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Sally's heart raced and choked her. He was alive then. But war had not changed him from the old careless, reckless bum-drifting. He had not even sent her a line. Had not made a sign. Sally was shamed. Shamed for the love that had offered itself to him and been refused.

Her business had grown. And her bank account. She wore imported gowns and had her hour set at the hairdresser's. She went to New York twice a year to buy stock and see style shows.

But Sally would have given it all to be the little Sally with her unspoiled dreams of the Duke. To have been his wife. No matter that he was worthless, no-account according to her standard. She would have forgiven anything but the fact that he never came back after she had offered him her love and herself.

Old Leonard stroked the strings of a drum, beating on its skin with his fingers, feeling out its voice. He had not been well of late, but he did not complain. Only,

"Drat the boy, he might have come home and told me how the war went. I wanted mightily to hear about it. Sally, did you and him have a row?"

"No, Leonard. We didn't quarrel. But the Duke is no good. There was no use going on."

"Sally, when I was young we didn't figure so much about things as young folks does now. We fell in love first and that was the end of it. We fell in pretty often them days, sometimes when we shouldn't. But if there was a sting to it, we had memories. There comes a time, Sally, when the fire dies down and the blood thins. And you'd wonder if ye knew, how thinkin' of old times and old loves, warms a body. An' girls ye'd kissed, and laughin' an' foolin' -I wouldn't have missed a one of them. I've been wonderin' what a woman does in after years if she's had no lovin' in her youth. I've wondered too, if ever was a man without a string of such memories, like button-charm strings the girls make. He was fond of ye, Sally. He used to come often."

Sally listened. The frogs piped from the creek. An owl hooted from the woods.

"Sally, if ye was to ask him if he'd come back, ye might make somethin' of him. 'Twon't be long afore I'm leavin' the work bench and the tools and he


could make drums. He's smart if he tries. Maybe if ye was to put it that way. 'Here's Dad's workshop' says you,' An' here's my kiss. Come along wtih me. Maybe if ye was to put it that way, Sally—"

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be for his sake the Duke would come back. There was her own longing, her hunger for his kiss. Was she always to go hungry, knowing what lay in the cup of life even though it grew flat and stale in time, like Mary's romance. There'd be the sweet drink to remember down the years like the memories of this old man among his clocks and drums.

She had her shop. She would be bread-winner as other women had done before her. She'd have her taste of love. She'd catch him in a wonderful moment and swing him along with her away from the city to where dreams of old come true, when night-winged they'd float on seas, with kissing winds and brew of starlight, and warmer kisses flicking her soul to poignant bliss.


O Sally promoted her head milliner to the charge of the shop and packed her grip and went to Buffalo. And there she went about asking questions and seeking to find the saw-dust rings and white tents of "The Greatest Three-ringed Show on Earth."

She found smiles aplenty. It was something to waken smiles, this smartly something to waken smiles, this smartly gowned woman past her first youth, hunting a circus. She never dreamed that so big a thing as a circus could get itself lost in one state. But in the end she did get news of it and came fluffed herself before a hotel mirror and to a town at noon, dusty and weary. She took a trolly to the circus grounds, where bands blared and spielers called their wares, and children crowded the lane before the side-shows.


You say to warn me is but to be kind

Ask that I pencil blue each fault I find.

Dear heart, your follies are but shadows


By virtues clear, which to the end will last. -Ruth Fargo.

She bought a reserve seat to be near the band, and sat through the long performance with its glitter and noise, tumbling clowns, wire artists, bare-back riders. The sun on the canvas baked the air and burned her face. But she was tremulously happy, fidgetty as a girl in her first party dress.

And when it was over and the crowd had melted away, she beckoned a passing clown to her side and gave him a card to take to the drummer in the band. A moment of shrinking at giving her message to a clown, until she saw through the white-wash, the weary ordinariness of a man, in whose tired eyes was no reflection of the laughter he had wakened that day.

While she waited, the spieler was announcing the concert, the wonders of the performance. She did not hear his words, for the clown was back.

"The drummer wants to know if you'll please step to the stand, Lady."

Color flamed in her cheeks. Couldn't he have come to her, even now, instead of making her go to him, the last few steps.

But she went. He sat among his traps and drums, queer things piled in hills about him, chairs, music stands, ten feet of the raised dias between them. A nigger sat on the edge of it. Cooped up with niggers could she bear that thought.

"Hello Sally! Lord-to think you'd hunt me up here-Pretty as ever, Sally, how's everything-guess we can't get in much talk-concert begins in ten minutes-good show, eh, and we pull out the minute the night show is over."

Careless. Indifferent. Insulting. A bum.

But she loved him. Still, he had frozen something in the heart of her. It thickened and formed claws as she love by the throat, shaking the life out gave him her message. Shame, taking of it. The poor thing struggled, died hard. She caught herself choking with it, gasping out the words she'd conned over and over until she knew them by heart. Her hands smoothed the folds of her dress flicked a bit of straw from one drooping Canton sleeve.

"So Duke, you see he needs you and you would have the drum making-And Duke, I'm ready to stand by what I said the last time I saw you."

He struck a match. Lighted a cigarette. The smoke came slowly from his parted lips. He stared through it, past her, to where men erected a concert stage with clatter of boards and sharp cries of command.

"No," he said, "It's just as it always was, Sally. I've got this job, and the drums, the only thing I know. I won't clutter up your life with a useless-" his voice broke, grew husky. He cleared it. "No, I won't go back with you now." Sally turned away. Her heart seemed to stop. His hand had clutched the shoulder of the nigger. shoulder of the nigger. His forehead rested on his wrist as he stared past her.

In the ring the speiler was announcing the wonders of the concert.

"Songs by the Tetrazinni of the rings. Music by the famous Veteran's Band, the only band with a circus, entirely composed of heroes. Most of them decorated for bravery. Many of them wounded. Only footless drummer in the world, plays traps and drums with only his hands-only-"

(Continued on page 239)

o'clock the crowd came to our place and gathered in Enid Boyce, Janice and Ruth DeLacey. I stood at the gate and watched them go. Janice turned to wave me good-bye. At three o'clock they brought her home

I can't bear to talk of it, even now. Janice had dived from a boat; and the skirt of her bathing suit, caught on a sunken snag, held her down. Held her until Enid freed her, brought her more dead than alive-to the surface. No, I don't care to discuss that incident.

Janice was all right, the next daylively as a cricket. She and Enid fell into an argument at table. Of all places in the world for such an argument, at the dinner table!

"I just dare say you won't go back to the city if that young seven-footer who looks at you so soulfully has his way about it," Enid jested. "You ought to, though, if you're thinking of marrying. A course in baby-tending at one of the "

"Enid!" Janice protested. "Spare Mumsy's blushes!"

"Well? Aren't you going to have babies? Of course you are. Lovely pink ones. Mumsy Smith had one lovely pink one; but this brown one"-She pointed a derisive finger at Paul, and shook her head. "This one may have been all right-before he got spoiled." Paul's words, spoken dreamily:

John's loud laughter almost drowned "I can see you in a little home. There would be pink hollyhocks. You would wear pink house dresses-not blue, like Ruth's, and-"

Her face flamed into the passionate beauty of which I have spoken; but she interrupted, quite rudely:

"Yes-s-s-s! And though I might scorch my husband's breakfast food, I would wreathe his dinner-pail in roses -pink r-r-roses. But never, never, never would I give him strawberry shortcake! Nor thick cream."

The weeks that followed brought changes to our once quiet home. I had often remind myself that Enid Boyce had played a heroine's part in her country's need. When, shocked by her freedom of speech, her ways, which seemed to me bold and forward, I writhed in secret, my mind threw upon the mental screen the picture of the wisp of a girl carrying water to men who died, blessing her. I saw her, working alone in a bloody field, through the long, long night, heedless of death that threatened at every turn. My own daughter could not have done that-nor Ruth-nor any girl I knew. Both Janice and Ruth would have been helpless in the presence of such an emergency.

With Reluctant Feet

(Continued from page 203)

Ruth came to the house every day. Such a comfort as she was to Paul and me! Paul did not go with the gay crowd that had swept Enid and Janice into its current. He was working hard, shut away for hours in his workshophis studio, I called it. But he did not show me his poems, as he always had done.

I thought to myself: "He shows them to Ruth, now."

Came the climax to Enid's assaults on our small-town traditions. In some manner not quite clear to me, she met Elsie Cahill. Now there isn't a thing in the world against Elsie, so far as I know; but her mother is divorced. To be divorced, in our town, is to be disgraced. I am not, I hope, a cat-minded woman; but things like that do influence a body against a sister woman. Unconsciously, perhaps, I had been expecting that Elsie woud come to no good-and so had the rest of the townspeople.

"She has a wonderful voice," said Enid, “and she hasn't money to have it properly cultivated.”


E were grouped about the evening lamp. John looked up interestedly, his glance passing, finally, from Enid's face to mine. I thought there was a shade of reproach in the look.

"Why, that's too bad!" he said. "What are we going to do about this, Henrietta Smith? You're on the choir committee, eh? Well, why not give the leading place, the only one that draws down pay, to Elsie Cahill, instead of offering it to Betty Jenks, who doesn't need the money?"

I declare, I felt perfectly foolish! I saw at once that is what should have been done long ago. While we townsfolk sat around, waiting for something not quite nice to happen to Elsie Cahill. all over. It might have happened! I turned cold I heard Enid say:

Smith, if you'll sort of adopt her into "You can help her so greatly, Mumsy your big family. The whole town goes by what you do. You're 'Mother Smith' or 'Aunt Henrietta' to half the young folks though why their elders stand for it is more than I can see."

"Just wh-what do you mean?" I stammered.

"Well," she teased, "look how you spoil Janice! And as for Paul-" She finished with a gesture that explained all that she had left unsaid. "Older people are prone to give up their lives to their children," she went on, seriously, her voice soft, with a little love

note running through it. Love! For me! "It's not right. One should not overlook the good of the individual in planning the good of many. You've mothered everybody, and have never taken the time to do what you would like to have done."

I sat speechless. With the sin of the neglected Elsie Cahill on my conscience, what else could I do? And there were other sins, I reflected, grimly.

"Each person has a right to his life," Enid went on, "to the highest development of it that opportunity affords. If you had not married when you were a mere infant-in-arms, Mumsy Smith, and spent all your time bringing up your family, to say nothing of mothering the town, you would not have pushed Paul into the business of being a poet. I always did believe that the only true test living at something else." of a good poet is his ability to earn his

Paul reddened under his tan, but joined the laugh at his expense.

"You may as well give in to Enid, Mumsey," Mumsey," said Janice. "Everybody does. She's always right. Even when

she's wrong she's right. Take the matter of the one-piece bathing suit-I've decided to have one. I ordered it yesterday from the same place Enid got hers.'

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I had nothing to say.

That night, I went early to bed. I don't know how long I had slept when I was awakened by a gentle tap-tapping at my door-Paul's knock. I started up, very wide awake.

"Come!" I invited.

He entered noiselessly, and sat on the edge of the bed. The late moon filled the room with dim radiance. I could see that his golden-brown hair was tumbled as if he had tossed about in bed, unable to sleep. He sighed; and for moments that was the only sound in a silence that throbbed like a human heart.

He had found my hand-clung to it. Now he pressed his cheek to mine. "Mother!"

"Yes, son!"

In broken sentences, then, came his story-the story so old, so old, yet ever wonderfully, gloriously new; I had thought to hear it long before this.

"Mother, isn't she the dearest, sweetest-?"

Words failed him. Almost they failed me, for a twinge of jealousy gripped me, as it grips mothers the world over who are about to lose their sons to other But I answered: women.

"Yes, my boy."

"But Mother! She-she-Perhaps she doesn't care!"

Tears stung my eyelids. He must not see me weep! I cheered him, heartened him. I made some excuse on the score of the late hour, when I could no longer restrain my tears, held him to me, sent him away, happy that I had set the seal of approval on his love. I cried myself to sleep.

Came the evening of the last day of Enid's stay with us. I was glad that she was going, yet I should miss her sorely. I felt, however, that I should like the time for Ruth-for the dear, intimate things that are part and parcel of an engagement that brings closer relationship already close. I heard Enid talking to John. He was half sick with a horrid cold, poor Johndear, and so fussy that I made no remonstrance, though he hung his necktie over the back of one chair, his collar over another, and discarded his shoes on the rug in front of the divan. When she went in -a little black shadow, this evening, in her gown of black, with an Oriental scarf trailing from her shoulder-John had raised his head from my best embroidered sofa pillow and croaked:

"I sure ab glad thad you're here. Ged the yougsder to show you his idvedtion."

So I had failed my children, after all! It proved a bitter pill to swallow. I stood convicted of the "pound foolish" expenditure of time and thought over non-essentials, while big issues remained untouched. Even Mrs. DeLacey, with


her everlasting club work had kept more
in touch with the times than I. And
this young girl, Enid, young in every-
thing save wisdom, showed me wherein
I erred. The hurt was deep. No one
had ever mentioned an invention to me.
My son's invention! Doubtless he had
kept it from me because of my lack of
sympathy with all pursuits save the one
I had chosen for him. I had determined
that he should be a poet. Yet his fa-
ther knew of this other work of which
I had not been told.

We all went into the garden, present-
ly; a June garden sweetly decked as
for a carnival of love, vocal with the
melody of a night-singing bird. Ruth
had come over; she and I strolled
through one of the aisles of roses, daugh-
ter Janice and the patently infatuated
"seven-footer," a young townsman,
through another. But Enid and Paul
went into his workshop.

I looked at Ruth; she looked at me, then away.

thing more than the call of love to love between them. It's the call of like to like. I've felt it from the first."

"I-I never dreamed-" I gasped; but she kept on as if she had not heard


"Because she is a great woman, he will be a great man." Her voice broke on the last word, but quickly mended. "He never said a word of love to me. Her house will not always be in order, because she will be out with him, climbing hand in hand to the top of the tallest hill that she can find, so that they may get the view beyond. Their children-oh, their children will be wonderful!"

The door of the workshop opened and the two of whom we spoke came forth, Enid a step in advance. Her face-I shall never forget her face! Tear-wet though it was, a miracle of joy had made it luminous. And my son, a shy boy but yesterday, had become a man! Over in that other aisle of roses, my

"He has taken her into his room!" I daughter born of my body was-I surwhispered.

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HE nodded. Words were useless. Who better than I who had borne him, and who had never been asked into the place where he sat with his soul, knew what Enid meant to my son? It was his love for Enid that he had confessed to me.

"You tried to arrange his life for him," Ruth whispered. "But you can't do that, pretty Mama. There's some

mised getting herself engaged. Remained to me only little daughter Ruth, of the solemn eyes. I laid my arm across her shoulders, swung her about.

"They don't need us," I whispered. "But we must not let them get too far from us. Not by standing still can we keep up with them. Help me, Ruth! I'm

"Standing with reluctant feet
Where new ways and old ways meet."

ART IN THE ULTRA-MODERN (Continued from page 218

SN'T she a beautiful child? I always say to Mr. Jones, my husband, that she gets it from my side of the family.

I think an appreciation of beauty brings beauty, don't you? You know what I mean? I feel beauty so; my temperament, I suppose. See her looking at that picture with such a rapt expression? She has such refinement of feeling for a child. You know what I mean? So spiritual. Wouldn't you just love to paint her portrait?-You're not a portrait painterOh, indeed! I thought all artists painted portraits. Oh,

I see. Some painters are so clever at painting landscapes. We watched one in a window on Market street the other day, and I declare if he didn't turn them out one after the other! I never saw anything like it. Of course they weren't the very highest art, because you could tell which was mountains and which was sky, and so on. But so reasonable; only two dollars. Some painters charge so much. A friend of mine has one, not a bit larger, and she paid fifty dollars for it. Not a bit more paint in it. Of course the frame is nicer-I do like nice frames, don't you? I always say they are so refined.

Would I like to sit down-why, thank you, I guess I would.-My! That is a relief! Goodness! Look at that splotch over there. The second from the end. What is the number, ninety-two? Thank you-here it is: "Late Afternoon," by Everett Powell. Isn't it awful? What can people see in such a mess. I always say, those folks that like such things can have 'em; for me, give me something pretty. I'm so sensitive to inharmony. That picture makes me fairly ill. if you know what I mean-What-Powell! My goodness,

don't tell me that is your picture-Well, I never. Of course, it isn't so awfully bad-what I mean is-Of course, I can't see it very well from here-There. Oh, how much better it looks from here. More-more-You know what I mean? More quality. Really delightful. How I love those mountains at the back! I adore mountains in pictures, don't you? Not mountains? Oh, I see now. How stupid-clouds, of course. Aren't they lovely? I always say there is something so spiritual about clouds. You know what I mean?

Why, Ermintrude, darling! Ermintrude! Ermintrude! Ermintrude Violet Jones, you stop your crying this instant and tell me what the matter is! Your gum? Well, what about it? Mr. Powell sat on it-well

I must say, Mr. Powell, I don't think that is any way to talk to a little girl. I'm sure she didn't mean any harm, and after all it was her gum, wasn't it? She can't bear to be spoken to harshly; she is so sensitive, so spiritual. What's that, Ermintrude? My fault-I told you to put it on the seat-Why Ermintrude Violet Jones, I told you distinctly to put it under the seat. Why, I never!-If your gum is spoiled, Ermintrude Violet, it is your own fault. I'm sure Mr. Powell would not have sat on it if he had known it was your gum. What? Get it off Mr. Powell's coat for you? Why, darling, it won't come off-at least I don't think it will-Will it, Mr. Powell?

Well, for goodness sake! I don't think artists are so very refined! Now Ermintrude, darling, don't cry so. Mamma'll get her some more gum.

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AN FRANCISCANS are rejoicing in the coming of Leo Carrillo to star in Thomas Wilke's stock company at the Alcazar. And Mr. Carrillo says he is mighty glad to get back to San Francisco. But this is no more than is to be expected for, as he pridefully reminded me, not only is Carrillo a native son but his family have lived here for three hundred and fifty years; his grandfather, he told me, was the first provisional governor, and his grandmother made the first American flag of California origin.

Carrillo is very much interested in the preservation of the remaining land marks of the old Spanish civilization in the state. "I have implicit faith in California's future," he declared, "but it will be greatly enhanced by carrying over into it something of the romance of its earliest civilization. It is to be regretted that most of the old adobe buildings of the Spanish days have already disappeared."

"Magnolia," the popular comedy by Booth Tarkington, was Carrillo's first vehicle upon his return to San Francisco. This play was written for Carrillo when he and Tarkington were together in the South going over the ground which is the scene of its action.

In a way "Magnolia" might be regarded as a remarkable achievement. This is in its reconciliation in one personality of every characteristic which could appeal to the varied tastes of the theater going public. Combined in the hero, with a stupendous disregard for consistency or probability, are the poet


(Continued from page 193)

EMMA BENNETT MILLER comes back to Overland after an absence of some years. She is a resident of Sandy, Oregon. Since she is correspondent for the Oregon Daily Journal and The Timberman, and has a department in the Oregon City Enterprise, beside being a conscientious housewife, she has little time to write verse.

MILDRED HUDSON AMMONS is purely a Western product in birth and educa tion. She is a writer of short stories and has taught school in the sagebrush country. Mrs. Ammons writes us from Portland that

and nature lover; the man of action and king of the Mississippi rough element; the timid pacific admirer of Thoreau and Rousseau evolving into the "notorious Colonel Blake", terror of all the black belt; the weakling who would not fight for his sweetheart, and the idol of "the ladies of the Sabines." But much in the way of improbability can be excused in a play of satirical character when its irony is as pointed and the play as well constructed as is "Magnolia."

"Lombardi Ltd.," which apparently is to Carrillo's reportoire what "The Chocolate Soldier" is to comic opera, and fried chicken is to a Dixie menu, an ever recurrent and popular offering, opened at the Alcazar in April with three members of the original New York cast. It is expected that "Lombardi" will run about four weeks, after which Carrillo will present "The Hurdy-Gurdy Man," a new play by Lero Clemens. This being in the Italian dialect, which won the actor success as Tito Lombardi and Mike Angelo, there is reason to expect it will follow in the successful footsteps of those two dramatic "best sellers."

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"my best accomplishmen is Junior, age three, who helps (or hinders) in my writing."

AUDRED BUNCH is a senior at Williamette University, majoring in English and Philosophy. She has appeared in several periodicals, but announces that the most significant happening in connection with her work in verse was the winning of honorable mention in the Poetry Society of America's Undergraduate contest for 1923.

VERNE BRIGHT has previously appeared in Overland. Having found frequent place in Life, Smart Set, Lariat and other magazines, Mr. Bright says he has discovered "that there is no money to be made writing poetry." He resides at Beaverton.

comedy by Miriam Allen DeFord; or Mrs. Maynard Shipley of Sausalito, as she is when out of professional character.

Miss DeFord, not unlike the majority of those connected with the Little Theater movement, is obviously under the influence of the Shavian school of drama. This lack of originality which so definitely classifies the play, makes it fall short of greatness. It is, however, an exceedingly good play; a much better play than a very large proportion of those enjoying a long and spectacular vogue. It has more plot than do most plays of the modern radical school, but its real strength lies in its effective dramatic situations and Miss DeFord's unusual skill at characterization.

The characterization of Francis Cain is the play. Here is a character totally irresponsible, unconscious of the least moving conventional spirit, a lightbearer whose faith in his own message is sublime in its egotism. He plays the cad and villian with the three members of Roderick Leigh's household; the wife, the sister and the daughter. But with these three virtuous women who were so sadly tangled with Cain's past, and through no fault of their own certainly, except natural feminine susceptibility, the part of villian and cad proved to be as unprofitable as the role of torch bearer. At the climax the three women stood opposed to their oppresser, grouped in ironical imitation of Greek tragedy, the Eternally Faithful to the established order of things against the Eternally Persecuted Angel of Light; female conservatism against male individualism.

ELEANOR ALLEN is a native of Oregon, born in Philomath 24 years ago of an old pioneer family, and now resident in Portland. She, too, has found recognition in not a few magazines.

PERRY PRESCOTT REIGELMAN holds the degrees of Bachelor of Oratory and Bachelor of Law, from Williamette University. Mr. Reigelman has spent some years in the routine of news writing, together with some short stories and verse. He says, "I am now engaged in horticulture, specializing in filbert and gooseberry growing, which keeps me rambling over 35 of Oregon's finest acres."

(Continued on page 239)

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Ben Legere's interpretation of Francis Cain, in spite of all the serpentine attitudinizing, seemed to bring out all of the subtle combination of the genius and the degenerate.


The Mission Players have closed their season at the old mission playhouse at San Gabriel with the 2300th performance of the Mission play. On May 5th, they open for a four or six weeks' run at the Columbia Theater, San Francisco, in "La Golondrina." This play also tells the story of early California, but of a time several years later than the mission period.


YANKEE CAPTAIN AND SOUTHERN PILOT (Continued from page 201) Following the war a time of great depression came upon American shipping; the end of an era had arrived when no one watched or knew-the clipper ship was passing.

Our captain sought work in Washington. It was a welcome change to the family, this of living in the picturesque old capitol town. "At the time Boss Shepard reclaimed Washington from a quagmire," the captain's daughter writes, "Making it a city of beautiful streets, my brother Harry was

one of his helpers. He had a coal and lumber yard besides, and here he kept a cow. One of the men at the yard would bring the milk up to the house with an old rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay." Harry, it seems, formed the habit of taking this precious horse out Pennsylvania Avenue for a little "brush" with any horsefancier who was prone to accommodate.

"He wasn't a handsome animal," says Mrs. Hudson, "nor the surrey one to be proud of-but Harry got a deal of fun out of him-driving on the 'Avenue.' He never drove with a whip, but when he spoke, the old horse would lay his ears back, stretch out his legs, and the swell turn-out with all its trappings would have nothing but our dust!"

"Those were merry days in Washington. Harry had taken a good sized house and Mary was installed as housekeeper. Father was ashore there thinking to find business to occupy him on land and keep him with his familybut he never found it."

So, in spite of the family's happiness, there is a note of sadness in the captain's letter, written to a friend in old Freeport in the autumn of '73-the panic year.

"I am already beginning to have a great longing for the quiet of the ocean. And it would not trouble me to be buried there, after 44 years passed upon its bosom. It is the largest of all cemeteries, and the same waves roll over all-the same requiem of

the ocean is sung to the honor of all.

In all the daily scenes of complaint and distress that I am constantly witnessing my mind travels back to the peaceful, quiet, country village where people know but little of the misery, anxiety and distress caused by money panics. Let others enjoy the cares and disquietudes of city life, but for me, give me the peace and quietness and calm repose of country life, or the sea for the rest of my days."

Thus the sea called him once more,— and Captain Mitchell-destined never again to enjoy the peace of Freeport life-crept home around the Horn on his last passage, in the year '76, and made his final port in New Jersey. Thus tain, not a bucko mate nor a "hazing passed a splendid type of clipper capmaster" but one resolute and kindly, who governed men through the integrity of a staunch but gentle spirit.

Those "old, capable times" as Mark Twain calls them, are gone. "The wild waves roll over the red sun" of yesterday, where the clipper ships have vanished like silver clouds, "leaving not a wrack behind." But certain imperishable memories live on. And one cannot help recurring to that refrain which passed through the mind of the youthful Joseph Conrad as he bid silent goodbye to the mate of the old Judea:

"And may the Great Sea where he lies now rock him gently, rest him tenderly until the end of time."

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