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band of Cherokees his forefathers had spoken of as lost somewhere long ago in northern Mexico.

At last even strength forsook his trembling limbs, and one starry night Sequoyah laid his weary head beside his lonely camp-fire for the last time.

Somewhere in the State of Tamaulipas, not far from the Rio Grande, hungry creatures of the wilderness found him before dawn, and only his bones were left for burial in the shifting, wind-blown sands.

His alphabet, too, is destined to oblivion with the passing of the oncepowerful Cherokee race. Only his revered name lives forever in all honor, for has it not been given to the greatest and most noble of all trees the earth has ever known-the SEQUOIA?

(The Author offers her grateful acknowledgement to various U. S. Forest Service Bulletins for data on the Sequoia, to Kroeber's Anthropology, to Mooney's Myths of the Cherokee, to Ellsworth's Giant Sequoia, to McKinney and Hall's "History of the Indian Tribes of North America, to Phillips' Se-quo-yah, and to Magee's "The Alphabet and Language.")

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do you want, dear? Do take the larger one. No, the other one, that's it." Ann was a little mystified at this manifestation of unselfishness.

"I won't," she said stubbornly, uplifted by this sight of virtue. "Shorty sent them to us, and you must take the larger one." She passed the one in question to Barbara, retaining the smaller one, which she looked over gratefully.

"How did Shorty send them? she asked.

"In his lunch bucket. It has been here since morning and I never found it, and there was such a nice little note in it, with something that—” she paused to snatch up the note which Bullard had written, and stuff it inside the bosom of her waist.

"It was so sweet," she added, "that I couldn't let even you see it dear.”

"Why, little silly, I don't want to see your note," Ann smilingly said, "Now I must get back to my job."

"Same here," answered Barbara.

As Ann went about her duties that afternoon, she would stop and shake her head dubiously, "I wonder," she would muse at times, "if old Shorty is a high-grader too. This thing is surely getting complicated. What is it about gold that makes so many people want to steal it? I wish I knew. I wish I could just for a moment experience the sensation. No, I don't. I don't want to want anything that I cannot pay for."

(Continued Next Month)

Why Call a Spade a Shovel?

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Memories of a Frontier Childhood

father who


was that day holding court in the new court-house in Washoe City. A message from him to my mother sent her to me in a carriage made comfortable with wraps and pillows, and so I returned home.

After this I lounged around the house for many days, and no one said a mischievous word when I watched the progress of the holiday work.

Christmas eve came and there rose in our plain living-room a fine mountain cedar, its branches spreading wide and low over the bare pine floor. It bore strange fruit for this wild. country.

As transportation over the mountains from California was difficult

and expensive, nothing cheap or poor in quality was often brought to the territory. It was not worth while. The consequence was that the stores held superior goods, and, though one paid a good price he generally secured a good thing.

Here were handsome gifts of gold and silver, many quite novel to what was then our mode of life, but they were tributes of affection, and, as one of our poets has said under somewhat different circumstances, "Love knows no law of meteness or unmeteness". The unsuitability of a large and superbly bound photograph album, and a dressing-case with bottles and jars of cut-glass, bearing monogrammed silver stoppers, was (Contniued on page 477)

Overland Contests

The prize of Fifty Dollars offered by the San Francisco Branch, League of American Pen Women, for the best short story by a California author, has-by unanimous decision of the judges-been awarded to Miss Ethel Cotton of San Francisco for her story "Cross Currents."

The prize of Fifty Dollars offered by Charles Granger Blanden (Laura Blackburn) of San Diego for the best lyric of thirty lines or less, has been awarded to Miss Nancy Buckley of San Francisco for her lyric "Alien."

The three judges in the short the short story contest were Eric Howard,

short story writer and critic, of the University of California; Mrs. Grace Jones Morgan, member of the Canadian Bookfellows and a succesful short story writer; and-ex-officio -Overland's editor.

The judge in the poetry contest was Geoffrey G. Coope, holder of various degrees in the Universities of British Columbia, McGill and California, and exceptionally well qualified for the task.

A more complete announcement of the awards, together with publication of the prize winning manuscripts, will be made in the November issue of Overland.

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over-ridden by the devotion which. prompted the gifts. Other families. had joined ours in the celebration, and there was nothing too good or too fine for these people, who faced desolation together, to give each. other.

A few months later the second convention made more successful efforts towards Nevada's statehood, a compromise being effected as to the taxation of her silver production. I vaguely remember the political zeal of my father and his coworkers at this time and have wondered, in later years, if the delegates grouped on that remote desert plain had come to realize something of the anxiety of the grave man at the helm of State in far-off Washington; the man whose Thirteenth Amendment was soon to be presented to Congress, who was to find the issue so close that one more state would be necessary before a final launching, and who felt that to admit little Nevada to statehood and add her voice in ratification of the document would, as he said, "save a million men" who would otherwise have to be raised for his armies.

Charles A. Dana, then assistantsecretary of War, says: "I have sometimes heard people complain of Nevada as superfluous and petty, not big enough to be a state; but when I hear that complaint I always hear Abraham Lincoln saying, 'It is easier to admit Nevada than to raise another million of soldiers'."

Dana goes on to tell how, “in March 1864, the question of allowing Nevada to form a State government finally came up in the House of Representatives." There was strong opposition. "At last, one afternoon," he writes, "the President came into my office, in the third story of the War Department, . . . . He came in and shut the door. 'Dana', he said, 'I am very anxious about this vote. It has got to be taken next week. The time is very short. It is going to be a great deal closer than I wish it was. . . . Here is the alternative; that we carry this vote or be compelled to raise another million and I don't know how many more, men, and fight no one knows how long'."

Nevada was finally allowed to form her State government, and within the following year, became, as Dana puts it, "one of the States which ratified the Thirteenth Amendment by which slavery was abolished by constitutional prohibition in all of the United States."

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Considering the chaotic condition into which this little state was born, and the inevitable crudeness of her first growth, one, even, who has but a child's memories of it, must feel great satisfaction that her patriotism. always rang true, like her silver.

So our life went on-serious purpose, grim episode, here and there comedy and always the reverberations from the seat of war.

In the never-to-be-forgotten spring of 1865, after we had all been removed to California and had been



settled for some months in a small educational town near San Francisco, in the midst of national rejoicing. that the Rebellion was at last put down, I came in from school one day to find my mother lying upon a couch and sobbing. When she could speak she told me that President Lincoln has been assassinated. The whole world seemed suddenly to turn dark.

In an old letter my mother describes to her parents the observance in our village of "the saddest day the nation has ever known." "Every

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house of loyal citizens is draped in mourning." "Since the dreadful news of the assassination came. . . . all business has stood still." "Strong men weep." "Many so overcome with grief as to be obliged to take to their beds." The universal heart throbbed no less in the villages than in a great metropolis.

A band of crepe about my arm, grave and reverent, I walked in the sad little procession to the village church, no more the small sun-bonneted child who had perched on the zigzag fence five years before, but one who had come to see and feel and a little, perhaps, to understand, something of that larger, broader world which had begun to be her




("Memories of a Frontier Childhood" commenced in the August number. Back numbers may be secured at 25c, plus 2c each for postage.")

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