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NEW VOLUME of Frank G. Carpenter's "World Travels" comes to this reviewer, with its 125 illustrations from photographs. This travel-writer has all his arrangements so systematically adapted to sight-seeing and fact-gathering that he soon makes his readers feel as if they were millionaires, with yachts, motors, caravans, credentials from six dozen governments, and hosts of newspapers running his letters.

Mexico just now is one of the problems which the United States can and will solve through patience, friendship and neighborly education. Carpenter's "World Travels" series contains no more timely volume than this which in fact extends its studies over as far south as Honduras, and quotes from the records of Toltecs, Mayas and ancient philosophers who deserve to be as well known as Solomon and Marcus Aurelius.

Among the thirty-five chapters of the book we note these: Lost Mines and Bonanzas; Cortez and the Montezumas; The culture of Aztecs and Mayas; Floating Gardens of Xochimilco. Carpenter describes all the principal cities. of the neighboring republic, giving special vividness to the City of Mexico, to Guadalajara, Pueblo, Jalapa, Toluca and Tampico. The last chapter, "Our Investment in Mexico," says that Americans have put a billion dollars into developing the natural resources of this rich country, especially the oil fields. We come first among investors, the English come next, then French, Germans, Spanish and Dutch. All the land held by the Japanese totals in value no more than $750,000; the Chinese have much less.

Our investments in Mexico began in the days of Diaz and the record made down there by our men of skill, money and brains seems to Carpenter a very creditable one. It is the few adventurers who refer to the Mexicans as "greasers" that manage to stir up mischief. The better classes often send their sons and daughters to the United States for education, and appreciate such opportunities. Carpenter thinks it is the Peons, suspicious and over-sensitive, who question

our motives and sometimes call us hypocrites. One could wish him entirely correct in his estimate. At any rate, the new Mexican land laws are slicing up the big estates, the new regime is estab lishing schools, and the peasantry of Mexico will have its chance to develop a real independence and a better outlook.

This is the eighth volume of Carpenter's "See the World" series, is published by Doubleday, Page & Company,

and costs four dollars net.

-Charles H. Shinn.

A NOTE ON ELDERLY MEMBERS OF LITERARY CLUBS

We're panting up the golden stair
With bonnets all askew,
We're chasing Old Man Culture,
We aim to ketch him tew.
We aim to grab him by the tail,
Or pin him to the wall,

But when we reach the place he's

at

Why! He ain't there, that's all. -Marion MacCalman in the Gossip Shop, May Bookman.

INDIAN FIGHTING DAYS WHEN APACHES filled the southwest with terror are brought again vividly to mind in this recent book by Forrestine C. Hooker, "When Geronimo Rode." Though the story is fiction, it is likewise fact, for Mrs. Hooker in her own person experienced the colorful days of this last uprising of the Plains Indians. Her father fought under General Miles in this campaign, and Bonita's story-which is the romance around which the story centers-is Mrs. Hooker's own love story. Those who enjoy the thrill of an Indian fight, as well as those who have profit in tales of our own early West, will find the book pleasurable reading. When Geronimo Rode, by Forrestine C. Hooker, Doubleday, Page & Co., $2.00 net.

STORIES OF THE FIRST AMERICAN CRIMINALS

T

HIS LARGE

and handsome royal octavo volume written by George Langford, is illustrated in black and white by the author and also has full-page color illustrations by Ty Mahon. It is a book for young and old to possess and to enjoy from beauty and scientific knowledge, so balcover to cover; it is full of humor, anced and woven together that we are certain it will be in constant demand for years to come.

A careful hunt through all available English and American "Who's Whos" fails to reveal anything about the author beyond his own simple dedication: "To the memory of my father, Augustine G. Langford." But still (such is fame) he wrote "Pic, the Weapon-maker" and "Kutnar, Son of Pic," both of them strongly recommended by the American Library Association.

The book is rightly named "An American Jungle Book," for it carries us back into this continent's prehistoric past, millions of years ago; it tells us that the first of the camels roved over the American Desert, and afterwards fled to Asia for safety; it describes the last of our elephants, our dragons, our little horses not bigger than dogs; our sabre-toothed tigers and our earliest toothed reptile

birds.

In his Introduction, our author bids us look back a hundred million years, and study the first signs of animate life. on this earth. Then at the flabby molluscs, then at the first vertebrates, then at the waddling land creatures, the reptiles, and in fullness of time, at Man.

Thus he describes the American continent of a hundred thousand years ago, and earlier: "Land-levels, vegetation and climate were different, too. Mountains and great rivers were yet unborn. The arid plains of today were the jungles of old. Could we go back in time and travel over the United States, our country would appear an unknown and remote region. Strange animals were

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moving from place to place in search of suitable food and accommodations. All of them possessed the inborn power to adapt themselves to various conditions and to live the lives that suited them best.

Every creature had its own way of trying to live and grow. None of them was thrown into the world without resource. All were sown like seeds, with the power to shift their positions to such soil as best suited their healthful development. Every last one of them was given a chance, and even those who failed, lived long lives and their disappearance was most gradual.

The reader is now taken back to the age of the great dinosaurs whose fossilized remains are found in Montana and Wyoming. This introduction is managed by bringing in a little, warmblooded, inquisitive mammal called "Jock the Jungle Jinx" who starts to travel and see what the world is like. He has countless hairbreadth escapes, but his mind undoubtedly develops. Before long, however, he leaves the scene; Eohippus, the "Dawn Horse," the dreadful Bear Cats, the "Merman of the Chesapeake," "Toto the Non-Progressive," and "Mammut, last of the Mastodons" carry the story along. This certainly sounds youthful, and yet the whole

book rests upon a solid basis of facts for both young and old. The publishers are Boni and Liveright; their price for the book is three dollars net, and we understand that the author has one or two more books in the same field which will soon appear.

-Charles H. Shinn.

A HIND LET LOOSE THOSE who derive amusement from the facility with which alleged art, music and dramatic critics juggle wordswho recognize their dexterous saying of nothing in the multitudinous flow of words will be keenly interested in this superb bit of irony by C. E. Montague. Brumby and Pinn are rival newspaper publishers. Fay, Irishman, clever and with a clever wife, writes editorials for Brumby. Fay, Irishman, clever, writes -unknown to Brumby, and under the name of Moloney-editorials for Pinn's opposition sheet. Long practice has made Fay extremely fertile in reducing the labor of his dual office to its lowest terms. He possesses formula which are readily adaptable to the moment's service, and his method of reviewing an exhibition of paintings is to take the catalog and-running through it-append to the various names those stock paragraphs which seem best to fit. (Having

the hint, Overland's readers may glance through the next art review of their favored paper and see of what proportion of words and substance it is made up. The following extract from Fay's writings may be reminiscent:)

"Mr.-has, we are aware, been highly praised by those who know. But what, we would ask, are the qualities of an artist. of the first rank? Surely dignity, reticence, ordered spontaneity; nerve in the best sense -the sense of a robust felicity that goes directly, almost brusquely, to the heart of the matter in hand-largeness and simplicity of conception; a sane and lofty positiveness, as it were, of execution; rigor to discipline the unessential; a plastic power not necessarily carried to sculpturesque extremes of cold and austere abstraction; but need we go on? That Mr. has some, nay, most of these attributes, no one could deny. But has he them all?"

Sound familiar? Try it on your audience of one or two at the next exhibition and see if they don't accept it as readily as did Fay's readers. And the complications which ensue with Brumby's and Pinn's contemporaneous discovery of Fay's duplicity add interest to the author's delightfully whimsical telling.

-H. N. P.

A Hind Let Loose, by C. E. Montague. Doubleday, Page & Co. $2.00

net.

UNTOUCHED SOURCES FOR SIXTY YEARS, from the time of Bret Harte to the veriest beginner among today's writers, have been told the tales of the pioneer folk of the West. And yet there's a hoard of unused material still available to the hand of the writer who is willing to search for sources rather than imitate the product of stronger souls.

Rosalie Harrison is one of those who have delved, and she emerges with a little volume of pioneer tales, her "Stories in Rhyme." There's a little of the fanciful in the volume, but the greater part is made up of verse founded upon actual incidents related to Miss Harrison by friends who knew intimately the earlier life of the mining camps in California and Nevada. It's homely verse. It's verse for reading aloud. It's verse for loving.

Stories in Rhyme, by Rosalie Harri

son.

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WITHIN MY ROOM
Sunlit, hearth bright or in gloom,
Here within my own dear room
All the stirrings of my heart
Seem of it a very part.
Oh! its walls my secrets keep,
If I smile or if I weep;
Here I need be only I,
Free to laugh and free to sigh.

Blessings then upon my room, Friend in firelight, sun, or gloom. Old-Fashioned Songs of a House and Garden, by Florence Van Fleet Lyman, The Knickerbocker Press. (no price given.)

THE MUSING WANDERER UNDER THIS TITLE Anton Gross has brought out a story of the sea and of the West. There is adventure, color, a wealth of action, strung upon a thread of romance which carries the reader through to the end.

The Musing Wanderer, by Anton Gross. Roxburgh Publishing Co., Bos

ton.

"NUMBER ONE JOY STREET" will delight the younger readers of the Overland. It is the book that Walter de la Mare, Eleanor Fargeon, Hilaire Belloc, Madeleine Nightingale, B. Kathleen Pyke, Laurence Housman, Mabel Marlowe, Halliwell Sutcliffe, Edith Sitwell, Hugh Chesterman and Rose Fyleman have joined in writing. Appleton is the publisher. They call it "A Medley of Prose and Verse for Boys and Girls," and it is illustrated in full colors and with black and white drawings and decorations.

"Pete, I'm sure shocked at you," he began, "temptin' me like that. Now don't you realize that I'm the chaperone of two innocent, respectable young ladies? Don't you see I've got a social position to keep up? Beside, if you mean gettin' entirely polluted, I ain't with you. All at once, Pete, I sort of feel like a full grown father with feminine responsibilities."

"Shorty, you're gettin' old," retorted Carson.

"Maybe I am," agreed Shorty, "and sensible. Now if it's to just have a little razoo around, all right. If it's to raise hell, it's all off. I'm goin' to bed."

"Shorty, you're in love," suggested Pete, "I know the symptoms."

"You're a liar," returned Shorty with good humored emphasis; then he asked, "With which one?"

"The little brown-eyed one, course," replied Pete confidently.

of

"Hell!" said Shorty disgustedly, "You ain't no judge. Come on, let's go down to the Northern.

In justice to Jimmy Rawlins, it must be said that he would have preferred going with Shorty and Pete rather than to the business conference with his new partner. Jimmy was not given to extravagant dissipation, but he was young, virile and highly human. He was the virtual possessor of one hundred thousand dollars and still held a one-half interest in the Sultana mine; his exuberant spirit would have made him talk of

The "High-Graders"

(Continued from page 260)

less serious things than were to be considered, had he not held himself in.

WITH

ITH admirable self control Rawlins sat himself down opposite Staley at the small table upon which a candle had been lighted. Staley began the conference with a short discussion of geological conditions and cussion of geological conditions and theories, as applicable to the Sultana mine formation. He talked with the technical ability of a man who has gained his knowledge from rocks as well as books. He had not talked for five minutes before Jimmy Rawlins had forgotten all about the bright lights which had momentarily diverted his thoughts from his main chance. He began to supplement Staley's facts and surmises with practical suggestions.

Gradually the discussion took the nature of practical things entirely, and as the hours passed, unnoticed, the two miners went into plans of development, equipment, and operation of the mine. At last they came to the more intimate details of hiring men, and the like, and into all of these calculations Staley was reckoning with the high-grade of the ore he sanguinely expected to encounter in large quantities.

"Jimmy," he said, sometime past midnight. He had to speak above his usual moderate tone to make himself heard above the rising roar of the wind. "I can't be with you much of the time, because of my other interests. You'll have to take the active superintendency

of the Sultana. I'll give you all the advice I can, but I think you can handle it. Now I'd suggest that you put old Terence in as foreman. Give him a try-out. He knows ground, and how to handle men. Leave that to the Irish."

Here Rawlins interrupted, saying that the fact that Tierney had taken the first piece of high-grade from the mine did not recommend him for a foreman who could be entrusted with tons of such, should the mine prove up to their expectations.

"I know we'll lose plenty of it," Rawlins finished, "but we don't want our bosses high-gradin' on us."

"Give him a chance," protested Staley. "Sometimes the best way to make a man honest is to show him that you believe he is honest. I think that little piece of high-grade Terence took came to a very happy end." The tactful reference to the present owners of the ore caused Rawlins to smilingly agree to Staley's proposal.

At midnight business in the Northern was in full swing. The great barn-like structure was half filled with men. A line stood the full length of the long bar, drinking, while others stood back, waiting for an opportunity to get to the front line. Groups of men stood about the room confidently talking of fabulous sums or indulging in wild, alcohol inspired metaphors. spired metaphors. A big miner, coat thrown aside, stood and boasted of his fistic prowess and invited all comers to (Continued on page 276)

F

This Interesting World-Sometimes I Am Glad That I Live In It

"WOMAN'S DAY"
(The prize winning letter)

OR unnumbered ages men ranged the earth, hunting, fighting, discovering, exploring-all for the joy of action. This is the secret of man's soul. No woman is able to understand it.

woman

Woman does things for utility. No ever did anything without a definite, concrete object in view. If a woman ever killed a bear it was because she wanted its hide for a comforter. A man kills a bear to prove he is more of a bear than the bear is. He wears its claws for a necklace. To him, the hide is only a by-product.

Woman looks on all these natural joys of man as pure piffle. And down the ages, plodding after her vainglorious, bear-necklaced mate, carrying on her back her comforter and her baby, she never for one day has lost sight of her definite objective -the hour when she could put her man to useful work, and make an end of all his foolishness.

Woman's day is come. Men, millions of them, with sloping shoulders and number thirteen collars, are at useful work-useful because it produces enameled apartments, and shiny cars and silk lingerie.

Conducted By IDA CLAIRE

Let the women get together Tyrant Fashion's rule to ban; Dress according to the weather: Common-sense appeals to man.

Charm with comfort-economic—
More alluring far would be
Than queer freaks of anatomic
Rule-clad incongruity.

Man-released ere falls the grey night;
Woman-freed from rivalry;
Seeking trees and flowers by daylight;
This Utopian would be!

short, an investigation was on and he couldn't face the music.

Women have a lot to answer for, and I, for one, think that it is high time that an effort was made to teach the "give-me" girls that they must learn to pull their own weight.

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Ida Clair "started something" when, in April Overland, she ventured to repeat a man's comment on women. "They make life artificial," he said, "because they must have things soft and easy."

-Mrs. M. A. M. Massachusetts.

"HIS OWN DESIRE" (Winner of Second Place)

'S it the fault of woman that man is forced from the open into the close and stuffy office? The normal man goes into his office, works hard all day, tries to get ahead, but this is done for a different reason. In the hidden recesses in the heart of every man that works for woman (and there are few who work for other purposes) there lies the reason for his striving-his love and respect for the woman or women he supports. He does not slave for woman herself, but for his desire that she may have things comfortable. Being a woman myself, I know-and all of my sex know-that there are women who try to get all they can from man. They care nothing for how hard he may labor; they care only for their own personal gains. It is such a woman who discourages a man and leads to statements such as that we are discussing.

Overland has received, from all over the country, replies to Miss Claire's invitation to say what YOU think about it. Some of the most interesting are re-printed here in whole or part, together with the prize-winning letter. You won't accept its conclusions; neither do we -but isn't it good?

Tell us:

Do you agree with "Peeve" in his estimate of woman's attitude toward man? Does he deserve the first place given him?

For the most interesting reply of 250 words or less received before July 1, a check of $5.00 will be given, Address Ida Claire, in care of Overland.

And the women? Ah! For the first time in the ages they can sit at ease (meanwhile keeping a vigilant eye on certain undersized males, their especial property,) and discuss whether or not they will have it bobbed, and what not.

But man is rapidly deteriorating. The type most successful under the new conditions-the man occupying the swivel chair is wide of beam, unconsequental of shoulder, plump of face. The survivors of the ancient type-the lean, masculine type that conquered the earth -they among us are most likely to land in the penitentiary.

The future of the race looks dark. Yes, women have a good deal to answer for! -"Peeve"-Berkeley.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT IT?"
Weighted with a heavy burden
Man, immured, unresting, toils:
Only thus sufficient guerdon
Meets the cost of woman's spoils.

She or he? The age-old question!
Which shall outdoor freedom own?
"Both!" we say, no new suggestion-
Inequalities have flown.

(Continued on page 287)

Add an automobile, maybe;
Luxury they now may own:
Then who knows?-perhaps-a baby
May for years of waste atone!

Are the premises accepted?
Sometimes surely!-Yet reversed
Often: carelessly selected,
Men should be confined-or hearsed.
-Cecil E. C. Hodgson.

"FOR A PRETTY MORON" ES, the "thoughtful man" is right

YES,

-women have a lot to answer for. This type thinks that there is such a thing as something for nothing. She is the "give-me" girl, one of the reasons why so many men die around fifty. Heart trouble, high blood pressure, or shock is the diagnosis; but behind the worn-out heart are the years of struggle and over-work in an effort to acquire money-money for the up-keep of some pretty moron who insists on "keeping up with the Joneses."

"My wife wanted that damned fur coat-now she has it!" A young Boston man whom I had known declared only last December before he sent a bullet through his head. His accounts were

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step up and call him a liar by word or action. No one gave him more than a glance by way of attention. In a line of chairs against the wall opposite the bar, several men sat, sleeping off the effects of their enthusiasm. Among these was Terence Tierney, his chin on his breast, silent as the Sphinx save for his heavy breathing, his fiery eloquence quenched by a more fiery fluid.

Men crowded about the faro layout and waited expectantly as the dealer deftly slid the cards from his case, or watched the case keeper as he snapped his colored beads across their wires, denoting the cards which had been dealt. There was the rattle of chips, the clink of coin as bets were paid or lost. Above it all, the lookout sat silently in his raised dais and watched the move of every man, the turn of every card. The air of the place was surcharged with excitement, obscenity, tobacco smoke, and the smell or whiskey.

It was about the roulette wheel, however, that the crowd was most densely packed.

Shorty Dain and Pete Carson stood near the corner of the table nearest the bar, in such a manner that their identity could not be clearly made out. They had started playing with a stake of five dollars each, which by a remarkable and consistent run of luck had been run up until a huge stack of chips and coin lay before each of them. Both were entirely sober, for their talk of painting the town red had been but bluff. They played with the nervous tension which characterizes the non-professional gambler, yet for all their trepidation the amount they had staked was small, and they would not be over-disappointed if luck went against them to the extent of losing their original stake.

Opposite the croupier stood three men, who had been plunging heavily and losing steadily. When the last bets they made were lost they called down the wrath of Providence upon the game, the dealer, the house and their luck in a wild burst of profanity. This got them no more attention than a supercilious smile from the man behind the wheel and some jeers from the crowd. Still muttering curses upon their luck, they broke backwards out of the crowd and were forgotten. Their places filled automatically by the pressure of men from behind.

One of the players who reached the table was Joe Bullard. His countenance wore a scowl which characterized him when he was slightly intoxicated. He tossed a twenty dollar piece upon the table and said belligerently, "Give me a stack, Slim, and move up. I'll bust this layout in about three turns of the wheel." The lithe, dark, ferret-faced

The "High-Graders”

(Continued from page 274)

man behind the wheel smilingly complied with Bullard's request. As he shoved the stack of chips across to Bullard, Slim Daly quickly appraised the new player, whom he knew well.

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HAT'S the matter, Joe?" he asked. "Somethin' riled you? Poor frame of mind to play in. Say, what's that lump or your jaw? Somebody plantin' one on you?"

"Shut up, you pikin' tin horn," bellowed Bullard, "and play. It's none of your damned business who soaked me, but if you want to know, Shorty Dain did it. He had a couple of tarts with him and I spoke to them and it insulted him. I'll get that" he finished his threat with a string of oaths.

The vehemence of Bullard's words caused a tenseness to instantly fall upon the crowd. Many of them knew Slim Daly was not the man to let even this affront pass without resentment. His head went forward as his black eyes focused upon those of Bullard. His right hand was going swiftly under the edge of the table. It was not quick enough, however, to command the entire attention of the crowd even if they could all have seen the movement. With the instinct for impending trouble and a desire stinct for impending trouble and a desire to be out of it, the mob swept back, but not entirely under its own impetus. Shorty Dain had heard Bullard's insult and was breaking back through the crowd like a mad bull.

Before he could half comprehend the nature of the exodus his action had precipitated, Bullard was left alone at the table. He whirled as he heard, "Don't draw, Slim, I'll attend to this. It's my pie," and Shorty Dain, whitefaced, crouched before him. The next instant Shorty sprang forward, and his open right hand smote Bullard viciously upon the face. With a quick reversal of his form, Shorty duplicated the smack with

his left.

"Fight, you dog," cried Shorty, as his feet went firmly to the floor and his body set itself for the next move. Bullard's right hand went clumsily to his hip pocket and he was withdrawing a small automatic when he stopped the movement at Slim Daley's calm "Put that up, Joe, or I'll have to bore you. Shorty never carries a gun, and besides shootin' don't go here, unless I'm in on it. Put that gat on the table!" Bullard turned, and influenced by the unwavering muzzle of Slim Daly's Colt, laid his pistol on the table.

"Now go to it," ordered Daly, who came around the table with gun in hand and took a position beside the spot where Bullard's pistol lay.

Seeing that shooting was not immi

nent, the crowd closed in, forming a half circle about the three men.

"Fight, you pup, or swallow what you said," repeated Shorty, as once more he took his stand, after delivering two more slaps on Bullard's anger-puffed face. Bullard struck out clumsily and missed Shorty's head by a foot. Shorty landed a hard right on Bullard's swollen jaw, and before the promoter could regain his balance Shorty's left rocked Bullard's head the other way. Bullard was a large man and muscular, and not easily floored when he was on his guard. He lunged forward and though Shorty hit him twice more, the force of the blows did not prevent his grappling. The fighting became vicious, with Bullard raining blows with his free hand upon Shorty's stomach and Shorty uppercutting repeatedly with his right. His fist was crashing into Bullard's nose and eyes with telling effect, for the blood spurted from the latter's nostrils. The silence was broken only by the noise of battle and the scant comment of a few onlookers, when from somewhere behind came a loud, "Whoopee!"

In his dreams the noise of the conflict came to old Terence Tierney as the crash of a cannon, the rattle of musketry, the blare of bugles, the smashing of army against army, the thud of irresistible force against immovable objects. He woke, standing upright and yelling. Instinctively he located the scene of battle, and like a berserker bull he burst through the rim of spectators to the fight which raged furiously, with Shorty slowly gaining the ascendency.

Once inside the ring, old Terence took in the situation at a glance. An expression of utter scorn swept over his features. He turned his back upon the fighters. "I thought there was somethin' doin'," he said in loud and deep disgust, "and it's but two hens a fightin'. Is there a man present who would like to step forward and meet Terence Tierney for the champeenship of the camp? If there is, he can step out. The bout will be limited to one round only." Terence threw his coat into a corner of the ring and struck his pose.

At this moment the crowd began to give way directly before Terence, and the miner who had previously defied all comers stepped into the cleared space and faced the old timer.

"You!" cried Terence, with high disdain, when he had identified his accepted adversary, "You mud hen! I thought some man would take me up for one round, but come on, if you're the only one." The boastful champion lunged and struck wildly, and the force of his own momentum carried him almost upon Terence, who delivered a short arm jolt

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