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of the United States in its tireless, almost ceaseless task of clearing the way for, and guarding the lives and property of the thousands of explorers, emigrants, and settlers who, little by little, sought out and peopled almost every cultivable valley from the Missouri to the mountains and from the Staked Plains of Texas to the British linesthe scouts of the plains, men famous in song and story. . . It was Captain Jim who had tamed this wilderness, taught it to blossom like the rose, and, after over thirty years of herding, hunting, scouting, and trailing, from Mexico to Montana, had settled in the heart of what had been the Sioux country, in the midst of the county that now bears the name of that famous nation, and built him a little world of his own where once there grew not so much as the splinter of a lodge-pole."


Everyone who reads this will desire to know in fuller detail the way which "Captain Jim" begins his own story. He does it in the most simple, original manner. No living novelist has ever invented a more perfect beginning for his hero's life-story. The forces which developed the modest, reserved frontiersman, the love for others, the high ideals of fellowship, and the square deal such as Daniel Boone's parents gave him, and which came to Lincoln from his mother, which those men had who died at the Alamo, which frontier life taught to Kit Carson and Jim Bridger, were also of the warp and woof of little Jim Cook's up-bringing, but by a strange difficult route. Listen to his own words:

"My early boyhood was spent in southern Michigan, where I was born August 26, 1857. My mother having died when I was two years of age, my father, who was a sea-faring man, placed me with a family named Titus. This family was one of the oldest and most respected in that country; its members had been raised after the severest models of order, industry, frugality, integrity, and every Christian virtue. Their highest aim in life was to try and prepare themselves, and those in their keeping, for the life to come. To the loving care and training of this noble. family during my childhood days, I feel that I am indebted for whatever strength I have possessed in resisting some of the evils that have beset me as I have journeyed along over rugged trails. The Titus family and most of their relatives and friends were pioneers of Michigan. Sturdy sons of the forest, they could swing the scythe or the grain cradle from sunup to sundown. They were masters of the arts of the woods, being equally skillful with axe and rifle, and at home in a log canoe, spearing fish."

Is it any wonder that this Michigan boy, thus brought up, became a famous frontiersman? As we read the book through, its three divisions of "Cow Waddies and Cattle Trails-Texas," "Hunting Big Game-Wyoming," and "The Apache War-New Mexico,' after which comes a chapter on the "Agate Springs Fossil Beds," we are struck by three things: the way in which the author studied all the books he could get hold of (as Lincoln did); the way in which he always stood for law and order; lastly, perhaps chiefly, the friendships he kept among the Sioux and other warlike Indians, understanding them and receiving their full trust at all times. History has put in plain words the sad fact of the failure of the American people as a whole to deal squarely with the Indians. No wonder that Helen Hunt Jackson wrote "A Century of Dishonor." We broke our treaties with almost every Indian tribe from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Speaking of the Cheyennes, General King says that officers of rank and distinction pleaded in vain for justice to this gallant and suffering tribe. The story is now told by "Captain Jim," but as General King adds, if told by officers at the time, "it might have cost them their commissions."

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A good book for parents, teachers, and all who love children is, "A Century of Children's Books," by Florence V. Barry. It has a very full survey of children's books, of their writers, and even of the children who read them-of their popularity, their influence, and their popularity, their influence, and their reception by children. The author has studied her subject, and the result. is a book which will help and delight any one interested in literature for children.

E TURN to Macmillan's "Who's Who" for 1923, and find that Sir William Gregory worked his way up. Born in 1864, he was knighted four years ago for his distinguished work as editor, lecturer, astronomer and author. He edited Nature and the Journal of Education, was Sir Norman Lockyer's assistant, is a leader in no end of scientific organizations and has published text books on physiography, experimental science, astronomy and other subjects. His favorite recreations are walking and gardening.

"Discovery" appeared in England seven years ago and has gone through several editions over there. This is the first American edition-of 1923. The author's faith in true science and in the progress of humanity make this one of the most helpful books in the field. In his preface we are told:

"When scientific work is instituted solely with the object of securing commercial gain, its correlative is selfishness; when it is confined to the path of narrow specialization, it leads to arrogance; and when its purpose is materialistic domination, without regard for the spiritual needs of humanity, it is a social danger and may become an excuse for learned barbarity. The spirit of scientific research has inspired the highest ethical thought and action, as well as increased the comforts of life, and added greatly to material welfare. Science is not to be measured by practical service alone, though it may contribute to material prosperity: it is an intellectual outlook, a standard of truth and a gospel of light. From many countries and many times we have gathered incidents and allusions which display the nobility of scientific aims, and have accentuated them with words of wisdom from the biographies and writings of men who have devoted their lives to the extension of natural knowledge."

These words of the distinguished author give the keynote of the whole book. Open it anywhere, and the wealth of illustrative material from all the ages justifies his faith in the unselfishness of pure science and in the way in which its leaders are lighting up the road before the world of men. Such chapters as those on "Truth and Testimony", "The Scientific Mind," "Law and Principle," "Conquest of Disease," "Scientific Motive," and "Towards Infinity," when one considers that they were written in the darkest hours of the Great War, must thrill the soul of every thoughtful reader. It is a book to spend much time upon and to keep within reach. One likes the way, for instance, that our author in the very first chapter tells us, in the words of Professor Thompson how nature tells man to

struggle, endeavor, wonder, enjoy, revere, search and inquire. Then comes his story of Fabre sitting all day on a stone at the bottom of a ravine, studying the behaviour of an insect. Three ignorant, superstitious peasant women passing, whisper "Poor imbecile!" and cross themselves.

The eight illustrations, showing us a few of the views of artists about the spirit of true science are all worthwhile, but the one that comes nearest to Sir Richard's ideal is Auguste Rodin's "The Thinker."

Hundreds of stories of workers in science, most of them new to the average reader, are told in these pages about the heroes-and often the martyrs-of Truth. The ten-page "biographical index" contains such names as Alhazen, Anaximander, Agassis, Galileo, Newton, and brings us down the ages to the students of "dark nebulae," wireless and the Roentgen ray. Worth remembering is the famous retort of Faraday when he was lecturing in London and showed, we are told, that "when a magnet is suddenly brought near a coil of wire a a slight current of electricity is produced in the wire. The experiment is not very impressive; and a lady probably voiced the feelings of most of the audience then she asked afterwards, 'But, Professor Faraday, even if the effect you explained is obtained, what is the use of it?' The memorable reply was, 'Madam, will you tell me the use of a new-born child?""

The closing words of the book remind this reviewer of the simple, earnest eloquence of the late Professor Norton of the San Jose Normal School, who thrilled vast audiences fifty years ago, in all the cities and large towns of California. Not more than ten such speakers have ever been known in the State, and his whole life of public service was so full, so happy, so far-reaching, that we wish someone who knew him well might put the story into a book. When Dr. Norton, beginning with something which all his listeners understood, carried them step by step out among the star distances, and the lights were turned down, out of the darkness came that wonderful voice, as the man who had fought his way up through pain and poverty, told us, in the very spirit of Sir Richard Gregory's closing chapter, about Jean Paul Richter's parable, or dream or vision. We, who listened, heard of the man who was taken up into the vestibule of heaven, given an angel guide, and carried out through universe after universe. Closes the book,-and the Richter poem so loved by Professor Norton, with this sublime passage:

"Then the man sighed and stopped, shuddered and wept. His overladen

heart uttered itself in tears, and he said, 'Angel, I will go no further; for the spirit of man acheth with his infinity. Insufferable is the Glory of God. Let me lie down in the grave and hide me from the persecution of the Infinite, for end I see there is none. Then the Angel lifted up his glorious hands to the heaven of heavens, saying, 'End there is none to the universe of God, Lo! also, there is no beginning!'"

Before putting this wise and cheerful book, "Discovery," back on the shelf, let us allude to the way in which things Several other books "come together." just received and half a dozen magazine articles show that many people are thinking about the trend of modern science. Some of it is in "The New Decalogue of Science" by Albert Edward Wigham; some is in Flammarion's "Dreams of an Astronomer." But we think the "spirit of service" of science is nowhere quite as well expressed as in "Discovery."

-Charles H. Shinn.

and simple is the plot of this tale "THE Sable Cloud"—Old-fashioned by Harriet V. C. Ogden, the author of "Then Came Motley." When dear old Grandma Liveright is about to pass to the other side, she has a vision of the future of the babe, her grand-child little Louisa Liveright Lea, and she tells it like a Scotch spae-wife: "Don't make the mistake of educating her; cultivation is what the world needs." She grows up; her father fails in business and tries to protect himself by crowding her into a hateful marriage. For many chapters it is a selfish and tragic tangle, with the girl trying to help her father and putting aside her love for another. She is finally saved by the sensible advice of a good girl, and by the elopement of the villain with an excited young thing whom he has long admired.

(Penn & Co. $2.00 Net)

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ACE". The most heartless, passion-crazed "hero" in modern literature is "Race Gentry" of Kentucky, of whose behaviour the heroine of the book, Rosemary, tells us with frantic emotion. She is utterly unashamed of the fact that Race is married to her best friend, and they have children. The author is A. L. Samms; the publishers are Covici-McGee of Chicago. The story is recklessly risque and is nowhere impressive. Its emotional characters are shallow puppets and victims of what they are pleased to term "love."


HE LAST FRONTIER" is by Courtney Ryley Cooper, who wrote that excellent story of an old mine, "The Cross-Cut." He has now chosen an important historical period. and many famous people to give truth and strength to this new book of his.

Mr. Cooper has evidently studied one of the most stirring periods in American history, 1867-8, when, as an aftermath of the Civil War, many impoverished families sought the unsettled frontier lands where they might erect new homes and rebuild their shattered fortunes. During these years, the Kansas-Pacific Railway, which should line the East with the West, was in process of construction, its every foot of progress fought by the Indians, who sought by all the savage means in their power to keep back the advance of civilization, and who made the history of Kansas a narrative of bloody massacres and uprisings. It was the period when "Buffalo Bill" Cody made his reputation as a buffalo hunter and Indian scout; when General Custer nearly wore himself out hunting the Indians; when the famous battle of Beecher's Island finally aroused the nation to action. There are plenty of traitors and renegades in the book, but the faithful love of Betty Halliday and Tom Kirby endures all misfortune. (Little Brown & Co. $2.00 Net)


HE Marriage of Yussuf Kahn." This is the most recent of two interesting novels that have lately been. translated from the Swedish of Frank Heller by Robert Emmons Lee. The first of them, "The Emperor's Old Clothes" is a mystery novel that will intrigue the most ardent reader in this field. "Yussuf Khan" goes even further in the same line. Its central figure, Mirzl, is an international criminal who has all the acuteness and courage of a perverted Sherlock Holmes as well as his marvelous capacity for impersonation and mimicry. Mirzl is felt rather than seen throughout the action which largely concerns an East Indian Prince who comes to Europe to marry bringing with him a huge dowry for the prospective bride.

As little is known in America about this author, we add that "Frank Heller" is a pseudonym. He has traveled widely and written many stories of this bizarre type. His nearest prototype here is said to be O. Henry. Heller has written some fifteen books which originally appeared in Swedish. His popularity has been enormous. His books have been sold by the tens of thousands on the other side, and Europeans generally regard him as one of the greatest living exponents of stories with unexpected climaxes.

(Thomas Y. Crowell $2.00 Net)

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(Continued from page 81)

with a bright red fire sending forth and upward thin lines of fragrant incense to the gods of his ancestors.

That night with eyes fixed in devout attention on the little mission worker, Ching Chow listened attentively to every word of the lesson. His mask-like face gave no hint of his diabolical intention, while beneath his silken blouse he felt the short iron hook and the vial of sleep.

Ching Chow lingered after his countrymen departed. Tonight he obsequiously begged to escort the little mission worker on her homeward way up the hill.

The crimson anger of the western sky had long ago died away to purple night. Like naked ghosts the jagged walls of buildings peered out from the fog. On the hilltop all was black, as black as the cold waters deep in the cavern beneath.

With servile step, Ching Chow walked beside the little mission worker, mumbling broken answer to her words of approval. His eyes no longer assumed devotion but in the dark glowed red with hate and desire for revenge.

A few steps more and they were on the brow of the hill near the cistern. Long yellow fingers shot out, the vial ready; the talon fingers pressed it to the

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nostrils of the little mission worker. She fell, a helpless heap against the arm of Ching Chow and then slipped to the ground at the edge of the manhole.

Ching Chow drew forth the short iron hook. With hardly a sound the heavy cover came away. But the hook caught. Ching Chow, nerves taut, gave it a maddening jerk. The lid balanced for a space of a second, then fell heavily against the leg of Ching Chow with a sickening crash. Thrown off his balance, he stumbled, half fell, then crashed over the still form of the little mission worker, down, down through the gaping hole of the abyss.

A muffled shriek vibrated in hollow echoes above the sudden splash. Then only the sullen sputter of water against smooth sides. Gradually the lapping of ripples grew more faint and then died into a peaceful calm.

To the west, the moon breaking forth from a sea of fog, bathed the hillside in a mellow light. Slender beams caught and wrapped the still form of the little mission worker until returning life. moved within her.

She struggled to her feet and looked about for Ching Chow. As she went on homeward she wondered in her innocent heart if her life had been saved from some unknown assailant by the devotion of Ching Chow.

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(Continued from page 65)

to the State by Mrs. Zipporah Russ of Ferndale. Other counties have forests that have come under State ownership and in Marin County the Federal government owns Muir Woods, a tract of four hundred thirty-seven acres, contributed by William Kent.

The economic life of the State is closely related to our forests. Our population is increasing rapidly. This means an increasing demand upon the forests for lumber and upon the land for food. In California some 10,000,000 acres depend upon irrigation. With our forests gone, the necessary water will not be available either for agriculture or for the needed development of hydroelectric energy. It is necessity, not sentiment, that calls for the perpetuation of the forests of California.

(Continued from page 78)

So we idiocentrics go on our way, gathering credit for our little virtues, and hastily brushing off responsibility for our vices or mistakes.

If you like my word idiocentric I shall accept your approval with avidity and take to myself great credit for it;

if not, I shall hasten to explain that I made it because all the writers now are either making new words to surprise the reader, or using old words in unheard-of senses, and that, of course, I do not fancy it myself especially.

-E. M. L.

(Continued from page 82)

"I see that a partnership by inheritance is scarcely worth considering. And that means that we must start new with one of our own making. Sweetheartdearest-don't say that you still hate me, when I love you, and have loved you ever since that first moment, when I saw you there in the canoe."

The note of raillery, that had always been present in his speech, had vanished. He was more serious than she had ever seen him, and a soft and tender accent had crept into his voice. She could find no words in answer to his plea, and she stood silent, till with a man's impatience he put forth his hands and lifted her flushed face to his. In the soft light of her brown eyes he read all that he wished to know.

(Continued from page 58)

Mr. Dawley explained that immediately after Adams's escape from the Indians, he almost died from an attack of typhoid fever which left his memory more or less muddled. It was Mr. Levi's belief that because Adams was pack master of the original expedition, he was always at the rear of the train and did not see the landmarks ahead; while Windy Bill was of the opinion that Adams knew where the canyon was but wanted to go back to it alone and garner all the nuggets for himself.

Mr. Lewis, the authority referred to above, refuses to say which of the three prospectors has the right solution, but he did opine that if Adams were still living, he would make H. B. Wright look to his laurels as a writer of "lost mine" stories.

It is to be hoped, nevertheless, that when the Del Oro people have accomplished their purpose in the Santa Catalines, they will comb the Mal Pais. Even though they do not find the Adams Diggings, they should round up enough stories concerning them to provide Mr. Wright with material for another novel. Thus the work of the expedition cannot be a total loss either way.

POETS AND THINGS Impertinent Comment on Contemporary Periodicals by the Poetry Editor


HAT is a Poetry Magazine? The Poetry Editor ventures the opinion that a poetry magazine is a publication which springs from one of two incentives; in the one case the creator thereof does not agree with others' estimates of his own work -in the other he does not agree with other editors' estimates of poetry in general.

Those publications which spring from the first cause, and which exist almost entirely for the presentation of the poetic offspring of the editor-owner, are fortunately few. The others are myriad in number. Week by week they comeno pun is intended-and they live a more or less hectic existence for a space, only to disappear unsung and unmourned; giving place to others of their kin.

Some of those which continue to exist do so obviously because the editor-owner is able to dig down into some convenient sock and pay the cost of publication. Obviously, because the quality of the verse is such that it can command the interest and respect only of the very elect, of the poet-technician who is more concerned with the manner and the successful obscurity of what is said than he is with the soul-quality. It is, of course, 'art for art's sake.'

Yet there are poetry publications which need no excuse for existence, which are in spite of occasional profundity-good reading for both poets and humans. That West Coast magazine "Pegasus" of San Diego, falls most consistently month by month within the latter class. The Poetry Editor must confess that some of the abstractions of this January issue run far, far beyond his comprehension. But then, what matter? Editor Lench has definitely classed "Overland's" Poetry Editor as a conservative. And that is a statement, by the way, which the Poetry Editor has clipped to show to those conservative friends who accuse him of being a modernist.

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HE Lyric West comes in this same mail with its usual closely printed pages-few publications present so much verse at an issue as does the Lyric West. There is in the January number much that is good; little that A is really distinctive. two-page "mystic" by Anna Kalfus Spero assumes eminence both by virtue of its handling and by the poetic height attained in parts. The Poetry Editor confesses that had the poem commenced and ended with that portion "The Cavern of Sleep" he would have liked it much better.

"Motion of rivers, origins and ends, life and death are mute mysteries; Yet would I keep my spirit beautiful and fine by devotion to unwordable mysteries,

For I have taken harsh woe of incompleteness and thick tears for black mortal fear of the Great Call

(fear that I shall miss my Youth)
into the Cavern of Sleep and found in
dreams the power and dominion there
of peace.

And I would meet the force of Death
And wake from echoes of his great stroke
where light begins to shine in darkness
in the Cavern of Sleep."

And that may mean as much or as little to you as you choose; it has, nevertheless, beauty.

But then, PMexican

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comes also, bearing its postmark. But how

can Idella Purnell expect the critics to comment on the contents of her publication when the names of the poetsand near-poets-are not given until the succeeding issue? Why, the Poetry Editor might be slaying his dearest friend's fondest illusion in saying he didn't like some certain bit of verse. Or he might be giving a friendly pat to his bitterest enemy. But of the two he would be running less risk in doing the latter, so here goes: He very much likes "Attainment," which is a shere bit of loveliness. And that whimsical bit of mysticism, "Just Now For Instance."

"Pizzicato," which had favorable comment by the Poetry Editor last month, turns out to have been by Ellsworth Stewart of "The Occident," the University of California publication.

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