climbed him 
 bareback. He bucked me off so quickly 
 that I never even got settled on his back. 
 Then he gazed at me with sorrow, while, 
 laughing irrepressibly at this unusual 
 assertion of independent ideas, I picked 
 myself out of a wild-rose bush. He did 
 not attempt to run away from me, but 
 stood to be saddled, and plunged boldly 
 into the swift water where I told him to. 
 Merely he thought it disrespectful in me 
 to ride him without his proper harness. 
 He was the pet of the camp. 
 
 As near as I could make out, he had 
 but one fault. He was altogether too 
 sensitive about his hind quarters, and 
 would jump like a rabbit if anything 
 touched him there. 
 
 Wes rode a horse we called Old Slob. 
 Wes, be it premised, was an interesting 
 companion. He had done everything 
 seal-hunting, abalone-gathering, boar- 
 hunting, all kinds of shooting, cow-punch 
 ing in the rough Coast. Ranges, and all 
 other queer and outlandish and pictur 
 esque vocations by which a man can 
 make a living. He weighed two hun 
 dred and twelve pounds, and was the 
 best game shot with a rifle I ever saw. 
 
 As you may imagine, Old Slob was a 
 stocky individual. He was built from 
 the ground up. His disposition was 
 quiet, slow, honest. Above all, he gave 
 
372 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [11 June 
 
 the impression of vast, very vast expe 
 rience. Never did he hurry his mental 
 processes, although he was quick enough 
 in his movements if need arose. He 
 quite declined to worry about anything. 
 Consequently, in spite of the fact that 
 he carried by far the heaviest man in 
 the company, he stayed always fat and 
 in good condition. There was some 
 thing almost pathetic in Old Slob's will 
 ingness to go on working, even when 
 more work seemed like an imposition. 
 You could not fail to fall in love with 
 his mild inquiring gentle eyes and his 
 utter trust in the goodness of human 
 nature. His only fault was an excess 
 of caution. Old Slob was very, very 
 experienced. He knew all about trails, 
 and he declined to be hurried over what 
 he considered a bad place. Wes used 
 sometimes to disagree with him as to 
 what constituted a bad place. " Some 
 day you're going to take a tumble, you 
 old fool," Wes used to address him, " if 
 you go on fiddling down steep rocks 
 with your little old monkey work. Why 
 don't you step out ?" Only Old Slob 
 never did take a tumble. He was will 
 ing to do anything for you, even to the 
 assuming of a pack. This is considered 
 by a saddle-animal distinctly as a come 
 down. 
 
 The Tenderfoot, by the irony of fate, 
 drew a tenderfoot horse. Tunemah was 
 a big fool gray that was constitutionally 
 rattle-brained. He meant well enough, 
 but he didn't know anything. When he 
 came to a bad place in the trail, he took 
 one good look and rushed it. Con 
 stantly we expected him to come to grief. 
 It wore on the Tenderfoot's nerves. 
 Tunemah was always trying to wander 
 off the trail, trying fool routes of his 
 own invention. If he were sent ahead 
 to set the pace, he lagged and loitered 
 and constantly looked back, worried lest 
 he get too far in advance and so lose 
 the bunch. If put at the rear, he fretted 
 against the bit, trying to push on at a 
 senseless speed. In spite of his extreme 
 anxiety to stay with the train, he would 
 once in a blue moon get a strange idea 
 of wandering off solitary through the 
 mountains, passing good feed, good 
 water, good shelter. We would find him, 
 after a greater or less period of difficult 
 
 tracking, perched in a silly fashion on 
 some elevation. Heaven knows what 
 his idea was ; it certainly was neither 
 search for feed, escape, return whence 
 he came, nor desire for exercise. When 
 we came up with him, he would gaze 
 mildly at us from a foolish vacant eye 
 and follow us peaceably back to camp. 
 Like most weak and silly people, he had 
 occasional stubborn fits when you could 
 beat him to a pulp without persuading 
 him. He was one of the type already 
 mentioned that knows but two or three 
 kinds of feed. As time went on he be 
 came thinner and thinner. The other 
 horses prospered, but Tunemah failed. 
 He actually did not know enough to 
 take care of himself; and could not 
 learn. Finally, when about two months 
 out, we traded him at a cow-camp for a 
 little buckskin called Monache. 
 
 So much for the saddle-horses. The 
 pack-animals were four. 
 
 A study of Dinkey's character and an 
 experience of her characteristics always 
 left me with mingled feelings. At times 
 I was inclined to think her perfection ; 
 at other times thirty cents would have 
 been esteemed by me as* a liberal offer 
 for her. To enumerate her good points : 
 she was an excellent weight-carrier ; 
 took good care of her pack that it never 
 scraped nor bumped ; knew all about 
 trails, the possibilities of short cuts, the 
 best way of easing herself downhill; 
 kept fat and healthy in districts where 
 grew next to no feed at all ; was past- 
 mistress in the picking of routes through 
 a trailless country. Her endurance was 
 marvelous ; her intelligence equally so. 
 In fact, too great intelligence perhaps 
 accounted for most of her defects. She 
 thought too much for herself; she made 
 up opinions about people ; she speculated 
 on just how far each member of the 
 party, man or beast, would stand imposi 
 tion, and tried conclusions with each to 
 test the accuracy of her speculations; 
 she obstinately insisted on her own way 
 in going up and down hill a way well 
 enough for Dinkey, perhaps, but hazard 
 ous to the other less skillful animals who 
 naturally would follow her lead. If she 
 did condescend to do things according 
 to your ideas, it was with a mental res 
 ervation. You caught her sardonic eye 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 373 
 
 fixed on you contemptuously. You felt 
 at once that she knew another method, 
 a much better method, with which yours 
 compared most unfavorably. "I'd like 
 to kick you in the stomach," Wes used to 
 say; "you know too much for a horse 1" 
 
 If one of the horses bucked under the 
 pack, Dinkey deliberately tried to stam 
 pede the others and generally suc 
 ceeded. She invariably led them off 
 whenever she could escape her picket- 
 rope. In case of trouble of any sort, 
 instead of standing still sensibly, she 
 pretended to be subject to wild-eyed 
 panics. It was all pretense, for when 
 you did yield to temptation and light into 
 her with the toe of your boot, she sub 
 sided into common sense. The spirit of 
 malevolent mischief was hers. 
 
 Her performances when she was being 
 packed were ridiculously histrionic. As 
 soon as the saddle was cinched, she 
 spread her legs apart, bracing them 
 firmly as though about to receive the 
 weight of an iron safe. Then, as each 
 article of the pack was thrown across 
 her back, she flinched and uttered the 
 most heartrending groans. We used 
 sometimes to amuse ourselves by adding 
 merely an empty sack, or other article 
 quite without weight. The groans and 
 tremblings of the braced legs were quite 
 as pitiful as though we had piled on a 
 sack of flour. Dinkey, I had forgotten 
 to state, was a white horse, and belonged 
 to Wes. 
 
 Jenny also was white and belonged to 
 Wes. Her chief characteristic was her 
 devotion to Dinkey. She worshiped 
 Dinkey, and seconded her enthusiasti 
 cally. Without near the originality of 
 Dinkey, she was yet a very good and 
 sure pack-horse. The deceiving part 
 about Jenny was her eye. It was bale 
 ful with the spirit of evil snaky and 
 black, and with green sideways gleams 
 in it. Catching the flash of it, you 
 would forever after avoid getting in range 
 of her heels or teeth. But it was all a 
 delusion. Jenny's disposition was mild 
 and harmless. 
 
 The third member of the pack-outfit 
 we bought at an auction sale in rather a 
 peculiar manner. About sixty head of 
 Arizona horses of the C. A. Bar outfit 
 were being sold. Toward the close of 
 
 the afternoon they brought out a well- 
 built, stocky buckskin of first-rate appear 
 ance except that his left flank was orna 
 mented with five different brands. The 
 auctioneer called attention to him. 
 
 " Here is a first-rate all-round horse," 
 said he. " He is sound ; will ride, work, 
 or pack ; perfectly broken, mild, and 
 gentle. He would make a first-rate family 
 horse, for he has a kind disposition." 
 
 The official rider put a saddle on him 
 to give him a demonstrating turn around 
 the track. Then that mild, gentle, per 
 fectly broken family horse of kind dis 
 position gave about as pretty an exhibi 
 tion of barbed-wire bucking as you would 
 want to see. Even the auctioneer had 
 to join in the wild shriek of delight that 
 went up from the crowd. He could not 
 get a bid, and I bought the animal in 
 later very cheaply. 
 
 As I had suspected, the trouble turned 
 out to be merely exuberance or nervous 
 ness before a crowd. He bucked once 
 with me under the saddle ; and twice 
 subsequently under a pack that was all. 
 Buckshot was the best pack-horse we 
 had. Bar an occasional saunter into 
 the brush when he got tired of the trail, 
 we had no fault to find with him. He 
 carried a heavy pack, was as sure-footed 
 as Bullet, as sagacious on the trail as 
 Dinkey, and he always attended strictly 
 to his own business. Moreover, he 
 knew that business thoroughly, knew 
 what should be expected of him, accom 
 plished it well and quietly. His dispo 
 sition was dignified but lovable. As 
 long as you treated him well, he was as 
 gentle as you could ask. But once let 
 Buckshot get it into his head that he 
 was being imposed on, or once let him 
 see that your temper had betrayed you 
 into striking him when he thought he 
 did not deserve it, and he cut loose 
 vigorously and emphatically with his 
 heels. He declined to be abused. 
 
 There remains but Lily. I don't 
 know just how to do justice to Lily 
 the " Lily maid." We named her that 
 because she looked it. Her color was a 
 pure white, her eye was virginal and 
 silly, her long bang strayed in wanton 
 carelessness across her face and eyes, her 
 expression was foolish, and her legs were 
 long and rangy. She had the general 
 
374 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 appearance of an overgrown school-girl 
 too big for short dresses and too young 
 for long gowns a school-girl named 
 Flossie, or Mamie, or Lily. So we 
 named her that. 
 
 At first hers was the attitude of the 
 timid and shrinking tenderfoot. She 
 stood in awe of her companions ; she 
 appreciated her lack of experience. 
 Humbly she took the rear; slavishly 
 she copied the other horses ; closely she 
 clung to camp. Then in a few weeks, 
 like most tenderfeet, she came to think 
 that her short experience had taught her 
 everything there was to know. She put 
 on airs. She became too cocky and con 
 ceited for words. 
 
 Everything she did was exaggerated, 
 overdone. She assumed her pack with 
 an air that plainly said, " Just see what 
 a good horse am 1 1" She started out 
 three seconds before the others in a 
 manner intended to shame their procras 
 tinating ways. Invariably she was the 
 last to rest and the first to start on again. 
 She climbed over-vigorously, with the 
 manner of conscious rectitude. " Acts 
 like she was trying to get her wages 
 raised," said Wes. 
 
 In this manner she wore herself down. 
 If permitted, she would have climbed 
 until winded, and then would probably 
 
 have fallen off somewhere for lack of 
 strength. Where the other horses watched 
 the movements of those ahead, in order 
 that when a halt for rest was called they 
 might stop at an easy place on the trail, 
 Lily would climb on until jammed 
 against the animal immediately preced 
 ing her. Thus often she found herself 
 forced to cling desperately to extremely 
 bad footing until the others were ready 
 to proceed. Altogether she was a pre 
 cious nuisance, that acted busily but 
 without thinking. 
 
 Two virtues she did possess. She 
 was a glutton for work ; and she could 
 fall far and hard without injuring her 
 self. This was lucky, for she was always 
 falling. Several times we went down 
 to her fully expecting to find her dead 
 or so crippled that she would have to 
 be shot. The loss of a little skin was 
 her only injury. She got to be quite 
 philosophic about it. On losing her 
 balance she would tumble peaceably, 
 and then would lie back with an air of 
 luxury, her eyes closed, while we worked 
 to free her. When we had loosened the 
 pack, Wes would twist her tail. There 
 upon she would open one eye inquiringly 
 as though to say, " Hullo 1 Done al 
 ready ?" Then leisurely she would arise 
 and shake herself. 
 
 The Greater Sacrifice 
 
 By Myra R. Libby 
 
 Through years of toil that knew no day too long 
 Or night too brief for rest, if so her hand 
 For doing deeds of love kept firm and strong, 
 A life all sacrificial she had planned 
 And lived; her purpose held above defeat, 
 That one most cherished life might ever be 
 With richest, rarest blessings all replete. 
 " Behold 1" men said, "she lives unselfishly." 
 
 Then shone a light about her, and a voice 
 In sudden wisdom cried, "No more rejoice, 
 For naught of blessing in thy giving lies. 
 Deny! Denyl e'er all his manhood dies." 
 And heeding then that startling, strange advice, 
 She made her first great bleeding sacrifice. 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 407 
 
 sible to keep them where they can 
 neither see nor know. If correspondents 
 were allowed to follow the Japanese 
 armies and fleets on horseback and in 
 despatch-boats as they followed our army 
 and fleet in the Cuban campaign, Japan 
 would have to play the game of war with 
 her cards face up on the table and 
 games are not won in that way. Rus 
 sia is a powerful and dangerous antag 
 onist; and if the Japanese admirals and 
 generals are victorious in the fight that 
 
 they have undertaken, their success will 
 be due, in great part, to the rapidity and 
 secrecy of their movements. 
 
 It is not improbable that the day 
 of the war correspondent has passed. 
 Facility of telegraphic communication 
 throughout the world has made him 
 almost as dangerous as a spy, and the 
 example set by Japan is likely to be 
 followed hereafter by every great power 
 that finds itself engaged in war. 
 
 Yokohama, Japan. 
 
 THE MOUNTAINS' 
 
 BY STEWART EDWARD WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE FOREST," " THE BLAZED TRAIL," " THE SILENT PLACES," ETC. 
 
 IV. On How to Go About It 
 
 ONE truth you must learn to ac 
 cept, believe as a tenet of your 
 faith, and act upon always. It 
 is that your entire welfare depends on 
 the condition of your horses. They 
 must, as a consequence, receive always 
 your first consideration. As long as 
 they have rest and food, you are sure of 
 getting along ; as soon as they fail, you 
 are reduced to difficulties. So absolute 
 is this truth that it has passed into an 
 idiom. When a Westerner wants to tell 
 you that he lacks a thing, he informs 
 you he is " afoot " for it. " Give me a 
 fill for my pipe," he begs ; " I'm plumb 
 afoot for tobacco." 
 
 Consequently, you think last of your 
 own comfort. In casting about for a 
 place to spend the night, you look out 
 tor good feed. That assured, all else is 
 of slight importance ; you make the best 
 of whatever camping facilities may hap 
 pen to be attached. If necessary, you 
 will sleep on granite or in a marsh, walk 
 a mile for firewood or water, if only your 
 animals are well provided for. And on 
 the trail you often will work twice as 
 hard as they, merely to save them a 
 little. In whatever I may tell you re 
 garding practical expedients, keep this 
 always in mind. 
 i Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 As to the little details of your daily 
 routine in the mountains, many are worth 
 setting down, however trivial they may 
 seem. They mark the difference between 
 the greenhorn and the old-timer; but, 
 more important, they mark also the dif 
 ference between the right and the wrong, 
 the efficient and the inefficient, ways of 
 doing things. 
 
 In the morning the cook for the day 
 is the first man afoot, usually about half- 
 past four. He blows on his fingers, 
 casts malevolent glances at the sleepers, 
 finally builds his fire and starts his meal. 
 Then he takes fiendish delight in kick 
 ing out the others. They do not run, 
 with glad shouts, to plunge into the 
 nearest pool, as most camping fiction 
 would have us believe. Not they. The 
 glad shout and nearest pool can wait 
 until noon, when the sun is warm. They, 
 too, blow on their fingers, and curse the 
 cook for getting them up so early. All 
 eat breakfast and feel better. 
 
 Now the cook smokes in lordly ease. 
 One of the other men washes the dishes, 
 while his companion goes forth to drive 
 in the horses. Washing dishes is bad 
 enough, but fumbling with frozen fingers 
 at stubborn hobble-buckles is worse. 
 At camp the horses are caught, and each 
 is tied near his own saddle and pack. 
 
408 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [18 June 
 
 The saddle-horses are attended to 
 first. Thus they are available for busi 
 ness in case some of the others should 
 make trouble. You will see that your 
 saddle-blankets are perfectly smooth, 
 and so laid that the edges are to the 
 front, where they are least likely to roll 
 under or wrinkle. After the saddle is 
 in place, lift it slightly, and loosen the 
 blanket along the backbone so it will 
 not draw down tight under the weight 
 of the rider. Next hang your rifle-scab 
 bard under your left leg. It should be 
 slanted along the horse's side at such 
 an angle that neither will the muzzle 
 interfere with the animal's hind leg nor 
 the butt with your bridle-hand. This 
 angle must be determined by experi 
 ment. The loop in front should be 
 attached to the scabbard, so it can be 
 hung over the horn ; that behind to the 
 saddle, so the muzzle can be thrust 
 through it. When you come to try this 
 method, you will appreciate its handi- 
 ness. Besides the rifle, you will carry 
 also your rope, camera, and a sweater 
 or waistcoat for changes in temperature. 
 In your saddle-bags are pipe and tobac 
 co, perhaps a chunk of bread, your note 
 book, and the map if there is any. 
 Thus your saddle-horse is outfitted. 
 Do not forget your collapsible rubber 
 cup. About your waist you will wear 
 your cartridge-belt with six-shooter and 
 sheath-knife. I use a forty-five caliber 
 belt. By threading a buckskin thong in 
 and out through some of the cartridge- 
 loops, their size is sufficiently reduced 
 to hold also the 3040 rifle cartridges. 
 Thus I carry ammunition for both re 
 volver and rifle in the one belt. The 
 belt should not be buckled tight about 
 your waist, but should hang well down 
 on the hip. This is for two reasons. 
 In the first place, it does not drag so 
 heavily at your anatomy, and falls natu 
 rally into position when you are mounted. 
 In the second place, you can jerk your 
 gun out more easily from a loose-hang 
 ing holster. Let your knife-sheath be 
 so deep as almost to cover the handle, 
 and the knife of the very best steel pro 
 curable. I like a thin blade. If you 
 are a student of animal anatomy, you 
 can skin and quarter a deer with noth 
 ing heavier than a pocket-knife. 
 
 When you come to saddle the pack- 
 horses, you must exercise even greater 
 care in getting the saddle-blankets smooth 
 and the saddle in place. There is some 
 give and take to a rider ; but a pack 
 carries " dead," and gives the poor 
 animal the full handicap of its weight at 
 all times. A rider dismounts in bad or 
 steep places ; a pack stays on until the 
 morning's journey is ended. See to it, 
 then, that it is on right. 
 
 Each horse should have assigned him 
 a definite and, as nearly as possible, 
 unvarying pack. Thus you will not 
 have to search everywhere for the things 
 you need. 
 
 For example, in our own case, Lily 
 was known as the cook-horse. She 
 carried all the kitchen utensils, the fire- 
 irons, the ax, and matches. In addition, 
 her alforjas contained a number of little 
 bags in which were small quantities for 
 immediate use of all the different sorts 
 of provisions we had with us. When we 
 made camp, we unpacked her near the 
 best place for a fire, and everything was 
 ready for the cook. Jenny was a sort 
 of supply store, for she transported the 
 main stock of the provisions of which 
 Lily's little bags contained samples. 
 Dinkey helped out Jenny, and in addi 
 tion since she took such good care of 
 her pack was intrusted with the fishing- 
 rods, the shot-gun, the medicine-bag, 
 small miscellaneous duffle, and whatever 
 deer or bear meat we happened to have. 
 Buckshot's pack consisted of things not 
 often used, such as all the ammunition, 
 the horse-shoeing outfit^ repair-kit, and 
 the like. It was rarely disturbed at all. 
 
 These various things were all stowed 
 away in the kyacks or alforjas which 
 hung on either side. They had to be 
 very accurately balanced. The least 
 difference in weight caused one side to 
 sag, and that in turn chafed the saddle 
 tree against the animal's withers. 
 
 So far, so good. Next comes the- 
 affair of the tqp packs. Lay your duffle- 
 bags across the middle of the saddle. 
 Spread the blankets and quilts as evenly 
 as possible. Cover all with the canvas 
 tarpaulin suitably folded. Everything 
 is now ready for the pack-rope. 
 
 The first thing anybody asks you 
 when it is discovered that you know a 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 409 
 
 little something of pack-trains is, " Do 
 you throw the Diamond Hitch ?" Now 
 the Diamond is a pretty hitch and a firm 
 one, but it is by no means the fetish 
 some people make of it, They would 
 have you believe that it represents the 
 height of the packer's art; and once 
 having mastered it, they use it religiously 
 for every weight, shape, and size of pack. 
 The truth of the matter is that the style 
 of hitch should be varied according to 
 the use to which it is to be put. 
 
 The Diamond is good because it 
 holds firmly, is a great flattener, and is 
 especially adapted to the securing of 
 square boxes. It is celebrated because 
 it is pretty and rather difficult to learn. 
 Also it possesses the advantage for single- 
 handed packing that it can be thrown 
 slack throughout and then tightened, 
 and that the last pull tightens the whole 
 hitch. However, for ordinary purposes, 
 with a quiet horse and a comparatively 
 soft pack, the common Square Hitch 
 holds well enough and is quickly made. 
 For a load of small articles and heavy 
 alforjas there is nothing like the Lone 
 Packer. It too is a bit hard to learn. 
 Chiefly is it valuable because the last 
 pulls draw the alforjas away from the 
 horse's sides, thus preventing their 
 chafing him. Of the many hitches that 
 remain, you need learn, to complete 
 your list for all practical purposes, only 
 the Bucking Hitch. It is complicated, 
 and takes time and patience to throw, 
 but it is warranted to hold your deck- 
 load through the most violent storms 
 bronco ingenuity can stir up. 
 
 These four will be enough. Learn to 
 throw them, and take pains always to 
 throw them good and tight. A loose 
 pack is the best expedient the enemy of 
 your soul could possibly devise. It 
 always turns or comes to pieces on the 
 edge of things ; and then you will spend 
 the rest of the morning trailing a wildly 
 bucking horse by the burst and scat 
 tered articles of camp duffle. It is fur 
 thermore your exhilarating task, after 
 you have caught him, to take stock, and 
 spend most of the afternoon looking for 
 what your first search passed by. Wes 
 and I once hunted two hours for as 
 large an object as a Dutch oven. After 
 which you can repack. This time you 
 
 will snug things down. You should 
 have done so in the beginning. 
 
 Next, the lead-ropes are made fast to 
 the top of the packs. There is here to 
 be learned a certain knot. In case of 
 trouble you can reach from your saddle 
 and jerk the whole thing free by a single 
 pull on a loose end. 
 
 All is now ready. You take a last 
 look around to see that nothing has 
 been left. One of the horsemen starts 
 on ahead. The pack-horses swing in 
 behind. We soon accustomed ours to 
 recognize the whistling of " Boots and 
 Saddles " as a signal for the advance. 
 Another horseman brings up the rear. 
 The day's journey has begun. 
 
 To one used to pleasure-riding the 
 affair seems almost too deliberate. The 
 leader plods steadily, stopping from 
 time to time to rest on the steep slopes. 
 The others string out in a leisurely pro 
 cession. It does no good to hurry. 
 The horses will of their own accord 
 stay in sight of one another, and con 
 stant nagging to keep the rear closed up 
 only worries them without accomplish 
 ing any valuable result. In going uphill 
 especially, let the train take its time. 
 Each animal is likely to have his own 
 ideas about when and where to rest. If 
 he does, respect them. See to it merely 
 that there is no prolonged yielding to 
 the temptation of meadow feed, and no 
 careless or malicious straying off the 
 trail. A minute's difference in the time 
 of arrival does not count. Remember 
 that the horses are doing hard and con 
 tinuous work on a grass diet. 
 
 The day's distance will not seem to 
 amount to much in actual miles, espe 
 cially if, like most Californians, you are 
 accustomed on a fresh horse to make 
 an occasional sixty or seventy between 
 suns ; but it ought to suffice. There is 
 a lot to be seen and enjoyed in a moun 
 tain mile. Through the high country 
 two miles an hour is a fair average rate 
 of speed, so you can readily calculate 
 that fifteen make a pretty long day. 
 You will be afoot a good share of the 
 time. If you were out from home for 
 ,only a few hours' jaunt, undoubtedly 
 you would ride your horse over places 
 where in an extended trip you will pre 
 fer to lead him. It is always a question 
 
410 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 of saving your animals, and that is well 
 worth considering. 
 
 About ten o'clock you must begin to 
 figure on water. No horse will drink in 
 the cool of the morning, and so, when 
 the sun gets well up, he will be thirsty. 
 Arrange it. 
 
 As to the method of travel, you can 
 either stop at noon or push straight on 
 through. We usually arose about half- 
 past four ; got under way by seven ; and 
 then rode continuously until ready to 
 make the next camp. In the high coun 
 try this meant until two or three in the 
 afternoon, by which time both we and 
 the horses were pretty hungry. But 
 when we did make camp, the horses had 
 until the following morning to get rested 
 and to graze, while we had all the re 
 mainder of the afternoon to fish, hunt, 
 or loaf. Sometimes, however, it was 
 more expedient to make a lunch-camp 
 at noon. Then we allowed an hour for 
 grazing, and about half an hour to pack 
 and unpack. It meant steady work for 
 ourselves. To unpack, turn out the 
 horses, cook, wash dishes, saddle up 
 seven animals, and repack, kept us very 
 busy. There remained not much leisure 
 to enjoy the scenery. It freshened the 
 horses, however, which was the main 
 point. I should say the first method 
 was the better for ordinary journeys ; 
 and the latter when, to reach good feed, 
 a forced march becomes necessary. 
 
 On reaching the night's stopping- 
 place, the cook for the day unpacks the 
 cook-horse and at once sets about the 
 preparation of dinner. The other two 
 attend to the animals. And no matter 
 how tired you are, or how hungry you 
 may be, you must take time to bathe 
 their backs with cold water; to stake 
 the picket-animal where it will at once 
 get good feed and not tangle its rope in 
 bushes, roots, or stumps ; to hobble the 
 others; and to bell those inclined to 
 
 wander. After this is done, it is well, 
 for the peace and well-being of the party, 
 to take food. 
 
 A smoke establishes you in the final 
 and normal attitude of good humor. 
 Each man spreads his tarpaulin where 
 he has claimed his bed. Said claim is 
 indicated by his hat thrown down where 
 he wishes to sleep. It is a mark of pre 
 emption which every one is bound to 
 respect. Lay out your saddle-blankets, 
 cover them with your quilt, place the 
 sleeping-blanket on top, and fold over 
 the tarpaulin to cover the whole. At 
 the head deposit your duffle-bag. Thus 
 are you assured of a pleasant night. 
 
 About dusk you straggle in with trout 
 or game. The camp-keeper lays aside 
 his mending or his repairing or his note 
 book, and stirs up the cooking fire. The 
 smell of broiling and frying and boiling 
 arises in the air. By the dancing flame 
 of the camp-fire you eat your third dinner 
 for the day in the mountains all meals 
 are dinners, and formidable ones at that. 
 The curtain of blackness draws down 
 close. Through it shine stars, loom 
 mountains cold and mist like in the 
 moon. You tell stories. You smoke pipes. 
 After a time the pleasant chill creeps 
 down from the eternal snows. Some 
 one throws another handful of pine-cones 
 on the fire. Sleepily you prepare for 
 bed. The pine-cones flare up, throwing 
 their light in your eyes. You turn over 
 and wrap the soft woolen blanket close 
 aboutyour chin. You wink drowsily and 
 at once you are asleep. Along late in 
 the night you awaken to find your nose 
 as cold as a dog's. You open one eye. 
 A few coals mark where the fire has been. 
 The mist mountains have drawn nearer, 
 they seem to bend over you in silent 
 contemplation. The moon is sailing 
 high in the heavens. With a sigh you 
 draw the canvas tarpaulin over your 
 head. Instantly it is morning. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS' 
 
 BY STEWART EDWARD WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE FOREST," " THE BLAZED TRAIL," " THE SILENT PLACES," ETC. 
 
 V. The Coast Ranges 
 
 AT last, on the day appointed, we, 
 with five horses, climbed the 
 Cold Spring Trail to the ridge ; 
 and then, instead of turning to the left, 
 we plunged down the zigzag lacets of 
 the other side. That night we camped at 
 Mono Canon, feeling ourselves strangely 
 an integral part of the relief map we 
 had looked upon so many times that 
 almost we had come to consider its fea 
 tures as in miniature, not capacious 
 for the accommodation of life-sized men. 
 Here we remained a day while we rode 
 the hills in search of Dinkey and Jenny, 
 there pastured. 
 
 We found Jenny peaceful and inclined 
 to . be corralled. But Dinkey, followed 
 by a slavishly adoring brindle mule, de 
 clined to be rounded up. We chased 
 her up hill and down ; along creek-beds 
 and through the spiky chaparral. Always 
 she dodged craftily, warily, with fore 
 thought. Always the brindled mule, 
 wrapt in admiration at his companion's 
 cleverness, crashed along after. Finally 
 we teased her into a narrow canon. 
 Wes and the Tenderfoot closed the upper 
 end. I attempted to slip by to the lower, 
 but was discovered. Dinkey tore a 
 frantic mile down the side hill. Bullet, 
 his nostrils wide, his ears back, raced 
 parallel in the boulder-strewn stream- 
 bed, wonderful in his avoidance of bad 
 footing, precious in his selection of good, 
 interested in the game, indignant at the 
 wayward Dinkey, profoundly contempt 
 uous of the besotted mule. At a bend 
 in the canon interposed a steep bank. 
 Up this we scrambled, dirt and stones 
 flying. I had just time to bend low 
 along the saddle when, with the ripping 
 and tearing and scratching of thorns, 
 we burst blindly through a thicket. In 
 the open space on the farther side 
 
 i Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 Bullet stopped, panting but triumphant. 
 Dinkey, surrounded at last, turned back 
 toward camp with an air of utmost 
 indifference. The mule dropped his 
 long ears and followed. 
 
 At camp we corralled Dinkey, but left 
 her friend to shift for himself. Then 
 was lifted up his voice in mulish lamen 
 tations until, cursing, we had to ride out 
 bareback and drive him far into the 
 hills and there stone him into distant 
 fear. Even as we departed up the trail 
 the following day the voice of his sorrow, 
 diminishing like the echo of grief, ap 
 pealed uselessly to Dinkey's sympathy. 
 For Dinkey, once captured, seemed to 
 have shrugged her shoulders and ac 
 cepted inevitable toil with a real though 
 cynical philosophy. 
 
 The trail rose gradually by impercep 
 tible gradations and occasional climbs. 
 We journeyed in the great canons. 
 High chaparral flanked the trail, occa 
 sional wide gray stretches of " old man " 
 filled the air with its pungent odor and 
 with the calls of its quail. The crannies 
 of the rocks, the stretches of wide loose 
 shale, the crumbling bottom earth, offered 
 to the eye the desiccated beauties of 
 creamy yucca, of yerba buena, of the 
 gaudy red paint-brushes, the Spanish 
 bayonet ; and to the nostrils the hot dry 
 perfumes of the semi-arid lands. The 
 air was tepid ; the sun hot. A sing-song 
 of bees and locusts and strange insects 
 lulled the mind. The ponies plodded 
 on cheerfully. We expanded and basked 
 and slung our legs over the pommels 
 of our saddles and were glad we had 
 come. 
 
 At no time did we seem to be climb 
 ing mountains. Rather we wound in 
 and out, round and about, through a 
 labyrinth of valleys and canons and 
 ravines, farther and farther into a mys- 
 
 465 
 
466 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [25 June 
 
 terious shut-in country that seemed to 
 have no end. Once in a while, to be 
 sure, we zigzagged up a trifling ascent ; 
 but it was nothing. And then at a cer 
 tain point the Tenderfoot happened to 
 look back. 
 
 " Well 1" he gasped ; " will you look 
 at that 1" 
 
 We turned. Through a long straight 
 aisle which chance had placed just 
 there, we saw far in the distance a sheer 
 slate-colored wall ; and beyond, still far 
 ther in the distance, overtopping the 
 slate-colored wall by a narrow strip, 
 another wall of light azure blue. 
 
 " It's our mountains," said Wes, " and 
 that blue ridge is the channel islands. 
 We've got up higher than our range." 
 
 We looked about us, and tried to 
 realize that we were actually more than 
 half way up the formidable ridge we had 
 so often speculated on from the Cold 
 Spring Trail. But it was impossible. 
 In a few moments, however, our broad, 
 easy canon narrowed. Huge crags and 
 sheer masses of rocks hemmed us in. 
 The chaparral and yucca and yerba 
 buena gave place to pine-trees and 
 mountain oaks, with little close clumps 
 of cottonwoods in the stream bottom. 
 The brook narrowed and leaped, and 
 the white of alkali faded from its banks. 
 We began to climb in good earnest, 
 pausing often for breath. The view 
 opened. We looked back on whence we 
 had come, and saw again, from -the re 
 verse, the forty miles of ranges and val 
 leys we had viewed from the Ridge Trail. 
 
 At this point we stopped to shoot a 
 rattlesnake. Dinkey and Jenny took the 
 opportunity to push ahead. From time 
 to time we would catch sight of them 
 traveling earnestly on, following the trail 
 accurately, stopping at stated intervals 
 to rest, doing their work, conducting 
 themselves as decorously as though driv 
 ers had stood over them with blacksnake 
 whips. We tried a little to catch up. 
 
 " Never mind," said Wes, " they've 
 been over this trail before. They'll 
 stop when they get to where we're going 
 to camp." 
 
 We halted a moment on the ridge to 
 look back over the lesser mountains and 
 the distant ridge, beyond which the 
 islands now showed plainly. Then we 
 
 dropped down behind the divide into a 
 cup valley containing a little meadow 
 with running water on two sides of it 
 and big pines above. The meadow was 
 brown, to be sure, as all typical Califor 
 nia is at this time of year. But the 
 brown of California and the brown of 
 the East are two different things. Here 
 is no snow or rain to mat down the 
 grass, to suck out of it the vital princi 
 ples. It grows ripe and sweet and soft, 
 rich with the life that has not drained 
 away, covering the hills and valleys with 
 the effect of beaver fur, so that it seems 
 the great round-backed hills must have 
 in a strange manner the yielding flesh 
 elasticity of living creatures. The brown 
 of California is the brown of ripeness, 
 not .of decay. 
 
 Our little meadow was beautifully 
 named Madulce, 1 and was just below 
 the highest point of this section of the 
 Coast Range. The air drank fresh with 
 the cool of elevation. We went out to 
 shoot supper; and so found ourselves 
 on a little knoll fronting the brown-hazed 
 east. As we stood there, enjoying the 
 breeze after our climb, a great wave of 
 hot air swept by us, filling our lungs 
 with heat, scorching our faces as the 
 breath of a furnace. Thus was brought 
 to our minds what, in the excitement of 
 a new country, we had forgotten that 
 we were at last on the eastern slope, 
 and that before us waited the Inferno 
 of the desert. 
 
 That evening we lay in the sweet ripe 
 grasses of Madulce, and talked of it. 
 Wes had been across it once before, and 
 did not possess much optimism with 
 which to comfort us. 
 
 " It's hot, just plain hot," said he, 
 " and that's all there is about it. And 
 there's mighty little water, and what 
 there is is sickish and a long ways apart. 
 And the sun is strong enough to roast 
 potatoes in." 
 
 " Why not travel at night ?" we asked. 
 
 " No place to sleep under daytimes," 
 explained Wes. "It's better to keep 
 traveling and then get a chance for a 
 little sleep in the cool of the night." 
 
 We saw the reasonableness of that. 
 
 " Of course we'll start early, and take 
 
 1 In all Spanish names the hnal e should be pro 
 nounced. 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 467 
 
 a long nooning, and travel late. We 
 won't get such a lot of sleep." 
 
 " How long is it going to take us ?" 
 
 Wes calculated. 
 
 " About eight days," he said, soberly. 
 
 The next morning we descended from 
 Madulce abruptly by a dirt trail, almost 
 perpendicular until we slid into a canon 
 of sage-brush and quail, of mescale cac 
 tus and the fierce dry heat of sun-baked 
 shale. 
 
 "Is it any hotter than this on the 
 desert ?" we inquired. 
 
 Wes looked on us with pity. 
 
 " This is plumb arctic," said he. 
 
 Near noon we came to a little cattle 
 ranch situated in a flat surrounded by 
 red dikes and buttes after the manner 
 of Arizona. Here we unpacked, early 
 as it was, for through the dry countries 
 one has to apportion his day's journeys 
 by the water to be had. If we went 
 farther to-day, then to-morrow night 
 would find us in a dry camp. 
 
 The horses scampered down the flat 
 to search out alfilaria. We roosted 
 under a slanting shed where were 
 stock saddles, silver-mounted bits and 
 spurs, rawhide riatas, branding-irons, 
 and all the lumber of the cattle busi 
 ness and hung out our tongues and 
 gasped for breath, and earnestly desired 
 the sun to go down or a breeze to come 
 up. The breeze shortly did so. It was 
 a hot breeze, and availed merely to 
 cover us with dust, to swirl the stable- 
 yard into our faces. Great swarms of 
 flies buzzed and lit and stung. Wes, 
 disgusted, went over to where a solitary 
 cow-puncher was engaged in shoeing a 
 horse. Shortly we saw Wes pressed 
 into service to hold the horse's hoof. 
 He raised a pathetic face to us, the big 
 round drops chasing each other down 
 it as fast as rain. We grinned and felt 
 better. 
 
 The fierce perpendicular rays of the 
 sun beat down. The air under the shed 
 grew stuffier and more oppressive, but 
 it was the only patch of shade in all that 
 pink and red furnace of a little valley. 
 The Tenderfoot discovered a pair of 
 horse-clippers, and, becoming slightly 
 foolish with the heat, insisted on our 
 barbering his head. We told him it was 
 cooler with hair than without ; and that 
 
 the flies and sun would be offered thus 
 a beautiful opportunity ; but without 
 avail. So we clipped him leaving, 
 however, a beautiful long scalp-lock in 
 the middle of his crown. He looked 
 like High-low-kickapoo-waterpot, chief 
 of the Wam-wams. After a while he 
 discovered it, and was unhappy. 
 
 Shortly the riders began to come in, 
 jingling up to the shed, with a rattle of 
 spurs and bit-chains. There they un 
 saddled their horses, after which, with 
 great unanimity, they soused their heads 
 in the horse-trough. The chief, a six- 
 footer, wearing beautifully decorated 
 gauntlets and a pair of white buckskin 
 chaps, went so far. as to say it was a little 
 warm for the time of year. In the 
 freshness of evening, when frazzled 
 nerves had regained their steadiness, he 
 returned to smoke and yarn with us, 
 and tell us of the peculiarities of the 
 cattle business in the Cuyamas. At 
 present he and his men were riding the 
 great mountains, driving the cattle to 
 the lowlands in anticipation of a rodeo 
 the following week. A rodeo under 
 that sun ! 
 
 We slept in the ranch vehicles, so the 
 air could get under us. While the stars 
 still shone, we crawled out, tired and 
 unrefreshed. The Tenderfoot and I 
 went down the valley after the horses. 
 While we looked, the dull, pallid gray 
 of dawn filtered into the darkness, and 
 so we saw our animals, put of propor 
 tion, monstrous in the half-light of that 
 earliest morning. Before the range rid 
 ers were even astir we had taken up our 
 journey, filching thus a few hours from 
 the inimical sun. 
 
 Until ten o'clock we traveled in the 
 valley of the Cuyamas. The river was 
 merely a broad sand and stone bed, 
 although undoubtedly there was water 
 below the surface. California rivers are 
 said to flow bottom up. To the north 
 ward were mountains typical of the arid 
 countries boldly defined, clear in the 
 edges of their folds, with sharp shadows 
 and hard, uncompromising surfaces. 
 They looked brittle and hollow, as though 
 made of papier-mache' and set down in 
 the landscape. A long four hours' noon 
 we spent beneath a live-oak near a tiny 
 spring. I tried to hunt, but had to give 
 
468 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [25 June 
 
 it up. After that I lay on my back and 
 shot doves as they came to drink at the 
 spring. It was better than walking 
 about, and quite as effective as regards 
 supper. A band of cattle filed stolidly 
 in, drank, and filed as stolidly away. 
 Some half-wild horses came to the edge 
 of the hill, stamped, snorted, essayed 
 a tentative advance. Them we drove 
 away, lest they decoy our own animals. 
 The flies would not let us sleep. Dozens 
 of valley and mountain quail called with 
 maddening cheerfulness and energy. 
 By a mighty exercise of will we got 
 under way again. In an hour we rode 
 out into what seemed to be a grassy 
 foot-hill country, supplied with a most 
 refreshing breeze. 
 
 The little, round hills of a few hundred 
 feet rolled gently away to the artificial 
 horizon made by their closing in. The 
 trail meandered white and distinct 
 through the clear fur-like brown of their 
 grasses. Cattle grazed. Here and there 
 grew live-oaks, planted singly as in a 
 park. Beyond we could imagine the 
 great plain, grading insensibly into these 
 little hills. 
 
 And then all at once we surmounted 
 a slight elevation, and found that we had 
 been traveling on a plateau, and that 
 these apparent little hills were in reality 
 the peaks of high mountains. 
 
 We stood on the brink of a wide, 
 smooth, velvet-creased range that dipped 
 down and down to miniature canons far 
 below. Not a sfngle little boulder broke 
 the rounded uniformity of the wild 
 
 grasses. Out from beneath us crept 
 the plain, sluggish and inert with heat. 
 
 Threads of trails, dull white patches 
 of alkali, vague brown areas of brush, 
 showed indeterminate for a little dis 
 tance. But only for a little distance. 
 Almost at once they grew dim, faded in 
 the thickness of atmosphere, lost them 
 selves in the mantle of heat that lay 
 palpable and brown like a shimmering 
 changing veil, hiding the distance in 
 mystery and in dread. It was a land 
 apart ; a land to be looked on curiously 
 from the vantage-ground of safety as 
 we were looking on it from the shoulder 
 of the mountain and then to be turned 
 away from, to be left waiting behind 
 its brown veil for what might come. 
 To abandon the high country, deliber 
 ately to cut loose from the known, delib 
 erately to seek the presence that lay in 
 wait all at once it seemed the height 
 of grotesque perversity. We wanted to 
 turn on our heels. We wanted to get 
 back to our hills and fresh breezes and 
 clear water, to our beloved cheerful quail, 
 to our trails and the sweet upper air. 
 
 For perhaps a quarter of an hour we 
 sat our horses, gazing down. Some 
 unknown disturbance lazily rifted the 
 brown veil by ever so little. We saw, 
 lying inert and languid, obscured by its 
 own rank steam, a great round lake. 
 We knew the water to be bitter, poison 
 ous. The veil drew together again. 
 Wes shook himself and sighed 
 
 " There she is confound her 1" said 
 he. 
 
 "Without Benefit 5 ' to the Clergy 
 
 By Grace Duffield Goodwin 
 
 HE wanted to buy things did this 
 Minister. Having for years on 
 a.meager salary denied himself 
 all of the luxuries and many of the ne 
 cessities, he was now to find his Waterloo 
 in the pages of a Spring and Fall cata 
 logue. His wife was to blame, as in Eden ; 
 and the outcome, as in Eden, ,was clothes. 
 There were represented in the enticing 
 pages of that catalogue men clothed 
 in " correct and gentlemanly " apparel, 
 everything included, for so modest a 
 
 .sum that even the housewifely soul who 
 longed to emulate King Lemuel's Per 
 fect Woman and have her husband 
 " known in the gates " felt that the bills 
 could be reduced and the magnificent 
 surplus expended upon raiment. So she 
 sought her husband with a tape-measure, 
 a pencil, and the yellow blank, which at 
 the critical moment had appeared from 
 nowhere in particular, and him she 
 measured with dauntless front and en 
 kindled enthusiasm. 
 
GENERAL OKU 
 Drawn by Shugetsu Shoda, a Japanese art student in the National Academy of Design, New York. 
 
 General Oku 
 
 THE two Japanese military leaders 
 who have gained the most fame 
 in the present war are General 
 Kuroki and General Oku. The former 
 commands Japan's First Army and won 
 the battle of the Yalu. The latter is at 
 the head of the Second Army, and his 
 masterly skill in landing that army on 
 the Regent's Sword Peninsula, cutting 
 the railway communication between Port 
 Arthur and the Russian headquarters at 
 
 Liaoyang, seizing Kinchow, and hurling 
 his troops on the Russian fortifications 
 at the Nanshan Hills, which were cap 
 tured after one of the most terrible and 
 bloody charges in the history of war 
 all this, as well as his later movements, 
 have extorted praise even from his 
 enemy, General Kuropatkin, who is said 
 to have commended equally Oku's stra 
 tegical skill and his courage as those of 
 a great soldier. 
 
 505 
 
I 
 
THE 
 
 MOUNTAINS 
 
 BY 
 
 STEWART EDWARD 
 WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE FOREST 
 
 THE BLAZED TRAIL 
 
 THE SILENT PLACES Etc. 
 
 WITH PICTURES BY FERNAND LUNGREN 
 
 VI.- -The Inferno 
 
 FOR eight days we did penance, 
 checking off the hours, meeting 
 doggedly one after another the 
 disagreeable things. We were bathed 
 in heat ; we inhaled it ; it soaked into 
 us until we seemed to radiate it like so 
 many furnaces. A condition of thirst 
 became the normal condition, to be only 
 slightly mitigated by a few mouthfuls 
 from zinc canteens of tepid water. Food 
 had no attractions; even smoking did 
 not taste good. Always the flat coun 
 try stretched out before us. We could 
 see far ahead a landmark which we 
 would reach only by a morning's travel. 
 Nothing intervened between us and it. 
 After we had looked at it a while, we 
 became possessed of an almost insane 
 necessity to make a run for it. The 
 slow maddening three miles an hour of 
 the pack-train drove us frantic. There 
 were times when it seemed that unless 
 we shifted our gait, unless we stepped 
 outside the slow strain of patience to 
 which the Inferno held us relentlessly, 
 we should lose our minds and run round 
 and round in circles as people often 
 do, in the desert. 
 
 1 Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 And when the last and most formida 
 ble hundred yards had slunk sullenly 
 behind us to insignificance, and we had 
 dared let our minds relax from the in 
 sistent need of self-control then, beyond 
 the cottonwoods, or creek-bed, or group 
 of buildings, whichever it might be, we 
 made out another, remote as paradise, 
 which we must gain by sunset. So again 
 the wagon-trail, with its white choking 
 dust, its staggering sun, its miles made 
 up of monotonous inches, each clutching 
 for a man's sanity. 
 
 We sang everything we knew ; we 
 told stories ; we rode cross-saddle, side- 
 wise, erect, slouching; we walked and 
 led our horses ; we shook the powder of 
 years from old worn jokes, conundrums, 
 and puzzles and at the end, in spite of 
 our best efforts, we fell to morose silence 
 and the red-eyed, vindictive contempla 
 tion of the objective point that would 
 not seem to come nearer. 
 
 For now we lost accurate sense of 
 time. At first it had been merely a 
 question of going in atone side of eight 
 days, pressing through them, and coming 
 out on the other side. Then the eight 
 days would be behind us. But once we 
 
 507 
 
508 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 had entered that enchanted period, we 
 found ourselves more deeply involved. 
 The seemingly limited area spread with 
 startling swiftness to the very horizon. 
 Abruptly it was borne in on us that this 
 was never going to end; just as* now 
 for the first time we realized that it had 
 begun infinite ages ago. We were 
 caught in the entanglement of days. 
 The Coast Ranges were the experiences 
 of a past incarnation ; the Mountains 
 were a myth. Nothing was real but 
 this ; and this would endure forever. 
 We plodded on because somehow it was 
 part of the great plan that we should do 
 so. Not that it did any good : we had 
 long since given up such ideas. The 
 illusion was very real ; perhaps it was 
 the anodyne mercifully administered to 
 those who pass through the Inferno. 
 
 Most of the time we got on well 
 enough. One day, only, the Desert 
 showed her power. That day, at five 
 of the afternoon, it was one hundred and 
 twenty degrees in the shade. And we, 
 through necessity of reaching the next 
 water, journeyed over the alkali at noon. 
 Then the Desert came close on us and 
 looked us fair in the eyes, concealing 
 nothing. She killed poor Deuce, the 
 beautiful setter who had traveled the 
 wild countries so long ; she struck Wes 
 and the Tenderfoot from their horses 
 when finally they had reached a long- 
 legged water-tank; she even staggered 
 the horses themselves. And I, lying 
 under a bush where I had stayed after 
 the others in the hope of succoring 
 Deuce, began idly shooting at ghostly 
 jack-rabbits that looked real, but through 
 which the revolver bullets passed with 
 out resistance. 
 
 After this day the Tenderfoot went 
 water-crazy. Watering the horses be 
 came almost a mania with him. He 
 could not bear to pass even a mud-hole 
 without offering the astonished Tune- 
 mah a chance to fill up, even though 
 that animal had drunk freely not twenty 
 rods back. As for himself, he embraced 
 every opportunity; and journeyed draped 
 in many canteens. 
 
 After that it was not so bad. The 
 thermometer stood from a hundred to a 
 hundred and five or six, to be sure, but 
 we were getting used to it. Discomfort, 
 
 ordinary physical discomfort, we came 
 to accept as the normal environment of 
 man. It is astonishing how soon uni 
 formly uncomfortable conditions, by very 
 lack of contrast, do lose their power to 
 color the habit of mind. I imagine 
 merely physical unhappiness is a matter 
 more of contrasts than of actual cir 
 cumstances. We swallowed dust ; we 
 humped our shoulders philosophically 
 under the beating of the sun ; we 
 breathed the debris of high winds ; we 
 cooked anyhow, ate anything, spent long 
 idle fly-infested hours waiting for the 
 noon to pass ; we slept in horse-corrals, 
 in the trail, in the dust, behind stables, 
 in hay, anywhere. There was little 
 water, less wood for the cooking. 
 
 It is now all confused, an impression 
 of events without sequence, a mass of 
 little prominent purposeless things like 
 rock conglomerate. I remember leaning 
 rny elbows on a low window-ledge and 
 watching a poker game going on in the 
 room of a dive. The light came from a 
 sickly suspended lamp. It fell on five 
 players two miners in their shirt-sleeves, 
 a Mexican, a tough youth with side- 
 tilted derby hat, and a fat, gorgeously 
 dressed Chinaman. The men held their 
 cards close to their bodies, and wagered 
 in silence. Slowly and regularly the 
 great drops of sweat gathered on their 
 faces. As regularly they raised the 
 backs of their hands to wipe them away. 
 Only the Chinaman, broad-faced, calm, 
 impassive as Buddha, save for a little 
 crafty smile in one corner of his eye, 
 seemed utterly unaffected by the heat, 
 cool as autumn. His loose sleeve fell 
 back from his forearm when he moved 
 his hand forward, laying his bets. A 
 jade bracelet slipped back and forth as 
 smoothly as on yellow ivory. 
 
 Or, again, one night when the plain 
 was like a sea of liquid black, and the 
 sky blazed with stars, we rode by a 
 sheep-herder's camp. The flicker of a 
 fire threw a glow out into the dark. A 
 tall wagon, a group of silhouetted men, 
 three or four squatting dogs, were 
 squarely within the circle of illumina 
 tion. And outside, in the penumbra of 
 shifting half light, now showing clearly, 
 now fading into darkness, were the 
 sheep, indeterminate in bulk, melting 
 

 I 
 
 
510 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [2 July 
 
 away by mysterious thousands into the 
 mass of night. We passed them. They 
 looked up, squinting their eyes against 
 the dazzle of their fire. The night 
 closed about us again. 
 
 Or still another : in the glare of broad 
 noon, after a hot and trying day, a little 
 inn kept by a French couple. And 
 there, in the very middle of the Inferno, 
 was served to us, on clean scrubbed 
 tables, a meal such as one gets in rural 
 France, all complete, with the potage, 
 the fish fried in oil, the wonderful ragout, 
 the chicken and salad, the cheese and 
 the black coffee, even the vin ordinaire. 
 I have forgotten the name of the place, 
 its location on the map, the name of its 
 people one has little to do with detail 
 in the Inferno but that dinner never 
 will I forget, any more than the Tender 
 foot will forget his first sight of water 
 the day when the Desert " held us up." 
 
 Once the brown veil lifted to the east 
 ward. We, souls struggling, saw great 
 mountains and the whiteness of eternal 
 snow. That noon we crossed a river, 
 hurrying down through the flat plain, 
 and in its current came the body of a 
 drowned bear-cub, an alien from the 
 high country. 
 
 These things should have been as 
 signs to our jaded spirits that we were 
 nearly at the end of our penance, but 
 discipline uad seared over our souls, 
 and we rode on unknowing. 
 
 Then we came on a real indication. 
 It did not amount to much. Merely a 
 dry river-bed ; but the farther bank, 
 instead of being flat, cut into a low 
 swell of land. We skirted it. Another 
 swell of land, like the sullen after-heave 
 of a storm, lay in our way. Then 
 we crossed a ravine. It was not much 
 of a ravine ; in fact, it was more like a 
 slight gouge in the flatness of the coun 
 
 try. After that we began to see oak- 
 trees, scattered at rare intervals. So 
 interested were we in them that we did 
 not notice rocks beginning to outcrop 
 through the soil until they had become 
 numerous enough to be a feature of the 
 landscape. The hills, gently, quietly, 
 without abrupt transition, almost as 
 though they feared to awaken our alarm 
 by too abrupt movement of growth, 
 glided from little swells to bigger swells. 
 The oaks gathered closer together. The 
 ravine's brother could almost be called 
 a canon. The character of the country 
 had entirely changed. 
 
 And yet, so gradually had this change 
 come about that we did not awaken to 
 a full realization of our escape. To us 
 it was still the plain, a trifle modified 
 by local peculiarity, but presently to 
 resume its wonted aspect. We plodded 
 on dully, anodyned with the desert pa 
 tience. 
 
 But at a little before noon, as we 
 rounded the cheek of a slope, we encoun 
 tered an errant current of air. It came 
 up to us curiously, touched us each in 
 turn, and went on. The warm furnace 
 heat drew in on us again. But it had 
 been a cool little current of air, with 
 something of the sweetness of pines and 
 water and snow-banks in it. The Ten 
 derfoot suddenly reined in his horse, and 
 looked about him. 
 
 " Boys 1" he cried, a new ring of joy 
 in his voice, " we're in the foot-hills 1" 
 
 Wes calculated rapidly. " It's the 
 eighth day to-day ; I guessed right on 
 the time." 
 
 We stretched our arms and looked 
 about us. They were dry brown hills 
 enough ; but they were hills, and they 
 had trees on them, and canons in them, 
 so to our eyes, wearied with flatness, 
 they seemed wonderful. 
 
 VII The Foot-Hills 
 
 At once our spirits rose. We straight 
 ened in our saddles, we breathed deep, 
 we joked. The country was scorched 
 and sterile ; the wagon-trail, almost par 
 alleling the mountains themselves on a 
 long easy slant toward the high country, 
 was ankle-deep in dust ; the ravines 
 were still dry of water. But it was not 
 
 the Inferno, and that one fact sufficed. 
 After a while we crossed high above a 
 river which dashed white water against 
 black rocks, and so were happy. 
 
 The country went on changing. The 
 change was always imperceptible, as is 
 growth, or the stealthy advance of au 
 tumn through the woods. From moment 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 511 
 
 to moment one could detect no altera 
 tion. Something intangible was taken 
 away ; something impalpable added. 
 At the end of an hour we were in the 
 oaks and sycamores ; at the end of two 
 we were in the pines and low mountains 
 of Bret Harte's " Forty-Nine." 
 
 The wagon trail felt ever farther and 
 farther into the hills. It had not been 
 used as a stage-route for years, but the 
 freighting kept it deep with dust, that 
 writhed and twisted and crawled lazily 
 knee-high to our horses, like a living 
 creature. We felt the swing and sweep 
 of the route. The boldness of its 
 stretches, the freedom of its reaches for 
 the opposite slope, the wide curve of its 
 horseshoes, all filled us with the breath 
 of an expansion which as yet the broad, 
 low country only suggested. 
 
 Everything here was reminiscent of 
 long ago. The very names hinted 
 stories of the Argonauts. Coarse Gold 
 Gulch, Whisky Creek, Grub Gulch, Fine 
 Gold Post-Office in turn we passed. 
 Occasionally, with a fine round dash 
 into the open, the trail drew one side to 
 a stage-station. The huge stables, the 
 wide corrals, the low living-houses, each 
 shut in its dooryard of blazing riotous 
 flowers, were all familiar. Only lacked 
 the old-fashioned Concord coach, from 
 which to descend Jack Hamlin or Judge 
 Starbottle. As for M'liss, she was there, 
 sunbonnet and all. 
 
 Down in the gulch bottoms were the 
 old placer diggings. Elaborate little 
 ditches for the deflection of water, long 
 cradles for the separation of gold, de 
 cayed rockers, and shining in the sun 
 the tons and tons of pay dirt which had 
 been turned over pound by pound in the 
 concentrating of its treasure. Some of 
 the old cabins still stood. It was all 
 deserted now, saved for the few who 
 kept trail for the freighters, or who tilled 
 the restricted bottom-lands of the flats. 
 Road-runners racked away down the 
 paths ; squirrels scurried over worn-out 
 placers ; jays screamed and chattered 
 in and out of the abandoned cabins. 
 Strange and shy little creatures and 
 birds, reassured by the silence of many 
 years, had ventured to take to them 
 selves the engines of man's industry. 
 And the warm California sun embalmed 
 
 it all in a peaceful and pleasing forget- 
 fulness. 
 
 Now the trees grew bigger, and the 
 hills more impressive. We should call 
 them mountains in the East. Pines 
 covered them to the top, straight, slen 
 der pines with voices. The little flats 
 were planted with great oaks. When 
 we rode through them, they shut out the 
 hills, so that we might have imagined 
 ourselves in the level wooded country. 
 There insisted the effect of limitless tree- 
 grown plains, which the warm drowsy sun, 
 the park-like landscape, corroborated. 
 And yet the contrast of the clear atmos 
 phere and the sharp air equally insisted 
 on the mountains. It was a strange and 
 delicious double effect, a contradiction 
 of natural impressions, a negation of our 
 right to generalize from previous experi 
 ence. 
 
 Always the trail wound up and up. 
 Never was it steep ; never did it com 
 mand an outlook. Yet we felt that at last 
 we were rising, were leaving the level 
 of the Inferno, were nearing the thresh 
 old of the high country. 
 
 Mountain peoples came to the edges 
 of their clearings and gazed at us, re 
 sponding solemnly to our salutations. 
 They dwelt in cabins and held to agri 
 culture and the herding of the wild 
 mountain cattle. From them we heard 
 of the high country to which we were 
 bound. They spoke of it as you or I 
 would speak of interior Africa, as some 
 thing inconceivably remote, to be visited 
 only by the adventurous, an uninhabited 
 realm of vast magnitude and unknown 
 dangers. In the same way they spoke 
 of the plains. Only the narrow pine- 
 clad strip between the two and six thou 
 sand feet of elevation they felt to be 
 their natural environment. In it they 
 found the proper conditions for their 
 existence. Out of it those conditions 
 lacked. They were as much a localized 
 product as are certain plants which 
 occur only at certain altitudes. Also 
 were they densely ignorant of trails 
 and routes outside of their own little 
 districts. 
 
 All this, you will understand, was in 
 what is known as the low country. The 
 landscape was still brown ; the streams 
 but trickles ; sage-brush clung to the 
 
The Mountains 
 
 513 
 
 ravines; the valley quail whistled on 
 the side hills. 
 
 But one day we came suddenly into the 
 
 big pines and rocks ; and that night we 
 made our first camp in a meadow typical 
 of the mountains we had dreamed about. 
 
 VIIL The Pines 
 
 I do not know exactly how to make 
 you feel the charm of that first camp in 
 the big country. Certainly I can never 
 quite repeat it in my own experience. 
 
 Remember that for two months we 
 had grown accustomed to the brown of 
 the California landscape, and that for 
 over a week we had trayeled in the 
 Inferno. We had forgotten the look of 
 green grass, of abundant water ; almost 
 had we forgotten the taste of cool air. 
 So invariably had the trails been dusty, 
 and the camping-places hard and ex 
 posed, that we had come subconsciously 
 to think of such as typical of the country. 
 Try to put yourself in the frame of mind 
 those conditions would make. 
 
 Then imagine yourself climbing in an 
 hour or so up into a high ridge country 
 of broad cup-like sweeps and bold out 
 cropping ledges. Imagine a forest of 
 pine-trees bigger than any pines you ever 
 saw before pines eight and ten feet 
 through, so huge that you can hardly 
 look over one of their prostrate trunks 
 even from the back of your pony. Im 
 agine, further, singing little streams of 
 ice-cold water, deep refreshing shadows, 
 a soft carpet of pine-needles through 
 which the faint furrow of the trail runs 
 as over velvet. And then, last of all, in 
 a wide opening, clear as though chopped 
 and plowed by some backwoodsman, a 
 park of grass, fresh grass, green as a 
 precious stone. 
 
 This was our first sight of the moun 
 tain meadows. From time to time we 
 found others, sometimes a half-dozen in 
 a day. The rough country came down 
 close about them, edging to the very 
 hair-line of the magic circle which 
 seemed to assure their placid, sunny 
 peace. An upheaval of splintered gran 
 ite often tossed and tumbled in the 
 abandon of an unrestrained passion that 
 seemed irresistibly to overwhelm the 
 sanities of a whole region ; but some 
 where, in the very forefront of turmoil, 
 was like to slumber one of these little 
 meadows, as unconscious of anything 
 
 but its own flawless green simplicity as 
 a child asleep in mid-ocean. Or, away 
 up in the snows, warmed by the fortuity 
 of reflected heat, its emerald eye looked 
 bravely out to the heavens. Or, as here, 
 it rested confidingly in the very heart of 
 the austere forest. 
 
 Always these parks are green ; always 
 are they clear and open. Their size 
 varies widely. Some are as little as a 
 city lawn ; others, like the great Mon- 
 ache, 1 are miles in extent. In them re 
 sides the possibility of your traveling the 
 high country ; for they supply the feed 
 for your horses. 
 
 Being desert-weary, the Tenderfoot 
 and I cried out with the joy of it. and 
 told in extravagant language how this was 
 the best camp we had ever made. 
 
 " It's a bum camp," growled Wes. 
 "If we couldn't get better camps than 
 this, I'd quit the game." 
 
 He expatiated on the fact that this 
 particular meadow was somewhat boggy; 
 that the feed was too watery; that there'd 
 be a cold wind down through the pines ; 
 and other small and minor details. But 
 we, our backs propped against appropri 
 ately slanted rocks, our pipes well aglow, 
 gazed down the twilight through the 
 wonderful great columns of the trees to 
 where the white horses shone like snow 
 against the unaccustomed relief of green, 
 and laughed him to scorn. What did 
 we or the horses for that matter care 
 for trifling discomforts of the body ? In 
 these intangible comforts of the eye was 
 a great refreshment of the spirit. 
 
 The following day we rode through 
 the pine forests growing on the ridges 
 and hills and in the elevated bowl-like 
 hollows. These were not the so-called 
 " big trees " with those we had to do 
 later, as you shall see. They were 
 merely sugar and yellow pines, but never 
 anywhere have I seen finer specimens. 
 They were planted with a grand sump- 
 tuousness of space, and their trunks 
 were from five to twelve feet in diameter 
 
 1 Do not fail to sound the final e. 
 
514 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [2 July 
 
 and upwards of two hundred feet high 
 to the topmost spear. Underbrush, 
 ground growth, even saplings of the same 
 species, lacked entirely, so that we pro 
 ceeded in the clear open aisles of a tre 
 mendous and spacious magnificence. 
 
 This very lack of the smaller and 
 usual growths, the generous plan of 
 spacing, and the size of the trees them 
 selves, necessarily deprived us of a stand 
 ard of comparison. At first the forest 
 seemed immense. But after a little our 
 eyes became accustomed to its propor 
 tions. We referred it back to the meas 
 ures of long experience. The trees, the 
 wood-aisles, the extent of vision, shrunk 
 to the normal proportions of an Eastern 
 pinery. And then we would lower our 
 gaze. The pack-train would come into 
 view. It had become Lilliputian, the 
 horses small as white mice, the men 
 like tin soldiers, as though we had 
 undergone an enchantment. But in a 
 moment, with the rush of a mighty trans 
 formation, the great trees would tower 
 huge again. 
 
 In the pine woods of the mountains 
 grows also a certain close-clipped para 
 sitic moss. In color it is a brilliant 
 yellow-green, more yellow than green. 
 In shape it is crinkly and curly and 
 tangled up with itself like very fine 
 shavings. In consistency it is dry and 
 brittle. This moss girdles the trunks 
 of trees with innumerable parallel inch- 
 wide bands a foot or so apart, in the 
 manner of old-fashioned striped stock 
 ings. It covers entirely sundry twigless 
 branches. Always in appearance is it 
 fantastic, decorative, almost Japanese, 
 as though consciously laid in with its 
 vivid yellow-green as an intentional note 
 of a tone scheme. The somberest shad 
 ows, the most neutral twilights, the most 
 austere recesses, are lighted by it as 
 though so many freakish sunbeams had 
 severed relations with the parent lumi 
 nary to rest quietly in the coolnesses of 
 the ancient forest. 
 
 Underfoot the pine needles were 
 springy beneath the horse's hoof. The 
 trail went softly, with the courtesy of 
 great gentleness. Occasionally we caught 
 sight of other ridges also with pines 
 across deep sloping valleys, pine filled. 
 The effect of the distant trees seen from 
 
 above was that of roughened velvet, here 
 smooth and shining, there dark with 
 rich shadows. On these slopes played 
 the wind. In the level countries it sang 
 through the forest progressively ; here 
 on the slope it struck a thousand trees 
 at once. The air was ennobled with 
 the great voice, as a church is ennobled 
 by the tones of a great organ. Then 
 we would drop back again to the inner 
 country, for our way did not contem 
 plate the descents nor climbs, but held 
 to the general level of a plateau. 
 
 Clear fresh brooks ran in every ra 
 vine. Their water was snow-white 
 against the black rocks, or lay dark in 
 bank-shadowed pools. As our horses 
 splashed across we could glimpse the 
 rainbow trout flashing to cover. Where 
 were the watered hollows grew lush 
 thickets full of birds, outposts of the 
 aggressively and cheerfully worldly in 
 this pine land of spiritual detachment. 
 Gorgeous bush-flowers, great of petal as 
 magnolias, with perfume that lay on the 
 air like a heavy drowsiness ; long clear 
 stretches of an ankle-high shrub of vivid 
 emerald, looking in the distance like 
 sloping meadows of a peculiar color- 
 brilliance ; patches of smaller flowers 
 where for the trifling space of a street's 
 width the sun had unobstructed fall 
 these from time to time diversified the 
 way, brought to our perceptions the en 
 dearing trifles of earthiness, of humanity, 
 befittingly to modify the austerity of the 
 great forest. At a brookside we saw, 
 still fresh and moist, the print of a bear's 
 foot. From a patch of the little emerald 
 brush a barren doe rose to her feet, 
 eyed us a moment, and then bounded 
 away as though propelled by springs. 
 We saw her from time to time surmount 
 ing little elevations farther and farther 
 away. 
 
 The air was like cold water. We 
 had not lung capacity to satisfy our 
 desire for it. There came with it a dry 
 exhilaration that brought high spirits, 
 an optimistic viewpoint, and a tremen 
 dous keen appetite. It seemed that we 
 could never tire. In fact, we never did. 
 Sometimes, after a particularly hard day, 
 we felt like resting; but it was always 
 after the day's work was done, never 
 while it was under way. The Tender- 
 
1904] America: Elect Among Nations 515 
 
 foot and I one day went afoot twenty-two from the lower country. Here we were 
 
 miles up and down a mountain fourteen definitely in the Mountains. Our plateau 
 
 thousand feet' high. The last three ran from six to eight thousand feet in 
 
 thousand feet were nearly straight up altitude. Beyond it occasionally we 
 
 and down. We finished at a four-mile could see three more ridges, rising and 
 
 clip an hour before sunset, and dis- falling, each higher than the last. And 
 
 cussed what to do next to fill in the then, in the blue distance, the very crest 
 
 time. When we sat down, we found we of the broad system called the Sierras 
 
 had had about enough ; but we had not another wide region of sheer granite 
 
 discovered it before. rising in peaks, pinnacles, and minarets, 
 
 All of us, even the morose and cyni- rugged, wonderful, capped with the eter- 
 
 cal Dinkey, felt the benefit of the change nal snows. 
 
 America : Elect Among Nations 
 
 By Amanda T. Jones 
 
 Now who are these thronging thy gate ? 
 
 One knocks at thy door : 
 "Behold where my multitudes wait! 
 
 They hunger, and great is thy store! 
 They have drunk of the fountains of salt 
 
 Where the red lions breed ; 
 They are leprous and fevered and halt, 
 
 They are humbled and bruised as the reed." 
 
 Is not this the Master indeed ? 
 
 Foot-weary and worn, 
 
 The heat of the day he has borne : 
 Wilt thou comfort all these in their need ? 
 
 Wert thou not cast up from the sea 
 
 To a banquet of blood ? 
 And are there not balsams for thee, 
 
 Magnolias and laurels in bud ? 
 
 Thy harvests who reckons their worth? 
 
 Wheat and corn in the seed ; 
 For the armies that trample the earth 
 
 Who numbers thy cattle that bleed ? 
 
 Shall Christ for his desolate plead, 
 
 Nor move thee to bless? 
 
 O thou, who art rich beyond guess, 
 Turn back to thy records and read 1 
 
 Uplift them the Black with the Brown; 
 
 Anoint the torn feet. 
 Are they troublers of evil renown? 
 
 Yet cleanse them and they shall be sweet. 
 W T ho murdered that lover of men ? 
 
 Not theirs was the deed ! 
 If they wound thee in anger, what then ? 
 
 He calls thee O serve him with speed 1 
 
 Stand forth in thy beauty and feed 
 
 His poor unashamed; 
 
 Full sweetly thy name shall be named, 
 And who shall thy glory exceed ? 
 
DRAWING PY 
 J. CONACHER 
 
 J 
 
 Y 
 
 By Sara Andrew Shafer 
 
 Beneath the full midsummer heat 
 
 Are stores of golden, garnered wheat; 
 
 Are billows of unripe oats, gray-green ; 
 
 Are armies of corn-blades, trenchant, keen. 
 
 The killdeer flutes his mournful cries ; 
 
 The hawk in charmed circle flies. 
 
 Berries ripen beneath the leaves, 
 
 And warm and still are the musky eves. 
 
 The moon shines bright in the cloudless sky 
 The crickets sing and the soft winds sigh. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS' 
 
 BY STEWART EDWARD WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE FOREST," " THE BLAZED TRAIL," " THE SILENT PLACES," ETC. 
 
 IX. The Trail 
 
 WHEN you say " trail " to a 
 Westerner, his eye lights up. 
 This is because it means some 
 thing to him. To another it may mean 
 something entirely different, for the 
 blessed word is of that rare and beauti 
 ful category which is at once of the 
 widest significance and the most intimate 
 privacy to him who utters it. To your 
 mind leaps the picture of the dim forest- 
 aisles and the murmurings of tree-top 
 breezes ; to him comes a vision of the 
 wide, dusty desert; to me, perhaps, a 
 high, wild country of wonder. To all of 
 us it is the slender, unbroken, never- 
 ending thread connecting experiences. 
 
 For in a mysterious way, not to be 
 understood, our trails never do end. 
 They stop sometimes, and wait patiently 
 while we dive in and out of houses, but 
 always, when we are ready to go on, 
 they are ready too, and so take up the 
 journey placidly as though nothing had 
 intervened. They begin, when ? Some 
 time, away in the past, you may remem 
 ber a single episode, vivid through the 
 mists of extreme youth. Once a very 
 little boy walked with his father under 
 a green roof of leaves that seemed farther 
 than the sky and as unbroken. All of 
 a sudden the man raised his gun and 
 fired upwards, apparently through the 
 green roof. A pause ensued. Then, 
 hurtling roughly through still that same 
 green roof, a great bird fell, hitting the 
 earth with a thump. The very little boy 
 was I. My trail must have begun there 
 under the bright green roof of leaves. 
 
 From that earliest moment the Trail 
 unrolls behind you like a thread so that 
 never do you quite lose connection with 
 your selves. There is something a little 
 fearful to the imaginative in the insist 
 ence of it. You may camp, you may 
 i Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 linger, but some time or another, sooner 
 or later, you must go on, and when you 
 do, then once again the Trail takes up 
 its continuity without reference to the 
 muddied place you have tramped out in 
 your indecision or indolence or obstinacy 
 or necessity. It would be exceedingly 
 curious to follow out in patience the 
 chart of a man's going, tracing the pat 
 tern of his steps with all its windings of 
 nursery, playground, boys afield, coun 
 try, city, plain, forest, mountain, wilder 
 ness, home, always on and on into the 
 higher country of responsibility until at 
 the last it leaves us at the summit of the 
 Great Divide. Such a pattern would 
 tell his story as surely as do the tracks 
 of a partridge on the snow. 
 
 A certain magic inheres in the very 
 name, or at least so it seems to me. I 
 should be interested to know whether 
 others feel the same glamour that I do 
 in the contemplation of such syllables as 
 the Lo-Lo Trail, the Tunemah Trail, 
 the Mono Trail, the Bright Angel Trail. 
 A certain elasticity of application, too, 
 leaves room for the more connotation. 
 A trail may be almost anything. There 
 are wagon-trails which East would rank 
 as macadam roads ; horse-trails that 
 would compare favorably with our best 
 bridle-paths ; foot-trails in the fur coun 
 try worn by constant use as smooth as 
 so many garden-walks. Then again 
 there are other arrangements. I have 
 heard a mule-driver overwhelmed with 
 skeptical derision because he claimed to 
 have upset but six times in traversing a 
 certain bit of trail not over five miles 
 long; in charts of the mountains are 
 marked many trails which are only 
 ;< ways through " you will find few 
 traces of predecessors ; the same can be 
 said of trails in the great forests where 
 even an Indian is sometimes at fault. 
 
 599 
 
600 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [9 July 
 
 " Johnny, you're lost," accused the white 
 man. "Trail lost; Injun here," denied 
 the red man. And so after your expe 
 rience has led you by the camp-fires of 
 a thousand delights, and each of those 
 camp-fires is on the Trail, which only 
 pauses courteously for your stay and 
 then leads on untiring into new myste 
 ries forever and ever, you come to love 
 it as the donor of great joys. You too 
 become a Westerner, and when some 
 body says " trail," your eye too lights up. 
 
 The general impression of any partic 
 ular trail is born rather of the little inci 
 dents than of the big accidents. The 
 latter are exotic, and might belong to 
 any time or place ; the former are indi 
 vidual. For the Trail is a vantage- 
 ground, and from it, as your day's travel 
 unrolls, you see many things. Nine- 
 tenths of your experience comes thus, 
 for in the long journeys the side excur 
 sions are few enough and unimportant 
 enough almost to merit classification 
 with the accidents. In time the charac 
 ter of the Trail thus defines itself. 
 
 Most of all, naturally, the kind of 
 country has to do with this generalized 
 impression. Certain surprises, through 
 trees, of vista looking out over unex 
 pected spaces ; little notches in the hills 
 beyond which you gain to a placid far 
 country sleeping under a sun warmer 
 than your elevation permits; the deli 
 cious excitement of the moment when 
 you approach the very knife-edge of the 
 summit and wonder what lies beyond 
 these are the things you remember with 
 a warm heart. Your saddle is a point 
 of vantage. By it you are elevated 
 above the country; from it you can see 
 clearly. Quail scuttle away to right and 
 left, heads ducked low; grouse boom 
 solemnly on the rigid limbs of pines; 
 deer vanish through distant thickets to 
 appear on yet more distant ridges, 
 thence to gaze curiously, their great ears 
 forward ; across the canon the bushes 
 sway violently with the passage of a 
 cinnamon bear among them you see 
 them all from your post of observation. 
 Your senses are always alert for these 
 things ; you are always bending from 
 your saddle to examine the tracks and 
 signs that continually offer themselves 
 for your inspection and interpretation. 
 
 Our trail of this summer led at a 
 general high elevation, with compara 
 tively little climbing and comparatively 
 easy traveling for days at a time. Then 
 suddenly we would find ourselves on 
 the brink of a great box canon from 
 three to seven thousand feet deep, sev 
 eral miles wide, and utterly precipitous. 
 In the bottom of this canon would be 
 good feed, fine groves of trees, and a 
 river of some size in which swam fish. 
 The trail to the canon-bed was always 
 bad, and generally dangerous. In many 
 instances we found it bordered with the 
 bones of horses that had failed. The 
 river had somehow to be forded. We 
 would camp a day or so in the good 
 feed and among the fine groves of trees, 
 fish in the river, and then address our 
 selves with much reluctance to the 
 ascent of the other bad and dangerous 
 trail on the other side. After that, in 
 the natural course of events, subject to 
 variation, we could expect nice trails, 
 the comfort of easy travel, pines, cedars, 
 redwoods, and joy of life until another 
 great cleft opened before us or another 
 great mountain-pass barred our way. 
 
 This was the web and woof of our 
 summer. But through it ran the patterns 
 of fantastic delight such as the West 
 alone can offer a man's utter disbelief in 
 them. Some of these patterns stand out 
 in memory with peculiar distinctness. 
 
 Below Farewell Gap is a wide canon 
 with high walls of dark rock, and down 
 those walls run many streams of water. 
 They are white as snow with the dash 
 of their descent, but so distant that the 
 eye cannot distinguish their motion. In 
 the half-light of dawn, with the yellow 
 of sunrise behind the mountains, they 
 look like gauze streamers thrown out 
 from the windows of morning to cele 
 brate the solemn pageant of the passing 
 of many hills. 
 
 Again, I know of a canon whose 
 westerly wall is colored in the dull rich 
 colors, the fantastic patterns, of a Moor 
 ish tapestry. Umber, seal brown, red, 
 terra-cotta. orange, Nile green, emerald, 
 purple, cobalt blue, gray, lilac, and many 
 other colors, all rich with the depth of 
 satin, glow wonderful as the craftiest 
 textures. Only here the fabric is five 
 miles long and half a mile wide. 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 601 
 
 There is no use in telling of these 
 things. They, and many others of their 
 like, are marvels, and exist; but you 
 cannot tell about them, for the simple 
 reason that the average reader concludes 
 at once you must be exaggerating, must 
 be carried away by the swing of words. 
 The cold sober truth is, you cannot 
 exaggerate. They haven't made the 
 words. Talk as extravagantly as you 
 wish to one who will in the most child 
 like manner believe every syllable you 
 utter. Then take him into the Big 
 Country. He will probably say, " Why, 
 you didn't tell me it was going to be 
 anything like this T We in the East 
 have no standards of comparison either 
 as regards size or as regards color 
 especially color. Some people once 
 directed me to " The Gorge " on the 
 New England coast. I couldn't find it. 
 They led me to it, and rhapsodized over 
 its magnificent terror. I could have 
 ridden a horse into the ridiculous thing. 
 As for color, no Easterner believes in it 
 when such men as Lungren or Parrish 
 transposit it faithfully, any more than a 
 Westerner would believe in the autumn 
 foliage of our own hardwoods, or an 
 Englishman in the glories of our gaudi 
 est sunsets. They are all true. 
 
 In the mountains, the high mountains 
 above the seven or eight thousand foot 
 level, grows an affair called the snow- 
 plant. It is, when full grown, about two 
 feet in height, and shaped like a loosely 
 constructed pine-cone set up on end. 
 Its entire substance is like wax, and the 
 whole concern stalk, broad curling 
 leaves, and all is a brilliant scarlet. 
 Sometime you will ride through the twi 
 light of deep pine woods growing on the 
 slope of the mountain, a twilight intensi 
 fied, rendered more sacred to your mood 
 by the external brilliancy of a glimpse 
 of vivid blue sky above dazzling snow 
 mountains far away. Then, in this 
 monotone of dark green frond and dull 
 brown trunk and deep olive shadow, 
 where, like, the ordered library of one 
 with quiet tastes, nothing breaks the 
 harmony of unobtrusive tone, suddenly 
 flames the vivid red of a snow-plant. 
 You will never forget it. 
 
 Flowers in general seem to possess 
 this concentrated brilliancy both of color 
 
 and of perfume. You will ride into and 
 out of strata of perfume as sharply 
 defined as are the quartz strata on the 
 ridges. They lie sluggish and cloying 
 in the hollows, too heavy to rise on the 
 wings of the air. 
 
 As for color, you will see all sorts of 
 queer things. The ordered flower-sci 
 ence of your childhood has gone mad. 
 You recognize some of your old friends, 
 but strangely distorted and changed 
 even the dear old " butter V eggs " has 
 turned pink ! Patches of purple, of red, 
 of blue, of yellow, of orange, are laid in 
 the hollows or on the slopes like brill 
 iant blankets out to dry in the sun. The 
 fine grasses are spangled with them, so 
 that in the cup of the great fierce coun 
 tries the meadows seem like beautiful- 
 green ornaments enameled with jewels. 
 The Mariposa Lily, on the other hand, 
 is a poppy-shaped flower varying from 
 white to purple, and with each petal 
 decorated by an " eye " exactly like 
 those on the great Cecropia or Polyphe 
 mus moths, so that their effect is that of 
 a flock of gorgeous butterflies come to 
 rest. They hover over the meadows 
 poised. A movement would startle them 
 to flight; only the proper movement 
 somehow never comes. 
 
 The great redwoods, too, add to the 
 colored-edition impression of the whole 
 country. A redwood, as perhaps you 
 know, is a tremendous big tree, some 
 times as big as twenty feet in diameter. 
 It is exquisitely proportioned, like a 
 fluted column of noble height. Its bark 
 is slightly furrowed longitudinally, and 
 of a peculiar elastic appearance that 
 lends it an almost perfect illusion of 
 breathing animal life. The color is a 
 rich umber red. Sometimes in the early 
 morning or the late afternoon, when all 
 the rest of the forest is cast in shadow, 
 these massive trunks will glow as though 
 incandescent. The Trail, wonderful 
 always, here seems to pass through the 
 outer portals of the great flaming regions 
 where dwell the risings and fallings of 
 days. 
 
 As you follow the Trail up, you will 
 enter also the permanent dwelling-places 
 of the seasons. With us each visits for 
 the space of a few months, then steals 
 away to give place to the next. Whither 
 
602 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [9 July 
 
 they go you have not known until you 
 have traveled the high mountains. Sum 
 mer lives in the valley ; that you know. 
 Then a little higher you are in the spring 
 time, even in August. Melting patches 
 of snow linger under the heavy firs ; the 
 earth is soggy with half-absorbed snow 
 water, trickling with exotic little rills 
 that do not belong ; grasses of the year 
 before float like drowned hair in pellucid 
 pools with an air of permanence, except 
 for the one fact ; fresh green things are 
 sprouting bravely ; through bare branches 
 trickles a shower of bursting buds, larger 
 at the top, as though the Sower had, in 
 passing, scattered them from above. 
 Birds of extraordinary cheerfulness sing 
 merrily to new and doubtful flowers. 
 The air tastes cold, but the sun is warm. 
 The great spring humming and promise 
 is in the air. And a few thousand feet 
 higher you wallow over the surface of 
 drifts while a winter wind searches your 
 bones. I used to think that Santa 
 Claus dwelt at the North Pole. Now I 
 am convinced that he has a workshop 
 somewhere among the great mountains 
 where dwell the Seasons, and that his 
 reindeer paw for grazing in the alpine 
 meadows below the highest peaks. 
 
 Here the birds migrate up and down 
 instead of south and north. It must be 
 a great saving of trouble to them, and 
 undoubtedly those who have discovered 
 it maintain toward the unenlightened 
 the same delighted and fraternal secrecy 
 with which you and I guard the knowl 
 edge of a good trout-stream. When you 
 can migrate adequately in a single day, 
 why spend a month at it? 
 
 Also do I remember certain spruce 
 woods with openings where the sun 
 shone through. The shadows were very 
 black, the sunlight very white. As I 
 looked back I could^'see the pack-horses 
 alternately suffer eclipse and illumina 
 tion in a strange flickering manner good 
 to behold. The dust of the trail eddied 
 and billowed lazily in the sun, each 
 mote flashing as though with life ; then 
 abruptly as it crossed the sharp line of 
 shade it disappeared. 
 
 From these spruce woods, level as a 
 floor, we came out on the rounded 
 shoulder of a mountain to find ourselves 
 nearly nine thousand feet above the sea. 
 
 Below us was a deep canon to the mid 
 dle of the earth. And spread in a semi 
 circle about the curve of our mountain 
 a most magnificent 'panoramic view. 
 First there were the plains, represented 
 by a brown haze of heat ; then, very 
 remote, the foot-hills, the brush hills, the 
 pine mountains, the upper timber, the 
 tremendous granite peaks, and finally 
 the barrier of the main crest with its 
 glittering snow. From the plains to that 
 crest was over seventy miles. I should 
 not dare say how far we could see down 
 the length of the range ; nor even how 
 distant was the other wall of the canon 
 over which we rode. Certainly it was 
 many miles ; and to reach the latter 
 point consumed three days. 
 
 It is useless to multiply instances. 
 The principle is well enough established 
 by these. Whatever impression of your 
 trail you carry away will come from the 
 little common occurrences of every day. 
 That is true of all trails ; and equally 
 so, it seems to me, of our Trail of Life 
 sketched at the beginning of this essay. 
 
 But the trail of the mountains .means 
 more than wonder ; it means hard 
 work. Unless you stick to the beaten 
 path, where the freighters have lost 
 so many mules that they have finally 
 decided to fix things up a bit, you are 
 due for lots of trouble. Bad places will 
 come to be a nightmare with you and a 
 topic of conversation with whomever 
 you may meet. We once enjoyed the 
 company of a prospector three days 
 while he made up his mind to tackle a 
 certain bit of trail we had just descended. 
 Our accounts did not encourage him. 
 Every morning he used to squint up at the 
 cliff which rose some four thousand feet 
 above us. " Boys," he said finally, as 
 he started, " I may drop in on you later 
 in the morning." I am happy to say he 
 did not. 
 
 The most discouraging to the tender 
 foot, but in reality the safest of all bad 
 trails, is the one that skirts a precipice. 
 Your horse possesses a laudable desire 
 to spare your inside leg unnecessary 
 abrasion, so he walks on the extreme 
 outer edge. If you watch the perform 
 ance of the animal ahead, you will 
 observe that every few moments his outer 
 hind hoof slips off that edge, knocking 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 603 
 
 little stones down into the abyss. Then 
 you conclude that sundry slight jars you 
 have been experiencing are from the 
 same cause. Your peace of mind deserts 
 you. You stare straight ahead, sit very 
 light indeed, and perhaps turn the least 
 bit sick. The horse, however, does not 
 mind, nor will you, after a little. There 
 is absolutely nothing to do but to sit 
 steady and give your animal his head. 
 In a fairly extended experience I never 
 got off the edge but once. Then some 
 body shot a gun immediately ahead ; my 
 horse tried to turn around, slipped, and 
 slid backwards until he overhung the 
 chasm. Fortunately, his hind feet caught 
 a tiny bush. He gave a mighty heave, 
 and regained the trail. Afterwards I 
 took a look and found that there were 
 no more bushes for a hundred feet either 
 way. 
 
 Next in terror to the unaccustomed 
 is an ascent by lacets up a very steep 
 side hill. The effect is cumulative. Each 
 turn brings you one stage higher, adds 
 definitely one more unity to the test of 
 your hardihood. This last has not ter 
 rified you ; how about the next ? or the 
 next ? or the one after that ? There is 
 not the slightest danger. You appreciate 
 this point after you have met head-on 
 some old-timer. After you have specu 
 lated frantically how you are to pass 
 him, he solves the problem by calmly 
 turning his horse off the edge and slid 
 ing to the next lacet below. Then you 
 see that with a mountain horse it does 
 not much matter whether you get off 
 such a trail or not. 
 
 The real bad places are quite as likely 
 to be on the level as on the slant. The 
 tremendous granite slides, where the 
 cliff has avalanched thousands of tons 
 of loose jagged rock-fragments across the 
 passage, are the worst. There your 
 horse has to be a goat in balance. He 
 must pick his way from the top of one 
 fragment to the other, and if he slips into 
 the interstices he probably breaks a leg. 
 In some parts of the granite country are 
 also smooth rock aprons where footing 
 is especially difficult, and where often a 
 slip on them means a toboggan chute off 
 into space. I know of one spot where 
 such an apron curves off the shoulder of 
 the mountain. Your horse slides directly ' 
 
 down it until his hoofs encounter a little 
 crevice. Checking at this, he turns 
 sharp to the left and so off to the good 
 trail again. If he does not check at the 
 little crevice, he slides on over the curve 
 of the shoulder and lands too far down 
 to bury. 
 
 Loose rocks in numbers on a very 
 steep and narrow trail are always an 
 abomination, and a numerous abomina 
 tion at that. A horse slides, skates, 
 slithers. It has always seemed to me 
 that luck must count largely in such a 
 place. When the animal treads on a 
 loose round stone as he does every 
 step of the way that stone is going to 
 roll under him, and he is going to catch 
 himself as the nature of that stone and 
 the little gods of chance may will. Only, 
 furthermore, I have noticed that the 
 really good horse keeps his feet, and the 
 poor one tumbles. A judgmatical rider 
 can help a great deal by the delicacy of 
 his riding and the skill with which he 
 uses his reins. Or, better still, get off 
 and walk. 
 
 Another mean combination, especially 
 on a slant, is six inches of snow over 
 loose stones or small boulders. There 
 you hope for divine favor and flounder 
 ahead. There is one compensation; 
 the snow is soft to fall on. Boggy areas 
 you must be able to gauge the depth -of 
 at a glance. And there are places, 
 beautiful to behold, where a horse 
 clambers up the least bit of an ascent, 
 hits his pack against a projection, and 
 is hurled into outer space. You must 
 recognize these, for he will be busy with 
 his feet. 
 
 Some of the mountain rivers furnish 
 pleasing afternoons of sport. They are 
 deep and swift, and below the ford are 
 rapids. If there is a fallen tree of any 
 sort across them remember the length 
 of California trees, and do not despise 
 the rivers you would better unpack, 
 carry your goods across yourself, and 
 swim the pack-horses. If the current is 
 very bad, you can splice riatas, hitch 
 one end to the horse and the other to a 
 tree on the farther side, and start the 
 combination. The animal is bound to 
 swing across somehow. Generally you 
 can drive them over loose. In swimming 
 a horse from the saddle, start him well 
 
602 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [9 July 
 
 they go you have not known until you 
 have traveled the high mountains. Sum 
 mer lives in the valley ; that you know. 
 Then a little higher you are in the spring 
 time, even in August. Melting patches 
 of snow linger under the heavy firs ; the 
 earth is soggy with half-absorbed snow 
 water, trickling with exotic little rills 
 that do not belong ; grasses of the year 
 before float like drowned hair in pellucid 
 pools with an air of permanence, except 
 for the one fact ; fresh green things are 
 sprouting bravely ; through bare branches 
 trickles a shower of bursting buds, larger 
 at the top, as though the Sower had, in 
 passing, scattered them from above. 
 Birds of extraordinary cheerfulness sing 
 merrily to new and doubtful flowers. 
 The air tastes cold, but the sun is warm. 
 The great spring humming and promise 
 is in the air. And a few thousand feet 
 higher you wallow over the surface of 
 drifts while a winter wind searches your 
 bones. I used to think that Santa 
 Claus dwelt at the North Pole. Now I 
 am convinced that he has a workshop 
 somewhere among the great mountains 
 where dwell the Seasons, and that his 
 reindeer paw for grazing in the alpine 
 meadows below the highest peaks. 
 
 Here the birds migrate up and down 
 instead of south and north. It must be 
 a great saving of trouble to them, and 
 undoubtedly those who have discovered 
 it maintain toward the unenlightened 
 the same delighted and fraternal secrecy 
 with which you and I guard the knowl 
 edge of a good trout-stream. When you 
 can migrate adequately in a single day, 
 why spend a month at it? 
 
 Also do I remember certain spruce 
 woods with openings where the sun 
 shone through. The shadows were very 
 black, the sunlight very white. As I 
 looked back I could^'see the pack-horses 
 alternately suffer eclipse and illumina 
 tion in a strange flickering manner good 
 to behold. The dust of the trail eddied 
 and billowed lazily in the sun, each 
 mote flashing as though with life ; then 
 abruptly as it crossed the sharp line of 
 shade it disappeared. 
 
 From these spruce woods, level as a 
 floor, we came out on the rounded 
 shoulder of a mountain to find ourselves 
 nearly nine thousand feet above the sea. 
 
 Below us was a deep canon to the mid 
 dle of the earth. And spread in a semi 
 circle about the curve of our mountain 
 a most magnificent 'panoramic view. 
 First there were the plains, represented 
 by a brown haze of heat ; then, very 
 remote, the foot-hills, the brush hills, the 
 pine mountains, the upper timber, the 
 tremendous granite peaks, and finally 
 the barrier of the main crest with its 
 glittering snow. From the plains to that 
 crest was over seventy miles. I should 
 not dare say how far we could see down 
 the length of the range ; nor even how 
 distant was the other wall of the canon 
 over which we rode. Certainly it was 
 many miles ; and to reach the latter 
 point consumed three days. 
 
 It is useless to multiply instances. 
 The principle is well enough established 
 by these. Whatever impression of your 
 trail you carry away will come from the 
 little common occurrences of every day. 
 That is true of all trails ; and equally 
 so, it seems to me, of our Trail of Life 
 sketched at the beginning of this essay. 
 
 But the trail of the mountains .means 
 more than wonder ; it means hard 
 work. Unless you stick to the beaten 
 path, where the freighters have lost 
 so many mules that they have finally 
 decided to fix things up a bit, you are 
 due for lots of trouble. Bad places will 
 come to be a nightmare with you and a 
 topic of conversation with whomever 
 you may meet. We once enjoyed the 
 company of a prospector three days 
 while he made up his mind to tackle a 
 certain bit of trail we had just descended. 
 Our accounts did not encourage him. 
 Every morning he used to squint up at the 
 cliff which rose some four thousand feet 
 above us. " Boys," he said finally, as 
 he started, " I may drop in on you later 
 in the morning." I am happy to say he 
 did not. 
 
 The most discouraging to the tender 
 foot, but in reality the safest of all bad 
 trails, is the one that skirts a precipice. 
 Your horse possesses a laudable desire 
 to spare your inside leg unnecessary 
 abrasion, so he walks on the extreme 
 outer edge. If you watch the perform 
 ance of the animal ahead, you will 
 observe that every few moments his outer 
 hind hoof slips off that edge, knocking 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 603 
 
 little stones down into the abyss. Then 
 you conclude that sundry slight jars you 
 have been experiencing are from the 
 same cause. Your peace of mind deserts 
 you. You stare straight ahead, sit very 
 light indeed, and perhaps turn the least 
 bit sick. The horse, however, does not 
 mind, nor will you, after a little. There 
 is absolutely nothing to do but to sit 
 steady and give your animal his head. 
 In a fairly extended experience I never 
 got off the edge but once. Then some 
 body shot a gun immediately ahead ; my 
 horse tried to turn around, slipped, and 
 slid backwards until he overhung the 
 chasm. Fortunately, his hind feet caught 
 a tiny bush. He gave a mighty heave, 
 and regained the trail. Afterwards I 
 took a look and found that there were 
 no more bushes for a hundred feet either 
 way. 
 
 Next in terror to the unaccustomed 
 is an ascent by lacets up a very steep 
 side hill. The effect is cumulative. Each 
 turn brings you one stage higher, adds 
 definitely one more unity to the test of 
 your hardihood. This last has not ter 
 rified you ; how about the next ? or the 
 next ? or the one after that ? There is 
 not the slightest danger. You appreciate 
 this point after you have met head-on 
 some old-timer. After you have specu 
 lated frantically how you are to pass 
 him, he solves the problem by calmly 
 turning his horse off the edge and slid 
 ing to the next lacet below. Then you 
 see that with a mountain horse it does 
 not much matter whether you get off 
 such a trail or not. 
 
 The real bad places are quite as likely 
 to be on the level as on the slant. The 
 tremendous granite slides, where the 
 cliff has avalanched thousands of tons 
 of loose jagged rock-fragments across the 
 passage, are the worst. There your 
 horse has to be a goat in balance. He 
 must pick his way from the top of one 
 fragment to the other, and if he slips into 
 the interstices he probably breaks a leg. 
 In some parts of the granite country are 
 also smooth rock aprons where footing 
 is especially difficult, and where often a 
 slip on them means a toboggan chute off 
 into space. I know of one spot where 
 such an apron curves off the shoulder of 
 the mountain. Your horse slides directly ' 
 
 down it until his hoofs encounter a little 
 crevice. Checking at this, he turns 
 sharp to the left and so off to the good 
 trail again. If he does not check at the 
 little crevice, he slides on over the curve 
 of the shoulder and lands too far down 
 to bury. 
 
 Loose rocks in numbers on a very 
 steep and narrow trail are always an 
 abomination, and a numerous abomina 
 tion at that. A horse slides, skates, 
 slithers. It has always seemed to me 
 that luck must count largely in such a 
 place. When the animal treads on a 
 loose round stone as he does every 
 step of the way that stone is going to 
 roll under him, and he is going to catch 
 himself as the nature of that stone and 
 the little gods of chance may will. Only, 
 furthermore, I have noticed that the 
 really good horse keeps his feet, and the 
 poor one tumbles. A judgmatical rider 
 can help a great deal by the delicacy of 
 his riding and the skill with which he 
 uses his reins. Or, better still, get off 
 and walk. 
 
 Another mean combination, especially 
 on a slant, is six inches of snow over 
 loose stones or small boulders. There 
 you hope for divine favor and flounder 
 ahead. There is one compensation; 
 the snow is soft to fall on. Boggy areas 
 you must be able to gauge the depth -of 
 at a glance. And there are places, 
 beautiful to behold, where a horse 
 clambers up the least bit of an ascent, 
 hits his pack against a projection, and 
 is hurled into outer space. You must 
 recognize these, for he will be busy with 
 his feet. 
 
 Some of the mountain rivers furnish 
 pleasing afternoons of sport. They are 
 deep and swift, and below the ford are 
 rapids. If there is a fallen tree of any 
 sort across them remember the length 
 of California trees, and do not despise 
 the rivers you would better unpack, 
 carry your goods across yourself, and 
 swim the pack-horses. If the current is 
 very bad, you can splice riatas, hitch 
 one end to the horse and the other to a 
 tree on the farther side, and start the 
 combination. The animal is bound to 
 swing across somehow. Generally you 
 can drive them over loose. In swimming 
 a horse from the saddle, start him well 
 
604 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 upstream to allow for the current, and 
 never, never, never attempt to guide him 
 by the bit. The Tenderfoot tried that 
 at Mono Creek and nearly drowned him 
 self and Old Slob. You would better 
 let him alone, as he probably knows 
 more than you do. If you must guide 
 him, do it by hitting the side of his head 
 with the flat of your hand. 
 
 Sometimes it is better that you swim. 
 You can perform that feat by clinging 
 to his mane on the downstream side ; 
 but it will be easier both for you and 
 him if you hang to his tail. Take my 
 word for it, he will not kick you. 
 
 Once in a blue moon you may be able 
 to cross the whole outfit on logs. Such 
 a log bridge spanned Granite Creek 
 near the North Fork of the San Joaquin 
 at an elevation of about seven thousand 
 feet. It was suspended a good twenty 
 feet above the water, which boiled white 
 in a most disconcerting manner through 
 a gorge of rocks. If anything fell off 
 that log, it would be of no further value 
 even to the curiosity-seeker. We got 
 over all the horses save Tunemah. He 
 refused to consider it, nor did peaceful 
 argument win. As he was more or less 
 of a fool, we did not take this as a 
 reflection on our judgment, but culled 
 cedar clubs. We beat him until we were 
 ashamed. Then we put a slip-noose 
 about his neck. The Tenderfoot and I 
 stood on the log and heaved while Wes 
 
 stood on the shore and pushed. Sud 
 denly it occurred to me that if Tunemah 
 made up his silly mind to come, he 
 would probably do it all at once, in 
 which case the Tenderfoot and I would 
 have about as much show for life as 
 fossil formations. I didn't say anything 
 about it to the Tenderfoot, but I hitched 
 my six-shooter around to the front, 
 resolved to find out how good I was 
 at wing-shooting horses. But Tunemah 
 declared he would die for his convic 
 tions. " All right," said we, " die then," 
 with the embellishment of profanity. 
 So we stripped him naked, and stoned 
 him into the raging stream, where he 
 had one chance in three of coming 
 through alive. He might as well be 
 dead as on the other side of that stream. 
 He won through, however, and now I 
 believe he'd tackle a tight rope. 
 
 Of such is the Trail, of such its won 
 ders, its pleasures, its little comforts, its 
 annoyances, its dangers. And when you 
 are forced to draw your six-shooter to 
 end mercifully the life of an animal that 
 has served you faithfully, but that has 
 fallen victim to the leg-breaking hazard 
 of the way, then you know a little of its 
 tragedy also. May you never know the 
 greater tragedy, when a man's life goes 
 out, and you unable to help ! May al 
 ways your trail lead through fine trees, 
 green grasses, fragrant flowers, and 
 pleas ant waters ! 
 
 Now 
 
 By Liska Still man 
 
 Centuries of color may burn in the west, 
 And whole seas of dawn in the east reply, 
 Before the sun's heart shall at anchor lie, 
 Before moon and star grown tired of quest, 
 Or heavenly lips to this earth are pressed. 
 Yet ever, anon, through the spirit's cry, 
 There cometh a breath, a vow from the sky, 
 That sinks the soul into fathoms of rest. 
 
 Already befallen is day of doom, 
 And, woven fast in eternity's loom, 
 Glistening the threads of the past shine clear ; 
 While afar in the deeps of the atmosphere 
 The rays of the future separate gloom, 
 And soul of the farthest dream draws near. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS' 
 
 BY STEWART EDWARD WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE FOREST," " THE BLAZED TRAIL," " THE SILENT PLACES," ETC. 
 
 X. On Seeing Deer 
 
 ONCE I happened to be sitting 
 out a dance with a tactful young 
 girl of tender disposition who 
 thought she should adapt her conversa 
 tion to the one with whom she happened 
 to be talking. Therefore she asked 
 questions concerning out-of-doors. She 
 knew nothing whatever about it, but she 
 gave a very good imitation of one inter 
 ested. For some occult reason, people 
 never seem to expect me to own evening 
 clothes, or to know how to dance, or to 
 be able to talk about anything civilized ; 
 in fact, most of them appear disappoint 
 ed that I do not pull off a war- jig in the 
 middle of the drawing-room. 
 
 This young girl selected deer as her 
 topic. She mentioned liquid eyes, beau 
 tiful form, slender ears ; she said " cute," 
 and " darlings," and " perfect dears." 
 Then she shuddered prettily. 
 
 " And I don't see how you can ever 
 bear to shoot them, Mr. White," she 
 concluded. 
 
 " You quarter the onions and slice 
 them very thin," said I, dreamily. 
 " Then you take a little bacon fat you 
 had left over from the flapjacks and 
 put it in the frying-pan. The frying- 
 pan should be very hot. While the 
 onions are frying, you must keep turning 
 them over with a fork. It's rather diffi 
 cult to get them all browned without 
 burning, some. I should broil the meat. 
 A broiler is handy, but two willows, 
 peeled and charred a little so the willow 
 taste won't penetrate the meat, will do. 
 Have the steak fairly thick. Pepper 
 and salt it thoroughly. Sear it well at 
 first in order to keep the juices in ; then 
 cook rather slowly. When it is done, put 
 it on a hot plate and pour the browned 
 onions, bacon fat and all, over it." 
 1 Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 " What are you talking about ?" she 
 interrupted. ^ 
 
 " I'm telling you why I can bear to 
 shoot deer," said I. 
 
 " But I don't see " said she. 
 
 " Don't you ?" said I. " Well ; sup 
 pose you've been climbing a mountain 
 late in the afternoon when the sun is 
 on the other side of it. It is a moun 
 tain of big boulders, loose little stones, 
 thorny bushes. The slightest misstep 
 would send pebbles rattling, brush rus 
 tling; but you have gone all the way 
 without making that misstep. This is 
 quite a feat. It means that you've known 
 all about every footstep you've taken. 
 That would be business enough for most 
 people, wouldn't it ? But in addition 
 you've managed to see every thing on that 
 side of the mountain especially patches 
 of brown. You've seen lots of patches of 
 brown, and you've examined each one 
 of them. Besides that, you've heard 
 lots of little rustlings, and you've identi 
 fied each one of them. To do all these 
 things well keys your nerves to a high 
 tension, doesn't it ? And then near the 
 top you look up from your last noiseless 
 step to see in the brush a very dim 
 patch of brown. If you hadn't been 
 looking so hard, you surely wouldn't 
 have made it out. Perhaps, if you're 
 not humble-minded, you may reflect 
 that most people wouldn't have seen it 
 at all. You whistle once sharply. The 
 patch of brown defines itself. Your 
 heart gives one big jump. You know 
 that you have but the briefest moment, 
 the' tiniest fraction of time, to hold the 
 white bead of your rifle motionless and to 
 press the trigger. It has to be done 
 very steadily, at that distance and you 
 out of breath, with your nerves keyed 
 high in the tension of such caution." 
 
 649 
 
650 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [16 July 
 
 " Now what are you talking about ?" 
 she broke in helplessly. 
 
 " Oh, didn't I mention it ?" I asked, 
 surprised. " I was telling you why I 
 could bear to shoot deer." 
 
 " Yes, but " she began. 
 
 " Of course not," I reassured her. 
 " After all, it's very simple. The reason 
 I can bear to kill deer is because, to 
 kill deer, you must accomplish a skillful 
 elimination of the obvious." 
 
 My young lady was evidently afraid 
 of being considered stupid; and also 
 convinced of her inability to understand 
 what I was driving at. So she tempo 
 rized in the manner of society. 
 
 " I see," she said, with an air of com 
 plete enlightenment. 
 
 Now of course she did not see. No 
 body could see the force of that last 
 remark without the grace of further ex 
 planation ; and yet in the elimination of 
 the obvious rests the whole secret of 
 seeing deer in the woods. 
 
 In traveling the trail you will notice 
 two things : that a tenderfoot will habit 
 ually contemplate the horn of his saddle 
 or the trail a few yards ahead of his 
 horse's nose, with occasionally a look 
 about at the landscape ; and the old- 
 timer will be constantly searching the 
 prospect with keen, understanding eyes. 
 Now in the occasional glances the tender 
 foot takes, his perceptions have room 
 for just so many impressions. When 
 the number is filled out, he sees nothing 
 more. Naturally, the obvious features of 
 the landscape supply the basis for these 
 impressions. He sees the configuration 
 of the mountains, the nature of their 
 covering, the course of their ravines, 
 first of all. Then, if he looks more 
 closely, there catches his eye an odd- 
 shaped rock, a burned black stub, a 
 flowering bush, or some such matter. 
 Anything less striking in its appeal to 
 the attention actually has not room for 
 its recognition. In other words, suppos 
 ing that a man has the natural ability to 
 receive x visual impressions, the tender 
 foot fills out his full capacity with the 
 striking features of his surroundings. 
 To be able to see anything more obscure 
 in form or color, he must naturally put 
 aside from his attention some one or 
 another of these obvious features. He 
 
 can, for example, look for a particular 
 kind of flower on a side hill only by 
 refusing to see other kinds. 
 
 If this is plain, then, go one step 
 further in the logic of thit reasoning. 
 Put yourself in the mental attitude of a 
 man looking for deer. His eye sweeps 
 rapidly over a side hill ; so rapidly that 
 you cannot understand how he can have 
 gathered the main features of that hill, 
 let alone concentrate and refine his 
 attention to the seeing of an animal 
 under a bush. As a matter of fact, he 
 pays no attention to the main features. 
 He has trained his eye, not so much to 
 see things, as to leave things out. The 
 odd-shaped rock, the charred stub, the 
 bright flowering bush, do not exist for 
 him. His eye passes over them as un 
 seeing as yours over the patch of brown 
 or gray that represents his quarry. His 
 attention stops on the unusual, just as 
 does yours ; only in his case the unusual 
 is not the obvious. He has succeeded 
 by long training in eliminating that. 
 Therefore he sees deer where you do 
 not. As soon as you can forget the 
 naturally obvious and construct an arti 
 ficially obvious, then you too will see 
 deer. 
 
 These animals are strangely invisible 
 to the untrained eye even when they are 
 standing " in plain sight." You can 
 look straight at them and not see them 
 at all. Then some old woodsman lets 
 you sight over his finger exactly to the 
 spot. At once the figure of the deer 
 fairly leaps into vision. I know of no 
 more perfect example of the instanta 
 neous than this. You are filled with 
 astonishment that you could for a mo 
 ment have avoided seeing it. And yet 
 next time you will in all probability 
 repeat just this " puzzle picture " experi 
 ence. 
 
 The Tenderfoot tried for six weeks 
 before he caught sight of one. He 
 wanted to very much. Time and again 
 one or the other of us would hiss back, 
 " See the deer 1 over there by the yellow 
 bush 1" but before he could bring the 
 deLberation of his scrutiny to the point 
 of identification, the deer would be gone. 
 Once a fawn jumped fairly within ten 
 feet of the pack-horses and went bound 
 ing away through the bushes, and that 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 651 
 
 fawn he could not help seeing. We 
 tried conscientiously enough to get him 
 a shot ; but the Tenderfoot was unable 
 to move through the brush less majes 
 tically than a Pullman car, so we had 
 ended by becoming apathetic on the 
 subject. 
 
 Finally, while descending a very 
 abrupt mountain-side, I made out a buck 
 lying down perhaps three hundred feet 
 directly below us. The buck was not 
 looking our way, so I had time to call 
 the Tenderfoot. He came. With diffi 
 culty and by using my rifle-barrel as a 
 pointer I managed to show him the 
 animal. Immediately he began to pant 
 as though at the finish of a mile race, 
 and his rifle, when he leveled it, covered 
 a good half acre of ground. This would 
 never do. 
 
 " Hold on 1" I interrupted, sharply. 
 
 He lowered his weapon to stare at me 
 wild-eyed. 
 
 u What is it ?" he gasped. 
 
 " Stop a minute 1" I commanded. 
 " Now take three deep breaths." 
 
 He did so. 
 
 " Now shoot," I advised, " and aim 
 at his knees." 
 
 The deer was now on his feet, and 
 facing us, so the Tenderfoot had the 
 entire length of the animal to allow for 
 lineal variation. He fired. The deer 
 dropped. The Tenderfoot thrust his 
 hat over one eye, rested hand on hip in 
 a manner cocky to behold. 
 
 "Simply slaughter!" he proffered, 
 with lofty scorn. 
 
 We descended. The bullet had brok 
 en the deer's back about six inches 
 from the tail. The Tenderfoot had over 
 shot by at least three feet. 
 
 You will see many deer thus from the 
 trail in fact, we kept up our meat sup 
 ply from the saddle, as one might say 
 but to enjoy the fine savor of seeing 
 deer you should start out definitely with 
 that object in view. Thus you have 
 opportunity for the display of a certain 
 finer woodcraft. You must know where 
 the objects of your search are likely to 
 be found, and that depends on the time 
 of year, the time of day, their age, their 
 sex, a hundred little things. When the 
 bucks carry antlers in the velvet, they 
 frequent the inaccessibilities of the higtv 
 
 est rocky peaks, so their tender horns 
 may not be torn in the brush, but never 
 theless so that the advantage of a lofty 
 viewpoint may compensate for the loss 
 of cover. Later you will find them in 
 the open slopes of a lower altitude, fully 
 exposed to the sun, that there the heat 
 may harden the antlers. Later still, the 
 heads in fine condition and tough to 
 withstand scratches, they plunge into 
 the dense thickets. But in the mean 
 time the fertile does have sought a lower 
 country, with patches of small brush 
 interspersed with open passages. There 
 they can feed with their fawns, com 
 pletely concealed, but able, by merely 
 raising the head, to survey the entire 
 landscape for the threatening of danger. 
 The barren does, on the other hand, 
 you will find through the timber and 
 brush, for they are careless of all respon 
 sibilities either to offspring or headgear. 
 These are but a few of the considera 
 tions you will take into account, a very 
 few of the many which lend the deer 
 countries strange thrills of delight over 
 new knowledge gained, over crafty ex 
 pedients invented or well utilized, over 
 the satisfactory matching of your reason, 
 your instinct, your subtlety and skill 
 against the reason, instinct, subtlety, and 
 skill of one of the wariest of large wild 
 animals. 
 
 Perversely enough, the times when you 
 did not see deer are more apt to remain 
 vivid in your memory than the times 
 when you did. I can still see distinctly 
 sundry wide jump-marks where the ani 
 mal I was tracking had evidently caught 
 sight of me, and lit out before I came 
 up to him. Equally, sundry little thin 
 disappearing clouds of dust; cracklings 
 of brush, growing ever more distant ; 
 the tops of bushes waving to the steady 
 passage of something remaining persist 
 ently concealed these are the chief 
 ingredients, often repeated, which make 
 up deer-stalking memory. When I think 
 of seeing deer, these things automatically 
 rise. 
 
 A few of the deer actually seen do, 
 however, stand out clearly from the 
 many. When I was a very small boy 
 possessed of a 32-20 rifle and large 
 ambitions, I followed the advantage my 
 father's footsteps made me in the deep 
 
652 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [16 July 
 
 snow of an unused logging-road. His 
 attention was focused on some very in 
 teresting fresh tracks. I, being a small 
 boy, cared not at all for tracks, and so 
 saw a big doe emerge from the bushes 
 not ten yards away, lope leisurely across 
 the road, and disappear, wagging ear 
 nestly her tail. When I had recovered 
 my breath, I vehemently demanded the 
 sense of fooling with tracks when there 
 were real live deer to be had. My 
 father examined me. 
 
 " Well, why didn't you shoot her ?" 
 he inquired, dryly. 
 
 I hadn't thought of that. 
 
 In the spring of 1900 I was at the head 
 
 of the Piant River waiting for the log- 
 drive to start. One morning, happening 
 to walk over a slashing of many years 
 before in which had grown a strong 
 thicket of white popples, I jumped a 
 band of nine deer. I shall never forget 
 the bewildering impression made by the 
 glancing, dodging, bouncing white of 
 those nine snowy tails and .rumps. 
 
 But most wonderful of all was a great 
 buck, of I should be afraid to say how 
 many points, that stood silhouetted on 
 the extreme end of a ridge high above 
 our camp.. The time was just after twi 
 light, and as we watched, the sky light 
 ened behind him in prophecy of the moon. 
 
 Social Life and the Christian Ministry 
 
 By Josiah Strong, D.D. 
 
 President of the American Institute of Social Service 
 
 At the second annual Conference to which the students of Union Theological Seminary, 
 New York, invited students from several colleges for the purpose of considering the work 
 of the ministry, addresses on various aspects of the ministry were given by men chosen 
 for their expert knowledge of these aspects. Interest in the function of the ministry is not, 
 however, confined to those who make it their profession; it extends to people generally 
 both within and without the Church. This is due to the fact that what service a minister 
 renders is largely determined by what people expect of him. It is, moreover, coming 
 more and more to be recognized that the work of the ministry is in its broadest aspects the 
 work of the whole Church. Dr. Strong's address, given at the Conference and here pub 
 lished in revised form, presents the work of the ministry in that aspect which most vitally 
 concerns the community at large. THE EDITORS. 
 
 SOME twelve or fifteen years ago I 
 had an interview with one of the 
 most prominent preachers of the 
 city and of the Nation a man whose 
 point of view was the older, or individ 
 ualistic ; a man whose fame was in all 
 the churches. You have doubtless been 
 referred to his sermons, and have read 
 them, as models of expository preaching. 
 It was just after a vigorous but unsuc 
 cessful attempt had been made to redeem 
 the city from the power of the corrupt 
 and corrupting government which then 
 ruled it an effort led by the ministry, 
 and especially by Dr. Parkhurst. The 
 gentleman referred to had been con 
 spicuously absent from these meetings 
 held in the churches. He said to me : 
 " I had nothing to do with it ; I never 
 turn aside from my proper work, which 
 is the building of character." , 
 
 Now, I shall not quarrel with his 
 
 definition of the proper work of the 
 ministry, but he was uninformed as to 
 the influences which mold character. 
 Have the saloon, the brothel, the gam 
 bling hell, and the evils of the tenement 
 no relations to character in this com 
 munity ? Character is always shaped, 
 determined, by three things : heredity, 
 environment, will. Heredity is all that 
 the little child brings with him into life. 
 Environment includes all the conditions," 
 physical, moral, intellectual, social, into 
 which he is born. Generally speaking, 
 heredity and environment determine the 
 action of the will, which is decisive in 
 forming character. There are excep 
 tions, doubtless. Dickens was very fond 
 of bringing his fairest flowers out of 
 roots grown in the mire of the slums, 
 and no doubt there are such instances 
 characters that do not seem to be 
 smirched by evil surroundings; but, 
 
THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 BY STEWART EDWARD WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE FOREST," " THE BLAZED TRAIL," " THE SILENT PLACES," ETC. 
 
 XI The Tenderfoot 1 
 
 THE tenderfoot is a queer beast. 
 He makes more trouble than 
 ants at a picnic, more work than 
 a trespassing goat ; he never sees any 
 thing, knows where anything is, remem 
 bers accurately your instructions, follows 
 them if remembered, or is able to handle 
 without awkwardness his large and 
 pathetic hands and feet; he is always 
 lost, always falling off or into things, 
 always in difficulties ; his articles of 
 necessity are constantly being burned 
 up or washed away or mislaid ; he looks 
 at you beamingly through great inno 
 cent eyes in the most chuckle-headed of 
 manners ; he exasperates you to within 
 an inch of explosion and yet you love 
 him. 
 
 I am referring now to the real tender 
 foot, the fellow who cannot learn, who is 
 incapable ever of adjusting himself to 
 the demands of the wild life. Sometimes 
 a man is merely green, inexperienced. 
 But give him a chance and he soon picks 
 up the game. That is your greenhorn, 
 not your tenderfoot. Down near Mon- 
 ache meadows we came across an indi 
 vidual leading an old pack-mare up the 
 trail. The first thing, he asked us to 
 tell him where he was. We did so. 
 Then we noticed that he carried his 
 gun muzzle-up in his hip-pocket, which 
 seemed to be a nice way to shoot a hole 
 in your hand, but a poor way to make 
 your weapon accessible. He unpacked 
 near us, and promptly turned the mare 
 into a bog-hole because it looked green. 
 Then he stood around the rest of the 
 
 * Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 a The author has followed a true sequence of events 
 practically in all particulars save in respect to the 
 character of the Tenderfoot. He is in one sense ficti 
 tious ; in another sense real. He is real in that he is the 
 apotheosis of many tenderfeet, and that everything he 
 does in this narrative he has done at one time or 
 another in the author's experience. He is fictitious in 
 the sense that he is in no way to be identified with the 
 third member of our party in the actual trip. 
 
 evening and talked deprecating talk of 
 a garrulous nature. 
 
 " Which way did you come ?" asked 
 Wes. 
 
 The stranger gave us a hazy account 
 of misnamed canons, by which we gath 
 ered that he had come directly over the 
 rough divide below us. 
 
 " But if you wanted to get to Monache, 
 why didn't you go around to the east 
 ward through that pass, there, and save 
 yourself all the climb ? It must have 
 been pretty rough through there." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps so," he hesitated. 
 " Still I got lots of time I can take 
 all summer, if I want to and I'd rather 
 stick to a straight line then you know 
 where you are if you get off the straight 
 line, you're likely to get lost, you know." 
 
 We knew well enough what ailed him, 
 of course. He was a tenderfoot, of the 
 sort that always, to its dying day, un- 
 hobbles its horses before putting their 
 halters on. Yet that man for thirty-two 
 years had lived almost constantly in the 
 wild countries. He had traveled more 
 miles with a pack-train than we shall 
 ever dream of traveling, and hardly could 
 we mention a famous camp of the last 
 quarter-century that he had not blun 
 dered into. Moreover, he proved by the 
 indirections of his misinformation that 
 he had really been there and was not 
 making ghost stories in order to impress 
 us. Yet, if the Lord spares him thirty- 
 two years more, at the end of that time 
 he will probably still be carrying his 
 gun upside down, turning his horse into 
 a bog-hole, and blundering through the 
 country by main strength and awkward 
 ness. He was a beautiful type of the 
 tenderfoot. 
 
 The redeeming point of the tenderfoot 
 is his humbleness of spirit and his ex 
 treme good nature. He exasperates you 
 
 695 
 
696 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [23 July 
 
 with his fool performances to the point 
 of dancing, cursing, wild, crying rage, 
 and then accepts your well 1 reproofs 
 so meekly that you come off the boil as 
 though some one had removed you from 
 the fire, and you feel like a low-browed 
 thug. 
 
 Suppose your particular tenderfoot to 
 be named Algernon. Suppose him to 
 have packed his horse loosely they 
 always do so that the pack has slipped, 
 the horse has bucked over three square 
 miles of assorted mountains, and the 
 rest of the train is scattered over iden 
 tically that area. You have run your 
 saddle-horse to a lather heading the out 
 fit. You have sworn and dodged and 
 scrambled and yelled, even fired your 
 six-shooter, to turn them and bunch 
 them. In the meantime Algernon has 
 either sat his horse like a park police 
 man in his leisure hours, or has ambled 
 directly into your path of pursuit on an 
 average of five times a minute. Then 
 the trouble dies from the landscape and 
 the baby bewilderment from his eyes. 
 You slip from your winded horse, and ad 
 dress Algernon with elaborate courtesy. 
 
 " My dear fellow," you remark, " did 
 you not see that the thing for you to do 
 was to head them down by the bottom 
 of that little gulch there ? Don't you 
 really think anybody would have seen it ? 
 What in hades do you think I wanted 
 to run my horse all through those boul 
 ders for ? Do you think I want to get 
 him lame 'way up here in the hills ? I 
 don't mind telling a man a thing once, 
 but to tell it to him fifty-eight times, and 
 then have it do no good Have you 
 the faintest recollection of my instruct 
 ing you to turn the bight over instead of 
 under when you throw that pack-hitch ? 
 If you'd remember that, we shouldn't 
 have had all this trouble." 
 
 " You didn't tell me to head them by 
 the little gulch," babbles Algernon. 
 
 This is just the utterly fool reply that 
 upsets your artificial and elaborate cour 
 tesy. You probably foam at the mouth, 
 and dance on your hat, and shriek wild 
 imploring imprecations to the astonished 
 hills. This is not because you have an 
 unfortunate disposition, but because Al 
 gernon has been doing precisely the same 
 thing for two months. 
 
 " Listen to him 1" you howl. " Didn't 
 tell him 1 Why, you gangle-legged, bug- 
 eyed, soft-handed, pop-eared tenderfoot, 
 you 1 there are some things you never 
 think of telling a man. I never told you 
 to open your mouth to spit, either. If 
 you had a hired man at five dollars a 
 year who was so all-round hopelessly 
 thick-headed and incompetent as you are, 
 you'd fire him to-morrow morning." 
 
 Then Algernon looks truly sorry, and 
 doesn't answer back as he ought to in 
 order to give occasion for the relief of a 
 really soul-satisfying scrap, and utters 
 the soft answer humbly. So your wrath 
 is turned and there remain only the dregs 
 which taste like some of Algernon's 
 cooking. 
 
 It is rather good fun to relieve the 
 bitterness of the heart. Let me tell you 
 a few more tales of the tenderfoot, pre 
 mising always that I love him, and when 
 at home seek him out to smoke pipes at 
 his fireside, to yarn over the trail, to 
 wonder how much rancor he cherishes 
 against the maniacs who declaimed 
 against him, and by way of compensation 
 to build up in the mind of his sweet 
 heart, his wife, or his mother, a fearful 
 and wonderful reputation for him as the 
 Terror of the Trail. These tales are 
 selected from many" mere samples of a 
 varied experience. They occurred here, 
 there, and everywhere, and at various 
 times. Let no one try to lay them at 
 the door of our Tenderfoot merely be 
 cause such is his title in this narrative. 
 We called him that by way of distinc 
 tion. 
 
 Once upon a time some of us were 
 engaged in climbing a mountain rising 
 some five thousand feet above our start 
 ing-place. As we toiled along, one of 
 the pack-horses became impatient and 
 pushed ahead. We did not mind that, 
 especially as long as she stayed in sight, 
 but in a little while the trail was closed 
 in by brush and timber. 
 
 " Algernon," said we, " just push on 
 and get ahead of that mare, will you ?" 
 
 Algernon disappeared. We continued 
 to climb. The trail was steep and rather 
 bad. The labor was strenuous, and we 
 checked off each thousand feet with 
 thankfulness. As we saw nothing further 
 of Algernon, we naturally concluded he 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 697 
 
 had headed the mare and was continuing 
 on the trail. Then through a little 
 opening we saw him riding cheerfully 
 along without a care to occupy his mind. 
 Just for luck we hailed him. 
 
 " Hi there, Algernon I Did you find 
 her ?" 
 
 " Haven't seen her yet" 
 
 "-Well, you'd better push on a little 
 faster. She may leave the trail at the 
 summit." 
 
 Then one of us, endowed by heaven 
 with a keen intuitive instinct for tender- 
 feet no one could have a knowledge of 
 them, they are too unexpected had an 
 inspiration. 
 
 " I suppose there are tracks on the 
 trail ahead of you ?" he called. 
 
 We stared at each other, then at the 
 trail. Only one horse had preceded us 
 that of the tenderfoot. But of course 
 Algernon was nevertheless due for his 
 chuckle-headed reply. 
 
 " I haven't looked," said he. 
 
 That raised the storm conventional 
 to such an occasion. 
 
 " What in the name of seventeen little 
 dicky-birds did you think you were up 
 to 1" we howled. " Were you going to 
 ride ahead until dark in the childlike 
 faith that that mare might show up some 
 where ? Here's a nice state of affairs. 
 The trail is all tracked up now with our 
 horses, and heaven knows whether she's 
 left tracks where she turned off. It may 
 be rocky there." 
 
 We tied the animals savagely, and 
 started back on foot. It would be crim 
 inal to ask our saddle-horses to repeat 
 that climb. Algernon we ordered to stay 
 with them. 
 
 " And don't stir from them, no matter 
 what happens, or you'll get lost," we com 
 manded, out of the wisdom of long expe 
 rience. 
 
 We climbed down the four thousand 
 odd feet, and then back again, leading 
 the mare. She had turned off not forty 
 rods from where Algernon had taken up 
 her pursuit. 
 
 Your Algernon never does get down 
 to little details like tracks his scheme 
 of life is much too magnificent. To be 
 sure, he would not know fresh tracks from 
 old if he should see them ; so it is prob 
 ably quite as well. In the morning he 
 
 goes out after the horses. The bunch 
 he finds easily enough, but one is miss 
 ing. What would you do about it ? You 
 would naturally walk in a circle around 
 the bunch until you crossed the track of 
 the truant leading away from it, wouldn't 
 you ? If you made a wide enough circle 
 you would inevitably cross that track, 
 wouldn't you ? provided the horse started 
 out with the bunch in the first place. 
 Then you would follow the track, catch 
 the horse, and bring him back. Is this 
 Algernon's procedure ? Not any. " Ha !" 
 says he, " old Brownie is missing. I will 
 hunt him up." Then he maunders off into 
 the scenery, trusting to high heaven that 
 he is going to blunder against Brownie 
 as a prominent feature of the landscape. 
 After a couple of hours you probably 
 saddle up Brownie and go out to find 
 the tenderfoot. 
 
 He has a horrifying facility in losing 
 himself. Nothing is more cheering than 
 to arise from a hard-earned couch of 
 ease for the purpose of trailing an Alger 
 non or so through the gathering dusk 
 to the spot where he has managed to find 
 something a very real despair of ever 
 getting back to food and warmth. Noth 
 ing is more irritating then than his 
 gratitude. 
 
 I traveled once in the Black Hills 
 with such a tenderfoot. We were off 
 from the base of supplies for a ten days' 
 trip, with only a saddle-horse apiece. 
 This was near first principles, as our 
 total provisions consisted of two pounds 
 of oatmeal, some tea, and sugar. Among 
 other things we climbed Mount Harney. 
 The trail, after we left the horses, was 
 as plain as a strip of Brussels carpet, 
 but somehow or another that tenderfoot 
 managed to get off it. I hunted him up. 
 We gained the top, watched the sunset, 
 and started down. The tenderfoot, I 
 thought, was fairly at my coat-tails, but 
 when I turned to speak to him he had 
 gone ; he must have turned off at one 
 of the numerous little openings in the 
 brush. I sat down to wait. By and 
 by, away down the west slope of the 
 mountain, I heard a shot, and a faint, 
 a very faint, despairing yell. I also shot 
 and yelled. After various signals of the 
 sort it became evident that the tender 
 foot was approaching. In a moment he 
 
698 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 tore by at full speed, his hat off, his eye 
 wild, his six-shooter popping at every 
 jump. He passed within six feet of me, 
 and never saw me. Subsequently I left 
 him on the prairie, with accurate and 
 simple instructions. 
 
 "There's the mountain range. You 
 simply keep that to your left and ride 
 eight hours. Then you'll see Rapid 
 City. You simply can't get lost. Those 
 hills stick out like a sore thumb." 
 
 Two days later he drifted into Rapid 
 City, having wandered off somewhere to 
 the east. How he had done it I can 
 never guess. That is his secret. 
 
 The tenderfoot is always in hard luck. 
 Apparently, too, by all tests of analysis, 
 it is nothing but luck, pure chance, mis 
 fortune. And yet the very persistence 
 of it in his case, where another escapes, 
 perhaps indicates that much of what we 
 call good luck is in reality unconscious 
 skill in the arrangement of those ele 
 ments which go to make up events. 
 A persistently unlucky man is per 
 haps sometimes to be pitied, but more 
 often to be booted. That philosophy 
 will be cryingly unjust about once in 
 ten. 
 
 But, lucky or unlucky, the tenderfoot 
 is human. Ordinarily that doesn't oc 
 cur to you. He is a malevolent engine 
 of destruction quite as impersonal as 
 heat or cold or lack of water. He is an 
 unfortunate article of personal belong 
 ing requiring much looking after to keep 
 in order. He is a credulous and con 
 venient response to practical jokes, huge 
 tales, misinformation. He is a laudable 
 object of attrition for the development 
 of your character. But somehow, in the 
 woods, he is not as other men, and so 
 you do not come to feel yourself in close 
 human relations to him. 
 
 But Algernon is real, nevertheless. 
 He has feelings, even if you do not 
 respect them. He has his little enjoy 
 ments, even though he does rarely con 
 
 template anything but the horn of his 
 saddle. 
 
 " Algernon," you cry, " for heaven's 
 sake stick that saddle of yours in a glass 
 case and glut yourself with the sight of 
 its ravishing beauties next winter. For 
 the present do gaze on the mountains. 
 That's what you came for." 
 
 No use. 
 
 He has, doubtless, a full range of all 
 the appreciative emotions, though from 
 his actions you'd never suspect it. Most 
 human of all, he possesses his little 
 vanities. 
 
 Algernon always overdoes the equip 
 ment question. If it is bird-shooting, 
 he accumulates leggings and canvas caps 
 and belts and dog-whistles and things 
 until he looks like a picture from a de 
 partment-store catalogue. In the cow 
 country he wears Stetson hats, snake 
 bands, red handkerchiefs, six-shooters, 
 chaps, and huge spurs that do not match 
 his face. If it is yachting, he has a 
 chronometer with a gong in the cabin of 
 a five-ton sailboat, possesses a nickel- 
 plated machine to register the heel of his 
 craft, sports a brass-bound yachting-cap 
 and all the regalia. This is merely 
 amusing. But I never could understand 
 his insane desire to get sunburned. A 
 man will get sunburned fast enough ; he 
 could not help it if he would. Algernon 
 usually starts out from town without a 
 hat. Then he dares not take off his 
 sweater for a week lest it carry away his 
 entire face. I have seen men with deep 
 sores oh their shoulders caused by noth 
 ing but excessive burning in the sun. 
 This, too, is merely amusing. It means 
 quite simply that Algernon realizes his 
 inner deficiencies and wants to make up 
 for them by the outward seeming. Be 
 kind to him, for he has been raised a 
 pet. 
 
 The tenderfoot is lovable mysterious 
 in how he does it and awfully unex 
 pected. 
 
1904] 
 
 The South and the Negro 
 
 745 
 
 it must be by colleges for negroes. 
 The so-called " higher education " of 
 the negro is of course only in a techni 
 cal sense "higher" than that form of 
 education which cultivates in young men 
 and women high qualities of character 
 and adaptability to their environment 
 by other means than the traditional 
 studies of a New England college. Of 
 course much of the ill-repute into which 
 this "higher education" has fallen in 
 the South is due to the fact that too 
 often it has made pretense of being 
 what it is not ; but, on the other hand, 
 not only has this pretense been magni 
 fied, but the ill-repute has been magni 
 fied still more. The tributes to the 
 work done by negro colleges, most of 
 them established by Northerners, which 
 were expressed to me by men of strong 
 Southern traditions, were too numerous 
 to mention in detail. One physician, 
 for instance, whose practice had given 
 him a rare acquaintance with negro life, 
 told me that a negro college established 
 by a Northern religious body in his 
 town had made', to his certain knowledge, 
 a great difference in the intellectual 
 status of the negroes in the region, 
 even down to so elementary a matter as 
 reading and writing. The failures of 
 such colleges as these have become a 
 matter of common report after the 
 manner of the world ; not so, unfortu 
 nately, the approval they have elicited. 
 No one that I ever met has, at any rate, 
 ascribed the failures of " higher educa 
 tion " to its merits. The cure for its 
 defects is, like the cure for any defect in 
 education, not its abolition but its im 
 provement. 
 
 The one point concerning negro edu 
 cation to which I have never heard ex 
 pressed any dissent, not even from those 
 whom I have called enemies of educa 
 tion, is that of moral and religious train 
 ing. If the old-time, picturesque and 
 demoralizing negro emotionalism is pass 
 ing away or becoming restrained, it is 
 due to educational influences. Of that 
 I could here add instances to those I 
 have heretofore given. There can be 
 no manner of doubt that what the great 
 majority of negroes need in this particu 
 
 lar is not religious impulse, but religious 
 and moral education. This becomes 
 very evident when it is possible to read 
 the following sentence, published in a 
 newspaper over a negro bishop's name : 
 " But through His death and resurrec 
 tion we may commit sins of lying, steal 
 ing, Sabbath-breaking, getting drunk, 
 gambling, whoring, murdering, and every 
 species of villainy, and then come to God 
 through our resurrected Christ, and 
 enter heaven in the end." This old 
 divorce of morality from religious emo 
 tion the efforts of missionary societies 
 and church schools have been slowly 
 annulling; but it is as futile to leave 
 such moral education to ecclesiastical 
 organizations in the case of the negro in 
 the South as in the case of the white 
 person of the North. This problem is 
 as little distinctively a race problem in 
 one section as another. 
 
 In one respect it is simpler in the pre 
 vailingly orthodox South than elsewhere 
 in the United States. Fortunately, as it 
 was pointed out to me, there is no such 
 opposition to the explicit introduction of 
 moral and religious education into the 
 public schools in the South as. there is 
 in the North. The fact that the negroes 
 in the South, in the main, constitute a 
 child race makes categorical moral in 
 struction in colored public schools de 
 fensible there as it would not be else 
 where. In this particular, too, it is clear 
 that the problem of negro education is 
 less a negro problem than an educational 
 problem. 
 
 After all, therefore, whether as a prob 
 lem of industrial education, or of com 
 mon school education, or of higher edu 
 cation, or of religious and moral educa 
 tion, the educational problem of the 
 South can be rescued from race feeling. 
 It probably is true that race feeling in 
 the South is becoming more rather than 
 less pronounced ; but, at the same time, 
 strong and clear eyed men of the South 
 are saying: Within the bounds which 
 protect the integrity of our race we shall 
 let feeling govern ; but beyond thosq 
 bounds we shall set our wits to work at 
 the old problems of government, social 
 order, industry, and education, 
 
THE MOUNTAINS' 
 
 BY STEWART EDWARD WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE FOREST," " THE BLAZED TRAIL," " THE SILENT PLACES," ETC, 
 
 XII The Canon 
 
 ONE day we tied our horses to 
 three bushes, and walked on 
 foot two hundred yards. Then 
 we looked down. 
 
 It was nearly four thousand feet down. 
 Do you realize how far that is ? There 
 was a river meandering through olive- 
 colored forests. It was so distant that 
 it was light green and as narrow as a 
 piece of tape. Here and there were 
 rapids, but so remote that we could not 
 distinguish the motion of them, only the 
 color. The white resembled tiny dabs 
 of cotton wool stuck on the tape. It 
 turned and twisted, following the turns 
 and twists of the canon. Somehow the 
 level at the bottom resembled less forests 
 and meadows than a heavy and sluggish 
 fluid like molasses flowing between the 
 canon walls. It emerged from the bend 
 of a sheer cliff ten miles to eastward ; it 
 disappeared placidly around the bend of 
 another sheer cliff an equal distance to 
 the westward. 
 
 The time was afternoon. As we 
 watched, the shadow of the canon wall 
 darkened the valley. Whereupon we 
 looked up. 
 
 Now the upper air, of which we were 
 dwellers for the moment, was peopled by 
 giants and clear atmosphere and glitter 
 ing sunlight, flashing like silver and steel 
 and precious stones from the granite 
 domes, peaks, minarets, and palisades 
 of the High Sierras. Solid as they were 
 in reality, in the crispness of this moun 
 tain air, under the tangible blue of this 
 mountain sky, they seemed to poise light 
 as so many balloons. Some of them 
 rose sheer, with hardly a fissure ; some 
 had flung across their shoulders long 
 trailing pine draperies, fine as fur ; others 
 matched mantles of the whitest white 
 against the bluest blue of the sky. 
 
 1 Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 746 
 
 Towards the lower country were more 
 pines rising in ridges, like the fur of an 
 animal that has been alarmed. 
 
 We dangled our feet over the edge 
 and talked about it. Wes pointed to 
 the upper end where the sluggish lava- 
 like flow of the canon-bed first came into 
 view. 
 
 " That's where we'll camp," said he. 
 
 " When ?" we asked. 
 
 " When we get there," he answered. 
 
 For this canon lies in the heart of the 
 mountains. Those who would visit it 
 have first to get into the country a 
 matter of over a week. Then they have 
 their choice of three probabilities of 
 destruction. 
 
 The first route comprehends two final 
 days of travel at an altitude of about ten 
 thousand feet, where the snow lies in 
 midsummer ; where there is no feed, no 
 comfort, and the way is strewn with 
 the bones of horses. This is known 
 as the "Basin Trail." After taking it 
 you prefer the others until you try 
 them. 
 
 The finish of the second route is di 
 rectly over the summit of a mountain. 
 You climb two thousand feet and then 
 drop down five. The ascent is heart 
 breaking but safe. The descent is hair- 
 rising and unsafe ; no profanity can do 
 justice to it. Out of a pack-train of 
 thirty mules, nine were lost in the course 
 of that five thousand feet. Legend has 
 it that once many years ago certain pros 
 pectors took in a Chinese cook. At first 
 the Mongolian bewailed his fate loudly 
 and fluently, but later settled to a single 
 terrified moan that sounded like " tu-ne- 
 mah ! tu-ne-mah 1" The trail was there 
 fore named the " Tu-ne-mah Trail." It 
 is said that " tu-ne-mah " is the very 
 worst single vituperation of which the 
 Chinese language is capable. 
 
The Mountains 
 
 747 
 
 The third route is called " Hell's Half 
 Mile." It is not misnamed. 
 
 Thus like paradise the canon is guard 
 ed ; but like paradise it is wondrous in 
 delight. For when you descend you find 
 that the tape-wide trickle of water seen 
 from above has become a river with pro 
 found darkling pools and placid stretches 
 and swift dashing rapids ; that the dark 
 green sluggish flow in the canon-bed has 
 disintegrated into a noble forest with 
 great pine-trees, and shaded aisles, and 
 deep dank thickets, and brush openings 
 where the sun is warm and the birds are 
 cheerful, and groves of cottonwoods 
 where all day long softly, like snow, the 
 flakes of cotton float down through the 
 air." Moreover there are meadows, spaci 
 ous lawns, opening out, closing in, wind 
 ing here and there through the groves in 
 the manner of spilled naphtha, actually 
 waist high with green feed, sown with 
 flowers like a brocade. Quaint tributary 
 little brooks babble and murmur down 
 through these trees, down through these 
 lawns. A blessed warm sun hums with 
 the joy of innumerable bees. To right 
 hand and to left, in front of you and 
 behind, rising sheer, forbidding, impreg 
 nable, the cliffs, mountains, and ranges 
 hem you in. Down the river ten miles 
 you can go ; then the gorge closes, the 
 river grows savage, you can only look 
 down the tumbling fierce waters and 
 turn back. Up the river five miles you 
 can go, then interpose the sheer snow- 
 clad cliffs of the Palisades, and them, 
 rising a matter of fourteen thousand feet, 
 you may not cross. You are shut in 
 your paradise as completely as though 
 surrounded by iron bars. 
 
 But, too, the world is shut out. The 
 paradise is yours. In it are trout and 
 deer and grouse and bear and lazy happy 
 days. Your horses feed to the fatness 
 of butter. You wander at will in the 
 ample though definite limits of your 
 domain. You lie on your back and ex 
 amine dispassionately, with an interest 
 entirely detached, the huge cliff-walls of 
 the valley. Days slip by. Really, it 
 needs at least an angel with a flaming 
 sword to force you to move on. 
 
 We turned away from our view and 
 addressed ourselves to the task of find 
 ing out just when we were going to get 
 
 there. The first day we bobbed up and 
 over innumerable little ridges of a few 
 hundred feet elevation, crossed several 
 streams, and skirted the wide bowl-like 
 amphitheatre of a basin. The second 
 day we climbed over things and finally 
 ended in a small hanging park named 
 Alpine Meadows, at an elevation of eight 
 thousand five hundred feet. There we 
 rested-over a day, camped under a single 
 pine-tree, with the quick-growing moun 
 tain grasses thick about us, a semicircle 
 of mountains on three sides, and the 
 plunge into the canon on the other. As 
 we needed meat, we spent part of the 
 day on finding a deer. The rest of the 
 time we watched idly for bear. 
 
 Bears are great travelers. They will 
 often go twenty miles overnight, appar 
 ently for the sheer delight of being on 
 the move. Also are they exceedingly 
 loath to expend unnecessary energy in 
 getting to places, and they hate to go 
 down steep hills. You see, their fore 
 legs are short. Therefore they are skilled 
 in the choice of easy routes through the 
 mountains, and once having made the 
 choice they stick to it until through cer 
 tain narrow places on the route selected 
 they have worn a trail as smooth as 
 a garden-path. The old prospectors 
 used occasionally to pick out the horse- 
 passes by trusting in general to the bear 
 migrations, and many a well-traveled 
 route of to-day is superimposed over the 
 way-through picked out by old Bruin long 
 ago. 
 
 Of such was our own trail. Therefore 
 we kept our rifles at hand and our eyes 
 open for a straggler. But none came, 
 though we -baited craftily with portions 
 of our deer. All we gained was a rattle 
 snake, and he seemed a bit out of place 
 so high np in the air. 
 
 Mount Tunemah stood over against 
 us, still twenty-two hundred feet above 
 our elevation. We gazed on it sadly, for 
 directly by its summit, and for five hours 
 beyond, lay our trail, and evil of reputa 
 tion was that trail beyond all others. 
 The horses, as we bunched them in pre 
 paration for the packing, took on a new 
 interest, for it was on the cards that the 
 unpacking at evening would find some 
 missing trom the ranks. 
 
 " Lily's a goner, sure," said Wes, " I 
 
748 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [30 July 
 
 don't know how she's got this far except 
 by drunken man's luck. She'll never 
 make the Tunemah." 
 
 " And Tunemah himself," pointed out 
 the Tenderfoot, naming his own fool 
 horse ; " I see where I start in to walk." 
 
 " Sort of a * morituri te salutamus,' " 
 said I. 
 
 We climbed the two thousand two hun 
 dred feet, leading our saddle-horses to 
 save their strength. Every twenty feet 
 we rested, breathing heavily of the rari- 
 fied air. Then at the top of the world 
 we paused on the brink of nothing to 
 tighten cinches, while the cold wind 
 swept by us, the snow glittered in a 
 sunlight become silvery like that of early 
 April, and the giant peaks of the High 
 .Sierras lifted into a distance inconceiv 
 ably remote, as .though the horizon had 
 been set back for their accommodation. 
 
 To our left lay a windrow of snow such 
 as you will see drifted into a sharp crest 
 across a corner of your yard; only 
 this windrow was twenty feet high and 
 packed solid by the sun, the wind, and 
 the weight of its age. We climbed it and 
 looked over directly into the eye of a 
 round Alpine lake seven or eight hun 
 dred feet below. It was an intense 
 cobalt blue, a color to be seen only in 
 these glacial bodies of water, deep and 
 rich as the mantle of a merchant of 
 Tyre. White ice floated in it. The 
 savage fierce granite needles and knife- 
 edges of the mountain crest hemmed it 
 about. 
 
 But this was temporizing, and we knew 
 it. The first drop of the trail was so 
 steep that we could flip a pebble to the 
 first level of it, and so rough in its water- 
 and-snow-gouged knuckles of rocks that 
 it seemed that at the first step a 
 horse must necessarily fall end over end. 
 We made it successfully, however, and 
 breathed deep. Even Lily, by a micacle 
 of hicky scrambling, did not even stum 
 ble. 
 
 " Now she's easy for a little ways," 
 said Wes, " then we'll get busy." 
 
 When we "got busy" we took our 
 guns in our hands to preserve them from 
 a fall, and started in. Two more miracles 
 saved Dinkey at two more places. We 
 spent an hour at one spot, and finely 
 built a new trail around it. Six times a 
 
 minute we held our breaths and stood on 
 tiptoe with anxiety, powerless to help, 
 while the horse did his best. At the 
 especially bad places we checked them 
 off one after another, congratulating our 
 selves on so much saved as each came 
 across without accident. When there 
 were no bad places, the trail was so 
 extraordinarily steep that we ahead were 
 in constant dread of a horse's falling on 
 us from behind, and our legs did become 
 wearied to incipient paralysis by the 
 constant stiff checking of the descent 
 Moreover every second or so one of the 
 big loose stones with which the trail was 
 cumbered would be disloged and come 
 bouncing down among us. We dodged 
 and swore ; the horses kicked ; we all 
 feared for the integrity of our legs. The 
 day was full of an intense nervous strain, 
 an entire absorption in the precise pres 
 ent. We promptly forgot a difficulty as 
 soon as we were by it ; we had not time 
 to think of those still ahead. All outside 
 the insistence of the moment was blurred 
 an unimportant, like a specialized focus, 
 so I cannot tell you much about the 
 scenery. The only outside impression 
 we received was that the canon floor was 
 slowly rising to meet us. 
 
 Then strangely enough, as it seemed, 
 we stepped off to level ground. 
 
 Our watches said half-past three. We 
 had made five miles in a little under 
 seven hours. 
 
 Remained only the crossing of the 
 river. This was no mean task, but we 
 accomplished it lightly, searching out a 
 ford. There were high grasses, and on 
 the other side of them a grove of very 
 tall cottonwoods, clean as a park. First 
 of all we cooked things ; then we spread 
 things ; then we lay on our backs and 
 smoked things, our hands clasped back 
 of our heads. We cocked ironical eyes 
 at the sheer cliff of old Mount Tunemah, 
 very much as a man would cock his eye 
 at a tiger in a cage. 
 
 Already the meat-hawks, the fluffy 
 Canada jays, had found us out, and were 
 prepared to swoop down boldly on what 
 ever offered to their predatory skill. We 
 had nothing for them yet there were no 
 remains of the lunch but the fire-irons 
 were out, and ribs of venison were roast 
 ing slowly over the coals in preparation 
 
1904] 
 
 Rangoon 
 
 749 
 
 for the evening meal. Directly opposite, 
 visible through the lattice of the trees, 
 were two huge mountain peaks, part of 
 the wall that shut us in, over against us 
 in a height we had not dared ascribe to 
 the sky itself. By and by the shadow 
 of these mountains rose on the westerly 
 wall. It crept up at first slowly, extin 
 guishing color ; afterwards more rapidly 
 as the sun approached the horizon. The 
 sunlight disappeared. A moment's gray 
 intervened, and then the wonderful 
 golden afterglow laid on the peaks its 
 enchantment. Little by little that too 
 faded, until at last, far away, through a 
 rift in the ranks of the giants, but one 
 remained gilded by the glory of a dream 
 that continued with it after the others. 
 Heretofore it had seemed to us an insig 
 nificant peak, apparently overtopped by 
 many, but by this token we knew it to be 
 the highest of them all. 
 
 Then ensued another pause, as though 
 to give the invisible scene-shifter time 
 to accomplish his work, followed by a 
 shower of evening coolness, that seemed 
 to sift through the trees like a soft and 
 gentle rain. We ate again by the flicker 
 of the fire, dabbing a trifle uncertainly 
 
 at the food, wondering at the distant 
 mountain on which the Day had made 
 its final stand, shrinking a little before 
 the stealthy dark that flowed down the 
 canon in the manner of a heavy smoke. 
 
 In the notch between the two huge 
 mountains blazed a star accurately in 
 the notch, like the front sight of a rifle 
 sighted into the marvelous depths of 
 space. Then the moon rose. 
 
 First we knew of it when it touched 
 the crest of our two mountains. The 
 night has strange effects on the hills. A 
 moment before they had menaced black 
 and sullen against the sky, but at the 
 touch of the moon their very substance 
 seemed to dissolve, leaving in the upper 
 atmosphere the airiest, most nebulous, 
 fragile, ghostly simulacrums of them 
 selves you could imagine in the realms 
 of fairy-land. They seemed' actually to 
 float, to poise like cloud-shapes about to 
 dissolve. And against them were cast 
 the inky silhouettes of three fir-trees in 
 the shadow near at hand. 
 
 Down over the stones rolled the river, 
 crying out to us with the voices of old 
 accustomed friends in another wilder 
 ness. The winds rustled. 
 
 Rangoon 
 
 By Elizabeth Washburn 
 
 THE night swooned upon the sea. 
 There were stars above fat 
 dabs of yellow butter that melted 
 greasily across a field of black. Below 
 the ship Sirsa panted heavily and lunged 
 at the long levels of languorous sea. 
 A little wheel perched on her rail behind 
 sang a song and watched the log- rope 
 slice the sea . as smoothly as a sharp 
 knife cutting cheese. 
 
 The boat was empty, old, and two 
 battered lanterns hanging on the deck 
 held steady orange flames that never 
 wavered. The deck beyond these lights 
 was of a shining blackness. The Sirsa 
 hailed from Mogi in Japan and was 
 making a tramp's trip to Burma and 
 Chittagong. The northeast monsoon 
 had met her coming down the China 
 coast, and the China Sea had leapt with 
 playful glee upon her decks, had poked 
 
 her roughly in the ribs and had twisted 
 sharply each separate beam in her 
 ancient hulk. 
 
 Perforce she entered Singapore with 
 a wheeze and a cough and a tremulous 
 unsteady beating of the heart. There 
 she drew breath and wiped the sweat of 
 exhaustion from her wide white face, 
 coaled dutifully and turned a patient 
 course up the smiling meadow lands of 
 the wide Indian seas. Slowly she lum 
 bered through the shining waters, mur 
 muring plaintively, with sighs and little 
 catches of the breath. Old she was in 
 knowledge, old in memories of the sea, 
 and age lay heavily in every creaking 
 timber of her frame and on the well 
 worn woodwork of her gloomy cabins. 
 
 Silence spread to every corner of the 
 boat. Black men in muslins stepped 
 like cats and polished ceaselessly the 
 
750 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [30 July 
 
 ancient brasses of the low saloon. Once 
 at twilight a shrill laugh rang from the 
 deep shelter of the after-deck and the 
 Sirsa whispered mystery, and caution. 
 Twice at midnight a vagrant wharf cat 
 shipped at Singapore shrieked through 
 the empty cabins. Followed on the 
 third a swish of draperies, the swift pat 
 ter of naked feet, a strangled groan, and 
 while the boat held a breath of horror 
 a clear splash at her bows. 
 
 The lascars fell upon their knees at 
 sunset, faced the blatant brassy horror 
 sinking in the blue and moved mute 
 lips to Mecca. Shrilly, mournfully, their 
 voices broke in chorus over the empty 
 sea, while a much patched heavy sail 
 bellied into place, bloused for a moment 
 fitfully then fell limp. 
 
 On the black night there rose out of 
 the sea a light that bobbed, sank and 
 circled again. It spoke of other life a 
 link perhaps, to jostling crowds and 
 steaming streets and honest noises of 
 the day. The pulses in the Sirsa quick 
 ened, and the aimless babble falling 
 from her lips of a sudden ceased. The 
 nameless shadows slinking on her decks 
 crept once more to the unknown chasms 
 of her gloomy hull. 
 
 There was movement, a brisk patter 
 ing of feet throughout the boat. The 
 light hovering about the night drew 
 nearer, showed at last the anchored out 
 lines of the pilot boat that marked the 
 unseen entrance of the wide-lipped leer 
 ing Irrawaddy to the sea. 
 
 The dawn came heralding with pen 
 nants of flowering peach. The ingoing 
 tide rushing past the Sirsa ran up her 
 helm in ripples of delicate rose. The 
 early morning glistened with dews, with 
 gossamer veils of shimmering silver that 
 spread above the land and sea, and 
 span a trembling web across the upturned 
 ugly face of Rangoon resting on the 
 river bank. 
 
 Slow boats slipped softly up the 
 stream and others still slept on with 
 quiet gurglings at their anchors. A 
 craning swan-like craft with high carved 
 beak and outstretched wings swept 
 swiftly out to sea with rows of naked 
 brownmen bending sharply at the oars. 
 Sampans rocked on the rising tide and 
 a gentle stir and stretching from sleep 
 
 ran up and down the crimson running 
 river. 
 
 A bird gushed suddenly a wonderous 
 liquid song from the low mist-covered 
 shores. Following came a gentle breeze 
 that rent the fine silver tis.sues, rippled 
 the stream and showed very naked and 
 ugly a low flat-lying town. With the 
 breath came a faint fine echo of bells 
 languorous, pausing tones of silver. 
 Then emerging from the mists and 
 standing .high above the level of brown 
 earth gleamed a bell shaped divinely 
 pointing thing of gold, that quivered 
 dizzily for a moment then dimmed behind 
 a bank of mist. 
 
 Next the sun leapt into the day and 
 struck upon the senses like the sudden 
 crash of metal cymbals. The mists 
 curled instantly and vanished, the shad 
 ows withered under foot and a bare 
 white light trimmed like a knife the 
 ugly outlines of Rangoon. 
 
 Mind and body cry aloud for shelter 
 in the town. The sun hangs so low 
 perches in the very branches of the 
 dust-streaked trees. It is appalling, 
 and the soul whimpers at the nearness, 
 the bald intrusion. 
 
 Huge ravens, hoarse and sooty, tumble 
 from the low-browed roofs and straddle 
 in the roads. The hot air never lif f s, 
 and registers with terrible distinctness 
 each separate sound. Mad native ponies 
 tear over the hard roads with ceaseless 
 bump and rattle of their gharry-wheels. 
 
 Slow, incessant pulleys lift cargoes in 
 mid-air and drop them with an aching 
 grind and grate of chains into the yawn 
 ing bodies of ships. 
 
 Murmurs swell from far and near. 
 The broken chant of laden natives pad 
 ding to the waiting row of boats. The 
 distant thud of falling timber from the 
 teak yards up the river. The tear and 
 rip of saws. The thud and jar of ele 
 phants thundering about the yards and 
 the drop of mammoth logs of even 
 piles. 
 
 Again are other tones. The bubbling 
 speech of oil-smeared black-backed 
 Tamils swarming down the roads. The 
 shrill laughter of flower crowned Burman 
 girls. The tread and tramp and shuffle 
 of khakied English soldiers. The cries 
 of venders, the pipings, the mutterings, 
 
THE 
 
 MOUNTAINS 
 
 BY 
 
 STEWART EDWARD 
 WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE FOREST 
 
 THE BLAZED TRAIL 
 
 THE SILENT PLACES Etc. 
 
 WITH PICTURES BY FERNAND LUNGREN 
 
 XIII. Trout, Buckskin, and Prospectors 
 
 AS I have said, a river flows 
 through the canon. It is a very 
 good river, with some riffles that 
 can be waded down to the edges of 
 black pools or white chutes of water ; 
 with appropriate big trees fallen slant 
 wise into it to form deep holes ; and 
 with hurrying smooth stretches of some 
 breadth. In all of these various places 
 are rainbow trout. 
 
 There is no use fishing until late 
 afternoon. The clear sun of the high 
 altitudes searches out mercilessly the 
 bottom of the stream, throwing its mini 
 ature boulders, mountains, and valleys 
 as plainly into relief as the buttes of 
 Arizona at noon. Then the trout quite 
 refuse. Here and there, if you walk far 
 enough and climb hard enough over all 
 sorts of obstructions, you may discover 
 a few spots shaded by big trees or rocks 
 where you can pick up a half-dozen fish; 
 but it is slow work. When, however, the 
 shadow of the two huge mountains feels 
 its way across the stream, then, as though 
 a signal had been given, the trout begin 
 to rise. t For an hour and a half there 
 is noble sport indeed. 
 
 1 Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 The stream fairly swarmed with them, 
 but of course some places were better 
 than others. Near the upper reaches 
 the water boiled like seltzer around the 
 base of a tremendous tree. There the 
 pool was at least ten feet deep and shot 
 with bubbles throughout the whole of 
 its depth, but it was full of fish. They 
 rose eagerly to your gyrating fly and 
 took it away with them down to subaque 
 ous chambers and passages among the 
 roots of that tree. After which you 
 broke your leader. Royal Coachman 
 was the best lure, and therefore valu 
 able exceedingly were Royal Coachmen. 
 Whenever we lost one we lifted up our 
 voices in lament, and went away from 
 there, calling to mind that there were 
 other pools, many other pools, free of 
 obstruction and with fish in them. Yet, 
 such is the perversity of fishermen, we 
 were back losing more Royal Coachmen 
 the very next day. In all, I managed 
 to disengage just three rather small trout 
 from that pool, and in return decorated 
 their ancestral halls with festoons of 
 leaders and the brilliance of many flies. 
 
 Now this was foolishness. All you 
 had to do was to walk through a grove 
 
 815 . 
 
; TOWARDS EVENING HE SAUNTERED IN 
 
The Mountains 
 
 817 
 
 of cottonwoods, over a brook, through 
 another grove of pines, down a sloping 
 meadow to where one of the gigantic 
 pine-trees had obligingly spanned the 
 current. You crossed that, traversed 
 another meadow, broke through a thicket, 
 slid down a steep grassy bank, and there 
 you were. A great many years before, 
 a pine-tree had fallen across the current. 
 Now its whitened skeleton lay there, 
 opposing a barrier for about twenty-five 
 feet out into the stream. Most of the 
 water turned aside, of course, and boiled 
 frantically around the end as though 
 trying to catch up with the rest of the 
 stream which had gone on without it, 
 but some of it dived down under and 
 came up on the other side. There, as 
 though bewildered, it paused in an uneasy 
 pool. Its constant action had excavated 
 a very deep hole, the de'bris of which 
 had formed a bar immediately below. 
 You waded out on the bar and cast 
 along the length of the pine skeleton 
 over the pool. 
 
 If you were methodical, you first 
 shortened your line, and began near the 
 bank, gradually working out until you 
 were casting forty-five feet to the very 
 edge of the fast current. I know of 
 nothing pleasanter for you to do. You 
 see, the evening shadow was across the 
 river, and a beautiful grass slope at your 
 back. Over the way was a grove of trees 
 whose birds were very busy because it 
 was near their sunset, while towering 
 over them were mountains, quite peace 
 ful by way of contrast because their sun 
 set was still far distant. The river was 
 in a great hurry, and was talking to itself 
 like a man who has been detained and 
 is now at last making up time to his 
 important engagement. And from the 
 deep black shadow beneath the pine skel 
 eton occasionally flashed white bodies 
 that made concentric circles where they 
 broke the surface of the water, and which 
 fought you to a finish in the glory of 
 battle. The casting was against the cur 
 rent, so your flies could rest but the 
 briefest possible moment on the surface 
 of the stream. That moment was enough. 
 Day after day you could catch your 
 required number from an apparently 
 inexhaustible supply. 
 
 I might inform you further of the 
 
 gorge downstream, where you lie flat on 
 your stomach ten feet above the river, 
 and with one hand cautiously extended 
 over the edge cast accurately into the 
 angle of the cliff. Then when you get 
 your strike, you tow him downstream, 
 clamber precariously to the water's level 
 still playing your fish and there land 
 him if he has accommodatingly stayed 
 hooked. A three-pound fish will make 
 you a lot of tribulation at this game. 
 
 We lived on fish and venison, and 
 had all we wanted. The bear-trails were 
 plenty enough, and the signs were com 
 paratively fresh, but at the time of our 
 visit the animals themselves had gone 
 Over the mountains on some sort of a 
 picnic. Grouse, too, were numerous in 
 the popple thickets, and flushed much 
 like our ruffed grouse of the East. They 
 afforded first-rate wing-shooting for Sure- 
 Pop, the little shot-gun. 
 
 But these things occupied, after all, 
 only a small part of every day. We 
 had loads of time left. Of course we 
 explored the valley up and down. That 
 occupied two days. After that we be 
 came lazy. One always does in a perma 
 nent camp. So did the horses. Active 
 or rather restless interest in life seemed 
 to die away. Neither we nor they had 
 to rustle hard for food. They became 
 fastidious in their choice, and at all 
 times of day could be seen sauntering in 
 Indian file from one part of the meadow 
 to the other for the sole purpose, appar 
 ently, of cropping a half-dozen indifferent 
 mouthfuls. The rest of the time they 
 roosted under trees, one hind leg relaxed, 
 their eyes half closed, their ears wab 
 bling, the pictures of imbecile content. 
 We were very much the same. 
 
 Of course we had our outbursts of 
 virtue. While under their influence we 
 undertook vast works. But after their 
 influence had died out, we found our 
 selves with said vast works on our 
 hands, arid so came to cursing ourselves 
 and our fool spasms of industry. 
 
 For instance, Wes and I decided to 
 make buckskin from the hide of the 
 latest deer. We did not need the buck 
 skin we already had two in the pack. 
 Our ordinary procedure would have 
 been to dry the hide for future treat 
 ment by a Mexican, at a dollar a hide, 
 
818 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 when we should have returned home. 
 But, as I said, we were afflicted by spo 
 radic activity, and wanted to do some 
 thing. 
 
 We began with great ingenuity by 
 constructing a graining-tool out of a 
 table-knife. We bound it with rawhide, 
 and incased it with wood, and wrapped 
 it with cloth, and filed its edge square 
 across, as is proper. After this we hunted 
 out a very smooth, barkless log, laid the 
 hide across it, straddled it, and began 
 graining. 
 
 Graining is a delightful process. You 
 grasp the tool by either end, hold the 
 square edge at a certain angle, and push 
 away from you mightily. A half-dozen 
 pushes will remove a little patch of hair; 
 twice as many more will scrape away 
 half as much of the seal-brown grain, 
 exposing the white of the hide. Then, 
 if you want to, you can stop and estab 
 lish in your mind a definite proportion 
 between the amount thus exposed, the 
 area remaining unexposed, and the mus 
 cular fatigue of these dozen and a 
 half of mighty pushes. The proportion 
 will be wrong. You have left out of 
 account the fact that you are going to 
 get almighty sick of the job ; that your 
 arms and upper back are going to ache 
 shrewdly before you are done ; and that 
 as you go on it is going to be increas 
 ingly difficult to hold down the edges 
 firmly enough to offer the required re 
 sistance to your knife. Besides if you 
 get careless you'll scrape too hard ; 
 hence little holes in the completed buck 
 skin. Also if you get careless you 
 will probably leave the finest, tiniest 
 shreds of grain, and each of them means 
 a hard,, transparent spot in the product. 
 Furthermore, once having started in on 
 the job, you are like the little boy who 
 caught the trolley : you cannot let go. 
 It must be finished immediately, all at 
 one heat, before the hide stiffens. 
 
 Be it understood, your first enthusiasm 
 has evaporated, and you are thinking of 
 fifty pleasant things you might just as 
 well be doing. 
 
 Next you revel in grease lard oil, if 
 you have it; if not, then lard, or the 
 product of boiled brains. This you must 
 'rub into the skin. You rub it in until 
 you suspect that your finger-nails have 
 
 worn away, and you glisten to the elbows 
 until you look like an Eskimo cutting 
 blubber. 
 
 By the merciful arrangement of those 
 who invented buckskin, this entitles you 
 to a rest. You take it for several days 
 until your conscience seizes you by 
 the scruff of the neck. 
 
 Then you transport gingerly that slip 
 pery, clammy, soggy, snaky, cold bundle 
 of greasy horror to the bank of the creek, 
 and there for endless hours you wash it. 
 The grease is more reluctant to enter 
 the stream than you are in the early 
 morning. Your hands turn purple. The 
 others go by on their way to the trout- 
 pools, but you are chained to the stake. 
 
 By and by you straighten your back 
 with creaks, and walk home like a stiff 
 old man, carrying your hide rid of all 
 superfluous oil. Then, if you are just 
 learning how, your instructor examines 
 the result. 
 
 " That's all right," says he, cheerfully. 
 "Now, when it dries, it will be buckskin." 
 
 That encourages you. It need not. 
 For during the process of drying it must 
 be your pastime constantly to pull and 
 stretch at every square inch of that 
 boundless skin in order to loosen all the 
 fibers. Otherwise it would dry as stiff 
 as whalebone. Now, there is nothing on 
 earth that seems to dry slower than 
 buckskin. You wear your fingers down 
 to the first joints, and, wishing to preserve 
 the remainder for future use, you carry 
 the hide to your instructor. 
 
 "Just beginning to dry nicely," says he. 
 
 You go back and do it some more, 
 putting the entire strength of your body, 
 soul, and religious convictions into the 
 stretching of that buckskin. It looks 
 as white as paper, and feels as soft and 
 warm as the turf on a southern slope. 
 Nevertheless your tyrant declares it will 
 not do. 
 
 " It looks dry and it feels dry," says 
 he, "but it isn't dry. Go to it !" 
 
 But at this point your outraged soul 
 arches its back and bucks. You sneak 
 off and roll up that piece of buckskin, 
 and thrust it into the alforja. You know 
 it is dry. Then with a deep sigh of 
 relief you come out of prison into the 
 clear, sane, lazy atmosphere of the camp. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that there 
 
STEEPER THAN STRAIGHT-UP-AND-DOWN 
 
820 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [6 August 
 
 is any one chump enough to do that for 
 a dollar a hide ?" you inquire. 
 
 " Sure," say they. 
 
 " Well, the Fool Killer is certainly 
 behind on his dates," you conclude. 
 
 About a week later one of your com 
 panions drags out of the alforja some 
 thing crumpled that resembles in general 
 appearance and texture a rusted five- 
 gallon coal-oil can that has been in a 
 wreck. It is only imperceptibly less 
 stiff and angular and cast-iron than raw 
 hide. 
 
 " What is this ?" the discoverer in- 
 .quires. 
 
 Then quietly you go out and sit on 
 a high place before recognition brings 
 inevitable and sickening chaff. For 
 you know it at a glance. It is your 
 buckskin. 
 
 Along about the middle of that cen 
 tury an old prospector with four burros 
 descended the Basin Trail and went into 
 camp just below us. Towards evening 
 he sauntered in. 
 
 I sincerely wish I could sketch this 
 man for you just as he came down 
 through the fire-lit trees. He was about 
 six feet tall, very leanly built, with a 
 weather-beaten face of mahogany on 
 which were superimposed a sweeping 
 mustache and beetling eyebrows. These 
 had originally been brown, but the sun 
 had bleached them almost white, in re 
 markable contrast to his complexion. 
 Eyes keen as sunlight twinkled far down 
 beneath the shadows of the brows and 
 a floppy old sombrero hat. The usual 
 flannel shirt, waistcoat, mountain-boots, 
 and six-shooter completed the outfit. 
 He might have been forty, but was prob 
 ably nearer sixty, years of age. 
 
 " Howdy, boys," said he, and dropped 
 to the fireside, Where he promptly an 
 nexed a coal for his pipe. 
 
 We all greeted him, but gradually the 
 talk fell to him and Wes. It was com 
 monplace talk enough from one point of 
 view ; taken in essence it was merely 
 like the inquiry and answer of the civil 
 ized man as to another's itinerary 
 " Did you visit Florence ? Berlin ? St. 
 Petersburg?" and then the comparing 
 of impressions. Only here again that 
 old familiar magic of unfamiliar names 
 
 threw its glamour over the terse sen 
 tences. 
 
 "Over beyond the Piute Monument," 
 the old prospector explained, " down 
 through the Inyo Range, a leetle north 
 of Death Valley" 
 
 " Back in seventy-eight when I was 
 up in Bay Horse Canon over by Lost 
 River" 
 
 "Was you ever over in th' Panamit 
 Mountains ? North of th' Telescope 
 Range ?" 
 
 That was all there was to it, with long 
 pauses for drawing at the pipes. Yet 
 somehow in the aggregate that catalogue 
 of names gradually established in the 
 minds of us two who listened an impres 
 sion of long years, of wide wilderness, 
 of wandering far over the face of the 
 earth. The old man had wintered here, 
 summered a thousand miles away, made 
 his strike at one end of the world, lost 
 it somehow, and cheerfully tried for a 
 repetition of his luck at the other. I do 
 not believe the possibility of wealth, 
 though always of course in the back 
 ground, was ever near enough his hope 
 to be considered a motive for action. 
 Rather was it a dream, remote, some 
 thing to be gained to-morrow, but never 
 to-day, like the mediaeval Christian's 
 idea of heaven. His interest was in 
 the search. For that one could see in 
 him a real enthusiasm. He had his 
 smattering of theory, his very real em 
 pirical knowledge, and his superstitions, 
 like all prospectors. So long as he could 
 keep in grub, own a little train of bur 
 ros, and lead the life he loved, he was 
 happy. 
 
 Perhaps one of the chief elements of 
 this remarkable interest in the game 
 rather than the prizes of it was his 
 desire to vindicate his guesses, or his 
 conclusions. He liked to predict to 
 himself the outcome of his solitary opera 
 tions, and then to prove that prediction 
 through laborious days. His life was a 
 gigantic game of solitaire. In fact, he 
 mentioned a dozen of his claims many 
 years apart which he had developed to 
 a certain point " so I could see what 
 they was " and then abandoned in 
 favor of fresher discoveries. He cher 
 ished the illusion that these were prop 
 erties to whose completion some day he 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 821 
 
 would return. But we knew better ; he 
 had carried them to the point where the 
 result was no longer in doubt, and then, 
 like one who has no interest in playing 
 on in an evidently prescribed order, had 
 laid his cards on the table to begin a 
 new game. 
 
 This man was skilled in his profes 
 sion ; he had pursued it for thirty-odd 
 years ; he was frugal and industrious ; 
 undoubtedly of his long series of dis 
 coveries a fair percentage were valuable 
 and are producing-properties to-day. 
 Yet he confessed his bank balance to be 
 less than five hundred dollars. Why 
 was this ? Simply and solely because 
 he did not care. At heart it was entirely 
 immaterial to him whether he ever owned 
 a dollar above his expenses. When he 
 sold his claims he let them go easily, 
 loth to bother himself with business 
 details, eager to get away from the fuss 
 and nuisance. The few hundred dollars 
 he received he probably sunk in unpro 
 ductive mining work, or was fleeced out 
 of in the towns. Then joyfully he turned 
 back to his beloved mountains and the 
 life of his slow, deep delight and his 
 pecking away before the open doors of 
 fortune. By and by he would build him 
 self a little cabin down in the lower pine 
 mountains, where he would grow a white 
 beard, putter with occult wilderness 
 crafts, and smoke long contemplative 
 hours in the sun before his door. For 
 tourists he would braid rawhide reins 
 and quirts, or make buckskin. The jays 
 and woodpeckers and Douglas squirrels 
 would become fond of him. So he would 
 be gathered to his fathers, a gentle old 
 man whose life had been spent harm 
 lessly in the open. He had had his ideal 
 to which blindly he reached ; he had in 
 his indirect way contributed the fruits 
 of his labor to mankind ; his recompenses 
 he had chosen according to his desires. 
 When you consider these thiags, you 
 perforce have to revise your first notion 
 of him as a useless sort of old ruffian. 
 As you come to know him better, you 
 must love him for the kindliness, the 
 simple honesty, the modesty and charity 
 that he seems to draw from his mountain 
 environment. There are hundreds of 
 him buried in the great canons of the 
 West. 
 
 Our prospector was a little uncertain 
 as to his plans. Along toward autumn 
 he intended to land at some reputed 
 placers near Dinkey Creek. There might 
 be something in that district. He thought 
 he would take a look. In the meantime 
 he was just poking up through the coun 
 try he and his jackasses. Good way 
 to spend the summer. Perhaps he might 
 run across something 'most anywhere ; 
 up near the top of that mountain opposite 
 looked mineralized. Didn't know but 
 what he'd take a look at her to-morrow. 
 
 He camped near us during three days. 
 I never saw a more modest, self-effacing 
 man. He seemed genuinely, childishly, 
 almost helplessly interested in our fly 
 fishing, shooting, our bearskins, and our 
 travels. You would have thought from 
 his demeanor which was sincere and 
 not in the least ironical that he had 
 never seen or heard anything quite like 
 that before, and was struck with wonder 
 at it. Yet he had cast flies before we 
 were born, and shot even earlier than he 
 had cast a fly, and was a very Ishmael 
 for travel. Barely could you get an 
 account of his own experiences, and 
 then only in illustration of something 
 else. 
 
 " If you-all likes bear-hunting," said 
 he, "you ought to get up in eastern 
 Oregon. I summered there once. The 
 only trouble is, the brush is thick as 
 hair. You 'most always have to bait 
 them, or wait for them to come and drink. 
 The brush is so small you ain't got much 
 chance. I run onto a she-bear and cubs 
 that way once. Didn't have nothin' but 
 my six-shooter, and I met her within six 
 foot." 
 
 He stopped with an air of finality. 
 
 " Well, what did you do ?" we asked. 
 
 " Me ?" he inquired, surprised. " Oh, 
 I just leaked out of th' landscape." 
 
 He prospected the mountain opposite, 
 loafed with us a little, and then decided 
 that he must be going. About eight 
 o'clock in the morning he passed us, 
 hazing his burros, his tall, lean figure 
 elastic in defiance of years. 
 
 " So long, boys," he called ; " good 
 luck !" 
 
 " So long," we respond^, heartily. 
 " Be good to yourself." 
 
 He plunged into the river without 
 
THE TOP OF THE SIERRAS 
 
The Mountains 
 
 823 
 
 hesitation, emerged dripping on the other 
 side, and disappeared in the brush. 
 From time to time during the rest of the 
 morning we heard the intermittent tink 
 ling of his bell-animal rising higher and 
 higher above us on the trail. 
 
 In the person of this man we gained 
 our first connection, so to speak, with 
 the Golden Trout. He had caught some 
 of them, and could tell us of their habits. 
 
 Few fishermen west of the Rockies 
 have not heard of the Golden Trout, 
 though equally few have much definite 
 information concerning it. Such infor 
 mation usually runs about as follows : 
 
 It is a medium-size fish of the true 
 trout family, resembling a rainbow except, 
 that it is of a rich golden color. The 
 peculiarity that makes its capture a 
 dream to be dreamed of is that it swims 
 in but one little stream of all the round 
 globe. If you would catch a Golden 
 Trout, you must climb up under the 
 very base of the end of the High Sierras. 
 There is born a stream that flows down 
 from an elevation of about ten thousand 
 feet to about eight thousand before it 
 takes a long plunge into a branch of the 
 Kern River. Over the twenty miles of 
 its course you can cast your fly for 
 Golden Trout; but what is the nature 
 of that stream, that fish, or the method 
 of its capture, few can tell you with any 
 pretense of accuracy. 
 
 To be sure, there are legends. One, 
 particularly striking, claims that the 
 Golden Trout occurs in one other 
 stream situated in Central Asia I and 
 that the fish is therefore a remnant of 
 some pre-glacial period, like Sequoia 
 trees, a sort of granddaddy of all trout, 
 
 as it were. This is but a sample of what 
 you will hear discussed. 
 
 Of course from the very start we had 
 had our eye on the Golden Trout, and 
 intended sooner or later to work our way 
 to his habitat. Our prospector had just 
 come from there. 
 
 " It's about four weeks south, the way 
 you and me travels," said he. " You 
 don't want to try Harrison's Pass; it's 
 chock full of tribulation. Go around by 
 way of the Giant Forest. She's pretty 
 good there, too, some sizable timber. 
 Then over by Redwood Meadows, and 
 Timber Gap, by Mineral King, and over 
 through Farewell Gap. You turn east 
 there, on a new trail. She's steeper 
 than straight-up-an'-down, but shorter 
 than the other. When you get down in 
 the canon of Kern River say, she's a fine 
 canon, too you want to go downstream 
 about two mile to where there's a sort 
 of natural overflowed lake full of stubs 
 stickin' up. You'll get some awful big 
 rainbows in there. Then your best way 
 is to go right up Whitney Creek Trail to a 
 big high meadows mighty nigh to timber- 
 line. That's where I camped. They's 
 lots of them little yaller fish there. Oh, 
 they bite well enough. You'll catch 'em. 
 They's a little shy." 
 
 So in that guise as the desire for 
 new and distant things did our angel 
 with the flaming sword finally come to 
 us. 
 
 We caught reluctant horses reluctantly. 
 All the first day was to be a climb. We 
 knew it ; and I suspect that they knew 
 it too. Then we packed and addressed 
 ourselves to the task offered us by the 
 Basin Trail. 
 
August 
 
 By Sara Andrew Shafer 
 Photograph by L. M. McCormick 
 
 Over the blue sea broods the heat, 
 In faintest pulses the tired tides beat ; 
 Over the sands, with the sun aglow, 
 Silent the cloud-shades come and go ; 
 A white-winged sail on the water gleams 
 Faint and far, like a Ship-o'-Dreams. 
 The year's great Sabbath fills the air 
 And languor and slumber are everywhere. 
 
 Then storm-winds rise : then breakers roar : 
 Then wrecks are tossed on the rocky shore ! 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 897 
 
 unison and with excellent effect a Japan 
 ese song that had been set to the air of 
 " 'Way Down on the Suwanee River." 
 
 At eleven o'clock, when, at last, we 
 bade Admiral Shibiyama good-night, the 
 band played " Auld Lang Syne," and as 
 the American members of our party left 
 the club, the Japanese officers at the 
 door cheered us with a " Hip 1 hip 1 
 hurrah 1" 
 
 In recalling the impressions that the 
 .Kure naval station made upon me, I 
 must give the first place, I think, to a 
 feeling of intense surprise at the results 
 achieved. Here is a people that only 
 fifty or sixty years ago was using medi 
 aeval weapons and sailing the sea in 
 junks. They knew how to paint, enamel, 
 make porcelain, cast small bronzes, inlay 
 in silver and gold, and embroider on 
 silk ; but no one would have credited 
 them with the capacity for doing big 
 things in a big way. When, therefore, 
 one finds them creating great steel plants 
 and gun foundries, making thirteen-inch 
 rifled cannon, building war-ships, con 
 
 structing huge dry docks, employing fif 
 teen thousand skilled workmen in a single 
 establishment, and managing, without 
 foreign assistance, the most complicated 
 and ponderous machinery known to mod 
 ern mechanical art, one's first feeling, 
 naturally, is surprise. 
 
 The next thing that impressed me 
 at Kure was the careful, thorough, pains 
 taking way in which the element of 
 chance in naval warfare has been elim 
 inated, as far as it is possible to elimi 
 nate it, by intelligent forethought and 
 skillful preparation. If I had seen Kure 
 before the outbreak of the present war, 
 I should have had no doubt whatever of 
 Japan's success at sea. In the training 
 of her stokers, her engineers, her sea 
 men, her gunners, and her torpedo crews, 
 in the creation of great plants for the 
 manufacture of ordnance, projectiles, 
 torpedoes, and explosive mines, and in 
 aiming first, last, and all the time at the 
 utmost possible efficiency, in small things 
 as well as in great, she organized suc 
 cess and " prearranged " victory. 
 Sasebo. 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 By Stewart Edward White 
 
 Author of " The Forest," " The Blazed Trail," " The Silent Places," etc. 
 
 XIV. On Camp Cookery 
 
 ONE morning I awoke a little be 
 fore the others, and lay on my 
 back staring up through the 
 trees. It was not my day to cook. We 
 were camped at the time only about 
 sixty-five hundred feet high, and the 
 weather was warm. Every sort of green 
 thing grew very lush all about us, but 
 our own little space was held dry and 
 clear for us by the needles of two enor 
 mous red cedars some four feet in di 
 ameter. A variety of thoughts sifted 
 through my mind as it followed lazily 
 the shimmering filaments of loose spider- 
 web streaming through space. The last 
 thought stuck. It was that that day was 
 a holiday. Theiefore I unlimbered my 
 six-shooter, and turned her loose, each 
 
 i Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 shot being accompanied by a meritorious 
 yell. 
 
 The outfit boiled out of its blankets. 
 I explained the situation, and after they 
 had had some breakfast they agreed with 
 me that a celebration was in order. 
 Unanimously we decided to make it gas 
 tronomic. 
 
 " We will ride till we get to good 
 feed," we concluded, " and then we'll 
 cook all the afternoon. And nobody- 
 must eat anything until the whole busi 
 ness is prepared and served." 
 
 It was agreed. We rode until we 
 were very hungry, which was eleven 
 o'clock. Then we rode some more. 
 By and by we came to a log cabin in a 
 wide fair lawn below a high mountain 
 with a ducal coronet on its top, and 
 
898 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [13 August 
 
 around that cabin was a fence, and in 
 side the fence a man chopping wood. 
 Him we hailed. He came to the fence 
 and grinned at us from the elevation of 
 high-heeled boots. By this token we 
 knew him for a cow-puncher. 
 
 " How are you ?" said we. 
 
 "Howdy, boys," he roared. Roared 
 is the accurate expression. He was not 
 a large man, and his hair was sandy, 
 and his eye mild blue. But undoubt 
 edly his kinsmen were dumb and he had 
 as birthright the voice for the entire 
 family. It had been subsequently devel 
 oped in the shouting after the wild 
 cattle of the hills. Now his ordinary 
 conversational tone was that of the an 
 nouncer at a circus. But his heart was 
 good. 
 
 " Can we camp here ?" we inquired. 
 
 "Sure thing," he bellowed. "Turn 
 your horses into the meadow. Camp 
 right here." 
 
 But with the vision of a rounded 
 wooded knoll a few hundred yards dis 
 tant we said we'd just get out of his way 
 a little. We crossed a creek, mounted 
 an easy slope to the top of the knoll, 
 and were delighted to observe just below 
 its summit the peculiar fresh green 
 hump which indicates a spring. The 
 Tenderfoot, however, knew nothing of 
 springs, for shortly he trudged a weary 
 way back to the creek, and so returned 
 bearing kettles of water. This per 
 formance hugely astonished the cowboy, 
 who subsequently wanted to know if a 
 " critter had died in the spring." 
 
 Wes departed to borrow a big Dutch 
 oven of the man and to invite him to 
 come across when we raised the long 
 yell. Then we began operations. 
 
 Now camp cooks are of two sorts. 
 Anybody can with a little practice fry 
 bacon, steak, or flapjacks, and boil 
 coffee. The reduction of the raw ma 
 terial to its most obvious cooked result 
 is within the reach of all but the most 
 hopeless tenderfoot who never knows 
 the salt-sack from the sugar-sack. But 
 your true artist at the business is he who 
 can from six ingredients, by permuta 
 tion, combination, and the genius that is 
 in him, turn out a full score of dishes. 
 For simple example : 
 
 Given, rice, oatmeal, and raisins. 
 
 Your expert accomplishes the follow 
 ing: 
 
 Item Boiled rice. 
 
 Item Boiled oatmeal. 
 
 Item Rice boiled until soft, then 
 stiffened by the addition of quarter as 
 much oatmeal. 
 
 Item Oatmeal in which is boiled al 
 most to the dissolving point a third as 
 much rice. 
 
 These latter two dishes taste entirely 
 unlike each other or their separate in 
 gredients. They are moreover great in 
 nutrition. 
 
 Item Boiled rice and raisins. 
 
 Item Dish number three with raisins. 
 
 Item Rice boiled with raisins, sugar 
 sprinkled on top, then baked. 
 
 Item Ditto with dish number three. 
 
 All these are good and different. 
 
 Some people like to cook and have a 
 natural knack for it. Others hate it. If 
 you are one of the former, select a propi 
 tious moment to suggest that you will 
 cook, if the rest will wash the dishes and 
 supply the wood and water. Thus you 
 will get first crack at the fire in the chill 
 of morning ; and at night you can squat 
 on your heels doing light labor while the 
 others rustle. 
 
 In a mountain trip small stout bags 
 for the provisions are necessary. They 
 should be big enough to contain, say, 
 five pounds of corn-meal, and should tie 
 firmly at the top. It will be absolutely 
 labor lost for you to mark them on the 
 outside, as the outside soon will become 
 uniform in color with your marking. 
 Tags might do, if occasionally renewed. 
 But if you have the instinct, you will soon 
 come to recognize the appearance of the 
 different bags as you recognize the fea 
 tures of your family. They should con 
 tain small quantities for immediate use 
 of the provisions the main stock of which 
 is carried on another pack-animal. One 
 tin plate apiece and " one to grow on ;" 
 the same of tin cups ; half a dozen 
 spoons ; four knives and forks ; a big 
 spoon ; two frying-pans ; a broiler ; a 
 coffee-pot ; a Dutch oven ; and three 
 light sheet-iron pails to nest in one 
 another, was what we carried on this 
 trip. You see, we had horses. Of 
 course in the woods that outfit would be 
 materially reduced. 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 899 
 
 For the same reason, since we had our 
 carrying done for us, we took along two 
 flat iron bars about twenty-four inches 
 in length. These, laid across two stones 
 between which the fire had been built, 
 we used to support our cooking utensils 
 stove-wise. I should never carry a stove. 
 This arrangement is quite as effective, 
 and possesses the added advantage that 
 wood does not have to be cut for it of 
 any definite length. Again, in the woods 
 these iron bars would be a senseless 
 burden. But early you will learn that 
 while it is foolish to carry a single ounce 
 more than will pay in comfort or con 
 venience for its own transportation, it is 
 equally foolish to refuse the comforts or 
 conveniences that modified circum 
 stance will permit you. To carry only 
 a forest equipment with pack-animals 
 would be as silly as to carry only a pack- 
 animal outfit on a Pullman car. Only 
 look out that you do not reverse it. 
 
 Even if you do not intend to wash 
 dishes, bring along some washing pow 
 der. It is much simpler in getting at 
 odd corners of obstinate kettles than any 
 soap. All you have to do is to boil some 
 of it in that kettle, and the utensil is 
 tamed at once. 
 
 That's about all you, as expert cook, 
 are going to need in the way of equip 
 ment. Now as to your fire. 
 
 There are a number of ways of build 
 ing a cooking fire, but they share one 
 first requisite: it should be small. A 
 blaze will burn everything, including 
 your hands and your temper. Two logs 
 laid side by side and slanted towards 
 each other so that small things can go 
 on the narrow end and big things on the 
 wide end ; flat rocks arranged in the 
 same manner ; a narrow trench in which 
 the fire is built; and the flat irons just 
 described these are the best-known 
 methods. Use dry wood. Arrange to 
 do your boiling first in the flame ; and 
 your frying and broiling last after the 
 flames have died to coals. 
 
 So much in general. You must re 
 member that open-air cooking is in many 
 things quite different from indoor cook 
 ing. You have different utensils, are 
 exposed to varying temperatures, are 
 limited in resources, and pursued by a 
 necessity of haste. Preconceived notions 
 
 must go by the board. You are after 
 results ; and if you get them, do not 
 mind the feminines of your household 
 lifting the hands of horror over the un 
 orthodox means. Mighty few women I 
 have ever seen were good camp-fire 
 cooks ; not because camp-fire cookery is 
 especially difficult, but because they are 
 temperamentally incapable of ridding 
 themselves of the notion that certain 
 things should be done in a certain way, 
 and because if an ingredient lacks, they 
 cannot bring themselves to substitute 
 an approximation. They would rather 
 abandon the dish than do violence to 
 the sacred art. 
 
 Most camp-cookery advice is quite 
 useless for the same reason. I have 
 seen many a recipe begin with the words : 
 " Take the yolks of four eggs, half a 
 cup of butter, and a cup of fresh milk " 
 As if any one really camping in the 
 wilderness ever had eggs, butter, and 
 milk! 
 
 Now here is something I cooked for 
 this particular celebration. Every woman 
 to whom I have ever described it has 
 informed me vehemently that it is not 
 cake, and must be " horrid." Perhaps 
 it is not cake, but it looks yellow and 
 light, and tastes like cake. 
 
 First I took two cups of flour, and a 
 half cup of corn-meal to make it look 
 yellow. In this I mixed a lot of baking- 
 powder about twice what one should 
 use for bread and topped off with a 
 cup of sugar. The whole I mixed with 
 water into a light dough. Into the 
 dough went raisins that had previously 
 been boiled to swell them up. Thus 
 was the cake mixed. Now I poured 
 half the dough into the Dutch oven, 
 sprinkled it with a good layer of sugar, 
 cinnamon, and unboiled raisins ; poured 
 in the rest of the dough ; repeated the 
 layer of sugar, cinnamon, and raisins; 
 and baked in the Dutch* oven. It was 
 gorgeous, and we ate it at one fell 
 swoop. 
 
 While we are about it, we may as 
 well work backwards on this particular 
 orgy by describing the rest of our des 
 sert. In addition to the cake and some 
 stewed apricots, I, as cook of the day, 
 constructed also a pudding. 
 
 The basis was flour two cups of it. 
 
900 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [13 August 
 
 Into this I dumped a handful of raisins, 
 a tablespoonf ul of baking-powder, two of 
 sugar, and about a pound of fat salt pork 
 cutinto little cubes. This I mixed up into 
 a mess by means of a cup or so of water 
 and a quantity of larrnpy-dope. 1 Then 
 I dipped a flour-sack in hot water, wrung 
 it out, sprinkled it with dry flour, and 
 half filled it with my pudding mixture. 
 The whole outfit I boiled for two hours 
 in a kettle. It, too, was good to the 
 palate, and was even better sliced and 
 fried the following morning. 
 
 This brings us to the suspension of 
 kettles. There are two ways. If you 
 are in a hurry, cut a springy pole, 
 sharpen one end, and stick it perpendic 
 ular in the ground. Bend it down to 
 wards your fire. Hang your kettle on 
 the end of it. If you have jabbed it far 
 enough into the ground in the first place, 
 it will balance nicely by its own spring 
 and the elasticity of the turf. The other 
 method is to plant two forked sticks on 
 either side your fire over which a strong 
 cross-piece is laid. The kettles are 
 hung on hooks cut from forked branches. 
 The forked branches are attached to 
 the cross-piece by means of thongs or 
 withes. 
 
 On this occasion we had deer, grouse, 
 and ducks in the larder. The best way 
 to treat them is as follows. You may 
 be sure we adopted the best way. 
 
 When your deer is fresh, you will en 
 joy greatly a dish of liver and bacon. 
 Only the liver you will discover to be a 
 great deal tenderer and more delicate 
 than any calf's liver you ever ate. There 
 is this difference : a deer's liver should 
 be parboiled in order to get rid of a 
 green bitter scum that will rise to the 
 surface and which you must skim off. 
 
 Next in order is the " back strap " and 
 tenderloin, which is always tender, even 
 when fresh. The hams should be kept 
 at least five days. Deer-steak, to my 
 notion, is best broiled, though occasion 
 ally it is pleasant, by way of variety, to 
 fry it. In that case a brown gravy is 
 made by thoroughly heating flour in the 
 grease, and then stirring in water. Deer- 
 steak threaded on switches and " barbe 
 cued " over the coals is delicious. The 
 outside will be a little blackened, but all 
 
 1 Camp-lingo for any kind of syrup. 
 
 the juices will be retained. To enjoy 
 this to the utmost, you should take it in 
 your fingers and gnaw. The only per 
 missible implement is your hunting- 
 knife. Do not forget to peel and char 
 slightly the switches on which you thread 
 the meat; otherwise they will impart 
 their fresh-wood taste. 
 
 By this time the ribs are in condition. 
 Cut little slits between them, and through 
 the slits thread in and out long strips of 
 bacon. Cut other little gashes, and fill 
 these gashes with onions chopped very 
 fine. Suspend the ribs across two 
 stones, between which you have allowed 
 a fire to die down to coals. 
 
 There remain now the hams, shoulders, 
 and heart. The two former furnish 
 steaks. The latter you will make into a 
 "bouillon." Here inserts itself quite 
 naturally the philosophy of boiling meat. 
 It may be stated in a paragraph. 
 
 If you want boiled meat, put it in hot 
 water. That sets the juices. If you 
 want soup, put it in cold water and 
 bring to a boil. That sets free the 
 juices. Remember this. 
 
 Now you start your bouillon cold. 
 Into a kettle of water put your deer 
 hearts, or your fish, a chunk of pork, 
 and some salt. Bring to a boil. Next 
 drop in quartered potatoes, several small 
 whole onions, a half cupful of rice, a can 
 of tomatoes if you have any. Boil 
 slowly for an hour or so until things 
 pierce easily under the fork. Add sev 
 eral chunks of bread and a little flour 
 for thickening. Boil down to about a 
 chowder consistency, and serve hot. It 
 is all you will need for that meal ; and 
 you will eat of it until there is no more. 
 
 I am supposing throughout that you 
 know enough to use salt and pepper 
 when needed. 
 
 -So much for your deer. The grouse 
 you can split and fry ; in which case the 
 brown gravy described for the fried 
 deer-steak is just the thing. Or you can 
 boil him. If you do that, put him into 
 hot water, boil slowly, skim frequently, 
 and add dumplings mixed of flour, bak 
 ing-powder, and a little la'rd. Or you 
 can roast him in your Dutch oven with 
 your ducks. 
 
 Perhaps it might be well here to ex 
 plain the Dutch oven. It is a heavy 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 901 
 
 iron kettle with little legs and an iron 
 cover. The theory of it is that coals go 
 among the little legs and on top of the 
 iron cover. This heats the inside, and 
 so cooking results. That, you will ob 
 serve, is the theory. 
 
 In practice you will have to remember 
 a good many things. In the first place, 
 while other affairs are preparing, lay the 
 cover on the fire to heat it through ; but 
 not on too hot a place nor too long, lest 
 it warp and so fit loosely. Also the oven 
 itself is to be heated through, and well 
 greased. Your first baking will undoubt 
 edly be burned on the bottom. It is 
 almost impossible without many trials to 
 understand just how little heat suffices 
 underneath. Sometimes it seems that 
 the warmed earth where the fire has 
 been is enough. And on top you do not 
 want a bonfire. A nice even heat, and 
 patience, are the proper ingredients. 
 Nor drop into the error of letting your 
 bread chill, and so fall to unpalatable 
 heaviness. Probably for some time you 
 will alternate between the extremes of 
 heavy crusts with doughy insides, and 
 white, weighty boiler-plate, with no dis 
 tinguishable crusts at all. Above all, do 
 not lift the lid too often for the sake of 
 taking a look. Have faith. 
 
 There are other ways of baking bread. 
 In the North Country forests, where you 
 carry everything on your back, you will 
 do it in the frying-pan. The mixture 
 should be a rather thick batter or a 
 rather thin dough. It is turned into the 
 frying-pan and baked first on one side, 
 then on the other, the pan being propped 
 on edge facing the fire. The whole 
 secret of success is, first to set your pan 
 horizontal and about three feet from the 
 fire, in order that the mixture may be 
 thoroughly warmed not heated before 
 the pan is propped on edge. Still another 
 way of baking is in a reflector oven of 
 tin. This is highly satisfactory, pro 
 vided the oven is built on the scientific 
 angles to throw the heat evenly on all 
 parts of the bread-pan, and equally on 
 top and bottom. It is not so easy as 
 you might imagine to get a good one 
 made. These reflectors are all right for 
 a permanent camp, but too fragile for 
 transportation on pack-animals. 
 
 As for bread, try it unleavened once 
 
 in a while by way of change. It is really 
 very good just salt, water, flour, and a 
 very little sugar. For those who like 
 their bread " all crust" it is especially 
 toothsome. The usual camp bread that 
 I have found the most successful has 
 been in the proportion of two cups of 
 flour to a teaspoonful of salt, one of 
 sugar, and three of baking-powder. 
 Sugar or cinnamon sprinkled on top is 
 sometimes pleasant. Test by thrusting 
 a splinter into the loaf. If dough ad 
 heres to the wood, the bread is not done. 
 Biscuits are made by using twice as 
 much baking-powder and about two table- 
 spoonfuls of lard for shortening. They 
 bake much more quickly than the bread. 
 Johnny-cake you mix of corn-meal three 
 cups, flour one cup, sugar four spoonfuls, 
 salt one spoonful, baking-powder four 
 spoonfuls, and lard twice as much as for 
 biscuits. It also is good, very good. 
 
 The flapjack is first cousin to bread, 
 very palatable, and extremely indigesti 
 ble when made of flour, as is ordinarily 
 done. However, the self-raising buck 
 wheat flour makes an excellent flapjack, 
 which is likewise good for your insides. 
 The batter is rather thin, is poured into 
 the piping hot greased pan, " flipped " 
 when brown on one side, and eaten 
 with larrupy-dope or brown gravy. 
 
 When you come to consider potatoes 
 and beans and onions and such matters, 
 remember one thing : that in the higher 
 altitudes water boils at a low tempera 
 ture, and that therefore you must not 
 expect your boiled food to cook very 
 rapidly. In fact, you'd better leave 
 beans at home. We did. Potatoes you 
 can sometimes tease along by quarter 
 ing them. 
 
 Rolled oats are better that oatmeal. 
 Put them in plenty of water and boil 
 down to the desired consistency. In 
 lack of cream you will probably want it 
 rather soft. 
 
 Put your coffee into cold water, bring 
 to a boil, let boil for about two minutes, 
 and immediately set off. Settle by let 
 ting a half cup of cold water flow slowly 
 into the pot from the height of a foot or 
 so. If your utensils are clean, you will 
 surely have good coffee by this simple 
 method. Of course you will never boil 
 your tea, 
 
902 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [13 August 
 
 The sun was nearly down when we 
 raised our long yell. The cow-puncher 
 promptly responded. We ate. Then 
 we smoked. Then we basely left all 
 our dishes until the morrow, and followed 
 our cow-puncher to his log cabin, where 
 we were to spend the evening. 
 
 By now it was dark, and a bitter cold 
 swooped down from the mountains. We 
 built a fire in a huge stone fireplace and 
 sat around in the flickering light telling 
 
 ghost stories to one another. The place 
 was rudely furnished, with only a hard 
 earthen floor, and chairs hewn by the 
 ax. Rifles, spurs, bits, revolvers, brand 
 ing-irons in turn caught the light and 
 vanished in the shadow. The skin of a 
 bear looked at us from hollow eye- 
 sockets in which there were no eyes. 
 We talked of the Long Trail. Outside 
 the wind, rising, howled through the 
 shakes of the roof. 
 
 XV On the Wind at Night 
 
 The winds were indeed abroad that 
 night. They rattled our cabin, they 
 shrieked in our eaves, they puffed down 
 our chimney, scattering the ashes and 
 leaving in the room a balloon of smoke 
 as though a shell had burst. When we 
 opened the door and stepped out, after 
 our good-nights had been said, it caught 
 at our hats and garments as though it 
 had been lying in wait for us. 
 
 To our eyes, fire-dazzled, the night 
 seemed yery dark. There would be a 
 moon later, but at present even the stars 
 seemed only so many pinpoints of dull 
 metal, lusterless, without illumination. 
 We felt our way to camp, conscious of 
 the softness of grasses, the uncertainty 
 of stones. 
 
 At camp the remains of the fire 
 crouched beneath the rating of the 
 storm. Its embers glowed sullen and 
 red, alternately glaring with a half- 
 formed resolution to rebel, and dying to 
 a sulky resignation. Once a feeble flame 
 sprang up for an instant, but was imme 
 diately pounced on and beaten flat as 
 though by a vigilant antagonist. 
 
 We, stumbling, gathered again our 
 tumbled blankets. Across the brow of 
 the knoll lay a huge pine trunk. In its 
 shelter we respread our bedding, and 
 there, standing, dressed for the night. 
 The power of the wind tugged at our 
 loose garments, hoping for spoil. A 
 towel, shaken by accident from the in 
 terior of a sweater, departed white- 
 winged, like a bird, into the outer black 
 ness. We found it next day caught in 
 the bushes several hundred yards dis 
 tant. Our voices as we shouted were 
 snatched from our lips and hurled lav 
 ishly into space. The very breath of 
 
 our bodies seemed driven back, so that 
 as we faced the elements, we breathed in 
 gasps, with difficulty. 
 
 Then we dropped down into our 
 blankets. 
 
 At once the prostrate tree-trunk gave 
 us its protection. We lay in a little 
 back-wash of the racing winds, still as a 
 night in June. Over us roared the 
 battle. We felt like sharpshooters in 
 the trenches; as though, were we to 
 raise our heads, at that instant we should 
 enter a zone of danger. So we lay 
 quietly on our backs and stared at the 
 heavens. 
 
 The first impression thence given was 
 of stars sailing serene and unaffected, 
 remote from the turbulence of what un 
 til this instant had seemed to fill the uni 
 verse. They were as always, just as we 
 should see them when the evening was 
 warm and the tree-toads chirped clearly 
 audible at half a mile. The importance 
 of the tempest shrank. Then below 
 them next we noticed the mountains ; 
 they too were serene and calm. 
 
 Immediately it was as though the 
 storm were an hallucination ; something 
 not objective ; something real, but within 
 the soul of him who looked upon it. It 
 claimed sudden kinship with those black 
 est days when nevertheless the sun, the 
 mere external unimportant sun, shines 
 with superlative brilliancy. Emotions of 
 a power to shake the foundations of life 
 seemed vaguely to stir in answer to these 
 their hollow symbols. For, after all, we 
 were contented at heart and tranquil in 
 mind, and this was but the outer gor 
 geous show of an intense emotional ex 
 perience we did not at the moment 
 prove. Our nerves responded to it au- 
 
1904] 
 
 The Story of a Bygone Civilization 
 
 903 
 
 tomatically. We became excited, keyed 
 to a high tension, and so lay rigid on 
 our backs, as though fighting out the 
 battles of our souls. 
 
 It was all so unreal and yet so plain 
 to our senses that perforce automatically 
 our experience had to conclude it psy 
 chical. We were in air absolutely still. 
 Yet above us the trees writhed and 
 twisted and turned and bent and struck 
 back, evidently in the power of a mighty 
 force. Across the calm heavens the 
 murk of flying atmosphere I have al 
 ways maintained that if you looked 
 closely enough you could see the wind 
 the dim, hardly-made-out, fine debris 
 fleeing high in the air these faintly 
 hinted at intense movement rushing 
 down through space. A roar of sound 
 filled the hollow of the sky. Occasion 
 ally it intermitted, falling abruptly in 
 volume like the mysterious rare hushings 
 of a rapid stream. Then the familiar 
 noises of a summer night became audi 
 
 ble for the briefest instant a horse 
 sneezed, an owl hooted, the wild call of 
 birds came down the wind. And with a 
 howl the legions of good and evil took 
 up their warring. It was too real, and 
 yet it was not reconcilable with the calm 
 of our resting-places. 
 
 For hours we lay thus in all the in 
 tensity of an inner storm and stress, 
 which it seemed could not fail to develop 
 us, to mold us, to age us, to leave on 
 us its scars, to bequeath us its peace or 
 remorse or despair, as would some great 
 mysterious dark experience direct from 
 the sources of life. And then abruptly 
 we were exhausted, as we should have 
 been by too great emotion. We fell 
 asleep. 
 
 The morning dawned still and clear, 
 and garnished and set in order as though 
 such things had never been. Only our 
 white towel fluttered like a flag of truce 
 in the direction the mighty elements had 
 departed. 
 
 The Story of a Bygone Civilization 1 
 
 HIGHLY controversial in tone 
 and abounding in passages that 
 betray a lack of the judicial 
 temperament of the born historian, the 
 value of this exhaustive study of Moham 
 medan rule and civilization in Europe is, 
 nevertheless, of a high quality. It de 
 mands, nay challenges, searching scrutiny 
 not alone by historians, but by students of 
 religion, sociology, ethnology, literature, 
 art, and science. One can readily appre 
 ciate the significance of the author's 
 statement that he has devoted over 
 twenty years to its preparation. From 
 hundreds of authorities, English, French, 
 German, Danish, Swedish, Spanish, Por 
 tuguese, Italian, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, 
 and Arabic, ancient, mediaeval, and mod 
 ern, he has drawn a wondrous variety 
 of information relating not only to the 
 Moors, but to the contemporary peoples of 
 Europe, and has woven this into a nar 
 rative that is a monument of erudition, 
 pictoriality, and dynamic force, not a 
 
 1 The History of the Moorish Empire in Europe. 
 By Samuel Parsons Scott. The J. B. Lippincott Com 
 pany, Philadelphia. 
 
 page of which, however offensive the 
 treatment may be to the reader's relig 
 ious sentiments, can be called uninter 
 esting. Indeed, it is not too much to 
 say that few readers, if any, will not 
 regret, when they have finished the two 
 thousand odd pages, that the author has 
 not given them more this, too, despite a 
 curious repetition, a habit of constantly 
 reiterating points in order to drive them 
 home. 
 
 Mr. Scott's point of view and the pur 
 pose for which he devoted himself to so 
 many years of laborious research may 
 readily be shown by a brief quotation. 
 " The almost universal disbelief in 
 Moorish civilization," he remarks, after 
 a lengthy discussion of the achievements 
 of the Spanish Arabs ir all spheres of 
 human activity, " is hardly less remark 
 able than its creation and progress. Sec 
 tarian prejudice, ignorance of Arabic, 
 and a fixed determination to acknowl 
 edge ro obligation to infidels have con 
 curred to establish and confirm the 
 popular opinion. To this end the 
 Church has always lent its powerful, 
 
904 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [13 August 
 
 often omnipotent, aid. Yet in spite of 
 systematic suppression of facts and long- 
 continued misrepresentations, it cannot 
 now be denied that no race effected so 
 much for all that concerns the practical 
 welfare of mankind as the Spanish Mo 
 hammedans ; that no race of kings has 
 deserved so large a measure of fame as 
 that which traces its lineage to Abd-al- 
 Rahman I." After this nothing in the 
 way of extravagant praise need surprise 
 the reader. In his enthusiasm the 
 author attributes to the Moors the 
 stimulus to the Reformation of Luther 
 and the revival of learning in Europe. 
 " It is both popular and fashionable," 
 he observes, " to ascribe to the influence 
 of the Crusades the awakening of the 
 spirit of progress which ultimately led 
 to the revival of letters and the political 
 and social regeneration of Europe. But 
 the Crusades were only, in an indirect 
 and secondary manner, a factor of civil 
 ization. On the other hand, their ten 
 dency was signally destructive. Their 
 track has been compared to that left by 
 a swarm of locusts. . . . The results 
 produced upon Europe by these expedi 
 tions, instead of being humanizing, were 
 most disastrous." The Crusaders are 
 by no means the only objects of his 
 wrath. He draws pictures, the reverse 
 of pleasant, of great leaders in the long 
 struggle of Christendom against the 
 Saracen, and, curious inconsistency, in 
 his effort to painf in most lurid hues the 
 sloughlike condition of the mediaeval 
 Church and civilization of Europe falls 
 back upon the " monkish annalists," 
 whose exaggerations, superstition, and 
 credulity he denounces in no uncertain 
 terms when their writings reflect upon 
 the peoples he would here rehabilitate. 
 Frankly he admits that he writes from 
 the Saracen standpoint. In the course 
 of his study of the momentous battle of 
 Covadongo he remarks : " In this, as in 
 all other instances where the statements 
 of the Arab and Christian writers of 
 that age conflict, the preference should 
 be given to the assertions of the former." 
 Despite this uncompromising and regret 
 table bias, his work, we repeat, is of 
 great value, if only for the manner in 
 which he has assembled the salient facts 
 connected with the rise, decline, and 
 
 fall of Mohammedan power in Spain 
 but one phase, after all, of his far-reach 
 ing survey. 
 
 It is out of the question to attempt 
 more than a brief outline of the scope 
 of the work ; to discuss it with any de 
 gree of adequacy would require many 
 pages of The Outlook. Mr. Scott opens 
 with an exploration of Arab character 
 istics, customs, and manners, tracing the 
 . career of Mohammed, the rise of the 
 religion founded by him, and the exten 
 sion of the Mohammedan empire west 
 ward. Here he reveals to us all the 
 romance of the wars with the Berbers, 
 upon which people he foists, and un 
 doubtedly correctly, a large share of the 
 blame for the disintegration of Moorish 
 power in Spain. An earnest student of 
 the philosophy of history, it must be 
 accounted surprising that with all his 
 diligent research he overlooks, or rather 
 condones, the factor that was above all 
 responsible for the swift decline of the 
 empire the factor of Saracen lust. The 
 conquests of the Arabs, he complacently 
 observes, " were secured and their gov 
 ernment made permanent by that pecu 
 liar provision of their civil polity which, 
 appealing to the strongest of human pas 
 sions and sanctioned by the injunctions 
 of their prophet, permitted the appro 
 priation of the women of vanquished 
 nations." A civilization rooted in the 
 polygamy and rapine that he can view 
 with equanimity can never hope to be 
 an enduring civilization. Throughout 
 his study of the emirates, the caliphates, 
 the oligarchies, and the African usurpa 
 tions that follow one another in dazzling 
 succession, lust stalks hand in hand 
 with treachery, and the marvel is not 
 that the Moorish empire fell, but that 
 it was of such duration. Granted that 
 a remarkable degree of civilization was 
 attained by these whilom savage tribes 
 of the desert; granted that they be 
 queathed to posterity legacies of no un 
 certain value, Mr. Scott must for his 
 part admit that their touch was in many 
 respects a blight. His indictment of 
 his pet aversion, the Spaniard, as re 
 sponsible for the present decadence of 
 the Peninsula, is sustained by facts ; but 
 it is well to remember that the Spaniard, 
 in the period of national character-build- 
 
1904] 
 
 Man's Place in the Universe 
 
 937 
 
 Tail's "The Unseen Universe " whose 
 conception of it is that " it has developed 
 by an intelligence resident in the unseen, 
 and by scientific analogy returns to the 
 spirituality of the unseen." In this 
 pregnant sentence matter is regarded as 
 an incident between the creation of man 
 and his final destiny, while first and last 
 he is himself spiritual and returns 
 whence he came. 
 
 We are surprised on the last page of 
 Mr. Wallace's book to find an admission 
 that qualifies the tenor of the entire vol 
 ume. He says : " Of course there may 
 be, and probably are, other universes, 
 perhaps of other kinds of matter and 
 subject to other laws, perhaps more like 
 our conception of the ether, perhaps 
 wholly non-material, and what we can 
 only conceive of as spiritual." This is 
 the very thing we have demanded in 
 our long imprisonment in matter in the 
 previous pages every sentence a knell 
 of despair. Were there not so much 
 well-stated science, we should be tempted 
 to say that it nullifies all that has gone 
 before. Another kind of universe, 
 " wholly non-material " to this we must 
 go if we would know anything of our 
 origin and destiny, or of human life be- 
 tween ; for it is the spiritual that makes 
 us human. It is here also that we can 
 get any light both on immortality and 
 possible life in, other worlds. The two 
 problems run together, but both hinge 
 on life that is non-material that is, on 
 the reality of the Spirit as creative 
 Will. The Spirit brooded on the waters 
 and begot the world ; it overshadowed 
 humanity, and man was the son of 
 God. 
 
 The Spirit is a mystery, but matter, if 
 taken alone, is inexplicable. Tennyson 
 makes an accurate distinction in his 
 most used and perhaps farthest-reaching 
 poem " Flower in the crannied wall " 
 because it contains his greatest thought, 
 which we take to be that there is a rela 
 tion between the slightest thing in crea 
 tion and the infinite Creator ; and if that 
 is known, all is known. A universe that 
 is only a mystery, however beautiful or 
 awful, can teach us nothing as Job 
 confessed; but the equally mysterious 
 flower in the wall, and the still more 
 mysterious being man can add light 
 
 to mystery, and even outshine the stars. 
 For in man, whether his origin be in 
 protoplasm or divine fiat, more volume 
 of truth, more complexity of law, more 
 singleness of purpose, are to be found 
 than in the whole universe so far as we 
 can get at it. A handful of earth from 
 an ant-hill can tell us more of creative 
 power and purpose than the entire solar 
 system. More than this we may go 
 beyond the flower in the wall, and with 
 out an if say that in knowing man one 
 may know God and well-nigh the secret 
 of the whole machine all worlds and 
 all beings taken together. 
 
 It is a vain and useless undertaking 
 save for specific scientific purposes 
 to explore the sidereal universe to ascer 
 tain if it is habitable by man, and 
 finding that it is not end the search 
 with a bare negation. But when man is 
 sounded to the depths of his being, and 
 his history in the aeons that have pro 
 duced him is known, and the signs that 
 he is keyed to some purpose outside of 
 matter, and that he is himself conscious 
 of a Being who made him when all this 
 is known, we are in a way to find out if 
 it is possible or probable that he can live 
 in other worlds, or live at all after death. 
 For man is the key to this world ; noth 
 ing has meaning until he appears, when 
 all things are vested with reason why 
 they are and what they are for. There 
 is but one explanation of him. Ideal 
 man carries with him our only concep 
 tion of the Creator. The son of God 
 becomes a natural phrase. Humanity 
 easily turns to the Father in terms of 
 oneness. Life's problems are solved, 
 and the laws of the Father fit easily upon 
 every son of man. If we go on to specu 
 late and ask why man came to be, and 
 why such a rapture of joy springs up 
 when the ideal man appears, our last 
 thought is that the inner power of his 
 creation is God himself. Creation be 
 comes a spiritual process, and matter is 
 the stuff used. Thus we see the rhythmic 
 play of his being perhaps an eternal 
 process the swing away from himself 
 in remotest matter and return to himself 
 in his own image. 
 
 In such thoughts justified by more 
 than guesses, and by Scripture if read 
 aright we find the springs of love and 
 
938 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [20 August 
 
 adoration and hope. Besides this, the 
 keenest joy a true man can feel is to 
 know his place in creation and find that 
 he is embosomed in God and is one with 
 him. 
 
 These thoughts have close relation to 
 the question as to man's place in the 
 universe discussed by Mr. Wallace in 
 terms of physical science, but without 
 finding a sign of him except in this 
 already well-known part of it. He 
 looked in the wrong place among the 
 stars; it was too far off. The earth 
 under our feet and the soul of man con 
 tain the secret of human destiny, if it is 
 to be found anywhere. And it is so 
 clear that it almost forces belief that a 
 process so explanatory of life in this 
 
 world, and laying such hold on the 
 Creator of the universe, must be re 
 peated infinitely perhaps in countless 
 worlds where the same conditions exist 
 as here. It is to-da)^ generally believed 
 that evolution is a universal law ; it is 
 the play of the universe. Therefore it 
 is probable that if creation is a divine 
 process in God himself, it is a universal 
 process. It is better to think on such a 
 question in harmony with the profound- 
 est and most sacred laws we know, and 
 in positive rather than in negative ways. 
 Henee it may be true, as Tennyson says : 
 
 " Many a planet by many a sun 
 May roll with the dust of a vanished race." 
 
 And if with a dead race, why not with a 
 living one ? 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 By Stewart Edward White 
 
 Author of "The Forest," " The Blazed Trail," " The Silent Places," etc. 
 
 XVI The Valley 
 
 ONCE upon a time I happened to 
 be staying in a hotel room which 
 had originally been part of a 
 suite, but which was then cut off from 
 the others by only a thin door through 
 which sounds carried clearly. It was 
 about eleven o'clock in the evening. 
 The occupants of that next room came 
 home. I heard the door open and 
 close. Then the bed shrieked aloud as 
 somebody fell heavily upon it. There 
 breathed across the silence a deep, rest 
 ful sigh. 
 
 " Mary," said a man's voice, " I'm 
 mighty sorry I didn't join that Asso 
 ciation for Artificial Vacations. They 
 guarantee to get you just as tired and 
 just as mad in two days as you could by 
 yourself in two weeks." 
 
 We thought of that one morning as 
 we descended the Glacier Point Trail in 
 Yosemite. 
 
 The contrast we need not have made 
 so sharp. We might have taken the 
 regular wagon-road by way of Chinqua 
 pin, but we preferred to stick to the 
 trail, and so encountered our first sign 
 of civilization within a hundred yards 
 
 Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 of the brink. It, the sign, was tourists. 
 They were male and female, as the Lord 
 had made them, but they had improved 
 on that idea since. The women were 
 freckled, hatted with alpines, in which 
 edelweiss artificial. I think flowered 
 in abundance ; they sported severely 
 plain flannel shirts, bloomers of an 
 aggressive and unnecessary cut, and 
 enormous square boots weighing pounds. 
 The men had on hats just off the sun- 
 bonnet effect, pleated Norfolk jackets, 
 bloomers ditto ditto to the women, stock 
 ings whose tops rolled over innumerable 
 times to help out the size of that which 
 they should have contained, and also 
 enormous square boots. The female 
 children they put in skin-tight blue over 
 alls. The male children they dressed 
 in bloomers. Why this should be I 
 cannot tell you. All carried toy hatchets 
 with a spike on one end, built to resem 
 ble the pictures of alpenstocks. 
 
 They looked business-like, trod with 
 an assured air of veterans, and a seem 
 ing of experience more extended than it 
 was possible to pack into any one human 
 life. We stared at them, our eyes bulg 
 ing out. They painfully and evidently 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 939 
 
 concealed a curiosity as to our pack- 
 train. We wished them good- day, in 
 order to see to what language heaven 
 had fitted their extraordinary ideas as 
 regards raiment. They inquired the 
 way to something or other I think Sen 
 tinel Dome. We had just arrived, so 
 we did not know, but, in order to show 
 a friendly spirit, we blandly pointed out 
 a way. It may have led to Sentinel 
 Dome for all I know. They departed 
 uttering thanks in human speech. 
 
 Now this particular bunch of tourists 
 was evidently staying at the Glacier 
 Point, and so was fresh. But in the 
 course of that morning we descended 
 straight down a drop of, is it four thou 
 sand feet? The trail was steep and 
 long and without water. During the 
 descent we passed first and last probably 
 twoscore of tourists, all on foot. A good 
 half of them were delicate women 
 young, middle-aged, a few gray-haired 
 and evidently upwards of sixty. There 
 were also old men. and fat men, and 
 men otherwise out of condition. Prob 
 ably nine out of ten, counting in the 
 entire outfit, were utterly unaccustomed, 
 when at home where grow street-cars 
 and hansoms, to even the mildest sort 
 of exercise. They had come into the 
 Valley, whose floor is over four thousand 
 feet up, without the slightest physical 
 preparation for the altitude. They had 
 submitted to the fatigue of a long and 
 dusty stage journey. And then they 
 had merrily whooped it up at a gait 
 which would. have appalled seasoned old 
 stagers like ourselves. Those blessed 
 lunatics seemed positively unhappy un 
 less they climbed up to some new point 
 of view every day. I have never seen 
 such a universally tired out, frazzled, 
 vitally exhausted, white-faced, nervous 
 community in my life as I did during 
 our four days' stay in the Valley. Then 
 probably they go away, and take a 
 month to get over it, and have queer 
 residual impressions of the trip. I should 
 like to know what those impressions 
 really are. 
 
 Not but that Nature has done every 
 thing in her power to oblige them. The 
 things I am about to say are heresy, but 
 I hold them true. 
 
 Yosemite is not as interesting nor as 
 
 satisfying to me as some of the other 
 big box canons, like those of the Te- 
 hipite, the Kings in its branches, or the 
 Kaweah. I will admit that its water 
 falls are better. Otherwise it possesses 
 no features which are not to be seen in 
 its sister valleys. And there is this 
 difference. In Yosemite everything is 
 jumbled together, apparently for the 
 benefit of the tourist with a linen duster 
 and but three days' time at his disposal. 
 He can turn from the cliff-headland to 
 the dome, from the dome to the half 
 dome, to the glacier formation, the gran 
 ite slide, and all the rest of it, with 
 hardly the necessity of stirring his feet. 
 Nature has put samples of all her works 
 here within reach of his cataloguing 
 vision. Everything is crowded in to 
 gether, like a row of houses in forty-foot 
 lots. The mere things themselves are 
 here in profusion and wonder, but the 
 appropriate spacing, the approach, the 
 surrounding of subordinate detail which 
 should lead in artistic gradation to the 
 supreme feature these things, which 
 are a real and essential part of aesthetic 
 effect, are lacking utterly for want of 
 room. The place is not natural scenery ; 
 it is a junk-shop, a storehouse, a sample- 
 room wherein the elements of natural 
 scenery are to be viewed. It is not an 
 arrangement of effects in accordance 
 with the usual laws of landscape, but an 
 abnormality, a freak of Nature. 
 
 All these things are to be found else 
 where. There are cliffs which to the 
 naked eye are as grand as El Capitan ; 
 domes, half domes, peaks, as noble as 
 any to be seen in the Valley; sheer 
 drops as breath-taking as that from 
 Glacier Point. But in other places each 
 of these is led up to appropriately, and 
 stands the central and satisfying feature 
 to which all other things look. Then 
 you journey on from your cliff, or what 
 ever it happens to be, until, at just the 
 right distance, so that it gains from the 
 presence of its neighbor without losing 
 from its proximity, a dome or a pinnacle 
 takes to itself the right of prominence. 
 I concede the waterfalls; but in other 
 respects I prefer the sister valleys. 
 
 That is not to say that one should not 
 visit Yosemite; nor that one will be 
 disappointed. It is grand beyond any 
 
940 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [20 August 
 
 possible human belief ; and no one, even 
 a nerve-frazzled tourist, can gaze on it 
 without the strongest emotion. Only it 
 is not so intimately satisfying as it should 
 be. It is a show. You do not take it 
 into your heart. " Whew 1" you cry. 
 " Isn't that a wonder 1" then, after a mo 
 ment, " Looks just like the photographs. 
 Up to sample. Now let's go." 
 
 As we descended the trail, we and the 
 tourists aroused in each other a mutual 
 interest. One husband was trying to 
 encourage his young and handsome wife 
 to go on. She was beautifully dressed 
 for the part in a marvelous, becoming 
 costume of whipcord short skirt, high 
 laced elkskin boots, and the rest of it ; 
 but in all her magnificence she had sat 
 down on the ground, her back to the 
 cliff, her legs across the trail, and was 
 so tired out that she could hardly muster 
 interest enough to pull them in out of 
 the way of our horses' hoofs. The man 
 inquired anxiously of us how far it was 
 to the top. Now it was a long distance 
 to the top, but a longer to the bottom, 
 so we lied a lie that I am sure was imme 
 diately forgiven us, and told them it 
 was only a short climb. I should have 
 offered them the use of Bullet, but Bul 
 let had come far enough, and this was 
 only one of a dozen such cases. In 
 marked contrast was a jolly white-haired 
 clergyman of the bishop type who 
 climbed vigorously and hailed us with a 
 shout. , 
 
 The horses were decidedly unaccus 
 tomed to any such sights, and we some 
 times had our hands full getting them 
 by on the narrow way. The trail was 
 safe enough, but it did have an edge, 
 and that edge jumped pretty straight 
 off. It was interesting to observe how 
 the tourists acted. Some of them were 
 perfect fools, and we had more trouble 
 with theni than we did with the horses. 
 They could not seem to get the notion 
 into their heads that all we wanted them 
 to do was to get on the inside and 
 stand still. About half of them were 
 terrified to death, so that at the crucial 
 moment, just as a horse was passing 
 them, they had little fluttering panics 
 that called the beast's attention. Most 
 of the remainder tried to be bold and 
 help. They reached out the hand of 
 
 assistance toward the halter rope ; the 
 astonished animal promptly snorted, 
 tried to turn around, cannoned against 
 the next in line. Then there was a 
 mix-up. Two tall, clean-cut, well-bred 
 looking girls of our slim patrician type 
 offered us material assistance. They 
 seemed to understand horses, and got 
 out of the way in the proper manner, 
 did just the right thing, and made sen 
 sible suggestions. I offer them my 
 homage. 
 
 They spoke to us as though they had 
 penetrated the disguise of long travel, 
 and could see we were not necessarily 
 members of Burt Alvord's gang. This 
 phase, too, of our descent became in-* ?, 
 creasingly interesting to us, a species of-j 
 gauge by which we measured the per- 
 ceptions of those we encountered. Most 
 did not speak to us at all. Others 
 responded to our greetings with a reserve 
 in which was more than a tinge of dis 
 trust. Still others patronized us. A very 
 few overlooked our faded flannel shirts, 
 our spiled trousers, our floppy old hats 
 with their rattlesnake bands, the wear 
 and tear of our equipment, to respond to 
 us heartily. Them in return we gener 
 ally perceived to belong to our totem. 
 
 We found the floor of the Valley 
 well sprinkled with campers. They had 
 pitched all kinds of tents; built all 
 kinds of fancy permanent conveniences ; 
 erected all kinds of banners and signs 
 advertising their identity, and were gen 
 erally having a nice, easy, healthful, 
 jolly kind of a time up there in the 
 mountains. Their outfits they had either 
 brought in with their own wagons, or 
 had had freighted. The store near the 
 bend of the Merced supplied all their 
 needs. It was truly a pleasant sight to 
 see so many people enjoying themselves, 
 for they were mostly those in moderate 
 circumstances, to whom a trip on tourist 
 lines would be impossible. We saw 
 bakers' and grocers' and butchers' 
 wagons that had been pressed into serv 
 ice. A man, his wife, and little baby, 
 had come in an ordinary buggy, the one 
 horse of which, led by tne man, carried 
 the woman and baby to the various 
 points of interest. 
 
 We reported to the official in charge, 
 were allotted a camping and grazing 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 941 
 
 place, and proceeded to make ourselves 
 at home. 
 
 During the next two days we rode 
 comfortably here and there, and looked 
 at things. The things could not be 
 spoiled, but their effect was very mate 
 rially marred by the swarms of tourists. 
 Sometimes they were silly, and cracked 
 inane and obvious jokes in ridicule of 
 the grandest objects they had come so 
 far to see ; sometimes they were detest 
 able, and left their insignificant calling- 
 cards or their unimportant names where 
 nobody could ever have any object in 
 reading them ; sometimes they were 
 pathetic and helpless, and had to have 
 assistance ; sometimes they were amus 
 ing ; hardly ever did they seem entirely 
 human. I wonder what there is about 
 the traveling public that seems so to set 
 it apart, to make of it at least a sub 
 species of mankind ? 
 
 Among other things, we were vastly 
 interested in the guides. They were 
 typical of this sort of thing. Each morn 
 ing one of these men took a pleasantly 
 awe-stricken band of tourists out, led 
 them around in the brush awhile, and 
 brought them back in time for lunch. 
 They wore broad hats and leather bands 
 and exotic raiment and fierce expressions, 
 and looked dark and mysterious and 
 extra-competent over the most trivial of 
 difficulties. 
 
 Nothing could be more instructive 
 than to see two or three of these imita 
 tion bad men starting out in the morning 
 to "guide " a flock, say to Nevada Falls. 
 The tourists, being about to mount, have 
 outdone themselves in weird and awe 
 some clothes especially the women. 
 Nine out of ten wear their stirrups too 
 short, so their knees are hunched up. 
 One guide rides at the head great deal 
 of silver spur, clanking chain, and the 
 rest of it. Another rides in the rear. 
 The third rides up and down the line, 
 very gruff, very preoccupied, very care 
 worn over the dangers of the way. The 
 cavalcade moves. It proceeds for about 
 a mile. There arise sudden cries, great 
 but subdued excitement. The leader 
 stops, raising a commanding hand. 
 Guide number three gallops up. There 
 is a consultation. The cinch-strap of 
 the brindle shave-tail is taken up two 
 
 inches. A catastrophe has been averted. 
 The noble three look volumes of relief. 
 The cavalcade moves again. 
 
 Now the trail rises. It is a nice, safe, 
 easy trail. But to the tourists it is made 
 terrible. The noble three see to that. 
 They pass more dangers by the exercise 
 of superhuman skill than you or I could 
 discover in a summer's close search. 
 The joke of the matter is that those 
 forty-odd saddle-animals have been over 
 that trail so many times that one would 
 have difficulty in heading them off from 
 it once they got started. 
 
 Very much the same criticism would 
 hold as to the popular notion of the 
 Yosemite stage-drivers. They drive 
 well, and seem efficient men. But their 
 wonderful reputation would have to be 
 upheld on rougher roads than those into 
 the Valley. The tourist is, of course, 
 encouraged to believe that he is doing 
 the hair-breadth escape ; but in reality, 
 as mountain travel goes, the Yosemite 
 stage-road is very mild. 
 
 This that I have been saying, is not 
 by way of depreciation. But it seems 
 to me that the Valley is wonderful 
 enough to stand by itself in men's appre 
 ciation without the unreality of sickly 
 sentimentalism in regard to imaginary 
 dangers, or the histrionics of playing 
 wilderness where no wilderness exists. 
 
 As we went out, this time by the 
 Chinquapin wagon-road, we met one 
 stage-load after another of tourists com 
 ing in. They had not yet donned the 
 outlandish attire they believe proper to 
 the occasion, and so showed for what 
 they were prosperous, well-bred, well- 
 dressed travelers. In contrast to their 
 smartness, the brilliancy of new-painted 
 stages, the dash of the horses maintained 
 by the Yosemite Stage Company, our 
 own dusty, travel- worn outfit of moun 
 tain ponies, our own rough clothes, 
 patched and faded, our sheath-knives 
 and firearms, seemed out of place and 
 curious, as though a knight in mediaeval 
 armor were to ride down Broadway. 
 
 I do not know how many stages there 
 were. We turned our pack-horses out 
 for them all, dashing back and forth 
 along the line, coercing the diabolical 
 Dinkey. The road was too smooth. 
 There were no obstructions to surmount ; 
 
942 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [20 August 
 
 no dangers to avert ; no difficulties to 
 avoid. We could not get into trouble, 
 but proceeded as on a county turnpike. 
 Too tame, too civilized, too represent 
 ative of the tourist element, it ended by 
 getting on our nerves. The wilderness 
 seemed to have left us forever. Never 
 would we get back to our own again. 
 After a long time, Wes, leading, turned 
 into our old trail branching off to the 
 high country. Hardly had we traveled 
 
 a half-mile before we heard from the 
 advance guard a crash and a shout. 
 
 " What is it, Wes ?" we yelled. . 
 
 In a moment the reply came 
 
 " Lily's fallen down again thank 
 heaven 1" 
 
 We understood what he meant. By 
 this we knew that the tourist zone was 
 crossed, that we had left the show coun 
 try for good and all, and were once more 
 in the open. 
 
 The Smallest American Possession 1 
 
 By George Kennan 
 
 FIVE days out from Honolulu, we 
 caught sight of the small, reef- 
 encircled sand-dune which is 
 known, on account of its geographical 
 position, as " Midway " the smallest 
 bit of land, perhaps, over which the Stars 
 and Stripes float, and certainly the most 
 dreary and desolate place inhabited by 
 man in all the broad Pacific. Before 
 the acquisition of the Philippines, not 
 one American in ten thousand, probably, 
 was aware of the fact that the United 
 States owned territory in the middle of 
 the Pacific Ocean, nearly thirty-five hun 
 dred miles west of San Francisco ; and 
 yet the little atoll then known as "Brooks 
 Island " had belonged to us for nearly 
 forty years. It had no inhabitants, and 
 therefore required no colonial adminis 
 tration, but it was, nevertheless, the 
 first colonial possession that we acquired 
 in the Pacific, away from the mainland, 
 and for many years it was our remotest 
 outpost in the direction of the Orient. 
 Captain N. C. Brooks, of the American 
 ship Gambia, discovered it in 1859, and 
 although it was a mere sand-heap, less 
 than two miles across, and seemed to be 
 absolutely worthless, he prudently an 
 nexed it, in the name of the United 
 States, and took such formal steps as 
 were necessary to establish a national 
 claim to it. 
 
 For the next thirty years it remained 
 uninhabited and almost unvisited ; but 
 
 1 Mr. Kennan's Journey to Japan as special repre 
 sentative of The Outlook was made as a guest on the 
 United States Government transport BuFord, a slow 
 but decidedly interesting method of traveling. This 
 account of Midway Island is from a letter describing 
 the trans-Pacific voyage. THE EDITORS, 
 
 in 1867 it was examined by Captain 
 Reynolds, of the United States cruiser 
 Lackawanna, and in 1888, if I remember 
 rightly, a Norwegian ship was wrecked 
 on it, and her survivors lived there for 
 a period of about two years, gaining a 
 scanty subsistence by collecting birds' 
 eggs and catching fish. They were 
 finally seen and taken off by the crew of 
 a Japanese merchant vessel who were 
 cruising about in that part of the Pacific 
 in search of guano deposits. Before 
 their rescue, they had drawn up and 
 buried in a bottle a brief record of their 
 experience, with directions for obtaining 
 brackish but drinkable water, and the 
 names of three or four castaways who 
 had already perished from hardship and 
 exposure. This record was written, 
 doubtless, at a time when they had no 
 expectation of ever being found. It 
 was discovered, long afterward, by the 
 officers of one of our naval vessels who 
 were engaged in making a survey of the 
 little atoll and running a line of sound 
 ings around its barrier-reef. 
 
 Shortly before the annexation of the 
 Hawaiian group, the Pacific Mail Steam 
 ship Company caused an examination 
 to be made of the island with a view to 
 its possible utilization as a coaling sta 
 tion ; but this idea was finally abandoned 
 on account of the difficulty of taking 
 lighters in and out through the narrow, 
 rock-obstructed channel which breaks 
 the circle of the reef on the western 
 side, and affords the only means of ac 
 cess to the shallow water of the lagoon. 
 When the trans-Pagific cable was pro- 
 
1904] 
 
 Roman Codgers and Solitaries 
 
 993 
 
 Nerone, Galli had ridden by turn in all 
 the carriages. 
 
 " With your help, my friend," he said 
 to the cabman, " I will climb to the top 
 of the tomb. If you will listen, I will 
 tell you some things about the great 
 Nero you never heard before. He was, 
 after all, an artist : the historians have 
 been too hard upon him, as we artists 
 must not forget/' 
 
 Galli made a long speech glorifying 
 Nero ; perhaps he set the present fashion 
 for the whitewashing of Caesars gener 
 ally fashions often grow out of much 
 less. The cabmen squatted round on 
 their hunkers, smoked their pipes, and 
 listened, for the enlightenment of future 
 forestieri, till Galli scrambled down from 
 the rostrum, jumped into the first cab, 
 crying, " Andiamo! To the Piazza di 
 Spagna as we carne." 
 
 At the Cafe' Greco that evening, 
 Galli, penniless, but proud ot his adven 
 ture, borrowed of Signorino Jacca twenty 
 centessimi (four cents) to buy a piece of 
 bread and a few pickled gherkins, which, 
 wrapped in a piece of paper, he munched 
 contentedly for his supper. 
 
 Remembering Galli's talent for like 
 nesses, J. persuaded a friend to sit to 
 him for her portrait. When they arrived 
 at the studio for the first sitting, the 
 room was so littered with rubbish there 
 was hardly space to turn round. Tiers 
 of vile-smelling old petroleum-cases were 
 piled against the wall. 
 
 " What on earth have you got in those 
 boxes, Galli ?" 
 
 " They contain my invention." 
 
 " May one ask its nature ?" 
 
 " Altro ! it is the model of a bridge to 
 cross the Atlantic from Italy to the 
 United States." 
 
 It was a cold day. To warm the room 
 for his sitter, Galli had picked up a few 
 bits of charcoal, which smoldered in a 
 frying-pan without a handle (his only 
 stove), in the middle of the studio. 
 While Galli was finding a chair for the 
 lady, J. discovered seven rat-traps, each 
 inhabited by a large family of mice. 
 
 " They disturbed me so much scrab 
 bling about and gnawing things," Galli 
 explained, "that I was obliged to catch 
 them." 
 
 " If the mice disturb you, why keep 
 
 them ?" said the practical American girl. 
 " You have not the heart to kill them ? 
 Tell the janitor to put the traps in a pail 
 of water ; it will be over in a minute." 
 
 " Drown them my only companions ? 
 See their beautiful little ears veined like 
 the petals of a flower, their bright eyes, 
 their dear little feet. They- know me ; 
 they depend upon me for their food." 
 
 He took half a roll from his pocket 
 and crumbled it into one of the traps. 
 
 " Show us what you have been paint 
 ing lately, Signer Galli." The old man 
 moved his easel into the light. 
 
 " This is my latest picture." 
 
 J. says that American girl showed 
 rare breeding ; she neither laughed nor 
 cried at the thing Galli uncovered. If it 
 was not a picture, it was the work of a man 
 of genius. The divine spark had kindled 
 at a moment when no tools were at hand. 
 His credit on that almost inexhaustible 
 fund, the generosity of his brother art 
 ists, had long been overdrawn. His 
 friends were tired of supplying canvas, 
 paints, brushes. Galli, lacking every 
 thing, possessed only of the idea, could 
 not rest till it was expressed. He had 
 cut off the tail of his gray flannel shirt, 
 stretched it for a canvas, found a piece 
 of old blue cardboard, pasted it on for 
 the sky, dried lettuce-leaves and applied 
 them for the middle distance, used for 
 the detail of the foreground bits of dried 
 watermelon-rind and other such rubbish. 
 The " picture " was a thing to draw tears 
 from a stone 1 
 
 The rumor of the invention in the 
 petroleum-boxes suggested to some of 
 the young artists a plan by which fresh 
 interest might be aroused for Galli's 
 benefit. They asked him to prepare a 
 lecture explaining the theory of his 
 bridge. Tickets were sold, and quite a 
 large audience gathered at the Artists' 
 Club to hear him. When he appeared, 
 some of the more boisterous spirits began 
 to guy him ; this nettled the old fel 
 low. 
 
 " You perhaps think this invention of 
 mine an impossibility," he began. " To 
 show you how simple it is to get to 
 America without going on one of those 
 abominable steamers, I will explain to 
 you how to get to the moon. You all 
 know that the moon is una femina " (a 
 
994 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [27 August 
 
 female). " Well, all females are devoured 
 by curiosity. Only let all the people 
 upon the earth assemble together in one 
 place, and the moon will observe that 
 something out of the common is going 
 on down here ; she will approach nearer 
 and nearer to see what it is all about, 
 until she gets so near that all we shall 
 have to do is to jump over on her, and 
 then she will not be able to get away." 
 
 Galli's last commission was to deco 
 rate a cheap cafe. Villegas says that it 
 was a wonderful piece of work, full of 
 power and originality. Not long after 
 it was finished, some smug Neapolitan 
 painter, one of those poor craftsmen who 
 
 have cheapened the name of Italian 
 art, persuaded the proprietor to let 
 him paint out Galli's work and redeco 
 rate the cafe' with his own vulgar trash. 
 This broke the old man's heart; soon 
 after he was found dead in his studio, 
 lying between two chairs. It was inevi 
 table that he should come to some such 
 end, and a thousand times better for him 
 to drop in harness than to wear out 
 the years in idleness. Unlike my friend 
 the newsboy- rumseller- grandfather- of - 
 princes, his only joy was in labor, in 
 striving to express to others the beauty 
 that possessed his soul. Is it not by 
 this sign that the elect may be known ? 
 
 Palazzo Kusticucci, Rome. 
 
 The Mountains 1 
 
 By Stewart Edward White 
 
 Author of " The Forest," " The Blazed Trail," " The Silent Places," etc. 
 
 XVII The Main Crest 
 
 THE traveler in the High Sierras 
 generally keeps to the west of 
 the main crest. Sometimes he 
 approaches fairly to the foot of the last 
 slope ; sometimes he angles away and 
 away even down to what finally seems 
 to him a lower country to the pine 
 mountains of only five or six thousand 
 feet. But always to the left or right of 
 him, according to whether he travels 
 south or north, runs the rampart of the 
 system, sometimes glittering with snow, 
 sometimes formidable and rugged with 
 splinters and spires of granite. He 
 crosses spurs and tributary ranges as 
 high, as rugged, as snow-clad as these. 
 They do not quite satisfy him. Over 
 beyond he thinks he ought to see some 
 thing great some wide outlook, some 
 space bluer than his trail can offer him. 
 One day or another he clamps his decis 
 ion, and so turns aside for the simple 
 and only purpose of standing on the top 
 of the world. 
 
 We were bitten by that idea while 
 crossing the Granite Basin. The latter 
 is some ten thousand feet in the air, a 
 cup of rock five or six miles across, sur- 
 
 1 Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 rounded by mountains much higher than 
 itself. That would have been sufficient 
 for most moods, but, resting on the edge 
 of a pass ten thousand six hundred feet 
 high, we concluded that we surely would 
 have to look over into Nevada. 
 
 We got out the map. It became 
 evident, after a little study, that by 
 descending six thousand feet into a box 
 canon, proceeding in it a few miles, and 
 promptly climbing out again, by climbing 
 steadily up the long, narrow course of 
 another box canon for about a day and 
 a half's journey, and then climbing out 
 of that to a high ridge country with little 
 flat valleys, we would come to a wide 
 lake in a meadow eleven thousand feet 
 up. There we could camp. The moun 
 tain opposite was thirteen thousand three 
 hundred and twenty feet, so the climb 
 from the lake became merely a matter 
 of computation.. This, we figured, would 
 take us just a week, which may seem a 
 considerable time to sacrifice to the 
 gratification of a whim. But such a 
 glorious whim 1 
 
 We descended the great box canon, 
 and scaled its upper end, following near 
 the voices of a cascade. Cliffs thousands 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 995 
 
 of feet high hemmed us in. At the very 
 top of them strange crags leaned out 
 looking down on us in the abyss. From 
 a projection a colossal sphinx gazed 
 solemnly across at a dome as smooth 
 and symmetrical as, but vastly larger 
 than, St. Peter's at Rome. 
 
 The trail labored up to the brink of 
 the cascade. At once we entered a long nar 
 row aisle between regular palisaded cliffs. 
 
 The formation was exceedingly regular. 
 At the top the precipice fell sheer for a 
 thousand feet or so ; then the steep slant 
 of the debris, like buttresses, down 
 almost to the bed of the river. The lower 
 parts of the buttresses were clothed with 
 heavy chaparral,- which, nearer moisture, 
 developed into cottonwoods, alders, tan 
 gled vines, flowers, rank grasses. And 
 away on the very edge of the cliffs, close 
 under the sky, were pines, belittled by 
 distance, solemn and aloof, like Indian 
 warriors wrapped in their blankets watch 
 ing from an eminence the passage of a 
 hostile force. 
 
 We caught rainbow trout in the dash 
 ing white torrent of the river. We fol 
 lowed the trail through delicious thickets 
 redolent with perfume ; over the roughest 
 granite slides, along still, dark aisles of 
 forest groves, between the clefts of boul 
 ders so monstrous as almost to seem 
 an insult to credulity. Among the 
 chaparral, on the slope of the buttress 
 across the river, we made out a bear 
 feeding. Wes and I sat ten minutes 
 waiting for him to show sufficiently for 
 a chance. Then we took a shot at about 
 four hundred yards, and hit him some 
 where so he angled down the hill furi 
 ously. We left the Tenderfoot to watch 
 that he did not come out of the big 
 thicket of the river bottom where last 
 we had seen him, while we scrambled 
 upstream nearly a mile looking for a way 
 across. Then we trailed him by the 
 blood, each step one of suspense, until 
 we fairly had to crawl in after him; 
 and shot him five times more, three in 
 the head, before he gave up not six feet 
 from us; and shouted gloriously and 
 skinned that bear. But the meat was 
 badly bloodshot, for there were three 
 bullets in the head, two in the chest and 
 shoulders, one through the paunch, and 
 one in the hind quarters. 
 
 Since we were much in want of meat, 
 this grieved us. But that noon, while 
 we ate, the horses ran down toward us, 
 and wheeled, as though in cavalry forma 
 tion, looking toward the hill and snort 
 ing. So I put down my tin plate gently, 
 and took up my rifle, and without rising 
 shot that bear through the back of the 
 neck. We took his skin, and also his 
 hind quarters, and went on. 
 
 By the third day from Granite Basin 
 we reached the end of the long, narrow 
 canon with the high cliffs and the dark 
 pine-trees and the very blue sky. There 
 fore we turned sharp to the left and 
 climbed laboriously until we had come 
 up into the land of big boulders, strange 
 spare twisted little trees, and the singing 
 of the great wind. 
 
 The country here was mainly of gran 
 ite. It outcropped in dikes, it slid down 
 the slopes in aprons, it strewed the pros 
 pect in boulders and blocks, it seamed 
 the hollows with knife-ridges. Soil gave 
 the impression of having been laid on 
 top ; you divined the granite beneath it, 
 and not so very far beneath it. either. 
 A fine hair-grass grew close to this soil, 
 as though to produce as many blades as 
 possible in the limited area. 
 
 But strangest of all were the little 
 thick twisted trees with the rich shaded 
 umber color of their trunks. They 
 occurred rarely, but still in sufficient 
 regularity to lend the impression of 
 a scattered grove-cohesiveness. Their 
 limbs were sturdy and reaching fantas 
 tically. On each trunk the colors ran in 
 streaks, patches, and gradations from a 
 sulphur yellow, through browns and red- 
 orange, to a rich red-umber. They were 
 like the earth-dwarfs of German legend, 
 come out to view the roof of their work 
 shop in the interior of the hill ; or, more 
 subtly, like some of the more fantastic 
 engravings of Gustave Dore. 
 
 We camped that night at a lake whose 
 banks were pebbled in the manner of an 
 artificial pond, and whose setting was a 
 thin meadow of the fine hair-grass, for 
 the grazing of which the horses had to 
 bare their teeth. All about, the granite 
 mountains rose/ The timber-line, even 
 of the rare shrub-like gnome-trees, ceased 
 here. Above us was nothing whatever 
 but granite rock, snow, and the sky. 
 
996 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [27 August 
 
 It was just before dusk, and in the 
 lake the fish were jumping eagerly. 
 They took the fly well, and before the 
 fire was alight we had caught three for 
 supper. When I say we caught but 
 three, you will understand that they were 
 of good size. Firewood was scarce, but 
 we dragged in enough by means of Old 
 Slob and a riata to build us a good fire. 
 And we needed it, for the cold descended 
 on us with the sharpness and vigor of 
 eleven thousand feet. 
 
 For such an altitude the spot was 
 ideal. The lake just below us was full 
 of fish. A little stream ran from it by 
 our very elbows. The slight elevation 
 was level, and covered with enough soil 
 to offer a fairly good substructure for 
 our beds. The flat in which was the 
 lake reached on up narrower and nar 
 rower to the foot of the last slope, fur 
 nishing for the horses an admirable 
 natural corral about a mile long. And 
 the view was magnificent. 
 
 First of all there were the mountains 
 above us, towering grandly serene against 
 the sky of morning ; then all about us 
 the tumultuous slabs and boulders and 
 blocks of granite among which dare-devil 
 and hardy little trees clung to a footing 
 as though in defiance of some great force 
 exerted against them ; then below us a 
 sheer drop, into which our brook plunged, 
 with its suggestion of depths ; and finally 
 beyond those depths the giant peaks of 
 the highest Sierras rising lofty as the 
 sky, shrouded in a calm and stately 
 peace. 
 
 Next day the Tenderfoot and I climbed 
 to the top. Wes decided at the last 
 minute that he hadn't lost any moun 
 tains, and would prefer to fish. 
 
 The ascent was accompanied by much 
 breathlessness and a heavy pounding of 
 our hearts, so that we were forced to 
 stop every twenty feet to recover our 
 physical balance. Each step upward 
 dragged at our feet like a leaden weight. 
 Yet once we were on the level, or once 
 we ceased our very real exertions for a 
 second or so, the difficulty left us, and 
 we breathed as easily as in the lower 
 altitudes. 
 
 The air itself was of a quality impos 
 sible to describe to you unless you have 
 traveled in the high countries. I know 
 
 it is trite to say that it had the exhila 
 ration of wine, yet I can find no better 
 simile. We shouted and whooped and 
 breathed deep and wanted to do things. 
 
 The immediate surroundings of that 
 mountain peak were absolutely barren 
 and absolutely still. How it was accom 
 plished so high up I do not know, but 
 the entire structure on which we moved 
 I cannot say walked was composed of 
 huge granite slabs. Sometimes these 
 were laid side by side like exaggerated 
 paving flags ; but oftener they were up 
 ended, piled in a confusion over which 
 we had precariously to scramble. And 
 the silence. It was so still that the very 
 ringing in our ears came to a prominence 
 absurd and almost terrifying. The wind 
 swept by noiseless, because it had noth 
 ing movable to startle into noise. The 
 solid eternal granite lay heavy in its 
 statics across the possibility of even a 
 whisper. The blue vault of heaven 
 seemed emptied of sound. 
 
 But the wind did stream by unceas 
 ingly, weird in the unaccustomedness of 
 its silence. And the sky was blue as a 
 turquoise, and the sun burned fiercely, 
 and the air was cold as the water of a 
 mountain spring. 
 
 We stretched ourselves behind a slab 
 of granite, and ate the luncheon we had 
 brought cold venison steak and bread. 
 By and by a marvelous thing happened. 
 A flash of wings sparkled in the air, a 
 brave little voice challenged us cheerily, 
 a pert tiny rock-wren flirted his tail and 
 darted his wings and wanted to know 
 what we were thinking of anyway to 
 enter his especial territory. And shortly 
 from nowhere appeared two Canada jays, 
 silent as the wind itself, hoping for a 
 share in our meal. Then the Tender 
 foot discovered in a niche some strange, 
 hardy alpine flowers. So we established 
 a connection, through these wondrous 
 brave children of the great mother, with 
 the world of living things. 
 
 After we had eaten, which was the 
 very first thing we did, we walked to the 
 edge of the., main crest and looked over. 
 That edge went straight down. I do not 
 know how far, except that even in con 
 templation we entirely lost our breaths, 
 before we had fallen half-way to the 
 bottom. Then intervened a ledge, and 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 in the ledge was a round glacier lake of 
 the very deepest and richest ultramarine 
 you can find among your paint-tubes, 
 and on the lake floated cakes of dazzling 
 white ice. That was enough for the 
 moment. 
 
 Next we leaped at one bound direct 
 down to some brown hazy liquid shot 
 with the tenderest filaments of white. 
 After analysis we discovered the hazy 
 brown liquid to be the earth of the 
 plains, and the filaments of white to be 
 roads. Thus instructed we made out 
 specks which were towns. That was all. 
 The rest was too insignificant to classify 
 without the aid of a microscope. 
 
 And afterwards, across those plains, 
 oh, many, many leagues, were the Inyo 
 and Panamit mountains, and beyond 
 them Nevada and Arizona, and blue 
 mountains, and bluer, and still bluer 
 rising, rising, rising higher and higher 
 until at the level of the eye they blended 
 with the heavens and were lost some 
 where away out beyond the edge of the 
 world. 
 
 We said nothing, but looked for a 
 long time. Then we turned inland to 
 the wonderful great titans of mountains 
 clear-cut in the crystalline air. Never 
 was such air. Crystalline is the only 
 word which will describe it, for almost 
 it seemed that it would ring clearly 
 when struck, so sparkling and delicate 
 and fragile was it. The crags and fis 
 sures across the way two miles across 
 the way were revealed through it as 
 through some medium whose transpar 
 ence was absolute. They challenged 
 the eye, stereoscopic in their relief. 
 Were it not for the belittling effects of 
 the distance, we felt that we might 
 count the frost seams or the glacial 
 scorings on every granite apron. Far 
 below we saw the irregular outline of 
 our lake. It looked like a pond a few 
 hundred feet down. Then we made out 
 a pin-point of white moving leisurely near 
 its border. After a while we realized 
 that the pin-point of white was one of 
 our pack-horses, and immediately the 
 flat little scene shot backwards as though 
 moved from behind, and acknowledged 
 its due number of miles. The minia 
 ture crags at its back became gigantic ; 
 the peaks beyond grew thousands of 
 
 ,4eub aiofed teu'( 
 
 feet in the establishment of a proportion 
 which the lack of " atmosphere " had 
 denied. We never succeeded in getting 
 adequate photographs. As well take 
 pictures of any eroded little arroyo or 
 granite canon. Relative sizes do not 
 exist, unless pointed out. 
 
 " See that speck there ?" we explain. 
 " That's a big pine-tree. So by that you 
 can see how tremendous those cliffs 
 really are." 
 
 And our guest looks incredulously at 
 the speck. 
 
 There was snow, of course, lying cold 
 in the hot sun. This phenomenon 
 always impresses a man when first he 
 sees it. Often I have ridden with my 
 sleeves rolled up and the front of my 
 shirt open, over drifts whose edges, even, 
 dripped no water. The direct rays seem 
 to have absolutely no effect. A scien 
 tific explanation I have never heard 
 expressed ; but I suppose the cold 
 nights freeze the drifts and pack them 
 so hard that the short noon heat can 
 not penetrate their density. I may be 
 quite wrong as to my reason, but I am 
 entirely correct as to my fact. 
 
 Another curious thing is that we met 
 our mosquitoes only rarely below the 
 snow-line. The camping in the Sierras 
 is ideal for lack of these pests. They 
 never bite hard nor stay long even when 
 found. But just as sure as we approached 
 snow, then we renewed acquaintance 
 with our old friends of the north woods. 
 It is analogous to the fact that the farther 
 north you go into the fur countries, the 
 more abundant they become. 
 
 By and by it was time to descend. 
 The camp lay directly below us. We 
 decided to go to it straight, and so 
 stepped off on an impossibly steep slope 
 covered, not with the great boulders and 
 granite blocks, but with a fine loose 
 shale. At every stride we stepped ten 
 feet and slid five. It was gloriously 
 near to flying. Leaning far back, our 
 arms spread wide to keep our balance, 
 spying alertly far ahead as to where we 
 were going to land, utterly unable to 
 check until we encountered a half-buried 
 ledge of some sort, and shouting wildly 
 at every plunge, we fairly shot down-hill. 
 The floor of our valley rose to us as the 
 earth to a descending balloon, In three- 
 
998 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [27 August 
 
 quarters of an hour we had reached the 
 first flat. 
 
 There we halted to puzzle over the 
 trail of a mountain lion clearly printed 
 on the soft ground. What had the great 
 cat been doing away up there above the 
 hunting country, above cover, above 
 everything that would appeal to a well- 
 regulated cat of any size whatsoever ? 
 We theorized at length, but gave it up 
 finally, and went on. Then a familiar 
 perfume rose to our nostrils. We plucked 
 
 curiously at a bed of catnip, and we 
 wondered whether the animal had jour 
 neyed so far in order to enjoy what 
 is always such a treat to her domestic 
 sisters. 
 
 It was nearly dark when we reached 
 camp. We found Wes contentedly scrap 
 ing away at the bear-skins. 
 
 "Hello," said he, looking up with a 
 grin. '" Hello, you darn fools 1 I've 
 been having a good time. I've been 
 fishing." 
 
 Whistler: The Character 1 
 
 E 
 
 H, what? Meneps? Who's 
 Meneps?" was the exclamation 
 flashed out by Whistler at the 
 mention of his former pupil and recal 
 citrant follower the man who had dared 
 to choose between the Master and his 
 own career. This same man, remaining 
 an admirer of the great painter to whom 
 he had devoted several years of his 
 early youth, Mortimer Menpes, has writ 
 ten his recollections of Whistler as he 
 appeared to him in daily companionship, 
 and a gay, pleasant sketch it is. The 
 title precludes criticism, though it may 
 provoke comparison. Already protests 
 have arisen against this view, quite bi 
 zarre and apparently extravagant, but 
 Mr. Menpes, who deprecates exaggera 
 tion, solemnly asserts that his picture is 
 true to life. 
 
 One is continually tempted to suspect 
 a gleam of ridicule in the mind of a 
 writer who can say of his friend, after 
 describing a quarrel, " He never did 
 anything foolish, such as attacking a 
 man physically stronger than himself, in 
 the open that would be hopelessly in 
 artistic." 
 
 He would lift his light cane, his con 
 stant companion, and bring it down 
 sharply upon the shoulders of an enemy 
 from behind. Yet he was always 
 dainty, and we are assured he never did 
 anything brutal, though he did take great 
 men off their feet when they were not 
 looking, and thrust them through plate- 
 glass windows in Piccadilly. " He never 
 
 1 Whistler as I Knew Htm. By Mortimer Menpes. 
 Illustrated. The Macmillan Company, New York. 
 
 treated his enemies in a coarse way," 
 says Mr. Menpes. 
 
 Whistler's sense of music was entirely 
 lacking ; in fact, he was noticeably de- 
 centered, as the opticians say. When 
 Menpes went with him to a musical 
 evening, he usually chose the extreme 
 corner of the room, for to catch Whis 
 tler's eye was to be disgraced. On one 
 occasion the painter sat with his mouth 
 wide open, gazing at a group of musical 
 people as they performed upon various 
 instruments as though he had been 
 hypnotized, and muttering to himself, 
 "Pshaw! what's it all about?" The 
 climax was reached when an old lady, 
 an accomplished musician, began to 
 sing, accompanying herself on the piano. 
 Afterwards, being presented, she asked 
 Whistler what he thought of her singing. 
 Menpes heard him say, " Ha, ha! amaz 
 ing!" as he fled precipitately from the 
 room. Half an hour later he joined 
 Menpes in the studio, saying, " Let us 
 cleanse ourselves ; let us print an etch 
 ing." By the way, the old lady singer 
 had a peculiar habit of carrying bread 
 and butter in her pocket, which might 
 suggest a kinship with some of Alice's 
 friends in Wonderland. 
 
 When Whistler was painting his famous 
 portrait of Sarasate, the latter often 
 played for him. This playing he really 
 enjoyed, for, as he said, " it was mar 
 velous, you know, to see Sarasate handle 
 his violin, especially during those vio 
 lent parts ; his bow seemed to travel up 
 and down the strings so rapidly, I can 
 not imagine how he does it." It was 
 
Beautifying the Urban Back Yard 
 
 79 
 
 accomplishments 
 of Bridget. Along 
 the fence grow 
 cucumbers and to 
 matoes, this sec 
 tion being bor 
 dered with lettuce, 
 radishes, and pars 
 ley ; while an ob 
 long bed in the 
 center of the yard 
 contains cabbage, 
 and cabbage with 
 a college educa 
 tion cauliflower 
 beets and car 
 rots. The charm 
 of the rare garden 
 would immensely 
 increase, more 
 over, if owners of 
 these little rectan 
 gular back yards 
 co-operated in 
 making a central 
 pleasure-ground 
 for every one in 
 the block. The 
 average block of 
 homes in New 
 York surrounds 
 a quadrangle of 
 twenty-five or 
 thirty embryonic 
 
 BACK STAIRS COVERED WITH VINES 
 
 lots, for the 
 
 most 
 
 part indifferently cared for even as to 
 grass. From my window twenty-eight 
 back yards to as many houses make up 
 such a quadrangle, and, though two 
 
 buildings are re 
 freshed with vines 
 clambering to the 
 roof, four great 
 trees spread their 
 branches and sev 
 eral clumps of 
 bushes carelessly 
 distribute them 
 selves, as nature 
 intended, not one 
 yard has the 
 slightest claim to 
 the adornment of 
 verdure. Think 
 of the transforma 
 tion of this spot, 
 with its see-saw of 
 unsightly fences 
 removed, and in 
 charge of a com 
 petent gardener, 
 to whom each ten 
 ant contributes a 
 small weekly sum, 
 who would carpet 
 the bare ground 
 with green grass, 
 set out clusters of 
 bushes and bright 
 flowers, with here 
 and there a rustic 
 arbor or nook, 
 thus making it inviting to children and 
 their elders during the day, and possibly, 
 in the evening, to servants and their com 
 pany, separated by a rustic fence from 
 the central pleasure-ground. 
 
 A SIMPLE SUMMER-HOUSE 
 
THE 
 
 MOUNTAINS 
 
 BY 
 
 STEWART EDWARD 
 WHITE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE FOREST 
 
 THE BLAZED TRAIL 
 
 THE SILENT PLACES Etc 
 
 WITH PICTURES BY FERNAND LUNGREN 
 
 XVIIL The Giant Forest 
 
 EVERY one is familiar, at least by 
 reputation and photograph, with 
 the Big Trees of California. All 
 have seen pictures of stage-coaches driv 
 ing in passageways cut through the 
 bodies of the trunks ; of troops of cavalry 
 ridden on the prostrate trees. No one 
 but has heard of the dancing-floor or 
 the dinner-table cut from a single cross- 
 section ; and probably few but have 
 seen some of the fibrous bark of unbe 
 lievable thickness. The Mariposa, Cal- 
 .averas, and Santa Cruz groves have 
 become household names. 
 
 The public at large, I imagine mean 
 ing by that you and me and our neigh 
 bors harbor an idea that the Big Tree 
 occurs only as a remnant, in scattered 
 little groves carefully fenced and piously 
 visited by the tourist. What would we 
 have said to the information that in the 
 very heart of the Sierras there grows a 
 thriving forest of these great trees ; that 
 it takes over a day to ride throughout 
 that forest ; and that it comprises prob 
 ably over five thousand specimens ? 
 
 Yet such is the case. On the ridges 
 and high plateaus north of the Kaweah 
 
 1 Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 80 
 
 River is the forest I describe ; and of 
 that forest the trees grow from fifteen to 
 twenty-six feet in diameter. Do you 
 know what that means ? Get up from 
 your chair and pace off the room you 
 are in. If it is a very big room, its 
 longest dimension would just about con 
 tain one of the bigger trunks. Try to 
 imagine a tree like that. 
 
 It must be a columnar tree, straight 
 and true as the supports of a Greek 
 fagade. The least deviation from the 
 perpendicular of such a mass would 
 cause it to fall. The limbs are sturdy 
 like the arms of Hercules, and grow out 
 from the main trunk direct instead of 
 dividing ,and leading that main trunk to 
 themselves, as is the case with other 
 trees. The column rises with a true 
 taper to its full height ; then is finished 
 with the conical effect of the top of a 
 monument. Strangely enough, the frond 
 is exceedingly fine, and the cones small. 
 
 When first you catch sight of a 
 Sequoia, it does not impress you partic 
 ularly, except as a very fine tree. Its 
 proportions are so perfect that its effect 
 is rather to belittle its neighbors than to 
 show in its true magnitude. Then, grad- 
 
IX THE GIANT FOREST 
 
82 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [3 September 
 
 ually, as your experience takes cogni 
 zance of surroundings the size of a 
 sugar-pine, of a boulder, of a stream 
 flowing near the giant swells and swells 
 before your very vision, until he seems 
 at the last even greater than the mere 
 statistics of his inches had led you 
 to believe. 
 
 Perhaps the most insistent note, be 
 sides that of mere size and dignity, is 
 of absolute stillness. These trees do not 
 sway to the wind ; their trunks are con 
 structed to stand solid. Their branches 
 do not bend and murmur, for they, too, 
 are rigid in fiber. Their fine thread 
 like needles may catch the breeze's 
 whisper, may draw together and apart 
 for the exchange of confidences as do 
 the leaves of other trees, but if so, you 
 and I are too far below to distinguish 
 it. All about the other forest growths 
 may be rustling and bowing and singing 
 with the voices of the air ; the Sequoia 
 stands in the hush of an absolute calm. 
 It is as though he dreamed, too wrapt 
 in still great thoughts of his youth, when 
 the earth itself was young, to share the 
 worldlier joys of his neighbor, to be 
 aware of them, even himself to breathe 
 deeply. You feel in the presence of 
 these trees as you would feel in the 
 presence of a kindly and benignant sage, 
 too occupied with larger things to enter 
 fully into your little affairs, but well dis 
 posed in the wisdom of clear spiritual 
 insight. 
 
 This combination of dignity, immobil 
 ity, and a certain serene detachment has 
 on me very much the same effect as 
 does a mountain against the sky. It is 
 quite unlike the impression made by any 
 other tree, however large, and is lovable. 
 
 We entered the Giant Forest by a 
 trail that climbed. Always we entered 
 desirable places by trails that climbed 
 or dropped. Our access to paradise 
 was never easy. About half-way up we 
 met five pack-mules and two men com 
 ing down. For some reason, unknown, 
 
 I suspect, even to the god of chance, 
 our animals behaved themselves, and 
 walked straight ahead in a beautiful 
 dignity, while those weak-minded mules 
 scattered and bucked and scraped under 
 trees and dragged back on their halters 
 when caught. The two men cast on us 
 malevolent glances as often as they were 
 able, but spent most of their time swear 
 ing and running about. We helped 
 them once or twice by heading off, but 
 were too thankfully engaged in treading 
 lightly over our own phenomenal peace 
 to pay much attention. Long after we 
 had gone on, we caught bursts of rum 
 pus ascending from below. Shortly we 
 came to a comparatively level country, 
 and a little meadow, and a rough sign 
 which read 
 
 " Feed 20c. a night." 
 
 Just beyond this extortion was the 
 Giant Forest. 
 
 We entered it toward the close of the 
 afternoon, and rode on after our wonted 
 time looking for feed at less than twenty 
 cents a night. The great trunks, fluted 
 like marble columns, blackened against 
 the western sky. As they grew huger, 
 we seemed to shrink, until we moved 
 fearful as prehistoric man must have 
 moved among the forces over which he 
 had no control. We discovered our 
 feed in a narrow " stringer " a few miles 
 on. That night we, pygmies, slept in 
 the setting before which should have 
 stridden the colossi of another age. 
 Perhaps eventually, in spite of its mag 
 nificence and wonder, we were a little 
 glad to leave the Giant Forest. It held 
 us too rigidly to a spiritual standard of 
 which our normal lives were incapable ; 
 it insisted on a loftiness of soul, a dig 
 nity, an aloofness from the ordinary 
 affairs of life, the ordinary occupations 
 of thought, hardly compatible with the 
 powers of any creature less noble, less 
 aged, less wise in the passing of cen 
 turies, than itself. 
 
 XIX On Cowboys 
 
 Your cowboy is a species variously 
 subdivided. If you happen to be trav 
 eled as to the wild countries, you will 
 be able to recognize whence your chance 
 
 acquainta-nce hails by the kind of saddle 
 he rides, and the rigging. of it; by the 
 kind of rope he throws, and the method 
 of the throwing; by the shape of hat 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 83 
 
 he wears ; by his twist of speech ; even 
 by the very manner of his riding. Your 
 California " vaquero " from the Coast 
 Ranges is as unlike as possible to your 
 Texas cowman, and both differ from 
 the Wyoming or South Dakota article. 
 I should be puzzled to define exactly 
 the habitat of the " typical " cowboy. 
 No matter where you go, you will find 
 your individual acquaintance varying 
 from the type in respect to some of the 
 minor details. 
 
 Certain characteristics run through 
 the whole tribe, however. Of these 
 some are so well known or have been so 
 adequately done elsewhere that it hardly 
 seems wise to elaborate on them here. 
 Let us assume that you and I know 
 what sort of human beings cowboys are 
 with all their taciturnity, their surface 
 gravity, their keen sense of humor, their 
 courage, their kindness, their freedom, 
 their lawlessness, theirfoulness of mouth, 
 and their supreme skill in the handling 
 of horses and cattle. I shall try to tell 
 you nothing of all that. 
 
 If one thinks down doggedly to the 
 last analysis, he will find that the basic 
 reason for the differences between a 
 cowboy and other men rests finally on 
 an individual liberty, a freedom from 
 restraint either of society or convention, 
 a lawlessness, an accepting of his own 
 standard alone. He is absolutely self- 
 poised and sufficient; and that self- 
 poise and that sufficiency he takes pains 
 to assure first of all. After their assur 
 ance he is willing to enter into human 
 relations. His attitude toward every 
 thing in life is, not suspicious, but 
 watchful. He is " gathered together," 
 his elbows at his side. 
 
 This evidences itself most strikingly 
 in his terseness of speech. A man de 
 pendent on himself naturally does not 
 give himself away to the first comer. 
 He is more interested in finding out 
 what the other fellow is than in exploit 
 ing his own importance. A man who 
 does much promiscuous talking he is 
 likely to despise, arguing that man in 
 cautious, hence weak. 
 
 Yet when he does talk, he talks to 
 the point and with a vivid and direct 
 picturesqueness of phrase which is as 
 refreshing as it is unexpected. The 
 
 delightful remodeling of the English 
 language in Mr. Alfred Lewis's " Wolf- 
 ville " is exaggerated only in quantity, 
 not in quality. No cowboy talks habitu 
 ally in quite as original a manner as 
 Mr. Lewis's Old Cattleman ; but I have 
 no doubt that in time he would be heard 
 to say all the good things in that volume. 
 I myself have note-books full of just 
 such gorgeous language, some of the 
 best of which I have used elsewhere, 
 and so will not repeat here. 1 
 
 This vividness manifests itself quite 
 as often in the selection of the apt word 
 as in the construction of elaborate 
 phrases with a half-humorous intention. 
 A cowboy once told me of the arrival 
 of a tramp by saying, " He sifted into 
 camp." Could any verb be more ex 
 pressive? Does not it convey exactly 
 the lazy, careless, out-at-heels shuffling 
 gait of the hobo ? Another in the course 
 of description told of a saloon scene, 
 " They all bellied up to the bar." Again, 
 a range cook, objecting to purposeless 
 idling about his fire, shouted : " If you 
 fellows come moping around here any 
 more, /'// sure make you hard to catch ! 
 " Fish in that pond, son ? Why, there's 
 some fish in there big enough to rope," 
 another advised me. " I quit shovel 
 ing," one explained the story of his life, 
 " because I couldn't see nothing ahead 
 of shoveling but dirt." The same man 
 described plowing as " looking at a 
 mule's tail all day." And one of the 
 most succinct epitomes of the motifs of 
 fiction was offered by an old fellow who 
 looked over my shoulder as I was read 
 ing a novel. " Well, son," said he, 
 " what they doing now, kissing or kill 
 ing ? 
 
 Nor are the complete phrases behind 
 in aptness. I have space for only a few 
 examples, but they will illustrate what I 
 mean. Speaking of a companion who 
 was " putting on too much dog," I was 
 infprmed, " He walks like a man with a 
 new suit of wooden underwear !" Or, 
 again, in answer to my inquiry as to a 
 mutual acquaintance, " Jim ? Oh, poor 
 old Jim ! For the last week or so he's 
 been nothing but an insignificant atom 
 of humanity hitched to a boil." 
 
 J See especially Jackson H 
 Trail ; and " The Rawhide." 
 
 Himes in " The Blazed 
 
86 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [3 September 
 
 "Hoi' on!" he babbled. " I take 
 him off;" and he scrambled over the 
 fence and approached the cow. 
 
 Now, cattle of any sort rush at the 
 first object they see after getting to their 
 feet. But whereas a steer makes a blind 
 run and so can be avoided, a cow keeps 
 her eyes open. Sang approached that 
 wild-eyed cow, a bland smile on his 
 countenance. 
 
 A dead silence fell. Looking about 
 at my companions' faces, I could not 
 discern even in the depths of their eyes 
 a single faint flicker of human interest. 
 
 Sang loosened the rope from the hind 
 leg, he threw it from the horns, he 
 slapped the cow with his hat, and uttered 
 the shrill Chinese yell. So far all was 
 according to programme. 
 
 The cow staggered to her feet, her 
 eyes blazing fire. She took one good 
 look, and then started for Sang. 
 
 What followed occurred with all the 
 briskness of a tune from a circus band. 
 Sang darted for the corral fence. Now, 
 three sides of the corral were railed, 
 and so climbable, but the fourth was a 
 solid adobe wall. Of course Sang went 
 for the wall. There, finding his nails 
 would not stick, he fled down the length 
 of it, his queue streaming, his eyes 
 popping, his talons curved toward an 
 ideal of safety, gibbering strange monkey 
 talk, pursued a scant arm's length be 
 hind by that infuriated cow. Did any 
 one help him ? Not any. Every man 
 of that crew was hanging weak from 
 laughter to the horn of his saddle or 
 the top of the fence. The preternatural 
 solemnity had broken to little bits. 
 Men came running from the bunk-house, 
 only to go into spasms outside, to roll 
 over and over on the ground, clutching 
 handfuls of herbage in the agony of 
 their delight. 
 
 At the end of the corral was a narrow 
 chute. Into this Sang escaped as into 
 a burrow. The cow came too. Sang, 
 in desperation, seized a pole, but the 
 cow dashed such a feeble weapon aside. 
 Sang caught sight of a little opening, 
 too small for cows, back into the main 
 corral. He squeezed through. The cow 
 crashed through after him, smashing the 
 boards. At the crucial moment Sang 
 tripped and fell on his face. The cow 
 
 missed him by so close a margin that 
 for a moment we thought she had hit 
 But she had not, and before she could 
 turn Sang had topped the fence and was 
 half-way to the kitchen. Tom Waters 
 always maintained that he spread his 
 Chinese sleeves and flew. Shortly after 
 a tremendous smoke arose from the 
 kitchen chimney. Sang had gone back 
 to cooking. 
 
 Now that Mongolian was really in 
 great danger, but no one of the outfit 
 thought for a moment of any but the 
 humorous aspect of the affair. Analo 
 gously, in a certain small cow town I 
 happened to be transient when the post 
 master shot a Mexican. Nothing was 
 done about it. The man went right on 
 being postmaster, but he had to set up 
 the drinks because he had hit the Mexi 
 can in the stomach. That was consid 
 ered a poor place to hit a man. 
 
 The entire town of Willcox knocked 
 off work for nearly a day to while away 
 the tedium of an enforced wait there on 
 my part. They wanted me to go fish 
 ing. One man offered a team, the other 
 a saddle-horse. All expended much elo 
 quence in directing me accurately, so 
 that I should be sure to find exactly the 
 spot where I could hang my feet over a 
 bank beneath which there were " a 
 plumb plenty of fish." Somehow or 
 other they raked out miscellaneous 
 tackle. But they were a little too eager. 
 I excused myself and hunted up a map. 
 Sure enough the lake was there, but it 
 had been dry since a previous geologi 
 cal period. The fish were undoubtedly 
 there too, but they were fossil fish. I 
 borrowed a pickax and shovel and 
 announced myself as ready to start. 
 
 Outside the principal saloon in one 
 town hung a gong. When a stranger 
 was observed to enter the saloon, that 
 gong was sounded. Then it behooved 
 him to treat those who came in answer 
 to the summons. 
 
 But when it comes to a case of real 
 hospitality or helpfulness, your cowboy 
 is there every time. You are welcome 
 to food and shelter without price, 
 whether he is at home or not. Only it 
 is etiquette to leave your name and 
 thanks pinned somewhere about the 
 place. Otherwise your intrusion may 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 87 
 
 be considered in the light of a theft, 
 and you may be pursued accordingly. 
 
 Contrary to general opinion, the cow 
 boy is not a dangerous man to those not 
 looking for trouble. There are occa 
 sional exceptions, of course, but they 
 belong to the universal genus of bully, 
 and can be found among any class. 
 Attend to your own business, be cool 
 and good-natured, and your skin is 
 safe. Then when it is really " up to 
 you," be a man ; you will never lack for 
 friends. 
 
 The Sierras, especially towards the 
 south where the meadows are wide and 
 numerous, are full of cattle in small 
 bands. They come up from the desert 
 about the first of June, and are driven 
 back again to the arid countries as soon 
 as the autumn storms begin. In the 
 very high land they are few, and to be 
 left to their own devices ; but now we 
 entered a new sort of country. 
 
 Below Farewell Gap and the volcanic 
 regions one's surroundings change en 
 tirely. The meadows become high, flat 
 valleys, often miles in extent ; the moun 
 tains while registering big on the ane 
 roid are so. >Uttle elevated above the 
 plateaus that a few thousand feet is all 
 of their apparent height; the passes are 
 low, the slopes easy, the trails good, the 
 rock outcrops few, the hills grown with 
 forests to their very tops. Altogether 
 it is a country easy to ride through, 
 rich in grazing, cool and green, with its 
 eight thousand feet of elevation. Con 
 sequently during the hot months thou 
 sands of desert cattle are pastured here ; 
 and with them come many of the desert 
 men. 
 
 Our first intimation of these things 
 was in the volcanic region where swim 
 the golden trout. From the advantage 
 of a hill we looked far down to a hair- 
 grass meadow through which twisted 
 tortuously a brook, and by the side of 
 the brook, belittled by distance, was a 
 miniature man. We could see distinctly 
 his every movement, as he approached 
 cautiously the stream's edge, dropped 
 his short line at the end of a stick over 
 the bank, and then yanked bodily the 
 fish from beneath. Behind him stood 
 his pony. We could make out in the 
 clear air the coil of his rawhide " rope," 
 
 the glitter of his silver bit, the metal 
 points on his saddle skirts, the polish of 
 his six-shooter, the gleam of his fish, all 
 the details of his costume. Yet he was 
 fully a mile distant. After a time he 
 picked up his string of fish, mounted, 
 and jogged loosely away at the cow- 
 pony's little Spanish trot toward the 
 south. Over a week later, having caught 
 golden trout and climbed Mount Whit 
 ney, we followed him, and so came to 
 the great central camp at Monache 
 Meadows. 
 
 Imagine an island-dotted lake of grass 
 four or five miles long by two or three 
 wide, to which slope regular shores of 
 stony soil planted with trees. Imagine 
 on the very edge of that lake an espe 
 cially fine grove, perhaps a quarter of a 
 mile in length, beneath whose trees a 
 dozen different outfits of cowboys are 
 camped for the summer. You must place 
 a herd of ponies in the foreground, a 
 pine mountain at the back, an unbroken 
 ridge across ahead, cattle dotted here 
 and there, thousands of ravens wheeling 
 and croaking and flapping everywhere, 
 a marvelous clear sun and blue sky. 
 The camps were mostly open, though 
 a few possessed tents. They differed 
 from the ordinary in that they had racks 
 for saddles and equipments. Especially 
 well laid out were the cooking arrange 
 ments. A dozen accommodating springs 
 supplied fresh water with the conven 
 iently regular spacing of faucets. 
 
 Towards evening the men jingled in. 
 This summer camp was almost in the 
 nature of a vacation to them after the 
 hard work of the desert. All they had 
 to do was to ride about the pleasant 
 hills examining that the cattle did not 
 stray nor get into trouble. It was fun 
 for them, and they were in high spirits. 
 
 Our immediate neighbors were an old 
 man of seventy-two and his grandson of 
 twenty-five. At least the old man said 
 he was seventy-two. I should have 
 guessed fifty. He was as straight as an 
 arrow, wiry, lean, clear-eyed, and had, 
 without food, ridden twelve hours after 
 some strayed cattle. On arriving he 
 threw off his saddle, turned his horse 
 loose, and set about the construction of 
 supper. This consisted of boiled meat, 
 strong tea, and an incredible number of 
 
88 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [3 September 
 
 flapjacks built of water, baking-powder, 
 salt, and flour, warmed through not 
 cooked in a frying-pan. He deluged 
 these with molasses and devoured three 
 platefuls. It would have killed an 
 ostrich, but apparently did this decrepit 
 veteran of seventy-two much good. 
 
 After supper he talked to us most 
 interestingly in the dry cowboy manner, 
 looking at us keenly from under the 
 floppy brim of his hat. He confided to 
 us that he had had to quit smoking, and 
 it ground him he'd smoked since he 
 was five years old. 
 
 "Tobacco doesn't agree with you any 
 more ?" I hazarded. 
 
 " Oh, 'tain't that," he replied ; " only 
 I'd ruther chew." 
 
 The dark fell, and all the little camp- 
 fires under the trees twinkled bravely 
 forth. Some of the men sang. One 
 had an accordion. Figures, indistinct 
 and formless, wandered here and there 
 in the shadows, suddenly emerging from 
 mystery into the clarity of firelight, there 
 to disclose themselves as visitors. Out 
 on the plain the cattle lowed, the horses 
 nickered. The red firelight flashed from 
 the metal of suspended equipment, crim 
 soned the bronze of men's faces, touched 
 with pink the high lights on their grace 
 fully recumbent forms. After a while 
 we rolled up in our blankets and went 
 to sleep, while a band of coyotes wailed 
 like lost spirits from a spot where a steer 
 had died. 
 
 A Legatee of Lovelessness 
 
 By Owen Kildare 1 
 
 Author of " My Mamie Rose," etc. 
 
 AMONG the many unheard-of 
 things in the slums is the science 
 of genealogy. Owing to the 
 absence of the genealogical fad, the origin 
 and ancestry of the Kid were shrouded 
 in densest obscurity. Had it not been 
 for the racial mosaic in his features, the 
 accident of his birth would have passed 
 entirely without comment. But the com 
 posite effect of the formation, angle, and 
 coloring of his face was such that no 
 one could see it without feeling a desire 
 to " know all about it." 
 
 Questions like "Of what nationality 
 are you ?" " Where were you born ?" 
 " Who was your father ?" became so 
 frequent and monotonous that the Kid 
 fled at the approach of persons unknown 
 to him. 
 
 They of the neighborhood China 
 town and its immediate vicinity were 
 divided into two factions concerning the 
 
 1 Many of our readers have learned through Mr. 
 Kildare's book, " My Mamie Rose," the story of his 
 life. Born among the worst conditions of life on the 
 East Side of New York City, forced taught for himself 
 as a boy, he was at the age of thirty unat>le to read and 
 write, the associate of Bowery thugs and toughs, " a 
 lump of useless clay," as he himself expresses it. 
 Through the influence of a true, fine woman, he gained 
 education and a purpose in life, and has become a suc 
 cessful journalist and magazine writer. His stories of 
 East Side life are truthtul renderings of actual condi 
 tions, and have the power of realism and honest feel 
 ing. THE EDITORS. 
 
 Kid's classification. One half thought 
 it evident that the Kid was negro and 
 white, while the other half was just as 
 certain that he was Chinese and white. 
 The factions never got into heated con 
 troversies about this difference of opin 
 ion. They were content to " let it go at 
 that," and never 'lost any sleep over it." 
 
 The Kid's existence was so matter-of- 
 fact that he was the last to be bothered 
 by the shadow of the bar sinister. His 
 days were so taken up with the striving 
 after the attainable that he had no time 
 for unprofitable speculation. To balance 
 his life well was his aim. The prevail 
 ing tone of the locality was not against 
 work, but liked it best in small doses, 
 while viciousness was preferred to out- 
 and-out criminality. So, the Kid wanted 
 to strike a fair medium between having 
 to work and having to steal for a living. 
 
 To accomplish his purpose, the Kid 
 had to overcome many obstacles. But 
 the most severe handicap was that he 
 had to fight and stay entirely alone. 
 His racial legacy was answerable foi 
 this. 
 
 Children are gregarious. The Kid, 
 too, before he understood, had tried to 
 join the playing children on the smooth 
 asphalt pavement in Mott Street. His 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 131 
 
 some of its greatest blessings. We have 
 feared these uncouth and ignorant peas 
 ants because often we have not under 
 stood them, or their conditions, or their 
 history. The coming among us of men 
 like Adolfo Rossi, by making us see 
 
 that every problem has many sides, re 
 minds us also that all the world is kin. 
 
 Bearing this in mind, many of our 
 National problems will be simplified, for 
 they will be seen to be rather problems 
 in human nature. 
 
 The Mountains 1 
 
 By Stewart Edward White 
 
 Author of " The Forest," " The Blazed Trail," " The Silent Places," etc. 
 
 XX, -The Golden Trout 
 
 AFTER Farewell Gap, as has been 
 hinted, the country changes 
 utterly. Possibly that is why 
 it is named Farewell Gap. The land is 
 wild, weird, full of twisted trees, strangely 
 colored rocks, fantastic formations, bleak 
 mountains of slabs, volcanic cones, lava, 
 dry powdery soil or loose shale, close- 
 growing grasses, and strong winds. You 
 feel yourself in an upper world beyond 
 the normal, where only the freakish cold 
 things of nature, elsewhere crowded out, 
 find a home. Camp is under a lonely 
 tree, none the less solitary from the 
 fact that it has companions. The earth 
 beneath is characteristic of the treeless 
 lands, so that these seem to have been 
 stuck alien into it. There is no shel 
 ter save behind great fortuitous rocks. 
 Huge marmots run over the boulders, 
 like little bears. The wind blows strong. 
 The streams run naked under the eye of 
 the sun, exposing clear and yellow every 
 detail of their bottoms. In them there 
 are no deep, hiding-places, any more 
 than there is shelter in the land, and so 
 every fish that swims shows as plainly as 
 in an aquarium. 
 
 We saw them as we rode over the 
 hot, dry shale, among the hot and 
 twisted little trees. They lay against 
 the bottom, transparent ; they darted 
 away from the jar of our horses' hoofs ; 
 they swam slowly against the current, 
 delicate as liquid shadows, as though the 
 clear, uniform golden color of the bot 
 tom had clouded slightly to produce 
 these tenuous, ghostly forms. We exam 
 ined them curiously from the advantage 
 * Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 our slightly elevated trail gave us, and 
 knew them for the Golden Trout and 
 longed to catch some. 
 
 All that day our route followed in 
 general the windings of this unique 
 home of a unique fish. We crossed a 
 solid natural bridge ; we skirted fields 
 of red and black lava, vivid as poppies ; 
 we gazed, marveling, on perfect volcano 
 cones, long since extinct; finally we 
 camped on a side hill under two tall, 
 branchless trees, in about as bleak and 
 exposed a position as one could imagine. 
 Then, all three, we jointed our rods and 
 went forth to find out what the Golden 
 Trout was like. 
 
 I soon discovered a number of things, 
 as follows: The stream at this point, 
 near its source, is very narrow I could 
 step across it and flows beneath deep 
 banks. The Golden Trout is shy of 
 approach. The wind blows. Combin 
 ing these items of knowledge, I found 
 that it was no easy matter to cast forty 
 feet in a high wind so accurately as to 
 hit a three-foot stream a yard below the 
 level of the ground. In fact, the propo 
 sition was distinctly sporty; I became 
 as interested in it as in accurate target- 
 shooting, so that at last I forgot utterly 
 the intention- of my efforts and failed to 
 strike my first rise. The second, how 
 ever, I hooked, and in a moment had 
 him on the grass. 
 
 He was a little fellow of seven inches, 
 but mere size was nothing; the color 
 was the thing. And thzj was indeed 
 golden. I can liken it to nothing more 
 accurately than the twenty-dollar gold- 
 piece the same satin finish, the same 
 
132 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 pale yellow. The fish was fairly molten. 
 It did not glitter in gaudy burnishment, 
 as does our aquarium goldfish, for 
 example, but gleamed and melted and 
 glowed as though fresh from the mold. 
 One would almost expect that on cutting 
 the flesh it would be found golden 
 through all its substance. This for the 
 basic color. You must remember always 
 that it was a true trout, without scales, 
 and so the more satiny. Furthermore 
 along either side of the belly ran two 
 broad longitudinal stripes of exactly the 
 color and burnish of the copper paint 
 used on racing yachts. 
 
 I thought then, and have ever since, 
 that the Golden Trout, fresh from the 
 water, is one of the most beautiful fish 
 that swims. Unfortunately, it fades very 
 quickly, and so specimens in alcohol 
 can give no idea of it. In fact, I doubt 
 if you will ever be able to gain a very 
 clear idea of it unless you take to the 
 trail that leads up, under the end of 
 which is known technically as the High 
 Sierras. 
 
 The Golden Trout lives only in this 
 one stream, but occurs there in count 
 less multitudes. Every little pool, depres 
 sion, or rifrle has its school. When 
 not alarmed, they take the fly readily. 
 One afternooon I caught an even hun 
 dred in a little over an hour. By way 
 of parenthesis, it may be well to state 
 that most were returned unharmed to 
 the water. They run small a twelve- 
 inch fish is a monster but are of 
 extraordinary delicacy for eating. We 
 three devoured sixty-five that first eve 
 ning in camp. 
 
 Now, the following considerations 
 seem to me at this point worthy of note. 
 In the first place, the Golden Trout 
 occurs but in this one stream, and is 
 easily caught. At present the stream 
 is comparatively inaccessible, so that the 
 natural supply probably keeps even with 
 the season's catches. Still, the trail is 
 on the direct route to Mount Whitney, 
 and year by year the ascent of this " top 
 of the Republic " is becoming more the 
 proper thing to do. Every camping 
 party stops for a try at the Golden 
 Trout, and of course the fish- hog is a 
 sure occasional migrant. The cowboys 
 told of two who caught six hundred in a 
 
 day. As the certainly increasing tide of 
 summer immigration gains in volume, 
 the Golden Trout, in spite of his extraor 
 dinary numbers at present, is going to 
 be caught out. 
 
 Therefore, it seems the manifest duty 
 of the Fisheries to provide for the proper 
 protection and distribution of this spe 
 cies, especially the distribution. Hun 
 dreds of streams in the Sierras are with 
 out trout, simply because of some natural 
 obstruction, such as a waterfall too high 
 to jump, which prevents their ascent of 
 the current. These are all well adapted 
 to the planting of fish, and might just as 
 well be stocked by the Golden Trout as 
 by the customary Rainbow. Care should 
 be taken lest the two species become 
 hybridized, as has occurred following 
 certain misguided efforts in the South 
 Fork of the Kern. 
 
 So far as I know, but one attempt has 
 been made to transplant these fish. 
 About five or six years ago a man named 
 Grant carried some in pails across' to a 
 small lake near at hand. They have 
 done well, and, curiously enough, have 
 grown to a weight of from one and a 
 half to two pounds. This would seem 
 to show that their small size in Volcano 
 Creek results entirely from conditions of 
 feed or opportunity for development, and 
 that a study of proper environment 
 might result in a game fish to rival the 
 Rainbow in size, and certainly to sur 
 pass him in curious interest. 
 
 A great many well-meaning people 
 who have marveled at the abundance of 
 the Golden Trout in their natural habi 
 tat laugh at the idea that Volcano Creek 
 will ever become " fished out." To such 
 it should be pointed out that the fish in 
 question is a voracious feeder, is without 
 shelter, and quickly landed. A simple 
 calculation will show how many fish a 
 hundred moderate anglers, camping a 
 week apiece, would take out in a sea 
 son. And in a short time there will be 
 many more than a hundred, few of them 
 moderate, coming up into the mountains 
 to camp just as long as they have a good 
 time. All it needs is better trails, and 
 better traits are under way. Well-mean 
 ing people used to laugh at the idea that 
 the buffalo and wild pigeons would ever 
 disappear. They are gone. 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 183 
 
 his heart. When Walker reads from 
 his Bible, we are impatient with his halt 
 ing utterances. When Walker closes the 
 book, we forget our impatience at this 
 display of illiteracy, and, like his congre 
 gation, lose ourselves in his native elo 
 quence. 
 
 A funeral sermon that I once heard 
 him preach is vividly impressed upon 
 my mind. The " deceasted " sister 
 having been a member of one of the 
 societies, the funeral was under its 
 auspices, and they had turned out in 
 large numbers. Walker, through his 
 gold-rimmed spectacles, stumbles over 
 the resolutions passed by the society on 
 the death of their beloved sister. Then 
 begins his own eulogy. In a simple, 
 dignified way he reviews her life, em 
 phasizing her best traits of character as 
 shown in her relations with family, 
 friends, and church. He tells of her 
 work in the Society her numerous char 
 ities. Gradually the speaker's words 
 come more slowly, his tones more reso 
 nantly, and he pitches his voice in a 
 higher key. The departure of the soul 
 from its earthly home is graphically 
 described, her dying words repeated. 
 The mourners begin to weep you feel 
 yourself affected. The soul is received 
 " in the bosom of her Father." " Fur 
 one an' all ob us, my sistren, will come 
 a dayob reck'nin'." Now the speaker's 
 voice is rising and falling in melodious 
 cadence. The mourners are swaying 
 backward and forward : " Yes, Lord !" 
 they answer. Occasionally some one 
 crosses the church to sit beside an in 
 
 consolable friend or relation. One 
 young woman walks slowly around the 
 coffin, now leaning over it, now placing 
 her hands tenderly upon it. " I loved 
 you, auntie," she wails, " I loved you," 
 her voice keeping up the time and 
 melody of the preacher's, which uncon 
 sciously intones the old Baptist hymn, 
 " 'Way Over Jordan, Lord." The entire 
 audience is now expressing grief in tears 
 and moans and distressing cries. " An' 
 befo' de Jedgment Seat you come an' 
 you de Lord will hoi' his lookin'-glass 
 befo' yor face, an' you will say: ' Lord, 
 tak' dat glass awa', do, Lord, 'kase I ain't 
 got no good deeds to show you.' But, 
 my sistren, de Lord he gibs you one 
 mor' chance. Git up now at dis mos' 
 acceptable time an' mak' yo'selves wor 
 thy fur to be reflected in de Lord's big 
 lookin'-glass." 
 
 Up to this point Walker has accom 
 plished no more than scores of other 
 colored pastors gifted with a similar 
 genius for exhortation. Many, too, are 
 quite as skillful in taking advantage of 
 the auspicious moment when in this 
 highly emotional state the simple natures 
 of their people are particularly suscep 
 tible to lessons of thrift, economy, in 
 dustry, right conduct, and loyalty to their 
 church. But, unlike most religious lead 
 ers, Walker follows his congregation 
 out into the world of earning and spend 
 ing. Through social clubs and business 
 enterprises which touch them at every 
 side, on week-days as on Sundays, he 
 points the way to the larger possibilities 
 of the individual and the race. 
 
 The Mountains 1 
 
 By Stewart Edward White 
 
 Author of " The Forest," " The Blazed Trail," " The Silent Places," etc. 
 
 XXI On Going Out 
 
 THE last few days of your stay in 
 the wilderness you will be con- 
 sumedly anxious to get out. It 
 does not matter how much of a savage 
 you are, how good a time you are hav 
 ing, or how long you have been away 
 
 i Copyright, 1904, by the Outlook Company. 
 
 from civilization. Nor does it mean 
 especially that you are glad to leave the 
 wilds. Merely does it come about that 
 you drift unconcernedly on the stream 
 of days until you approach the brink of 
 departure ; then irresistibly the current 
 hurries you into haste. The last day of 
 your week's vacation ; the last three of 
 
184 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [3 September 
 
 your month's or your summer's or your 
 year's outing these comprise the hours 
 in which by a mighty but invisible 
 transformation your mind forsakes its 
 savagery, epitomizes again the courses 
 of social evolution, regains the poise and 
 cultivation of the world of men. Before 
 that you have been content ; yes, and 
 would have gone on being content for 
 as long as you please until the approach of 
 the limit you have set for your wandering. 
 
 In effect this transformation from the 
 state of savagery to the state of civili 
 zation is very abrupt When you leave 
 the towns, your clothes and mind are 
 new. Only gradually do they take on 
 the color of their environment; only 
 gradually do the subtle influences of the 
 great forest steal in on your dulled 
 faculties to flow over them in a tide that 
 rises imperceptibly. You glide as gently 
 from the artificial to the natural life as 
 do the forest shadows from night to day. 
 But at the other end the affair is differ 
 ent. There you awake on the appointed 
 morning in complete resumption of your 
 old attitude of mind. The tide of nature 
 has slipped away from you in the night. 
 
 Then you arise and do the most won 
 derful of your wilderness traveling. On 
 those days you look back fondly, of them 
 you boast afterwards in telling what a 
 rapid and enduring voyager you are. 
 The biggest day's journey I ever under 
 took was in just such a case. We started 
 at four in the morning through a forest 
 of the early springtime, where the trees 
 were glorious overhead, but the walking 
 ankle deep. On our backs were thirty- 
 pound burdens. We walked steadily 
 until three in the afternoon, by which 
 time we had covered thirty miles and 
 had arrived at what then represented 
 civilization to us. Of the nine who 
 started, two Indians finished an hour 
 ahead ; the half-breed, Billy, and I stag 
 gered in together, encouraging each 
 other by words concerning the bottle of 
 beer we were going to buy ; and the 
 five white men never got in at all until 
 after nine o'clock that night. Neither 
 thirty miles, nor thirty pounds, nor ankle- 
 deep slush sounds formidable when con 
 sidered as abstract and separate prop 
 ositions. 
 
 In your first glimpse ot the civilized 
 
 peoples your appearance in your own 
 eyes will undergo the same instantane 
 ous and tremendous revulsion that has 
 already taken place in your mental 
 sphere. Heretofore you have consid 
 ered yourself as a decently well appoint 
 ed gentleman of the woods. Ten to 
 one, in contrast to the voluntary or 
 enforced simplicity of the professional 
 woodsman you have looked on your 
 little luxuries of carved leather hat-band, 
 fancy knife-sheath, pearl-handled six- 
 shooter, or khaki breeches as giving you 
 slightly the air of a forest exquisite. 
 But on that depot platform or in pres 
 ence of that staring group on the steps 
 of the Pullman, you suddenly discover 
 yourself to be nothing less than a dis 
 grace to your bringing up. Nothing 
 could be more evident than the flop of 
 your hat, the faded, dusty appearance 
 of your blue shirt, the beautiful black 
 polish of your khakis, the grime of your 
 knuckles, the three days' beard of your 
 face. If you are a fool, you worry about 
 it. If you are a sensible man, you do 
 not mind and you prepare for amusing 
 adventures. 
 
 The realization of your external un- 
 worthiness, however, brings to your heart 
 the desire for a hot bath in a porcelain 
 tub. You gloat over the thought ; and 
 when the dream comes to be a reality, you 
 soak away in as voluptuous a pleasure 
 as ever falls to the lot of man to enjoy. 
 Then you shave, and array yourself 
 minutely and preciously in clean clothes 
 from head to toe, building up a new 
 respectability, and you leave scornfully 
 in a heap your camping garments. They 
 have heretofore seemed clean, but now 
 you would not touch them, no, not even 
 to put them in the soiled-clothes basket, 
 let your feminines rave as they may. 
 And for at least two days you prove an 
 almost childish delight in mere raiment. 
 
 But before you can reach this blissful 
 stage you have still to order and enjoy 
 your first civilized dinner. It tastes 
 good, not because your camp dinners 
 have palled on you, but because your 
 transformation demands its proper ali 
 ment. Fortunate indeed you are if you 
 step directly to a transcontinental train 
 or into the streets of a modern town. 
 Otherwise the transition through the 
 
1904] 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 185 
 
 small-hotel provender is apt to offer too 
 little contrast for the fullest enjoyment. 
 But aboard the dining-car or in the cafe 
 you will gather to yourself such ill- 
 assorted succulence as thick, juicy beef 
 steaks, and creamed macaroni, and 
 sweet potatoes, and pie, and red wine, 
 and real cigars and other things. 
 
 In their acquisition your appearance 
 will tell against you. We were once 
 watched anxiously by a nervous female 
 head waiter who at last mustered up 
 courage enough to inform me that guests 
 were not allowed to eat without coats. 
 We politely pointed out that we pos 
 sessed no such garments. After a long 
 consultation with the proprietor she told 
 us it was all right for this time, but that 
 we must not do it again. At another 
 place I had to identify myself as a re 
 sponsible person by showing a picture 
 in a magazine bought for the purpose. 
 
 The public never will know how to 
 take you. Most of it treats you as 
 though you were a two-dollar-a-day 
 laborer ; some of the more astute are 
 puzzled. One February I walked out 
 of the North Country on snowshoes, and 
 stepped directly into a Canadian Pacific 
 transcontinental train. I was clad in 
 fur cap, vivid blanket coat, corded 
 trousers, German stockings and moc 
 casins ; and my only baggage was the 
 pair of snowshoes. It was the season of 
 light travel. A single Englishman tour 
 ing the world as the crow flies occupied 
 the car. He looked at me so askance 
 that I made an opportunity of talking to 
 him. I should like to read his " Travels " 
 to see what he made out of the riddle. 
 In similar circumstances, and without 
 explanation, I had fun talking French 
 and swapping boulevard reminiscences 
 with a member of a Parisian theatrical 
 troupe making a long jump through 
 northern Wisconsin. And once, at six 
 of the morning, letting myself into my 
 own house with a latch-key, and sitting 
 down to read the paper until the family 
 awoke, I was nearly brained by the 
 butler. He supposed me a belated bur 
 glar, and had armed himself with the 
 poker. The most flattering experience 
 of the kind was voiced by a small urchin 
 who plucked at his mother's sleeve : 
 " Look, mamma 1" he exclaimed in 
 
 guarded but jubilant tones, " there's a 
 real Indian 1" 
 
 Our last camp of this summer was 
 built and broken in the full leisure of at 
 least a three weeks' expectation. We 
 had traveled south from the Golden 
 Trout through the Toowah range. 
 There we had viewed wonders which I 
 cannot expect you to believe in such 
 as a spring of warm water in which you 
 could bathe, and from which you could 
 reach to dip up a cup of carbonated 
 water on the right hand, or cast a fly 
 into a trout stream on the left. At 
 length we entered a high meadow in the 
 shape of a Maltese cross, with pine 
 slopes about it, and springs of water 
 welling in little humps of green. There 
 the long pine needles were extraordinarily 
 thick and the pine cones exceptionally 
 large. The former we scraped together 
 to the depth of three feet for a bed in 
 the lea of a fallen trunk ; the latter we 
 gathered in armf uls to pile on the camp 
 fire. Next morning we rode down a 
 mile or so through the grasses, exclaimed 
 over the thousands of mountain quail 
 buzzing from the creek bottoms, gazed 
 leisurely up at our well-known pines and 
 about at the grateful coolness of our 
 accustomed green meadows and leaves ; 
 and then, as though we had crossed a 
 threshold, we emerged into chaparral, 
 dry, loose shale, yucca, Spanish bayonet, 
 heated air and the bleached, burned out, 
 furnace-like country of arid California 
 in midsummer. The trail dropped down 
 through sage-brush, just as it always did 
 in the California we had known ; the 
 mountains rose with the fur-like dark 
 olive effect of the coast ranges ; the sun 
 beat hot. We had left the enchanted 
 land. 
 
 The trail was very steep and very 
 long, and took us finally into the country 
 of dry brown grasses, gray brush, water 
 less stony ravines, and dust. Others 
 had traveled that trail, headed the other 
 way, and evidently had not liked it. 
 Empty bottles blazed the path. Some 
 body had sacrificed a pack of playing- 
 cards, which he had stuck on thorns 
 from time to time, each inscribed with a 
 blasphemous comment on the discom 
 forts of such travel. After an appar 
 ently interminable interval we crossed 
 
186 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [17 September 
 
 an irrigating ditch, where the horses 
 were glad to water, and so came to one 
 of those green flowering lush California 
 villages so startlmgly in contrast to their 
 surroundings. 
 
 By this it was two o'clock, and we had 
 traveled on horseback since four. A 
 variety of circumstances learned at the 
 village made it imperative that both the 
 Tenderfoot and myself should go out 
 without the delay of a single hour. This 
 left Wes to bring the horses home, which 
 was tough on Wes, but he rose nobly to 
 the occasion. 
 
 When the dust of our rustling cleared, 
 we found we had acquired a team of 
 wild broncos, a buckboard, an elderly 
 gentleman with a white goatee, two bot 
 tles of beer, some crackers and some 
 cheese. With these we hoped to reach 
 the railroad shortly after midnight. 
 
 The elevation was five thousand feet, 
 the road dusty and hot, the country unin 
 teresting in sage-brush and alkali and 
 rattlesnakes and general dryness. Con 
 stantly we drove, checking off the land 
 marks in the good old fashion. Our 
 driver had immigrated from Maine the 
 year before, and by some chance had 
 drifted straight to the arid regions. He 
 was vastly disgusted. At every particu 
 larly atrocious dust-hole or unlovely 
 cactus strip he spat into space, and 
 remarked in tones of bottomless con 
 tempt : 
 
 " tau-t\-iu\ Cal-if-or-nia 1" 
 
 This was evidently intended as a quo 
 tation. 
 
 Towards sunset we ran up into 
 rounded hills, where we got out at every 
 rise in order to ease the horses, and 
 where we hurried the old gentleman 
 beyond the limits of his Easterner's 
 caution at every descent. 
 
 It grew dark. Dimly the road showed 
 gray in the twilight. We did not know 
 how far exactly we were to go, but 
 imagined that sooner or later we would 
 top one of the small ridges to look across 
 one of the broad plateau plains to the 
 lights of our station. You see, we had 
 forgotten, in the midst of flatness, that 
 we were still over five thousand feet up. 
 Then the road felt its way between two 
 hills ; and the blackness of night opened 
 below us as well as above, and from 
 
 some deep and tremendous abyss 
 breathed the winds of space. 
 
 It was as dark as a cave, for the moon 
 was yet two hours below the horizon. 
 Somehow the trail turned to the right 
 along that tremendous cliff. We thought 
 we could make out its direction, the dim 
 ness of its glimmering ; but equally well, 
 after we had looked a moment, we could 
 imagine it one way or another, to right 
 and left. I went ahead to investigate. 
 The trail to left proved to be the faint 
 reflection of a clump of " old man " at 
 least five hundred feet down ; that to 
 right was a burned patch sheer against 
 the rise of the cliff. 'We started on the 
 middle way. 
 
 There were turns-in where a continu 
 ance straight ahead would require an 
 airship or a coroner ; again turns-out 
 where the direct line would telescope 
 you against the State of California. 
 These we could make out by straining 
 our eyes. The horses plunged and 
 snorted ; the buckboard leaped. Fire 
 flashed from the impact of steel against 
 rock, momentarily blinding us to what 
 we should see. Always we descended 
 into the velvet blackness of the abyss, 
 the canon walls rising steadily above us 
 shutting out even the dim illumination 
 of the stars. From time to time our 
 driver, desperately scared, jerked out 
 cheering bits of information. 
 
 '" My eyes ain't what they was. For 
 the Lord's sake keep a-lookin', boys." 
 
 " That nigh hoss is deef. There don't 
 seem to be no use saying whoa to her." 
 
 " Them brakes don't hold fer sour 
 peanuts. I been figgerin' on tackin' on 
 a new shoe for a week." 
 
 " I never was over this road but onct, 
 and then I was headed th' other way. 
 I was driving of a corpse." 
 
 Then, after two hours of it, bing / 
 bang! smash! our tongue collided with 
 a sheer black wall, no blacker than the 
 atmosphere before it. .The trail here 
 took a sharp V turn to the left. We 
 had left the face of the precipice and 
 henceforward would descend the bed of 
 the canon. Fortunately, our collision 
 had done damage to nothing but our 
 nerves, so we proceeded to do- so. 
 
 The walls of the crevice rose thou 
 sands of feet above us. They seemed to 
 
19041 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 187 
 
 close together, like the sides of a tent, 
 to leave only a narrow pale lucent strip 
 of'sky. The trail was quite invisible, 
 and even the sense of its existence was 
 lost when we traversed groves of trees. 
 One of us had to run ahead of the 
 horses, determining its general direction, 
 locating the sharper turns. The rest 
 depended on the instinct of the horses 
 and pure luck. 
 
 It was pleasant in the cool of night 
 thus to run down through the blackness, 
 shouting aloud to guide our followers, 
 swinging to the slope, bathed t9 the soul 
 in mysteries of which we had no time to 
 take cognizance. 
 
 By and by we saw a little spark far 
 ahead of us like a star. The smell of fresh 
 wood smoke and stale damp fire came 
 to our nostrils. We gained the star and 
 found it to be a log smoldering ; and up 
 the hill other stars red as blood. So we 
 knew that we had crossed the zone of 
 an almost extinct forest fire, and looked 
 on the scattered camp-fires of an army 
 of destruction. 
 
 The moon rose. We knew it by 
 touches of white light on peaks infinitely 
 far above us ; not at all by the relieving 
 of the heavy velvet blackness in which 
 we moved. After a time, I, running 
 ahead in my turn, became aware of the 
 deep breathing of animals. I stopped 
 short and called a warning. Immedi 
 ately a voice answered me. 
 
 " Come on, straight ahead. They're 
 not on the road." 
 
 When within five feet I made out the 
 huge freight wagons in which were lying 
 the teamsters, and very dimly the big 
 freight mules standing tethered to the 
 wheels. 
 
 " It's a dark night, friend, and you're 
 out late." 
 
 " A dark night," I agreed, and plunged 
 on. Behind me rattled and banged the 
 abused buckboard, snorted the half-wild 
 broncos, groaned the unrepaired brake, 
 softly cursed my companions. 
 
 Then at once the abrupt descent 
 ceased. We glided out to the silvered 
 flat, above which sailed the moon. 
 
 The hour was seen to be half past 
 one. We had missed our train. Noth 
 ing was visible of human habitations. 
 The land was frosted with the moonlight, 
 
 enchanted by it, etherealized. Behind 
 us, huge and formidable, loomed the 
 black mass of the range we had de 
 scended. Before us, thin as smoke in 
 the magic lucence that flooded the world, 
 rose other mountains, very great, lofty 
 as the sky. We could not understand 
 them. The descent we had just accom 
 plished should have landed us on a level 
 plain in which lay our town. But here 
 we found ourselves in a pocket valley 
 entirely surrounded by mountain ranges 
 through which there seemed to be no 
 pass less than five or six thousand feet 
 in height. 
 
 We reined in the horses to figure it 
 out. 
 
 " I don't see how it can be," said I. 
 " We've certainly come far enough. It 
 would take us four hours at the very 
 least to cross that range, even if the 
 railroad should happen to be on the 
 other side of it." 
 
 " I been through here only once," 
 repeated the driver " going the other 
 way. Then I drew a corpse." He spat, 
 and added as an afterthought, " Beau-i\- 
 ful Cal-if-or-nia !" 
 
 We stared at the mountains that 
 hemmed us in. They rose above us 
 sheer and forbidding. In the bright 
 moonlight plainly were to be descried 
 the brush of the foothills, the timber, 
 the fissures, the canons, the granites, 
 and the everlasting snows. 
 
 Almost we thought to make out a 
 mere thread of a water-fall high up 
 where the clouds would be if the night 
 had not been clear. 
 
 " We got off the trail somewhere," 
 hazarded the Tenderfoot. 
 
 ' Well, we're on a road, anyway," I 
 pointed out to him. " It's bound to go 
 somewhere. We might as well give up 
 the railroad and find a place to turn in." 
 
 " It can't be far," encouraged the 
 Tenderfoot ; " this valley can't be more 
 than a few miles across." 
 
 " Gi-dap ?" remarked the driver. 
 
 We moved forward down the white 
 wagon trail approaching the mountains. 
 And then we were witnesses of the most 
 marvelous transformation. For as we 
 neared them, those impregnable moun 
 tains, as though panic-stricken by our 
 advance, shrunk back, dissolved, dwin- 
 
188 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [17 September 
 
 died, went to pieces. Where had tow 
 ered ten-thousand-foot peaks, perfect in 
 the regular succession from timber to 
 snow, now were little flat hills on which 
 grew tiny bushes of sage. A passage 
 opened between them. In a hundred 
 yards we had gained the open country, 
 leaving behind us the mighty but unreal 
 necromancies of the moon. 
 
 Before us gleamed red and green 
 
 lights. The mass of houses showed 
 half distinguishable. A feeble glimmer 
 illuminated part of a white sign above 
 the depot. That which remained invis 
 ible was evidently the name of the town. 
 That which was revealed was the supple 
 mentary information which the Southern 
 Pacific furnishes to its patrons. It read : 
 " Elevation 482 feet." We were defi 
 nitely out of the mountains. 
 
 XXIL The Lure of the Trail 
 
 THE trail's call depends not at all 
 on your common sense. You 
 know you are a fool for answer 
 ing it; and yet you go. The comforts 
 of civilization, to put the case on its 
 lowest plane, are not lightly to be re 
 nounced : the ease of having your physi 
 cal labor done for you ; the joy of culti 
 vated minds, of theaters, of books, of 
 participation in the world's progress; 
 these you leave behind you. And in 
 exchange you enter a life where there is 
 much long hard work of the hands 
 work that is really hard and long, so 
 that no man paid to labor would con 
 sider it for a moment ; you undertake to 
 eat simply, to endure much, to lie on 
 the rack of anxiety ; you voluntarily 
 place yourself where cold, wet, hunger, 
 thirst, heat, monotony, danger, and many 
 discomforts will wait upon you daily. 
 A thousand times in the course of a 
 woods life even the stoutest-hearted will 
 tell himself softly very softly if he is 
 really stout-hearted, so that others may 
 not be annoyed that if ever the fates 
 permit him to extricate himself he will 
 never venture again. 
 
 These times come when long continu 
 ance has worn on the spirit. You beat 
 all day to windward against the tide 
 toward what should be but an hour's 
 sail : the sea is high and the spray cold ; 
 there are sunken rocks, and food there 
 is none ; chill gray evening draws dan 
 gerously near, and there is a foot of 
 water in the bilge. You have swallowed 
 your tongue twenty times on the alkali ; 
 and the sun is melting hot, and the dust 
 dry and pervasive, and there is no water, 
 and for all your effort the relative dis 
 tances seem to remain the same for 
 
 days. You have carried a pack until 
 your every muscle is strung white-hot ; 
 the woods are breathless; the black 
 flies swarm persistently and bite until 
 your face is covered with blood. You 
 have struggled through clogging snow 
 until each time you raise your snowshoe 
 you feel as though some one had stabbed 
 a little sharp knife into your groin ; it has 
 come to be night ; the mercury is away 
 below zero, and with aching fingers you 
 are to prepare a camp which is only an 
 anticipation of many more such camps 
 in the ensuing days. For a week it has 
 rained, so that you, pushing through the 
 dripping brush, are soaked and sodden 
 and comfortless, and the bushes have 
 become horrible to your shrinking goose- 
 flesh. Or you are just plain tired out, 
 not from a single day's fatigue, but from 
 the gradual exhaustion of a long hike. 
 Then in your secret soul you utter these 
 sentiments : 
 
 "You are a fool. This is not fun. 
 There is no real reason why you should 
 do this. If you ever get out of here, 
 you will stick right home where common 
 sense flourishes, my son !" 
 
 Then after a time you do get out, and 
 are thankful. But in three months you 
 will have proved in your own experience 
 the following axiom I should call it 
 the widest truth the wilderness has to 
 teach : 
 
 " In memory the pleasures of a camp 
 ing trip strengthen with time, and the 
 disagreeables weaken." 
 
 I don't care how hard an experience 
 you have had, nor how little of the pleas 
 ant has been mingled with it, in three 
 months your general impression of that 
 trip will be good. You will look back 
 
1904] 
 
 The Situation in Santo Domingo 
 
 189 
 
 on the hard times with a certain fond 
 ness of recollection. 
 
 I remember one trip I took in the 
 early spring following a long drive on 
 the Pine River. It rained steadily for 
 six days. We were soaked to the skin 
 all the time, ate standing up in the driv 
 ing downpour, and slept wet. So cold 
 was it that each morning our blankets 
 were so full of frost that they crackled 
 stiffly when we turned out. Dispassion 
 ately I can appraise that as about the 
 worst I ever got into. Yet as an im 
 pression the Pine River trip seems to 
 me a most enjoyable one. 
 
 So after you have been home for a 
 little while the call begins to make itself 
 heard. At first it is very gentle. But 
 little by little a restlessness seizes hold 
 of you. You do not know exactly what 
 is the matter : you are aware merely 
 that your customary life has lost savor, 
 that you are doing things more or less 
 perfunctorily, and that you are a little 
 
 more irritable than your naturally evil 
 disposition. And gradually it is borne 
 in on you exactly what is the matter. 
 Then say you to yourself : 
 
 " My son, you know better. You are 
 no tenderfoot. You have had too long 
 an experience to admit of any glamor of 
 indefiniteness about this thing. No use 
 bluffing. You know exactly how hard 
 you will have to work, and how much 
 tribulation you are going to get into, 
 and how hungry and wet and cold and 
 tired and generally frazzled out you are 
 going to be. You've been there enough, 
 times so it's pretty clearly impressed on 
 you. You go into this thing with your 
 eyes open. You know what you're in 
 for. You're pretty well off right here, 
 and you'd be a fool to go." 
 
 " That's right," says yourself to you. 
 " You're dead right about it, old man. 
 Do you know where we can get another 
 pack-mule ?" 
 
 THE END 
 
 The Situation in Santo Domingo 
 
 By Sigmund Krausz 
 
 AGAIN one of the protracted, 
 bloody periods of unrest and 
 open revolution which for years 
 have made Santo Domingo a veritable 
 hell for its population, and a standing 
 menace to the peaceable relations of the 
 United States with some of the Euro 
 pean powers, has apparently come to an 
 end. The last of the turmoils a long 
 and bitter fight between Generals Jim 
 enez and Morales is over, leaving the 
 latter in possession of the battlefield ; 
 and, for the moment at least, there is no 
 pretender to dispute or question his 
 supremacy. 
 
 This satisfactory result has been 
 brought about partly by the friendly 
 attitude of the neighboring Haytian gov 
 ernment, which allowed the landing on 
 its territory of Morales's troops to be 
 used against the little army of Jimenez 
 holding Monte Cristi, and partly by 
 the mediation of the commander of the 
 United States gunboat Detroit, stationed 
 in Dominican waters, who induced the 
 remnants of the revolutionary forces to 
 
 surrender to the provisional government 
 on certain conditions. 
 
 Since the achievement of this gratify 
 ing event Morales has, in due form, been 
 elected President of Santo Domingo, 
 with General Ramon Caceres in the 
 Vice-Presidential chair, and has sur 
 rounded himself with a staff of Cabinet 
 officers as good as can be found in a 
 country where, as a rule, every govern 
 ment official holds office for the purpose 
 of graft only. Reforms in this direction, 
 as well as in others, have been promised 
 by Morales, and his first message to the 
 " Congreso Nacional," dated June 19, 
 1904, a copy of which lies before me, 
 reiterates all the good intentions and 
 assurances expressed in a personal inter 
 view I had with him at Santo Domingo 
 City shortly before his regular election as 
 chief of the government. 
 
 Promises are made to be broken, and 
 a proverb says that the road to hell is 
 paved with good intentions, but it is to be 
 hoped that in the Morales case they will 
 lead to a haven of peace and prosperity, 
 
190 
 
 The Outlook 
 
 [J7 September 
 
 for there surely has been hell enough 
 in Santo Domingo ever since, in 1844, 
 it became an independent republic. 
 There is, in fact, good reason for a 
 favorable augury, for, since the assassi 
 nation of President Heureaux in 1899 
 Santo Domingo had no stronger man to 
 rule its destinies than its present chief, 
 who combines force of character with 
 more enlightened views than any of his 
 predecessors. This hope is further jus 
 tified by Morales having the advantage 
 of the moral support of the United 
 States, who in future will see to it that 
 no contraband of arms and ammunition, 
 on behalf of insurgents, are shipped to 
 the island from American ports. 
 
 It is, of course, impossible to prog 
 nosticate definitely that Morales will 
 succeed in safely steering his ship of 
 state between the many and dangerous 
 cliffs of official dishonesty, dissatisfac 
 tion of certain elements out of power, 
 foreign creditors, and'conditions imposed 
 by the Monroe Doctrine of the United 
 States ; and for this reason the person 
 ality of the present incumbent of the 
 presidential chair of Santo Domingo, 
 who, under certain conditions, may 
 usurpate dictatorial power, is of para 
 mount interest to the American people, 
 who, more than any other nation, aside 
 from the Dominicans themselves, are 
 concerned in the preservation of peace 
 and the development of civilization and 
 progress in the island. 
 
 Before discussing, however, Morales 
 himself, I desire to correct a few mis 
 taken impressions in regard to the coun 
 try and its people. 
 
 The common idea that the population 
 of Santo Domingo consists exclusively 
 of a horde of savages, and that the gen 
 erals and politicians causing the kalei 
 doscopic sequence of revolutions are of 
 the same class, and, without exception, 
 uneducated brutes and degenerates, is 
 quite erroneous, and has been created 
 for the sake of sensationalism, largely 
 by journalists and magazine writers 
 without personal knowledge of Domini 
 can conditions, or by native exiles who, 
 naturally, are always enemies of the 
 party in power. 
 
 This impression is so general in the 
 United States that even the editor of 
 
 one of the largest dailies in New York 
 City, with whom the writer conferred 
 about Santo Domingo, expressed himself 
 in regard to its population as " a horde 
 of naked niggers who have some sort of 
 a government, and whose chief occupa 
 tion is murdering each other in an effort 
 for the control of the offices." 
 
 While it is true that the vast majority 
 of the Dominican people in the interior 
 of the island live in a fearful state of 
 ignorance, superstition, and even bar 
 barism, caused by many decades of in 
 ternal warfare, there is, however, also a 
 class of natives who certainly ought not 
 to be thrown in the same pot with them. 
 These are the better citizens of the capi 
 tal and the larger coast towns, among 
 whom are many intelligent and educated 
 men who had the advantage of fairly 
 good schools and intercourse with for 
 eigners. 
 
 Among this class are a number who 
 have received all or part of their educa 
 tion abroad, who speak two or three 
 languages, and who, in their social inter 
 course and manners, may safely be pro 
 nounced gentlemen. They follow the 
 occupations of merchants, planters, law 
 yers, physicians, etc., and while, as a 
 rule, they keep aloof from politics, it is 
 from their strata of society that spring 
 most of the military and political lead 
 ers of Santo Domingo. 
 
 There are few of these men who, by 
 their appearance, betray the strain of 
 negro blood in them, and the type is 
 hardly distinguishable from that of Latin- 
 Americans in general. In fact, so much 
 has the colored blood been diluted in 
 the propagation of a couple of centuries 
 that the features of many of the higher 
 class of Dominicans often present almost 
 as pure a type as that of the proudest 
 Creoles of the West Indies, whose polite 
 ness and good manners they also fre 
 quently exhibit. 
 
 The Dominicans have often been ac 
 cused of lack of civic virtues, but there 
 is 'no doubt as to their patriotism, and a 
 people that possess this noble civic qual 
 ity should not be called altogether sav 
 age and barbaric. Their patriotism, 
 however, has manifested itself until now 
 in a wrong way, being largely directed 
 by unscrupulous leaders, who split the 
 
3$F 
 
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